Letters From a Thief

[Adeen Pinebarrow]

The last guard passed when moonlight touched Adeen?s cell window. The squirrel watchbeast went by Toby, or Job, or some soft name she did not remember. To Joby, the vole slept in a corner mound of tattered blankets where the metal bars met the sandstone walls. When he passed, Adeen?s paw slunk down his leg and onto his boot knife?s handle. The last click of the hallway gate and Joby left Bastion?s only prisoner alone.

Adeen rose from her mound with the knife in paw.

Sandstone ran too uneven for proper kerning, and carving graves required chisels, proper stone, and precision. Adeen took her time on the walls opposite her cell?s door. The ?F? proved hardest as the already dull knife shook in her paw. The top rung and middle collapsed to form a ?P,? but each letter came easier despite the stone?s crumble. By midnight the lessons of her youth, her trade, sunk home and an uneven ?Penton? scrawled on her jail cell wall. By the gray of dawn ?Plnepamow? joined beside.

?I?m out of practice, dear.? Adeen?s voice cracked from thirst. ?I?m sorry. I?m sorry I didn?t listen. But once I'm free...?

The ?free? drifted from Adeen and hung in the air with the chill of the morning. She dropped the boot knife as though the weapon ignited. Piece by piece the images lanced into her conscious mind. The ?Eulalia? of an aged war hero falling before her torrent of slashes. The shrieks of a brittle marm falling before the same storm.

Fenton?s paws and chest running red as he tried pulling Adeen into a hug.

The chipped knife remained between Adeen?s footpaws until true sunlight beat back the gray. Slowly she picked up the weapon and knelt before her husband?s name. Blade bit stone. She carved the first slash of an ?A.? Then the second. Her paw raised to finish her name, but her heart betrayed what her mind made.

?No.? Adeen pulled the knife from the wall. ?I can?t. Not until-?

?Not until what, Mrs. P??

Adeen hid the knife down the front of her small clothes, beneath her tattered dress, on recognizing Guard Simondale?s voice. If it was Tuesday, thought Adeen, then the hare would stand at the cell door in a flourish of green with dune nettles woven into his long headfur. She turned and found Simondale leaning against his spear in patchwork armor stained green with cactus pulp.

?...nothing.?

?Ah! See you?ve had yourself a touch of arts and crafts!? Simondale whipped into the cell, brushed Adeen aside like a curtain, and studied the sandstone memorial. Another guard - a squirrel not nearly as green as Joby - took Simondale?s place at the open cell door. ?Marks for effort, but we?ll have to talk about your Ps and Qs, wot!?

?As you say, Simon.? The hare bent down and touched the memorial's letters, the sharp line only a blade or chisel could achieve. Adeen's small ears turned red and she spoke again, faster. ?You?re looking well today. The green highlights your eyes.?

?Flattery will get you everywhere, m?dear. But I wonder where it is you?re going-?

?Enough.? The squirrel?s voice seethed with annoyance. ?The Duke calls.?

?You stay here and keep these other chaps in line.? Simondale gestured at the empty cells, but the squirrel didn?t even smile. ?Right-o, confession time, Mrs. P. Am I pulling you again, or are you up to walking for once??

Simondale always tied the rope too tight, but Adeen was thankful this time. The metal of the concealed knife warmed beneath her small clothes, secure between her legs as he dragged her up the stairs and into the light of Bastion.

The border town sat engulfed in the wastes between Southsward and Salamandastron. Sandstone hovels in various states of disrepair lined up in the semblance of streets. Uneven gates and walls stood little more than inconveniences against the endless march of sand. A few brave merchants set up shop along the alleys, displaying silks of blue and violet to liven up the otherwise yellow fort town.

Hares and squirrels stared as Simondale dragged Adeen down the street. Some clapped. Others held their children closer. Adeen?s house passed on the left a few minutes into the drag. Not a beast lived there anymore.

The market climbs and - ah - demand dictates you pay your loans. Now. Have you the coin? Hmm? I thought not.

A potted cactus perched on the windowsill, still flowering despite the lack of care. A vine pattern Adeen carved ringed along the window?s frame, and Fenton?s lacquer kept the wooden entry shining. Adeen wondered if her calligraphy certificates still hung in the bedroom, or if Silva and Thrane?s growth notches still marked the hallway. Simondale dragged onward, and soon the house was out of sight.

?Silva and Thrane.?

Adeen repeated their names like a song until too much sand filled her muzzle.

The dragging stopped before a parade of beasts by the North gate. A line of ragged captives huddled about a water trough at the back of a cart train. Each one of them were chained at the ankle, some threadbare and scrawny while others were fit and well equipped. At the head loomed a hulking marteness, wrapped in a kilt and vest of thin chains and leather straps. A studded whip rested at her side, and her captives jumped into formation whenever her paw drew near its handle.

Simondale sat Adeen up and spun her around as they reached the gatehouse.

A squirrel of decadence and vibrance stood before them. Duke Phyllius Granz loomed rake thin, a sniggering curl always at his lip. His outfit of over-saturated silks, dotted with self-designated medals and plumage, demanded everybeast?s eye. Yet, Granz did not look at the vole on the sand before him. He spoke with the scant clouds in the sky, as though annoyed by their altitude.

?This is - ah - the prisoner?s last chance. Confess all and receive swift justice. Deny and waste all our time...again.? Granz spoke as though he knew all the world?s secrets and found them wanting. ?To the charges of murdering Fenton Pinebarrow, your husband??

Adeen focused on the sequins along Granz? hose, reflecting the wasteland sun.

?Guilty.? One question remained from Granz, and though Adeen knew what he?d ask she did not know her answer. She rambled on in a bid for time. ?He tried to stop me and I...?

?Guilty or not guilty is all that is necessary. And to the charges of murdering Kirkland and Priscilla Cullporter??

An answer of guilty meant a short rope and a long drop, thought Adeen. An answer of guilty meant way back to Fenton.

Though she queued the response in her mind, her heart betrayed her once more.

?Not guilty. We?d only meant to steal and leave. I...I lost myself and lashed out...?

?A fine claim from the only survivor.? Granz snapped and Simondale hoisted Adeen upright. ?But it matters not. He just wanted to hear the first.?

?He??

Granz clapped and a pair of town guards escorted Fenton from the gatehouse. Adeen ran forward and fell, hobbled by the hempen rope and Simondale?s quick paws. She cried out, she screamed, and screamed again as her squirming dug the concealed knife into her thighs.

?See how the tart frenzies? She?ll do well in The Crater.?

This was not Fenton?s voice. Fenton spoke slow and respectful for dock hands and nobles alike. Fenton never swore, and the promise of a song chased his every word. This thing, this imposter, bit through the sand on the breeze. Every syllable a command, every word a challenge.

?But a vole?? Granz yawned into his paw. ?A vole gladiator is a hard sale regardless of energy.?

?We?re selling her story, not her skill,? said the imposter.

?Oh??

?A maddened thief cuts down a war hero during a heist. But it is not enough, not for this savage wench. She slays the hare?s wife, desecrates the manor, and cuts down her own husband when he tries to stop her.?

Rough paws clutched the nape of Adeen?s neck and pulled her upward. The ribbon-pink ears, and the fur the hue of fresh-baked bread, marked the male as Fenton. Then Adeen noticed the streaks of gray along his muzzle, and the scent of wine and onion wafting from between his clenched teeth.

?Her husband that she seduced and stole from his rightful place on the River Moss. Even after I saved her father?s crumbling mortuary. Even after I accepted her into my family.?

Canen Pinebarrow threw Adeen down and limped to the slave train by the gate. The full-metal marteness handed Canen a contract which he signed without reading. With a whistle, all of the marteness? charges began packing the carts.

?Yes, Nire will buy The Black Widow of Bastion along with my timber.? Canen sniffed. ?Thank you for keeping my investment whole, Phyllius. We?re all official. You?ll get your cut when she?s good and transferred.?

Granz gave a mock bow, and opened his mouth to reply, but Adeen spit the wad of sand from her muzzle and shrieked her displeasure.

?Not again, not again, notagainnotagain!? Simondale threw his knee into her back, but still her wheezing voice protested. ?This is your fault! You! Everything we did because you wouldn?t let us live! Sleep lightly, Canen. I?ll carve your grave next, I?ll-?

Simondale held Adeen?s muzzle shut. Adeen thrashed but all the energy ebbed away on realizing the truth. Canen knew Granz. He?d known all along. The Bastion house they could never pay off, the cold nights in the alleys, the jobs that never held up or paid enough to keep the twins alive. Canen had forced Granz? paw.

?Look for me in the stands.? Canen hobbled over and spit on Adeen?s still form. ?I will be there when Nire?s thugs butcher you like you butchered my son.?

Adeen wept until a wet cake of sand covered her face, and Canen returned to the gatehouse without another thought or word.

?You. Guard. Get her cleaned up.? Granz yawned again and dismissed Simondale with a wave. ?Or at least fetch the widow?s things if it won?t stay still.?

Adeen would not walk back to the jail either. The vole convulsed until they reached her cell and Simondale dumped a bucket of water over her head. A soapy cloth passed over her muzzle, her pits and gums were scrubbed clean, and only when the second bucket rinsed her did she settle.

?Almost done, dearie.? The hop and sunlight no longer lit Simondale?s voice. ?Off with the dress. We?ve your old clothes, dry and clean.?

Adeen shucked the prison dress and her small clothes without ceremony, the knife clattering onto the stone floor. Blood ran free from the cuts on her thighs, turning the dirt coloration of Adeen?s leg fur into clotted clay. What was once the sturdy form of a mother and tradesbeast was now a knotted vole imprisoned too long. Adeen remained still as Simondale cleaned and dressed the wounds.

Adeen?s rugged vest and bandolier of scrolls hung loose after she put them on. In small comfort, the side satchel of etching and writing equipment was all accounted for, and her coal black cloak swallowed her whole. Golden vines and poppy flowers stitched along the hems of the leather and linen garments. The longer she focused on the gold thread the firmer the stone beneath her paws grew. The thread once cost a week?s worth of food, but Fenton insisted. He told her surviving was not living. He told her so many things she struggled to remember.

The weakness remained, and Canen?s words hung over her like a gallows, but she found the ground once more and saw a knife upon it.

Simondale picked up the knife and inspected the hilt for initials.

?Tricked our newbie, did you? You weren?t planning to stab me, were you Mrs. P??

?Never, Simon. I could?ve, but I wouldn?t.? The admission dropped from Adeen like a stone into an empty bucket. ?The blade was meant for me.?

?Best hold on to that ?was.? Mighty large word, that one. Keep it in mind, ay wot??

?I?ll try.? Adeen raised the hood of her cloak. ?You?re really too kind, you know. Especially to ?The Black Widow of Bastion.??

?I?m a guard, Mrs. P. I?m supposed to keep all of Bastion safe.? Simondale?s smile didn?t reach his eyes. ?How else should I treat a mother carving her own grave??

Adeen bit her lip and took one last look at her husband?s imperfect memorial.

?Thank you, but your kindness gains no ground.? Adeen followed the hare?s lead down the hallway. ?Bastion is not safe with beasts like Canen and Granz above us. Their greed will wash away another, and then another, until this jail fills.?

?Then take a page from old nettle-noggin and help poor beasts stay out of the storm.? Simondale unlocked the jail?s last gate. ?Or you can keep slashing at the sky for the rain.?

??The storm?? ?Slashing at the sky for the rain?? You speak in nothings.?

?Aye, but I?m giving you the chance to figure it out. A chance is the best thing a beast can offer.?

Together they left the jail and marched through Bastion. Again, the locals stared. Again, the cheers as the savage widow made her way to Nire?s train.

Adeen sunk into her hood and tasted the hare's words. No chance remained, thought Adeen. Not when The Crater awaited. The pit of legend lorded by a bloodthirsty lynx would afford her no freedom, no chance. Not for Adeen, or the barbaric marteness heading the captives, or her comrades set to fight...

Look for me in the stands. I will be there when Nire?s thugs butcher you like you butchered my son.

?A chance...?

Adeen looked up and found they?d reached the stretch of street before her home. Simondale caught on and bobbed his nettle-threaded head towards the hovel in silent permission. Adeen took one step forward, longing to touch the carved height markers, to smell their bed in hope of Fenton?s scent still inhabiting the sheets.

Instead, Adeen stepped back and joined Simondale on the main road. Side by side they made for Nire's train of would-be gladiators.

?No, not yet.? Adeen spoke with the scant clouds above. ?First I must learn the weather.?