Alis (15 page)

They had reached the river now and were leaning on the parapet looking down into the dark water. Edge went on wearily, “I thought my mother would come looking for me, but she never did. Perhaps the landlord told her some lie, or maybe something happened to her. I don’t know. I stayed there for a while. It was better than nothing, but I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. The ones who were brothers and sisters did best—most of them looked out for each other. You needed someone. The older boys—they were like the landlord really, only they were younger so it didn’t seem as bad. One of them taught me to use a knife. After a bit I moved on. There was a man who took a fancy to me. He kept me for a while—he ran a tavern on the southern edge of the city. I fetched and carried for him until he threw me out for drawing my knife on a customer who’d turned nasty.”

The snow fell softly. It was very quiet.

“After that I lived as I could. A girl on her own in the city doesn’t stand a chance. I was nearly killed once, by a man I’d gone with. I kept telling myself I wouldn’t do it anymore, but it’s hard when you’re hungry. After him, I wouldn’t, though. I chopped my hair short and lived on what I could get with my knife.”

Alis asked how Edge had come to know her brother.

“I was looking for somewhere to sleep. I saw the gate. There was a fever sign up but I didn’t care. The place was almost empty—everyone had died or gone. Jojo and his lot were already living there, although I didn’t realize it that night. When they found out I could use a knife, they said I could join them.”

They began to walk back. After a while Edge said, “I wonder sometimes if I should have stayed with my mother. The landlord was disgusting, but he was no worse than other men I’ve been with.”

“No!” Alis was distressed. Surely it was better to have tried to save yourself?

Edge looked at her sideways with something of her old scorn. “What about you? You ran away so that you wouldn’t have to marry that man. Will you be any better off in the end? What will happen to you—to all of us—when we’re too old for this anymore?”

Alis had no answer. She lived from day to day, keeping alive the hope that she might one day find Luke and his grandparents again.

Edge wanted to know about life in the Community, so Alis told her: about her parents, about learning to read, about prayer meetings, about the daily and weekly duties expected of a good daughter of the Book. A dull, safe life it sounded. Edge had pushed back her hood; snow settled on the spiky tufts of her hair. She was sticking out her tongue to catch the drifting white flakes. After a while she said, “I couldn’t live like that. But you should have stayed. Plenty to eat, a good bed to sleep in, and you’d have been important like your mother. People would have had to treat you with respect.”

Alis thought of Galin. “But I’d have had to lie with him. Like you and the landlord. And he was forty.”

Her companion said sharply, “You’ll lie with someone in the end anyway. We all do. And have a kid you have to get rid of maybe, like Fleet. You’ve just been lucky so far.”

Alis said stubbornly, “I don’t care. I’m glad I ran away. At least I didn’t give in.” She was angry with Edge.

The fair girl shrugged. “Yes, all right. But all the same”—her tone darkened—“I wish I’d been a boy. It’s better for them.”

They came to the gate and went through. These days, the door at the foot of the dark stairs was kept shut and the heavy old key hidden behind a loose brick in the wall. They let themselves in. The others were gathered in the main room. Joel was lying on a makeshift couch near the fire, looking white and sick, his head wrapped in a blood-stained cloth and his eyes shut. The atmosphere was somber.

“What happened?” Edge’s voice was flat, as if this was only what she had always expected.

Joel, Dancer, and Shadow had gone picking pockets on the north side of the river where the better-quality inns were. They’d nearly been caught, and someone had hit Joel over the head with a great stick. There was a deep cut and a dent in his skull where the blow had landed. But there was nothing they could do.

Edge said she would watch by Joel. Some of the others settled themselves to sleep in the room as they did when there was a fire—for the sake of the warmth. Weasel, however, went away with a calculating look on his ugly face.

“
H
ere.” Edge threw a clutch of small coins onto the table for Weasel to count. He looked up at her. “About time.”

Alis looked up anxiously. Joel had been sick all through the winter, and Weasel had not hesitated to point out that they could not go on supporting someone who ate but did not work. Edge picked up one of the coins from the table and was spinning it between her fingers. Weasel finished counting and nodded. “Not bad.” He scooped the coins into an old pot and then reached for the one still turning under Edge’s gaze. He whipped it away and her knife was out before he could move.

“Don’t try it, Weasel. You’ll be sorry.”

He hesitated, then shrugged as if he’d meant to confront her but thought better of it. “All right. But keep it coming. Food costs.”

Alis grabbed Edge by the hand. “How did you get the money?”

Edge looked at her. “How do you think? I was nice to someone and he paid up like a good boy! I’m going to see how Joel is. Coming?”

They went along the corridor together, but at the door of Joel’s room, Alis changed her mind and made instead for the staircase down to the courtyard. It was not wise to go out alone, but she knew her way about now and no longer looked like a country girl, an easy target.

Once in the street, she walked rapidly toward the river, driven on by anger, misery, and fear. Joel might never get better—he might even die. Weasel was already making most of the decisions. And he hated her. Might she and Edge be able to survive together and support Joel, too? But she could not stand on a street corner and sell herself for the price of a meal. And yet if Edge did, then surely she must, too, if they were to make a living for themselves and Joel. She carried her knife now, sheathed at her waist, but she had never used it. She could not support herself that way.

 

 

When she got back the others were eating. Edge pushed a plate toward her, and she took it and ate without appetite. There was no point in going hungry; she might come to that soon enough. When they had finished, Weasel leaned his elbows on the table and spoke. It was time for Alis to prove herself. Jojo could not work; his sister must help to provide for him.

She knew it was pointless to protest that she did her share as lookout. “What do you want me to do?” Alis asked.

Weasel grinned at her as he had done on that very first day, showing his broken teeth. How could Fleet lie with him? “Take part, ’stead of just watchin’. You got a knife, ain’t you? We all know Edge’s taught you to use it.”

Edge said sharply, “She’s not ready. It’s dangerous.”

Weasel shrugged. “So what? If Alis c’n do what’s needed, she’s one of us. Otherwise . . . And Edge, you stay ’ere. She’s gotta do this without you.”

Alis would have protested but Edge shook her head at her. The time had come when she would have to prove herself.

 

 

The Elders had closed the brothels on the north side of the river. Men came across the bridge regularly now, looking for pleasure. The southern bawdy houses flourished. Weasel said they should find a fool of a shopowner or a merchant’s son out for the night. That sort always carried money—and more than they needed, liking to show off their prosperity to the girls. Alis felt sick. She wished she could have consulted Edge before they set off, but the other girl had disappeared and Weasel hurried them out—herself, Mute, Shadow, and Fleet. As they went, she tried to imagine what she might do. A knife was frightening only if your victim believed you would use it. In her head, a voice light and sharp was saying,
Mean it. You’ve got to mean it.

Watching from a distance as the girls eyed up the men, Alis shivered. Her pulse was hammering. She tried to breathe deeply to calm herself. Then she saw that Fleet and Shadow had a fattish elderly man in tow. He had an arm round each of them and he was laughing uproariously. Fleet whispered in his ear and he guffawed again. Shadow said something and pointed. He nodded eagerly.

The three began to move and the others retreated, drawing the man gradually away from the relative safety of the more populated streets to the slimy alleys and deserted squares. The girls led him on, and then in a small moonlit square Shadow drew him into a doorway and put her arms round his neck—her usual trick. Weasel whispered to Alis, “When Shadow cries out and pushes him off, we go in. Make sure he sees the knife. Slash at him if you have to, but make sure you don’t get one of us by mistake.”

Alis drew her knife. Her mouth tasted of dry metal; she could hardly breathe. Then Shadow cried out and they were running toward her. There was a confusion of movement, thuds, and grunts, and then the victim was propped against a wall, gasping. Weasel and Mute were on either side of him, holding him upright.

“Now,” Weasel said. “’E’s all yours. Stick ’im in the belly. Finish ’im off.”

For a moment she could not make sense of his words.

“Go on,” Weasel said. “What d’ya think a knife’s for? Kill ’im.” Alis looked at the man. Eyes rolling in terror, he was fighting for breath; someone must have punched him in the stomach. She was still clutching the knife. She could not move.

They let the man go and he slid to the ground. Thrusting his face into Alis’s, Weasel spat out, “Useless bitch!”

Then they walked away. Alis remained where she was.

 

 

Time passed. A voice said softly, “Alis.” A hand touched her shoulders. She whirled round, the knife raised. A figure leaped back.

“Alis. Don’t. It’s me, Edge.”

A stranger with spiky blonde hair. The voice said urgently, “Drop the knife, Alis. They’re gone. It’s all right. Let it drop.”

Behind her, a man groaning, sounds of him getting to his feet. She must turn round. But in front of her, this stranger. There was something she must do with her knife. It was in her hand, she was ready. But she could not. It was no use; it had never been any use. Her fingers uncurled suddenly and the knife clattered to the cobbles. Dragging footsteps behind her. Going away. Hands on her shoulders. A face close to hers. The strange girl but . . . no . . . not a stranger . . . someone she knew . . . someone she trusted—and yes, now there was a name: Edge. Her friend. Memory returned. What was Edge doing here?

“Come on, Alis. You’re frozen. There’s somewhere we can go.

Come on now.”

She let Edge lead her away.

At the back door of the inn, the fat woman was smoking a pipe in short puffs, her eyes narrowed against the sudden jets of smoke.

Edge greeted her. “Missus Pike, we need a bed for the night, my friend and me. We can pay.”

The fat woman contemplated them sardonically. The glare of an oil lamp on a hook by the door highlighted the bulge of cheek and the double chin. “Ya can, can ya? Let’s see ya money.”

Edge held up a coin. The woman removed the pipe from her mouth, spat into the darkness, and took it.

 

 

It was hardly more than a walk-in cupboard, but the fat woman threw down some cleanish-looking bedding, left them a candle, and even brought them a basin of hot water.

“Don’t say Ma Pike never does nothin’ for ya,” she said tartly. “And mind you keep that blade o’ yours outta sight. I know you and I don’t want no trouble.”

Edge thanked her and they were left alone.

Wearily Alis allowed Edge to arrange the bedding. When it was done Edge said, “I picked up your knife.”

She held it out, but Alis would not take it. After a moment, Edge put it away without a word.

The fat woman returned with a steaming tankard. “Get ’er to take some o’ this. It’ll revive ’er. There’s enough for ya both.”

The spiced ale was comforting. Propped up and wrapped in bedding, Alis breathed the scented steam and felt warmth return to her limbs. With a sigh she passed the tankard to Edge. “He tried to make me kill a man.”

“I know.” Edge’s face was grim. “I knew he was up to something as soon as he mentioned the knife.”

“Suppose I had done it?” Alis shuddered, seeing again the gasping mouth and terrified eyes.

“He knew you wouldn’t,” Edge said. “And if you had, he wouldn’t have cared. Besides, it’s not that easy. You have to know how.”

The ale was making Alis drowsy. “How did you come to be there?” “I told you,” Edge said. “I knew he was planning something. I followed. I was frightened for you.”

Alis tried to reach out a hand but her arm was too heavy. She could not lift it. Sliding into unconsciousness she heard the murmur of Edge’s voice, but the words were lost.

 

 

When she woke, Edge’s head was on her shoulder. Alis lay for a long time without moving, feeling heavy and dull. She knew she ought to be afraid. She had failed the test: she had no place now. But where fear should have been there was only weariness. She had tried very hard, but it was no good. Edge stirred, stretched, and sat up, turning to look at Alis. “Hungry?”

Alis shook her head. She did not care if she never ate again. She just wanted to go on lying there. But Edge made her get up, saying that Ma Pike would want them out, and anyway, food would get rid of the aftereffects of the spiced ale.

The streets were cool in the early-morning light. Spring. A year since she had left Freeborne, Alis thought dully. She had been full of hope then. Edge bought bread, freshly baked and still warm, insisting that she should eat.

They sat on a wall in a patch of sunlight. For a long time they were silent. Then Alis said wearily, “Weasel’s always hated me. Fleet and Shadow, too.”

Edge nodded. “Weasel wants to be leader, and he doesn’t like Jojo’s ways. He’d rather be free to kill or have a bit of unnecessary fun with some poor fool. Me, I’m for taking the money and getting out fast. I’d rather not kill. I haven’t yet.” She was picking moodily at the flaking surface of the wall. “The others were angry because Jojo favored you, taking you in just because you were his sister even though you weren’t much use.”