Lucky (Pt. 01)

Author's note: I've borrowed a remote city from Game of Thrones, but this story is set in a much later 'Victorian' era and doesn't reference any GoT characters

Lucas looked out over the docks, the sea sparkling in the early morning sunshine as it lapped against the outer harbour. Beyond it, Seal Rock jutted defiantly upwards, a solid grey-green mass circled by distant gulls. It felt colder this morning, and he held his fingers up to his mouth, blowing warm air onto them, trying to get some feeling back into his numb flesh. Despite the cold, he liked it down here, liked the feeling of the freshness of the salty breeze on his face, away from the rotting stench of Fishpit, White Harbour's poorest area, and away from the noise, just the raucous cries of the seagulls over the gentle sound of waves lapping against the sea-worn wood of the docks.

From his position on top of a large wooden crate, he could see across the docks where stevedores unloaded schooners that had arrived from distant corners of the empire bringing silks and exotic fruit from the southern isles; slaves, coffee and rum from the colonies in the west; iron ore, coal and thick bundles of fleeces from the north. As always, he watched carefully, keeping an eye out for any crates left unattended, or friendly mariners he knew that might be willing to turn a blind eye to a little thieving in return for a share of the spoils.

Before long, his friend Eamon appeared around the corner, whistling and sporting a wide, gap-toothed grin as he hopped up beside him.

"Told you," Eamon said, tossing Lucas an apple. "Works every time with that old fool."

He was referring to Mrs Hobbs who ran a fruit and vegetable stall in Handgate Square and always fell for the same trick. Lucas would make an clumsy, amateurish attempt to steal something, yelling in mock surprise and turning to flee as Hobbs chased after him swearing loudly and swinging her broom, leaving Eamon to quietly sneak in and secure their breakfast. Through experience, he'd found the trick was to run quite fast, but not too fast.

"Thanks," Lucas replied, before sinking his teeth into the juicy flesh of the apple, his empty stomach rumbling noisily. "Did she chase you far?"

"No, just to the end of the street. Her shouting attracted a couple of gold cloaks, but I was too quick."

They were quiet then, relishing the taste of the fresh apples and quickly finishing them off. Eamon grinned as he produced a couple of stale-looking bread rolls from beneath his grubby cloak.

"Breakfast roll, Sir?" he asked.

"Don't mind if I do," Lucas said, returning his crooked grin.

"It's colder this morning, huh?"

"I hear it's going to get colder next week."

"Do you ever think about stowing away on board on one of those clippers, maybe heading down to the spice islands? I hear the dusky-skinned girls down there wear nuffin' but grass skirts, imagine that,eh?" Eamon suggested, nudging him in the ribs.

"I don't know. I mean it sounds good, but we'd still have no money, and we wouldn't speak the language. Knowing our luck, we'd probably end up as slaves, being brought back 'ere in chains," Lucas reasoned.

"Yeah, maybe you're right, you always was the smart one," he replied, not sounding entirely convinced.

The rest of the day passed as they so often did. After breakfast at their favourite spot by the docks, they strolled back up through the dense, narrow streets of Fishpit keeping an eye out for any dozing shopkeepers, unattended market stalls or rich folk that needed their load lightening. By noon, they were begging at another favourite spot at the dip in the road that led up to the castle gate. Eamon, who had an innate talent for these things, had spotted that the road was badly worn there, the cobbles loose, the mud visible through the gaps. Wagons would pass here all day, bringing supplies up to the castle and sometimes the jerking motion of the wheels catching the potholes would cause their goods to spill onto the road.

Today, they were lucky and laughed at their fortune, chewing on fresh loaves of crusty bread as they made their way up to the inns and taverns behind the markets, where they'd spend the rest of the afternoon begging for spare change. There were several gangs of beggars and street urchins up round Manderley Square, so Lucas and Eamon had to be careful not to encroach on their territories or they could be chased off or beaten.

Their luck changed in the afternoon though. A grey, drenching rain swept in from the west, and they found themselves begging in deserted streets. As afternoon turned to evening, they decided to try their luck near the Traitors Gate. Strictly speaking this was the territory of a gang of youths known as Spiders Gang, but the daylight was running out and they were desperate to get enough money to buy supper.

As the sky darkened, they huddled in a doorway in the flickering shadows of the torches that lined the street, keeping out of the way of the gold cloaks. Everyone called them the 'gold cloaks' although their proper name was the "city watch", the men that kept law and order on the streets of White Harbour. Despite their name, these days they wore smart navy uniforms edged with gold and carried billy clubs.Their cloaks and swords were reserved for ceremonial duties.

Eamon and Lucas watched as the drunks stumbled out of the many inns and public houses that crowded the street. Lucas shivered a little; although the rain had stopped he couldn't get warm, and his stomach felt hollow, its aching a nagging reminder that they hadn't eaten since midday.

"Spare some coins for the homeless, Sir?" Eamon asked half-heartedly as a young couple hurried past, barely glancing in their direction.

"Gods, it's cold this evening," Lucas said, still shivering. "Maybe we could try our luck down on the wharves. I still reckon we could break into that banana warehouse."

"Wait, they look like a good touch," Eamon replied, nodding his head towards a smartly-dressed couple emerging from an inn across the street.

Lucas could see what he meant. If you begged every day, you relied on being able to recognise what types are most likely to be generous. The couple looked young and well-off, but more importantly they looked like they weren't married. The man would probably be trying to impress his lady friend, and perhaps that might make him more inclined to show her how kind and generous he could be.

"Spare some change, Sir?" Lucas said, his hopeful face catching the light, his grubby hand outstretched.

They locked eyes, and Lucas could see his first instinct was to tell him to clear off. He could almost see the man's thought process in slow motion as he glanced over at his lady friend, who stared back with a neutral expression as if curious to see how he'd react.

"Of course," he said,his voice clipped and tight, and just managing to manufacture a thin smile. "One should always try and help those less fortunate."

"Thank-you Sir, thank-you Miss, you're most generous," Lucas said, tugging at an imaginary cap as the tall young man pushed a few gold coins into his grubby hand.

"Thank-you," Eamon echoed, moving closer as they watched the couple walk away down the wet streets, the lady clutching the man's arm a little tighter, no doubt congratulating him on his kindness.

"Eamon, look at this!" Lucas said, holding the coins up so that they shone dully in the torch light. "He's given us six silvers!"

It was pocket change for a wealthy young couple, but for them it was a small fortune, enough to pay for a couple of steaming bowls of 'brown', the local stew. Or maybe even a couple of beds at one of the cheap sailors' hostels back near the docks. They exchanged grins as Lucas held one of the coins up, examining the embossed image of a coiled serpent in the dim light.

Ever since they'd met at the orphanage, many years ago they'd always split everything fifty-fifty. As they divided up their bounty, Lucas noticed some dark figures approaching; they'd been there all night, loitering at the end of the street, always hovering on the edge of his vision like ominous shadows, but now they drew closer, moving purposefully down the street towards them, like a pack of wolves sensing an opportunity.

"Looks like trouble," Lucas muttered, nodding towards them.

"Yeah, p'raps we'd best get going, eh?" Eamon replied, looking towards the group that were within fifty yards now.

They jumped to their feet, and started walking the opposite way. Lucas couldn't resist glancing over his shoulder, trying to suppress his panic as he watched their pursuers start to jog, casually at first then faster, their boots echoing dully on the cobbled street. Their leader was a taller, older boy with dark, straggly hair and a scar on one cheek. Each long, loping stride brought him ever closer to their heels.

"Oi! You! Stop!" he yelled after them, brandishing a stick.

"We'd best split up," Eamon said, eyeing a side street as they started to run now.

"See you back at the docks," Lucas shouted, watching his friend take a left down a long winding street that led back to Fishpit. Looking back again, he saw the chasers split too, most of them going after his friend, but three still chasing him.

He started to run harder now, trying to remain calm, to mentally plot a course through the maze of narrow streets. He still had a good headstart but didn't know this area as well as Eamon and he tried to think as he ran, trying to find a course that would lead him back to the docks and the abandoned warehouse that they'd been sleeping in recently. They'd stopped shouting now it was clear he wasn't stopping, intent on saving their breath and looking grimly determined as they slowly gained on him.

Lucas ran harder as the gap closed, the cold night air rasping in his lungs, his heart thumping as he dodged a group of noisy drunks staggering out of an inn, then jinking right, nearly falling as the smooth leather soles of his badly-worn boots struggled to find purchase on the greasy cobbles. He tried going left then left again, hoping that he might lose them in the narrow, winding streets. He was lost now and he tried not to panic as he realised that his pursuers probably knew these streets like the back of their hands.

They were really close now, he could hear their feet slapping the wet slabs of stones hard, almost feel their hot breath on the back of his neck. Panicking now, he chanced a right into a tree-lined street of merchants houses, sprinting hard now then realising he'd hit a dead-end, the thick curtain wall of the castle rising at the end of the street, trapping him in a cul-de-sac. He slowed down, and there was a brief moment when he frantically looked for a small alleyway to escape down, and yet instinctively he knew the chase was over.

He half-turned, holding his hands up, hoping to reason with his pursuers but they were on him in an instant, the first boy tackling him hard around the midriff, the breath knocked out of him as his body slammed painfully into the cobble-stones. He found himself pinned to the ground, a strong hand around his neck forcing his head painfully against the hard ground as the others started to kick him.

"This is our turf, fucker," one of them spat, landing a painful blow to his ribs.

"Wait, wait! Fuck!" Lucas squealed as he felt someone stamp on his ankle.

"Give us our fucking money or you die right now," he heard as a fist connected with his mouth, his lip splitting, the blood spilling forth, warm and salty. "We ain't fucking around."

Lucas curled into a tight ball as the kicks and punches rained in on him, causing sharp pains in his ribs, the back of his head, a boot kicking his leg. He felt himself begin to lose consciousness as he felt another kick to the back of his head, the ensuing darkness merciful as he retreated within himself, the shouts becoming distant, the pain fading as his consciousness ebbed away like the dirty rainwater into the drain that was next to his head.

He was only vaguely aware of fingers prising his hand open, finally losing his grip on his precious coins, then some alarmed shouts and the footsteps quickly receding into the distance as the blackness finally consumed him.

In his mind he pictured his hand clutching those three shiny coins, and the coins melting in his palm, the liquid silver running through his fingers like mercury no matter how tightly he squeezed them together, leaking out, falling away into the darkness until there was nothing left, just his empty palm.

--

He didn't know how long he was unconscious, perhaps a minute, perhaps an hour, but he was next aware of voices drawing closer and he held his breath, hoping that the gang members hadn't returned to finish him off. As they got closer, he realised that these voices were higher-pitched, pleasant-sounding but concerned. Female voices.

"Goodness, is that a boy?" the first said, and he realised that in the semi-darkness he probably resembled a small pile of muddy rags.

"Hello? Boy? Are you all right?" the second said, as their footsteps drew closer.

"Looks like he's been beaten," the first offered and he felt a cool hand on his head, then heard a sharp intake of breath. "There's a lot of blood."

"Well, we can't leave him here, poor thing. Do you think we should call the City Watch?"

"They'll just throw him in the cells. We should at least get him inside for a minute, stop that bleeding. Can you hear us? Are you conscious, young Sir?" the voice continued, and he felt a hand grasping his shoulder.

He wanted to say "Yes", but his jaw ached and his mouth was salty with the taste of blood, and all that emerged was a wet gurgling noise.

"Come on, help me get him inside," the older-sounding of the voices said.

He felt hands pulling him to his feet, and he tried to help although he felt a shooting pain in his ankle when he put any weight on it, and the world spun dizzyingly. One of his guardian angels had to help him up the broad stone steps whilst the other unlocked the door and led him inside.

He half-fell onto a wooden chair, and was able to take a painful breath and look around as the younger woman lit an oil lamp and placed it in the middle of the table. The light filled the space and he found himself in a large kitchen, its shelves crowded with jars of herbs and oils, and seated next to a rough wooden table.

"You were lucky we found you," she said. She was young and pretty, and looked like a maid in her plain, dark grey dress and white headscarf.

"I was, you're very kind, thank-you," his words slurred, his jaw still aching as blood trickled from his split lip.

"Don't thank me, thank Madam, it's her house," the young woman replied.

"Now then, let's see what we have here, hmm?" the older lady said, stepping back into the kitchen carrying a black leather case. "Tilly, can you boil some hot water please, and then make up Tom's room for our guest?"

"Yes, ma'am," Tilly said, before exiting.

"Thank-you ma'am, you're very kind," Lucas repeated, watching as the older lady set her bag on the table then crouched down beside him.

"Well now, what happened to you, hmm?" she asked as she unlaced his worn leather boots and pulled them from his grubby feet.

"I was robbed, some boys from another gang took all me money, they did," he said, catching his breath as she squeezed his swollen ankle, a thoughtful look on her face.

"Hmm, doesn't feel broken, good," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

"Do your ribs hurt?" she asked, getting back to her feet, and slipping a hand beneath his bloodied undershirt.

"It 'urts when I breathe, Ma'am," he replied.

He winced, sucking his breath in sharply at the firm touch of her fingers along the lines of his ribs.

"Hmm, feels like it's just badly bruised rather than broken," she concluded. "You're lucky."

"I don't feel very lucky," he replied.

"No, I don't suppose you do, drink this, it'll help with the pain and help you sleep," she said, offering him a cup of warm green liquid with a herby fragrance.

As he drank, she turned to Tilly who was hovering behind them: "Get him cleaned up as best you can, there's nothing that needs doing urgently, but I'll have another look at his ankle and ribs when the swelling goes down."

"Yes, ma'am," she replied, helping Lucas to his feet.

They slowly made their way upstairs to a bathroom, and she helped him clean his hands and face in a large marble sink before leading him to a bedroom. Tilly helped him with his clothes and soon he was sinking into the first proper bed he'd seen in a long time. It was soft and comfortable and despite the pain he was asleep in seconds.

---

Lucas woke slowly, his head throbbing. His eyes felt crusty, and his breath rasped drily in his throat. Through his blurry eyes he could see a large pitcher of water and a glass on a wooden bedside table, but when he tried to sit up there was a sharp stabbing pain in his side that made him wince. He lay back and decided to take it slowly, easing a plump pillow beneath his sore head.

It was a sparsely decorated room, with pale walls illuminated by the bright midday sunlight. The curtains moved lazily in the breeze from the open window which brought in the sounds from the market: vendors hawking their wares, carts rattling noisily over cobbles, raucous laughter outside a bar. He fought back the irrational urge to get out of bed and beg for a few coins whilst it was still busy.

The bed felt clean and comfortable unlike the straw matting he usually slept on. He could make out a large mahogany wardrobe, a solid-looking chest of drawers,a large travelling trunk with brass handles in one corner. He could hear the sounds of distant voices and footsteps echoing on hard wooden floors from downstairs.

He held his right arm up in the soft light, examining the collection of large purple bruises, and reflected on how fortunate he was to have escaped so lightly. Spider's gang had a violent reputation. He tried to sit up to have a proper look around, but the effort made the room spin dizzily and he eased back once more, resting his throbbing head back again.

He must have dozed off again for a while because when he was awoken by a light knocking on the door, he noticed that the room was darker, the light softer now and tinged with pink.

"I've brought you some chicken broth," Tilly said, putting the bowl down and helping him to sit up. He examined the girl as she adjusted his pillows to make him more comfortable. She was a little older than him, maybe in her mid twenties, with a rounded, kindly face, large hazel eyes and a fair complexion. Her straw-coloured hair was tied back in a tight ponytail. Her dark grey uniform, with its spotlessly white pinny, clung to her slender figure.

"Where am I?" he asked, his voice sounding scratchy and dry.

She smiled: "You really are fortunate. The lady of the house is Doctor Monroe, she's the best physician in the district, treats all the wealthy people around here. You really couldn't be in better hands."

"I really am grateful," he said, opening his mouth as she dipped a spoon into the bowl of steaming soup.

"What's your name?" she asked as he slurped at the hot soup noisily. It was salty and delicious and suddenly he was aware of how hungry he was.

"I'm Lucas, and I think I remember that you're Tilly?"

She nodded as she offered up another spoonful: "Yes, I work here, I help out and I'm training to be a physician like Doctor Monroe. And you, are you homeless?"

"Me and my mate Eamon, we've been living down by the docks. You ain't heard anything about another boy being beaten last night?" he said, between sips.

"No, but I'll let you know if I do."

"So whose room is this?" he said, looking around again.

"Doctor Monroe's son, Tom. He's away at the academy, training to become an officer in the Navy. You're about the same size, so we may be able to find some clothes that fit you when you're feeling better."