A lot of ordinary folk dream of being gifted. They don’t want to meditate for ten or twenty years to unlock even a single energy node, they just want to have the right bloodline. Which, of course, they don’t have. Their parents didn’t pass it on, and they won’t pass it on to their children.

  Many aristocratic houses are wasting away the same way, losing, generation by generation, the strength their ancestors gathered drop by drop. But at least they’ve still got titles and money.

  Lazy commoners think gifted people have it easy, no need to work. Yeah, right. Look at the warlocks swinging shovels, they’re working like bloody locomotives.

  Evening had fallen, but no one showed any signs of stopping. My date was well and truly ruined, my mood had vanished into one of these damned tunnels, and I was getting more irritated by the minute.

  At some point, struck by a rather unpleasant thought, I turned to Uncle and Donald and asked: “How often are we expecting to use this secret passage in the coming conflict?”

  “As often as necessary,” Donald replied with a shrug.

  “No,” I said, “hang on. We’re going after werewolves and gangsters, right?”

  “We are.”

  “And we’ll be dragging them into holding cells?”

  “We will,” Donald agreed. “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m getting at the fact that, at this rate, half the clan’s fighters will be running back and forth through this tunnel, and yet the head of the clan’s out here digging it himself! So why all the secrecy?”

  “Oi!” Peter cut in. “I was told it was supposed to be a secret! D’you think I’d have gone to all the trouble with the lift system, and hiding it under a bed, if I’d known the whole bloody clan would be traipsing through it? I only used people who were supposed to have access!”

  “As if you didn’t know what we were building it for!” Donald snapped.

  “Well I assumed you were going to carry the prisoners yourself! I’m not deep in your planning — don’t start pointing fingers at me!”

  That was the valid point, and the next five minutes were spent with the McLals and Logg passing the blame around like a hot potato. Uncle Bryce kept quiet, trying not to be remembered. As the head, he probably should’ve used his head before picking up a shovel. So I had to break the tension myself.

  “That’s enough. Donald, make a list of everyone who’ll definitely be using this tunnel, and get them down here to help dig. I’m heading home.”

  “Home?” Peter protested.

  “To make you an amulet that actually does what you’ve had me down here wasting time on!”

  “An amulet’ll burn through energy a lot faster.”

  “Still cheaper than working a bloody wizard to death,” I snapped. “Stop wasting my training and study time!” Not to mention my date time!

  “At least help us break through to the orphanage. We’re nearly there.”

  “And we’ve still got miles to go before we reach the sewer line. It’s gone nine already. By the time I get home and eat, it’ll be time for bed.”

  “I’ll tell Harry on you,” Peter said, pulling out his last, desperate threat.

  I picked up my spellbook, pulled out petrification, and threw it right at his forehead. Since Peter only wore amulets that protected against physical damage, he froze on the spot, locked in a fearsome pose.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, taking my leave.

  “What are we supposed to do with Peter?” Albert asked.

  “He’ll thaw in half an hour,” I said, looking at the unblinking statue. “And if he tells the teacher on me, I’ll leave him like that every single day!”

  So much for their big secret, where none was needed. And now it was too late to go to Ellie’s.

  By the time I bathe, eat… I still need to sketch out the amulet design...

  I rang Ellie from Bremor House to apologise, then headed home, fuming. I kept my spellbook and pistol within reach. Honestly, part of me wanted someone to try an ambush. But no, the trip back was uneventful.

  I grabbed a quick bowl of Cap’s stew and settled in at the workshop. Harry prefers working from his office, but that’s a real office, separate from his personal space. Cap and I share the workshop.

  Harry still hasn’t let Nathan anywhere near serious projects, worried the kid might mess something up.

  Harry’s main materials are metals: stacks of iron, copper, nickel and lead lined up neatly in one corner. In the centre are shelves with reservoir stones, wood, and bone — the basics for crafting wands, rods and all kinds of amulets.

  Since I’d awakened an earth source, I’d set up shop in another corner: piles of granite, sacks of river stones and sand. Only the grey andesite plates were stacked properly. I grabbed a few and laid them on the workbench.

  I’d sketched the basic design for the amulet on the way home. At the workbench, I transferred it to paper and did the calculations. Then I set to work on the stone: cut the andesite plates into strips, softened the edges with a spell, and assembled them into a kind of box. The sort that would hold the reservoir stones.

  The ‘energy drain’ Peter had been moaning about increased a little more, but in terms of recharge speed, my little box could outperform most professional-grade gear. I etched symbols and runes into the outer casing and fussed for a while with the metal insert, which held the active part of the spell.

  If I’d left it embedded in the stone, the amulet would have melted itself the first time it activated. So, ugly as it was, I built it for function. Not quite a ‘Brick’ like Harry’s, which had its own strange elegance. Mine… looked more like a scarecrow. But it should work.

  I’d hand it over to the teacher tomorrow and let him test it.

  I passed out without another thought, didn’t even rinse off.

  In the morning, the first thing I did was drag the stone box over to Harry. After that, it was business as usual: sparring, breakfast, magic lessons with Cap, then training in the garden, followed by a bath.

  Just as I was about to start training my pocket spell, Peter rang, and in a distinctly displeased tone told me his workers were idle. Yesterday the clan head had been swinging a shovel, and today the site was standing still!

  Harry didn’t criticise my box too harshly, not as harshly as I expected, at least, and promised it would work. So I dropped it off at Bremor House with a clear conscience.

  I practised the pocket spell on the way, if you could call it practice, because I blew eight of the damned castings in a row. Good thing only the small central element needed recharging. That made it quicker and less draining.

  I dealt with Peter quickly, showed him how it worked and what to do. Then I walked straight into a scolding from Uncle, who ripped into me over ‘unacceptable behaviour’ and threatened to have me removed from the council.

  But the one who really held me up was Donald. Not that he wanted me specifically, he was after Knuckles.

  Knuckles already knew old man McLal and was well aware that Donald was his son, so he stood his ground confidently and didn’t get flustered.

  “You know we’re setting up an orphanage?” Donald asked.

  “I even know it’s just a cover for a war with the werewolves,” Knuckles replied.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Donald shot me a disapproving look, but I didn’t back down. The kid had been pulled into all this back when that ambush was set up against us. He deserved to know what kind of danger he was in, riding around the city with me.

  Besides, his salary came from Harry, and he reported to him. I couldn’t give him orders, only ask.

  Donald paused for a moment, choosing a new approach.

  “You know about the werewolves stealing children?”

  “In the slums, people are always disappearing,” Knuckles shrugged indifferently — too indifferently. Donald couldn’t play the morality card here. “I don’t even remember all the missing ones I’ve heard about.”

  “But you’ve looked after your own,” McLal hinted.

  “Because they’re mine,” Knuckles said with a smile, a perfect, lethal analogy. “Call them my own clan.”

  Knuckles had grown a full head, maybe two, in the past year, rising above his street-rat past. Not that surprising, considering the kinds of conversations we had in the Anvil. You’d have to be an idiot not to sharpen up.

  That said, Knuckles Sparrow wasn’t in a rush to show off his social progress. He still hid behind physics textbooks and his Tommy gun whenever someone looked too closely.

  Donald mirrored the smile, dropping the evasions.

  “We want you to gather the kids, everyone under twelve. We’ll offer them shelter, food, and education. Best not to mention the brewing conflict. Either way, they’ll be safer with us.”

  “How much?”

  “As many as you can find,” said the security chief, spreading his hands.

  “No,” Knuckles laughed, raising his right hand, rubbing his fingers together in a familiar gesture. “How much?”

  “Oh, a lot,” Donald promised. “A hundred.”

  He pulled the number out of thin air, of course, but to a slum kid, it sounded like a fortune. Unfortunately for Donald, this wasn’t your average slum kid.

  Knuckles had received a pretty thorough financial education over the past year. He didn’t own much, but he’d handled some serious sums, he was the one who delivered Harry’s amulets to clients and collected payment.

  “Multiply that by ten, mister, and we’ve got a deal.”

  “Bit rich, isn’t it?”

  “A man is worth as much as he values himself.”

  Where the hell had he picked that one up? Didn’t sound like Harry. Must’ve been from a client.

  “You’re overestimating yourself, kid. Your lads would do the same job for a tenner.”

  “None of my lads from the slums has ever risen as high in the public eye as I have,” Knuckles said. “Who are they? Construction workers — runners and lifters. Lucky? Sure. But I’m Harry Sledgehammer’s driver, brother to his apprentice, the guy who robbed Lord Sledgehammer and lived to tell the tale.”

  I nearly applauded. Model negotiation. And that thousand? The clan could afford it.

  “That last bit was unnecessary,” I laughed. “I’m not that famous in the slums.”

  “You?” Knuckles raised a brow. “You haven’t heard the latest version of that fight with the vampires.”

  “What fight?”

  “The very first one.”

  “There was only one bloodsucker there.”

  “A year ago, yeah. But now? Half a dozen. All of them high-ranked, no less than Master level.”

  “Absolute rubbish.”

  “I’m not saying it’s true. But that’s what they’re saying.”

  “So maybe I should hire you instead of Mister Sparrow,” Donald said, clearly trying to knock the price down.

  But Knuckles didn’t take the bait.

  “The problem is, people have heard of Duncan in the slums, but not many have seen him. Me? Everyone knows my face.”

  “You’ll get your five hundred,” McLal sighed. “But you’ll have to work hard and fast. Possibly round-the-clock for the next day or two. Will Harry let you go? Once the werewolves catch wind we’re gathering children, they’ll start interfering.”

  “Not just the werewolves,” Knuckles corrected him. “All the child gangs pay tribute. There are bosses, fences, a lot of people won’t be happy. And that’s just one issue. Loads of the street kids actually have family — like me and Nathan. Some have older siblings. Others have a mum working the streets or a dad hooked on something. Not all of them will want to leave their people behind.

  You’d be surprised, but in the slums, friendship and loyalty are the only real currency. Once you betray someone, they’ll never trust you again. Surely I deserve my thousand.”

  Donald opened his mouth to argue, but Knuckles cut him off:

  “I know most thieves have no honour. They’d sell their own mother. But we’re talking about children. Children believe in something better. I did.”

  Donald didn’t reply for a moment, then nodded slowly.

  “I hear you. We’ll take in those we can.”

  “Take them all,” Knuckles said. “We’ll be lucky to get more than fifty out of the slums. I’ve seen that building you’re putting up — there’s enough space. A bowl of thin soup twice a day costs next to nothing. Even at scale, it’s peanuts for you.”

  “Son, we’re opening an orphanage, not a halfway house. What are we meant to do with prostitutes and junkies? Do you understand what sort of influence they’d have on the children? The whole point is to place them in a different environment, otherwise, there’s no hope of re-educating them. Bring in the adults, and they’ll just bring the streets with them.”

  “First offence, and they’re out,” Knuckles proposed.

  Donald didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm.

  “That’ll make for a hell of an example. Still…” he paused, considering. “I’m willing to meet you halfway. You give up your payment for this job, and…”

  “Agreed,” said Knuckles without hesitation. “All I need is Sir Harry’s permission. I keep my word. Let’s see if the Bremor lot keep theirs.”

  The smile slid off Donald’s face. That was a low blow, and well aimed. Meanwhile, Knuckles went on, unfazed: “May I make the call?”

  “You’d give up the money that easily?” the security chief asked.

  “Turns out I’m worth more than I thought. I’ll earn it again.”

  “You might not get another chance like this.”

  “They won’t,” Knuckles said seriously. “I had my chance once. I want to give one to someone else.”

  “Friends and relatives only,” Donald said, wagging a finger.

  Knuckles nodded. “First offence — they’re out. But you’ll need to draft and publish a list of rules.”

  “That’ll take time,” McLal muttered.

  “No drinking, no drugs, no breaking the law,” I suggested. “For starters.”

  “That’ll do,” Donald nodded, and extended a hand to the lad. “Deal.”

  The former street rat and the seasoned warlock sealed the deal with a handshake. Then McLal let out a long sigh and said: “Time to report to the head. Maybe he won’t kill me. Wait here.”

  When Donald left, Knuckles leaned back in his chair and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “That was brilliant,” I said. “And completely unexpected. Didn’t think you’d let go of the money that easily.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Knuckles groaned. “I only agreed so quickly because I was afraid I’d change my mind. That kind of money could’ve bought me a brand-new Cooper, or a couple of motorbikes. Lucky I didn’t have it in my hands, or I’d never have let go.”

  “And yet you really think you’ll earn it back?”

  “I don’t think anything. I just… did it. That’s all.”

  Excessive generosity rarely leads to good outcomes, but the lad had just taken a huge step, not just from street thief toward an honest man, but toward a volunteer, a patron, even. From one extreme to another. Not ideal.

  But a lecture on financial literacy or human nature would crush the little sprout of decency he was growing inside himself — learning from Harry, Sunset, Ellie, and the other decent folk who passed through the Anvil.

  So instead, I just clapped him on the shoulder. He was probably bursting with pride right now.

  Donald McLal returned ten minutes later. He dropped into a chair, opened a drawer, pulled out a glass and a bottle, bit the cork out with his teeth, and poured himself three fingers of clear gin. He knocked it back in one go, winced, and said: “He agreed. Call Harry.”

  Knuckles had his conversation with Harry wrapped up in under a minute. The wizard’s conversation with Donald, however, dragged on, and came with a list of demands, the biggest of which was proper backup.

  Naturally, I got roped into it as well, which meant another cancelled date. One more delay and my Goat’s mood might turn in the wrong direction entirely.

  But how could I refuse? Ellie’s got too kind a heart. If she found out I tried to get out of helping orphans, there’d be no sweets for me for the next century.

  So I called, apologised for the evening, and told her what a wonderful person I am. Let her love me, admire me, and wait!

  Knuckles declined full escort. The behaviour of slum gangs was a lot like rats, or cockroaches. The moment something big and scary shows up, they scatter.

  He suggested we go together, just the two of us. I was meant to make promises on behalf of the clan. He wanted to take a commandeered lorry to collect the children straight away, but I insisted we take the Cooper.

  A lorry’s too easy to turn into a sieve, along with us and the kids. That kind of bloodbath would bury the orphanage project on day one. The Cooper, on the other hand, was bulletproof, and not built for carrying extras.

  Donald issued us flare wands and promised that a pair of spotters would be stationed on the town hall roof. Response teams would be on standby by the vehicles, ready to roll out the moment we called.

  “So,” I asked, “which gang are we visiting first?”

  Knuckles gave a nasty little grin and said, with no small amount of vengeance: “The Hunchback’s crew. They should still remember you.”

  Twenty minutes later, bouncing along the crap roads of Farnell, we pulled into the same courtyard where I’d once set an ambush for a vampire. Knuckles parked almost exactly where Ellie accidentally shot him.

  Before we got out, I made him down a combat draught and cast stoneflesh on him.

  “No Tommy gun?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he waved it off, tossed his jacket on the seat, and rolled up his sleeves, shifting from streetwise gent to street rat in seconds. The look was completed by a cocky spit on the ground and the enchanted knuckledusters he slipped onto his fists. I remembered him smashing a young vampire’s skull with those once.

  “Hunchback!” he shouted. “You’ve got visitors!”

  There was no reply at first. About a minute later, a scrawny, terrified boy shuffled into the courtyard. Not the same kid as last time, and not half as cocky. In fact, he didn’t even try to act tough. He was stammering and clearly scared.

  “G-g-gentlemen… p-p-please follow me.”

  No traps this time. No back staircases or rotting floors. They took us straight into a relatively clean room on the ground floor.

  The Hunchback was waiting, just like last time, surrounded by his whole little pack. Time had not been kind to him. It had only been a year, maybe eighteen months, but it looked like a decade.

  If I wasn’t sure before whether to peg him at twenty or thirty, there was no question now, he looked well past thirty. His face was lined, his chin marked by a nasty scar.

  Still, the little gang boss was trying hard to look respectable: white shirt, decent trousers, polished shoes, clean shave. Even the pistol he’d waved at us last time was gone. He stood when we walked in and greeted us.

  “My lord. Knuckles. What do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I’ve got bad news for you, Hunchback,” said Knuckles, spitting on the floor again. “Your gang’s been disbanded.”

  “Oi, kid, grown-ups are talking. Keep out of it, or you’ll get a smack,” Hunchback snapped.

  He was trying to push Knuckles down a peg and put himself on my level, but I didn’t even have time to say anything before Knuckles fired back: “Pfft. You’re not even a proper boss, Hunchy — not big enough to talk to a lord. If you’re having trouble understanding, just say so, scumbag, and I’ll help. I’ll pull your eyeballs through your arse, then you can see things from a better angle.”