Flash Fiction: The Bookseller Part II

Abas grunted, which seemed his usual way of expressing discontent, moving his empty cart over to the side as the guard turned away from the old man. The boy twitched, leaning against the side of the cart and pushing it a little on the wheels.

To Abas' discontent, the cart moved, and he heard a foreboding thunk, like the sound of weathered wood creaking ominously.

Abas cleared his throat, and the boy stood straight, the cart landing on both wheels.

"How many live at home with you, boy?" Abas asked casually, as the guard turned to another merchant, who seemed more irate at the time the morning unloads were taking. Abas laughed. The merchant was still rather young, then. No point trying to hurry an Efbridge guard. Abas turned back to the boy, who scratched his head with a long finger.

"Just three, me and my little sisters."

"And you're the eldest?" Abas sucked his teeth, sighing loudly, "Where do you live? With relatives, or in a home your parents left for you?"

"No," the boy shook his head, his bottom lip curling into a bit of a grimace, "My parents didn't leave nothing for us when they died."

"So they left something?"

"No," the boy's eyes narrowed, "Nothing, that's what I said."

Abas sighed, choosing to move on, "Where do you live?"

"Right now?" He eyed Abas dubiously, "There's a home further in town that has a space between two roofs, where you can sit without getting too wet in the storms. My sisters are there, now."

"Shouldn't you talk to the guards, get you in somewhere safe?" Abas thought this the sensical move.

"What would the guards do?" the boy asked, "We're orphans, kids of nobody, without inheritance. They'd throw us in jail, or try to send us somewhere else." He shook his dirty head, "Nah, we're better off on our own, making our way." He stood proudly. Abas wondered if the boy looked like his father. His own nephews, who lived in Zurex with their parents, were the spitting image of Abas' brother, but Abas, again, had no family of his own. He wondered what his own sons would have looked like, had he had a few.

Abas sighed, looking over the harbor, to the southern port of the city, Lower Efbridge. People there were nicer to boys such as this, but Abas doubted that the boy could pay to charter a boat there. Maybe he didn't even know about the homes there.

He would've mentioned it, but it didn't seem appropriate. And anyway, the guard had motioned for Abas, and he lifted his cart and moved up in line.

"Your papers are incorrect for the cargo," the guard yawned, "No way you're getting these crates today."

"What do you mean?" Abas reached into his pocket and pulled out the folder of paper, "The papers are with the crates, all I brought are the documents saying their mine."

"The papers you need are on the crates?" The guard guffawed, "Well, that seems to be your problem. Not much I can do. Maybe you need to write to whoever sent these to you and ask him to send you what you need. For now, fuck off."

Abas sighed, folding the pages back into the thick leather pouch and grabbing the handles of his cart and turning it around. He groaned and muttered, but made sure to mumble only when he was out of range of the guard. The owner of those crates lived in Anocindra, about as far away as possible, and it would take at least a month, maybe two, as the days shortened into winter's grasp, to get copies of the documents that were tucked into one of the crates. All he'd ever needed was the proof, never the contents, or the change of ownership. How could he get those? And on and on, pushing the empty cart back to the shop. He'd need to open soon, start drafting letters to those waiting for books, and start a petition to make sure the crates were moved into a waterproof cell in the fort.

The boy had disappeared. Maybe the ruffian had found another target, decided Abas wasn't worth it. Abas shrugged, pushing his cart up and up, passed the shadow of the castle, back home.

He opened the shutters, unlatching the metal catch and ushering in the warming air outside. There was a fire in the corner that he'd started lighting only a few nights ago. It was a modern piece, the old, grand fireplace too dangerous with the gaping hole. This design was a smaller box that warmed the room quickly, without dangerous embers flying out of the open front. This design had a mesh grate in the front, with an iron dragon soldered onto the doors. Abas always had a sweet spot for the tales of Ophelia and the Dragon.

He moved another log carefully into the fireplace and closed the grate. Behind him, the door to the shop swooped open.

"I'm not quite open yet, but please make yourself--" His eyes fell on the boy, the boy from the dock, panting wildly, a sheaf of paper clutched in his hands.

"What--" Abas started.

"You needed these?" The boy panted.

"Boy!" Abas chastised,

"It's Zacharias," the boy snapped.

"What have you done?" Abas rounded on him, yanking the papers from his hand.

"You needed them, right?" Zacharias panted, wiping his sweater forehead.

"Well," Abas groaned, "Yes, I did, but you can't steal, especially from the guards!"

"Why?" the boy asked, "There your papers, right?"

"What if you'd gotten caught?" Abas said, "What if you get caught, here, by the guards? What will they think?"

"Well," Zacharias smoothed his dirty tunic, glancing at the shop with wide eyes, "Good thing I've never been caught." He smirked.

Abas' chest rose with anger, "Don't you even think about it, boy, I'll take you to the guards myself."

"What?" Zacharias glanced from the shelves to Abas, "No, I only steal food, for my sisters. I wouldn't know what to do with these..." He wandered over to a shelf, thumbing the spine of a particularly beautiful rendition of The Beginning of the World, as Told By Bandar Tohah.

"Well, you can't eat them," Abas snapped. He glanced away from the dirty boy and examined the papers. They were crumpled, but indeed, they were the pages he needed to claim his books at the dock.

Abas sighed, sitting behind his counter, watching the boy wander around. A few times, the door opened and Zacharias shriveled into the corner, knowing to be as small as possible in the presence of Abas' clients.

Only a few noticed him, with sort of a distaste, and Abas redirected them to new books or wrapping up their orders quickly.

Zacharias moved closer to the counter as the door closed behind the tall woman with a particularly delicious copy of The Queens and Kings of Hal.

"I don't think I've ever seen that much money," Zacharias whispered, then bit his lip. Abas glanced at the wad of notes in his hand.

"Do you get to keep it all?" Zacharias asked.

"Of course not," Abas laughed, "Much of it goes back to the City, as tax, and then to purchasing new books, paying for crating fees, shipping fees, charter fees, and occasionally, supplies to rebind a book, and then whatever's left goes to buying what I need to live, besides books, like food and repairs and..." he gestured at his new fireplace, "Wood."

Zacharias tilted his head, "How do you rebind a book? What does that mean?"

Abas sat forward in his chair and pulled a battered copy of East Continent Dances, Ophelite Period, and ushered the boy closer.

"As a book goes through its life, sometimes it gets battered, pages torn, covers stained, just... you know, wear and tear, and if someone wants to protect their books, when they get bad," Abas peeled the cover open, the stained cover and broken spine hiding almost perfectly white pages, "You have to take care of them, as best as you can."

"Sounds fun," Zacharias touched the broken spine with more care than Abas had expected.

"It is," Abas said, "But sometimes it's nervewracking. You have to care for the book, like a life--" Abas glanced at the boy.

"I get it," Zacharias said, nodding and smiling, "Like someone you love."

"Exactly." Abas cleared his throat, "Boy... I--"

Zacharias wrung his hands.

"Go get your sisters, and when you get back, you'll go get lunch from the market, understand?"

"Thank you," Zacharias twitched like he'd been prodded with a knife.

"Just lunch," Abas said awkwardly.

"Yes, sir," Zacharias said, scurrying from the store.

Abas hadn't decided exactly what to do with the boy yet, or if there was something he could do. Not just the boy, but his sisters, too. But maybe there was something he could do today, help them enough to get across the bay and into an orphanage, but Zacharias had been surprisingly pleasant company, despite knowing nothing about books.

A book, Abas thought, to learn how to read. That would be helpful.

The door opened, and Zacharias appeared, a younger girl holding a baby wrapped in a dirty cloth. Zacharias' face was tight with worry, and instantly, Abas was awash with a sense of overwhelming panic. What could he do, three children, when he was old enough to have grandchildren. No, he decided, just lunch and a book, and they'd be on their way. That would be payment enough for the boy delivering the papers.

Abas took out the wad of cash and extracted a bill, sending Zacharias with a list to the small market a street over.

As he made his way to the door, Zacharias turned around, his young face scrunched in an alarmingly adult way, "Please watch my sisters."

Abas' jaw dropped, but as the boy closed the door, he couldn't find any words.

The girls stayed as still as their brother, sitting on a lounge Abas usually used to walk clients through particularly breathtaking tomes. The youngest was maybe a year, maybe a little more, and the other, arms clenched around her sister protectively, was maybe five. Both had large, red, dusty cheeks, their skin tanned. He expected the baby to cry, but she only watched with fearful eyes, not blinking. The elder sister glared at Abas, and he kept his distance, dusting bookshelves, all three awaiting the return of the young boy.

The guards threw the door open, dragging Zacharias between them. They all started talking at once, Zacharias' face tear-streaked.

"Stop!" Abas said, "One at a time, why do you have this boy restrained?"

"He has a lot of money on him for a ruffian, and when we questioned him, he said he got it from you, sir." The guard said. To Abas' dismay, it was the guard from the docks that morning. Abas moved across the desk, hoping to obstruct the guards' view of the crumpled papers on the desk.

"That is correct, I've hired this boy as my assistant."

"Really?" The guard's eyes narrowed, "Not like you to hire dusty miscreants, Abas. You can tell me if you're covering for him."

"No such thing," Abas tried to smile, "He started this morning, in exchange for room and board for him--" Abas bit his tongue, electing not to mention the girls, who were now underneath the lounge.

"Well..." the guard let go of Zacharias, sending him hurtling towards Abas. He reached out, catching Zacharias before he collided with the desk.

"There's something else you need to know, sir." The guard straightened, "We were actually coming up to talk to you about it, about your cargo in the docks." The guard glanced at Zacharias, and Abas felt his heart jump into his throat.