Brick By Brick (A Six of Crows Story)

Chapter One - 3 Years Before

The young man stood on the side of the canal as the browboat chugged its way back down the  market line. He stared; at the tightly-packed houses leaning haphazardly against one another; at the deep crimson dresses of the penniless girls who lined the streets, trying to earn coin by selling themselves, twirling their skirts and flashing their petticoats at the passing men; at the drunks slumped against walls, their leers and catcalls making the women shudder and hurry past; at the skinny urchins hovering by corners, their hunger showing in the hollows of their eyes and the prominence of their ribs; at the cutpurses and thieves intermingling with the merchers and councilmen. Born in a world of endless wheat fields and fresh country air, he felt completely out of his depth.

The only preparation he'd been given for Ketterdam's maze of corrupted back-alleys that he was now going to have to enter were a few words printed in black ink on the yellowed pages of a well-worn travel manual. The Barrel, it had read. Then on the side, in the key: To be avoided after dark.

The rest of his knowledge was a patchwork of rumours and hear-say. He hadn't fully believed the stories they had told him in the pub when he had announced where he was going - demons roaming the streets in the shapes of small boys? inns where they would welcome you to stay, then slit your throat and bake you into pies? - but now he was experiencing the Barrel himself, he could almost see how those stories could be true.

"Move it, boy!" yelled the guttural voice of one of his fellow passengers. Though the older man had also taken the market line, the young man doubted that this was his first time in Ketterdam too. A rough arm shoved him out of the way and he stumbled, only narrowly avoiding tumbling head-first into the canal.

A stream of passengers disembarked from a new browboat, and he watched as they dispersed among the crowds. The dark alleys seemed to swallow them up, and in seconds all were gone.

He supposed he should probably move. People were giving him strange stares, and he didn't want to attract unwanted attention in a place like this.

Wrinkling his nose against the reek of week-old fish issuing from the stagnant canal - or the fishermen's stalls, for their wares looked none-too fresh - he plunged into the crowd of jostling people. Immediately he was swept away in a sea of arms and legs and elbows. He let himself be taken. He had no idea where to go or what to do.

It was only after several long minutes that the whirlpool of people spat him out into a narrow, dank alleyway, one of the many tiny veins filtering off from the market line - Ketterdam's heart.  He leant against the wall, trying to gather his scattered thoughts.

WhatamIdoingherewhatamIdoingherewhatamIdoinghere???

The words circled around his mind like crows wheeling above a rotting carcass. He'd been asking himself that question over and over ever since he'd stepped off that accursed browboat, but he knew the answer.

He had been six when his sister caught the greencough. Seven when she finally died, after two months of hovering in the twilight of unconsciousness. Twelve when his mother had drowned herself in the millpond, hair floating like seaweed on the surface.

It was only when his father died, of old age and a long-broken heart, that he had had to leave. And where better to go than Ketterdam, the city of trade and opportunity?

He had been sucked into the pipe dream of wealth that absorbed every poor fool who wandered into Ketterdam, and now that the illusion of riches had lifted, it was far too late to turn back. He was penniless and lost. He was a pigeon, waiting to be plucked. He was a walking, talking target.

He pulled back the collar of his shirt and took out his necklace, taking care not to snap the thin piece of string that held his lucky coin as he rubbed his fingers over the tarnished silver. The Kaelish were well-known as superstitious folk, and he was no exception. He traced the embossed shape on the coin - a roaring lion, teeth bared, reared up on its hind legs. His mother had given him the coin, and he's strung it around his neck to keep her close after she'd died.

The young man sighed wistfully, staring down at the small dime. He was back in the wheat-fields, the golden stalks swaying like braided tresses of hair, the sun thudding down upon the gently undulating hills.

Suddenly it was gone, torn from his hand, yanking him back to the cold streets of Ketterdam. He jerked his gaze up to see a small street urchin streaking off down the alley with his prize.

He growled and launched into hot pursuit. He wasn't going to let that dirty little scumbag make off with his lucky dime.

He wheeled round a corner, shoved through a jostling throng of masqueraders, darted through innumerable alleys and nearly fell into a canal,  but kept the urchin in his sight. He watched as his grubby little back disappeared down an alley even darker than the previous, and followed-

-only to be stopped dead in his tracks by a billowing curtain of flame..

"Stand back," said a female voice, issuing from the shadowed depths of the alley.

The young man didn't move. "What business?" he asked, hoping the fear he felt stayed out of his voice.

"I think I should be the one asking you that question," the voice replied, and then the wall of fire flickered out, and a girl stepped into the light.

"You're Grisha," he stated simply.

"And you're a no good vagrant who was chasing Olli," she snapped, and he saw the little urchin peek out from behind her leg.

"What sort of name is Olli?" he muttered under his breath, but the girl heard and sniffed derisively.

"His name's Bolliger. Olli for short." Probably to intimidate him, she raised one hand and a curl of smoke twisted from her fingers, wreathing her cloud of red hair so she looked almost saint-like.

Olli stuck out his tongue.

The young man stepped forwards angrily. "Well, Olli  here stole my pendant, and he'd better give it back."

She rolled her eyes. "How else do you want him to stay alive round here? He's far too young to get honest work, or be taken in by one of the gangs."

As much as he hated to admit it, she had a point. "Look, I'll pay him what the pendant is worth. It's not much, but that coin means a lot to me."

The girl's expression changed, and she crossed the distance between them in four steps, holding out her hand.

"The money."

"How can I trust you?"

She laughed, throwing her head back, the pale sunlight glinting off her red hair. "Boy, you can't trust anyone in Ketterdam."

He looked into her eyes. They were the colour of liquid amber.

"I trust you," he said, and handed her the money.