City of Secrets: Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE
“Rats!” Letty Parker worked her tongue round her teeth, pursed her lips and spat. A lump of gristle flew over the edge of the wharf and landed, pale and glutinous on the stinking mud. Rubbing her sharp, white face on her arm, she stared reflectively at the greasy river.
“So that’s what you find in Ma Prentis’s Pies,” the boy beside her teased. “Being as she’s still learning,” he joked and his teeth flashed, as his mouth curled upwards. He sat cross legged on a bollard, so still he almost disappeared into the gathering dusk.
“I’ll have you know,” Letty’s face reddened, “Ma’s pies are the best.” She glanced back at her tray. “There’s nothing in them, but the finest beef, pork, mutton, mouse and… ” she swung her arm towards Gabriel, who swerved sideways as if to avoid the blow, “rats,” she spluttered, through a torrent of giggles. “Tiddles catches them and Ma and I skin them and stuff them in the pies.”
“But first you cut off the ears and tails and stick them out of the pastry for decoration,” Gabriel suggested slyly.
“Only on high days and holidays.” Letty twisted her arms round her waist and rocked with laughter. Her boots, worn and patched, drummed against the harbour wall, as she hiccupped, hooted and gasped. “Stop it. You’re killing me. My belly aches and my petticoat’s damp.”
“It’s not that funny.” Gabriel slid to his feet. A thin breeze slipped past Letty’s shoulders and the laughter died as suddenly as it had begun. Shadows stretched across the cobbles, coiling round Gabriel’s legs.
“I was thinking,” Letty said at last.
“That it’s time to go?” Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at the city, where on the roofs and towers the night creatures would be stirring. Letty saw where he was looking and shook her head.
“They don’t scare me,” she said. “But there’s something not right. Markie’s not here and you know he always comes for his pie.”
“He’s probably curled up somewhere with the belly ache then.”
“No.” Letty was too worried to let herself be teased. “It does him good. That’s all he gets some days. He can’t always work. Not with his cough. And there’s another thing. I haven’t seen Tully in a long time.”
“Tully?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow,
“You know,” Letty said impatiently. “That lad that used hang around here. Ran errands and such. You haven’t seen him?”
“No,” Gabriel said indifferently. Letty took a deep breath.
“Not even at one of your funerals?” she said quickly, knowing that Gabriel with his dark hair, handsome looks and pale, pale skin could sometimes be seen walking behind the hearse in funeral processions.
“Solomon and Gargrave do not bury paupers,” he said shortly.
“No you only work for the best undertakers in town.”
“That’s all I can do. Most people don’t want us around,” Gabriel said coldly.” Letty flushed and twisted a strand of red hair around her finger. Long, long ago, the Dark Ones had ruled the city, now only a few remained and those like Gabriel who did not drink human blood had to keep their identity secret.
“Yes, well,” she muttered. “But where have they gone? There’s less buying my pies too.”
“I don’t know.” Bored with the conversation, Gabriel shrugged.
“There’s been no fever,” Letty mused. “As far as I know.” She looked up, but Gabriel had gone.
The setting sun bled into the rising tide. A dark tangle of masts and rigging was etched against a scarlet sky. Windows of offices and warehouses glowed with lamplight. Smoke rose from chimneys adding the acrid tang of burning coal to the stink of rotting fish and the thick smell of tar and tobacco that hung about the harbour side.
A boy of about fourteen came swinging along the quay. His short cropped hair sprang in brown curls over his bullet like head. His face was broad, his mouth wide, his nose sprinkled with freckles. He wore a tattered coat, so long that its skirts brushed the cobbles. Once blue it was said to have belonged to a famous highwayman, who had been hanged at the crossroads at the White Tree. Beneath his coat his britches were patched and ragged, his shirt grubby, but his boots gleamed, thick soled and as well polished as any gentleman’s. A gold ring hung in one ear and a bright red kerchief was knotted around his neck. He walked with a rolling gait, which he said he got from his father who was a pirate on the Caribbean Sea, but who everyone knew worked down Swansea way, until he got drunk and drowned in the river.
Behind him came a smaller boy. Barefooted, dark skinned, dressed in
a huge white shirt that billowed over striped trousers, he flitted like a ghost through the twilight.
As they neared the spot where Letty sat, Mango Jack scuttled behind a stack of barrels, while the older boy came to a halt almost directly behind her. Putting his hands together, he raised his eyes to the darkening heavens and intoned,
“Lettice Pray.”
“Jebediah Hill!” She whirled round, one arm shooting out to grab his ankle. Thrown off balance by the sudden movement, he wobbled, flung out his arms and staggering crazily across the cobbles, would have fallen if Letty had not sprung to her feet and pushed him hard towards Mango Jack, who bracing himself against a bollard, managed to keep him upright.
“Watch it. You nearly had me in there,” Jeb grunted.
“Drowning’s too good for you,” Letty muttered sourly. She hated her name. Pa had given all his daughters the names of flowers. Her half sisters were Rose, Lily and Violet. Why the blazes did she have to be named after a vegetable? He might as well have called her Turnip and have done with it.
“Hey, Let,” Jeb wheedled. “Apol?” Her shoulders rose. Head hunched she stared out across the river, where the woods cloaked the side of the gorge.
“Madame Lettice I humbly beg your pardon,” Jeb began.
“Humm,” Letty snorted.
“For my most outgregious lack of manners.”
“Outrageous,” Letty corrected, half turning.
“As does not befit a gentleman of the Queen’s Highway.” Jeb swept a low bow. “Apol,” he repeated looking up at her. There was a pause.
“You know she hates it,” Mango Jack piped up. Jeb and Letty turned on him. “Her Pa…” he began.
“Stow it,” Jeb growled. It was an unwritten law that family and past were never mentioned. There were some things better not known and you each had your own scrip; a story woven from scraps of your past known and imagined, which made you who you were. Muscling in on a person’s scrip showed disrespect and disrespect led to bloody knuckles and knives.
“You mind your manners,” Jeb swiped him across the ear.
“Yeah, yeah, Jeb.” Mango danced to one side. “Apol, sor, pardon.” He gave a quick little bow towards Letty, who nodded shortly, ignoring the longing glance he cast at the tray at her feet. Business was slow and there were pies left from this morning’s batch. Mango swallowed. The pastry was speckled with a day’s dirt and there were gravy stains on the wrinkled cloth.
“Seen Snake?” Jeb asked. Letty frowned.
“Not for,” she stopped, calculating how long it was since she’d seen the boy. “Since Tues,” she said at last.
“Hmm,” Jeb scratched his head. He raked his fingers through his curls, inspected the dirt beneath his nails and said, “I haven’t seen him neither.” A cold wind rippled the surface of the river.
“You got a job for him?” Letty asked.
“Could be,” Jeb said nonchalantly. They both knew that Snake,s with his uncanny skill at sliding through spaces too small for any normal boy, was often used by the gangs that worked the city, but however much he trusted her Jeb thought it wiser if Letty did not know too much about his business.
“Should be in a circus, he should,” Letty said. “I haven’t seen him Jeb and he’s not the only one. Tully’s gone too and Markie isn’t here, like he should be. Snake’s not gone out of town?” she asked hopefully.
“I’d have heard,” Jeb said shortly. “Here.” He delved into a back pocket of his capacious coat and drew out a bottle. “Slug?” he asked offering it to Letty. She pulled out the piece of rag that served as a stopper.
“Yuk, ginevra,” she wrinkled her nose. “Got nothing better?” Jeb grinned and rummaged in another pocket.
“Rumbulin,” he offered, but before he could hand it to her a small brown hand had grabbed the bottle and Mango was pouring the rough liquor down his throat.
“Hey. Give it here,” Jeb loomed over him.
“I’s cold,” Mango grinned lopsidedly.
“Got any of that scottish?” Letty asked remembering the warm spreading fire that danced through her veins.
“Gone,” Jeb said. He seized the bottle of rumbulin and this time Letty took it and drank. It tasted sweetly of hot sun and blue skies. The harbour lights grew fuzzy. She wiped the top of the bottle and passed it to Jeb. He tipped back his head and swallowed. Mango leaned against Letty. Absently she tangled her fingers in his hair. It was coarse and springy, his body warm against her side.
Mango Jack giggled and closed his eyes. For a moment it seemed that he was drifting into sleep, then he opened his mouth and let out a huge belch. Letty and Jeb laughed. Mango’s stomach rumbled.
“Hungry,” he said hopefully.
“You’re always hungry,” she said.
“Yes,” Mango said cheerfully pointing at the left over pies.
“They’re cold.”
“Yes,” Mango said again.
“All right then.” She bent towards the tray, but before she could pick up a pie a hand sneaked out of the darkness. Dirty fingers clutched at the pastry. Quick as a rat down a drain, Mango pounced. His hand closed round a thin wrist.
“Bleedin’ thief,” Jeb pulled a small boy out of the shadows.
“Please,” the child cried, blue eyes swimming with tears. “Don’t hurt me.”