Snippet – Marah’s Tale

Introducing someone who will become very important to Emily …

Prologue

The man who called himself the Wild Fox, and crafted a legend of heroic deeds and daring do, of brilliant raids on the aristocracy and taxmen that always ended with the noblemen and their mercenaries looking like fools while their ill-gotten gains were returned to their rightful owners, always wore his costume, even when every hand was turned against him and it would be prudent to blend in with the crowd.  It was part of the legend, of a hero who stood tall and proud, daring the enemies of the common man to strike him down – and, in doing so, turn him into a martyr. The price on his head was unimaginably high, and the slightest mistake could bring him down, but the Wild Fox went on.  He could do no else.

It had always amused Virgil Quintus Fabius that far too many people, including people old enough to know better, believed the myth. It would be folly, in the extreme, to show himself so openly. The aristocrats would not hesitate to do whatever it took to bring him down, from planting spies in the various revolutionary organisations to storming the entire district and arresting everyone present, even the ones who had nothing to do with the Levellers or him. He wore a simple suit and hat when he walked the streets, the kind of garb that might be worn by a lower-class commoner. It was not the sort of outfit that would draw attention. There were thousands of such people in Valetta, men with no money to pay for prostitutes or anything else they might find in the Coalsack, men with nothing worth the effort of stealing. He kept his eyes open anyway as he walked down the street. Valetta was a violent town and recent events have only made it worse. It was quite possible he would run into someone who wants to put a knife between his ribs for fun.

Virgil smiled as he passed a pair of young aristocrats, slumming it on the streets. The Coalsack had a bad reputation for shady doings and outright criminality, but that didn’t deter the aristocrats from visiting. The Coalsack was a place where you could find anything, including potions and other pleasures forbidden even to the aristocracy. There were buildings that catered to the very darkest of tastes, isolated bedrooms offering pleasures so twisted and perverse that anyone who tasted them could never be trusted again. It wasn’t just pleasure, either. The Coalsack was a haven for everyone who opposed the monarchy, a hiding place kept secure by the king’s unwillingness to risk alienating his aristocrats. It was rare for the Royal Guard to enter the district. But the chance to catch the Wild Fox would be enough to bring them in.

His smile grew wider, and nastier, as he spotted the private guards following the aristocrats. It could not be an easy job, even without the pressure of visiting the Coalsack. They might be dressed as servants, rather than guards, but it was obvious they were nothing of the sort. The crowd gave them a wide berth, careful not to draw their attention. It was possible they might draw their swords first and ask questions later, if they felt threatened. Getting out of the Coalsack afterwards would be difficult, if they drew blood, but they might not be thinking too clearly. They were clearly not paying enough attention to their surroundings. Virgil had no trouble spotting a little girl in boy’s clothing walking past the guards, picking their pockets as she moved. She was very good at her job. The guards didn’t notice anything – and wouldn’t, until it was too late. He made a mental note of her face, as a prospective recruit, then walked into the alleyway. The stench of too many humans in too close proximity worse off around him, a smell that would deter the perfumed aristocrats. He did his best to ignore the men and women lying on the paving stones, drunk or drugged out of their minds or simply overwhelmed by despair. There was little hope for anyone who fell into the Coalsack. The treasurers came at a cost, one paid by the locals. The people in the alleyway would be dead soon. The Coalsack wouldn’t notice their deaths.

The door was unmarked, like most of the others. If you didn’t know what it was, you had no business there. Virgil knocked on the door, beating out a pattern, then turned the knob. Magic – a very low-power charm connected to something nastier – flickered around his fingertips as the door opened. The interior was a workshop, dominated by a handful of portable printing presses turning out the latest revolutionary broadsheets. The apprentices – all female – barely looked up from their work. Virgil nodded in approval. The printing shop was buried within the Coalsack, protected by street thugs and gangsters who could be relied upon to challenge anyone who entered their territory in force. The printers would have plenty of time to pack up and vanish if the Royal Guard came calling.

“Welcome,” a tart voice said. “This way.”

Virgil nodded and followed the older woman into the office. It had been difficult, once upon a time, to wrap his head around such a woman being part of the growing network of evolutionary organisations. She looked like a fishwife, or one of the merchant women who ran the store while her husband bargained for goods with his suppliers. Her face was scarred and pitted, her dress loose and anonymous – in its own way, as anonymous as his own outfit. She could let her dark hair down, change her outfit, and effectively vanish. By the time the Guardsman realised who and what she was, she’d be gone. Virgil had no idea why she had taken up the revolutionary trade, or what she had been called before she had abandoned her family name, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she had.

He felt a handful of protective wards snap into place as the older woman closed the door. “I take it your master’s last mission was successful?”

“Yes.” Virgil opened his bag to reveal four golden candlesticks. “You’ll have to melt them down, of course, but they are real gold.”

The women inspected the candlesticks as if she expected she’d be cheated. Trust was in short supply in the Coalsack. There was no such thing as honour amongst thieves. The Levellers claimed to be honest even when it worked against them, but very few people believed they truly were. The line between revolutionary and criminal activity was incredibly blurred. Virgil might tell the world that his theft had undermined the aristocracy, and funded the revolution, but not everyone would agree. He had seen quite a few revolutionary organisations fall all the way into outright criminality, preying on the people they claimed to fight for.

“They are real gold,” the woman said. Her tone didn’t change, even though she was holding the money to feed an entire apartment block for weeks. “Your master did well.”

Virgil nodded, playing the servant. The woman was not supposed to know that he and the Wild Fox were one and the same. He had wondered, occasionally, if she had guessed the truth, but he had never bothered to ask. The servant was as much a facade as the masked avenger of the night, the righter of wrongs and fighter of evil. If he had to discard the persona, he would do so without a second thought. His business in the city could be carried on under another name.

The woman stared down at the candlesticks for long moment. “It seems almost a shame to melt them.”

“Do as you see fit,” Virgil advised. The candlesticks were quite recognisable. There was no way to hide the coat of arms, not without making it obvious what they’d done. If there wasn’t a description circulating already, with the promise of vast rewards for the man who found and returned them, he’d eat his hat. My master just wants the funds to be used properly.

“Indeed.” The woman sounded suspicious. Charity was rare in the Coalsack, even amongst the revolutionaries. But Virgil didn’t need the money. He could get pretty much anything he wanted, through magic or mundane skills. “What else does he want?”

“An assistant,” Virgil said. He thought briefly of the young pickpocket, before dismissing the thought. She was skilled, but a lifetime on streets would have given her a cynical attitude towards anyone who tried to reach out to her. She would always be looking for the ulterior motive and in this case she would be right. He needed someone a little less suspicious. “Someone young, with magic and without any local connections.”

The woman said nothing for a long moment. Virgil waited impatiently. The women straddled a number of revolutionary groups, from organisations quietly pressuring the monarchy to make a handful of limited reforms to groups planning outright violence, but most of the people she knew wouldn’t qualify. It was difficult anyone to enter a group without someone vouching for them, if only to keep the secret police from infiltrating them. There were very few people isolated from the rest of the city. A recent immigrant would be ideal, if there was one. But they tended to come in groups.

“I may have a lead for you,” the women said, finally. “Someone with magic. But you will have to act fast.”

Virgil nodded. Patience had never come easily to him. It was always better to be doing something, anything, rather than sitting around waiting to be attacked. He could wait for his plans to mature, if he had no other choice, but … he didn’t like it. If time wasn’t on his side … it was all the excuse he needed to act.

He smiled. “Tell me.”

Chapter One

Marah muttered a very unladylike word under her breath as she dug the shovel into the pile of coal, picked up a scoopful, and dumped it into the makeshift wagon. The air was cold, but sweat soaked her clothes as she picked up a second scoopful and tossed it after the first. Her hands felt grimy and unpleasant, her outfit so badly stained with coal dust that she felt she would never be clean again. Every breath she took brought in a mouthful of dust, forcing her to cough and spit in a manner her mother would hate. She took a swig of water from her canteen, then forced herself to carry on. Her shift wasn’t over yet.

She kept her face a blank mask as a supervisor walked past. He was a middle-aged man, wearing clothes that made him look as if he were putting on airs and graces, but he had the power of life and death over the young men and women working in the yard. A word from his could see her, or one of the others, tossed out with no hope of return. Her stepfather would be furious if she got fired and her mother … Marah sighed inwardly. It wasn’t as if their supervisor actually owned the yard, or the railway, or the coal pits on the far side of town. He was just lucky enough to have a job that let him boss people around. She let her gaze linger on the handful of girls who were eyeing him as a prospective husband, then rolled her eyes. The supervisor might take them away from the yard, but Marah doubted married life with him would be pleasant. And yet, the saddest thing about it was that the supervisor was probably the best catch in town.

The wagon filled slowly, right to the rim. Marah wiped sweat from her forehead as the locomotive – a wooden steam kettle that somehow moved along the tracks without being pulled or pushed by humans or horses – was connected to the wagon train, then sent down the railway to the distant city. She had thought it fascinating, the first time she’d seen it, but it to grow commonplace in the last few weeks. It was hard to keep her spirits up when she felt trapped in the town, rotating between the yard and her father’s house. There was nowhere else for a young woman. They had been promised a proper school, with a curriculum that covered everything from the basics to preparing students for apprenticeships, but it hadn’t materialised. Marah wasn’t surprised. The town council thought young men and women would be better served going straight to work, rather than bettering themselves. If she had been a boy, she’d be at the pits right now.

She straightened as the supervisor blew his whistle, put down her shovel and made her way to the gates. It was the end of her shift. She couldn’t help dawdling, the matter how much she loathed the yard and the work she did there. Going back home meant encountering her beaten down shell of a mother and her stepfather. She couldn’t decide if it was worse to find him at home, after his shift in the pits, or for him to come staggering home later, after drinking away most of his pay in the bar. He would be in a foul mood either way, but if he was drunk he might collapse before he had a chance to start shouting at or beating his children and stepchildren. Or his wife. Marah knew it wasn’t easy for a young widowed mother, even if there was no question over the legitimacy of her children, but she would never forgive her mother for marrying Garang. To call the man a brute was an insult to brutes.

The gates closed behind her. She forced herself to keep walking towards the town, taking off her hat and allowing the wind to blow through her red hair. It felt dank, almost powdery, as if there was so much dust trapped within her hair that there was no way to wash it properly, no matter how much time she spent in the communal baths. The rest of her leathery outfit, passed down through more wearers than she could count, was dirty and smelly, a grim reminder she would probably never get out of the town. And yet …

She gritted her teeth until it hurt. She could feel the power and potential within her, something that had been part of her since her feminine cycles had begun. She had been tested magic, and she had magic, but her stepfather had refused to even consider allowing her to apply for a scholarship. He’d pointed out that Marah was nothing more than an uneducated common-born girl from a mining town, hardly the sort of person who would be granted money for nothing, and refused to allow her to take the chance. Marah suspected he was afraid of what she would do with magic, but there was no way to prove it. Or to escape. He was her father, legally speaking, and if she ran away she’d be bought straight back to him.

Two more years, she told herself. She was sixteen. When she turned eighteen, she intended to follow the railway tracks to the city and vanish. Her stepfather might have a contract with the company, but she didn’t. She would have nothing keeping her in the town when she turned eighteen. Everyone knew the big city was full of pitfalls for a young woman, and the slightest mistake could get her killed, but it had to be better than staying in the town for the rest of her life. Two more years and then I can get out of here.

The thought cheered her as she walked slowly into town. It was hard to believe that Lubbock was only five years old, founded when the demand for coal grew and grew to the point that anyone who owned a coalmine could be sure of making a vast profit. The town was a cluster of stone and wooden buildings arranged around a handful of administrative buildings, all so dirty they looked older than her. She pretended not to see the line of young men waiting outside the knocking shop – she wasn’t supposed to know it existed – and turned away from the older men flowing into the nearest pub. They would be drunk off their asses soon enough, unless they ran out of money. It was unlikely. Alcohol was cheap, to keep the miners from thinking about how badly the company screwed them, and the innkeepers would often keep the booze flowing and put it on the drinker’s tab. Marah was no mathematician – she didn’t know her numbers and letters – but she didn’t have to be a genius to know the tab, and the debt, would keep rising until it was impossible to pay. It was just another trick to make sure the miners stayed put, working until they dropped.

A shiver ran down her spine as the wind shifted, blowing a cold gust of wind into her face. She tasted coal on the wind, a grim reminder that her brothers and stepbrothers were down in the pit, breathing that muck from the moment they walked into the tunnels until they returned to the surface. Mining wasn’t safe. A tunnel could collapse, or be filled with poisonous or explosive gas, or … she’d heard her stepfather coughing, most nights, as he expelled gunk from his lungs. The supervisors said it was perfectly safe, but Marah didn’t believe them. It was impossible to believe it was harmless.

“So,” a voice called. “What have we here?”

Marah glanced back, then swore under her breath. Jock and Geordie were thugs, the children of minors who had moved to the town in hope of a better life and discovered, like Marah’s stepfather, that the pit was a trap. They were already working in the mines … she realised, dully, that it must be their day off. The company gave its workers one day off a week, more out of practicality than compassion. She saw the bottle in Jock’s hand and scowled. Normally, they’ll be smart enough to leave her and other girls alone. But if they were drunk …

Jock held up the bottle. “Give us a kiss and we’ll give you a drink?”

Marah felt a hot flash of pure anger. She was many things, but she was no whore. She wasn’t one of the girls who went to work at the knocking shop, deluding themselves that they could leave one day and have a normal life. It was hard not to look down on a girl who sold her body to survive. Her mother, for all her flaws, had married again. She hadn’t sold herself to uncounted men.

She clenched her fists. She knew the type all too well. Showing weakness would invite attack. She could not turn away, or run, without being jumped. She was tired and worn, her body aching after hours in the yard. And even if she managed to outrun them, they would catch up with her later.

“No,” she said, bracing herself. They were too drunk to realise what they were doing. Get lost.

Jock pasted a smile on his face. “A kiss? Your mother gave me so much more.”

Marah blinked. “What?”

“Your mother opens her legs for everyone,” Jock said. Beside him, his friend nodded in agreement, even as he shifted into position to grab her if she tried to run. “Why doesn’t her daughter …?”

Marah charged at him and jabbed her fist into his chest. Jock staggered under the blow, giving her a moment to aim for his eyes before Geordie could try to intervene. He tumbled backwards, trying to bat her away with one hand; she landed on top of him, her hands smashing into his face. Geordie grabbed her a second later, pulling her back; she slammed the back of her head into his nose and had the satisfaction of feeling it break, an instant before he tightened his grip. Marah kept struggling, lifting up her leg and bringing her boot down on his foot as hard as possible. Geordie yelped and loosened his grip. Marah pulled free and ran straight into Jock. He punched her in the chest, barely pulling the punch. Marah choked and bent over, gasping in pain. The two bastards were strong, whatever else they were. Marah was used to pain – she had felt her stepfather’s fists too many times to count – but this was different. Geordie gave her a shove and sent her sprawling to the ground. She kept struggling desperately …

Jock hit the ground beside her, choking and vomiting. Marah blinked in surprise, then looked up to see her stepbrother confronting Geordie. The drunkard was sobering up rapidly. He had enough sense to turn and run, rather than try to fight. They had had enough trouble with Marah and Roth, her stepbrother, was stronger. And the rest of the family might be on their way.

Roth kicked Jock somewhere painful, then helped Marah to her feet. “You have to stop getting into fights,” he said. “Dad isn’t pleased.”

Marah scowled at him. Roth wasn’t bad, for a stepbrother. He at least tried to be friendly to his stepsiblings. It was hard to believe he’d been fathered by Garang, a man who resorted to violence at the slightest publication. And yet … she brushed down her shirt, her chest aching painfully. That had been too close. Her temper gotten her in trouble again.

“He was raging about it earlier,” Roth added, as they made their way back home. “You’re in trouble.”

Marah gritted her teeth. Roth didn’t sound pleased about it, but …

“As long as he lets me recover first,” she said. She had never let her stepfather beat her into submission. Two years, she reminded herself. Two years … and then she could leave and never look back. “What was he saying?”

Roth didn’t answer as they entered their home. It was surprisingly large, compared to her old house, but hardly big enough for the combined family to have enough space. She caught sight of her mother, bent over the stove, working under the eagle eye of her mother-in-law. The older woman glanced at Marah and scowled, her eyes cold and hard. She had never liked Marah and the feeling was mutual. Marah glanced at her mother and felt a strange mixture of feelings. She loved her mother, and she wanted to help her, but the same time she could never forgive her mother for remarrying.

“Behave,” Roth told her. “You’re already in enough trouble.”

Marah sighed, washed her hands in the bucket, and started to help her mother clear the table for dinner. The mother-in-law watched her coldly, pointing out every last speck of dust in a manner that grated on Marah’s nerves. Marah wanted to tell her where to go, but she knew it would just get her in worse trouble. The hell of it was that the mother-in-law was hardly the worst mother-in-law in town. They had spent so long being oppressed by their mothers-in-law that they had no qualms about doing the same to their new daughters-in-law. Marah promised herself she would never do that, if she became a mother and then the mother-in-law, but she couldn’t help wondering how many others had made the same promise. It wasn’t an easy one to keep

The door opened. Garang stepped into the room, his eyes flickering across the chamber until they saw Marah. He would have heard about the fight already, if she was any judge. No one had bothered to help her, apart from Roth, but everyone would have spread the story and far and wide as they could. No doubt the story would have grown in the telling, with different versions spread by friends and enemies alike. Marah forced herself to straighten as he marched towards her. She couldn’t force herself to submit.

“I have had quite enough of you,” Garang said. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. She tried not to look at his fists. They were already clenched, ready for a beating. “You are the most rebellious little brat in town.”

“They wanted to rape me,” Marah snapped. She wasn’t sure if the two boys had really wanted to go that far, but she wouldn’t have cared to bet against it. “I had to fight them!”

“She did,” Roth said. “Dad …”

Garang silenced him with a look. Marah winced as Roth looked down. He was no coward, but he wasn’t going to fight his father. Marah didn’t really blame him. If her father were still alive, she wouldn’t have wanted to fight him either.

“You led them on,” Garang accused. “And then you add the nerve to complain.”

“Of course she did,” Marah’s mother-in-law said. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Marah bit her lip to keep from screaming at the older woman. Garang was too close for comfort. He could crack her skull like an eggshell, if he hit her in a drunken rage. Or worse. There was no law and order in the town, save for the company’s guards, and they wouldn’t intervene in a domestic dispute. They wouldn’t care if Garang beat her and his entire family to death. She reached for the power inside her, hoping she could use it, but nothing happened.

“You think you are so much better than us,” Garang said. “You think you can look down your nose at us? You are an ungrateful little brat, and I have had enough of you.”

Marah’s mother whimpered. Ice ran down Marah’s spine. Her stepfather had made hundreds of bloodcurdling threats over the last two years, from marrying her off to a miner searching for a young wife to selling her to a knocking shop, but he had never carried the threats out. Now … she wondered, suddenly, if he had really had had enough. She was not the ideal stepdaughter. And yet …

“I got you a good job,” Garang hissed. “But you threw it back in my face!”

“You took my wages,” Marah snapped back, her anger at losing the money she had rightfully earned overriding her common sense. Her supervisor had been told to give her pay packet to a stepfather and the bastard had agreed, without even consulting her. She had asked him to give her some of the wages separately, but apparently it was illegal. Or something. “They were mine to save, not for you to use to drink yourself to death!”

Garang turned purple. Marah braced herself for the blow. But instead her stepfather calmed himself. It was so out of character that she half-expected it to lead to something worse. His lips twisted into an evil smile.

“I have had enough of dealing with you,” he said. “I decided to let someone else have a chance. I’ve sold you to the Traveller’s Inn, as a servant. They need a new worker and I need to be rid of you. I’m sure you’ll do well there.”

Marah stared at him. “You did what?”

“I sold you,” Garang repeated. He clinked the money in his pocket. Marah had a feeling he had already spent half his gains on alcohol before staggering home. “Count your blessings. It could have been the knocking shop. It will be, if they send you back here. I’ve already had to pay off your supervisor.”

It was hard to remain upright. Marah had heard of children being sold into service, effectively being sent away for good, but she had never seen it done. Not until now. If Garang had spent the money, and negotiated with Marah’s supervisor, there been no way to undo the agreement. A shiver ran down her spine. She had always wondered if she would be discarded, but until now …

Garang leaned closer, breathing into her face. This is your last night here, he said. The stench was overpowering. “Go pack. We leave tomorrow at dawn.”

Marah nodded, and hurried upstairs.  She had nothing to pack, save for a handful of clothes passed down through the generations. There were few private possessions in the house and none of them were hers. She thought about asking for one of them, perhaps a memento of her father, but she knew it wouldn’t be granted. Her stepfather had effectively disowned her. She was no longer one of the family.

Perhaps it is for the best, she thought. The Traveller’s Inn was quite some distance from Lubbock. She would have a chance to make a new life for herself. Perhaps …

But she feared, as she wrapped up what little she had, that it would be nothing of the sort.