Peter’s feet skidded on the worn cobblestones of the street, almost sliding him into a cart of apples, as he turned sharply from the bustling market plaza to the narrower, but no less crowded, side street. Regaining his balance, he glanced back to get a look at his pursuers. There were three of them, all in the red uniforms of the City Guard. They were all young and in good shape, he noted with increasing concern. They could probably run as fast and as long as he could. Maybe longer.

He looked forward again just in time to avoid running into a cluster of new water jars. The potter, unconcerned about the fate of young fugitives, had assembled his knee high wares more than halfway out into the street. Peter nimbly skirted the terra-cotta jars, dodged smoothly between clusters of shoppers, and continued down the crowded promenade. He hoped the congestion would slow down his pursuers enough for him to find a place to hide. The venders here were poorer than those in the main market and their stalls were smaller. These were the ones who could not afford to rent space in the central plaza. Everything here was a little darker and a little dirtier.

Peter rushed past cross streets that were darker and dirtier still. In those places one could obtain illegal items that had been outlawed by the King - black market goods - that inevitably sold for shockingly inflated prices. In contrast, you could also buy things that had been stolen - like jeweled necklaces or silver tableware - for only a fraction of their real value. You could gamble there too, betting on anything from chicken or dog fights, to which noble woman would become pregnant while her husband was working abroad.

Peter risked another glance over his shoulder. His pursuers were no closer, but they had not lost ground either. He dodged around people and animals, and jumped over baskets and crates, desperately searching ahead for any opportunity that might gain him a greater lead or somehow stall and set back his pursuers.

The side streets were of no use to him; they were narrow and too often came to dead ends at walls or barred doorways. The people there could not be trusted either. Hunger, greed, and an absolute absence of honor would motivate them to try to catch you and sell you too the Guard, even though it was unlikely that the Guard would pay them with anything other than a swift kick for their efforts. Worse still, they might hide you away and sell you to a workhouse or a farm. Peter had been in both and he had no desire to return. This was his third attempt to live free in the streets of the city and he had learned a lot from his past mistakes. He knew to avoid both the prosperous merchants who would promptly turn you over to the Guard to show what good and worthy citizens they were, and the lowlifes in the back alleys who would snatch you and try to sell you to anyone who might pay. Peter had learned to stick to the middle ground, where people wanted to be honest and fair but were always a little disgruntled; those who couldn’t get a break themselves but who hadn’t yet given up trying. These people worked each day to get along and wouldn’t begrudge another his chance to survive just because he had some disagreement with the law. Peter didn’t expect any of these people to help him, but he knew they wouldn’t help the Guard either.

A man and a donkey blocked the narrow way and Peter dived between the animal's legs, startling it. The frightened animal began to bray and kick and its owner had to struggle to control it, fearing that he would have to pay if the animal kicked over anyone's merchandise.

Peter rolled to his feet and continued without slowing. As he burst out into the next wide street, he turned right and saw low stairs leading to the wide entrance of a building. He dove into the small space beneath them and quickly turned and squeezed back into the shadow. The guards, delayed by the donkey, rushed into the street. Not seeing him, they quickly divided up; one going left, one right and one continuing ahead. Peter, staying low and close to the wall slipped out of his hiding place and ducked back down the street he had come out of. He slowed his pace slightly to avoid startling the donkey again and drawing attention, and then he ran as quickly as he could. He looked back once or twice but he didn’t see any more red uniforms.

Peter went back three blocks and turned right, taking a winding road down to the lower part of the city. The area around the warehouses and freight yards was another relatively safe place. Lots of less-than-legal things went on there and everyone knew to stay out of everyone else's business. No one he passed spoke to him, and he liked that.

Peter had learned the hard way that no one he met could be trusted. Each person had a personal scam or scheme and, if you gave them a chance, they would try to use you to further their own goals. Peter was tired of it. He didn’t want to carry rocks for farmers, stir vats for a wool dyer, or run scams for a con-man. He wanted to do something for himself. He just wasn’t quite sure what that could be yet.

He had spent most of the previous year carrying rocks for a farmer. Every night he had gone to bed sore and tired. Every day had been a maddening haze of sweat and monotony. At the end of the year the farmer had a newly cleared field surrounded by a new rock wall. Peter had nothing. He was determined not to let himself be put back in a situation like that again. He was determined to work only for himself from now on. The only problem with his plan was that he didn’t know what he could possibly do. He had no skill and no trade. He wasn’t good at anything except running away. Like he was doing now. But that's O.K. thought Peter. The first step was always to get free and to stay free. Only then would he have a chance to look for something better for himself.

Peter turned left down Coal Street and walked quietly along the narrow alley between tall soot-covered brick walls. It was nice to be out on the streets. It was nice to be alone and free. It was nice to be ones own master. He turned and stepped through a wide opening in a broken wall into an abandoned storage yard. Following the ragged path through knee high weeds and around stacks of empty crates, he made his way to the ancient remains of a wooden stairway at the back of the building. Stepping carefully on the rotting boards he ascended, one creaking step at a time, to the top of the abandoned warehouse. On the flat tarred roof was the makeshift lean-to of old crates where he had spent his first night of freedom.

“Twenty four hours,” Peter thought. “My first day as a free man.” He went to the edge and looked out over the city. He loved the view from the old two story building. If he had continued searching he could probably have found a better place to sleep, a warmer place for sure, but at the end of his first day he had returned here to look out over the city again. He had lived in this city most of his life, but he had seldom been able to see it. The orphanage, up on the hill near the castle, was a dreary, older building with few windows. It had a central courtyard were one could see the sky and even run about a little, but you could never see beyond the orphanage itself. Peter had only caught glimpses of the city that surrounded him on the rare and usually unfortunate occasions when he had peeked from the windows of the administrative offices at the front of the orphanage.

He hadn’t always been locked away there of course. There had been the year with the farmer just a few miles beyond town. He remembered how wonderful it had felt at first, to be outside and to be working under the sun in the open fields. Odd how completely those feelings were lost after a mere score of days standing day after day in that very same field. After a hundred days that open field had become a prison. After two hundred days he had found himself wondering if his sanity were slipping away. He shuddered, vowing again, as he did every time he thought of it, not to allow himself to become someone’s slave again.

That had been his second “adoption” from the orphanage. His first had been more pleasant, at least at first. He had been eight years old and had gone to live with a family that raised sheep in the foothills north of the city. His job was to accompany the sheep and the dogs to the pastures in the hills every morning and to return with them every evening. It was an easy job; the dogs did all the real work and he was left alone to play and explore for most of the summer. After two months he had come to feel comfortable with the whole situation. He had developed good relationships with the dogs who were his companions, he was beginning to feel like he understood the sheep, and he was becoming very familiar with the northern foothills where they lived. Of course, as he would learn later, feeling good about things would surely bring them to an end.

The shepherd's nephew came to live with them and was given Peter's job. Peter was sent to the city to work for the shepherd's brother who dyed wool. He found himself spending every day from dusk till dawn in a tiny shed stirring a huge steaming pot of wool and dye. After two weeks he ran away. He was free for all of four days when he was caught stealing a melon and was returned to the orphanage.

Peter wasn’t fond of stealing. It wasn’t how he imagined his future. He didn’t picture himself rising through the ranks of some thieves guild and becoming some sort of grand robber-baron. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure how he saw his future. He had no idea what he wanted to do, but he was sure that he didn’t want to settle for something as low as a thief. He wanted respect. He wanted a legitimate place in society. He just wasn’t sure how to get it. Yet.

He reached into his pocket and took out the apple, leaving the piece of dried fish and the hard bread roll for later. “Maybe that's all I will ever be,” he thought. “Maybe that’s the only choice left to me.”

He had stolen the food early this morning. What else could he do? It served no purpose for him to honorably starve to death before he had found a chance to make something better of himself. Stealing was dangerous. It is what had gotten him returned to the orphanage after his previous brief episodes of freedom. But there was no other way to stay alive. At least not at first. “What I have to do is find a job,” he thought. Find a job and save my money and then get an apprenticeship or learn a trade. “I will only take what I need to live,” he promised himself. “And tomorrow I will explore the crafts district. Someone there will need help. Someone will give me work. Somehow I will survive and learn a trade and be independent.”

Independent. He liked that word. That word summed up all that he wanted for himself. Independence.

He looked out over the city. The sun had just set and the buildings were rapidly sinking into shadow. Here and there smoke drifted faintly from a chimney. Amber lights marked street corners and windows. Taverns, inns and apartments on the right merged with dark craft shops and warehouses, and then stockyards to the left. That was the rougher side of town. There were fewer lights and the air stank of labor and ale, scams and soot. Beyond the stockyards were the poorest places, houses made of scrap, children and dogs in the street, clusters of dangerous looking men. This was a place that Peter wanted to avoid, but he also knew that this was precisely where he would end up if he wasn’t successful at finding work.

In the crimson light of the fading sunset he could see all the way to the fields east of town and could just make out the row of trees that marked the main road to the lands of Creighton County and to the towns of Freeport and XXXX. This road was what made XXXXX important. XXXX lay between the northern county of Benton and the seaports of Creighton and Murdock, and it was the gateway to the mountain pass that led to Kelly. More traffic came to XXXX than to any other town. More than anything else, XXXX was the center of trade and commerce. At least that's what Mr. Connery, the teacher sent to the orphanage by King Philip, had told them. Peter had seen so little of the world that he had to take the teacher's word for it. Still, he didn’t really doubt anything he had been taught. Mr. Connery seemed like a smart and honest man. He was friendly and eager and always seemed to be excited about everything. He had taught Peter to read and to do sums. Everyone said it was a good thing that a teacher came to the orphanage. They said it was a sign that Philip was a wise and good King. They said that no one had ever bothered to teach the orphans before Philip's time.

Turning to sit against the ledge he could see the city rising up over higher ground to the north. As the level of the landscape rose, so too did the size and expense of the buildings. Stores and shops formed the foreground, the residences of the rich in-between, and then the towers of public buildings and spires of churches rose to blend with the castle perched on the highest hill. Beyond it all the mountains rose majestically in the distance, dark and solemn, capped with snow, silhouetted now by the blazing sky and its dying sun. Those mountains were impassible anywhere else except by the road from XXXX.

Peter looked at the buildings near the castle for a long time, wondering what went on in them, what they all were for. There must be more different jobs and positions and enterprises than he could ever imagine. How was he to acquire one of these positions if he didn’t even know what it was they were doing there?

It was getting darker now. Peter took the dry fish he had stolen this morning and chewed it slowly as he went to his little shelter to sleep. Tomorrow was another day. Another chance. He would have to find some sort of opportunity for himself. He would have to.

( XXXX = Names I haven't decided on yet >