The next morning came, and Fist's ugly voice sounded out. "Get up you little maggots! It's the usual, four for Littles and six for Bigs!"
Fist and his lackeys came into the small enclave where the Black Dragon Circle resides. Every single person rushed up and scrambled to the center, where they lined up in a messy formation, largest to smallest.
Taking out a large leather pouch, Fist started to collect the dues and worked down the line, up until Vivargent's best friend: Crael. Crael stood there, not daring to look into his face, and glued his eyes onto the floor. He extended out an empty hand, and Fist's face turned ugly.
I only ask for four coppers! Four! This isn't four." Fist's face was so rage-red his pimples became a smattering of white dots against a red background. He grabbed Crael's threadbare tunic and lifted him off the ground. Vivargent turned away, he couldn't watch.
A dark smile crept across Fist's face. "This is four!" he shouted, spittle flying all over Crael. As his hand slapped across Crael's face, Vivargent realized it was nothing but a performance. Not the beating - Fist was definitely hitting Crael - but he was hitting him with an open hand. It was louder that way. Fist wasn't even paying attention to Crael. He was watching the rest of the guild, enjoying their fear.
"Who's next?" Fist asked, dropping Crael. Vivargent stepped forward quickly so Fist wouldn't kick his friend. At the age of sixteen, Fist was already as big as a man and he had fat, which made him unique among the street rats.
Vivargent held out his four coppers.
"Eight, maggot," Fist said, grabbing the four from Vivargent's hand.
"Eight?"
"You gotta pay for Bella, too."
Vivargent looked around for help. Some of the bigs shifted their weight around and looked around at each other, but no one said a word. "She's too young," Vivargent said. "Littles don't pay dues till they're eight."
Attention then shifted to Bella, who was sitting in the dirty alley. She noticed the looks and withered, shirking behind a couple of sacks. Bella was tiny, with huge eyes, but beneath the grime, her features were as fine and perfect as her namesake's.
"I say she's eight unless she says different." Fist leered. "Say it, Bella, say it or I'll beat up your boyfriend." Bella's big eyes got bigger and Fist laughed. Vivargent didn't protest, didn't point out that Bella was mute. Fist knew. Everyone knew. But Fist was the Circle's Fist. He only answered to Ephrae, and Ephrae wasn't here.
Fist pulled Vivargent close and lowered his voice. "Why don't you join my pretty boys, Viv? You'll never pay dues again."
Vivargent tried to speak, but his throat was so tight that he only squeaked. Fist laughed again and everyone joined him, some enjoying Vivargent's humiliation, some just hoping to put Fist in a good mood before their turn came. Black hatred stabbed through him. Vivargent hated Fist, hated the guild, hated himself. He could feel the hatred coursing through his veins, and it burned through them.
He cleared his throat to try again. Fist caught his eye and smirked. Fist was big, but he wasn't stupid. He knew how far he was pushing Vivargent. He knew Vivargent would crumple, afraid, just like everyone else.
Vivargent glared right into Fist's eyes, and then spat a wad of phlegm onto Fist's face. "Go bugger yourself, Fisti Pisti."
There was an eternity of stunned silence. A golden moment of victory. Vivargent thought he could hear jaws dropping. Sanity was just starting to reassert itself when Fist's fist caught him on the ear. Black and red spots blotted out the world as he hit the ground. Woozy, he blinked up at Fist, whose black hair glowed like a miasmic halo as it blocked the noon sun, and knew he was going to die.
"Fist! Fist, I need you."
Vivargent rolled over and saw Ephrae emerging from the guild's building. His pale skin was beaded with sweat though the day wasn't hot. He coughed unhealthily. "Fist! I said now."
Fist wiped his face, and seeing his rage cool so suddenly was almost more frightening than seeing its sudden heat. His face cleared, and he smiled at Vivargent. Just smiled. He then sauntered after Ephrae.
*****
"Heya, Argo," Crael said, coming to join Vivargent and Bella. "You know, you're about as smart as an hairy egg. They'll be calling him Fisti Pisti behind his back for years."
"He wanted me to be one of his girls," Vivargent said.
They were propped against a wall several blocks away, sharing the stale loaf Vivargent had bought. The smells of baking, though less intense this late in the day, covered at least some of the smells of sewage, rotting garbage piled on the banks of the river, and the rancid bite of the urine and brains of the tanneries.
If Orientem's architecture was all bamboo and rice fiber walls and screens, Bacardic architecture was rougher, heavier, lacking the studied simplicity of Orientem's design. If Nordic architecture was all granite and pine, Bacardic architecture was less formidable, lacking the deliberate durability of Nordic structures. If Boreasean architecture was airy spires and soaring arches, Bacardic architecture only soared above one story in a few nobles' manses on the east side. Bacardic buildings were everything squat and dank and cheap and low, especially in the Ordure. A material that cost twice as much was never used, even if it lasted four times as long. Bacardians didn't think long term because they didn't live long term. Their buildings frequently incorporated bamboo and rice fiber, both of which grew nearby, and pine and granite, which were not too far away, but there was no Bacardian style. The country had been conquered too many times over the centuries to pride itself on anything but survival. In the Ordure, there wasn't even pride.
Vivargent absentmindedly ripped the loaf into thirds, then scowled. He'd made two about the same size, and one third smaller. He put one of the bigger pieces on his leg and handed the other big piece to Bella, who followed him like a shadow. He was about to hand the small piece to Crael when he saw Bella's face pucker in disapproval.
Vivargent sighed and took the small piece for himself. Crael didn't even notice. "Better one of his girls than dead," Crael said.
"I won't end up like Timmy."
"Argo, once Ephrae buys into the major Circles, Fist'll be our guild head. You're ten. Six years till you get review. You'll never make it. Fist'll make Timmy look lucky compared to you."
"So what do I do, Crael?" Usually, this was Vivargent's favorite time. He was with the two people he didn't have to be afraid of, and he was silencing the never ending insistent voice of hunger. Now, the bread tasted like sawdust. He stared absently into the market, not even seeing the fishmonger beating her husband.
Crael smiled, his teeth brilliant against his black Meridianese skin. "If I tell you a secret, can you keep it to yourself?"
Vivargent looked from side to side and leaned in. The loud crunching of bread and smacking of lips beside him stopped him. "Well, of course I can. I'm not so sure about Bella."
They both turned toward where she sat, gnawing on the heel of the loaf. The combination of the crumbs stuck to her face and her scowl of outrage made them howl with laughter.
Vivargent rubbed her blonde head and, when she kept scowling, pulled her close. She fought against him, but when he let his arm drop, she didn't scoot away. She looked at Crael expectantly.
Crael lifted his tunic and removed a rag he'd had tied around his body as a sash. "I won't be like the others, Azo. I'm not just going to let life happen to me. I'm gonna get out." He opened the sash. Tucked within its folds were a dozen coppers, four silvers, and impossibly, two gold crowns.
"Four years. Four years I've been saving." He added two more coppers into the collection.
"You mean all the times Fist's slapped you around for not making your dues, you've had this?"
Crael smiled and, slowly, Vivargent understood. The beatings were a small price to pay for hope. After a while, most street rats withered and let life beat them. They became animals. Or they went crazy like Vivargent had today and got themselves killed.
Looking at that treasure, part of Vivargent wanted to strike Crael, grab the sash, and run. With that money, he could get out, get clothes to replace his rags, and pay apprentice fees somewhere, anywhere. Maybe even with Imros Clint, as he'd told Crael and Bella so many times.
Then he saw Bella. He knew how she'd look at him if he stole that sash full of life. "If any of us make it out of the Ordure, it'll be you, Crael. You deserve it. You have a plan?"
"Always," Crael said. He looked up, his brown eyes bright. "I want you to take it, Argo. As soon as we find out where Imros Clint lives, we're going get you out. All right?"
Vivargent looked at the pile of coins. Four years. Hundreds of beatings. Not only did he not know if he would give that much for Crael, but he'd also thought of stealing it from him. He couldn't hold back hot tears. He was so ashamed. He was so afraid. Afraid of Fist. Afraid of Imros Clint. Always afraid. But if he got out, he could help Crael. And Clint would teach him to kill.
Vivargent looked up at Crael, not daring to look at Bella for fear of what might be in her big brown eyes. "I'll take it."
He knew who he'd kill first.