Stepping Wild (Dungeon Runner 04)

"Today will be a good day!" Tibs yelled from the low roof once he undid the darkness etching. It couldn't hide him in the daylight, but away from where people looked, it made it easy to ignore him in the corner of their eye.

The people gathered in the square turned to look, and he posed in Fleet Finger's green and black. With his hood up, they wouldn't be able to see the half mask, but the description has circulated among the guards and population, so some would recognize him.

The space was more for gathering than selling. Few in the neighborhood had the money to pay for the city's trading permits required to have a booth, let alone a shop, or enough product to justify either. The little trade he saw was done furtively, with someone watching for approaching guards that weren't usually there, as if they were trading in illegal good. Which, in a fashion, they were.

Most people here spent their days busy working to gain the money to pay for what they needed. Lodging, food, clothing, soaps, and other bare necessities. It left them with little energy to enjoy the experience of shopping, even if they found themselves with a few extra coppers.

The lack of guards was a reason he'd chosen this one for the first distribution of coins. The other was that it wouldn't take much copper to improve any of their lives. Taking even one gold all the way to copper without attracting attention took a lot of work. One to fifteen coins, from gold to electrum, was innocuous. Those electrums to silver would draw attention, but he was looking at a sack, so not unheard of. All those silvers into copper? He'd need a crate. So he had to spread that around and there were only so many money changers. If he wasn't careful, they would notice how many coppers they were handing out and talk among each other. Then Tibs would have to explain himself to the guards, and he didn't have an identity to justify it, yet.

When they all looked at him, he etched Air to carry his voice so he didn't have to yell to be heard.

He raised the bag, heavy with coins. "Fleet Fingers brings good tiding in the name of the Great Lord Rastmyre. While Fleet Fingers may have needed to insist for the lord to be generous, have no doubt that he understands the plight of those too low for him to notice. Remember his name." He flung the bag over the square, an etching to push it to its center. "For through your praises, he will achieve the fame he craves." He activated the etching within, and the bag exploded, sending coins over all the square.

The initial screams were filled with fear, and the panic caused some injuries Tibs wished could have been avoided, as would those that would soon come. Someone noticed what fell on them, yelled and brandished it. The panic turned into purpose and instead of away; they ran toward. More people got hurt as they rushed, shoved, and sometime struck each other.

He could have avoided this by discreetly distributing the coins, but he needed the spectacle. For people to talk, for Fleet Fingers to be known of across the city. For Rastmyre to pull his hair out as he gained a reputation as helping the helpless. No noble wanted to be known for that. He needed people to talk of Fleet Fingers anytime something was reported; for any hint of goodness to be laid at the feet of Rastmyre. The noble's ire toward the thief would ensure Tibs's small actions would go unnoticed.

He left before the violence escalated.

Small actions like the purse with a handful of copper that appeared in the dresser of a family fighting destitution. Among a child's nicknacks of one struggling to make the coins needed to feed themselves. Of the help those in too dire straight to even get enough from all the menial work they accomplished received.

He couldn't know how they'd use the coins, and he couldn't dictate that. He also didn't know if the trouble they found themselves in was of their own making. Any he'd usually rely on to gain that information would report to the Master. And he couldn't care. The families suffered, and he could help.

It was possible even Aldero the guard would decide the help had come from Fleet Fingers, and not his assailant. He might think they were the same, and because of that, Tibs should stop leaving coins in the man's home. It wasn't like he needed them, now that he was back on duty, even if he wasn't yet fully healed.

But guilt didn't give him a choice.

The one place he wished he could help, but had learned a long time ago couldn't, was the city's Street. It was too insulated. Coins weren't simply broken, they were tallied.

Unlike what he'd thought when he live on the Street. Coins weren't simply broken by anyone who found them. The Breaker did that. The work was so important for the Street's survival that it had taken Tibs years of trying to help, of working out there was a system, before he learned of the Breaker. Knowing hadn't helped. Explaining he wanted to help had gotten him laughed at over and over. Somehow, the Street's Breaker couldn't be bribed, which was good, since what else would they do, if those with coins could buy the person who ensure the Street's economy remained stable.

He could slip the occasional broken coin in it, but not enough to make a difference before the excess was noticed and actions taken. The Street had no interest in helping people escape it. It only cares about its survival.

He ran the roofs to another part of the city, retrieved the bag of coin he'd hidden ahead of time. This one contained a few silver to account for the slightly higher wealth. Even those who had a little more could fall on hard times, and Tibs could use them to spread Fleet Fingers and Lord Rastmyre's fame around.

Six times over the day, Fleet Fingers appeared to distribute coins to the needy and made a spectacle of it. The only break in them was when Tibs needed to change back into someone who could go to a money changer and get more copper and silvers, and then, when guards happened to patrol one of the square and forced Tibs to cut the show short, but allowed him to demonstrate Fleet Fingers' lack of care for those who would try to stop him. Among that, he also slipped into houses and hid coins.

When the sun was two fingers' width over the city wall, Fleet Fingers snuck into his hideaway, and emerged from the connected rooming house as Thibaud, set to get ready for his last task of the day.

* * * * *

He made his way to a part of the city he'd never go as himself, and even Thibaud, dressed in better clothing, stood out.

If he'd been able to find the item he needed anywhere else, he would have done business there, instead of in this part of the city where even the guards feared to come. Like the Street, every city had one. A neighborhood where anything could be obtained, regardless of the city, or kingdom's laws.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Of course, it was the nobles who controlled such a place.

The shop was empty of customers when he entered, and the shopkeeper, on the other side of the counter, looked at him with a mix of disdain and suspicion.

The shelves displayed vials, brushes, combs, washcloths, soaps. More variations of the tools needed to care for his body that he thought existed. And on top of that, many had essence worked into them.

The woman was tall; her features well defined, the skin without imperfections. Her blond hair was brushed to perfection and shining as if the sun reflected on it, even within the shop and with it now lower than the walls. And with so much essence woven into the products she's used on herself, Tibs had no idea what she might look like without them. Her clothing matched the rest of her perfection, but without essence. The cut fit her figure and enhanced her curves.

He expected that people who were attracted to women had a hard time resisting her.

She was the demonstration of what her clients aspired to. What one could achieve if money wasn't something they minded spending. And if they didn't mind using enchanted items that were probably banned. The sorcerers willing to make those items were usually more interested in how much money they could make for their work than in ensuring the weaves were safe.

He didn't know enough about weaves to judge the work he sensed, but he had heard stories, seen what happened when unstable weaves shattered while someone wore them.

"Were you able to get it?"

Her snort only slightly marred her features. "The gold?" she asked dubiously.

With the reluctance of someone parting with all the coins he had, he placed the five coins on the counter. She narrowed her eyes at them.

He'd almost balked when she told him the price.

He'd never had to pay that much for one, but he'd asked in all the other places and they didn't even know what obsidian was.

She took the coins one at a time, studied them, the kingdom's marking, then weighed each. Her surprise at them being genuine was marred with suspicion. He'd told her he'd need more time to get the needed coins than she to get the blade, and she'd been smug when she told him it would wait for him. But she hadn't lied when she'd said she'd have it.

She took the coins to the back and returned with a box of dark wood polished to a shine and inlaid with silver filigree along the edges. He figured one of the gold had gone to pay for the box. She placed it down and lifted the lid, revealing the black blade resting on a golden fabric.

As far as he could tell, it was flawless. Without Crystal, his eyes were all he had to go by. The lamplight reflected on the smooth surface, and the bone handle was inlaid with gold.

She snapped the lid shut as he reached for it.

"This isn't a toy." Her voice was impressively deep.

"Considering how expensive it is, I'm well aware," he replied, unable to stop himself.

"This is a tool." Her expression said she'd heard him, but wasn't impressed. "To be treated with the care you expect it to treat you with. Obsidian is a wonderful element to shave with, but a fragile one, if not handled correctly."

He almost corrected her. Obsidian wasn't an element. He'd read up on it after he'd been cut in a battle by an obsidian knife; he'd wondered how a stone could hurt him, but it was made mainly of Crystal. It had only been an amusing fact, that something so stone like wasn't, but when his beard came in, finding it again to cut it off had become important. Fortunately, shaving razors were sometimes made of the material.

"I know how to treat an obsidian blade," he said, restraining his annoyance. "When I was separated from it, my previous one was in perfect shape after years of use."

She studied him, and her expression softened. She pushed to box toward him. "If it loses its edge, bring it to me and I'll see that it is honed true again. And we can discuss the quality of the care you applied to it."

He raised the lid again and, with care, took his new shaving blade out. He'd never seek something so embellished. His first one had been nothing more than a chipped piece embedded into a wood handle. But in that kingdom, obsidian had been something the copper mines threw aside as they dug for the ore they sought. The next ones had been better made, but still plain.

He returned it to the golden fabric and closed the lid. As much as he hated this part, he forced himself to speak. "Thank you for finding one." And robbing me blind. He hadn't been surprised when the words glowed when she answered his question on if the price was normal. Merchants lied. Anyone who did business with them knew that. It was how the game started.

But she'd laughed when he countered her offer. When the amusement passed, she'd explained how business worked as if she spoke to a child. She had what he wanted. If he wasn't happy with her price, he could go look for someone else to buy his blade from.

He'd wanted to argue, but she was the only one he'd found and he'd been tired of people sniffing the air when he exited his room after trimming his beard with a red hot knife, and tired of the beard altogether.

"If you need anything else," she replied, tone silky, "you know where my shop is."

He placed the box inside his vest and left, hoping to never have to set foot there again.

* * * * *

The tavern was lively with people freshly done with their day enjoying the first ale of the evening along with a hearty meal. Tibs had picked it as much for the food as for the camouflage a full dining room gave him and his team as he introduced them to each other.

Charlie arrived first, grabbing a tankard from the barmaid with a smile and whispered words, then wandered through the busy room. He walking past Tibs's table, then looked over his shoulder and stared, before returning. "Someone prettied himself up for me."

Tibs snorted, running a hand over his smooth chin. "I finally found a decent knife."

The man sat on Tibs's right and placed a sheathed knife on the table. "That gets the job done for me. Who are we waiting for? You said team. That's rarely two people."

"They'll be here shortly. Unless you're eating with it, put that away. I don't want people thinking you're going to stab one of them."

Charlie smirked. "I don't sully my hands with weapons when I fight."

"Never?" he hadn't come across anyone who only fought with their fists. Even those who preferred them surrendered to the necessity of swords or thrown knives to extend their reach.

"Other than archers, I've yet to come across someone I can't reach before they can land a blow on me." He grinned. "I'm nimble."

Tibs had to admit that was true from watching him fight, but if that would be enough when dealing with trained guards and nobles' thugs would have to be seen.

"You know," a woman said, "if I'd known the kind of place this was. I'd have dressed more…appropriately." Cynta wore worker's leathers under a well-cut vest a supervisor might wear. She didn't outright stand out, but the few looks she got were concerned, with a few moving their tankards from view as if she'd judge them for drinking now that the work was done.

Or because they were drinking before their work was completed.

Still choking on his ale, Charlie hurried to his feet and pulled a chair from the table while smiling at the woman. She looked amused, then stepped into it and sat as he pushed it in.

"Thank you." She studied Tibs. "You clean up well."

"He got himself a knife," Charlie said.

She raised an eyebrow. "A knife led to better clothing? I'm impressed. Did you cut and sew them yourself?"

"He shaved," Charlie stated.

She narrowed her eyes. "So he has. That's too bad. Now, about that work you promised me?"

"We're still missing one. As soon as he—"

The archer dropped in the chair with enough suddenness Charlie was up, fist in the air. He looked around, embarrassed, and sat. Even Tibs had missed the approach with all the essence in the room.

"Now that we're all here," he said, motioning to his right and going around the table. "Charlie's our thug. Cynta our voice, and Uzoma our lookout."

"Which makes you what?" the archer asked. "Other than the man with the plan?"

"I'm the one with the light fingers. If we need something Cynta can't convince the owner to give us, I'll get it."

"And what, exactly, will we be doing?" she asked. "You approached me specifically because the Master isn't happy with me. I expect it's the same for you two." They nodded. "So, other than the job keeping us out of the Master's sight, what is it?"

Tibs smiled, motioning to the bar for the food he'd previously ordered. "We are going to rob one of the nobles."