This probably won’t make much sense to anyone, but I’m going to post it anyway.
There’s a city in my world where all of the thieves and assassins come from.
I was sleeping a few days back when I felt a knife at my throat and this gravelly voice in my ear said, “Wake up, maggot. Time to write.”
So I did.
There’s a lot of what feels like Thieves Cant in these. Can’t be certain I understand it all either. I do know that “Mok” is what passes for Thieves Cant in Galron. And that “Becky” is his bow. That’s all I know.
I just did what the man told me.
Atop the windward passage,
zipping razorwire nearly takes
a twing! Sends me
the floor and
Old Man Shifty
knew his stuff. And then a breath!
And I’m free –
Lighter and heavier for my troubles.
-Would not have it any other way
Laughter tumbles, scampering
into silence, spilled
from my lips;
and fast – like the bug.
Drop down, top down
Becky up, her back bent
Nothing but drip
I look moonwards
through the mocking cylinder
I’m dust and shadows
I begin. Now.
They call it a
I call it 18 seconds that could
be better spent
suppressing that glyph on
the west wall that I
know the old wizard stuck there
When it’s down I hustle quick
no time for this and that.
I’ve got business with the master.
His guards are lax, his defences
and the next thing you know –
But I prefer something
Power works nicely and never
clashes with my custom-gripped
poison-fang Takma-forged daggers.
or take Becky. She makes
any man look good, ‘specially when
ready to pop.
Arrows are her kisses and damn ain’t she sweet?
Gems in my pocket, time to beat feet. Power comes
later, down on Muckleknife Street.
Cinched up tight and descending
Quickstop! (clenched fist)
Darkness fades and bootheel beginnings
I’m dangle bound
and need to piss. (Is that a sneeze?)
The watch reveals in tintype lightern
Oh great…a grell-mutant
three dead rogues.
Arrowshot, ribshot, damn soggy boots.
Shuffleclutch half-slips, pocketful of cash.
Tumble-drop crunchflop, on the sand at last.
The kid looks grim as the cliffs fade back. And my guts, they scream,
but my pockets burn
Twilight in bedlam
Whisperquick down midnight sneak line
drop and peep
Six stories up – all fast asleep
Safe and satchel, diamond and gold.
Greedy grabquick, feelin’ so bold.
Crouch, stash, feet for the line
I’m out, wind’s up –
just in time.
Fenny Fennick feeds me a line
Moll-wretch, rat-fuck, swiller of swine.
his do’s always stink,
too many shitheels in a line.
I nod and scull the small beer and drop Fenny
a wink, and quick as a flash, that rat’s dead
and I order another drink.
So Vinnie Sly’s gots this
cousin who’s down on the Glide
messed up, trashed out, mecha-head high.
He copped a sweet sniff
of some dooners
trading greenJack for 30 big
come Saturday –
Suckers come in
I’m flyball up high
scope the whole rundown
then drop and say hi.
The blast takes out 20 –
Becky drop half
head up, feet down, the twins
snicker-snack – that’s the rest.
Beatwatch heard the tussle and I
pull my uprip,
I’m out and pissed off. Too many
down and not enough Crowns.
I slide over to Slinky’s to get
the lowdown on Gowdy –
(sheckleshackle rumdum dandy)
1000 crowns could come in handy.
“What He’d do to get the Guffy?”
Slink shoots “Doubletap”
and my gullet slips, quickflip.
”How long’s the paper? Who inked the spot?”
Slink slides slyways, drops
silentquick into the mok and spits,
“Drum-the-Quick, but unTalk
paints the page –
word dropped from Owl Town,
from Dunson Moor.”
His eyes dart quick, dobs his bog
with a slick pink
and burps, “Highgate, the
Markslock and some say, the
Shadow — All hunt Gowdy.”
I ponder and chumble for a miff,
and then drop
“If Gowdy ain’t got the guff in 1
moon, paint the paper at
spread it round that I dropped the ink.”
Ol’ Slink ain’t no fool, and his mok
is better than most’s, and he just
and drop me a wink –
and in 40 day Ol’ Slink got his
gullet up when Gowdy’s head
Rimble timble thunder
rain splots my brow
rikkitik on the tinshed dwarfs all but its own voice.
N’er no mind I’m watching Crag Street
and all that that implies.
Underneath the drumroar I heard a
knuckle two-drop on the tinshed wall.
I smile, drop a nod as Onedrake Mason joins me in the roar.
Drake’s a cold-heart,
he’s no way-back from the hill,
he’s a fresh blooded
stank of meat and blood and I’m
about to roll into Crag Street
(into the mouth of)
with no moon,
with this crazy unwalker,
this unfuck, this eater of bones,
with no moon.
Becky’s back at the squat.
Useless to me in this waterfall
I’ve got the twins, that’s all.
Crag Street. Showtime.
Who’s got my back?
I’m squat down in Plotz corner –
two blocks down Dogshit way.
Talking grift with Dick the Dale,
laughin’ and jawin’ for a change.
Shoulda known shadow wouldn’t
leave me be.
iced up ‘hoppers come smashing
lookthroughs all over Dick’s joint,
jibberjibe and beeblesqueek tears
the air with blab, tossing unfocus
I spit a fouling mok and let Becky
strut her stuff.
The dale’s all afume – murderous
hatchet athwack with ‘hopper
He’s bellowing hotflack, the ‘hops
are screechik-blare, and I’m
laughing at how
much fun I’m having down in
Dogshit and can I come again?