Taris smiled at the man’s tale of journeying from Nyka to Syliras. He had heard the names of the cities, of course. They were to the northwest. But he had no idea just how far they were from each other. That didn’t matter though. The thing was, they had both been orphaned as young kids.
A barmaid approached before Taris could say more. His eyes widened as the man gestured toward him and said he would pay for whatever he wanted. Whatever he wanted?
Taris blinked and forced back his surprise. He had been in the Pig’s Foot plenty of times. Still, he didn’t need to act like a wide-eyed babe. He was seventeen, for gods sakes! He had lived on the streets for nearly a decade.
He looked up at the barmaid and said, “I’ll have some, uh, stew, too. Um, a loaf of bread, a mug of ale, and…”
His voice fell off as he tapped his chin. Should he just get a whole meal? He was pretty much there. Or some meat! It wasn’t everyday he had meat. Then there was fish. He could go for some fish.
Stop acting like an idiot! yelled his conscious inside his skull.
Yeah, you could make this guy spend all his money on food. But how much of it can you take with you? Ok, well, you can take a lot. But that doesn’t mean you should! This guy wants something. Figure out what it is.
“That, that’s all,” Taris told the barmaid. She started to turn away and he remembered something. “Wait!” She looked back, one eyebrow raised in question. Taris motioned to his bloody face. “A wet rag, to clean myself up.”
She tugged the rag from her belt and tossed it to him before leaving to get their order. Taris caught the rag in his right hand with a deft, overhand catch. He tried to toss it upward to his left hand, but his fingers opened before he could raise his hand high enough. The rag fell to the floor soundlessly. Taris dropped after it so hastily the sound of his chair clattering as it rocked on its legs filled the air. He snatched the rag from the floor, steadied the chair and sat down again. He pressed the rag to his face and began to scrub at the dried blood on his chin and lips. The rag smelled of old ale, but it was better than nothing.
Across from him, the man said, “I normally don’t drink their ale, but it’s better than water.”
Taris grinned and nodded at that. It was true. The Drunken Fish, where he spent most nights, had better ale and better food. The only good thing about the Pig’s Foot was its location in the Commons.
The man continued talking. Taris listened, but he was more focused on getting the blood off his face. Was it gone yet? His chin and upper lip felt cleaner. He folded the rag over started scrubbing at his neck.
Then the man asked him a question and Taris froze. He blinked at the table. What things did he enjoy?
“Well,” he began, “I enjoy eating. And not getting caught.”
He laughed. It was that, or sink into misery. Enjoyment, fun, those were for people with money. People who didn’t have to worry about food or if the guy sleeping on the next pallet would steal their coin purse in the night. Real fun, or even simple enjoyment, wasn’t something he experienced often.
“I, I don’t know,” Taris admitted. He lowered the rag and looked up at the man. “It’s been a long time since I did anything fun.” He shook his head. “I mean, fun that wasn’t related to stealing. I try to make that fun because, well…”
He let his voice trail off again. It was the same old line. The thrill of the chase. The thrill of stealing. Yeah, it was a thrill. But it was also terrifying, the thought of getting caught and what his marks might do to him when they caught him. That terror was what kept him moving when he picked someone’s pocket or swiped something from a merchant’s stall. Only the burning in his legs as he ran as fast as he could down the street, the ache in his lungs as they begged for air, kept that terror from overwhelming him. And the hollow, painful emptiness of his stomach, that was what drove him to face the terror again and again. He had no idea what it would be like to not have any of those things.
He swallowed and looked at the man again. “You still haven’t told me your name. Or what it is that you do. All you’ve said is that you stole that,” he pointed vaguely toward where the parcel sat in the man’s pocket, “before I stole it from you. And, what about you? What do you enjoy?”
The way the man had been evading giving him his name, Taris doubted whether he would ever learn it. As for his other questions, he was certain those would go unanswered, too.
