Eterea always provides.

Back in the days before their family had fallen apart, when his brother was alive and his mother was working a regular job, she told them regularly that Eterea, the One, would always provide. Even now, living in Gates, a slum near the drop, his mother continued to believe. Aelius didn’t. He never had.

“Come on, you bastard,” he muttered before taking a deep breath, plunging his hand in to the stinking muck. "Provide for me."

After years of prowling through garbage, Aelius had just about lost his sense of smell. Maybe Eterea was good for something, after all, because this find looked ripe. Castaway building materials, remnants of Gates’ big fire months ago, formed a hard crust on top of a mass of molding vegetables and the gnawed on carcass of an animal. One of those damn cats that came over from Arse-End, probably. Shoving it aside, Aelius scooted closer and braced himself against the wall. You couldn’t trust eyes when digging through muck, good finds were just as greasy and dun as rotten fingers—which Aelius had found last week. Touch, now, touch could be depended on. Chances are, if it felt firm and hefty, it was worth something.

Yesterday, he’d had a lucky break. Some dumbass had gotten himself killed and had been thrown out behind one of the rougher taverns in the district; night soil and spoiled food had covered him before he’d been seen by any of the less hardy, more nose-blessed guttersnipes. He’d found a whole day’s wages sewn into the man’s shirt. Some days it was easy to hunt through garbage. It didn’t get any easier than a dead man, though. Other days, it was just about impossible to find anything. Today was one of those days. There were so many stones and broken pots here that it would take him all day just to sort through it all.

Still, he’d hunted all morning and this was his best shot. His mother hadn’t come back last night; she’d been working late. If he wanted to eat, he’d have to provide for himself today. Probably tomorrow. Where was she, anyway? His mother had been acting strangely these last few weeks. Aelius had gone by the Copper Pot, known to most as the Piss Pot, yesterday and hadn’t been able to find her. He hadn’t gone in--it wouldn’t have gone well. The innkeeper still hadn’t gotten over their spat last Heimis.

"Tides, he’s a selfish ass." Aelius grunted and spat. It pissed him off every time he started thinking about the old man. "That was a year ago." He squeezed something round in the pile until it popped. "It wouldn’t have hurt his purse if --"

Something tapped, briefly. Aelius sat up straight and stopped. Had something fallen? Footsteps? No, none of those were quite right. It had been a small noise. Almost like a...

Aelius looked down at the pile of garbage and, inspiration striking, leapt backwards. It struck him in the face, seeped into his clothes, and pooled at his feet.

"Too late, you fucking urchin!" called someone from the open window above. A balding, oily-looking man with an upturned chamber pot in his hands leered down at him. "Now get out of my alley before I get you again." The man spat on Aelius to reinforce his threat.  

"Lacan take you, old man!" Aelius yelled as he turned and ran from the alley, shaking his head forcefully as he went. Maybe he could shake off this shit without having to wipe at it. There was a mutt near his house that was always caked in mud and shaking, and it seemed to work. It wouldn’t do to have two shit-crusted souls in one alley; his mother would kill them both.

He ought to climb up to the fat man’s window and toss him into his own steaming shit. Problem was, he couldn’t climb, and, at nine years old, he couldn’t lift him anyway. He shook his head, both to dispel the thought and to shake loose more filth. He still had the money from yesterday and had pocketed some decent hinges. It wasn’t a complete loss; they’d bring some change if he brought them to Malac in the square.

The hovels at each side of the narrow street looked familiar. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was Malac’s son’s there. The windows had glass, unlike the others around. They were foggy and bubbled, but expensive looking compared to the sheets hanging in the other shacks. Malac had once claimed you could buy glass that was completely see through, but Aelius had told him he was full of shit. If Malac’s son’s house was right here, then the fountain and market were up ahead. It would be nice to wash and spend some of his haul.

Aelius couldn’t help but growl as he ran by a small market stall piled high with sandy loafs of bread, upsetting the owner and its lone customer. The merchant and customer both shuffled backwards and made warding gestures. The owner, a beady-eyed Pietran, had sold him bread filled with rocks years ago and had refused to refund his money. For weeks afterwards, Aelius had taunted him with loaf-shaped piles of rocks carefully arranged at his doorstep. He must be a sight, but it served the Pietran right if his customer ran off. Aelius was nine and had been since Brumis, but he bet he looked older. Scrawny and filthy, his tunic was made for a man twice his age and at least three times his size. His breeches, however, were about five inches too short. To top it all, he was robed in another man’s night soil. He was the veritable King of Gates! The merchant waved him away and shouted curses at him in Pietran.

"Just another day in Gates, rock-licker" Aelius called back. Just another day in Gates.