It Takes a Thief
Riordan watched his mark with narrowed blue eyes. The man was well into his cups and obviously wealthy. A pale, doughy man who believed he was far more important than he really was. Riordan preferred them that way, it made it the easier to remove his purse.
Riordan had been following the man for an hour, elated when Ser Bread, as he had dubbed him, found his way into the dimly lit tavern off the market square. The art of separating the man from his purse without the man suspecting was something Riordan was very skilled at, even at the tender age of seventeen. He ought to be, he'd been doing it for two years now, had learned from a master cutpurse before striking out on his own.
Standing in the shadows, blending with the others in the tavern, Riordan did not look seventeen, he could easily pass for a man of twenty. Life on the streets of Val Royeaux was not easy and for those who chose to make a dishonest living on those streets, it was even more cutthroat. He looked around the room, assessing each of the patrons, looking for signs of competition.
A young man, no more than eighteen he would guess, caught his attention. Dark, swarthy and very intense, he was dressed in plain leather trousers and a jerkin but Riordan saw the faint bulge of a dagger hilt. Yes, competition. Riordan's grin, cocky and warm, spread across his face. Competition just made for a sweeter victory, he thought.
Ser Bread, loudly demanding another pint, moved across the taproom to a table in the corner. Riordan made his way to the bar, standing beside the swarthy young man. "Another ale, Jacques," he ordered and the barkeep nodded with familiar ease.
"No trouble tonight, Riordan," the barkeep warned in a voice that urged caution but stopped short of demanding he leave.
"No trouble," Riordan agreed with a wide grin. He turned to leave, bumping into the dark haired man beside him.
"Watch where you're going," the young man growled, stepping back quickly.
"Sorry, lad," Riordan mumbled, chuckling. "The name's Riordan," he introduced, cocking his head to one side and waiting for the man to reply.
"Is that name supposed to mean something to me?" the young man asked with a carefully neutral voice.
"It means that Ser Bread," Riordan began, motioning to his mark, "is mine and you'd be a wise lad to leave quietly."
The young man's face flushed. "The name's Duncan and you're too late," he said and then gave him a smug smile. Sliding his mug along the polished top of the bar, Duncan turned to leave.
"Am I? Or did you just do the dirty work for me?" Riordan asked softly.
Duncan's dark eyes widened as he felt in his deep pocket for the purse he had recently liberated. Riordan threw his head back, laughing at the comical look on Duncan's face. He was so busy laughing he didn't hear Ser Bread's screech of outrage as he realized his purse was gone.
"You'll want to leave now," Duncan suggested as Ser Bread stood, knocking over his table in his anger.
Riordan, confident and content, shook his head. "He's all bluster."
Except he wasn't, Riordan discovered. Ser Bread was demanding that the gendarme be called immediately and that everyone in the tavern be searched. Riordan saw two possible escape routes, both in shadows, and turned back to the bar, picking up his mug. He had plenty of time.
Duncan, with a shake of his shaggy black hair, pushed past him and disappeared into the shadows. Riordan calmly finished his pint before stepping away from the bar and making his way out of the tavern through the main door. He could hear the approach of the gendarme. Riordan let the shadows envelop him.
"Are you sure you still have your prize?" a voice full of amusement asked. Riordan's heartbeat quickened, startled by how close the voice was, as he felt in his pockets.
"Bastard," he laughed good-naturedly as he realized Ser Bread's purse was gone.
It took him several hours to find Duncan again and then he was fairly sure that Duncan had let himself be found. The young man was in the Foraging Fox, sitting at a table with his back to the wall, a pint of ale in front of him, a young woman on his lap.
"Hello there, my friend," he greeted with a wide smile. "You aren't quite as quick as I thought you'd be," he added as the pretty blonde on his lap stood and made her way to the bar.
"You look to be enjoying my purse," Riordan greeted, sitting down across from the young cutpurse.
"Yours? I think it's in my possession," Duncan replied with another wide grin. "I'm willing to buy you a drink if it'll make you feel better," he gloated.
Riordan nodded once, leaning across the table, his blue eyes dancing. "I'm all for a drink, lad. And a wager, as well."
Riordan watched as the young man downed his ale and nodded to the blonde, who brought over two full mugs. She placed them down on the table and hesitated but Duncan shook his head.
"Later, Theresa," he said quietly and the well endowed young blonde gave a disappointed sigh and wandered off.
"So, what's the wager?" Duncan asked, turning his gaze reluctantly away from Theresa.
"We find a mark, first man with the purse wins the contents of both purses," Riordan proposed.
Duncan laughed, his brown eyes full of mirth. "You're on," he answered.
Having been on the streets for two years, Riordan felt more than confident that he would be enjoying a large amount of coin very soon. The young man across from him was good but Riordan fancied himself better and had been told by more than one person that his fingers were the most nimble they'd ever seen. This cocky young lad was about to have his comeuppance, Riordan thought gleefully.
"Tomorrow night, at the Cork and Crow?"
"I'll be there at the seventh bell."
Downing his ale in one long pull, Riordan set the mug down and tossed Duncan a silver coin. "I buy my own way," he said proudly and walked out. He had been making his way for two years, he wasn't beholding to any man. Not ever again.
Riordan spent the next day practicing his craft on the unsuspecting people of Val Royeaux. The market place was swarming with people enjoying the warm spring day. He could almost feel Duncan at times, thought he saw the dark hair and swarthy skin of his rival moving in and out of the shadows or turning a corner and disappearing into an alleyway. The game, once he realized Duncan was there, became more interesting, a greater challenge. Twice Riordan tried to pick a pocket that was already stripped clean. There were some very unhappy Orlesians by the end of the day.
Changing into clean clothes, he glanced around his bare quarters above a shop in the poorest section of the tenements. Some day he would have enough to buy himself a decent place, maybe a shop. He laughed at his daydreams. He was no shopkeeper. He thrived on this life. But then, it was in his blood.
As he made his way to the Cork and Crow, he passed a group of Grey Wardens, dressed in their gleaming armor. Men and women bowed respectfully to them, tradesmen offered their wares. The older woman, a warrior in heavy plate, waved them away graciously and Riordan thought she was a pompous ass with her regal manners. She wasn't Empress Celene or one of the Chevalier but, by Andraste's ass, she thought she was.
Duncan was already there, sitting at a rickety table in the back room. Riordan, grabbing the waist of the waitress, pulled her along with him. She laughed merrily. "You tease, you'll just dump me on the floor again when you find a mark," she giggled. A buxom beauty who appreciated a young man's stamina, Damilla gave him a saucy wink as she settled on his lap.
"Oh, who's your young friend?" she purred, leaning across the table to display her ample bosom in all its glory.
"Duncan and he's too young for you," Riordan replied with a laugh.
Duncan scowled and leaned forward, looking earnest and angry. "I'm not any younger than you, Riordan, and probably older. You're just wearing out faster," he growled and then turned an appreciative eye on Damilla's charms.
"When you get tired of his questionable abilities, I'm available," Duncan added with a smile that was both boyish and lusty.
Riordan realized in that moment that the rivalry would encompass far more than their ability to cut a quick purse. He relished the thought. Since his arrival in Val Royeaux he'd been without a close friend and there was something very likable about his new friend.
They settled on a young noble, dressed in all his peacock glory, preening for Damilla's attention. She gave it with good cheer and kept the ale flowing.
"Outside. I promised Rumson I wouldn't pick his patrons," Riordan said and Duncan nodded without looking at him, his eyes taking in each patron, every nook and cranny of the place.
"Competition, the little man with the red hair is about to make his move," Duncan informed him quietly. Riordan nodded, watching as the man stumbled drunkenly in the mark's direction. Not very impressive, he thought, watching as the noble caught the thief's wrist and turned it. The red haired thief dropped to his knees, a string of curses flowing from his mouth.
An hour passed while they waited for their mark to leave. In that time, Riordan discovered that Duncan was also from Ferelden. When Duncan learned that Riordan was from Highever, he chuckled.
"That would explain your lousy Orlesian accent," he mocked.
Riordan straightened his shoulders. "My mother was Orlesian," he said, a soft warning in his voice. "Call me anything you want, but say nothing about my mother."
He watched Duncan's reaction, a widening of the eyes and then a look of bitterness. "Fair enough, my friend," Duncan finally replied, staring into his empty mug.
Finally, the noble staggered to his feet, pushing his way through the patrons and out into the street. Duncan nodded to him and Riordan touched his forehead in a brief salute before melding with the shadows.
He was silent, not even his leather boots made a sound as he began to follow the mark. Once he knew what direction the noble was taking, it was easy to slip ahead of him and turn into an alleyway. He stepped out of the darkness, singing lustily, and careened into the drunk noble, who staggered back several steps.
"Here now, what are you about?" Riordan rumbled angrily, pulling himself up to his full height and towering over the man.
"Sorry," the noble muttered, shrinking back. Once he realized he wasn't going to be hit, the noble stepped around Riordan and continued on.
Riordan was almost disappointed at how easily he had lifted the man's purse. He made his way quickly back to the Cork and Crow to find Duncan sitting at their table, a grin wide and cocky sitting on his face. Riordan felt a moment's confusion and reached into his pocket for the purse he had so recently lifted. There was a note and nothing else inside it.
"Too slow" the note read.
Riordan threw his head back, laughing heartily.
This, he thought as he sat down across from Duncan, was the start of a very promising friendship.
Fin