ONE
A Chase Through the Streets of the Kasbah
The last sunset of the summer hung low over the ocean. As evening settled, a cold breeze twisted through the narrow streets of a city upon the shore called the Kasbah of the Udayas. The Kasbah stood on the desert coast of Morocco, a dry and dusty place, where an army of sea ships sat docked near cobblestone streets and clay buildings stacked upon the rocks like steps.
Through those dangerous streets, now falling into darkness, a lone figure ran. He slipped through alleyways and curled around corners, light as a feather on the ocean wind. His name was Jim Morgan. He had once been the son of an English Lord but was now a pirate and a thief, fourteen years old, survivor of countless encoun- ters that would have been the death of men twice his age. A cockysmile stretched across his ruddy face as he flew through the city, barely reining in his laughter, on the run for his life – as usual.
No less than ten of the Kasbah’s City Guard rumbled down the streets in pursuit, bearded, turbaned, and armed with curved scimi- tars. The troop was led by a furious shop owner named Ali, who was chattering in enraged Arabic, vowing revenge and retribution.
Just as the thought of Ali’s puffed up, red-cheeked face was about to loose the laugh from Jim’s lips, a second figure leapt over an alley wall and landed beside him. George Ratt, Jim’s best friend in the whole world, arrived exactly on time.
“Good evening, George,” said Jim, never breaking stride.
“Evenin, Jim,” said George, tipping his hat like the gentlemen he most certainly was not. “Lovely night for a run, innit?”
“I suppose so, Georgie, but I really wasn’t planning on running quite this fast. Ali the shop owner is quite a bit more upset than I thought he’d be.”
“Oh, he’s upset alright, mate. He’s only about half a block back, and he’s got himself about fifteen or so of them city guards.”
“Fifteen? Really? I hardly see what all the fuss is about. I mean, we did offer to pay, didn’t we?”
“Of course we offered to pay, just like the upstandin citizens we are!” George flashed Jim his best hurt look before a dangerous grin cracked the corners of his mouth. From seemingly nowhere, George produced a small vial of glowing red liquid, twirling it over his deft fingers. The crimson light emanating from the concoction danced over the two thieves’ faces until George vanished the vial back into one of his pockets. “And the old goof said he weren’t gonna sell it to us cause we looked untrustworthy. Us? Untrustworthy? Can you imagine?”
Jim’s laugh finally broke free. George Ratt was the best friend a boy could hope to have, loyal to a fault. He was also one of the greatest pickpockets in the entire world, a skill which he and Jim had most recently employed on Ali the shopkeeper, relieving him ofthe glowing vile of magical juice. The young adventurers had a dire purpose for the concoction. But first was the small matter of their escape.
“Race you to the gate,” Jim said, picking up speed. “Jim, you ain’t never been faster than me a day in your life!” They ran as fast as they could, pace for pace, laughing as theywent, as though they had not a care in the world. Ahead, an iron-barred gate blocked the way through a thickstone wall. Behind him, Jim heard the guards growling that the foolish thieves had just run themselves into a death trap. But they were sadly mistaken. Jim and George never slowed, tearing for the gate as though it were made of air. Just before they crashed into the bars, the gate’s lock clicked sharply, and the rusty bars creaked open.
As Jim and George sped through the now open archway, a shadow on the wall behind them kicked the gate closed again, then stepped into the red evening light.
“Hiya, Jim and George,” said the smiling shadow, whose name was Peter Ratt. Peter was George’s younger brother and lock picker extraordinaire. Ever since Jim had met the Ratts, back in London, there had never been a lock found to stump Peter. “You know,” said Peter, with a cluck of his tongue. “You might be gettin a bit sloppy in your old age, Georgie. Isn’t the idea of bein a thief about gettin away without anyone knowin you was even there? And if you are gonna let people know, maybe it shouldn’t be a bunch of blokes with swords.”
“Speak for yourself, Peter,” said George, his smile slipping from his face as he glared at his brother. “Me and Jim almost ran smack into that gate. Took your time openin it, didn’t you?”
Peter just shook his head at his brother, folded up his little pouch of tools, and tucked them into his pocket with a satisfied pat. “Gotta give meself some sort of challenge now, don’t I?”
George was about to unload some boast of his own when the guards finally arrived. They slammed into the gate, tugging andpulling on it with their burly fists, cursing and spitting at the boys through the bars.
“These gates are to be locked at night!” shouted one of the scimitar-wielding watchmen. “How is it you have gotten through?”
“Well they seem locked to me, don’t they?” said Peter, thumbing over at the guard. Their argument forgotten, George and Peter doubled over, hands on their sides, laughing in the guards’ faces like hyenas. Jim was about to join in, when through the tangle of guards stepped a giant of a man. His shoulders filled the archway in the wall and his arms were like tree trunks. Jim’s mouth fell open and the Ratts choked on their laughter as the enormous man took hold of the gate, swallowing the iron bars in his monstrous grip. When he pulled, the hinges groaned, and the bolts began to pop from the wall.
“Well,” said Peter, staring with unblinking eyes. “I supposethat’s another way to do it, innit?”
“Run!” Jim cried, and like a shot the three friends were offagain. The boys were hardly a block down the street when the gate crashed to the cobblestone behind them, releasing their pursuers with cries of the hunt renewed.
But as surprised as Jim was by this turn, he was yet to be worried. For as it happened, there were three Ratt Brothers, and the third and smallest of the trio was just up ahead. Paul Ratt stood hat in hand next to a set of stairs ascending the side of a building. He conversed with the building’s owner through an open window as his two brothers and Jim came barrel- ing down the street. He motioned to his cohorts with an expectant smile, as though they had arrived right on time.
“Ah,” he said, “here they come now. See? Nothin to fear at all. Trust me, sir, when me mates and I are all finished up, your roof is gonna be the most rain proof in all the city.”
“But it hardly ever rains in this place,” said the man, staring skeptically at Paul and his friends. “We live in the desert. And is it not nearly night? It is too late to begin work. And what is it your friends are running from anyway?”
“The fact that it hardly ever rains is all the more reason to be prepared, old chum,” said Paul, his smile never faltering. The youngest Ratt was every bit a born conman as George was a pick- pocket and Peter a lock picker. “And have you ever worked on a roof in the daytime? Intolerable heat. As for me mates, they were just runnin here from our last job, weren’t they? Have you ever seen such dedication? And I’ll tell you sir, your neighbors are gonna be laughin at you when it rains that time later this year – cause they’ll be drip free while you’ll be swimmin in puddles. Trust me, friend, I’m from London, and we know our rain.”
With that, the building owner finally shrugged and relented, allowing the four thieves onto his roof just as Ali and his guards came pouring down the street.
“Just like London, eh lads?” whispered George, once they were all safely on the roof and looking down on the guards below. The guards’ turbaned heads bobbed like onions in the shadows and their scimitars glimmered in the last bit of sunlight sneaking into the city.
“I don’t recall Butterstreet and his lot wavin swords about, Georgie,” said Peter, a hint of I-told-you-so in his voice.
“Well, if they don’t see us, then they won’t slice us, now will they, Pete?” retorted George. “Besides, I think a good run like thissun is good for us. It keeps—”
“—the skills sharp,” Peter and Paul interjected in chorus. “We know.”
As George balled up his fists, Jim suppressed a laugh. He fore- saw yet another tussle from the three brothers, which usually ended with bloody noses and lips, and the three of them proclaiming one of themselves or the other the greatest brawler in the known world. But there was little time for more shenanigans. Darkness gathered swiftly. MacGuffy and the other pirates would be waiting for Jim and the Ratts to return to the mighty Spectre, where Lacey waited as well. At that thought, a quieter, sweeter smile crept onto Jim’s face.
“Come on then, mates,” he said. “Time to do like ghosts and vanish. That shopkeeper and those guards will simply have toremember with fondness the day they were lucky enough to cross Jim Morgan and the Brothers Ratt.”
With that, Jim took a running leap over the thin alleyway to the adjacent rooftop, already imagining a hot dinner in his belly and a good sleep in his hammock. Unfortunately, Jim would soon be reminded that even the best laid plans sometimes hit a bump in the road – or roof.
Jim landed like a cat on the other side. But a string of popping cracks followed his usually quiet arrival. Jim dropped his eyes to his feet. The roof was not made of clay. It was made of thatch, only a scant crisscrossing of thin sticks. Jim whirled back with upraised hands to warn his friends – who were already in mid-air. They had leapt together, with wide obnoxious smirks plastered on their cheeks.
“Oh, bother,” said Jim.
The Ratts hit the roof all at once to the sound of a brittle crunch, and with Jim, they crashed into the building in a cloud of dust, landing in four heaps in the room below. Fortunately, the thatch at least afforded some cushion – along with the stacked carpets lining the floor. The four of them had somehow managed to tumble into a rug shop. Jim picked himself up with a groan, cracking his back, coughing and hacking in the dusty air.
“Didn’t you see me hold up my hands?” he asked his friends, all rubbing at bruises, wiggling their fingers and toes, and checking for anything that might be broken or unnaturally bent. “That’s the universal sign for stop, you know.”
“Oh sure, Jim,” said George. “Not sure you if caught this, but the three of us actually stopped right there in midair and held a li’l conversation amongst ourselves about turnin back. But, wouldn’t you know it, Paul just insisted we crack on!”
Jim was about to fire off a retort of his own, when he realized that silence had grown as thick about them as the swirling dust. The four thieves looked at each other, and then to the windows. Theturbaned guards of the Kasbah leered from the streets outside, fingering the edges of their scimitars. The doorway to the shop creaked open, revealing the shop owner, Ali. His thin arms were folded across his chest and a vindictive smile was twisted upon his face.
“Oh, hello again,” said Jim, coughing politely and wiping his filthy hands on his filthy jacket. “Did we forget to pay?” He and the Ratts laughed nervously to one another. A few of the guards laughed along – until Ali snapped his fingers, snuffing the guards’ laughter like candle flames.
“Bring me their hands,” he commanded.
The guards bulled through the windows, but Jim and the Ratts had other plans. Each grabbed a rolled rug, caked with dirt from the rooftop’s collapse, and with four flicks, snapped them open. Clouds of thick dust filled the room. The guards coughed in agony as the grit scoured their eyes, blinding them just long enough for Jim and the Ratts to make a break for it.
They charged the shop owner, covering the man with one of the carpets, wrapping him into a neat little bundle and rolling him into the streets. Off the boys ran, with Jim pausing just long enough to withdraw a silver coin from his jacket pocket, roll it over his knuckles, and flick it to land atop the shop owner’s carpet-bound body.
“Thanks for the potion,” he said with a parting wink.
The guards tore after, shouting and waving their scimitars as they went.
Jim and the Ratts barreled around corners and leapt over drums, crates, and casks, fleeing the sound of thundering boots just behind them. Jim had no doubt that he and his friends could outrun the big men chasing them, as long as they didn’t run themselves into—
—a dead end.
Jim skidded to a halt just before crashing into the wall. The Ratts slammed into his back and the four of them smashed into thebricks together. They searched for a way out, but quickly found the alley bereft of doors or windows. Jim looked to the top of the wall, hoping he and the others could boost themselves up. But rusty spikes lined the edge, taunting him with barbed points.
“We’re stuck!” said Peter, a touch of fear flitting into his voice. The sound of tromping boots drew closer and closer.
“Got no way out!” added Paul, looking down at his hands and fingers as though already kissing them goodbye.
“No choice but to stand and fight, mates,” said George, deadly serious.
“Stand and fight?” Jim asked, eyebrows raised. “George, they have swords if you didn’t notice. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”
But George seemed not to hear Jim’s warning. He was staring down the alley, toward the entrance where the guards would soon appear. His hand crept toward his inside jacket pocket, as though he kept some object there that might serve as a weapon, even against insurmountable odds such as these. What could George possibly have in there that would give him a chance against twenty armed men? But there was no time to ask. Jim balled up his fists beside his friend. What other choice was there? All the fourteen year-old arrogance finally drained from Jim’s heart. He was just imagining what it might feel like to have his hand chopped from his wrist when the soft hiss of an urgent pssstcaught his attention from the nearby wall.
“Over here,” the whisper called. Jim caught a sliver of light sneaking into the alley. The light traced the hairline cracks of a secret door built into the stone. “Quick, young ones!” cried the whisper. “In here for your fathers’ sakes!” From the small opening in the wall, a finger stretched, curling once, twice, three times... beckoning the boys inside.
Jim looked to his friends. They looked back. The victorious catcalls of the approaching guards made up their minds. Hoping with all his heart this wasn’t a trap, Jim ushered the Ratts throughthe hidden door. When they’d all gotten inside, and the door in the wall slid shut behind them, Jim’s eyes went wide. A low whistle escaped his lips. There was a familiar smell wafting on the air of the hidden room—
— the familiar smell of freshly brewed magic.