Page 9 of A Thief to Die For

The firepits are mostly empty now as a solemn line of people wait at collections. I inch closer in the shadows, taking in the coal-dust-covered faces of the people who’ve only just finished their shift. The line leads to a table lit by torches – and God’s breath, it’s Soren and Diggs running the show tonight. I can’t think of a worse combination.

Well … I guess Coatl could be here, too.

Beside them is a horse-drawn trailer filled with what I assume are the usual forms of payment for not meeting quotas in the mine: scavenged berries, bags of feathers, or handmade items, like mats and baskets woven with grass. Hetty Hatfield’s there with her bars of soap, which she makes from lye and pig fat that she scavenges from the militia kitchen. A chicken clucks from somewhere in the collection pile – a lucky few manage to maintain a small area of animals. Everyone else buys their supplies from us.

The top half of a rocking chair sticks out of the trailer – a true treasure and likely a painful sacrifice for one of the nearly ninety Dresden who live here.

‘Next.’ Soren’s voice rings out into the evening air.

A pale-skinned man with a torn and filthy shirt shuffles forward, clutching a small basket. He’s probably only in his early thirties but looks much older.

‘Name,’ Soren snaps.

‘Arthur McBee.’ His words whistle through his missing teeth.

Soren studies the ledger. ‘There’s nothing here. You didn’t work this week?’

‘I hurt my back.’ Arthur places his offering on the table. ‘But I made this basket with willows and inside are …’

Diggs leans over and snorts. ‘Pine cones? You want to pay your rent in pine cones?’

‘Th-these are spruce cones. Male species, but only the baby ones. When boiled in honey they can be a nice treat. Even makes a syrup. You can eat them, I swear – I just, I don’t have any honey to make it for you.’

‘If they’re edible then …’ Diggs raises his baby-faced chin, perpetually trying to make his short frame look taller. ‘You should eat one.’

Soren chuckles darkly next to him.

Arthur blinks. ‘But they have to be cooked first. Like I said –’

‘Eat. It,’ Soren says, voice dropping low.

My pulse pounds heavy in my ears as a tension fills the air. Soren’s only grown crueller in the time we’ve been apart. Arthur reluctantly nods and attempts to bite one of the green cones. He winces.

Both guardsmen dissolve into snickers.

My anger turns caustic as it simmers in my chest.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Diggs says, dumping the remaining spruce cones on the ground. ‘The basket will count for one unit, and that’s being generous. You still owe twenty-nine more to cover your debts for the week.’

Soren flips a page in the ledger. ‘One more week like this and you’ll be exiled. If I were you, I’d hand over that ring on your finger before it’s too late.’

Arthur covers it with his right hand. ‘I still have a week.’

Soren glares, then waves him off. ‘Next.’

It takes ages to get through the rest of the line, and just when I think they’re done, Soren points out something to Diggs on the ledger. My heart drops. If a splinter could be a person, that’d be Diggs. Tiny, annoying and infuriatingly successful at causing pain and getting under everyone’s skin. He draws his wooden baton and storms off, weaving around the firepits and makeshift tables.

Who didn’t pay? With a curse under my breath, I stealthily skirt the circle of homes and stop when Diggs reaches a draughty, one-floor shack.

‘Collections,’ Diggs shouts, banging on the door. He barely waits before pushing inside.

‘Get out of my house,’ shouts a small, angry voice. Little John.

Diggs stumbles back as if pushed. Then an angry seven-year-old appears, swinging a small wooden sword. ‘Get away from my mama!’ With a loud crack, he clubs Diggs on the shin.

The guardsman yelps, then raises his baton.

I push into the open, but Brother Thomas appears out of nowhere and hauls me back behind a tree. ‘You can’t,’ he says, voice a harsh whisper.