9. Just Another Day in the Denerim Market
At some point in the last two days, the weapons merchant who worked the stall on the northwest corner of the market square had picked up a pair of daggers.
Usually, Finian's fingers didn't get twitchy around the weaponsmith. Anything that could potentially be used against the gracious overlords wasn't allowed in the Alienage, and being caught with pointy things was more trouble than even Fin could probably weasel out of.
But still, his mother had instilled in him a certain appreciation for fine weaponry, so he liked to stop by the stall every now and then to admire the new wares.
The daggers were twins. They weren't particularly fancy: no gaudy jewels or gold leaf or anything equally flashy. No, the craftsmanship in these was simple and subtle. They were steel, the blades sharpened to a fine point that glittered in the morning sunlight. The crossguards were crisp and solid despite their delicacy, and the pommels the perfect size, so that Finian suspected they might be balanced for throwing as well as wielding.
Just looking at them was enough to make his fingers twitch, and not for the usual reasons. These were no easily pawnable jewels that could help pay for a new set of sheets at the Alienage orphanage, nor was it some Alienage elder's absolutely perfect gift, to be doled out when he next got into trouble. No, for once, these were things he wanted to have, just for the sheer pleasure of having them.
But how to get them past the Alienage guards? Well, it shouldn't be too difficult… he snuck things in and out of the Alienage all the time, the only difference being that these were specifically forbidden.
That had never really been a deterrent before, anyway.
Finian didn't even need to think about it anymore. One moment, he was striking up a conversation with the weapon merchant, pretending to be the curious servant of a lord interested in equipping his garrison. The next moment, he was walking away with one dagger stowed precariously up each sleeve, his prizes kept out of view merely by the particular way he curved his wrists.
It was a moment of triumph, as all such little thefts were. Finian couldn't deny the thrill of it: outwitting the mark, nudging them in just the correct fashion with words or guile, and then the subtle motions that distracted and misled at the same time they secured the desired item and hid it about his person. He didn't really even care all that much about monetary reward—though the ability to fund the Alienage's less fortunate was definitely a perk—no, to Fin, the real prize lay in the game itself.
He wondered if he'd still be able to play such games when he was married… to, Maker, a woman…? How would he even… no no. Best not to think about that now.
It took him by surprise, to want the daggers for their own sake, but he wasn't really of a mind to question it. Honestly, the things had reminded him of his mother, and he was content to leave it at that.
"Tabris, I'm beginning to think you want to be thrown in Fort Drakon for theft. If so, you need only have asked."
Finian paused, turning a cheeky grin to the familiar figure of Sergeant Kylon, the poor officer in charge of the Denerim market district. He must have really ticked off someone important, to be stationed in the criminal capitol of Ferelden.
"Well, you know me, sergeant… I'm too shy to speak my mind. Not good with words, you know."
"Hm, yes." The sergeant's posture was forbidding, yet tired. "Roll up your sleeves."
Ah, but the sergeant was too proficient at his job for his own good. Well, for Finian's good, anyway. "Is something the matter, sergeant? Or perhaps you have simply taken up an interest in peoples' wrist decorations? I understand embroidered bracelets have become something of the fashion in Antiva."
While he spoke, Finian carefully adjusted the dagger in his right sleeve so that it was more secure (having it fall out right now would be, while hilarious, badly timed), then used his right arm to fold the cuff of his left back, gripping the left-arm dagger through the cloth.
"Alas, as you know, we elves can't afford anything like that. Though I do know a couple elves that wear fine gloves. The Dalish make excellent leather gloves, they say." Finian showed the sergeant his bare left wrist. "As you can see, I'm not lucky enough to own a pair."
Sergeant Kylon stood through Finian's little show with a flat expression. That was something Finian liked about the sergeant; he obviously saw through the mask, but he was just too jaded to reach out and yank it off. Sometimes, Fin wondered whether old Kylon didn't get a little enjoyment out of the games they played too.
After a moment of silence, Kylon sighed and shook his head, exasperated. "Antivan bracelets? Really? Do you just make those up on the spot?"
Finian grinned brightly and pulled his sleeve back down, recognizing the sergeant's capitulation. "Would you know the difference if I did?"
"Regarding jewelry? Not one whit." Kylon sighed again and started off. "I'd tell you to keep your hands to yourself, Tabris, but we both know how effective that will be. Just… try not to pickpocket anyone important today, hm?"
"I do love our little chats. Same time tomorrow?"
"Probably," Kylon muttered as he walked off, disappearing among the stalls.
When he was gone, someone laughed nearby. "That was a fine bit of squirreling the sergeant, that was. Don't know that I've ever seen anyone treat a law officer like that and keep his tongue afterward."
Finian turned to see a wiry, scruffy man leaning casually against the mouth of the nearest alley. The man wore a crooked grin on his long face, as if sharing some joke. If the man hadn't been looking directly at him, Finian might have thought he was talking to someone else. Not many humans addressed elves out of the blue.
Ah well: Finian was, if anything, adaptable. "Sergeant Kylon and I have a strong relationship, forged by mutual apathy. It works well for us, so why change a good thing?"
"I certainly suppose so." The man laughed. "But still, you may want to take your own advice… some nice leather bracers can do wonders to keep things nice and secure, you know."
Finian eyed the man, while sticking his hands in his pockets so that he appeared non-threatening, but so he still could palm the pommels of his new daggers. "Know that from experience, huh?"
The man matched him grin for grin. "Might be that I do." He held out a hand. "Name's Daveth."
"Finian." The elf smirked and took the hand, noticing that this Daveth was, indeed, wearing leather bracers. "Do I have to pay for these tips in some horrible or degrading fashion, or are you new to Denerim?"
Daveth threw back his head and brayed a laugh. "That does about cover it, don't it? No, I just appreciate a good con when I see one. Never been much for it myself, you see. Too used to the old-fashioned cut-and-run."
"I've tried that, but it never works," Fin lamented. "All the guards know where I live, what with me being an elf and all."
"Ah, that does limit things, doesn't it?" A chuckle. "Well, anyway, I thought I'd just give you your dues from one peer to another. Maybe I'll see you around the district?"
"Probably will. All I ask is that you don't cut someone's purse while I'm trying to work them. It somewhat spoils the pitch, you know."
"Unless, of course, that's the point." Daveth winked, then slid back into the alleyway, disappearing into the shadows.
Finian adjusted the weight of the daggers in his sleeve as he headed toward the Alienage. Perhaps the human cutpurse had a point… and he knew a leatherworker in the Alienage who might have the time to whip him up a pair of bracers. It would make carrying these daggers around a possibility, to have such a form of concealment. All Fin needed was some pastries to satisfy the leatherworker's notorious sweet tooth…
Spotting a baker's cart crossing the district, Finian smiled and turned to take a quick detour. His fingers twitched in anticipation.