The price of information, a cost of both coin and risk. Jangle the lacquered coffers below the eager nostrils of the meagre and see if their spiteful tongue follows the rhythm. Beggars and urban brigands alike were susceptible to the melody of the clickity-clang. Their eyes and ears worth more than even a noble’s, for their senses were not impeded by the sloth comfort of walls.

Once the exchange of money had succeeded, next came the risk. Whatever the desperate whisperer would share forever marked their customer as a now wiser man. Should anyone ask that very same scruffy lout for information about the now wise man, he would happily share that knowledge too for a mere morsel of round iron.

In the gaps of time Apple was not subjecting himself to the judgement of well-to-do commoners on his dancing abilities, he would trade a coin or two for the counsel from the all-seeing paupers that dwelled within Kettle’s palisade. Always he would ask the same question: “Do you know of any magicians in this city?”

After having asked over a dozen of unkempt looking gentlemen of various ages and smells, Apple was now privy to the knowledge of the existence of seven magic-wielders hosted within the city of Kettle. Whilst an impressive number, only one stood out to him however. Not for their familiarity nor their fame but instead for their apparent mediocrity. Apple desired to steal the treasures of a magician and only one of them seemed to be a none suicidal choice.

Lord Boris Maxwell. An ancient gentleman of lower nobility and apparently no magical or historical achievements to speak of. Whilst the Lord’s lack of magical did indeed foretell a lower quality of arcane goods, whatever they were had to still be better than what the empty-handed Apple possessed. The common grimoire of an old mage must surely have acculturated an impressive number of spells over the century. Even if Lord Maxwell was such a drab magician as the rumours hinted; compared to the ungraduated Apple he was an expert on the art of magic-craft.

Now that Apple once again felt his sword bump against his thigh while he walked and his injuries no longer screamed in protest at his existence, he was finally ready to begin his plot to burgle the senior magician. His days were spent staking out the Maxwell Estate, instead of continuing his growing busking career.

“So, you think you can get it unseen?” Apple asked, sat atop a straw pillow in his rented room at Funky Frank’s Tavern.

Mula pursed her lips together tightly in thought and stared idly at the ceiling, sat atop a pillow of her own, “Mula doesn’t know...” She admitted, “never tried to break it to place so big and guarded before.”

Apple crinkled his nose in discomfort and let out a light gasp while he stretched his arms. “I thought so, to be honest. I suppose it wouldn’t be fair to make you do all the work anyway. Besides, you don’t even know what a grimoire is.”

“Mula does too!” She protested, “Besides, your way sounds more fun anyhow.”

Apple scratched his nose. He had also thought his plan was cunning in its sheer audacity, although at this moment he was doing his best to find an alternative, fun and being audacious rarely equalled efficiency or survivability.

“Very well, we’ll do my plan. Making you look like a servant should be easy anyway. Getting a guard uniform for myself... Not so much.” Apple sighed. For now, however, Apple begrudgingly admitted he could not conjure up a better plan to acquire the Lord’s grimoire.

Apple’s method of infiltration was simple, disguise themselves as the Lord’s people and simply rob him from right under his wrinkly nose. In Apple’s mind the plan seemed almost flawless in its sheer simplicity – almost – and that was what worried him. He had stalked Lord Maxwell’s estate for three days now and was quite knowledgeable about the routine of the man’s personal guard. He was even able to pick out their vermillion coloured gambesons out of any crowd – no matter how large. The main problem was acquiring one of the uniforms for himself. He thought of disguising himself as a servant instead, but was loathed to give up his sword as keeping it would destroy the authenticity of the disguise, the mission already required him to forgo his precious catalyst for realism.

“What if Mula sneaks in and steals uniform for you?” She asked.

“No good, it would seem that the guards take their uniforms home with them. I’m sure they keep spares somehow but it’s not worth the risk searching.” Apple pouted.

“Then why not steal them from their houses?”

Apple began to play with his hair, as he normally did when Mula pressed him with a barrage of questions. “I want to involve as little people as possible in this. Breaking into some lowly grunt’s home, possibly scaring his wife and children, getting him the sack, and making them all homeless, it doesn’t sit well with me, Mula.”

Mula pursed her lips tighter in concentration. “How about we kidnap a guard and then steal their clothes then?”

“How is that any better?” Apple asked incredulously.

“If we tie them up first, it will show that they were attacked and didn’t lose their clothes like an idiot.” She reasoned.

“Hmmm...” Apple hummed. “That’s some pretty childish reasoning, a tad disturbing too. Rendering a grown man mute, immobile, and still alive is no easy feat. We would also have to find somewhere to store him. Somewhere hidden – but not too hidden. We want someone to find him eventually – can’t let the poor bastard starve.”

Mula nodded her eagerly to the sound of Apple slowly accepting her plan. “Yeah. We just need lots of rope.”

“And ale,” He interjected. “A drunk man is a clumsy man, but how do when get him to drink?”

“Why make him? Men love drink. Follow him to pub and kidnap him when he leaves.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.” Apple remarked, impressed with Mula’s suggestion. “All right, let’s do it. We’ll stalk one of the guards, pray he goes to a tavern, wait until he gets drunk and then steal his clothes.”

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“Yay! This sounds fun.” Mula cried, in their small inn room.

“Hush now.” Apple whispered. “We just need some rope and a blanket.”

“Why a blanket?”

“We’re stealing a man’s clothes, Mula. It’s winter, poor sod will be freezing. The least we can do is chuck a blanket of his frosty nipples.”

**********

“Mind if I join you?” Apple asked.

A man sat atop a stool made of rough timber gulped the swig of ale in his mouth and looked Apple up and down, “I don’t owe ya any money now does I?”

Apple chuckled and sat on a chair in front of the wary fellow, “I’m afraid not. Just a man looking for someone to share a drink with.”

The man continued to squint at Apple but seemed to let his guard down just enough to take another sip from his flagon once more. “Not many folk ‘round ‘ere just sit down with strangers for no reason, they don’t.”

“Well I’m not from around here.” Apple admitted. “Haven’t spoken to many folks lately due my travels and you look a little down in the dumps, thought you wouldn’t mind a chat.”

The man shrugged, “suppose I could... Name’s Mark.”

“Saxon.” Apple replied. He had heard someone cry out the name Saxon earlier in the merchant plaza and decided he liked the sound of it. He did not particularly feel like going through the motions of discussing how his new moniker: Apple was indeed a strange name ,with someone he planned to kidnap.

“Good name,” the man grunted in approval. “So, what brings ya ‘ere, Saxon?”

“Money of course, I’m a merchant looking to sell some of my wares.”

“Oh yeah, what ya sell?”

“Oh, all sorts, fruit and berries mostly. Tricky business though, did you know fruit spoils ludicrously fast? Wish I did before I became a merchant.” He joked, although Apple did not disagree with the sentiment of the joke. What about you, Mark, you some kind of solider?” Apple asked, deliberately looking down at the man’s attire.

Mark sniffed in displeasure. “Aye something like that. Though I now spend most days lookin’ after some rich sod whose so old half of his brain has rotted, it has.”

“Bad boss huh. Had my fair share of them myself.” Apple grumbled truthfully, he considered his father and former headmaster a type of boss.

“Oh yeah? Your’s ever spend half the day pissin’ and shittin’ themselves, and the other half rambling on and on about nonsense?”

“Hah, nothing that bad I’ll admit. Sounds like you’ve got yourself a real stinker. Mine were more of the yelling at you until you felt as strong as leprosy-stricken toddler with a serious smoking addiction.”

“Wait, you can get addicted to smoking?” He asked, sounding concerned.

Apple was surprised he did not know, it was common knowledge among his peers. “Oh yeah. It can kill ya real quick too.”

Mark went quiet, his face a rock of intense thought. “Eh,” he shrugged, “I’ll live.”

Apple just shrugged back, it was not as if he cared about the man’s health, especially whilst he was planning on getting him drunk “Fair point.”

“Awful bit of description there you said earlier though, aye? About all that toddler shit. Feel bit shit now for just saying me boss is just shit.”

Apple laughed, “Don’t worry about. You spend a few years in the merchant trade and you’ll discover a while plethora of ways to call someone a cunt.”

“Oh yeah? Sounds bit of a laugh when you describe it. Shame I can’t read or write, or I’d think of joining ya.”

“Oh yeah?” Apple mimicked, “Got any ideas what you’d sell?”

“My wife, she makes the best chestnut cakes I’ve ever had, and I’ve had like seven. She puts honey in it, with this flour stuff but it's not flour, but it looks like it...”

Apple paused for a second, he most certainly was not expecting such an answer, especially for an increasingly intoxicated commoner. “They sound lovely, though I am more partial to roasted chestnuts sprinkled with salt myself. You sound like a lucky man however to have a wife who can make you these cakes you love so dearly.”

Mark looked down at the table and smiled, the faint pink of a blush could be seen across his face, whether it was due to the topic of his wife or simply the ale Apple did not know. “Yeah, she’s great... It’s a real shame I busted her lip this morning before work.”

“Welp, that’s enough small talk for one night I reckon,” Applethought to himself. “How about I buy you a drink, Mark?”

Mark looked up, his smile growing wider and toothier with joy. “I thought you’d never ask.”

**********

“So, I says to ‘er, I says: I ain’t doin’ that for ya love, unless you put them butter churnin’ hands of yours ‘round my mighty milk stick.” Mark slurred with a jovial hoot.

Apple howled with laughter and tightened his arm around Mark’s shoulder as a gesture of friendship. The two were gallivanting in the street after a merry old time at the pub the two had just met in.

“So, she says to me... She says: you don’t be gettin’ none of that ‘til...” Mark collapsed to the ground with a thud.

“That’s the sixth bloody time he’s told me that story.” Apple complained to himself, as he sheathed his sword after using its pommel to strike the back of Mark’s head, rendering unconscious. “Come on out, Mula.” He cried out into the darkness.

“That took forever. What took you so long?” She grumbled with a small spasm from the cold, while she silently approached from the shadows of an alleyway.

“We’re in the slums, Mula. The drinks around here are more water and rat piss than fermented grain.” He grimaced, remembering that he had drunk his fair share of pints as well this night.

“Then why drink them?” She asked, as if talking to a simpleton.

Apple sighed, “I never realised how low my standards have reached until I just saw that judgemental look on your face. I used to drink such excellent wine... Warm, dark, and rich, with just the right amount of spices to warm the soul.” Apple looked down at his stomach, seeming the translucent illusion of his former round belly for the first time in months.

“Why are you rubbing your tummy?” Mula asked, with her head titled slightly to the side in confusion

Apple regained himself, “it doesn’t matter. Let’s just go and lock this poor sod in a shed around the corner and be on our way.”

**********

“How do I look?” Apple asked.

Mula gave him an appraising look; scanning his body up and down. “Like a guard. Good idea to cut your hair off too.”

Apple nodded in satisfaction. “Terrific. It’s a little tight around the arms, but it sure is nice to finally be wearing some actual armour. My heads bloody cold though, it will take some getting used to,” He said, stroking the harsh bristles upon his skull where his long copper hair used to live.

Apple gazed down at the long grey surcoat fluttering on his body, the image of a faded poppy that marked him as one of Lord Maxwell’s men, was fixed in the centre of the fabric, standing out in the monochrome scenery. As well as his new surcoart, Apple now wore a thick gambeson the colour of pale wine that clung tightly to his also pale skin.

“Now all we’ve got to do is sneak into Maxwell’s estate and the rest is history.”

“Mula thinks we should enter separately. Don’t make sense for servant and guard to be together. I’ll go first.” She said.

“Fair enough. Do you remember what I told you about how a grimoire typically looks, giant and leather-bound?” He asked.

“Mula already knew.” She huffed.

Apple could help but smirk at her childish remark. “Of course, of course, how silly of me. See you later. Be careful now, Mula.”

Mula smirked back. “You too. Don’t feel like setting fire to you again.” With that final remark she darted in the shadows of the alleyways, leaving Apple behind in an abandoned shack with a tied-up man who moaned in confusion and fear at him.

With everything ready, it at last time to get his hands only an actual spell book, and perhaps frighten a senile old man along the way.