Pilfer's Backstory - Roughly 7 Years Ago (Warning: TL;DR)

[Scattercat]

"Stop, thief!"

   Pilfer's head snapped up, eyes wide. His wiry body tensed like a squirrel's; he rarely walked on more than the balls of his feet when he went out, always poised to run. Across the market square, a battered tatterdemalion fled on rag-wrapped feet, while Oslo the merchant puffed after him, his beefy face quickly brightening to match his apple-red tunic. After a mere dozen steps, the portly merchant wheezed to a halt, shaking a threatening fist at the fleeing man.

   Shortest chase ever, smirked Pilfer, his smile widening as his body relaxed. False alarm. Some tenderfoot got caught lifting from Oslo. That alone ought to be worth a night in jail. Fat old boylover couldn't spot a glimmerbug on a pitch-black night. Already the faint glint of sunlight on armor indicated the progress of a pair of the Watch, homing in on the would-be thief like a pair of silver-scaled salmon after a hapless water-bug; the man would be in jail before much longer, that was certain. The oldsters were as likely as not to be complete neophytes in the game of snatch-and-run, Pilfer had found. He wondered if it were true of other professions as well, this dominance of the young and nimble. Probably not, he reflected, watching the rotund Oslo grunt his way back to his burgeoning fruit stand, for things like merchants, or bean-counters.

   Still, the sun was almost to its zenith and Pilfer still had work to do. He tucked his latest acquisition - a nice copper fertility bracelet, stolen off the wrist of some old witch with saggy tits - into one of his innumerable pockets and sauntered on his way, just another apprentice sent out on an errand and taking his time on the way back to his master. The new kids always tried to dress in shadowy colors and lurk in the dark alleyways, but Pilfer had long ago learned that the best way to stay hidden was to never be seen at all, and to that end he made himself as ordinary as possible. He even had a letter addressed to an imaginary carpenter over in the trade district; he'd stolen a seal off of the desk of some bigwig in one of the lumber-import companies that had sprung up in the last ten years. At the time, it had mostly been because he could, but if it added that touch of verisimilitude that fooled a guard into letting him go, then why not? You used whatever you could get your hands on, out in the streets.
   
Pilfer swaggered past Oslo's stall, slipping a peach and a handful of dried dates into his pockets as he went. He even gave the old sheep-buggerer a jaunty wave as he departed, which the grumpy merchant acknowledged only with a narrowing of his piggy little eyes.

   Pilfer was fond of fruit. The taste of sweetness was rare in his house. But eating the dates now, still within sight of the fruit merchant, would be the act of a truly monumental egomaniac, and a fool as well. Pilfer was, at least, no fool, and so he kept his hands out of his newly-acquired stash.

   He made his slow, unobtrusive way out of the marketplace. Faint cries from the far side told him that the guards had caught up to their prey. Better him than me, thought Pilfer, fingering the copper bracelet. It would probably sell for a couple hundred circas, easily; the craftsmanship was very fine, especially on the intertwining vine leaves that surrounded Fyrdaella's circle. The only reason it wouldn't sell for more was the distinctive nature of the work. Too easy to trace.

   First rule, Pilfer recited mentally as the cries turned angry, and the sound of blades being drawn sparked gasps from the crowds, don't get caught.

   "How did it go today?" crowed Jon-Jon as Pilfer crawled through the concealed entrance and stood up in the dusty hallway. The tiny child, barely five years of age and as nimble as a monkey, swung around on his perch on the balcony and peered excitedly through the bars. Jon-Jon wasn't old enough to go out on the streets yet, and he loved hearing the stories the older ones told. Pilfer wondered if Jon-Jon knew how much of the nonsense was made up; he sometimes thought that the bratling was smarter than anyone suspected. "What'd'ya get? What'd'ya get?" the little boy called out, bouncing on his heels.

   "Calm down, Jon-Jon," said Pilfer. "I'm just stopping in for a bit of lunch. Haven't hit a big score yet." And I want to ask Tzarisk if this bracelet is worth trying to sell or if we'll have to melt it for the copper, 'cause that makes a big difference in whether I've hit my quota.

   "Aw, you're lying! You always have something good!" whined Jon-Jon. He tossed his wispy mop of black hair in a convincing imitation of Jonen, the second-eldest after Tzarisk and the one most prone to spending his spare circas on trinkets for his lady-love of the moment.

   "Honest, Jon-Jon, I'm just here to get some meat to go with my fruit," said Pilfer. He tossed a date up to the boy, who snagged it out of the air with blinding speed, stuffing it into his mouth dust and all. Pilfer was loathe to display his treasure until he knew he'd be keeping the full value for his daily tally; too many false boasts and your name was mud in this house.

   "Liar," growled Jon-Jon, his voice muffled by the fruit. "You just won't show me nothin'. You think I'm just a little baby. I bet it's a dagger, made of gold and with blood still on it from the evil assassin you stoled it from."

   "Saw a newbie today," offered Pilfer. Perhaps a story would suffice where a shiny trinket could not. "Old guy, scraggly beard. He was dressed like he came from a circus, and he and the bear switched clothes but nobody noticed."

   Jon-Jon giggled and rocked back on his heels, the trickle of light from his assigned peephole laying a blade of light across his shoulders, as though knighting him - Sir Jon-Jon, Guardian of the House of Thieves. "The old guys are always really bad," Jon-Jon pointed out sententiously.

   "Right," agreed Pilfer, "And this guy was one of the worst. He got caught by Oslo." Pilfer strolled backwards, towards the piled junk that formed a second line of defense for the safe house; the trapdoor it hid was hard to spot, even without the dust and dirt that covered it. (Dust which was carefully stirred up and spread around by whoever got unlucky at the daily chores raffle.)

   "Wow! Nobody gets caught by Oslo," marveled Jon-Jon. Pilfer was struck by how thoroughly the boy had already absorbed the lore of the streets. "Klick says even I could steal from Oslo, and no one's even taught me the Ghost Hand." Perfectly parroted, and he knew the names of half of the standard moves, even if he couldn't pull any of them off just yet; Pilfer had to admit that the kid was a quick learner. He'd be a big help once he was tall enough to actually reach someone's pockets.

   "Yeah. So the big doofus takes off running. Running! Through the marketplace!"

   Jon-Jon giggled again. At least he'd stopped whining to be shown Pilfer's take for the day. "Bad idea."

   "No kidding. You can't get up any kind of speed in that mess. The guards were on him," Pilfer smacked one hand into the other, "Like that."

   "Splat!" chirped Jon-Jon gleefully. "So what happened next?"

   "Well, I wasn't gonna stick around and see, was I?" said Pilfer with mock indignance. "Have to be some kind of loony, sticking around the market when the silverfish are all riled up."

   " 'First rule: Don't get caught!' "

   "I did snag some of Oslo's goodies on the way out though," Pilfer added, tossing a wink up at Jon-Jon as he shifted the debris and hauled up the trapdoor, sending a small cloud of dust billowing outwards. "Just for you, Jon-Jon."

   "Betcha kept the rest for you," pouted the child, perceptive as ever. Pilfer laughed and waved as he dropped into the short crawlway under the floor. Jon-Jon sighed and turned back to his duties as lookout.

   On the other side, Pilfer emerged into the safe house proper. No more squeezes through holes or concealed tunnels; Tzarisk wouldn't put up with that for a second. The rooms were all restored to some semblance of their former glory here, with rugs and even a few tapestries lending an air of grandeur to the place. The old mansion, abandoned for decades, was still no prize to look at, inside or out, but here, at least, a ghost of the ancient opulence remained. Pilfer shook the dust from his overlong coat and stretched the kinks out of his back. He was short, even for his twelve or so summers; what it must be like for Klick or Jonen to wriggle in and out of the house he couldn't even imagine. Probably why they took their meals at one of the streetside stalls or traveling sausage merchants; if Pilfer were nearly six feet tall like Jonen, it'd be worth a hundred circa to not come home more than he had to. How Tzarisk had ever even made it inside was a mystery indeed.

   Pilfer emptied his pockets onto the fire-scarred oaken table that filled most of this hallway. A pair of stingy purses, no more than a senka apiece, if that; a half-dozen more dates, slightly dusty but none the worse for wear; a still-damp peach pit; a fine copper bracelet. Slim pickings; Klick brought in fifteen senka on a good day, more if he'd scored a rich patron out on his rounds. Still, it was a start, and the day was young. Pilfer was confident he could more than make up the difference if he had any luck in the afternoon hours. He sought out Tzarisk, scooping up the bracelet as he went.

   The old man stayed on the upper floors, where the younger kids weren't even allowed. They had to stay in the training room and the big communal sleeping area, where blankets and pillows were prizes to be fought over on a nightly basis. Pilfer had recently graduated to the upper ranks of the gang, warranting his own separate space in one of the unlocked rooms on the ground floor. Only the highest lieutenants could enter Tzarisk's domain without permission, and even then they claimed that their movements were highly limited. However the aging patriarch had gotten into the house in the first place, it was fairly certain that he never left it. Not in Pilfer's lifetime, at least. Possibly even longer; this neighborhood had grown up around the house, the ramshackle slums ill-fitting company for this place, even in the ruins of its former splendor.

   He nodded to Jenna, Tzarisk's self-appointed guardian and secretary, as he rounded the corner and arrived at the grand staircase. The girl just stared at him with her faded, rose-tinted eyes. Pilfer grinned his most charming smile and ran a hand through his sandy hair; he might as well have tried to wheedle blood from a stone as even a trace of a smile from Jenna's marble countenance. The silence stretched.

   "Oi, can you tell the Old Man I'm here with a quick question?" Pilfer said finally, his voice jarringly loud in the hush of the stairwell. Maybe he'd stop coming home for lunch; the place was almost creepy when it was this empty. No wonder Jon-Jon was so antsy to get out on the streets.

   Jenna stared at him a moment too long for comfort, and then nodded. No one except maybe Tzarisk himself ever heard her speak. Just another oddity Tzarisk had collected, in a long life of accumulating odds and ends. Like this house, thought Pilfer. Like the gang. Like me.

   The eerie little girl waved at him to follow, and made her stately way up the stairs, her long white dress whispering on the faded carpeting behind her. Repressing a shudder, Pilfer tucked nut-brown hands into his pockets and affected an ostentatiously jaunty air as he trailed after.

   At the top, Jenna turned to the right without hesitation and glided to a halt outside a closed door, to Pilfer's eyes no different than any other door along the upper hallway. How does she always know? he wondered. Raising one lily-white hand, Jenna knocked three times, sharply, and stopped, glancing neither at Pilfer nor to the side. After a few moments, at no apparent signal, she opened the door and stepped aside, ghosting past to take up her station at the foot of the stairs once again, leaving Pilfer to penetrate the inner sanctum alone. Not that her company would be much help, spooky little twit that she is, he thought savagely.

   Hesitantly, he pushed inside. The air was heavy with a sweet, smoky quality, and the room appeared empty save for the lush four-poster bed, the trimmings all in deep burgundy. A small nightstand with an impressively large mirror stood nearby, along with a wooden chair that shimmered in the faint lamplight with layers of polish. Pilfer hesitated, standing at the end of the piled rugs that kept the stone floor warm. No fire burned in the fireplace, and if not for the flickering lamplight, he'd have thought the room long disused. After an eternity of fearful anticipation, a slight motion from the left attracted Pilfer's attention; a small door creaked open, apparently to some private closet within. Pilfer couldn't see fully inside, but as it opened the sickly-sweet smell intensified, incense or perfume overlaid with a rancid edge, and Pilfer became aware of a faint buzzing, just on the cusp of audibility. It set his teeth on edge. Tzarisk slipped in on noiseless, slippered feet, pushing the door almost all the way shut. Lank and oily strands of gray hair, paling to white at the base The buzzing continued, more muffled, but still irritatingly present as the withered old man shuffled to the chair and sat down, giving the youthful thief no more than a cursory glance. He waved a peremptory hand in summons, and Pilfer jumped to obey.

   "Yes? What do you need?" The voice was cracked and dry as old leather, but possessed likewise of the same indomitable strength. "Why have you come to me at midday? Surely your quota is not full already."

   "Er, no sir," stammered Pilfer, his easy confidence destroyed by the old man's mere presence; for as long as Pilfer had lived in the house, which was nearly as long as he could remember at all, the old man had been the vaguely sinister commander of the pack of street thieves. "I- I just wondered if you could tell me if you thought this was worth keeping. I picked it up just now and it seemed like a goodly piece, but not really our usual stuff, see." He reached out with a hand that he willed fervently not to tremble and set the bracelet down. Tzarisk did not move as it clinked faintly against the rough-used wooden surface, but only cast his eyes downwards and froze.

   "A very interesting object," he said faintly. His hands wrapped around themselves, restless spiders. "Where did you find it?"

   Pilfer, already unnerved, stammered awkwardly. "Just a lady, a lady in the market. She was a little tall, I guess. Kinda thin. I didn't look at her very hard. Staring attracts attention," Pilfer quoted one of the basic principles that had been drummed into his head from his earliest youth, finding some comfort in the recitation of the familiar.

   "Intriguing." The skeletal fingers closed convulsively on each other, but he did not move to pick up the trinket.

   There was a pause. Pilfer held out as long as he could – which wasn't very – before he spoke up again. "So is it worth much? I was thinking it was at least a couple of senka, 'cause of the workmanship, but if it's too recognizeable I guess we'd have to melt it down and then it'd only be a few circa worth of copper when all's said and done, and-"

   Tzarisk cut him off. "The piece is unusual, this is true. It is worth quite a lot, I think. I will keep it." Silence fell for a moment, and then the terrible eyes shifted in their sockets again, the old man's penetrating gaze falling fully on Pilfer for the first time in their meeting. Eyes like midnight on the ocean, a blue so deep it was black, a darkness like the crevices and canyons of the ancient seabed, where the light of the sun had never touched. Pilfer felt himself falling...

   "Are you still here? You have been dismissed, boy."

   Pilfer came to himself. He stood, blinking sleepily, on the edge of a pile of rugs in a moldering bedroom. Tzarisk sat before him, the heavy creases of his face deepened with his displeasure. The old man was grouchy about something. Pilfer tried to gather his thoughts, but they fled before him, scattering like alley cats before the great mastiffs. Why was he here, in Tzarisk's chambers? Was he being chastised for something? He'd come home... for lunch? Not quite knowing why, Pilfer glanced at the table where Tzarisk sat. The wooden surface of the side table was empty; something about that struck Pilfer as wrong, but before he could put his finger on it, Tzarisk was standing and chivvying him out of the room.

   "Come on, now, you've got enough to do to keep us all fed. I can't take care of everything, after all. That's what you and the boys are for." Waving his hands vaguely, like a housewife chasing chickens out of the backyard, the aging thieflord bustled Pilfer outside, where the door closed with a definitive click. Pilfer shook his head; there was a lingering buzzing in his ears, and there was a sickly sweet flavor in the back of his throat. He hoped he wasn't coming down with an ague; medical care was almost completely out of the question for a street rat. Shaking his head, he wandered down the stairs, avoiding the mute gaze of Jenna as he went, trying to shake the feeling he was forgetting something important.

*****

   Pilfer meandered into the kitchen, intending to root through the pantry for some salt pork and perhaps a drink of water from the barrel. He still felt oddly uneasy, but he resolutely pushed such feelings to the back of his mind. No sense dwelling on unpleasant things, after all. When he brushed past the curtains which covered the archway, whose door had long fallen off and found use reinforcing the entrance instead, he discovered that Torit and Terit had had a similar idea. The pale-haired twins, who specialized in using their uncanny resemblance to confuse and foil pursuit, were cheerfully munching their way through two thick slabs of pork on the grainy black bread that usually lay under its wooden cover on the countertop.

   "Hey, Pilfer!" they called simultaneously. Pilfer grinned and waved hello; despite their oddities, he liked the twins, whose capacity for cheerful mayhem was almost equal to his own. And at almost ten years of age, they were the closest thing he had to peers.

   "Found luck today?" Pilfer asked, reaching for the bread himself and sawing at the thick crust with the serrated knife. He'd eat quickly, just a hunk of bread and a bit of meat to balance out the sugary sweetness of his morning's heist from Oslo.

   "Better believe it," said Terit.

   "Buckets of it," said Torit.

   "Found this new stall at market," began Terit.

   "Watched it all morning till he left it unguarded," added Torit.

   "Right, 'cos they always think the lock'll be enough. So when he went to buy a lunch..."

   "We were in and out in less than a half inch of the thinnest taper."

   "Got a decent haul, too." Terit's eyes gleamed a bit as he reminisced.

   "A few daggers and that. Pretty good work."

   "Sold 'em to Dilvish the Saint, over Therabee Lane."

   "Get 'em in, move 'em out," Terit started.

   "And don't get caught," all three chorused together, and then giggled conspiratorially.

   They were interrupted by a clang from the bell that hung in the corner, a thin cord connecting it to the balcony where Jon-Jon kept watch.

   "An alarm?" Torit said, blanching slightly. He was by far the more timid of the two, which gave him a rough approximation of common sense. Terit would have died dozens of times if not for the 'cowardice' of his brother.

   "Allmother's Tits!" crowed Terit, leaping to his feet. "To the battle stations!" He bounded off, presumably in search of a weapon, though what he thought three preteens, a mute, a baby, and a doddering old kook could do in the face of a raid by the Watch or, worse, the Registry, was beyond Pilfer. Terit disappeared around the corner, howling up the stairs and likely frightening Jenna half to death. And for what? If Tzarisk even came down the stairs, that would be more than he'd done in years. Pilfer tapped Torit on the shoulder and motioned to the wooden block that held the knives. They weren't fighting weapons, but any port would do in a storm, and better that Torit handle the sharp objects than his excitable twin. Seeing the lights go on in the younger boy's eyes, Pilfer nodded and went to blockade the door, as well as hear what Jon-Jon had to report.

   The little boy was squirming with excitement on his ledge. "Pilfer! Pilfer! It's them! They've come for us! We're, like, master criminals! This is so wicked!"

   "Who? The Guards?" Pilfer glanced at the door, as if armed, jackbooted thugs might burst in at any moment.

   "No, better! The Registry!" Jon-Jon was practically jumping up and down with excitement.

   "What!?" Pilfer darted to the little ladder and shimmied up. "Let me see this," he ordered. Jon-Jon obediently scooted over and allowed Pilfer to peer out the concealed peephole, though the tiny ledge was awfully crowded. Pilfer bent down at an awkward angle and put his eye to the wall.

   There was definitely something going on out in the street. A large cloud of dust was kicked up, and Pilfer could see flashes of metal. Drawn swords, already? Pilfer's heart slowed down a bit; it was pretty unlikely that anyone was here for them, if they'd stopped to pick a fight at the end of the block. He caught a glimpse of black cloth in the chaos. Definitely Registry, then; the Guards would be in chainmail. A figure broke from the fight and took off down the street. As the running man drew nearer, Pilfer felt a jolt of shock: he recognized the fugitive. The hair, the incredibly ragged clothing, even the man's gait; it was the inept thief he'd spotted in the marketplace. Was he still on the run? How had he evaded the Guard? And why was the Registry involved with a half-circa petty thief?
   
The last question was answered quite quickly, for just as the man neared the decrepit mansion, a pursuing Registry agent drew too close for his comfort, and he spun around, raising his hands as if to slash at his attacker. Pilfer had barely a moment to wonder what the idiot thought he could do with his bare hands when suddenly those hands weren't so empty any longer. Flowing like water, metallic blades shimmered into being in the man's hands, or perhaps encasing his hands, or replacing them? It was hard to tell. It certainly shocked the black-clad officer, who only just raised his own sword in time to block the vicious assault.

   Magic! Pilfer thought excitedly. The man must be a rogue Talent. That was why he was being so hotly pursued, and how he had escaped capture for over an hour.

   "What's happening, Pilfer? What's going on?" Jon-Jon tugged at Pilfer's arms. "Let me see! Let me see! It's my hole!"

   "Just sit tight, Jon-Jon," muttered Pilfer, shaking off the little boy. He stared at the ongoing drama, entranced. "They're not after us, anyway." He winced as he heard a loud thump and an ominous metallic clattering from somewhere deeper in the house. "You'd better go make sure Terit hasn't hurt himself," he told Jon-Jon.

   "Aw, c'mon. I'm the lookout," Jon-Jon complained bitterly.

   "I've got it covered," Pilfer assured him, knowing full well that wasn't the source of the boy's unhappiness.

   "This stinks," Jon-Jon informed him, grabbing a lintel and swinging easily around Pilfer to slide down the ladder, raising a small cloud of dust when he hit the ground. "You owe me," Jon-Jon declared, glaring angrily up at his usurped ledge. Pilfer waved a dismissive hand, his attention on the action outside.

   The nameless mage had fought off two officers, leaving them stumbling and confused and coincidentally enough blocking the way for the rest of the squad. The ragged man glanced around, seeking a place of shelter. Good luck, thought Pilfer sardonically, All these houses are sealed up tight. Except... Someone dumped a bucketful of ice into Pilfer's gut. He glanced away from the peephole and down to the ground, where the locking bar lay to one side of the unlatched door, which was ever so slightly ajar, having been shifted by some errant breeze. Maybe he won't notice, Pilfer thought hopelessly, pressing his face to the peephole in rising panic. The man, his magical blades sheathed or evaporated somehow, turned and spotted the unbarred door. His expression lit up with relief, and he pelted towards it, obviously seeking a place to catch his breath.

   "Salt and fire," Pilfer cursed. He spun around, quickly gauged the distance to the ground, and jumped. He landed hard, but kicked forward into a roll and absorbed some of the momentum, as he'd been taught. Rising hastily with a twinge in his ankle and a throbbing shoulder, Pilfer threw himself at the door, meaning to bar it with his weight if nothing else.

   He was too late; just as he reached the door, it slammed open, catching him a sharp blow and leaving a gash across his forehead. Dazed, Pilfer staggered back, only to be bowled over as the mysterious fugitive burst inside and slammed the door behind him. He ignored the battered child in front of him, instead glancing around and spotting the locking bar, which he slammed in place just as more impacts shook the door. Only when he was safe did the man take in his surroundings more fully.

   "A boy?" he murmured, surprised.

   "No, can't... Registry can't come..." Pilfer managed. He tried to focus his gaze; four images of the dirty man spiraled slowly in his groggy vision.

   The man was already looking around, growing frantic as the lack of exits became apparent. "Shit," he said, "Outsmarted myself. No way out." He turned and regarded the barred door, rattling under the repeated blows of the officers outside. Pilfer heard one of them call out, saying something about surrounding the building. The stunned youth pulled himself up to a sitting position against the wall and blinked as the world swam slowly back into focus.

   "Have to fight for it," the man murmured. He cracked his knuckles and flexed his arms, preparatory to calling his magical weapons back to him.

   Terit chose that moment to launch his assault. "Intruder!" he screamed, half gleeful and half terrified. He flung himself out of the concealed trapdoor, one of Torit's kitchen knives in his hands. The ragged man spun around, anger and surprise in his face. The flowing metal blades wavered into existence again as he swung, a blow that would surely decapitate the tiny blonde boy charging at him.

   "No!" cried Pilfer. He reached out a hand as the horrible scene unfolded before him. He was still too groggy, too shaky in the legs to do anything, and even if he weren't, he couldn't have reached them in time to stop the blow. He wanted to stop it, to block the swing of the still-forming blade, but he couldn't move, couldn't get there in time. Time seemed to slow; the beam of light from the peephole caught the edge of the sword as it glided down towards Terit's unprotected head. Pilfer saw Terit's eyes as he realized his fate. He saw the man's face, twisted in anger, showing no reaction, no remorse for what he was about to do. Pilfer strained, his mind afire with the need to act, to prevent the horror that was coming.

   From somewhere inside himself, Pilfer felt something snap. Warmth spread through him, as though he'd just broken somewhere inside and his blood was filling him up. It wasn't painful, though; there was no sensation of loss or injury. Suddenly, Pilfer's vision blurred again; like before, he saw multiple images of everything, but this time it was as though he somehow could see every side and angle of them at once, every facet and limb, moving through time and space like worms tunneling in the earth, or bubbles in tar. In another few moments, or decades, or eons, he saw that the pattern of the sword would disrupt the pattern of Terit, shattering it apart. It was such a simple matter to reach out and change the patterns. Now no one would be hurt, at least for now.

   To Terit and the bemused fugitive, it seemed only that a vague distortion appeared in the air between them, as though a panel of thick glass had come into being. Unable to stop in time, the man's sword-arm entered the field, and abruptly he was yanked around, his arm suddenly traveling back out towards him, his own inverted momentum spinning him like a child's top and nearly tumbling him to the ground. Terit stood, blinking in befuddled amazement.

   At that moment, there was a hollow wooden thud, and the blade of an axe appeared, shearing through the elderly wood of the door, perilously close to the locking bar that was the only thing keeping the Registry out. The fugitive scrambled back upright and dropped to a crouch, for all the world like some predatory animal. Pilfer, his vision flickering between normal sight and the bizarre layering effect, struggled to his feet, still unsteady and feeling more than a little nauseated. There came another smack of axe into wood, and this time a small splinter broke out of the door, showing a flash of crimson and gold.

   "He's in there!" came the excited cry, and the attack on the barrier redoubled. Pilfer attempted to keep his attention on the here and now, but found himself unaccountably aware of the exact placement of every angle and plane in the room; he knew where each man stood in the street outside, and felt almost that he could take a step and be among them, wall or no wall...

   The swordsman came to a conclusion. He leapt forward as Pilfer shook his head to clear it and grabbed poor Terit by the neck. A small blade crept out of his left hand, the needle point hovering like a serpent before Terit's terrified eyes.

   "Where did you spring from, you little rat?" the man snarled. "Is there another exit? Answer me! Answer me or I'll skewer you like a fried lizard!"

   Terit shook his head mutely. He glanced to the side, where Pilfer was frozen in the act of reaching out, fearful lest the man make good on his threat. Pilfer met Terit's gaze and read the question in it. He nodded, as firmly as he could. This one is just a rogue. Let him through. He can find the secret passage if he must, just get him out of here before the Registry get in. He hoped Terit understood; he dared not speak aloud, not with the madman holding a vicious knife-edge a hair's breadth from slicing Terit's throat.

   Terit raised a trembling hand and pointed at the pile of rubbish which hid the trapdoor. The man glanced at it with narrowed eyes, obviously suspicious. The sound of the axe hitting the door behind him seemed to galvanize him into motion, and he dragged his youthful captive over, not relinquishing either his grip or his blade, and peered into the pile.

   "Show me," he rasped. He turned and locked gazes with Pilfer. "You. Get over here and show me the way out or I'll use your little friend's head to play kickball."

   Pilfer, wobbling slightly, made his way across the room, glaring his hatred at the man who threatened children. He shifted the piled rubble aside, leaving the trapdoor in view. He turned back to the man, his eyes still brimful with impotent anger. Neither he nor Terit had yet to utter a word.

   For a moment - a dreadful, eternal moment - Pilfer feared that the man would simply cut Terit's throat out of sheer spite, but, perhaps fearing that further crimes would only exacerbate his increasingly inevitable punishment, he instead flung the child down with a snarl and menaced Pilfer until the youth stood out of his way. Urgently now, as the gap in the front door widened and the shouts of the Registry officers could be clearly heard, the man threw himself down and began to wriggle through the tight passageway. Terit groaned softly as he pulled himself up to a sitting position. Pilfer stood as if frozen, watching the man's rag-clad legs disappear into the once-concealed tunnel.

   "He's getting away! Signal Rottinger!" cried one of the brightly-clad officers from the doorway.

   The full-grown man was having trouble fitting through the tight confines of the tunnel. He grunted like a pig as he attempted to squeeze his hips in; Pilfer stared at the thrashing limbs as if hypnotized. There was a faint sound, a cry, almost a gasp, in a high-pitched child's voice. Jon-Jon! And Torit! They were still inside, and there was no telling what the crazed man might do in his desperattion. Pilfer snapped out of his lethargy and grabbed Terit by the arm. Amid the wooden beams and piled rocks, there was a large chunk of marble that had once been the base of a decorative pillar. Now it was merely an obstacle, usually helping to hide the trapdoor. Pilfer ducked to the far side and threw his shoulder against it, heaving with all his might. Terit gaped for a moment before he realized what Pilfer intended, and then he, too, put his minuscule weight into the effort. The pillar weighed far more than the two of them put together, but by bracing with their legs they managed to tilt it up, up, up on its base. With a resounding crash, the chunk of stone toppled, the tip of it just catching the ragged man's left foot before it disappeared into the passageway. The boys heard a muffled scream, and violent curses; their gazes met, and they gave each other a satisfied nod.

   Now that the blade-handed mage was at least temporarily dealt with, all they had to do was repel an invasion by the Registry. Pilfer darted towards the entrance, trying to ignore the way the ground swam under his feet. Terit followed, uncertain what the older boy was doing but too shell-shocked to do anything else. Pilfer had a vague notion of piling objects in front of the doorway, blockading the only entrance somehow. Unfortunately, he was too late.

   The door burst open, and three uniformed men poured into the room, weapons drawn. Two of them held their swords cautiously but firmly on the two young thieves; the Registry officers had seen too much to trust the appearance of innocence and harmlessness. The third moved straight to the tunnel, where, with a grunt of effort, he shifted the marble block aside. Pilfer grabbed ahold of Terit's hand and gave a comforting squeeze as two razor sharp swords were leveled at them.

   "He's gone," the officer said, holding up a tattered foot-wrap. "Must've gotten through to the other side. I hope Rottinger stops him; I've had about enough of this goose chase."

   "Rottinger knows what he's doing," said one of the guards on Pilfer and Terit. He had a rather fussy little black mustache, and looked like he'd be more at home scribbling figures into a ledger than tromping the streets in dress uniform. "The bigger question is what these two pups are doing here, and why our man decided to duck in here to begin with."

   "Conspirators?" suggested the third man, a red-faced scarecrow, all bright red shine and bony angles. "Maybe there's a whole nest of mageborn, keeping on the downlow."

   "Come off it," scoffed the accountant. "These two are barely old enough to be weaned. How would anyone even know they had the gift? Besides, didn't you see 'em tip that rock onto the bastard? They're no friends of his."

   "If you say so," frowned the red-faced man. "They look like street trash to me. Pickpockets and sneakthieves, the lot of 'em. It's a motherless disgrace, the state of this city."

   There was a shout from outside. The first officer, still holding the filthy strip of leather, went to listen.

   "Rottinger says he needs some backup; there's more than one back there, and he can't hold them all," said a fourth voice. Its owner stepped inside; he was a small, compact man, rather dark of skin, whose massive black beard nearly swallowed him whole. "You'd better hurry," he added, addressing the two men who still nervously held Pilfer and Terit at bay.

   The two men glanced at the newcomer, and then at each other. Pilfer's heart sped up. For a moment, they were distracted. If only there were some way he could slip past them, somewhere he could run, they'd never catch him, not on his home turf. He squeezed Terit's hand hard enough that the smaller boy gave a slight grunt of protest, and visions of the open street floated in his head. The street, and the alleys behind it. He'd run up Fairgame Lane, and duck through that hole where the boards had rotted out - that lardbucket would never fit through there - and from there he'd be nearly home free. Pilfer pictured the alley; he could nearly smell the reek of the mud that never quite dried, there in the shadows between the buildings. The wood of the fence would be rough, but slightly slimy, and he'd be able to look up and see only overhanging floors and balconies, the upper stories growing together and making a safe, secret tunnel. It seemed that Pilfer need only step forward...

   There was a moment of hideous disorientation, shapes and angles flowing in disquieting ways. Pilfer heard a man's voice begin to cry out, and Terit gasp, before he was lost in the wondrous complexity of space. All points were one, and distance only an illusion. The universe folded around him like a wrapper, and there was a curious sensation of being stretched, like the string on a lute, and yet simultaneously shrinking down smaller than could be seen.

   And then it was over, and Pilfer finished his step with a squelch, his foot coming down in the soft mud of Fairgame Lane. Terit dropped to the ground beside him, heaving. Pilfer blinked in astonishment as Terit emptied his guts and added to the nameless muck that layered the ground. Pilfer glanced behind them; yes, there was the fence and the hole. He paused to listen, and was astounded to find that he could hear the Registry men quite clearly, despite the distance.

   "There's another one!"

   "I told you they were all mages!"

   "You two, after the boy. Streck, come with me to help Rottinger nail our primary target."

   "Yessir!"

   Pilfer grabbed Terit's shirt and hauled him upright. The little blonde boy gazed blearily up at Pilfer.

   "Wha' happen'?" he mumbled.

   "Never mind," snapped Pilfer, "Just get going. They'll be here any second now, and there's still some crazy mage with magic swords loose in the house. I've got to go save Torit!"

   "I don't... What?" Terit seemed to be recovering, but his face was still an unhealthy shade of green.

   Pilfer heard the clatter and jingle of the approaching men and their sword belts. "Just go! Run! Through the hole and down to Whirligig Alley, then out onto Jocourt. We'll meet up later!"

   Not looking entirely convinced, Terit gradually yielded to Pilfer's pressure and crept through the noisome gap in the wooden fence. Pilfer stood back up and tried to recreate the feeling he'd had a few moments ago, blanking out everything around him - the sound of the guards approaching, the stench of the alley - and picturing the kitchen of Tzarisk's decrepit mansion.

   "Pilfer, how are you going to-" Terit's voice trailed off as he peered back through the hole. Pilfer was gone, only his footprints in the mud showing that he'd ever even been there. A frown creased the boy's brow, and he would have clambered back through to investigate further, but at that moment the armed men appeared at the alley's mouth and shouted when they spotted him. He ducked back and took off, running for his life.

*****
   
   Pilfer found himself standing by the knife drawer, still open from Torit's hasty ransacking. He was a bit dizzy; he might not be affected as badly as Terit was by his jumps, but apparently even he wasn't immune to them completely. He could hear footsteps nearby, and didn't dare waste any time. If that crazy man had gotten Torit, or Jon-Jon, Pilfer would never forgive himself. He snatched up a cast-iron cooking skillet, and crept forward on cat's feet. There was no one through the archway. Pilfer cocked his head and listened. It sounded like the voices were coming from the back, in the foyer near the rear door. It was always kept heavily locked and barred from the inside, an emergency escape route not meant to let anyone else in. Pilfer kept low and eased his way into the hallway. The voices didn't sound angry or upset, so either the Registry had caught their man and already subdued him - unlikely, judging from the ruckus out in the street - or they'd let him slip away again. But after what damage had been done? Pilfer's strange new ability seemed instantaneous, but what if it really took longer? He could be creeping up on a murder scene, a tiny little body lying in a spreading pool of blood...

   "...put up one hell of a fight, didn't he"

   "Aye. I just wish I'd been able to get him down before now. Usually I can make eye contact before they know something's amiss. If someone had been hurt because of my failure..."

   "Pah, Rottinger. You're one of the best we have; even Stringer doesn't bring people in as quickly as you, or with as little damage. This is just a jackrabbit that got startled a bit earlier than usual."

   "I hope he didn't cause any more harm," Rottinger's voice was shaky.

   There was a creak of leather as the speaker knelt, examining something on the floor. "This child will recover well enough, and Krepps is checking the rest of the building to make sure. From the looks of things, this place is some sort of street gang, anyway; I wouldn't lose sleep over them."

   Pilfer's eyes narrowed. Worthless street trash, eh? From the sound of it, they had either Jon-Jon or Torit in there, and they'd probably have the rest of the household soon enough. Still, Terit was free, and if Pilfer could get in there and get ahold of whoever they'd captured, he could try to jump again and evade capture completely. His hand was sweaty, the heavy iron skillet in his hands slippery and trembling. He heard the creak of boot leather again; the man was standing up, off-balance. It was now or never.

   Pilfer darted around the corner with what he hoped was a terrifying battle cry. He crashed into someone before he got a clear view, and they tumbled to the ground in a tangled heap. A man's voice cried out in startlement and pain. Pilfer swung with his skillet and hit something with a resounding clang; the makeshift weapon vibrated in his hands and he lost his grip. Scrambling, Pilfer pulled himself free and fell headlong onto the floor. From there he cause a confused look at the scene. The ragged man lay stretched out on the ground, face slack and eyes closed, as though dead or asleep. Beside him, Torit lay, similarly unconscious, his tunic slashed open and a bloody wound visible. Behind Pilfer, someone in the blue and red uniform of the Registry grunted and huffed as he regained his feet.

   "Boy," said a voice, nearly on top of him. "Look here."

   Pilfer looked up. He met someone's eyes, sea-green and sparkling. He fell into those eyes, tumbling forever in an emerald ocean that had no bottom, and that was the last he knew for a long, long time.

*****

   Pilfer learned later that Tzarisk and the rest of the gang were caught soon after he was, mostly courtesy of Rottinger's hypnotic gaze. Most of the others got off pretty lightly, being just little kids. There were enough families that had lost children these days. As for Tzarisk, apparently he was from some old noble family that had been banished, so he was up on charges about that. Pilfer heard that someone had spoken up for him, though, and he never got any news of an execution or a new sentence of banishment, so it must have worked. By that point, though, he was more concerned with not failing his classes. The men who'd met him when he'd woken up had been very clear about that; if he didn't pass the University, he'd be hunted and killed as an illegal Talent, a danger to himself and others. It wasn't so bad here, anyway; three meals a day, a nice bed to sleep in, and learned mages to teach him the secrets of power and how to use it properly. Pilfer comforted himself with the knowledge that he could walk out at any time and no one could do a thing to stop him. He knew; he'd wandered out a few times, early on, once he'd gotten his jump under decent control. He only stopped when he came back one morning and found a note on his unused pillow, explaining what happened to students who broke curfew too often.

   Pilfer never did find out what had happened to the crazy man and his metal blades. He'd poked around, asked a little bit, and always got the brush-off. That was enough to raise his curiosity to the utmost, but so far his clumsy investigative efforts hadn't paid off. One of these days he'd find out, though; they told him that if he didn't want to work a proper trade, he might have a place in the Intelligence Corps...