This was not to say that the city was a lawless free-for-all...quite the contrary. There was order and law, and the governor enforced both with an iron fist. This troubling thought pulled the rogue out of his daydreaming, and he finished his beer with a frown on his face, losing his appetite for the rest of his lunch, which he left on the edge of the fountain. He decided to put in another hour, and trundled his pushcart back into the tide of people. "Household goods! One-of-a-kind items! Gently-used garments!"
He had time before he needed to be at his next destination, was now bored, and his heart was no longer into being Michelo the Peddler. He quickly took to daydreaming again, slowly pushing his cart in big, lazy circles around the piazza, no longer calling out to customers. He looked at the people and the buildings.
It was an old city, and the stone foundations of the architecture reflected its fortress nature. More modern structures of dark beams and white & yellow plaster had risen on the stones. Since living outside the walls was an invitation to destruction and thus unthinkable, the population had outgrown the limited space and so had spread the only direction it could...upwards. There were few buildings shorter than three stories, and many as high as five or six, with steeply-pitched roofs of shingles, tile or copper plates. Stone towers were still popular, and these climbed even higher. The outer walls averaged 30', were topped with heavy battlements and interspersed with reinforced structures, towers and small keeps. There were three gates, all heavily fortified and well-defended.

Due to a premium on space and the height of the buildings, streets were generally narrow and almost always in shade. In many places, upper floors had been built out over the streets, and at times windows were so close to one another across the lanes below that people could shake hands with their neighbor across the way. Streets were all cobbled, and most of the city had oil-fueled lamp posts attended by Lampners in the employ of the city. Such close conditions would breed filth and disease in most places, but Eldred's Cross had two blessings which prevented this; the first was a near-constant breeze from the Inner Sea which kept the air fresh and blew away the smoke from hundreds of chimneys, cooking fires and forges. The second was a subterranean sewer system so well-designed and constructed that it was the envy of the Imperium. Waste was carried to sea, and most citizens enjoyed the comforts of clean, indoor privies. Mouse personally did not, but it was something he looked forward to once he could afford to improve his choice of residence. Some of the better locations, and all the noble residences, were also served by plumbing from artesian wells, drawing water up into the building, an advancement to rival the Capital. Most citizens, however, did not have this level of sophisticated plumbing and relied on wells, the services of water-carriers, and public fountains like the one in this piazza.
The city, like most heavily populated areas, did have a waste problem (as well as a hefty rat population) and trash was regularly swept into the sea. This trash dumping and the fact that the sewers emptied into the waterways made the harbors filthy and completely unfit for swimming or fishing, though Mouse personally knew at least three unscrupulous fishermen who still hauled in a bounty from the polluted waters, packing the sickly fish in barrels of salt and selling it to the army or those not in-the-know. The city smelled of salt and the sea.
During the day the streets were crowded... vendors, citizens going about their business, trade wagons and carts moving goods, laborers off-loading ships and hauling their wares to other destinations, animals of all sorts, bodies of troops marching to the staging area and barracks, criers, beggars, sailors, couriers, shoppers, children, peddlers, noblemen, carriages, horsemen, drovers, Watchmen, pickpockets... all this humanity packed tightly together. At night most citizens were at home, and the moonlit streets were occupied by lampners, street-sweepers, watchmen, drunks, rowdy youths, a few die-hard peddlers, prostitutes and cutthroats.
"My neighbors," Mouse muttered to himself. A woman asked the price of a faded blue dress, then snorted and left when he told her. Good, he thought, it wouldn't have fit you anyway. He continued his slow circle. Was it eleven yet? He didn't want to arrive too early, might get noticed. Better to get there a little late and blend with the crowd. His cart rattled on.
For the honest, above-board residents (of whom Mouse did not count himself,) Citizenship in Eldred's Cross was granted to those who owned property. This entitled them to pay annual taxes, but allowed them to avoid the entry fee at the gates. It also put them at the front of the line ahead of immigrants and visitors at certain restaurants and fine shops, and preferred service with doctors, craftsmen and builders. Citizenship was demonstrated by showing a lacquered wooden chit with their name and the city crest burned into it... an object frequently counterfeited, and available almost everywhere for 10gp. Mouse owned several himself, two of which were right here in his pushcart.
For non-residents, the toll to enter the city was 1cp per head. Merchants bringing in livestock and goods paid more, the actual amount determined by a Tariff Collector at each gate, all of whom could be negotiated with. Inbound Castillian caravans were required to pay substantially more, a racial iniquity which was absolutely balanced by the tariffs imposed upon Imperial merchants entering Torregidor. Annual city taxes were based on property value and income, again a very arbitrary amount decided by those who could be bought, and the nobles managed to pay nothing at all, though they had to send annual tribute to both the House of Eldred and the Emperor. Renting a slip space in the harbor (if one was even available) cost 10gp per day. A simple anchorage in the harbor cost 1gp per day. Regardless of whether a civilian or merchant had paid for a slip, the government reserved the right (and had no qualms about exercising it) to "bump" the vessel from its berth and force it into anchorage, in order to allow a military vessel to enter and off-load at the docks. No refunds were given, no apologies made. How very typical of them, Mouse thought.

The rogue was snapped out of his musings by a clatter of hooves, the snort and startled whinnies of a pair of horses close on his right, and by a cry of, "Out of the way, vagabond!" He looked up to find himself face to face with a pair of fine white horses in red leather bridles, both with feathered headpieces, eyes rolling as they thrashed their heads against their bits. Their breath was close and reeking, and he was startled by their sheer size and nearness. They were drawing a fine carriage of red lacquered wood trimmed in silver. A coachman, his livery matching the colors of the carriage, stood on his bench and menaced Mouse with his whip. "Get that trash cart out of the way, I said!"
Mouse bobbed his head and quickly muscled the pushcart up to the side of a building as the coach slowly rolled forward another twenty feet before stopping. A footman in livery to match the driver jumped down from his perch and opened the door, holding out one hand. Mouse leaned against his cart and folded his arms, waiting to see who would emerge.
The first figure took the footman's offered palm with a slender, pale hand, and stepped to the cobbles amid a rustle of satin skirts and bustle. She wore a lavender gown with tight corset which pushed her cleavage up into her low-cut bodice. Mouse had the impression of a feathered hat, but she might as well of had the face of a troll for all he noticed. His eyes had locked on her pendant, a thumb-sized amethyst on a platinum chain which allowed the jewel to rest perfectly at the entrance to her attractive bosom. It was a piece which would easily fetch 5,000gp. She stepped aside, holding a small satin clutch which matched her gown, as the second occupant of the coach emerged without the aid of the footman. This was a man in his early fifties, muscled, broad-chested and dressed as a nobleman, with fiery red hair and trimmed beard. He had a hard look about him, and his pale blue eyes revealed a stern, unpleasant attitude. A rapier hung from his waist on a plain leather belt, and his leather gloves were worn and unadorned, a swordsman's gloves. The warning voice in Mouse's head, the one which he had learned to listen to over the years, cautioned that here was a man capable of quick and merciless violence.
Oh, but the pendant.
Mouse moved in for a closer look, sweeping his hat off and ducking his head deferentially as he stepped up to the noble lady. He saw her face now, smooth and unlined and attractive, a woman in her early thirties. She had small amethyst earrings to match the pendant. Mouse swept his arm towards his cart. "M'Lady, perhaps I have some items which would appeal to you? A fine perfume from Thippus, perhaps?" Now he saw both a diamond encrusted wedding ring, and a larger ring with an amethyst stone.
A sharp slap to the back of his head made him flinch away as the footman came up from behind and interposed himself between the noble woman and the peddler. "On your way, vagrant. M'Lady needs nothing from street filth."
The exchange drew the attention of the red bearded man, who shot Mouse a dangerous look. The rogue bowed his head and muttered a string of apologies as he retreated to his cart. He hid behind it and watched as the noble woman entered a boutique, accompanied by the footman, and the red bearded swordsman, presumably her husband, strode off towards a tobacco shop. The coach remained where it had stopped, under the watchful eye of the driver.
Mouse hurriedly trundled his cart around the coach and headed back to the blacksmith's, securing it in the shed and closing the padlock. He called a quick thanks to the smith, who didn't acknowledge him, and walked briskly back to his rooms, his building not far from where the coach was parked. He kept his head down under the brim of the hat, lest he be noticed by the coachman, and ducked inside.

* * * * * * * *

Five minutes later he was back on the street, looking considerably different. Gone was the peasant garb, cheap boots and floppy hat. Now he wore a soft, dark leather jerkin over his leather armor, loose-fitting gray wool trousers tucked into reddish-brown boots which rose to the knee, dark red leather gloves and a gray cloak. His hair was combed forward in a Caesar cut, and he wore wire-framed glasses with smoked lenses. The daggers and thieves tools remained as before, strapped to forearms and hidden in a boot, and he had added a shortsword which was concealed by the cloak, a small hooked blade with an ivory handle in easy reach in a pocket, and a new pouch of coins. The old pouch was safely hidden back in the chest.
The coach was where he had last seen it, and he angled across the piazza to perch once more on the fountain. The vendors were packing up for the day, the open area surrendering to midday pedestrians, a crier bellowing something about tariffs, and a juggler performing for coppers. Mouse rubbed a thumb at an imaginary scuff on his boots as he watched the coach, mindful of the time.

Within fifteen minutes he saw the lovely young noblewoman emerge from the boutique, followed by the footman and a clerk, both of them laden with brightly-ribboned boxes. She waited patiently while her purchases were loaded aboard, then allowed the footman to help her once more inside. There was no sign of her husband as the driver clucked to his mares and pulled the coach slowly through the foot traffic of the piazza.

Mouse followed on foot, easily keeping up with the carriage's slow progress.
It took nearly twenty minutes to reach their destination, and the rogue was not surprised at the address. He had been here before. The coach stopped before a large brownstone with a walled and gated courtyard out front. Leaning against the wall of St. Michael's, the huge cathedral across from the residence, and the only church in the city, Mouse watched as armed men, dressed in the uniforms of private guardsmen, opened the gate to permit the coach to enter. It turned around a narrow cobbled drive and stopped under a porte cochere at the front of the brownstone. The gate was closed and locked behind it, and the sentries once more took up their posts.
The rogue took it all in; the number of guards at the gate, the height of the walls and of the brownstones on either side, a hint of a rooftop garden, the head and shoulders of another guard in that same garden, the position of the upper floor windows, the distance from the roof of the brownstone to the lofty walkways of St. Michaels. He pursed his lips as he did the calculations. Not so far, with the church much higher than the noble residence. More than possible.
The clock tower at the center of the city chimed the noon hour. Damn! He was more than a little late. He hurried east through the streets, dodging carts and laborers and a loud cluster of schoolchildren being herded by a pair of frazzled-looking nuns. He paused at a fruit vendor long enough to pilfer an apple, then continued on, crunching the crisp green fruit as he adjusted his schedule in his head. It was going to be a very long day indeed.
He heard the crowd before he saw it, a dull wave of murmuring punctuated by the occasional call of a vendor or a crier. A few moments later he entered the Piazza de Eldred, where the towering square archway commemorating the heroic deeds of one Eldred or another dominated and overshadowed the surrounding buildings. The plaza was packed with people, and their attention was slowly starting to focus on the elevated structure at the northeast edge of the piazza.
The gallows.

Nothing brought out the crowds like a good hanging, and multiple victims, as was scheduled today, was a real crowd-pleaser. Mouse moved slowly through the crowd, scanning faces, evaluating dress and visible weapons, reading body language. Who wasn't paying attention? Who was standing with arms folded, eyes on the gallows? Who was nervously clutching their pouch? Who looked like trouble, and who didn't? Where was the nearest Watchman?
He brushed past a middle-aged man trying to control an active four-year-old. The small hooked blade appeared for a moment in his right hand, moved, then disappeared back into a pocket. A small purse with cut strings went into his jerkin, and he moved smoothly away. No hand fell upon his shoulder.
A hundred feet further on, and the hooked blade was at work again, another small pouch joining the first in the folds of the leather tunic. Mouse's bored expression did not change, and he angled slowly towards the gallows. It was no more than fifty feet from the raised platform that he saw Vicky Sparks working the crowd as well. She was young, barely twenty, and her head was shaved smooth, something Mouse thought attracted too much attention. Dressed in black leathers and wearing both a rapier and shortsword in full view, she appeared as a mercenary, but by her movements he could see she was lifting. A bump, a muttered apology, a nearly-invisible blur of hand movement, and she was away from her mark. Nicely done, he thought, steering away lest she be caught and he implicated simply due to his proximity. Vicky was a fair pickpocket, but reckless, and had been nabbed more than once. She always managed to negotiate her way out of a jam, usually on her knees in an alley before a Watchman, but her lack of caution would one day put her up on this very platform.
The sound of the crowd changed, shifting from casual conversations to a united and increasing wave of cheers, whistles and applause. Mouse stopped his wandering to watch. Sir Edmund Payne, the High Constable himself, resplendent in blue velvet uniform with gold trim, had mounted the gallows. He was a handsome, older man with silver hair and kind, fatherly features. He was also known as "The Hangman," one of the most feared man in Eldred's Cross. His disarming countenance was a front. Ruthless was a better word than fatherly. A trio of shabbily-dressed youngsters, two boys and a girl, none of them over fifteen, were led up the gallows stairs and onto the platform by burly Gaolers. The thieves, for that was surely what they were, had their hands bound behind them, heads down, faces concealed by long, oily hair.

‘Thieves' was the proper term, not rogues. They were little more than urchins, vagabonds living on the streets and stealing whatever they could to survive. Most hoped to one day develop the skills needed to become full Facci members, and in the meantime they worked in a sort of loose organization under the watchful eye of an actual rogue from one cell or another. They were referred to as ‘Weevils,' used as lookouts, decoys, messengers and spies, shaken down routinely for a third of their pathetic earnings. Most were ignorant and poorly educated, with minimal real skills, and few ever made it into the ranks of the Facci. They tended to die young, either from malnutrition or exposure, on the end of a dagger when caught trying to lift a purse from a mark, shot down by a Watchman's crossbow while fleeing a snatch and run, or at the end of a rope, like today. Mouse had a half dozen of the little scoundrels under his ‘care,' but none on the platform today.

The High Constable was reading off the charges, guilty verdict and sentencing (pickpocketing carried the penalty of death in The Cross) and took the opportunity to remind the crowd not only of the perils of lawlessness, but of the selfless and very necessary service The Watch provided the citizenry by bringing such villains to justice.
Mouse flagged down a vendor who was working the crowd, a flat tray hung around his neck on a strap, loaded with small pastries. He paid a copper and picked one out, biting into it and wiping the sugar from his mouth with his sleeve. He noticed that standing in the background on the gallows, behind the Constable and the condemned, was a figure feared more by the Facci than Sir Edmund Payne could even hope to be. This man stood six-foot-seven, weighed two-eighty out of armor, and was a mass of muscled scar tissue. Wearing full plate mail decorated with ferocious skulls and armed with an immense sword, the warrior stood motionless, his dark, seemingly lifeless eyes scanning the assembled crowd.
Taurian. The captain of the Eldred's Cross "Gard d' Florenta," the elite unit of men and women in the service of the Empire, sworn to bring the Facci to justice. They were known as the "Stilettos." Mouse shuddered and moved a bit to his left, letting a wide-backed bruiser of a stone mason shield him from the man on the gallows. He didn't really think Taurian could spot him from all the way up there, nor recognize him. If he could recognize Mouse, he'd have already hung him. No one survived an encounter with Taurian. He was the High Constable's chief enforcer, nicknamed "The Ratcatcher," and his presence in the city was yet another good reason for Zephira, the Don of the Facci, to remain so mysterious and elusive.
Sir Edmund was wrapping up his lecture on how it was the public's responsibility not to shelter or aid rogues in any way, gesturing at the three prisoners and reminding the crowd that thieves were dangerous parasites which had to be exterminated at every opportunity. He then announced that execution of sentence would be carried out without further delay.
Mouse yawned. Yes, true villains, the scourge of the Empire and a dire threat to the security of the Imperium's roughest city. Kids. Beggars and petty thieves. Despite Taurian's supposed predations on the guild, Mouse tried to remember the last actual Facci member he had seen upon the gallows. It had to be over two years ago, and that would make it Ramon Stanza, known as "Crab" to his associates due to his poor hygiene and proclivity for low-cost whores. Crab had been a decent sort with a good sense of humor, and a well-developed talent for disarming traps. He hadn't been smart, though, and when his Capo, Scarlet, caught him shorting her percentage on a burglary, he had lied about the take, protesting his innocence rather than coughing up the correct amount and taking a deserved beating. Scarlet had tortured him for three days before learning the truth, and then she took everything – his entire profit from the burglary as well as every coin he had managed to squirrel away in a hiding place in the sewer. She left him broken and barely conscious on the streets. The next day, following up on an anonymous tip, Taurian and The Watch raided his simple apartment and ‘discovered' close to a pound of unprocessed Devil Weed. Crab had never even sold the stuff, much less managed to acquire such a large amount, but The Ratcatcher didn't care. The thief was tried and hung within two days. Mouse had been in the crowd to witness the hanging, and he remembered seeing Scarlet there as well. While Crab's legs had jerked and kicked after the drop, Mouse had seen Scarlet smile ever so little.
The lesson had not been lost on him, nor on the other Facci who answered to the Capo.

Now Mouse watched as the three pathetic cutpurses were hooded, nooses set securely around their grubby necks to the cheers of the crowd. This was the best time, while everyone's attention was fixed on the same spot. He slipped back through the crowd, spied a tradesman with work-worn hands and a leather apron, happily munching a paninni with one hand and holding a leather mug with the other. The rogue brushed him and cut his heavy purse, tucking it into his jerkin and moving without breaking stride. The tradesman was too busy with his sandwich and the city-provided entertainment to notice.

Behind him came a muffled THUMP, and the crowd "Ooohhhed," in one voice, then hooted and whistled for more. Public execution for pickpocketing was supposed to be a deterrent to the crime. He wondered how many more Facci and Weevils were working the crowd while their comrades swung.
THUMP. "Aaahhhh...!" More cheering.

Mouse was at the back edge of the crowd now, and thought he noticed a smudge of manure on the tip of one boot. How awful! He was looking down when he walked into a blue wall, rebounding in surprise, the coins in his recently acquired pouches jingling. The wall was Sgt. Falstaff's immense, uniformed belly. Mouse's nose came to midway up the man's chest.
"You sound like a piggy bank, Giordano," said the Watch Sergeant. A massive hand shot out and seized Mouse by the throat, squeezing and lifting him up on his toes. The rogue's eyes bulged, and he tried to speak but could only croak.
"Step into my office," Falstaff said, hauling the struggling rogue away from the edge of the crowd and into the shadows of a nearby alley.
THUMP. "Ooohhh...!"

* * * * * * *

Falstaff was six and a half feet tall, over three-hundred-fifty pounds, and his hairy-knuckled hands were the size of hams. His uniform shirt was stained and flecked with pieces of meat, his face and lips greasy, smelling of roast turkey. At his waist hung a thick oak truncheon which Mouse knew from personal experience was loaded with a lead core. In the gloom of the alley, the sergeant hurled him against a brick wall. Mouse hit it hard, starbursts popping before his eyes, and slid to the filthy ground. The pouches jingled again.
"Wot have we here?" Falstaff asked, shoving the tip of one hobnailed boot between Mouse's splayed legs and pinning him there, making Mouse gasp and see more starbursts. The senior Watchman jerked open the rogue's leather tunic and removed the three purses. He examined the cut strings and hefted the pouches in one hand. "If I didn't know better, Giordano, I'd say you were taking advantage of a public distraction to commit some very serious offenses."
Mouse gasped, "Nice to see you again, Sergeant."
"Hmmm," the Watchman said. "I'm very disappointed in you, lad. It's your civic duty to watch the hangings, but you were leaving early. Why the rush?"
Mouse coughed. His balls were throbbing. "Your...your wife...was lonely," he managed.
This earned him another hard nudge from the boot, and he gurgled, his vision graying at the edges. "Manners, my fine lad," said Falstaff. He held the rogue against the wall with his boot while he rummaged through the first purse. "A very serious offense indeed. And you with no meat on your bones, we might have to weight your feet to get a good drop." Huge fingers rummaged through coins. "Of course I didn't actually see you take these. I might be mistaken about where they came from. What do you think?"
Mouse tried to press himself further against the wall to relieve some of the pressure from the boot, but he was held tight. He briefly thought about the daggers on his forearms. It would be an easy task to hamstring this fat bastard and be safely away before the sergeant even hit the cobbles, but he just as quickly dismissed the idea. No one killed a Watchman in Eldred's Cross. The city government came to a screeching halt, and all the Duke's considerable resources were brought to bear in locating the killer. Even Zephira, the Don of the Eldred's Cross Facci, joined in the hunt in order to take heat off her organization.
"I found them..." Mouse choked.
Falstaff nodded. "And you were..."
"I was looking for...their rightful owners...so I could return them."
The sergeant smiled. His teeth were small and stained a yellowish brown. "That's what I thought. Now that's being a responsible citizen. Of course, I'll have to tax you."
Of course, thought Mouse.
Falstaff removed three silver coins from the first pouch and tossed them into the rogue's lap. He held up the pouch. "Watchman's Retirement Tax," he announced, shoving it into a small satchel at his waist. He dug into the second purse and tossed a handful of coppers at the rogue, then dangled the small leather bag. "Public Nuisance Tax." Into the satchel it went. From the third, the heaviest of the three and the one he had just nicked from the snacking tradesman, he pulled a single gold coin and flicked it to Mouse, who deftly caught it in air despite his pain. Falstaff jingled the weighty purse. "Gallows Avoidance Tax," he proclaimed, tucking it away.
Then the sergeant pulled his truncheon and rapped it against the underside of Mouse's chin, leaning in close. His breath could wither roses, the rogue thought. He wondered if the turkey had been alive or dead when the Watchman ate it. Falstaff removed the smoked glass spectacles from the rogue's face and dropped them to the cobbles, grinding them under his boot.
I paid twenty gold for those, Mouse thought.
"I'm in a generous mood, Giordano, so I'll accept your story and let you be on your way. Next time, though," he tapped the truncheon twice against Mouse's chin, making his teeth click together painfully, "I'll crack your skull and tax everything you've got." He shoved the truncheon back into its leather loop and strolled out of the alley and into the dispersing crowd, hands folded behind his back and whistling.
Mouse squeezed his eyes shut and cupped his tender balls, breathing deeply. At least he hadn't soiled himself. A moment later he was picking up the few coins Falstaff had left him, and climbing painfully to his feet.

* * * * * * *

The docks occupied the west end of the city, covering one entire side of an island in Mudwater Bay, reached by a stone bridge, the prows of many ships jutting over the weathered planking. Here could be found the many warehouses, tradesmen and shops which serviced the shipping trade, as well as a few taverns and brothels. The sun was warm and the skies blue and cloudless, the sea air whispering through masts and fluttering pennants as gulls wheeled and called above. Every slip was filled, and the creaking gray wood of the dock was covered in crated cargo, coils of rope, rolls of sail, wagons and mule teams, and a mass of people going about the business of loading or unloading the vessels. Between the gulls and the cries of sailors and dock foremen, the sound was just short of deafening.

Mouse sat on a barrel against the wall of a sail maker's workshop, smoking a pipe and pleased that his testicles were only occasionally protesting their recent rough treatment. Otherwise, he had little to be happy about. Although he was still up for the day, those three purses represented a decent score, and Falstaff had left him with little. Fat bag of shit, he thought. Hope he chokes to death on a turkey bone.

It was just after two, and Mouse watched the crowd looking both for marks and for a few people he already knew. Like Spyder and Charlie Buckets. It had been two days since he'd seen either one, and if his mood wasn't foul enough after Falstaff's taxation session, the continued absence of his two cell members blackened his thoughts further. The rat bastards were holding out on him again.

Felix Paninni, "Spyder," was a spy and a burglar, a whining, cowardly elf with shifty eyes and nervous ticks, always flinching and always ready with a story about how he hadn't worked and had nothing to kick upwards. Carlo Bucatti, "Charlie Buckets," was a drunk, a half-elf who passed himself off as a mercenary for hire who actually tried to work as a half-assed highwayman, which wasn't often. On the rare occasions he pulled down a score, it was a race to see who would get to his earnings first, Mouse or the city's bartenders. Neither one had kicked up so much as a shaved silver in over a week. Other cell leaders had skilled earners working under them. Why did he have to be saddled with these two? It just wasn't fair.
"Beatings for everyone," Mouse muttered darkly.

He watched the activity, and no matter how often he came down here, he never ceased to be amazed at just how much cargo came into this city on a daily basis. There were barrels of rum from Thippus, barrels of Castillian beef packed in salt, spirited horses from Tenedor, kegs of gin from the distilleries of Grenada, crates of Castillian swords and spear heads and stacks of leather sheets from the south of Castille. Bags of dates, saffron and sugar as well as jugs of palm oil were being unloaded from a Thessalyan vessel. And of course there were troops, hundreds of them, bright-eyed boys from all corners of the Empire being herded by impatient sergeants, young cheeks flushed with the sights and sounds and the upcoming glory of war. Mouse knew that half of them would be dead by winter, and a third of the survivors crippled and broken. The ones who made it to spring would end up hollow-eyed and distant, emaciated from the harsh winter in the Passes and haunted by nightmares.

Mouse would rather throw himself in front of a runaway cart rather than trudge off to war with these fools. Not him, no thank you.
About a hundred feet away, a man caught the rogue's attention. He was Castillian from his dress and loud, accented voice, a noble merchant of some sort dressed in burgundy velvet and plumed hat, waving his arms about as he directed this or that to be moved to the dock faster than it apparently was. Mouse noted the heavy purse dangling from his belt by four inches of leather string, swaying back and forth with his body movements. He smiled. This guy was begging to be robbed. He slid off the barrel and moved towards the merchant, right hand slipping into his pocket and gripping the curved cutting blade.

Before Mouse could get within twenty feet, however, a pair of teenage boys in ragged clothing went running past the merchant, laughing and calling and kicking a brown leather ‘bol.' One of them, the older one, bumped into the Castillian, who shouted his objection. Laughing out a "S'cusa, signori!" the boy kicked the ball to his friend, then darted left into the crowd. The purse was gone, a short pair of strings left in its place, still tied to the belt, its absence unnoticed by the mark.
Mouse gritted his teeth and took off after the boy, following him through the mass of people, ducking under the nose of a draft horse and skirting a slowly-assembling body of young troops. He spied the boy only yards ahead, who had slowed to a normal walk and was about to enter an alley. Mouse helped him in, rushing up behind and snatching hold of his long hair and shoving him forward. The boy yelped and twisted, but Mouse was much stronger and had the momentum. He dragged/pushed the Weevil back behind a stack of rotting crates and forced him against a wall. The boy, around seventeen, pole thin and all hard angles and elbows, snatched a small dagger from his waistband and tried to raise it. With his free hand Mouse slapped it away, and it clattered across the cobbles.
"Hello, Linus," said Mouse, almost nose-to-nose with the young urchin.
"L-Lil' G-Georgie!" the kid stammered. "I-I didn't know it w-w-was you!"
"Trying to stick me, huh?"
He shook his head violently, as much as he could with the older rogue nearly tearing the hair out of his head. "No, I s-swear! I didn't..."
"Shut up, Linus." Mouse let go of his hair but kept a hand on his chest. "Haven't seen you around in a while. What have you been up to?"
The boy shrugged, and his eyes darted about for an escape opportunity, although he knew running would only make it worse. "Just hanging out. Trying to eat, you know?"
"You still living in that nest over the burned out cobbler's place?"
Linus smoothed his hair, regaining some composure. "Naw, had to move on. Too many people knew about it. I was afraid I'd wake up with my throat slit. Got a new place, down near the Admiral's place."
Mouse knew this was a lie, and he approved. It was never smart to tell anyone where you slept, especially when you lived the kind of rough life these street kids did. Linus was smart, and his skills were improving. Of all the Weevils Mouse had known over the years, this one had the potential to get ‘Made' one day, and become a full Facci member. If he lived long enough.
"I been lookin' for you, actually," Linus lied. "I was just tellin' Gino, ‘We gotta find Lil' Georgie and give him his cut.'"
Mouse laughed. "I'll just bet you did. Word for word, no doubt. And how much was my cut going to be?"
Linus's eyes darted up and to the right. Here came the lie. "Ten coppers."
Mouse cocked his head. "Are you absolutely sure of that?"
Eyes up and right. "Ah...maybe it was twenty coppers."
The rogue took his palm off the boy's chest. "Let's have it, then."
Linus shrugged and looked sheepish. "I don't have it with me, Georgie. But I can go get it and give it to you...like, tomorrow, maybe?"
Mouse slapped him in the side of the head, not hard, just enough to get his attention. "I'm in no mood for games today, Linus. You'll pay me now. I saw you nick that merchant's purse. Nicely done, by the way."
The kid's eyes widened at the thought that he had been seen, and then he smiled. Lil' Georgie didn't hand out compliments to just anyone.
"Have you looked inside it yet?" Mouse asked.
Linus shook his head.
"Then you don't know what you've got, do you?"
The Weevil frowned. "He was dressed kinda nice..."
Mouse shook his head. Doesn't mean anything. Besides, you saw how carelessly he had it handing there, right? How much could be inside if he just had it swinging out there like that?"
"It's kinda heavy," Linus said, considering the rogue's words.
"Could be coppers... or a rock, you never know. Maybe a rock with a few coppers to make it jingle, something to fool the pickpockets while he keeps his real stash in a money belt around his waist."
"Let's see," said Linus, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the pouch, but before he could open it, Mouse put his hand down on the younger man's.
"I'll tell you what," the rogue said, "let's make it interesting. Without seeing inside, I'll give you two...no, three gold coins for the pouch. You'll make a guaranteed profit, and it'll square us for that twenty copper you've been meaning to give me."
Linus scowled. "Why would you do that? It could be like you said, a rock and a few coppers. Why is it worth three gold?"
"I like to gamble. Of course we could do it differently. We can open it up, I'll take my usual third of whatever's inside, plus the twenty coppers. Of course if there isn't enough to pay what you owe, I'll have to notch your ear like a sow so you'll remember for next time." He pinched one of Linus's ears, making the boy wince. "Or, you take the three gold and make a guaranteed score. If I get stuck with a rock, the laugh's on me."
The Weevil thought about it. "Four gold," he announced.
You little shit, Mouse thought, grinning. "Done." He produced four gold coins from his own pouch and handed them over. Linus inspected the coins carefully, biting them and rubbing at the gold surface, while Mouse tucked the weighty purse inside his jerkin. His experienced fingers could already tell him through the leather that this held no rock, and he had most likely come out ahead.
"I'd like to see more of you, Linus. And Gino, too. If you want to get made, you've got to start paying your third on a regular basis without me having to track you down."
Linus nodded. "No problem, Georgie. See ya." He darted down the alley, snatching his small knife off the cobbles as he ran. Mouse watched him go with a smile. The kid would make himself even harder to find next time. Yes, he liked the boy quite a bit.

Mouse considered stopping into the Queen of Hearts for a quick game of Liar's Dice and a twirl with "Shroom," but he decided he didn't really have the time, and angled through the dock crowd towards a small pub instead. It occurred to him that his favorite whore was nicknamed after a fungus. Maybe he needed to rethink the entire relationship.
The Sea Widow Pub was a small, converted house wedged between a tar maker's barn and a carpenter who specialized in deck planking. The withering heat and stink of hot tar washed out of the open barn and onto the street, and Mouse held his breath as he passed through it. The pub had a pair of small glass portholes in the front instead of windows, and a rounded-top door which had surely been salvaged from a ship. The shingle hanging over it depicted a weeping woman. He pushed inside.
The place was exactly what one would expect; nautical paraphernalia hanging on the walls, a sawdust covered plank floor, oil lamps, raftered ceiling hung with rope and weighted nets, the air smelling of beer and tobacco smoke. The chairs and tables were battered from brawling, and over the bar hung an old harpoon which had a different story behind it depending upon whom was telling and who was listening. Behind the bar leaned an old salt with grizzled white beard and wearing an apron over a heavy brown turtleneck sweater, chewing tobacco and spitting it onto the floor. They were the only two in the pub.
"Georgie-boy," called the tavern keep, raising his left hand – fixed with a short steel pike instead of an actual hand – in greeting. "A pint for ya?"
Mouse leaned against the bar and nodded. "Slow this afternoon, huh, Blue?" He put three coppers on the scarred surface of the bar.
Old Blue, a retired career merchantman, held a mug under the tap and banged his pike against the carved wooden pull, drawing the pint and setting it before the rogue. "It's still early. Another couple hours and they'll start driftin' in. I don't even bring on the serving girl until after four."
Mouse sipped his pint and looked at the old man. "Do you have something for me?"
Old Blue spat on the floor and narrowed his eyes, then sighed and dug into a pocket of his apron, slapping two gold pieces onto the wood. "I was sure that pit bull had that rottie, ya know? Damn poor showing. That hound shoulda been put down before it ever got in the damn ring."
Mouse swept up the coins. "I heard there's another fight Friday night up near the Mudkeel. That same rottie and some mixed breed, odds are three-to-one for the rottie. Let me know."
The old man grinned, showing a snaggled cluster of tobacco-stained teeth. "I'll do that, Georgie Boy. Maybe win my money back from ya, eh?"
That'll be the day, the rogue thought. The old coot only managed to win about one bet out of every ten, but he always came back for more. Mouse sipped his beer as he headed for the most private table he could find, over in a shadowy corner with a single, low-burning candle. He sat so his back was to the wall and he could see the room, then pulled the fat purse Linus had nicked out of his tunic and opened it, quietly sifting the contents onto the table next to his beer. He smiled at once.

That Castillian merchant had been around, and he truly was a fool to let this little leather bag hang out there for any idiot with a sharp knife. Linus would howl if he saw what he had sold for a mere four gold pieces. Mouse counted the Imperial coins first and tucked them immediately into his own purse, concealed beneath his cloak. Twelve gold, ten silver and eighteen coppers. Not bad. He picked up a small gem and held it up to the candlelight. It was a flat, dark red garnet cut for a pendant or a ring, about the size of the fingernail on his pinkie finger. Mouse figured he could get up to fifty gold for it, and certainly no less than thirty. Nice. Into his pouch it went.

The pub door banged open and Mouse covered the coins with his hands as a pair of drovers trudged in, immediately dragging stools to the bar and striking up a conversation with Old Blue. Neither took notice of the rogue in the corner as they chatted up the old man while he drew their pints.

Mouse moved his hands and looked again at the coins. Now came the really interesting stuff. There was an oversized, circular brass slug stamped with a hammer on one side and the profile of a dwarf on the other, the number ‘100' engraved on each side. It was a "Delm," a dwarvish coin. They showed up from time to time, usually closer to the dwarven kingdom in places like Angel's Reach and Astoria, but nearly everything found its way to Eldred's Cross eventually, so it wasn't that much of an oddity. It was essentially worthless within the Empire, although he'd heard the coins were still much in use in the northern reaches of the Black Forest. Down here, brass was good for lanterns and ship fittings. You couldn't even buy a watered-down ale with this, regardless of what number was stamped on it. Crazy dwarves. Gold and silver were so precious to them that they considered it an insult to use either metal for something as low and common as currency. Mouse held the coin on its edge and flicked it, making it spin and clatter off the candle holder. He'd find a use for it.
All but one of the remaining coins were Castillian, each denomination stamped with the likeness of one of their long line of queens. There were a dozen "Marvedi's," small coppers equal to Imperial coppers, and fifteen "Peseta's," light silver coins which also exchanged equally for Imperial silvers. He counted ten "Reale's," heavy, thick silver coins which equaled about one Imperial gold each, and a trio of "Escudo's," gold coins which were larger and a little heavier than Imperial gold, with an exchange value of one-to-three. The rogue's experienced hands hefted a pair of much larger, heavy gold coins stamped with a queen on one face. His thumb rubbed at the raised image of a turtle on the opposite side. "Tortugas," he murmured in delight, enjoying their weight. Uncommon, and each equivalent to ten Imperial gold coins. Ah, to have a chest full of these babies.

He pulled on his pint and picked up the last coin, a smile spreading across his face. He had saved the best for last. Large and thick, but feather light, it shone like polished chrome in the candlelight, and the edge was smooth and untouched by a shaver's knife. Mouse turned it in the flickering light, seeing the image of a spreading tree on one side, and a slender ship cresting a wave, sails filled, on the other. The words, "Forever in Friendship" were etched on the side with the ship, and repeated in elvish on the other.
The rogue had heard of these, but never actually seen one. It was a "Viletta Dorcha," a solid mithril coin whose metals had come from the Viletta Deadmines, and then been minted by the mine's craftsmen (artists, actually, for the coin was a small masterpiece) specifically for their trade with the elves of Llhona. The coin commemorated their alliance and friendship, and it was said Viletta had not minted any such coins in the last twenty years. To call it rare was an understatement. So was the word ‘valuable.' The mithril content alone would fetch between two-hundred and two-hundred-fifty gold. The right collector would easily pay double or triple that.
"Score," Mouse said softly.
"I agree," said another voice.
Mouse started and clenched the coin, reaching for a dagger without even realizing he was moving, and his head snapped up. A man stood in the gloom just to the left of the table, leaning against a beam with his arms folded. Mouse's hand froze with the dagger half drawn. "Tommy, you startled me." Inwardly, he screamed at himself for letting the Capo creep up on him like that. The man was so friggin' quiet!
"So I gather," he said, seating himself at the table across from Mouse. He was a big man, thick-necked with a barrel chest and huge arms, hands large and powerful. His black hair was thick and tousled, and he wore a dark green cloak to hide his armor and weapons. His face was creased with the lines of a perpetual scowl, he had a flat, boxer's nose, and he wore muttonchops which Mouse personally thought looked ridiculous. Not that he would ever say so. Tommy's hard, black eyes explained that he had no sense of humor.
The Capo reached across the table and took hold of Mouse's pint in one massive paw, taking a long drink and wiping the foam away with a hairy forearm. He never took his eyes off the younger rogue. The last two fingers of the hand holding the glass were gone at the middle knuckle, ugly scar tissue bunched and smooth.
Tomasino Spota. "The Shovel," nicknamed so because he had buried more bodies than a gravedigger's spade. "Tommy Two-Fingers," one of the three Capos in the Eldred's Cross Facci, and Mouse's immediate boss. Mouse looked at the knuckle stumps. About ten years ago, when he was just a cell leader, Tommy had stopped into a glass blower's to make a collection. The craftsman had foolishly denied having the payment, which earned him a punch to the face which broke his nose in two places. Bloody and dazed, the glassblower had surrendered a large iron coffer and a key. Even more stupidly, he failed to warn the dangerous rogue of the small scything blade trap just inside the lid, and Tommy had opened the coffer. The blade took those two fingers in a flash. ‘The Shovel' had been so enraged that he beat the glassblower to death, but not before making the craftsman watch as he strangled the man's wife and twin seven-year-old daughters. The coffer reportedly had held all of thirty coppers.
"Looks like you've had a good day, Mouse," said Tommy. His voice was low and guttural.
Mouse shrugged, gripping the mithril coin tightly enough to leave the faint pattern of a tree on his palm. Tommy scared the living shit out of him.
The Capo reached across the table once more and swept the collection of coins towards him. Using a thick index finger, he one-by-one pushed the coins into denomination groups. He pushed the brass dwarven slug back at Mouse. "Might as well drop that in the collection place," he said. Then he looked up. "What else? I saw you peddling as usual, must have made a little there, yes? And I doubt you missed the hanging. Hell, half the guild was cruising that crowd."
Mouse put his hands in his lap, hiding the mithril coin further. "I made about nine gold total in the market this morning," he lied, undercutting enough to cover the third he would have to kick to Tommy with a little extra profit left over.
Tommy tapped the wood surface with a finger in a "give-it-up" gesture. Mouse produced his own pouch, keeping it in his lap where the Capo couldn't see it, and removed three gold, stacking the coins in front of him.
"I was at the hanging, was doing okay, but Falstaff grabbed me and worked me over. He left me almost nothing. I was lucky to get out alive, actually." He rubbed his neck, as if he could feel the hangman's noose.
The Capo snorted. "You were careless enough to let that tub of dung catch you? I'm not impressed." He tapped the table, and Mouse stacked up a silver coin and three coppers, still undercutting just a little.
Tommy raised one furry eyebrow skeptically. Mouse raised a palm (the mithril coin had been transferred down the front of his pants and into his crotch) and said, "Hand to God, Tommy, he cleaned me out."
The bigger man took another long swallow of Mouse's beer. "Collections?"
Mouse produced a single gold coin and put it with the others. "The fat cook, regular as a clock." There was no screwing around with that one. Tommy knew exactly how much was collected from the fat man, and how often. He didn't mention Old Blue's payment for the two gold piece wager on the dog fight.
The Capo curled his finger, and mouse slid the small stack of coins towards him. Then Tommy started on counting out his third of the Castillian's pouch, still using his sausage-like index finger. He pulled out four copper Marvedis, five silver Pesetas, four of the ten silver Reales, one of the big Escudos and one of the two huge golden Tortugas. Mouse started to protest. "Ah, Tommy, that's a little more than a third... especially that Tortuga."
The bigger man tapped his finger on the heavy coin. "I know you, Mouse. I know that every number you gave me was padded so you wouldn't feel the hit so much. I'd expect nothing less. In fact I always appreciate that you don't try to undercut me more. That would make me... irritable. So you adjust your numbers down, and I have to adjust up to balance it out." With one big hand he scooped his piece of the take off the edge of the table and shoved it into a pocket. He jerked his chin at the remaining coins. "Take ‘em."
The younger rogue swept up the balance of his earnings.
"You do understand how the math works, right?"
Mouse was noncommittal and only shrugged. He wasn't about to actually admit that he regularly understated the take, not to this man, but the matter wasn't really up for debate. All things considered, he was still a good ways up for the day. Especially with the Dorcha resting against his left ball and growing warm from the body heat.
"Let's talk about the Dorcha," said Tommy.
Mouse cursed himself again. He should have waited until he was alone in his rooms before examining the contents of the Castillian's pouch. He'd been eager and greedy. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He pulled it out of his pants and gently set it on the table immediately in front of him, as if it might get up and run away. The Capo's eyes locked on it hungrily. "Very nice," the big man said thickly.
"Aw, c'mon, Tommy... "
The Capo fixed him with a cold look, devoid of sympathy. "You know I have to kick up too, right? Only Zephira's not as gentle-natured as I am. Your third has really dropped off lately."
Mouse raised his hands, his voice getting higher. "I'm not holding out, Tommy! Not... not like you think... I always kick up, you never have to hunt me down, do you? I'm always trying to score, you know me, I work all the time..."
Tommy Two-Fingers raised a hand to stop him and smiled warmly. It was like watching a crocodile about to eat a stray goat. "Easy, Mouse. I know you work hard. That's not the problem. It's those two mooks of yours, the fag elf and that stinkin' drunk, Charlie Buckets. They don't earn, and that's putting you in a bad spot. And your Weevils are worthless." He shook his head, feigning sadness. "Your cell isn't earning, Mouse, and you're putting up with it. Both of those losers should be kicking regularly. If you think they're not working, you're wrong. I know Spyder has been doing an on-and-off gig for the merchant's guild for over three weeks, snooping around and gathering information about the Minister of Accounting. And Charlie always seems to have coin for booze."
Mouse seethed. Those sneaking wharf rats! He'd beat those pointy ears right off the sides of Spyder's head, and drown Charlie in his own booze vomit.
"So," Tommy said, slowly reaching across and setting that big index finger on the mithril Dorcha, "for all that income they apparently have coming in..." he pulled the coin slowly towards himself, and Mouse watched the coin go. "...that you have failed to collect and kick up your required percentage..." the Dorcha reached Tommy's side of the table, "...we'll call this my share of those earnings. Plus my cut of whatever other scores you've made over the last month and never told me about." He palmed the Dorcha and shoved it in a pocket, draining Mouse's beer.
Mouse felt like crying.
Tommy stood and pointed at the younger man. "You better get your crew in line, kid. Otherwise I'll just have to bump the percentage up to half instead of a third." He set the empty beer glass on the table with a thump. "Thanks for the pint." Then he left.
Mouse sat quietly, hands folded in his lap, imagining a variety of innovative and lengthy deaths for the two rogues in his cell.

* * * * * * *

It was getting on towards half past four as Mouse walked slowly towards Market Street, fists deep in his pockets, head down and feeling sorry for himself. He could still see that chrome Dorcha, could still feel it in his hand. What a goddamn shame. He kicked at the cobbled street – not enough to scuff the tip of his boot, that would have been a real goddamn shame – and moped his way up the block.

He stopped and stepped to the left to avoid an oncoming wagon of barrels being pulled by a bulky draft horse, and found himself next to a small, newer stone structure built onto the face of a much older building. It had a single slit of a window up near the eave of the roof, and a lone door in its front facing the street. A grubby little man in a hooded brown tunic sat on a stool near the door. Overhead swung a small shingle with an image burned into the wood showing an urn pouring water into a bowl.
Now here was a real marvel, an example of the Duke's brilliance. About two years ago, the citizenry started complaining loudly about the city's lack of toilets available to the public. Protesting loudest were the merchants and shopkeepers who had to deal with the non-stop pestering of the public to use their private facilities. They didn't buy, just pissed and left, often leaving the shopkeeper's water closet fouled. So great had been the combined outcry that the Duke ordered the construction of numerous ‘Comfort Stations' to be built around the city, small structures with brass urinals and bowls which fed directly to the extensive subterranean sewer system. The public rejoiced, and the Duke had been hailed as a forward-thinking leader who was responsive to the needs of his subjects.

Six months later, once the citizenry had become accustomed to and reliant upon the convenience, the Minister of Accounting (at the instructions of the Duke) quietly added a tariff of one copper piece for each person wishing to use the facility. There was little clamor. After all, what was a copper? It beat the indignity of relieving one's self in an alley, or begging shopkeepers who now were adamant about barring non-customers from their water closets. Six months later the fee had increased to two coppers, and after another six months it had gone up again to three. Yet another increase was expected any time now. So slow had been the increase, however, that the public had been eased into it, and the Duke would likely continue nudging up the tariff until the complaints got too loud.
Brilliant.
Getting paid every time someone took a piss.
Why couldn't he fall into a racket like that?
The Rogue turned onto Market Street and headed north, staying to one side to keep from being run down by wagons or horses, weaving slowly in and out of the crowd. He was too dejected to even look for a mark.
That's probably just what you need, old friend, he told himself. Lift a fat purse to offset the day's losses.
Someone will just take it, Mouse argued with himself.
You're looking for pity in the wrong place.
Shut up, he told himself.
He looked up over the rooftops to the west and saw the clock tower. A quarter of five. DeVille's wouldn't be open until seven, so he still had time to kill. He suddenly needed a drink.
Minutes later he was seated at a street-side table outside a small café called "Serafin's," a nice little establishment with a blue canopy and seating both inside and out. The food here was superb. A packed and lit his pipe, drawing deeply as a short, thin man in black wearing a white apron appeared at his table. His hair was slicked back with grease, and he had a droopy mustache. The look he gave the rogue was anything but friendly.
"Si?" the man said, with a disgusted sigh he didn't even attempt to conceal.
"Marco, bon journo," said Mouse, smiling for the first time since losing the Dorcha. "It's been so long, how have you been?"
"You were here yesterday."
"Ah, so I was." Mouse winked. "And it was excellent as always. What do you recommend?"
The waiter and owner crossed his arms. "That you eat someplace else."
Mouse beamed at him. "But I like it here, Marco. Your food is so good, your wine is so flavorful, and its all so...."
"So free?" finished the owner.
Mouse snapped his fingers. "That's it, exactly. What will this make it, now, Marco? Fifty-three?"
"Fifty-two," replied the owner, his neck turning red.
"Counting today."
"No," said Marco, "counting today it will be fifty-one."
"Are you certain?"
"Quite."
Mouse frowned. "More than half way there. Better make it count. I'll have the house red, and bring the bottle. Then, I'm thinking about a nice veal marsala."
The owner's barely-suppressed anger thickened his voice. Tightly he said, "I've got pasta with a red sauce, that's it."
"And a meatball."
"No, no meatballs. Pasta and sauce."
Mouse drummed his fingers on the table. "I'm really in the mood for a meatball."
The owner glowered, trying to stare down the rogue, then said, "Fine," waving a hand, his tone far too rude for any regular customer. "Ten minutes."
He started to go when Mouse said, "And Marco, no unexpected additions. No spit, no dandruff, no cat droppings... you know I'll know if you do."
The restaurateur huffed, insulted. Regardless of his personal feelings, he would never lower himself to despoil the food he proudly served. Not even for the likes of the man he called Giordano. He disappeared into the café, and emerged a moment later with a glass and a wide-bottom bottle wrapped in straw. He uncorked and set it on the table. This guest could damn well pour it himself.
"No bread?" Mouse asked.
Marco huffed and returned a minute later with a warm loaf of brown bread which had been basted in butter and garlic, and a small bowl of oil. Mouse thanked him pleasantly and Marco went back inside.
The wine was simple but enjoyable, and the bread was delicious. Mouse quickly drained the first glass and poured another. Chewing the soft bread, the wine warm in his belly, he found his mood quickly brightening. He started doing the math in his head. Plus three gold from the fat man, minus two silvers for the smith, plus twelve gold, sixteen silver and twenty-three copper from peddling, minus four coppers for lunch. After Falstaff's shakedown, he was plus another three silver, eight coppers and one gold. Minus four gold to buy the pouch from Linus, plus two gold from Old Blue, minus three coppers for the pint that Tommy drank. Plus twelve gold, ten silver, eighteen copper and a fifty gold piece garnet from the pouch. In Castillian coins from the same pouch, plus another twelve copper, fifteen silver, ten gold...nineteen...twenty more...
His lips started moving.
...can't count the brass Delm...don't want to think about the Dorcha, doesn't count... then Tommy's cut took away twenty-one gold, six silver, seven copper...
So far for the day he was up forty-four gold, thirty-six silver, thirty-seven coppers, and a garnet arguably worth another fifty gold. He smiled and drank his wine. Things weren't so bad after all. In a city where a skilled craftsman or laborer earned at most one or two gold coins per day, he had done quite well. It wasn't a mithril Dorcha, to be sure, but it was a good start. And there was more left to the day. A quick courier job, a little rooftop and alley work, and then there was the amethyst.
That lovely purple-pink stone simply called to him.
I'm coming, beautiful, he thought.
The food arrived and Mouse dove in with gusto, slurping noodles and mopping up sauce with the bread, washing it all down with Marco's fine house red. The owner handed him an extra linen napkin, and Mouse thanked him around a mouth full of food.
"That's fifty-one, Giordano."
A little over a year ago Mouse had loaned Marco three hundred gold during a time when the café had been struggling. The owner had been – and was still – saddled with monthly ‘protection' payments to Tommy Two-Fingers for a hundred-fifty gold, and business just hadn't been enough to make the nut and keep the café open. Tommy's squeezing wasn't the sole reason for the financial difficulties, however. Marco also had a young mistress, a sultry, dark-eyed girl in her early twenties, whom he maintained in a small but comfortable loft, and who required a steady stream of gifts, fresh flowers and jewelry. Marco's wife was a big, unpleasant woman with a hairy upper lip and a flatulence problem, who seemed perpetually pissed off about one thing or another. Mouse couldn't blame the café owner for his dalliances, but – like Tommy's insurance – it was a situation he wouldn't be free of in the foreseeable future. The girl had made it clear that if her lifestyle should ever end, Marco's nightmare of a wife would quickly learn the full and sordid details of his affair. Mouse knew enough about the wife to predict that such a revelation would quickly be followed by a scenario in which Marco lay sprawled in his kitchen with a butcher knife up to the hilt in his chest.
The restaurateur was stuck. Or literally, would be. Mouse grinned at his own cleverness, and sipped his wine. There was no way Marco could pay his insurance, support his gilly, turn a profit substantial enough to placate his horrid spouse, and still make his vig payments to Mouse, much less pay off the principle. And so the rogue had made an arrangement in which Marco could "work off" the debt, by providing one-hundred-twenty-five free meals, with wine, whenever Mouse came to visit. He dined here at least once a week, sometimes two or three times, and the debt was now down to fifty or fifty-one meals, Mouse couldn't remember exactly, but he knew Marco did.
Mouse belched loudly and smiled at Marco, wiping his mouth and pouring a third glass of wine. "Excellent as always. Give my regards to Signora Elana, and to your lovely young Renita." He winked.
Marco's face flushed and he snapped a quick look into the café, shushing the rogue and waving his hands.
Mouse chuckled as the café owner darted back inside, then saw the wide, unpleasant face of the ogre to whom Marco was married at the window of the café, leering out at him in contempt. He wasn't sure what Marco told his wife to explain the free meals, and really didn't care. He waved and smiled, and the ogre showed her teeth as she said something he was sure was quite unladylike, then disappeared from the window. Mouse swirled the wine in the glass, and decided there was nothing like a good grape. It was giving him a pleasant buzz, and he relaxed further, watching the comings and goings on the street.
A few minutes later the brisk clicking of heels on the cobbles caused him to turn in his chair, and he saw a woman leaving a small bookshop across the street, a large leatherbound tome tucked under one arm. She saw him as well, and made her way over. Mouse enjoyed her approach. She wore skin-tight leather pants, elbow-length leather gloves, and high, stiletto-heel boots. A tight, low-cut leather bodice exposed her ample attributes, and a swirling, hooded black cloak billowed behind her. The woman, so pretty it was painful, had dove-gray eyes and light, flawless skin. Blond curls peeked from under the hood. Her appearance was highly unusual for one of Castillian birth, but that was exactly what she was.
Mouse stood and sketched a quick bow. "Bon journo, Lee," he said, his eyes never leaving her creamy skin.
The young woman smiled, her teeth even and snowy white, and stopped to lean on the low, wrought-iron railing separating the tables from the street. She gave Mouse a lovely view of her assets in such a position, and the rogue felt his heart quicken, a warm stirring beginning south of his belt buckle. "Torregidor Lee" as she was called in the guild, had a reputation for sexual adventurism; men, women, groups, restraints, hot wax, spectators... he breathed deeply in an attempt to contain himself, caught the scent of her perfume, and quickly sat down in order to conceal his arousal. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes bright, and Lee smiled broadly, knowing exactly what she did to him. As if he had a chance.
"Dining alone, Mouse?" she asked.
He waved at an empty chair. "Join me, please!" Too eager, dammit! Relax!
She shook her head. "Can't, I have an appointment. Thanks, anyway."
Mouse wondered what the appointment might be. A sexual rendezvous? Business? Disappointed, he nodded at the book under her arm. "A little light reading?" It had to be a thousand pages thick.

Lee smirked and showed him the binding. ‘Culfarri's Illustrated Human Anatomy,' it read. "Just boring research."
Mouse felt his erection sag abruptly, and the color ebbed from his face. For a moment he had allowed himself to forget her true nature. Torregidor Lee was an assassin, a very skilled one, who, despite her erotic appeal, was as deadly as an asp in your bed. It was whispered among the Facci that she was the only person in Eldred's Cross history to ever penetrate the Duke's keep and escape alive, leaving behind the corpse of a young man, a diplomat's son who had been hiding there mistakenly thinking he was safe. The Duke's guards had even been alert to a potential assassination attempt, and yet she had entered, hit the mark and escaped, with no one the wiser. It was also whispered that the job had been personal, not business. To risk so much on a personal matter... he shivered involuntarily.
She straightened. "I'm off. Enjoy your wine."
Mouse quickly stood, nearly toppling the table and making the wine bottle wobble. He grabbed it to steady it. "Have a pleasant evening, Lee," he said. She smiled, blew him a kiss, and walked away, boot heels clicking. Mouse watched her go, sighing. Yes, it might be taking his life in his hands, but it would certainly be worth every moment. He drained off his glass and waved to the front windows, knowing Marco was watching, eager for him to leave, and moved out into the street.

* * * * * * *

It was just minutes of seven as he headed up a narrow lane, drawing closer to the east wall of the city. It loomed high overhead, and the rogue could see soldiers slowly patrolling the battlements, the last pink glow of daylight shining off spear tips and shields. Torches were already lit up there, and the guardsmen kept their attention on the deepening darkness of the barren fields beyond the city. They always looked outwards, never inwards, uncaring about the happenings within the city behind them. There were trolls out there in the approaching night, and the Watch could handle internal matters.

The shadows were deep in these narrow streets, little more than alleys which wandered in every direction with no apparent rhyme or reason. Candles glowed behind yellow glass panes or peeked from beyond curtains, and he was alone, moving silently more out of habit than anything else. Nice place for a mugging, he thought, loosening his short sword in its scabbard. He was safe from any other Facci members who might be lurking about, who would carefully assess their target before striking, but a desperate, half-starved Weevil might jump out and attack without hesitation. Mouse didn't know close to half of the dirty little cutthroats prowling the city, and couldn't expect them to recognize him in the dark. He stayed wary, nearly drawing his blade when a cat leaped to the top of a barrel, startling him.

He emerged from the shadows onto a lane slightly wider than the others, which ran the length of the east wall. A lone street lamp lit the area with flickering orange, showing him his destination. It was a stand-alone structure, one of the few two-story buildings left in The Cross. Built on a stone, first floor foundation with a black oak beam and yellow plaster upper floor, it was a large, converted house with a sharply peaked roof, and windows of lead-mullioned panes set with thick, opaque, amber glass. The door, a heavy, oak piece set with black iron banding, hinges and handle, looked like something fit for a fortress, but its bright red color and sparkling cluster of silver bells mounted to its face gave it charm. A red and white shingle hung over the door on a black iron arm, showing an artistic rendering of a jack-in-the-box, with a black, cursive ‘D' beneath.
DeVille's Toys & Puppets was open to the public from 1pm – 5pm, but the toymaker was happy to arrange private appointments for special customers between the hours of 7pm and Midnight. The few upper windows of the old house usually glowed with dull amber light all night long, while the toymaker presumably toiled throughout the small hours, but they were dark at the moment. He was not known to have any apprentices or workers, and it was assumed he lived only with a curious-looking mime, who was frequently seen with DeVille when the toymaker entertained at the market, playing an organ grinder while his pet spider monkeys cavorted to the delight of the children in the crowd.
Mouse approached the red door and tried the heavy handle, finding it unlocked, and pushed inside, the silver bells jingling. He found himself in a large room which occupied fully the entire front half of the first floor. Polished glass oil lamps mounted to the walls gave the room an inviting glow.
Here was a wonderland of toys. They were displayed on tables, on shelves, hung on walls, free-standing, or placed on a long ‘L-shaped' counter. Doll houses, rocking horses, marionettes, stuffed fairies and nutcrackers, tin soldiers, hand puppets, drums, royal coaches, pinwheels, porcelain dolls in wondrous costumes, unicorns, pint-sized thrones and crowns, wooden puzzles, blocks, tea party sets, stuffed dragons and cute trolls, even some oversized picture books. The place was spotless, and overhead hung a crystal chandelier with white, flickering candles.

At first he appeared to be alone with the toys, but that illusion was quickly broken by a murmur of voices from beyond a blue velvet curtain in a doorway to his right, one of them that of a child. The curtain was pulled aside, and a small, narrow man in a multi-colored vest, pinched features and a red tasseled fez stuck him head out. He seemed to recognize the rogue, though Mouse knew they had never met. "I'm with a client," he said in a strange accent, something from the islands in the Nessian Sea. "I'll be with you in a moment." He ducked back inside.
Mouse walked to a teak counter, polished to a high gloss, which divided the room. Upon it sat a couple of exquisite chess sets (Dragons v Knights, Fairies v Trolls), several rows of small, painted toy soldiers, a few porcelain dolls on stands, a floppy, green velvet dragon puppet, and a huge glass jar of brightly-colored marbles. There was a long-stem ivory pipe carved with cavorting jackals resting in a glass tray with a half dozen tindertwigs, and a partially-open pouch which emitted the sweet-smelling aroma of Thessalyan pipe weed. Mouse calculated the value of the pipe between a hundred and two-hundred gold. Next to it sat an iron coffer with a built-in lock. On wall shelves behind the counter were rows upon rows of dolls in a fantastic assortment of costumes.

The rogue leaned over the counter and spotted a low table next to a stool. On it was a ledger, quill & ink, some small hand tools, a jeweler's glass, a box of buttons, bells & glass eyes. There was also a glass jar of small, dark red raisin-like objects, labeled "Monkey Snax."
Would DeVille notice if anything had been pilfered? The jeweler's glass would fetch a few gold, and the hidden contents of the coffer called to him seductively. He drummed his fingers. Could he pick it and take a peek while the toymaker was busy with his client? A heartbeat later the lockpick and picking wrench were in his fingers, and he tapped the pick lightly on the iron box. Could he risk it?
Movement on a high shelf behind the counter caught his attention, and he spied a small green and yellow monkey perched among the porcelain dolls, tail curled around its tiny legs, paws clutched together as if in prayer. It watched him with bright green, intelligent eyes. Then he saw another monkey, apparently of the same breed, a few dolls down on the same shelf. It was peeking out under the arm of a puppet dressed like a sea captain with a red bulbous nose. It, too, watched him intently.
He didn't like these animals. Didn't like them at all, though he couldn't exactly say why. They looked at him as if they knew what he was thinking.
The lockpick went back out of sight.
"The young miss has made an excellent choice," came the accented voice behind him, and Mouse turned to see DeVille leading the way out of the small side room, holding the curtain open. Beyond the doorway the rogue caught a glimpse of bejeweled jack-in-the-boxes displayed in glass cases under some sort of spotlights. An attractive woman of apparent nobility (her dress, hair and platinum jewelry advertised her class like a sign) emerged behind a girl of about seven, equally well-dressed and wearing bouncing pigtails. The little one hopped and clapped her hands in excitement. DeVille cradled an artfully-crafted, polished box in one arm, gold filigree and powdered ruby decorating its sides in sparkling glitter. A mithril hand crank protruded from one side.
They approached the counter, and Mouse stepped to the side as the woman pulled a silk purse from the folds of her dress, completely ignoring the rogue. He suspected she was a person used to ignoring common folk. He watched as she produced a gleaming, rectangular platinum plate about the size of a playing card and four times as thick, setting it upon the counter. "Will this do, Master DeVille?"
Mouse wet his lips. A platinum ingot. They were said to be common among the super wealthy and nobility, but pure mythology among the working class. It was a currency used by those who were hesitant-to or inconvenienced by carrying large amounts of coins to satisfy expensive transactions.
DeVille lowered his eyes in deference. "You are more than generous, M'Lady."
"Not at all," she announced. "Your skill as an artist is worth every bit of it."
"M'Lady is too, too kind," he said, nearly whispering. He discretely took the ingot and tucked it somewhere out of sight.
"It won't be too much trouble to have it delivered, Master DeVille? We're unaccompanied this evening. I'm afraid it's gotten rather dark and I don't wish to be on the street with such a valuable item."
But you walked here with a small child, unescorted, with that ingot in your purse, thought Mouse. Idiot. Wish I'd seen you coming and known you'd had it. That would have easily offset the Dorcha many times over.
DeVille held out his open palms. "I assure you, delivery is no trouble at all. I'll have it to your home this very evening."
This was obviously the courier job for which Mouse had been hired.
"If you don't mind waiting, I can arrange for someone to walk you and the young miss home. It would be my pleasure."
The noble woman smiled. "Thank you, signori, but it's a short walk and the streets are well lit. I have absolute faith in our fine Watchmen. We shall be fine."
Mouse almost snorted, but held it in.
"As you wish, M'Lady. And once again, my deepest thanks. I know the young miss will enjoy her new treasure. It is so very rewarding when I am permitted to match the perfect toy with the perfect child." He beamed over at the little one like a little grandfather.
The perfect child was at that moment attempting to pull the horn off a stuffed rocking horse crafted into a unicorn. Her mother retrieved her, called a good evening to the toymaker, and left with a jingle of bells.
Mouse moved to where she had been standing, leaning against the counter near the closed jack-in-the-box the little girl had picked out. "Not too smart to be out this late with a small child, eh, DeVille?"
The toymaker's subservient demeanor vanished at once, and he hissed venomously, "Mind your business and your tongue, cutthroat. And if you call me common again I'll leave you to bleed out in the gutter."
Mouse pulled back in alarm, and held up his hands. "No offense intended, signori!"
The toymaker sneered at him. "Signori Falcatus vouched for you, that's the only reason you're here. Your job is to simply deliver a package. Even a thug like you should be able to handle that. Now shut up and wait." He pulled a roll of blue velvet from under the counter, along with a spool of silver ribbon. "I need my shears. Don't touch anything." The small man ducked through a curtain and into a back area.

Little troll, Mouse thought, shoving his hands in his pockets. Hope he trips and falls on his shears. On the shelf behind the counter, the two spider monkeys tittered to each other and pointed at Mouse. He made an obscene hand gesture at them, and one of the monkeys returned the favor. He walked slowly around a large, round table piled high with stuffed mice, bears and cuddly frog princes, eyeballing the jack-in-the-box on the counter not far away. What was something like that worth? The noble woman's payment had to be close to a thousand gold. He shook his head. That kind of money for a toy? For a child who would no doubt break it within a few days? Ridiculous. He picked up a stuffed lion dressed in purple velvet finery and topped with a little crown. He'd had nothing like this when he was a child, only a rag sewn around a ball of stuffing, with two odd-sized buttons for eyes. Mr. Wombly, he'd called it, his only friend during a lonely, fatherless childhood. Mouse tossed the lion back onto the pile. The nobles spoiled their children. What they needed was a dose of the belt now and then, like he'd gotten from his stepfather.

The rogue drifted past a large dollhouse fashioned into a castle, complete with colored pennants on battlements, a drawbridge, and a tiny coach and team of white horses. He thought it ironic that a thief would be the one hired to transport such a valuable item as the jack-in-the-box., then thought about Astor Falcatus, the man who had recommended him. Astor was another Capo, equal in authority to Tommy Two-Fingers, who ran a single, large cell of rogues centered around the Black Bison tavern. Mouse didn't know him well, but had heard he was a thief of exceptional skill, as well as being quite kind and generous with his rogues. Was it possible for a member of the Facci to switch Capos and keep his head? He doubted it. Still, it gave him a measure of pride that Falcatus would give him the job over one of his own.

Of course, he thought as he inspected a polished blackwood rocking chair built for a small person, Astor's rogues might all have turned down the job. DeVille was a nasty little cuss with a mysterious reputation. It occurred to him that he couldn't remember a single incident where anyone had even attempted to burglarize the toymaker, even though the shop clearly housed a fortune in precious metals and stones for use in the fabrication of the legendary toys. Mouse frowned. Maybe Falcatus wasn't so very impressed with his skills. Maybe Mouse was a patsy.
A metallic TWANGGG made him look up as he saw the ‘Jack' pop out of the box and bounce stupidly on its short, velvet-wrapped spring, stubby arms held wide. It was a little jester, with white-painted face, brightly-colored tunic and matching jester's hat, tipped with tiny bells. Its small eyes appeared to be actual rubies.
Were they supposed to pop out by themselves, he wondered? The catch must be loose.

The small mithril crank on the side of the box started to rotate of its own volition, and beautiful notes began to issue forth as the precision inner clockworks turned, a tune he recognized.
Amazing. But wasn't a person supposed to crank it themselves to make the music?
Then the box began to sing in a small, pixie-like voice. It seemed to come from the silly-looking Jack itself. Mouse's eyes widened. DeVille was an artist indeed! An actual voice? From a toy?

"Three fat Halflings in a bush
Listen to them play
Laughing, singing, telling jokes
Happy all the day..."

Mouse smiled. He remembered the song from when he was a kid. The girls liked to skip rope to it. The next verse, if the toy was able, would be about the Halflings inviting children into the bush for tea and cakes.

"Burn the bush and watch them run
Hairy feet on fire
One's too slow and can't keep up
Now it's a funeral pyre!"

His smile faltered. That wasn't the next verse. The Jack's voice climbed in octave and volume, growing faster. It waved back and forth on its spring.

"Run them down and bite their toes
Eat an ear! Eat a nose!
Peel their skin like jerky strips
Pop their bellies and break their hips!"

Now its voice was so loud and high and piercing that Mouse winced and covered his ears, yet he could still hear it, and the music spun crazily.

"Two fat Halflings on a spit
Turn them slowly over coals
Howling, shrieking, throwing fits
Hoist them high upon a pole
Dance a jig and hear them cry
Two fat Halflings about to die
And when you hear that darkling bell
Then cast their SOULS DOWN INTO HELLLLL!!!!!"

Mouse stood rooted in horror, one hand dropped to the hilt of his short sword, his body half turned towards the door, heart pounding.
The Jack grinned, showing a mouth filled with tiny, sharp teeth.
It winked at him.
DeVille hustled through the curtain carrying large silver shears and laid them on the velvet. "Now, now," he crooned to the Jack, pushing it gently back down into the box. "Save your strength. You have a little girl to entertain, a pretty little princess." He latched the top of the box, then briskly wrapped it in blue velvet and ribbon, shears clicking with efficiency.
Mouse didn't move.
When he was done, DeVille tucked the gaily-wrapped package into a burlap bag, then used his quill to jot down the street and number where the package was to be delivered. He put the note on the counter next to the bag, and slapped two platinum coins down on top of it.
"This is to be delivered at once," he said to the rogue, looking at him with small, glittering black eyes. "No delays, no accidents, no excuses. If the package doesn't arrive, Astor Falcatus and the Facci will be the least of your worries." He tapped the note. "Hand it over only to M'Lady or her manservant, no one else. Don't leave it on a doorstep. And do not open it. Do you understand?"
Mouse nodded dumbly.
"Good. Now get out."
The rogue didn't move for a moment, then shuffled towards the counter and pocketed the note and the coins. He took hold of the neck of the bag and held it at arms length, as though it contained, well...something dangerous. The toymaker lit his expensive pipe with the jackals on it and grinned at him through the smoke. Mouse muttered something unintelligible and walked out of the shop.
The night seemed darker, colder, more frightening now as he moved through the streets, still holding the bag away from him in an uncomfortable position, eyes rarely leaving the square shape of its contents. He dug the note out of his pocket and glanced at the address. It was a brownstone two houses away from M'Lady Amethyst's place. He almost laughed, but it came out as more of a cough.
Something inside the bag squirmed, and he quickened his pace.
Within twenty minutes he had reached the address on the note. No one had bothered him on his journey through the quieting city, no would-be rogues leaped out of the darkness to take his parcel at knifepoint, no bored Watchman harassed him about his business alone on the night time streets. Either would have been preferable, but instead it was only he and the toy, which continued to twitch and shake throughout the trip. The Jack's song was stuck in his head.
Mouse knocked at the door of the brownstone and waited. The bag was motionless now, and he knew in his heart that the toy would appear to anyone who inspected it as a harmless, though costly, plaything. What would happen when the adults were gone, however, and the Jack was alone with the child for whom it was intended? Would it show its toothy smile to her? Wink with its ruby eyes? Whisper and giggle and pull itself across the floor while the youngster sat wide-eyed and paralyzed with fright in her bed?
He decided that perhaps the offspring of nobility weren't so spoiled after all, and that there had been nothing wrong with the simple, non-homicidal Mr. Wombly of his childhood.
The manservant, dressed in black and white livery, answered the door and took possession of the bag and its contents. He curled his lip in unmasked distaste for the lowly courier, offered no tip, and closed the door without a word. Mouse didn't mind. He needed a stiff drink.
And he wanted to wash his hands.

* * * * * * *

It was after ten o'clock as he sat at the table in the front room of his flat, every light in the room blazing, a bottle of Black Forest Bourbon and an empty shotglass before him. One of his daggers rested there as well, blade bared. The two platinum coins gleamed beside it in the lamplight. Three shots of the powerful drink, and no effect. Cold sober, he had yet to shake the song from his head, or the vision of that demonic toy winking at him knowingly. Was it in the hallway even now? Dragging itself slowly towards his door, a maniacal grin on its little white face?
Mouse snorted and berated himself for acting like a child.
That's what it likes, right? Children?
Shut up, he told himself. He picked up one of the platinum coins and turned it in his fingers, then rolled it knuckle to knuckle and back again. And what had he done for the payment of what amounted to ten gold? Had he essentially murdered a child? For surely the ‘Jack' was capable of that simple task. Had he condemned a little girl to horrors which would resonate with her for a lifetime?

He sighed and considered pouring another shot, then thought better of it and capped the bottle. There was still work to be done this night, and he'd need a clear head. "Suck it up, Mouse!" he said to the empty room. "You didn't make it, you just delivered a package, nothing more. A man's gotta make a living."
The rogue rarely experienced any second thoughts about his chosen profession, but anything involving young children was enough to give him pause. He knew the other members of the Facci would ridicule him for such sentimentalism, and Tommy Two-Fingers would slap him out of his chair for even thinking that way. Like he'd said, it was only a courier job. Besides, he'd killed off the better part of a bottle of wine at Serafin's only shortly before going to the toyshop. Most likely he had imagined the whole affair, and done nothing more than deliver a toy to a spoiled little rich girl and her haughty mother. Damn right! And who was he to turn down a couple of platinum pieces, especially after the financial thrashing he'd taken first from the Watch sergeant and then from his own Capo.

Back to work, then. He put the bottle back in the liquor cabinet, then got dressed for the work ahead. Away went the cloak, the breeches, the leather jerkin and high boots. Away went the leather armor and short sword. He dressed in loose-fitting black pants which he tucked into mid-calf, soft black moccasins. He pulled on a baggy, dark gray turtleneck sweater, then slipped into a black canvas vest with lots of inner pockets, buttoning it shut. He kept his daggers lashed to his forearms, slipped the hooked cutpurse blade into a pants pocket, and selected a new pouch with only a few coins in it, this one padded so as to make no noise. He fit a third dagger into one boot, his leather pouch of thieves tools into the other.
Walking into the living room, he swept the two platinum coins off the table and pocketed them, then approached the large wardrobe. Reaching behind it, he released a catch, then pulled the entire piece of furniture away from the wall, swinging it easily, like a big door. Behind it was a large hollow, with many items hung upon pegs in a very organized design. He started pulling items off the pegs and slipping them into the many custom-fit pockets inside his vest; a small prybar, a thin saw blade, a tiny hammer and sixteen-penny nails, a diamond-blade glass cutter, another set of lockpicks, a folding grapple hook and a tight coil of lightweight, elvish-crafted rope, a vial of oil, a jar of grease, a hard biscuit loaded with enough nightshade to put a watchdog to sleep forever, a pair of small leather bags, a garrotte, a coin with a permanent "Light" spell upon it, carried in its own black pouch, a sturdy pair of pliers, another, smaller prybar, and a thin clay flask with a cork stopper which held a Potion of Feather Falling, in case he suddenly had to exit a high place. Everything had a place, and the load was perfectly distributed so that it didn't much impede his movement, was undetectable through the vest, and made no sound as he walked.

Mouse went back into the bedroom and dragged a battered tin trunk from under the bed. It wasn't locked, and from it he removed a pair of small wooden cages tied together by a length of rope, a forked, iron stick which his chum the blacksmith had fashioned from a fireplace poker, a trio of leather bags reinforced with steel mesh, and a big, heavy pair of scarred leather gloves. All this he took with him as he moved through the flat blowing out lamps, then slipped out the door, locking it securely behind him.
It was time to be Jimmy Ratbox.

* * * * * * *

"Jimmy, these here rats been dead fer days!"
Mouse sat on a barrel across a cheap table from a man who smelled of rotting meat and grease. On the table were two piles of dead rats, one pile decidedly more decayed than the other. It was this pile to which the greasy man was referring.
"Yer supposed to get the fresh ones, Jimmy. Hellfire, I can go around pickin' up dead rats fer chrissake!"
Mouse shrugged. "What's the difference, Milo? Once you're done with them, who can tell the difference?"
Milo, a jerky vendor in the main market, frowned deeply and puffed up his chest. "I gots my standards, Jimmy."
Yeah, thought the rogue, selling rat jerky and passing it off as beef. High standards indeed. It had taken him a little over two hours to gather the dozen dead rats on the table, from alleys and behind crates and once even in the center of the street. He had killed none personally, as that required a lot more effort. He had managed to pin and cage a nice, fat pair of wharf rats, big gray suckers which now scratched and snarled and hissed in the two wooden cages on the floor beside the table. One had managed to sink its teeth into his right hand before being caged, but the heavy glove kept the filthy thing from breaking the skin, though his hand ached from the pressure. They were strong little buggers.
"I'll give ya the usual copper piece fer each one from the good pile," Milo announced. He waved at the more decayed corpses. "Ya can take them with ya."
Mouse folded his arms. "Hell, Milo, I can get a copper per dead rat from the city, and they won't get picky about their condition."
"Go to them, then," said the greasy man.
"I come to you," Mouse said, "because we're friends."
"Har!" Milo barked. "On the street you'd cut my throat fer a bent silver so much as lookit me! Friends!"
Mouse sat back, looking wounded and putting a hand over his heart. "That hurts, Milo. Sincerely, it does."
Milo poked the meaty flank of one of the larger rats. "Awright, I'll go two coppers each...only fer the good ones... and ya can throw in the two lively ones ya got down there aside ya."
Mouse grimaced. "I got bit by one of those things, you know. They're not easy to catch. Besides, I can sell those to Big Nose Tina for her pit fights out behind Hobb's Drinking Hall. She'll go two silvers each, maybe three."
"I doubt that," Milo said, kicking one of the cages and making the rat rear back, snarling nastily.
"Of course you could give me a fair price for the lot, and sell them to Tina yourself. How about that?"
Milo squinted one eye and raised the brow of the other. "What price?"
"Sayyy...two coppers for each of the dead ones...the good ones, of course...and a silver each for the live ones. And you get rid of the rotten ones. What do you say?" Mouse knew that the really rotten ones would end up as jerky the same as the "good ones," but it mattered little to him. The rats cost him nothing but a little time, and he wasn't fool enough to ever eat Milo's jerky.
Milo slapped the table. "Fair enough!" He rooted through a pocket, pulled out a handful of greasy coins and counted them out. Fourteen coppers and two silvers. Mouse produced a handkerchief and wiped each coin carefully before slipping them into his padded pouch. He left the handkerchief on the table.
"I'll come by later in the week to get the cages," he said, simply smiling and nodding at Milo's offered handshake without any intention of touching him. Then he slipped out the back door of the smokehouse and into the streets, his mesh-lined bags hung over one shoulder, carrying the modified fire poker like a walking stick.
A mist was settling over the city, the warmth of the day's sun leaking from buildings and cobblestones and mixing with the cooler sea air. That was excellent. It smelled of salt and fish, with a hint of horse dung and wood smoke. A few people hustled along the lamp-lit street, many ducking into a tavern down the block. When the door opened, yellow light, the fast notes of a mandolin and laughter flowed briefly into the street before being swallowed up again by the darkness.
He walked until he spied a small café with the lights still on, and pushed into the warm interior, walking to the small bar and nodding at a woman wearing an apron. There were no other customers.
"Si, signori?" she asked, weary from the day's labor, not moving closer. She saw the poker, the bags, the heavy gloves, and knew him for his apparent profession as an apprehender of rodents.
"Do you still have pucino this evening, signora?"
She scowled. "I'm about to close."
Mouse smiled. "Not to worry." He produced an oversized silver flask from one of his many vest pockets. "I'll take it with me."
The signora looked horrified. Despite Eldred Cross's rough, frontier status, it remained within the Empire, and Florentians did not take their pucino to go! It was meant to be enjoyed while seated at a table, a time to relax and chat with neighbors, perhaps enjoying some biscotti as well.
She crossed her arms in defiant protection of the tradition. "It's been on the brew for hours, signori. By now it's far too strong to drink, something I would never serve to a customer. I was about to wash it down the drain."
Mouse placed a silver piece on the bar, setting his flask next to it. "Are you certain?"
The woman eyed the coin. A cup of pucino cost a copper, and this was ten times that amount. Tradition was important to a Florentian woman. But so was feeding her family. Without a word she fetched a copper kettle from the edge of a small hearth and unscrewed the top of Mouse's flask, pouring the hot, black liquid in until it nearly reached the brim. "This is going to go through you like a bolt of lightning, you know. Might as well pour it into the commode and cut out the middle man." She palmed the silver coin as deftly as any pickpocket, and the rogue grinned at her skill and her humor.
"Pleasant evening, signora," he said, touching his forehead, closing and stashing the flask away before returning to the street. Even through the sweater it was warm and comforting against his chest. He moved briskly southeast.
When he saw the approaching lantern of a Watch patrol coming, he eased into an alley and stood quietly, letting the two uniformed men stroll slowly past, talking to each other about a bar brawl at the Dancing Goblin. When they were well away, the rogue left the shadows and continued on his way.
Being Jimmy Ratbox allowed him a legitimate reason to wander the streets, alleys and rooftops of the city after dark, a perfect cover for anyone with illegitimate nocturnal pursuits. That didn't mean he was eager to chat with a Watchman or be seen skulking about, especially on a night when a noble residence was about to be burglarized. The less he had to do with the Watch, the better.
In theory, the city paid a copper for every rat he produced, alive or dead, as part of the Duke's sanitation program. Mouse even delivered a few on occasion in order to maintain appearances, but most of the rodents he caught or picked up off the ground went to Milo. The difference in earnings between what Milo paid and what the city offered didn't add up to much, but Mouse was so accustomed to haggling over everything that he would spend a half hour negotiating for the difference of a single copper. And after all, money was money, and little bits added up to a lot. The best part of being Jimmy Ratbox, however, was the chance to move about freely at night casing and pulling jobs. If ever challenged, he simply showed his gear and a rat or two, and people lost interest. Especially when he shook one of his mesh-lined bags at them, an angry rat squirming inside, trying to chew its way out. No one liked rats, and although few would thank him outright, most left him alone to perform his necessary task of helping to keep the city rodent free.
Mouse knew it made no difference at all. A single female rat could have up to six litters a year, the litter size up to sixteen. Those young, about half female, were capable of reproducing their own multiple litters within five months, and so on. Nothing short of divine intervention would reduce the rodent population in Eldred's Cross, much less the scattered labors of a single rogue who could really care less.
The misty streets led him towards St. Michaels, and it wasn't long before that massive gray shape loomed at him out of the darkness. Mouse cut around to the front, left his rat-catching gear outside, and entered. As he crossed the threshold he dipped his fingers and quickly genuflected, an old habit, before making his way to one side of the great cathedral. The interior was lofty and gothic, with stone angels clinging to the high, vaulted buttresses and stern-eyed saints looking down from elevated niches. The cathedral was partially lit by candles, and smelled of wood oil. Everything echoed. Up near the altar, a few parishioners, older widows draped in black shawls, knelt and worked their rosaries while they waited for the midnight Mass.
Mouse moved to an alcove with row upon row of clustered, slender white candles stuck in a narrow sand table. About two thirds were lit. Mouse used one to light another candle, and closed his eyes for a brief prayer. Once finished, he turned to go and reached out to a small, locked wooden box mounted to the wall nearby. He dropped two platinum coins through the slot.

Back on the street, he retrieved his gear and headed around to the north side of the cathedral grounds, staying close to a high wall, looking upwards. He quickly came to the spot he wanted, shoved the fireplace poker through his belt and took a look around to ensure he was alone, then went bare handed up the wall, fingertips and toes finding tiny crevices and protuberances. Thirty seconds later he stood atop the eighteen foot wall which separated the cathedral's gardens from the street. They were dark and unoccupied, and the rogue dropped silently into the well-manicured space. He waited quietly behind an oak tree, listening, until he was satisfied no one had seen him enter or raised an alarm. St. Michael's had a particularly righteous paladin who called the church home, and was a sworn persecutor of evil and corruption. The last person he wanted to meet tonight.

Moving like a swift shadow, Mouse crossed the gardens, hugged the gray wall of the rectory, then slid around its curved surface until he reached a corner where it connected to the main cathedral. There was a back door with a crack of light beneath it, but it held no interest. Instead he moved into the corner where a copper drain pipe descended from high above, and went hand-over-hand up its cool shaft, climbing a full twenty feet before scrambling over a low wall and onto a narrow walkway. He knew from frequent visits that this walkway led to a doorway off to his left, access to the bell tower, and to a narrow exterior stairway to his right. He went right.

Several minutes later he was another fifty feet above the ground, standing on yet another walkway which crossed directly in front of the great, tall stained glass windows rising above the altar. He couldn't see in, no one could see out, but he didn't want to be backlit for long, so he scurried past them and back into the shadows on the other side. Another twenty foot drainpipe later and he had reached the flat, uppermost roof, nearly a hundred feet above the ground. It was very dark up here, and Nature had smiled upon him with not only fog below, but a cloudy night above to conceal the moon. He smiled back at her.

Mouse had spent many nights on this rooftop, not just casing jobs, but as a place to get away and think. Sometimes he brought a bottle of wine and sat on a wall like a gargoyle, feet dangling over the drop as he drank right from the neck, pondering thoughts great and small. He knew the terrain up here quite well; a pair of doors, one leading to a higher level of the bell tower, another to a steep, descending, narrow wooden staircase used by the occasional worker sent up here on some small maintenance task. The cathedral's uppermost slopes knifed out of the roof, coming together like a shark's fin covered in green copper plates (which, despite their value, Mouse had always been reluctant to steal. The Watch could only hang you once, but damnation to Hell carried a more severe penalty). A few clerestory windows punched through the peaked slope, low to the flat roof and filled with stained glass. Elsewhere on the roof was a padlocked shed holding masonry tools, mortar, a few panes of glass, a big push broom and wooden crates of red and green bunting which were hung from the walls every December in honor of Cuthbert's birth.

The rogue walked to the west wall and leaned his elbows upon it, looking down. The street was shrouded in pearly mist, street lamps glowing softly like amber willow wisps. No one could be seen at street level beneath that pale curtain, which meant anyone looking up would see just as much nothing. He looked across to M'Lady Amethyst's brownstone, judging the rooftop gardens to be no more than thirty feet across. It was a tall structure, fully five stories, and that was good. Too much angle was just as bad as too much distance. He cocked his head. Thirty degrees? Maybe thirty-five? Hmmm....

He fired up his pipe and puffed furiously, eyes calculating and recalculating. The throw wouldn't be bad, he had the strength for it. How fast would he be going when he reached the far end? Pretty goddamn fast. Would have to put on a lot of brake... but not so much as to get stuck with his ass hanging out over the center of the Via Fendanzi. He puffed harder as he saw the lantern of one of M'Lady's private soldiers slowly moving through the rooftop garden. There was the real problem. If he heard the hook hit, Mouse was finished. If he came strolling round while Mouse was midway through his slide, he was finished. He wished he had a crossbow. Correction, he owned a crossbow. He wished a knew how to use it with enough skill to pick off a moving target visible only from the shoulders up on a foggy, moonless night at about a fifty foot range on a down angle, with about a six knot wind blowing in off the bay at this elevation, in a single shot.
He leaned and puffed and thought.

The long and at times stressful day tugged at him, and so he unscrewed his flask and sipped the wickedly-potent pucino. It hit him with a jolt, and he took another couple of gulps before putting it away, blinking his eyes rapidly. Good Lord it was strong! That would help. He went back to his smoking and thinking.
The knowledge of the big amethyst and its whereabouts had come to him only this morning, so why was it so damned important to rush the job and go in for it tonight? Most rogues would case a job like this for a week before making a move. It seemed reckless. Mouse knew, however, that in a place like The Cross, he who hesitated was lost. Who knew how many other Facci members had seen that stone? Had she worn it out in public before today? Possibly. Who else was already plotting this very heist? Wouldn't it be funny to run into one of his colleagues climbing through the same window? No, it wouldn't really be funny at all. M'Lady and her dangerous-looking husband had been far too casual with that little trinket, she for wearing it, he for permitting her to wear it. One way or the other it was going to be stolen, probably within the next twenty-four-hours. What mattered was who stole it, and Mouse was determined to have the honor. Not to act, to allow another thief to snatch it up, would be an act of supreme laziness and irresponsibility.
It came down to timing, he thought, his experienced eyes starting to notice a pattern in the rooftop soldier's patrol. He timed it. A full three minutes for a circle, sometimes longer when the soldier stopped at the far end of the garden to do something or other, rarely shorter. That meant a little under two minutes when his back was turned, make it a minute and a half when he was far enough away from the front wall not to hear the hook when it hit. Figure thirty seconds to throw, hit and tie off... he'd only get one throw...
"Eh, what are you doing up here?" a creaky voice called behind him.

Mouse spun to see a stooped little man in the brown robes and cowl of a monk standing not eight feet away. His veined hands shook with palsy, and enough of his face showed beneath the cowl to reveal the lines and craggy nose of not only an old man, but a hard drinker as well. He smacked his lips and chewed noisily at nothing, showing that he was utterly toothless. A heavy, intricately filigreed silver crucifix hung from a rope tied at his waist. People were always sneaking up on him! It was embarrassing.
"You startled me, Brother."
"Never mind that," he waved a claw-like hand covered in liver spots, "what hooliganism are you up to?"
"No hooliganism, dear Brother. Only labor." He had unconsciously reverted to the proper, polite tones reserved for speaking with the clergy, which he had been taught during his seemingly-endless sentence to parochial school during his childhood. It was a habit the nuns literally beat into you. Nuns. Habit. He cracked himself up.
The old monk peeled back his cowl, baring his bald and liver-spotted head. A huge raspberry mark covered half his forehead, and his eyes were milky white. He was completely blind. "What labor might that be?" the monk inquired.
"A most excellent service to our fine city. I am a catcher of rats." Mouse held up his forked poker and mesh-reinforced bags as if the blind man could see them.
"Pah!" He hacked up something brown and spat it out. "There are no rats at St. Michaels."
A rat with sleek black fur, fully eighteen inches from snout to tail, scampered past on the battlement wall, whiskers twitching.
"What are you really here for, boy? Some vile sin, no doubt." He laughed, more of a cackle. "A bit of wickedness, right here in the house of our Lord, to ensure your place in Satan's playground?"
Mouse raised one gloved palm. "My hand to Cuthbert, Brother, I am but a simple working man trying to feed his family."
The monk sneered. In the distance, the clock tower chimed the three-quarter hour. It was almost midnight. "Brother, may I inquire why you are on the rooftop at this late hour? It's a chill night. And do you not need to prepare for Mass?"
The monk waved his hand again. "Don't lecture me on my spiritual responsibilities, young scoundrel. As to the why, I have lived in St. Michaels for nigh on sixty years, and I go where I may." He looked annoyed and distracted, clearly unhappy he had run across another soul. Mouse examined the monk with a practiced eye, spotting a slight bulge beneath his robes. No doubt the old codger came up here to nip from a bottle in secret.
"I'll trouble you no further, my good Brother, for despite your protest, there are indeed rats here in the upper reaches of our fine cathedral..."
"Oh, indeed there are, indeed there are," the monk crowed, pointing a crooked finger towards the rogue.
"...and I must be about my business," Mouse continued. "A long night ahead of me. I'll be here for hours, I expect."
The monk curled his lip, showing black gums. He made a phlegmy gurgle and waved his hands as if scaring up a flock of pigeons, then turned and shuffled across the roof towards the door which led to the narrow staircase. Mouse watched him until the door had closed. You'll have to find another drinking place tonight, old man, he thought. After a few minutes, long enough to let the monk get down the stairs, Mouse crept to the door, listened to make sure the old fart wasn't lurking just the other side, then pulled out his hammer and a pair of nails, quickly sealing the door to its frame. It wouldn't resist a firm shoulder, but should be enough to keep the codger from wandering back onto the roof tonight.
He turned his attention back to the brownstone.

Because of the angle, he would only be able to slide one way. He proceeded to the little maintenance shed, found it unlocked, and stashed his forked poker, thick gloves and all but one of the bags behind a rusty wheelbarrow caked with dried mortar. He'd come back for them in a couple of days. Then he returned to the west wall, waiting until the clock tower chimed the midnight hour. He had expected a change of the guard, and stood watching for another half hour before deciding that none was coming. Perfect. A nice, long, boring shift on a rooftop garden, with no relief. If Mouse was lucky, the soldier might even be kind enough to take a nap. As he watched and timed the man's rotations, he saw that each tour had extended to just over five minutes. He was slowing down.

Mouse moved next to a gargoyle crouched on the wall, a hideous thing with a dragon's face and a lion-like body. He did a quick check to make sure all his gear was snugly in place, then laid out the strong but light elven rope in a coil, tying it to his grappling hook before snapping out its curved, steel shanks. Then he set his remaining leather-and-steel bag on the edge of the battlements before taking the hook in one hand, letting out a length of slack and swinging it back and forth slowly, watching the soldier's helmeted head and lantern on the far building. He would throw, sink the hook into the garden wall, tie off on the gargoyle. He'd loop the bag over the rope and grip each end, using it as a slide. Better hold on tight, he told himself. To fall meant a quick death. He'd have to brake with his feet on the line, and that would get hot fast, probably burning through the leather boots. That would be regrettable. He loved these boots. He consoled himself with the fact that with the amethyst he could easily afford another pair.
Still swinging the hook, his heart quickening, he watched the soldier. The man started moving towards the rear of the garden.
He took a deep breath.
Then he threw.

* * * * * * *

Petri Niente, the sentry on duty in the rooftop garden from seven p.m. until three a.m., leaned his spear against a wall and hooked a thumb in his belt. The lantern swung low in his other hand, and he looked at his feet as he shuffled along the path. The gardens were about thirty feet square, occupying half of the fifth level of the great house. A row of floor to ceiling, paned glass double doors were set in the house wall, curtains drawn, the room beyond dark. A path of marble flagstones led in a square around the garden, beds of flowers on the outer edge by the wall, tall shrubberies groomed to resemble animals within. At the center was a small marble fountain flanked by a pair of benches. He longed to park on one for a few minutes, rest his aching back and legs, but he knew if he did that he would be asleep within minutes. If discovered, he was in for a thrashing from His Lordship, followed by the termination of his employment.

When he was on the west side of the garden, St. Michaels was completely lost from view behind the greenery, along with the street. Not that there was anything to see. There was never anything to see, and Petri had long ago decided that this post was the most ridiculous idea His Lordship had ever had. He shook his head. The nobility thought they were so smart, but they could be just as dumb as everyone else. The only thing which could get onto this lofty garden was birds, and he didn't think they were much of a threat to His Lordship's security.
He heard a metallic CLINK behind him and sighed. For about the four-hundredth time tonight, his sword scabbard had banged against one of the decorative stone urns used as flower pots at each corner of the path. Another CLINK. Oh, for the love of... He jerked his sword belt around to bring his scabbard closer to his side. He shuffled on, thinking about hot ham and onion on focaccia bread, a nice warm ale to wash it down. Then a good long sleep. Maybe after he woke up he'd drop into Cercia's. He'd heard there was a new girl, a young one just in from St. Capella. Might be interesting.
A dull, vaguely metallic "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ" came from the far side of the garden, and he paused. Bumblebee? Kind of late for those, he thought. Then again, all these flowers, they were bound to be attracted. He thought he smelled burnt leather. He'd snuck a quick pipe bowl a while ago. Was it possible he hadn't put it out? He patted his waist, looking down at his pouch. Nope. Nothing amiss there. What...?
Petri's vision bloomed in a sudden white explosion of barely-registered pain, and then darkness as he slumped to the marble path like a heavy rag doll, his sword and helmet clattering on the stone. The lantern went out when it hit, but didn't break. Mouse stood behind him gripping his prybar, hopping from one foot to the other with a grimace on his face, the leather soles of his moccasins still smoking a little. The rope had also burned a stripe right through to the metal mesh of the bag he'd used as a slide, and it lay near where the grappling hook had found its purchase in the garden wall. He checked the guard's pockets and liberated him of a handful of small coins. A dark pool had formed around his head, but the helmet had taken most of the blow. He'd live, but he might end up a bit more stupid than before... if that was possible.

The rogue dragged the unconscious man off the path and into the hedges, tossed the lantern into a flower bed, and approached the house. He had been here once about five years earlier when different owners had lived in the brownstone, people who didn't employ private guards. On that night he had scaled the walls to this level, which hadn't been a garden, only a large, flat unused space, and gone in through one of the glass paned double doors. They had opened into a music room, and the master bedroom was down a short hallway beyond it, located in the front of the house on this floor, with a view of St. Michaels. Picking the locks wasn't the problem. It was the fact that people who had guards on the outside might very well have guards on the inside. He also knew there was at least one dog in the house, a big one according to the barking he'd heard when he had passed by earlier to deliver the jack-in-the-box.
Best not to think about that.

M'Lady's window would be best, for certainly there would be no guards in there. He wasn't worried about the husband, either. Unless the man was visiting for a quick hump, which would easily be heard before Mouse entered the house, His Lordship no doubt had his own bedchamber elsewhere in the house. That was the custom of nobility, as strange as it sounded to common folk. He rubbed his hands together briskly, then moved towards the front of the brownstone.
There were three sets of glass paned double doors, like those in the garden, set in the front of the house, each with its own balcony, looking out over the five story drop. Without another thought, Mouse mounted the garden wall and jumped over a five foot gap, landing in a crouch on the balcony which served the music room. It vibrated under his feet. He peeked over the rail into the main courtyard below, and picked out the glow of another soldier's lantern moving slowly through the grounds, then another shape with a lantern near the gates to the street. No one had noticed his entry.

Another leap brought him to the first balcony, and he landed catlike and quiet. Crouching next to the double doors, he listened for a full minute. Silence. He tested the brass handle, and it turned easily, unlatching with a soft SNICK. The rogue smiled. Of course. Who would bother to lock a fifth story window?
Still in a crouch, he eased the door open an inch, seeing only darkness, and listened for another full minute. No sounds of humping. No heavy, male snoring. There was sound, however soft, the deep, even breaths of someone fast asleep. He eased through the door into the shadowy room and all but closed it behind him. Leaving it open a mere three inches allowed him a ready escape route, and a little extra light with which to work other than the glow through the curtains. From his vest he pulled a small wooden wedge, and shoved it under the base of the door. It wouldn't do for a sudden gust of wind to slam it shut or fling it open with a crash. He'd learned that lesson the hard way.
In the light from the door, he could make out basic shapes in the large room; a huge canopy bed, a pair of wardrobes, a long dresser and mirror, a sitting area with chairs and a table. A small hearth was set in one wall, and heavy rafters crossed the high, open ceiling like an ‘X' There were two doors, one to the hallway (a line of dim light shone beneath it) and a smaller one which led to a water closet. Mouse had relieved himself in that very closet during his last burglary. The rich really knew how to live.
He stood and glanced towards the bed. One figure, slender, the impression of long hair spread over a pillow. M'Lady, sleeping alone. Very good. He noticed the cat then, a large gray and black thing curled in a ball on the pillow beside the woman, peeking out over the top of its tail. The cat's eyes shone in the darkness as it watched Mouse. It didn't move, didn't make a sound.

He turned his attention to the dresser, his eyes adjusting to the meager light, and scanned an assortment of powders and perfumes, a small portrait frame, a hand mirror and several hair brushes and combs which gave off the dull shine of a precious metal. He pulled a soft leather bag from his vest and carefully placed the frame, hairbrush, hand mirror and a comb inside. Their weight felt like silver, maybe platinum. He could move them easily through one of his fences, probably Antonio. There was a large wooden box with a carved top, and he tested it, finding it unlocked. He lifted the lid.
Jackpot.

Just beneath the lid was a shallow space lined with black velvet. A pair of earrings and a ring with a large stone rested within, and in the center of the space was the... nothing.
The spot for the pendant was empty.

Frowning, he set the bag down and padded towards the bed, looking down at the sleeping woman. There it was, still hung about her neck. He breathed a soft sigh of relief, then pulled a small pair of snips from his vest. He didn't care about damaging the chain, it was the stone he wanted. Delicately, with index finger and thumb, he lifted the fine link chain off her warm, creamy skin, only an inch or so, and brought in the little pair of dikes. The cat watched him over its tail with bright interest
Heavy footsteps in the hallway, approaching.
Stronger light flowing under the door.

In an instant Mouse dropped the chain, clenched the dike handle in his teeth, leaped to a chair, to the dresser surface (a vase wobbled dangerously), to the top of a wardrobe and then a mighty lunge straight up. His fingertips caught the edge of a rafter and he scrambled up as the door swung open. Straightening his body along the length of the rafter, he held his breath as he heard someone enter the room, closing the door behind them.
Quiet as a mouse.
He realized that if he accidentally rolled off this rafter, it was a fifteen foot drop to the unforgiving stone floor, where he would land at a bad angle. Mouse droppings.
Whenever he was under stress, the rogue's inner voice began making numerous, stupid analogies with his nickname. House Mouse. Mouse Trap. Cat and Mouse. It was annoying.
Candlelight flickered off the walls and tapestries, making the raftered ceiling area dance with bars of black and orange. The footsteps were made by hard boots, but whoever wore them was trying to be stealthy, not walking with their heels. The intruder, for that was how it felt to Mouse, moved towards the bed as the rogue risked a peek from his elevated hiding place.
He tensed. The lid to the jewelry box was still open. The leather bag with the valuables from the dresser sat on the floor in plain view. He suddenly had to pee.
M'Lady's red-bearded swordsman of a husband stood next to the bed, dressed in a floor-length, dark green robe, something one might throw on after rising from bed. Why then was he wearing hard boots? His Lordship was carrying a candle in a simple brass holder, and he set this gently upon a small table adjacent the bed, next to a book M'Lady had apparently been reading earlier.

Mouse felt a sneeze coming on and clamped a hand over his face, suppressing it. These rafters were dusty. Dust Mouse, he thought. The episode passed and he peeked again.
His Lordship was still standing over her. Had he come round for a hump after all? That would really screw things up. Mouse chewed his lower lip in irritation, hoping the man would be too distracted to notice the bag on the floor. He needn't have worried. The man shooed at the cat with one big hand, and it laid its ears flat, hissing before leaping to the floor. The man lifted the pillow upon which it had been curled and held it in both hands.
He pressed it tightly over the face of his sleeping wife.
Mouse almost let his bladder go.

The woman started to struggle, and he pressed harder. Her hands clawed desperately at the pillow, legs kicking wildly at the bed sheets, but she was no match for his strength. Within a minute her fighting lost steam, her legs jerking weakly, hands slapping harmlessly at his forearms, and then she was still. His Lordship held the pillow in place for another minute, then he placed it carefully back beside her. The dead woman stared sightlessly upwards, mouth open, and her husband gently smoothed her hair out once more, arranging it on the pillow. His breathing was fast and rough, as if aroused.
Not good, thought the rogue.
His Lordship whispered something as he touched her cheek with his fingertips, lightly, like a lover. Then he pulled a dagger from within his night robe and raising it high over his head, plunged it to the hilt in her breast. It pierced her sternum with an audible CRACK. Little blood came out, for the heart within had already ceased to pump. Then he grabbed the big amethyst pendant and jerked, snapping the chain and tucking it in a pocket of his robe.
Things were getting worse.
The nobleman left the dagger where it was and stepped away from the bed, taking several deep breaths, smoothing his hair back with his palms, composing himself. Then he walked to the bedchamber door, opened it wide and cried, "GUARDS!"
Much, much worse.
Rattling armor and pounding boots crashed towards the chamber within moments, and a pair of armed men wearing the nobleman's livery burst into the room. His Lordship pointed at the bed and let out a tortured moan. Pretty convincing, thought Mouse. Wonder how long he practiced that?
"A thief!" he wailed, "Stole her pendant. Search the house, search the grounds! Call for the Watch! Oh dear God, Lydia!"
The men raced from the room, calling to others in the house. His Lordship walked past the dresser, seeming not to notice the open jewelry box or the bag on the floor, and stopped at the balcony door Mouse had propped open. He didn't notice the wedge either, as he flung both doors open to the night. Then he returned to the bed and seated himself beside the corpse, putting his head in his hands and working furiously to build up tears.

Mouse rested his forehead against the dusty rafter beam and closed his eyes. Why, of all nights, did His Lordship pick this one to murder his wife? Why not tomorrow? Tomorrow would have worked just as well. And now the house would be full of people and Watchmen until morning, so no exit under cover of darkness. Eventually they'd find the bag, and the rope, and the soldier he'd brained in the garden. Mouse couldn't have supported His Lordship's ‘A Thief Killed My Wife' ruse better if they'd planned it together.
Only, his Lordship knew that a thief hadn't killed his wife. Yet there was clearly evidence that one had been here... maybe still was here. The house would be searched thoroughly, Mouse would be discovered and blamed for the killing. There was no way he could talk his way out of this one. He felt the raw hemp of the Constable's justice against his Adam's apple.
The nobleman was sobbing beneath him. Mouse wanted to cut his throat.

Was that his only way out? Drop on the swordsman from above by surprise, bury a dagger in his neck? Then go back out the window and take his chances in the night? Even now the courtyard would be filling with men, and torches would light up the darkness, revealing his escape. Killing a noble was serious business. He'd be hunted, would have to flee the city. Where would he go, assuming he could even get beyond the walls? Would Zephira give him sanctuary? Maybe smuggle him out of Eldred's Cross?
Heavy boot steps in the hallway, heavier than before, unhurried and deliberate. A single pair. The creak of heavy armor. He felt his sphincter pucker, and knew before the man entered the room.
Taurian.
Captain of the Stilettos.
That hadn't taken long.
The big warrior walked slowly into the room, the candlelight casting dancing shadows over the skulls fashioned into his armor, giving them a ghastly, living quality. Harbingers of Death. Peeking, Mouse saw the Captain survey the room, the body, the window as His Lordship rose and wiped at the forced tears. They stood close together, talking so softly that Mouse couldn't make out the words, then the Nobleman pulled the amethyst pendant from his robe pocket and handed it over. Taurian took it in one armored gauntlet, and His Lordship left the room.
A hundred thoughts shot through the rogue's mind, but at the bottom of each was, Mouse is a dead man.
Taurian shut the door to the bedchamber and walked to the dresser, putting himself between Mouse and the window. He softly closed the lid to the jewelry box, then stooped to pick up the leather bag of trinkets. Hefting it in his hand, his back to the rogue, he placed it on the dresser.
Shoving a dagger in the nobleman's neck had been one thing. Even thinking he could surprise and wound this man was insanity. Twice his height and weight, heavily armored, a far better fighter. Impossible.

The Captain turned and hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, then looked right up at the rafter where the rogue was hiding. "You can come down now, Mouse."
The rogue squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Maybe it was just a bad dream, and he'd awaken in his comfortable bed. Yes, he'd get up, take a shot of brandy to calm himself, maybe look at his shoes to make him feel better. Only a bad dream, only a...
"Now," said Taurian, his deep voice full of menace.
Mouse sighed and rolled to the right, gripping the edge of the rafter as his body swung down, dangling for a moment and then dropping, his knees absorbing the fall. He straightened and faced the Captain of Stilettos, arms limp at his side, but his head up. At least he'd die with a little pride. He made no move for his hidden daggers. Stabbing Taurian would only piss him off.
The Captain stared coldly down at the small rogue. A scar ran from the hairline of his brushy flat top down across his left eye, which was a cloudy gray blue, the other one black as a raven's. His features looked as if they'd been chiseled from a stone in need of a shave, and his jaw looked to be about the same size and substance of a ship's anchor. When he spoke, Mouse could see that his teeth were even and white.
"Murdering a noblewoman is a serious crime."
"Only for the one who did the actual killing," Mouse replied.
"And that would be you."
"Nope. Know who did it, though, if that's any help."
Taurian smiled. It was not reassuring. "And yet here you are, standing over the body, your little bag of stolen trinkets close at hand. Your rope and hook in the wall. Your brain-damaged sentry in the garden. Doesn't look good for you. Why did you do it, Mouse? That's what the High Constable will ask. Was it just for the pendant, or did you have a grudge against His Lordship? How will you answer?"
Mouse crossed his arms. "Something tells me I'll never get the chance to stand before the Constable to hear those questions."
Taurian ignored him and held up the pendant, letting it dangle from his steel-shod glove. It twisted at the end of its broken chain, casting back prisms of candlelight. "Lovely," said the Captain. "But worth a life?"
"How did you know it was me in the house?" Mouse demanded. "This has been a set up from the beginning, hasn't it?"
Taurian's smile went away, and he closed his hand over the pendant, making it disappear. He stepped close to the rogue, who took an involuntary step backwards. The Captain towered over him, a wall of homicidal, armored threat. His voice dropped to a conspirator's tone. "Listen very carefully, my little friend...
Mouse noticed that an object hung around the Captain's neck on a heavy gold chain, a curious red coin with odd markings and a hole in the center.
Just like the one Mouse wore.
They knew the same woman.
It wasn't Mouse's mother. That would have been really helpful.
"You're out of options," Taurian continued. "This is how easy it is. You're about to be discovered in a dead woman's room, in possession of a very valuable piece of her jewelry. It will end badly for you."
Mouse couldn't argue with his logic.
"But there is someone who likes you, who wants something from you. Zephira."
His Don. "Why didn't she just ask me," Mouse offered.
"She wants you motivated," the Captain replied. "She is expecting you, the guild room at the Black Bison, two hours. She has an assignment for you."
Mouse clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Was there actually a chance he'd get out of this alive? Or was it the Stiletto Captain's sick joke? "What kind of assignment?"
"I'm certain she'll explain the details. All I know is that you're going on a trip. You're about to enlist in the army."
The rogue's jaw dropped an inch. "What? Join those morons in the Passes? The hell you say! That's not my war, I'd rather face the rope!"
Taurian nodded. "I admire your conviction. There are worse things than hanging, though." With one huge finger he jabbed Mouse hard in the left pectoral, about three inches above the nipple, driving into the nerve cluster. Mouse cried out and staggered back, a hand leaping to the injured spot to protect it. The Captain advanced, backing him up until his shoulders banged into one of M'Lady's wardrobes, standing close. "You'll make that meeting." It wasn't a question. "You'll accept the assignment, and smile about it. If not, we'll just happen to grab you up in front of the High Constable himself and find the pendant in your pocket."
Mouse put a hand on the Captain's breastplate and tried to push him away. It was like pushing at a city wall, and the mass of armor pressed in. A raised steel ridge from one of the steel skulls was grinding hard against Mouse's right cheekbone, relentlessly crushing him against the wardrobe. "Yes, yes!" he managed, his face scrunched to one side, "I'll meet her! I'll take the job!"

Taurian held him there for a moment, then stepped aside, extending a hand towards the window. "Then you're free to go," he said, suddenly friendly.
Mouse didn't hesitate. He bolted past the warrior towards the open balcony doors, then stopped and put one hand on the lid of the jewelry box on the dresser, risking a glance back, rubbing his bruised face. Taurian shook his head slowly. "No cheese for you tonight, little Mouse."
Mouse snatched up his leather bag instead, the one with the platinum dresser items in it. "Just a little cheese, signori," he said, and then he was out the window and gone.

* * * * * * *

The blind monk was leaning against the battlement of St. Michaels's roof, nipping at a small clay flask, when Mouse hauled himself over the wall. He was puffing and winded from a long, upside-down, hand-over-hand climb back up the angled rope, the bag of meager loot tied to his belt. The rogue stood on the rooftop bent over, hands on his knees while he breathed heavily, the muscles in his back and arms throbbing.
He'd had no choice but to leave the hook behind, and now he'd lose his fine elven rope as well. A small price to pay for his life, he supposed.
"There's a ruckus below," said the monk, turning in his direction. "Men in an uproar, calls for the Watch. Wouldn't have anything to do with you, would it?" he crowed.
Mouse looked sideways at him from his bent over position. He wondered how many times the monk would bounce when he hit the cobbled street. "Not I," he managed. "I'm a simple working man."

The monk nipped at his flask again and smiled toothlessly. "It's a good thing, boy, for the wages of sin are death." He chuckled.
Mouse walked over to him and rested an unsteady hand on one stooped shoulder. "Indeed they are, Brother. Give me your blessing."
The blind monk bobbed his head, still cackling softly. "Go with God, my son, and may his eternal blessings be upon you." He reached out to touch the rogue, and found only empty air. He reached down to the heavy silver crucifix hanging from his belt.
It was gone as well.

-FINI-