CHAPTER THREE
"Do you think he has something worth taking, Cerril?"
Angry and paranoid, Cerril turned to the speaker, a small boy of about twelve-a year younger than Cerril. Before the other boy could move, Cerril cuffed his head.
"Ow!" the other boy complained, wrapping his fingers and palms around his head in case Cerril decided to try his luck again. He ducked and took a step back. All of them knew to expect violence when Cerril got upset.
"Whyn't you just announce to the world what we're after here?"
"I'm sorry," the younger boy said ruefully.
"If one of these sailors overhears a question like that," Cerril promised in a harsh whisper, "you're going to have to learn to breathe through your ears because he'll cut your throat for you."
"Not if we cut his throat first." The young boy took a handmade knife from his ragged breeches and dragged the ball of his thumb along the uneven blade's edge. Blood dotted his flesh and he licked at it with his pink tongue.
"Oh, yeah, Hekkel," one of the other boys sneered in a harsh whisper, "and how many throats have you cut this tenday? Or any other tenday? You still ain't killed that man your mama's taken up with this last month."
"Shut up!" Hekkel ordered, taking a small, defiant step forward.
Cerril cuffed the small boy on the head again, eliciting a cry of pain this time.
"Gods' blood, Cerril!" Hekkel cried out. "Stop hitting me."
A passing sailor from one of the ships docked in Alagh?n's harbor glanced over at them. He carried his duffel over his shoulder, a jug of wine in one hand, and had his other arm wrapped around the ample waist of a serving wench Cerril recognized from Elkor's Brazen Trumpet.