Tylywoch ~ 19

 Tylywoch ~ 19  Luckless Thieves

By Len Morgan 

For Galt the busy cloth merchant and his entrepreneur wife Amree, clothing designer commissioner of exquisite creations for court and streetwear, life went on as usual.   People still needed clothing be there peace or threat of war.   She kept busy visiting her seamstresses whilst Galt met and dealt with his merchant acquaintances, buying and selling, turning a profit.   Food, clothing, precious metals and gems were at a premium, given the uncertain political climate.   There were pickings to be made by a man with a cool nerve and he was cooler than most.   Back at the premises, their new assistant Weilla was hard at work receiving and despatching goods on promissory notes penned in Galt’s fair hand.   She was in control having full powers to use their finances as she chose, paying large sums on little more than verbal instructions.   The leader of a local gang of racketeers rubbed his hands together at the thought of easy money, deciding to give the premises a call whilst Galt was not around.   His reputation as a tough operator meant nothing, in his absence, not when a young slip of a girl could be bullied into parting with more than the paltry sum currently being paid for their protection.   So, the foot soldiers took it upon themselves to go in and rob the establishment, and make it appear that looters had hit the premises.

To some women, the slim 17 year old would be considered good looking, but unfortunately, he had several rather anti-social traits.   He was a thief, he didn’t wash nearly as often as he ought, and harboured a penchant for violence towards his female acquaintances.   It had become so bad that even prostitutes avoided associating with him.   But, his biggest mistake to date would be his last.   He approached the cloth merchants’ premises with the intention of robbing and overpowering the young female assistant and…   He licked his lips in anticipation. 

Weilla’s eyes followed the approach of the cocky young street shark with interest.   She read his fortune in his dirty unkempt appearance his threadbare clothing and down at heels footwear.   His self confident swagger only added to the effect, confirming his felonious intent.   As he and his nefarious looking cronies entered the premises she fixed them with a confident friendly smile.  

“Good morning gentlemen, can I be of assistance?”

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she answered, “What kind of a greeting is that?”

He reached out to grab her, by way of reply.

She took half a step back, he gained confidence, an ugly smirk appeared on his face.

“Anybody leaving a store in the care of a ripe little plum, like you, deserves to return and find it empty and the ripe fruit plucked!”  He lunged, she side stepped easily out of his reach, her trailing leg tripping him into a heavy fall, which looked like a complete accident. 

“Get her!” he yelled from his unaccustomed sitting position.   The two heavies rushed her from either side, grabbing air where she had been.   Neither saw the powerful Rabat punches that displaced several cervical bones causing instant paralysis.   “You little..” he rushed her, his face red with anger.   He didn’t see the balled fist that fractured his trachea, folding him in half like a rag doll.   He drowned in his own blood, but within minutes she had deposited them across the street.   They look, to the casual observer, to be just three more drunks sleeping off their overindulgence of the previous night.

Had somebody observed the incident it would have appeared that they entered the shop and collapsed in a drunken stupour.    But, the keen eyed Wilden had witnessed the confrontation and knew better.   He’d located a member of the 13^th Clan, a new arrival in the city.   Could she be turned, He wondered?

 

[To be continued]

 

Copyright Len Morgan