by David Cook
“Indeed!” The priestess was impressed.
“Why do you travel such dangerous land alone?” Pinch pressed the question while her thoughts were still unsettled.
“I’m searching for a thief, a scoundrel who robbed our temple,” she confided.
Pinch smiled inwardly to himself. She’d revealed more than she should have and enough to give him her game. “What base villainy! On this road, bound for Ankhapur?” They stopped at a fallen log and Pinch began to examine her wounds.
The priestess winced as her rescuer prodded her shoulder, feeling the pain of his touch even through the armor she wore. Seeing the effect, Pinch poked her a little harder as she spoke, just to keep her unsteady.
“There was word the thief might flee south and sell his treasures there. Our proctor sent us, one to each road. I drew Ankhapur.”
Pinch turned his attention to her scalp. A graze ran across the hairline, hardly serious but bleeding heavily like wounds to the head would. “You suspect us?” Pinch gave the words just a tinge of offended nobility.
“Certainly not, lord,” Lissa hurriedly assured while the rogue wrapped a muddy cloth around her forehead.
As he dressed her wounds, Pinch considered just killing her and having done with it. Her dead body here would be no more than another, but with her suspicions lulled, it seemed a waste. Better to keep her around and uninformed, in case she proved useful someday.
Choosing an appropriately bold shyness, Pinch said, “This thief, if he is in Ankhapur, may be hard to find. If you should need some help, you must let me know. A king’s ward does have some influence, after all.”
Lissa flushed a little at the imagined generosity of the offer. “Again, thank you, my lord.”
“This is nothing, priestess. But one last word of advice. Tell no one what you have told me.” Pinch whispered the words in soft conspiracy as the riders slowly returned. “Indeed, you should not have told me. This is best as our secret, lest your quarry grow scared.”
The priestess scooped a little handful of water from a muddy footprint and tried to wash the blood from her face. “Of course you’re right. I’ve been foolish. Thank you, Lord Janol.”
“Just Janol. I’m only the king’s ward, not one of his blood. Now, I’ve a friend named Maeve. Let’s see if she can properly tend to you.”
A Shortcut
Cleedis did not welcome the news of an additional traveling companion.
“The woman is no concern of mine,” he huffed, after pointing out that eight of his men were dead because of meeting her. The miserable performance of his troopers had stung the old warrior’s pride, and he had already given the captain a blistering rating over the shabby performance of the company. All failure lay upon the officer, in Cleedis’s mind—failure to drill them properly, failure to stem the rout, failure to issue clear orders, failure to grasp the basics of tactics, even a failure of will. Cleedis ignored his own contribution to the debacle and ignored the indignant captain’s fuming efforts to point it out.
Given the losses, Cleedis was at least wise enough to lay no blame on the men. The captain was beside himself with rage and at one point came to the brink of offering up his commission that he had paid so dearly for, an offer Cleedis would no doubt have taken on the spot.
Pinch was for the woman, and his firmness was aided by the cool moral strength that comes after the rush of battle. While the two argued, Lissa knelt beside a trooper who’d taken an axe blow just above the knee. His tentmates were certain the leg could not be saved and were fretting over whether to finish the amputation with a clean blow or bind him and hope that shock and gangrene didn’t set in before they reached civilization.
The priestess ended the debate with sharp orders to hold the man down, orders given in the tone a soldier was conditioned to obey.
They pressed him flat in the bloody mud, two men holding his shoulders while a third sat on his kicking legs and ignored his screams. While the patient writhed in their grasp, Lissa laid her hands on his gaping wound, closed her eyes, and prayed. Within moments the gash was gone and the trembling pain passed from the man. His screams gave way to murmurs as he lapsed into blissful sleep.
After that, there was no question that Lissa would ride with the company.
The priestess healed all she could while the soldiers buried their dead, for whom there was no help. Pinch warned off Sprite from rifling their pockets by pointing out that the troopers would surely spit the little halfling if they caught him at it. “And I’ll let them,” the upright man added. “Get your booty from those two high lawyers.”
“Waste of time—after all they was robbing her,” the halfling groused while looting Ox and Lance. The slim pickings he got—a ring, two wallets, and a necklace—were commandeered by the troop sergeant.
“Pensions for the dead men’s wives, you thieving terrier,” said the windburned sergeant, as shallow a lie as any the halfling could have put up.
After fumbling and grousing about certain overzealous hypocrites, Sprite gave up his booty. Still, when the halfling rejoined Pinch, Therin, and Maeve, his face was a bubble of unsuppressed glee. “What gulls! I could dine off them for weeks,” he chortled. With a quick nod to his hand, the little rogue flashed a fistful of cut stones and worn coins. “Didn’t think I’d let him have it all, did you?”
“Then we’ll divvy up tonight,” Pinch stated, as coolly matter-of-fact as if he’d just done the job. “Square splits for all.” The other two, sorceress and bravo, nodded their agreement.
Sprite-Heels scowled but nodded too. He had better sense than to cross his partners so openly. “Tonight then,” he muttered before scurrying away.
“Maeve—”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” the witch assured before Pinch could finish his words. Slip-slopping through the mire, she was already falling in behind the halfling, her voice wheezing from the effort of talking while she rushed after. “Sprite, hold slow for me, dearie …”
Pinch watched the pair weave through the scattered packs of men, Sprite poking what he shouldn’t at every chance. They played the roles they had played in many a throng, that of mother and child, old Corruption’s family.
Then the cold-shock settled onto Pinch. The wet, the chill, and the grime stroked his bones with their ferocious touch and drew their cruel pale to his skin. Two troopers, one a pock-faced veteran who had spent his years raising malingering to a substantial art, the other a bull with a broad, flat nose smashed in a tavern brawl, had stoked up a fire for drinks, as troopers will do given any short stop. Pinch took Therin by the arm and led him toward the growing blaze.
“Pinch, what about her?” Therin whispered with a quick tilt of the brow toward the only woman at the circle—Lissa the priestess, already favored with a seat in the troopers’ midst.
“We don’t panic,” the regulator whispered back, cheek to cheek.
Therin turned himself away, conspicuously trying to avoid her notice. “I saw her sign when she was working spells! She’s one of the temple—”
“Stay that!” Pinch hissed. He pulled the man back around and pushed him forward.
The big rogue stumbled a little step forward and stopped. “But what’s she doing here?” Therin’s whisper was filling with panic.
“She’s looking for a thief.” The dig of an elbow got Therin moving again so that his terrified stare was not so obvious.
“Damned gods, she’s made us!” he blurted. “You go first, Pinch.”
“Stow it and get going, you fool. She’s not made me, you, or anybody. The temple’s sent out patricos to watch every road out of Elturel. She’s fishing and, by damn, I’m setting her to the wrong catch.”
“Uncle said, ‘Never rob a temple.’ Too many people get too interested. Get myself hanged all again, I will—”
“I told you to stow it, so clamp your flapping lips and play a dumb show.” Pinch hissed one last time as he pulled Therin toward the camp circle. The old rogue couldn’t stand such whining. Thei
r lives were their lives, not given to them, not chosen for them. Therin had chosen to be a high lawyer and a rogue, and right now that meant taking the dues in full.
I won’t snivel so, Pinch scornfully reminded himself, not while there are other choices to be made.
“Now let’s get warmed up before we freeze.” There was no bother to wait for an answer. The rogue sent Therin stumbling into the bunch with a firm shove from behind.
The cold shivers of the group, the tight banter of near death, and the swallowed scent of blood were an effective disguise for the pair. Nobody sat comfortably around the fire, so there was nothing to note when Therin sat himself opposite the priestess and tried to stare at her without staring from across the flames.
Cleedis didn’t waste time with orders to bury the highwaymen. His men heaved the bodies into the brush, far from the stream, where their decay wouldn’t pollute the water. The burials of their own, dug down into the muddy half-frozen soil, were ceremonies of brutal custom—the wrapping of the body, the sergeant’s words, the file-by of those who lived—all done by passionless drill.
The work done, Cleedis came by the fire and stood in the sputtering warmth from the too-wet wood. His fur-lined robes were hitched up above the muck so that he was nothing more than a grotesque mushroom, a stem of two feeble legs that tottered under the bulging top of thick winter robes. “Put it out. We’re leaving.”
Cloaking their irritation behind dutiful yes-sirs, the two guards set to packing their kits. Therin, proudly clinging to the image that he was uncommandable, tore his gaze from the priestess. “Now? You’ve already wasted your light. You won’t get a mile before dark.”
“We’re leaving. There may be more bandits about, but you can stay if you want,” Cleedis offered, his hands spread in willingness.
“You best come with us, miss,” said one of the two troopers, who’d been goldbricking till now. The pock-faced veteran touched his eye in a sign to ward off evil. “There’s unblessed dead here and evil they was, to be sure. Ain’t wise to sleep near ’em, what with them so recent killed. Sure to know they’ll come for live folks in the night. ’Course, you being a priestess and all, this ain’t no puzzle to you.”
“Tyr’s truth to all that,” murmured his flat-nosed companion.
“Quit stalling, you two!” boomed the sergeant’s baritone from across the glade. “Lord Cleedis wants us on the trail now, so get your arses in your saddles, if it would not be too much effort, gentlemen!”
With a flick of his thumb, Therin went off to get their horses.
“Get to work,” bossed the pock-faced fellow when his companion gawked dully. The veteran reinforced the words with a kick of mud in the other’s direction. While the flat-nosed fellow juggled the still-scorching pots into his haversack, the veteran snapped off his own rude gesture as soon as the sergeant’s back was turned.
“Prig-faced jackass.”
“Lost his sense of the trooper’s life, has he?” Pinch’s question hung with the air of casual conversation.
The veteran’s wary weather eye, sensing the gray front coming, fixed on the rogue. “He’s well enough, and a damn stretch better than you, magpie.”
The words slid off Pinch’s well-oiled conscience. “Least I don’t make others dance to my jig.”
“That may be and that may not. Your friends don’t ride too far from you.” Therin slogged back through the slush, leading two horses by their jingling reins.
“Only fools split their strength in the camp of the enemy.” With a middle-aged man’s grunt, Pinch got one foot into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. A snap of the reins moved him away from the fire.
“What was that all about?” the younger thief puzzled as he trotted up beside.
“Salt in the wounds and oil on the water, my aide-de-camp.” The old fox grinned. “Never miss a chance to rile them up and make them think you’re on their side. Right now he’s testy, but maybe by Ankhapur that horse soldier won’t snap back so hard.”
Therin saw the message. “Friends in the right places, eh?”
“Friends in all places, boy,” the master corrected as the troop fell into line. With a wink and a nod to his lieutenant, Pinch reined up his horse alongside the priestess Lissa.
“Greetings, Lord Janol.” Her eyes, previously open, were now wary.
“And to you, milady.” Pinch bowed in his saddle. Years of tutoring in courtly manners had not all been a waste.
“Thank you again for saving my life.” Although she could not be but grateful, her words lacked conviction. They were the pleasant hedge of small talk behind which she could hide her true convictions.
“What else could I do?”
“I could have been a criminal and they the innocents.” The mask of suspicion was beginning to slip from her eyes.
Pinch smiled and shifted in his saddle, trying to find comfort for his sore legs. “I’m a quick judge of character.”
Perhaps he answered too glibly, for the words stung. The hint of Lissa’s smile, almost visible in the torch-flicker shadows, collapsed. “I’m learning to be one,” the priestess announced.
“I’ve noticed, Lord Janol, that they do not treat you with the respect due a peer,” Lissa continued. Pinch had let slip the advantage in their volley and the woman was quick to seize on it.
“Prisoners seldom are so treated.”
The priestess’s eyes narrowed. Without shame she asked, “A prisoner … for the crime of—”
“Inconvenience.”
Pinch had to continue before his unwitting pursuer could form deductions of her own. “Too much popularity, and too little of it with the right group of people. Leaving Ankhapur was expedient, just as coming back now seems … prudent.”
The rogue was lying extemporaneously, an unfair advantage he had over her.
It went as Therin had said.
In less than a mile the sun, bleeding orange, was all but screened out by the winter-barren trees. Dusk held sway briefly in the sky before vanishing into the reach of night. Winter owls and wild dogs paced them through the darkness, chasing down the mice and rabbits that bolted from the clattering horse hooves. Other things marked their passing too, with grunts of humanlike bestiality that were passed down the line of march. Torchlight brightly reflected creatures with eyes too many or too few. The clatter of steel sent them scurrying away.
It was only after hours of night riding that Lord Cleedis signaled a halt. The troopers hurled themselves to the cold, wet ground until the sergeant came by and pressed them to their duties with the hard application of his boot. With much grumbling and reluctance, the tents were pitched, double guards posted, and cold meals prepared. Pinch, Therin, and the others avoided all details and collapsed in their tents as soon as they were pitched.
For three more days the squadron rode, Cleedis holding the riders to a steady pace. Three more men were lost to a catoblepas, a beast so vile its mere look could kill. It had ranged out of the great swamp to the south in search of food. That battle had been sharp and dangerous, and seeing as there was no profit in it, Pinch and his gang had kept well back from the beast’s horrifying visage.
The old rogue was concerned, though he kept his counsel to himself. Ankhapur was months away, across a great stretch of wilderness where beasts far worse than the catoblepas were far more common. They’d barely ridden the smallest portion of that distance and already eleven out of the twenty troopers had been lost. The odds seemed strong to Pinch that he and the others would be stranded well out in the wasteland without the protection of men and weapons. Could it be that Cleedis, empty without Manferic to serve, was embarked on a mad effort to lead Pinch to his doom? It wasn’t impossible. In his years, the rogue had certainly heard of stranger passions—the wizard who built a magical prison just to torment his unfaithful wife or the war captain who led his entire company into Raurin, the Dust Desert, to do battle with the sand. Word was, in the stews of Elturel, the soldier destroyed his company just to avenge an i
nsult. It was madness like this, beyond all norm, that Pinch worried about. Cleedis was old and had never had the wit of a great wizard or statesman.
And then Cleedis called the march to a halt, stopping his dwindling command at the edge of the woods, where the trees abruptly gave way to a brown, dry meadow of winter-burned grass. Even though there was still a good half day’s light, a commodity precious in the shortness of the days, the sergeant bellowed out the camping drill command. The sergeant played the role of martinet extremely well, abiding no goldbricking from his men. Pinch and his companion were thankful for the cold efficiency of the squadron, since it spared them any labor.
“Pitch your tents, boys. I want a detail of five men to gather firewood—remember, two men on guard at all times. Troopers Hervis, Klind—get your bows. Bag some fresh meat for the whole camp.”
The rogues couldn’t help notice the reaction of the troopers to this announcement, more than just delight at the reprieve from stale rations. Never before had the sergeant sent out a hunting detail.
The three men stomped in the mud, hugger-mugger, while Maeve stayed in her saddle. “New business, this is.” Sprite Heels punctuated his observation by spitting into a lump of melting snow.
“Aye.” There was nothing much to say about it. Pinch spied Cleedis nearby, struggling to read something from an unruly scroll of parchment. The sheet would curl every time he let go of the bottom to trace out a line.
Catching the page, Pinch pulled it tight. “Why camp now, good lord?” the rogue asked bitingly. Looking over the top, he noted the scroll was a scrawled grid of suns, moons, stars, and seasons.
“What day is this?” Cleedis grumbled as he battled the ever-curling sheet.
Pinch felt annoyed at being ignored so clumsily. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been ignored before. His stock-in-trade was to pass unseen under the eyes of those who had good cause to watch for the likes of him. But it was his choice now to be seen and heard. He, the master regulator of Elturel, was important, and it wasn’t even a lord chamberlain’s place to forget it. Pinch hadn’t come looking for Cleedis; Cleedis had come this far just for him, so the old man had no right pretending he didn’t matter.