Chapter 9
You sniff—you die, Koksun told himself again.
He had no doubt it was true, and he also had no doubt he was not going to die. He had overcome far too much in his life for this to be the end. Eight years of grueling training as a Varco recruit, being pushed past his physical and mental limits so many times he had lost count. Before that, four years of surviving on the street on his own, his only teachers in the art of survival the dexterous, nimble-fingered pickpockets of the capital city—Metinvurius. Even now, in the midst of the darkest gloom of his entire life, except for the death of his parents, he couldn’t fight back a subtle smile as he remembered the way some of those two-bit hoods turned pickpocketing into an art worthy of the city theater.
Like actors dressed to interpret their character on stage, young Koksun saw them dress the part of rich businessmen to get close enough to their wealthy targets and pick their pockets dry. Or to confidently pass off a bad check as a real one. And then there were the robberies. He studied these astutely, as some of the best pickpockets revealed they were equally adept at taking things by force, while not permitting the final brutal act of force to completely negate the artistic element of their craft.
Through the use of wigs, uniforms, masks, makeup, false teeth, false missing teeth, and many other props, these strapping young men could play the part of the elderly street peddler, police officer, banker, fireman, clown, blind beggar, or whatever particular character seemed to best fit the situation to not arouse any suspicion before razor-sharp knives were firmly pressed against the victims’ throats.
They worked in coordination with the camaraderie and fearlessness of wolves but with an uncanny intelligence for men whose formal education had likely ended at the fifth grade. And their inventiveness did not stop with costumes. Acrobatics were well within their comfort zone. He had on one occasion seen them stop a heavily guarded stagecoach bearing a large amount of gold for a local bank via the use of a fraudulent police officer.
The officer inspected their paperwork carefully, occasionally barking out an objection, such as, “YOU CALL THIS A PROPER SIGNATURE?!” in order to ensure the oversized, well-armed bodyguards inside the stagecoach kept their attention towards the front of the coach, rather than to the back, where three youths small enough to seem harmless were tying ropes around the back wheels.
“Well, everything SEEEMS to be in order!” the police officer had announced to the driver.
Then, in a performance worthy of a standing ovation, he had cried, “HEAVENS!” as the stagecoach suddenly started moving backwards. It was being dragged towards the side of one of the many nearby buildings. No sooner had it hit the side of the building than it began to elevate.
Thinking there were robbers behind them pulling on the wagon, one of the bodyguards jumped out, sword in hand, ready to cleave in two the first one he saw. But he saw no robbers. Instead, what he saw was a rope tied to the back of the stagecoach and going hundreds of feet up in the air towards the top of the building.
“Secure the gold and get out of there!” he shouted to his comrades inside.
This brought no immediate action. They were in an area of Metinvurius where it seemed to them much safer inside the coach, and as they were not looking at what their companion was, the cost-benefit analysis seemed to favor staying put.
However, when they looked out the window and suddenly saw they were being separated from the sweet protection of terra firma, they needed no further encouragement. No longer concerned in the slightest about the gold they were sworn to lay down their lives to protect, they leaped like kangaroos out of the coach, crashing down onto a small market stand and smashing a good number of fruits and vegetables in the process.
Once they recovered from the shock of their fall, they looked up to see that the coach was stalled around fifty feet in the air against the side of the building, and descending rapidly towards it, looking like monkeys in afternoon play on a tree of many vines were several rascals rappelling. They were so shocked at what they were seeing that they forgot the best strategy would have been to start engaging in a little target practice with the first-class crossbows they had in their possession.
But they were too hypnotized by the spectacle, which rendered dull the most impressive circus feats they had seen previously. Within moments, the rascals entered the stagecoach, which seemed to have stopped its ascent, and attached a rope to the gold chest inside.
“THEY’RE ROBBING THE COACH!” the police officer shouted in convincing horror.
No sooner had he said the words than the gold chest began ascending the side of the building, pulled by unseen forces.
In horror, they watched as it grew fainter and fainter in the sky until disappearing over the side of the top of the building.
“I ARREST YOU IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!” shouted the officer to the three dazzled bodyguards. “I know an inside job when I see it!” he added for emphasis.
The bodyguards offered no resistance as he put handcuffs on them.
“You!” he shouted to the erstwhile coach driver, who had jumped off the second he saw the horses’ hooves leave the ground (although he had the humanity to first free the horses by pulling a lever that disengaged their harness), “Go get help! I’m gonna have my hands full with these three rascals!”
No sooner had the coach driver turned the corner when the officer told the furious owner of the demolished food stand, “Watch these three hooligans for me! I’m gonna need backup. If they move, use this!” and he handed him a large club. The food stand owner accepted it eagerly, and his eyes suggested he might use it whether they moved or not.
Koksun sprinted after the police officer, who was going around towards the opposite side of the building, which was precisely where Koksun expected he might find some interesting goings-on anyway. He noticed that in a quick motion the officer grabbed something on the back of his distinctive red shirt (the color of all city police officers in Metinvurius) and pulled it abruptly over his head, suddenly leaving him in a dull-brown overcoat and looking like the vast majority of the men around that area.
Koksun ran as fast as his young legs would take him, and as they neared the back end of the building, he suddenly heard a loud crash emanating from where the circus had taken place. Upon reaching the back of the building, people were running frantically to either side of the street, so he quickly decided it would be a good idea to do the same.
The next thing Koksun saw was about a dozen bulls angrier than a swarm of hornets thundering through the street. They were tied together, and trailing behind them were the remains of a rope. He looked around and realized the police officer had disappeared. He looked up towards the top of the building, and just in time too because he saw a rope being rapidly pulled up the side of it, painted so cleverly like the building itself that its presence was almost imperceptible.
He looked at the base of the building and saw a massive pulley attached to the concrete base. Its thick, massive frame looked more than capable of fitting the rope that undoubtedly had been present there just moments before. In front of the pulley, was a food stand. Meanwhile, everyone else was awestruck at the sight of the angry bulls. He gave them a brief glance before turning his attention back to the apex of the concrete giant in front of him, and although he couldn’t be sure, he thought he saw a couple of figures moving around up there, but they quickly disappeared from view. Then, they reappeared briefly at the top of a neighboring building and then disappeared completely.