Just a bit more…Come on, turn around already. He looked out from the corner of his eye at Mr. Carter's fruit stand. The merchant was conversing rather loudly with one of his customers. Patrick began to shift his fingers in anticipation and worry. Waiting much longer would draw a bit of attention. The only reason he'd be inconspicuous for so long was because he had a flier between his hands. Not that Patrick could read it. It just had a picture of Stronghammer on it with some descriptions about the reward (he assumed). One can only look at a flier for so l-

There!

Mr. Carter had been bargaining with a rather attractive young lady. A bit too young for the aging merchant actually. She obviously knew that, but she used her charm to win an extra bit of produce regardless. He fell for it, the old sop he was. Well, for girls. Male thieves and unscrupulous traders tended to have extremities mysteriously disappear if not the entire body. Despite the risk however, Patrick needed the gang to help him out. Part one, an apple from Merchant Carter without getting caught, was better than the alternative without their help. As Mr. Carter turned around to gather choicer merchandise, Patrick casually put down the flier and headed for the stand. He had stationed himself 10 paces away. Too far to be suspicious (hopefully), close enough to easily steal an apple (…hopefully).

The woman saw him and guessed exactly what he was doing. She smirked and slyly stowed an apple beneath her basket. He frowned. He had to do it himself. Invisible to all but the well trained eye, at least three gang members were watching him. No charity. Ever. Claw up by your own grit. The woman didn't move and winked to Patrick. She was right in front of the apples. He slowly grabbed one and discretely placed it in the knapsack hanging from his shoulder. Mr. Carter was humming to himself as he searched the back a bit more. Easy.

Wait, no. Yoran was one of the watchers, and he had clout in this territory. The two of them had never quite gotten along, but Patrick had always minded his manners and respect when talking about or around Yoran. And Yoran was just the kind of guy who would lie and say the woman gave him the apple. The other two would go along with him of course. Mr. Carter let out an "aha!" and was just about to come back.

I need another apple. Then they can't say anything. Now or never.

His hand zipped out and grabbed the easiest apple he could see and placed it in his pack. The woman looked at him with incredulity for a split second before regaining her façade. His hands were clammy; Mr. Carter had just faced his direction. His expression towards Patrick was quite frankly the exact opposite of what he had just a moment ago. Looking at the dirty youth with ruddy cheeks, his lips curled. He knew very well what Patrick's presence suggested.

"Can I help you?"

"I-I was hoping you'd be willing to trade fruit. Sir," Patrick stammered. The scouts were undoubtedly snickering at him. He pulled out a bag of flour from another part of his pack. It had come from a stall on the other side of the small city. While merchants kept tabs on each other to know when to blacklist individuals as thieves, since that particular theft had gone without a hitch, he was hoping Mr. Carter would not notice the kind of flour and that is was stolen.

Mr. Carter looked over it and felt the texture. He glanced up at the boy, completely forgetting about the young woman who had slipped away with free fruit. "Average quality." Bullcrap. He knows it's good. "What do you want for it?" Patrick struggled to think for a moment and replied hastily. "How's half a dozen oranges?" If he and his mum wouldn't have bread, oranges for three days would suffice. Mr. Carter chortled. "What are you trying to do, steal from me? Two oranges." Patrick's fear dissipated quickly and turned to anger. "I could feed me mum and me for two days with that, and you're offering half a day's meal?!"

Mr. Carter glared at him from beneath his brow. "Bread from this flour would be pathetic and would grow stale within twelve hours, not to mention you'd need half of this bag to make bread for one person for one meal. You could hardly feed yourself for one day on this. But you wouldn't know anything about that ever since your farmer father got drafted into King Galbatorix's army, now would you, useless boy?"

That hit a nerve. Patrick seethed and almost struck the old sop. He restrained himself knowing that he had stolen two apples right from under Carter's nose. A few seconds of breathing, and Patrick responded with poison. "I think we'll manage. No deal." Mr. Carter grinned. "Please bring something worth of value next time you want to trade. The point of trading is to have two parties mutually benefit from each other, not for one to unload their useless junk."

And the point of stealing is to feed families and put useless junk like you in their place.

He replaced the flour in his knapsack and stormed off. Only after a few dozen paces did he realize that he had stolen from Merchant Carter. The Merchant Carter. Twice. Part one: passed with flying colors. Patrick's heart skipped every other beat, and his fingers tingled. Part two, the last test, was to lift a purse without being noticed. That was something he had perfected the first month he had become a thief. No purse was safe from him. Whether the patient noticed was a different matter though. The patient needed to be somewhat preoccupied while he performed the surgery. No need to have poor bedside manner.

Yeah…that was a horrible joke. Note to self: never tell that joke to anyone.

By chance he happened to catch a sight of Yoran. The greasy haired jackass had a look of begrudging approval of the heist. Then he was gone. That was all Patrick needed. His heart jumped that even one of the head guys had given his stamp of approval. He felt like he could do anything now. In fact, he'd show Yoran just how awesome he was by lifting the purse of the next person he saw. And what luck it was.

The target was a young woman, older than he was by a few years. Maybe fiveish? Lean built and about as tall as he was. She couldn't have been over a hundred and forty pounds. She had her purse hidden on her left hip behind her raincloak. She was armed with…something? He caught the glimpse of metal on her right hand from beneath her rain cloak. And she was taking the cloak off. Any difficulty from trying to steal from right in front of her disappeared instantly. Easy. Act casual, nod in hello, nab it when she nods and turns to talk to the…guard. Crap. Wait, he's turning and pointing. Giving directions. Patrick walked towards the girl and nodded his head in hello. She smiled and nodded back, returning her attention to the guard giving directions. And that was it. The purse quietly migrated to Patrick's hand with virtually no resistance. He looked back. The woman was still talking to the guard, completely oblivious! Part two, done. There wasn't much money in the purse, but it was a purse, and Yoran had seen him nab it. Now the gang would help subsidize his and his mum's food in exchange for-

CRACK.

Patrick had the strangest sensation. At first he felt like he was floating into the air and into the sky. Then he began to fall to the earth. And when he hit it, his head felt like a lightning bolt had split his skull. His vision darkened, but he was aware of two voices talking very far away. When his vision came back, he was sitting upright against the wall of a building. Probably a merchant's house since he was still in the marketplace. His hands were empty of the purse he had snatched. The sack. His eyes darted to his right shoulder. Gone. They darted around and settle on the woman. She was sitting in front of him, cross-legged. Her eyes were closed, and her chin slightly elevated. Her hands were clenched and brought together so that the knuckles touched and completed a circle. The palms of her hand would have been face up if the hands were unclenched. The steady rise and fall of her chest told him she was not sleeping but deep in meditation. In front of her lay a staff placed parallel to the wall, probably the one that cracked him over the head. Between the staff and her legs lay her purse and the sack. Patrick slowly moved towards his sack despite the pounding headache.

"'Ask for what you need, and it will be supplied.' Edict 18:12."

The woman opened her eyes. Patrick was stunned. Normally, when one has their valuables stolen, they respond in anger and condemnation. She looked at him with concern. Not pity, but he felt he could trust her or at least trust she would believe a lie. He quickly tried to think up a response while she continued, "I've learned much from this experience. I clearly need to assert more vigilance in this area before I lose something truly valuable." Patrick replied while scrounging his brain for a way out of this mess with his sack, "I probably just nabbed everything you have to live on here." The woman laughed warmly. Honestly, he should learn to be this sensitive towards the opposite sex; she could easily pull the wool over his eyes while he was mesmerized by her. "Money is money. One lives off of the treasure in one's heart. It's why you went for the sack of stolen food instead of my purse. You wish to feed your family."

He'd forgotten all about trying to lie his way out now. "Me mum's not as strong as my dad. He got shipped off further south to fight the Varden, so she's been trying to work the field. I gotta do what I can to feed us."

"Why not do an honest job instead of thievery?" she asked tentatively.

He spat into the ground and rubbed his head. "Cause I'm the dirty, useless son of farmer who can't even get milk from a cow." He winced and placed his hand on the red bulge on the crown of his head. She grabbed a small waterskin from her own pack and dabbed some of her cloak with water. His eyes felt heavy from the pain. Judging by the cool sensation near his welt, the woman was cooling the site. She apologized twice for hitting him, saying something about a code and a clause. He fell faster into unconsciousness. Though, before reaching full darkness, she mumbled, "Wha….s…name…?"

"Pa…trick," he mumbled.

"A…ce…name…s…Ali…"