Pietro's eyes flare as if someone had dripped scalding water under his eyelids and that manages to wake him up. He rubs the back of his hand hard against his eyes and the pain subsides into a general exhausted throb. Was up too late last night, but eyes don't have to give themselves pangs while you're still alseep. Hey, who knows, someone jostled the hammock and woke you up and you didn't notice right off. Didn't matter the cause. Eyes shouldn't hurt like that.
The day is grey-light enough, streaming through the hatch opening when Pietro bothers to see, to allow for being awake. He has to wonder whether it's worth it to swing out of the hammock and and get to work. It isn't as though anyone really cares. It isn't as though anyone is awake to care. Most of those swinging or sprawling down in the hold with him are still out and snoring. If someone had jostled him, they'd hurried out quickly.
Pietro has a hard time believing in the hypothetical jostler. These are stone sleepers, most of them. Might as well be dead for all they notice. Oh, they do their fair share of tossing and turning and the occasional grunt, but if we are talking about essential eye flickers and half-conscious gurgles, these could be trampled and devoured by a horde of wolves before they arouse. Easy.
They are stone sleepers, and they are also poor. Pietro knows this. It is a rare piece of wealth that drops this far down. Sure, there's probably some pretender here or there who thought it'd be neat to play the pauper, but the chances of such an idiot being on this ship, in this hold, are sparse. No, the pickings will be lean and more dishonest than the dishonest. There's no shame, really, in pilfering from the fat. It's quite a different matter to clean the pockets of those so desperate their ribs barely contain their lungs.
But it can't hurt to look. Pietro can never help but look. There's always that chance the rich idiot decided to sleep in the hold or that some poor unfortunate has something he'll be obliged to part with should Rafael see it.
He knows it is wrong. He's quite aware of that fact. He also knows that no matter how still the hold is now, there can always be some restless soul, concealed from his sight by rise after rise of bodies, who will feel his questing fingers and have him in an arm lock before he can squeak. He still has to look. It's so ingrained in him now that he doesn't know how to stop.
Has nothing to do with being a gypsy, he asserts to himself as he always does with bitter loyalty. He's a bad person and he would have been a bad person no matter what he'd been born as. He'd have been bad if he was born an English noble. Or even a king.
His feet are light over the wood -- he walks largely on his toes, the bulkier heels never touch the ground when he's trying to be quiet. His back is hunched and his hands always hover over pockets and cloaks with a detatched curiousity that is always fueled by a deeper desire for taking and accumilating and the value doesn't matter. His own pockets are full of useless trinkets, long worn away from overuse, all them old. Some, he's had since he was a kid and they still have his kiddie tooth marks. He'd gnawed on such things when he was angry or lonely, which was always often -- the fact that it happened often makes him embarressed for being weak. And bad. He always has to add the bad, just so he doesn't forget.
A cough behind him cuts his brooding short and he flings himself to the boards, to disappear among the other sleepers, even though whoever had coughed had probably seen him. But he'll be quiet unless whatever it is makes him come out.
A second cough is followed by a "Pietro" and hiding any longer won't work anyway. He scoots around and stands up, his palms in front of him to show they are empty. Evan is leaning out the hatch and Pietro might have figured it would be him.
"Light sleeper?" Evan asks, without much conviction.
"Yeah. I have nightmares and then I have to pace until I feel better." A lie, but you have to be good at dispensing lies if you're a thief and want to live.
"Uh huh. Well, come on up and let's get started."
Pietro is sure Evan had seen him and when the dark boy's head vanishes back top side, he chews his lip for comfort. When a little blood is trickling down his neck, he does feel better, and is able to follow Evan. Chances ae his hours on the ship are numbered, but he always feels better after he's let his blood before anyone else has a chance to. Makes him feel like he's in control.
The dark boy looks at him quizzically as Pietro balances himself on the deck. "Cut yourself?"
Oh, that. He wipes the back of his hand against his lip and smiles a tight, insincere smile. "I'm clumsy."
"Come here." At least Evan doesn't waste time. Pietro shrugs and pads toward him with his head half tilted toward his chest until he's within a foot. The proximity makes him uncomfortable.
Evan's fingers hook hard into Pietro's headband and bring him up on his tiptoes to look directly into furious brown eyes.
"If I report what I just thought I saw, gypsy, you'll be in serious trouble. I know a few barrels we can chat behind if you care to discuss it."
"Uh . . . okay." His throat keeps jogging up and down between his jaw and his collarbones and there isn't anything else he can say.
Evan drops him roughly to the ground and motions him to follow. Pietro doesn't really have much choice. What can he do otherwise?
Those barrels do not seem to be the most private place in the world to Pietro, who can only eye them with apprehension. Anyone coming from . . . several different angles could catch the "discussion" and Evan's reporting wouldn't be necessary, if that report is anything like he thinks it is. But the dark boy's arm catches his wrist and dragged Pietro behind the barrels with him. His discomfort only rises. Proximity is becoming downright claustrophobic.
"A-ah, so, what did you think you saw, then?" he stammers hurredly, just waiting for the captain to come careening around the corner.
"A kid skulking around the passengers and searching pockets. That's just kind of a suspicious thing right there, you think, maybe?"
"Um, maybe." Any excuses for skulking just aren't coming to mind.
"Empty your pockets."
He does so, trying hopelessly to remember if he'd actually stolen anything in the hold. So far, what he is pulling out looks familiar enough. A smooth stone that had once been part of a road, a weathered, rusted nail that no longer has any sort of point on it, strips of bark so tough and well-carressed that the hard parts have long been chipped away and what remains resembles old skin as much as anything. Junk like that. Pietro breathes a silent sigh of relief. He'd stolen many valuble things before, but only the most tactile and (usually) the cheapest items remain with him. There is a difference between having to have something and wanting to have it. In the first category, as soon as he had it, he'd drop it by the roadside at the next oppurtunity. The other, he might keep for years and no one would bother him about it. Thank goodness (well, some other person's goodness) that all the stuff in his pockets is in that latter category.
"Didn't find anything you wanted, then?" But there's an odd gleam in Evan's eyes that Pietro hasn't seen before. It might pass for a smile.
"Not really." He hopes he sounds like he's joking.
"I couldn't get you in trouble from evidence like
this," he says as he sniffs the skin-like bark suspiciously. "But I can based on what I saw, because
the captain trusts me and I do think, sorry, kid, that stealing was what you
were about to do. So, what would you
suggest?"
"About what?"
"Should I turn you in or give you one of those, whatsit, second chances, knowing full well as I do that you probably will do it again?"
"I don't know." Excuses are still not coming to mind.
"Could you promise me that you wouldn't do it again?"
"No." I guess one could try honesty.
He sighs. "Why?"
"Because it's what I do. It's not like I keep it."
The dark boy's eyes rove over the junk pile again. "I can believe that. What do you do with it? Toss it to the poor?"
"Just drop it."
"Wherever?"
"Pretty much."
"Why on earth do you bother, then?"
"Just do."
This time, Evan's sigh is one of those frustrated groans. "It's still trouble, kid. If the captain, no, if anyone finds little piles of valuables around the ship, what do you think's gonna happen? Do you really think that they'll try to return each piece to their proper owner? Well, the captain might, but anyone else will keep it, unlike you -- and the captain, he'll want to know who the joker is, understand?"
Pietro nods reluctantly.
"Look, I'm sure you're not just trying to be silly, but this is a really bad habit to be carting around with you. Especially on a three month journey in open sea. No good, kid."
"I'm not any good," he barks as if that's some kind of defiance.
"And you can't stop."
"No. I try and it doesn't work. I still have to do it."
"All right, all right." He throws up his hands, but his face is clenched and concentrating. "We have one port before we peel off for America. I'll drop you off there without telling the captain why -- I'll make some excuse -- and there won't be any charges pressed or heads rolled or anything of the sort. How does that sound?"
"I want to go to America," Pietro presses, one hand pummeling weakly into the other one.
"Want to, or have to?"
"I won't be safe here." The admission is soft and, embarressed, of course.
"I believe that. You've been caught before."
"Yeah. Caught pretty bad." He hitches his shoulders around his ears. "Not like I have a death warrent or anything, though."
"What did you steal?"
"A knife. It was silver and it had a stone handle that was black." His hands move around his lap as if he is running it through his fingers again. "About this big, a nice size for holding, and it was very sharp. If you didn't hold it flat against your palm, it would slice into your skin. Never held anything like it."
"Then I can guess you didn't drop it by the roadside."
"No. I wrapped it in a scrap of blanket." His eyes close and his hands continue to move dreamily. The flat of one fingernail rubs slowly against the scabbed side of the opposite hand, where he'd cut himself with the thin edge and it'd felt so . . . different. Almost holy how clean it had cut, the edges of the gash so straight and even and the blood didn't well out for what seemed like an hour. "I wrapped it and kept it in my pocket. But I'd stolen it from a rich guy and he approached my caravan about it with threats and guards. They always think the gypsies did it, you know. One of the kids saw me messing with it and he told the guy. Maybe he wouldn't have said anything if anyone in the caravan liked me, but I stole from them, too. It was dangerous, see, for me to travel with them. So they brought me to this guy and I had to give it back and his guards dragged me away from the caravan."
Pietro glances quickly up and around. The deck is still suspiciously empty and Evan's dark eyes are starkly transfixed on him.
"I thought I was going to die," he continues uneasily. "But they didn't even rough me up. Just took me to a clump of trees and the guy told me that if he ever saw me again, he'd personally cut my hands off and shove them up whatever . . . whatever, uh, body opening he could find that would fit, even if he had to slice some new ones that'd work." He can feel sweat pricking inside his ears and swallows hard. "And he said some other stuff like that. Took him seriously. If you . . . drop me off at the next port, I'm afraid he'll find me."
Evan exhales, scratching the back of his foot. Pietro hadn't noticed the almost contortionist position Evan's sitting in until now. "'Tro, kid, do you know anything about this fellow? Such as his profession, mayhaps? No doubt he's a huge big-wig if he's packing guards, but if he's sedentary, you might not have anything to . . ."
"He's a merchant, I think. I dunno of what. But he could be wandering anywhere. And I dunno his route, but . . ."
"Olnack is the stop before America, and it's a large city. Much larger than the one you just left -- a hub, even. Heck, we only stop in the port we just left because it's the captain's home town, see?"
"How large is large? And what do you mean, a hub?" Pietro blurts in a stab of forboding.
"Very large, probably the largest city on the Spanish coast. So it's fairly important for trading purposes. If your buddy's a wandering merchant, there's not much chance he won't show up there from time to time." Evan cracks a knuckle, briefly breaking gaze. "It doesn't change much, though. I'm sorry. My job's fairly busy and there's no way on earth I can supervise you and do what I'm hired for."
"But he'll kill me!" Pietro barks, leaning abruptly forward. Evan doesn't flinch.
"You're assuming a lot with that statement. I can understand that you're scared, but your merchant probably has better things to do than scout for some thieving idiot, no offense, who's not liable to ever steal from him again. And Olnack is . . . big, let me say that again. You're not likely to run into each other. And, if you do, there's that whole possibility he's completely forgotten you, right?"
Pietro shakes his head spasmodically.
"Oh, really, a silver dagger wouldn't be anything to his pocketbook. You probably were more amusement than inconvenience."
"He seemed . . . serious." He really had. Pietro hadn't felt capable of doing anything more complicated than running like a bunny after his encounter.
"They all do." Evan frowns. "Kid . . . it's just the facts. You've got to get off at Olnack and you'll probably be fine. Don't give this rich little rear mystical abilities, okay?"
"I don't know how to survive in a city." This particular train of argument probably won't work as well as the last one, but it's all Pietro can think of.
"You apparently don't know how to survive anywhere." Evan gets to his feet with more grace than Pietro would have considered possible, as Evan had been sitting in such an . . . odd way that -- "Look. The deck's going to get real busy once the bell rings and I'm the fellow who rings the bell, right? So the chat's gotta end now -- I take some pride on getting it rung right on the sixth hour. Tell you what. Boarding at Olnack takes a day or so. I'll see if I can hook you up with work somehow and we'll see how it goes. All right?"
Pietro has been trying to follow suit in the whole "rising to one's feet" thing and finds his knees stiffer than he thought. His guilty nod ends up directed more towards his thighs than Evan.
"Splendid. Trot along to breakfast after the bell and keep your hands to yourself."
He pads off, leaving Pietro to extricate his back from the funny crick it had bent itself in.
