someday," said Dickens.
"You might be disappointed," Smythe replied. "They are rather plain and ordinary looking, not at all showy in appearance… but then again, as a soldier and one who was an armorer's apprentice… Well, here then…" He unsheathed his simple knife. "He made this for me years ago, when I was just a boy. It bears his maker's mark."
Dickens took the knife and examined it. "It balances exceedingly well, and the design, while simple, looks quite strong." He lightly tested the blade. "It holds a fine edge, too. Very fine, indeed." He held it hilt downwards, point up alongside his inner forearm, as if concealing it, and then flipped it around in his grasp, blade held outward, ready to stab or throw. He turned it back around once more, holding his arm down by his side, to try the maneuver once again. It was, thought Smythe, a good way to carry a knife openly, yet unobtrusively, in the event that one expected trouble. Trust a mercenary, he thought, to know that sort of clever trick.
" 'Allo, Ben," said Jack Darnley, suddenly stepping out in front of them from a side street. His fellow apprentice, Bruce McEnery, was right behind him.
" 'Allo, Jack," said Dickens, coming to a halt. "I see you brought your ill-humored shadow with you," he added, smirking at McEnery's perpetual sneer.
"And I see you brought yours," Darnley replied, with a smile. "Tuck is your friend's name, if I recall aright."
"It is," said Smythe. "Tuck Smythe, at your service."
"Fancy running into you again so soon, Jack," Dickens said casually. "One might almost think 'twas more than happenstance."
"As well one might," said Darnley. "We have been keeping an eye on you, you know."
"Have you, now? And what would be the reason for such concern, I wonder?"
As Ben spoke, Smythe became aware of movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see half a dozen apprentices spread out behind them. He groaned inwardly. What pernicious fortune had befallen him that it was the second time in as many days he was being accosted by a street gang? People around them in the street, seeing the congregation, gave them a wide berth, crossing over to the other side and hurrying past without a backward glance.
"We only wanted to make certain that you were all right, Ben," Darnley replied.
"How very land of you and the boys, Jack. And tell me, what made you think that I might not be?"
"The city has changed whilst you have been away, Ben," Darnley said. "London is very different now. 'Tis no longer the same place you remember from the old days."
"Indeed? How very odd," said Dickens. "Why, it still looks much the same to me. S'trewth, and it smells the same as I remember, too," he added, wrinkling his nose. "The heady perfume of Fleet Ditch on the breeze is just as I recall it. Or mayhap 'tis just the fragrance of unwashed 'prentices upon the wind. What think you?"
"You may jest, Ben, but that does not change the truth of what I tell you," Darnley said. "London is now in many ways a different city than the one you left, and few of the changes have been for the better."
"I have an intimation that you intend to educate me as to those changes, Jack," said Dickens, with a smile.
"Indeed, methinks there is a need for it. You see, you left us, Ben, to go off adventuring and seek your fortune in some foreign land, whilst we all stayed here in London to make the best of things, because this is our home.
Our
home," he repeated, thumping his chest for emphasis.
"Our
city." He swept out his arm in an expansive gesture, encompassing all their surroundings.
"Our
streets. And yet, with each and every passing day, we have found our home invaded, as much as any conquering army might invade a country it has vanquished. Only
this
foreign army marched in piecemeal, coming in dribs and drabs… a few Flemish craftsmen here, some Italian merchants there, German traders, Egyptian fortune-tellers and the like, til now you can scarce spit on a street in London without
"You might be disappointed," Smythe replied. "They are rather plain and ordinary looking, not at all showy in appearance… but then again, as a soldier and one who was an armorer's apprentice… Well, here then…" He unsheathed his simple knife. "He made this for me years ago, when I was just a boy. It bears his maker's mark."
Dickens took the knife and examined it. "It balances exceedingly well, and the design, while simple, looks quite strong." He lightly tested the blade. "It holds a fine edge, too. Very fine, indeed." He held it hilt downwards, point up alongside his inner forearm, as if concealing it, and then flipped it around in his grasp, blade held outward, ready to stab or throw. He turned it back around once more, holding his arm down by his side, to try the maneuver once again. It was, thought Smythe, a good way to carry a knife openly, yet unobtrusively, in the event that one expected trouble. Trust a mercenary, he thought, to know that sort of clever trick.
" 'Allo, Ben," said Jack Darnley, suddenly stepping out in front of them from a side street. His fellow apprentice, Bruce McEnery, was right behind him.
" 'Allo, Jack," said Dickens, coming to a halt. "I see you brought your ill-humored shadow with you," he added, smirking at McEnery's perpetual sneer.
"And I see you brought yours," Darnley replied, with a smile. "Tuck is your friend's name, if I recall aright."
"It is," said Smythe. "Tuck Smythe, at your service."
"Fancy running into you again so soon, Jack," Dickens said casually. "One might almost think 'twas more than happenstance."
"As well one might," said Darnley. "We have been keeping an eye on you, you know."
"Have you, now? And what would be the reason for such concern, I wonder?"
As Ben spoke, Smythe became aware of movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see half a dozen apprentices spread out behind them. He groaned inwardly. What pernicious fortune had befallen him that it was the second time in as many days he was being accosted by a street gang? People around them in the street, seeing the congregation, gave them a wide berth, crossing over to the other side and hurrying past without a backward glance.
"We only wanted to make certain that you were all right, Ben," Darnley replied.
"How very land of you and the boys, Jack. And tell me, what made you think that I might not be?"
"The city has changed whilst you have been away, Ben," Darnley said. "London is very different now. 'Tis no longer the same place you remember from the old days."
"Indeed? How very odd," said Dickens. "Why, it still looks much the same to me. S'trewth, and it smells the same as I remember, too," he added, wrinkling his nose. "The heady perfume of Fleet Ditch on the breeze is just as I recall it. Or mayhap 'tis just the fragrance of unwashed 'prentices upon the wind. What think you?"
"You may jest, Ben, but that does not change the truth of what I tell you," Darnley said. "London is now in many ways a different city than the one you left, and few of the changes have been for the better."
"I have an intimation that you intend to educate me as to those changes, Jack," said Dickens, with a smile.
"Indeed, methinks there is a need for it. You see, you left us, Ben, to go off adventuring and seek your fortune in some foreign land, whilst we all stayed here in London to make the best of things, because this is our home.
Our
home," he repeated, thumping his chest for emphasis.
"Our
city." He swept out his arm in an expansive gesture, encompassing all their surroundings.
"Our
streets. And yet, with each and every passing day, we have found our home invaded, as much as any conquering army might invade a country it has vanquished. Only
this
foreign army marched in piecemeal, coming in dribs and drabs… a few Flemish craftsmen here, some Italian merchants there, German traders, Egyptian fortune-tellers and the like, til now you can scarce spit on a street in London without
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