Free Steam Dogs by Sharon Joss Page A

man tossed the timepiece into Simon’s lap. “That’s brass,
lad. Not heavy enough by far for gold.” His captor reached into the breast
pocket of his worn suede jacket and pulled out another pocket watch. “This was
what you were after. Nothing worth your effort is ever kept in an outer
pocket.”
    He stared at the watch in his lap. “What do you want?”
    “I'm curious. Why is a rich English boy living alone on the streets
of Brussels?”
    The words slipped out without thinking. "What makes you think
I'm rich?"
    The man nodded at Simon's shoes, now scuffed and worn. “Those
shoes of yours cost a good deal when new. What's the matter, did your father
threaten to send you away to boarding school?"
    Simon stared resolutely out the window. They'd left the city. Brown
fields, some splattered with deep patches of winter snow stretched across the
flat landscape in either direction, with only the occasional farmhouse or
cottage to be seen. "I don't have to tell you anything."
    "Ah, then." The fellow's expression softened. "Trouble
with the law.”
    "No, it's nothing like that." The words came tumbling
out. "My parents are dead. I came here to live with my aunt, but she
must’ve moved." Or died. They all
die . "I'm on my own.”
    The old man made a dubious harrumph. “Not doing a very good job of
it, I’d say. What’s your name?”
    He looked out the window. “It doesn't matter.” A bittersweet pain
washed over him. “Simon,. His voice broke.
    “Well, Simon, you’re a lousy pickpocket. I saw you juggling in the
square a week ago. Are you a fire mage?”
      No one would pay any
attention to a poor street lad juggling on the corner. It was the greenfire
that caught their attention. The sour taste of bile rose at the back of his
throat.
    “If I were, you’d be burned to a crisp and I wouldn’t be here now,
would I?” And my father would still be
alive. “My mother was." He allowed the mock flames of to emerge from
his fingertips.
    “You’ve got good hands. Good coordination. A much better juggler
than thief, I’d say.”
      He shrugged. “I grew
up in Ryde. Everyone juggles there.”
    “Where they have the big carnival?” The old man looked pleased. “Oh
I’ve heard of it, of course. Always wanted to go. Well, well. Isn’t that
interesting.”
    “What?”
    The old man sighed, and patted the cane he held across his lap.
“This is the thing of it. I’m not as agile as I used to be. My previous
apprentice died of the cholera this summer. He was a couple years older than
you, but I think you’ll catch on quick enough.”
    Whoever he was, he wasn’t the police.
    “You remind me of him. He was blond and blue-eyed just like you.”
The old man shook his head, as if unable to believe his own words. “My wife
will have a fit when she sees you, but I think I’ll make you my new apprentice.
    Wary, Simon gave the man a sharp look. “Apprentice to what?”
Anything would be better than better than freezing to death.
    When the old man grinned, he showed a lot of missing teeth.
“You’ll discover that soon enough.”
    He held up his manacled hands. “If that’s the case, unlock me.”
    The man shook his head. “It’ll take us a few days to get where
we’re going. I’ll feed you, but you’ll stay locked up until you manage to free
yourself on your own. If you can’t figure it out by the end of the week, I’ll
tie rocks to your feet and throw you into the Sambre River.”
    The hard look on the old man’s face held no mercy. A sick chill of
fear coursed through him. “You’re mad.”
    “No, lad, I’m Master Benoit. I’m the best thing that ever happened
to you.”
    #
    Master Benoit brought him to his isolated estate several miles
from the city of Luxembourg. As the driver pulled carriage up the long drive,
Simon whistled at the sheer size of it. The manor reached three stories, with
tall, narrow windows set evenly across the front set into smooth, nearly
seamless stone. A dark slate roof and blue