King Pinch

by David Cook

  Then, before the last words had gotten through the boy-mage’s lips, the air around them went green, lightly at first like a fading hangover on a too-long day. It got brighter, swallowing the blue out of the sky, the cold from Pinch’s boots, even the creaking of saddlery from the line of men behind him. In flickering moments, the evenness of the green overwhelmed everything, eventually even the green of the color itself. The world became a perfect color and Pinch could not see it.

  The world returned with a nauseating rush. The green vanished, flooded out by other colors: blue sky, curling gray clouds, the brown-mottled turf of freshly turned fields, the fleshy green of still-leaved trees, and the glittering silver of a nearby sea. The ground lurched beneath him, practically toppling him from the unexpected jolt. Lissa clutched at his sleeve and he seized the belt of someone else. A heave of nausea washed over him and then passed.

  Blinking in the sudden new light, Cleedis tapped Pinch and pointed toward the sea. Sited on the shore, between the water and the close nest of hills, were the tarnished gypsum-white walls of Ankhapur. A fog had rolled back from the thrusting wharves. Atop the hills, the morning bells of the temples had started to sound. And filling the top of the very highest hill were the colonnaded buildings of the royal palace, millipedes clinging to the rich garden slopes.

  Cleedis turned and beamed a drillmaster’s smile as he waved his hand up-slope. “Welcome back to Ankhapur, Janol.”

  Dinner in Ankhapur

  Their arrival was well outside the walls of Ankhapur, in the shadow of the Villa of the Palantic Road that crowned the top of Palas Hill, one of six hills surrounding Ankhapur. They appeared at the edge of a grove, as if they had ridden through the woods and emerged to survey the vineyard-filled valley that lay between them and the city. Thus it was that their descent through the fields, while hailed by the peasants with the appropriate concern and homage, raised no questions of wonder or gossip.

  Furthermore, they all looked gray, muddy, and spent, even Lord Cleedis himself. Pinch’s foreign elegance was all but indistinguishable from the old-fashioned tabard Cleedis favored. Brown Maeve, Sprite-Heels, and Therin the Gur—no one could identify them as any more than merchants or servants among the entourage. Only the wizards in their white clean shifts stood out from the ordinary, and that too was quite ordinary. No wizard was like the rest of the world, so it was only natural for them to be easily marked. At least that was the reasoning of those who watched the column pass.

  In the two hours it took for the column to wend down the hairpin lanes and cross the bridge over the bog-banked Thornwash, a score of petty details returned to Pinch from the life he had fled fifteen years ago. The chill of snow and ice, that in fifteen years in Elturel he had never grown accustomed to, was gone, replaced by the faded green of Ankhapur’s winter. The rhythmic lines of grapes were bare vines stretched over frames, the roads were rocky sloughs of clammy mud. To Pinch, the warm sun breathed the promise of spring, fresh grasses, and new growth. After fifteen years’ absence, the sun of life was returned to him.

  The warmth filled Pinch with a confidence bordering almost on joy, unwarranted by everything he knew, but that was unimportant. He was home, as much as he hated it, with all its memories and pitfalls. He was no longer Pinch, master of thieves, living his derring-do life in the slums and back alleys. By the time he rode through the gates, the ragtag scoundrel was nearly gone. In his place rode a man identical in dress, one who had invisibly traded places during the two-hour ride.

  It was Janol, royal ward of the late King Manferic I, or at least some part of him that Pinch had not forgotten, who sat straight in his saddle, giving a supercilious nod to the liveried watchmen who stood at their parade best as the Lord Chamberlain and company rode underneath the whitewashed stone arch of the Thornwash gate.

  There was one thing that was no different for Pinch or Janol, no matter his position. As either, the rogue felt power. These guards feared and respected men higher than them: the chamberlain, Janol, even the palace’s elite bodyguard. It was the same awe and terror Pinch commanded from the thieves and constables of Elturel. There was in the common folk, he was certain, an innate sense of their betters. Even his gang understood it, though none of them might ever admit it.

  To the hoarse cries of the sergeant, bellowing their procession over the squalls of the fruit sellers and the enticements of the fest queens, the company rode as directly toward the palace as the interwoven streets of Ankhapur allowed.

  This morning, Ankhapur was alive early with the hurly-burly of market day. Pushcarts rocked like overloaded ferries in the sea of heads, their decks loaded with the glinting round flesh of fall squashes. Tides of serving-cooks and housemaids rippled from one stand to the next all down the shores of the streets. Chains of fishmongers heaved dripping baskets from the boats along the river, their still-twitching contents disappearing into the eager crowd. Children stole fruits and leapt over the smoky fires of the kaff-brewers, who sat cross-legged on their mats, pounding bark to steep in brass pots. The scent of that strongly bitter beverage made Pinch yearn for its rich sourness mixed with honey, a drink he’d not had in his fifteen years of self-exile.

  Sated with musing, since too much reflection made a man weak and hesitant to act, Pinch leaned in his saddle toward Therin so that he did not need to shout. “Welcome to home.”

  The Gur shifted nervously in his own saddle while trying to negotiate his skittish horse through the throng. “Your home, maybe. It’s just another ken to me. Although,” he added with a smile and wave to the crowd, “one filled with opportunity. Look at all the coneys and marks out there.”

  “Mind your hands with caution, boy. Take some time to walk the field before you bowl the pins. Besides our game’s up there, not in these stews.”

  Therin’s eyes followed where Pinch pointed, to the clean, scrubbed walls that cut the commoners from their masters, the king’s palace at the top of the hill.

  “Piss and Ilmater’s blood!” the enforcer breathed. “Sprite, Maeve—he’s serious. He means to have us all in!”

  “Gods’ wounds, I ain’t ever forced a ken like that in all my time,” the halfling swore, half-hidden on Therin’s other side. “Think of all the plate and treasures sure to be inside.”

  Because Pinch couldn’t, Therin took the pleasure of fiercely berating the little scoundrel with a mindful thump to his shoulder. “Think of the headsman’s axe too, you lusker, and let that sink on your wicked heart. Remember our warning of last night.”

  Sprite did his best to look wounded, but it was to naught on his companions. Further debate on the topic was broken by the need to negotiate an island of wagons that split the flow.

  Pinch looked about the rest of the way, marveling at the similarity of the differences he saw. On that corner he remembered a saddler’s shop; the building was the same but now it housed an ordinary from which wafted the smell of richly roasted meat. The great square where he used to practice riding was now adorned with an equestrian statue of his late guardian.

  The sculptor had been good at capturing old Manferic’s likeness, the flaring beard and the leonine mane of the king’s regal head. He had molded into the face a sinister and scowling visage that well conveyed the king’s savage love of intrigue, though Pinch felt the sculptor had been too kind by a half. In his saddle, the bronze king held the Knife and Cup, Ankhapur’s symbols of royal power, as if he still owned them even in death. The Cup was raised in one hand for a bitter toast, while with his other the statue-sovereign thrust the Knife at those who stared up from his feet.

  “Stand open for the Lord Chamberlain Cleedis, Regent of the Assumption!” the captain demanded as the column drew up at the gate.

  There was a scurry of movement on the palace’s ornamental battlement, and then a herald stepped between the merlons and replied over the clank and rattle from behind the doors. “Welcome is the return of our sovereign lord and joyous are we at his safety. The princes four wait upon his pleasure and would fain
wish to greet him.”

  Cleedis, whom Pinch now rode beside, smiled his acceptance of this formality, but from the corner of his mouth he added an aside that only his guest could hear. “Three of those princes would fain see me dead. That’s what they were truly hoping.”

  “Perhaps it could be arranged.”

  The warhorse-turned-statesman barely raised an eyebrow at that. “Not well advised.”

  A white dog ran before the gate. Pinch noted it, though it was completely unimportant. The incongruity of it caught his eye, the mongrel’s unmarred coat against the scrubby gray of faded whitewash. “You’ve got me here without a hold. Do you think I care enough about those three you dragged along with me to toe your line? Kill them if you want. I can always find more.” The footpad scratched at a dried patch of dirt on his cheek.

  Cleedis glanced back at the trio, squabbling among themselves. “What do I care about them? I have you.”

  “If you kill me, your outing’s been a waste.”

  “Still think I’m an old fool, don’t you, Janol?” With a grin the chamberlain prodded Pinch with his sheathed sword. “You’re as replaceable as they are. Let’s just say I had some hope of bringing you back into the fold. Besides, you’re more convenient, seeing as you know the ground of the battlefield.”

  While he spoke, the brass embossed gates cracked with a faint burst of sparkling motes as the magical wards placed on them were released. The doors swung into a shadowed arch lined by royal bodyguards, resplendent in wine-and-yellow livery.

  Just as the horses were about to move, Cleedis’s bare blade slapped across Pinch’s reins. “One more thing, Master Janol.” And then the chamberlain ordered his aide, “Bring the priestess here.”

  In short order she trotted her stallion to their side. Cleedis slid the blade away and pretended not to have a thing more to say to Pinch, even though the rogue knew every word was for his own benefit. The old man’s crabbed body shriveled even more as he gave a perfunctory nod from the saddle.

  “Greetings, Worthy. Here is where we must part anon, you to your superiors and I to affairs of state. I wish you to understand that I, Lord Chamberlain, know you seek a thief and extend my hand in any way I might to give you success. Should I learn any morsel that would aid your duty, it will be faithfully brought to you.”

  “Your lordship is most generous,” Lissa murmured as she bowed stiffly in her rigid armor.

  The old noble made slight acceptance of her obeisance and continued. “Let our contact not be all duty, though. In these days, I have been charmed by your company. You must consider yourself a guest in my household. I will arrange an apartment for you in the palace. Accept, milady. The approval of your superiors is already assured.”

  Lissa blushed, a freckled shade against her curled hair. “I’m … I’m honored, Lord Chamberlain, but surely one of my masters here would be of better standing. I’ve no knowledge of courtly things.”

  “Precisely my goal—a refreshing bit of air. Besides, your superiors are crushing bores. Now, forward men!” With a cavalryman’s bellow, he set the whole column in motion, leaving the flustered priestess behind.

  As they passed under the gate, the Lord Chamberlain spoke, as if things were of no consequence. “Priests lead such limited, suppressed lives. All those passions and thoughts, penned up in such rigorous souls. If their passions were given free reign, can you imagine the types of punishments priests could devise for apostates and blasphemers? Fascinating possibilities. I think I’ll keep the worthy Lissa close at hand.”

  The chamberlain said nothing more as the entourage passed through the outer palace, exchanged escorts, passed gates, crossed courtyards, and finally entered the cream-white compound of the inner palace. By this time, Maeve and the others were agoggle. They had passed servants in better finery than most of the freemen they knew. In their world, they had seen only glimpses of this life through keyholes, by scrambling through windows, and in the tumbled mass of their booty. Pinch wondered just how well they would be able to restrain their larcenous souls.

  At last they entered a small, private courtyard turned off from the main processional route, a guest wing attached to the main household. Pinch remembered this section of the compound as particularly secure, bastioned by a bluff to the rear and deep enough into the palace grounds to make unnoticed departures nearly impossible. Short of the dungeons, it would have been his choice for housing a crew such as his, although Cleedis was wrong to think this would contain them. Pinch and his gang had escaped from lock-ups more determined than this in their years spent looting Elturel.

  A resounding chorus of yelps and howls greeted their arrival, and disabused the regulator of any hope that Cleedis had underestimated them. While they handed off their mounts to the waiting grooms, a chaos of sulfurous fire and smoke boiled from dark kennels on the east wall. At first it seemed a wild pack of hounds charged, until one saw the beasts’ chops drooling embers and each yelp a belch of flame. The hounds were things of hellish fire, coal-black coats seared with eyes and breaths of flame. The horses kicked and reared with fearsome fright, dragging the boy-grooms with them.

  “Gods’ pizzle on the heads of the ungrateful!” blurted Therin in an old Gur curse. With a slick hiss his sword cleared the scabbard. “Pinch, strike right. I’ll take the center. Maeve, your spells at ready.” It was for moments like this that Pinch kept the Gur around, ceding battle command to him.

  Just as the four set themselves for the slaughter—theirs or the beasts’, they could not be sure—chains clanked as a trainer single-handedly dragged the lunging beasts backward across the smooth flagstones, coiling the iron leashes around his arm. Lumbering from the shadows of the wall, he was a brute, not quite a giant yet greater than a man. He was bare skinned save for a steel codpiece, scabrous fur and warts stretched over grotesquely knotted muscles. Everything about him was disproportionate. His ears and nose—a broad, corded thing—dominated his head, overpowering the weak eyes buried in ridges of bone. His arms were greater than his legs, which were mighty, and his forearms greater than the rest of his arms. Even while straining with the hellhounds, the ogre swaggered with the dim confidence of muscle.

  “Surrabak hold them, small chief.” It was a voice burned by bad firewine and cheap pipeweed and stretched harsher by three days of carousing, but it was his natural voice.

  “Rightly done. Take them back to their kennel.” Cleedis boldly stepped forward, holding a hand out to stay Pinch and the others. “Stay your hand,” he said sotto voce. “He can be unpredictable.”

  Although he wondered how much of that was for theatrical benefit, Pinch made a quick gesture to the others, the silent hand language of their brotherhood. With slow, wary care the weapons were put away.

  “Surrabak do. Hear small chief come back. Bring Surrabak orders from great chief?” The hellhounds were now within reach of the ogre’s cudgel, and he unhesitatingly laid into them until their snarls became yelps of pain.

  “The great chief is honored to have a killer like Surrabak. He says you must always obey … little chief.” The last words bit against Cleedis’s pride. Nonetheless, he pointed to the four foreigners and continued, “Little chief—me, Cleedis—tells you to guard these little ones. Do not let anyone come here unless they show my sign. Do you remember the sign?”

  With the hellhounds in a tense pack at his feet, the ogre scowled, flaring his lumpy nose as he tried to remember. Tusks curved out from under his thick lips. His dim eyes sank farther in as he pondered hard.

  “Surrabak know little chief’s sign.”

  Cleedis gave a sigh of exasperated relief. “Good. Guard them well, or big chief will become angry and punish you.”

  “Surrabak guard. No one get in.” With that, the ogre barked to the pack and slouched back to the kennels, half-dragging the iron leashes still wrapped around his arm.

  “Little chief, big chief … That thing doesn’t know Manferic’s dead, does it?”

  Cleedis ignored Pinch’s que
stion and stopped at the entrance to the wing, a small cluster of rooms once the queen’s summer rooms. “The servants will show you to your quarters.” As Sprite and the others stepped to go inside, the royal bodyguards stopped them. “Not you three. There are other rooms in the west hall for you.” As if to reassure them, the chamberlain nodded across the way to another colonnaded building.

  “We should be with him,” Sprite snapped. “We’re his friends and it’s up to us to stay together.”

  “Objections, Pinch?”

  For a moment nobody said anything as Pinch looked to his companions. The Gur had his hand to sword, ready for the word if it were given. Maeve looked to Pinch for protection, while Sprite glared back with cold defiance. The Lord Chamberlain let a devil’s smile seize his lips and turn up the corners.

  “Well?”

  “Take them. They’re not a damn to me.”

  The bodyguards sidled forward, eager for the fight. If the wind had blown a leaf a different direction across the courtyard, there might have been battle, but it didn’t and there wasn’t. The three stood frozen as their regulator turned his back on them and went inside.

  “We’re not done with you, Pinch, you bastard!” Therin bellowed as the door slammed shut.

  Inside, Pinch paused, waving off the valet who hustled forward. He strained his ears for the sounds of trouble, fearful there would be a fight. It was part of the playact to turn his back on them, but as he pressed himself against the wall, the rogue was assailed by doubts. Was he playacting? He might need them; that was as much as he understood friendship. The thought of risking his life to save them simply because they were his gang … They know the game, he reasoned to himself. They’ll know the playacting from the real. And if they don’t …

  Pinch didn’t know what he would do.

  Finally, when it was clear nothing would happen, Pinch followed the servant to his rooms. A bath had been drawn and clothes already laid out: a fine, black set of hose with burgundy and white doublet and pantaloons of the best cut.