Tomas huddled just behind the driver’s box, at the front of the wagon bed. The thin cloth of the rags draped across his thin frame did nothing to keep the chill at bay. He was on his way into yet another unnamed village with his “uncle” to sell their ill-gotten gains.

Villagers never asked where “Uncle” Silas got the items he sold. They took him to be a small merchant that traveled from village to hamlet to thorp in this little pocket of the land. And he was, of a sort. Truth be told, Silas was a bandit, and Tomas was his slavey boy. Had the man any imagination at all, he could have made a better living as a legitimate merchant than as a thief and killer. His instincts were spot-on so far as Tomas could tell. And he’d learned a thing or three about assessing goods and haggling in the handful of years he’d been at Silas’s side.

Tomas learned to pick pockets almost as soon as he learned to walk. Before Silas had found him, he’d lived on the streets of Krellin, south of Dragon’s Blood Lake. He didn’t remember a family. His first memory was of laying numb on a stone step before large hands lifted him into a warm room.

He didn’t mind taking from uppity folk that acted like they were better than everyone. He hated when Silas made him steal from the poorest of the poor, just ‘cause they was easy pickin’s. And he couldn’t refuse, or the punishment was worse than a beating. The first and last time he tried that, Silas didn’t feed him anything but bread and water for a month. Even then, it was barely enough to keep him alive.

At almost fifteen winters, Tomas knew his usefulness to Silas was fast coming to an end. His last growth spurt had made him clumsy, and almost got him caught in the last village. He needed to escape before the man arranged for an “accident” to befall him. Or Silas set him up to get caught, like he suspected happened to Silas’s last boy.

Silas had visited this hamlet before. When the wagon lurched to a halt, Tomas scrambled to the rear, taking care not to tumble any crates onto the ground. He had grown stronger over the last few moons and knew that if Silas tried to beat him again, he could, and would, fight back.

Two days later, they had sold almost everything in the wagon and left the thorp. Silas guided the wagon full of empty crates and barrels down a rough cart-track that led to the trade road. When they reached the intersection, the man looked for signs that a caravan might have passed this spot recently. After a quarter turn of searching the hard-packed trail up a few paces in each direction, he finally decided. He turned the wagon toward Cryswal almost a sennight to the east.

By now, Tomas knew what to expect. Silas would find a merchant caravan to trail. When nightfall approached, they would set up their camp near enough to the main procession to take advantage of their protection. Not so close as to seem a threat. After a couple of quiet nights, Silas would scout the caravan to find out what goods he later sent Tomas to pilfer. Over time, the boy learned that some caravan wagons with hidden compartments beneath held the best goodies. It was knowledge he didn’t share with Silas.

Two days before reaching Cryswal, Tomas had a plan.

Silas fancied himself a master at cards. Truth was, he marked his cards, and was sharp enough to figure out most others’ marks. Now all Tomas had to do was make sure he got caught with a card up his sleeve. Silas frequently used him as a distraction to pull eyes away from the table. When they got to Cryswal, Tomas planned to “slip” with his timing just enough that someone at the table would see. A long time before, Tomas learned that if he didn’t show how clever he really was, Silas left him to himself—mostly. The beatings weren’t as severe, that was sure as rain.

As was his wont each night, Silas wandered to the main caravan to request a copper’s worth of salt or some other seasoning. Finally, on the fifth evening, the guards invited him into their nightly card game. The man knew how to string his opponents into thinking he was a mediocre player. In truth, he was an expert at watching how each man played his hand, looking for the subtle tells most every gambler had. By the time they reached Cryswal, the caravan master had invited his cart to tuck in with the group, for a nominal fee, of course. He’d instructed the guard to watch their little wagon as well.

Four days after they arrived in town, Tomas made sure the guards caught Silas. The pair were having a cheap meal at an equally cheap inn, and Silas wormed his way to another card game. The man had been losing every night. Tomas also knew that he planned to get very “lucky” this night.

The sleazy “landlord” of the tavern, Master Morin, had collected rent that evening and sat at the table. While the table ordered drinks for the game, Tomas filched the master’s purse with the rent and planted it on Silas. All he had to do was wait until Silas reached up his sleeve to bring attention to the man. He knew that would happen when the pot grew to at least a gold piece, if not more.

Tomas kept his eyes open for his chance. After several hours of play, Silas made noises about having lost enough and was going to have to bow out if he lost another hand. Tomas made his move.

A candlemark later, the watch had custody of Silas, after getting caught with the winning card up his sleeve and Master Morin’s full purse tucked in his pocket. No one suspected Tomas of being anything more than what he claimed to be—Silas’s little slavey boy.