28 Epilogue

Well, you wouldn’t think so, but things have changed a lot since then. Not always for the better, I must say. The institution of Miroki Fal lasted five moons, until the rumor spread that Mr. Shak was part of a child trafficking ring. I’m sure it wasn’t true, but that added to some slugboneries we did, and the controversy about why the gwaks were getting a better education than the honest children of the working poor, and that sort of thing… eventually, Mr. Shak gave up his job and there were no volunteers to replace him. We had continued to live there for a week with two overseers, but, guessing that our good fortune was becoming more complicated and that we would soon find ourselves on the streets again, we finally left before the flies sent us to the poorhouse—naturally, the first to run away was Diver: fearing that the flies would want to incarnation him, he barricaded himself in the Cats and joined the Albino’s gang to get back to cleaning out the tunnels. The rest of us went back to the Cats, glad to have our freedom back, but disappointed to see ourselves left behind again. Where had the great charity campaign led by Miroki Fal gone? Into oblivion! The Nail-pincher was not heard from again, for he had gone back to Griada after his marriage to Lesabeth, and he had bigger fish to fry. As for the money he had left me, the barber had blackmailed me by telling me that I had to enter a school outside Estergat as a boarder and do as he said if I wanted to receive anything before I came of age. I took the blackmail badly and replied: “Keep the money, sir, I’m going to work, I want to be a grinder”. But I couldn’t find anyone willing to teach me, so, in the end, I listened to the Priest and became a singer and a wizard.

So, in the morning, I was saving lives, and Rogan was saving souls. We only operated in the Cats and the Black Quarter, because we didn’t want to attract attention either. But in our neighborhood, we gained a reputation both as little scammers and as blessed children of the Spirits. The men in the gangs, the cousins of Yarras, the gwaks on the street… our best customers were Cats to the core. We didn’t always make a lot of money, because we didn’t take as much as the graduate doctors, so in the afternoons, we would join the cronies and become artists, acrobats, and screamers. I would end the day with a hoarse throat, but I was happy as a clam!

One afternoon, in late autumn, a nail-pincher stopped on the Esplanade to look at us, but, as it didn’t seem he would throw coins into the cap any soon and as he was now the only one listening, I stopped bawling, yawned over my barrel, and said to Manras, “Count the nails, shyur!”. The Little Wolf rushed over to help out, because he said he could count ragingly well—in seven moons he had grown like a prince and was smarter than a fox. Dil was still a bit quiet, but he was the only one I’d managed to give effective singing lessons to. One, two, three, three and a half!, cried Little Wolf. Manras kicked him, exasperated, because the little one was confusing him. Then our only spectator, hidden behind his wide-brimmed hat, said to me thus:

“Survivor. What would you say if I offered to come and sing to my daughter to celebrate her thirteenth birthday tomorrow?”

I was standing on my barrel, and I had to jump down to get a good look at his face. I smiled, uncovering all my teeth. It was Korther! Good mother, I had not seen him for at least seven moons. He hadn’t changed at all. I put on the air of a seasoned and polite gwak and agreed in a calm voice:

“Well. It suits me ragingly well, sir. But it’s only for singing to the shyurine, isn’t it?”

Korther’s devil eyes smiled.

“That will be up to you,” he replied. “Then, for the party, we agree.”

“We’ll sing to you for free,” I offered, feeling generous. “Right, comrades? And we’ll give him a party with acrobatics! The shyurine will be drooling from shock…”

“About that, we don’t agree,” Korther cut me off with a grimace. “No acrobatics. And no way you will be doing it for free. I’m hiring you.”

“No way!” I protested.

“I’m the nail-pincher here: and I insist on paying you,” Korther insisted.

I shrugged, smiled, and bowed mockingly.

“As you wish, Mr. Nail-pincher. But home singing is expensive. Especially since I’m a renowned gwak cat, and I’ve got a schedule heavier than a convict’s sack…”

“Fifty,” Korther said.

I squinted my eyes, puzzled.

“Nails?”

“Siatos, lad: siatos,” the Black Dagger kap smiled.

Fifty siatos! Blasthell, blasthell, blasthell, with that we could take a vacation and go to the Shell Beach to make necklaces! Or we could eat like pigs. Or we could buy books and get educated. Or… or lose money like a bunch of isturbags in the Cat Quarter, but those were the risks of life. I exchanged a big smile with the Priest, I didn’t even dare to haggle, and I exclaimed:

“It runs, sir!”

And, turning around, I began to sing:

Author’s note: End of book 3. I hope you enjoyed the reading! To keep yourself up-to-date about new books, follow my blog, or see the maps, please visit my website. Have a nice day!