The Thief King

2 | Murker Street

The Murker Street tailor shop became a hideout for Kole's men two years back. It was unusual for a thieving crew to take residence under a merchant, preferring places of lesser interest to others, but the abnormality was what made it so safe. 

After Rufus' death, Kole had indirectly helped the tailor. The basement had been part of a deal from which both parties would benefit. Back then it had not seemed like much. Chase remembered the first time he had stepped foot in the basement, damp, full of rats and empty crates, it had stunk of rotten wood and mould. Now, it smelt and looked like a home to a rowdy group of men, and one silent woman. It was organised, rat free and yet, still barren. With a moment's notice they would still be able to pack away and hide anything that hinted at a hideout. There was nothing too conspicuous about the place. No knives or swords on the walls. No strange cages or workbenches dyed with blood. There wasn't even a chest full of gold. 

There were, however, palettes amongst bolts of fabric, rolled up on shelves; cupboards with old coats and scarves hung before a second railing with extra greaves, cloaks, sashes and other useful gear.

One beaten up sofa was tucked in the corner where the men and Misty sat sharing old bottles of ale from their stash beneath the crates of leather scraps and buckles. Their laughter reached Chase, reminding him he was being antisocial and far too responsible.

He could not help it, he sat at the only desk with Shogan's book, its contents spilled out in front of him. Shogan had a finger in every pie in the city and Chase was having a hard time believing half the enterprises were the short, round man's. He had frequented a few of them, but with his new-found knowledge doubted he would return without dire need.

"Chase!" Stone bellowed. "You can do that tomorrow, mate."

"Yeah!" Rusty burped, making the others cackle in hysterics. "I'm far too deep in me cups to be seeing ye doing a bit o' light reading. Come plant yer pretty arse and join in on our celebrations, eh?"

"There is nothing to celebrate just yet," Chase suppressed a grin, looking up beneath his brow. "Who's to say these parchments aren't useless? Perhaps what I pour myself over are mere accounts of bored whores."

Silence. All eyes fixed on him. His words had somehow made contact with what little sense remained in the inebriated bunch.

"Well?" Misty prompted. "I got no fondness fer useless pauses. Ye gonna tell us we be drinking fer dregs or nay?"

Chase waited a moment longer before answering. "I can tell you, you're drinking for a whole lot of something," Chase shrugged, earning loud cheers. 

Misty extricated herself and jogged over, a bottle of sour wine in her hand. "Ye gotta have one swig, mate. This stuff be vile."

Chase accepted the offered bottle and threw his head back. The wine burnt his tongue and corrupted his throat. He lowered the bottle, cringing from the taste. "That's poison! How are you drinking that?"

She grinned, pushing back her white blonde hair with a flippant flick. "Ye forget who ye be talking to."

Chase raised a brow and snorted. He took another gulp of the wine, thinking it may taste better the second time round. If anything, it tasted worse. He wiped his mouth with the side of his hand and shuddered. "I did not see you change," he said, indicating to her brown breeches and tan shirt. "The dress not to your liking?"

"I burnt that damned frock soon as I be free of eyes." She screwed up her face and climbed onto the desk. Chase scrambled to rescue some of the pages from her boots, collecting them into a pile. "Makes no sense to me, ye know. Why ladies be wearing such hellish items."