The Gold Service (A Capital Adventure Book 2) by Allen Ivers

Author:Allen Ivers [Ivers, Allen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-07-20T16:00:00+00:00

Part 3

Tabula Rasa

And he threw himself onto his knees before Them, head bowed with a thousand meditations.

How was he to live in Their absence?

And the Pilgrim knelt down to him, lifting his chin with one hand, saying:

“So long as We remain, your life will be in service, fealty sworn.

But Life cannot be Lived when Shackled, cannot be Defined in a Shadow…”

Gnostic Librum, Exeter 7:4-9

14

Thom

It turned out that criminals handled their prisoners much the same way Imperials did— probably from personal experience of its effectiveness. Big man shouts, big man puts your head in a bag. Big man rips bag off head, and does some more shouting before, finally, blessed silence. They had tossed him in a glorified cabinet: shelving, sacks, and a steel door on rusting hinges. It was cold, dusty, scratching at his nose.

He hated crime. He hated the life of crime. He hated criminals. But more than anything, he hated this headache.

He had tried to pack his head wound with sackcloth, but he hadn’t gotten very far when they came and took him to his permanent residence.

Stone floor and steel bars, somewhere deep and dark. Dry air and hollow echoes of voices far away. He had been buried deep, like he was part of some treasured collection, hidden away to rot and molt until there was nothing left but the stone.

They hadn’t even given him a glass of water, let alone medical attention for the gaping head wound that was casually dripping blood down his face. The wrench had ripped open his scalp, sparking a wellspring of red to cascade across his features. No matter what he pressed to the wound, it just wouldn’t stop bleeding, that constant trickle, drip drip dripping down his face.

He missed the Pantry and its stupid floor, full of cracks wide enough for small animals to sneak through. He missed his cot in the larder, insulated from the noise of the pub floor and the cold. So what if it had been dusty enough to coat his throat at night? It was peaceful, and every morning was the same.

He missed the ratty blanket, frayed and hand-stitched; he’d made it from torn up and disposed uniforms. He missed the breakfast stews and the sausage suppers and the midnight tack. He even missed the innkeeper and the wood discipline spoon. A spoon was softer than a wrench.

Right now, he missed his entire miserable life before Osyen had stepped into it.

Did he hate Osyen? No. Resent him? Oh, yes. He resented that charm, that spark in his eye; he resented that he had sold Thom on the mystical figure Thom could be, conned Thom into believing he was more than he was. And then relegated him to Cabin Boy, little more than a lateral movement from the grounded Pantry, to a moving Pantry that got shot at and abducted and arrested.

He had been fine. He had been lawful. He had been far away from suffering.

But he had chosen to be here now, locked in this cell with blood seeping from his head and a dream evaporating between his fingers.

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