A Little Mischief

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A market stall. Photo by Aysegul Alp on Pexels.

She huddled against a doorway, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd. Most people rushed this part of the job. They would stumble through the crowd, hoping to grab whatever their hands found, then try and slip away without being noticed. That approach rarely worked. Where others rushed, she watched and waited.

She had already spotted one opportunity, instinct had held her back. She’d heard stories of Lords who hired mercenaries to escort them through the markets. Lurking, ready to catch any thief who tried their luck. The Lord had been wearing a velvet cloak lined with fur and enough gold on his fingers to feed her for a year. That had been tempting. Before she could make a move she caught a glimpse of a man lingering a few paces behind the Lord. He was a foot taller than those around him, his bald head bobbing through the crowd. His arms were laced with a mix of scars and tattoos. She would have bet her left hand that he was a guard, and that is what a mistake would cost her - the city watch didn’t take theft lightly.

It was a full hour before she found another target. He had lingered at three stalls, only to walk away without buying anything. He was finely dressed, a long sleeved tunic dyed sky blue. She hadn’t seen any protection, either he wasn’t rich enough to afford it or was too overconfident to pay for it.

The moment she had been waiting for came at the next stall he visited, a fabric merchant. He stopped near one particular sheet of woven material until the owner emerged. She watched them exchange words. She couldn’t hear what was said, but saw the man gesture north, to the wealthier part of town. No doubt telling the merchant where to deliver the bolt of fabric. He pulled a small leather purse from the outer pocket of his jerkin and placed a few coins in shopkeeper's hands, then placed the purse back in his pocket. That gave her all the information she needed.

The man left the stall and continued down the street. She stepped out of the doorway and became one with the rushing crowd. She glided closer and closer to her target. Never looking directly at him; their path had to cross as if by chance. Her muscles tensed. She took a deep breath, then brushed past him. One hand darted out holding a thin blade, the other caught the weight that fell out of the pocket. It was over in a heartbeat. Then came the hard part. You couldn't run. You had to restrain yourself. Run and you could give yourself away. She drifted back into the crowd. One face among many. Seen for a second, then gone.

She rounded a corner and breathed a sigh of relief. A smile of pride crossed her face.  Not bad, she thought. Only 11 and already one of the best pickpockets in the city. She hefted the purse in her hand. And, at least for this week, she’d be a well fed pickpocket.

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