The Dungeoneers Read online

“Let’s count it. Just to see,” she said.

  A few hours later, after the table was cleared and all the candles had been snuffed, Colm heard his door open a crack and saw a wooden bowl of cold, congealed stew pushed inside, a hunk of bread sticking out of the top like a plume. He caught the flash of long strawberry curls before they disappeared, and he thought that there was more than one thief in the Candorly house that night.

  2

  EVEN FEWER FINGERS

  Colm’s father was gone the whole next day, leaving a small pile of shoes waiting by his bench to be repaired. He was gone, and so were all the coins Colm had taken. Colm’s mother said that his father had decided to go to see the magistrate without him, afraid that Colm might do or say something to make it worse. The magistrate was the authority on most things in Felhaven, mediating disputes and enforcing the laws, elected by the villagers and nobles alike and serving as the chief official—though it was said those with deep coffers could persuade him to more consistently see their point of view. The plan was to see what the magistrate had in mind for punishment and then bring Colm before him afterward to have it meted out.

  Colm tried to picture the magistrate. He had seen him on occasion, during festivals and funerals. A large figure with a plump, pink face and jowls that sagged like a bloodhound’s. He didn’t seem intimidating himself, but he no doubt had intimidating men who worked for him. At least his father and the magistrate were on good terms; Rove Candorly always fixed the man’s shoes for free.

  Colm spent the day on his chores, trying to hide behind his work, dodging his sisters whenever possible. Not because they were being mean. If anything, it was the opposite. It took an evening of whispers among themselves, he guessed, but they understood what he had done, and more important, why. Kale and Carmen, the other two triplets, managed to corner him behind the barn, where they proceeded to smother him in hugs.

  “It was stupid,” they said.

  “You shouldn’t have done it.”

  “I’ve never seen Father so angry.”

  But also, “It was very sweet.”

  And “How did you do it?”

  And “Don’t worry. He’ll get over it eventually.”

  The elder twins, Cally and Nila, promised that they would not let the magistrate touch one hair on his body and vowed to fight tooth and nail if some armed guard showed up at the door. Elmira called him a “widdle feef,” but in such an admiring way that he didn’t take the slightest offense. They all brought him oatcakes and tried to distract him, and left him alone when he asked. Colm tried to focus on what he was doing—weeding or milking—but his eyes kept coming back to the road leading from the house to the center of Felhaven. A road that his father would be coming back on. Maybe trailing the magistrate. Or someone worse. Someone with a butcher’s blade.

  He would have to give the money back. That he understood. It wasn’t his to take, though one could make the argument that once he had it, it might as well have been his family’s to keep. He would have to apologize. He imagined there might even be some kind of public spectacle. Maybe they would put him in the stocks. He could stomach that. As long as he could keep both of his hands. If he saw someone with a blade—like that man yesterday, with the ax across his back—Colm had already made up his mind what he would do. He just wasn’t sure where he would go.

  By midafternoon, everyone was quiet, and nobody was hungry for once. Colm’s father had been gone too long. The walk into town was only a couple miles. The magistrate was a busy man, of course, but even at that, Rove Candorly should have been home by now. Colm’s mother paced the kitchen, holding a rolling pin, ready to club anyone who dared take her only son.

  “Maybe they are finding out who the money belongs to and just giving it back,” she said to nobody in particular. “Maybe they don’t even need an apology from you.” But even through her airy voice, Colm could tell she didn’t believe it. He finished his chores and escaped to his room, rubbing his wrist.

  He found Celia sitting on his bed.

  “I thought we agreed that I was the problem child,” she said. She was very astute for a ten-year-old. Sharper than her twin sister, though not quite as pretty. Not that Colm thought of them that way. If cornered, he would tell you that none of his sisters was the least bit good-looking.

  “Nice to have Dad mad at someone else for a change?” he asked.

  Celia shrugged. Colm sat beside her, and she leaned over and settled her head down, the butterfly pin lighting on his shoulder. They both looked out the window at the road.

  “What was it like?” she said softly. “I mean, how did it feel, when you took it?”

  Colm shook his head, chin rubbing against her hair. He liked it when she leaned on him. It made him feel stronger than he really was. He thought back to yesterday afternoon in the square, the purse strings unraveling, the weight of the coin in his hands. He felt frightened, of course. And nervous. And guilty, he supposed.

  But that was all before and after. At the moment, at the very moment when his fingers slipped into the satin pocket or cinched around the silk strings, Colm had felt nothing, only the smooth fabric on the pads of his fingers, only the hollow sound of his own heart beating in his ears. No fear. No guilt. Just the exhilarating rush.

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking at his hands again, as he had a hundred times today. “I guess you can’t do the wrong thing, even for the right reasons.”

  “Hmph,” Celia said, taking his hands in hers. “I do things just because I want to do them.”

  She turned and glanced out Colm’s bedroom window again, and her face blanched. Colm looked to see two figures walking up the path to the house. His father had finally returned.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  There was the sound of footsteps on the porch outside. Muffled voices. Then the door opened.

  Rove Candorly stepped in, his hands chapped with cold. He looked haggard; his eyes were creased with worry. Behind him stepped the second figure. It was certainly not the magistrate. It was someone Colm had never seen before. He was tall and gaunt, the antithesis of Colm’s father. Clean-shaven and hollow cheeked, wearing a long brown cloak that covered a tunic of studded leather and black pants caked in mud. Black leather gloves hugged both hands, and a hood covered the top half of his head, concealing even his eyes.

  Colm’s own eyes went instinctively to the man’s belt. There was no coin purse hanging there, but there was a sword. An ivory handle polished smooth and a blade, long and thin, like its owner. That’s the sword that will take off my hand, Colm thought to himself. And this is the man who will take it.

  He turned and looked at his mother’s face, her own hands cupped to her mouth to find an armed man in her house. Behind him, Colm’s seven sisters—Seysha was still bedridden for the day—formed a united front. Elmira sat on Kale’s shoulders. Colm remembered what the twins had said to him—tooth and nail—but he didn’t want any of them getting hurt. They hadn’t done anything wrong. This was all on him. He wouldn’t let them get in the way.

  “Mina,” Colm’s father said, rubbing his hands together and nodding toward the stranger. “This is Mr. Finn Argos.”

  The stranger pulled back his hood, revealing a nest of tangled black hair and penetrating blue eyes. A ragged white scar etched a jagged path across one cheek. He looked young, maybe halfway between the ages of Colm and his father, and save for the one mark, his face was alabaster smooth. He gave Colm a look, a flash that shot straight down the boy’s spine into his bowels, then turned to his mother. His voice purred.

  “It’s just Finn,” he said. “And please excuse the intrusion, Mrs. Candorly. I apologize for bothering you at this hour.” Colm realized all his sisters were just staring at the stranger—the older ones with eyes low, lashes up. The stranger noticed as well. “And what a lovely family you have. Seven daughters?”

  “Eight,” Mina Candorly corrected. “I’m afraid one isn’t feeling well.”

  The stranger shook his head in admira
tion. “Eight daughters. And each just as beautiful as their mother.” He smiled, revealing a fence of polished teeth, most of them pearl, but punctuated by one each of silver and gold. It was the smile of a man who always gets what he asks for, often without even asking. Colm’s mother blushed, as did two of three triplets. Colm didn’t like this man already. He seemed . . . slippery, somehow. Rove Candorly cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Argos . . .”

  “Finn,” the stranger corrected.

  “Mr. Ar—Finn has come a long way,” Colm’s father said. “I’m sure he’s thirsty.”

  “Some wine would be much appreciated, if you have it,” the stranger said. “Water, if otherwise.”

  Mina Candorly didn’t move, but the four oldest girls tripped over themselves to find a cup. The stranger turned abruptly. “And you must be Colm,” he said, removing his gloves. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  The stranger held out his hand and Colm took it tentatively, afraid that this Finn Argos might grab it the way his father had, then reach for his sword with the other, doing the deed right there in the kitchen, making a puddle of blood on the floor. But instead he just took Colm’s hand in his own. Colm noticed the man’s hands were warm, his fingers long and callused.

  All four of them.

  He was missing one. The last one. The smallest one. Was missing them on both hands, in fact; though judging by the thick spiderweb of tissue, you could tell that he had had them once, unlike Colm.

  “I have you beat,” the stranger said, holding up both hands and wiggling eight fingers. Nila handed the man a cup of water—Colm didn’t know the last time his parents had been able to afford wine.

  “You say you’ve come a long way,” Colm’s mother pressed, making no attempt to hide her unease. The magistrate’s house was close to the town center. An hour by foot, if you walked slow and tossed stones along the way. How far did you have to go to find someone who could cut off a hand? Weren’t there at least half a dozen butchers in Felhaven? Something didn’t seem right.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is quite a trek from the castle.”

  “Castle?” Cally said.

  “Are you a prince?” ten-year-old Meera added. Celia slapped her twin’s shoulder.

  The stranger laughed. “A prince? Hardly.”

  “But you must be a prince, if you live in a castle,” Meera insisted, slapping her sister back.

  “I assure you, dear lady, there are many that live in castles who have no claim to a throne. Just ask the men hanging in their dungeons. No. Point of fact, I am neither prince nor king. I am only a humble teacher.” He took a sip of his water and flung another sidelong look Colm’s way. Colm took a step back, tucking his hands into his pockets, making them harder to get to.

  Mina Candorly cast a similar squinted look in her husband’s direction. “A teacher of what, exactly?”

  “Do you mind if I sit?” the stranger asked, pointing to the long oak table that barely held the lot of them for supper, even with Elmira sitting on her mother’s lap. “A bit of a trek, as I said.”

  Colm’s mother nodded and found a seat of her own. Colm’s father sat as well. Everyone else stood, including Colm. He wanted to be able to bolt for the door. Always be sure you can outrun them. But one look at this mysterious Mr. Argos was enough to convince Colm that he wouldn’t be fast enough.

  “I teach lots of things,” the stranger said, adjusting the hilt of his sword. “History. Economy. Engineering.”

  “Engineering?” Mina Candorly said.

  The man nodded. “I am well versed in the inner workings of certain mechanical contraptions.”

  “That’s a lot,” Kale remarked.

  “It keeps me in demand,” the stranger replied.

  “And what . . .” Mina Candorly paused, as if gathering enough breath to speak again. “What function do you serve for the magistrate, exactly?” Colm knew what she was asking. She was asking if he was here to carry out Colm’s sentence, whatever it was.

  The confident smile surfaced again. “I do not work for the magistrate of Felhaven,” Finn replied.

  “Then why—” Mina started to say, but stopped when Colm’s father put a hand on her shoulder. He and the stranger exchanged looks.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Candorly, I could take my cup to your porch. The stars are just starting to peek, and it’s a nice view out here near the countryside. That might give you and Mrs. Candorly some time to converse.”

  “That would be most appreciated,” Colm’s father said.

  Then the stranger turned to Colm.

  “Would you like to join me?”

  Colm could think of very few things he would like less. Stepping into the near darkness with this man and his two metal teeth, sword at his side, and only four fingers on each hand. Colm glanced over at Celia, then looked at his father. His father nodded sternly. He didn’t have a choice.

  The stranger grabbed his cup and held open the door.

  “After you,” he said.

  Colm waited for the shackles. For the sack to be thrown over his head. For the thick rope to be slipped around his neck. But nothing of the sort happened. Instead, the strange Mr. Argos with the blue eyes and the single scar found one of the wood stools that Colm had helped his father build and pulled it across from the other, motioning for Colm to have a seat. Colm noticed the man had another blade strapped above his boot, tucked away.

  “Eight sisters.” The man whistled, shaking his head. Colm sat. The stools were uncomfortable—Rove Candorly was an expert on shoes, but a terrible maker of furniture. Finn Argos didn’t seem to mind. Colm got the impression he had been in much less comfortable places. “I only had two sisters myself, and it was enough to make me run away from home when I was a boy.”

  “You ran away from home?” Colm asked.

  “Five or six times,” Finn replied. “I had trouble sitting still. An adventurous spirit. Always on the move. Wore out several pairs of boots—your father could help with that, I imagine. When I was about your age, I ran away for good. Not from something, exactly, more to anything. I had heard stories growing up, of men who made their fortunes out in the wilds.” The stranger waved a four-fingered hand at the horizon. “Who ventured out with nothing but a sharp sword and fierce determination and who came back rich as kings. Men—and women—who banded together to descend into the darkness for the promise of a better life. And I was determined to be one of them.”

  The man laughed at some joke that he shared only with himself. Colm smiled politely. He wasn’t sure what to say. Outside of their missing digits and some annoying siblings, he and this man didn’t appear to have much in common. Colm had never run away from home. And he certainly had no scars like Finn’s, which gave his smile a sort of lopside effect, somehow adding to its charm.

  And there was the fact that he was obviously here to punish Colm for what he’d done. This man was dangerous, that much was plain. Colm decided it was better not to say anything.

  “I suppose you want to know why I’m here.”

  There was no good answer to that question. It all depended on what the answer to that question was. The man took Colm’s silence as invitation to continue. “It’s no small feat, fleecing a sheep, though admittedly easier when there’s a herd of them. Still, six or seven purses? And in the daylight. With no training.” He shook his head and whistled. “Granted you have small hands, but it’s still impressive.”

  “Impressive?” Colm croaked.

  “And illegal,” Finn added, almost as an afterthought. “Completely illegal. And morally reprehensible, I’m sure. But still . . . impressive. You turned it all over to your father, of course. The money you stole?”

  “Of course,” Colm said, swallowing hard. Then he remembered the one piece of silver. Tucked into these same pants, one of only two pairs he owned. He instinctively reached his right hand to the pocket. The secret pocket that nobody knew about.

  He panicked.

  The pocket was empty.

  Finn Argos cl
eared his throat. “Looking for this?” The man held the silver coin pinched between two fingers.

  “Hey, that’s mine!” Colm reached out for it but was much too slow. The man closed his fist and made a tiny gesture, then opened his palm again. The coin was gone. “Wait. How did you?” Colm began to say.

  “First off, it seems rude to say, ‘Hey, that’s mine!’ when we have just established that you stole it from someone else. It is only yours while it is in your pocket. So it was. Now it’s not. Such is the way of the world. Second, we will have to work on your lying. Not that I recommend it, of course. In most cases the truth is preferable, though keeping your fool mouth shut is always the best plan of action.”

  “Can I get my coin back?” Colm huffed, then corrected himself. “Excuse me. Can I get the coin back?”

  “I don’t know. Can you?” The stranger’s tone was lighthearted, but the expression on his face held a note of challenge.

  Colm took a deep breath. Obviously this man wasn’t here to chop off his hand or to take him away in chains, or he would have done it already. He would have heard his mother wailing from the kitchen or seen his seven sisters come pouring out the door to his defense. So then what was Finn here for? And how had he managed to get that silver piece from Colm’s pocket without him knowing? Was it when Colm passed by him to come outside? And what did he mean, he was from a castle? There were no castles within a hundred miles of here, just one small village after another. Felhaven was about as far from royalty or adventure as one could get, and yet this man looked like he had seen his fair share of the latter, at least.

  “You’re the one who’s lying,” Colm said. “How about you tell me who you really are?”

  “I told you, I’m a teacher . . . or more of a mentor, really.”

  “Of history?”

  “And geography. Though admittedly my focus is on economics.”

  “Economics?”

  Finn nodded. “Namely the acquisition of resources, shiny or otherwise.”

  “And engineering. Mechanical contraptions. What, like waterwheels? Catapults? Weaving looms?” Colm asked.