Chapter 1
The bread tastes dry. A little hard.Ivy chews it slowly, sitting on the rag pallet, his back against the damp wall. The room is small, dark, stinks of stale air, sweat, and other things Ivy no longer notices. His legs ache, and inside him, a dull burning he knows all too well by now. The last client’s seed is still dripping down the inside of his thigh, warm, then cold, Ivy pays it no mind anymore.
Mark has gone out. He shut the door. He said, “Eat, little one,” and left the way he always does. His footsteps faded down the wooden stairs.
Ivy chews; the soft bread sticks to the roof of his mouth.
Then he hears something.Voices first. Many of them. Men talking loudly, but not cheerful. Short, clipped tones. Then boots. Many boots on the cobblestones out there, down in the street. A heavy, rhythmic sound. Someone shouting an order, but Ivy can’t make out the words.A dog barking.Then a thud. A main door being smashed in? Yes. Wood splintering. A scream, silence.
They’re close. Very close.
The door downstairs, the building door, slams against the wall. Voices bouncing up the stairwell. Footsteps climbing. Not one, not two. At least three, four. Boots on the wooden steps creaking, and a voice: “Easy, easy, check every room.”
A fist pounding on a door next door. Then that door kicked open. A woman screaming.
Ivy stops chewing.The piece of bread stays in his hand, motionless. He feels his heart start beating harder, he’s not sure why; he only knows that voice, that way of talking, gives him the shivers. He remembers that his mother, long ago, once held him tight and whispered, “If you hear sounds like that, stay quiet and don’t move. Don’t even breathe, my love.”
Footsteps still climbing.Now they’re on the floor above. Ivy hears the floorboards creaking right over his head. Something falls. A man cursing.
His door. It’s closed. Locked with the bolt that Mark always slides from outside.A sharp thud against the door. Not a kick. A shoulder ram.The wood trembles.The lock groans.“In here. It’s locked.”Another shoulder hit.The door splinters, flies open, the bolt snaps off and clatters to the floor.
Three figures are silhouetted in the doorway, the dingy light of the corridor behind them.
The first is a tall, big man. He wears a dark leather cuirass, stained. A broad face, badly shaven, reddish skin weathered by time. A scar runs from his right ear to the corner of his mouth. His eyes are small, hazel. He looks he can’t see Ivy clearly yet. His eyes are adjusting to the dark.
The second is thinner, taller, with a long weasel face and dirty hair tied back. One hand rests on the hilt of a short sword, long, bony fingers. He wears a grey tunic under a mail shirt. His pale eyes shift straight to Ivy, to the pallet, to his bare legs.
The third is a boy. Younger. Maybe twenty. He still has fuzz on his chin, his face marked by a few pimples. He wears the same uniform as the others, but it looks new, less dirty. He has big brown eyes. He looks at Ivy and for a moment says nothing. His lips are slightly parted.
The first one, the one with the scar, steps into the room.The air stinks. He sniffs. He grimaces.Then his eyes adjust. And he sees a small figure there, huddled against the wall, bread still in hand, white hair falling over eyes of a blue-violet colour, the beauty mark under his left eye, the birthmark on his hip that the blanket doesn’t quite cover.Ivy stays motionless.
“Oh,” he says. It’s not surprise. It’s something else. A grin spreads, pulling the scar, lifting his lip. “Oh, look what we have here.”
Ivy looks at the three soldiers, eyes glossy and frightened, body trembling.
The first of the three, the scarred one, takes another step forward. His boots scrape on the filthy floor. He is close enough to reach out and touch Ivy.He leans down slightly, hands on his knees. His small eyes travel over Ivy from head to toe, lingering on his legs, on what’s still dripping, on the foul blanket.
“Well, well,” he repeats, softer. His voice is hoarse, almost a whisper. “Well, look at that pretty little face.”
The second one, the thin one with the weasel face, leans against the doorframe. His bony fingers drum on the sword hilt. He glances at Ivy sideways, with an expression Ivy can’t read.
The younger boy is still on the threshold. He hasn’t come in. His hands dangle at his sides, fingers opening and closing. He looks at Ivy, and maybe he’s trying not to look at what’s between his legs. His big brown eyes move to his face, the beauty mark, the birthmark, then back to his glossy eyes.“He’s scared,” the boy murmurs.
“And who wouldn’t be, pretty boy,” says the first man, not taking his eyes off Ivy. He reaches out a hand. Thick, calloused fingers, nails black with dirt. He touches a lock of his white hair, draws it back from his forehead, lets it fall. The touch is light, almost gentle, but it makes Ivy’s skin crawl.
“How old are you, little one?” he asks. His voice is still hoarse, but now there’s something different. A curiosity. An interest.His hand moves, grazing his cheek. His thumb slides under his left eye, right over the beauty mark. The contact lasts a second. Two. His skin is rough as sandpaper.
The first man straightens up but keeps Ivy’s chin tilted up with two fingers, forcing him to look at his face. “Who are you, little one?” he murmurs.
“Me?… I’m Ivy…” Ivy whispers. “The last time with my mom I turned six… But Mom hasn’t come back for a while now…” he breathes, a thread of a voice.
The first man looks at him. “Six years,” he repeats. His voice is lower now. There’s no tenderness, but something has cracked in his tone. “Six years, he says.”
The second, the thin one, lets out a dry laugh. “He’s simple. Or maybe he’s cunning. Acts like a child to get pity.”
“He’s not acting like a child,” murmurs the boy on the threshold, his voice uncertain. “Look at him. He’s really… he’s small. He’s thin. Maybe he hasn’t eaten well for days.”
The first man straightens up completely. He crosses his arms over his broad chest. He looks down at Ivy, his head tilted slightly. The scar pulls his lip into that grimace you can’t tell is a smile or a sneer.“Ivy,” he says, savouring the name. “Ivy. Like the plant. Beautiful, climbing. It clings to everything, ivy does, even the ugliest walls.”
He nods towards the second man. “He’s not simple, just small, and someone made him believe he’s still six, but he’s…” He looks at him, sizes him up. “How old are you really, little one? You have the body of a child, but… certain things you don’t do to a six-year-old.”He points at the blanket, at Ivy’s legs. Says no more.
The second man pushes off the doorframe. He steps forward, bends down towards Ivy. His weasel face inches from his. He sniffs, drawing in with his nose. Then he pulls back, grimacing in disgust.“He stinks of sex,” he says, flat. “Stinks of sex and misery. Someone’s using you, little one. Do you know that?”
The boy on the threshold now has his hands clenched into fists. He swallows. He says nothing, but his big brown eyes look at Ivy and there’s something trembling inside them.
The first man takes a step back. He runs a hand over his shaved head. “Where’s the man who keeps you here?” he asks. His voice has become almost normal. Almost kind. “The one who brings you customers. The one who gives you bread. Where is he?”
Ivy shakes his head. “I don’t know… His name’s Mark… But I don’t know where he is… He always leaves through there…” He points to the door. “I never go out.”
The first man watches him the way you watch a small wounded animal that doesn’t know yet whether to bite or run. “You never go out,” he repeats softly. It’s not a question; it’s a statement.
The second steps forward. He bends down, puts his hands on his knees, lowering his gaze to Ivy’s level. His pale eyes bore into him. “Mark,” he says, enunciating the name clearly. “Mark is the man who feeds you. The man who brings other people here. People who touch you, who…” He pauses. “Who hurt you. Right?” They don’t wait for an answer.
The boy on the threshold has now come in. He has taken a step into the room. His hands are still clenched, but he holds them at his sides as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. His new uniform clashes with everything else; he moves closer. “Stop it,” he murmurs to the second man. “You don’t need to make him repeat it. He’s a child.”
“He’s not a child,” the second answers without lifting his gaze from Ivy. “Or maybe he is. But someone uses him like he’s not.”
The first man scratches the back of his neck. He nods towards the door. “We have to decide what to do with him,” he says. His voice is low, almost confidential, as if Ivy weren’t there. “Do we leave him here? Take him to the captain?”
“To the captain…?” the second repeats, and this time he really laughs. A short, bitter laugh. “And what do we tell him? ‘Look what a pretty little doll we found’? The captain knows perfectly well what goes on in these holes. He doesn’t care. Unless…” He breaks off. He looks at Ivy, his pale eyes narrowing. “Unless he’s one of them,” he whispers.
The boy on the threshold takes a step back.
The first man doesn’t move. His eyes are fixed on Ivy, on his skin, his hair, the way the dirty light filtering from the door falls on his face. “Are you one of them, Ivy?” he asks. His voice is still hoarse, but now it’s lower. Almost a whisper. “Are you an Aniymix?”
The name is unknown to Ivy, or maybe not, maybe he heard it long ago, from his mother, in a whisper, before she went out and never came back, but he doesn’t remember, or maybe he doesn’t want to.
The first man reaches out again. He touches Ivy’s neck, his calloused fingers brush his jugular, feeling his quickened pulse. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “Too beautiful to be normal. Too much. Do you know that?” His hand slides down, over his bare shoulder, then along his arm, light, almost a caress. “And you have something inside you,” he continues. “Something maybe even you don’t know.”
The second snorts. “Enough with the poetry. Decide. Do we take him or leave him?”
The first man doesn’t answer right away. Then he turns towards the boy. “You,” he says. “What’s your name?”
The boy’s eyes widen. “Alek, corporal. I’m… I’m new.”
“New,” repeats the scarred man. “Right then. So, Alek new, what would you do with this child?”
Alek swallows. He looks at Ivy. His big brown eyes move from his face to the blanket, from the beauty mark under his eye to the birthmark on his hip, to his dirty, thin legs. He opens his mouth. Then closes it. “I…” he begins. His voice breaks. He tries again. “I wouldn’t leave him here.”
Silence.
The first man smiles. That crooked sort of smile that pulls the scar. “Good,” he says. “Then we won’t leave him here.”
He turns to Ivy, reaches out both hands, puts them under his armpits, and lifts him as if he weighs nothing. Ivy is light. He holds him off the ground, the child’s bare feet dangling in the air. “Come, Ivy,” he says. His voice is almost sweet. “Come with us. Now you’re under our protection.”
The word “protection” sounds strange to Ivy; he doesn’t really know what it means.
The man presses Ivy against his chest. The leather cuirass is hard, pricks Ivy’s cheek. The man walks out the door. The second, the thin one, follows without a word. His hand is already on his sword. Alek lingers for a second, looking one last time at that prison. Then he catches up.
They go down the stairs. The wooden steps creak under their boots. Outside, on the street, there’s sunlight. It hurts Ivy’s eyes; he hasn’t seen the sun in a long time, he doesn’t know how long, he doesn’t know anything.Ivy shuts his eyes and buries his face deeper against the first man’s chest.
He holds him tighter. “Don’t worry, little one,” he murmurs near his ear. “We’ll take care of you now.”
The scarred man keeps walking. His boots strike the uneven cobblestones. The sun warms Ivy’s bare back, but he doesn’t lift his head; he keeps his face pressed to the leather cuirass, feeling that slow, heavy heartbeat.
“Where are you taking me?” Ivy whispers. “To my mom?”
At Ivy’s question, the man pauses a second, then resumes. “Yes,” he says. His voice is low, almost a rumble that vibrates in his chest against Ivy’s cheek. “Yes, little one. To your mom.”
The second, the thin weasel-faced one, shoots him a glance. He says nothing. But his lips tighten into a thin line. He walks on the other side, a little ahead, his shadow stretching over the cobblestones. Alek, the new boy, walks behind. His steps are less sure; every now and then he trips on a stone.
“Your mom,” the first man repeats, his voice still calm, still hoarse. “Of course, your mom’s waiting. It’s been a long time since you saw her, right?” His big hand strokes Ivy’s back, his broad, rough palm running along his spine. It’s almost gentle. “You must be tired, Ivy,” he continues. “You’re light as a feather. When was the last time you ate something decent? Not that piece of hard bread, I mean. A proper meal?” They don’t wait for an answer.
They turn the corner. The street widens. More houses, more broken-down doors. Up ahead, a group of soldiers is loading someone onto a cart. A man. His hands are tied behind his back, his head bowed. One of the soldiers turns, looks at them, gives a chin nod. “Find something, Korvin?” he shouts.
Korvin. The name of the man holding Ivy.
“A little something,” he answers. His voice now is cheerful. Almost casual. “A little one, we’re taking him to the captain.”
The other soldier nods. Asks nothing more.
Korvin tightens his arms around Ivy, who feels small, smaller than ever. “Easy, Ivy,” he murmurs near his ear. “The captain is a good man. He’ll just want to meet you. Then… then we’ll take you back to your mom. Promise.” His fingers stroke the white hair. They pick out a little piece of dry straw.
The sunlight is strong. Ivy keeps his eyes shut; his mother’s voice comes back to him, far, far away, not her face, just her voice. She was saying something, something important, but he can’t remember what.Maybe she was saying not to trust.Maybe she was saying run.But Ivy doesn’t remember.And he’s tired. So tired.And Korvin’s hands are warm, almost soft; they cradle him as he walks.
“We’re almost there,” he says. “There. The fort. It’s right there.”
The sound of footsteps changes. No longer stone. Wood, a drawbridge? Then stone, smooth stone, worn down by hundreds of boots. A heavy door opening with a creak. Shade. At last, shade. Ivy opens his eyes just a crack; they’re inside. An inner courtyard, soldiers looking at him.
They walk up some stairs. Turn. A corridor. Another door.
“Here” Korvin murmurs. “The captain. Now you’ll meet him, little one.”
