Chapter III ... of the Meddling Thieves

Margery

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔫, ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔨𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔲𝔫 𝔣𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔷𝔬𝔫, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔦𝔯 𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔱 𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔫. A stiffness clung to my neck, the kind that comes from sleeping on the bare earth, a discomfort Mother and I often endured in our small, meager hovel. Yet, such pains were not foremost on my mind. My heart still raced from the nightmare that had visited me in the dark hours of the night. Judging by the tangle of my scattered sheepskins, it must have been a frightful vision indeed, for I had tossed and turned without rest.

I can hardly recall the full breadth of the dream, but I remember that there was a thick smoke that had swallowed my sight, as if the very air had turned to ash and dust. A red hue slowly bled through the smoke, growing brighter with each passing moment, until I realized it was no mere glow but a raging fire. Flames burst forth, devouring all in their path. I stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to move or utter a sound. I knew not where I was, only that I could not escape. There was more to the nightmare, though much of it slipped from my memory upon waking. But what remained vivid was the figure that emerged from the blaze—a knight clad in sable armor, his steed as ghastly as a shadowed corpse. He was large, his face concealed behind a dark visor, and his armor blacker than the very night itself. The ground trembled beneath the hooves of his mount, each thunderous step shaking the earth as he drew closer. Then, the knight lowered his lance, aiming it straight for my heart. The wickedness that clung to him was clear, and just as he made to strike, I awoke with a start, my breath caught in my throat.

Mother still slumbered when I stirred, her breath soft and steady. I sat up slowly, taking a moment to peer about our home, my heart still heavy with the weight of the nightmare. The hovel was quiet, the early light creeping through the cracks in the walls, casting long shadows on the earthen floor. It was constructed using three sheep hurdles bound together by rope, with an assortment of broken planks nailed together to form a kind of roof which glistened green with slime. Rank vegetation grew waist-high around it and a cloud of summer gnats hung over it like a pillar of sour smoke. We had the sort of shelter a herdsman might erect as a temporary abode, not permanently. It was the kind of shelter one would find themselves in if you lacked coin, or were in hiding.

For a brief moment, I wondered if the dream world still clung to me, its dark tendrils refusing to release their hold. Yet all was still, no smoke, no fire, only the faint rustle of the wind outside. Mother soon stirred, her movements slow and deliberate as she sat herself upright. She rubbed her eyes, blinking away the remnants of sleep before her gaze found mine. A gentle smile curled upon her lips, warm and familiar, though tired, as if to reassure me without words that all was well. Mother was unique in every way, especially in appearance. She was a rather large woman compared to your average Andorhalian, and she often told me that her family hailed from a kingdom of folk known for their brawn and towering height. This means my father, whom I do not know, must be a man of Andorhal, though Mother refuses to reveal his name, claiming it is for my safety. Yet beyond her height, she was also a striking beauty. Her looks mirrored mine, blonde hair, though hers was cropped short, just above her ears, with a slight fade. Her eyes, blue, shone brightly. But the feature that marked her most, and like many in the Grey Quarter, were the grey ink markings upon her face.

I’m permitted to know but little of Mother’s homeland, though she tells me that many of her kind migrated from a great northern realm where they wield axes, sail the waters in longboats, and mark their faces with grey ink. It was only after a great wave of Mother's people arrived that the city forced them into their own district and named it after their markings, symbols of tribal origins or rank in their former society. I would often, with great curiosity, press Mother to reveal the meaning of her own mark—a bold black line stretching from temple to temple, passing through her eyes, but she, as ever, kept the truth veiled from me.

“You alright, girl?”

I was tempted to share my nightmare with Mother, knowing well how wise she could be with such things. But I held my tongue. There was also the matter of Sir Delwyne, her secret knight, whom I had crossed paths with, but something told me that was best left unsaid as well. So, instead of burdening her with either, I gave a simple nod and asked if I may be excused to see Emmeline for the day. She looked at me if I was dumbfounded, as if this wasn’t a common question. I was then met with a lecture about all the chores that needed doing before the season’s turn, with Mother insisting I get to them at once. Though I’ve been diligent with my tasks, there was something peculiar in her tone. Deep down, I had a nagging feeling she might suspect my plan with Emmeline tonight and sought to keep me from going. Yet, Mother is a blunt woman—if she truly wanted to stop me, she would have told me outright.

“Be there somethin' you ain't tellin' me, Miri?” She asked, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.

I shook my head, trying to appear indifferent, but I knew she saw right through me. “I've done all the tasks you set before me, Mother. What more you ask of me?”

Her lips tightened into a thin line. “What I want be for ye to quit playin' games an' be straight with me. Ye've been skulking 'round like a fox in the henhouse for days now. What’s goin’ on?”

Frustration surged within me. I knew it was foolish to push her, but the feeling of being caged in, of having every step watched, boiled over. “I am no longer a child! You needn't know of every step I take!”

Her face darkened, and for a moment, I thought she might thrash me. Instead, her voice grew cold, colder than I'd ever heard it before. “A day to yourself, aye? You think the world cares f’r what you want? This city'll chew ‘ye up and spit you out, Miri, if you ain't careful. I try t' protect ye, keep ‘you safe from things you don’t understand, but ye—”

“I need not your protection!" I snapped, though my voice trembled. "I can see to myself! Think you that keeping secrets serves me well? You trust me not, and yet you claim to help!”

I then clenched my fists, the heat rising to my face. Without another word, I turned on my heel, the air between us crackling with the weight of unspoken words. I stormed out of the hovel, my heart pounding in my chest. Her voice followed me, sharp as ever, but I didn’t look back. The cool wind hit my face as I stepped outside, but it did little to soothe the fire raging within me.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Abruptly, after racing heedlessly for what felt like an age, I collided with what felt like a sturdy stone wall, and tumbled to the ground.

“Ho! Watch we’re you’re goin,’ eh?”

Looking up, I saw two footmen before me. I knew of these guards, as they were commonly stationed within the Grey Quarter. One was morbidly obese, who I had just ran into. And strangely enough, he was the same guard who I pestered Harold’s name for, a wide fellow named David. The other was outrageously tall, and quite skinny at that, named Swain.

“Silence, thou! You’re fat enough that the entire quarter might come crashing into you.”

The rounded guardsman stood speechless, as though his very lineage had been affronted, perhaps it had, should his mother share his ample girth. Yet before David could muster a reply, Swain interrupted him.

“Anywho, where you off to in such a hurry, child?”

“Festival Square.” I replied.

The gangly guardsman leaned unnervingly close, bending at the hip as he inspected me. He was most creepy, a stark difference to his goofy companion. With a drooping eye and hollowed features, I knew he meant ill intentions.

“Is that so?”

“Leave th’ child alone, will ‘ye? You actin’ like we don’t see flocks of ‘em people rush to the square.”

“Child? This ‘ere is a beautiful woman before us! Wha’ do you know about th’ maidens?”

“I know I get more than thee!”

“MORE THAN THEE?!”

Thankfully, the conversation shifted away from me, turning instead to a quarrel between the two men. Yet, I could not help but feel the stout one had purposely steered the talk aside, perchance to offer me some small mercy.

“In what world, brother? In wha’ world dost thou claim to win more maidens than I? Just look at thyself! Th’ muck on thy trousers, the dirt upon thy boots—what maiden would ever findeth such a sight appealing? And by the Divine, David. If thou growest any wider than ‘ye are now, thou might well burst clean out ‘f thy garments altogether!”

“I say you clog that yapper of yours up, you ol’ bloke.”

Using this to my advantage, I snuck away, still hearing their banter from behind me.

“Aye, but am I wrong? I mean look at ‘ye, lookin’ like a mutton out here!”

I began to crack a slight smile, and I could have sworn by now they were starting to notice my leave.

“Still, you mock me turnshoes? F’r what purpose, havin’ some dust on ‘em?”

The fat footman then looked downard, and suddenly, he hurled a glob of spit onto his own shoes. With a grinning expression, he then met the gaze of his companion.

“What dust, brother?”

“Holy Ambrose, thou art a beast!”

“The only beast here is the one I’ll show your mothe—Ho, girl!”

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Later that day, I met Emmeline near a row of tenements in Festival Square. The curfew was nearly upon us, and as we lingered on a desolate corner, we, as ever, quarreled over how best to undertake this thievery. I, for one, deemed it best that we use our nimbleness to our advantage, and climb through the second-floor shutters. Emmeline fancied we should first see if the door was even barred for the night, and stroll in as though we owned the place. After a brief disagreement, we chose my plan, reasoning that what we sought would likely be on the second floor in any case.

I sorely wished we had paused to sort out the finer details, for but a moment later, Emmeline’s feet were planted upon my shoulders. The struggle to keep her steady while she reached for the shutters was a pain in the ass. I called out to see if she was well, but there came no reply. I called again, yet still no answer. Worry began to gnaw at me, what if Emmeline had been right? What if the man we were robbing was indeed as dark and secretive as she feared? Just as I was on the verge of fleeing in terror, Emmeline’s fiery hair appeared through the window, and with a bright smile, dimples aglow, she extended her hand for me to climb inside. With her’s grasping mine, I hoisted myself through the window and landed with a soft thud inside the chamber. The room was cloaked in shadow, with only the faintest light seeping through cracks in the shutters. As I straightened up, a thick layer of dust stirred beneath my feet, settling back over the worn floorboards. A strange silence filled the room, broken only by our soft breathing.

Before us lay a small, cluttered chamber, thick with dust as though it had long been abandoned. The air hung heavy, filled with a sense of forsakenness. Weird trinkets lay scattered about—a tarnished silver brush, an old dagger, and strange wooden idols, their hollow eyes seeming to follow our every step. Upon the walls, a row of portraits hung, the faces of long-dead men and women gazing from within dark, ornate frames. Each painting was carefully placed, as though part of a memorial, or perchance a shrine, but no sign of the Divine was here. No holy icons, no relics of sacred worth, nothing to speak of faith. The absence bothered, for in all homes, be they grand or humble, there is always some image of the Divine or Ambrose to ward off ill fortune. Yet here, there was none. It was as though the very thought of the Divine had been cast out from this place.

“Odd, innit?” Emmeline whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

I nodded, casting a worrying glance around the room. Something about it all felt wrong, but there was no turning back now.

At the far end of the chamber stood a large, battered chest, its lid slightly ajar, as if it had been opened recently but forgotten in haste. Between us and that chest, however, lay a low bed, and in it, the form of a man, hidden beneath layers of tattered sheepskins. The faint rise and fall of his chest told us he still breathed, though the darkness made it impossible to discern any more of him. His visage, if it could be called that in the gloom, was buried deep beneath the covers.

Emmeline hesitated, biting her lip as her eyes flickered between me and the chest. I knew her well enough to see the doubt creeping in.

“Aye, I’ll do it.” I whispered, meeting her gaze. “You haven’t the stomach for this.”

Her eyes flashed with indignation, but she said nothing, merely giving a curt nod.

I crouched low, moving toward the chest with each step slow and measured, wary not to stir the dust beneath my feet. The shadows thickened the nearer I came, as though the very chamber might devour me whole. My breath came fast, though I dare not to make a sound. The man still lay slumbering, unmoved beneath his covers. With a steady hand, I eased the lid of the chest open, the wood groaning softly in protest. Within, amongst tattered cloths and strange relics, rested the prize we sought: an amulet, its chain black as midnight, and at its heart, a cracked crimson stone that faintly gleamed in the gloom. I took it with care, the cold of the metal biting my fingers, and drew the lid closed as silently as I might. My heart thundered in my breast as I turned, clutching the amulet tight. Yet, before I could take another step, my eyes were drawn to the bed. There, just underneath the sheepskins, something caught my gaze. I froze, my blood turning to ice.

A pair of eyes stared at me from the darkness—wide, unblinking, and fixed upon me.

I stood rooted to the spot, my breath caught in my throat. Time seemed to slow, the room shrinking around me as those eyes bore into mine. For a moment, neither of us moved, the weight of the silence suffocating. Then, without a word, I bolted for the window.