Page 145 of The Discount Damsel

The merchant looked like he was about to rouse his companions to a fight and take the booth by force, when he spied the knot of hooded travelers clustered in the doorway. They moved forward like a school of sharks, and the merchant immediately saw the error of his ways, muttering something about how he’d gladly take his ale in the beer garden. The tavernkeeper bobbed a nod in the travelers’ direction as they made their way to the corner booth and immediately began drawing another pitcher of ale.

Over the next few minutes, which saw Dirk licking his lips and drumming his claws and flicking his tail all in the sweet, sweet anticipation that any second now, the perfect gift for his princess would reveal himself, nothing happened. The artists never made a move. Couldn’t, because the hooded travelers never left the booth. All they did was keep their hoods up and drink their beer and converse in tones even Dirk couldn’t hear through the din. Grumbling, the Mini Red retreated back into the loft and out the hole in the thatch, shoving it back into place with an irritated kick of his rear paw.

Just as he was about to call the whole evening a wash, he spied a moving shadow. Under the nose of the very stableboy employed to water and watch the horses, a pickpocket slipped amongst the saddlebags and the stagecoach. In the tense minutes that followed, the pickpocket was almost discovered twice—it was his low muttering of “Where is it? Where is it?” that threatened to give him away—but he always flitted out of sight as nimbly as a bat before he could be discovered. He used every shadow to his advantage and even tossed a pebble or two to misdirect the stableboy.

Definitely an artist. And a strange one, for he took nothing. When the stableboy was looking the other way, he abandoned his picking altogether and skirted around the back of the tavern.

Dirk scuttled down to the edge of the thatch and peered over the side.

Why that little adrenaline junkie! No way was this pickpocket trying to pick someone’s pocket through an open window. This was incredible!

The Mini Red slid off the roof to watch and pooled in the shadows between beams of lanternlight that stretched across the parched grass. He was impossibly close and yet undetected, as the pickpocket’s whole focus was on the mark in front of him. So focused was the pickpocket that he had no idea that the moment he jerked back his arm with his prize, his sleeve would catch on the rusty window latch. The sleeve might tear, it might snag, but the latch would definitely leave a nasty scratch. The resulting noise—the knock of an elbow against metal and glass, the ripping of fabric, a pained curse—would spoil everything.

Dirk had to warn him!

“Don’t do that,” he whispered frantically.

The pickpocket’s head whipped in his direction, eyes flaring so wide Dirk could see his own reflection in their hazel depths. “Eep!” the pickpocket squeaked, ripping back his arm and knocking the window.

“What was that?” a man’s voice asked from inside.

The pickpocket made to run, and Dirk lunged, tackling him—no, her—to the ground. He smooshed a paw over her mouth and lay utterly still, shored up against the tavern wall, as a hooded face poked out above their own heads. So long as the man didn’t have incredible night vision, they’d be safe in the gloom if they didn’t move. Dirk caught sight of a square jaw covered in golden stubble and the faint scent of mint before the man retreated inside.

“Rats, probably,” another man said. “They say this is squirrel-and-pigeon stew, but I think it’s more rats and crows, if you ask me.”

“Then why do you always eat it when we come here?”

The glass rattled as the window was wrenched shut.

“Good going,” the girl hissed at him, squirming out from under him. Instead of running away into the night, she crouched in the grass and stuffed the black hair back up under her long stocking hat where it had tumbled free.

“I think you mean, ‘Thank you,’” the dragon groused. “Your sleeve was going to get caught on that rusted window latch and bungle the whole thing.”

“The whole thing got bungled because you startled me. At least I would’ve had the bracelet!”

“Sure, for ten seconds before they chased you down on their horses and cut off the hand that stole it.”

Her gaze narrowed on him, hazel eyes glittering in a shadowy round face. “Why do you care, Shorty?”

“Because I can’t offer you a job if you only have one hand—at least I don’t think so—and I want to offer you a job.”

“What?”

“Oh, have you never had a job before?” He clicked his claws together as he tried to cobble a definition together. “Um, well, it’s a service you do in exchange for payment.”

“I know what a job is,” she snapped. She rolled her eyes and craned her head to steal a glance inside the tavern. “And I already have one.”

“Stealing the bracelet is your job?”

“It is today.”

“Oh, well, if you satisfy your contract with the bracelet tonight, will you then be available for me? I’m Dirk, by the way. Dirk the Dangerous. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

She produced a thin blade and began wiggling it between the window and its frame to release the latch. “Nope. Not from around here, so don’t take offense. I’m Pocket.”

“You’re a pickpocket named Pocket?”

“You got a problem with that, Noodle Neck?”