Free The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke Page A

the least," the old man answered. "You must forgive my surprise at your age. I must admit that when Barbarossa told me about the Thief Lord I did not imagine a boy of, say, twelve or thirteen years of age. But I do agree, age is of no consequence in this case. I myself had to work like an adult from the age of eight, although I was small and weak. Nobody cared about that."
    "In my line of business a small body may be an advantage, Conte," Scipio replied. "If that is how I should address you."
    "You may, yes." The man in the confessional cleared his throat. "As Barbarossa has told you, I am looking for someone who can retrieve something for me, something I have been trying to find for many years, and which I have now finally discovered. Sadly, the item is at the moment in the possession of a stranger." The old man cleared his throat again. His glasses now moved so close to the window that Prosper thought he could just about see the outline of a face. "Since you call yourself Thief Lord I assume you have already entered some of the noble houses of this city without ever being caught. Am I right?"
    "Of course." Scipio surreptitiously rubbed his aching knees. "I have never been caught. And I have seen nearly every noble house from the inside. And without ever being invited."
    "Is that so?" Strong fingers covered with liver spots adjusted the glasses. "Sounds like we're in business. The house you shall visit for me is on the Campo Santa Margherita -- number eleven. It belongs to a Signora Ida Spavento. It is not a particularly magnificent house but it does have a small garden, which, as you well know, is a treasure in itself in this city. I will leave behind in this confessional an envelope containing all the information you need to carry out this job. You will find a floor plan of the Casa Spavento, and a few notes on the item you are supposed to steal, as well as a photograph of it."
    "Very well." Scipio nodded. "That will save my assistants and me a lot of work. But let's talk about the payment."
    And again Prosper could hear the old man laugh. "I can see that you are a businessman. Your reward will be five million lire, payable on delivery."
    Mosca squeezed Prosper's arm so hard that it hurt. Scipio said nothing for a while and when he spoke again his voice sounded quite shaky. "Five million," he repeated slowly, "sounds like a fair price."
    "I couldn't pay more even if I wanted to," the Conte answered. "You will see that what you are supposed to steal is of value only to me, since it is made of neither gold nor silver, but of wood. So, do we have a deal?"
    Scipio inhaled sharply. "Yes," he said, "we have a deal. When should we deliver the item?"
    "Oh, as quickly as your skills permit. I am an old man and I would like to achieve the goal of my lifelong quest. I have no wish left in this life, except to hold in my hands what you are to steal for me."
    Longing rang through his voice. What could "the item" be? Prosper thought. What could be so wonderful as to cause such mad desire? It was still only an object. It wasn't alive. What could be worth such a fortune?
    Scipio stared thoughtfully into the dark window. "How will I report to you that I have been successful?" he asked. "Barbarossa told us you're difficult to reach."
    "That is true." Out of the darkness came quiet coughing. "But you will find everything you need in this confessional after I have left. Once I have closed this curtain, you will count to fifty, and then you may retrieve what I have left behind for you. I also like to keep my secrets and I do not have a mask to aid me. Send me news of your success and you will receive my answer the next day at Barbarossa's. I will then tell you when you can exchange "the item" for your reward. I'd better tell you now where we will carry out the bargain. Barbarossa is a little too fond of opening other people's letters and I would prefer to conduct this transaction without his interference. So remember this well: We will meet at