Rules for Thieves

by Alexandra Ott

  “Yeah, but our summers are brutal. You wouldn’t survive a single day of our summers.” I grin as another thought occurs to me. “That’s why you’re going back to Arat by the first of Mirati’s! You can’t handle even the first day of our summer!”

  He scowls, but I know he’s faking it. “Well, I’d like to see you last one day during a Hesmean winter.”

  “I bet you five majas I could do it. Or I would if I had five majas.”

  “Majas?” he scoffs. “Please. Hesmeans only bet in jamars.”

  “Whatever. Our currency is so superior to your currency.”

  We both laugh then, and we both pretend that the tension of a few minutes earlier didn’t happen.

  I know he lied to me, but I don’t say anything. Yet.

  Chapter Four

  I catch the sounds of the marketplace before we reach it—voices chattering and shouting, footsteps pounding, canvas tents flapping, coins clinking. The smells drift after the sounds. Spices swirl through the air, making my stomach grumble. Bright splotches of red and green and yellow appear as we draw closer, painted tents glimmering in the sunshine, and soon we’re in the center of it, a whirl of colors and sounds and smells that bursts around us. Today the crowd adds to the heat as the sun beats down, but the air tastes of another late-spring rain.

  The bustle and noise of the crowd masks us, so we don’t have to worry about being overheard. As we walk, Beck gives me some advice. Thieving advice. He has an arrogant way of talking about thieving strategies, like he knows everything there is to know about it. It grates on my nerves, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “Rule number two: Don’t draw attention to yourself, and you won’t get caught.”

  “What’s rule number one?” I think of my own rule: Trust no one.

  “You already know it,” he says. “Rule number one: Stealing is necessary to survive.”

  Yeah, I learned that one pretty fast.

  The first time Beck takes something from a marketplace stall, I don’t even notice he’s done it until, a few feet away, he passes me the piece of fruit he swiped.

  “How’d you do that?”

  “Practice.” He grins, and although it’s annoying, it’s also sort of infectious. I grin back without meaning to, but hide it by biting into the fruit. The juice bursts into my mouth, tarter than I expected, but still sugary. The mix of sour and sweet lingers on my tongue as we wind through the crowd.

  The second time Beck steals, I pay more attention. With every furtive glance around, he’s surveying the crowd, looking for protectors or observant shopkeepers, waiting for the right moment. His movements are subtle, seeming to shift with the flow of the people around us, never out of synch. “Rule number three,” he says softly. “Always scan the crowd for anyone who looks suspicious. Protectors aren’t always in uniform.”

  He might as well be talking about the weather. He’s totally casual, totally calm, like he was when he saved me from that protector. He’s patient.

  If patience is a requirement for being a good thief, I might as well give up now.

  I say as much to Beck, and he laughs. “You might be a bit too hasty,” he agrees, “but that comes from being new at it. At first you want to grab everything fast. The trick is not to be too rushed.”

  Rule number four: Be quick, but not reckless.

  “So what should I look for?” I ask. “If protectors aren’t in uniform?”

  “Concealed weapons,” Beck says. “They sometimes try to hide them at the shoulder or ankle or waist, and that’s the most obvious sign. They’ll also be wearing heavier clothing, even in summer, in order to hide their weapons underneath, so look for that, too. But more importantly, look at their eyes.”

  “Their eyes?”

  “An ordinary person in the market will be focused on the stalls, seeing what’s for sale, or talking to the people beside them. But protectors? They won’t be looking at the stalls or the goods. They’ll be scanning the crowd.”

  “Like us,” I say.

  Beck nods. “If you see someone scanning the crowd, it’s most likely either a protector or a thief. Either way, someone you want to avoid.”

  Weapons, clothes, eyes. “Got it.”

  “Okay, now it’s your turn,” he says.

  I nod. “No problem.”

  I watch the crowd, looking for a warning flash of red or an overly attentive shopkeeper. Beck’s rule number five is to choose a mark who’s distracted, so I find a busy stall where the owner is preoccupied. Fresh produce sits out in neat little rows, glistening in the sun.

  The prickling feeling on my back hints that Beck’s watching me as I slip closer to the stall. The owner is a middle-aged man with dirt stains on his shirt. He’s haggling with a woman over the cost of some leafy plant thing. Now, move now—

  “Daddy?”

  I freeze. From the tent behind the stall, a little girl emerges. She tugs insistently on the man’s hand. “Daddy . . .”

  “Not now,” the man murmurs, his attention not wavering from the customer in front of him. “As you can see, my produce is among the finest in Azeland. I’m sure you’ll agree that this price is more than fair. . . .”

  This is the thing I never liked about stealing. The people who are easy to steal from are the ones who don’t have much. Will this girl be fed if I take food from her father?

  One little piece of fruit couldn’t hurt, right?

  Besides, we all need to eat, me and Beck and this girl, and right now there’s plenty of food laid out in front of her, and nothing for us.

  Rule number one: Stealing is necessary to survive.

  I can’t look at the girl anymore. I pick a target from among the fruit, bright red and gleaming and fresh. I wait, and wait, until I’m sure I will crack with the waiting. . . .

  No one’s looking my way.

  My hand darts forward, grabs the fruit—

  “What is it, Lyll?” The man turns to look at his daughter. And sees me.

  I’m frozen, one hand still wrapped around the fruit. Caught.

  The man is in front of me in a half second, his eyes hard. “What are you doing?”

  I think fast. “How much for this?” I ask, holding up the fruit.

  The suspicion doesn’t leave his gaze. “Two majas each.”

  I pretend to examine the fruit critically. “Really? Looks a little too ripe to me.”

  That distracts him. Vendors love to bargain. “You won’t find better anywhere in Azeland, I guarantee it. Picked them myself.”

  The back of my neck prickles. No doubt Beck is watching me. And even though it would be so much easier to just walk away, I can’t bear to fail. I can only imagine the arrogant remarks Beck will make when I walk back empty-handed. And the little girl has wandered back inside the tent, so now I only have this guy to worry about. . . .

  “Two majas for three,” the man is saying. “Final offer.”

  “On second thought,” I say, “I’m not interested.” I set the fruit in my hand down—and bump into the stand as I do. Several pieces of produce roll to the ground.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say. The man grunts and ducks down to pick up the fallen fruit. Now’s my chance, but I only have a few seconds.

  I reach for a different, smaller piece, one he won’t notice is missing.

  My fingers circle around the soft spot of red, then my hand slips inside my jacket pocket and deposits it safely inside.

  I’ve only just pulled my now-empty hand back out when the man stands up again. He’s looking very suspicious. “Can I interest you in anything else?” he asks gruffly.

  I linger for a moment, as though considering buying something. “No thanks,” I say. “Have a nice day.” I turn and melt into the crowd.

  The little girl’s voice still haunts me as I walk away, but I don’t look back.

  “Nice,” Beck says dryly, appearing out of nowhere at my side.

  “Hey, it worked,” I say.

  “You almost got caught.”

&n
bsp; “But I didn’t.”

  He sighs. “Only because you talked your way out of it, which won’t always be an option. You were way too hesitant in the beginning. Why’d you wait so long?”

  I don’t dare tell him about the little girl and my moment of weakness. “You told me not to be reckless.”

  “I also told you to be quick.”

  “Okay, okay. I get it. I’ll be quicker.”

  This time I offer him the fruit. He smiles and reaches for it. Even after it leaves my hand, the red stain from its juice remains on my fingertips. It reminds me of the weird black lines that still linger from the protector’s attack yesterday, and I shove my hand back into my pocket.

  Beck doesn’t want to risk swiping from a market stall again, so he shows me how to pick pockets. As always, first he demonstrates for me. Every time, his targets—or “marks,” as he keeps calling them—never even notice him, and it happens so fast that I almost miss it.

  There are so many rules to remember. Be patient and wait for the right moment. Move fast. Never underestimate a mark, but wait until their guard is down and their attention is focused somewhere else.

  There’s one rule Beck doesn’t say, but I add it to the list: Don’t think too much about who the marks are. Looking at what they carry, not who they are, makes it easier to ignore the lurch in my stomach that might, maybe, be guilt.

  Maybe that should be a rule too: There’s no place for guilt in thieving.

  At last, when Beck’s convinced that I can do it on my own, I select a few marks. I’m not nearly as smooth as Beck, but in the chaos of the crowd no one seems to notice me. By the time the sun sets, we’re fifty majas richer.

  With my stomach finally satisfied, we head back to the clothing shop. I glance down at my right hand again. It’s been aching all day. I expected the black lines of the protector’s magic to fade over time, but if anything they’ve thickened. They’re longer now too—one reaches all the way up to my index finger, while another crawls across my wrist. I yank my shirtsleeve down farther and pretend the lines don’t exist.

  We walk in silent contentment, enjoying the feeling of the gold coins weighing down our pockets.

  “I told you I’d be good at this,” I say smugly.

  “You were okay,” he says, “but only because you had such a good teacher.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s ridiculous. I got more money than you did!”

  Beck starts to reply but catches sight of something behind me. I turn and spot a merchant who’s packing up her tent for the day at the edge of the marketplace. A rich, sweet scent floats over to us, even from twenty feet away. Chocolate.

  Before I say anything, Beck races up to the woman. I run after him. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re celebrating. What do you want?” He gestures to the array of sweets laid out.

  “We shouldn’t spend any money on—” I stop speaking as something catches my eye and I can’t resist. Anyway, the gold is clinking in my pockets like it’s begging to be spent. “The white.” I point. “I like white chocolate.”

  Beck gets a piece too and hands the woman some majas. As Beck and I walk down the street, eating our tiny pieces of candy as slowly as possible, I’m reminded of the last person who bought me this—the sweets-shop man.

  And then there’s that other thing, the hazy memory from before the orphanage. It feels sweet in a way that reminds me of white chocolate. I think he might have been the one to give me chocolate for the first time. The older boy I can’t quite remember, whose picture in my mind is fuzzy. His name is half-forgotten, on the tip of my tongue. But I know who he was.

  My brother.

  Beck catches sight of my frown. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s just, it’s been a really long time since I had this.”

  “Me too,” he says quietly. “I haven’t had chocolate since—I don’t even know. Not since my mother died.”

  This is the first time he’s said anything to me about his family, but I already figured he’s an orphan. “I’m sorry. When did she . . . ?”

  “Two years ago.” He looks away from me, gazing into space.

  “I’m sorry.” I repeat it because I don’t know what else to say.

  Beck opens his mouth, but before the words come he stiffens, stopping in the middle of the street.

  I freeze, instantly on alert for protectors, but there are no telltale signs of red. “What?” I whisper.

  “Look.”

  I follow his gaze. Tacked below a nearby street sign is a black paper—a warning from the protectors.

  Bright red letters scroll magically across the top. The headline says, “Wanted: Orphanage Escapee.”

  And after the phrase “description of fugitive” is a description of me. And below the physical description is this:

  Name: Alli Rosco. Age: 12.

  Caution is advised. Fugitive is dangerous.

  Reward for information. Report suspicious activity to the nearest protector.

  “Well,” I say, trying for flippancy but sounding squeaky, “that’s a new development.”

  “Come on.” Beck’s voice is tight. “You need to get off the street.”

  We practically run until we reach the clothing shop. We start to turn into the alleyway, heading for the back door, but Beck freezes and grabs my arm. I stop too, instantly on alert.

  “Something’s in the alley,” Beck whispers.

  Now I hear it: a rough scratching sound.

  Beck leans forward and peers around the corner. His whole body relaxes. “It’s okay,” he says, stepping forward.

  I follow him, looking to see who the intruder is. “It’s a cat?” Its eyes glow in the dark before it turns away from us. Claws skid through the dirt as it runs away.

  “Yeah, it’s just an alley cat.” He smiles. “It’s an Allicat, get it?”

  “Ha-ha,” I say dryly. “You should be a comedian.”

  We eat our dinner—some more fruits from the market and day-old bread—on one of the boxes in the back room, like yesterday. During the meal, Beck calls me Allicat about a hundred times, just to annoy me. I pretend not to be amused.

  We both make excuses about being tired and go to bed early, but I can’t sleep at all, not with the words from that flyer floating around in my head.

  Wanted.

  Fugitive.

  Dangerous.

  Reward.

  They’re words that sound like they belong to someone else. Someone who actually knew what she was doing when she jumped that orphanage wall. If only I really were dangerous. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about the protectors and their words and their weapons. Then I could sleep and not have to care about anything.

  Apparently Beck can’t sleep either; I can hear the rustling as he tosses and turns in the next room. It’s just like in the orphanage, when a dozen of us would share a room. Everybody knew who had nightmares and who cried in their sleep, and everybody pretended not to know.

  But this time it’s going to be different. I’m not going to stick around here for long. Beck’s nice and everything, but this can’t last. I’ll be better off on my own. That’s something I learned early at the orphanage: Stick with people who are useful to you, and be prepared to ditch them when necessary. No point in making friends, especially with the littler kids—they’re not useful, and they’ll be gone quick anyway. But there were always groups of older kids who took charge, who became the unofficial leaders, and those were the kids you wanted to get in with. But even then, you have to be prepared for them to turn on you.

  It’s like when I spent ages hanging around with Striker and his little gang of stragglers. Striker established himself as the guy in charge pretty early on after he arrived at the orphanage, mainly because he was bigger than everybody else. I tried to make myself useful to him whenever possible, relaying insider information about the Sisters I’d gained over the years. In turn, Striker and the guys left me alone most of the time, which suited me perfectly. Plus they
could always be counted on to cover for me when I skipped grammar lessons, or to help carry a jar of spiders into Sister Romisha’s room.

  Except then I got a little too trusting. As I planned my first escape attempt, I let Striker and the gang in on it. I asked them to play decoy for me and promised that once I was out I’d open the gates so they could escape too. That last part was a lie, and Striker knew it.

  The next day Sister Morgila marched me down to her office and gave me the worst lecture of my life, followed by four months of extra chores. Turns out Striker had gone straight to Morgila after our little planning session and told her everything, hoping it would endear him to her and keep me in check. He wasn’t wrong. From then on the Sisters all glared at me whenever I so much as spoke to one of the other kids, like I was inciting rebellion or something. Striker got promoted to prefect duty, which meant he only had to “supervise” while the rest of us did all the hard chores.

  Of course, I wasn’t going to let that stand for long. Striker had as good as declared all-out war, and I was ready. One day he woke to find himself stuck to the bed, covered in a sticky mixture of syrup, honey, glue, and whatever else I could sneak out of the storage closet. None of his homework assignments ever got turned in on time, having been mysteriously destroyed. His shampoo somehow dyed his hair blue. The walls of the front entryway got covered in bright red graffiti overnight, and incriminating evidence was found under his bed, resulting in his spending an entire week scrubbing the paint off the walls and floors.

  He broke easily, in the end. Shortly after the graffiti incident, he asked me for a truce. I told him to do whatever I said and to stay out of my way, or things would only get worse.

  From then on, I was in charge. I was careful not to abuse my power and push him too far, but he was there when I needed him. And once I became the girl in charge of Striker, nobody messed with me.

  I was almost sorry when Striker left. Almost.

  But I’d learned my lesson, again. Trust no one.

  Not even nice boys who save you from protectors and show you their secret hideouts and teach you how to survive. I’ll stick with Beck only for as long as he’s going to be useful, and then I’m gone. It’ll be better that way.