Free Those Above: The Empty Throne Book 1 by Daniel Polansky Page A

of the Brotherhood Below, some ornery motherfucker with a burn scar on his neck and a knife in his waistband. The Brotherhood was responsible for smuggling and prostitution and pretty much every other illegal activity on the Fifth, and they didn’t like having their monopoly challenged by a pack of kids, and they weren’t slow to make known their displeasure. Of course the docks were straight out, they were at open steel with the crew living there, wouldn’t be heading that way just for the lark of it. That left Seven Points or the North Straits, and there was a fair bit of back and forth as to which. Thistle might be the leader, but they were an anarchic bunch, cajoled and threatened rather than led.
    They settled on the Points. There weren’t any particular troubles with the locals that way – that didn’t mean they wouldn’t find any, but it at least meant there wouldn’t be a crew of them waiting in an alley with sharpened iron. Course, upslope meant more money and that meant more chance of running into the Cuckoos, but the Cuckoos didn’t much concern Thistle – they were less of a concern than the other gangs, gods knew, that bunch of slow fat drunkards comfortable trading the hatred of their entire species for a gold eagle a season. And Seven Points was a good place to lose anyone following you, a handful of different pipes joining at one central location, hence the name.
    Felspar was pushing for the Straits, but that was just because he was trying to bed a girl that lived there. ‘I’m not walking all the way to Ell Street just so you can not have sex with someone,’ Thistle said. ‘If I wanted to watch you not have sex with someone, I could just stay here.’
    ‘She’s ready to pop,’ Felspar insisted.
    ‘Only thing you’ll get out of that girl is a stiff cock.’
    ‘Or the drip,’ Rat added.
    ‘He ain’t smooth enough to get the drip,’ Thistle said.
    ‘Why you gotta be smooth to get the drip?’ Treble asked.
    Thistle bit his tongue and shook his head. You could forget how stupid Treble was so long as he was staring silently at a wall, but even Treble couldn’t stare silently at a wall for ever, and once he opened his mouth it all came storming back at you.
    Thistle dropped down from the crate he was sitting on and started off at the sort of speed that made it clear the conversation was over. The rest fell in behind him.
    The broken pipe was the unofficial barrier of the neighbourhood, a length of metal tubing rising up from the mountain and over the road that had burst some generations previous and never been fixed. Of course it wasn’t on any map, but anyone living there knew what walking past it meant, knew you better quicken your step, pull your coat tight, keep your eyes wary but don’t get to staring at nobody. Past the border it was open season on you and anyone born in the Barrow, just as it was in the Barrow for anyone from anywhere else
    Thistle wasn’t over-worried; not in the middle of the day, not with Treble and the boys with him – but he noticed just the same. They all noticed, the stroll turning to a march, Treble taking point almost unconsciously, because even the fiercest thug would take a good long second thought before taking a swing at him.
    They’d been walking for half an hour when Thistle stopped in front of a small general store just off the main thoroughfare. No one said anything, but then it was an old game for the four of them, their parts well rehearsed. Felspar would be the distraction, because he had an even smile and eyes that might seem innocent if you weren’t looking closely, and if you were foolish enough to think there was still an innocent left on the Fifth. Rat and Treble would keep lookout, because they weren’t suited for anything more. And Thistle would make the grab, because he never flinched, or at least hadn’t yet. It was this last that Thistle supposed made him the leader. Treble was a better scrapper, and Felspar a louder speaker,