Simon, A Mudlark

You had to be careful, looking around in the mud at low tide. The water was low enough that you could wade in it, but not so low you could see what your feet were about to hit. More than once, Simon had cut his feet on broken crockery or glass, but he'd learned since those early days after Da and Ma died. He took it slow, lifting his feet just enough to be able to move through the mud, but not so high that he was wasting energy by pulling them all the way out. He placed his feet slowly, pulling back at the first sign of something beneath them. He no longer had to pull every item up to the surface for inspection, able to identify the most common items and figure out if it was worth the effort. Nails, unbroken bottles, the occasional knife or eating utensil - once, he'd found a piece of jewelry (costume jewelry, to be exact, but it had earned him a handful of pennies all at once - enough for a whole week of real, hot meals - not his usual table scraps and small beer.

The tide was rolling in - this was his last chance to find something today. Simon stepped forward and paused - something under his foot, square and, it seemed, heavy. Possibly metal. He knelt and jammed his arms into the river muck, digging his fingers under the edges of whatever it was. Gods, it was heavy - if he couldn't get it out quickly, he might have to leave it, because there was no way he could swim with it.

Straining, he pulled. Nothing. The water rose, lapping at his chin as he crouched lower and pulled again. A little give, then the suction of the mud pulled it out of his grip. He'd felt hinges - could it be a chest of some sort? Possibly full of gold? He knelt and heaved one more time, lifted it a fraction higher then choked as he got a mouthful of fetid water from a wave. Got to get this out - I'll never remember where I found it. One more time, holding his breath as he ducked completely below the water and pulled with all his might. Just before his strength gave out, he pulled it free, falling backwards with a muck-covered chunk on his chest. Choking, he stood and began slogging back to shore. At the river wall, he heaved the box up onto the wall and clambered up after it, then sat and caught his breath again.

Dabbing at the mud with his fingers, he got it clean enough to see that it was a metal chest - smallish, about 1 hand deep and two hands wide. There was a hasp and lock on the front, but those looked easy enough to beak. Simon wrapped his shirt around it and began walking back to his room.

In his room, a corner apartment in a rundown, fire-damaged building, Simon barricaded his door and scraped as much of the remaining mud as possible from the chest. No rust on it that he could see - it had to have gone into the water very recently. The lock was intricate, but not too heavy. Simon pulled a steel rod from under his bed and wedged it between the hasp and the chest, then levered it until it broke with a sharp crack.

Breathing heavily, Simon set the rod aside and opened the chest. Inside was an assortment of objects - a small metal disc carved with what looked like angular writing, a piece of oiled skin wrapped around a waterlogged book made of vellum, a handful of carved sticks and a smaller box welded shut. Simon sighed and replaced the contents, then closed the chest. Shoulda been gold. That'd be easier to get rid of.

He crossed his legs and sat and stared at the chest, thinking.

The next morning, Simon woke early and got out some tools - a small, nicked chisel and a hammer and flatbar - and started working on the welded box. Oughtta see what's in here, maybe it's worth something, or maybe I could find out who owned the chest and if they'll pay a reward to get it back.

Minutes later, the small box sat open and Simon studied the black dust it contained. He wet a fingertip and stuck it in the dust and carefully brought it up to his nose. Doesn't smell like dream-weed, but maybe it's a drug of some kind. Be difficult to sell, but profitable. The local gangs had the trade locked, but there were a few people that might buy it from him.

Simon wiped his finger and closed the box, then turned his attention to the book. The vellum had dried during the night and the pages were stiff, but not stuck together. More of the angular text inside, except on the first page, which was in the script used in The City. Have to see if I can get someone to read this to me.