The old salty bastard sat back in his chair, hand on hilt, his eyes never leaving the thief. He took a slice of salt pork and brought it to his cracked lips; his tongue, dry and pitiful, reached out to receive it. The cloaked and shackled thief surveyed the flagstones with her head low, in shame or fear, he could not tell. She perched unmoving like a stone raven in the gloom.
The governor had been burgled. A fine thanks for taking care of the town during a month-long blockade. The swashbuckler pushed back locks of greasy hair. He was the best; that’s why the governor had hired him. The governor paid in rations.
He took his pipe from his pocket and lit it.
‘I’m Isembard Crow. You already know my name.’
The thief said nothing. Isembard ate another piece of salt pork, searing his chapped lips. He took a sip of his dwindling ale and sucked his lips to coat them.
‘You’re a thief,’ he said. ‘The Fox.’
Briefly her amber eyes flashed up at his face from beneath her cowl. He had offended her.
Outside, cannons were firing into the night. The saltwater puddles that gathered in the flagstones quivered and rippled. The bitter smell of gunpowder mixed with the dull pipe smoke in the tiny room. The last of dusk had slipped into darkness.
‘Explain the children?’
When he had brought her in that afternoon, there had been quite a crowd. The blockade had lasted a month, and the town was turning bad. People fray when they’re trapped; worse when they’re starving. Folks like that enjoy a bit of mob justice, maybe. But the children — lost and shaking waifs of the port town — they had been blowing kisses from the rooftops.
‘I feed them.’
‘With your stolen gold?’
‘I never took his gold. The governor’s hoarding rations. My life for a bag of oats.’
She looked at him now, her eyes cold as November seawater. She bore him out, and he looked away.
‘Then why are you so thin?’ Isembard tamped his pipe.
‘Don’t steal ‘em for me.’
Isembard puffed blue smoke and considered cutting another piece of the salt pork. He looked at his meagre rations and decided against it. His stomach, a cold stone, rolled over in protest.
‘Maybe so. Maybe not,’ he removed her cowl to better look at her. ‘But I got you in the end anyhow.’
‘You used to be a man.’
His first instinct was to backhand her, but he didn’t move. A younger Isembard would have. Instead, he looked down at her with watery eyes.
‘I’m tired.’
The following morning, the cannons were quiet. Isembard Crow led the thief through the shattered streets of the besieged harbour town. The governor’s men flanked them. Paupers haunted doorways and window sills for a look at the condemned girl. Once again the children blew kisses; others cast white flowers, nodding in solemn acknowledgement. A woman rushed from an alleyway and grasped the thief, sobbing her gratitude and grief. Isembard drew his rapier and forced the woman back. He walked closely in step with the thief.
‘Who was she to you?’ he said quietly.
‘She was hungry.’
The harbour men had erected the gallows; the sun was rising over the eastern sea, casting its shadow over the gathering crowd. They looked up at the noose, squinting against the morning brightness.
The men led their ward to the platform where the governor awaited them. His face was glistening and round like a doll’s. Sweat dripped from his chin to fall on the planks.
‘For the crime of larceny, I find thee guilty and sentence thee to be hanged from the neck until dead,’ said the governor, his reedy alto voice at odds with his large frame. ‘What say ye to the people?’
‘Your governor lies. It was not I who stole. I liberated. Not gold, but food. It is he who has stolen from you.’
‘Hang her,’ the governor sneered.
‘He’s hoarding it! By crate and barrel, he stockpiles it in his warehouses. Flour, oats, ale, gin, salt pork, and more.’
Isembard watched as the governor’s men manhandled her to the gallows. They tore the foxen cowl from her head and cast it aside. Murmurs ran through the crowd. People jostled for a better look at the young thief. Isembard quickly slipped the cowl into his pocket.
‘She’s innocent!’ a voice from the crowd yelled. ‘She brings vittles and feeds a little to those without!’
The executioner placed the noose around her white throat.
‘She fed my children,’ another called out.
The drop doors below the thief creaked. The executioner awaited his orders.
‘Won’t somebody feed them?’ said the thief.
She looked to Isembard, who watched from the side of the gallows. Her amber eyes met his and bore him out once again; he did not look away. His hand gripped his rapier, but fell away. She was innocent.
‘I used to be a man,’ he clenched his jaw.
The governor gave the signal.
Later, by blue nightfall, Isembard walked the harbour. Nets and crab pots glistened in the moonlight, unused for weeks. They had taken it for granted that the sea would always be there for fishing, but not for enemy vessels. He looked at the ropes and thought of the Fox. He had felt relief when the trapdoor dropped, and only later did the relief sicken him. Had he known all along? About the stockpiles.
He walked until he found himself beyond the shipyard and the harbour and into the industrial district. He stopped outside the governor’s warehouses and lit his pipe. He looked around the deserted yard, and saw nothing move.
From his pocket, he produced the Fox’s cowl. He put it on. It was heavier than it looked. He looked up at the warehouse window.
‘I could be a man again.’
He began to climb.
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