Coming Soon
It had been going so well, he consoled himself. Butra was barely big enough to call itself a town; a temple, three inns, two blacksmiths and the usual assortment of merchants that congregated anywhere you found a main road, a well and somewhere dry to sleep. Indeed, the only vendor that was even slightly unusual was the small but successful goldsmith who’d latched onto the potential of the weekly market and made a brisk trade on converting coins of every denomination from the buyer’s possession to the seller’s preference, with a modest margin to compensate himself for their conveniences. Zarbenus carefully placed his glass of sweet black tea back on the table, brushed a few crumbs of the date sweet bread from his beard and glanced first at his primary then his backup escape routes. All clear. At least he’d be away before trouble arrived.
Dusk was settling around the town, the time when the light of day had faded just enough to dull the eyes, and Butterwrists was well placed to watch the main street and the side alley, busying himself with adjusting the straps on his donkey whilst still incessantly fondling that ridiculous straw-yellow moustache he started sprouting over the last year. Not keeping his full attention on the job in hand, though the fresh pile of donkey manure did stop passers-by from overcrowding his chosen spot.
Soraya was, of course, exactly where she was supposed to be and, of course, exactly in control of her job which was to distract as many of the farmers and their sons who were supposed to be loading up their waggons at the end of the market but were instead gawking at her unselfconsciously adjusting her stockings, apparently oblivious to the rapt attention of a good-sized crowd. Ruddy cheeks glowed and sun-browned noses bobbed as winks were exchanged between the older and younger generations of family members, with the grey flecked elders prodding forward their nervously excited offspring with the suggestions that a little polite introduction and a few compliments might be the start of something interesting, and ultimately family-expanding. Zarbenus sighed, why couldn’t all of them be as focused as her? Even the little ribbons she’d woven into her hair—such attention to detail!
But she couldn’t watch the street while she was being so busy not looking around herself. The reedy hawk’s call was hard to place if you didn’t already know Demir was the extra-deep slice of shadow sticking to the inn’s main chimney and in his silent vigil was able to see clearly from Westgate to Eastgate, regardless of how many carts jostled to pass each other at the end of the day. Heavysteps, shaggy dark hair giving his shambling frame a bovine aspect, damn him for his relaxed moods, barely responding to the warning from above, not even hurrying to cover the chests he had loaded with the sackcloth and straw, leaving twitchy nervous undergrown Bug to draw the attention of anyone with half a mind to look out for bad behaviour. Sometimes it was as if they’d never listened to a single lesson in all these years.
The hawk’s call came twice more, louder and shrill, and blinking Heavysteps finally swung up behind the horse and urged the cart forward. Too slow, way too slow because now the first muffled cries can just be heard from the goldsmith’s shop, if you were already expecting them, and what felt like only a few heartbeats later the goldsmith’s guards were blowing on their whistles.
The short ruddy-cheeked tea seller had noticed Zarbenus finish his tea and was making his way over with the payment bowl. Zarbenus raised his hand in a gesture that no-one would have thought was anything other than wiping away another crumb, but as he did an exasperated voice called from behind the tea seller, complaining that he’d still not been served. The tea seller stopped and turned, trying to find the dissatisfied client, scratching the back of his head as each person he looked at ignored him. Zarbenus stood, casually glanced at the tea seller’s patrons who remained immersed in their gossips, and headed for escape route number one.
By this time answering whistles from the town’s guard, already jumpy from all the strangers that had filled the little place on the market day, already grumpy from the number of midday drunks that had needed pacifying and already ready to call it a day and share a few tall glasses of something cold and foamy, decided to investigate the rising alarm and commotion spilling out from the goldsmith’s shop. Half the town’s guard, formed of the more exuberant younger members and keen to impress the ladies with their bravery and shining medallions of office, were heading for the town centre from their station at the Westgate. They’d been counting out the traders who were leaving and generally being as visible as possible to deter any bandits or otherwise criminally minded types from actually attacking within eyeshot of the gates and preferring by far that such activities took place beyond the bounds of their jurisdiction, however this sounded much more interesting.
The other half of the town’s guard, comprising the older and perhaps wiser but certainly more experienced members were slowly advancing from the Eastgate, and without bluster were carefully scanning each passing stranger’s face for that twitchy nervousness that betray guilty parties when breaking the town’s peace and presage the swift behavioural correction that is best delivered with a solid oak baton of justice.
The collision between the covered waggon of the root vegetable farmer from Prosa (with its traditional red and white striped canvas awnings) and the cart of the cheese merchant was purely bad luck, mused Zarbenus, as huge wheels of cheese bounced in every direction, knocking down parts of the remaining stalls and upending an old lady who’d only just precariously hobbled out of the way of the passing goatherd. In avoiding his own collision with the resulting fracas, Heavysteps had too vigorously pulled back on the reins of his horse which reared up and quite by chance struck the first arriving guard from the Westgate (blowing his whistle and demanding that everyone keep calm) across the back of his head with a wild hoof, which then brought the full might of the young guards to bear on what they assumed was the central perpetrator of the broiling chaos, but would very shortly be unmasked as the main conspirator in the burglary of the goldsmith who was just now emerging from his shop, red-faced and screaming, with what Zarbenus thought was completely unnecessarily awkward timing.
The younger guard’s already had Heavysteps surrounded and were demanding answers from him and Bug as well who was hauled out from beneath the sackcloth he squirmed under, which had in turn drawn the guard’s attention to the two heavy chests which were not in the least bit suspiciously covered in straw. Butterwrists secondary role as backup spotter was not relinquished as he took up the challenge of his primary responsibility of emergency distraction coordinator, a task largely executed by his forcefully packing a handful of finely chopped chillies up the back passage of the erstwhile placid donkey he’d been attending. The donkey’s reactions were swift and, given the provocation, completely justified, as its shrieking bray and wildly convulsed bucking and leaping stole the attention of the younger guards and the rest of the crowd that had been forming around the tight magisterial inquisition of the two young thieves. Zarbenus paused in his discrete decampment to admire the ploy, one of Butterwrists’ own suggestions and thus far effective and admittedly original, however the full impact of the decoy plan evaporated when the guard who’d been brained by Heavysteps’ horse in the first place got to his feet, blood running down his face, and struck out angrily at the first thing to get in his way, ending the donkey’s inflamed anguish and its life at the same time.
The killing of a working animal so brutally drew a hush across the crowd of mostly farm workers and brought a sudden stop to all the action. Reactions as fast as ever had Soraya scurrying over to intervene, in direct contravention of every instruction she’d ever been given about sticking to the plan and absolutely not going back for anyone that was so careless as to let themselves get caught, and Zarbenus sadly shook his head as the entire expedition headed for debacle. A final glance up to see Demir unveiling a crossbow from beneath his cloak, instead of melting away to save his own skin, awarded the students a collective failing grade.
As the older guards arrived, just in time to notice gaudy Soraya suspiciously attempting to dis
tract red-blooded younger guards who seemed, for once, to actually have apprehended some ne’er-do-wells, complete with chests of loot, two heavily armoured crusaders who’d been pointedly ignoring the fracas with all the interest of a pair of wolves surrounded by kittens, turned their attention to what was going on and began to stride forward. The goldsmith, catching sight of them, raised his hands and eyes to the heavens and implored them most piously to render assistance. At that final escalation of danger Zarbenus drew up his hood and took to the slit alley, stepped up an old barrel that had accidentally been left against the length of town wall that was most overshadowed by encroaching woodland and vaulted up to the top.
He sat on the edge, dangling his legs and let out a laboured and somewhat over-dramatic sigh.
“My turn then?” asked an indistinct shadow within the branches that overhung the wall. The goldsmith and his brutish guards had arrived and had singled out Bug for particular notice, their vehemence being transmuted to grim expressions of duty in the town guards who started producing restraints and short chains.
Zarbenus shrugged. “If you can be bothered. They are barely worth saving judging by that performance.”
“Our terms were that I’ll make my own judgements.”
The indistinct shadow rose, coalescing out of the dark into a slim figure that swung from the tree branch to the nearest roof, landing without an appreciable sound then hurrying across the slate tiles toward the centre of the town.
Had Zarbenus not drifted away from the town at that point in order to loiter at the prearranged spot in the woods, neatly away from the more common trade paths, he may have been impressed with the subtlety displayed by the indistinct shadow as he dropped unnoticed from the rooftop into the back of a cart laden with beer barrels and wine jugs, and how as he efficiently cuffed the cart-hand on the back of the head he laid their unconscious body down quite gently and without alerting any or the nearby gawkers or guards who were beginning the complex process of roughly coaxing the wrists of the young thieves into manacles.
In all the excitement no-one had really noticed that the last of the dusk light had faded away and the true dark of the chilly night had settled around them, indeed only a few lamps had been lit at all when the first beer barrel exploded and the gawky youth with the hunched shoulders and trousers too short for his skinny legs squealed as he tried to stopper the erupting beverage flow but seemed only to, completely by accident, end up dowsing the few sources of light that had kept a dim view of the proceedings possible.
After the event those present would swear that the idiot boy, gabbling nonsense as he panicked over what would definitely be a thrashing when his master returned and found the day’s profits spurted across the market square, did make every appearance of desperately attempting to staunch the flow, and none of the ensuing knocked over, rolling, or otherwise wild motions of barrels, baskets, stall awnings, piles of oranges, caged chickens, peripatetic watermelons, or enraged goats were directly caused by him and could in no way be related to the disappearance of the young vagabonds that had so recently been apprehended by the lawful authorities and who, despite the unlikeliness of the event, appeared to have escaped justice, taking their booty with them.
After the confusion died down amidst the evaporation of the beery miasma, and the town guard admitted defeat to the deafening and quite insulting consternation of the goldsmith, it was generally assumed that the idiot boy had probably been removed by his master for the application of leather strap to backside—which would explain why he was never able to give a further account of the activities when the magistrates assembled the following week to discuss the matter.
God of Thieves, the next Craft of Shadows book is coming soon!
About the Author
Diavosh has lived in lots of different places (currently London) and has one of those accents you think you almost recognise but just can’t quite place. His favourite animal is the tapir, the reason being abundantly obvious to fellow tapir fans, and is a keen collector of those odd little books you find in adventure movies that ultimately lead to a white-knuckle ride through the mysteries of a long-lost legend.
Unlike the prevailing stereotype, he has no cats.
The Thief: A Craft of Shadows Tale Page 4
