Page 3 of A Song of Thieves

I reach up to brush the string on my bow, but find only air in its place. The market is not a place for such an obvious weapon. If I thought a woman in pants might draw attention, a quiver of arrows definitely would. My body tenses, but with each step the weight of my favorite Turinian blade puts me at ease.I’m not defenseless.

Water sprays around me, rolling off my boots as I step out of a puddle. The mugginess of an unusually hot, spring afternoon soaks my shirt, the air noticeably swelling around me as beads of sweat gather on my brow. A soft breeze filled with the ocean cools my face as I breathe in its salty scent.

The street is filled with people for market today, buzzing around from tent to tent, buying their weekly fare. Fresh crab and fish line a few tables, while fruit in every color line another. It’s a flourish of greens, reds, blues, purples and oranges. Vendors from Jadeya and Venes, their exotic furs and spices, oils and beaded jewelry intersperse throughout our normal Felshanian goods.

Turinian steel is what keeps this city alive, boasting some of the best sword and metal work in all the kingdom of Felshan— and from what I hear, throughout the Four Kingdoms on our continent of Haythen. Three out of those four kingdoms, all but Thenstra, are represented in our diverse market square.

The vitality of the scene charges through me as I move deeper into the square and the intensifying thrum of voices. The longer I stay in Turin, the kingdom’s capital city, the harder it becomes to forget what lies outside this central shape of patrons enjoying foreign and local ingenuity. The kingdom of Felshan doesn’t offer much for its citizens anymore, delight and jubilance becoming more of a precious jewel— only available to those who can afford it.

The sun has reached the peak of its arch in the sky, signaling the last few minutes of today’s market. This evening will be the yearly commemoration of the death of the prince, now seven years ago. I’ve heard the palace courtyard is quite the breathtaking scene as they honor their only son, once the crown prince of Felshan, with this venerable celebration.

The king and queen, along with their daughter, Princess Adalena, light the lanterns on the north balcony, followed by thousands lit by the congregation who wish to pay their respects. Most I suspect don’t care much about the prince’s death, wanting only to spend a night away from their destitution. A single night to forget where they really stand in this world. These last seven years have truly been cruel to those born without wealth or a royal crown.

I considered going tonight, if just to see the one moment a year where the country doesn’t feel so divided, so contrary to what I remember as a child. I never met the prince and hardly heard his name before he died. But perhaps I could light a candle for my mother instead.

The memory of her face brings a quick warmth, followed by a sharp and resounding cold. As rapidly as it came, I push the thought of her away, sliding it back into its tiny cell in the corner of my heart. The more days that separate me from my last memory of her, the less I remember the sound of her voice, and the feel of her arms wrapped around me.

I turn the corner, my feet stopping before I can even make conscious note of the scene laid out before me. The pinching, dark form of a man stands only a few strides in front of me, a sandy-haired boy, maybe ten years old, in his grasp. The man is clad in finery— a perfectly tailored velvet jacket, its trim embroidered with golden thread, custom made boots made from full-grain leather, garnished with a gold-hilted Turinian sword hanging by his side.

“You stole this,” the man says, holding a large coin in front of the frightened boy’s face. The rancid man towers over the boy in both stature and title, standing at least twice his height— the shadow of fortune disputing any chance of innocence.

“No, sir. No I didn’t. My sister and I been saving up all year, sir. Saving up to buy a cart for market.” The boy’s tunic is so threadbare, it’s hard to maintain a hold on his shirt without ripping it right off of him.

“You lie,” the man spits. The boy's eyes are so wide I can see the whites from where I stand— his body paralyzed in such a way that he doesn't even move to wipe the spittle from his face.

I bare my gritting teeth, willing myself to stay put until necessary. The hum of anger beats through my heart, drowning out the murmurs from around me. A crowd has now formed to my right and left, unable to look away from the gap of fortune that plagues our city. The man breaks his gaze away from the boy, instead eyeing the gathering people and audience to his power. He releases his grip on the child’s shirt, his other hand swinging across the young boy’s face.

The sting echoes through the air, quieting any noise from the crowd. The boy lands hard in the dirt, the momentum of the hit twisting him around until he loses his balance and falls to the ground. Blood drips from his nose, accompanied by a large red mark on his cheek that I already know will badly bruise.

The quiet around me is deafening. No one will say anything. No one will step up for this boy. No one will risk themselves and what little they have, and I can’t even fault them for it.

My hands and feet silently twinge, my body willing me to drive forward from mere spectator, to participant. I stay still, mind and body warring against each other as tension builds inside of me.

The man, Sir Reynauld as I’ve come to know him, owns the most lucrative trading business in our city,Turin Costal Company, which also happens to include many of our infamous steel blacksmiths. These people know the price of getting in his way. Their fathers, brothers, and sons will lose their only income, or they will quickly find themselves in the same position as the bleeding child sprawled out in front of them.

Many are already turning to leave, a few lingering on the outskirts to make sure the boy is well enough to stand. But no one will move in until Reynauld has made his exit. The sight isn’t unfamiliar to them, just another day in their miserable lives as those in power take whatever they want.

A pang of indignation trills through me. I take a step back as the vile man scans the crowd once more, moving so I blend seamlessly into the line of people. This far in my employment for Marg, Reynauld has yet to know my face, and I won’t give him that satisfaction today.

“Thenstra is looking better and better, eh?” I hear a woman whisper somewhere behind me.

“Only if you want to trade in their black market. I doubt the country is any better off than we are,” a man replies. It’s odd to hear talk of Thenstra among this crowd. I’ve never heard of a black market in that questionable country, but when you’re desperate, anything makes sense.

Chatter of Thenstra shrivels in the dirt below me, stomped into lifelessness as Sir Reynauld once again catches my attention.

If it’s possible for a man to scowl and smile at the same time, this one has mastered it. His back turns to me before he walks toward the market, yelling over his shoulder, “May the good people of Turin prosper today.” His mockery fills the air.

His dark velvet coat writhes in tandem to his movements, weaving through a generous parting of the crowd. Even though I no longer see his face, I can’t help but feel his smile as people make way for him to pass. His rich authority knows no bounds. The people’s fear and desperation have given him more power than all the wealth in his coffers could ever hope to buy.

A few are brave enough to offer the boy rags to seep up the blood and help cool the angry welt on his cheek. He takes a few deep breaths, tears threatening to spill over at any moment. There’s relief and anger underneath those tears, and I recognize it well— the echo of fear, that for a time his life was in the hands of another, while knowing the injustice he was just served.

I don’t go to comfort him.

I have a different plan— one that buries my fury for something deeper. One last look at the boy drives in the nail, his red-rimmed eyes trying with all his might to keep his tears at bay.

I turn to follow Reynauld’s path.

As I move closer into the heart of the market I skirt from table to table, listening to the haggling of buyers and sellers finding the right price. The top of my face is warmed by the sun as I fold through the crowd, knowing my renewed purpose is no longer to watch the people and relish the day. I have a new mission, and this time it’s personal.

---