Skate the Thief

by Jeff Ayers

  “Oh, I see what you mean.” Petre closed his eyes and nodded sagely. “Yes, he’s loyal, but he’s loyal in his own way. What I mean is, he sees nothing wrong with taking things from his friends without permission—but only because he fully intends to return them. That is the nature of your arrangement, is it not?” She nodded. “So, in his mind, he’s not really stealing, and he’s not betraying them at all. You see?”

  Skate thought about it before answering. Belamy was technically stealing, but he just considered it borrowing. “It’s still stealing.”

  “Oh, yes, definitely.”

  “And he knows it’s stealing.”

  “On that, he might disagree with you. Though, I do wonder, why does an aspiring young thief such as yourself care? You seem to be very preoccupied with his larcenous ways for someone so willing to do stealing of your own.”

  She frowned at the image in the ball, but he didn’t back down. He looked as he had for most of the conversation: curious and intelligent. “Never mind,” was her answer. “You said he’s always been like that. How long have you known him?”

  “Oh, years and years. Decades, in fact.” His eyes dropped a bit. “Decades and decades. Since before the war.”

  “What war?”

  “Oh, it was well before your time. Before your parents’ time, too, I’d wager. It was a war between Jero and Filtir to the south. It was over trade disputes or some silly thing like that.”

  She screwed up her face in confusion. “He fought in a war?”

  “Oh yes. King Hilan called for all able-bodied men to be fielded, and that included wizards. Of course, Barrison went willingly; he wanted to protect his home and—and his friends.”

  She noted the hesitation in that statement, but let it pass by without comment. “I guess wizards would be useful in a war.”

  “Too true. Dangerous men and women, wizards and witches. Turned to war, their art is terrible to behold. Barrison was skilled enough in tactics and strategy to be given command of his own battalion. I think his military rank was ‘lieutenant colonel,’ or something like that. With his mind turned to logistics and planning as well as the most destructive uses of his magic, he gained some fame in Jero—and infamy in Filtir—though few learned or bothered to remember his actual name. Instead, he became known in bar tales and hushed whispers by his nickname: Iron Wind.”

  Skate said nothing. Rattle had been reading, though throughout the conversation, the pages had been turning with a slowing pace. The floating creature seemed to be trying to listen to the conversation without giving itself away. She didn’t know how it could follow the train of the discussion, since she was pretty sure it couldn’t hear Petre’s half.

  “Of course, I’m sure it’s been years since he’s heard that name. I don’t think he’d be particularly glad to, either, so don’t go calling him that.”

  “Why not? If I had a name like that, I wouldn’t mind it. ‘Iron Wind’ is a great name.”

  Petre’s expression turned more melancholy and reflective. “His memories of the war are not fond ones. He went to war to protect his country and those he cared about, remember. Over the ensuing months, even though he was nowhere near the head of command of the effort, he came to understand that the crown had not been entirely forthright with the motivations of the conflict. Jero, as it turned out, was the aggressor, marching armies into the border with Filtir as an escalation of force to end the dispute with the neighboring kingdom.” Petre shook his head. The motion agitated the fog around his eyes. “I think he told himself that he was doing what was right to keep himself going. He was directly and indirectly responsible for a lot of deaths, you see. It weighed on him. It is not an easy thing to take a life, even less so many. But if he could tell himself it was for a better cause…”

  “Stealing without stealing.”

  “Eh?”

  Skate understood how Belamy’s mind worked a little better after hearing the story. “He wants to do what needs to be done, but it’s bad. So he comes up with a reason for it to not be so bad. Just like with the stealing; he calls it borrowing and plans to return it, so it’s not so bad. Stealing without stealing.”

  The eyes wandered the room, and nodded in consideration, or else acceptance. “Yes, I suppose it’s sort of the same thing. Anyway, by the time he had teased out the real nature of the war and the king’s orders, the war was already all but won.

  “Barrison’s battalion was called home, and he was showered with praise and rewards. He was even granted an audience with the king himself. King Hilan praised his skill on the battlefield and ordered a set of tailored robes that bore the royal seal. In a bid to please the king, the Royal Magician offered to enchant the robes with powerful magic when they were done, and the king ordered that done as well.

  “The only things Barrison spoke throughout the whole ordeal were a word of greeting upon entering, a word of thanks for the extravagant gift, and a word of parting when his audience ended. He was perfectly polite throughout the entire meeting.” Petre’s eyes narrowed conspiratorially, as if giving away some great secret. “A typical courtier watching the exchange would have thought Barrison was being properly deferential to his king, but those that knew him understood the truth of it: the wizard held no more love for the king or his politics.”

  He sighed. “The war changed him. When he returned home, he became more distant from those he knew, though no less kind. In fact, that quality seemed to become more part of his everyday life. He became more willing to offer charity to the needy, and gave whatever any friends asked of him with no questions or expectations. But time spent among his friends became much more sporadic. Eventually, of course, his old friends passed away. He appeared at the funerals but avoided conversation with his fellow mourners.

  “His rare conversations were warm, though he bristled at any questions of the war. He refused to discuss that time of his life. His real name did not become latched on to his martial moniker; word of his exploits continued to spread, while almost everyone around him had no idea that the Iron Wind himself was in their midst. I knew, as did his other apprentices, but few else did.”

  “He had apprentices?”

  “Oh, yes,” Petre said, nodding again, “for many years before and after the war. He taught five students overall, and I…well, he didn’t take any more after me.” He suddenly looked embarrassed and cut his eyes toward Rattle, who was still “reading.”

  Skate looked between the two. “What is this?”

  “Hm?”

  “You’re looking at Rattle. Some things you’re not supposed to tell me?”

  His eyes darted back and forth between Rattle and her. “Well, you see—what I mean is, he’s entitled to his past, isn’t he? If he hasn’t told you, it’s certainly not my place to have that discussion with you. We are both his guests, after all.”

  Skate narrowed her eyes at the man in the ball. “You’re a guest.” It wasn’t a question, but she did not mean it as an affirmation. Judging by his continued discomfort, he understood that perfectly well.

  “That’s right.”

  “Mr. Belamy told me something about you. About how you ended up in the glass ball.”

  The curious gleam came back to his eye, though it was more suspicious. “And what exactly was that?”

  “That you murdered someone.”

  “Ah. Right.” His discomfort became too much for him, and he let his face become obscured by the fog in the glass again. “I think I can talk about that without offending our host.” His voice was as close as it had been before, but was much more subdued now that the subject had shifted to him and his own sordid history.

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “You killed someone.”

  “Yes, I did. And I’ve regretted it ever since.”

  “Why?” She could not imagine this man, who seemed to be all conversation and friendliness, as a cold-blooded killer.

  “Selfishness, Skate. Pure, cowardly selfishness
.” He did not elaborate, and they sat in silence broken only by the flapping of Rattle’s wings and the occasional turn of the pages.

  “It was Mr. Belamy who put you in there, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  “How long have you been in there?”

  He paused before answering. “It will be fifty-three years next week.”

  The thought of sending Belamy into servitude to another did not seem quite as monstrous as it had before. “Half a century of imprisonment? You don’t look anywhere near fifty, much less older than that.”

  “No, the prison keeps me at the age I was when I was put in. I should be a man well into my seventh decade, or else dead before. The prison gives me youth eternal, though there’s nothing I can do with it, of course.”

  “And how long is he going to keep you there?”

  “Pardon?”

  “In your prison. How long is Belamy going to keep you trapped in your cage?”

  “Belamy doesn’t keep me in here, Skate.” The eyes came into view again, and he was looking directly into her own. His stare lacked any of the life she was used to seeing from him. He looked like a man defeated and hopeless. “I was not referring to myself as a guest of Barrison’s as a euphemism; he’s no jailer. I am trapped in here by my own choice, and I will stay here until I have done penance for the terrible thing I did.”

  “You’re here on purpose?”

  “Yes, though this was my second choice.” He blinked hard a few times before speaking again. “I…asked for something else before this, but Barrison refused.”

  He wanted to die instead. “Oh.” They sat in silence for a few more moments—though it felt like minutes to Skate, who was trying to find something, anything to say. “So you decide when to leave your prison?”

  “Yes. I am here as a guest of Barrison. This prison is my own.”

  “How long will you stay…trapped?”

  “By my reckoning, the person I…I killed had as many as seventy years of life left. When I have been here that long, then I will consider ending my punishment. Not before.”

  “What’ll happen to you when you get out?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t give it any thought.”

  Skate moved back over to the window. “I’m going to go see Mr. Belamy and try to figure out what he’s doing. I also need my lesson for the day, so there’s that, too.” She struggled before asking, “Why didn’t he…do what you wanted the first time?”

  Rattle inadvertently clicked a few times as it turned toward them. It didn’t move other than continuing to flap to stay airborne, but only stared.

  “I honestly don’t know. He had every right to, but chose this instead.” His eyes fell into a sad smile. “He’s very odd, you know.”

  “Yes, I think he is.” With nothing else to say, Skate placed him back on his perch near the glass. Fog swirled around him as he turned from her, and soon, nothing was visible within but the gently rolling smoke. Rattle returned to its reading—in earnest this time—as Skate left the room.

  She found the lich as she had left him, focused on an empty sphere of glass and the spinning golden contraption. When she approached his desk, he heaved a great sigh and leaned back. The golden thing slowed its spinning.

  “Good afternoon, Skate. I’m glad your long walk didn’t keep you from us entirely today.” The golden hoop continued to slow, and stopped abruptly when Belamy put his hand on it. “I hope your time away did you some good?”

  “Yeah, feeling pretty good now, thanks.” Her eyes lingered on the golden device. “So, what’s this?”

  “Oh! Well, you see, a wizard can use certain tools to scry certain—oh, that means—”

  “Seeing somebody who’s far away, I know.” Belamy’s surprise was evident, so she quickly explained: “I talked to Petre.”

  “Ah.” His utterance was heavy with curiosity. However, instead of asking questions, he went on. “I’m looking for the people who bothered Jack. Normally, if I’ve got a name and a description, I can just use the ball”—he gestured to the clear glass orb—“and it works like a charm, so to speak. If I’m having particular difficulty, the enhancer pushes through the rest of the way.” This time, he pointed to the spinning golden thing. “You have a good eye for value, by the way; that object is quite expensive. You wouldn’t have needed to steal again for months to pay for the finest room in town if you’d have gotten out with it and found a buyer.”

  “Oh yeah?” She bent down and looked at it. “Maybe I ought to take it now, huh?”

  “As if you’d miss out on Rattle’s cooking.” He leaned forward again. “I don’t think either of the tools is broken, so I don’t know what the issue is.”

  “Maybe you’re doing it wrong,” Skate suggested with a hint of mockery. “You know, maybe you’re out of practice.”

  “I most certainly am not!” The old man seemed to be only playing at being offended, though Skate guessed there was at least a kernel of actual indignity in the proclamation. “Here, take a seat and watch.” He pointed to a nearby chair, and Skate moved it to the other side of the desk and sat. Belamy said nothing else, but stared unblinking at the clear glass ball. Nothing happened.

  “What’s supposed—”

  “Shush. Wait.”

  “But what—”

  “Shh.”

  “What—”

  He held up a quieting finger, then placed his hand into a more relaxed position and continued his concentration on the ball. Skate rolled her eyes but said nothing else.

  Minutes passed. She was about to interrupt again and ask what exactly she was supposed to be waiting on when the glass ball took on a frosty character, as if invisibly treated before her eyes. The haze receded, and a shape began to take form in the glass. It was Rattle upstairs, and the sounds of its flapping wings and clicking legs were coming not from the staircase but from the glass ball containing its moving image. It was still reading, and even the sound of the turning page came through as clear as if it had been happening on the desk itself. The library itself appeared to be spinning, which made Skate feel slightly nauseous, but she realized that the whole room couldn’t be moving while they were under it. It’s more like we’re floating in the room and circling around Rattle while it reads. The adjustment in her understanding of the perspective helped the sick feeling.

  “There, you see?” Belamy asked, not breaking eye contact with the glass ball. His voice was measured and less animated than normal; Skate assumed that to be the result of his needing to concentrate. “The tools work perfectly fine, and I’m not out of practice.” He leaned back, and Rattle’s image faded first to the smoky haze, and then to crystal clear nothing once more. “I don’t know why it’s giving me such trouble trying to find the trio who threatened Jack.”

  “Well, what would you do if you didn’t want to be found this way?”

  “There are a number of ways to thwart such unwelcome viewing. There are charms and spells that could be shielding them, if they know someone with the skill to make such things or cast the magic. Either option would be expensive, but if they’re a particularly successful set of thieves, it may be within their ability to acquire the tools or hire the spellcasters. There are also those who simply cannot be found with such magic, though that is exceedingly rare. Old King Rajian and his line were said to possess such a power; I’m not sure that’s true, since many other royal lines of all stripes make similar claims, but it’s certainly possible that it’s more than just a legend spread by the royal court to discourage attempts by the curious or the bored. And finally,” Belamy said, standing from his chair, “there are those who have been trained to notice and even push away such attempts through the pure exertion of the will. Many wizards go through this training as part of their tutelage, and I have heard tell of monastic and martial orders who exercise the effort for the sake of discipline and security.”

  “Someone can just fight it off?” Skate asked, looking into the clear ball.

  “Yes, but t
hey’d need to know it was there first, and would almost certainly need some practice at it before they could be said to be able to scuttle these magical reconnaissance tactics.” Belamy walked to the bookshelf and pulled a small, leather-bound tome off the shelf. “I believe you were ready to move on to phonetics lessons, now that you’ve mastered your letters.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She was still peering into the clear glass ball. “So which of those is messing you up?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” he said, flipping pages and nodding with a look of satisfaction, “but what I’ve just described are the only means I know of to beat it. I think the ‘natural’ option is the least likely. I’ve never heard of any thieves who go through the strenuous process of learning to feel and defeat scrying, either, but I’ve never made it a habit to make such rabble conversation partners—no offense,” he added, looking up from the page and smirking over his large nose. She made a sarcastic laughing gesture, and he smiled all the wider. “No, my guess is that the first option is most likely: they’ve hired a wizard to cast spells of deflection or create trinkets to keep me from finding them.” He closed his book and tucked it under his arm. “You have your chalk and board upstairs?”

  “Yeah, in the desk.”

  “Good. Let’s get to it, then.”

  Skate followed him up the stairs. “Have you ever done it to me?”

  “What?” He stopped and turned. “Scrying? Heavens, no.” He turned back around and continued his climb. “It’s a horrendous invasion of privacy.”

  “But you’re trying to do it—”

  “I have more than enough reason to violate the privacy of someone trying to bully one of my friends for money. They’re lucky it’s me searching for them, and not the Guards. I just want to talk, not arrest or hang them. They should be so lucky to have it be me who finds them.” They turned into Skate’s room. “Let’s begin.”

  Chapter 15

  In which a non-word is written, a title is read, and art is admired.

  The next four days passed uneventfully. Skate got to eat three hot meals each day and spent her time studying the secrets of how to put the letters of the alphabet together to form new sounds. After the first lesson, she was disappointed that words were not yet the focus of the lessons.