outside, he walked back and behind the tavern where he set the satchel down long enough to turn his surcoat back right-side out. As he walked back out of the alley from behind the tavern, he glanced at the driver sitting upon the carriage and laughed to himself, would that all my thefts were this easy! He even wondered if he should have told the driver that veBasstrolle wanted him to bring up his moneypurse as well.
Gully began strolling down the road in the opposite direction, his step much lighter than when he had started out that day. Despite the poor weather, he whistled an airy tune the way he remembered his father doing.
~~~~~
Gully slipped into Roald’s apartment, finding it the same as he had left it that morning. It had been cramped before Astrehd had passed away the year before with the three of them there. Had Roald’s father been alive when Gully came to live with them, it would have been unbearably crowded. But Roald had almost a comfortable amount of space now that it was just him most of the time. The far end had a humble stone fireplace with a few pots next to it. The bed he and Roald had always shared was on the backside of the room. Roald had removed the wooden bed his mother had used and reclaimed the space for the luxury of a small garderobe — a honey bucket in the corner and surrounded by a heavy piece of fabric for a little privacy. He had obviously been thinking of Gully when he put it in since there was little need for something like that if he expected to be alone. There were a few stools and one wooden chair with a short back to it sitting around a small eating and work table, and then a short bench in front of the fireplace. Another longer, narrow table against the front wall served as the larder by way of some baskets for provisions and a couple of water jugs, which Gully was happy to keep filled for Roald at the public draw.
The apartment seemed a little emptier without Astrehd’s seamstress tools and materials and her washtub for when she took in some occasional washing for others. All that was left of his parents was a piece of fabric adorning a wall that his mother had embroidered with a view of the Folly, and then a few glass pieces his father had made.
Gully sat the satchel down on the rough wood table, causing it to wobble slightly on its one foreshortened leg. He stood, hands on the table, and stared at the bag, ignoring the water dripping off of his face and his surcoat he was so fascinated by it. He opened the leather flap and took the cheese and mead out, his mouth practically slavering at the very sight of them.
The desire to cut into the cheese and enjoy it now, to drink the mead and let it cushion the rest of his day, was almost agonizing. Gully sighed and pushed it to the far side of the table; he would resist and save it. Roald was to be done with his watch later that night and Gully would share it with him. It would be great fun to tell Roald the story of his adventure and how he came to have such a fine cheese and mead, but Roald strictly forbade that kind of talk from him. Roald always said it was bad enough knowing items were stolen, but knowing the details of his crimes made it far worse.
Gully emptied his surcoat pockets so he could take the wet garment off and dry himself until Roald returned, laying his moneypurse, his small leather roll of lock-picks, and the ground chicory out on the table. As he doffed his surcoat, he decided he would allow himself a hot drink of the ground chicory instead of the prize cheese and mead. Roald liked a chicory drink as well, so he promised himself to save most of it for his foster brother.
He busied himself stoking up the fire with a poke or two and then hanging a small pot of water in it for his chicory drink. While the water was heating, he sat down in the chair and examined the leather satchel with more care. It was a fine bag, well-crafted of a thick leather, and Gully regretted he would have to toss it
Gully began strolling down the road in the opposite direction, his step much lighter than when he had started out that day. Despite the poor weather, he whistled an airy tune the way he remembered his father doing.
~~~~~
Gully slipped into Roald’s apartment, finding it the same as he had left it that morning. It had been cramped before Astrehd had passed away the year before with the three of them there. Had Roald’s father been alive when Gully came to live with them, it would have been unbearably crowded. But Roald had almost a comfortable amount of space now that it was just him most of the time. The far end had a humble stone fireplace with a few pots next to it. The bed he and Roald had always shared was on the backside of the room. Roald had removed the wooden bed his mother had used and reclaimed the space for the luxury of a small garderobe — a honey bucket in the corner and surrounded by a heavy piece of fabric for a little privacy. He had obviously been thinking of Gully when he put it in since there was little need for something like that if he expected to be alone. There were a few stools and one wooden chair with a short back to it sitting around a small eating and work table, and then a short bench in front of the fireplace. Another longer, narrow table against the front wall served as the larder by way of some baskets for provisions and a couple of water jugs, which Gully was happy to keep filled for Roald at the public draw.
The apartment seemed a little emptier without Astrehd’s seamstress tools and materials and her washtub for when she took in some occasional washing for others. All that was left of his parents was a piece of fabric adorning a wall that his mother had embroidered with a view of the Folly, and then a few glass pieces his father had made.
Gully sat the satchel down on the rough wood table, causing it to wobble slightly on its one foreshortened leg. He stood, hands on the table, and stared at the bag, ignoring the water dripping off of his face and his surcoat he was so fascinated by it. He opened the leather flap and took the cheese and mead out, his mouth practically slavering at the very sight of them.
The desire to cut into the cheese and enjoy it now, to drink the mead and let it cushion the rest of his day, was almost agonizing. Gully sighed and pushed it to the far side of the table; he would resist and save it. Roald was to be done with his watch later that night and Gully would share it with him. It would be great fun to tell Roald the story of his adventure and how he came to have such a fine cheese and mead, but Roald strictly forbade that kind of talk from him. Roald always said it was bad enough knowing items were stolen, but knowing the details of his crimes made it far worse.
Gully emptied his surcoat pockets so he could take the wet garment off and dry himself until Roald returned, laying his moneypurse, his small leather roll of lock-picks, and the ground chicory out on the table. As he doffed his surcoat, he decided he would allow himself a hot drink of the ground chicory instead of the prize cheese and mead. Roald liked a chicory drink as well, so he promised himself to save most of it for his foster brother.
He busied himself stoking up the fire with a poke or two and then hanging a small pot of water in it for his chicory drink. While the water was heating, he sat down in the chair and examined the leather satchel with more care. It was a fine bag, well-crafted of a thick leather, and Gully regretted he would have to toss it
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