Jim Morgan and the King of Thieves (11 page)

“The king is down there?” James asked, just as the last boy was about to crawl into the hole. The tunnel was black as ink and the three toughs that had gone before had completely disappeared.

The boy nodded “yes” and without a word vanished himself into the dark. But a moment later, James heard his voice echo back down the drain. “You’d be’ter hurry! Court’s nearly started!”

James stared into the solid blackness, his knees and hands trembling nervously. A nightlight had lit James’s bedroom every night of his life from his first crib to the four-post bed he now missed so much, and the dark frightened him to the point of petrifaction. But James’s options were more than a little limited. So, drawing in a trembling
breath and shaking the nervousness from his hands and feet, James mustered up the last of his courage and threw himself down the pipe.

The tunnel’s wet, slimy ground stuck and slurped beneath James’s hands and knees, and scuttling bug feet and buzzing insect wings clicked in the dark. “I hate bugs,” James whimpered to himself. “I hate rats, I hate worms and snakes, and I hate red-headed thieves, and all of bloody London!” He would have continued listing the numerous objects of his disaffection, but the tunnel wasn’t that long, and a spot of light appeared before James’s eyes. As he neared the light, the sound of a great many voices echoed down the drain. Perhaps this was a secret passage into court after all, James wondered, hope flaring up once again in his chest for a brief moment. But when he finally reached the pipe’s end and stood up on the other side, he saw a sight he’d never imagined in a thousand dreams.

Children were everywhere, hundreds of them. The space between the back of the church, the warehouse, and the sewer wall formed a courtyard indeed, but instead of nobles and ladies and consorts gossiping and paying homage to the king, which is what Aunt Margarita had explained what court was really all about, street urchins no less filthy and rough than the redhead and his gang filled the entire space. They sat on walls and perched in knocked-out warehouse windows, screaming and shouting at one another across the yard. They rolled dice and spun tops and hung from the gargoyles, sticking their tongues out at the hideous stone creatures.

And the clothes they wore! Not one of them had a single piece that matched another. Breeches of gray wool matched with brown canvas jackets, red knit hats with blue stitched scarves, or a black shoe with a gold buckle on one foot and a brown shoe with silver on the other. It was as though a single piece of clothing had been lifted from every clothesline behind every house in London and passed out one at a time at random to every member of this kinder court. James stared at it all, dumbstruck. This wasn’t the court he’d expected to find, but he had to admit that it was the brightest burst of color he’d seen in the gray streets of this forgotten borough, a dirty stained-glass kaleidoscope of jabbering, hooting, and hollering pandemonium.

Just when James thought the scene could grow no stranger, a young boy appeared from behind a decrepit arch at the back of the empty church, he raised a dinged-up, brassy horn to his lips and blew a warbling note that sounded not too unlike a dying goose. The courtyard grew silent in an instant. The games of dice and hopscotch and the running and wrestling ceased immediately, the center of the little gray square emptying out in a flash. The children gathered in groups, lining the walls and staring in anticipation at the boy before the arch.

“Ladies and gents of London! Welcome one and all!” the boy shouted. He wore a scuffed-up silk hat and a dirty cravat about his neck, but he wore them with all the pride and dignity of a circus ringmaster.

“Welcome!” the children shouted back at him, and the boy pranced about before the restless crowd.

“Anover monf has slipped by under the noses of the truant officers!”

“BOO!” the children clambered.

“Out of the grasp of the priests and the nuns!”

“BOO!”

“Behind the back o’ our esteemed Constable Butterstreet and his bumblin’, tumblin’, stumblin’ band o’ lawmen!”

“DOUBLE BOO!”

“And who do we have to thank for that?”

“The king, the king, the king…” The chant started slowly and quietly.

“Who keeps us in order and eatin’ and sleepin’ and playin’?”

“The king, the king, the king!” The volume rose with each successive shout.

“And who fills our pockets up wif more than we ever go’ from any stinkin’, filthy, lyin’, no good grownup any of us ever met?”

“THE KING, THE KING, THE KING!”

“Ladies and Gents!” the boy cried, whipping the throng into a wild frenzy, “I give you the one, the only, untoppable, unstoppable, undroppable … THE — KING — OF — THIEVES!”

The crowd cheered wildly as out from behind the archway stepped a full-grown man in black breeches and a black split-tail coat, glimmering, shined gold-buckle shoes on his feet, and one of the sharpest silk, tricorn hats even James had ever seen. He stood straight up and down, from head to toe as spindly as a spider, twirling a neat cane in his left hand like a rat might twirl its own tail. Behind him, in the shadows and nearly unnoticed by all else in the crowd save James, a squat man crept, with a huge thrummed cap too big for his head. The little man waddled more than walked, but as soon as he had appeared, he slunk back into a dark corner to remain unseen, as his flashy counterpart took center stage.

The king, as the children of the court hailed him, held his long arms open to the crowd, smiling and soaking in their affection. He then took off his hat to reveal long strands of black hair greased back over his head, bowing deep and low to the thunderous applause of his miniature court. But while the other children clapped and whistled, James felt his stomach slide down to the bottom of his gut. Whoever this King of Thieves was, he was not the king James needed to see.

“Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!” The king paraded before the mob. “My friends of the streets, my brothers and sisters of the alleys and sewers, I welcome you yet again to my court! Every clan of our kingdom is represented here tonight!”

“The Liversham Lions!” A fierce group of boys roared and growled, and James thought they seemed very lionish indeed.

“The Westminster Night Owls!” A rather bookish clan stepped forward, large, stolen glasses that didn’t quite fit properly on each of their clever faces.

“The Redbridge Banshees!” An all-girl clan who nearly pierced James’s ears with their cry.

“The Sutton Flyers!” Who were indeed a very acrobatic bunch.

“And the Dragons of Kingston!”

One of the dragons leapt out before his clan and blew a ball of fire like a carnival performer, and the entire court, James included, oohed at the bright flash of light. James noticed Big Red clapping and
cheering his red head off at the name of this clan. He was a Dragon, James surmised, and for the first time he noticed on Red’s sleeves a crude patch of a serpent with a flame for a tongue. The Dragons were the biggest and boldest of all the children, and James noticed how the others shrank back just a little at the sound of the Dragons’ cheers.

“Now that we’ve all been introduced —” the king began again, but was immediately interrupted by a high-pitched squeak from the back.

“What about us?” the voice complained, and children all around the voice split to reveal what must have been the most pathetic excuse for a clan in this entirely bizarre court. There were only four members, and three of them were the shortest, most mousy set of boys James had ever seen. What was more, he could hardly tell one from the other, for they were without doubt three brothers. To add to all of that, the fourth member of the clan was a girl so innocent and sweet looking that James would never believe her capable of stealing a thing.

“How could I forget?” the king said dryly. “The Ratt Brothers.” He flipped his hand toward the boys, and though they did their best to clap for themselves and puff out their chests, the entire congregation laughed and teased them off, shoving them back to the rear as the court of the King of Thieves returned to business.

“Right!” the king said, plopping his hat back on his head and twirling his cane. “The rest of the world lives by its boneheaded rhyme and reason. Who needs ’em? Out here, we have our own rules. Just two of ’em! What are they?”

“Take what’s yours!” was the first. “Share and share alike!” was the second.

“So have you taken what was yours this month?” the king smiled knowingly, the children laughing at cheering at their own guile and cleverness. “Then it looks like it’s time for some sharin’.”

The king opened his arms and children from every clan rushed in to pile their earnings from a month’s worth of picking pockets, shamming vendors, and looting unminded shops at the tall man’s feet. When the flock of depositing thieves cleared, they had left a mighty
pile of gold necklaces, shiny coins, silver pieces, family heirlooms, and glimmering jewels nearly half as tall as James himself.

“An excellent month’s work,” the king said, nodding with satisfaction. “Before long, we’ll have enough to make every one of our dreams come true. You know the promise I made to you: if you put the rich stuff into my hands I’ll turn it into your dreams. I’ll find us a place, a perfect place, where we can breathe easy and put up our feet for the rest of our lives! You can trust me, friends, I’ll put this all away in our secret vault, and when the time is right, we’ll spend it like it was sand on the beach!”

The children roared their approval, chanting “the king!” over and over at the top of their lungs.

“Now,” the king said, seemingly eager to wrap things up, “any other business needing tending this evening?”

He was about to assume that there was none, and James also hoped the same, but to the king’s disappointment and James’s horror, Big Red spoke up.

“’Scuse me, sir,” Red said, not looking nor sounding nearly as tough as a few hours ago, when his fist had been poised to smash James’s nose. He timidly stepped out from the ranks of the Dragons. “There is somethin’…”

“And what is that?” the king asked, concealing only slightly well the ample hint of irritation in his voice.

“Well, sir,” Red said, gulping down his nervousness before pressing on. “This boy over there.” Red pointed directly at James. All eyes in the court turned on him, and James wished he could disappear into the shadows like a ghost. “We nicked this box from him you see, but he said he was bringin’ it to you. We tried to open it, but we couldn’t. He says it’s because it’s been locked up tight by gypsy magic.”

James heard a small gasp followed by a trickle of murmurs as the crowd of children grew oddly hushed and excited, craning their necks to gawk at the boy and his magic box. Even the king suddenly seemed quite a bit more interested, more interested than James particularly liked.

“Let me see the box, Red,” the king said, patting Red on the head with a kind hand as the street thief handed him the box. “Well done. Bonus future share for the Dragons!” the King proclaimed, and the Dragons cheered loudly, clapping the now-swaggering Red on the shoulders.

The King’s eyes turned on James. He studied him intently for what felt like ages with eyes so dark they seemed black within black - but James refused to look away. He had to recapture his box no matter who he had to go through to get it.

“Well, well,” the king said. “We have a haughty one here don’t we?” The court of clans mocked James with false oohs and aahs. “Gypsy magic, eh,” the King said, smiling. “Let’s see what you’ve got for me.”

The King reached with his long spidery fingers for the lid of the box. But no sooner than he did, he stopped cold. The briefest flash of surprise blinked across his face as he stared at the lid of the box. If James had not been quite so distracted by the hundreds of faces staring down at him, he would have recognized that brief glance for what it was with a chill: recognition. Somehow, someway, the King of Thieves knew the symbol carved into James’s box. But as soon as that fierce glance flared up it disappeared again. Reaching out with one long arm, the oily smile returning to his face, the king beckoned James closer with a curling, spindly finger.

James abhorred being called like common dog, but he had to get his box back, so he begrudgingly stepped forward. The king eyed him intently and James felt the stares of a hundred wild thieves on his back.

“What’s your name, my friend?” the King asked James with syrupy sweetness.

“James Morgan,” James replied, trying to sound unshaken, but the tremble in his voice betraying him.

“Well, Jim,” the King said. “Why be so formal, my boy? Down here, we’re all just friends. After all, Jim Morgan has a bit more of a ring to it, wouldn’t you say? Now, tell me, where did you steal this box?”

“I didn’t steal it, it’s mine,” said Jim defiantly (and whether he liked it or not, the name the King of Thieves gave him stuck.) But just
as soon as he spoke, Jim wished he hadn’t. There was a moment of perplexed silence, and then the entire court, the king included, exploded into uproarious laughter.

All his life Jim had laughed at others, especially at those more common than himself. But now, here he stood, surrounded by a mob of children more common than the trees on the hills, yet it was they, not him, who were doing the laughing now. A thick lump formed in Jim’s throat, and his nose began to sting yet again.

The king quieted the crowd down with a wave of his hand, and, still smiling his foxy smile, looked Jim and the box over. “I’m sure it is,” the King of Thieves said patronizingly. “All of us down here are simply laden with personal possessions. So if the box is yours, why don’t you just open it for me?”

“I can’t.” Jim suddenly felt his emotions getting the best of him, and his little chin quivered.

“Look!” Big Red pointed his big hand right at Jim’s miserable face. “He’s gonna blubber like a baby!” The court burst into ridiculing laughter again, and this time the king didn’t stop them. He let them laugh, and while they did, he leaned in on Jim’s downcast face, looking at him nose to nose.

“Tell me the truth, boy.” All things false went away. The king spoke plainly to Jim while his whole army of feral children laughed their heads off in the background, his voice as flat and cold as the gray bricks beneath their feet. “Where did you steal this box?”