E.M. Dash Web Novels
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Chapter 015 A Scribe’s Disguise and Lessons for a Little Thief
🕑 Added 2025-07-24 09:54:07 +0000 UTCDay 2. Friday 6:00am.
Jack woke to the sound of cockerels crowing. He groaned as he rolled onto his back. To help him sleep on the hard boards, he’d stuffed his blankets under him as padding. “Ow. My poor back.” Young Jack’s body wasn’t used to sleeping on a hard surface.
At least I didn’t have any nightmares, and this isn’t Tartarus. For the past two decades, he’d suffered from cruel nightmares where his family died at the hands of Baron Greaves.
He took a moment to close his eyes and prayed to the Gods, “Thank you for another day with my loving family; every day is a gift I do not deserve, thank you.”
Jack stretched his aching back. “I should have enough time for one more scroll before Mom prepares breakfast.” His mother was always the first to wake, as a cook, she tended to rise early.
He picked up the ornately decorated wooden case that his father had gifted him and smiled. He planned to use his new pen to create a spell scroll. While the pen was beautiful, it wouldn’t impact the quality of the scroll; the skill of the scribe determined the final product’s quality.
As he held the silver pen over the blank scroll, he thought about whether to create another frost breath or fireball scroll. “Hmm… they’re equally popular.” He rubbed his lower back. “I could do a less popular spell to show the merchants more variety,” he murmured. “Might even be worth more coin.”
He’d memorised dozens of mage spells in his past life, but most of them lacked a market. Adventurers sought powerful combat spells. Few wanted spell scrolls for detecting undead or for masking smells. Having only sold spell scrolls to one source in his past life, he wasn’t sure what was expected of a supplier in Lundun.
“Maybe an earth spell.” He knew half a dozen earth mage spells. “Solid ground is a good one for the swamp floor. That might have a market here.”
The second floor of a nearby dungeon was all swamp and lacked any dry ground. The lack of dry hard ground made setting up camp on that floor a problem for adventuring parties who lacked a mage with earth magic spells.
He read the spell text for solid ground aloud before beginning. “By the steadfast earth beneath our feet, let the trembling soil heed my call, rise and harden! Solid Ground!”
He spent the next forty-five minutes penning a solid ground spell onto the scroll with his new pen. As he finished the last rune, he heard his mother preparing breakfast in the kitchen. “Perfect timing,” he whispered. His stomach grumbled in agreement.
After a quick visit to the bathroom, Jack greeted his mother in the kitchen, where the aroma of bacon and eggs filled the air. “Morning, Mom. That smells delicious.”
“Good morning, Jack.” His mother glanced at him as she flipped the bacon. “You’re up early. Are you feeling alright?”
Typically, he wouldn’t wake up for another hour. He smiled and said, “Had difficulty sleeping on the hard boards.” He made an exaggerated stretch. “Sore back.”
“Hmm…” His mom looked concerned, but for once didn’t provide an example of a distant relative going to sleep on a hard bed and dying. “Your mattress will be dry in a day or two.”
“You know…” Jack said. “It would be karma to give me Polly’s mattress and have her sleep on a hard surface for a few nights.” He’d not even thought of this option in his past life.
His mother looked at him in surprise. “You’d make your younger sister, a delicate young lady, sleep without a mattress?” She shook her head and frowned.
Annoyed, he wanted to say, Delicate lady! She’s about as delicate as a brick through a window. She’s the idiot who wet all my stuff and threw my books on the floor. Polly deserves it, and the spider eggs. The miscreant has no respect for books and needs to be taught a lesson. Instead, all that emerged was a quiet, “I suppose not.”
His mom smiled. “That’s a good boy. You don’t treat girls that way. You protect and cherish them.” She went back to preparing breakfast for her husband, who they both heard exiting the bathroom.
Jack slumped at the table. He’d have to get his revenge via hundreds of baby spiders.
“Give me five minutes, and I’ll fry up a lovely breakfast for you, Jack.” His mother filled a plate with bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes and toast for his father.
“Thanks, Mom, you’re the best,” he said while drooling at the smell as his father entered the kitchen.
“You’re up early,” his dad aimed at Jack while kissing his wife on the cheek. “Everything alright, Son?”
Jack smiled as he watched his father sit at the table with a large breakfast in front of him. By the Gods, I’ve missed my family so much…
After his family died, he never experienced anything close to a warm family breakfast again. He’d shared breakfast with many people, usually in taverns, but it never felt like this. It never felt like home.
How could I have taken all of this for granted when I was young? I was such a fool! He felt blessed to be alive. He offered another small prayer of thanks to the Gods.
His mother answered for him, “Bad night’s sleep. He’s a little soft and can’t handle the lack of a comfy mattress.” She went back to cooking. “You want the same as your dad?”
Jack nodded. “Yes, please… smells heavenly.”
His dad snorted as he took the first forkful of food. “That it does, Son. That it does.” He smiled. “Tastes great as well. A meal fit for the Gods.”
Jack laughed while drooling.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I spent with the army?” His dad had stopped eating.
He knew the story, but he shook his head anyway, wanting to hear it again.
“I was a new Apprentice Scribe at the time. Barely twenty-one, and way before I joined the Royal Library. Spent most of my time making spell scrolls to support the army’s non-mages.” His father gesticulated with his fork. “Those scrolls saved many a Merciaran’s life on the frontlines. You don’t have to be a flashy mage or warrior to make a difference, Son. Scribes are important.” He cut up a piece of bacon and dipped it in egg yolk. “Anyway. I spent six months sleeping on a roll on the hard ground.” He smiled like being uncomfortable was a good memory. “A few days without a mattress will do you good, Jack. You never know when the King might call up some Apprentice Scribes to support the army.” He went back to his breakfast.
Jack smiled. His father had told him about his time in the army many times. His dad was proud of serving in the Kingdom’s army.
After breakfast, Jack had some time to kill while he waited for Polly to wake and leave her bedroom, where her tailoring supplies were stored. Having nothing better to do, forgetting about his new exercise program, he created more spell scrolls.
By the time his sister had woken, eaten breakfast, and left the house, it was just shy of eleven o’clock; Jack had managed to finish five more scrolls.
“Finally, she’s gone.” Jack searched through his sister’s bedroom. She had several boxes of material for practising her tailoring skills, some of which were used to create costumes for the play she and her friends were preparing.
While searching through the boxes for a piece of dark cloth suitable for a hooded cloak, he came across some of the outfits his sister had designed for the play. He vaguely remembered what she’d created. Before him were a flashy outfit for the prince, a bright red hooded cloak for the prince’s evil twin, and a uniform for the prince’s valet.
Examining the red cloak, Jack muttered, “Shame it isn’t black. That would be perfect.” He frowned at the prince’s outfit next. “Too flashy. Even nobles don’t wear something that bright.” His eyes landed on the plain, dark valet uniform complete with a matching hat. “I could pass as a young noble’s valet selling spell scrolls for his master.” He examined the hat. “Did you have to make it look so stupid, Polly?” The hat had a peak, a pair of gold coloured bands around the top, and to top it off, a fluffy bobble.
Deciding on his disguise, he grabbed the valet uniform and headed back to his room. Since Polly wouldn’t return until well into the evening, he had ample time to return the costume.
In his room, he tried on the valet uniform. It was a bit tight around the waist, but otherwise it fit well. “This will have to do,” he conceded. “I’ll only need it once; after that, I can buy a proper cloak and mask.”
After changing back into his regular clothes, Jack packed the costume and his spell scrolls into his pack and told his mother he was going out to buy scribe supplies.
A couple of streets from his home, Jack froze as he spotted the two inquisitors and their beastkin guards about to enter another property. “Fuck! They’re still here.” He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “If they scan me again. Will they detect both classes?”
The two inquisitors entered the house leaving the beastkin guards outside.
How would I explain two classes? He started walking again, a little more wary than before.
Navigating the bustling city streets, Jack sought out spell scroll shops to sell his scrolls to; the capital had quite a lot of them. After planning an escape route, he searched for an alleyway to change into his borrowed valet uniform disguise.
Here and there, a small number of aether-powered carriages rolled by, their polished brass chassis gleaming, whisper-quiet against the road. They were driven by uniformed chauffeurs, most bearing the sigils of noble houses or prestigious institutions. Red velvet-lined interiors boasted built-in pressure regulators for comfort, and external valves hissed with spent aether-steam. Unlike traditional carriages, these didn’t clatter or jostle. They hummed, their copper-core propulsion systems fuelled by replaceable, rechargeable aether capsules.
Jack caught the scent of perfume and pipe smoke trailing behind one of the aether-powered carriages, the smell of wealth drifting through the working-class air. “I’ve never liked that smell,” he muttered. “Stinks of narcissism.”
Still, most citizens relied on horse-drawn wagons, their iron rims squealing as they vied for space with clanking delivery carts, some of which were self-driven. Simple constructs enchanted to follow pre-set routes.
Jack paused at the intersection of a busy road next to a market, looking for a suitable place to change. He became distracted when he noticed one of the new sanitation automata cleaning the streets.
“Hey, I remember those,” Jack muttered with a smile. He was watching a compact, bug-like road sweeper that rolled along on aether-powered wheels. Emitting soft brass chimes as they scrubbed the pavements clean, puffing out pleasant smelling spent aether-steam and whistling cheerful tunes from embedded gramophones. “It’s a shame they never caught on.”
Street orphans had learned to pry out the aether capsules to sell on the black market, and disgruntled unemployed street cleaners sabotaged the stations that recharged them. Despite their efficiency, the project became untenable long-term.
It’s too busy here. He’d remembered he was looking for a place to change. Wasn’t there a rarely used… His thoughts were interrupted by a tug. “What the fuck!” He’d felt a clumsy hand tug at his coin purse!
Jack grabbed the thief’s wrist while drawing his dagger, pressing its cold edge to the pickpocket’s throat. Big brown eyes stared back in shock and fear. The would-be thief was a filthy little girl, who was no more than ten years old. He swung her around and dragged her out of the flowing crowd with the dagger blade still held at her throat.
A small group of middle-class women wearing long, modest dresses, brass-buttoned gloves, and laced boots passed Jack and the dirty little thief. They stopped not fifteen feet away to admire a florist’s window, where the flower displays automatically changed. Flowers shifted in colour and position via gear-operated turntables and concealed illusion charms.
No one at the market cared that a teenager had drawn steel on a little girl. Men in suits and bowler hats, women in conservative dresses, didn’t give Jack and the girl a second glance before continuing on with their day.
“You should be careful who you try to steal from, child,” Jack said. It wasn’t the first time young children had attempted to steal from him.
The trembling girl looked at him with wide, panic-stricken eyes. “I… I…” she stammered, as she tried in vain to wriggle free.
She’s probably an orphan, Jack thought. With a relieved sigh, he relaxed his grip and sheathed the dagger. Didn’t I bump into her earlier?
There were plenty of orphans in the city. Many were the children of soldiers who had fallen in battle. Many orphans found themselves living on the street as beggars, thieves, or much worse. The Kingdom of Merciar didn’t look after its lost children.
Jack looked at the thin girl; she wore a dirty dress, and her hair, likely blonde beneath layers of filth, resembled the matted fur of a dog bound with a scrap of cloth. She looked like she hadn’t eaten properly in days.
Recalling his own close brushes with starvation, he knew what that desperation felt like and experienced a surge of pity. Poor kid, he thought. Kneeling to her height, he smiled.
The girl, still trembling and still trying to prise his hand from her thin wrist, listened as he said, “If you wish to be a thief, don’t go grabbing at your target’s coin purse like a drunken ogre.” He used his free hand to display his own coin purse attached to his belt by a cord. “Do you see the problem?”
The girl nodded, the panic receding from her face.
“First, check if there’s anything in the purse,” Jack chuckled. “No point risking your life to steal an empty coin purse.” He shook his coin purse to reveal it was empty. “If you wanted to take this, you’d have to stealthily cut the cord. Do you understand how difficult that is to do without being caught?” After explaining, he released her wrist.
She didn’t run. “C-could you t-train me?” she asked, rubbing her sore wrist. “Sir,” she whispered, looking up at him with a sliver of hope in her eyes.
Jack’s eyes widened in surprise and pity. “I’m no thief, child,” he replied.
Though he’d read about the art of thievery, his ‘training’ had been provided by a drunken old rogue in a tavern. A demonstration on how to lift a coin purse undetected for the bargain price of a few tankards of ale. His knowledge remained theoretical, as he’d never needed to steal a purse.
At his refusal, the little girl looked up at him with teary eyes, much like a lost puppy at the onset of a thunderstorm. Helpless and forsaken, as if abandoned by a cruel master to a terrible fate… with Jack being the terrible owner who just put the dog outside in a storm.
Jack’s heart twanged as he stared into the dejected, sad brown eyes of the wannabe thief. The little girl reminded him of his younger sister before she became annoying. He sighed. “I’m so going to regret this,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head at what he was about to say. “Do you know of the food vendor called Arman on Royal Library Square?”
The girl looked confused for a moment and shook her head.
Jack explained where Royal Library Square was, how it was hard to miss, and what Arman looked like. “When you find him,” he said. “Tell him young Jack sent you and to give you one… no, three. Tell him to give you three free wraps.” He held up three fingers. “Tell Arman to put them on my tab.” He tapped his chest a couple of times. “Tell him I’ll pay him in a few days after I manage to climb the stairs. It’s important to say ‘climb the stairs.’” He searched the young girl’s eyes to see if she understood; she looked confused. “If he asks about me, don’t mention the dagger. Just… just describe what I look like and say I felt sorry for a hungry orphan. Okay?”
She nodded and turned to run.
Jack grabbed her by the wrist before she could dart off. He understood that kindness often came at a price and feared she might take advantage of him. “Do not abuse my generosity, child,” he warned, raising his eyebrows before letting go of her wrist.
The girl nodded once more and bolted towards the Royal Library like a young deer chased by the hunt.
Jack shook his head as he watched the little orphan disappear back into the crowd. “I bet she’ll be ripping aether capsules out of street cleaners a few months from now.
I’m definitely going to regret sending her to Arman.
