Free The Great Game by Lavie Tidhar Page B

particular scheme, back in the day… but St Claire, unable to give up on the excitement of the streets, or the profits to be made therein, had transformed himself yet again, this time calling himself Fagin, and this time… diversifying. Smith did not like the man, but he had proved himself useful on several occasions.
    Â Â "I'm looking for a boy," Smith said.
    Â Â "Oh?" Fagin tried to look innocent, and failed. "What do you need? I've got blaggers and bug hunters, buzzers and dippers, fine-wirers all."
    Â Â "Yes, I know," Smith said. Fagin ran the beggars and pickpockets, especially young boys. They were his eyes and ears and they did the jobs he no longer did himself. "One of those, I think."
    Â Â "Only one?"
    Â Â It was quiet in the church, quiet and dark – and suddenly there was a knife in Smith's hand, and its tip was touching Fagin's throat, almost gently, like a kiss. Fagin, carefully, swallowed.
    Â Â "I think you know who I mean," Smith said quietly.
    Â Â "Heard about your friend," Fagin said. "We were all sorry to see Byron go."
    Â Â "And how, precisely, did you hear?" Smith said.
    Â Â "Come, come, now, Mr Smith," Fagin said. "Put the knife away and let's talk like gentlemen."
    Â Â "Why?" Smith said. He increased the pressure and watched blood well up on the other man's neck. "Neither of us is one."
    Â Â "Quite, quite. Still…"
    Â Â "Yes?"
    Â Â "It's a matter of push, of chink, of coin!" Fagin said. "And I'm not talking a dimmick or a grey. I mean soft, I mean–"
    Â Â "You mean money," Smith said.
    Â Â "Man's gotta eat," Fagin said, almost apologetically. "Think of the kiddies, what?"
    Â Â "Do you have the boy?"
    Â Â Fagin's eyes never wavered from Smith's. A small smile seemed to float on his lips. "Do you have the money?" he whispered.
    Â Â Smith sighed. There was no arguing with Fagin, nor threatening. He put the knife away. "I'm going to need a receipt," he said.

 
 
THIRTEEN
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    The Angel , or something like it, had sat on St Giles Circus for centuries. Before Les Lézards had outlawed the practice, the Circus had been home to the gallows, providing both death (for convicts) and entertainment (for London residents), and the Angel had been the traditional stop for those about to be hanged, for a final drink and – if they were notorious enough – possibly for signing a few autographs.
    Â Â It was a low-ceilinged pub, with a fire burning in the hearth, a card game or two in the back rooms, and various other transactions of a not-strictly-legal bent taking place in murmured conversations all around it. Smith knew it well.
    Â Â He went in with Fagin, through the small maze of the pub and out, to the cold and dismal yard at the back. There, several small boys huddled around a makeshift fire, warming their small, pale hands. "The devil makes work for idle hands!" Fagin barked and the boys straightened to attention, glancing at their employer and the man he was with.
    Â Â "Living the good life, eh?" Fagin said. He clicked his fingers. "Go," he said, not unkindly. "Go, ply your trade, my little wirers. Bring Uncle Fagin purses and their like, the heavier the better." He looked down at them benevolently. "Go!" he shouted, and the small figures scampered away, swarming past Smith and Fagin on their way to the streets.
    Â Â "Not you, Oli," Fagin said, snatching one boy's arm. The boy stopped and stood obediently.
    Â Â "This is the boy?" Smith said. He knelt down to look at the boy's pale, haunted face. "What's your name?" he said, gently.
    Â Â "Twist, sir," the boy said, looking down.
    Â Â "A fine thief," Fagin said, which, in his own way, had been a compliment. "Oli here's the one you've been wanting, Smith."
    Â Â "Let me be the judge of that," Smith said. He pulled the boy gently a little way away from his master. "Here," he said, calling to Fagin, and tossed him a coin