Realms of infamy a-2

by Ed Greenwood

  “I trust Therin,” Pinch replied breezily, as if his previous displeasure were all forgotten.

  “I still wish the Hellriders hadn’t taken him,” Maeve pined. “He was a good man to me. We was fixing to do up the town that night. Why, I barely shimmied down the back when they broke in the door.”

  “You should get yourself a crib on the first floor,” Sprite jibed as he clambered back into his seat. “Still it was damned quick, the way they found him right after the Firdul job.”

  “Aye, it was,” Pinch agreed. “If they hadn’t caught him with the garbage, I could’ve gotten someone to swear in court that Therin had been out boozing with them when old Firdul was robbed.” His words dropped to a weary mutter. “It was too quick, though. Damned queer.”

  The rasp of the tavern door opening interrupted the master thief’s ruminations. From the front of the taproom there was a hubbub of voices raised in alarmed surprise.

  “Hellriders!”

  Pinch, who always sat with his back to the corner, was the first to see the soldiers come through the door, and he quickly gave a nod of caution to the others.

  There were six of them, dressed in the unmistakable leather armor of the lord’s men. The metal studs that pierced the red leather glittered with brilliant polish. Their scimitars clinked against the steel points as the troop swaggered in. They went from table to booth, brusquely grabbing each customer for a hard scrutiny. Pinch recognized in their midst the stocky build of Troop Commander Wilmarq, an arrogant bastard of an officer. Wilmarq made a business of extorting money from fellows like Pinch, only to arrest them whenever there was a chance for a promotion. His only grace was his greed. Pinch barely held back his wince, knowing the bor-sholder was probably looking for them.

  “Stow all your bilge and drink sad. We’re mourning Therin, clear?” Pinch hissed to the others as he snatched up his mug and put it to his lips.

  “Here’s to poor Therin,” Sprite, always quick to follow his master’s lead, said loudly.

  “May he have a clean drop,” Pinch added, seconding another round of toasts. He purposely turned away from the approaching guardsmen.

  Before the toast could be downed, a gloved hand clapped hard on the lead rogue’s shoulder. “Master Pinch,” sliced the nasal voice of Wilmarq. “Not at the hanging? I was certain you’d be there.” The officer casually took the wineskin from the table. “You’re dry,” he said sadly, shaking the empty sack. “More drink, innkeep, and mugs for my men. I’m sure our friend can pay.”

  As Gurin hurried over, Pinch shrugged the hand off his shoulder and turned his chair to face Wilmarq. “It’s a sad day for some of us, Hellrider.” His words were a monotone.

  “Losing one of your gang is always a cause for sorrow, eh?” Wilmarq sneered as he held his tankard out for the hostler to fill. “Seems like a good day to me.”

  “Do you have business with us?” Pinch demanded. “If not, you’re making the place smell like an unclean stable.”

  Wilmarq reddened and his nasal voice reached a higher whine. “I could arrest you for that lifting job on Crossmarket Lane last night! Some pretty parcels went missing.”

  “And I’d stand before the court with a score of witnesses swearing I was here last night, boozed in my sorrow,” Pinch countered. “Go ahead, make yourself the fool, Wilmarq. Maybe they snipped your wits, too, when they made you a horse-loving eunuch.”

  “Horse-loving eu — ? Damn you, you poxy bastard!” the Hellrider blustered. The officer’s body trembled so violently that the metal studs of his armor clattered out his rage. Behind him, his men grinned at their commander’s humiliation. “I got your Therin, and I’ll get the lot of you yet!” Wilmarq finally snarled.

  With a polished boot, he kicked the leg of Pinch’s chair, snapping the flimsy wood. The thief sprang from his seat just before it clattered to the floor. He landed in a half-crouch, fingers trembling eagerly to hold a blade. At another time Pinch would have gutted the Hellrider without a thought. With the officer backed by his men, now was not that time. The drunken crowd was suddenly alive as bleary eyes watched the confrontation. Hands reached for heavy mugs, blades scraped softly from scabbards, and Gurin suddenly became interested in putting away his battered plate. The troopers backing Wilmarq stiffened.

  Pinch calmly straightened as the situation’s tenor became clear to all but Wilmarq. “Some counsel, Commander,” the thief finally offered. “Never hit a man in his own house.” Only then did the Hellrider see what his men had noted — little Sprite-Heels fondling his dagger as he crouched beneath the table, Maeve idly tracing out a mystic rune on the damp wood, even Corrick warming a dirk in the candle-flame.

  Wilmarq sneered, wheeled about, and pushed through his as they backed their way toward the door. ” ‘Lo, they bravely rode into battle,’” caterwauled a lusty voice in the crowd, singing the opening verse of a popular song. The shoddy tavern shuddered with the howl of laughter that rose from the crowd, a humor that only the Hellriders did not share. Within moments a hodge-podge chorus played the bard to serenade the fleeing patrol.

  “Thank your gods for making Wilmarq an ass,” Pinch chortled as he pulled up another chair.

  Corrick looked up from wiping the soot off his blade and fixed a glaring eye on his boss. “Maybe, but ‘e caught Therin on the double-quick.”

  “And word is Wilmarq’ll get promoted for it,” Sprite added as he scrambled out from under table. “Maybe Therin was good for something, after all.”

  “It ain’t right,” Maeve moaned as she plopped drunkenly into her chair. She made a clumsy kick at Sprite. “He gets a promotion and Therin hangs. It ain’t right!”

  “Not right indeed — tracking him down to your own house, Maeve,” Pinch mused as he leaned back in the chair. His fingers flexed just under his chin. Sprite, Corrick, and Maeve waited and watched, knowing their leader’s scheming moods.

  Suddenly Pinch’s thoughtful visage brightened. ‘Two with one stone. That’s it! Two with one stone.” He sat forward and pulled the others in close. “We’re going to humiliate Wilmarq by springing Therin from the very branches of the triple tree.”

  “Off the gallows?” gulped Sprite, sputtering his ale.

  “Yer mad!” Corrick bellowed.

  Only Maeve kept silent, fuzzily pondering the possibilities.

  Pinch ignored the protests. “Sprite, the old catacombs — they run under Shiarra’s Market, don’t they?” His eyes glittered with devious fire.

  “Yes,” Sprite answered warily, “but not close to the gallows.”

  “Yer mad. I’m not risking the rope for that fool Therin — especially on one of yer mad schemes.” Corrick heaved back from the huddle, shaking his bare head.

  Before the old cutpurse could stand, Pinch laid a hand on his arm and squeezed right down to the bone. “You’ll do it because I tell you to, Corrick, or I’ll see you’re the next one to stand before the hangman’s crowd. Maybe it’d get me in good with Wilmarq to give you up to him. Understand?”

  Corrick’s gaunt face went pale. The old man nodded.

  “Good,” Pinch purred without loosing his grip. “Corrick, you’ll borrow us a wagon with a fast team. Sprite, figure how to get us as close to Therin as you can.” The halfling raised a bushy eyebrow in acknowledgement.

  ‘That’s set,” Pinch concluded, releasing Corrick’s arm. To your duties, lads. I’ll be meeting with Therin, just to be sure he knows where his friends stand.” The upright man gave Corrick a hearty pat on the shoulder. “We can’t have him break before we spring him. Go to your tasks. We’ll meet where Dragoneye Lane joins Shiarra’s Market an hour before the hanging.”

  The speed and certainty of Pinch’s resolve left the pair dazed. “Get going,” he had to repeat before they actually stirred. “And, Sprite, mind your wandering fingers for now. I don’t want you caught before the hanging.”

  The halfling’s expression moved from dazed to disappointed. “All those purses, and I can’t touch them. It was the on
ly good to come out of this whole hanging,” he muttered as he slid from his chair and made for the door. Corrick rose, eyes filled with dark misgivings, and followed the halfling. He rubbed the filthy wool of his jerkin, getting the blood back into the arm Pinch had squeezed.

  “What about me, dearie?” Maeve asked. “What you got for me?”

  The master thief cast a look toward the door before speaking, making sure his accomplices were on their way. When it was closed fast, Pinch turned back to the woman beside him. “Now, Maeve-good Maeve-you said it was queer how Poor Therin was bagged.”

  “I said it weren’t right, Pinch, that’s what I said.”

  Pinch poured her a drink from the skin Wilmarq had ordered. “And it was, Maeve. It was unnatural the way they came to your place. You spoke true; it weren’t right. The whole thing’s no better than a forger’s will, I think.” He pushed the mug in front of the doxy. ‘Tell me, Maeve, you know how long it takes a man to hang?”

  The towering three-story stone edifice known as the High Prison was one of Elturel’s lesser known oddities. No other city of her size could boast such a magnificent structure for the incarceration of the criminal classes. Elturel’s Lord Dhelt, in a fit of enlightenment, had the place built “for the reformation of those godless wretches held within.” There, prisoners once kept in the dank cellars of the High Hall and the nobles’ palaces could be treated as humanely as they deserved. That was the intent anyway.

  Pinch didn’t care what the high rider’s stated purpose was. The High Prison was just another part of his life, like the thin drizzle blowing in from the River Chionthar. The thief pulled up his cloak to keep the mist from forming cold beads on the back of his neck while he waited outside the prison. Finally the latches rattled and the gate yawned open with a creaking moan. The hinges on the old wooden door always needed oiling, perhaps so their harsh rasp would inspire a little more terror in those about to enter. It would be sensible to think that a thief, especially a thief who’d spent time behind the prison’s walls, would feel a shiver of dread as he stood on that portal. If Pinch was uncomfortable, he showed not a sign of it.

  “Good morn, Dowzabell,” the thief greeted the turnkey who opened the door. “How is your trade these days?”

  “Not so good as when you paid me for a room in the Master’s Side,” Dowzabell groused. He was a stooped-shouldered ox of a man and blind in one eye to boot. He’d been jailed himself fifteen years ago for his bad debts. Now he was the turnkey and all but ran the prison, collecting “fees” from the prisoners to keep them from the worst cells the place had to offer. His profits were usually good. “I suppose you’re here to see Therm off, Master Pinch?”

  “A kind word for his last day,” the thief said as he stepped inside, pressing a coin into the turnkey’s open hand. “Here’s a flag for you. Now lead on.”

  Dowzabell didn’t move until he’d inspected Pinch’s silver, holding it up to his one good eye to make sure it wasn’t the work of some false coiner. Finally he stuffed it into his breeches and shuffled through the anterooms and down the hall.

  The way did not take them to the rooms of the Master’s Side, where a prisoner could have a suite that included a bath and servants, or to the Knight’s Side, which was barely less well appointed. Therin, who’d never been close with his money, couldn’t afford either, though he had at least enough to pay for one of the better cells on the Common Side.

  They finally stopped at a row of wooden doors lining a hall strewn with matted straw. In a far alcove stood a small dusty altar. A robed priest sitting at a battered table next to it looked up with interest as they entered, then continued his prayers for the condemned. The words were a soft drone, said without much conviction, and the priest kept peering Pinch’s way. After a few tendays of unrelenting boredom, any diversion came as a welcome break.

  Pinch waited while the trustee fumbled for the key that unlocked one of the cell doors. “Visitor, Therin. Make sure you’re dressed,” he shouted through the thick wooden door. Jiggling the passkey in the lock, the trustee kept talking. “Therm’s not living as well as you did, sir, when you stayed here. I mean, the Commons is a far cry from the Master’s Side. I thought he was your friend.” Dowzabell’s comment was stated with some puzzlement.

  The great tumblers in the lock clanked as the key turned. “No point wasting money on a hanged man,” Pinch coolly answered. As he spoke, the trustee drew the bolt back and pushed the door open. The odor was thick with the smell of the cesspits, so much so that Pinch covered his face with a sweet-scented handkerchief.

  Therin sat on the hard bed at the back of his cell. The only light in the chamber came from a small, barred window high on the wall. Thick gloom cloaked the prisoner, half-hiding his big, farmhand’s body. With his broad shoulders and gangly arms, Therin hardly looked the thief, but Pinch had found his size more than useful for keeping the others of his gang in line.

  “Master Pinch!” Therin breathed in surprise as the graying thief entered the small, untidy cell. The prisoner sprang up and brushed the mattress clean. Little black specks hopped out of the ticking at the sweep of his hand. “Please sit, sir!”

  Pinch ignored the offer and pressed three gold coins into Dowzabell’s hand. “Go join the priest for a round of prayers. I want to be alone with him. Understand?” The trustee looked at the money in his fat hand, then silently closed the door. Pinch could hear the bolts and locks rattling into place.

  “Lad,” Pinch started, at no loss for words, even to a doomed man, “I’m-”

  “Have the magistrates found some cause for my plea? Have they stayed the execution?” Therin blurted, asking with the overeagerness of a man who knows his chances are already lost.

  “No. You’re to be dropped on the gallows this afternoon, Therin,” Pinch stated baldly through the lace he pressed over his nose.

  “Did you try challenging the writ?” the other asked helplessly.

  “It’s all done for. You saw it. The writ was proper.” The master thief lowered his napkin to see if he’d acclimated to the stench yet. With the first breath his nostrils curled, and he had to fight back a wave of repugnance; it passed quickly. Stuffing the kerchief away he looked deep into Therm’s pleading eyes. Pinch disliked the man’s desperation.

  “Listen well, Therin. You were nabbed with the garbage in your hands. There wasn’t a witness to be had who could stand by you for that. You’re going to hang.”

  Therin sagged onto his cot, head clasped in his hands. He moaned to the floor, “I could still give somebody up. They might pardon me for-”

  “Stow that noise if you want to live!” Pinch snapped. He seized the condemned man by the chin and pulled his face up till their eyes met. “You’ve done us rightly till now and you’ll not turn stag. Keep your silence and you might not hang — understand?”

  Therin’s eyes grew wide with hope and amazement. “You’ve bought me free of here?” An eager hand clutched at Pinch’s velvet sleeve.

  “Something like,” Pinch lied. “You’ve stood us true till now, and I’ve not forgotten it.” Pinch knelt beside the other so their voices could be hushed. “I’ve got a plan.”

  With those words, Therin shoulders eased with relief. He knew that when his master plotted, nothing was impossible. “What’s my part in it?”

  ‘Too little and maybe too much,” Pinch said mysteriously. “When they cart you through the streets, give them a couple of good sermons on your sins. I’ll need the time.”

  “Look upon me, citizens, and learn! Dishonestly I have lived my life and this is my reward!” Therin solemnly pronounced as he rose to his feet in a pose of mock piety. “How’s that?”

  “Good enough,” Pinch allowed. “Just remember, no matter what happens after that, or how bad it may seem, don’t lose your nerve.”

  Therin sat back to huddle by his chief. “I won’t. I been true up to now, ain’t I?”

  “Well and true, well and true.” With his bad leg protesting at kneeling so long, Pin
ch had to surrender to the fleas and sit beside his companion. His eyes were distant as he mulled over a puzzle no one else could see. “Tell me, Therin,” he finally broached, “tell me again how you got taken.”

  The prisoner snorted at the curious request. “I don’t know why. You’ve heard it before.”

  Pinch said nothing, but waited for Therin to get on with it. When the condemned man finally realized Pinch was serious, he struggled to remember. His brow knitting from the effort to recall the facts, he began:

  “I’d just done a bit of the lifting over on Stillcreek Lane, the Firdul job we’d plotted. I was the lift. Corrick was the marker. I’d snagged some pretty pieces of plate from the silversmith, so I went over to Maeve’s to show her the garbage. Just about as soon as I get there, the constables raise the hue and cry. Before I can make for the broker, the Hellriders come bursting in.”

  “Where was Corrick?”

  “We was to meet at Gurin’s to split the purchase and do some boozing.”

  The farmhand-turned-thief waited for more questions, but his chief suddenly seemed to lose interest in the tale.

  “Like Maeve said, it weren’t right,” Pinch finally murmured as he set the kerchief back to his nose.

  “You thinking somebody gave me up? Corrick?”

  “Maybe, just maybe.”

  “What’re you going to do to him?” Therin asked eagerly, a dead man looking for revenge.

  “Right now, nothing. I’ve got him stealing a cart and team.” Pinch smiled at the irony of it. “That much he’ll do.”

  Their musings were interrupted by the rattling of the lock. “Your time’s over, Master Pinch,” echoed Dowzabell’s voice from the other side of the door. ‘The patrico’s here to take your man’s prayers.”

  ‘To your plans, Pinch,” Therin offered in empty toast.

  “Bar your talk, Dowzabell’s coming.”

  The door swung open and the trustee entered. Behind him followed the thin, robed priest, a chapbook of prayers clutched in his pious hands. “He’s yours, Patrico, though I wouldn’t expect much repentance from him.” The priest shot Dowzabell a sour look before the door closed between them.