Before the Luck Runs Out: Can Magic Save Jedda? (Chanmyr Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  This is a work of fiction. All characters are a work of fiction from the author’s imagination.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

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  Before

  The Luck

  Runs

  Out

  Chanmyr Chronicles Book One

  TJ MUIR

  This is a work of fiction. All characters are a work of fiction from the author’s imagination.

  Independently published

  Copyright ©2016, TJ Muir. All rights reserved. This book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher. Exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Muir, TJ.

  http://tjmuir.com to find more great stories, updates and offers!

  Special thanks to Tirzah Hescock- editor extraordinaire, who has held my hand through the painful revision process and made this a superior novel.

  I want to say thank you to the people who have supported me along the way, in the writing of this story. In particular, the many authors and support groups that have helped me. Susan Kaye Quinn, Derek Murphy, Laxmi Hariharan, and my many critique and beta-readers.

  ISBN-13: 978-1540725318

  ISBN-10: 1540725316

  Chapter One

  Merchants were packing up their goods for the day as the bustle of the market faded to a trickle. The golden light of the sun was sinking toward amber as the twin moons rose. This was the best time for Jedda. People were distracted, their thoughts focused on cleaning up: home, families, dinner. He felt in his pocket. There was a handful of pennies, enough to keep himself fed for the next few days. He looked up, to see the third moon, the Nibbin, skittering across the sky. He cast about the market square, for anything he might have missed. One last peek.

  He spotted a carriage parked outside the gate as he made his way toward the large stone gate by the west side of the square. A carriage, not a wagon like most people used in the city. He felt that little twitchy tingle, and couldn't refuse. The carriage was unmarked, but the man who got out was well dressed. Dark hair and eyes reminded Jedda of a hawk and a pigeon at the same time- a burning intensity that might or might not be harmless.

  Jedda ducked into the shade of a leafy tree while he watched the crowds. He kept his attention on the one particular coin purse, even while he scanned the square.

  A few people stepped around where he stood, averting their eyes slightly in their attempt to ignore him. He was used to it. No one paid attention to a dirty little beggar. Customers pretended he didn’t exist, and vendors knew a malnourished youth had no coins to spend. He had learned to use that invisibility. It served him well at times such as these as he sat and waited, watching.

  A quarter of a Nibbin later, Jedda's patience was about to pay off. Jedda waited until the man turned his attention to one of the many vendors before he brushed by casually—and came away with the purse in his hand. He began to slip away into the thinning crowds. A strong hand grabbed his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. The grip held him firmly, and all attempts to twist himself free- failed. The hand that gripped him was much larger than his own, covered in burgundy sleeves with white trim and silver embroidery. Cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck as he froze. He was both terrified and truly surprised. How had he gotten caught? He never got caught.

  Jedda didn’t know what might happen to a boy caught stealing. Did they hang people for that? He really didn’t know. He had no one he could ask these kinds of things— not for many years. He had heard horror stories. He presumed most of those were the kind of tales that always circulated through the back alleys and hidey-holes. People told stories, especially to young children and newcomers, stories to scare them, and also to serve as cautions, warnings. It had never mattered if they were true. Until now.

  “You’re very good,” The man said, towering over him, dressed in the finest clothes: the burgundy was accented with forest green as well as the white and silver trim. Jedda looked up at the man through straggly red-blond hair. He stood frozen, like a rabbit before the hawk, not even daring to blink. The market square was still moderately busy, but everyone was suddenly focused on anything but the two of them. No one wanted to get involved—not for a dirty beggar in the streets. Turner, selling produce, looked on with pity, shook his head. Jedda's one potential ally, powerless to save him.

  “Where are you from, boy?” the man asked. Still silent, Jedda’s fear betrayed him; it was barely a twitch, a flicker of the deep fear he felt. The man shook him by the collar, holding him firmly but also keeping Jedda at a distance. The fancy-man was being very careful of his expensive clothes. “Where do you live? Speak up! Don’t press my patience.”

  “Below the canals,” Jedda spit out, trying to tell enough to satisfy the man, but vague enough not to give himself away— on the slight chance that he could escape. Right now, he longed for the familiar comfort and safety of the little hiding-hole that had been his home for several years now.

  That area of the city, run down and largely abandoned, had long been known as a place where homeless people clustered. The man nodded as though his suspicions were confirmed. He looked Jedda up and down as though taking in some level of information or weighing a decision.

  “You survive on the streets?” he asked.

  Jedda nodded in reply, a bare flicker of movement.

  “You don’t normally get caught, do you?”

  Jedda shook his head, a tiny motion, no.

  “Just a bit ‘lucky,’ at your street skills?”

  Another nod.

  “And you’re very good at moving around and going unnoticed?”

  Jedda blinked, surprised, wondering how this strange man knew him so well. The two sides of his mind raced, chasing down the aspects of the question. Did the man know him? And, why would he, a homeless, fatherless half-breed, be of any interest to this wealthy, powerful man? The other part of his mind kept searching for an escape.

  “Now. If I were of a mind, I could sit you in a hot kettle of fish,” the man noted, eyes narrowing. “What's your name?” When Jedda didn't answer immediately, he shook him.

  “J-Je-J,” he stuttered, as his body was being shaken.

  “Jay,” the man repeated. Jedda didn't correct him.

  “How old are you, boy?”

  Jedda shrugged, afraid of another shaking, but honestly unsure of his age. “Dunno,” he said. His age had never really mattered before. His life was measured more by the day, rather than in years.

  The man looked him over. Jedda felt the man sizing him up. “Maybe as young as twelve years, or as old as fifteen or even sixteen,” the man guessed. “Hard to tell. You don't look well-fed.”

  Jedda swallowed hard, afraid of what would come next. Whatever it was, it would not be good for him. Turned over for pu
nishment, beaten, or worse. The thought of ‘worse,’ made him cringe. It wouldn’t be the first time, someone used him, violating him, for their own pleasures. He had sold himself a few times when he was very hungry. He didn’t like remembering the experience—selling shreds of dignity for a few scraps of food or a warm place to sleep. That was before he took to stealing- and found he was good at it. But he decided he would rather steal than debase himself again. There was something cold and calculating in the man’s eyes. The face was sharp and chiseled; with a thin beard framing it all. But the eyes were too dark and too bright, bottomless. Old nightmares surfaced.

  “I might have use for a boy like you,” the man said. Jedda cringed, afraid of what was going to follow. A surge of instinct kicked in. Without turning his head, he looked around, eyes darting both ways. He hoped for some distraction, some opportunity to shake himself loose. Once loose, he was sure he could disappear into back alleys or rooftops. The fancy-man blocked the head of the alley, grip remaining firm. Luck was not in his favor.

  “I could turn you in to the city authorities Or, I could deal with you myself. Claim you, right here. Make your life very very unhappy,” he said, staring down at Jedda: two very dark eyes. The depth and darkness Jedda saw there told him just how dire his position was. He wasn't sure what 'claiming' meant, but it didn't sound like anything good.

  Jedda nodded, turning pale.

  “But, I have plans for you. This way,” he said, shoving Jedda forward, down the side alley, without ever letting go of his collar. Jedda noticed Nibbin, the little thief, chasing its way across the sky, ducking behind the hills to the east. No help there. The smallest moon, nimble and quick, was giving Jedda no special blessings today.

  The alley towered over them. A service alley for the back of shops. Quiet now. Jedda knew the alley had no back exit, it came to a dead end. Nowhere to run, no escape. Jedda noted a drainpipe. He could scale up it if he could get himself free. But he also worried what would happen if he failed. The alley was safe from the crowded street, away from curious eyes and ears. And no one would care what became of him.

  The man turned Jedda around to face him. “I have a job for you, and you have a debt. A boy like you, who can get his fingers past my guard, a boy who can move around invisibly.” It was clear that this man, had something specific in mind, something that didn’t entail Jedda losing his dignity. “You are going to work for me. You will be my eyes and ears on the street, and you will run errands when I require them. I will teach you what to look for. No more stealing of purses.” There was a specific emphasis on the last sentence: both a warning and a command.

  Jedda was trying to figure out what was going on. What use could such a wealthy and powerful man have with him? There was only one use people like him had for people like Jedda. And Jedda had sworn that he would never again let anyone use him again. Turner, the grocer was the only one who treated him kindly and didn't hurt him. So far, he'd been able to keep that promise to himself.

  “You will steal people’s secrets,” the man added. “And bring them to me.”

  He found his voice, his street savvy kicking in.

  “And who’s you bein?” he stuttered.

  “Karrahk. Is enough for you to know.”

  Jedda let out his breath, which he didn’t know he had been holding. A faint hope came to him, with two realizations. One, he was not in personal danger from this man, not in the way he had imagined. Two, he might get out of this nightmare without whipping or punishment.

  “I steals secrets from sommun, and I tells you… and then what?” Jedda asked, his eyes narrowed, suspecting a trap. What value could he have to anyone?

  “And I pay you for it,” the man said, pointedly.

  “So I steals secrets, and you give me money for it?” Jedda asked, disbelieving. His brain was scrambling. Not only was he not in imminent danger, he might even get out of this with a few silver.

  “The right secrets can be very valuable, Jay,” the man explained.

  Jedda frowned, considering this.

  “So why don’t I just steals the money? Easier.” Jedda didn't see the benefit in trading secrets for coins-- when it was so easy to just steal the coins. Jedda had begun thinking in terms of street-survival, forgetting his predicament for the moment.

  “Because you owe me a debt,” Karrahk said. “Also, I can give you far more than you could ever steal,” he added.

  Jedda knew the gods were dangling bait in front of him. Maybe this wasn't such a bad day after all. He mulled it over. He had never stolen any more than he absolutely needed. He had a place to sleep- safe from danger, and he made it from day to day. Was this man intending to give him enough so that he didn’t need to steal? He didn’t know what to make of that.

  “How will I finds ya?” Jedda asked, head cocked, in negotiating mode now.

  “I will find you. But,” Karrahk paused. “Let us agree, instead. Every quarter moon-span, When Nibbin sets on its third trip across the sky,” he said, meaning after full dark, but before the middle of the night. “At the Statue of Kambarr.” Kambarr, another thief. Kambarr was the thief of the gods- who stole a spark of magic from the Moons. The double-reminder was not lost on Jedda. But the story told that Kambarr managed to escape, so maybe it was a good sign.

  “I don’t knows that place,” Jedda said, looking up at him. Jedda didn't even know who the man was, except a name, but didn't ask.

  “So. We will see if you demonstrate your talents,” the man said.

  Chapter Two

  Jedda spent the next three years scrambling around the city for Karrahk- trading secrets for coins. He ate regularly, whole meals. For the first time in his memory, Jedda was not trying to stay one step ahead of hunger. Sometimes Karrahk brought him food, also: rich foods, exotic cooked meats- better than any leftover scraps he dug up behind restaurants or anything he could steal. Turner often shared out some of his own meals, and always fed Jedda in exchange for help with odd jobs. But his usual fare had always been stale bread, the fruit he could swipe when vendors weren’t looking, cheese when he was lucky, combined with table scraps thrown away from taverns. This new food was much appreciated.

  Ribs began to fill out, and he lost the gaunt look that years of hunger had chiseled into his expression. He strolled through places where only a few moonspans before, he had lurked. He explored areas across the bridges, lush gardens and up and down stepped terraces, always on the hunt for the secrets that Karrahk held so precious.

  Jedda had always lived on the fringes, trying to remain invisible. It was the way to survive, without family or allies. Now, he let that skill serve him. For the first time in his life, he began studying people and learning what normal people did. A whole vast network unfolded. He saw the city through this web of connections and associations.

  He felt important, a sense that grew in proportion to his cache of secrets. He watched people come and go. He began to see patterns that he had never noticed before. People, once feared and avoided, became interesting. Through it all, there were two men Jedda saw regularly, but with no particular attachment. Jedda wondered if they were watching him, and if so, why. There didn’t seem to be anything interesting about them so he shrugged it off. Figuring out who people were became a kind of game: one Jedda liked playing and became very good at.

  His deepest burning mystery, though, was the identity of his benefactor. The man had told Jedda to call him Karrahk. Jedda thought if he could figure out who Karrahk was, then he might understand why the man had taken an interest in him.

  They met regularly, every quarter-span, after the city’s day-traffic quieted down, with the secrecy of the dark. The statue of Kambarr, on the lower gardened terraces that overlooked the harbor, was their regular place to meet. Jedda had worked hard to find the place and then worked harder to find a route that he could travel safely back and forth.

  Jedda grew very street savvy, chasing down all sorts of back alleys, and even into the wealthy areas of Tatak Rhe. He was surpris
ed how many wealthy people made their ways into unsavory places, or sent servants on errands. He learned a lot, just by following the comings and goings of different lords, different servants. He learned to recognize faces, barges, colors, as well as patterns and habits. He noticed there was one young lord that came down to the brothels each week, on first-day. He also realized his role was not unique. Young children often ran errands for the wealthy; picking up or delivering mysterious packages. And a few were also rumored to carry drugs into the city, for those that could afford them. But from what he could tell, the other kids running around seemed to be engaged in fetch and carry.

  “‘n then he headed inta the brothel house,” Jedda told Karrahk.

  Karrahk frowned. It was his thinking and calculating frown; Jedda knew it well. “Does he see the same girl each time, or does it vary?”

  “I’ll finds that out for you,” Jedda said, wondering why it might be important. Did it matter? His thoughts began to wander, considering what it meant if a man preferred a single prostitute, or many different ones.

  “Ask how they like him, if he treats them well, or if he abuses them,” Karrahk added. The man was thinking, planning and plotting. Jedda watched as Karrahk took out a small pouch and offered Jedda a small piece of candy. He also took one himself. Jedda smiled as the peppery sweetness melted in his mouth.

  Then Karrahk turned his dark eyes toward Jedda. “You are exotic looking, handsome features. Do you know who your parents are, Jay?”

  Jedda shrugged.

  Karrahk didn’t look surprised that Jedda didn’t know his parentage. “No surprise there. Many orphans live their lives without ever knowing these things.”

  He stepped closer to Jedda, took his chin between his hands, turned his head sideways, tilted his head back.

  “Faenyr blood in you, that’s for sure, with that golden coloring. Not to mention the unmistakable Faenyr essence. It's so strong on you, you can almost smell it- even to a Chanmyran like me: yours, butterflies and roses. Strange essence for a street urchin,” Karrahk said, half talking to himself as he assessed Jedda- much the way he might assess a prize dog or horse. “But red-golden hair? No idea. Same with those green eyes.”