The Way of Caine ,The Warcaster Chronicl - By Miles Holmes Page 0,2

saw his attacker gone, it abruptly vanished. He screamed an oath. Reaching for a barrel of rubbish, he cast it aside, spilling the contents. For good measure, he trained his pistol on a large turnip as it rolled from the upturned barrel. The shot splashed rotted pulp against the greasy brick wall. The report of his weapon echoed like a thunderclap in the confined space, and Horace shook with rage. Screaming a final time, he turned on his heel and stamped off.

“Stupid! It was stupid! Boss Dakin … he will … ” Tylen fretted as he and Caine pushed through the crowded streets on a dilapidated row of tenements. As they neared the last door in the row, the light of the gas-lamps fell short. A red door upon a broken stairwell loomed over them.

“Did the tarheels get a look at you or didn’t they?”

“No, but …”

“Ech, then give yourself some credit, why don’t you? You’ve faster feet and lighter hands than anyone I’ve ever seen. If you just had the stones to go with them, you’d be a nightmare. Now take your cut, and trouble yourself no more on it.” Caine smirked, clapping Tylen on the back.

“Will it be enough? Referrin’ as I am to your share?” Tylen called after him, his expression softening to concern.

“Maybe.” Caine said, tapping his cut from the top of the steps.

Caine watched as his ginger-haired friend melted into the flow of workers shuffling home from the mill. He turned to the door, and saw faint lights within the crooked gap in the shutters. With a deep breath, he entered.

A motley collection of weathered furniture and castoffs filled the living room. The long wooden dining table was held in balance with a stack of old books, and knitted blankets had been carefully placed over torn upholstery. If there was one thing he could say about his mother, it was that she would never let hard times rob her of her dignity. Caine took it all in with a sigh.

Despite the remains of a fire sputtering in the hearth, the house appeared empty. His sister was likely on shift now, over at the textile factory, but what of his parents?

Caine paced until he heard a faint sob from upstairs.

Bolting up the creaking steps, he found his mother alone in her bedroom, curled in a ball next to the bed. She didn’t notice his arrival, and pulled a house shawl tightly around her as she wept. Her long brown hair had been left unkempt, a rarity for her. Caine stared at her in the gloom, a lump in his throat.

“Ma?” He asked softly. Pulling herself up, she wiped her eyes, and tried to smile.

“Allister … you’re home?”

“For a moment … what’s wrong, Ma?”

“It’s nothing, Allister. Come downstairs. You’ll be hungry, I expect?”

Caine sighed, his face hardening. “Where is he?”

“Never you mind! It’s just, he ...”

“Where, Ma?” Caine pressed.

“The Boiler Plate, I think. It’s not his fault, Allister! Not this time,” she said, as resolutely as she could manage. Her eyes told a different story. He saw lines around those eyes, saw the years of worry they held, and he could not bear it. He turned to go, but paused at the doorway. Taking the still bulging coin-purse from his coat, he tossed it on the bed beside her.

“Of course it’s his fault.”

Caine opened thick double doors to reveal a roaring fire at the hearth of the Boiler Plate. All around it, tankards were struck and ruddy-faced men laughed loudly. A stone’s throw from the mill down the road, it was a full house of poor working men, rejoicing in another day done.

Caine scarcely noticed. All he could see clearly was his father Seamus hunched in a booth at the back, a full tankard before him. Actually, he was more pressed into the booth, hemmed closely on either side by two men. The paunchy old machinist pressed a wisp of graying hair across the top of his bald head, and adjusted his spectacles, but did not touch his tankard. Caine frowned. A second later, the large man next to Seamus slammed his own tankard to the table, and the elder Caine nearly jumped clear of his seat. If he didn’t know better, Caine could have sworn his father was stone cold sober and scared witless.

As he drew closer, Caine felt nauseated. The men sitting with his father were not simply drinking partners.

They were the men he’d just robbed, not an hour ago.

Caine wheeled abruptly to face the