Memory's Wake - Book One of the Memory's Wake Trilogy

Chapter 4

“...and then the gnome said to the merchant, ‘I’m sorry, I’m a bit short!’” The stall holder rumbled out the punch line. Around him, a huddle of corseted and bustled ladies giggled behind their gloved hands.

Observing as he strolled by, Roen wondered if they laughed at the man’s humor or the man himself. Roen hadn’t heard that joke since he was a boy and a few entrepreneurial little folk could still be seen trading on market day, bringing exotic imports and fairy goods. They rarely appeared any more and the fae had barely been importing for far longer. Funny to be joking about it now. The market suffered from their absence. One of the young ladies smiled at Roen, and he winked back, setting off another wave of giggles, quivering lace and ribbons. Shame he couldn’t stay, he thought, letting his gaze linger on them. Unfortunately, he had to get to work.

Ambling along, Roen smiled to himself. Despite his reason for being here, he enjoyed the vital chaos of the market, now in its mid-morning peak of activity. Vendors spruiked from behind makeshift carts, boisterously laid out into a rough grid of narrow aisles. Children ran underfoot. Those with money bought sweet delights to nibble on. Those that couldn’t buy bullied the sweets from those that could. Innocent thieves, thought Roen, envious.

Maerranton markets used to be legendary throughout Avall. It had been a rich city, a wealth still evident in the tall, handsome buildings of stone and sculpted bronze which stepped down the steep cobbled streets. But these were harder times and much of the city fell into disrepair. It didn’t mean much to Roen. He’d never known wealth. He did know every abandoned and derelict house, each broken and dry drainage tunnel. Hiding places. Secret routes.

Squeezing through a small gap between two men, Roen muttered polite apologies. Decent weight, maybe some gold. I can easily do better. He slipped the coin purse into a concealed pocket in his long coat and adjusted his cravat to cover the movement. His clothes were well suited to his career. He saw to that when they were tailored. Dark colored, neat but unremarkable, the suit had no frills or fancies such as some men wore. His sleeves and cuffs were designed to keep his hands free. The seam of his trousers hid a thin blade, the perfect tool for defeating locks, slicing straps of bags, or defending his life. Not that he’d ever let it come to that.

He wandered through the humming market, thick with the sounds and smells of people trading. A passing carriage disturbed a family of stray cats and one came closer to him, mewing for food. With a swift and casual movement, Roen lifted a strip of dried fish from a nearby stand and flicked it across to the kitten before continuing on.

He followed a man, clearly upper class, ridiculously dressed in startling turquoise-blue tails and top hat that oozed gaudy trims. He showed off his bad taste and bulging coin pouch to a lady whose bosom overflowed from her bodice. Roen idly browsed nearby stalls’ wares, waiting for the best moment to move in and take his earnings. But despite the peacock man’s flippant demeanor the opportunity never arose. His hands were always too tight around his money. Roen chuckled to himself at how the busty lady fawned over the miser, doubting she would get what she was after either. He could still have the man’s money. He’d just have to work a little harder.

He rolled his shoulder in its socket, still stiff and sore, and turned away. It was too risky, even without an injury slowing him down. And risks he would not, could not, take. Last week’s mess, the closest he’d ever been to capture, left him wary. He needed a new mark.

Roen headed back along the crowded aisle. Nonchalantly, he scrutinized the people around him. There. Too easy. Almost a gift. Spotting his next target, he couldn’t help but give a tiny, wry grin.

The pair showed signs of poverty, with mud and scuffs of dirt covering their hooded cloaks, but were clumsily making a deal for some food with an obscene amount of gold. Maybe thieves themselves, Roen thought, wondering who they’d rolled to get that sort of money. From their size he guessed they were younger boys, street rats, drifting through town, spending out a big take. After stumbling through the purchase of food the two moved along to a used clothing stall. They kept themselves well hidden under their travelling cloaks, but one struggled with his, his body obviously far too small for the garment. The clothing glimpsed underneath was bizarre even compared with the last man in his feathers and ruffs.