Artful: A Novel by Peter David Read Free Book Online Page A

. . . so he turned and ran. Which was hardly the actions of a gentleman as well, but at least it made some contextual sense in planning the encounter.
    The larger man did not hesitate to follow, once again moving a bit faster than the Artful would have thought him capable.
    He ran a block, then two, and the man pursued him, continuing to shout a string of imprecations, although, the Artful couldn’t help but notice, he was not howling for the intervention of the police as his sort was wont to do. Dodger considered that curious and wondered if the man had some reason to be opposed to the constabulary sticking its collective nose into his business.
    He darted down a darkened alley, still significantly in the lead. The alley was sufficiently narrow for his purposes as Dodger used his walking stick in a manner similar to the way a vaulting man would use a pole. It provided him just enough lift that he was able to bring his feet nearly horizontal and his arms across from them, wedging them on either side of the alley, stretching his body across it. With a deft motion, he gripped his walking stick sideways in his teeth and made his way up the wall. Five feet from the ground—six, then seven, then eight—all in a matter of seconds the young man’s arms propelled him upward, his body rigid.
    Then he froze as his pursuer entered the alley at a full run. The man was wide and the alley narrow, but fortunately enough the man was not so wide that the alley was too narrow. He sprinted down the length of it so quickly that it scarcely seemed a handful of breaths before he was gone; not that the Artful would have known firsthand, as he was holding his breath the entire time.
    Now here, now there—and then the man was gone. The Artful wasted no time in releasing his hold and dropping to the ground, landing in a crouch that made him appear similar to a frog for a moment. He hastened back to the corner where the young girl had been, certain that she would be long departed.
    He was quite wrong. Instead, the girl was there and, even more problematic, Sarah had shown up. Sarah who was as soft as taffy to a potential client and hard as brittle to a perceived threat. She was looking the young lady up and down and demanding that she leave her corner forthwith.
    “ Your corner?” said the maiden. “Woman, this is a public corner, and I will stand where I like.”
    “Then I ’ope ya like standin’ on yer arse!” declared Sarah, and she came at the maiden with her nails extended, fully prepared to rake them across the interloper’s face while the rest of her ilk cheered her on. The maiden was so astounded at the prospect of physical assault that she did nothing to defend herself, perhaps because she could not conceive of the reality with which she was faced. As such, she would have borne the marks of Sarah’s wrath of a certainty if the Dodger had not, at the last moment, abruptly pulled her out of the path of the territorial harlot and raised a chiding finger.
    “Here, now, Sarah!” said the Artful scoldingly, as if dressing down a child. “Is that any way to be treating a guest?”
    “Guests have to be invited! This one’s a ’truder, she is, and the only thing what’s bein’ invited is trouble, and she’s the one doin’ the invites, and I’m the one answerin’ it!” She moved as if to come at the maiden yet again, and only Dodger’s bodily intervention prevented her from scoring upon her target. This would not have gone on indefinitely, for as beloved and appreciated as the Artful might have been by the ladies, business remained business, and if he got in the way of it, he was as subject to the penalties as anyone else.
    Fortunately, his knack for distraction remained unmatched. “Care for a pretty, pretty?” said Dodger carelessly, and he waved the filched handkerchief at the irate Sarah.
    Her ire evaporated like the morning dew. “Oooooo, Dodger !” said she, and she snatched it from him and ran the silk across her