A Wealth of Flames

[Arthur Fishbottom]

July 14th

Fire wasn't generally a good thing, but panic offered a rare opportunity for Art. Generally he had to stick to pickpocketing and what he earned with his sleight of hand, but he could get some real wealth here, and if he stuck to small things then he could sell them over the next several towns they hit and no one would be the wiser. He had already been out every day since the fire started and been sneaking into houses that were abandoned but not actively trying to fall down on him or burn him alive, and he would pocket small valuables such as any jewelry or silver that he could find and then get out.

People were dying and Art himself had been sick briefly in early June, but that was the way of life in the carnival. You took what you could when you could and you didn't worry too much about anyone else. Art's relatives all did fine (although his brother sleeping with their dead brother's wife sometimes made him uncomfortable) and so Art just worried about himself and that was that.

Art spotted a likely looking house in Wellingtonshire, burnt out but with enough left that he thought he could find some valuables (maybe even melted valuables, which were sellable as scrap gold and silver, and any loose gems that had survived! It was wealth, pure wealth, and he set about making sure he was alone in the alley before moving to sneak into the building.

  

[Randolph Lowell]

Fire was monstrous, especially magical fire. Fire on its own could destroy anything in its path, growing large enough to destroy lives and livelihoods. Homes were destroyed in fires, even entire cities. But that was just regular fire. Magical fire could be unstoppable. Forget homes, magical fire could destroy the world.

Randolph knew that virtually no one in Wellingtonshire would have ever spared him a passing glance on an ordinary day and today was the aftermath of an ongoing tragedy. Everyone's eyes slipped past him as he walked down the street, surveying the ruins in horrified fascination. He would have looked decidedly out of place just a week prior, but today he looked almost as if he belonged. Destruction was a great equalizer.

He spotted some movement out of the corner of his eye. Was that man trying to get into that burnt out house? Whoever he was, he looked like he belonged here possibly even less than Randolph did. "Excuse me? Is this where you lived?"

Somehow he doubted it.

  

[Arthur Fishbottom]

In Arthur's profession, his wits had to be just as quick as his hands. He shrugged as he opened the door; the locks had been so damaged by the flames that it came open easily.

"Sent t' check out th' extent o' th' damage. Had an insurance policy, an' 'm suppos't' make sure th' damage is as bad as th'r goin' t' claim."

It was a shady enough claim to explain why he was being a bit shady, and the crude accent that he'd adopted (along with his slouch) made him seem just the sort to be hired for such a job. Sure, he was short, but he had a tough sort of look to him. It was the best way to keep from being picked on too much when you were inches shorter than most of the men around you.

  

[Randolph Lowell]

Oh okay, no big deal then. Rich people were always hiring poor people to do all their dirty work for them. No trouble, and he could just be on his way. He should head home anyway, it was getting late.

But wait. Randolph was naive, and believed the best in people, but he wasn't entirely stupid. If this man had nothing to hide, there was no reason for Randolph to leave. "Could I come with you?" he said, smiling at Arthur. He hoped it was a friendly smile, but his smiles had been known to look more like grimaces, or snarls.

"It's only just that I am very curious about the amount of damage this fire has done as well. Since you're a professional, I would hope that perhaps you would be able to satisfy my curiosity. I promise I won't get in your way."

  

[Arthur Fishbottom]

Fuck. Bloody hell, that wasn't what Art had hoped for ... but he thought that he could work through it. "Near a total loss, excep' a few irreplaceable thin's," Art drawled. That was rule one of theft: never take anything too identifiable.

"C'mon then," he said with a shrug, tossing his head towards the house. "Grab sommat heavy on t' way in."