The Runner (Part I of the Runner Series)

Chapter 7

Two days later, my leg is feeling stronger than it has in years and I am able to leap from my attic window, sidle from ledge to ledge and shimmy down to the ground without issue. I land on the street and stroll toward the main road, aiming to pawn the remaining items I had lifted from Will's house, no longer worried about any impending consequences.

As I walk through the market, I dodge both courtiers and commoners, everyone intent on stocking up on the latest provisions. Our food and water are delivered to us at intervals, sometimes few and far between. Because our resources are drawn from the carefully preserved oases several miles outside the City, we have to ration a fair amount.

The families living in the Court are given a livable amount of rations courtesy of the City, but many of them will come into the market to stock up on extras. This leaves fewer goods for us commoners, but you can't blame a vendor for selling to the customer with the most coins.

I refill my flask near Harry's cart and spend a couple of minutes chatting with him, laughing when he pretends to sneak me one of the burned loaves of bread. I bid my goodbyes when an inquiring courtier couple steps up; I doff an imaginary cap to Harry's rich customers and slip away.

Several twists through the alleyways later, I find myself in a rougher part of the City. Here, the buildings are packed tightly together and appear to loom inwardly over the already-cramped streets. I pass several people huddled in doorways before I locate Mo's pawn shop and swing gaily through the door, glancing about at the new wares.

"Ah, there she is." Mo materializes seemingly from out of nowhere and situates himself behind the counter, drumming his nimble fingers on the knotted wood.

"How are you doing, Mo?" I untie my pouch from my belt and drop it on the counter.

"Been better, been worse. What have you got for me?"

"Straight to the point, as always."

"What can I say, huh? I'm a man of business. You haven't got any of that silverware, have you?"

"I have something almost as good!" I declare, turning the sack over and displaying the odds and ends with a flourish.

Mo pokes through the few scattered bobbins. "Is this it?"

"What do you mean, 'is this it'? I have some really great pieces, right here. Look, look at this." I locate the ivory hair comb and brandish it at him.

The old thief takes the comb from me and turns it over in his hand, squinting.

"Yes, this is quite a nice piece." Mo speaks slowly, ever calculating. "But I am afraid I can't give you more than ten silvers for the whole pot."

"Are you kidding me? That comb is worth ten alone!"

"It may well be, at some respectable shop up in your hoity-toity districts, but down here it's worth three." He doesn't bother hiding his yellowed grin.

"You're a regular burglar—you know that, don't you, Mo?" I sigh and rub my forehead. If there were a better place in the City to take these goods, I would have tried my luck there. Unfortunately, Mo is one of the few shops still operating as a not-so-strictly-legal business.

"I'll tell you what." I chew on my bottom lip, pretending to think it over. "Give me four silvers for that comb, and one for each of the rest. That's fifteen."

"Thirteen."

"Deal."

Mo hands over my pay and I make a show of counting out the coins. I scoop the earnings back into my pouch and wish him a good day, then spin swiftly on my heel and exit the shop.