The Wisdom Heist
I had just lifted a plum off a market stall for lunch when a woman in a hooded cloak stepped up beside me and said, “Now You Don’t?”
I took a step back and glanced around, wondering if she was part of a squad of thief-takers. Who else would address me by my street name in the middle of the market?
“I’m not the law,” she said. “The opposite, if anything. But let’s not talk here.” She gave a tilt of her head indicating I should follow her, and strode off.
Confident, I thought. Hovering on the edge of arrogant.
Could be interesting.
I followed her discreetly out of the market square and down an alley, where a door had been left ajar. Inside, a shabby corridor led to a cramped room, and to the woman, now sitting on one of four worn wooden chairs which were the only furniture. She had thrown back her hood, and although her face looked like she was in her early 30s, her hair was completely grey, tied up behind her head in a knot. A pair of spectacles sat on her nose, and under the cloak she wore plain, modest clothing.
I turned another chair around and straddled it, conjured the plum, and bit into it. Juice ran down my hand, and I spoke a mild oath.
The woman’s mouth tightened. “You are the thief known as Now You Don’t?”
“What if I am?”
“I might have a job for you.”
“And you are?”
“Call me…” she paused. “Call me Sophia.”
I placed her look, the grey hair knotted at the back of her head, the clothing, the glasses. “You’re a priestess of Wisdom.”
“Ex-priestess.”
“How do you become an ex-priestess of Wisdom?” I asked, genuinely intrigued.
“By doing something unwise. Something I have no intention of sharing with you. But if you are Now You Don’t, I will share something else with you–something to your advantage.”
I held up the plum stone. “Observe,” I said. “Now you see it.” I made a quick finger movement, palming the stone, then spread my hand. “Now you don’t.”
She regarded me over her glasses, unimpressed. “Any marketplace conjuror can do as much.”
I stood up and began to take off my shirt.
“What are you doing?” she said, in a scandalised tone.
“Demonstrating.” I cast the garment aside. I half expected her to avoid looking at my bare torso, which is certainly no oil painting–hairy, not particularly muscular, and sporting several nasty scars, a professional hazard. But she ran her eyes over me in a detached manner. I turned my hands back and forth, coming close so she could see I had nothing on my person.
“Now,” I said, and conjured the plum stone. I held it up, tossed it to her. She examined it for a moment, weighed it in her hand, then tossed it back. I caught it, made it vanish, and again showed her that it was nowhere on me.
“Very well,” she said. “I’m sufficiently convinced, for now. Resume your garment, please, Mister Don’t.”
“People generally call me Now if they want a shorter version,” I said. She nodded, but gave no other acknowledgement.
“So what’s the job?” I said, when I’d put my shirt on and sat back down.
“I will explain when our colleagues arrive. I don’t wish to repeat myself.”
We sat in silence. I conjured a pair of gold nuggets and started playing knucklebones with them, clinking them together, but she frowned at me over her glasses until I stopped.
I stood, walked around the room. Sat down again.
Sophia glared at me some more.
Finally, the door opened, and an old woman hobbled in. She looked from one of us to the other, took the chair to my left, and sat without a word.
I fidgeted. Conjured a small puzzle made of gold wire strung with cloisonné beads, a toy once made for the Prince of Everstem. Don’t worry, he was grown up by the time I stole it. I draw the line at taking toys from little kids.
I ignored Sophia, who was glaring again, and the old lady, and focused on solving the puzzle. It’s a difficult one (the Prince never solved it, but then, he wasn’t that bright). So I was fully absorbed when a rich, vibrant woman’s voice spoke from my left.
“What’s that?” she said.
I turned. The old lady had become a pale young beauty with long greenish hair, wearing a flowing pale-blue dress rather than the layers of heavy brown old-lady clothes she had walked in with. I blinked.
“It’s a puzzle,” I said, and tossed it to her.
She examined it, and I examined her, a rewarding activity as long as I ignored the burning glares from Sophia, still sitting opposite me.
“Ah,” said the young woman. “Like this.” She manipulated the beads, and they fell into their goal configuration.
“That’s right,” I said. “Well done.”
At that moment, the door opened again. My future colleagues were not, apparently, people who knocked. A towering man with enormous everything entered, ducking to clear the low lintel. He looked at the rickety fourth chair and leaned against the wall, carefully.
“Now that we’re all here,” said Sophia, sitting up straight, “we can begin.”
She took a rolled-up scroll from under her cloak and carefully unrolled it over the fourth chair. The enormous man moved to where he could see, again checking that the wall would hold him up before he leaned on it.
“The Temple of Wisdom,” said the young woman on my left.
“Precisely,” said Sophia.
The Temple of Wisdom is, naturally, a library.
“I take it we’re stealing a book,” I said.
Sophia glared at me. “I will run this briefing,” she said. “Everyone will please be silent until I have concluded.”
She proceeded to tell us, at great length, that the job was to steal a book.
…………………………………………………
For #saturdayscenes, an extract from my latest work-in-progress, “The Wisdom Heist”. It’s rough, but I think it could go somewhere interesting.
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