“A thief with a conscience and an identity crisis faces eviction onto the dangerous streets of Caltania.”
Wind shifted outside the second-story window, slipping through a narrow opening between sash and sill and stirring the curtains. For a moment, bright afternoon sunlight invaded the darkened room, burning at eyes too used to the dark to accept the light.
The young woman groaned and twisted, hunching her shoulders. She pulled the blankets high over her cheeks as if that simple act alone could hold back the passage of time, could hide her from the menace of the day. And for a moment, it almost worked.
Almost.
The deep throated gong of the bell at St. Marie’s Cathedral banged through the narrow opening with enough force to set the curtains flapping. And once more, sunlight intruded, setting the insides of her eyelids on fire.
“Doesn’t anyone sleep anymore?” the young woman groaned, tucking the blanket tight around her head and waiting for the curtain to fall back in its place.
With a groan, she pulled herself to the edge of the bed and tossed the blankets into a pile behind her. She let out a deep sigh and mashed her palms into her eye sockets, rubbing away the itchiness of sleep. When she opened her eyes once more. The small dresser on the opposite wall came into focus.
It was only three single drawers, and barely three feet wide with chipped paint and one broken leg. It leaned so badly to the left when Alias first brought it home that she had to jam a brick beneath it to keep the top level. There was more space in those three drawers than she could fill with her meager possessions. So much so that the space itself was a daunting reminder of her missing past. She found she rarely liked to open the drawers because of it. As distracting as the ramshackle old piece of furniture was, it was the mirror on top that gave her the most trouble.
It was a simple affair, rectangular, with roses carved in each corner of a mahogany frame. Indeed, it was quite attractive in its own way, and yet Alias dreaded the sight of it, dreaded what it would show her, the way it made her wonder, made her uncomfortable. And for that, she would just as soon not have it, except that she wanted to look presentable for Timo.
Haltingly, she stood and walked to the mirror, closing her eyes an instant before the image appeared. Could she do this again? Could she look upon those foreign and familiar features? And if she did, would she find comfort, confusion, or fear staring back at her?
After what seemed an eternity, she let out a deep sigh and looked. The woman staring back at her was familiar, and yet foreign. The eyes were right, a perfect window to her soul. But the exterior was all wrong.
Black as the wings of a raven, her shoulder length hair framed the angular features of her face in an attractive light. Her lips were rosy and full. Her nose was small and upturned in a way that gave her a mischievous look. The kind men sometimes find attractive.
“Who are you?” she said, quietly focusing her intention on her deep brown eyes, all knowing and not telling.
She knew the answer, of course. But it wasn’t the answer that satisfied her. There was more hiding there beneath the surface, beneath the olive complexion and the deep red lips. More than the simple name Timo had given her, more than what anyone in the guild knew. More than what even the mob boss, Guido Oliva himself, knew or suspected. And Guido knew most everything about Caltania’s streets and its inhabitants.
She frowned, turning this way and that, pulling thick black strands of hair aside to inspect the angles of her face, and the wrinkles she supposed should be there. She found none, only silky smooth perfection. “Twenty. I think,” she said, guessing the same age she had the previous morning.
She stepped back and straightened, taking full measure of herself. She was of average height for a woman, with graceful curves rolling beneath her woolen sleeping kirtle, above a supple waistline. And though the figure was quite appealing, it wasn’t the shape that caught her attention. It was the physical fitness, the strength, and the agility that amazed her most.
For despite her slight form, she was incredibly powerful, possessed of a sinewy strength that rivaled many within the guild. Even her reflexes were finely honed to a fighting edge beyond that which a simple street orphan should posses. So much so that some of the most experienced street fighters in Guido’s guild found it difficult to best her.
And yet Alias, for all she was worth, could not recall even the slightest inkling of her past. All she knew was that her name was Alias, a young woman from the streets rescued by Timo and brought to Guido’s orphanage, where she earned her way as a pickpocket. And not a very good one.
With a sigh, she moved away from the mirror and retrieved the black woolen tunic and hose from the end of her bed. Deliberately, she forced herself through the motions, pulling the tunic over her head, then sliding into the black hose. She pulled a pair of soft soled leather boots from beneath the bed and slid her feet into them. But when she stood, she noticed the right boot offered a cold sensation near the great toe, and she immediately set back down to inspect.
Bracing the boot over her knee, she twisted the foot so she could better see. Sure enough, there was the beginning of a hole, right beneath her big toe. It wasn’t worn all the way through yet, but it wouldn’t last much longer either. “Great,” she groaned, dropping the foot back to the floor and reaching for her belt hanging on a peg above the bed.
The broad leather strap held three items: a long-bladed dagger, a wide bag with an assortment of tools needed for picking locks, and her money pouch. It was the money pouch she inspected first, counting out six krents, barely enough to buy dinner that evening.
“Guess I will have to live with the hole,” she said, standing and strapping the belt around her waist. There was no buckle. Buckles cost krents, and Alias saw no reason to spend krents on superfluous items. She simply knotted the strip of leather in place and moved back to the dresser. She took her brush from the top drawer. It was the only other possession she owned she knew was hers. That and the old blue dress discarded beneath the bed for its impracticality.
Though it was old and well worn, the brush, unlike the dress, was useful. It had an ivory handle, delicately thin, and carved in the shape of a dolphin. It was much too expensive for someone of her means. But Timo claimed it was hers. After all, it was with her when he found her. Never mind that she’d picked two handfuls of blond hair out of it before putting it to use on her own dark mop.
She couldn’t recall when she came by it. She’d simply had it from the start. It was hers. Somehow, she knew it was hers. It was familiar in a way she couldn’t grasp. And so she felt a sharp pain of loss when the handle suddenly split completely in half on the second pass through her tangled hair. It wasn’t in great shape anyhow, having seen many years of use. But she didn’t want it to break, and when she brought it away from her head in two pieces, she let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders dropping with the effort.
Slowly, reverently, she placed the broken brush in the top drawer and walked out the door, pausing only once to consider the day before her. She’d had an exceptionally slow night, bringing in only six krents to the guild, just barely enough to maintain her sleeping quarters. Certainly not enough to buy dinner or replace worn boots, and a broken brush. Not if she was required to pay her guild dues before heading out for the evening. And that would certainly happen if she couldn’t avoid Nicia, Guido’s master of pickpockets. She needed to get out of the building quick, and onto the streets where she could turn a profit. Taking the long route through the kitchen and The Orphanage’s front door would delay her further and take her past Nicia’s office.
If she exited through the foyer at the side of the building, she might avoid conflict altogether, and at least have coin enough for food. The foyer was a small isolated room with just two doors, the one she had just entered and the one leading into the alley. The alley door served as the entrance that every pickpocket or enforcer in Guido Oliva’s guild was required to use. It was the check in point, or, as in tonight’s case, the checkout point. On most nights, one of Guido’s enforcers watched the entrance, checking the members of the guild in and out of the building. That meant no Nicia.
At least she thought that would be the case. Coming into the foyer, she immediately regretted her decision and cursed her dumb luck. She sensed the woman’s presence, sitting at the small round table inside the foyer before she ever laid eyes on her. Nicia sat reclined in a chair, her boot heels crossed on a table, and her chin resting on her chest, eyes closed, asleep.
Alias held her breath and quick stepped across the foyer. She didn’t want to be in the fowl tempered woman’s presence long enough to wake her. Speed alone could save her from confrontation. She was certain of that and tried to move quick and quiet. She reached the door in six silent strides and glanced at the woman once more.
Nicia sat in her reclined position, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths. A soft, almost imperceptible snoring sound wheezed its way between her lips. Alias let out a deep sigh and reached for the doorknob, certain the woman was sound asleep.
“Overslept, didn’t you?”
Alias paused, heart pounding, her hand on the door handle. “A little,” Alias replied.
“I want to speak with you,” Nicia said.
Alias’s heart quickened, and her palms grew sweaty. She let go of the door handle, relinquished freedom, and turned to face Nicia.
Nicia dropped her feet from the table and scooted the chair back. She stood and sauntered across the room to stand right before Alias, straight faced and businesslike, hands on hips.
At five foot five, the redheaded woman was on even terms with Alias, her steely blue eyes boring into Alias‘s brown. That’s where the similarities stopped. Nicia was nearly twice Alias’s age, self-assured, ruthless, and with a particular dislike for Alias, one the young thief had yet to understand.
“What do you want?” Alias asked, thinking it best to get this over with.
“I’m putting you on probation,” Nicia said.
“Why?” Alias asked. She knew why, of course. She was barely bringing in enough coins to cover her living space. In fact, last night she hadn’t even managed that.
Nicia grinned, a taunting expression that promised pain for disobedience. Her right hand came away from her hip and she stabbed a finger at Alias. “I don’t care how much Timo supports you. This is your last chance. Shape up or ship out,” Nicia said. “Guido demands every member of this guild earn his or her keep. And you aren’t earning yours.”
“I’ve turned in twelve coins every night,” Alias retorted.
“You’re always the last one to work,” Nicia replied evenly. “And you’re the first to return at night. Imagine what you could accomplish with a better work ethic!”
Alias stared back at the woman indignantly.
“And that reminds me,” Nicia said, holding out her hand expectantly. “You haven’t paid for last night yet.”
Alias hesitated, her eyes dropping to her boots. She was beat, and she knew it. The only problem was, she was hungry, and she needed some coin to buy food. When she hesitated a moment longer, a dangerous light came into Nicia’s blue eyes. Alias knew better than to anger the woman. Many a would-be pickpocket had come up missing after angering Nicia.
She reached into her belt pouch and produced three of the six krents, which she handed to Nicia, who continued to hold out her hand. Alias had been thinking about keeping half. At least she might be able to buy a chicken kabob at one of the street vendors. But Nicia meant not to even allow her that.
“I need to eat,” Alias said, a pleading tone finding its way to her lips.
Nicia’s expression didn’t change. “That’s good. I find a little hunger to be quite motivating. Don’t you,” she said, emphasizing her waiting hand.
Alias quietly retrieved the last of her coin and placed it in Nicia’s hand. Dejected, she turned for the door.
“Twenty krents tonight,” Nicia called after her, dropping the coins into her money pouch with a satisfying clank.
“Twenty!” Alias said, turning to look at the woman. “But that’s more than the twelve required?”
“You still owe six for last night. Twenty will cover that and tonight leaving you with two krents to buy food.”
“You can’t buy anything with two krents!”
Nicia shrugged and strolled back to her seat, resuming her reclined posture. “I guess you’ll just have to work a little harder tonight. Won’t you?”
“Fine! I’ll bring back thirty coins tonight!” Alias nearly bit her tongue as soon as the words came out. She didn’t want to steal even twenty coins from anyone, no matter how much it would benefit her.
Nicia gave her a disbelieving look. “Oh really! You haven’t brought back even as much as our least capable pickpocket since Timo first claimed you were ready for the streets. In fact, if not for Timo’s reputation, I’d think he lied to me about your skill. Why is that?” Nicia asked, folding her arms over her chest and eyeing Alias expectantly.
Alias shrugged, trying to seem indifferent, though inside, her stomach was churning. Why did she tell Nicia she would bring in thirty krents?
“Well?” Nicia prompted, seeing no answer forthcoming.
“Timo’s more experienced,” Alias replied, chewing her lower lip.
“I would expect Timo to bring in more than you. But I wouldn’t expect Renzo to bring in more than you. And he does!” Nicia said, referring to a newly recruited pickpocket who smelled so bad that most suspected his victims smelled him coming. He rarely turned in over fifteen coins.
“I’ll do better,” Alias said, reaching hopefully for the door handle.
“See that you do,” Nicia said. “If Renzo beats you again tonight, I will be forced to take this up with Guido.”
Alias nodded slowly and just stood there in frozen silence, not sure if she should leave, or if Nicia meant to continue.
“Are you going to stand there and stare or go out and pick some pockets?” Nicia asked after an uncomfortably long moment.
Alias swallowed and forced the door open, never taking her eyes from Nicia. She hurried outside and slammed the door shut behind her. Then walked absently along the alley, moving west toward First Street, and the glow of street lanterns. She had just stepped into the light when a voice from the left startled her.
Her heart skipped and then thudded rapidly in her chest. Then the man spoke again and Alias breathed a sigh of relief. “Timo!” She said crossly. “Don’t scare me like that!”
“Like what?” Timo replied, hands wide in askance, a thin mischievous smile spreading across his angular features.
Alias just shook her head. “You know what I mean.”
“I wasn’t trying to be sneaky. You were walking along like a blind duck, oblivious to everything around you.” His smile faded, and he added, “I taught you better than that.”
Alias shrugged and continued walking. Timo fell in step beside her.
“Nicia gave you a good going over, didn’t she?”
Alias waved the notion aside and started north along a cobbled street. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Just the usual.”
“It’s more than nothing. Nicia is seriously perturbed about your lack of enthusiasm for the job.”
Alias shrugged.
“Look. I know you don’t enjoy picking pockets. But it is far better than what other young women your age are doing to survive the streets.”
Alias scoffed at the remark. She had indeed tried one of those trades, waitressing in The Tankard. That hadn’t worked out so well. There were other, even less appealing trades. But given her track record with waitressing, Alias expected it was best she didn’t try them.
When Alias refused to talk, Timo said, “Tell me you like picking pockets.”
Alias looked away, her lower lip puckering with petulance.
“Well,” he said expectantly. “Can you tell me you enjoy it?”
Alias tried to turn away. But the seriousness in her handsome mentor’s eyes caught her once again. Timo wasn’t usually so grave. Mischievous was a better description of the older man. And so Timo’s new seriousness caught her by surprise.
Slowly, she shook her head from side to side.
Timo nodded his affirmation. “You don’t have to keep doing it.”
“Right. What else is there to do? Be a waitress, or entertain sailors and merchants,” Alias remarked with a roll of her eyes. “Besides. I promised Nicia I would bring back thirty krents tonight.”
Timo tried for a moment to hold the seriousness of his expression, but the rolling eyes and the thought of Alias trying to waitress again broke his grave expression into an eye-eating smile. He barely heard the part about the thirty krents.
“Did you not hear what I said?” Alias asked, not seeing the humor in all this. “If I don’t bring back thirty krents, Nicia is going to have me cast out of the guild. I’ll have to go back to living on the streets.”
“Yes, yes. I heard that part. And I don’t believe she asked you for thirty krents. That is more than even I bring in nightly.”
Alias’s cheeks stained a deep red. “No. Thirty was my idea.”
That caused Timo’s dark eyebrows to shoot momentarily upward in surprise. Then an eye eating grin brought them back to level once more.
“Timo! It’s not funny. How am I going to get thirty krents?”
Timo waved her concern aside, a wide grin still displayed on his angular features.
“Timo. It’s not funny. This is serious.”
“Oh, I know it is. But the idea,” he began, breaking the sentence off with a laugh. “The idea of you. . .”
“What? What is so funny?”
“It’s just the whole idea that you might have to go back to waitressing again. Baron’s dirty swine, I bet that would get you in even deeper trouble. Especially once you start cutting off body parts of every sailor that tries to get fresh with you.”
“Timo!” Alias said with exasperation, giving him a playful shove. There was nothing on the man’s face that showed malice, and his light-heartedness was becoming infectious.
“What? You don’t like being reminded of that.”
Alias’s jaw dropped open in mock amazement and she stopped in the middle of the street, eyeing her mentor dangerously. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Oh really? I suppose it was some other waitress that cut Captain Geis’s thumb and forefinger off?”
“What was I supposed to do? Let him help himself to the goods,” Alias complained, unfolding her arms and using her hands to show the firm mounds of her breasts beneath the dark tunic.
She pushed past Timo with an annoyed shake of her head, walking north along First Street once more.
“Just think about it, will you?” Timo asked. He started down the street to the south calling back, “I’ll see you tonight, ok?”
Alias paused but didn’t answer. She watched him fade into the shadows near a line of buildings. Think about what, she thought, frowning with annoyance.
Sometimes it seemed there was something beyond friendship between them. But every time she tried to advance their relationship, it ended in disaster. Once, out of desperation, she tried to kiss him. It happened in the street right in front of The Orphanage. A moment before she made contact, he pushed her to arm’s length with a confused expression on his face, and asked, “What are you doing?”
Her frustration had turned to embarrassment when she realized at least a dozen members of the guild were watching. Later, she thought her attempt had failed because of the onlookers. But when she tried a second time, in private, he told her, “That’s not appropriate. I’m nearly twenty years older than you. And besides, you’re the . . .” But Timo would never say what she was.
Alias turned back to the north and began walking toward The Tankard. Timo seemed to know more about her than she did. That irked her, for if there was some knowledge the man possessed, she felt it was her right to know. And no matter how many times she prompted Timo to complete his sentence, starting with, “You are the . . .” he had failed to do so, becoming so tight-lipped that he would barely speak to her afterwards.
The situation was of such a concern that she feared what he might tell her. What if she was a made thing? The experiment of some mad wizard or alchemist.
It was that line of reasoning that caused her to spend several nights examining herself in front of a mirror. It was the reason she guessed her age every morning, half expecting some new wrinkle to show up. Or worse yet, a seam where she was stitched together might become visible. The latter gave her chills and set goose pimples prickling along her skin.
Sometimes she would sit and sift through her raven black hair, looking to see if each strand had roots, hoping all along that they were not sewn in place. She would pinch and prod the flesh of her body, theorizing at what lay beneath the surface, before concluding she was all flesh and bone, a young woman in her early twenties.
All other aspects of her life were a mystery. There was, of course, a handful of years spent on the streets, alone. Five in all that she could account for. Beyond that was a blur, a strange sort of amnesia that blocked out memories of childhood.
During her first years on the streets, she spent some time trying to track down her missing past. There were few clues to her origin. And that’s what made Timo’s refusal to finish the statement so frustrating. He knew, and he wouldn’t tell. She felt so alienated by his refusal of her, his refusal to finish the statement about her missing past, that she wanted nothing less than to escape. There was no escape. There was only this existence.
This was where her life took place. On the dirty, ragged streets of Caltania. This was her future, she realized. And if she wanted to maintain her presence here, wanted to survive, she would have to step things up. She would have to please Nicia.
Perhaps that would make the future brighter. Maybe Timo would finally find it in his heart to accept her as more than just a friend. Perhaps he would finish the statement, for Alias no longer feared what it might be.
With a resigned sigh, she skipped onto the front porch of The Tankard, Caltania’s premier drinking establishment. The proprietor, Nelse McCloud, was said to have been a close friend of a brewer in Caerdland, across the channel. And Nelse had sole rights to sell Caerdland’s finest Green Dragon Beer within the city. As a result, The Tankard was among the more popular hot spots along the rough and tumble streets.
Tonight a crowd gathered at the door awaiting an opportunity to sit, drink, and eat some of the city’s finest grease spitted cuisine. Most were sailors fresh off ships in the harbor, but there were working-class men mixed in, as well as a handful of merchants. The merchants were the easiest to spot in their pressed leather tunics and expensive robes.
She didn’t relish the idea of stealing. It always left a foul taste in her mouth that somehow tainted her soul. But she knew an easy score when she saw one, and with so many people knotted into such a small area, it was a simple matter of just bumping into one or two of them, taking what she wanted, and walking away.
She firmed her jaw, knowing what she must accomplish and forged ahead, keeping a casual heading through the center of the crowd. She bumped into one well-dressed merchant wearing a long white satin robe, pretending to trip and fall into him.
The man graciously caught her and helped her to stand. In that brief instant, she fished a half dozen coins from his fat purse with practiced dexterity. She smiled when he looked at her, knowing full well that a pretty face often distracted men. And Alias, with her olive complexion, brown eyes, and full red lips, was attractive.
“Best be careful, miss,” the man said, an appreciative light coming to his eyes.
Alias dipped a short curtsy and politely replied, “Thank you, sir.” It was an action she learned by watching the street girls plying their trade. With sailors and men of a less refined nature, they allowed themselves to be lewd, plumping themselves up like delightful dishes. But for the upper crust, the merchants and city officials—and this man was certainly the type—they used a more formal court-like approach.
Alias turned to move through the crowd, not wanting to linger. She managed only a couple of steps when the man in his white satin robe called after her. “Miss! Wait up.”
Alias rolled her eyes and pushed her way toward the north edge of the group, hoping to be clear before attracting too much attention. But before she could escape, the tall man’s longer legs put him in a position to latch onto her arm. “Wait up,” he pleaded.
Alias turned to face him, politely wrenching her arm free. She looked into the smiling face, fully a head taller than her. He had a broad thick mustache, but he was clean shaven on the chin. The mustache, black as his hair, jutted far out to either side like a set of miniature horns. And his eyes were the brightest blue Alias had ever seen. Despite her dismay at being confronted, she couldn’t help but realize how handsome he was.
She asked politely, “Can I help you, sir?”
The man’s guileless smile turned almost wolf-like. “You might miss. It’s rare to find such a beauty as you on these rough streets.” He spread his hands to show the multitude of people.
Alias merely rolled her eyes at the line, and remained silent, hoping he would leave. But that only made him more determined. “Won’t you join me for dinner and refreshments?”
“No sir. I can’t. I have other engagements this evening,” Alias replied, backing away through the last remaining people. To her relief, the man made no move to follow.
“At least tell me your name,” he said.
Alias gave her best genuine smile as she faded out of sight. “It’s Nicia!”
Once free of the crowd, Alias turned and hurried north. It was an overcast night, the sky so thick with clouds that not even Anduan’s twin moons could shine enough safety onto the streets. Posted along either side, though, were street lamps burning at uneven intervals.
The lamps created a corridor of light along the cobbled street, leaving the expanse along the buildings bathed in dark shadows. The alleys between buildings were virtual pits of blackness. Pits that occasionally swallowed too drunk patrons trying to make their way to home or ship, though most were wise enough to stay in the light.
What she needed now was another crowd. Usually a crowd like the one in front of The Tankard would yield two or three good hits before she made her way through. But the overzealous suitor had corrupted her plan and forced her out too quickly. Her only choice now was to find another opportunity. Or perhaps return in an hour, and hope there might still be a crowd.
Later, when many were too drunk for principled judgment, there would be an opportunity to cut and run. But that would come later once the patrons of the bars were too thoroughly drunk to chase down a fleet footed thief. For now, she would have to focus on picking pockets in crowded areas.
Some of Caltania’s more unsavory operators would not bother with cut and run. They would simply wait until a drunk made a poor decision and wandered into one of their alleys. Then they would simply slit his throat and take all he owned.
Alias, like Timo, could never bring herself to do such unsavory work. But it was something to be aware of, for those who were willing were not above killing another pickpocket. And Guido’s gang was not the only ones operating on the streets. There were two others.
Damora controlled the docks and probably the least territory. But by controlling the docks, she was the most powerful, having a say in every scrap of goods coming into or going out of the city through port. And that made up at least three quarters of the trade. Her people rarely picked pockets or stole directly from individuals. They had no need to. Her tough crew of enforcers were good at ensuring that protection taxes were paid by each ship’s captain who moored in Caltania’s harbor.
In addition, she taxed the harbormasters to ensure the safety of their interest, and in effect, doubled her own take from the visiting captains.
Bruno Benelli, Caltania’s third mob boss, operated in the western part of the city, controlling an enormous interest in the market square. Bruno, though an aggressive mob boss, couldn’t compete with Guido in a power struggle and seemed content with the three streets near the city’s west wall.
Guido controlled most of the city, seven streets out of ten, not counting Dock Street, of course. And while the boundaries were more ragged than cut and dry, few were prepared to initiate a street war over a breach of etiquette. Operating on someone else’s turf was bad form, and grounds for whatever justice seemed fitting. But rarely did a perpetrator walk away unscathed. Fingers and hands were removed, sometimes entire arms, and occasionally heads.
Still, there were other dangers. Freelancers and pirates would occasionally take their chances at being caught by the mob bosses. If caught, they would be summarily executed and wiped from the streets as if they had never existed.
Guido differed from the other two in that respect. He had a knack for sizing up situations, as well as men. And if one of those interlopers piqued his interest, Guido would make him or her an offer. The smart ones understood that acceptance was their only option. In that manner, Guido swelled his ranks to well above a hundred with about thirty stout enforcers.
Alias kept her bearing north until she reached Main Street, a vein of paved flag stones that ran from dock to northern gate, dividing the city into two. From there, she cut at an angle to the west side of the street, still heading north. And that’s when she felt that odd sensation, a prickling at the back of her neck that warned her she was being followed.
As she stepped onto the porch of a glass blowers shop and moved under the darkened canopy, she glanced over her shoulder. The man from the crowd was crossing through the streetlight, following her. “Must have made an impression,” she mumbled, picking up her pace.
There was another crowd standing outside of a Geneli’s Pig on a Stick just one block ahead. The eating establishment was famous for spiced kabobs and was an excellent place to catch people crowded together, waiting in lines. A prime spot for a pickpocket, though Alias doubted a hit here would be possible with the man so close behind. If he saw her perform the same act with another, he would quickly catch on, unless he was stupid, and she doubted that. Merchants rarely were. And if they were, they didn’t stay in business long. Judging by this man’s dress, he had plenty of coin, and that meant he wasn’t dumb.
She quickened her pace and pushed through the crowd. Exiting the mass of people, she took up a ground-eating lope, making it past two buildings before slowing. As she passed the second building, she sidestepped to the right, ghosting into a darkened alley and took up a position in the shadows next to a pile of crates. She pulled the hood of her cloak up and over, low enough to shadow her cheeks. Timo had always stressed the importance of covering exposed skin and remaining perfectly still. Even with her dark complexion, the face still shines in the light.
She drew a few steady breaths, forcing herself to relax, to become motionless, to blend with the surrounding shadows. With any luck, the man would just move past. Then she could go about her business.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, he came into the alley entrance, paused, and peered into the blackened pit of the passage. “Nicia! Are you there?”
With the light from the street behind him, he appeared as little more than a silhouette. But bewilderment was apparent in his posture and the sound of his voice. He stood pensive, leaning forward at the waist and peering into the darkness.
Go away, Alias thought, watching the man from a mere thirty feet away. But he didn’t leave and, instead, took a tentative step into the alley.
Alias groaned inwardly and stood motionless.
“Nicia. Are you ok?” the man said, concern dripping from his voice.
His hand made an unmistakable motion beneath his cape and out again, brandishing a dagger defensively before him. There was a glint of steel where light from a street lantern flickered briefly along its length.
“If you’re in some sort of trouble, if someone is molesting you, then know that I’m an expert knife fighter. I will protect you.”
Alias knew the part about him being an expert knife fighter was a ruse meant to scare whoever might have trapped her in the alley. His stance was flat-footed, and he bent too far forward at the waist, so far in fact that it seemed a simple breeze might blow him over.
“Come ahead if you want her,” came a voice from the darkness some distance behind Alias.
Alias didn’t recognize the voice, and knew what was coming next. Her heart thudded in her chest. She could only hope that whoever it was hadn’t spotted her and was only playing off her would be suitor’s words.
“Let her go,” the man said, edging hesitantly into the darkened alley.
“I like her,” the man behind Alias replied. “She’ll make a nice plaything. Want to hear her squeal for me?”
There was a slapping sound from down the alley. Then the yelp of a woman’s voice. Suitor-boy, as Alias called him, took the bait and charged into the alley. She knew instinctively that the pair behind her did not know where she was hiding, if they even knew she was there at all. She also understood their technique, and the least they would do was to knock the Suitor-boy unconscious.
Brandishing the knife before him, he charged into the alley. She knew they would kill him. With that thought foremost on her mind, a moment of regret came over her. She could simply have just slipped out of the alley behind him and leave. Allow him to fend for himself and count her blessings that she would have another opportunity yet tonight.
She couldn’t do that. It was her fault he was here, about to lose his life. For she had played the game, and he fell for it, hook, line and sinker.
Alias reached beneath her cloak and pulled free her dagger. The one positive aspect of being a member of Guido’s gang was that Alias had the opportunity to learn from some of the best street fighters in Caltania. And Alias was a particularly tenacious and vicious opponent when she needed to be.
As Suitor-boy passed the crates, Alias also moved. Wraith like in her dark clothing, she slipped around the crate in pursuit, keeping a good ten feet between her and him. She crouched low for better protection against being silhouetted by the street lamps behind her.
They’d only gone a dozen steps when a thin shape darted almost as quietly as Alias. He shot straight across, a knife at waist level and ready to plunge into Suitor-boy’s back. Alias came forward in a rush, slamming the narrow brass pommel of her dagger against the man’s skull behind the ear.
He stumbled and regained his feet just as Suitor-boy spun about, dagger held carelessly at arm’s length. Alias hammered him once more on the head and he collapsed.
Suitor-boy, fear guiding him, lunged forward carelessly. Alias’s dagger swiped across, diverting his thrust to the side. Her left hand followed close behind, gripping his wrist and guiding the dagger wide. She brought the brass pommel of the dagger down sharply on the nerve halfway between wrist and elbow, effectively numbing his grip. The dagger clanged to the ground.
Still leaning too far out and off balance, Alias had little trouble throwing him to the ground.
She took up a guarded stance and faced the alley. The man she had smacked on the head lay unconscious beside her while Suitor-boy rolled on the ground, trying to get up. She kicked his arms roughly from beneath him when he tried to rise, dropping him flat on his face. “Stay down if you want to live,” she commanded, eyes alert for any shifting pattern in the darkness.
The man groaned and Alias took that as compliance since he didn’t move.
“Well, show yourself,” Alias commanded. “I know you’re out there.”
The words only escaped her lips when the darker shadows to her right erupted in violent movement. Alias twisted to meet the attack that came swifter than she expected. Her dagger was knocked free of her hand, clanging into the stone paved alley.
It was too dark to see well, and Alias recognized that proximity was her ally. Indeed, those who trained her taught her never to rely on sight. It’s too slow and often deceiving to react by sight, they had said. So, keeping contact with the attacker’s arm, Alias moved forward when most would have moved away.
With her left hand, she felt the arm retract up and back for another blow. Instinctively, her right fist shot out and upward, scoring a minor blow on the attacker’s cheek. With a grunt of pain and surprise, the attacker brought the dagger sweeping down from upon high. Alias’s other hand, already in position, felt the move start before it began.
Dropping and pivoting beneath the attack, Alias used her left hand to redirect the strike. She slammed her right fist into the attacking arm as it descended, driving into the tender, nerve imbued section between elbow and shoulder. The attacker, the woman who had played along with her accomplice, squealed in surprise as pain erupted up her arm. Her hand went suddenly numb, and the dagger flew from her grasp, clanging on the rough stones.
Alias continued the motion of her right hand, hooking it behind the woman’s elbow. She shoved the right arm across the woman’s body, opening a path for a left fist to collide painfully with the woman’s kidney. The thug reacted as expected, twisting and dropping to protect her exposed side, head jutting forward.
Over the top came Alias’s right hand, splattering the woman’s nose across her cheek. Then Alias was moving forward, her left and right fist working one over the other in a succession of chain punches that slammed with an almost constant drumming sound against her opponent’s chest, head and throat. With the weight of Alias’s body moving behind the rapid punches, it was rather like being assaulted by a battering ram. The woman gave ground until the wall of the building stopped her retreat.
Alias stepped in, shortening the next two strikes that landed on the woman’s upper chest. She folded her right arm into an elbow strike, slamming into the woman’s temple with all of her weight. The blow was further powered by the coordinated muscles of her abdomen and thighs, uncoiling like a giant spring. Elbow collided with a resounding crack that dropped the thug straight to the pavement, unconscious.
Alias stepped away from the collapsed figure before her, arms and legs trembling with adrenalin. She breathed a deep sigh, trying to regain control once again.
“Can I get up yet?” Suitor-boy asked.
Alias gave some thought to just disappearing, running to the end of the alley and letting him fend for himself. But she couldn’t help but feel responsible, so she moved over beside him and hooked a hand beneath his shoulder. “Come on, get up,” she said, she hauled him to his feet.
She retrieved their daggers and guided him back to the well-lit street. “An expert knife fighter should never be without his dagger,” she said, handing back his dagger.
The man flushed and offered a sheepish grin. “I’m not really an expert knife fighter.”
“Really?” Alias said with mock astonishment. “I would never have guessed.”
He stared at her with open amazement, looking her up and down much the way they had when they first met. Only this time, there was more than a simple appraisement of her beauty lurking in his dark eyes. There was awe and respect. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“The city guard,” she lied. “Now come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
Suitor-boy, whose real name turned out to be Marcello, talked nonstop all the way back to The Tankard. A disappointed look came over him when Alias told him she needed to leave. Marcello dipped into his purse, taking out every coin he had and tried to give it to her for saving his life.
Alias refused. Besides, it was her fault that he followed her.
“For saving my life,” he implored once more. But Alias just shook her head.
Marcello looked a little downtrodden and poked the coins back into his purse. “I guess that’s the duty of a city guard,” he mumbled indignantly.
Alias nodded, deciding it was best to play along. “Just be careful and stay out of the alleys, ok?”
Marcello nodded agreement and turned back to the entrance of the bar. He glanced over his shoulder once as he made his way through the door. But Alias was nowhere in sight.
She’d moved lithely into the shadows, deciding this time she would watch to make sure he didn’t follow again. When he gave up his search and went inside, Alias sighed and started back toward The Orphanage. Marcello’s antics had monopolized most of her evening. There might still be some time to implore the cut and run technique, but Alias really wasn’t up for that. And with only a half-hour till midnight, she doubted it would make a lot of difference anyhow.
With just four krents for the night, it was possibly her worst one night performance. No way could she expect to beat Renzo. All she could hope for was that Nicia would hear her out and understand. She’d have to, Alias thought, entering the alley beside The Orphanage. It was the truth.
She pushed through the foyer door to find Nicia lounging in her customary position, not much different from when Alias had left.
“You’re late,” Nicia said. For indeed, Alias was the last of Guido’s pickpockets to straggle in, although it wasn’t quite midnight.
“I suppose that means you took my suggestion seriously,” Nicia said, bringing her chair to rest on all fours. If her words offered a penchant for hope, her expression showed only doubt.
Alias swallowed audibly despite herself.
She approached the table and immediately launched into her story. Nicia just eyed her callously through the entire thing and when Alias finished she said, “So how much did you get?”
Alias felt a tumble of butterflies in her belly. Nicia had no care in the world for her excuses. She knew that. Tentatively, she extracted the four krents and laid them on the table.