River of Thieves

by Clayton Snyder

  “A ruckus.”

  “Aye, a ruckus,” he swallowed his bite and dusted his hands off, then gave me a wink.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “we’ve a busy day today.”

  “How so?”

  “We’re breaking into the vault.”

  “Without our wizard? With the Leashmen in town?”

  Cord waved a hand. “Leashmen have already left. Fucked off to Tremaire. They got what they came for. Besides, you can crack the runes.”

  “And the soldiers you pissed off in that backwater?”

  “Busy. Or they will be.”

  A crash sounded outside the apartment, followed by shouting, and the sounds of feet pounding on cobblestones. I shot Cord a glance.

  “Distraction?”

  He shrugged. “The start of one. C’mon. We need to get up top so we can avoid the worst of it.”

  He led me to a side room, a ladder leading to a trapdoor in the roof. We climbed up, Rek already waiting. The morning air had a chill, and Rek handed me a light cloak. I took it gratefully, and followed them to the edge of the roof. The streets were already a low form of chaos. Mobs pushed down avenues like murders of crows, tearing down posters of the king, waving effigies. Where a hapless barrel or cart stood in their way, they rolled over it like a fleshy tide, smashing it to flinders and moving on.

  Cord guided us to the other side of the roof, where a plank sat, bridging the gap between buildings. I could see other boards marking the whole of the area, leading to the high street and the King’s Avenue. Cord led us across the first plank, and we followed, moving low and fast, trying to avoid the gaze of guards that were currently trying to contain the mobs.

  "How'd you get all this done?" I asked as we crossed the first plank.

  "I have my ways," Cord said.

  "He means he hired someone to do it, then dosed them with nepe," Rek said.

  "You don' t know," Cord said. "I am very mysterious."

  "Like mushrooms that grow in shit," Rek said.

  "What?" Cord said.

  "I mean, how do they even get there? Why do they only grow in shit? Would you eat one?" Rek said.

  "I wouldn't eat Cord," I said. "No idea where he's been."

  "That's hurtfu... okay, that's fair," Cord said.

  The path to the Avenue was long and circuitous, the streets below chaos. As we moved, something occurred to me.

  “Why do we need a distraction this big?” I asked Cord. “I thought there were only a few guards and a Harrower. Surely we could have drawn them away with a warehouse fire, or something.”

  Cord shook his head. “Elite guard. They’re fanatical. The only thing that’s going to pull them away is a direct threat to the king.”

  “All this is so we can rob a bank?”

  Cord stopped and spun on me, finger in the air. “Not just any bank. The bank.”

  “Why?” It hadn’t occurred to me before to ask, but now curiosity scratched at my brain like a caterpillar on the skin. “There are a hundred banks in the Veldt. Any one of them could bring us more money than we could spend in a lifetime.”

  Cord turned and started moving again. “If you're going to teach a rich and powerful dickhead a lesson, you stick to what you know. Because my dear, we’re not just thieves. We’re exceptional thieves.”

  We reached the edge of a roof and stopped, Cord dropping to his stomach. Rek and I followed suit, edging out over the ledge. We’d set up on the roof of a galleria across from the palace. It crazed into the sky, each spire vying for space beside the others, a riot of phallic contention that threatened to beat one another to death for the right to be the one to cast its shadow over the land. A thick wall surrounded the plaza below us, a solid iron gate blocking the road to Anaxos’ manse. More walls stood to each side, blocking alleys and shop entrances, and as we watched, another rolled into place and braced behind the seething crowd.

  I looked at the rippling mass of humanity below, their discontent plain even from our vantage point. They were on the verge of tipping, a spark threatening conflagration. Fists were raised, chants were chanted, and we saw bags of produce being passed about, their current state of ripeness evident from the clouds of flies that followed. Occasionally, a tomato or a thick ripe squash spattered against the gate, a case of premature protestation.

  “You really riled ‘em up, Cord,” Rek said. I thought I detected a hint of grudging respect finally.

  Cord just grinned and pointed, marking out the space where a figure climbed the gate battlements. The grin dropped a second later as the figure resolved itself, a man in tattered robes, a severed hand clutched in his own as if he were holding the hand of his lover. The crowd surged, pressing against the walls and the gate, the entrance groaning as the unexpected weight of a thousand bodies exerted pressure. Fruit and vegetables flew, though most missed the mark by a wide margin, coming to sail over the Harrower’s head, or spattering against the wall.

  The Harrower raised an arm for silence, but the crowd continued to shout their complaints. He shrugged and raised the other arm. He spoke, his voice amplified by magic.

  “You were given the chance to disperse. You ignored it. Surely, you cannot think yourselves wounded by these policies, these things we do for your own welfare? Wealth for Anaxos means wealth for the kingdom. Your children, conscripted for Anaxos, means strength for the kingdom. The rite of first choice—yes, the right to bed your brides—means more children, for the kingdom. Anaxos gives and gives, and what do you do? You protest. You throw his gifts in his face. You are ungrateful piss-babies, and thus shall be treated as such.”

  Even as the words cut off, a high-pitched whine issued from the Harrower’s mouth. Above the now penned-in protestors, the sky rippled and threatened to split. We watched in horror. Cord set his jaw as the sky ripped open, body tensed like a spring. Rek and I did the same, the tension on the rooftop palpable. Each of us had reasons, but we knew this was the moment to commit to memory. This was the moment that the world tilted on its axis and poured poison into our ears.

  Yellow liquid spilled from the rip in the sky, a vast torrent, and with it the smells of ammonia and protein. The deluge filled the enclosed street, rising in moments from ankle-deep to waist. It surged, and the protestor’s screams ended abruptly as the vast lake of piss closed over their heads. Shadow and shape flailed in the murky yellow, and for a moment, all was quiet. I heard Rek crying, the sound ripping small chunks from my heart. The crowd stopped struggling as it filled their lungs, weighted their clothing. Soon, the street was a lagoon of floating corpses. Cord turned to me, tendons on his neck taut.

  “This is why, Nenn,” he said, his voice cold fury. “We’ll take his fortune, and break this bastard’s back. Let’s go.”

  He led us down another set of planks, the rooftops descending until we passed the street level and found ourselves in a part of town lower than the rest. At one point, canals flowed across Midian, allowing traffic and trade to flow freely. But as the city grew, they drained the canals and built homes, as ramshackle as they were.

  We landed on the street, the city quiet around us, a preternatural stillness that crept up my spine. Cord led us down one alley, past two warehouses long disused, and finally to a house so broken and rotting it was a wonder the city had not pulled it down, or that fire hadn’t claimed it long ago. Cord glanced around, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. We followed.

  The inside was a shock. I’d expected rot and stench, maybe tattered and abandoned furniture, a nest of rats or insects. Instead, the interior was solid stone, carved from one massive block. Someone spent some time crafting the illusion and making it permanent. Another bonus of insane wealth. Nothing else occupied the ten by ten space, and at its end stood a tall door with a clover lock, glyphs carved in concentric circles around it. Cord handed me a piece of chalk.

  “Your turn,” he said.

  ***

  We opened the door. Some things just don't go the way you expect. Your info is old, an added
layer of complexity you didn't plan for, any number of things. This wasn't that. For once, it went smoothly, and I held my breath as I worked, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  The runes slipped through my brain, lighting up like lanternflies on a summer night, and Cord’s key worked perfectly. My heart hammered at the prospect of that much money in our hands, and I have to admit, I was sweating a little, hands shaky as the door swung open. I looked inside. And swore.

  Nice Codpiece, Jareth

  "Is that a forest?" I asked.

  Cord nodded. "Either that, or someone's garden has really gotten out of hand."

  The forest beyond the vault door held little color—gray earth from which white trees reached toward a leaden sky with skeletal limbs. The trees formed a convenient path, a packed-earth lane that led toward a tower that lorded over the land like the hilt of a blade thrust into the earth.

  "Ready?" Rek rumbled from beside us.

  I looked over. At some point, he donned a leather cuirass and bracers, and a massive greatsword hung from his hip, though at his size, even the tip hung free from the floor.

  "Where did you get that?" I asked.

  He shrugged. Cord patted me on the shoulder and slipped through the door.

  "Rek is large and mysterious. Let's leave it at that."

  Rek shouldered past me, shooting me a grin. I hesitated at the entrance, then stepped through. I paused just past the threshold, waiting for the worst to happen. A rush of guards, a blaring alarm. When nothing came, I moved forward hesitantly. Cord glanced over his shoulder.

  "You coming, or you think maybe you'll set up a cabin here, have a nice vacation home?"

  I flipped him the bird and jogged to catch up. The silence of the place was eerie. Not even the crunch of leaf or twig disturbed our passage, and it seemed even normal sound came muffled to us. The trees flanked us, guardians to a dead land, and I realized where we were.

  "Deadlands," I said.

  "Then we'd better hurry," Cord said.

  We ran down the lane, the only sound that of our footfalls and heavy breathing. The tower grew closer, and though it threw no shadow, a chill emanated from it. We halted to catch our breath and I took in the structure. The stone was smooth and white, a tall arch cut into the base. Inside, a simple pedestal stood in the entry.

  "Trap?" I asked.

  "Trap," Rek said.

  "If this were any trappier, it would be named Trap Trapperson and have a tunic someone embroidered the word trap on," Cord said.

  "So what do we do?" I asked.

  Cord shrugged. "Do it anyway."

  He entered the tower, and we followed suit. The interior was hollow, and I found it fitting. Like most things Anaxos claimed, it was all show and no substance. He had little use for anything that didn't lend itself to his own aggrandizement. The more I saw, the more I realized Cord had the right of it. The man was a menace. He cared only about himself, his image, and his wealth. If we could take even one of those things away, it would be a well-deserved wound.

  The pedestal was empty. Behind it was a door of ivory, the surface carved in intricate design.

  “What in the snowy hells is this?” I asked.

  “The trap,” Cord said. He leaned on the pedestal and turned to me. “You asked why St. Cruciatus was so important.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t see what that has to do with this.”

  He gestured to the door, and I took a closer look. Carvings of wraiths adorned its outer edges, and in the center in bas-relief stood a likeness of Cruciatus. I turned back.

  “There are seven gods, Nenn. Hesh and Vesh, Kerr and Murr, Gret and Gren, and Camor. Have you ever noticed only those of wealth have long names and surnames? Have you ever wondered who Cruciatus really was?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was one of us. His true name was Crux. A simple blacksmith from one of the nameless villages on the Veldt. They stole that from us by renaming him. But they couldn’t steal what he did. They’d steal the gods’ names too, if they could. Nothing is sacred when you’ve got more wealth than most families see in several lifetimes.”

  “What’s that got to do with the door?”

  “Here’s the clever part. Crux would never allow one of them through that door.”

  “So…”

  “Well, Rek’s too big. And I’m too befouled by sorcery. So that leaves you.”

  I glanced at the door. “Fuck.”

  I stepped to it, grasping the carved handle. Cord called out.

  “He’s going to show you things, Nenn. Don’t let them dig too deeply into you.”

  I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped through.

  ***

  The goblin king sat atop an outcrop of stone perched on a hill, his narrow blade planted point-first in the earth between his booted feet, the edge dripping crimson. Carrion birds wheeled and called above him, a cacophony of misery echoing from ribbed throats, an eyeball pierced on the end of a gore-encrusted beak, its optic nerve fluttering in the breeze with the flap of ebon wings. Arrayed around him, the remains of a once-grand army as though a whirlwind swept through their ranks, bodies broken, severed, exsanguinated.

  He held his head as one who has suffered a loss, as one who has come to the end of a long road of exhaustion, and there, found only more road. He did not weep though the ground doubled and trebled before him and the carmine drops on his blade blurred to the point of blossoming into petals.

  And yet, and yet, the sound of footfalls, of a light step avoiding rigid steel and limp flesh. Of breath held to keep out the scents of offal and shit and the coppery tang of blood spilled by the liter, by the gallon, by the barrel. The rasp of breath sucked in, the stifled cry as vision met the cloudy eyes of the dead and saw only the uncertainty of an eternity not promised. Then, the end of the approach. A stillness in the air, the screaming quiet of anticipation as the visitor screwed up his courage to speak.

  "Speak," the king commanded, for command was his province, the land he had always known.

  The voice atop the blackened boots, boots that had seen summers and winters in the ash of many a hearth, spoke low and hesitant, a thing from the underbrush that fears the sun.

  "H... How?"

  The goblin king gestured to a stone similar to the one he sat on. The stranger settled, not comfortably, but as well as one can afford when perched on granite and faced with an embodied force of nature. When he settled, the king looked up and regarded the man. Plain face, a dusting of whiskers across a straight jaw. Thick nose, bright eyes that shone with, if not intelligence, curiosity.

  "I would ask you the same," the king replied. "How is it you've survived..." he gestured to the surrounding carnage. An indication. An indictment.

  The man shrugged. "I wasn't here. I saw it though. The light. Heard it. The sound."

  The goblin king nodded and shifted on his stone. "Then, let me ask - are you mad?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "You saw what happened here and decided to investigate?"

  "I'm a curious sort. Besides, it seemed to be over." He looked around, though not at the dead. Instead, his gaze sought the abstract. The silence in the aftermath. "Was I wrong?"

  The king shook his head and looked up, past the avian storm that gathered. The sun still stood high, a vast unblinking eye. He addressed the man.

  "I have time."

  "For?"

  "Questions. You have curiosity, no? Let me sate it."

  "And then?"

  The king shrugged. "We shall see."

  The man nodded and pulled a case from his side, unrolling a sheaf of parchment, tipping free an inkpot and a quill. He looked around, and with a demeanor that practically vibrated with unease, pulled a board shield from under a dead man, the body squelching with movement. He grimaced, and then moved quicker, needing to distance himself. He stretched the parchment out and laid it across the dry side of the board. He dipped the quill and glanced up at the king.

  "Tell me a story."
>
  "What kind of story?"

  "Yours."

  "Why?"

  "People will want to read it. To know you. To know this."

  The king sighed and tilted his head back, trying to remember. Memory floated at the edge, vagaries, a chiaroscuro of thought. He tilted his head back, gaze rolling down his nose at the scribe like water off a hill. Quizzical, concerned. The emotions roiled and mingled, dripping from his lips.

  "Do you remember your mother?"

  The scribe blinked, confusion writ on his face plain as the ink on his fingertips. "Yes, a stout woman. Severe at times. Then, who wouldn't be, with muddy boots on rushes, six children, and a gruff husband. She was a wonderful cook. Sweetbreads, stew..." he trailed off.

  "Interesting. I remember nothing. Well, not nothing. Perhaps... I don't know that she was ever there in the traditional sense. Nor that she was stern. But I have mementos of her. The scent of bog peat in the summer. The whine of gnats in heat. The green throat of bull rushes pulling toward one another, reeds rubbing, chirping a symphony in time to the creak and croak of toad and frog."

  The scribe frowned even as his quill nib scratched against the parchment. Scritch scritch scritch. The utterance of print, the lexicon of language, each moment measured in quarts and distance. He reflected on that thought, and decided if he tried to write something worse, he couldn't. This was it. Purple prose shitting itself against the wall, letting the words drip down like fly-ridden effluvia. He grunted once and scribbled, letting the ink blot out the words, obliterate the ephemeral bullshit. He could do better. He began again.

  His mother was a swamp.

  Fuck no. Another blot. This one nearly tearing the paper. He looked up apologetically, then motioned for the king to continue.

  "My father? Very well. My father. Dry. Distant. Harsh. Hot. Rough. A hundred, a thousand adjectives, all too small or too large to fit him. Too wrong, and yet almost right."