Streets of Gold
by Scott Wilson
“She’s
a snob. Always putting on airs and using them
fancy foreign words to impress us, hey cobber?”
Scabby Steve said.
Four other
homeless beggars warming their hands around the
fire grunted and groaned in agreement. Rancid
Rolf stepped back from the flames. Tinea Tim
squeezed the January rain from his socks and held
them up to the fire. Gruff George and Old Cheese
Pete fought over the empty flagon they found in
the alley behind the Sleeping Ogre.
“You lot
aren’t even lis’nin to me are you?”
Scabby Steve said.
“Yer, we
are,” Rancid Rolf said.
“So’s
them lot,” Tinea Tim said, pointing over to
a small group at the end of the alley.
“Bugger
off,” Gruff George yelled, “Less you
want more problems than you’s got already.”
They began to
whisper among themselves, then left the alley;
except for one lonely figure. She walked towards
them.
“I do say.
That was rather rude an inhospitable of you. Just
when I had found a lovely group of socialites to
have a dandy tea party with us, you go and scare
them away.”
“Oh,
bugger it. Sorrys ‘bout that ‘Trisha,”
Gruff George said.
“What was
you’s doing bringin’ outsiders round
our part of the city for, anyways?” Scabby
Steve said, picking another puss filled sore off
his arm.
“I am
sure you would all agree that we could improve
our standing if we network, you know. Make
connections with high society, like the wizards,
knights and nobles of the city.”
“We’s
got no homes,” Tinea Tim said.
“We’s got no employments, we got
nuthin’. How’s we gonna make cone...,
conni..., connikshons? We’s ain’ even
got no tools to make dinners.”
Felicity,
Princess of the Paupers, pulled a crumpled piece
of parchment from her filthy, rumpled and torn
evening gown.
“I keep
telling you, Timothy. This is my deed to the
royal castle. Once papa passes away it will all
be mine.”
Rancid Rolf
looked at the faded ink on the parchment,
squinting in the poor light, and because his own
stench made it hard for his eyes to open more
than a slight peek at the best of times.
“I’s
learnt some readin’ once, and that looks to
me like... what’s it called... an advitizmen
for that group of people’s who came to the
city last year. What was they’s called? ...actwhores.
Those people’s who’s pretend to be
other people’s for money.”
Patricia
looked at the parchment, pointed to the picture
of the prince holding a skull, above the title,
Rattlespear’s Hammet. She quickly folded it
back up and poked it back in a tear in her dress.
“No, no,
no. That’s my great uncle the Duke of Hammet.
He’s daddy’s favorite brother.”
She quickly
waved goodbye and rushed off down the alley
saying, “must go now, time for tea with mama.”
They
didn’t know where she always went at times
like these, but they were sure it wasn’t the
royal castle.
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