The Thief and the Minister

An Iron Age prompt submission for "The Pauper."

Osmund Lionel Kaine had arrived in Sirocco three days ago, and thus far his time in the city had been fraught with disaster. His stay was only supposed to be a stopover. The plan had been to spend a single night at one of the inexpensive hostels near the ports, then come morning board a westbound ship to sail around the Scarlet Coast peninsula and disembark somewhere in Riverre by this time today. Instead his time in the “free” trade city saw him mugged within a few hours, and then arrested when he defended himself from his masked assailants. So began his three day stint in a dry, sandy cell. Three days of parched waiting for a confession or coin that would never come.

How far the mighty had truly fallen. These sorts of attempts at extortion weren’t exactly uncommon in the cities of Palanor. One would be hard pressed to find a single major settlement in any nation on any corner of the old continent where crime and corruption of some stripe didn’t exist. Even Oasyris, famed for her beautiful architecture and contributions to the arts and generally known as a bastion of righteousness and virtue, still had a dirty underbelly to contend with. But Osmund, alongside being a man of faith, was a student of history in his own right. Nearly three centuries past Sirocco had been the greatest continental seat of power for the now lost Bayelan Empire. It was their first great conquest in the early days of their imperial designs, a Southern Riverrian port city whose name nearly nobody cared to remember anymore. In those ancient days before the calamity which devastated the Bayelans and much of the continent with them, both the peninsula’s southern mainland and the shallow, island dotted Spotted Sea alike featured sparse forest groves and rich, sunny fields perfect for agriculture. This included Riverre’s famous wines, which were now such a rare commodity that single bottles could demand the fortune of a noble house.

A fortune like that would be welcome right about now. It certainly would’ve made it easier for Osmund to pay his way out of this desert prison, though he knew all too well the temptations that such riches brought with them. Exorbitant wealth often came with an insatiable thirst for more. These days Osmund was a devout of the Highfather who’d taken to the life of a traveling minister, doing whatever he could to give succor to the needy and pay penance for past misdeeds along the way. His faith wasn’t always welcome outside his homeland, but more often than not it was the reaver markings upon his neck that landed him in trouble. Leftovers from a youth ill spent, a life of murder and pillaging that saw his pockets, belly, and bed filled with gold, rum, and women, very few of which were fairly earned. The marks of that savage life showed on his face now - in the scars that crossed his nose or lashed his cheek from eye to jaw; in the wrinkles on his brow and the dark circles around his eyes; in the graying of his chocolate hair and the stone hard look of his light brown eyes.

This time, it wasn’t the reaver markings that drew him trouble, but the jingle in his pockets. A trio of young rogues descended on him in one of the less crowded alleyways that lead to the ports. He should’ve known better than to leave his purse hanging on his belt, even if it was concealed by his plain and dirty linen cloak. Concealed from view didn’t account for sound, though, and by the time it struck him how noticeable the clink of his coins was in that alley the rogues were already on him.

Not that they stood much chance against him. They were urchins taken in by some equivalent to a local thieves’ guild, base street thugs who were clumsy and ill trained in a fight. Their cuts and lunges tended to be forceful and overextended, making it easy for the more experienced ex-reaver to avoid them and put them down with the flat and pommel of his arming sword. They were lucky. Had he still been a younger man, he might’ve gutted the lot of them there and then, but needless bloodshed no longer held the appeal it once had.

Where Osmund’s luck truly soured was in the minutes that followed, when a small band of watchmen rounded the corner with timing that was just a bit too perfect. Naturally, they caught him in the act of beating the last boy down, their intervention carefully calculated to place a burden of guilt upon him. Osmund knew what this meant. These men were on the payroll of whoever set his would-be muggers to prowl the streets. His guilt was guaranteed, unless he could pay his way out. Unfortunately for himself what few silvers he had to his name weren’t near enough to pay his way, so he was detained.

Midday had come, and with it the most miserable time to be in that cell. Set partly underground, the cell was no more than a cube of limestone brick set with thick iron bars near the ceiling, a heavy iron door, and a circular series of bars in the roof that looked a bit like an orb weaver’s web. It was an old Bayelan design that Osmund had read about, but never experienced firsthand. The gap in the roof, as well as those along the walls near the ceiling, were all meant to make the experience in those cells as stressful as possible. Sand would trickle in throughout the day from the walls, pushed in by the winds or kicked in by the more malicious of the guards, while the rooftop bars left prisoners with very little protection from the heat of the midday sun or the bitter chill of the desert nights. They were clearly meant to break prisoners, forcing confessions or leaving them to die in sweltering, dizzying pain.

Death wasn’t in the cards for him. His crime was nowhere near severe enough, but the bought-off guards were looking for a scapegoat for that mugging. A confession from Osmund would achieve just that with little room for suspicion, so why not throw him in the harshest cell with just a little more food and water than was needed to survive? They’d underestimated his tenacity. Most men would’ve given in by this point, taking the temporary pain of a few lashings over this more protracted torture. But this was really no worse than being at sea with minimal provisions, save for the dryness. Besides, scapegoats rarely fared well on such deals anyway. Chances were a confession here would result in summary execution, a false example made to make it appear like the guard was doing something about the city’s criminal element. Holding fast meant there was a chance he could find some way out of this, though he hadn’t had any luck in that so far.

The cell’s heavy iron door clanged. The lock was being turned, and soon it was followed by a piercing, echoing whine as it scraped open on its rusted hinges. “You have a guest, reprobate!”

It was the warden speaking, or whatever this society’s equivalent to that was. Like most of the free cities, Sirocco supported a citizenry that was a blend of different races and species. However, unlike its sister cities of Helms and Vida Lucaris, Sirocco’s history as a major holding of the Bayelan Empire meant that most of her citizenry was still descended from that stock and many still preferred to use some dialect of their ancient mother tongue. Dialects which Osmund couldn’t speak, though context was enough to figure out that the additional jeers that came with the warden’s words were his men slinging insults either at him or whoever was about to join him in the cell.

Said guest was unceremoniously thrown in a moment later. “A rat to join a rat!” the warden said, laughing his whiny laugh.

His insult wasn’t entirely off the mark, either. The creature that joined him was small and skinny, slightly less than half Osmund’s height. Osmund wasn’t an especially tall man. He didn’t cut the imagined figure of the striking hero, for instance, but he was a little taller than the average. He was lean and hale, though the powerful thews of his youth shrunk some the further he aged into his forties. But unlike the obviously human Osmund, where the creature’s legs poked out from its dark trousers below its knees, they bent back at the ankles and stretched into large feet ending in five long, skinny toes. Its hands were similarly odd, sporting only three slender fingers and a thumb instead of the usual four, and its arms were lined with fine ash blonde fur where they could be seen beneath its plain and dirty cotton tunic. Those arms were also bound with manacles on a short chain of only three links, just like his own, and its head was bound in a big burlap sack that was stretched and filled by a head far too large and oddly shaped to belong to any normal human.

“Nasty bastards,” the little thing, a male by the sound of the voice, grumbled as he struggled to sit upright. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me get this bag off my head? Um, there is someone in here, right? That’s why haris said that thing about me being a guest?”

“Haris? Is that their term for warden?” Osmund asked.

“Must not be from around here if you don’t know that,” the little creature said. “Now, about this bag? I’d do it myself but they tied it in the back and I can’t reach with my hands like this.” He held up his manacled hands and rattled them.

Osmund did as he was asked. The drawstring was pulled tight around the creature’s neck and knotted hard. It was a wonder he was able to speak so clearly, and it would be a wonder if Osmund’s fingers could pull the knot loose. After a couple minutes he had the creature tilt his head forward, which it didn’t much care for since that did restrict his breathing more, but it was the only way for Osmund to gain purchase on the knot. Leaning in, he pulled at the thing with his teeth. After a couple tries, it finally loosened enough for him to untie it and remove the sack.

“You’re a mouseling,” he said.

“That I am,” the mouseling said back, squinting his big, dark eyes against the bright midday sun. Mouselings were a younger race in the world, one born in the wake of the unpredictable magics set loose by the calamity nearly three hundred years ago. What they’d originally been - mice who gained intelligence, humans who merged with mice, or possibly some kind of goblin variant - nobody really knew.

This mouseling was young, though Osmund couldn’t place exactly why he could tell that. Perhaps it was the more downy nature of his fur, or that the ash blonde hadn’t been mottled with any visible gray, which gave it away? He smiled, and the muscles on his snout behind his pink nose crinkled up. “Thanks for the help, though not so sure being in the sun like this is much better.”

The mouseling scooted up against the wall, tucking as tight into the nearby corner as he could, claiming as much of the limited shade as possible. Osmund didn’t begrudge him this. His large ears bent as he leaned his head against the limestone and Osmund could see how thin and pale they were. Only a little fur grew on them, some on the top and a little on the back. Sitting in the direct sun was sure to leave them painfully burnt, much like parts of his own face were.

It seemed the mouseling had noticed that himself, too. He looked over to Osmund with his large, dark eyes, scanning the older human’s face. “Had you in here a few days, haven’t they?”

Osmund nodded. “They have indeed,” he said softly. “And without much hope of freedom, if my instincts are to be trusted.”

“That so? Well I know they say curiosity kills cats, but maybe as a mouseling I’ll be a little more lucky,” the little creature said with a smile. “Current circumstances notwithstanding, that is.”

Osmund didn’t respond. The mouseling seemed to be talkative, and was strangely calm despite the situation. Although, that same statement could just as easily apply to himself. He realized it might seem rude, but the mouseling didn’t seem at all bothered by that. Plus, with all the heat and the desert dryness and the sand that trickled in, too much talking would probably end up with an exceptionally unpleasant case of sandy dry-mouth. Instead, he waited for the mouseling’s inevitable question; “So, why’d they throw you in here?”

“To be made an example of,” Osmund said.

“That’s a rough break. Suppose it’s got something to do with those reaver marks on your neck, aye?”

Osmund shook his head. “I’m sure they’re a convenience for them, but no. They imprisoned me for defending myself from some would-be muggers.”

“Ah. Cut ‘em down in the streets, did you?”

To the mousling’s surprise, Osmund grinned and laughed rather warmly at the soft accusation. “Hardly,” the old human said. “They got a well deserved thrashing and a few welts to go with it, but they live.”

The mouseling cocked a brow. It wasn’t immediately visible, he didn’t have clearly defined eyebrows the way most humanoid races did, but Osmund could see it move. It was kind of like watching a dog’s brows raise when it tilts its head and gets curious.

“Now that is something,” the mouseling said. “Not everyday you meet a reaver willing to stay his hand against someone threatening him.”

Osmund’s smile lessened some, growing darker, more grim. He turned his stony gaze to the mouseling, who flinched back on instinct. “I could’ve killed them easily,” he said, “and were I a younger man I surely would’ve. But I’ve left that life behind me. I’m no killer, not anymore, Highfather be praised.”

“I see,” the mouseling said. “Well, what are you, then?”

Osmund chuckled and stood up, moving to the corner opposite his unwilling guest to claim a little shade for himself. “If I told you, you’d certainly not believe me.”

“Try me,” the mouseling said.

“I’m a priest,” Osmund replied. “Though, more of a minister, if I’m being fully honest. I’m not recognized by any of the Highfather’s churches or orders, but I try my best to do good in his name. It’s one of the ways I try to atone for the man I used to be.”

The mouseling raised both eyebrows this time, and he gave a surprisingly hearty laugh for one so small. It was loud enough that it got a bang on the door from the guard posted outside. “You’re right, I don’t believe you,” he said in a hushed tone. “A reaver turned priest sounds like the makings of a children’s fable. But you seem a decent sort. Maybe you can help me with something else?”

“Such as?”

Osmund watched the little creature as he glanced at the door then beckoned him over with both hands. He crossed over, then crouched down when the small creature motioned that he wished to whisper something to him.

“I’ve got a little something tucked away in the lower fold of my right ear,” he said. “Can’t reach it with my hands clamped like this, just like the bag’s tie, but you can. Pluck it out for me and maybe we can help each other out, aye?”

Osmund was skeptical about this. What could the mouseling have possibly hidden inside its ear that would help them now? What’s more, could he be trusted? While his own confinement in the extreme conditions of the cell were the result of corruption and falsehoods, there was no guarantee that the same was true of the mouseling. Then again, the mouseling also recognized him for the reaver he used to be, and Osmund doubted that he’d be stupid enough to dare cross someone he knew used to be a pillaging killer. Besides, what other options did he have? There weren’t any ways out that he’d been able to find. There also wasn’t anything he stood to lose on this gamble that he didn’t stand to lose just by remaining in the cell.

After the mouseling tilted his head up, Osmund carefully bent that lower fold of his ear down. The cartilage was tougher there, much less flexible, but he was able to open the space enough to see something in there. Dark, thin, it looked like two tiny rods of metal. Only once he carefully plucked them out did he realize they were lockpicks.

“A thief, then,” Osmund said passively as he passed the tools to the mouseling.

“Aye, a thief,” he said as he turned the picks inward and carefully worked at his manacles.

It was hard going. The angle wasn’t favorable to the little creature and the picks would slip out frequently. At one point he cursed, almost too loudly, when he thought one of them broke. The sigh of relief he breathed was so heavy that Osmund almost would’ve believed letting it go actually did make the little creature lighter.

“So what’s your name, friend?” the mouseling suddenly asked.

“Odd time for sudden curiosity,” Osmund replied.

The mouseling cursed again as the picks slipped free. “Damn it all, I nearly had it there,” he huffed. He glanced up at Osmund. “A little small talk helps me focus. Don’t know why, it just does.” Then he tilted his head back down and started working at the manacles again. “So, out with it. What’s your name?”

“Osmund Lionel Kaine,” he said.

“Quite the name!” the mouseling answered. “Almost sounds like a noble’s name or something.”

“Nothing so grand,” Osmund said. “Mine was a well-to-do merchant family, well enough that I received some education as a boy, but a bad crop season and poor business dealings on my father’s part saw those bright days end quickly.”

“That what drove you to reaving?”

“No,” Osmund said curtly. “That drove me to theft out of necessity. Greed drove me to reaving.”

“Makes sense,” the mouseling said before he spat out another curse. “Gonna get this bastard thing this time.”

“What about yourself?” Osmund asked, hoping to keep the creature’s mind occupied, focus sharp, and divert away from his own troubled past.

“What, my name?” the mouseling asked, and Osmund nodded. “It’s Oenom - aha!”

With a quiet click and a near silent huff of victory, the mouseling quickly started working on his other manacle. “My name’s Oenomaus,” he said as he worked, the second manacle clicking and falling away a moment later. “Come on, give me your hands. Then we can get out of here.”

Again, Osmund was skeptical as to how they’d achieve escape, but he held out his hands anyway. Oenomaus’ deft fingers worked quickly now that they were fully free. Within seconds he had both manacles off of Osmunds red, raw wrists and had turned his attention to the rear wall, where Osmund had first been sitting when the guards threw the mouseling in the cell. Crouched on all fours, Oenomaus placed one of his large ears up against the limestone wall and started to tap the bricks with the small claws on the end of his fingers.

“There you are,” Oenomaus whispered, a wide grin stretched across his little snout. Placing both hands against one of the bricks, he pushed. Osmund saw the muscles in his skinny arms and neck tense up. Soon the mouseling started to tremble, but after a moment, the brick slid back just enough to reveal a visible crack in the wall. A crack which Oenomaus leaned up to and, with both hands cupped around his snout, quietly whistled into.

Then, smiling again, he leaned back into his little corner and said, “Best get comfortable, Osmund. Well, as much as you can, anyway, because now we wait.”

And wait they did, shifting their positions in the cell to keep to the shade as best they could while the sun made its hours-long journey across the day. Eventually the day’s brutal heat gave way to night’s chill. As was so often the case in the desert tracts that scarred the continent in the wake of the calamity, weather was marked in extremes. The day brought a miserable blend of heat and coastal humidity that was all but impossible to escape from, and the night bone biting chills that so perfectly inverted the day that one would be forgiven for believing it a mad dream.

Osmund sat against the still warm wall, arms loosely folded across his chest. He tried to sleep, but his sweat drenched clothes were too sticky, too itchy, and now too uncomfortably cold to allow it. That would’ve been alright had it only been one night of sleeplessness, but this was his third and it was wearing on him, right alongside the exposure. Dazed and slightly addled, he drifted along in that murky mental space that lay between sleep and wakefulness. Half-formed dreams lingered at the edges of his mind, memories of those younger days that often came to remind him of his grievous sins in the dead of night. Some nights they would wake him with a gasping start. Others, they’d prod and tease at him, making his sleep fitful but not so much as to awaken him.

Tonight they did something stranger, and arguably worse in some ways. In the haze of half-sleep, the dreams took shape in the world around him. Through bleary eyes he saw little Oenomaus, curled up on the ground next to the brick he’d loosened. His chest rose and fell, putting lie to the dream fueled delusion Osmund saw, but not dispelling it. Standing above the mouseling, simultaneously solid and unformed, was a man in knee-high doeskin boots, black trousers, and a loose fitted wine red shirt. He was swarthy and dark haired, with gray streaked beard trimmed to a fine point and a curled mustache. An image of grace and panache, he perfected the look of the swashbuckling high seas adventurers that many women swooned for, right up until they learned the truth behind the carefully cultivated visage. Because for all the dashing looks and velvety words this man could speak, his heart had been one of the blackest among men.

Luciano Bozza. He’d taught Osmund a great deal after they’d met. Taught him about pain and punishment, and then about killing and pillaging and the wealth to be made therein. He’d been both taskmaster and captain to young Osmund, and ever since he turned away from the reaver’s life Captain Bozza visited him in his dreams on a near nightly basis. He came wreathed in fire, or drenched in blood, or surrounded with the screams and wails of the myriad women he’d defiled over the course of his life. A learned and clever man who turned his brilliant mind to the fulfillment of base desire without a hint of shame or pity, so long as it didn’t come at cost to him. Normally Osmund’s dreams involved him being party to some wicked misdeed, usually resulting in his own involvement in it. That was a bitter truth he’d long come to accept about himself, that he was little better than his captain, nor was the rest of the crew. Tonight this dream visage stood over little Oenomaus, his sabre pointed down at the sleeping mouseling. Bozza’s lips moved wordlessly, a silent command that Osmund’s dream self heard clearly.

“Kill the rat.”

And his dream self obliged. Osmund groaned, his eyes fluttering as he watched an image of his young self step up to the captain and accept his sword. He knelt down, blade in his right hand while he turned Oenomaus’ rodent-like head with his left. A swift cut across his thin neck would guarantee his death. It would be quick, but agonizing, filled with the horrid sensations of both being unable to breathe and drowning as the blood that seeped from the gash flowed down chest and into throat. There was a scrape, and then a knock. The sounds were hollow, like stone on stone. They repeated again, pulling Osmund from his daze and Oenomaus quickly from his sleep.

“It’s about time!” the mouseling said. A toothy grin stretched across his little snout as the brick he’d pushed earlier disappeared inside the wall. Peeking through, Osmund saw the snout of a second mouseling, this one with fur of dark brown and a much coarser voice.

“Shut it, Onno,” the second mouseling said, his words spoken with a sharp sense of authority that failed to dampen Oenomaus’ smile and spirits.

A few minutes later, a path had been opened in the wall and three more mouselings spilled out - the first one with his dark brown fur and coarse voice, a small gray one that was missing a third of her left ear, and a black one with a white underbelly whose movements were twitchy and paranoid. All three of them looked on Osmund with a mixture of surprise and leeriness, and he didn’t blame them for that. They were clearly friends of Oenomaus, clearly there specifically for him, and none seemed all that keen to take a strange old human who bore reaver markings on his neck along with them. They argued in hushed tones about precisely that for a number of minutes. The brown one, who’s name was Diogenes and whom Osmund realized was the leader of their little band, made protest after protest but Oenomaus stubbornly answered the same way.

“I’d still be stuck in here if not for him,” the young mouseling would say. “He didn’t have to help me, but he did and I’ll be damned if I’m not returning the favor.”

The other two - Clio was the gray one and Stavros the black and white one - kept quiet, watching both Osmund and the argument with visible discomfort. Osmund started to wonder if Diogenes would leave without them, but the path was already open. He could see the tunnel it led into, tight and squat, just tall enough for the mouselings to walk through. It would be cramped for him, but by crawling on hands and knees or even his belly he should fit just fine. Clearly this had more to do with the fact they opened the passage on an unexpected onlooker than anything else, an idea which was confirmed when Diogenes chastised Oenomaus for not announcing the presence of a human with his signal.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Oenomaus groaned, tilting his head back in what was the equivalent of someone rolling his eyes. “But I still won’t leave him here. It’s not right.”

“Damn it all,” Diogenes spat. “Fine, then! Not like we could stop him from following now that he’s seen the tunnel.”

The dark brown mouseling looked up at Osmund with narrowed black eyes and a snout crinkled up in annoyance. “You can come,” he said, “but try anything funny and I’ll stab your eyes out and leave you for dead in that tunnel.”

“Quite a gruesome promise,” Osmund said, and Diogenes glared at both him and Oenomaus when he said it. Sinking to one knee, Osmund held out a hand to the brown furred mouseling. “You need not worry, Diogenes. The only thing I’m after now is my freedom.”

Diogenes didn’t accept the proffered hand. Batting it away, he pointed a clawed finger at Osmund and bared his little fangs at him. “Keep your paw to yourself, five fingers! Now come on! We’ve wasted enough time with this.”

With that, they set into the tunnel. Diogenes and Oenomaus went first, followed by Osmund on his hands and knees. Clio and Stavros were the last to enter and remained behind to replace the bricks in the wall. Oenomaus offered to help them but Diogenes wouldn’t allow it, stating that if he got the lad home any later his mother was liable to feed him to a cat. Osmund cocked a curious brow at this. Perhaps the mouselings really were descended from mice, if they still held such feelings about the common household feline. But even more curious was who the threat had come from.

“Your mother?” Osmund asked. “I didn’t think you were that young.”

“I’m not,” Oenomaus answered. “But she's been getting on in years, so I help care for her.”

“By picking locks and pockets?” he asked.

“It’s the closest thing to honest work our kind gets in this city and a damn sight more honest than reaving,” Diogenes said. “So yes, he picks locks and pockets for her.”

Oenomaus looked embarrassed at that. Perhaps even ashamed. Nudging the lad with the back of his hand, Osmund pulled the young mouseling’s attention back to him.

“I’ve seen quite a lot in my life, Oenomaus,” he said. “Some of it I understand, much of it I don’t, and that’s simply the way it is. Mortal men aren’t meant to understand the inscrutable whims of Gods. But there is one thing I am sure of; just like the Gods, even the Highfather to whom I’ve devoted myself, men can often surprise us. We think we can know everything about them from little more than a look, but just as I’ve met goodly guardsmen and reprehensible criminals, so too have I met goodly criminals and reprehensible guardsmen.”

Oenomaus and Diogenes both had stopped then. Both faced the aged human, the younger with a sense of graciousness and gratitude, and the older with a newfound measure of understanding and respect. After a moment, the younger one spoke up.

“Just so I’m clear on what you’re saying, Osmund, I shouldn’t feel ashamed for stealing as long as it’s something I can’t avoid?” Oenomaus asked.

Osmund nodded. “The circumstances of our lives don’t always allow for easy choices. I turned to theft myself as a boy so I could help care for my family when our lives took a bitter turn. Had I the willpower to ignore my avarice, my lust for the comforts we’d lost and kept my thievery only to what was needed, perhaps I’d never have become the reaver I was. But I didn’t, and that’s my own burden to bear.”

He reached a hand out and placed it firmly on the young mouseling’s skinny shoulder. “You may be a thief,” he said, “but you’re also a good man. Oenomaus is a strong name, not by history or by meaning, but by the deeds you put to it.”

Once more, Oenomaus found himself smiling. However, as he was about to speak, Diogenes cut in. “Lovely words and all, but if you don’t mind I’d like to get out of this damned tunnel sometime tonight.”

The younger mouseling nodded. “Aye, let’s get going,” he said.

A short while later, they emerged underneath the docks. The tunnel had led to a cistern which ran out to the sea and, for a blessing, it was tall enough for Osmund to stand. Rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms, the aging man breathed the salty air deep through his nostrils. It was cool and damp and yes, added to the chill of his sweaty clothes, but it was welcome at this moment.

“What’re you going to do now?” Oenomaus asked him.

“Retrieve my things, then find a ship to take me to Riverre like I’d initially planned,” Osmun answered.

Oenomaus looked utterly shocked! “You’re going back? Why? I can get you some coin and surely you can replace an old sword.”

“Whether or not I can replace it isn’t the point, Oenomaus,” Osmund said softly. “They stole from me, and unlike yourself they did so for no other reason than their own avarice. I’m simply reclaiming what belongs to me, then I’ll be on my way.”

“I see,” the mouseling said, his voice heavy. “Well, then you should probably take this, yeah?”

Osmund laughed as the young mouseling snatched a shortsword off of Diogenes’ belt. The older mouseling balked and protested, but that didn’t stop young Oenomaus from holding the blade out hilt first to his new friend.

“Stealing for a good cause, right?” Oenomaus chuckled.

“Indeed,” Osmund answered, slipping the blade into his belt.

Then Oenomaus winked and said, “If you ever come back to Sirocco, come and find me, yeah? I’m sure Mother’d love to meet you.”

“Thank you. I may just do that,” Osmund said, inclining his head to the young mouseling, the young man, who saved him. Then he turned away, headed up to the docks and back toward the guardhouse where he’d been taken. By this time tomorrow, he’d be on a ship sailing around the peninsula on his way to Riverre. But for tonight, he’d focus on retrieving what was his, and dole out a few painful lessons along the way.