The Thief
WC: 2,238
WC: 2,238
Kincaid took a step back to assess the situation. It also put him in place to do something spectacular.
The thief canted his head to one side. A devilish smile sprung from the playful smirk he wore as he spread his hands to his sides in a sign of commonality. His voice was smooth as he spoke, a friend beseeching his comrades, “Gentlemen, let us not spread lies and seek enmity. We are all good folk.”
“Criminal,” one of the four Laicar that surrounded him spat. His face had been pummeled into a marvelous shade of blue, and it was a wonder how his jaw had managed to survive. Thin streams of lifeblood flowed over his busted, puffed out, lips while one swollen eye tried to match the red-hot fury of it’s perfect brother. “You will pay.”
“One way or another,” said the second. Smaller in stature than the first, this man had the misfortune of running into a fire. His clothes were blackened and frayed, holes burned into it from glowing embers or flames. The gentle wind changed direction, bringing with it the smell of burned flesh. The second reached out with a hand and beckoned Kincaid closer, saying, “You will be giving us our due.”
Kincaid shifted his feet, placing most of his balance on his rear leg. His left hand went to his hip, with his right began the process of patting down his pockets. He may not have been wearing fine clothes that day, but drawing blood was best avoided when possible. It didn’t look like today would be one of those times.
Reaching for his last pocket and heaving a weighty sigh, the thief shook his head and turned out the pocket of his pants. “I would very much like to tell you fine gentlemen that these are the latest fashion of those great cities like in Terminus.” He paused and turned, sweeping one hand out to the two men who flanked him and had somehow managed to avoid being harmed like their friends. Kincaid’s voice dropped to a sad, mournful, tone, “But alas, that would be a lie and one I simply cannot pay for. Much like how I cannot pay you.”
“Ye’ thinkin’ ye’ can joos up und take all o’ dem spahklin’, glitterun, goods? Eh, pal?” The third man’s accent was thick, but understandable. Kincaid’s smile almost wavered, but it clung to his face as he turned to face the commoner. He held a fine knife and pair of boots, but it was at odds with the ratty clothes he wore and the dirty color of his skin and hair. He started picking at his fingernails with the tip of the blade, eying Kincaid as he did it. There was something far darker behind those bleak eyes.
The fourth one spoke next. He was a merchant, marked by a small badge some merchants had taken to wearing as part of the Commercium, and stocky. What made him the strangest of the bunch was how carefully clean he was. “If you’ve not the money to pay,” he explained in a voice matter-of-fact, “we’ll just have to turn you in to the guards.”
The merchant leaned to the side and pulled a rotting board, intent to use it like a improv-club.
“Afta we do ye’ ova’,” Dark-eye clarified.
His right hand back at his hip, Kincaid shook his head and gave the two unharmed men a level look with his emerald eyes. He sighed once more. “If you must, you must.”
The road they were in was big enough to fit a cart through. While it was not a main street for the rest of the small city, it would be what Aridus’s lovely city of Corona called an alley. And because people treated it more like an alley, that meant they put all their wonderful goods there.
Kincaid whirled back towards Singe and Pummel. He kicked out at a near barrel and sent it rolling at Singe’s feet. Caught flat-footed, Singe jumped but didn’t clear the barrel as it swept his feet out from under him and brought him crashing to the ground with a cry of pain.
The other three moved in on him, fists and boards and knife flashing, while Kincaid made no move to the cutlass easily sheathed at his hip. Instead, his right hand drew a makeshift brush as he spoke the rhyme, “In a faraway, forgotten land, a tall statue would forever stand.”
The words came slowly, and it forced him to react before his spell completed. He sidestepped Pummel as his swing went wide. The merchant nearly knocked poor Pummel unconscious with his own strike, but the brute took the blow like a gladiator and stumbled instead. The rotting piece of wood the merchant used now strewn across the street.
Dark-eye had waited for Kincaid to move, letting the two heavy-weights miss before he went in for the attack. Singe was back on his feet, and he scrambled to tackle Kincaid who was just in reach. But the thief wasn’t going to have any of it. He ran, nimble as a dancer, and dodged the sloppy tackle as the knife skid across the Aquila spell, shattering it.
He crossed the main street of Corona, and straight into another alleyway. Here to paused to see who was behind him only to find his pivot saved him.
Dark-eye had lunged, the two-sided blade of his knife a hair’s breadth away from the good clothes Kincaid had acquired.
The thief took the small opening and kneed the would-be killer in the gut, hard. Driving the wind from the tiny Laicar’s lungs. He crumpled to the ground clutching his stomach, just as angry shouts tumbled out from the crowded street. Kincaid stole a glance back at the mouth of the alley and saw the other three men entering.
With dramatic flair, the thief grabbed his cloak in an elegant bow. He then turned to a neat pile of crates and ran atop them like steps, rising higher and higher until he jumped for the ledge of some kind soul’s home, grabbed it and pulled himself up out of their sight. Poking back over the edge in all of his glory to give the four men a showman’s bow as dramatic as his last.
“Gentlemen, it has been a fine meeting the Vis have given us this day. Consider all accounts between us closed!” Laughing, Kincaid disappeared for good from their sights.
The laugh clung to him until he was well away from his pursuers.
He eventually found himself at one of the local bars, content with his escape and wearing a broader smile than he had started the day with. The waitress swayed over to him, a spring in her own step, and a sunshine smile that radiated with all the warmth of Castus. She asked, “And what mischief have ye’ gotten yerself into t’day?”
“Mischief?” Kincaid echoed in mock indignation. “Why Helena, I’m surprised. If we weren’t such good friends I’d actually be insulted.”
“And if we were actually friends,” Helena shot back, she leaned closer to him and her smile becoming playful, “ye’d tip me better.”
Kincaid threw up his hands to stop the waitress, and he lamented, “Okay, point.”
With one hand he reached into his vest while he took Helena’s hand in his other. From his vest he produced a small purse of heavy coins and stretched his smile as he placed it in her upturned palm. His emerald eyes shone brighter as he watched her smug, and very pretty, face slacken with surprise. Her fingers curled around the purse and she looked down, unbelieving what she had just been given.
“How?” she asked, breathless.
“I was attacked,” he explained, “so I helped myself to one of their purses.”
“Who in Castus’s name would attack ye?” Helena asked, half sarcastic and half dazed. Shaking herself, she remembered where she was and slipped the purse into her robes before leveling a firm, questioning, look at him. Kincaid’s only reply was a shrug. Giving an unsatisfied harrumph, Helena turned away saying, “I’ll bring ye som’ stew te cook prepared t’day.”
“Thank you, Helena. Castus bless you!”
That earned him a good natured snort from the waitress as she swayed across the tavern floor. And as she did Kincaid wondered at how a mother of three managed to keep a figure like she did.
The rest of the day was relaxing enough. Kincaid remained at his table, enjoying stew and bread with a good brew the tavern owner made, and sat around as people came and went. It wasn’t until night had settled in that someone pulled a chair out and sat down at his table.
The first surprise the thief got was that someone had decided to sit down with him. Normally the waitress would offer other seats or gently prod nosy customers away, allowing him to relax. If he was expecting someone, they would identify themselves to him first and then be seated by the waitress. It was an agreement between his contacts and him so he would always know if he needed to run or not.
So when the stranger sat down, Kincaid shifted himself, ready to bolt for the back door. But when he turned his head, hands on the edge of the table and ready to flip it, the second surprise stopped him cold.
It was Dark-eye.
He’d managed to find Kincaid.
The grip on the table became a white-knuckled strangle.
“‘Allo Kincaid. De Society is awfully mad wit you.” There was something condescending and bubbly in his voice. Like a boy who had just ratted on someone and was taunting them with it, knowing full well what would happen. He pulled out his knife and balanced it on its tip between his fingers. “I’ll also be wantin’ my coins… If you’d be so kind.”
The thief tried a disarming smile, and gave equal effort in appearance of relaxing. To know that the Societatem Fures was still hunting him didn’t make him happy, but it gave him an idea as to why those men attacked him for no reason. He took in a sharp breath, and said, “Look. In honest I don’t have your money-”
“Tha’ was fifty-two exa! What whore did you buy!?”
Kincaid had to fight to keep his smile. “It’s gone and that’s all you need to know.”
Snarling, Dark-eye flipped his dagger into the air and slashed for the thief the moment its hilt found his palm.
Reacting as he’d planned to, Kincaid turned over the table and threw Dark-eye’s attack wide. He rounded on the man with his cutlass out and placed the tip of it against the assassin’s throat. “Say one more word,” he warned, “and the Society will have lost another alleyway knife.”
Dark-eye looked away from Kincaid and down at the iron sword, gauging his mark and weighing his options. Weighing his life against the cost of a hasty action. So not as stupid as one would think by looking at him. Whether there was more intelligence behind those eyes, or he had simply been lucky, Dark-eye was a survivor in a world where shadows died. “Wot do ya have in mind?” he asked.
“You run back to the Society,” Kincaid explained, “and let them know where I am. Then, if I’m feeling generous, when you come back I’ll pay my dues with interest.”
“Yas and the girls,” Dark-eye clarified. The thief missed a beat and blinked. It was the assassin’s turn to grin, and it spread like a disease over his face. “Ya did no think ya could both run away, an’ only one of ya would have to pay, did ya?”
“The girl is dead.” Kincaid stated. The words felt harsh against his throat, and his heart sank. “The Society lost its money on that venture.”
“A venture the two of ya took up on ya own. Without their blessing. Ya pay the dead garls debt, bub, or the Society makes ya pay it. On the rack.”
Stepping away, Kincaid dropped his cutlass’s point and growled, “Go to your masters. I’ll be waiting for you here.”
Dark-eye chuckled and gave a mocking bow before he turned and left. A few minutes after he was gone, Kincaid sheathed his sword and righted the table and stools. Helena approached just as he sat down again. She’d brought over a glass of watered-down wine and started to pick up the shattered bowls.
“Friend?”
“Hardly. Helena, my dear, you would be a Saint of Castus if you did a favor for me.”
The waitress paused in her work and eyed him suspiciously. “Aye? An’ wha’ might tha’ be?”
“Take care of your children,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Speaking from experience they are going to need someone like you to look up to in the coming future.”
“Ye’ being awful vague. An’ no yer usual vague eith’r. Wha’ ye got in ye head, love?”
He smiled at her and said nothing more. Both of them knew, however, that he wasn’t likely to be back any time soon. Kincaid knew for a fact that he wouldn’t, and maybe he never would. The Vis permitting, he would. But that was for them to arrange. Right now, he had work to do.
Time to move. Time to see more of the world. Time to make good on that promise, Maria.