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Stepping Wild, Draft 2, CH 48
🕑 Added 2025-05-02 13:00:02 +0000 UTCTibs leaned against the shop’s wall, watching stall displaying sewing tools on side and one with yarn on the other. He dressed in the rough,
Tibs leaned against the shop’s wall, watching stall displaying sewing tools on side and one with yarn on the other. He dressed in the rough, but refined clothing that was typical of the area. The people here couldn’t afford the good fabrics, having to limit themselves to the local wool and linens, but being able to pay good seamsters made that look better.
Carts distributed flowers throughout the large marketplace in preparation for the flower festival, which took place in three days. Fleet Fingers would put in an appearance to proclaim Lord Rastmyre’s greatness and distribute more of the noble’s wealth. There would be an increase in visitors to the market because of the festival, which meant an increase in guards. And that was part of the reason for picking this place and that time.
It was time for more than the citizens and nobles to talk about Fleet Fingers. It was time for the guards to get in on the discussions. And that meant purposely involving them, letting them get close to him, give them a taste of almost catching the notorious thief.
He pushed from the wall and joined in the crowd walking through the market; locating the low roofs and alleys. Unlike most of his previous display, Tibs couldn’t plan how this one would go. He’d be in the center of the crowd and, with the guards acting, they might decide to help them. So he needed to be familiar with the layout, as well as the exits he needed to keep track of as the sea of people changed the field.
He bought a handful of candies at a booth and savored them as he played at being nothing more than another local shopper. He moved around booths, haggled with the occasional merchant and walking away defeated.
He located the exits from the market, then walked them to layout how to keep the guards on his tail among the narrow alleys, when to let them think they’d catch him, and when he’d vanish from their sight and the hunt. For that, he located roof accesses that could be used without leaving a trail, or when he needed one to be left so the chase could continue.
To help with those, over the following days, he hid tools that would explain how he’d climbed a particularly difficult wall. His usual ropes, easily uncoiled when he reached the roof through the use of essence. A knife, fallen between a rain barrel and the wall, which he’d dropped on reaching the top. Leaving the knife marks in the wooden wall would be simple. As would be leaving a knife embedded at the top, where he’d put too much force and didn’t have the time to wrestle it out.
Once he was satisfied with his preparations, all that was left was to wait for the day of the festival
*
He walked through the crowd already in Fleet Fingers’ green and black, but with the hood down, and no mask, he was only another of the visitors. He wasn’t worried about being recognized. The dye in his hair gave weight to his usual light curls as well as a copper highlight. Not that anyone noticed him. Fleet Fingers wasn’t yet so known that the sight of green and black made people stare.
Today would go a long way toward changing that.
His fingers were as active as they always were in crowds, but this time, he left something behind, instead of taking. Silver and electrum coins for a wealthier crowd, wrapped with a strip of paper from Lord Rastmyre, wishing them a good festival and to make use of the coin in enjoying this special day. He also left purses with a handful of them under the counter of struggling merchants.
The festival wasn’t about spending money, but everyone would need an ale at some point, something to eat, and then they’d find the new coin, the message. Once one found theirs, Tibs expected exclamations. Joy from those who also found the coin, disappointment from those who didn’t. It would mark the start of his display.
If it didn’t happen by the time he reached the center of the market, the pole there, with the festival banner, would be the perfect place for Fleet Fingers to inform everyone of the crimes they hadn’t noticed him committing.
The uproar, when it started, came not from him, high on the pole, or from the people proclaiming found coins, but from a woman yelling out.
“That’s Fleet Fingers!”
He looked at the caller in surprise, and she was in a rough spun dress out of place among the finer made clothing. While it wasn’t how he’d planned it, Tibs smiled, gave a theatrical bow, and when he straightened, he wore Fleet Finger’s customary half mast, and the hood was up. Then he ran in the opposite direction of the guards coming at him.
The bag at his hip had more coins than he’d expected for the start of the display, but that would be remedied in the way only Fleet Fingers could pull off.
His sense was useless in keeping track of the guards. Too many people, far too many with swords at their hips. Festivals meant dressing up, and the people here did that by adding a sword. His sense of metal didn’t help him know if those were meant to be used or purely as decorations.
What his sense did, was let him know how the crowd moved. Where it was dense and would impede him, or light, or in the process of shifting. That gave him an ease as he ran through people his pursuers didn’t have, and he was taking advantage of it.
He reached the pole at the center of the market and climbed it until he was above the stalls.
“Good people of Brokentia!” he called, the Air etching carrying his voice far. “A merry Flower Festival to all of you!” He didn’t voice the curse as the cord holding the bag of coin shut fought him; it had to have become tangled in the run. “I,” he continued, unraveling the wood essence in the cord and leaving it too fragile to resist his fingers, “Fleet Fingers, humble servant of the Great Lord Rastmyre, brings you his generosity.” He flung a handful of coins in the air. “Spend the coins with the lack of wisdom such a day calls from.” The bag followed, the metal etching detonating when it was high, but part of the bag remained intact, causing most of the coins to fall in a small area.
He’d work out what he’d etched wrong later, because that had meant some of the guards wouldn’t being obstructed by people rushing to pick the coins up. And they were getting too close. He kicked off the pole and landed among a group, who stared at him, too stunned to react.
“Fleet Fingers strongly advises you to move. Guards are rarely gentle in the pursuit of their duty, of which, today, Fleet Fingers is the target.” A hand on one of the men’s shoulder explained the leap over him, then he ran toward the opening. Curses came behind him as guards yelled for him to stop by order of the king; for people to move out of their way, by order of the same.
A look over his shoulder showed two of them closer than he wanted. It wouldn’t do for them to see him jump to the roofs when he needed them to think that Fleet Fingers was nothing more than a highly skilled thief.
Air etchings under his feet increased his speed and the distance between them, only to curse under his breath as the crowd ahead shifted, growing too dense for him to make his way through without injuring anyone if he wanted to maintain his lead.
An Earth etching gave him the traction to turn without losing speed, and he headed for a different alley. It came into view, along with the couple engaged in passion among its shadows. The shadows that would have helped hide his climb up, past the knife already planted in the wall near the roof.
Another turn had him head toward the center of the market again. The other exit he’d prepared was on the other side.
“There!” a guard called, and Tibs ducked under another’s grab, wondering where she’d come from.
“Not fast enough,” he told her, and increased his speed, using etching to nimbly dodge around the people too taken in by the action to move out of his way. Past the center of the market, Tibs realized he had a problem. People were massing by the alley he’d targeted. No, all of them.
The guards were better organized than his previous encounters had led him to believe.
He smiled. It would simply make Fleet Fingers’ inevitable escape that more discussion worthy.
He altered the Air etching for more speed, maybe too much, but he needed it to reach the alley before there were too many for them to believe he’d gotten past without the use of magic. An item could explain his speed, but as rare as they were, they’d go for him having essence before they considered he had a second one.
A magical item made Fleet Fingers memorable. Using magic brought the danger they’d call in adventurers to deal with the threat.
He barreled through the still assembling guards, an etching of air to push them apart more than the impact would and give him a believable head start on them. He exploded an Air etching under his feet to send him up, sending Wood ahead to pull the rope out of the cranny it was hidden in. Already guards were running in the alley, and he had to hope the distance would have them thinking they’d seen things wrong.
The dangling rope should help convince them of that.
He posed at the edge of the roof as the guards looked for a way to join him there. One grabbed the rope, which came undone and she fell on her back. Tibs gave a broad bow, then ran along the edge, dropping to the alley at the end, and setting off on the next part of the chase.
If he wanted the guards to talk about Fleet Fingers, he needed to make sure they had plenty to talk about before he disappeared.
*
The shop that held the fabrics Herns needed for their clothing was more warehouse against the city wall, than shop proper, with a large door through it to make bringing in bolts from the caravans easier. It was one of many warehouses in the neighborhood, but only one of two that had a storefront. The other stored, and sold, herbs and spices.
When they’d discussed ideas to hide the fact they’d stolen bolts, the team’s ideas ranged from burning the warehouse afterward, to laying the blame at the thieves working for the Master, to, Charlie had been particularly proud of that one, unleashing rodents to eat through so much of the fabrics no one could tell any was gone.
The one they settled on came about because Tibs wouldn’t know which bolts to take unless the names were written in a language he knew how to read. He had an easier time learning to speak them, than to write them. Writing the messages Fleet Fingers left with the coins had been his first exercise with this language. The warehouse was large enough he might spend a night there and not find what they needed.
So, Cynta had crafted an identity for a laborer working for one of the city’s tailors, and had mixed with the other laborers, learning the orders, and then at the shop, finding out how it got them ready for pickup.
They’d discussed simply buying the bolts of fabric under the guise of the laborer; for his employer. But that left a trail behind for the guards to pick at and go to the tailor with. Which would have them speak with the laborers and lead to a description.
Most time, the order was picked up shortly after being placed. The one time it stayed in the section reserved for the orders longer was when the order placed at the end of the day. Those were usually picked up as soon as the shop opened, so they were prepared before the workers went home. But they could remain there if the tailor was delayed in having them collected.
The room that held those orders was behind the shop, but a separate one from the warehouse, with its own door, so the picking up of the bolts didn’t interfere the shop’s business. As with the surrounding buildings, the walls and roof were wood. The windows were high, but not out of Tibs’s reach.
They had settled on water damage to hide the theft, because it didn’t come with the danger that fire represented, was more reliable than rodents, and wouldn’t draw the Master’s ire. But it left them at the mercy of the weather. The water would remove the writing on the cards marking the orders, and so long as the ledger was also damaged by water in such a way the order couldn’t be found, there would be no evidence the bolts had been there.
Placing the order required Nariss to forge it and the money, since the shop wouldn’t set them aside without part of the sale being covered first. Even if he was willing to use the money Fleet Fingers had stolen, he couldn’t explain how it was he had it, not without explaining why he wasn’t using it to finance the operation.
He’d told the team they would provide the targets when they needed money, and Cynta provided one.
To Tibs’s surprise, and discomfort, it wasn’t someone linked to the Master, but a theater group competing with her friends.
An honest theater group.
He didn’t want to steal from honest workers, but he’d left the decision in the team’s hands, so he was bound by it.
He’d come up with a way for Fleet Fingers to help the actors, and other workers, weather the troubles the owners were going to be hit with.
*
The commotion brought traffic along the road to a stop. Raised voices made it as far as Tibs, as he walked through the people, looking up for Uzoma’s guiding signals. The man sat, looking bored in a second-story window overlooking the road. He didn’t need his help to know where the money from the theater’s latest performance was. So many coins were impossible for him not to sense, but he had to maintain the illusion he was like them.
Then, he saw them. Four private guards, two women, two men, standing around the bureaucrat looking man. They were impressive beyond how muscular they were. They wore regalia that would make nobles proud. But they worked for the money holders, same as the bureaucrat carrying the bag of coins.
Tibs adjusted his cap; the signal to Uzoma he was in position.
The new commotion came with protests from within the crowd as they were shoved aside. Whoever was approaching cared only for the fact they were in the way.
Charlie, when he became visible, was better dressed than usual. It could be something a respectable merchant wore. Or, considering he still looked like a thug, a merchant’s enforcer.
The bureaucrat’s guards weren’t fast enough to move out of the way, the rest of the crowd preventing them, and were also shoved, stumbling back into their charge. The two at the rear stepped forward to help, but Charlie shoved again. Only they were ready and blocked him.
When the bureaucrat slipped, they weren’t there to keep him from falling, but Tibs was. Catching the man and bag that slipped from his grasp, using the distraction of righting him to switch bags, using essence to dissolve the stone disks until, he hoped, the weight matched.
Cynta had told him how much would be in the bag, smiling when Uzoma asked how she might know of a competitor’s sales for a day’s performances. But she hadn’t been able to tell him what the distribution of coins would be. While he’d shaped them to match in size, an easy thing when all he had to do was dissolve the essence he didn’t want there, he had no way to sense the weights of the bag and was left with the quick exchange to gauge and adjust it.
He walked away as soon as the man was steady.
Charlie would make an opening and run off. Cynta had already left; the argument she’d picked with someone ahead having already done its work.
