Free Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm by Shadow's Realm (v1.0) Page A

eyes. Playing along like a seasoned actor, he spoke in a practiced monotone. “Aga’arin bless you, sir.” Slowly, he wobbled toward the market square. His gaze fluttered along streets and windows, as if he expected someone to seize his new-found wealth before he could buy a decent meal.
    Taziar returned to his companions. Incensed by the beggar’s paranoia, he did not take time to properly phrase his question. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”
    “No.” Anger tinged Astryd’s reply. “When did you become stingy? You could have at least given him food.”
    Taziar laughed, realizing the trick intended to divert thieves had also confused his companions. “I gave him more money than he’s seen in his life.” A pair of uniformed guards walked by, eyeing the armed and huddled group with suspicion. Taziar waited until they’d passed before elaborating. “I meant the fear. Have you ever met a beggar too scared to beg? Worse, a starving beggar afraid to take money? Who in Karana’s darkest hell would rob a beggar?”
    “Easy target.” Larson shrugged, his expression suddenly hard. “In New York City, the hoods’ll rob their own mothers for dope money. There’s too many to count how many Vietnamese kids look like that one, and they’ll take anything from anyone.”
    Little of Larson’s speech made sense to Taziar. Finding the same perplexed look echoed on Silme’s and Astryd’s faces, Taziar pressed. “Interesting, Allerum. Now, could you repeat it in some known, human language?”
    Larson gathered breath, then clamped his mouth shut and dismissed his own explanation. “Yes, I’ve seen it before. Leave it at that.” He addressed Taziar. “Now, swimmer, what river do we take from here?”
    “This way.” Taziar chose a familiar alley which he knew would lead nearly to the porch steps of Cullinsberg’s inn. Rain barrels stood at irregular intervals; old bones and rag scraps scattered between them. From habit, Taziar assessed the stonework of the closely-packed shops, dwellings, and warehouses hedging the walls of the lane. Moss covered the granite like a woolly blanket, its surface disturbed in slashes where a climber had torn through for hand and toe holds. Taziar glanced at the rooftop. A cloak-hooded gaze met his own briefly, then disappeared into the shadow of a chimney. A careful inspection revealed another small figure in the eaves. A third crouched on a building across the walkway.
    Engrossed in his inspection of the rooftops, Taziar never saw the trip-rope that went suddenly taut at his feet. Hemp hissed against his boots, making him stumble forward. A muscled arm enwrapped his throat and whetted steel pricked the skin behind his left ear. A deep voice grated. “Give me your money.”
    Taziar rolled his eyes to see a blemished, teenaged face. He felt the warmth of the thief’s body against his spine, and the realization of a daylight attack against an armed group shocked him beyond speech. It never occurred to Taziar to fear for his life; he knew street orphans and their motivations too well. Instead, he appraised the abilities of his assailant. The youth held Taziar overbalanced backward. The grip was professional. He could strangle Taziar with ease. If threatened, a spinning motion would sprawl Taziar and drag the blade across his throat.
    The assessment took Taziar less than a heartbeat. Aware the setup would require one other accomplice to draw the rope straight, Taziar numbered the gang at five. Whatever happened to peaceful begging and petty theft? “Fine. I’ll give you ten gold. Two for you and each of your friends,” he said deliberately, intending to inform his companions as well as appease his assailant.
    Taziar felt the bandit’s muscles knot beneath his tunic. “No. I want all your money.”
    Apparently taking his cue from Taziar’s calm acceptance of the situation, Larson loosed a loud snort of derision. “Are you swimming now, Shad? Upstream? Downstream?