No one follows him.
No one really looks, either, after a half-mad gutter stray scrabbling and wheezing heavily from one turn to the next. This is a good thing, the lack of interference. But it would never have been the case in Avanthal. Someone would have pursued him if only to ask what the matter was; anyone would have asked him the very basic question as to whether he, an unattended child, is alright. But in Sunberth the hard reality is a smack of apathy with a side of not wanting to get involved if the situation doesn’t suggest material or fiscal gain. It doesn’t upset him. Who, at this point, is he to judge?
He runs until he can go no further; he staggers another dozen yards. A door in the alley he’s found himself in kicks open, and a man in a creased cook’s paper hat gives him a cursory glance, then dumps the garbage he’s hauling out into the bin beside him.
The door slams shut behind the cook, taking the smell and steam of frying bacon with him.
There’s no use dwelling on the food sizzling just feet away; between him and it is a very impenetrable door and bricks that may as well be made of solid Isurian steel. He tells himself he never really liked bacon anyway.
With no one before or behind him, he fishes the bag of candied nuts out of his pocket. The tear in the bag widens, and he hastily catches the spill before it can hit the ground. There’s even less than he’d first estimated when he’d fought for them in the plaza, covering less than the surface area of the palm of his hand. Like the bit of bread he’d had earlier, he wolfs down the handful, screwing his eyes shut at the sudden sweet spike of the caramelized sugar, the satisfying crumble between his teeth. He chews so quickly and forcefully that he almost forgets to breathe. It’s blasphemous, but – after all it had taken to get them, to wrestle for himself the most measly of handfuls – it’s one of the best things he’s ever tasted, better than any that had been freely handed to him in Avanthal.
It’ll have to last him. Now, again, to the matter at hand.
He’s vaguely aware of where he is. The street is lined with milliners, weavers, tailors, haberdasheries. At the southern end begin the leatherworkers and light armories. He’s been here before, the goods in the shop windows catching his eye then as it is now. Drawn like a moth to a flame, he looks up in awe at a mannequin dressed in a dramatic long coat in deep navy, the collar and cuffs trimmed with gold braid.
There’s no way he’d be able to afford any of this. He thinks about his two pathetic coppers, the scant dozen coins hidden under his mattress. The grand total wouldn’t even be enough to buy the buttons, just as gold and gleaming as the rest of the coat’s embellishments. Supposing, in ridiculous far-flung fantasy, where he is either incredibly wealthy or develops the power to pass through glass – where would he even have cause to wear it? Given their line of work, he knows for a fact his stepfather wouldn’t take kindly to him drawing so much attention to himself. On top of all that, on his undergrown frame it’d probably drag on the floor.
But all this doesn’t stop him from picturing himself with it on, from imagining himself as someone with the means and reason to slip it onto his shoulders like a second skin.
There’s movement beyond the shop window. The clerk, a harried-looking man with a measuring tape slung around his neck, glares and shoos him away. Disabused of his momentary daydream, Caspian scowls and wanders a few doors down, feeling the man’s eyes on his back like knives.
Further down the street is a bazaar. It’s only here a few days a week, a collection of tents clumped together, with vendors and their wares pressed together like sardines. Now well into the day, there’s a promising buzz of warmth and noise.
No one bothers him as he weaves his way through the tents. He doesn’t even really know what he’s looking for – short of bringing home an actual treasure chest, the command to do something useful is unhelpfully open-ended. But, surely, there must be something here. By now he’s well aware that his minor success in the plaza this morning was only made possible because he had five methods of distraction; here, there are dozens.
A rack of scarves catches his eye. A beam of sunlight slants from above, through a gap in the tents, sending the jewel tones of the fabrics aglow. Some of them have beading; others are framed with golden discs. Painted tin, maybe, and not real gold – but it shines all the same.
He lingers a few vendors down, feigning cursory interest in a shelf of secondhand boots. The sign posted at the scarf vendor claims they’re all real silk. He doesn’t have enough experience to tell from a glance whether this is true, but he waits and watches long enough for a pair of young women to run their hands over a few, express their appreciation, and buy one each.
The women seemed well-heeled, their skirts unmuddied. One had pearl earrings dangling from her lobes. They, perhaps, would be able to identify silk if they saw it.
“Those aren’t your size.”
Caspian jumps. The grubby man at the boot stall is peering right at him, suspenders hanging from his waist, chewing on the end of a pipe. He slaps a pair of boots onto the table, the leather split on one of the toes. One’s missing its laces. Just from a glance, the man appears to have a good sense for these things – they would certainly fit him a lot better than the steel-toed set he’d been pretending to scrutinize.
“I’ll let you try on one,” the man continues gruffly, “but you do it here, with me behind the stall, and you don’t bolt.”
Who steals just one shoe?
He already knows the answer.
“I’m alright, thanks,” Caspian says hastily, and wanders to another stall equidistant from the woman with the scarves. Not wanting to be drawn into another conversation, he starts up a casual and steady rotation through the stalls.
There’s a lot of foot traffic here, likely to increase as they head into the early afternoon. In some ways it’s a hindrance; in many more ways it’s exactly the cover he needs. There’s more witnesses here, possibly more people to give chase – but he’ll just have to bank on the mess, and Sunberthian apathy.
From a distance, he selects the one he wants. There’s a deep vermillion one he’s got his heart set on, and it’ll look good on his dark skin. He knows this intuitively because –
It’s a lot like one his mother used to wear. He can see her now, the scarf clutched round her, drawn across her sharp face like a hood against the brittle cold. A lone flame on an endless canvas of white.
He shoves the memory away.
Snatch and grab and go. That’s all it’ll be. A matter of seconds, and more sprinting. The woman’s wearing a corset and heavy skirts; if she tries to follow it won’t be for very far.
Holding his breath, training his eyes anywhere other than the scarves, he draws closer.
No one really looks, either, after a half-mad gutter stray scrabbling and wheezing heavily from one turn to the next. This is a good thing, the lack of interference. But it would never have been the case in Avanthal. Someone would have pursued him if only to ask what the matter was; anyone would have asked him the very basic question as to whether he, an unattended child, is alright. But in Sunberth the hard reality is a smack of apathy with a side of not wanting to get involved if the situation doesn’t suggest material or fiscal gain. It doesn’t upset him. Who, at this point, is he to judge?
He runs until he can go no further; he staggers another dozen yards. A door in the alley he’s found himself in kicks open, and a man in a creased cook’s paper hat gives him a cursory glance, then dumps the garbage he’s hauling out into the bin beside him.
The door slams shut behind the cook, taking the smell and steam of frying bacon with him.
There’s no use dwelling on the food sizzling just feet away; between him and it is a very impenetrable door and bricks that may as well be made of solid Isurian steel. He tells himself he never really liked bacon anyway.
With no one before or behind him, he fishes the bag of candied nuts out of his pocket. The tear in the bag widens, and he hastily catches the spill before it can hit the ground. There’s even less than he’d first estimated when he’d fought for them in the plaza, covering less than the surface area of the palm of his hand. Like the bit of bread he’d had earlier, he wolfs down the handful, screwing his eyes shut at the sudden sweet spike of the caramelized sugar, the satisfying crumble between his teeth. He chews so quickly and forcefully that he almost forgets to breathe. It’s blasphemous, but – after all it had taken to get them, to wrestle for himself the most measly of handfuls – it’s one of the best things he’s ever tasted, better than any that had been freely handed to him in Avanthal.
It’ll have to last him. Now, again, to the matter at hand.
He’s vaguely aware of where he is. The street is lined with milliners, weavers, tailors, haberdasheries. At the southern end begin the leatherworkers and light armories. He’s been here before, the goods in the shop windows catching his eye then as it is now. Drawn like a moth to a flame, he looks up in awe at a mannequin dressed in a dramatic long coat in deep navy, the collar and cuffs trimmed with gold braid.
There’s no way he’d be able to afford any of this. He thinks about his two pathetic coppers, the scant dozen coins hidden under his mattress. The grand total wouldn’t even be enough to buy the buttons, just as gold and gleaming as the rest of the coat’s embellishments. Supposing, in ridiculous far-flung fantasy, where he is either incredibly wealthy or develops the power to pass through glass – where would he even have cause to wear it? Given their line of work, he knows for a fact his stepfather wouldn’t take kindly to him drawing so much attention to himself. On top of all that, on his undergrown frame it’d probably drag on the floor.
But all this doesn’t stop him from picturing himself with it on, from imagining himself as someone with the means and reason to slip it onto his shoulders like a second skin.
There’s movement beyond the shop window. The clerk, a harried-looking man with a measuring tape slung around his neck, glares and shoos him away. Disabused of his momentary daydream, Caspian scowls and wanders a few doors down, feeling the man’s eyes on his back like knives.
Further down the street is a bazaar. It’s only here a few days a week, a collection of tents clumped together, with vendors and their wares pressed together like sardines. Now well into the day, there’s a promising buzz of warmth and noise.
No one bothers him as he weaves his way through the tents. He doesn’t even really know what he’s looking for – short of bringing home an actual treasure chest, the command to do something useful is unhelpfully open-ended. But, surely, there must be something here. By now he’s well aware that his minor success in the plaza this morning was only made possible because he had five methods of distraction; here, there are dozens.
A rack of scarves catches his eye. A beam of sunlight slants from above, through a gap in the tents, sending the jewel tones of the fabrics aglow. Some of them have beading; others are framed with golden discs. Painted tin, maybe, and not real gold – but it shines all the same.
He lingers a few vendors down, feigning cursory interest in a shelf of secondhand boots. The sign posted at the scarf vendor claims they’re all real silk. He doesn’t have enough experience to tell from a glance whether this is true, but he waits and watches long enough for a pair of young women to run their hands over a few, express their appreciation, and buy one each.
The women seemed well-heeled, their skirts unmuddied. One had pearl earrings dangling from her lobes. They, perhaps, would be able to identify silk if they saw it.
“Those aren’t your size.”
Caspian jumps. The grubby man at the boot stall is peering right at him, suspenders hanging from his waist, chewing on the end of a pipe. He slaps a pair of boots onto the table, the leather split on one of the toes. One’s missing its laces. Just from a glance, the man appears to have a good sense for these things – they would certainly fit him a lot better than the steel-toed set he’d been pretending to scrutinize.
“I’ll let you try on one,” the man continues gruffly, “but you do it here, with me behind the stall, and you don’t bolt.”
Who steals just one shoe?
He already knows the answer.
“I’m alright, thanks,” Caspian says hastily, and wanders to another stall equidistant from the woman with the scarves. Not wanting to be drawn into another conversation, he starts up a casual and steady rotation through the stalls.
There’s a lot of foot traffic here, likely to increase as they head into the early afternoon. In some ways it’s a hindrance; in many more ways it’s exactly the cover he needs. There’s more witnesses here, possibly more people to give chase – but he’ll just have to bank on the mess, and Sunberthian apathy.
From a distance, he selects the one he wants. There’s a deep vermillion one he’s got his heart set on, and it’ll look good on his dark skin. He knows this intuitively because –
It’s a lot like one his mother used to wear. He can see her now, the scarf clutched round her, drawn across her sharp face like a hood against the brittle cold. A lone flame on an endless canvas of white.
He shoves the memory away.
Snatch and grab and go. That’s all it’ll be. A matter of seconds, and more sprinting. The woman’s wearing a corset and heavy skirts; if she tries to follow it won’t be for very far.
Holding his breath, training his eyes anywhere other than the scarves, he draws closer.
x
