by Ed Greenwood
Dowzabell led Pinch back to the gate in silence, but along the way the trustee seemed unusually watchful for eavesdroppers. The thief knew the old turnkey’s ways. The man had eyes and ears everywhere, and a mind for profit. It was clear he had something to sell, if Pinch would meet his price.
When Dowzabell turned back from unbarring the gate, he found a gold noble sitting on the bench by the entrance.
Though his greedy eyes widened a little, the trustee pocketed the coin as if it were a copper penny. He motioned Pinch toward a quiet alcove.
“What I know’s worth more,” the turnkey promised as they huddled in the shadows. “In advance.” Dowzabell held out his hand.
“I’ll judge,” was Pinch’s cool reply as he fingered another coin under the trustee’s nose.
Dowzabell scowled. “Your man was turned.”
“Not even worth the coin I gave you. I knew.”
“But you don’t know who. Wilmarq was drunk and bragging about it in a tavern a few nights ago. I heard it from his men.”
“So who’d they say it was this time, Sprite or Corrick?” Pinch lied glibly.
Dowzabell’s jaw sagged like a limp sail. “Corrick,” the trustee mumbled.
With a contemptuous laugh, the thief stuffed the second coin down the man’s shirt. “You were always too greedy, Dowzabell. Someday it’ll catch up with you.”
The trustee closed the gate as Pinch strode into the growing rain, his mind already turning on the interlocking wheels of plots within schemes.
The streets to Shiarra’s Market were never hard to follow, but today a blind foreigner could have found the square. A hanging was as good as a holiday in Elturel. The better part of the city turned out for the event, so many folk that the tide of traffic flowed only one way. While passing through the rain-slicked streets, Pinch was offered “The True and Tragic Life of Therin Jack-a-Knaves as Confirmed by this Gentleman,” by three different pamphleteers, all for only a few coins. Judging from the covers thrust under his nose, each work was different from the others. They were, if not completely false, highly exaggerated, for in each Therin was the master of a whole gang. Pinch wondered just what lies would be written about him the day he was finally scragged on the leafless tree.
By the time he reached the square, it was already packed with eager onlookers. Most of the town’s apprentices had contrived to escape their masters and come for the hanging. Their masters were probably here, too, blissfully believing their apprentices were minding their shops. An enterprising bard had got himself onto a roof that overlooked the square and was serenading his captive audience while a shill worked the crowd for money. Pinch resisted the urge to palm a coin out of the hat when the boy came by, but he took careful note of the musician overhead. The bard would have money later tonight and just might be worth tracking down.
Reluctantly the upright man stowed thoughts of other business and worked his way round to Dragoneye Lane. He was on edge. The plan was at stake. If Corrick or Sprite failed him now, everything would come to naught. Pinch was less worried about Corrick’s part in things. He guessed the old cutpurse would play at being loyal just to avoid discovery. Sprite’s was another matter, and the rogue could only hope the halfling kept his fingers out of other people’s pockets.
The whinnies of a nervous team and the shadow of a wagon told Pinch that at least one of the thieves had come through. He wormed through the crowd and into the alley where Corrick and his wagon waited.
They were all there-Sprite, Corrick, and Brown Maeve. She was soothing the horses, which had been made skittish by the crowd. Pinch slapped her on the rump as he squeezed past. “Keep watch,” he ordered before turning to the others. Corrick sat on the seat, reins ready, while Sprite hung over the cart’s rail, munching an apple he’d no doubt lifted from a peddler’s basket. Sprite never paid for anything that wasn’t locked down. “All’s done?” Pinch demanded.
Corrick gave a peg-toothed smile and waved to the cart and team. “Best I could get, Pinch,” he bragged. The team was actually nothing to brag about-a scrawny pair, spotty with mange, their necks callused with years in the collar. At least the wagon was sound. The back was covered with a patched canvas awning where they could hide. Somewhere, Pinch guessed, there was a rag-and-bone man trying to find his wagon.
“Well, Sprite? The sewers-how close can we get?”
The halfling threw aside his apple core and climbed onto the wagon’s seat. He pointed over the heads of the crowd to a shop across the square. “Better’n I thought. See the weaver’s? In line with that, maybe a stone toss from the triple tree.” At this distance, the weaver’s and the gallows were no more than a hand’s breadth apart.
“Can you guide us once we’re in the tunnels?”
“Marked it out this morning, Pinch.”
Pinch suppressed the urge to congratulate himself. The job wasn’t done yet. “Well done, boy.” The master signaled his accomplices to join him, and join him quick they did. “Maeve, you two, listen wise, ‘cause here’s the plan.
“We’re body collecting. Maeve’s already spread it through the crowd that a group of wizards are wanting the body for dissecting.” The wizardress mock-curtsied slightly at mention of the part she’d played so far. “That should suit the crowd out there fine. Saves them the fear of anyone resurrecting Therm after he’s dead.”
Sprite scowled-he’d always been picky about grave-robbing and the like-but Pinch added, “That’s just so we can get the wagon close. Then, just before the drop, Maeve’ll use her spells to whisk Therm out of the twined hemp. When that happens, Corrick will whip the team into the crowd. We’ll all make for Sprite’s bolt-hole and be out of here before they know what’s happened.”
“That’s your plan?” Sprite asked incredulously. “I think old Corrick here was right-we should have been buggering this out in another town.”
“Well, we’re ‘ere and there’s no point ‘uggering now, Sprite,” Corrick croaked. “I say we give Pinch ‘is due. Don’t is plans always work?”
“There’s no time to waste,” Pinch barked. “In the cart, all of you.” With easy grace, he swung into the back, then helped the less-agile Maeve alongside. Sprite tumbled in beside them and pulled up a span of canvas to roughly cover them. From the shadowed interior, the three had a narrow view of the still-vacant scaffold.
A roar went up from the crowd as a crier mounted the gallows platform, the writ of execution rolled under his arm. The official swung his bell in a futile attempt to get silence.
“Go, Corrick.”
The ancient gave a flick of the reins, and the horses got the cart moving with a rough lurch. The passengers bounced in the back as the wheels rolled down the cobbled street.
A wild cheer, part savage, part joyous, rose from the crowd as the cart entered the square. The roar died down as quick when the mob realized the covered wagon was not the executioner’s cart. With a vigorous application of the whip on the horses and the crowd, Corrick was able to force their passage through the pressed throng.
While the bald Corrick was absorbed in driving the team, Pinch leaned forward for a whispered word in the halfling’s slightly fuzzy ear. “Sprite, listen close. I need five hundred in nobles. Can you fig it for me quick?”
The small cutpurse’s eyes widened at the mere mention of the amount. “Five hundred-now?”
“Or Therm swings. It’s the only way.”
“Send Therin to the denizens!” Sprite swore under his breath; but Pinch was counting on the halfling’s love of the challenge, not his love of Therin. “Five hundred?” Sprite asked again as he scanned the crowd, taking the measure of the gulls. The congregation was teeming with them-fat masters enjoying their mistresses, overworked vendors unmindful of their wallets, drunken craftsmen, even a gentleman with his entourage. “Me and Purse-Nipper can do it,” the halfling noted boastfully, palming a small knife from the sheath strapped to his wrist.
“Then go and strike, boy!” Pinch hissed with urgency. At that
Sprite sprang lightly from the cart and vanished into the crowd.
A fresh roar went up from the multitude, this time as they correctly sighted the executioner’s cart. It was already close to the gallows, having entered the square by a side street so as to avoid the riotous celebrators that awaited it on the main routes. Pinch could see Therin standing tall in the back, cheerfully waving his bound hands to the crowd. The hooded hangman rode next to him, impassive in his duty. His hood was stitched with a crude death’s head to remind the condemned man of who shared this ride.
The crowd surged toward the executioner’s cart. So eager were they for their entertainment that they almost overturned the vehicle, forcing the hangman to get Therin out of the wagon and onto the platform with unseemly haste.
The rush of the crowd served the thieves too, for it thinned the press ahead of them. Corrick drove the wagon through the gap as fast as the old nags would pull it. As they closed, Maeve passed Pinch an old workshirt she had brought, along with a battered cap and a bloodstained cloak. The clothes quickly covered the thief’s fine velvets. After a few adjustments, Pinch, looking like a bloody surgeon’s aide, climbed into the seat by Corrick. There was barely time as the wagon lurched to a stop at the base of the gallows.
A squad of Hellriders, their red and silver armor glittering in the sun, formed a wall around the gallows. The twenty or so soldiers held the crowd at bay with a bristling ring of spears. On the inside was a bearded sergeant, exhorting his men to stand ready.
“We be sent to buy the body for our master, Wizard Shildris, so ‘e can cut it up,” the cloaked Pinch shouted to the sergeant. For that extra touch, he held up a purse, jingling it meaningfully. It was filled with nothing more than coppers, but the sergeant didn’t know that. Once again the lies flowed smoothly off Pinch’s lips with less hesitation than the truth.
On the platform above, the crier was reading out the death warrant while the hangman fitted the noose. Maeve shifted uneasily, watching Therin’s progress, while Corrick kept a grip on the reins.
The sergeant of the command smiled with avarice and nodded to his men to let the wagon pass through their bristling ring. As the cart creaked forward, the small streak of Sprite darted through the throng and hopped onto the wagon’s bed. A wink and a nod were all Pinch needed to tell him the halfling had met with success.
At Therm’s side, a priest of Тут was intoning the benedictus for the dead. All that remained was the hood and then the drop when the hangman pulled the trap.
Pinch touched Maeve and cautioned her to be ready. Corrick, Sprite, and Maeve clambered from the cart. Pinch readied to follow them.
“I told you I’d get you sooner or later, upright man,” shrilled a nasal voice as the master thief swung off the seat. Pinch dropped from the cart and whirled around to come face to face with Commander Wilmarq, sliding out of the crowd. As the soldiers parted to let their commander in, Corrick scurried to the officer’s side. “Now, with some small thanks to your friend here, I’ve got the lot of you,” the pudgy Hellrider gloated.
Sprite-Heels and Maeve stood helplessly by, encircled by swords.
“And thus Tyr’s justice is done,” the priest concluded from the platform.
The crowd drew a collective breath.
“Oh, Pinch, save me!” wailed Therm through the silence.
A tear trickled down Maeve’s cheek.
Pinch’s hand slid slowly toward his dagger.
There was a rattling bang as the trap fell open, followed in the next instant by a shriek of delight from the crowd. The cheer almost drowned out the twanging snap as the rope reached the end of its drop. Therin’s feet, still kicking, almost touched the cart’s bed before they recoiled up again. The crowd roared with each sway and bounce.
“Yer a failure, Pinch!” Cor rick gloated from where he stood, safe by Wilmarq’s side. “Yer’ll be gone and I won’t, so guess who’ll rule this town now! The commander and I ‘ave an understanding.”
“Do you?” Pinch let his hand fall away from his dagger. Even with Therm still kicking overhead, the mob roaring for blood and swords all around him, the master thief remained remarkably calm. Maeve was already sobbing, perhaps more for herself than her departed Therm. Sprite looked ready to take up religion-any religion.
“Perhaps the commander and I can reach an understanding, too. Sprite, do you have it?” Pinch asked without ever taking his eyes off Wilmarq or Corrick. The old cutpurse’s brow furrowed at the turn things were taking.
“Yes-and then some. Struck a gentleman, I did,” the halfling replied nervously. He passed the leather purse to Pinch’s outstretched hand.
“It might be best, Commander, if we talk in private.” Pinch nodded toward the covered wagon. ‘Therin’s not going to distract this crowd forever.”
Wilmarq hesitated, looking from Pinch to Corrick and back again, like a dog choosing between two bones. “Bring these two,” he ordered the guards nearest him, then pointed at Pinch and Corrick. “And watch those two for tricks.” Wilmarq climbed into the shadows of the wagon. The guards shoved Corrick in afterward.
Pinch slowly climbed in. He noted Therm still swinging on the scaffold, his legs slowly jerking. In the darkness of the wagon, the upright man could see Wilmarq, sword poised but uncertain, perplexed by Pinch’s game. Taking care not to startle him, Pinch tossed the leather bag to the commander’s feet. It hit the wooden boards with a loud, clinking plop. Wilmarq scooted back in surprise.
‘There’s over five hundred nobles in gold here,” Pinch pronounced. “If you take it there could be five hundred more tomorrow, if…”
“If?”
“If you give me Therm’s body and let us go.” The upright man couldn’t suppress the smile he felt inside, a cold,evil smile like a cat’s grin. He had Wilmarq; he knew it. The offer was more than the bastard could refuse.
The officer glanced at his men outside. “I’ll need a body to replace him,” he said slowly.
“Yes, you will,” was Pinch’s confident reply.
“It’ll have to look like him.”
“It will.”
Corrick’s old eyes widened as he listened to the exchange, barely audible over the noise of the crowd. “Pinch, you don’t mean-”
“His body,” the thief said to the soldier.
“Wait,” Corrick said, “I-”
With a sudden single thrust of his sword, Commander Wilmarq cut the rest of Corrick’s quavering words short. “The thief’s dead,” he shouted to his men outside. “Cut him down!”
Without waiting, Pinch went into action, poking his head out the front of the wagon. “Maeve, your spells. Sprite, get Therm in here!”
Brown Maeve, suddenly dry-eyed and calm, heaved herself into the cart and knelt by Corrick’s body. The wizardress mumbled a few words of a spell as she passed her hands over the corpse. The old thief’s wrinkled flesh softened and flowed until it appeared that Therm lay on the boards. Sprite was already heaving the unconscious but very much alive Therin from the scaffold into the back. Pinch dragged the boy in. Side by side, the pair looked like twins in death.
The crowd, still hungry for thrills, rushed the scaffold in a mad attempt to seize the corpse. The Hellriders sprang to their duty to hold the mob in check. They struggled against the bloodthirsty tide, unwilling to use their weapons against honest citizens.
“Get going,” Pinch shouted as he half-shoved Wilmarq out of the cart. With a heave the rogue tossed Corrick’s ensorcelled body out of the wagon. “Let the crowd have him! No questions that way!” Pinch advised as he clambered into the driver’s seat.
Pinch wasted no time in savagely whipping the team forward, plunging it into the crowd. Chaos erupted as those in the wagon’s path scrambled to get out of the way while others fought to seize the body left behind. In his last look back, before his cart disappeared down Elturel’s backstreets, Pinch guessed the crowd was winning.
A tenday later, in a wineshop in Scornubel, four travelers sat at a table littered w
ith bottles. Two of them, a little halfling and a faded woman with brown hair, had long since passed out. The other two men were still boozing. It was late, but the owner didn’t mind; the two were free with their money. Every once in a while the older man, a nondescript fellow who dressed too well, would flex one leg as though it were stiff. The other, a big farmhand, had the equally odd habit of rubbing a scarf around his neck.
‘Told you I had a plan,” slurred the older as he sloppily poured another round.
“Fine plan-hang him and buy him back. You should try it sometime,” groused the farmhand. “By Cyric’s ass, these scars itch! How’d you know I weren’t going to die up there?”
“Didn’t,” the older mumbled wearily.
“You mean I could have died?”
“Didn’t matter. You were only part of the plan.”
“Only part-Corrick! You wanted Corrick.”
“You’re alive.”
“And the one who turned me’s dead. You knew he’d done it all along.”
“I suspected. The Hellriders’ showing up at Maeve’s crib — it was too easy. Somebody’d turned on me.” The dark-haired one dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.
The first streaks of dawn shone through the cracks in the tavern’s shutters, glinting off the bottles. “Then this whole plan, it wasn’t about rescuing me at all, was it?”
The older man raised his glass to play the wine in the morning light. “I like to think of it as a lesson in loyalty.”
A Matter of Thorns
James M. Ward
It was a meaningless little castle, perched on a high hill overlooking an insignificant spur of the Immerflow River, protecting nothing. The military minds of neighboring Cormyr didn’t consider the keep — known as Castle Stone — worth the troops it would take to occupy, so they left it alone and labeled it strategically useless. The sixty-odd souls who lived in the village that squatted around the castle walls thought otherwise. They were fiercely proud that Castle Stone had never been defeated in battle. Small wonder: the granite towers and oaken gate had never been attacked.