The Beggar and the Deception

Maryanna had split the bread in half by the time Archy caught wind of the transaction.



"Hey!" he shouted, pointing a gnarled finger at me, "no feeding the animals in my shop!"



At that, Maryanna spun around, tossed me half a loaf, and leaped out the broken door before he could jump over the counter. For a woman as stocky as they come, you'd think she had a seven-foot stride.



The bread was worth any penalty. Demented Archy could make a sweetbread taste like nectar and ambrosia: sweet, nourishing, and filling your life with an otherworldly goodness. But, as he snatched the bread from my shaking hands, he pushed me from behind into the street.



"It's not safe here, you damned beggar," he shouted, "you two could lose me my business!"



The whole act was rehearsed. Archy would kick us out, making a big show. The Listeners would be appeased, and I'd find the other half on the side of the building. No militia, no trouble, just a play for the local masses.



I scrambled to my feet and dashed toward the eastern wall of the shop. There, Maryanna would be. With the loaf-half she hadn't thrown to me, and that classic Maryanna-smirk.



Only, she wasn't. I found the bread on the ground, with no Maryanna in sight. Just a boulder and the bread.



I grabbed the bread, and the boulder grew arms. Just as a gasp reached my lips, the hands clapped over my mouth.



"Gotcha," Maryanna said, throwing off her cover, "let's go home."



"Maryanna!" I said, relieved, "You gave me a heart attack." I pinched off a piece of bread, smacking it loudly. "And bread."



She pulled me toward home, and Archy waved from the shop window. Just another year of martial law to go.