Chapter 2 Consequences
Well, well,” drawled Hoff. Taking his time, he picked at his teeth and considered the boy strung up before him. “If it isn’t Rabb Strider’s little whelp. I see you saved me the trouble of chasing you this time, boy. My thanks for that.”
“Anything for my favorite guard captain!” Rolan attempted a salute, but he was getting dizzy from hanging upside down for so long. He worried he might pass out. That would be one humiliation too many for today, even by his standards.
“Vandalizing a lamp, are we?” Hoff’s eyes drifted upward to the flame Rolan had failed to put out. “That’s a serious offense, boy. Very serious indeed.”
Of course it was, in a city that feared shadows more than wildfire. Rolan knew what horrors shadows could breed, even the smallest pools of them hatching nightmares. All a Cryptic needed to manifest was a patch of darkness, a smudge in a corner.
Rolan could have focused on a less dangerous prize. The bakery sign, perhaps. Or he could have put a rock through the window—though it seemed a shame to get glass all over the lovely loaves inside. Finkfloss was a miserable scab who nevertheless baked a divine loaf of bread.
But if he wanted to impress his father, he needed to prove himself. He needed to take risks. Make a statement. Be so outrageously brazen that Pa would finally realize that Rolan could be an asset to him. He could be more than just an annoyance to be kicked, a stray pup running underfoot.
“Cut him down,” Hoff ordered.
One of his men lifted a crossbow and fired far too casually for Rolan’s comfort. The bolt was aimed true—if hair-raisingly close to Rolan’s foot—and sliced through the rope.
Rolan fell hard, a jolt of pain flashing in his arm as he hit the street. It took him a moment to catch his breath before he could drag himself upright. The world spun as his blood rushed downward into his tingling limbs. Leaning on the lamppost for support, Rolan glared at Hoff.
“Rude. You coulda caught me, at least.”
He tried to take a step and immediately regretted it when his head spun and he pitched forward, right toward the guard captain. Hoff stepped aside, letting him smack onto the road with a groan.
“Assaulting an officer of the law, now?” Hoff growled.
“Keep piling the offenses up, boy, and you might trip right into a noose.” Hoff knelt down to peer more closely at Rolan.
He softened his voice to a friendly tone.
“You’re in a spot of trouble now, no doubt about it.
But how about we work out a little deal? I can make all this go away.”
Rolan clenched his jaw, knowing exactly what Hoff wanted from him. Staring at the man defiantly, Rolan said nothing.
Hoff smiled, as if they were just two reasonable folks having a polite conversation. “Where’s your pa, Rolan? Where’s old Rabb hiding out these days?”
“Rabb?” echoed Rolan. “Who’s that? Never heard of no Rabb.”
Hoff’s face darkened a shade, anger flushing his ruddy cheeks.
“Listen here, boy. This can go well for you, or it can go very, very bad indeed. Your old man don’t care about you.
If he did, would you be out here stealing bread and lamps and making a menace of yourself?
Nah. You don’t owe that old scab anything. ”
He does care about me, Rolan thought. You’ll see.
All he had to do was convince his father of his usefulness.
He wasn’t a little kid anymore. He could help in his pa’s business.
What business that was, exactly, Rolan wasn’t sure.
He knew it involved a lot of sneaking around and breaking into places and avoiding guards, but the details weren’t important.
What was important was getting Rabb’s attention long enough to prove himself.
Rolan could be useful. He’d stolen one of the city’s precious lamps, after all!
Well. Almost.
“Last chance,” said Hoff. “Where’s your pa, Rolan?”
Lowering his gaze, Rolan whispered, “You really wanna know?”
Hoff’s eyes glinted. He leaned closer. “There’s a smart lad. Where is he, eh? Where’s old Rabb?”
Rolan looked up. The captain was nose to nose with him now. It was not a pleasant view. “He’s…”
“Yes?”
“He’s…”
“Yes?”
Rolan grinned. “He’s hiding up your nose, Hoff. I mean, truth, have you ever trimmed your nose hairs? There could be an entire horde of Cryptics up in that forest! Your nose is a public menace. Your nose is so big, and so hairy, that—”
“Enough!” Mouth twisting in disgust, Hoff rose to his feet. “Bring him, lads. He’s opted for the hard way. So be it.”
The other two guards took Rolan roughly by his arms. He let his body go completely limp, lolling uselessly in their grips.
“Oh no,” he said mournfully. “Jelly bones.”
Hoff rolled his eyes. “Not this again.”
Rolan made his eyes as round and pitiful as he possibly could. “Can’t walk if I got jelly bones, Hoff. It’s a condition.”
“I’ll condition you with my fist if you don’t snap out of it, boy!”
Ignoring that, Rolan continued to lie limply between the two guards who were forced to half carry, half drag him through the streets.
Pettily, Rolan savored the annoyed grunts and muttered curses of the guards as they hauled him along.
He couldn’t stop them from arresting him, but he didn’t have to make it easy.
Anaya had taught him jelly bones, he remembered with a pang.
He couldn’t believe she was going to Sylvet tomorrow, a town a day’s walk away and farther than Rolan had ever been in his life.
He hoped Evaine would pack enough torches.
When they finally reached the nearest guard station, Rolan was pleased to see the cell was empty.
He liked having cells all to himself, especially considering the quality of the company he usually found in one.
While the guards glared at him through the bars, he walked around, inspecting every corner before finally patting the bench and sprawling across it.
“Ah, good,” he sighed, his hands locking under his head. “I was hoping you’d bring me to this station. It’s got the comfiest bench in Crisanth, you know. Could I have a cup of water and some bread with gravy? Slab of ham would be nice, if you’ve got it, but I don’t wanna put you boys out.”
The sudden clang of a steel boot against the iron bars made Rolan jump. He lifted his head enough to peer at Hoff, who was grinning at him in a way that made Rolan’s skin crawl. He could deal with an angry Hoff, an exasperated Hoff, or even a cruel Hoff.
But a happy Hoff?
This was something new.
Happy Hoff made Rolan’s stomach clench with unease.
“How old are you, boy?” Hoff asked.
Rolan sat up, the uneasy feeling only getting stronger. “I turned thirteen last week. Why?”
Hoff’s grin widened. His canines were pointed, like a dog’s. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
Panic jumped through Rolan. He scrambled to his feet. “I could be wrong. I ain’t great with numbers. I might be twelve. Or eleven!”
“No.” Hoff scratched his patchy beard, his blue eyes glinting as he studied Rolan. “No, I think you’re right on the target, boy. Thirteen. Yes. I should go make arrangements.”
“Arrangements? What arrangements?” Rolan rushed to the bars just as Hoff turned away. Wrapping his hands around the cold iron, he shouted, “Hoff! What arrangements?”
Hoff left the station, letting the door slam behind him. One of the other guards, a man Rolan vaguely knew as Aden, settled into a chair against the wall, lifting a flagon to his mouth. He looked ancient, even older than Hoff, and deeply tired.
“Thirteen,” he said gruffly. “You’re old enough for the duke’s prison now, boy.”
For the second time that hour, the blood drained from Rolan’s face. “Prison? But that place is for real criminals. Murderers and the like. I—I’m a kid.”
“Oh, sure,” Aden added. “You’re young. The law isn’t heartless.
It gives your people three days to claim you and take responsibility for your criminal activities.
” He snorted into his flask. “Not that I reckon Rabb Strider will come crawling out his hole for the likes of you. There’s a cell waiting for him if he does. ”
With a hoarse laugh, Rolan stepped back from the bars. “Oh, my pa will come for me. He’ll bust me out of here in no time. Then you’ll never see either of us again.”
Aden exchanged a look with his partner, a guard whose name Rolan didn’t know. He was young, likely new, and nervous looking.
“Sure, maybe,” Aden said at last. “But if he don’t, or if he tries and Hoff catches him… I believe the sentence for tampering with a lamp and endangering the city is, what? Ten years in prison? Twelve?”
Rolan tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.
“My pa will hear about this,” he said urgently. “He will come for me.”
With a shrug, Aden lifted his flagon again, settling deeper into his chair.
Feeling sick, Rolan curled up on the bench.
He’d lied. Nothing short of a feather-stuffed mattress could have made that slab of wood any softer.
He still had a splinter under his thumbnail from his last night in a cell like this.
Why had he been picked up that time? Oh, yes.
Stealing a basket of pastries at the market on Verity Square.
He had been annoyed when Hoff arrested him.
But now he was afraid. This time was different. More serious.
Pretend, he told himself. Just pretend.
It was an old game he and Anaya had played.
He couldn’t even remember which one of them had thought of it first. But when they found themselves cornered by guards, or when they heard Cryptics skittering in a murky alley and they felt the cold jaws of fear on their hearts, they’d grasp hands and pretend to be brave.
They would pretend and pretend until it felt true.
He pretended now, or tried to. But for once, it didn’t work. Maybe it only would when Anaya’s hand was in his. But those days were gone. She was gone. He didn’t feel brave at all, only alone and scared.
Rolan restlessly rose to his feet and stared out the barred window.
Across the street was a Confessory, its windows lit by lamps, the doors wide open regardless of the hour.
A carving of Alethine, the goddess of truth, decorated the outer wall.
The goddess had a childlike face, her hands spread in welcome, inviting all who passed by to enter.
In their dour robes and clay masks, the Listeners who waited inside were sworn to silence, and anyone could go in and whisper secrets to them.
Where humans keep secrets, Cryptics grow legs, the saying went.
But once told, a secret would not turn into a Cryptic Not that Rolan trusted the Listeners to actually keep people’s secrets to themselves.
They looked like snitches, is what they looked like.
Their creepy masks always made him shiver.
At any rate, the Confessory was silent at this late hour, with even the Listeners probably all asleep.
“Pa will come for me,” he whispered. “He will.”