Chapter 7
"Get up."
Locke was kicked off his bed. He quickly turned and glared at Hal, who yawned and motioned for Locke to follow him. Locke thought for a moment to ignore him and go back to sleep, but he guessed he didn't have a choice.
Locke took a better look at the attic where he and the other kids were sleeping. There were about a score of children, most of them a few years older than he. And the attic has just enough room to fit them all.
The stairs down were worn and creaking. And steep, there was no way to rush down them, and if he stepped on them a bit harder, everyone would hear it. They passed through the kitchen, where Hal grabbed a pitcher of ale and drank half of it before passing it to Locke.
It was bitter and stale, but at least it was cold. It managed to wake Locke up a bit, though he didn't think it would last long. His body was still heavy, tired, and hurting—more now than before. He could feel his face swelling up.
Soon, they stepped outside the winesink into a small backyard. There was just enough space for stacked logs of wood and for one person to move around. The sun hadn't even started to rise. The cold of the night still lingered.
Maybe Locke wouldn't shiver so much if he were wearing more than a shirt. But he wasn't going to ask for anything more from these people. And maybe the cold would help with all the swelling on his face.
"An axe and logs. You know what to do, so get to it," Hal said as he went to a trough of water to wash his face. "This is the last time I wake you. Next time you can't chop the wood in time, there will be no breakfast. Then you can explain to the other kids why they're going hungry."
And with that, Locke was left alone. Sighing, he picked up the axe. It was far too big and heavy for him. He could barely lift it over his head. And he hadn't been told how much wood was needed either. So, he would probably have to work until he was told otherwise.
…
It didn't take long for Locke to warm up. The logs were as heavy as the axe itself. And after a few hours, just as the sun rose high enough to chase away the cold, Locke was sweating like a pig and tired as a horse.
"Um, it isn't enough."
Locke snapped his head at the familiar voice and glared at the kid who got him into this mess. For some reason, the boy didn't look too scared, only trying not to meet Locke's eyes as he spoke.
"How much time do I have?"
"We start in half an hour," the kid replied. "And we'll need at least half again as much as you've chopped."
"Then what are you waiting for?" Locke asked, pushing the axe into the kid's hands. "Get to it."
"But I'm needed in the kitchen."
"I'll stuff you in the furnace if there isn't enough wood. Don't think I've forgotten that you cheated me. And I told you what I'd do to you."
Once the kid got the message, Locke went to a trough and started to wash up. He looked at the reflection in the dirty water. It had been some time since he'd seen his face. Half of it was swollen and blue, and it hurt to touch.
It would heal. So maybe it wasn't that bad. But he just couldn't imagine his life here. Being ordered around, doing chores, dealing with other kids—none of it was what Locke ever wanted or imagined doing.
He was fine on his own. He had managed to survive, and he knew he could have thrived with time. He was a fast learner, and he only got better with experience. So being stuck here against his will made him mad. Especially since the ones who got him into this situation were right next to him, and he couldn't do anything to them—otherwise, he'd have to deal with that bitch.
But maybe it wasn't so bad. Luck always runs out, and sooner or later, he would've been caught. So maybe it wasn't so bad that they got to him first. He'd bide his time for now, do some stupid chores, and try to learn everything he could from them. Then, when the moment came, Locke would be gone.
"Arin, what are you doing?" A woman came out of the kitchen and saw Locke resting while another kid worked. "Arin, go back to the kitchen."
"I'm fine, ma."
"Go. Back. To. The. Kitchen."
"Alright," Arin skittered away like the rat he was.
"And you, boy. I believe chopping wood is your job."
"What of it?" Locke asked, looking at the cuts on his arms to see if any were infected. "You should be thankful I'm not beating up your children."
"Everyone here is my child, boy," she replied. "And if you even touch them, you'll sleep outside."
"That's just fine with me," Locke said. "I suggest you don't try to scare me. And you should be grateful. If not for me, that trio you were using would have a noose around their necks. That is, if you even care if they were dead or not."
Locke didn't really want to speak to these people. He didn't imagine himself spending more than a year here. But he needed to act tough so they would leave him alone. Sooner or later, they'd get tired of him, and he'd have no trouble.
"Ow!"
Just when Locke thought he'd be left alone, the woman returned with a broom made of twigs and hit him on the head. It hurt more than he liked to admit, and under that threat, he returned to work.
Damn them all. One day, he would get payback for this. For now, he'd chop the damn wood and rest. Healing his wounds was a priority. He stuck out too much right now to be running through the streets.
Still, he needed to retrieve his coins somehow. He couldn't leave all his caches lying around for some lucky bastard to find. And once he sold the jewelry to the old lady, maybe he wouldn't have to do these damn chores.
"Bring in the wood, boy!"
Locke heard it from the kitchen. He grumbled and started stacking the chopped wood in his arms before carrying it inside. Everyone was already working hard. The woman who hit him was leading six kids and two other women. One of them pointed to where the wood should go before shoving Locke back outside to bring more.
He had to make dozens of trips. It wouldn't be much work for an adult, but his arms were short and weak. By the time he finished, he was drenched in sweat again, and his limbs trembled from exertion.
When the work was done, the food was already cooked and served. Locke was the last to get a bowl of gruel, a few slices of bread with butter, and a sausage. He was so starved that he smashed the bread with the sausage and dipped it into the gruel to eat faster.
By the time he finished, he was ready to collapse. The little sleep he got wasn't nearly enough, and his eyes were already trying to shut on their own. Since his chores were done, he was ready to go back to bed.
"Where are you going?" the broom lady asked. "The business opens in five hours. And we need twice the amount of wood for the next round. Back to work."
"Not doing it, lady," Locke said. He knew he wouldn't manage it and wasn't about to accept more abuse.
"Name's Alice, boy. And you will."
"Or what?"
"Or you get in trouble with me, kid," Hal said, grabbing Locke's head from behind. "Now, go on. You don't have much time."
Fuckers. Locke could only curse at them as Hal pushed him out. He couldn't even fight back. But at least he could curse them all in his head.
He'd get them all one day. For now, he'd do the work, but he had no intention of finishing. He knew it was impossible. What would they do? Beat him? Nothing worse than what he'd already lived through.
"What are you doing?" Locke asked when he saw the trio who got him into this mess.
"We thought we should help you out," Arin, the oldest and tallest of the three, replied. "I'm Arin, by the way. That's Darren, and her name's Klara."
"Locke. And don't think I'll forgive you just because you helped me."
"Sorry," Darren said, lowering his head.
He was a bit shorter than Arin and just slightly taller than Locke. But he was clearly the meekest of the trio. Klara was the smallest, but also the bravest. She didn't look away from Locke's harsh glare—she only stuck out her tongue in a mocking way. Daring him to do anything.
"Let's finish this. I'm too tired as it is," Locke said. "We'll work in pairs. There's not enough space for four. Darren will help me. Then we'll rest while Arin and Klara take over."
In the end, it didn't matter if they cheated him. He knew it would happen eventually—he just didn't expect it so soon. That's why he didn't even try to learn their names before. But he wouldn't deny free help.
And realistically, he could blame them as much as he blamed Henry for dying. They were just children who were doing what they were told to do. Who he really hated was that bitch Wren. She thought she was the toughest shit in the city. Not only did she almost kill him, but her attitude just got on his nerves.
He promised himself that before he left this gang, he'd put her in her place. To do that, he needed information. And as luck would have it, he had three kids he could use to get it.
…
As much as Locke wanted to complain, the food was good. And hot. He couldn't remember the last time he had hot food. At one point, he'd even considered trying the Bowl of Brown from the disgusting pot shops.
He probably would have eaten it and enjoyed it—if he didn't know what went into those bowls. He could do many things to survive. Stealing, even killing, didn't bother him if it meant a better life. And if desperate enough, he'd eat rats or pigeons. But he'd never cross the line.
The thought of corpses being dumped into those pots made him sick. Kids like him probably ended up in there. He didn't think he was monstrous enough to become a cannibal. And he didn't want to find out.
The Drunken Pig was a big, popular tavern. It was more expensive than other winesinks in Flea Bottom. But it was still a winesink. Rough people came here. They got drunk. So, even rougher people were needed to keep the peace.
The kids did most of the chores. There were older women—cooks, servers, and whores—keeping the place running. Then there were men like Hal, big and tough, keeping order. But Wren was one of the odd ones out.
Locke suspected that bitch was related to the old woman. It seemed like everyone knew the woman, and Wren was always by her side. So, everyone knew Wren, too. Aside from her, Locke noticed others who didn't fit in either.
A priest taught the kids and preached that drinking was a sin, even though he was the drunkest of the lot. An old man sat in the corner all day, doing nothing and saying nothing. And a musician played the lute endlessly, all day from morning until now.
It wasn't what Locke expected from a gang. But now he was curious about them—even if only to gather information before he left. It was better to know his enemies, so they would be easier to deal with later on.
Thought he would rather not deal with them at all. He didn't have time for them. He had to find a way to kill the Queen, after all. He couldn't care less about those plebians, who were abandoned in the Flea Bottom.
A.N. As always, thanks for reading and supporting me, so I can continue writing without any concerns, and if you want more, up to seven more chapters, you can support me on pa treon. com \ ironwolf852.