Page 44 of Time's Fool

It was a traditional punishment, like slitting the nose or cutting off a hand, when an offense was deemed serious but not bad enough for hanging. Or like the ‘T’ for ‘thief’ branded into another man’s thumb, which he flashed when brushing back some greasy black hair. It was there to let the authorities know that he was not to receive mercy again.

Yet the three of them were the most normal looking people that Kit saw.

The rest might as well have been a rogue’s gallery of London’s finest crooks, starting with a so-called Abraham man, a beggar who went around pretending to be mad, and who was named after the Abraham ward in the Bedlam hospital, where the insane were housed. This one was a tall, well-built fellow with muscular arms and legs, all of which were bare so as to let him stand out from a crowd and prove his madness. His type usually made nuisances of themselves, dancing about like trained monkeys and leering at women until someone paid them to go away.

This one was leering at Gillian, who merely rolled her eyes at him.

Next were a couple of ruffians in sailor’s attire, likely whipjacks, scoundrels who claimed to have been shipwrecked and lost everything at sea, to make people feel sorry enough to give them money. And behind them was a counterfeit crank, the lowliest of villains, who imitated an epileptic. His sort walked about filthy and mostly naked, and used soap to make their mouths froth.

This one didn’t have soap, which might have been better used on his person, as he was the only smelly one there. But he did have wild, uncovered hair, of an indeterminate color because of the grime, and gray teeth, what few he had left. He used them to smiled beatifically at Kit, like some slightly potty medieval saint.

He seemed genuinely addlepated, unlike the two men who had decided to hedge Kit close on either side. One was a skinny brunet in a tattered and patched cloak, likely a beggar preying on people’s sympathies. The other was a former friar, or dressed like one, who garnered coins from those still secretly following the Catholic faith.

The friar had retained his tonsure, the traditional haircut for a monk, which in his case was a blond frieze around his bald head. He also had on his priest’s robes, although they were badly stained and frayed. Perhaps that was why he and his companion seemed impressed by Kit’s velvets.

“There’s a patch on you, Dick,” the friar said to a well-dressed brunet standing off to the side with crossed arms. He was handsome, with clear skin and a well-trimmed goatee, and dressed in good brown wool. His linen appeared fresh and he even smelled faintly of cologne. He seemed quite out of place in this crowd.

Except that he was likely a so-called courtesy man, named because men like him befriended new arrivals to the city at some of the best inns, charmed them out of food and drink, and then robbed them blind.

“Velvets make people nervous,” he replied, glancing over Kit’s rumpled finery with a slight sneer. “Breaking the law, you are, wearing that. ‘Lest you’re a noble slumming down here with us lot?”

“Who I am is none of your affair,” Kit replied. “Be off with you!”

“Ooh, he is fancy, isn’t he?” A pretty woman asked. She was the younger of a pair, with limp blond hair sticking out from under a dingy cap. But when she moved, the petticoat under her stained frock flashed bright scarlet, a costly color. A present from an admirer, perhaps?

Or a mark.

She was likely a doxy, the thieves’ cant for mistress, to one of the men. And judging by her deliberately provocative attire, might also be what was called a ‘demander for glimmer’. That was a female crook who flirted with men at alehouses, promising them her favors if they met her somewhere isolated and discreet, to preserve her good name. And if they brought a sufficient present to show their affection—one they would be relieved of by her man as soon as they arrived and then sent off with a cuff to the head for their trouble.

She grinned at Kit, showing still solid white teeth. Yes, she was young, but nobody stayed young on these streets for long. Soon enough, she’d look like the withered crone beside her, who was likely only a decade older, but appeared tired and used up.

“Leave off,” the Abraham man said. “He’s w’Gil; he’s all right.”

But the friar didn’t listen. “You should mind your purse ‘round here, good sir,” he told Kit, laying light fingers on his arm. “There’s thieves to be found everywhere.”

“Mind yours,” Gillian said, holding something up.

The friar started, and then felt about frantically under his cloak, before skewering her with his gaze. “You weren’t even near me! I made sure o’ that, after last time!”

She laughed and jangled the purse she held. “You passed right by me making your big entrance. A child could have picked your pocket—”

“Could not! And give it back!”

Gillian did not give it back. She weighed it thoughtfully in her hand instead. “Hm. Had a good day, did we?”

“Up ‘til now!”

“I’ll trade you,” she offered. “Give my friend back his purse, and I’ll give you yours.”

And Kit suddenly realized that his belt was lighter than it had been a moment before. “You robbed me?” he said to the man, almost more impressed than angry. He was a master vampire. That sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Well, if ye’re going to come down here wearing velvets, with a big purse and bigger swagger, what d’ye expect?” The man weighed Kit’s purse as Gillian had his. “Reckon I’ll be keeping this one. Has the feel of gold in it.”

Kit was about to give him something else to feel, but didn’t get the chance. “Oh, look,” Gillian said innocently. “Somehow I have two purses.”

She held up the friar’s in one hand and Kit’s in the other.

“That’s cheating!” the man said, looking outraged. “No witchcraft; we agreed—”

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