86. The Nail-pincher’s Project

While the occupants of the cell talked as if in a madhouse about I don’t know what social problems, Diver and I, huddled in a corner, whispered the news to each other. Thus I learned that when Frashluc had locked me up in his house, Diver had thought I had been killed, he had run away and, disgusted with life—and encouraged by the karuja—he had ended up throwing himself off Moralion Bridge. Except that the flies had rescued him from the river, so he had sung and told them: the man who lives in the house at this address is a murderer. But they had not even listened to him: they had imprisoned him, recognizing him as a thief on the run, period. And he had been in the cell for three days. He didn’t even know that Frashluc was dead. I was the one who told him, without mentioning my role in the affair, and Diver remained silent for a long time before spitting out:

“May he rot in hell.”

My friend was livid. I still couldn’t believe that Diver had been isturbagged enough to throw himself off the bridge. Good mother, he really needed a little support. So I said to him:

“Hey, comrade. Don’t you worry. If they make you a lifer, I’ll get you out of Carnation.”

Diver merely gave a slight skeptical pout. His lack of confidence hurt me, and I shook his knee.

“Don’t you believe me?”

“I do, but you’re not gonna do it, ’cause I don’t want to,” he replied.

I blinked in amazement.

“You don’t want to? You don’t want to get out of jail?”

“That’s right. And, besides, from what you’ve told me, those nail-pinchers you’ve seen, Sharpy, they sure as hell aren’t letting you out, either. We’ll both end up at Carnation until our bones rot. Wanna bet?”

He looked at me questioningly. His words darkened me, and I huffed, putting my head against the wall.

“Isturbag,” I sighed.

I met the eyes of a well-dressed young man sitting next to us and said no more.

The protesters in the cell continued to talk. They were talking about poverty, taxes, the right to life… As I heard all that, I listened with interest.

“… right to live, every single being!” a blonde human said in a fervent voice. “The rich, the poor, the crippled, the sick, the dogs, the cats, even the ants!”

“What about the gwaks?” I interjected loudly.

I suddenly felt eyes turn to me, and I regretted opening my mouth. Since when did I bother talking to these students from good families? But the blonde said:

“The same goes for them, of course! All children have the right to live and all adults have the obligation to give them food, education, teach them all about virtue, and offer them a place to sleep. Is this what is being done now? No! We have here the proof, companions.”

She was pointing at me and Diver. I felt cornered by so much attention.

“If they had been guaranteed a minimum of welfare, these poor children would not be here, in a cell. They would be studying, training to blossom and be able to create a future for themselves! But, as things are, what future awaits them now, can you tell me?”

His companions expressed their agreement in many phrases and gestures. Their voices filled the whole cell, but the flies in the room did not seem to pay any attention to them. Diver whispered to me:

“What future awaits us? Being lifers.”

I rolled my eyes and pushed him, snorting.

“Come on, don’t be a downer. Lifers, you say, what the blasthell, lifers. I’ll get you out of here for sure. Didn’t you hear what the blonde just said? You need to study and grow. And at Carnation, you rip your hands making ropes while others push you around, drive you crazy, make fun of you, and in the end, you decide not to think and become an idiot. Ain’t that right? Well, then. Let’s fight, comrade. You’ll see, I know a lot about escaping.”

Diver shrugged his shoulders and did not answer. His apathy was pissing me off. Okay, he hadn’t had karuja for three days, so he was in a foul mood, and I understood that, but still… cheer up a little, devils!

The hours passed, and so did the afternoon and night. My right hand recovered completely, but my energy stem was still in bad shape. The students were not released until mid-morning with various fines or lectures. The student who had been sitting next to us glanced at us as he stood up, hesitated, and took something out of his pocket. He handed it to me and said, “Here”. I accepted it, surprised. It was a chocolate bar. As the student left the cell, I shook Diver and gave him the entire treat.

“Dig in, see if you can shut up a little.”

Diver had not opened his mouth for several hours. He glanced at me mockingly, bit into the chocolate, took half, and handed me the rest.

“Well then,” I agreed.

The chocolate was delicious. Even better than old Bayl’s. So much talk and so much revolution was all very well, but in the end, the only student or so who hadn’t opened his mouth was also the only one who had fed the gwaks. Talk was all very well, but you couldn’t eat pretty words.

The cell was now quiet. Apart from us, there were only two Northerners left who had no money to pay the fine and who did not understand Drionsan very well. So everything was pretty quiet, and my parents still did not show up. I wasn’t worried. They had certainly refused to come and get me out of there. It was understandable. In the end, what did they owe me? Nothing. The barber had wanted to send me to the youth centre; I had run away; and, so to speak, I was an orphan again. Therefore, the flies would condemn me for vagrancy to a moon in prison, and after that, hop, skip, and jump to the poorhouse. All in all, nothing to worry about. Except that it could well be at least one moon before they sentenced me. That meant I wouldn’t get out until summer. All because Korther had asked me to tell the nail-pinchers about that bloody dragon. And to make matters worse, I didn’t even have Azlaria’s amulet to console me a little with its presence.

Suddenly, I gave Diver a shove.

“You’re giving me your bad mood,” I growled. “Speak, say something. Wanna play morra?”

My friend sighed and did not answer. I gave him another push, snorting. Nothing. Not a word. I got pissed off. I grabbed him and shook him.

“Go blow yourself up, Diver, you’re duller than a rock! Wake up!”

Finally, he answered me with an exasperated push. I gave it back to him. He gave it back to me. And we ended up rolling around in the cell, pulling each other by the clothes and kicking each other. It was a joy for me, because at last I could see my friend reacting a little. The flies did not pay much attention to us, but the Nordics intervened to separate us. And how could we do otherwise than give in to these two giants. We calmed down, they let us go, and we sat down on the same bench to play morra, reconciled. I think that the Nordics did not understand.

And, well, there we were, making just a little noise playing, when Diver fixed his gaze on the bars, and, fearing that his spirits might fail again, I passed my hand, all five fingers outstretched, before his eyes and said:

“Oh, oh, Diver! I said five and I win: your fist’s clenched. Hey! What are you looking at?”

However, when I followed his gaze, I gasped with surprise. There, standing before the bars, was a nail-pincher. A young elf nail-pincher, who gave me a very strange feeling all over my body and left my heart racing. I knew him. Devils, yes, I knew him. I rose slowly from the bench, mouth agape, and stammered:

“S-Sir?”

It was Miroki Fal. I couldn’t believe it!

“It’s me,” the Nail-pincher confirmed, as fascinated as I was.

“I never forget a face I paint,” said the other nail-pinched elf who accompanied him. His face looked familiar too. Could it be that I had seen him the day before, at the Capitol? Of course I did! It was Shudi Fiedman, the painter and friend of the Nail-pincher, the one who had painted my portrait last year because he said that painting a poor child was an original idea in these times.

Then Miroki Fal turned, and I thought, dejected: oh, no, blasthell, he’s leaving. But he only thundered:

“Please, agent! Get him out of here for a moment. I’d like to talk to him without these bars.”

The flies listened to him at once, and under the hallucinated gaze of Diver, I left the cell. I thought: do I throw myself on the Nail-pincher and hug him? Maybe this would make him feel sorry for me and save me from prison. But a strange shyness prevented me from acting with such confidence, and it was he who had to come closer to observe me.

“Hello, boy,” he smiled at me. “You’ve grown.”

His inquisitive smile gave me a hopeful smile. And since I wasn’t sure what to ask him except that he not go away, I just stood there looking at him with a questioning face. If he had come to visit me, it wasn’t just to see if I was still alive, was it? He’d come to help me, hadn’t he? Miroki Fal paused briefly before resuming:

“You’ll be out of here soon, don’t worry. Your parents told me a little about your problems. And I thought of a solution.”

His last words changed my expression, and so that the Nail-pincher would not guess my alarm, I lowered my eyes to the ground. Devils. So, Miroki Fal had talked to my parents! Surely they had told him everything they knew about me. Too much for Miroki Fal to see me as a candid, innocent child. I asked:

“What solution?”

Miroki Fal glanced at Shudi before stating serenely:

“I am funding an educational project and have decided to launch a charity campaign to create a modern residence for children like you. You’ll have a roof over your head, food to eat, and we’ll educate you. What do you say? Your parents have agreed to sign you up for it. I’ve left them a sum of money in gratitude for your services. You can use it when you come of age. In the meantime, you’ll want for nothing.”

“As long as you behave yourself,” Shudi observed, mockingly. And, addressing his friend, he added in a low voice, “You and your plans—your father will end up turning off the tap.”

“Let him do it,” Miroki replied. “Strictly speaking, it’s my money, anyway.”

“By law, it will be when you are twenty-five,” the painter scoffed.

I looked at each of them in turn, dumbfounded. The Nail-pincher had given money… to me? And he wanted to send me to a school?

“Children like me?” I said then. “Gwaks, sir? Is this a house for gwaks? Is there such a thing?”

Miroki smiled.

“Now, there is.”

I didn’t know whether to be happy or scared by the idea.

“Is it a prison?” I asked.

Miroki Fal pouted.

“No,” he assured. “But there are standards to meet. You won’t be able to go out as you please.”

My apprehension and distrust must have shown on my face because I saw him frown, embarrassed.

“I assure you, this is the best that could happen to you.” He paused as if waiting for me to say something, to thank him perhaps? Then he added, “I will visit the place in a few weeks. I promise you that. Until then, I hope you will honor my trust and encourage other helpless children to be a part of this project. Goodbye.”

I saw him walk away, and I reacted by leaping forward and blocking his path.

“Sir! This gwak, see him? The one in the cell. That gwak is a friend of mine. They want to lock him up for life, but he doesn’t deserve it. Can you do something for him? Please.”

Miroki Fal looked at Diver, sitting on the bench, cleared his throat, and said:

“I’ll do everything I can, kid. But I can’t promise you anything.”

I swallowed under his gaze, which seemed to tell me: you saved my life, but, hey, be content with what I give you, don’t be a beggar. Ha! Well, there were no bigger beggars than gwaks, but a good gwak knew when to ask and when to leave in peace. So I nodded and stepped aside, saying:

“Thank you, sir. Say, you’re getting married, aren’t you?”

This time, the Nail-pincher smiled with complete sincerity.

“Yes. Miss Lesabeth and I are getting married.”

I smiled broadly.

“I knew it!”

The two of them exchanged slight smiles, and as they strolled out of the station, the flies put me back in the cell.

A residence for gwaks, I sighed, sitting back down on the bench. Gosh. It looked a lot like the youth centre. And I was already imagining myself locked in a room full of bars, my left hand bloody from the tarred hemp ropes…

As I told Diver about this nail-pincher who had just visited me and gave him hope, the apprehension grew stronger and stronger.

“Do you think this nail-pincher is going to send me to a prison?” I whispered to Diver.

My friend huffed, shrugging his shoulders as if nothing impressed him or bothered him anymore.

“Bah. It’s possible. But he didn’t lie to you: you’ll have a roof over your head, food to eat, and education. Clear soups. Prayers on Sacredday and some educational beating…” He laughed as I gave him a shove of protest. “What’s the matter, Sharpy? Don’t get upset. If you yourself say you’re the king of escapes, then you’ll have no trouble getting away, right?”

He was laughing at me. I glared at him. And I said:

“Don’t get on my bones.”

Diver smiled, shaking his head. He seemed to see life from a distance, and that frightened me. At that moment, I don’t know why, I saw him in my mind’s eye sticking the dagger into the Black Hawk’s neck and… I let out a long, exhausted sigh. These poor children, the blonde student had said. Yes, those poor murderous children! And yet those who had died through our fault had been miserable criminal scoundrels. But I did not feel any less dirty. I had had enough of this gwak life, the dangers, hunger, forsakenness. The more I thought, the more I realized that my aspirations to find a better life would never cease to be anything but dreams. So if the Nail-pincher offered to pull me out of the abyss, was I going to give him the slip? No way. No. I’d take the whole gwakery to that residence and there we’d become honest—and even educated—gwaks. And if the Nail-pincher dared to trick me… I’d just leg it and leave Arkolda.

With this firm decision in mind, I threw to Diver with enthusiasm:

“Can you believe it? We’re gonna become nail-pincher gwaks!”

* * *

I was not taken out of prison as quickly as I thought. First, a fly wanted to ask me another time about the dragon’s story, and he tried to get information from me about the Black Daggers. His attempts were in vain, even after he offered me some treats. If they had been clever, they would have given me some passwhite or celestial radrasia, and then who knows what I would have sung. But nothing, to my great surprise, they didn’t even slap me. The worrying thing was that when I returned to the cell, I did not see Diver. I asked after him, but there was no answer, and my morale, already low after the interrogation, took a hit.

The sky was already darkening when a fly approached the cell with a firm gait and called:

“Ashig Malaxalra!”

I sat still. Ashig Malaxalra? Says who?

“Hey, you, kid, come closer,” the fly insisted.

I sighed, walked over, the gate opened, and I stepped out. Was it for another interrogation?

Exhausted with sleep, my eyes did not immediately see the figure standing by the door, looking as if he were waiting for something. I blinked. The fly pushed me neither sharply nor gently towards the exit, my heart swelled with hope, and I asked:

“Am I free?”

Then I recognized the figure, and my heart sank at the barber’s gaze. I stopped in front of him, at a distance. My father said a “thank you,” to the fly, stepped forward, and put his hand on my neck to lead me out without a word. It had been… how long? Two moons since I had seen him? His expression seemed less terrible than I remembered.

Outside, the sky, already clear of ash, was turning red in the evening. A north wind was blowing, and it was not especially warm. I shivered in a gust, and when my father stopped, I did too. Where was he taking me? To the shop? To my surprise, the barber called a coachman and said:

“To Mill Prison, please.”

My blood ran cold through my veins. Had he said “Mill Prison”? I stiffened, and the barber had to literally lift me into the air to get me into the cart. I did not resist, but I did not make it easy for him either. As the coachman drove the horse forward, I sat looking up at the sky, watching as it turned darker and darker blue. I remembered a sunset I had watched with my master long ago. How beautiful it had been, and how serene I had felt then! That past half moon, I had barely been able to see the sky, spending my time cleaning tunnels, teaching necromancy, rotting in jail… And now my father was sending me to Mill Prison to continue to rot. My eyes filled with tears. I held them back. And I told myself that, in the end, Diver was right: it was better to laugh at the miserable fate of the gwaks.

We were already walking down Tarmil Avenue when my father broke the silence.

“Boy. I wanted to thank you for what you did for Sarova. Your brother didn’t tell us everything, I’m afraid, but I can guess.”

He paused. I gave him a skeptical pout. Really? He could guess? Several unpleasant lines came to mind, and I thought: better shut up. The barber was watching me carefully. And suspiciously. He didn’t trust me. Maybe he thought I was going to leg it. And, really, why not? Strangely enough, they hadn’t sent any flies to watch me. Only the barber. All I had to do was to give him a mortic shock, jump down from the cart, and run away. Easy, wasn’t it?

“I only want you well,” my father resumed in a low, deep voice. “You can’t live at the shop just yet. You must learn to behave. To give up bad habits. To be a good boy, eh? Trust me once and for all, son. Or you’ll end up very bad.”

His words left me confused, ashamed, and incredulous. That he wanted me well. Okay, it runs: he was sending me to prison. It was the best place for me. I accepted it. I was not a good boy. I accepted that, too. And that I trusted the barber… I wanted to accept that, but I just couldn’t. I wanted to burst. I wanted to say to my father: I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you tell me… But that stage had already passed, and I hadn’t kept my word. The barber, therefore, as a father, had every right to put me in prison for being a bad son. But, then, the house of gwaks promised by Miroki Fal, where had it gone? Had I been lied to? Had it been only a bad joke? It didn’t make sense, but at that moment, nothing made sense.

I fumbled in my pocket for my rodaria twig. I couldn’t find it. Of course, I had given it to Rogan to keep for me. Same with Azlaria’s amulet. So I crossed my arms, trying to calm myself and hide my nervousness.

The barber said nothing more. Maybe he was waiting for a reaction from me. I spent the rest of the way, motionless, staring into space and with a drowned heart.

Mill Prison was on an island between a canal and the Estergat River. We crossed a small bridge and were coming up to the infamous stone building already shrouded in the shadows of the night when I broke the silence and said:

“Is it true that Miroki Fal gave me money?”

I drew the barber out of his deep thoughts, I think, because I saw him startle slightly.

“Yes,” he said at last. “He told us that you saved his life. He was generous. Rest assured, we will only use that money for you.”

I pouted and shook my head sharply.

“No. It’s yours. I don’t want it. Give it to Samfen. He wants to be a ceramist. I want to die.”

For a second, the barber did not react. Then he grabbed me violently by the arm.

“Idiot. Do you even realize what you’re saying? You have two arms, two legs, you weren’t born a fool, and you want to die? Are you saying that so I’ll slap you? Is that what you want?”

“Yes!” I replied sharply.

I received the slap. Then the coachman cleared his throat.

“Mill Prison, sir,” he announced.

The barber glared at me for a moment before grabbing me and pulling me out of the cart. He paid the coachman without letting me go. I stood tense, as if preparing for a beating, but when the carriage pulled away the barber did not continue his lecture. He led me straight to the lighted door of Mill Prison, saying,

“I’m fed up with you, boy. Fed up.”

Just like Korther, I thought. Apparently, everyone was fed up with me, except for my companions. They liked me. They were the only ones who liked me. And yet, in spite of my desire to leg it, I followed my father to the prison. We came to the lighted door, and the barber went by without stopping. I was stunned. Was he leading me to another entrance?

Well, it did not seem so, for at that moment, we crossed the street. My confusion grew and grew until, after crossing a dark square by the river, the barber stopped at last in front of one of the buildings on the bank, turned his head as if to orient himself, and then finally nodded to himself, and we entered a shadowy courtyard. As if called, two figures emerged from a doorway and waved.

“Good evening, Mister… Malaxalra, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” my father confirmed.

“And this one is young Ashig, I suppose? Excellent. We thank you for bringing him, sir, and we thank you for your trust. We will take good care of him as we do of all the children in this institution.”

An unfamiliar hand took me by the shoulder, gently but firmly.

“This way, young man.”

I took a deep breath as I followed my new guide and supervisor. I turned my head toward my father. But in the night shadows, I could not see his face. Perhaps he was wondering: where will this boy be in a year, or shall I say, a moon, a week? I sighed. Even I could not answer such a question.

“Wait!” the barber said suddenly. “Wait. Ashig. Tell me. I know your birthday is still two moons away, but… would you like me to bring you something? Something reasonable.”

I was moved by the proposal. A gift! The barber wanted to give me a gift! It seemed to take me so long to answer that I feared the barber would leave without my answer, and finally I said fervently:

“A ball! A ball that bounces. Is that okay?” I asked, fearing it was unreasonable.

I thought I could see my father smiling through the shadows.

“You’ll get it,” he assured. “Take care of yourself.”

I nodded, hopeful, and finally let myself be drawn into the darkness of the modern institution of Miroki Fal.