by A Van Wyck
He moved again to a less cursory examination of the man called Breese. His eyes narrowed. Well, perhaps not a pimp. The man lacked… flair. And, of course, fellow men were completely inept at spotting men who abused women. He’d let the barmaid’s unconcern when Breese had touched her elbow guide him.
He crossed his arms. He was familiar with the overly friendly atmosphere that had suddenly settled on their table. The jovial camaraderie between strangers wherein threats hard as knife edges lurked in the soft clay of conversation. At least until it was clear whether one was turning a collection pot or a funeral urn. He had the feeling they were about to open the kiln and see. He looked to Breese.
“A pimp?” he guessed, knowing people were more inclined to correct a wrong assumption than answer an outright question.
“I’m crushed!” the man drawled, sounding anything but. “I’m going to have to have a serious chat with my tailor if that is the image I project.”
“You have a tailor?” he asked, feigning surprise and abandoning the indirect approach. “You must be very successful, doing…?”
“Oh, this and that. Right now I’m doing a favor for my old friend, Neever.”
Breese’s smile looked natural, unfeigned. No doubt the man was lying.
He transferred his stare to Neever.
“Breese aids the Temple, from time to time,” Neever complied, “when a kind word and a friendly hand don’t go as far as they should.”
“And what kind of help does he offer?”
“Less kind words,” Breese answered, still smiling. “Less friendly hands.”
The two men settled into silence, regarding him expectantly. If they were looking for a blind commitment, they were looking in the wrong place.
“Look,” he began, “I’m not stupid. Whatever you’re doing – whatever I’m doing here – it’s a… quiet affair.” Neither of them refuted that. “Now, I don’t want to know your secrets any more than you want to share them with me. People say they want you to keep their secrets but always end up wanting them back.”
Breese smiled appreciatively, though the perhaps-not-a-pimp’s eyes were less friendly now.
“But I wouldn’t be here,” he went on, feeling his way in the dark, “unless you really needed me. And if you need me – need my skills – then there are certain things I’m going to have to know. Otherwise I’m useless to you.”
He didn’t bother adding that, if answers weren’t forthcoming, he’d up and disappear. What he’d said about secrets was true and he’d already guessed Neever was more than just his guide. The gentle monk was also the temple’s insurance, ensuring he didn’t live to blab if this went sideways. It might be difficult escaping from this unknown town if that were to happen. This Breese looked like he might have eyes and ears all around.
But he’d gotten out of tighter spots and the thief in him had identified four viable escape routes from the common room when he’d first set foot in it.
“So,” he concluded, “either you deal me in, or I thank you for a lovely dinner and I walk,” he put some steel in his voice, folding his arms. “Which is it going to be?”
If they refused him, he suspected it wouldn’t turn into a fight right here. They wouldn’t chance the attention. Which was good since he still wasn’t sure of Neever and this Breese was a complete unknown. So he’d have time to get out of the inn and at least a block away before any kind of real pursuit started. Unless Breese had someone waiting outside. Better not use the front door then. Take the rooftops.
They appraised each other while all this ran through his head. Breese’s smiling eyes seemed to hold an ounce more respect. Neever’s face was, of course, impossible to read. It was the monk who finally spoke.
“This is the test,” the monk admitted. “An interview, if you like. You are correct in that we are in need of your talents. But those talents are untested. By us, at least. We need to make certain of you. And so, here we are.”
The monk folded unthreatening hands.
“I’m still listening,” he prompted.
“The governor’s mansion is around the block from here. Turn left when you leave and left again and you’ll come at it from the south-east corner at the rear.”
He tightly controlled his expression.
“The governor’s house?” he whispered, leaning across the table. The chances of their being overheard amid the hubbub was unlikely. Even so, he found himself lowering his voice.
The governor’s house? The one that used to be a fort and probably still sported enough guards to be mistaken for one? The one built to be impenetrable to all assault? The most prominent building in town? The one in full view of all of the rest of the town? The one the layout of which he knew nothing about and had had no time to study? The governor’s house?
“Is that a problem?” Neever enquired, brow furrowing.
The old, perverse excitement bubbled in his veins. The heady rush of a caper begun.
“I suppose not,” he mused, sitting back. “It just took me by surprise.” He considered. “When?”
“That depends,” Neever hedged, glancing down at the half-eaten pie. “Are you finished?”
It took only a moment to grasp the significance of that question.
“Tonight?” he blurted.
“When better?” Neever countered.
“But I haven’t done any preparation!” he argued. “I need to know the lay of the inside! The guard schedules! The security measures! I can’t just walk in blind!”
“Already taken care of,” Neever assured him.
Suspicion narrowed his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
Breese leaned forward, taking over.
“There’s an old oak tree by the south-east corner. That will get you halfway up the wall. There’s a rope and grapple left in the crook of a branch. You’ve got to time it right. The inside wall is continuously patrolled by four guards. Another four do random patrols inside the grounds. You’ll be going in through the garden, so there will be cover. Once inside, you’ll need to get to the first floor. There are guards stationed on the first and second floor landings. One roving patrol that covers the whole house, so you’ll have to keep an eye out. Those are your biggest risks. From the first floor landing, follow the hallway right to the west wing. Two doors down, there’s a side passage to the left.”
He held his breath as Breese illustrated the inside of the mansion, drawing on the tabletop with a wine dipped finger. He watched as entire rooms slowly evaporated.
“Follow that passage to a set of double doors. That takes you into the study. Go to the cabinet behind the desk. Inside is a heavy lockbox. Your target is inside the box.”
“Listen,” he interrupted in an urgent whisper, “I don’t have any tools–!”
Besides a complete set of lock picks and a small arsenal of knives.
Something clunked dully onto the wooden floor and Breese shifted to push whatever it was – probably a bag of thieving tools – with a foot. Something lumpy and hard bumped his toe.
“We’ve provided everything you’ll need and some things you might not know you needed.”
That didn’t sound good.
“Meaning?”
“Magical defenses,” Breese added with heavy emphasis.
He breathed out slowly. He’d encountered those before, of course. You didn’t rob the rich without having, at the very least, a rudimentary knowledge of the unearthly methods people employed to safeguard their earthly goods. Some of them could get very nasty. He’d once paid Old Cobb two full wheels for a headscarf that had smelled of camel’s piss but had kept his lungs from liquefying in the spelled air of a prince’s vault. But this was a different country. There might very well be some things he didn’t know to look for.
“What kind of defenses?” He was very disappointed to hear the muted excitement in his own voice. He just hoped the two men across from him wouldn’t hear it. Exciting or not, if this venture was too risky, he’d walk.
&
nbsp; I will.
“The mansion and most of the grounds are covered by a fairly simple ward that detects any intrusion. The guards all wear tokens that exempt them from the effect. As I said, it’s a simple spell, so it won’t matter if there’s an extra token running around. We’ve already taken the liberty...”
The rough emerald teardrop scraped dully across the table as Breese pushed it at him. He picked the pendant up by its leather thong. It didn’t look very magical. He brushed a thumb across it’s smooth surface and a warning rise in heat from his ring assured him it was.
“The study door is warded as well,” Breese continued. “Any key that fits the lock can open it, but only the right key can do so without triggering an alarm.”
Magical locks and keys, smelted from the same metal, all the parts individually enchanted while being put together, were fairly common – at least in the homes of the vastly rich. Like all magic, it faded with time and needed to be re-invigorated on a regular basis. Maintaining a good spelled lock was an expensive exercise.
“And?” he prompted. If those were the only obstacles, this wouldn’t be much of a test.
“There is another ward active inside the study.”
“What does it do?”
“It detects warm breath. If it does, it sounds the alarm.”
“So you want me to hold my breath?”
Breese smiled wider, showing teeth.
“Hardly. Also in the satchel, you’ll find two phials, one filled with white crystals that look like salt, the other filled with red powder. Before you enter the study, pour the white crystals on your tongue. That should keep the ward from detecting you.”
He nodded, hating how easily they’d drawn him into going along with this.
“And the red phial?”
“That is going to be more difficult. The lockbox has its own ward and this one doesn’t trigger an alarm.”
“What does it trigger?” he asked, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.
Breese’s smile twisted awry with dark humor.
“A heart attack, near enough.”
“Great.” He rolled his eyes. Breese seemed to find that amusing.
“You can move the box without triggering the ward,” the man assured him, “but you can hardly carry it out with you. Pour the red powder in a circle around the box, being careful not to inhale any of it or to let it touch your skin. Then light it. While it’s burning, the ward will be inactive. You only have until it burns out to open the box, get your target and lock the box again.”
“How long?”
“Not long. You’ll have to be quick.”
“Won’t the study ward pick up the hot air from the flames?”
“No. The ward only reacts to breath.”
He managed to push his unreasoning excitement down long enough to consider.
“And you know all of this, how? People don’t generally volunteer these kinds of secrets.”
Breese nodded in agreement. “The wardsmith responsible for the maintenance of the grounds and study works for me.”
“And both the study door lock and lockbox are based on Temple designs,” Neever added significantly.
He turned it over in his head. It sounded do-able. But more than that, it sounded like fun.
You’re an idiot. How have you survived this long?
“What’s the target?”
“You’ll know it when you see it.”
He grimaced. He didn’t like vague. Vague got you killed.
“And any gold or jewels I find in the lockbox?”
Neever frowned but Breese smiled in understanding.
“Is yours. But leave everything else. And cover your tracks. You were never there.”
He nodded that he understood, his attention wandering as he thought it over.
“One more thing,” Breese added, drawing him from his musings. “In your satchel, you’ll also find a paper wrap containing a black lozenge.”
“What’s that for?”
There was a moment of silence.
“For in case you get caught.”
He went rigid.
“Poison?”
Breese’s eyes, grave above a wry smile, gave the affirmative.
“You expect me to die protecting your secrets?” he smiled dangerously.
That’s it, I’m done. They can find themselves another thief.
“You misunderstand,” Neever put in, all traces of the normal good humor gone. “It isn’t to protect us. It’s to protect you.”
“From what? The painful condition of being alive?”
Breese leaned closer, obviously enjoying the melodrama.
“You don’t know any of the rumors surrounding the governor,” the man whispered, “so I can see how you might think that.”
He absorbed that.
Torture. Wonderful.
What had he gotten himself into this time? Abruptly, he was angry at himself. Because he already knew he was going to do this, no matter what the poison was for and no matter the governor’s reputation. And he was also angry at the two men across from him, since he could see they knew it too.
He scooped the satchel from the floor and it slipped it into the fold of his borrowed robe as he stood.
Neever spoke as he was turning away.
“Your knives.”
“What knives?” he countered, though he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised Neever had sniffed them out.
“Leave them,” the monk commanded.
You want me to walk into the home of a psychopath unarmed?
But he could see from the monk’s face that Neever did.
For the first time, real uncertainty held him. Slowly, he sat back down. So voluminous were the robes he easily slipped his arms out of the sleeves. With a practiced shrug, his brace of knives dropped into his hand. His belt and ankle knives join the little collection he passed to Neever under the table.
“I’ll be wanting these back,” he warned the monk refusing to let them go until the man had met his eyes.
“When you’re done,” the monk assuaged, “follow the main road east, past the main square and under the white arch to the Temple. It’ll be on your right. I’ll be waiting around back.”
He shrugged back into the robe as he stood but turned back to the table after a step.
“Neever, you said this was the interview. So what’s the main job?”
The older man returned his gaze frankly.
“We’ll talk about that when you get back.”
If I get back, you mean, he thought, reading the monk’s undertone.
He wove his way through the tables and out the door. A light breeze had picked up outside. He looked to his right, down the all but deserted street. A smart man would cut and run right about now.
He sighed.
I just know I’m going to regret this.
He turned left, ducking his head through the leather loop of the emerald pendant.Despite all his reservations, it felt good to be doing what he was best at again.
* * *
Something crackled in the brush to his right.
He jumped at the ominous sound and stepped on the end of his robe. He managed a single, awkward hop before that knee gave way. The dusty gravel of the road abraded his soft palms as he went down. He spent a terrifying moment scrabbling at the creature engulfing his head before managing to wrestle his way out of his flopping hood. Straightening with a jerk of haughty dignity, he glared up and down the moonlit path. Satisfied it remained devoid of witnesses, he dusted himself off in brisk puffs. It wouldn’t do for a third level acolyte to be seen rolling in the dirt. Standards needed to be maintained.
It hadn’t been his intent to travel at night but the mule he’d hired this morning in some little mud-speck village had thrown him sometime after midday. He’d chased it for a ways, giving voice to his righteous indignation – pale calves flashing – before he’d remembered his station.
Curse the mindless beast!
It had stood
in placid consideration of him, ears perked to his supplication as he’d shuffled nearer. But whenever he’d come within ten paces of the stubborn thing, a stiff-legged trot had kept the reins – only just – from his reach. And when he eventually gave up his chase, gasping and winded, the beast would turn to study him once more. For a mule, he thought he’d detected dark delight in the twitching of its ears as it awaited his next compelling argument.
In that manner – with him sometimes coaxing, sometimes cursing – they’d backtracked almost a league.
Confounded mule! Denizen of the dark places! Testament to equine error in judgment!
And curse the fat vendor who’d insisted he pay for the beast in coin. Obtuse woman, failing to recognize an opportunity to be of service to the Holy Temple. Even though he’d pointed out – more than once! – the fact he was almost a priest and should be accorded certain fundamental… generosities. There was just no helping some people. Well, he’d remember the stubborn woman. And her stubborn mule.
The dark landscape hemmed him from all sides. In hindsight, he should perhaps have stayed aboard the barges for the return journey. But after witnessing the heathen merriment of those… people, he’d been unable to force himself.
He would walk. Had not Nemus walked the breadth of the dry sea? Had not Mlachai trekked barefoot the spine of the mountains? Yes, he would walk! Step by wearied step. Footsore but determined. Limping yet unbroken! His hardy faith would be held up as a shining example to all. Generations from now initiates would study the travails of brave Inrito: Paragon of the–
He stubbed his toe.
“Pox! Pestilence! Pernicious, palsied pack animal!!!”
He could have been back at the Temple bells ago! This was all the fault of that young ruffian! That… That nameless miscreant! Always mocking, never a thought for Temple authority. No regard for common courtesy – or even simple common sense!
With trembling fingers he probed at his brow and the stubble where once there had been glorious eyebrows. His already delicate skin was scraped raw by the knife of that… That knave! Felonious fiend of follicles! His poor hide had fared poorer still in the merciless sun.