Shadow's Witness

by Paul S. Kemp

  “That risky enough for you?” he whispered into the air. He waited, but the Trickster made no answer. He sniffed in good-natured derision, gracefully climbed atop the head of the manticore he had used for cover, and studied the courtyard from above.

  Though winter, only a light coating of snow dusted the flagstones. A labyrinth of fountains, statues, pillars, and decorative urns dotted the stone yard, some aglow with magic, some not. From above, the courtyard looked even more a forest of stone than it did from ground level. All of the sculptures and urns were of the finest workmanship and materials—the abundance of jade, ivory, and precious metals had Jak fairly slavering. The haphazard placement of the artwork left him with the impression that the pieces had been tossed randomly about in a snowstorm and left where they landed.

  An artist with style buys for the Soargyls, he thought, but a tasteless clod does the decorating. Probably Lady Soargyl herself, he speculated. Mora Soargyl was a big woman reputed to be a bit like a dwarf when it came to fashion—lots of wealth, little grace, and even less taste.

  Still, the price of any one of these urns would have kept Jak in coin for a month. But that’s not why I’m here, he reminded himself.

  Surrounded on all sides by the tasteless artistic trappings of Soargyl wealth, Sarntrumpet’s squat towers jutted out of the center of the courtyard like five thick stone fingers. Crimson tiles shingled the roofs of each spire, blood red in the starlight. As with everything in the courtyard, the manse was built entirely of stone—marble, granite, and limestone mostly—with wood used only as necessary and evergreen shrubbery absent altogether. The few windows cut into the stark exterior were dark—bottomless mouths screaming from the stone. Hideous gargoyles chiseled from granite perched atop the roof eaves and stared ominously down on the courtyard.

  To Jak, the grounds evoked the image of a grand cemetery surrounding a great mausoleum, or one of the cities of the dead built around an emperor’s tomb like those he had heard about in tales of distant Mulhorand.

  He had approached the manse from the back, so he could not see the main entrance. A few outbuildings stood in a cluster in the northwest corner—a stable and servants’ quarters, he assumed.

  From atop the manticore, he had a full view of the perimeter walkway that surrounded the courtyard and saw that not one, but three pairs of torch-bearing guards patrolled it. Not only that, but a full squad of guards in heavy cloaks patrolled around the manse itself. The Trickster only knew how many more men were within.

  Could be worse, he thought with a grin, and jumped down from his marble perch.

  Still using the magical vision granted him by his spell, he determined a safe path through the enchantments. Always alert to the location of the guards, he darted from shadow to shadow, from pillar to fountain, until he stood amidst a tight cluster of tall statues within fifty paces of the manse. Close enough that Sarntrumpet itself stood within the range of his spell, he saw that the high windows also shone with enchantments, though the actual tower walls did not. He nodded knowingly, having expected as much. There was too much wall space to protect it all with spells, but windows provided access for flying wizards and climbing thieves. Only a fool left them unprotected.

  He focused his attention on the central tower, the tallest of the bunch by over two stories. The great spire was windowless on this side except for three expansive, closely packed panes near its top. All three glowed with the bright, red-orange light of powerful magic. That has to be the place, he thought, while he eyed the sheer walls critically.

  He had not come into this job unprepared. Though he worshiped Brandobaris—the halfling god of rogues who ran pell-mell into the Abyss itself and still managed to escape with his hide—he nevertheless made it a habit to plan carefully before taking risks.

  Because you’re a god, and I’m a man, he thought, and hoped his oft-repeated phrase justified his habitual caution in the Trickster’s eyes.

  Since he wanted his new holy symbol to be an item taken from the very bedchamber of the brutal Lord Soargyl himself—a bedchamber whose location within Sarntrumpet Towers was hardly public knowledge—he had for the previous two tendays sprinkled coins and discreet inquiries among the city’s architects. When that idea had failed to produce any useful information, he had ruefully decided to rely on the unpredictable humor of the Trickster. Before setting out this evening, he had cast a divination spell and requested the location of the bedchamber. The response from Brandobaris that popped into his head had been surprisingly frank, if a bit overwrought:

  Through darkness thick, and dire-filled gloom,

  Where danger lurks, and shadows loom,

  In tallest spire that stabs the sky, within is where the

  treasures lie.

  He smiled and sat back on his haunches under the watchful eyes of a marble swordsman. The Trickster had given him the location, but it was up to Jak to get in. And out, he reminded himself.

  He sat casually under the statue, eyed the guard patrols as they circled the manse, and tried to time their routes. While he watched, he took the time to relish the moment and congratulate himself on his skills. The Trickster had set him a hard task, but he had proven himself up to the challenge, as usual.

  While waiting for the guard patrol to complete its circuit around the manse, he studied Sarntrumpet and tried to guess at its internal layout from its external features. It did not surprise him that Lord Soargyl had chosen the highest spire in the manse for his bedroom. Nobles in Selgaunt were notoriously arrogant, and Lord Soargyl was reputedly worse than most. Only a room that looked down on the rest of the city’s citizens would satisfy his ego.

  Strangely enough, Selgaunt’s rogues typically respected the city’s strict social hierarchy. Thieves only rarely tried to infiltrate a noble’s home. Not only was such a thing likely to fail and result in an ugly death for the thief—at least for those less lucky and skilled than Jak—it simply wasn’t done. The manses of the nobility were treated as sacrosanct. There were exceptions, of course—the Night Masks under the Righteous Man, for example. And me, he thought with a smile.

  Unlike most native Sembians, Jak resolutely refused to play by Selgaunt’s unwritten rules—he ran as an independent rogue in a gang-dominated underworld. He prided himself on his halfling blood in a city that held halflings in barely concealed contempt. He thought that respecting nobles simply because of their titles and bloodlines was among the silliest things he had ever heard.

  Feeling self-satisfied and pining for his pipe, he leaned back against the pedestal of a statue and blew out imaginary smoke rings. Sandwiched between the guards stationed at the manse and the guards on the walkway, the inner courtyard provided a kind of thieves’ sanctuary, if one could avoid the alarm spells—which he had.

  He smiled and pushed his hair back from his face. Thirsty, he took out a leather skin and had a gulp of water. Around him loomed the towering marble figures. All stood upon stocky square pedestals and had a nameplate inset. Unable to read, Jak could not tell what they said. Not for the first time, he reminded himself to ask Cale to teach him. That bald giant reads nine languages, he thought, marveling. Nine! He shook his head in disbelief.

  He ran his fingers along the nameplates and imagined what they might say. Most of the statues were of armored men holding swords aloft in victory, though some seemed posed in the midst of ferocious combat with an unseen foe. Jak assumed them to be representations of past Soargyl patriarchs.

  He eyed the statues critically. Judging from their heroic proportions, the Soargyls of old had been impressively built men; either that, or the sculptor had been paid to take some creative, and flattering, liberties. More likely the latter.

  The green cloaked squad of twelve house guards again trooped around the corner of the manse, mail clinking, boots thumping. The moment they appeared, Jak began a mental count. Then he waited, counting all the while. By the time they had retraced their route and again come around the same corner, he had reached one hundred and forty-seven
, and his seeing spell had expired. He had plenty of time.

  He waited for the guards to vanish around the far side of the manse again before making his move. As soon as the last of the men disappeared around the far corner, he began his count. One, two … he bade the dead Soargyls farewell, darted from the shadows, and raced to the base of the central tower. Seventeen, eighteen … there he crouched low, peering into the darkness behind him. No one. Sarntrumpet Towers was as lifeless as a tomb.

  Why would people surround themselves with nothing but dead stone? he wondered, followed immediately by a whispered oath. “Dark.” He had lost his count.

  He grinned sheepishly. His Harper colleagues would not have been surprised. A worldwide organization of diverse operators, the Harpers worked behind the scenes to thwart the schemes of various evil-minded factions. Though he had worn the Harper pin for over six winters, Jak still had a reputation among them as a bit of a stray quarrel. If they had known of it, they would not have appreciated his burglary tonight. It was too risky.

  Ah well, he thought, and gazed up the face of the sheer central tower. The Harpers could afford to take some more risks.

  Jak had joined the organization because they tried to do good, and because he approved of their methods. Where possible, the Harpers tried to influence events using only political pressure. They resorted to killing only when deemed necessary and justified. Someday he hoped to sponsor his friend Erevis Cale for membership, but for now, he knew Cale was not ready. The big man turned too readily to blood. The Harpers would not approve of that. Cale would fit into the organization even less well than Jak.

  For years Jak had felt torn between his friendship with Cale and his membership in the Harpers. He thought Cale a good man, but a man who killed at the slightest provocation. He disliked that about his friend. Yet he knew that Cale would always stand by him, and that he liked. He wasn’t so sure he could say the same about the Harpers. Especially if they had known about tonight’s little job.

  Over one hundred feet up, the trio of windows beckoned.

  Jak grimaced. He would not make that climb without magical assistance—risk taking was one thing, stupidity another. Hurriedly, he pulled off his boots, took from his belt pouch the snuffbox holy symbol, and began to incant. Though it seemed to take an eternity, the guards did not reappear before he finished the casting. Upon completion, his hands and furry bare feet became sticky, as though he had dunked them in cobbler’s glue. “This should make things easier,” he whispered, and planted his hands on the granite wall.

  With his extremities now adhering to the stone, he began to rapidly ascend. Twenty feet up, he heard the boot tramp of the approaching guards below him.

  One forty seven, he thought in dismay, and flattened himself against the tower. The squad rounded the corner and marched nearer.

  Uncomfortably, he recalled the last time he had been caught hanging along the face of a building—he and Cale had been dangling from a rope with Zhent crossbow quarrels and lightning bolts buzzing past their ears. He hoped this time turned out better.

  The guards walked right below him, the clank of their armor and an occasional spoken command loud in his ears. He held his breath and sent a silent prayer winging to the Trickster: Don’t let them look up and no more wise-ass comments, I promise.

  Though the face of the tower was unlit, he knew he could not be hard to see. A single keen-eyed guard glancing up the tower.…

  They walked directly under him and he felt every thump of his heart like a drumbeat. They would see him. They had to.

  They didn’t! They walked under and passed him by!

  He held his breath until they rounded the far corner of the manse then blew it out in a frosty, relieved sigh. Not bothering to keep another count, he sped spiderlike up the face of the tower until he reached the cluster of windows near the top. The wind ruffled his shirt and pants but his spell prevented a fall.

  Unable to touch the windows for fear of triggering the protective spells, he moved from one to the other, held his nose a fingerwidth from the thick glass, and tried to peer through. Only nobles could afford glass windows instead of shutters—and Jak cursed Lord Soargyl for it. Through the smoky glass of each he could see only darkness beyond. Any one of them could be Lord Soargyl’s bedroom, or the guards’ mess hall.

  I’ll just have to pick one and trust to Lady Fortune, he thought. At that, he fancied he heard the Trickster’s laughter tinkling on the night breeze. Grinning despite himself, he skirted wide of the windows and climbed up to the red-tiled roof. From there, he had a panoramic view of the city, and it astounded him.

  Selgaunt stretched before him as though a giant had unrolled a great carpet made of stone blocks. Row after row of night shrouded, snow-dusted buildings extended to the limits of his vision. Braziers and street torches dotted the avenues even at this late hour, motionless orange fireflies suspended in a sea of black. He turned to see starlight glistening off the whitecaps in Selgaunt Bay. Cargo ships and icebreakers crowded the docks, their masts a forest of timber framed against the night sky and dark water. The cold breeze carried the salt tang of the Inner Sea. Again he found himself wishing for a smoke. Next time, he vowed. From now on, I bring my pipe on all jobs.

  He allowed himself another moment of enjoyment before recalling his business. He willed his sticky spell to expire, freeing his extremities from the awkward magical adhesive, and again removed his holy symbol from his pouch. Intoning in a whisper, he recast the spell that allowed him to see dweomers. He lay flat on his stomach and carefully crept headfirst down the sloped roof until he had his head and neck extended beyond the overhang. The precipitous drop dizzied him momentarily, but he bore it, remaining perfectly still until his body regained its equilibrium.

  “This dangerous enough for you?” he mouthed through gritted teeth. Oops, he reprimanded himself, I promised no more wise-ass comments. He muttered an apology to the Trickster and studied the windows.

  Up close with the seeing spell, he saw now that all three glowed orange-red with numerous dweomers. There’s something important in there, he thought, excited.

  He dug his toes into the roof tiles for stability, freed his hands for casting, and recited the incantation for yet another spell, this one a powerful magic that attempted to unravel and dispel the magic of other spellcasters. When he completed his spell, he felt a surge of energy burst from his body and attack the spells on the windows. He watched as his own power warred with that of the caster of the protective spells, whoever that was. Jak witnessed his power triumph and the red-orange glow around the windows winked out.

  “Gotcha,” he chuckled. Before righting himself, he cast another spell on the now unprotected windows to create a globe of silence centered on the ornate stone sills. No sound would pass in, out, or through the area affected by the spell.

  He awkwardly backed up, stood, and shook the stiffness from his arms and legs. He looked down over the roof edge to see the house guard patrol making another round of the grounds. From this height they looked like a single organism snaking around the manse. He waited for them to pass. Ready, he pulled a dagger from his belt and gripped it in his teeth.

  Now, for the really hard part.

  With a light touch on his luckstone and a final whispered prayer to Brandobaris, he lay flat on his belly and backed feet first toward the roof edge. His heart began to race when his feet slid off the roof and hung loose over open air, but he continued to back up, slow and easy. He bent at the waist and felt around the tower’s face with his foot—again cursing his small stature—until his toes found a secure hold in the craggy wall. Carefully, he placed his weight upon it—now praising his small stature and scant weight—then did the same with his other foot. Bracing himself with his feet, he eased his upper body over the roof overhang. His fingers reached for and found cracks in the granite blocks as he went. His heart leaped in his chest when he finally hung suspended from the wall—no rope, no spell, no anything. A strong wind off the bay could blo
w him off. He didn’t dare look to the earth below.

  Burn me, he thought to the Trickster, but if this doesn’t satisfy you, I quit. He suppressed a giggle—it wouldn’t do to shake with laughter with a hundred-odd foot drop below him—and inched down and leftward toward the center windowsill. When he got close to it, he came within the effect of the silence spell. The whistle of the wind suddenly fell silent, his rasping breath and occasional grunt made no sound, and the struggle of his callused feet gripping stone became noiseless.

  He lowered himself to the wide sill and steadied himself atop it. A sudden gust of wind ruffled his hair and rocked him. He reached for the stone, caught himself, and tried to steady his racing heart. “Dark,” he oathed. “Dark.”

  He waited, perfectly still, until his heartbeat slowed. Calm now, he crouched, gripped the sill with one hand, took the dagger from his mouth, and smashed the hilt into the window. Soundlessly, the thick glass veined with a spider web of cracks but remained otherwise intact. Come on, dammit, he cursed.

  He hit it again, harder this time, and the pane silently shattered. He leaped through the opening as quickly as he dared, careful to avoid cutting his feet on the broken glass.

  Still smiling on the foolish, Lady, he thought upon landing, and tapped his luckstone. I appreciate that.

  The window he had chosen didn’t open into a mess hall or a bedroom, where the sudden gust of winter air would have awakened sleepers, but into a sitting room. A single closed oak door stood opposite the window, while a double door beckoned to his left. Soft firelight spilled through the half-open double doors from the room beyond.