Barb Hendee - Thief of Lives

Leesil stowed his toolbox inside the back of his surcoat, strapped on his sheathed punching blade, and announced that he was ready. However, Wynn provided two more surprises.

Rummaging through what the city guard had left behind, she'd found a pair of soft leather boots for Leesil. The young sage then announced that she was coming along.

Before Magiere or Leesil could refuse, Wynn waded in with more vehemence than either of them thought her capable.

Several deed signatures were foreign names, and thereby a translator might be needed. Neither of them had spent as much time as she in paging through city documents and were far less likely to fathom any quandary that arose. Lastly, she was adamant that no other choice was acceptable. She wouldn't give them city records, for which she was responsible, unless they agreed.

Magiere stewed silently as the motley band stepped into the street. Glancing back at Wynn with her parchments, and Vatz waddling along with a crossbow conspicuously hoisted over his too-small shoulder, she turned on Leesil as if this were all his doing.

"Don't say it," he warned. "Just get us a coach before half the city sees us coming."

Leesil looked no better than their two tagalongs, with his torn surcoat, quiver, crossbow, stilettos, and punching blade. He looked like a vagabond making a poor attempt to sell himself as a mercenary by mere show of arms.

With the hope that Leesil's other blade was finished, their first stop was at the weaponsmith. As their hired coach rolled into the area, Magiere scanned the passing shops, watching for one in particular. With relief, she spotted what she sought. A bit of misdirection was now needed, for which the boy and sage would prove useful.

As all of them except Chap climbed from the coach, and Leesil headed directly into Balgavi's smithy, Magiere grabbed Wynn by the arm and handed her some silver pennies.

"When he's done, have Vatz take all of you to the nearest clothier and get Leesil a shirt. Durable and as dark colored as possible. I'll meet you back at the coach."

Wynn nodded hesitantly. "Where are you going?"

Magiere glanced toward Leesil. To her relief, he held his second blade up, inspecting it before the bear-sized smith.

"There's more he's going to need," she said quietly. "Whether he likes it or not."

She left a puzzled Wynn behind and headed up to the shop she'd spotted along their way.

Built of dark, weathered wood with a narrow doorway, it was a tiny place. The carved sign swinging gently above the door read Shartek's , and below the worn letters was the shape of a hauberk crossed with a pair of gloves. Magiere stepped inside.

The shop was thick with the smell of acrid oil and a hint of iron, and the scent of cured leather she could practically taste in the air. A little old man in leather apron sat at a table working stain into an uncut hide. He nodded to her and continued with his tasks.

Goods were lightly piled on crude tables, from gloves and vests to skullcaps and craftsmen's aprons. The shopkeeper's bench was strewn with tools, scraps of hide, thongs, and bits of metal. She soon found what she sought hanging from a peg on the back wall.

The leather hauberk had a diamond pattern of iron rings woven to the chest with leather laces. Battle damage could be mended by reweaving instead of sewing. Of clever design, it was lightly padded without being too thick for flexibility. However, the sleeves were near elbow length and the skirt dropped too low. She pulled it down and took it to the old man.

"This'll do," she said, "but I need changes, and they must be done now."

The old man nodded, and she proceeded to tell him what she required. When finished, the skirt was tapered front and back, and split at the sides to just below the waist. The sleeves' were similarly shortened. It was not as "covering" as it had been, but Magiere judged the changes would accommodate Leesil's ways.

"How much?" she asked the old man.

"A silver sovereign," he replied without pause.

Magiere's breath caught, but it was a fair price. She counted out four silver shills, each a fifth of a sovereign, and the remainder in silver pennies. What was left might see them through two or three days about the city. She headed back with the hauberk bundled under one arm and found the others already waiting at the coach.

Wynn smiled as she appraised Leesil, which gave Magiere a sudden surge of irritation. Leesil now wore a heavy linen shirt of chocolate brown that suited him quite well, and his hair was covered with a charcoal scarf. When he spotted her, he threw up his arms.

"Are you content now?" he asked in challenge.

"Not quite." She tossed the hauberk to him.

Leesil unfolded it. When it hung open in his hands, he gaped at her, eyes wide in fury.

"Not on your life!"

"Put it on," she said.

"I can't fight in this."

"Leesil, you put it on"-her voice grew louder as she pointed to the smith's workshop-"or I'll hire four of their biggest men to pin you down-and I'll put it on you myself!"

Wynn backed against the coach in frightful embarrassment. Vatz watched eagerly, likely hoping Leesil would refuse just to see what would happen.

"Fine and well," Leesil snapped.

He climbed into the coach, and Chap scuttled out of his way. Wynn gave the driver their first destination, and Magiere waved her and Vatz inside. When she climbed in, Leesil was trying to remove his shirt.

"Over the shirt, you half-wit," Magiere growled.

Leesil glared at her though the neck of the shirt halfway over his head, and Chap shifted away from him to the seat's far end. He jerked the shirt back down and fussed with the armor long enough to make his resentment apparent. Magiere offered no assistance, not about to give in to his little fit.

Once finished, Leesil tugged dramatically at the hauberk's collar and sullenly stared out the window. Instead of an overarmed vagabond, he now looked like a walking armory, but at least he was protected. Her gaze flickered to his right wrist, the open sleeve cuff not large enough to close across his stiletto hilt. The scars were just visible.

Yes, protected. But not from her-or himself.

Leesil sensed Magiere watching him. So she feared for his safety, but now that she'd taken it all into her own hands, why the worried glances? With her clashing moods and complications leaping upon them at each turn, he was getting fed up with everything-including her. Beneath the hauberk's leather, the shirt felt itchy, as if he'd slept all night upon an anthill.

Throughout the morning, the coach traveled most of the city's inner ring and the wealthier districts of the middle ring, only to have Chap jump out, sniff about once, twice, or not at all, and jump back into the coach. Past noon, Leesil's overtried patience was nearly depleted.

Suddenly, Chap sat up and sniffed, eagerly pushing his head out of the coach door window. Everyone looked up with anticipation, and Leesil leaned over the dog to look out as well.

They passed a small open market near a gatehouse, and several roving vendors had stopped their carts full of prepared foods at the busy crossing.

"Exactly what have you done to be hungry?" Leesil asked, about to pull the hound back inside the coach.

"A brief pause," Wynn suggested.

She leaned against the coach's sidewall, strained and tired. Riding around in the jostling coach appeared to have caught up with her.

"Yes," Magiere said. "I think so."

Leesil signaled the driver to stop. He'd barely stepped out, when Chap leaped clear and bounded down the street toward the makeshift market.

"Get back here!" Leesil shouted, but the dog disappeared into the crowd.

"We'll catch up to him," Magiere said. "It's not like he's going to buy any food on his own. Or he'll beg his way into a handout again."