A Mischievous Tale of Magical Mayhem

10 | Heists and Half-Witted Schemes

The elf was generous, Benethane had to admit. He'd looked Ben up and down, declared his stolen workman's garb unsuitable for the business at hand, opened the wide wardrobe in his room, and offered Ben his choice of the contents. Ben selected a dark shirt, a pair of trousers to match, and a gray hooded cloak made of finely woven material, which would blend nicely with any variety of shade.

Thus outfitted, he looked himself up and down in the room's full-length mirror. The clothes were a little long in the arm and leg, but unmistakably fine.

He combed a hand through his hair and shook his head at himself. "Well, I shall make a handsome corpse, at least, if this goes sideways. Speaking of." He turned to the elf. "Do you happen to have some letter-writing things I might use... my lord?"

He wasn't sure quite how to address the elf; he'd introduced himself by his first name, but calling him 'Tallon' felt too familiar.

Tallon wrinkled his nose and tried not to gag. "Ugh, please don't ever call me that again. That's a title for a stuffy man with too much ego and not enough self respect."

He imagined Ben might need convincing to use something though, especially when they were among higher social circles, and Tallon sighed. "I suppose until I educate you on proper etiquette in our endeavors, you may publicly refer to me as Mister Colbert since that is technically my name. Lord Colbert of Sagehand is my father, and we are not always on the best of terms."

Tallon didn't elaborate, preferring to keep his family drama private. In truth, he understood that deep down, he was the problem for reasons he couldn't explain or comprehend. He'd had a fine upbringing with the best tutors of the realm, wanted for nothing, and could potentially marry a fine aristocrat with strong ties to other nobles, but Tallon somehow never failed to disappoint his parents. His mother had always been kind, if not a saint with infinite patience, but his father was less than empathetic and always the first to criticize his eldest son until nothing remained of his self-esteem except bare, tattered threads.

Quickly turning his back, Tallon held his breath as he approached a heavy teak desk and gathered a sheaf of bound parchment, an ink bottle, and a peacock feathered quill. Once he regained his composure, he deposited the items on a turquoise upholstered chair.

"Is there anything else you require? Money, tools, or...?" He paused, completely at a loss for what else a pickpocket might need. "A knife, perhaps?"

After only a slight hesitation, Ben seated himself in the chair, laid out a sheet of parchment, and carefully uncapped the bottle of ink.

"A small knife, if you have one. Something easy to conceal. And... you don't happen to have a locked box about, do you?"

Sprout's attempt to pick the door had given him an idea. If the little creature was game, he wouldn't need to carry an elaborate burglary kit.

The elf intrigued him. He was probably the most beautiful person Ben had ever seen, and he couldn't deny that was partly the reason he wished to keep his company. Not that he could hope the man shared his 'proclivities,' as they were called in Ballsdeep. Ben had been about nine or ten when he'd realized other boys interested him more than any girl, and that hadn't changed. When he'd admitted this to Brixby, the innkeeper had flushed crimson and told him to keep it to himself. It was common enough in other places, he'd said, but not something Ardenian folks freely discussed.

Confused, Ben hadn't mentioned it again.

Now, he focused on his letter, writing out a few words in clean, simple script and tucking it into an envelope once it was dry.

"There," he said, handing it to Tallon. "If you don't mind hanging on to this, I'd be obliged. I'll send it myself when I return, but..." He took a breath. "If, by chance, you don't see me again before you leave, would you send it along to Brixby at the Tularul?"