The Prince

Damien I: Chapter 3

Chapter 3





The next day was better.  Except for the bitter cold weather, of course.





Scrambling into what clothes he could find, Damien tip-toed past his snoring roommates and over to the fireplace.  Someone had forgotten to bank it last night and now he would have to start a fresh one.  With a sigh he unhooked the shovel from its hook and retrieved the pan from beneath the hearth.  That’s when he noticed the wood box.  It was empty.





He forced himself to take a deep breath.  In and out, in and out.  So they hadn’t forgotten to bank it, they had just seen no point in doing so.  Wonderful, he thought.





When he and Twitch had returned home the previous night, they had found Sticks and Feather already there.  Giddy with relief, they had both rushed to them and given them big hugs.    Sensing something was wrong, however, Sticks had stepped away from Damien with a look of concern on his face that the Day Man had never seen before.  “You alright?” Sticks had asked.





“Damien ran into an old friend,” Twitch had said eagerly.  “A lieutenant in our city guard.”  Sticks and Feather hanging on his every word from then on, Twitch had still been talking when Damien fell asleep.





Now, awake, he felt himself in need of some food.  Replacing the shovel and pan he went to the small gas stove in the corner.  A miraculously clean skillet was in the cupboard beside it and the icebox contained a single slab of aging meat.  Taking these he put them on the stove and turned its knobs.  Nothing happened.  There should have been the hiss of gas but instead there was only silence.





Alright, he said to himself.  I’m hungry, I’m cold, and there is nothing I can do about it.  And we’re out of food and gas.  Nothing I can do.  It isn’t my fault.  Not my fault at all.





The meat back in the icebox, the skillet returned to the cupboard, Damien went back to his bed.  They needed food, wood, and a repairman for the stove.  Only they’d had a repair man in just last week to take a look at the thing and he said he had fixed it.  One their landlord had found for them, it would be no surprise to Damien if the man had not totally solved their problem.





Stepping into his boots, he tied them and pulled on his gloves and coat.  Weaving his way once more through his sleeping friends, Damien went to the corner nearest the door.  The box Sticks kept there beneath some loose floorboards for their gang’s common funds had a few coins in it from the last night’s take.  Pocketing them, Damien set his cap determinedly on his head and departed.











“It’s broken.”





“Can’t be.  Louis said he fixed it.”





“Well he didn’t.”  Damien crossed his arms.  He was always like this, their landlord.  Everything was a fight him.  “It worked a few days and then, just this morning, it stopped.”





“Somebody must’ve done somethin’.”





Damien shook his head.  “Nobody did anything.  Nothing that we weren’t supposed to be doing.”  His landlord, a man by the name of Mathieu, glanced up from the papers on his desk.  “Cooking,” said Damien.





“Right,” Mathieu said, his tone skeptical.  “Of course.  A piece of equipment breaks down and…nobody’s to blame.”  He gave Damien and exaggerated shrug.  “It just happens.  And less than a week after the first time.”





“Fifth.  It’s broken five times in the last six months.  And now it’s almost winter.  Mat, we need it fixed.”





“Then you should stop doing things to it.”





“We’re not doing anything!”





Mathieu was on his feet in a moment.  Coming around his desk he said, “Don’t you take that tone with me, boy.”





“Well someone has to,” said Damien, fighting to remain calm.  “It seems to be the only tone you actually hear.”





“Now you listen to me you little bastard.  Louis has worked for me for years.  If he says he fixed your stove, then he fixed it.  End of story.  What happens after he leaves, that’s your own damn fault.”





The landlord returned to his seat.  Damien, feeling himself ready to explode now, slowly counted to ten before replying.  “So you’re not going to be asking him back then?”





“No.”





Damien scowled.  “Fine.”





The little bell Mathieu hung above the door ringing as he opened it, Damien was stopped on his way out when Mathieu said, “Rents due on Artists-day”





Damien couldn’t believe it.  “But, but that’s the first day of Winter Law,” he stammered after a moment.  From what Sticks said, and what he himself had witnessed the year before, no one did business on the first day of Winter Law.  It was just too dangerous.  Looking over his shoulder he saw that Mathieu had already returned to his papers.





“Yep,” said the landlord, staring fixedly at his desk.





Damien’s eyes narrowed.  He’d had enough of this.  “You won’t get anything till the stove’s fixed.”  Turning, Damien slammed the door behind him.





The man was cheating them.  Had been all year.  He had probably been cheating his other tenants even longer than that too.





He’d only caught a glimpse of the books laid out on the desk, but that glimpse had been more than enough.  His apprenticeship hadn’t been for nothing.  It had made him a Day Man and, now, shown him what was happening in his building.  Stomping angrily down the street, Damien jammed his gloved hands into his pockets.





Rent due on Artists-day?  Perhaps he could arrange something.  There would be more guards out that day, all week really but especially on the first day of Winter Law…  Damien mulled it over.  Anything could happen.  Really, Sticks didn’t even need to know.





An idea already forming in his mind, Damien smiled.  His father nowhere near his thoughts as he came up to Alaire Street, Damien turned left towards Lord’s Cross and the Shards.