james
James knew the moment Regulus entered the Slat. His presence reverberated through the cramped rooms and crooked hallways as every thug, thief, dealer, conman, and steerer came a little more awake. Severus Snape’s favoured lieutenant was home.
The Slat wasn’t much, just another house in the worst part of the Barrel, three storeys stacked tight on top of each other, crowned with an attic and a gabled roof. Most of the buildings in this part of the city had been built without foundations, many on swampy land where the canals were haphazardly dug. They leaned against each other like tipsy friends gathered at a bar, tilting at drowsy angles.
James had visited plenty of them on errands for the Order, and they weren’t much better on the inside – cold and damp, plaster sliding from the walls, gaps in the windows wide enough to let in the rain and snow.
Regulus had spent his own money to have the Slat’s drafts shorn up and its walls insulated. It was ugly, crooked, and crowded, but the Slat was gloriously dry.
James’s room was on the third floor, a skinny slice of space barely big enough for a single bed and a trunk, but with a window that looked out over the peaked roofs and jumbled chimneys of the Barrel. It was not much, but it was better than what he once had at the Ménagerie.
Here, James was allowed to decorate the plain, bare walls of his room. Prints of his hometown, sketches of what little he remembered of his parents, maps of the city; they littered the white walls. He felt at home, or as close to home as he had felt in years.
At the Slat, he no longer had to sleep on an old filthy mattress in a room so cramped that he could barely see the floor, nor did he have to be scared for his life every time he closed his eyes.
Sleeping meant being vulnerable, James had learned quickly.
He had adapted, taking to the habit of sleeping with a knife he had stolen from the kitchens hidden beneath his thin pillow. Even today, years after his time at the Ménagerie, he fell asleep feeling the cold metal of his favorite knife against his fingers. It gave him a sense of security, much like a child with its teddy bear.
Though dawn was just a few hours away, the Slat was wide awake. The only time the house was ever really quiet was in the slow hours of the afternoon, and tonight everyone was buzzing with the news of the showdown at the Exchange, Peter’s fate, and now poor Grengrass’ dismissal.
James had gone straight from his conversation with Regulus to seek out the card dealer at the Crow Club.
He’d been at the tables dealing Three Man Bramble for Lily and a couple of Ravkan tourists. When he’d finished the hand, James had suggested they speak in one of the private gaming parlours to spare him the embarrassment of being fired in front of his friends, but Greengrass wasn’t having it.
“It’s not fair,” he’d bellowed when he’d told him Regulus’s orders. “I ain’t no cheat!”
“Take it up with Regulus,” James had replied, putting his hands up.
“And keep your voice down,” Lily added, glancing at the tourists and sailors seated at the neighbouring tables. Fights were common in the Barrel, but not on the floor of the Crow Club. If you had a gripe, you settled it outside, where you didn’t risk interrupting the hallowed practice of separating pigeons from their money.
“Where’s Dirtyhands?” growled Greengrass.
“I don’t know.”
“You always know everything about everything,” Greengrass sneered, leaning in, the stink of lager and onions on his breath. “Isn’t that what he pays you for?”
James smiled. “I don’t know where he is or when he’s getting back. But I do know you won’t want to be here when he does.”
“Give me my cheque. I’m owed for my last shift.”
“He doesn’t owe you anything.”
“He can’t even face me? Sends a little Suli boy to give me the boot? Maybe I’ll just shake a few coins out of you.” He’d reached to grab him by the collar of his shirt, but he’d dodged him easily. He fumbled for him again.
Out of the corner of her eye, James saw Lily rise from her seat, but he waved her off and slipped his fingers into the brass knuckles he kept in his right hip pocket. He gave Greengrass a swift crack across the left cheek.
His hand flew up to his face. “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t hurt you none. It was just words.”
People were watching now, so he hit him again. Regardless of the Crow Club rules, this took precedence. When Regulus had brought James to the Slat, he’d warned him that he wouldn’t be able to watch out for him, that he’d have to fend for himself, and he had. It would have been easy enough to turn away when they called him names or insulted him, but James knew better. James had always been brave and ready for a fight, something he had had to tame in order to survive at the Ménagerie. James was still cautious not to constantly follow his impulsive instincts in fear it would cause other people harm.
He let no insult slide. He’d always struck first and struck hard. Sometimes he even cut them up a bit. It was fatiguing, but nothing was sacred to the Kerch except trade, so he’d gone out of his way to make the risk much higher than the reward when it came to disrespecting him or Regulus.
Greengrass touched his fingers to the ugly bruise forming on his cheek, looking surprised and a bit betrayed. “I thought we was friendly,” he protested.
The sad part was that they were. James liked Greengrass. But right now, he was just a frightened man looking to feel bigger than someone.
“Greengrass,” he’d said. “I’ve seen you work a deck of cards. You can get a job in almost any den. Go home and be grateful Regulus doesn’t take what you owe him out of your hide, hmmm?”
He’d gone, a bit wobbly on his feet, still clutching his cheek like a stunned toddler, and Lily had sauntered over.
“He’s right, you know. Regulus shouldn’t send you to do his dirty work.”
“It’s all dirty work.”
“But we do it just the same,” she said with a sigh.
“You look exhausted, Lils. Will you sleep at all tonight?”
Lily just winked. “Depends if I get lucky. There’s this girl,” She shifted her gaze to the bar, where a girl with dark curly hair was ordering a drink. “She’s funny. Reminds me of someone I used to know.” She smiled sadly, a hand gripping her necklace as she always did when talking of the past.
Lily never talked about her past, or at least, she would do so unintentionally. She would sometimes slip bits of information, pieces of the puzzle for James to complete.
James didn’t nearly have enough puzzle pieces to even form a vague idea of what the full picture looked like. He respected Lily's desire for privacy, knowing that one day she would trust him enough to confide in him.
“Stay and play a bit. Regulus will stake you.”
“I think I can think of a way for him to forgive me.” he’d said, pulling up his hood. “Have fun, be safe.” He kissed her forehead.
“You too, loverboy,” she’d called after him as he passed through the big double doors onto the street.
-
James left his tiny chamber in the Slat and headed downstairs by way of the banisters. There was no reason to cloak his movements here, but silence was a habit, and the stairs tended to squeak like mating mice. When he reached the second floor landing and saw the crowd milling below, he hung back.
Regulus had been gone longer than anyone had expected, and as soon as he’d entered the shadowy foyer, he’d been waylaid by people looking to congratulate him on his routing of Greyback and asking for news of the Black Tips.
“Rumour has it Greyback is already putting together a mob to move on us,” said Evan.
“Let him!” rumbled Barty. “I’ve got an axe handle with his name on it.”
“Greyback won’t act for a while,” said Regulus as he moved down the hall. “He doesn’t have the numbers to face us in the streets, and his coffers are too empty to hire on more hands. Shouldn’t you be on your way to the Crow Club?”
The raised eyebrow was enough to send Barty away, two middle fingers in the air, with Evan on his heels. Others came to offer congratulations or make threats against the Black Tips. No one went so far as to pat Regulus on the back, though – that was a good way to lose a hand.
James knew Regulus would stop to speak to Snape, so instead of descending the final flight of stairs, he moved down the hallway. There was a closet here, full of odds and ends, old chairs with broken backs, paint-spattered canvas sheeting. James moved aside a bucket full of cleaning supplies that he’d placed there precisely because he knew no one in the Slat would ever touch it. The grate beneath it offered a perfect view Snape’s office.
He felt slightly guilty for eavesdropping on Regulus, but he was the one who had turned him into a spy. You couldn’t train a falcon, then expect it not to hunt.
Through the grate he heard Regulus’s knock on Snape’s door and the sound of his greeting.
“Back and still breathing?” the man inquired. He could just see him seated in his favourite chair, fiddling with a model ship he’d been building for the better part of a year, a pint of lager within arm’s reach, as always.
“We won’t have a problem with Fifth Harbour again.”
Snape grunted and returned to his model ship. “Close the door.”
James heard it shut, muffling the sounds from the hallway. He could see the top of Regulus’s head. His dark hair was damp. It must have started raining.
“You should have asked permission from me to deal with Pettigrew,” said Snape.
“If I had talked to you first, word might have got out—”
“You think I’d let that happen?”
Regulus’s shoulders lifted. “This place is like anything in Ketterdam. It leaks.”
James could have sworn he looked directly at the vent when he said it.
“I don’t like it, Black. Pettigrew was my soldier, not yours.”
“Of course,” Regulus said, but they both knew it was a lie. Snape’s Order were old guard, conmen and crooks from another time. Pettigrew had been one of Regulus’s crew – new blood, young and unafraid.
Maybe too unafraid.
“You’re smart, Black, but you need to learn patience.”
“Yes, sir.”
The old man barked a laugh. “Yes, sir. No, sir,” he mocked. “I know you’re up to something when you start getting polite. Just what have you got brewing?”
“A job,” Regulus said. “I may need to be gone for a spell.”
“Big money?”
“Very.”
“Big risk?”
“That, too. But you’ll get your twenty per cent.”
“You don’t make any major moves without my say-so, understood?” Regulus must have nodded because Snape leaned back in his chair and took a sip of lager. “Are we to be very rich?”
“Rich as Saints in crowns of gold.”
Snape snorted. “Long as I don’t have to live like one.”
“I’ll talk to Evan,” Regulus said. “He can pick up the slack while I’m gone.” James frowned. Just where was Regulus going? He hadn’t mentioned any big job to him. And why Evan? The thought shamed him a bit.
He could almost hear his father ’s voice: So eager to be King of the Thieves, James? It was one thing to do his job and do it well. It was quite another to want to succeed at it. He didn’t want a permanent place with the Order. He wanted to pay off his debts and be free of Ketterdam forever, so why should he care if Regulus chose Evan to run the gang in his absence?
Because I’m smarter than him. Because Regulus trusts me more.
But maybe he didn’t trust the crew to follow a guy like him, only two years out of the brothels’ cleaning staff, not even 20 years old. He wore his sleeves long and the sheath of his knife mostly hid the scar on the inside of his left forearm where the Menagerie tattoo had once been, but they all knew it was there.
Regulus exited Snape’s room, and James left his perch to wait for him as he limped his way up the stairs.
“Greengrass?” he asked as he passed him and started up the second flight.
“Gone,” he said, falling in behind him.
“He put up much of a fight?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Not what I asked.”
“He was angry. He may come back around looking for trouble.”
“Never a shortage of that to hand out,” Regulus said as they reached the top floor. The attic rooms had been converted into his office and bedroom. He knew all those flights of stairs were brutal on Regulus’ bad leg, but he seemed to like having the whole floor to himself.
He entered the office and without looking back at him said, “Shut the door.”
The room was mostly taken up by a makeshift desk – an old warehouse door atop stacked fruit crates – piled high with papers. Some of the floor bosses had started using adding machines, clanking things crowded with stiff brass buttons and spools of paper, but Regulus did the Crow Club tallies in his head. He kept books, but only for the sake of the old man and so that he had something to point to when he called someone out for cheating or when he was looking for new investors.
That was one of the big changes Regulus had brought to the gang. He’d given
ordinary shopkeepers and legitimate businessmen the chance to buy shares in the Crow Club. At first they’d been skeptical, sure it was some kind of swindle, but he’d brought them in with tiny stakes and managed to gather enough capital to purchase the dilapidated old building, spruce it up, and get it running. It had paid back big for those early investors. Or so the story went. James could never be sure which stories about Regulus were true and which were rumours he’d planted to serve his own ends. For all he knew, he’d conned some poor honest trader out of his life savings to make the Crow Club thrive.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Regulus said as he flipped through the previous day’s figures. Each sheet would go into his memory with barely a glance. “What would you say to four million kruge?”
“Money like that is more curse than gift.”
“My little Suli idealist. All you need is a full belly and an open road?” he said, the mockery clear in his voice.
“And an easy heart, Regulus.” That was the difficult part.
Now he laughed outright as he walked through the door to his tiny bedroom. “No hopes of that. I’d rather have the cash. Do you want the money or not?”
“You’re not in the business of giving gifts. What’s the job?”
“An impossible job, near certain death, terrible odds, but should we scrape it …” He paused, fingers on the buttons of his waistcoat, his look distant, almost dreamy. It was rare that he heard such excitement in his raspy voice.
“Should we scrape it?” he prompted.
He grinned at him, his smile sudden and jarring as a thunderclap, his eyes the near-black of bitter coffee. “We’ll be kings, James. Kings.”
“Hmm,” he said noncommittally, pretending to examine one of his knives, determined to ignore that grin. Regulus was not a giddy boy smiling and making future plans with him. He was a dangerous player who was always working an angle. Always, he reminded himself firmly. James kept his eyes averted, shuffling a stack of
papers into a pile on the desk as Regulus stripped out of his vest and shirt. He wasn’t sure if he was flattered or insulted that he didn’t seem to give a second thought to James’ presence.
“How long will we be gone?” he asked, darting a glance at him through the open doorway. Regulus was corded muscle, scars, but only two tattoos – the Order’s Phoenix and cup on his forearm and above it, a constellation on his bicep. Lily had figured out it was Canis Major, also known as the “Dog Star”.
He’d never asked him why or what it meant.
It was his hands that drew his attention as he shucked off his leather gloves and dipped a cloth in the wash basin. He only ever removed them in these chambers, and as far as he knew, only in front of James. Whatever affliction he might be hiding, he could see no sign of it, only slender lockpick’s fingers, and a shiny rope of scar tissue from some long ago street fight.
“A few weeks, maybe a month,” he said as he ran the wet cloth under his arms and the hard planes of his chest, water trickling down his torso.
James couldn’t help but blush at the sight of Regulus, half naked in front of him.
For Saints’ sake, James thought as his cheeks heated. He’d lost most of his modesty during his time with the Ménagerie, but really, there were limits.
What would Regulus say if James suddenly stripped down and started washing himself in front of him? He’d probably tell me not to drip on the desk, he thought with a scowl.
“A month?” he said. “Are you sure you should be leaving with the Black Tips so riled up?”
“This is the right gamble. Speaking of which, round up Lily and Dorcas. I want them here by dawn. And I’ll need Remus waiting at the Crow Club tomorrow night.”
“Remus? If this is for a big job—”
“Just do it.”
James crossed his arms. One minute he made him blush and the next he made him want to commit murder. “Are you going to explain any of this?”
“When we all meet.” He shrugged on a fresh shirt, then hesitated as he fastened the collar. “This isn’t an assignment, James. It’s a job for you to take or leave as you see fit.”
An alarm bell rang inside him. He endangered himself every day on the streets of the Barrel. He’d murdered for the Order, stolen, brought down bad men and good, and Regulus had never hinted that any of the assignments were less than a command to be obeyed. This was the price he’d agreed to when Snape had purchased his contract and liberated him from the Ménagerie. So what was different about this job?
Regulus finished with his buttons, pulled on a charcoal waistcoat, and tossed him something. It flashed in the air, and he caught it with one hand. When he opened her fist, he saw a massive ruby tie pin circled by golden laurel leaves.
“Fence it,” Regulus said.
“Whose is it?”
“Ours now.”
“Whose was it?”
Regulus stayed quiet. He picked up his coat, using a brush to clean the dried mud from it. “Someone who should have thought better before he had me jumped.”
“Jumped?” said James, mouth open in shock.
“You heard me.”
“Someone got the drop on you?”
He looked at him and nodded once. Unease snaked through him and twisted into an anxious, rustling coil. No one got the better of Regulus. He was the toughest, scariest thing walking the alleys of the Barrel. James knew that Regulus faced violence every day simply because he was Dirtyhand. It was all fair game: Regulus attacked people, who fought back and hurt Regulus in an attempt to survive. But for some inexplicable reason, the thought that someone had injured Regulus made James' blood boil.
“It won’t happen again,” Regulus promised.
He pulled on a clean pair of gloves, snapped up his walking stick, and headed out the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Move the painting we lifted from Dumbledore’s house to the vault. I think it’s rolled up under my bed. Oh, and put in an order for a new hat.”
“Please.”
Regulus heaved a sigh as he braced himself for three painful flights of stairs. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Please, my darling James, treasure of my heart, won’t you do me the honour of acquiring me a new hat?”
James cast a meaningful glance at his cane. “Have a long trip down,” he said, then leaped onto the banister, sliding from one flight to the next, slick as butter in a pan.