"Pocketing"
by Anonymouse

"Don’t be dipping your tail into just any jar of ink," my grandma always used to tell me. She was always full of good advice, with an apron full of cookie crumbs, and a lot of pride in teaching me how to dot my I’s and cross my T’s. Without her, I would never have had the career I did, working with merchants and alterers and greater mages, doing the fine lettering and details they did not have time to attend to themselves.

I thought of her wistfully when I became a Free mouse and the vest pocket of my traveling companion was oft empty. Times in the Zoluren provinces grew lean with a bitter cold wind and days and days of blizzard. Pockets could not play his instruments and ply his enchantes, and though many of us were driven to the taverns for warmth and shelter, we were all poor as….well, as mice!

So it was not surprising to me when Pockets took a job. He became a traveling guard for a wealthy merchant I shall call Miser. Now, he was neither as wealthy as many traders nor was he miserly. But he did pinch a coin, and for protection, he hired Pockets to play the bard enchante, Drums of the Snake, or sing the Eye of Kertigen, which enhances the skills necessary to spot and avoid thieves. I went along to see the world!

The snow and ice ruined many a pair of Pockets’ simple bones, but, as he explained to me, "They’re but inexpensive, field instruments, and we buy them for just such a use. Hodierna’s Lilt in the driving rain and wind, or Nexus or the Blessing for clerics in the battlefield."

"It’s an expense and a waste." I scrubbed my whiskers as I hung out of the watch pocket of his vest, bumping along behind a loverly view (and yes, that is sarcastic) of yak behinds.

Pockets tickled my soft chest of silky charcoal fur. "I do believe Miser is rubbing off on ye," he teased. "Anon, let me be the bard and ye the scribe. We shall have an adventure or two on the way, and I expect ye to pay attention."

As it turned out, he was both right and wrong. The road was raw and haggard to travel. Thieves tried us at every turn, and Pockets was fairly successful in repelling them.

So successful that one shadow-hugger stepped out and snapped off a quick crossbow bolt or two in frustration! The first bounced off his armor, but the second lodged, and I found myself pinned in torn fabric and drowning in a slow, seeping pool of blood.

"Help! Help! He is hit!" I cried my loudest, hoping Miser and the driver could hear over the endless creaking of the caravan and lowing of the yaks. Miser turned, concern immediately furrowing his Elothean face, and he threw Pockets’ arm over his shoulder and carried him to a seat in the caravan.

The brigand, in the meantime, disappeared with a soft curse. Pockets had a store of herbs and had the bleeding all but stopped when we found an outpost and Miser hired an empath. But, alas, the vest was ruined, the watch pocket torn, and all of us without needle or thread.

So it was I found myself in the coin pockets of the trader, holding on for dear life, my hind feet sliding over the many coins he had hidden there. Never had I dreamed of such wealth, and I am sure I will never have such a ransom in paw’s reach again.

Pockets, however, fell quiet. "I let ye down, old friend," he confided to Miser.

"Let me down? Nonsense! My losses are the lowest they’ve ever been. Why else do you think he shot you? My only worry is if you’re well enough to travel. I have…" and Miser rattled the contracts in his ledger case. "Deadlines. Always deadlines."

"I am well enough to press on," my silver haired bard said, although I thought he still looked rather pale. But I knew the determined curve to his mouth. He did not like having been bested.

Once we hit the road, however, Pockets threw out his best spirits. He began to tell Miser a tale, and even the yaks quieted some as if listening.

"Not long ago, Zoluren was still a part of the Seven Star Empire, though a province struggling for its own identity, and finding profit in hard work," my bard began. I had not heard the tale and listened intently.

"Our Prince was summoned by the King to go and fight faraway battles, leaving his beloved family and the Crossing. Despite the growing prosperity, he could sense a growing discontent, and it worried him. So he called his aide Dardenvorg to his side and charged him with finding out how better to please the people once the Prince came back from the spring campaign.

"Now, Dardenvorg was a man of simple pleasures. A good drink pleased him. As soon as the Prince rode out, after saying good bye to his wife and baby daughter Karona, Dardenvorg knew that the taverns would be a good place to begin his charge."

Miser chuckled at that, tucking his thumbs into his moneybelt. I sank deeper into his pouch, scrambling for purchase, the clink of coin almost drowning out Pockets’ rich voice.

"Now in the taverns, Dardenvorg heard the clerics praise the new temple, the empaths the open and free herbal gardens of Arthe Dale, and the traders brag on their rich contracts. The Aide was pleased, having only good things to put in his report. However, as he left, the Traders’ voices rose in quarrel. ‘Lirums, lirums, lirums! The Empire will bleed us dry. I vow I never want to send another triangle bit in taxes.’

"As Dardenvorg reeled down the alley, he pondered that. It seemed he would have no choice but to find another opinion in a second tavern. A tough job, but if anyone, he was the man to do it."

"And what did he find there, do you think? More grumbling. Farmers and hunters, rangers and barbarians, weapon makers. All of them unhappy with the flow of Lirums northward to line the treasury for war. Dardenvorg staggered out, quite filled with good liquor and bad cheer. As he leaned against a corner, to his surprise, he found a hand in his pocket and caught the shadow tightly by the wrist!

"The lad hung back and looked at him with a wary eye. ‘Cursed lirums’, the boy thief said. ‘Sticking in pockets.’

"The Prince’s aide raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed’, he said. ‘And why cursed? Why is everyone unhappy?’

"The shadow looked at him closely. ‘Ye’re a Prince’s man. Dinna ye know?’

"Dardenvorg shook his head, though it sent his senses reeling. The lad seemed to ponder a moment and said, ‘If I can explain it to ye, will ye do something about it?’

" ‘An’ it will please the Prince, I will!’

"The lad tugged him down the alleyway. ‘Follow me!’ he shouted, and as Dardenvorg was quite attached, he had no choice!

"Dardenvorg found himself at the foot of a small hill overlooking the Crossing. The lad loosened his fist, and a small shower of lirums hit the dirt. He motioned for Dardenvorg to do the same. With a shrug, the aide did so. Then the lad fell on all fours, and motioned for Dardenvorg to do the same. The lad put his nose to the ground and began to push the triangle bits of gold and silver and bronze up the hill. Dardenvorg stared.

" ‘Why, what are we doing here?’

" ‘We,’ said the lad sagely, ‘are working hard to earn our lirum. Come help, milord, or ye’ll not understand what I am doing!’

"So Dardenvorg began to push his coin uphill. It was hard work, no doubt of it. He was quite out of breath and sore when they reached the crest as the lad jumped to his feet. With fingers so quick they could scarcely be seen, he gathered up his lirum and tossed them back downhill.

"‘By Kertigen, lad!’"

Dardenvorg was not more astonished than myself and Miser. We watched Pockets, our mouth agape. I had all I could do to hang onto the edge of my container. Tossing money downhill? What was the lad thinking?

Pockets winked at us, throwing his head back, the tale rolling out of his throat like a fine operatic score.

"‘And that,’ said the lad, ‘is how we enjoy the fruits of our labors. Entertainment. Chasing our coin back downhill to whatever pleasure they roll…but what is this? Triangles canna roll! The old empire denies us the very thing we work so hard for!’

"Dardenvorg scratched his head. Indeed, they could not! He clapped the boy on the shoulder as inspiration filled him. ‘Thank you, my boy, thank you!’ And with that, he hurried off into the dawn’s thin light (Dardenvorg had been in his taverns all night studying his problem, you see).

"And when the Prince came home from his battles to the north, he found his people a bit more contented. Dardenvorg had ordered new coins minted. Round ones. Easier to spend, to slip from purses unwarily, but most importantly….coins cast and minted free of the Seven Star Empire. Dardenvorg had backed into a solution which pleased everyone. But would it please the Prince, who still owed allegiance? That scarcely mattered, for Dardenvorg had taken great care to have baby Karona’s chubby round face imprinted on each and every one…or Kronars as they became to be known."

Miser let out a hearty roar, throwing me deep into his coin pockets as he and my bard quite enjoyed their laugh.

As for myself, I looked up to see thin, grubby fingers, fingers I did not recognize by sight or smell, dipping into my chambers! With mouse sharp fang and claw I leapt at them, biting and scratching, and the thief jerked his hand out howling, revealing himself to the others. In a second, the caravan driver wrestled him off, only to lose the slippery one. Miser and Pockets peered in at me, somewhat timidly, as if their noses might next be attacked. I caught my breath. "I may be a scholar," I squeaked, "but I can protect myself!"

The rest of the trip did not seem long and soon was done. We had no more trouble with thieves, for it seems the legend of Misers’ pockets lined with venomous fangs and claws had run up and down the alleys. He tipped us well, he did, and Pockets took a room above a warm and friendly tavern while the blizzard blew over and where I could scribble out my adventures in Pocketing.

And as for our friend Miser, his prosperity grew as did his wealth for it was commonly known his pockets were so tight, they....squeaked.