Rules for Thieves Page 3

  I shake it. “Alli Rosco.” In that brief second before our hands drop, it occurs to me that I should be scared of him. I just saw him hold a knife to a man’s throat. But I’m not scared. It’s something about the way he did it—like it was easy. He’s tough, and unafraid.

  There’s another long silence as he looks like he wants to say something but never does. Then, “That was your first time stealing from a shop, wasn’t it?”

  I start to deny it, but there’s no point. “How did you know?”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up. Heat floods my face, and I glare at him. “Glad you find it amusing.” I turn away.

  “Wait.” The trace of a smile is gone. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny.”

  I want to just walk away, but . . . I need to know. I need to know what I’m doing wrong. So I turn around, hands on my hips, and scowl at him. “What? What do you want?”

  “Look,” he says, “I can help you. I know . . . well, I know how hard it is to live on the streets. And—”

  “Why are you so interested in me?” I don’t trust him. He’s like the man in the sweets shop, all nice and friendly until he betrays you. He starts to speak again, but I cut him off. “Look, I appreciate your help back there, all right? But I can take it from here.”

  He shakes his head. “No offense, but you won’t last five minutes. The streets will eat you alive if you don’t know what you’re doing. I’ve seen it happen. But I can teach you—”

  “For your information,” I say furiously, “I don’t want your help. Save your concerns for someone who cares.” I turn away again. I can figure out what I’m doing wrong by myself.

  “Do you have anywhere to stay tonight, Alli?” he says quietly. “I know of a place, if you want.”

  I don’t speak. He waits for a minute, then shrugs and turns around. “I’ll just go, then.”

  He walks away, toward the other end of the alley.

  It’s stupid. I shouldn’t do it. I don’t trust him. There must be a catch.

  But I’m curious, and I don’t know what to do on my own.

  I don’t have anything to lose.

  “Wait,” I say. He stops. “I changed my mind. I’m coming.”

  Chapter Three

  Beck leads me to a street that looks totally abandoned, just like the one outside the orphanage. All the buildings have peeling paint and broken windows, and the grass grows up around them like a snare. The street is unpaved and strewn with garbage and mud. It’s like the whole world’s forgotten about this place.

  It’s perfect.

  Beck’s hideout is an old clothing shop. The paint on the front sign has faded so much that I can’t tell what it used to say. The front door and windows are heavily boarded and stained with graffiti. A lone shingle dangles precipitously from the roof, probably knocked loose during a storm.

  Beck and I trip over the uneven ground in the narrow, dark alleyway between buildings to reach the back of the shop, where Beck shows me how the old door pops off its broken hinges. Just like that we’re inside, but no one can tell we’ve ever been here. Beck’s reasons for choosing this place become obvious as I look around. The back room we’re standing in is full of cardboard boxes, and those boxes are piled high with a seemingly random variety of clothing. Up front, there’s a table with a cash register in the corner. Another corner houses two dressing rooms, and the rest of the space is racks and racks of clothing, in all sizes. Almost everything is coated in a fine layer of dust, and some of the clothes look moth-eaten, but otherwise it’s all still wearable.

  Seeing my jaw drop, Beck smiles. “Take whatever you want.”

  I find some bags in the corner and grab a particularly large pack to throw extra clothes in. I wander among the racks, looking for things in my size. I seize a sturdy-looking pair of pants, a cotton shirt, and a dark red jacket with plenty of pockets. I change clothes in one of the dressing rooms, leaving my old patched things on the floor. I remove the few packages of food I managed to steal from the shop and put them in my bag. Unfortunately, this shop doesn’t have any shoes, so I’ll have to make do with my old ones.

  I find Beck in the back room. He’s using one of the boxes like a table and laying food out on it: bread, a strip of meat, an apple. “Help yourself,” he says.

  This is a suspiciously generous offer, but I’m too hungry to refuse. The fresh bread tastes like heaven and I devour it all in one breath. Beck eats more slowly, but meticulously—he doesn’t waste a single crumb. He’s used to being hungry too.

  “You never answered my question,” I say after several minutes of silent eating. “How did you know I’d never done that before?”

  “You picked the wrong kind of shop,” he says. “There are a lot of thieves in this part of town. Shopkeepers over here know what signs to look for. And there are more protectors on patrol, as you discovered.”

  I frown. “So what’s the right kind of shop?”

  “This kind,” he says. “The abandoned kind. There are lots of places like these, if you know where to look. And for food, the marketplaces are the best. There are so many people around that no one will notice you.”

  “But more people means more chances you’ll be spotted,” I argue.

  He shakes his head. “Everyone in the marketplace is too distracted by what they’re doing to pay attention to anyone else. There’re so many people that no one will see you if you blend in right. Don’t take too much from one place. Take a little bread here, an apple there, and no one will notice.”

  There’s something funny about the way he says the word “bread” that distracts me. “You’re not from Azeland,” I say, almost to myself.

  His jaw tightens. “How did you know that?”

  “You have an accent,” I say. “You try to hide it, but it’s there.”

  For a long moment he doesn’t say anything. In seconds he’s closed something off, hiding it from me. Then he says, “I knew I was right about you.”

  “Right about what?”

  “I thought you were like most of the other kids out here, at first. Stupid, clueless. But then . . . the way you talked back to the protector. You weren’t scared. You were defiant. And I thought, maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. What I said to the protector was stupid, not defiant. I’d never admit it out loud, but he’s the one who got us out of there.

  He’s definitely hiding something from me. Maybe I can keep him talking. “So where are you from? And what are you doing here?”

  “Arat,” he says. Which is weird. Arat is the name of the mountain, not the city where everyone lives. The orphans I knew who’d been born there would say they were from Ruhia. Which makes me think he’s not from Ruhia. But there is definitely something northern about his accent, like the Ruhian orphans. And if not there, where?

  He adds, “I’m here because I was . . . looking for someone.”

  “I see,” I say curtly, making it clear I’m not buying it.

  “What about you? You’re an Azeland native?”

  “Yeah.” For the sake of full disclosure, I add, “I think so. I mean, I don’t know exactly where I was born, but I’ve lived here as long as I can remember.”

  He nods and doesn’t question it. “So. Alli. What are you running from?”

  “What makes you think I’m running?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You’re out on the streets alone. You don’t know how to steal, so you’ve never done this before. You don’t have anything with you, not even a change of clothes, and the ones you’ve got haven’t been new in a while. You’re running from something.”

  I scowl. “What makes you think you know me? You’ve talked to me for five seconds and you think you know everything?”

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “If you’re so smart, tell me where I’m running from,” I taunt.

  He seems to think about it for a minute, surveying me like I’m a puzzle he’s piecing together. His eyes widen. “You’re t
hat girl. The one who jumped the wall at Sisters of Harona this morning.” He sounds impressed.

  There’s no point in denying it now. I can’t think of a reason to lie. “Yeah, that was me.”

  “Everyone was talking about it. No one’s ever escaped from Harona’s before. How’d you do it?”

  “Easy. The guards were all busy on Adoption Day, not in the garden like usual. I walked right out, climbed a tree, jumped the wall. Oh, and I threw a drink in Sister Romisha’s face.”

  He smiles slightly. “Bet they never saw that one coming. But . . .” He trails off, looking confused. “If you were about to be adopted and get out of there, why run?”

  I sigh. “Adoption isn’t what everyone thinks it is. It’s not some paradise. What nobody tells you about adoption is that when you hate the family, or when they hate you, you’re stuck with them and there’s nothing you can do about it except run away, which I did. Twice.”

  There’s silence for a second as he takes this in. “You were adopted twice?”

  “Yeah. Both times it was awful and I tried to run, but the protectors caught me. And then the families didn’t want me anymore and I didn’t want them, so they put me back in the orphanage. I knew it would happen again. So I thought, why not skip the awful part and run now?”

  He nods. “Yeah, I get that. How long were you there?”

  “Total? Nine years. Before now, I hadn’t been out since I was eight.”

  He looks suitably impressed. “What are you going to do, now that you’re out?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” I admit. “But I’m twelve now, so I thought maybe I could pass for thirteen and get a job somewhere.”

  “But, if you’re almost thirteen, you were about to leave the orphanage anyway. Why’d you run now?”

  “What, you think I should’ve waited around so they could just dump me somewhere? No thank you. Being abandoned once was enough.”

  “Ah.”

  “Besides, I still have, like, half a year to go before my birthday, and who wants to wait that long?”

  The corners of his mouth curl into a smile. “Practically an eternity,” he says, with all the smugness of someone who doesn’t have to wait for his thirteenth anymore. But it occurs to me that if he’s thirteen, the labor laws no longer apply to him. He should have a job and not be living in an abandoned clothing shop.

  “How old are you, anyway?” I say.

  “I’ll be thirteen in eight days. My birthday’s the first of Mirati’s Month.”

  My eyes widen. He shares his birthday with Saint Samyra, the patron of intelligence and cunning. To be born on a saint’s day is supposed to be a sign of their favor, and Samyra is definitely one you want to have on your side. “So, what are you planning to do for the big birthday?”

  “I’m going back to Arat.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Did you find the person you were looking for, then?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I did.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . well, I was looking for this, uh, friend because he was supposed to be back home weeks ago. I thought maybe something bad had happened. Turns out he was arrested. For theft.”

  “Oh.” The way he says it makes me think he’s telling the truth, but he’s also leaving something out. “So, if your friend lives in Ruhia with you, why’d he come here?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

  It’s obvious he’s holding something back, but I still think he’s being honest. I don’t know why I believe him, but I do. Maybe it’s because he saved me from that protector, or because he took me here when he didn’t have to, but I like Beck. I don’t know if it’s right to trust him, but I like him.

  By now we’ve finished all the food, but I’m still not full. Beck sees me looking wistfully at the empty box-turned-table and guesses what I’m thinking. “Still hungry?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “But it’s fine. I don’t want to eat everything—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get more in the morning. I can show you how, if you want.”

  “Okay,” I say, standing. As I turn, I notice for the first time a small pallet of blankets and clothing heaped in the corner. A makeshift bed.

  Beck follows my gaze. “We’ll have to get you one too. I don’t know how many more blankets there are, but there are some big winter coats that should work. . . .” He trails off, already heading into the main room, hunting among the racks.

  I follow him and stand in the doorway, watching him comb through the racks for a suitable blanket. He’s done so much for me just in the last few hours. I hate to get all mushy and everything, but it seems wrong to let him do all this without at least thanking him.

  “Beck.”

  He looks up.

  “Thanks. I mean, for letting me stay here and giving me your food and—and for helping me with the protector. I really—”

  He looks down, his mouth twisting into a pained frown.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Beck?”

  “Don’t thank me,” he says, not looking up.

  “Why not?”

  “Just . . . don’t.”

  He looks guilty.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I say. “What did you do?”

  He still doesn’t look up. “It—it was my fault. Back at the shop. It was my fault you almost got caught in the first place.”

  Too late, the explanation occurs to me. How odd it was that another thief happened to be in the same shop I was, and then a protector walked in at the exact same moment.

  Beck already told me that shop wasn’t the kind he would steal from, and there wasn’t anything in there worth buying that he couldn’t have stolen in the marketplace.

  He wasn’t there to buy, or to steal. He was there to hide.

  The truth is all over his face.

  He looks at me and knows that I know, but I say it anyway. “That protector was following you.”

  He takes a step toward me. “I’m sorry. It’s not like I knew you’d be in there, and I was hoping I’d lost him in the crowd—”

  For some reason, his apology just makes me furious. A wave of anger washes over me, blurry and red like it always is before I lose control. I step back, away from him. “This whole time you’ve been acting like you saved me because you’re a good person, you just wanted to help, you know what it’s like, you felt sorry for me, whatever. Because you liked me. But it’s because you felt guilty.”

  “That’s not—”

  “It was your fault he was there. If I’d been caught, it would’ve been your fault.”

  “Well,” he says, “all right, yeah, but that’s not—that’s not the only reason I—”

  “You lied to me.” I clench my fist, feeling the anger boiling up inside. “This whole time you wanted me to believe that I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m a bad thief, I need your help or the protectors will get me! None of it was true, was it? I was doing just fine on my own. I would’ve gotten away if you hadn’t been there. But you wanted me to think I needed you.” My voice comes out a bit strangled at the end. I had believed him. I’d thought I needed him. Thought he’d been honest with me. “I don’t need you. I don’t. I don’t need anybody.”

  He looks at my clenched fist and backs away slowly. “You don’t,” he agrees. He doesn’t really mean it.

  “But Alli, that’s not—that’s not how it is, okay? I just wanted to help, that’s all. I never lied to you. Everything I said before about wanting to help you was true.” I open my mouth to say something, but he keeps going. “Yes, it was my fault the protector was there, and yeah, I felt guilty about that. But honestly, Alli, everything else I said was true too. And even if—even if you don’t need my help, I can help. I want to help.”

  I wish I could believe him. I really, really want to. And I hate myself for that. The sweets-shop owner who turned me in all those years ago taught me not to trust anyone, but I forgot so easily. I’m not even all that angr
y at him. He still saved me, regardless of what his reasons were. I was so stupid, so naive, when I knew not to believe anything anyone says.

  “I don’t even know you,” I say, more to myself than to him. “Why do I believe you when I don’t even know—” I remember the funny way he talked about being from Arat, and how vague he was about the “friend” he came to find here. “Where are you really from, anyway?”

  “What?” He’s still looking at me like I’m going to punch him at any moment. Maybe I am. But the anger is fading as quickly as it came. I still want an explanation, but my hand unclenches.

  “You said you’re from Arat, but nobody says that. People from Ruhia just say they’re from Ruhia. Why didn’t you?”

  Realization spreads across his face. “You’re right. That was stupid.” He smiles hesitantly. “I didn’t lie, I’m from Arat. I live—I live on the mountain. Not in the valley, where Ruhia is.”

  I consider this. “But I thought nobody lived on the mountain. It’s uninhabitable, right? Except—oh.” Now I’m the stupid one. “So you live in Hesmea? On the peak?”

  He looks slightly confused for a second, but then his smile returns. “Right. From Hesmea. The peak.”

  He’s lying. This still doesn’t add up. “But then, why didn’t you say so?”

  He looks sheepish. “Well, I don’t know how it is here, but in Ruhia there’s a stigma about people who live on the peak. Most people think of Hesmeans as lonely old hermits in igloos . . . they think it’s weird to live there, you know? Because the weather at the peak is so extreme.”

  I could push him on this, but the anger is gone, and now doesn’t seem like the right time. “Oh, here in Azeland we think that about everyone living anywhere near Arat,” I say, smiling to let him know I’ve calmed down. “Ruhians included. I mean, doesn’t it snow, like, every day there?”

  He smiles back. “In Hesmea, yes. But not in Ruhia. Ruhian winters are bad, though. During the heavy snows you can be trapped inside for weeks.”

  “And I thought our winters are bad.”

  “Your winters are nothing. Our winters mock your winters.”