Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One) Read Online Free

large, upright rolls of carpet, the thief was struck with an idea. Across from the upholstery booth where he hid was a stall specializing in long, fanciful cloaks: colorful and exquisitely embroidered, in every sort of variety and every kind of style. A pale man in a large silk turban was trying one such coat on, and the merchant assisting him was entirely occupied with it.
     
       I could use a warm-up, reasoned Gribly. At that very second he saw a quick break in the throng coursing up and down the dirt lane between the stalls; in an instant he was through the gap and behind the cloak-merchant’s booth. Peeking past the striped canvas that made up the tent, he spied the merchant still fitting his customer’s order… and between them, rack upon rack of elaborate cloaks. It was time to take a chance.
     
    ~
     
       The merchant heard nothing and saw nothing when one of his finest garments was stolen from out of his tent, not five feet behind him. He continued measuring the pale, black-robed nobleman in front of him, anxious beyond compare. This was a most unusual and highly affluent man he was serving, indeed. A voluminous black hood enveloped his head, and black silk was draped all around his body in a style that spoke of simple comfort only the richest could afford. With the merchant’s scarlet longjacket and collar over it all, the man reeked of arrogance and power. The merchant was afraid of him, yes, but the gold coins the man had jingled under his nose held too much appeal, and he was anxious to please.
     
       Suddenly the mysterious noble stiffened, turning his head towards the merchant with an unnatural, jerky motion. The merchant, a portly, over-dressed man, glanced up from where he had been taking in the man’s cloak at his waist. The longjacket was bloody red, shot through with veins of silver. It was the merchant’s most expensive work simply because it was so strange, and it would bring him nearly three-hundred gold coins if the transaction went well. The merchant glanced up at the man to see what was wrong: all he caught was a glimpse of the sharp, pale skin and a strand of hair dyed unnaturally dark.
     
       “Is something the matter, M’lord?” The man did not answer, but from the position of his hood he was keeping his gaze fixed on some point in the merchant’s tent. His jaw clenched with some violent emotion, but his face stayed shrouded in shadow. “M’lord?” repeated the uncertain merchant, unbending to look the man in the eye.
     
       “He is here…” Had he imagined it? The merchant thought he heard the pale man speak, but his lips had not moved. Was this man a sorcerer? He seemed too young…
     
       “My Lord?” The merchant quavered, suddenly and unreasonably afraid.
     
       Without a word, the pale man hit the merchant with the palm of his hand. The unfortunate fellow was thrown back over his own table and into the racks of clothing beyond, snapping the central tent-pole and bringing the entire structure down on him as he fell. The sorcerer remained impassive, but the injured merchant under the tent could hear his voice as distinctly as if he were shouting.
     
       “The thief is here…”
     
       The terrified cloak-seller stayed perfectly still where he lay. He heard the sorcerer search frantically among the wreckage of the tent, and something heavy and hard smacked his hand where it lay protruding from the colored canvas. Hurried footsteps sounded nearby: first of the pale young man fleeing, then of a crowd of astonished onlookers coming quickly closer to see what had happened. When he was sure that the danger had passed, the portly, sweating merchant emerged from the mess that had become of his livelihood.
     
       Slowly, painfully, he stood up. The crowd around him gaped at his ruined booth and the wounds from the blow he’d been given. Utter shock prevented the merchant’s giving any coherent explanation of what had happened, at least at first. When he