Kim Merrill

 More.

And even more!

 

 

 

It takes at least six weeks for cracked ribs to heal, and can take up to two months for patients who don't take care of themselves -- or so the white-haired mort that doctored Kim told her, with a significant look suggesting that Kim ought not be one of those patients. She'd offered to talk to a healer on Kim's behalf, but once Kim smoked that the doctor meant to call in a proper frogmaker, she refused. The doctor insisted she spend the night in the infirmary in any case, and suggested she take a room at Milliways for at least a few days to recover.

Resting in Milliways makes good sense, at least. It's warm and dry and there's nobody from her world -- with the exception of that cork-brained dry-boots Jamie -- and going back with broken bones is just asking for more trouble. So after a fitful night on the strange hospital bed, Kim takes her leave of Kim Ford with a bottle of pills in hand and takes the cheapest room the Bar offers. (And ain't Kim Ford a surprise: a gentry-mort that's a proper doctor, for one, and a mort named Kim, for another. It finally makes that Andrew fellow seem halfway sensible for insisting that Kim is a girl's name when he's from. Kim wonders if she ought to be giving her name as Tom more often around Milliways if she doesn't want to get caught out -- but that's something to think about later.)

A week recuperating at Milliways turns into two. The longer she stays in her little room on the third floor, private and plain and warm, the more tempting it is to just stay there; to do what Andrew and Charlotte have suggested and get an honest job; to turn her back on London, the stews, Dan Laverham, Newgate Prison and the nabbing culls. She has arguments with herself about it every other day, and every other day she decides that tomorrow she'll go ask about work.

That never happens. It's plain homesickness that finally forces her to go back. Milliways is safer than London, certainly, but it's foreign. Half the patrons are from America, or sound like it, and almost all of them are from the future. They're fascinating, but Kim misses the familiarity of her own streets and her own language.

When she returns to London, she keeps her head very low. She visits Tom Correy and Jemmy up by Threadneedle Street, Red Sal in Hungerford Market, John Parry at the docks; there's little news from any of them, but Sal mentions that one of Dan Laverham's boys asked after her. That's enough to convince her to stay close to Hungerford, where she knows her friends among the market-folk will watch out for her.

Jobs  hard to find, thanks to her healing ribs and Kim Ford's warnings about not straining herself, but she manages. She works for a few weeks as a link-boy along the Strand; she spends a few days hawking pamphlets that she can't read; she runs errands for anyone willing to give her a few pence. It's not much, but combined with the money she's managed to save from past jobs, it's enough to pay for the occasional night at Milliways and to keep her fed. Mostly fed, at any rate -- hoisting a few rolls from the burn-crusts on Drury Lane keeps her going when the blunt gets tight.

It's closer to eight weeks than six before she can move her left arm without a twinge of pain. It's her own fault, she supposes, but she's not inclined to dwell on it. Being able to move easily means she can take jobs that require more heavy lifting -- and it means she can run, though not too far. She discovers this last when she spots Dan Laverham's silver hair in Covent Garden one foggy day and bolts before he can twig to her.

After a few months, though, things have settled into a routine not unlike the one Kim had before being attacked.

But she's keeping a closer eye on her back nowadays.

Kim's in the bar, watching for a certain light-haired young man.

She's still not sure if this is a good idea.

Joseph Cutt is a good fence -- he usually pays reasonably, and he's trustworthy, as much as a thief can trust anyone who makes his living selling illegal things to respectable people. Mother Tibb used him regularly, and Kim knows him better than any of the other family men around London.

He's clearly surprised to see her when she skulks into his shop during his night-time hours, but when she mentions she's looking to sell, he turns into all business. Pulling out his spectacles and turning up the lamp, he nods to his desk. "Let's see 'em, then, boy."

( Bargaining. )

Kim hides a grin; the oddness of the pen might have put him off, but the oddness of the watch got him by the curiosity. It's a hook she knows well. She's glad she didn't try the silver coin she got from the pink mort's purse, though.

"Any more?" he asks, and when she shakes her head, he opens a drawer and counts out her money quickly and accurately. A pound, eighteen shillings, ten pence. She sweeps the coins and note into her hands and into an inner pocket.

"Thanks, Mister Cutt," she says, touching her cap.

"Hm. Pleasure to do business with you, lad," Cutt replies, formally, and turns down the lamp. Recognizing it as her cue to leave, Kim turns and heads for the door.

It's a lot of money, she thinks as she makes her way through the alleys. But there's more where it came from.

She'll go back, then, and try her hand again. If her luck holds, she could make enough off this lay to find a way off the streets for good. It's a shivery thought, one she tries not to look at too closely in case it dissolves and drifts away. But it's there, in the back of her mind, even as she picks a lock and whispers "Milliways" to it.

If her luck holds . . .

The snow in the London streets has long since turned into brown slush, though it's still cold enough for the mud puddles to freeze most days. The icicles hanging from the eaves of the buildings are picturesque, if you're not under them.

It's late, and dark out. Kim and two of the boys are on their way to one of the regular fence's from a job; Dick's oldest, so he's in the middle with the silver they've lifted. The streets aren't empty, quite, but most of the people out this late aren't inclined to look too closely at what others are doing.

Billy's murmuring a joke to the other two, sniggering, when a pleased, silky voice cuts him off.

"Kim, dear boy."

Kim's head comes up sharply, and spots the speaker in the mouth of an alley. She doesn't need the gray hair or clothes, too fine for the area, to identify him -- only Dan Laverham has that smooth tone of voice.

"Evenin'," she replies, stepping a little forward. The move hides the nudge she gives Dick; lingering anywhere with loot is a bad idea, and lingering around Laverham is downright bacon-brained. He fades back behind Billy and keeps moving down the street.

Before Laverham can follow Dick's progress, Kim adds, "You wantin' something, Dan?"

"Only to pass a little time, my dear." He smiles pleasantly. "I've heard you're becoming a rather good lockpick."

"Good nothin'," blurts out Billy. "He's a regular charmer."

"Shut it, Billy," Kim growls, reaching out and cuffing the younger boy upside the head. Looking back at Laverham, she asks suspiciously, "Heard from who?"

Laverham turns the smile on Billy, who looks down at his feet. "Through the grapevine."

"Hunh."

"You know, my dear," he continues, giving Kim a look, "I could find work for you. You could keep a few more sovereigns than Mother Tibb lets you."

Billy looks up, from Laverham to Kim. Kim draws herself up a little. An offer of work, and money? She doesn't even have to think about it.

"I do all right, thanks."

Laverham's smile doesn't change. "I see. Loyalty is a fine thing."

Kim makes no reply. Laverham lets out a genteel little sigh. "Well, my dear, I am sure you have . . . work, and I wouldn't dream of keeping you." He moves forward, stretching out a hand, and both Kim and Billy tense -- but all he does is clasp Kim's shoulder as he goes by. Billy steps out of his way with a polite, "Evenin'," and then he's gone down the street.

Kim and Billy exchange a glance, and break into a trot the opposite direction, after Dick. They catch him up only a few streets away, where he's waiting, throwing anxious glances down their way.

"Why ain't you at Cutt's yet?" Kim demands, catching her breath.

"I don't trust that back-door usher," Dick snaps. "What'd he want?"

"Nothing," she replies, with a warning look at Billy. Billy nods in agreement. "Come on, let's unload the goods an' get home."

It's sunset when the nabbing culls come for Mother Tibb.

It's the perfect time for it -- at sunset, all her boys come back to their hidden away rooms to deliver the spoils of the day's work and get assignments for the night -- a chance to get a dozen rats with one stone.

They don't give any warning, of course; one moment, the boys are all gathered around the smoky stove as Mother Tibb holds court, and the next, the door's been kicked open and there are constables yelling and boys scattering in every direction and Mother Tibb shrieking something. It's pandemonium. Some of the boys try to duck past the constables out into the hall, but there are more men out there grabbing them up.

Kim just stands there, dumbstruck.

Finally instinct catches her up and she pelts for the back door, but one of the bigger boys shoves past her, sending her careening into the doorframe. She hits her head with a solid whack and sits down hard, stunned. She's got a perfect view as the constables advance on Mother Tibb. The woman looks almost as stunned as Kim feels.

Then the men's hands close around Mother Tibb's skinny arms, yanking her to her feet, and she shrieks as her future suddenly becomes all too clear.

The sound breaks Kim out of her daze. She scrambles to her feet and stumbles out of the room.

"Hey! Get him!"

One of the constables is giving chase. Kim puts on a burst of speed, races through the back door, and takes a sharp turn down the alley. She can hear the constable's feet pounding behind her, and she could sob but she's using all her breath for running.

A left, onto a main street, and a dash across the road between cabs and carriages, into another alley, a right. Down the alley is the back door to some shop or other. Kim can't hear the constable anymore -- he may have given up when she disappeared into the crowd -- but she takes no chances.

She drops to her knees by the door, pulling out a bit of wire from her pocket, and starts working on the lock as quickly as she can, casting anxious glances over her shoulder. The last tumbler clicks into place, and she leans close.

"Milliways," she whispers. The word falls crystalline and sharp from her lips. "Please be Milliways. Please--"

She turns her wrist. The lock clicks open; the door pops ajar, and through it are tables and chairs and soft lighting and a sliver of black with stars exploding in it.

And now Kim does sob, once, relieved, as she slips through the door and pulls it to.

Kim -- eventually to be Kim Merrill, but for now just Kim -- has spent most of her life living on the streets of London. When canon comes around, she's "rising seventeen" and has been on her own for two years.

I'd like to bring Kim in from before canon, though, when she was still working as a housebreaker for Mother Tibb, a sort of less-evil Fagin, and the only parent figure Kim has ever had. It's not clear from canon whether or not Mother Tibb knows Kim's true sex; either with Mother Tibb's help or on her own, Kim passes for a boy all the way through adolescence. It's a vital deception -- the only other option open to an orphan street girl is the brothel. Luckily, Kim has a knack for locks, making her invaluable to Mother Tibb, and probably assuring her survival through most of her life, up to age fifteen.

Kim's world is a world where magic is relatively commonplace. It's taught in upper-class schools, at least the theoretical aspects, and practitioners can be found on all levels of society. Magic isn't something to be trusted, necessarily, by any means -- it's widely recognized as something dangerous, powerful, and more than a little queer -- but it isn't unheard of. Kim will eventually discover her own magical talent, but when she enters the game, she won't have any experience. She may do things accidentally, but not often.

I like Kim, a lot, and have for a long time. My copy of Mairelon the Magician is battered, stained, and generally lovingly abused. Kim is cynical, and yet still manages to be insatiably curious; socially inexperienced and mistrustful, but street smart and loyal. She's not given to angst, although her situation gives her plenty of room for it. She's a survivor, and she's good at it.

Not to mention she has a ridiculously complicated and fascinating system of slang.