Additional Content - Black Knight, Chapter 4 (Patreon)

Added a new scene to the end of chapter 4 of Black Knight. Chapter 5 will be rewritten.

For context if you read chapter 4 a while ago, this scene follows the thief that Sir Knight helped escape the market square.

___________________________________________

~[A Den of Thieves]~

Today’s the day!

The hooded figure pulls the wet metal grate back over the hole as she climbs down the makeshift ladder, the groaning metal coming together with the heavy rumble of her stomach. Her over-sized shirt is tucked into her ratty trousers and is held there by the double-wrapped cord belt. It is tucked in not in an attempt to be fashionable but rather in one to be pragmatic.

The small, stolen vase is inside of her shirt, between the fabric and her skin, letting her climb and move without her hands being busy holding anything. Bags aren’t allowed; that’s one of the first rules.

— Her feet slap against the cold stones as she lands in the underground, the life and light of the city fading very, very quickly as she steps away from the grate, walking over several planks and knocked over pieces of old furniture that act as bridges over channels and holes that lead down into even deeper places. Falling into them is death for her, so she simply doesn’t fall into them.

That’s rule two. Don’t fall into the holes.

As for rule one, the bag thing, that’s because bags are a problem if you’re a thief. Bags are what you’re after, sure. But wearing one yourself is an issue. Bags make your silhouette larger and, most importantly, they let you be grabbed very easily, especially bulky rucksacks like the ones that adventurers use. Thieves with bags tend to store things in them, obviously, but that’s a risk.

If you get caught with a stolen item, that’s a fine and maybe a few weeks. If you get caught with a bag full of stolen items, though, that’s a real problem. Bags make thieves lazy. A good thief will always take only a little and then stash it away.

Rule three. Never get caught. And rule four, if you get caught, get caught with empty hands.

She holds her arms out to her sides, balancing as she walks over a creaking plank. Rushing off-water from the city runs below her in a brickwork lined river. Falling into this one isn’t death like in the other drops before it, but it’ll make you wish it was. That water is full of waste from both people and from the industry — alchemists included. It has a real bite to it.

Reaching the other side, she jumps down from the little ledge and runs to a small door and then stops.

She stands there for a time, the sewer water rushing noisily in the background as she collects herself. Taking a deep breath, she reaches into her shirt and awkwardly pulls out the stolen vase, looking at it. It’s pretty expensive looking. The item’s status window says it's worth forty obols. This is a good one. She’ll get maybe thirty points. She can add them together with her old points, and with that, she’ll be set for the rest of the week — food and a bed. She made it this time!

Hase sighs in relief and then lifts a hand, knocking on the door.

A slit slides open on the top, a set of eyes looking down her way as she holds the vase up and then around the area to see if it's clear.

After a second, it slides back shut, and the door unlatches from the other side, swinging slowly open. Vapors of smoke and dry laughter come out of the room beyond.

“What do you got today, ears?” asks a man with a high, scratchy voice as she walks inside, the door closing behind her and the locks ratcheting back into place.

“Vase,” says Hase, holding up the vase to the scratchy man, the fence. He comes down here once a week to ‘buy’ what they’ve collected.

He doesn’t pay in money; he pays in points.

Each stolen item is given a value in points that is not necessarily equivalent to its value in actual money. With these points, they can buy things like food, a safe place to sleep, clothes, and so on. There are even luxurious prizes up on the shelves, things like enchanted knives and glowing potions, but she’s never seen anybody buy any of those. Points carry over from week to week, so you can save them up.

“Oh, pretty,” says the scratchy man, his head rubbing against his shoulder. She smiles. “Forty obols… hmm…”

This secondary economy is the only one available to people like her. Stolen goods can only be sold to a ‘fence’, a merchant who dabbles in illegal goods, so you’ll only ever get what they offer you, and you don’t just find another fence if the one you have isn’t to your liking. Fences are like family; you’re either in with them or you’re not. Thieves are only ever in very tightly knit groups if any at all.

His eyes run over the work. “Handmade, not magical,” he says, holding it up to a glowing lantern above them to let the light run over the exterior. “Makes it unique,” explains the fence, shaking his head and tsking. “Easier to trace, Ears,” says the scratchy man, looking down at her. His long, bony fingers tap the glassy exterior of the ornate thing. “Magical craftsman make items that are identical to one another since they use common recipes,” he explains to her. “Handmade items like this, though,” says the vendor, setting the vase down onto the counter and showing its markings and dents. “- are unique in the ways they look and feel. That means they can be identified easily. Makes it hard to sell.” He shakes his head. “A shame.”

At this point, she isn’t even looking at him anymore, instead staring down at the ground.

This is a down-sell.

“I can’t sell this to anybody,” he says. “But-“

Here it comes.

“- I like you, Ears,” says the scratchy man, his hand and long fingers landing on top of her head, almost wrapping around her skull. Hase continues to stare at the ground, if only to hide her disgusted expression as his fingers touch her head, pressing through the fabric to play with the long rabbit-ears that are there, bent and hidden below her hood. She’s a Vildt, a member of the common-races who has an admixture of human and animal features. “I’ll give you ten points.”

…Ten?

He lets go of her and begins going through some paper. “That brings you up to a total of ah… twenty-six,” he says, tsking again. “Oh~ that’s rough,” says the scratchy man. Hase looks back up his way as he points to a little sign of prices. “I’m afraid that’s only enough for one night,” he explains, tapping on the freshly painted wood that he’s holding. “Fifteen points for one individual night. The three night package is thirty points.”

He changed the prices.

“- But I’ll tell you what,” he says, setting the sign down. The man leans over the counter and reaches down, touching her face and lifting her chin up to look at him. “You give me a big, wide, happy smile,” he starts. “And I’ll make an exception just for you,” promises the scratchy man. “Two nights for your twenty six points. You can eat and sleep as much as you want.”

She hates the scratchy man so much.

Hase doesn’t let that show through, though, as she widens her expression and her eyes, letting them glow his way.

“That’a girl,” says the scratchy man, reaching up and pressing her nose like a button. “You’re going to do great down here in the business when you’re older,” he says, nodding. “Okay. Go on,” he nods his head to the side. “Two nights. They’re all yours,” he promises. “But next week, bring me something easier to sell.”

She nods, turning to walk away in relief.

“Ah-ah!” chirps a sharp voice as a hand roughly grabs her shoulder from behind, long fingers squeezing down against her collarbone painfully. “What do we say?”

Hase turns to look at him. “Thank you,” she says.

“- With a smile,” he instructs, lifting a finger to scold her.

Hase smiles, looking at him. “Thank you!” she repeats in a brighter tone.

The scratchy man nods, content, and lets her go.

She quickly shuffles away into the deeper part of the den, where she is able to eat her fill and sleep in a safe bed, and the scratchy man, done for the day, sets the vase on the shelf.

It’s a good one. He has a buyer for unique stuff like this. He’ll probably get the full forty obols. The girl has a good eye.

Closing the shutters on his little kiosk, the scratchy man begins to pack up for the week, unaware that black, shadowy fumes are leaking out of the vase that he has turned his back to. They condense together around his feet.

— The lantern above his head goes out.