The Ambiguous Puzuma

Carys sat tight, as if she had any other choice. She'd only known their valiant leader a few weeks, but Geraint had seemed oddly touchy about the cargo on the cart behind them, hidden away under a canvas sheet. Hywel had tried to take a look when he'd arrived, and he'd been warned to keep away in no uncertain terms. It was vital to their next job, apparently, and sensitive to light. That was all they'd been told. Not for touching, or peeking, or sitting next to. Something to be left alone, whilst they all packed in like sardines.

Hywel guessed it was some sort of device, like a keepaway, that Geraint had somehow procured. A secret weapon that would make this next heist easier. Carys wondered if that was true, or if it was just something he didn't trust them around; too valuable to even tell them about, in case that gave them any ideas. If he was transporting spoils from a previous haul, she could understand him being jealous of his share. There was some degree of honour amongst thieves, but also a whole lot of thieving.

They heard the Workhouse before they saw it: a clanking, clanging cacophony. It was the opposite of music; an orchestra of instruments assembled just to create discord. But then they saw it, and that was no different. Four pillars of black smoke, exuding from four pillars of soot-coated stone. A blight on the landscape miles high, and a distortion just as far in each direction. Muscles had to work make the noise. Something had to burn to make the smoke. It had been quiet in the villages they'd passed, drained in service to this accumulated noise.

"That's our target?" Hywel asked. His eyes were furtive things, forever scuttling and scurrying around a room, as black as beetles and twice as skittish.

"Yes. The infamous Pen'roath Workhouse." Geraint grimaced. "You've heard the stories, right? Inhumane conditions. No escape. Lord Pen'roath rounds up the homeless, and sets them to work until they break. He calls it cleaning up the streets, but he's the one who put them out of work in the first place."

"What do you mean?" Carys asked.

"You know keepaway charms?"

"Of course." They were small stone trinkets popular with travelling caravans. They were supposed to be able to deter crossbow bolts, make arrows think twice, and even sap the power from a sword-thrust. It was something in their reaction to the metal. For the wearer, they were like a set of invisible armour. They were even said to twitch at the movement of metal nearby, providing early warning of intruders or bandits in the forest.

"They can only be made around here, from Pen'roath stone. Time was they were all lovingly handcrafted by the locals, and traded to travellers in exchange for things they could only get from elsewhere. Then Lord Pen'roath put up this Workhouse, and now they're mass-produced at scale. Dozens of families out of business. Then he takes the credit for giving them work."

"Right." Carys said. "So we're going to rob him?"

"Exactly. A victimless crime." She'd heard that Geraint had a thing about that. Only taking from them who deserve it. It sounded dangerous to her.

"The keepaways seem like they keep folk safe," she said. "I know we're one step from bandits ourselves, but I don't want to be ambushed on the road. Isn't it good, that more of them are being made? If the families couldn't keep up with demand?"

Geraint gave her a cold look. "Lord Pen'roath is stealing people's livelihoods. That's one step from banditry for you. The strong taking from the weak. That's who we're protecting. Not just the travellers they trade with, but the charm-makers themselves. No stone can protect them from a man like that. But we can hurt him in return."

"That's not necessarily the demand, either." Hywel stepped in. "I heard some say that the charm could be reversed, to attract rather than repel, creating a bolt that arced towards it target. I've half a thought that's what Lord Pen'roath hopes to manufacture in bulk."

Carys fell into a respectful silence. The question had been a misstep, and she wasn't so foolish as to press the issue. She was new to the crew, and had to show deference to her elders. For now. One day, Geraint might tolerate her questioning his principles. But today they had a job to do, and he was the one who'd planned it. The skills she'd been hired for hadn't included ethical debate. She had to keep her questions on the job.

"Is it the keepaways we're taking?" She tried a change of subject, once the silence had stretched long enough.

"Gold, hopefully." Geraint did not bear any anger in his voice. "I'm not sure there will be any wages, the workers only paid in room and board, but I heard a most delicious rumour that Lord Pen'roath uses the building as a stronghouse for his treasure. He doesn't like to keep it all in one place, or so I'm told, and there are only so many places as well fortified as this. So I'm mostly here for that. But yes, I'm sure a few charms won't do us any harm."

He drew the wagon alongside the Workhouse. It was a towering edifice of grey stone, its smokestacks so tall that Carys could no longer see their tops, lost in the clouds of their own creation. But the doorway was tiny; she and Hywel might be able to slip below the lintel, but Geraint would need to stoop. She wondered if that was an intentional humiliation, or just a way to minimise vulnerabilities, from within or without. There were no windows.

"It's certainly well fortified," she agreed. The door made up for its short stature in armament, and wore the metal studs of an Iron Company archer, together with further metal banding, as if prepared for a battering ram. She could see why people might wonder what Lord Pen'roath kept inside. She risked a peek in the gap to the frame and say the shadows of three thick bolts above a drop bar. Nothing she could pick, battering ram or not. "So what's your plan now?"

Geraint nodded over his shoulder, and they followed him to the back of the wagon. Carys wondered what other siege engine he had brought with them, and had begun to wonder if he had sprung for explosives, so she was surprised when he pulled open the tent to reveal a pale, corpulent man in what seemed to be his nightclothes.

"We have a Miser," he said, with no small satisfaction.

"Where in the world did you find him?" Hywel asked.

Geraint grinned. "The inn at the crossroads. The Moon Under Water? I felt him through the wall. They had him hired as security: keeping an eye on the place, averting any trouble, you know. Like a human keepaway."

"And he agreed to come with you?"

"I said I'd give him a cut."

"Is it wise, to threaten a Miser?" Hywel eyed the man fearfully

"I mean that I'd cut him in. An equal share. They were paying him one song a day. Plus room and board, almost like Lord Pen'roath does here. That's downright miserly itself."

"Sorry," Carys interjected, "but what's a Miser?"

"You haven't heard of Misery?" Hywel asked. "It's... well, you really haven't heard of it?"

"It's the conservation of energy," Geraint explained. "A sort of restlessness. You know if you spent the day in bed, you would almost start to shake with all of the pent up energy you haven't used?"

"I... guess." Carys refused to meet his eyes. For some reason, the prospect was making her blush.

"Restlessness is contagious. If you're sitting next to someone who is twitching with boredom, you can sort of feel it, and it makes you antsy too. The more restless they are, the more it spreads outwards. You can almost hear it humming. That's what I meant about the inn. Misers conserve their energy as much as possible, so that it overflows and starts to spill into the world around them."

"Thrumming would work better," Hywel said, trying to regain a foot in the explanation. "If we're comparing it to vibration."

"So it would."

"How does this help us?" Carys asked. "He's going to make the door so restless it walks away?"

"Something like that."

"Really?"

"Well, not exactly. Misery is just unused energy, desperate to be channelled in one sense or another. The most skilled Misers can direct it in any number of different ways. Our man here was lying abed in the inn for days, trembling with unused potential, and I think he was using that energy to reach out and sense what was happening downstairs. I think he could have focused and caused a concerted blast of energy if he needed; to knock a brawler off their feet, for instance. Or to detain a thief."

"Oh, great."

Geraint turned to the man in the wagon. "We're trying to get through this door. Can you force the lock?"

"Locks," Carys said.

"Can you force the locks?"

The doughy man flicked his eyes; a tiny motion she would have had to be watching for.

"Is that it done?" Hywel asked.

"That's a nod," Geraint said. "Stand back."

Carys was again not sure what to expect. The last minute had not doubt her much on the limitations of magic. Would the door be blasted from its hinges? Would there simply cease to be a door at all? Perhaps the Miser represented an explosive after all. They all moved to stand on the other side of the wagon, just in case, but the Miser only frowned and closed his eyes, as if trying to remember someone's name, and they heard a muffled thump behind the door.

"Is that it done?" Hywel asked again.

Geraint nodded; with his head, not just his eyes. "Subtle enough, but someone inside might still have heard that. We'll have to move quickly."

They skirted the wagon again, and Hywel went to ready the horses whilst Carys raced Geraint to test the door. She was quicker, and turned the black iron handle as soon as she could reach it, before any doubts could set in. Once a lock was picked, it was usually better to slip in and out faster than her thoughts could catch up. She put her shoulder to the wood, but it wouldn't budge.

"What now?" She looked at Geraint for answers, knowing that her eyes must be as wide and wild as a hare's. He was maddeningly calm.

"Try opening it outwards."

"Oh." She pulled at the door harder than she needed to. It came smoothly. "Right."

They headed in - or tried to. Carys made it a few steps beyond the threshold before her feet started to feel sluggish, and a few more before they ceased to move at all. She turned her upper body to look back at Geraint, as if she was also somehow pushing the wrong way here, but only made it halfway before her torso as well.

"What is it?" she asked. Her mouth still moved, at least. "Is this a keepaway? A ward to keep us out?"

"I don't know." Geraint was caught mid-stoop. For the first time since she'd met him, there was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes.

"I do." A new voice to her right, accompanied by footsteps. Carys could not see him, other than the movement of shadows in her peripheral vision, but guessed a man was approaching. Several men, by the clatter of their boots.

"Lord Pen'roath." Geraint answered her. He no longer looked uncertain. Now, he was simply afraid.

"Indeed." The man continued to approach, entering Cary's field of vision like a cloud over the moon. He was a tall man, but thin, and pushed past her like she wasn't there. He gave her a cursory glance, then dismissed her just the same. "I doubt that we have had the pleasure."

"Hywel!" Geraint called out, although he couldn't turn to face the door. "Flee! Save yourself!"

"Alas, he cannot." Lord Pen'roath gave a thin smile. He was inspecting Geraint now. Leaning over him, so that he seemed to be bowing. "Well done, Madoc. Fresh bodies to be put to work. The mill always hungers for its grist."

"The Miser." Carys breathed the realisation. She was aware of the other men behind him. Behind her. "He was your creature. A plant. The only way for us to get in. But able to keep us here as well."

"There was never any treasure here, was there?" Geraint was one step ahead of her, one step behind. "You spread those rumours. To lure people in. To create more criminals, more debt bondage, slaves who brought themselves to your door. It was only bait for your trap."

"Yes." Lord Pen'roath spoke softly. He reached out a hand and tilted Geraint's head to one side, like a man assessing a horse. Carys could see Geraint fighting it, and then a twitch as he tried to raise his own hands, no doubt to do something a little more forceful.