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Seventeen: A Desperate Trade
Posted by
Wolf2407
,
21 September 2012
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I didn't realize until I finished writing it that the scene where Six-Fingers Logan picks out a knife for Roarke is a lot like when Ollivander picks out a wand for Harry Potter. *laugh*
**
17
The dog had been relatively easy to skin, even with his inexperience, and he’d been told how to do it, so it was simple enough to figure out.
The fur was thick and soft, even with the gash- he supposed it was unavoidable- so he’d stashed the corpse in a safe place, buried it in some snow, and carefully marked the place in his memory.
And so it was, on an icy December afternoon, life found Roarke walking down a snowy Dublin street, a hide rolled up under his arm, a falcon on his left shoulder, and a knife in his right hand.
Six-Fingers Logan had sent word that he’d be coming into South Dublin for a few days: the chance was irresistible, as the Grey Line- the line of dark-grey cobblestones that set the border between West Dublin and the rest of the world, spanning the entire length of the City- was something that even the merest mention of would send a weak-hearted man pale.
Being so young, he didn’t dare cross it.
Earned yourself a flat, now, have you? He thought to himself, standing on the doorstep of a fine-looking brick building. Business must be thriving in West Dublin.
He snapped his knuckles against the faux-wood door; there was a pause as Logan considered the sound (probably identify him by the way he’d done it- it was a simple skill, one Roarke had already begun to acquire).
“Come in,” the older man called.
Roarke flinched at the sharp coldness of the doorknob, but ducked inside.
“See you’ve moved up in the world,” said he. “Prime digs, for a smuggler.”
“Temporary.”
“But decent.” Roarke gave an appreciative shudder. “And warmer inside than out.”
“Basic function of a house, boy-o,” Logan said, leaning against the long counter that ran along the back wall. Not a complex of flats, Roarke realized, but a building designed for smuggling. Nobody ever suspected the same people ducking in and out of flats.
“You must have something interesting, or need something, or else you wouldn’t have arranged this appointment.”
“I think so.” Roarke walked forward, and unrolled the hide on the counter, picking up the claws and fangs of the beast where he’d tucked them in the center once the task was done- no easy feat, as it was sizable.
Logan nudged something aside as Roarke delicately arranged the claws on the hide. He ran his hand over the fur.
“Now where,” he murmured, breath showing in the sharp winter air, “did you get such a thing?”
“Just this morning,” Roarke explained, and indicated Tintrí with a flick of his head. “Her kill.”
Logan ran his fingers down the deep cut through the dead center of the skin, and eying her warily, brushed his fingers over the monster’s head, considering where the eyes had once been.
“A massive beast,” he whispered. “How old? What sort?”
He picked up a claw, and held it up to the light, measuring it by eye: nearly as long as his smallest finger. The fangs were nearly two and a half inches.
“Five months,” Roarke replied. “A Garda Síochána hound, easily outwitted, according to her.”
Logan’s head whipped up, and his eyes fixed on Roarke’s. “What did you just say?”
Roarke tilted her head. “Easily outwitted.” He indicated Tintrí again. “According to her.”
When she tossed her head and chirped, it made perfect sense to Roarke: Of course! It was ridiculously simple.
Roarke rolled his eyes. “Of course it was,” he agreed.
Logan, however, didn’t understand a single word.
“She speaks to you?”
“Well, yeah.” He looked over at her, and his lips twitched: something Logan had never seen from him.
He was the boy with no friends, a boy who spoke awkwardly, unsure of himself, and never, ever smiled.
Roarke clicked his tongue softly, and she turned to him. He whistled softly, a quiet tremolo.
Logan only stared.
Obviously I used the talon on the back of my foot to slay the beast. Can’t you see the fur stuck in my scales? It’s going to take hours to pluck out.
The man was dumbfounded.
“You… understand each other.”
“Quite.”
“You,” Logan said under his breath, going back to examining the hide, “are a strange, strange fiend.”
Roarke watched his hands move quickly about, probing, questing.
“Not too shabbily done of a skin job.”
A foreign emotion- pride- flashed in his heart, a place only recently allowed life. “Thank you.”
So, patience assured, Roarke waited.
“A hundred quid,” Logan said suddenly.
Blindsided- he’d been vaguely daydreaming- Roarke rolled back on his heels. “What?”
“A hundred quid, at least, that’s what it’s worth,” Logan repeated. “Less with that gash. Far more with the claws and teeth. Good touch. The skull would fetch a pretty penny. The bones on a beast this size would be very useful for tools.”
“A hundred quid,” Roarke repeated, dazed.
“At least,” Logan affirmed, checking the other side of the hide. “You did it perfectly. You didn’t scrape too far, didn’t leave any fat on the skin. It’s a perfect job, boy, which increases the tab five-fold. It could fetch three hundred, easy, and five wouldn’t be a stretch.”
For a long time, all Roarke could do was stare. Five hundred quid… he could live for months on five hundred quid.
“Or,” Logan said, breaking sharply into his fantasy.
Roarke managed to focus. “Or?”
“I’ll trade you.”
He shook off the dumb wonder, and settled into the solid state of business.
“I need a weapon.” He handed over the knife.
Logan pressed the end of the hilt into his palm, and touched a finger to the tip. “Low quality,” said he. “Rust obviously scraped off, poor polish job. You skinned your beastie with this?”
“Aye.”
“Shame on you.”
Roarke hung his head.
“A tool is no better than its master, and you’ve put this one to very fine use, considering the bloody awful condition the blade’s in,” Logan said. “But the master is only as good as his tools.”
Enviously, Roarke’s eyes followed the black knife- the goal- on Logan’s right hip as the man turned, and his fingers danced over the shelves behind the counter.
“You need something short-range,” the man said, almost to himself. “A solid shiv, one that can take a beating and give one. Something all-purpose. Stiff-bladed. You’re young, but growing quick. If you survive this winter, you’ll be stronger than you were before. Something easy to conceal on your frame, but will show when you want it to. Hardy. Sheathed. On the hip, typically, but flexible- ankle, calf, arm, anywhere you want to put it.”
“Like yours.”
“Like mine,” Logan agreed. “Show me fourteen thousand pounds, and it’ll be yours. But in the meantime…”
He pulled a shiv off of one of the shelves, offered it hilt-first.
“Try this. See how it fits your hand. You want to be able to be stealthy, but flash a signal through the blade. Bright, but dull. Strong, but standard. Valuable, but not obviously so.”
“Again, like yours.”
“Again, like mine.” Logan paused. “Hollow hilt?”
“Optional.” Roarke took the hilt, drew it from the sheath, and watched it glitter in the low light.
“Strong enough that you can hit it with a hammer and it won’t fail. It’ll hold an edge as you hack through bone, but it’s not mine. Don’t get carried away.”
“Serrated at the base. I could cut someone to pieces with this.”
“A knife is like a snake, Roarke,” Logan said seriously. “It can turn at any moment and cut you to pieces instead with the slightest mistake.”
He extended his left arm and pulled back his sleeve to the elbow, displaying a long, white scar that ran the length of his forearm.
“Was about fourteen when I acquired that. I’d been playing with blades since I was younger than you, and I got cocky… tried sharpening my finest, and my hand twitched- it slipped. Nearly died.”
Roarke swallowed.
“On a lighter note,” Logan said casually, shaking back his sleeve, “how do you feel about bows?”
Roarke raised his eyebrows. “Bows?”
At that instant, the floor creaked, not more than four feet behind him.
Sensibly, Logan’s hand flicked to his hip.
More surprising was Roarke’s reaction: his head turned sharply, and baring his teeth, a wolflike snarl sounded low in his throat.
And strangely, the hair on the back of Logan’s neck raised.
“The place is haunted,” he said softly. “Nothing to worry about. I’ve spent nights in here. They just talk, nothing else.”
Roarke turned back to him. “You were saying?”
“You need something long range.” Again, Logan’s fingers danced over the shelves. “A gun won’t fit in your hands, so you’ll be more likely to hurt yourself than someone else. It’s much too loud, besides- your legs are shorter than those of the ones who want you dead. You need to nail them from afar if you’re going to stand a chance. A gun is loud, and sounds for miles on quiet winter nights: everyone will hunt you because they want one. A bow is silent. It will cover the range you need it to. The exercise of drawing it regularly will give you the muscle you need.”
He snatched something off of the shelf, grabbed a wrench from under the counter, and made a quick adjustment on it; satisfied, the item was passed over.
“Don’t dry fire it,” Logan said, and handed over a simple expanding broadhead. “Here…”
In a flash, he drew his knife and threw it at the wall; it hit perfectly.
He walked over, wrenched it out, and tapped a finger on the vertical slit before walking away.
“There’s your mark. Hit it.”
“Tintrí,” Roarke said softly, and she fluttered to one of the rafters.
This was the way he learned best: figuring it out for himself.
He fitted the arrow to the string, and with less effort than he’d expected, pulled the string back to his jaw.
“A compound bow, see,” Logan said as Roarke aimed. “The wheels at the top and bottom help reduce the weight you’re holding at full draw. It’ll adjust as you need it to- few twists of a wrench can give you a greater draw length, or weight.”
“The arrow, a simple horizontal pair of blades.”
“Wicked effective. Some come with four.”
Roarke pulled in a breath, and slowly letting it out, fired.
The string lunged like a viper, making him twitch.
But when he wrenched the arrow out of the wall, the mark from the knife and the arrow formed a perfect +.
“You’ll want gloves with that,” Logan said, setting a pair on the counter. “Twenty arrows, in case of loss. Something to hold them in.”
He set a small bundle on the counter, with a portion of the shaft and most of the fletching showing from the rough quiver.
“The knife,” he added, setting it- sheath already attached to a belt, which suited Roarke just fine- on the counter beside the arrows. “I’d recommend wearing the knife on your left, the arrows on your right, and the bow on your back.”
“If you say so,” Roarke said coolly, setting it on the counter. The flat black color of it, he knew, would camouflage perfectly.
“Fair trade?”
“Fair trade,” Roarke agreed, and shook Logan’s hand.
**
Bet you didn't see that coming...
**
A Desperate Trade
17
The dog had been relatively easy to skin, even with his inexperience, and he’d been told how to do it, so it was simple enough to figure out.
The fur was thick and soft, even with the gash- he supposed it was unavoidable- so he’d stashed the corpse in a safe place, buried it in some snow, and carefully marked the place in his memory.
And so it was, on an icy December afternoon, life found Roarke walking down a snowy Dublin street, a hide rolled up under his arm, a falcon on his left shoulder, and a knife in his right hand.
Six-Fingers Logan had sent word that he’d be coming into South Dublin for a few days: the chance was irresistible, as the Grey Line- the line of dark-grey cobblestones that set the border between West Dublin and the rest of the world, spanning the entire length of the City- was something that even the merest mention of would send a weak-hearted man pale.
Being so young, he didn’t dare cross it.
Earned yourself a flat, now, have you? He thought to himself, standing on the doorstep of a fine-looking brick building. Business must be thriving in West Dublin.
He snapped his knuckles against the faux-wood door; there was a pause as Logan considered the sound (probably identify him by the way he’d done it- it was a simple skill, one Roarke had already begun to acquire).
“Come in,” the older man called.
Roarke flinched at the sharp coldness of the doorknob, but ducked inside.
“See you’ve moved up in the world,” said he. “Prime digs, for a smuggler.”
“Temporary.”
“But decent.” Roarke gave an appreciative shudder. “And warmer inside than out.”
“Basic function of a house, boy-o,” Logan said, leaning against the long counter that ran along the back wall. Not a complex of flats, Roarke realized, but a building designed for smuggling. Nobody ever suspected the same people ducking in and out of flats.
“You must have something interesting, or need something, or else you wouldn’t have arranged this appointment.”
“I think so.” Roarke walked forward, and unrolled the hide on the counter, picking up the claws and fangs of the beast where he’d tucked them in the center once the task was done- no easy feat, as it was sizable.
Logan nudged something aside as Roarke delicately arranged the claws on the hide. He ran his hand over the fur.
“Now where,” he murmured, breath showing in the sharp winter air, “did you get such a thing?”
“Just this morning,” Roarke explained, and indicated Tintrí with a flick of his head. “Her kill.”
Logan ran his fingers down the deep cut through the dead center of the skin, and eying her warily, brushed his fingers over the monster’s head, considering where the eyes had once been.
“A massive beast,” he whispered. “How old? What sort?”
He picked up a claw, and held it up to the light, measuring it by eye: nearly as long as his smallest finger. The fangs were nearly two and a half inches.
“Five months,” Roarke replied. “A Garda Síochána hound, easily outwitted, according to her.”
Logan’s head whipped up, and his eyes fixed on Roarke’s. “What did you just say?”
Roarke tilted her head. “Easily outwitted.” He indicated Tintrí again. “According to her.”
When she tossed her head and chirped, it made perfect sense to Roarke: Of course! It was ridiculously simple.
Roarke rolled his eyes. “Of course it was,” he agreed.
Logan, however, didn’t understand a single word.
“She speaks to you?”
“Well, yeah.” He looked over at her, and his lips twitched: something Logan had never seen from him.
He was the boy with no friends, a boy who spoke awkwardly, unsure of himself, and never, ever smiled.
Roarke clicked his tongue softly, and she turned to him. He whistled softly, a quiet tremolo.
Logan only stared.
Obviously I used the talon on the back of my foot to slay the beast. Can’t you see the fur stuck in my scales? It’s going to take hours to pluck out.
The man was dumbfounded.
“You… understand each other.”
“Quite.”
“You,” Logan said under his breath, going back to examining the hide, “are a strange, strange fiend.”
Roarke watched his hands move quickly about, probing, questing.
“Not too shabbily done of a skin job.”
A foreign emotion- pride- flashed in his heart, a place only recently allowed life. “Thank you.”
So, patience assured, Roarke waited.
“A hundred quid,” Logan said suddenly.
Blindsided- he’d been vaguely daydreaming- Roarke rolled back on his heels. “What?”
“A hundred quid, at least, that’s what it’s worth,” Logan repeated. “Less with that gash. Far more with the claws and teeth. Good touch. The skull would fetch a pretty penny. The bones on a beast this size would be very useful for tools.”
“A hundred quid,” Roarke repeated, dazed.
“At least,” Logan affirmed, checking the other side of the hide. “You did it perfectly. You didn’t scrape too far, didn’t leave any fat on the skin. It’s a perfect job, boy, which increases the tab five-fold. It could fetch three hundred, easy, and five wouldn’t be a stretch.”
For a long time, all Roarke could do was stare. Five hundred quid… he could live for months on five hundred quid.
“Or,” Logan said, breaking sharply into his fantasy.
Roarke managed to focus. “Or?”
“I’ll trade you.”
He shook off the dumb wonder, and settled into the solid state of business.
“I need a weapon.” He handed over the knife.
Logan pressed the end of the hilt into his palm, and touched a finger to the tip. “Low quality,” said he. “Rust obviously scraped off, poor polish job. You skinned your beastie with this?”
“Aye.”
“Shame on you.”
Roarke hung his head.
“A tool is no better than its master, and you’ve put this one to very fine use, considering the bloody awful condition the blade’s in,” Logan said. “But the master is only as good as his tools.”
Enviously, Roarke’s eyes followed the black knife- the goal- on Logan’s right hip as the man turned, and his fingers danced over the shelves behind the counter.
“You need something short-range,” the man said, almost to himself. “A solid shiv, one that can take a beating and give one. Something all-purpose. Stiff-bladed. You’re young, but growing quick. If you survive this winter, you’ll be stronger than you were before. Something easy to conceal on your frame, but will show when you want it to. Hardy. Sheathed. On the hip, typically, but flexible- ankle, calf, arm, anywhere you want to put it.”
“Like yours.”
“Like mine,” Logan agreed. “Show me fourteen thousand pounds, and it’ll be yours. But in the meantime…”
He pulled a shiv off of one of the shelves, offered it hilt-first.
“Try this. See how it fits your hand. You want to be able to be stealthy, but flash a signal through the blade. Bright, but dull. Strong, but standard. Valuable, but not obviously so.”
“Again, like yours.”
“Again, like mine.” Logan paused. “Hollow hilt?”
“Optional.” Roarke took the hilt, drew it from the sheath, and watched it glitter in the low light.
“Strong enough that you can hit it with a hammer and it won’t fail. It’ll hold an edge as you hack through bone, but it’s not mine. Don’t get carried away.”
“Serrated at the base. I could cut someone to pieces with this.”
“A knife is like a snake, Roarke,” Logan said seriously. “It can turn at any moment and cut you to pieces instead with the slightest mistake.”
He extended his left arm and pulled back his sleeve to the elbow, displaying a long, white scar that ran the length of his forearm.
“Was about fourteen when I acquired that. I’d been playing with blades since I was younger than you, and I got cocky… tried sharpening my finest, and my hand twitched- it slipped. Nearly died.”
Roarke swallowed.
“On a lighter note,” Logan said casually, shaking back his sleeve, “how do you feel about bows?”
Roarke raised his eyebrows. “Bows?”
At that instant, the floor creaked, not more than four feet behind him.
Sensibly, Logan’s hand flicked to his hip.
More surprising was Roarke’s reaction: his head turned sharply, and baring his teeth, a wolflike snarl sounded low in his throat.
And strangely, the hair on the back of Logan’s neck raised.
“The place is haunted,” he said softly. “Nothing to worry about. I’ve spent nights in here. They just talk, nothing else.”
Roarke turned back to him. “You were saying?”
“You need something long range.” Again, Logan’s fingers danced over the shelves. “A gun won’t fit in your hands, so you’ll be more likely to hurt yourself than someone else. It’s much too loud, besides- your legs are shorter than those of the ones who want you dead. You need to nail them from afar if you’re going to stand a chance. A gun is loud, and sounds for miles on quiet winter nights: everyone will hunt you because they want one. A bow is silent. It will cover the range you need it to. The exercise of drawing it regularly will give you the muscle you need.”
He snatched something off of the shelf, grabbed a wrench from under the counter, and made a quick adjustment on it; satisfied, the item was passed over.
“Don’t dry fire it,” Logan said, and handed over a simple expanding broadhead. “Here…”
In a flash, he drew his knife and threw it at the wall; it hit perfectly.
He walked over, wrenched it out, and tapped a finger on the vertical slit before walking away.
“There’s your mark. Hit it.”
“Tintrí,” Roarke said softly, and she fluttered to one of the rafters.
This was the way he learned best: figuring it out for himself.
He fitted the arrow to the string, and with less effort than he’d expected, pulled the string back to his jaw.
“A compound bow, see,” Logan said as Roarke aimed. “The wheels at the top and bottom help reduce the weight you’re holding at full draw. It’ll adjust as you need it to- few twists of a wrench can give you a greater draw length, or weight.”
“The arrow, a simple horizontal pair of blades.”
“Wicked effective. Some come with four.”
Roarke pulled in a breath, and slowly letting it out, fired.
The string lunged like a viper, making him twitch.
But when he wrenched the arrow out of the wall, the mark from the knife and the arrow formed a perfect +.
“You’ll want gloves with that,” Logan said, setting a pair on the counter. “Twenty arrows, in case of loss. Something to hold them in.”
He set a small bundle on the counter, with a portion of the shaft and most of the fletching showing from the rough quiver.
“The knife,” he added, setting it- sheath already attached to a belt, which suited Roarke just fine- on the counter beside the arrows. “I’d recommend wearing the knife on your left, the arrows on your right, and the bow on your back.”
“If you say so,” Roarke said coolly, setting it on the counter. The flat black color of it, he knew, would camouflage perfectly.
“Fair trade?”
“Fair trade,” Roarke agreed, and shook Logan’s hand.
**
Bet you didn't see that coming...
Enjoy your chapters very much!