by Catherine Thompson

Cat clutched the parsnip in both hands. "Let go, it's mine!" she cried. Skif knocked her hands loose and pushed her into the wall. "Not anymore, it ain't," he said, walking away from her.

Cat scrambled to her feet and flew at the bigger boy. "Give it back!" Skif outweighed her by more than a stone; he brushed her off like a fly. "Get lost, kid," he sneered, but he quickened his pace until he was out of the alley.

Sinking to the ground, Cat folded her arms tightly across her aching belly. She hadn't eaten in nearly two days. Cat pressed her face against her trouser-clad knees, snuffling, fighting back the tears. Life on the streets was hard and getting harder as the weather turned colder. Vendors shut their shops and market-stalls against the chill, making it more difficult for desperate hands to filch a bit of food without being seen. Cat had been lucky to find the parsnip at the bottom of an overlooked basket.

In the three months since the gypsy troupe had stopped in Arcadia, Cat had lived hand to mouth, learning the ways of the streets from the other children who stole to survive, like Skif.

Skif ran with a mob of urchins, was in fact their leader by virtue of his age--he was older than the rest by at least a year--and his size. Cat had tried to join them, thinking she would be better off as one of several instead of standing alone. Put off by her strange accent, the others did their best to drive her away. Still she stayed; she'd rather be on the fringes than left completely in the cold.

Her stomach rumbled and twisted, restless with hunger. Cat pushed herself upright, shivering. She had to find food, or she'd be too weak come morning. She had seen what happened if a body didn't get enough to eat; more than one of Skif's mob had lain down to sleep and not woken again.

She trudged along the darkened cobblestone streets, ducking down alleyways whenever a patrol appeared. Arcadia often seemed like an armed camp; guards marched along the lanes at regular intervals, chain mail clinking, their hands on their sword-hilts as if they expected attack around every corner. They would arrest anyone who was in the streets after curfew. Darian, Skif's lieutenant, had told her that if the guards arrested you, they'd take you to the dungeons, where you'd stay until the flesh rotted from your bones. Sometimes, Darian had added with glee, if you were the right sort, the guards would take you to the Dark One himself, Nikolai Rhodan, so he could kill you and bathe in your blood. Cat didn't lend Darian's tales any credence, but she'd rather not test their truth.

A patrol of four guards came clanking down the cobbles. Cat slipped into the nearest alley, crouching behind a large mound of refuse. She covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve to block the stench somewhat. Peering past the rubbish, she saw the patrol halt. She shrank back, heart pounding, afraid they had seen her. No footsteps approached, though, so after a few minutes, she sneaked another look. The men loitered at the mouth of the alley; over the odours of rotting table-scraps and chamber-pot contents, she could smell burning tobacco.

Frustration rose in her. Cat edged away from her refuge, going deeper into the alley, keeping her eyes on the guards. Her foot hit something--a roof-tile, she thought, which skittered down the alley and fetched up against the stone wall, echoing like a thousand clay pots shattering.

"Who goes there?" shouted one of the guards. Footsteps followed the cry. Cat looked for an escape. Above her, she saw a window with a loose shutter. She jumped for the sill, gained it, and worked the shutter open as fast as she could.

She dropped to the floor inside just as the guard passed beneath the window. She heard him walk to the alley's end and back. "Must've been a cat or something," he called to his companions. Cat clapped both hands over her mouth.

After a minute or so of lying on the floor beneath the window, helpless with silent laughter, she sat up to peer through the darkness at her surroundings. She seemed to be in a kitchen. In the gloom, she could make out a table, some chairs, a stove. Opposite her was a door she felt sure must lead to a pantry.

The thought of food being so near drove Cat to her feet, and she tiptoed across the room. Delightful scents met her when she opened the door: fresh bread, mature cheese, herbs, onions. Her mouth watered. She followed her nose to a loaf of bread. She had just taken it off the shelf when light flooded the pantry.

"Light fingers--but heavy feet."

Cat whirled at the voice. In the doorway stood a tall, broad man with skin the colour of rich, burnished wood; like the pews in St. Bridget's chapel, she thought, the only comparison that came to mind. He smiled; his teeth were very white in the lamplight. "Come here, child," he said. "I mean you no harm."

Cat had never known anyone to say that truthfully. She backed away, shaking her head. "Come now, I won't hurt you." The man held out his free hand and took a step towards her. Cat watched, looking for a way out. The man filled the doorway; she didn't see how she could get by him. "Look, it's all right; I'll help you."

Lowering her head, Cat let her shoulders slump, pretending defeat. She took a couple of slow, dragging steps towards the man. His smile grew wider. "That's it," he murmured. "Don't be afraid." She drew almost within his reach, watching him relax. Then, sure he was off his guard, Cat made a sudden feint to his left. He grabbed for her, but she had already ducked to his right. She squeezed past the jamb and into the kitchen. Dashing across the room, she scrambled for the window. A hand caught at her collar; she kicked, connecting with nothing, but the move was enough to startle the man, and he let go with an oath. In moments, she was over the sill and gone.

Cat ran pell-mell out of the alley and down the street. She had turned several corners before she realized she had no place to go. The girl stopped running then and started looking for somewhere to spend the night. She pulled hunks of bread off the loaf and stuffed them into her mouth while she walked.

Her steps brought her to a tiny church. Cat eyed it. She hadn't been inside a church since she had left the abbey. It would be warm, though, and the doors would be unlocked. A church offered sanctuary to all--she remembered that.

She pushed open one of the oaken doors and entered. The familiar scents of incense and bees-wax almost made her smile. Cat found a seat in one of the rear pews and ate until she was satisfied, then she lay down, the rest of the loaf tucked into one elbow.

"I'm sorry, but you can't sleep here."

Cat sat up. A young priest blinked owlishly at her. "But, doesn't the Church offer sanctuary?" Cat asked, absorbing his words.

"Not to such as you. You're a thief." The priest pointed at the ragged loaf.

"How do you know I stole it?" Cat gave him a defiant look. The priest stared down his long nose at her. "If you were to confess your sins, my child--"

Cat stood. "My only sin, Father," she spat, "was to be hungry."

She marched out of the church; the priest followed, his black cassock fluttering about him like a raven's feathers. He shut the door as she stepped over the threshold. Cat childishly stuck her tongue out at the door. A wooden plaque on the wall caught her eye, and she moved closer to read it: Mother of Charity Church.

Back in the street, Cat shuffled along aimlessly, shivering. At least I've still got St. Bridget to watch over me, even if God doesn't care anymore, she comforted herself. She slid her fingers inside her collar for her medallion and felt the blood freeze in her veins.

Her medallion was gone.

Frantic, she peered down her shirt in case it had come loose, then she checked the waistband of her trousers. She stamped her feet in hopes that it had slipped down her trouser-leg somehow. Nothing. Cat dropped to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest, and began to cry.

After several moments, she lifted her head, still sobbing but knowing she had to find someplace out of the guards' patrols. She heard a soft whine, and she turned to see a shaggy black-and-white dog that reminded her a little of Jem. It wagged its tail when it realized it had her attention and cast hopeful glances at the bread she held. "It's mine," Cat protested. The dog whined again and lay down, brown eyes flicking between the girl's face and the food.

Cat sighed and tore off a piece of bread. The dog took it delicately from her fingers, then bolted it down with a snap. Cat smiled in spite of everything. She fed the dog until it had had enough, then she rose. The dog rose, too. "I've gotta find a place to sleep," Cat said. The dog ran ahead of her, then stopped, looking back. Cat frowned, then shrugged. "If you've got somewhere . . ."

Several turns and near misses later, she found herself in one of Arcadia's slums. A battered fence stood on her right. The shaggy mongrel stopped here, glanced back at Cat, then disappeared through a gap. Cat followed, squeezing between the planks. She found the dog standing by a small shed, little more than a roof supported by four posts, with straw strewn beneath and piled against the supports. A nanny goat wandered the yard, pulling at tufts of dried grass. The dog waded into the straw, turned around a couple of times, and settled in.

Cat joined it, burrowing into the straw in case someone in the nearby house looked out the window. The dog nestled close to her, and they both fell asleep.

In the morning, Cat awoke with sunshine in her eyes and goat in her nostrils. She sneezed three times in succession. The goat bleated, sounding annoyed. Cat shook out of the straw to find the dog gone and the goat giving her the bent eye. She made a sign against evil towards the goat, then crept out of the yard.

She finished her bread as she walked to the market place. Gnawing her way through the end of the loaf, she had a flash of memory: the man in the house grabbing her by the collar. She recalled feeling her chain suddenly taut against her neck. It must've broken, she thought. Her St. Bridget's medal was probably lying on the floor of that house.

Cat shuddered. She had to go back. She wanted, she needed that medallion. Yet she couldn't go back. Surely the man would have the guards cart her off to prison for stealing the bread. That was crime enough to get one's neck stretched upon the gibbet.

She waited two days, hoping that the man might forget about the stolen loaf in that time. On the night of the second day, she made her way back to the alley where she had hidden from the guards; she knew the back ways of Arcadia better even than Skif. She crept down the alley until she reached the right window, and she clambered to the sill. The shutter hadn't been mended yet. Cat pushed it open. She hesitated. What had the man said, about her feet? She lowered herself to the floor instead of dropping.

Crouching on the floor, Cat paused for her eyes to adjust to the indoor darkness. The glow of dying coals came from the stove. Enough light to keep her from bumping into the furniture, she realized with relief. She let her fingers search along the base of the wall below the window, the most likely place for her medallion to have fallen.

A glint of metal to her left caught her eye. She turned towards it as a voice, deep yet soft, said, "Lose something?" Cat sucked in a breath as a lamp flared to life. The man sat at the table, her silver chain twisting in his fingers, the medallion swinging gently.

"You took your own time coming back," he continued. "I've sat here three nights now."

Cat couldn't move. Her legs felt as if they'd been driven into thick mud, like fence-posts.

"Well? Come here, child. You do want this back, don't you?" The man held out the chain.

"That's mine," Cat managed to whisper.

"I know it's yours. Come, take it."

Somehow, she got her feet unstuck. She crossed to the table in a stiff shuffle, her eyes on her St. Bridget's medallion. When she reached for it, the man closed it in his meaty fist. "Sit, child."

Cat felt on the verge of tears again. She sat down in one of the chairs. "Now, child, what's your name?" the man asked.

"Tom," Cat replied. The man chuckled. "Even in the dark, love, I can see you're no Tom. All right, fair's fair. If I want your name, I should give you mine." He leant forward, and his dark eyes caught the light. "I'm Dirkhan. Dirk to my friends." He offered the medallion again. Cat put out her hand. "Cat." Dirkhan let the chain slip from his fingers to pool in Cat's palm. The girl clutched it tightly and started to rise. Dirkhan caught her wrist. "Sit, Cat."

Cat subsided into her chair. Dirkhan smiled. "Hungry? I bet you are," he added when she shook her head. "Nothing but skin and bones." He rose from the table. "Sure I've got something . . ."

Cat watched Dirkhan go into the pantry, listened to him rummage through the shelves. She glanced towards the open window.

"Here we are." Cat dropped back into her chair as Dirkhan emerged. "How's a nice fry-up sound?" He smiled, but Cat could see his eyes were hard. She nodded, and he stoked up the fire. Soon, she was ready to swoon with the heady aromas of bacon, eggs, and fried bread.

"Take it slow," Dirkhan advised, setting a plate in front of her. "Too much too fast will unsettle your stomach." It took most of Cat's willpower to heed his warning; far from settled, her stomach all but howled for the food. While the girl tucked into her meal, Dirkhan resumed his seat. He turned up the flame of the lamp again; Cat blinked in the sudden light. "You're a long way from home, child," he said. Cat stopped chewing and regarded him with suspicion. "Your accent," Dirkhan explained, smiling. "Ashby, if I'm not mistaken."

Cat almost dropped her bread. "How could you tell? I've hardly said two words since I came in!"

"Four, to be exact," Dirkhan laughed, then tapped the side of his shaven head. "Got an ear for that sort o' thing. Comes in handy. Besides," he nodded to the medallion that now hung around her neck, "I know the abbey dedicated to St. Bridget there." Cat put a hand over the medallion, squeezing it. "Ashby's not my home anymore," she declared. "Nowhere is." She smeared egg-yolk across her plate with a slice of fried bread.

"So young to be so hard," Dirkhan murmured. "How old are you?"

Cat shrugged. "Twelve," she said. "No--thirteen." She'd had a birthday while at Varas' farm, she was almost sure, but she hadn't been able to reckon the days.

Dirkhan brought the light closer to her. "You look younger," he said, then under his breath, "Could pass for ten."

Her breath caught in her chest. Cat had heard stories of men who took girls from the streets and sold them to bordellos or to other men who preferred children to women. She flinched when Dirkhan plucked the ragged cap from her head. "Blood and bones, child, who cut your hair?"

"I did," Cat responded in defiant tones.

"With what, sheep-shears?" Heat rushed to her cheeks. Dirkhan chuckled. "Don't worry, I can fix it." He grinned, teeth flashing against his dark skin. "I'm a barber."

He brought in a basin and a ewer and made her hold her head over the basin while he wetted her hair, then he produced a pair of scissors. Cat stayed very still while Dirkhan worked. "There," he grunted in satisfaction. "Much better." Cat touched her damp hair. "It's--"

"As short as a boy's." Dirkhan replaced her cap, tweaking the brim down over her eyes with a grin. "I'll find you some decent clothes later."

Cat stared at him. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This," Cat spread her hands, "everything. Why'd you wait up three nights for me? Why'd you feed me, cut my hair?" Fear gripped her, and she sprang from her chair. "I won't let you sell me to a whorehouse!"

Dirkhan stared a moment, then threw his head back and laughed, a sound rich with humour. "As if a brothel would have such a mingy wee thing!" He put a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Sit, child. I'm about to tell you something few are privileged to know."

Cat resumed her seat, although it wasn't as if she had a choice. "I'm Master of a . . . certain Guild," Dirkhan began.

"The Barbers' Guild?" Cat frowned, wondering why it would be a privilege of few to know the Master of the Barbers' Guild. Dirkhan smiled; Cat thought he was trying hard not to laugh again. "No, child," he said. "A very different sort of Guild. One in which your abilities would be most welcome. You have potential, Cat. With the right training, who knows how good you might become."

Cat couldn't quite believe her ears. Her scepticism must have shown in her face, for Dirkhan added, "You've some skill now, but mostly raw talent."

"You're not gonna call the guards on me?" Cat asked, disbelieving. Dirkhan chuckled. "The last thing I want at my door," he said, "is a bunch of squaddies.

"What I do want," he went on, "is for you to become my apprentice. You'll join my Guild, and I'll train you in our ways. You'll have a home with us. Will you accept?"

Cat glanced at the window again. Outside, the first glimmers of another cold dawn lightened the sky. She wondered who among Skif's mob wouldn't rise with the sun this day. She met Dirkhan's dark gaze.

"Yes."

© Catherine Thompson, 2002. All rights reserved.

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