The Moneylender's Safe

"But it's all I have, my lord. How will I feed my children?" The vendor extended his hands in supplication over his display of fruit and vegetables. "Give me another week, I beg you. Just one more week."

"And another week's interest? Time is money. The agreement was for payment today. So pay."

Close to tears, the hapless merchant offered his pouch, but the moneylender folded his arms across his barrel chest and shook his head.

"Count it out."

One by one, the coins were duly counted out until, finally satisfied, the moneylender swept them into his pocket.

"Perhaps you'll consider the fate of your children next time you're invited to a dice game."

Giles Chaley brushed a little chaff from his velvet robes and turned his back on the weeping merchant with a contented sigh. Vendors and patrons thronged the market filling the air with their sales patter and fierce haggling, but it seemed that the crowd parted for him wherever he chose to wander. Voices became subtly hushed as he passed by only to regain their vigour a moment later and Chaley smirked in quiet pleasure. Perhaps it was his wealth they hated, or his rigid adherence to the agreements he made which always favoured his coffers over anyone else's. Maybe it was the secrets he held in his pockets which only the application of gold would ensure they remained there. Most likely it was his enforcer and bodyguard, an ugly, scarred lump of a man who followed at his side whenever he was out on business in case a disgruntled client should ever feel a flash of reckless bravado. Oh yes, they loathed him, but Chaley had no interest in their petty hatred. Wealth opened doors and soon, once he had accumulated enough of it, the doors of the palace would spring open for him and a position of prestige at court would at last be his.

For an hour or so Giles Chaley browsed the stalls and shops, milking a few stray debtors along the way and keeping his ears open for any profitable gossip. Another hour passed in the tailor's fitting room where he examined a new and costly outfit commissioned for a ball in another city.

"This gold trim is a little too plain," he said, fingering the filigree edging on the hem of the cloak.

"I have others, my lord. Which do you prefer?" The tailor spread rolls of shimmering gold across the counter for his customer's perusal. Chaley examined each in minute detail, finally selecting the widest, most extravagant design.

"I think this will do me justice. Put it on the cuffs and collar also."

"As you wish, my lord." The tailor made a half-bow, partly in respect to a high-spending customer and partly to hide his embarrassment at having to create such an ostentatiously vulgar ensemble.

With a last fondle of the thick red velvet draping his corpulent form, Chaley changed back into his daywear and tossed the unfinished garment into the tailor's waiting hands.

"The Holdsworth Ball is in two weeks. See that it's ready." The burly bodyguard opened the door and Chaley brushed thanklessly by.

"Come, let's eat. I've no-one else to see this morning."

Giles Chaley's shadow watched him enter the tavern with his guardian. It had watched him for over a week, seen every deal he made, every victim of his usury, and noted every detail of his movements. Malia Skye loved creatures of habit, especially the rich ones like Chaley. She stepped out of the herbalist's porch where she'd spent the morning unobtrusively observing her target, and headed off through the city. He didn't need to be watched anymore, she knew where he was going.

Mid-afternoon found Malia resting in the graveyard. It wouldn't have been her first choice of hide-out had it not been for her target's regularity at the tavern. First rule of thieving - never let them see you. At least the cloudy weather hadn't given way to rain. Besides, the graveyard wasn't so bad. In the week she'd spent there, scarcely half a dozen visitors had disturbed her and none came near the overgrown corner she'd chosen to nest in.

Retreating to the deepest shadows, she opened her bag and drew out her work clothes. She donned soft leather breeches, a fitted wool shirt and a soft, hooded leather coat. Everything was that subtly shade of grey that was almost, but not quite black. Around her waist she coiled a length of thin, strong rope and tucked a grapnel muffled in sackcloth into her belt. A long knife in her boot and a shortsword in a sheath completed her preparations and Malia settled down in the shadows to wait for darkness.

Giles Chaley closed the ledger and set the pen aside. Takings were on target, future prospects looked good and losses were non-existant. Must slip that beast a few extra coins, he mused, considering his enforcer. Can't for the life of me remember his name. Gregor? Gulnar? One of those names that were given to hulking great brutes with good sword arms and very little brains. Still, he gets the job done.

Leaving his desk, Chaley rested one hand on the window frame. Locked. He tidied his desk, swiftly sorting through the papers until he came upon a letter. The parchment itself bore no crest but the wax seal he'd broken identified the sender, and the request inside could be his ticket into the upper echelons of society. He gathered up the letter along with a couple of small yet weighty coin purses and settled them in his safe. The anonymous steel slab squatted behind the door in a small alcove, the silent guardian of his treasures. Boxes of carefully graded gemstones nestled amongst the purses, pledges and promissory notes, and all the accumulated profits of his trade. He locked the safe, tested the windows once more before taking the lantern and leaving the study, carefully locking the door behind him.

Lights out. Malia stirred in her niche, preparing to move in on her target. The moon languished behind the passing clouds and the street was deserted but for the occasional guard. Malia followed the darkest alleys to a vantage point where she could observe a light still burning in a ground floor window of Chaley's house. The notes she'd made rang true - after leaving the study, the mark spent a little time downstairs, presumably with his wife, before retiring for the night. Time did not drag for Malia whilst she waited. She checked her roll of tools and turned the plan over in her mind, picking at it, trying to find a hidden flaw or a possibility she hadn't accounted for. Occasionally she directed her gaze towards the palace, relieved to confirm that only two guards patrolled the gate at night. The study's only unbarred window was set in the sheer wall that faced the palace entrance.

Ah, at last, thought Malia as the downstairs light vanished. A brief flickering confirmed the mark's presence in the upstairs bedroom before it vanished, leaving the house in darkness. She moved swiftly though the shadows into the grounds and hunkered down under a hedge. She began to count. Her eyes moved from one window to the next, checking for signs of conscious life. Children's room, dining room, kitchen, bodyguard's room, all lay in darkness and silence. Still counting, Malia peered around the gatepost just in time to have a guard completely fail to see her. She grinned beneath her hood.

One thousand. Malia crept from cover and pressed against the house wall next to the kitchen window. The barred study window was directly above. The guards were out of sight and the cloud cover still good. After a few quick stretches, she used the ornamental window frame to reach the first floor. Balancing on her toes on a ledges barely an inch deep, she stretched upward, her eyes closed against the fine grains of plaster drifting down. A quick glance confirmed that her fingertips were two hand's breadths from the sill. Slowly she flexed her knees, feeling the tension in her tendons as she crouched with her body flush against the wall, until finally springing upward like a lemur. The jump was perfect and her grip faultless, and she took a few moments on the wide marble window ledge to gather her thoughts. So far her progress had been silent and no lights had appeared from within. On with the show, she thought.

The eaves were within easy reach and Malia grabbed hold to pull herself up. The tile she grabbed came away in her hand and fell. She caught it, dropped it, juggled it twice while trying not to lose her balance, and finally sent it into the hedge with a muffled thud. Now her heart began to hammer and she crouched down on the sill, a light film of sweat beading her flushed cheeks. Suddenly the stakes were a whole lot higher. Chaley wouldn't have her arrested. Oh no, he'd drag her into his cellar and have his tame ape beat her to a puree before dumping the leftovers in the sewer. Deep breaths, she told herself. No-one heard. She returned her attention back to the eaves and proceeded carefully onto the roof, testing the tiles as she went. Lying prone, she inched her way up and along the roof until she rested at the gable end, just below the ridge.

The palace guards stood at the gate in desultory conversation. Malia used their inattention to crouch astride the ridge behind the ornamental finial. The breadth of the roof hid her from passers-by below and all of the surrounding homes remained in darkness. The greatest risk would come from the guards on the gate or the occupants of the house beneath her. She uncoiled the thin, supple rope from her waist and hitched one end to the heavily wrapped grapnel which hooked neatly into the base of the finial. Now comes the scary part, she thought, wiping her palms on her breeches.

When the guards parted to patrol their routes, Malia dropped the coil of rope over the edge and lowered herself quickly to the unbarred window beneath. There was barely time to pull up the trailing length before the treacherous moon emerged from the breaking clouds she'd been relying on. Swallowing a curse, she hurriedly applied oil to the lock and hinges before getting to work with her picks. The mechanism was surprisingly simple and took scant minutes to release, much to her relief. She peered over the sill at the sheer drop and shook her head as she climbed inside. He puts too much faith in that wall, she thought.

The odour of wealth and expensive cologne permeated the wood-panelled room and a thick rug muffled Malia's footsteps as she made for the expensive, polished desk. She rifled through Chaley's correspondance in the moonlight, and found several that raised her eyebrows but she carefully replaced them in their original order and position. The lure of the safe drew her to the alcove and she flexed her fingers in anticipation. First, a little oil, then to work.

A puff of white dust erupted from the lock the instant her oiled feather touched it, catching her full in the face. Malia rolled soundlessly onto her back, dragging her hood over her mouth and nose to muffle the violent attack of wheezing that followed. Tears and snot flooded her scarlet face as she desperately tried to clear her lungs without waking the entire household. The voice of her teacher echoed in her memory as she silently cursed her folly. "Always check for traps first - many a thief has died of carelessness." She sneezed twice into the crook of her elbow and dragged herself under the desk to hide. Someone must have heard her. She waited, wiping her face and listening to the rattle of her lungs, her eyes never leaving the door.

Nothing happened.

Eons passed, or so it seemed, as she crouched in the darkness, waiting for the door to burst open. No-one came. It seemed that the gods of luck and thievery were in her pockets this night and offered both a silent prayer of thanks. Still trembling, she returned to the safe where is sat in silent mockery behind the door. With her lower face covered, she applied her feather again and relaxed when it emerged without further incident. One-shot dust bomb, she thought, set to cause a lot of noise and get the thief caught alive. Well, not this thief, not today, she thought with a wry grin.

The safe presented a greater challenge than the window and required all of her patience. Two picks snapped and the third became so bent she had trouble extracting it. "Slowly, slowly," she murmured, sliding another pick in and feeling her way around the tumblers. A tiny click brought a smile to her face and she swiftly inserted another tool, manipulating the mechanism until the barrel finally turned. At the last moment she twisted aside and let the door swing open, chastened by her earlier mistake, but all was well and the safe ready to yield its secrets.

The safe was a veritable trove of treasure and Malia congratulated herself on her good fortune. Leather-bound boxes contained carefully sorted gemstones and Malia removed one from each box as reward for surviving the dust-trap without detection. With the leather pouches of coin, she evaluated their value and took roughly a tenth of the total from each. Her intent was to leave as little evidence of her passing as possible so that the real theft passed unnoticed. She picked up a stack of papers and rapidly skimmed through them until a particular seal caught her eye. A brief glance at the letter inside confirmed it as the item she sought and brought an swift end to her spree. She stowed it away inside her shirt and replaced the remaining parchments exactly as she found them before closing and relocking the safe. With great care, she ran her hands over the floor to check for remnants of broken picks before rolling up her tools and stowing them away safely. From the window sill she cast her eye over the room for any sign of her presence and, finding none, passed back through the window and locked it behind her. Time was on her side now she was out and so, it seemed, was fate. The clouds had returned to shroud the moon and she didn't delay in grasping the rope and lowering herself unnoticed to the garden where a practiced flick of the rope brought the grapnel down into her waiting hands. From the gatepost she checked the street for guards before darting up and away, stuffing the rope and grapnel under her coat until she reached the graveyard. Job done, she thought, changing her clothes and stuffing them into the pack with her tools. Now to get out of town.

Giles Chaley stroked his chin thoughtfully. He rested his belly on the windowsill and unlocked the casement. Curious, he mused, very curious. A sixth sense detected a presence in the room the moment he walked in, but he could not explain how or why. The desk remained as he left it, nothing had been moved or taken and he saw no fingerprints on the polished surface. He turned to the safe and produced his key. With a gasp he leaned closer to examine a small patch of fine white dust on the rim of the keyhole. In a rage, he almost wrenched the door off its hinges until a second shock stopped him in his tracks. The contents were untouched. The boxes of gems were all in their proper order and closer inspection showed them to be full. The same was true of the bags of gold that sat beside the boxes, and his papers on the document shelf were the very picture of order. Anger bubbled dangerously within him made worse by a growing sense of impotence. How had the intruder got in, and why break in and open his safe if not to steal its contents? Giles Chaley was a man violated, and he was determined that everyone should taste his frustration. Someone, somewhere would pay.

In another town, many miles away, someone was making a payment.

"Thanks, Malia. That's just what I was wanting."

Malia Skye grinned widely as she handed over the letter with one hand and rattled a small bag with the other.

"Found a few bits for myself too. Seemed rude not to."

The buxom redhead at Malia's side tucked the letter into her bodice.

"Good for you, love. Here's what I owe you - a deal is a deal, after all."

Malia pocketed the cash and sipped her wine.

"So how did you know Chaley had the note in the first place?" she said.

"Because he's a braggart as well as a dirty bastard," said the redhead. "Got to go, I'm on shift tonight. A trollop's work is never done, eh? "

Malia laughed into her goblet. Many a man had taken a fall after paying for a tumble in this establishment. If only they'd remember to tighten their lips before loosening their breeches.