That was more than he could say for many of his debtors, a mess of deadbeats and degenerate gamblers. The fat man had borrowed that fifty over six months ago, and so far had never managed to pay back any of the principle. Mouse had already earned twice that in interest, with no end in sight. Most of them never put a dent in the principle, and stayed on the hook indefinitely, hoping for a gambling win which would pay off their loan in full. It never came, of course, and they only ended up deeper in debt.

On his way down the pipe, he paused at a second floor ledge and walked quickly along it to the building's corner. There he saw two things of interest. The first was a clothesline between the buildings, from which hung an assortment of stained garments, but one quality wool shirt. He snapped it off its pins and stuffed it under his tunic. The second item required a short leap to a far ledge, where he couched beside an open window. Upon the ledge sat a pie, left out to cool. He scooped out a handful and ate it. Apple, with a light, flaky crust, very nice. Wiping his hand on his tunic he dumped the rest of the pie into the alley below, briefly examined the tin, and tucked that into his tunic as well before continuing his descent to the alley. Back across the courtyard, back down the first alley and he was in the piazza once more, heading north towards the metal ringing of a blacksmith's shop.

It was an open-air place, a pitched shale roof supported by four blackened logs, and heat rolled out from its interior, the forge glowing like Satan's throne room. Three men were at work, a younger one manning the bellows, another working the tongs, and an older, powerful-looking man with a singed beard swinging the hammer. The clang of steel against the anvil sent up showers of sparks, and the older man was sooty and sweating as he focused on his craft, baring his teeth with each blow. Mouse waited patiently by a rack holding assorted pieces of steel plate armor.

The smith jerked his chin at the young man with the tongs, who turned the piece of work – a broadsword in the making – over on the anvil. The hammer fell in precisely measured blows, and Mouse felt as if his heart was falling into rhythm with the ringing steel. He counted sixteen strikes before the smith stepped back from the anvil, and the man with the tongs shoved the blade back into the fiery coals of the forge. He wiped a thick forearm across his brow and laid the hammer on the anvil before approaching Mouse.

Looking for your cart, Michelo." It was a statement, not a question.
Mouse nodded and handed over two silver coins. The smith retrieved an iron key from where it hung on a nail, and strode to an enclosed shed attached to the shop. He opened the heavy padlock, and the rogue quickly pulled a three-wheeled peddler's cart from inside. It rattled as he maneuvered it into the street. The cart was 4'x 4' with a canvas top, and filled with second-hand goods. Tin cups, cheap necklaces, ladles, pots, small bells and tarnished brass lanterns hung from the canopy supports, swinging back and forth and clattering against each other. The rogue pulled the recently pilfered pie tin and woolen shirt from inside his tunic and added it to the collection in the cart.
You find me any mithril yet, Michelo?" the smith asked, his voice gravelly.
When I do, Signori, you'll have first crack at it."
The smith grunted and returned to his anvil, and Mouse – now Michelo the Peddler – pushed his cart back up the street and into the piazza, loudly calling, Household goods! Clothing! Trinkets! Religious icons! Fair prices! Finest quality!" He merged with the growing crowd of city residents who preferred the smaller marketplace closer to their homes than the maze-like sprawl at the north end of town. The selection wasn't nearly as good, but there were bargains to be had, and both noble and common found their way into the piazza.

Over the next three hours, Michelo the Peddler sold both the pie tin and the woolen shirt, a couple of dented pots and a good iron skillet. He sweet-talked the wife of a shoemaker into buying a red corset, sold three lead St. Christopher medallions to off-duty soldiers, convinced a Castillian to purchase a leather-wrapped drinking horn, unloaded two felt caps with feathers, a leather jerkin which had been pierced by an arrow, a dark stain around the hole, a pouch of nails, a lantern, and a glass bottle of purple liquid (seawater with two drops of blue ink) as an ‘Elixer guaranteed to cure a hangover.' He also sold several small packets of dried Devil Weed to some regulars, discretely so as not to draw the attention of the occasional, strolling watchman. These customers were easily recognized from a distance due to their shaky hands and green-stained teeth, side effects of chewing the addictive herb. At two gold per packet (little more than a few pinches each), Devil Weed was an extremely lucrative business. It would also get you immediately hung if it were found in your possession. The sale of the vile vegetable matter ensured a lengthy torturing session prior to hanging. Damn, he wished he had more of the stuff.