Owin #6 — What’s in the Crates?

Owin glanced once more toward the door leading into the small room. He assumed it contained guards, but fortunately, the door remained shut.

Carefully, he gathered the loose end of his rope that still hung through the open window. He pulled it close to a vertical post, hoping to hide it from casual notice. Not that I want any notice—notice of any kind is trouble.

Turning back to the crates, he checked the nearest stack, which only came to his waist. The first lid was nailed shut. Darn. The noise of prying it off would draw attention. He moved down the row of crates, worry that he might have to risk some noise built until he found a loose lid on the fifth set.

Removing the wooden top and setting it aside, he peered into the dark interior. After a moment, the black shapes formed into what appeared to be linear bars. Reaching inside, his fingers brushed against cold metal. Expanding his physical search, he slowly lifted a sword from the crate.

Owin held the blade high, catching the light of the Mother Moon though the window. The weapon would win no prizes for quality, but it appeared serviceable enough. He frowned.  Near the crossbar he noted the reflection of a circle and bar stamped into the blade. Duke Ravigar. Owin set the sword back into the crate that contained countless more weapons. Picking up the crate’s lid again, Owin noted the mark of Lord Basenar’s merchant company. He shook his head; while even these weapons would have value, with the markings, he would not be able to sell them in Rhyl.

Owin walked back along the stacks of crates. He counted at least twenty of the same size and construction. Damn it, we don’t need another war. Frustrated and angry at what the weapons foretold, he almost decided to leave. But, I need to eat.

He moved to another set of crates and checked to see if any of their lids had been removed. He found them all secured. Getting annoyed with his luck, he changed his tactics and headed toward the front of the warehouse. His steps cautious and measured to minimize the sounds of his boots on the hard clay floor. His time in the army had taught him how to move silently.

Keeping his eye on the small room and the backlit door, he moved to where the workers unpacked the crates before delivering the goods to those who ordered them. The darkness in this part of the warehouse obscured anything but shapes; however, he easily noted the outline of several bolts of cloth. Looks like some workers left their tasks incomplete when they quit for the day.

With a hesitant glance to the door, he rubbed his fingers over the different materials. Settling on a bolt of smooth cloth he suspected was silk, he carefully removed the bundle from the middle of the pile. Tucking that under one arm, he moved closer to the door and what appeared to be a smaller crate whose lid sat ajar. Lifting the lid, he immediately noticed the smell of rosemary. With a smile, he put his hands into the dark box and felt a series of leather pouches. Jackpot.  Smiling at the full crate, he picked up pouch after pouch, smelling each one before putting it into his bag. He found several of rosemary as well as others with more exotic aromas. He hoped the ones that had no tantalizing smell might be salt or other valuable spices.

The sound of voices and the creaking of wood froze him in place. Light spilled out of the door as it opened. Despite the powerful urge to duck behind the crates, Owin remained still. Experience taught him movement would draw attention in the still dimly light warehouse more than his form. Especially for someone night blind from the lamp, the thought more hope than belief.

One man exited the room with a lamp held in left hand. Damn. Damn. Damn. Bilfor…no Rarnir, he thought, working out the man’s name. Owin had not seen the man since Owin left the army and that suited him just fine. Rarnir knew how to fight and was half again as broad as most men. Damn.

When Rarnir turn away from where Owin squatted, Owin still forced himself to remain motionless. Only once Rarnir started toward the back of the warehouse, closing the door behind him, did Owin resume breathing.

Unsure of how long it would take the former soldier to make his rounds, Owin picked up the bolt of cloth and his bag. Staying low, he moved toward the front doors of the warehouse while he tried to blink away the spots in his eyes from having looked toward the lantern.

Although he had always intended to leave this way, he had hoped not to do so under so much pressure. Fortunately, the smaller door, that was set into the larger sliding doors, had gaps around the edges. The faint outline created by the moonlight offered Owin a point of reference.

Stepping as quietly as he could, Owin approached the outer door. It was certainly locked, but he did not know how they secured it. Feeling around in the dark, Owin came across what felt like a wooden bar held in place with metal brackets. He tried to lift the bar, but the large piece of wood would not budge.

Elrin rot you, he swore. Setting down his bag and the bolt of cloth, he tried again, this time putting his legs into the effort. He felt it move slightly, but something held it in place.

Seeing changes in the illumination behind him, Owin quickly slid his fingers over the wood, catching at least one splinter in the process. Ignoring the discomfort, he felt around the brackets. A pin! Pulling the narrow metal rods out of the brackets and the wooden bar, Owin kept them in his hands as he lifted again. This time the bar moved.

Sweat dripping into his eyes, he wiped his brow with his shoulder. Without the brace in place, the door creaked open on its own. Crouching low, Owin set down the bar, grabbed the cloth and his bag, and slipped out through the gap.

Outside of the dark building, the moonlit street seemed bright. Owin turned right and walked between the wagon and the building. He continued past the alley. His rope still hung in the window, but the act of drawing it up with Rarnir in the open warehouse would draw the soldier’s attention, as would the open door. Even though the loss of the rope would cost him, possibly more than he made on the endeavor, too much risk accompanied its retrieval. If there is one thing a successful thief knows, it’s when it’s time to go—but damn my luck.

Continue to the next episode.