Internal: Viperpath (volume 1)

(23) New Tack

Quite regardless of what kind of 'highborn drama' was unfolding beyond the palace walls, in the shade of one of the capital's maze-like alleys, Zena the paupress shielded her eyes once more against the persistent near-sunset sunlight with one hand while already beginning to sweat as she stood amidst a single-file queue in the mouth of an alleyway.

Ain't just from the swelterin' heat, this sweat, she reflected.

She had known this day (the aptly named 'Protection Day', at least among the unwashed dwellers of the slum she'd been calling 'home') would come for quite some time--the day when her week-long earnings (obtained alongside reactions ranging from sympathy, pity, indifference, apathy, or even outright hostility) would be snatched off by way of a roll-call, either by a certain Fatan in person--'Fat Squirrel' to Zena and most of the urchins there--or by some of his similarly-brutish goons.

Craning her head, Zena could just make out the figure waiting up ahead with crossed arms, the left hand carrying a twirled-up whip in case things started to turn south--better be safe--as they stood before the queue facing a red cloth lined with silver, whereon the multitudes of rag pouches were gathered.

To this White Crow's immense relief, Fatan was not there in person that particular day. In his place was one of his dumber peons: the pig-faced Firs, with a girth to match.

Be what will be, Zena thought wistfully. Just a few more of these li'l grunts 'fore my turn. Hope I collected 'nough for some loafs, at least; heck, I'd take even the wormy ones... Oh, wherever ya are, Zally, hope ya're doin' bloody well.

The queue progressed on; this outspoken paupress now finding herself third before her earnings would have to be turned in. As the paupress looked down at her own waist, however, her mouth opened in avid disbelief.

"Wait--what the heck?" she murmured intensely. "Why only one pouch? Could've sworn I carried three..."

Freak.

With dawning vexation it then occurred to her that, even if such a downtrodden state, she might once again have fallen victim to the multitudes of baby-faced cutpurses and snatchers after all; not uncommon in this kind of trade.

"Zena."

At least they had been generous--or ignorant--enough to leave her this one pouch; but still, she was the one having to make that call, and soon!

"Zena!"

The paupress looked up at her quarry's girth. "Heard ya first time, chill!"

From above her, Firs's nostrils flared, an outward sign of his dawning annoyance mixed with apprehension.

"Cough up already," he said, fingering his whip.

Undaunted, she showed her week's pick. "Right here, pal."

"...Only one measly pouch?!" Firs flushed, his grip on the whip tightening for three seconds. "The heck had you been at, lass, all those weeks? Didn't remember Fatan feedin' the whole lot of ya just to loiter 'round!"

"Whoa, now... Loiter? Cut the crap, dude. 'Tis charity we been playin' at, not muggery. 'Sides, one would think you'd pay more heed to what's in that pouch, yeah?"

Firs paused to consider this, alongside the fact that he had heard this Zena girl mentioned several times in Fatan's mid-inner circles... and nowhere too negatively. Remarks had been made of the lass's quick wits, biting remarks and uncanny skills at stealth, of so many others--which, more than once, had helped her out of sticky situations.

That said, the henchman Firs--lackey-like as he was before the 'big boss'--retained enough sense to realize that he was getting only a sip of this White Crow's skills; even still, he saw no reason not to have some fun of his own. Carefully he untied the pouch, peered into it, even put his hand into it for good measure. His hands came out dripping with gold coins, glinting in the sunlight.