II. The pecopeco-drawn carriage rumbled through the busy afternoon streets of the port city, past the docks, past the vast marketplace where goods and zeny changed hands.
Inside, Diradem Tarkis slouched in the plush cushion seat, absent-mindedly fingering one shiny zeny piece. He could hear the collective murmur of the market outside, the shout of his driver trying to guide the carriage through the crowded road, the return shouts of accosted passers-by, the cawing of the two pecopecos dragging the cab. He stared at the coin in his hand, watching the light streaming through a curtained window play upon it.
It's all different these days. So not like Morroc, he mentally sighed. He rolled the coin over the knuckles of his left hand effortlessly, watched as it turned over and over. He should never have left Morroc, Jewel of the Sograt Desert. How long had it been--five, six years?
He had been raised by his uncle, a thief called Abd who taught him the art: cutting purses from unwary folks, casing the merchant stalls, and general appraisal of the actual zeny value of things. His uncle had told him many times, "You're a natural, boy. Plus, it helps being taught by the best." But Abd was small-time crook, a hand-to-mouth footpad. Sure, he knew the trade, but he lacked the talent.
Diradem flipped the coin, made a show of catching it with one hand, but actually palming it with the other. Anyone watching him would have been fooled by the trick. He opened the hand containing the zeny piece.
Zeny. It all came down to that. It made the world go round. His uncle had trouble with zeny those last days: always being visited by burly men with serious faces, faces only their mothers surely could love. His uncle seemed to acquire bruises as if by magic after those meetings, but said nothing about it when Diradem asked. And so, Diradem wasn't surprised when he walked into their home one night after a day of thieving and saw Abd sprawled over a table, face down in a pool of his own blood; what surprised him was the sudden bursting of the City Watch into the room. He barely escaped getting captured. That was when he fled the city, harried by the soldiers of the Watch...
He came to Alberta to begin anew. His talents attracted the attention of the Albertan Shadows, and he rose quickly through ranks of the thieves' guild in the six years he had stayed in the port city. The Shadows controlled crime in Alberta: everything, from the vast network of beggars and pickpockets that ply the streets day and night, to the white slavery trade on the waterfront. And then there was the protection racket siphoning off more zeny from the merchants.
Six years. Feels like a lifetime. Maybe it's been too long.
He took out the note from the pocket of his silk vest and reread it for perhaps the hundredth time since he got it the other night:
"Secure Lord Dastonia's alliance."
He knew what it meant, of course. It irked him, this new plan of the Shadows. He wasn't sure what it was exactly--only members of the Inner Circle were privy to that; his rank in the guild was high, but it wasn't high enough. He also knew now that it required the full cooperation of Lord Dastonia, perhaps the richest merchant-prince of Alberta. And Diradem was to secure that cooperation by marrying Dastonia's only daughter.
Diradem shifted in his seat and peered through the window. The carriage had left the bustle of downtown Alberta behind, and was now clattering over a winding road that passed through well-kept lawns of verdant green punctuated by elm and ash. In the distance, on top of the hill, his destination sprawled, proclaiming its owner's wealth. Lord Dastonia's Sea Side Villa.
Dropping the note and coin back into his vest pocket, he leaned back, watching the manor grow closer. It's all so different these days.
