Chapter Three

Copé drank ale from his flask.

Ale was such a wonderful thing. Formed from a strain of brewers’ yeast and an oh-so decadent amount of malted barley, the stuff was amazing. It didn’t sound so nice when explained in depth, but the taste and aftereffects were heavenly. Life could and certainly would always be a cruel mistress, but alcohol was an easy going whore.

He brought the bottle away from his lips, nonchalantly looking to see if anybody was watching. After that, he started to fidget around with the bottle, wrapped in brown leather, until he pushed the little cork in there at the neck. He hid the flask away, between his knees, readjusting himself in his chair.

In the Whispey Deserts, trading was common. In fact, minus the hot air and dreary décor, it was the only thing the Deserts offered. The Thief liked it well enough. He only stole in small increments. One or two things here and there, The Trade Network was much too populated for traditional heists. Not only that, but a few miles deeper into the Deserts was the Thief’s Network, where troupes like The Red Flux as well as petty thieves came to associate and trade.

It was impossible for Copé to know for sure who was a master thief in the Deserts and who wasn’t.

He was able to get on just fine without stealing everyone blind. The Deserts had hundreds of homes, and not one of them was exactly distinguishable. By design, Copé assumed. If all the houses looked the same, it was more difficult to know which one secretly held the most riches.

Little box-shaped homes, each only with one room, and that room was far from luxurious. Visitors only stayed for a couple of days and then went on their way, pockets lined with coin.

The Thief leaned back against his chair.

Behind him, he overheard the whispering of some merchants haggling not too far off. Copé found himself a proficient salesman, “Bullshit with a smile” is what he called it. It was a profound art that was unappreciated. Likely because everyone was too busy being duped to notice. He listened in at what the merchants were saying, hearing only every third word. It took his mind off everything for a while. It made him forget why he was drinking so early in the morning. It wouldn’t last, however.

“Find your way,” Toucan told Copé before heading back to the Red Flux.

Father always hung onto sentiments like a blanket at night. And, while he hated the Aeonians, he considered himself a man for a higher power.

A month removed from ‘what happened’, Copé couldn’t help but still wince at the thought from time to time. After thirteen heists, one little mistake was all it took to unwind everything Copé had done for them. The Thief squirmed a little in his chair, having trouble trying to relax.

“Do you want me to sit here quietly while you drink with that nifty flask you think nobody sees, or would you like some food to go with it?”

“The first one where you are quiet sounds like as good a choice as any.” Copé didn’t even make eye contact before answering.

He knew the voice belonged to a female, however. Women had always been pretty good at calling him out for his bullshit. Secrat brought his flask to the table and looked at it, already almost empty. He didn’t consider himself a drunkard, if only because his pride wouldn’t allow it. He felt ashamed about drinking from the flask, but this was one of his ‘bad’ days. It was a bad day where all his frustrations and grievances spilled out and made a big collage of self-pity.

“Let me rephrase that, order something or the future reads I will be kicking your ass!” Her words were playful, not angry or of cruel intent.

Copé smiled for a second and looked up at her. His hair unkempt and his haggard face paled in comparison to her looks.

“I didn’t know I was talking to a fortune-teller.”

Her hair was dark red, but her skin was pale white. She wasn’t a native of the Whispey Deserts. If Secrat had to guess, he pegged her as being either from Hardan or Italina. Someplace cold. Not at all like the Whispey Deserts. The Whispey Deserts felt like Hell upraised, if Copé wanted to be nice about it.

“Now you know, and I’m predicting that if you don’t order something, I will have my friends over there throw you out.” She smiled at him.

Copé looked down at his flask and felt bad. He felt ashamed, almost wanting to kill all of her friends with his knives to impress her. He chuckled quietly at the thought. He was skillful with a blade, but would struggle to walk a straight line if challenged, let alone win in a proper duel. “Ham and wheat will do handsomely.”

“Want it plain?”

“Course not.”

She nodded knowingly and turned away. Copé took his flask back off of the counter and threw it down in the sand beneath his seat. Not for good, as the diamonds encrusted on the sides of it were about the most expensive things he owned. Copé leaned his body forward against the counter. The back of her looked almost as pleasant as her front.

“Where do you come from?” Copé spoke out, trying to strike up a conversation. Never much of a conversationalist, a man of action, but maybe his gentler side was on the outskirts pushing up and waiting to poke through?

Or maybe there was something else pushing up against the front of his pants.

Secrat looked down at his flask.

The damsel broke his concentration swiftly, dropping a glass-plate on the counter before him. He flinched but shrugged it off and looked up at her. She offered up a sly and sinister grin.

“Well, aren’t you lovely?” Copé acknowledged.

“I try my best.”

“You know, usually restaurants try not to give their customers a heart attack, I could tell your boss, you know,” Copé mimed writing something down on parchment. “Give him a well written complaint and such.”

“I’ll fetch you the ink, but I must warn you, he won’t be surprised, nor will he care.”

“It sounds to me like he knows a thing or two about business.”

“He gets by, pays like shit, but I don’t really care too well about money.”

“Have a small fortune already?” Copé felt interested in her answer.

“Something like that,” the woman replied. “I’m from Satin.”

“Oh?”

“You asked where I was from a little bit ago. It’s a small village off the reservations of Hardan.”

“I’m familiar, so, in other words, you’re a no-good wanderer. I’ll see to it that they have your head on a pike for not being under the thumb of one of the Aeonians.” Copé tried his best to sound ferocious while playful. Not very skilled socially, she likely thought he was serious.

“You don’t exactly sound like a townsperson either. Where are you from?”

“Italina,” he said.

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. He really had been born in Italina. However, it was a matter of semantics and perception. When a person from the greater Maharris heard mention of Italina – a specific visual entered their mind. They saw the Tower of Sanchi. They saw extravagant festivities and elegant clothing, fine-dining and superfluous living. None of that was Secrat’s experience in Italina. He came from the slums, the lower districts that no one had heard of, let alone visualized.

“I was born and raised in that God forsaken hellhole,” The Thief quipped, although, in that moment, he wasn’t for certain he was talking about Italina.

“Not a fan of the rich life, I suppose? I always hear how beautiful it is there.”

“Everybody in Italina is interwoven. They breathe the same air as each other, like we all do, but, they are the kinds that acknowledge it over and over again,” Copé moved his hands in a circle for emphasis. “We’re all one. We are this big family, but we’re not that close. No, no, no, no,” Copé reiterated the last part more times than intended. “If you make one mistake, it isn’t a family. Families forgive each other. They care about one another. Italina doesn’t care about each other. Italina is buried in its old ways, and you know, they seem intent to stay that way forever.”

“Right.” The woman said, as though she hadn’t even bothered to try and follow Secrat’s rambling nonsense. She pulled out a bar stool from beneath the counter and sat down, staring across at him. “And so, that’s it then, you left, and came here?”

“I tried other directions. They took me left. They took me right. This one seemed like the only one that actually went forward.”

“Poetic,” The woman replied dryly.

He looked down at his food, a thick slab of ham slapped onto a slice of bread, mixed with some type of dressing. It tasted plain, with a small and indistinct bean-flavor coming through from the dressing. Still, the food was one of the few things edible in the Whispey Deserts. Available at a shop for a reasonable price, that is. Delicious food was brought in from across Maharris, and in ways, The Trade Network was the melting pot for all different types of cuisine. Such delicacies came with a price, however, and that price exceeded what Copé was willing to spend.

Alsabenya was one of many small shacks throughout the Deserts that offered “filler food” for a still expensive but more reasonable price. He took his knife and cut the slabs of meat, raking it with his fork until pulling it free. He brought it to his mouth. Good enough, he thought.

“So, you left Italina to pursue getting drunk in the mornings and eating cheap food from a dumb shack?”

“Something like that,” Copé replied. “And what about you, you seem to like throwing down judgment, what made you decide to leave Satin?”

“Me? I don’t judge.”

She pushed her hair back behind her ears, exposing a dimple Copé hadn’t noticed before on her left cheek. Her eyes were a powerful blue. The kind so visually striking that somebody kinder might have pointed it out.

“My mistake, but by all means, indulge me, no matter.”

“I could see the writing on the wall. I could see that the end wasn’t simply a likely possibility but a foregone conclusion. I saw a way to change it by leaving, by making the hard choices no one else wants to. Once you accept there is no right and wrong, living becomes much easier.”

“Indeed, it does,” Copé said. “And so, what does the future hold, you left Satin to serve cheap food from a dumb shack?” He stared into her eyes, mesmerized but interested in her response.

“I don’t think it’s that bad here. I try to enjoy myself.” She spoke plainly. “At the very least, it’s better than the life I left, so I’m just optimistic.”

“Biding your time until the wakes of something more?” Copé spoke understandingly.

In the back of his mind, he was toying around with a different idea.

“No,” she responded calmly, warmly even. “I am where I need to be for this very moment. Soon, I will be somewhere else. Maybe it will be better. Maybe it will be worse. Whichever, the outcome will serve a bigger picture.” She had cooled off a lot from earlier.

She spoke so rapidly that Secrat had trouble keeping up with her. She went from being a smart mouthed vixen to a cuddly little kitten. Copé couldn’t say for certain whether he liked that about her.

Her warmth bothered him. There was something off about her that he couldn’t put his finger on.

“When it’s all said and done, where do you end up?” Secrat asked.

“If it does ever end and I am alive to see it, I suppose the first thing I’ll have to do is make amends with everything I did to get it there.”

The woman’s words rang as ominous. Then again, Secrat had more blood on his hands than most. Who was he to judge her?

“And what about you, flask-guy? What happens when you have everything you could ever ask for?”

The Thief considered the thought. Father Toucan Veras would sometimes tell him a parable about the curse of a thief – that a thief could steal everything in the world, have everything he could ever want, and still feel the compulsion to steal. The moral of the story was that members of The Red Flux should treat thievery as a means to an end and not an activity they enjoyed – it was a lesson lost on most of them, however.

Secrat looked up at her and smiled, “Maybe I am looking at her right now?”

2.

 

The Trade Network always had some sort of commotion going on about it during the day.

There weren’t enough words in any language to stress enough the importance of the network to Maharris and the five major cities: Hardan, Jalint, Urgway, Acera, and Italina.

A large ocean, the Amisoic Sea, surrounded the whole of Maharris. A boat would arrive from Olzaric and other major cities across the Seas on occasion, but it was rare to have available outsiders help scavenge items or vital resources. The Trade Network was the means to economic and social stability throughout Maharris.

Secrat couldn’t help but smile at the audacity of it all, all Maharris united without discrimination or prejudice swaying them. Conflict wasn’t common in Maharris, at least it hadn’t been for a long time.

The last war was hundreds of years ago. It didn’t mean everybody liked each other though, and in fact, it was far from it.

Italina’s town came with a sense of entitlement and self-importance, looking down its nose at the rest of the lot, and Acera’s tan-skinned residents would always play the fool in the eyes of its neighboring cities. Urgway and Jalint got along, after all, they were so close to each other. In both ways, metaphorically and physically.

The true conflict for Urgway was within itself, a broken system with crooked Lords parasitically sucking the life from its lower districts. Likewise, Hardan’s dependence on other more equipped cities made it a weak and easily manipulated Kingdom.

Copé arose from his chair. The banter between him and the miss who introduced herself as Christique had been lovely, but she had since begun tending more to other customers eating about the shack.

Besides, he needed to leave, as he found himself absolutely infatuated with her chest. Or, more specifically, the necklace dangling between her breasts.

An emerald as the centerpiece, the necklace shined with a dulled beauty. That is, Copé suspected, because an intentional lack of polish. This was Maharris’ Trade Network, but not far from here, was the network known exclusively for thieves and criminals. The fact wasn’t the best kept secret, but except for higher-ups that could know for sure, it had been perceived by civilians as nothing more than rumor or gossip.

Secrat had to assume Little Miss “Make Amends with What I’ve Done” was savvy enough to at least consider the thought that someone might make a grab at it once or twice. She didn’t keep it clean, but why would she wear it in the first place? Unless there was a certain importance to it or a reason that kept her from being afraid.

If there’s anything that he knew with absolute clarity, it was that he intended on having that necklace of hers.

Copé dragged his feet while he walked away from the shack. His feet dug into the desert sand with every step. Sometimes he would stagger or stumble, showing the alcohol in his flask was doing its job. All wasn’t lost, however. He hadn’t yet past the point of no return but sobering up was imperative if he wanted to act on any of his desires.

“You! Stop!” A man yelled out from behind Copé.

Secrat felta small twinge of irritability hit him. He knew the chance of there being another “you” was unlikely.

Copé didn’t even have the chance to turn around before the sound of clamoring feet befell his ears, and with it, he could infer there was more than one of them. All he could think to do was overcome his drunken stupor and run.

The sand might have caved in on his feet with every step before, but now, his feet were moving so fast he might as well have been flying.

The tragic beauty of it all was that Secrat couldn’t recall what he had done to anger the men – all he knew for certain was that he absolutely had done something.

Before him, Copé could see his free space becoming more and more scarce. The Trading Network always had some type of commotion going on about it during the day, and in front of him, a crowd of men and women merchants stood, indistinguishable in their clothing, as well as tables filled with a wide assortment of items. Secrat gnashed his teeth, grinding them from side to side as he searched intuitively for his next move.

With vivacity, vigor, and a silent prayer for good fortune, Copé made a leap of faith into the crowd of people, thinking not about the perhaps inevitability of being trampled.

One person fell down first, it was a gentleman, Copé only caught a glimpse of him, but watched the pot he was holding fall out of his hands. The pot, clay and of heavy size, was more than enough to take the woman in front of him off of her feet as it struck her from behind. As she fell, so did the man she brought down with her, and someone else, and then another. It was a ripple effect that happened too fast for Secrat to truly appreciate.

As much as he would have liked to, the time was needed to secure safety, in the havoc of it all, Copé began crawling on his hands and knees, being careful not to be crushed by the large cast. As Copé searched for his escape, he looked over to the guards behind him that were trying to settle a dispute between some of the crowd.

The woman’s husband didn’t take too kindly to a man throwing a pot at her and a fight ensued as a result. Secrat made certain to take advantage of the diversion, hiding beneath one of the tables, letting the tablecloth conceal him.

The ruckus soon started to quiet down, and when he peeked out from under the cloth, The Thief could see the guards weren’t focused anywhere near him. His tactful retreat becoming a real opportunity, Copé now had his chance to flee. Secrat turned his back the opposite way of the guards. This side of the table was about as crowded as the other, but he’d be able to blend into it.

He waited for an opportune time to make his move, but before that could happen, his feet were dragged out from underneath him.

It was a guard, one that he must have missed. The fellow wasn’t a knight or a warrior, or anything formidable, not a skilled-looking fighter, but he held a sword in his hands, which was more than Copé had to work with.

The Thief snatched up a small pile of sand and tossed it in the guard’s face.

The guard sold it like an arrow to the chest, falling backward, then plopping himself down on his bottom as he picked the grains out from his eyes. Secrat, flat on his back, rolled under the table and to the other side. He climbed to his feet and started once more toward leaving sight.

There were beads of sweat traveling down his neck and chest as he ran forward.

Once leaving the crowds, he was allowed an openness of mobility. Some of him felt fatigue, but a lot of him was being driven on the adrenaline soaking inside of him. The same adrenaline that made him a master thief and the same adrenaline that made him the best member that The Red Flux ever had. He felt empowered and as if nothing thrown in his path could deter him.

That is, until a guard tackled him off his feet.

Copé gulped and sighed heavily as the air vacated his lungs. A dazed and haphazard stare followed The Thief while he tried to formulate a coherent thought for himself.

He failed at it several times.

But once the sensation of the ordeal started to spread thin, he was once more ready to think cognitively, or with as much logic and reason as he could otherwise.

The guard wasn’t a guard after all.

It was Christique, smiling with a sprinkle of sadism on her face.

She didn’t smile for long, however, and instead, Christique dragged Copé up to his feet, making him wonder why she took him off his feet in the first place. The guards weren’t in sight, but that didn’t make escape any less important. She led him back to the Alsabenya Shack, and it was there where he hid, crouched behind the counter where he once ate. Christique looked at him, like she was trying to decipher the puzzle in front of her. Copé smiled at her some. He wanted to tell her she had her work cut out for her but didn’t end up saying anything. Some part of The Thief was feeling the same way as she, that is, he was unsure about the person before him.

Her eyes left him. A customer stood at the opposite side of the counter.

Copé couldn’t hear everything that was said between the two, but he did hear some of Christique’s more complimentary lines, such as “Thank you” and “Have a nice day”. Before that, he watched Christique scavenge up the same slop she had fed him, the “filler food,” as it was called. After, he saw the man walking away.

“Italina’s finest is a petty thief, is that what I am to understand?” Her voice didn’t sound offended, disturbed, or anything else with some sort of negative connotation, but it didn’t sound thrilled or optimistic either.

Melancholy, that was an excellent way to describe how Christique sounded. She gave a small smirk that Secrat fancied, however.

“You’re not exactly a regular everyday member of the Satin village, are you?” Secrat said, rubbing his shoulder in the spot where she struck him. A small ache, but Copé dealt with it long enough to return the smirk back at her.

On the inside, he was kicking himself about sharing his suspicions. But something about her heightened his intrigue and made him want to play along. The woman tried her best to look offended, offering a merciless stare that for some reason only added to Secrat’s infatuation with her.

Copé looked for the guards, watched for them, until finally, at once, he felt confident enough in his own safety. He stood to his feet at the inside of the shack behind the counter and winced momentarily at the striking amount of pain he felt in his side. Christique’s feminine beauty was matched by her strength. It offered a small and bearable feeling that still didn’t sit too well with him. He rubbed the back of his neck some more before regaining his wits about him. Christique looked at him with a sympathetic look that he knew wasn’t sincere.

“If you are about to break down and start crying then I might just have to alert the guards after all.” Her not-so sympathetic look soon dissolved into a sarcastic smirk.

“I feel like there are nicer ways of getting people’s attention.” Secrat spoke earnestly.

He took a look at some of the men and women conversing in the crowds. The merchants, the men, the women, all of them conjoined with making this overcrowded and encumbered blur. A man that looked something like an apothecary stood out to Copé. That made sense, after the dog pile The Thief caused, some could most certainly use a bit of aid. Still no sign of any of the guards. That was good. Better safe than sorry though, Copé thought upon falling to a seated position, his back leaned against the counter.

“There might be nicer ways of getting your attention, but none of the other ways had it where I could attack you.” Christique replied.

“Why did you want to attack me in the first place?” Copé asked.

It seemed like a fair question for him to ask. Christique didn’t seem to share the sentiment with him, and in fact, she looked at him like he was an absolute idiot.

“I wanted to attack you because you lied to me about who you were!”

“You lied to me!” Secrat fired back, and for an honest second, he actually felt like a snot-nosed brat.

It was something about the whiny way he said it. In a moment, he was feeling self-conscious, and felt the need to assert himself, “You think I don’t know about Satin? People from a farming village don’t usually have much to atone for. They certainly don’t have to make amends with what they’ve done.“

Secrat knew he didn’t come off as fierce, sometimes he wondered if being intimidating was something even in his repertoire of abilities. It was. But only with a knife in his hands. Nevertheless, The Thief would be no one’s fool.

“At least I can say that I’m not a petty thief. What did you steal from them anyways?” Christique inquired with a voice riddled with judgment.

Copé’s hand reached down at the hilt of the knife strapped to his leg, for no other reason than because he couldn’t think of anything else to fidget with.

“I didn’t steal anything except what I needed. Some food that would have been considered as table scraps for them, and some coin that was no more than pocket change.” Copé felt a jolt of insecurity surge through his veins again, and he didn’t much care for it.

No more than an everyday scrapper not absorbed by power but concerned infinitely with survival. That was the perception she would have of him, and maybe that was for the best. More than anything, he wanted to stress his significance, his importance, and his worth, but he said nothing.

“They must really love their bread then.” Christique said.

Her attention threw itself back over to one of her customers.

His attention was now on her necklace and all its beauty.