by David Cook
“I work for myself. What’s my booty?”
“Your life, your freedom.”
Pinch snorted. “Small threats. What about coins?”
The voice chuckled again. “Cleedis will see that you are rewarded.
“The work must be done quickly. Old doddering Cleedis there can’t stall my eager sons much longer. The Cup and the Knife must be traded before the ceremony—and no one must suspect. Understand this clearly.”
“Your points are clear,” Pinch snidely answered. He stepped over to Cleedis and sharply kicked the old man. The chamberlain woke quick and alert, a legacy of years of military service. The rogue nodded to the package and lied, “You’re to carry it. I’m not trusted.”
The chamberlain glared with resentment at being ordered so, but nonetheless waddled over and fetched the bundle from the doorway. It was heavier than it appeared, and he hefted it with a grunt.
The crypt door creaked shut. “Betray me and die. Fail me and suffer,” promised the sepulchral voice from inside.
Pinch seized the bag from Cleedis’s grasp and furiously undid the strings. Carefully reaching in he pulled forth the larger of two items he felt. It was a large goblet sharply chiseled from a piece of perfect black quartz. The rim was lipped with a band of gold studded with faceted rubies. At the very bottom of the smoothly polished bowl was the largest white pearl Pinch had ever seen. It was real, too, not fake. His eye was practiced enough to tell the real goods from cheap glimmers.
Blood quickening, Pinch produced the other item from the bag, a silver knife cast as a single piece. It had no rivets, no wrappings, no stones, no gold. The handle was molded into a fluid form whorled and knuckled to the grip of a hand. Perhaps the caster had cooled the molten ore in his hand, molding it the way a child squeezes clay. The blade was ground to a razored line that promised to slice skin, sinew, even bone with the smoothest of grace. The craftsmanship lavished on the copy was perhaps the equal of the original.
Hands trembled as he held the small fortune in hand, and the sheer thought of the magnificence before him overwhelmed the utter fear that had shaken him moments before. Dead king or no, thing in the crypt or what, even these terrors could not drive away the avarice the rogue felt on examining these earthly glories.
The chamberlain testily seized the treasures and stuffed them back into their bag. “I’ll keep them. Out of sight. And remember my lord’s words,” he added with more than a little distrust of his accomplice’s passions.
That reminder brought Pinch back to the reality of his situation, and as Cleedis hurried from the courtyard, the rogue’s initial fear turned to calculation. He took stock of everything that had happened. He’d heard a voice, saw a door move, but never saw the departed king. There was always the possibility that what he’d imagined was true, but there were other alternatives.
First—and this thought came to him as they passed a golden-flowered tree perpetually in bloom, the remembrance of a lord for his deceased mistress—old Manferic might be secretly alive. Pinch could only rule that as very unlikely. There was the elaborate business of staging his own death and sitting in immobile state at his own funeral. A statue would never have fooled the discreet inspections of every enemy who suspected such a trick. Then there was the question of giving up power. It was a sure guess that Manferic would never trust anyone else to front him when the odds were so great. Cleedis might be loyal, but once he was named regent no one could ever say just how loyal. No, Pinch was certain the king was dead.
Dead didn’t mean gone, though, as the protections around this necropolis assured. The old tyrant had been a sorcerer of considerable skill, and his arcane arts had done much to insure his steadfast grip on Ankhapur. If that really had been Manferic hidden from view, then perhaps the late king had found the path to never-ending unlife, the soulless void between the flush of blood and the feast of worms. The thought frightened Pinch. In life, Manferic had been a master of cruelties; the wrenching transition of nonlife would certainly heighten the most degenerate passions in his festering mind.
Another fear entered his thoughts as the rogue surveyed the passing crypts with their heavy doors, great locks, and carved wards. By the perverse pleasure of the gods, in death those once living gained more power. If Manferic was a thing of the darkness, his might could be beyond contending. Sorcery and death were a potent combination, a forge to fashion truly devastating power.
There was a third possibility, far more likely than that, however. Pinch hadn’t seen Manferic. He’d heard a voice, a disembodied one. It didn’t take too much art to conjure up a charlatan who could do a fine impression, especially given Pinch’s absence of fifteen years. The whole thing could just be a dumb show, staged by Cleedis.
To what end? What purpose had the old man in concocting such an elaborate plot. Why travel to Elturel just to collect a rebellious ward and then go to such lengths to convince him his late guardian still lived? Where was the gain for Lord Cleedis, Chamberlain of the Royal Household and Regent of the …
A possibility struck him and Pinch stopped, letting the nobleman laboriously march onward through the narrow lanes. Cleedis was regent only so long as no prince was crowned. No prince could be crowned without the Cup and Knife—
No, that made no sense. If that were the case, why the elaborate substitution? Hurrying to catch up before his host became suspicious of his lagging, Pinch set his mind to work out the snares. It was a puzzle as twisted and double-dealing as his own nature. If no prince were crowned, Cleedis could rule forever—but that would never happen, because the three princes would surely unite against him and force the selection of one of them. That’s why he couldn’t steal the symbols outright.
That’s when Pinch remembered there was a fourth prince, Bors, the one everyone discounted. Bors was an idiot—he couldn’t rule. If he were the chosen king of Ankhapur there would have to be … a regent. Royal law did not allow a queen to rule while her husband lived, so no lady was likely to marry Bors on the hope that the idiot-king would die, no matter how conveniently. The gods had a way of foiling plans like those.
That left Cleedis. Somehow Pinch was sure he was planning to get Bors crowned and then continue his regency. Looking at the old man doddering ahead of him, Pinch realized that the chamberlain’s thinning white hair concealed more cunning and deviousness than anyone suspected. All those years of loyal dullness were a deep mask for the man’s true ambition.
As for his part in it, Pinch guessed he was the foil. If the theft was discovered, he, master rogue and unrepentant ward, would get the blame. The upright man had always understood that; it was his lot in life, both here and in Elturel. It was also his lot in life to see that such a fate didn’t happen, either by not failing or by crossing those who hoped to snare him.
Why switch the regalia and why the charade with Manferic, Pinch didn’t know. Before their purposes were revealed, he needed to find out.
They were somewhere near the fountain that sang when the chamberlain called a rest. Bracing on his cane against the palsied shiver in his legs, the ancient settled onto a cool stone bench. Behind the drooping lids, bright eyes studied the younger man.
“That was Manferic?” Pinch curtly challenged
The senior nodded.
“He’s just chosen to lurk out here?”
“It has been planned for many years,” was the dry response.
“And you’re still his lackey?”
The lined faced tightened. “I am a loyal soldier. I will not serve those worthless sons of his, schemers who fear an honest battle.”
“And you’re not?”
“I have never been afraid to challenge my enemies. I was a great duelist! I’ve just gotten … old.”
“The voice said I’d be paid.”
“I heard my lord. I wasn’t as asleep as you thought.”
“What sum?”
“Ten thousand bicentas and passage to where you desire.”
Ten thousand bicentas was no small sum;
a bicenta was the equal of an Elturel groat. He’d risked his life for far less.
“One hundred thousand.”
Cleedis sputtered in contempt. “Twenty.”
“I can make that by farcing your suite.”
“I can give you over to the Dawn Priests.”
It was the rogue’s turn to scowl.
“Seventy.”
“Thirty”
“Sixty.”
“Forty.”
“Fifty even, then.”
Cleedis’s smile was that of a diplomat who hears the other side propose his terms for him. “Fifty it will be—but only when the job’s done.”
“Transportable, but not script,” Pinch added. He didn’t want to be hampered by a wagonload of coins, and he didn’t trust any note of credit the chamberlain might draw up. It wasn’t one hundred thousand, but it was a fair take for a single job. Of course, he doubted Cleedis had any intention of paying it. Pinch would just have to convince him otherwise.
The chamberlain cast a glance to the westering sun. Already shadows filled the alleys between the crypts. “Time to march on,” the chamberlain ordered as if the rogue were a squadron of knights. He assumed the order was being followed and hurried ahead with renewed vigor.
The musical fountain was closer to the necropolis gate than Pinch remembered, since it took them only a few more twists and turns before they saw the cones of the clerical watchtowers over the rooftops. Shortly after, the small gatehouse came into view. The priests huddled at the iron grill, any arrival providing something to break their boredom. The chamberlain’s bodyguard and their horses were not in sight, presumably warmly waiting at a neighborhood tavern. A few beggars were clustered outside the gate, probably drawing their trade from the masons and hired mourners who worked inside the dead city’s walls.
Pinch cast a look behind, entertaining the thought that he might spot Cleedis’s accomplice, the voice of Manferic, scurrying along behind. As far as he knew, this was the only exit.
“Ho there! Stand aside Lord Cleedis! Our argument is not with you.”
Pinch spun around and came face-to-face with three swordsmen stepping from the shadows. He recognized them from this morning: Throdus’s three clowns. Now each stood poised with a naked rapier, and they didn’t look so clownlike.
“Knights of Ankhapur,” Cleedis blustered, “stand aside yourselves. I order you as regent of all the realm!” The aged warrior-lord tremblingly swept his cane as if it would clear his path.
The flaxen-haired leader of the three, the one Pinch remembered as Treeve, batted the cane aside with a quick swipe of his sword. “Prince Throdus is our lord, not you. We will not fight you, old man, but do not prevent us from ridding the city of this cancer.”
“I’ll hang you for this!”
“We’re protected by Prince Throdus. You’ll do no such thing.”
The regent sputtered. “Mutiny! If you were in my command, I’d have you all flayed!”
“Kurkulatain, keep him out of the way.”
The slightest of the three grinned and flicked his sword tip under the chamberlain’s chin, only to have the old man bat it away. The swordsman’s smile went cross as he tried to find a way to subdue the irascible lord.
Keep them preoccupied, Cleedis, Pinch silently urged. He already had one hand on his sword and just needed a moment of diversion to act. So far, Cleedis held them in indecision, but they were still too watchful for the rogue to strike.
“GUARDS!” Cleedis bellowed!
The three bravos sprang toward the lord in surprise, desperate to shut him up.
It was just the distraction Pinch needed. Ignoring the one whose blade was on Cleedis, Pinch struck at the other two. With a single sweep he produced a dagger in his off hand and struck, driving the blade like a nail into the sword hand of the third attacker, Faranoch.
The man shrieked as the blade plunged through tendons, scraped off bone, and thrust out through his palm. The rapier clattered from his grasp. Pinch gave the skene a vicious twist and let go, leaving the bravo to gape at the bloody memento the rogue left behind.
The leader, realizing he’d cornered the sheep while the wolf still prowled, flailed around in a desperate attempt to correct his error. Pinch was unarmed; there’d been no chance to draw his sword. He stepped aside from the courtier’s frantic lunge, but instead of using the man’s recovery to draw his own sword, Pinch seized the other’s wrist and stepped forward, bringing his foot up in a sweeping kick between the man’s legs. Pinch connected just below the waist, and the ringleader shrieked falsetto as all the air inside him blew out in one massive gust. Treeve writhed on the ground while Pinch’s first target stumbled back onto a bench where he sat clutching his transfixed hand.
“Hold where you are!” shrilled the last ambusher as he held Cleedis by the throat, sword point pressed into the sagging folds beneath the man’s chin. “Make a move and I’ll kill him!”
Pinch stepped away from his whimpering victim, shrugged, and finally drew his sword. “So what? Kill him.”
The little man swallowed in terror.
“You expect me to fight fair. You expect me to care.” The regulator walked forward, leveling his sword at the man. “I don’t care if you kill him. I just want to kill you.”
“Janol …” Cleedis gurgled.
“Shut up, old fool. Do you think I’ll risk my life for you? You haven’t earned it.”
From the distance came the rattling clank of the gate being opened. Voices carried over the silent rooftops.
The man wanted to see who else was coming but was too terrified to take his eyes from his nemesis. Unintimidated, Pinch continued to close. At last the man’s nerve broke, and he flung his hostage forward while bolting into the mazed warrens of the necropolis.
Pinch dodged to the side as the chamberlain gasped and stumbled to freedom. For a moment he thought about chasing the man but easily decided against it. Instead, he turned his attention to the fellow on the ground. Remarkably, perhaps driven by fear, the man had regained his sword with every intention of using it, once he caught his breath.
Pinch didn’t wait for that. With a quick thrust he brought an end to this comedy. The body fell hard on the muddy lane.
The last survivor threw up his blood-covered hands to surrender, and the hue and cry of the arriving bodyguard forestalled the need for any action on Pinch’s part.
“Seize him!” Cleedis commanded as his bodyguards sprinted to the scene. The armored men fell upon the courtier and savagely pinioned him on the ground. The man’s expression was a wrenched mass of pain and terror.
“My lord chamberlain, what shall we do with him?” queried the captain of the bodyguard. A coarse-shaven man adept at killing and following orders, he looked over the rogue’s handiwork with no small amount of approval.
“Keep the priests away,” the chamberlain ordered. The captain nodded and ran off.
Cleedis walked over and placed the tip of his cane on the man’s bloodied hand. “What’s your name, fool?”
Perhaps he was too dazed to understand; perhaps he was too stubborn, but the man didn’t answer.
Cleedis leaned forward. The prisoner screamed.
When the screaming stopped, Cleedis tried again.
“Sir Kurkulatain,” was the burbled answer. Sweat and tears shined the man’s face. “Vassal of Prince Throdus.”
“Did the prince send you?”
“No, my lord!”
“Too easy.” Cleedis leaned on his cane again. “Who sent you? Tell me and things will be easier.”
The man could barely whisper. “Treeve. Word was Throdus offered us titles.”
“This is the result of ambition,” Cleedis admonished Pinch who’d been patiently sitting on the bloodstained bench until the questioning was done.
“It’s the result of ill planning.”
“Whatever,” Cleedis shrugged. He turned to the captain of the guard, who’d returned from his mission. “This man”—Cleedis pointed
at the prisoner—“is a traitor who has attacked the rightful regent of Ankhapur. Execute him.”
“Shall there be a trial, my lord chamberlain?”
The chamberlain looked to Pinch with a cold vulture’s eye. “I see no need for a trial. Do you?”
The rogue shook his head and got to his feet. “No, none at all.”
“Rejoin us, en route to the palace,” the chamberlain ordered, and the two took their leave. “I doubt there’ll be any more attacks today.”
“Lord Cleedis, have mercy!” shrieked the prisoner. His screams rang through the silent company he was about to join, until his echoes were one with the choir of silent ghosts pleading for their own justice.
Thief Hunting
The pair passed through the gate, leaving the captain and his men to clean up the untidy details. The priests, drawn by the screams, thronged on the other side but their entrance was blocked by a pair of soldiers who stood casually in the way. No one was going to antagonize a man who wore the golden serpent of the royal household.
Unless, of course, they weren’t from Ankhapur.
There was a tussle in the midst of the holy men as Lissa struggled to break through the line. She was held back by another, Pinch could see, a pumpkin-bellied servant of Gond. She fought with the conviction of moral purity, but the pragmatism of girth was on his side. She was stuck fast.
It was interesting to watch the reaction of the rest of the small band, so seldom did such a diverse collection of faiths cluster together. The loyal servant of Gond, the pragmatic Wonderbringer, was saying “Such is the result of treachery,” as he held Lissa off. Torm’s man, the defender of justice, all but drowned him out by shouting—no, demanding—to know the proof of the assassin’s crimes. The Oghmaites and the Deneirians quietly observed; watching and noting was what their lords demanded of them. The priests of the god of song seized upon the moment to begin a golden-toned dirge. In the back, the armored priest of Tempus watched with dour approval, satisfied that victory and defeat had been properly rewarded.
Pinch could imagine the clergy of the darker gods—the fallen Cyric, the grinding Talos, and the cold Loviatar—smiling to themselves in the corners where shadows became walls. Unwelcome among the necropolis guardians, nonetheless they were still there. The hidden temples of Ankhapur were always close at hand.