The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4

Larten’s father hadn’t wanted to send the boys to the factory. He hated the place as much as they did, even though he’d escaped and now laboured elsewhere. He had managed to find work in other areas for the older children, but jobs were scarce when it came time for Larten and Vur to earn a living. The silk factory had recently won a lucrative contract and Traz was offering halfway decent wages. There was nowhere else for the unlucky pair to go.

Larten had to keep the fire beneath his vat at a constant heat. As soon as he felt the temperature of the water dropping, he fed the flames with an armful of logs from a mound at the back of the room.

Across from him, Vur finished dunking another batch of cocoons, then set off at a jog for the pit out back. Traz reluctantly accepted the need for toilet breaks, but if he caught you walking instead of running, you were guaranteed a whipping.

Larten grinned. Vur had a weak bladder and most days he had to go to the pit three times to Larten’s once. Vur tried drinking less, but it made no difference. Traz had beaten him in the early days, when he thought the boy was making excuses. But eventually he realised that Vur’s complaint was genuine, and though he still cuffed Vur occasionally, he let the wretch go as often as he needed to.

Vur looked worried when he returned this time.

“What’s wrong?” Larten whispered.

“One of the owners was with Traz,” Vur panted. “They were on their way to inspect the room of baby worms.”

Word spread and everyone upped the tempo. It was bad news whenever one of the owners came to visit. Traz got nervous in the presence of his employers. He would meekly lead his boss around, a false smile plastered in place, sweating like a pig. As soon as the visitor departed, Traz would take a few swigs from a bottle of rum that he kept in his office, then storm furiously through the factory, finding fault wherever he looked.

They were hard days when Traz was on the warpath. No matter what you did, he could turn on you. Even the most skilful workers on the looms – normally the best treated in the factory – had suffered lashings at times like this.

Larten prayed while he worked, begging a variety of gods to keep Traz away from their vats. Though Larten wasn’t religious, he figured there was no harm in covering all the angles when trouble was in the air.

They heard a roar and every child lowered their head and dunked cocoons as fast as they could. The problem was, they had to leave them in the water until the cocoons had softened properly. If Traz found hard cocoons in their baskets it would be far worse than if he thought they were going slow.

Traz entered like a bear, growling and glaring, hoping someone would glance up at him. But all the children stared fixedly into their vats. He was pleased to see that most of them were trembling. That sapped some of the fire from his rage, but he needed to hand out three or four more beatings before he’d really start to calm down.

A girl lost her grip on a couple of cocoons as Traz was passing and they bobbed to the surface. He was on her like a hawk. “Keep them down!” he bellowed, swatting the back of her head. She winced and drove the cocoons to the base of the vat, soaking the sleeves of her dress.

“Sorry, sir,” the girl gasped.

Traz grabbed her hair – she was new to the team and had made the mistake of not cutting it short – and jerked her face up to his. “If you ever do that again,” he snarled, “I’ll bite off your nose.”

It would have been funny if anyone else had made such a ludicrous threat. But Traz had bitten off more than one nose in his time – a good number of ears too – and they all knew that he meant it. Nobody snickered.

Traz released the girl. He wasn’t interested in newcomers. He knew the younger children were terrified of him and probably dreamt about him when they went to bed every night. They were too easy to scare. He wanted to work on some of the more experienced hands, remind a few of the older lot of his power, make sure they didn’t start taking him for granted.

He cast his gaze around. There was a tall boy in one corner, a lazy piece of work. Traz started to move in on him, but then he caught sight of Vur Horston and changed direction.

Traz slowly strolled past Vur, giving him the impression that he’d escaped the foreman’s wrath. But when he was about four strides past he stopped, turned and stepped up behind the boy.

Vur knew he was in trouble, but he worked on, not giving any sign that he was aware of Traz’s presence. Larten could see that his cousin was in for a beating, and although he risked drawing attention to himself, he raised his head slightly to watch. He felt sick and hateful, but there was nothing he could do.

For a while Traz didn’t say anything, just studied Vur as he dunked cocoons and held them beneath the surface of the water. Then he stuck a thick, dirty finger into the vat and held it there for a couple of seconds.

“Lukewarm,” he said, withdrawing the finger and sucking it dry.

Vur gulped, but didn’t move. He wanted to throw more sticks on the fire – even though the heat was fine – but he had to keep the cocoons down. If he released them early, he’d be in an even worse situation than he was now.

Behind Vur’s back, Traz scowled. He’d hoped the boy would panic, release the cocoons and give the foreman an excuse to batter him.

“You’re a vile, useless piece of work,” Traz said. He tried to think of something more cutting, then recalled someone telling him that the boy was an orphan. “An insult to the memory of your mother,” Traz added, and was delighted to note the boy’s back stiffen with surprise and anger.

“You didn’t know that I knew your mother, did you?” Traz said slyly, walking around the vat, cracking his knuckles, warming to the game.

“No, sir,” Vur croaked.

“She didn’t work here, did she?”

“No.”

“So where do you think I knew her from?”

Vur shook his head. Across from him, Larten guessed what the foreman was up to, but there was no way he could warn Vur. He just hoped that Vur was reading Traz’s intentions too. Usually Vur was a better judge of people than Larten was, but fear had a way of shaking up a person’s thoughts.

“Well?” Traz purred.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Inns,” Traz declared grandly. “I knew her from inns.”

Vur’s head rose and he frowned. Larten groaned — his cousin had swallowed the bait. This was going to be bad.

“Beg pardon, sir, but you’re mistaken. My mother didn’t work in an inn.”

“She did,” Traz sniffed.

“No, sir,” Vur said. “She was a seamstress.”

“By day,” Traz jeered. “But she earned a bit extra by night.” He gave Vur a few seconds to dwell on that. “Worked in a lot of inns. I met with her many times.”

Vur was too young to have kissed a girl, but there were few true innocents in the world at that time. He knew what the foreman was implying. His cheeks flushed. The worst thing was, he couldn’t say for sure that it was a lie. He was almost certain that Traz was toying with him, but Vur had few memories of his parents, so he couldn’t dismiss the insult as an outrageous piece of slander.

“She wasn’t a pretty thing,” Traz continued, relishing the twisted look on Vur’s face. “But she was pretty good at her job. Aye?”

Vur started to tremble, but not with fear. He had always been able to control his temper – much better than Larten could – but he’d never been subjected to an insult of this nature before.

Traz whispered something in Vur’s ear. The boy’s face went white and a lone cocoon bobbed up inside the vat.

“Keep the bloody things down!” Traz roared, punching Vur hard in the left side of his head. Vur was slugged sideways and lost his grip on the cocoons. They all shot to the top. “Idiot!” Traz yelled and followed it up with cruder curses, each accompanied by a blow to Vur’s head.

Vur tried to push the cocoons down again, but was knocked away from the vat by the bullying foreman, then to the ground. As he hit the floor, Traz kicked the boy in the stomach. Vur cried out with pain, then threw up over Traz’s boot.

The foreman’s fury doubled. Cursing the boy with his vilest insults, he grabbed cocoons from the vat and lobbed them at Vur’s face. Vur retreated like a crab, trying to avoid the soggy missiles. Larten and the others watched with their jaws open. They had never seen Traz as mad as this. Nobody was bothering with work any longer. All eyes were on the furious bully and his defenceless victim.

When the vat ran out, Traz plucked cocoons from the vat next to it. He had never before manhandled the valuable balls of silken thread, but something inside him had snapped. It wasn’t anything Vur had said or done. This had been building within the hate-filled foreman for a long time, and Vur was simply in the wrong place at the worst possible moment.

Traz stamped after the fleeing Vur, pelting him with cocoons, calling the boy and his mother all sorts of disgusting names. Larten saw Vur getting close to the door and prayed his cousin wouldn’t make it. He had a vision of Traz slamming the door shut on Vur, over and over, smashing the bony boy to pieces. It would be better if Vur collapsed in the middle of the floor. All Traz could hit him with then would be his fists, feet and cocoons.

As if responding to Larten’s silent prayer, Vur stopped crawling and held his ground ahead of the advancing foreman. But Vur hadn’t stopped to take a beating. Something had switched inside him, just as it had inside the vicious Traz. He knew it was lunacy, but he couldn’t stop himself. Maybe it was a reaction to one of the insults aimed at his dead mother. Maybe a bone had shattered in his ribs and the pain drove him momentarily insane. Or maybe life had been leading him to this point since he first stepped into the factory, and it was simply his destiny to one day hit back at a world that treated helpless children so repulsively.

Vur snatched a cocoon from the floor, hurled it at Traz and screamed, “Leave me alone, you…” He paused as the cocoon struck Traz between his eyes, then smiled and finished with an insult every bit as crude as any the foreman had used.

Traz came to a stunned halt. The cocoon had only left a wet, slimy mark behind, and he’d been called far worse in his time by drunkards, scoundrels and women of ill repute. But no child had ever spoken that way to him. And he had never been struck in front of a crowd of gawping children.

Traz was a beastly man and always had been. But in that second he slipped beyond the boundaries of mere brutality. He had beaten children senseless in the past. He had chewed off noses and ears, and the story about cutting out a girl’s tongue was true. Children had died under his watch from festering wounds and starvation, and he had laughed at their agonies. But he had never set out to openly murder one of his crew.

As the cocoon dripped on the floor and the echoes of Vur’s curse died away, Traz lost control of himself. It was abrupt and awful, and before anyone knew it was coming, he had already launched himself at the boy.

Traz scooped Vur up from the floor with one huge paw. Vur cursed him again and hit him with a fist instead of a soft cocoon. But Traz was in no mood to play. Instead of beating the boy, he swept Vur over to the nearest vat and shoved a cringing girl out of his way. Before Vur could protest, Traz upended him and thrust him underwater, pushing him all the way to the bottom and holding his head there with one thick, hairy, powerful hand.

Vur kicked out wildly. One of his feet struck Traz’s chin. The foreman grunted and slipped. Vur bobbed to the surface like a cocoon. But then Traz regained his balance and pushed Vur down again, using his free arm to bend back the boy’s legs. Ignoring the heat of the water, he held Vur in place, fingers squeezed tight into the flesh of the boy’s skull.

“Let him go!” Larten shouted, surprising even himself.

Traz’s eyes flared and he bared his teeth. “Stay out of this!”

“Stop it!” Larten cried. “You’ll kill him!”

“Aye,” Traz chuckled. “That’s what I’m aiming to do.”

Larten had lived in fear of the foreman since the age of eight, but there was no time for terror on that cold, grey Tuesday. Vur was drowning. Larten had to act swiftly or it would be too late.

Abandoning the safety of his vat, Larten raced towards the laughing Traz and threw himself at the monstrous man. The floor was wet and he hoped Traz would lose his footing when he was tackled. If he could get Vur out of the vat, they’d flee like rats and never come back. His father wouldn’t care, not when Larten told him what had happened. There were limits to what even the likes of Traz could get away with.

But Traz had clocked the Crepsley boy’s every move. He anticipated the leap and adjusted his stance. When Larten threw himself forward, Traz simply let go of Vur’s legs – not thrashing now – and slammed a fist down on Larten’s skull.

Larten felt as if his head had been caved in. For a few seconds he came close to blacking out. He would have fainted any other time, but he knew Vur needed him. He couldn’t afford to fall unconscious. So, drawing strength from deep within himself, he shook his head and lurched to his knees.

Traz was surprised. He thought he’d killed the boy, or at least hit him so hard that he’d slump around simple-minded for the rest of his days. Even in the midst of his murderous fit he found himself respecting the way Larten hauled himself up, first to his knees, then to his feet. His legs were swaying like a drunk’s, but Traz admired the boy for rising to make a challenge.

The worst of the foreman’s rage ebbed away and he grunted. “Stay down, you fool.”

Larten moaned in reply and staggered forward. This time he didn’t try to hit the huge man. He was only focused on Vur’s legs. They were as still as a crushed dog’s and Larten knew he had mere seconds in which to fish out his cousin — if it wasn’t already too late.

Traz squinted at the advancing child. When he realised Larten was only worried about the drowning boy, Traz looked down and hissed. Vur Horston was no longer moving and no bubbles of air were trickling from his mouth.

Traz felt no guilt, merely unease. Though he doubted his employers would care too much if word of this incident reached them, there was always the possibility that they might decide he had gone too far. Releasing Vur’s legs, he stepped away from the vat and wrung water from the sleeves of his jacket, thinking hard.

Not being a man of the world like Traz, Larten thought there was still hope. He gurgled happily when Traz moved aside, then gripped Vur’s legs and dragged him out of the vat. His cousin was heavier than normal, his clothes soaked, and Larten was still dizzy from the blow to his head. But it only took him a couple of seconds to pull Vur clear and lay him on the floor.

“Vur!” Larten called, sprawling beside his motionless cousin. When there was no answer, he turned Vur’s head sideways and prised his lips apart to let water out. “Vur!” He slapped the silent boy’s back. “Are you all right? Can you hear me? Did he–”

“Silence!” Traz barked. When Larten glanced up, blinking back tears, the foreman added coldly, “There’s nothing you can do for him. The gutter rat’s dead. All that’s left for him now is the grave.”

CHAPTER FOUR

As the world seemed to spin wildly around the dazed, sickened Larten, Traz faced the rest of the cocooners. He was only worried about protecting his job. He didn’t care a shred for the bedraggled remains of the murdered Vur Horston.

“Listen up!” Traz roared, glaring at one and all. “The savage little rat attacked me. Everybody saw it. I was defending myself and it’ll go bad with anyone who says different.”

Traz cast his gaze around, challenging the children to disagree with him. They all dropped their heads and Traz puffed up proudly. He had nothing to fear. None of these cowards would speak out against him.

“I’m going to hang his body off a hook out back,” Traz boasted. “I want you to study it long and hard before you go home. This is what happens to vicious fools who attack their foremen. We won’t be having any revolutions in this factory!”

Already, in his mind, he was exaggerating the boy’s act of defiance. He would tell the owners that several of the brats attacked him. Claim it was an organised revolt, that the Horston boy was its leader. Fake regret and say that he had to kill Vur for the good of the factory. Let them believe there were others who were plotting against them. If they believed there was a threat to their profits, they’d give Traz a medal for working so hard to suppress it.

Men of wealth were easy to appease. If you kept money flowing into their pockets, they backed every move you made. They wouldn’t care that he’d killed an orphan, not as long as he could put a price on the cur’s head.

On the floor, Larten was staring at Vur with horror. The dead boy’s right eye was closed, but his left was open a fraction, as if he was winking. Larten wished Vur was playing a joke. He wouldn’t mind if his cousin sat up and laughed at him for falling for the trick. Larten would cry with joy if that happened.

But Vur wasn’t acting. Larten had seen death many times — an older sister, children in the factory, corpses in the street waiting to be collected. There was no mistaking the chilling stillness of the dead.

“Out of my way,” Traz sneered, pushing Larten aside.

Larten hadn’t been focusing on Traz’s speech. He didn’t know what the foreman intended to do with Vur. In his bewildered state, he thought Traz was trying to help.

“It’s no good,” Larten whispered. “You can’t help him. He’s dead.”

Traz cocked an eyebrow at Larten and laughed. “Help him? Didn’t you hear me? I’m going to hang him from a hook and teach you all a lesson.”

Larten gawped at the burly foreman.

“Go home to your father,” Traz huffed. “Tell him he’s lucky I let you live. I could have killed you too for attacking me. But because I’m a merciful man, I’m letting you go.”

Larten didn’t move. He had been crying, but the tears dried up now and a cold fire ignited at the back of his eyes.

“Go on,” Traz said, picking up Vur and slinging him over a shoulder as if he was a sack of cocoons. “You can have the afternoon off. But be back here first thing tomorrow. And tell your father he can pick this one up on Friday — I want to hang him for a few days like a pheasant.”

As Traz turned away, Larten calmly picked something off the floor. He would never remember what he’d grabbed. The area was littered with every sort of cast-off — nails, old spools, broken knives and more. All he knew was that it was sharp and cool, and it fitted perfectly into his small, trembling hand.

“Traz,” Larten said with surprising softness. If he’d screamed, maybe the foreman would have sensed danger and jerked aside. As it was, Traz simply paused and looked back, half smiling the way he would if an old friend hailed him in a park on a Sunday.

Larten stepped forward and drove his hand up. The boy’s eyes were flat, as devoid of expression as Vur’s, but his mouth was twisted into a dark, leering grin, as something vile and inhuman inside him rejoiced at being set free.

When Larten lowered his hand, whatever he’d picked up was no longer in his palm. The object was now buried deep in Traz’s throat.

Traz stared at Larten through a pair of wide, bulging eyes. He didn’t drop Vur. Indeed, his grip on the boy tightened. With his free hand he tried to pull out the object that was stuck in his windpipe. But there was no strength in his fingers and the flesh around his neck was slippery with blood. His arm fell by his side. He opened his mouth and tried to say something, but only blood gurgled out.

Still staring at Larten, Traz fell to his knees, swayed for a moment, then slumped. He lost hold of Vur and the boy’s body rolled away from him.

The silence in the room was more frightening than any bellow of Traz’s had ever been. The children were transfixed. Vur’s death had been unexpected, but it hardly counted as a cataclysmic event in this factory of misery. But the slaying of Traz had shaken their world to its core. Nothing could be the same after this.

Larten licked his lips and began to lean forward. The hateful thing inside him wanted to retrieve the object from Traz’s throat and use it to stab out the dead foreman’s eyes. But as his fingers stretched out before him, he shuddered and blinked, then took a step backwards, shocked by what he had done and had been planning to do.

Feeling sick and bewildered, Larten took a couple more steps away. As he was backing up, his gaze flickered from Traz to Vur, and realisation of what he’d done struck him like a lightning bolt. He had killed a man. And not just any man, but Traz, the darling of the owners. Nobody in the neighbourhood liked Traz, but he had been respected. Larten would have to answer for the foreman’s death, and he knew what form that answer would take — a carefully knotted hangman’s noose.

Larten didn’t try to appeal to the other children, to ask them for help or to lie on his behalf. They owed him nothing. If they stood by his side or tried to hide his identity, they would suffer too.

Turning wildly, fighting against a wave of bile, Larten searched desperately for the door — he had become disoriented and didn’t know where it was. As soon as he sighted it, he ran for his life.

As if the children had been waiting for this signal, one of them raised a finger, pointed at the fleeing boy and screeched, “Murderer!”

Within seconds they were all screaming Larten’s name, pointing, howling like banshees. But they did nothing except scream. No one tried to follow him. There was no need. Others would take care of that. A full, fearsome mob of righteous executioners would soon be hot on Larten’s trail, each member of the pack eager to be the first to string up the cold-blooded, orange-haired killer.

CHAPTER FIVE

Larten ran without any real sense of direction. He hadn’t explored much of the city beyond his own neighbourhood, but he knew every last inch of the area around the factory, all the alleys, roads, ruins and hiding places. If he had been thinking straight, he could have slipped away quickly and cleanly, or found a spot where he could hide until night.

But Larten was in a panic. His best friend had been murdered in front of him and he’d killed a man in response. His heart was pounding and he fell often, scraping his legs and hands. His head was a bedlam of noise and terror, his only clear thought, “Run!”

If a mob had formed swiftly, they would have found Larten flailing around the streets outside the factory, losing his way and backtracking, an easy target. But the adults who answered the calls of the children were thunderstruck. They pressed the witnesses for detailed descriptions of Traz’s last moments. If anyone had thought to give chase, others would have immediately joined them. But in the chaos, everyone assumed that a group was already in pursuit of the boy, so precious minutes passed without anybody making a move.

Outside, Larten had turned down a dead-end alley. He was looking behind him for pursuers, so he ran into a wall and fell with a cry. As he picked himself up and rubbed his head, he spotted a girl no more than four or five, sitting on a step and studying him.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Larten shook his head.

“You’re hurt,” the girl said.

Larten didn’t know what she was talking about. When she pointed at his head, he rubbed it again, looked at his fingers and saw that he was bleeding. Now that he was aware of his wound, pain kicked in and he grimaced.

“My mummy can fix you,” the girl said. “She fixes me when I get hurt.”

“That’s all right,” Larten croaked. “I’ll be fine.”

“She gives me a cup of tea with sugar,” the girl said. “Sugar,” she repeated boastfully. “Have you ever had sugar?”

“No,” Larten said.