Kadakithis part 6: Who
Kadakithis heard the bell over the door ring, and woke from where he’d dozed off. A hooded young man was well inside his little shop, eyeing him curiously. The man was lean with a hardened expression, but that described most of the people in Sanctuary these days and nearly all of its youth. “Can I help you?” he asked, but the man said nothing, just straightened up a little, mumbled an excuse, and sauntered out like he hadn’t just snuck in. He looked over at the basket by the door and sure enough it was one piece light. Joke’s on you, thief. The basket was filled with small ribbon charms, a cheap imitation of the fashion that year, but (heart) love (quill) was inked on it so it wouldn’t wash out. Love notes didn’t pay much but they got him in contact with the happier denizens of town, and that was worth it. Furthermore knowing which ink would write well on what fabric had gotten him one or two more interesting commissions. The cost of giving them to shoplifters was more than offset by drumming up business without revealing his face to too many.
His back stung, on fire. He wondered if he had passed out on the post and was still being flogged, but slowly became aware that he was face down on something soft. His hands were still bound, but separately, and a firm hand was on the base of his neck. Fire, again, and he whimpered.
"He'll live," he heard Trainer say to someone in the next room, "probably. Welcome back."
Kadakithis suppressed another whimper as the pain bit into him again.
"It's salt. It hurts like fire, but it should prevent infection. Otherwise it hurts like fire and then you die."
"Thanks." He wasn't sure why he said that.
"What's your name?"
"Slave."
"No, from before."
"Kad--" he caught his breath when the salt hit another wound, and decided to leave it at that. His full name could only complicate things.
"Cat, okay. Is it true you know how to read and write?"
It was an odd question. He'd been here for years and it never came up. "Some."
"Not surprised. You know, we were taking bets on you. Two weeks earlier and Cook would've won but I said no, this guy is smart, he'll plan. Credit to you, old man. You almost made it out."
It was a goad. It had to be.
"You were saying something when you were being flogged, repeating it over and over. 'Iowa Egg' or 'Eyewall nottay', something like that. What language was that? What were you saying?"
I will not beg. He didn't realize he'd said it aloud, in court Rankene no less. "I have no idea. I don't remember saying anything."
Trainer sighed, just a little. He loosened the chain on his right hand. "Here's a bowl of broth, to help get your strength back. Sip it, slowly. We don't want you throwing up."
As Trainer left he set a small bag down by Kadakithis' hand. "My winnings, your good luck charm bag." He couldn't believe his eyes. Half-rotted from saltwater, age, and changing hands, on his bed next to his hand was his tiny bag of writing tools. Carefully he opened it up. The quills were rotted to dust and the ink dry, but the jar was intact and the nibs might yet be usable. Carefully he brushed the feathers away and fastened the bag back together.
The next day he was tended by silent nurses who asked no more questions.
(This is a work of fan fiction based on the anthology Thieves' World and its anchor novel Sanctuary. No challenge to its copyrights or trademarks are intended. On the contrary, this is a poor shadow of the original and I highly recommend you go read those. The novel (takes place between the two anthologies) and the series before and after )