Honour Among Thieves

Chapter One - A Magpie and a Silver Spoon.

There were whispers in Port Royal that had been growing for many weeks, now almost a roar. They became stronger as they grew, acquired a tinge of fear, and the pervasive nature of the breeze that creeps through all the cracks in your windows, chilling you despite how you might try to block it out. For in Port Royal, wherever you went, you could not move far without hearing the word 'Magpie' in your ear. A newcomer would hear it flickering amongst the hardy Dockers as he stepped down the gangplank. As he passed through the crowded market, it would leap from every corner. And yes, even as he nursed a cup of rum in the corner of some tavern, the Magpie would be there, humming on everybody's lips.

And yet, who was the Magpie? Some said he could fly; others that he could turn invisible and blend with the hot night air, and that was why he had never yet been caught, not in Port Royal or anywhere else in Jamaica. They said 'You cannot find him', they said 'You cannot hear him', and they said 'You're lucky if you can even see him'. Governor Swan began issuing rewards for his capture with one hand and passing around edicts declaiming him as myth with the other. What was real enough was that the richest citizens of the port often woke to find their homes ransacked, silently and with great professionalism. Men found more and more mercenary work as guards; protecting the town's silver from the greedy Magpie.

The Magpie himself considered all these things as he crouched behind a chimney stack. He was swathed in loose black clothes, almost invisible in the shadows, which he took some comfort in, for the night was not moonless. But it was cloudy, and he had judged it a safe enough risk to venture out, because this was thenight, the biggest adventure yet. There was no wind to disturb the inky sky, and a blanket of darkness lay over the town. The Magpie scratched at the back of his neck irritably, adjusting the bandanna that served as a mask. That was the worst part of it really, he thought. The mask made his face hot, particularly as he wore a large tri-cornered hat on top of it, pulled low. But he couldn't risk anyone seeing his face, even if he was fast. And he needed to be fast now.

He stifled a yawn as he waited, looking down the hill and seeing how still the town was now. How silent. And yet how strong the undercurrents were; how disturbed the people of Port Royal were becoming. Not the normal people so much, he thought, with a crooked smile. They knew they were safe, they knew the Magpie was a friend. But the rich snobs, the ones who turned their noses up at the mass of humans in the market place, the ones who attended executions at the fort and left smudges of delicate face powder behind, they were definitely worried. And it amused him. Below him the Magpie heard the tramp of footsteps, as the guard passed across the gravelled drive before the front door, on his leisurely route around the house. The Magpie began counting under his breath, sliding down the incline of the roof with the silent and precise movements of a cat. He had just less than four minutes to get inside Governor Swan's house...

*

But many months before, before the Magpie raised his head in Port Royal, what was there?

For the barmaid known as Little Meena, there was washing up, like there was on many days. Not that the clientele of the The Black Rabbit were particularly bothered what state their mugs were in, so long as they arrived with ale, or sweet sticky rum in them. Meena always tried to get it done in the morning, so that most of the assortment of mugs, plates and the odd pieces of cutlery were cleaned ready for the evening. It was a difficult process. The fire had to be stoked high to warm up pots and buckets of water, that were then sloshed into the smallish trough, at the back of the kitchen, that The Rabbit used as a kind of sink. Meena didn't see the point really, it made no never mind to her or most people whether their bowl was clean or not. But Peter insisted that The Rabbit should have standards. Whatever he meant by that.

So there she was, up to her elbows in warm water that by now had a thin patina of grease floating on the top. She wiped the last plate down, so battered and dented it could have been an odd shaped bowl, and left it with the stack of others to dry. Wiping her hands down on her apron, she was about to go and help Mamma, the cook, make a start on the gumbo for later, when something caught her eye, glinting through the bottom of the used washing water. Dipping her hand tentatively back into the sink, Meena looked in surprise at the silver spoon she found clutched in her hand, dripping dirty water and shining brightly. It certainly didn't belong to The Black Rabbit, but nor did it belong to the type of person that came there. Meena ran off to find Peter, curious, and more than a little puzzled. Peter knew the answers to everything.