Grince had cobbled together his peculiar piece of apparel from bits of leather and fur, fustian, velvet, brocade, and any other scraps of warm fabric that he had been able to find among the stalls and storerooms of the arcade. Its patchwork of varied textures and hues broke up his outline and helped him blend into the shadows. It was short enough to leave his feet unencumbered for running, and loose enough to be slipped off at an instant’s notice—or in the clutch of a grabbing hand. Unlike a normal cloak, there were slits in the sides that he could put his arms through to snatch a cooling pastry or cut the strings of a purse—and the inside was lined with a multitude of pockets to carry home his spoils.
Old Tam, in addition to his sailor’s skills with a needle, had possessed a fund of outrageously tall stories with which he had bribed the boy as they worked. Grince particularly remembered the tale of a magic cloak that made its owner invisible, and he liked to think of his cloak having similar powers, though he had far too much sense to put it to the test. Nonetheless, it was his special thief’s cloak, and it gave him confidence. Though it would have been too conspicuous during the day, he never went out at night without it.
Thus equipped for the night ahead, tine boy stacked some wooden boxes to act as steps up to the high window of his lair, and blew out the candles and all of the lamps, save one. Then, squirming between the bars of the window, he dropped down into the alley below and vanished into the maze of darkened streets.
Grince slid through the shadows like dark water running downhill toward the river and the docks, heading toward the merchants’ warehouses and the possibility of stored food. It was cold outside, but in his cloak he was safe. The other denizens of the night were far too intent upon their own business to take any notice of him—a small boy was clearly no threat to them, and he had nothing that they could possibly want.
As it happened, the boy did not have to go as far as the river. His chiefest skill was burglary, and the looming, tottering houses in the old quarter, with their overhanging stories, crumbling masonry, and loose-fitting windows, had always provided him with the easiest pickings—when there was any food within. Tonight he was lucky. His third such foray (the first having produced one ancient, wizened apple plus a few small shellfish from the river, which he ate on the spot; the second, nothing whatsoever) provided him with a stub of candle, half a dozen oatcakes, and a small, stale meat pie of indeterminate ancestry. Slipping his spoils into a deep pocket within his cloak, Grince blessed his luck as he wormed his way out of the forced window back into the street, and headed for home.
It was later now, and the streetfolk were becoming desperate. Grince hugged every scrap of cover he could find on the way back and gave a wide berth to the starving derelicts that remained. A few narrow escapes in the past had taught him to be circumspect. While he had lived with Tilda, he had never known anyone desperate enough to eat human flesh, but these days he was not so sure. He had overheard rumors of gangs who roamed the streets in the guise of beggars so they could get close enough to their victims—and then it was too late.
There were, however, certain advantages to this perilous hour, for the doors of the taverns were beginning to open now, and their occupants were spilling out into the streets. With luck, Grince might encounter a number of drunks on his homeward journey—and a drunken man, off his guard and bent on weaving home, was a far easier mark than a guarded, sober man for a young pickpocket who was just learning his trade. Unfortunately, however, Grince’s luck seemed to have run out for the evening. The impoverished folk of the city were growing increasingly desperate in this hungry spring, and many were taking to the streets in the hope of robbing their more fortunate brethren who had anything—anything at all—worth stealing. People were on their guard now, and tended to go about in groups for their own protection—and when a likely prospect did present himself, the competition from bigger, well-armed ruffians was more than one small boy could handle. Time and again, the boy would sidle up to a potential victim, only to be beaten to the mark—usually by armed thugs who did not stop at the mere picking of pockets, but had murder in mind.
With some mixed feelings, Grince decided to give it up for the night. In the end, his safety was more important than a couple of coppers in a leather purse. After all, he had responsibilities. He shuddered at the thought of what would happen to his dog if he should be killed out on the streets. The mere idea of poor Warrior, shut in his basket and slowly starving to death, was enough to make the young boy cautious. Because of this, though he did not realize it, the white puppy had probably saved his life on several occasions.
Grince was looking forward to seeing his small companion again. Warrior, like his master, had become used to eating all manner of things in his short life. He would enjoy the meat pie, and afterward they could snuggle up together in the warm and cozy bed, safe from the violence of the cold, damp streets. These happy thoughts gave impetus to Grince’s feet as he turned homeward. Familiar as he was with all the shortcuts, it took him very little time to get back into the tangle of alleys that ran behind the Grand Arcade. Grince slowed his pace then and began to creep forward cautiously, reminding imself that this was one of the most dangerous parts of his journey. He must be sure that no one saw him approach the arcade or climb in through the window—or the secret of his hiding place would be out at last.
There was one last, broader lane to cross before he could duck into the narrow passage that backed onto his home. He would have to be careful here—the thoroughfare was usually the hunt of beggars. As he crept stealthily forward, Grince heard the sound of footfalls, soft but brisk, coming from the street ahead. He froze like a rabbit that scents the hunter, flattening himself against the cold, damp wall and peeping warily around the corner of the building to look into the lane. In the distance a tall figure came into view. All details of its identity were concealed beneath a billowing hooded mantle of midnight-black, yet there was something about it that made the young boy shiver and shrink farther back into the shadows, lest the dark void that concealed the shrouded face should turn his way and transfix him with its blank, arcane regard.
Oh, grow up, Grince, he told himself in withering disgust, as the figure came nearer. It’s only some damned mark who’s stupid enough to be wandering home alone at this time of night. Do you want to miss a chance like this? You’d never get at a pocket through that big loose cloak, but maybe begging would work… Maybe it would—but Grince would never find out because there was no way, no way at all, that he could force himself out into the open to accost the eerie stranger. His heart labored, and sweat sprang out on his forehead, icy in the chill of the night. It felt as though his feet had been nailed to the ground. Though he had been too intent on the approaching nightmare to see them go, he suddenly noticed that the lane had emptied of beggars—apart from himself.
Huddled in the folds of his patchwork cloak, his guts knotted in terror, Grince shrank back into the shelter of his alley and watched the looming figure pass. Once it had gone beyond his hiding place, he felt limp and shaky with relief.
Nonetheless, he would not—dared not—move until the shrouded shape was completely out of sight. Grince closed his eyes and listened to the receding tap of footsteps, and prayed that they would soon be gone.