A Scoundrel's Song

2

Niico loved money. Adored it. He wouldn't say that he worshipped it, but it put a strong case forward for that particular feeling. Money drove him and was his greatest bane, because he also loved spending it. Which meant he very rarely had much money to his name at any given moment. Which also meant that any opportunity that arrived for him to coax a little coin from someone's hands, he would do. Even if those hands didn't want to let him have it.

Thievery was just his way of having the ability to spend his money on things that he really cared about, which was ways of finding more money. A never-ending cycle of want and loss that he didn't feel the slightest need to change. Not yet. He was growing older, much to his dismay, and that meant that, one day, thievery wouldn't come as easy. As it had the morning before.

In days past, he would have stolen that emerald, while bedding the fine young nobleman who had owned it, and disappeared without anyone knowing what he had done until it was too late. The bedding part had worked wonderfully. The noble had appeared to enjoy their passing tryst. The stealing of the emerald had gone according to plan. The disappearing part had not worked as well. Thus the unplanned exit through the window at the hands of the noble's guards.

Niico had known full well that he would have to leave Casoria for a while. Aiding the man and the child had simply come along at the right time, though if it weren't for the promise of money, he would have preferred leaving alone. Now, instead, he had two foreigners to coddle and, for some inexplicable reason, Pelenia. She had agreed to it far too quickly for Niico's liking and he didn't doubt she had a hidden reason for that.

The man, apparently, was called 'Akafa', though Niico, being the inveterate, unashamed and accomplished liar that he was, knew a fake name when he heard it. Trust. He didn't give it easy and didn't engender it, either. He was no more trustworthy than a rotted, half-broken bridge across a raging river. It may hold his weight, but he'd rather take his chances swimming. That analogy didn't sound right, but he knew what he meant. Most of the time.

Without the big, beautiful, big 'Akafa' and the child in tow, Niico had managed to make his way back to the inn, collect what few belongings he had, and flirt with the innkeeper to keep the room available for his inevitable, triumphant return. No-one followed him, though most couldn't if they tried. No-one confronted him, but he could still run like the wind when his life was in the balance. That told him that the thugs that had rousted half the people in the unnamed warren of streets were after Akafa and Herit.

This was going to be a difficult trip, to wherever Herit's mythical father awaited him.

"Baccirese? Are you ... Baccirese?" At the assigned meeting place, Niico stared, open-mouthed, at Pel as she informed him of where the boy needed to go. "That's the other end of the country! Literally, the last town before the Garthae border! Do you know what's between here and there?"

"I'll admit, it poses a challenge." Pel now looked so completely different, anyone would think her a different woman entirely. Bustier, for a start, as she now showed to everyone in her low-cut, bloused shirt. "We've gone further, in the past. Remember Hathbad? Henving Bay? The captain of the guard that we shared that night?"

"Yes. And I also remember the chains and the whips that were, not in the least, exciting. I'll ask again, you know what's between here and there? I'll tell you. The war. The other war." He counted the items off on his fingers. "Bandits. Roving monsters. You know very well what will happen if we show our faces in Vicerini ..."

Pel gave an over-dramatic grimace, widening eyes looking anywhere but at him, and well she might. They had long memories and sharp weapons in the capital city. Although, he would dearly love to see the string of white, marble statues that ringed Vicerini's bay, and the glistening, crystal tops of the Towers of Piety. Though 'piety' was pretty much an oxymoron considering the practices that occurred within those walls.