by S. R. Witt
A sneak attack would kill him before he could fight back, but then the priest would raise the alarm, and there’d be a bunch more just like him.
Maybe I could fight my way out of the temple. Or maybe not. Even if I succeeded, though, the Hoaldites wouldn’t waste any time turning me in to the guards to get my ass hanged.
So, instead of drawing my daggers, I drew the tools from the back of my gloves and went to work. Better a useful slave than a dead thief.
The first chest was simple. I’d barely touched it with my tools when it gave up the ghost and its lid popped open.
Before I could even glance inside the opened box, the armored thug snatched it off the table and placed it on the floor next to his chair. Then he plucked another box from the stack and dropped it on the table in front of me.
The boxes flowed like that, one after another, from the shelves to the armored priest, to me, and then to the stack on the floor.
My curiosity was killing me, but trying to sneak a peek inside the boxes was pointless. Before the activation timer on my Pick Locks skill expired, the box was long gone and replaced with another.
With nothing to distract me from the task at hand, I let my mind drift. My senses focused on the task at hand, and I found the process almost soothing. Boxes came, I picked the locks, then a new box showed up. There was no thought, just a mental emptiness and the expert motions of my hands.
The armored priest cleared his throat. For the first time since I’d started picking locks, I looked around the room and realized an acolyte had entered the room to help shuffle the boxes around.
I needed to pay more attention to my surroundings. There was nothing more dangerous than being too focused on one task and ignoring obvious threats around you. I bet more than one thief died in the depths of the dungeon with all his attention on opening a lock while a monster sneaked up on him and stuck a knife in his gizzard.
“You going to open that thing or just stare into space for a while?” The armored priest asked.
I swallowed my anger and went back to picking locks. “Just needed a little breather. I’m sure you’re unfamiliar with it, but using your brain can be hard work.”
The acolyte snickered despite herself, and the armored priest shot her a deadly glare. I imagined the helper’s life was going to get a lot less pleasant shortly.
While I worked on the box with my hands, I turned my other senses outward. I wanted to see if I could work on locks without losing myself in the task.
Turns out, I could.
The acolyte’s stifled snickers continued, though the armored priest didn’t notice. The Templars breathing reminded me of an angry hound, huffing and puffing with barely restrained rage. He was so intent on hating me, he didn’t catch the acolyte’s impudence. That single-minded anger was a weakness, and one I wanted to remember. You never know when things like that might come in handy.
There were other noises, as well. Not far from the door of my little prison, two people were having a conversation. I recognized one voice right away as belonging to the temple priest.
The other voice I couldn’t place. It was a woman, though her voice was low and stern. They were arguing, voices not raised, but intense.
My picks shifted in the lock, and I felt one of them bend just a tad. That was a close call. If I weren’t careful, I’d end up breaking one of my tools. There was no telling how much that would cost, or how long it would take me to get a replacement from the Grandfather.
Multitasking was great, but focus was important, too.
Which is why I slowed down and shifted most of my attention to listening and paid less attention to picking the locks. The idiot across the table from me wouldn’t know the difference, and hearing what the two arguing folks outside the door had to say seemed more interesting than flipping yet more tumblers.
“…still nothing. The church can’t afford to keep paying these hunters when they aren’t producing results.” The woman’s voice was harsh and ragged. She sounded stressed, and I wondered how much heat she was taking from her superiors.
The temple priest fired right back, sounding angrier than I’d imagined possible. He was such a roly-poly, friendly guy. Even when he was threatening me with blackmail, he was as nice about it as he could get away with being.
I’d had no idea he could be such a badass when his back was up against the wall. “You’ve given us nothing to go on. We’re rooting around in the dark. We need better leads, more information. Something to help us guide their search.”
“You must find the key to the Burning Throne before our enemies can locate it. What more can I tell you?” Her voice cracked with strained anger. Her boss must’ve been holding her feet to the fire for results. “It can’t be far from the city. It belongs here. It has always found its way back to its home. We have to find it before the others.”
The temple priest sighed. “Surely you must know something else. Our people are turning the city upside down, and the hunters are slaughtering everything that carries any treasure within miles of Frosthold. You think it’s just sitting in some creature’s pocket?”
The woman laughed. “I think that’s exactly where it is. After the Third Screaming War, the key was lost. The last Lord of Frosthold died a widower, and the city ransacked his home after his death to pay their debts to the Bank of the Bloody Coin. The records from that time say the Key was not found in his belongings or in his home. That means it was stolen before they looted his estate, or he never brought it back with him from the war, or he lost it on one of his many travels in the countryside around here. It’s out there, we just have to find it.”
“But—”
“Find. It!”
The box in front of me opened with a click masked by her shout. Her footsteps approached the door, and I realized the flunkies in the room weren’t watching me.
SUCCESS! Your hand dips into the box as smoothly and silently as if you were filching copper coins from a blind and deaf old woman’s purse. You retrieve a small item and slip it into your cloak, with no one the wiser.
Your Pick Pocket skill is already at the maximum rank for this level.
The door burst open to reveal a tall woman wearing deep red robes that covered her from neck to ankles. The tips of hard leather boots poked from beneath her dress’s hem, gleaming like a pair of black pearls. Her long, well-manicured fingers were laced across her abdomen, and her bald head rose above the cowl resting on her shoulders. Vivid red tattoos circled from her cheeks around her ears and across the top of her skull. The inky patterns were complex and tangled, giving her a mysterious, almost sinister appearance.
My stomach ached, and my mouth went dry at the sight of her. She looked like the kind of woman who’d split your skull without a second thought.
The last thing I wanted was to let her see my fear and gain the upper hand, so I stood and extended my hand. When you’re scared shitless is when you need to look like you’re not afraid of anything. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Oh, I know you.” She smirked at me and perched on the corner of the table nearest my left elbow. She stared down at me with venomous green eyes. “You’re my new pet thief.”
Her words crawled into my ears and down my spine like a swarm of terrified centipedes. I wanted to drop my tools on the table and run before she could sink her fangs into my throat.
The best defense when you’re scared is to act like the baddest motherfucker in the room. “Does being your pet come with any fringe benefits? Belly rubs or something?”
The smile on her face took on a life of its own, lips curling up toward her ears even as her eyes went cold. “We need to be clear, pet. I own you. From the top of your mangy little head to the bottoms of your scabby feet, I own you. If you step out of line, if you aren’t opening boxes for me every single day, you’re doomed.”
Every word hit home like a nail driven into my guts. My mouth was too dry for any smartass responses.
“As long as you do your part, you h
ave nothing to fear. I’ll even pay you enough to keep you in kibble. But if you displease me...” She ran the point of her long-nailed index finger from the bridge of my nose to its tip. “Everyone will know what you are. I’ll watch as the guard strings you up for the grubby little thief you are.”
She flicked the end of my nose hard enough to make my eyes water. My hands clenched around my tools, and my heart thudded in triple time. If she suspected I’d stolen something from one of the boxes, I was a dead man.
I’d never been so afraid of someone.
I’d never wanted to kill someone so much.
The priestess ignored me. She turned her attention to the thug across the table, who averted his gaze so quickly I thought he might have given himself whiplash. “He can finish today’s work here, but from now on I want him in the library. There’s no sense storing the boxes one place and their contents another. We need to hasten this process if we are to find it before the nightspawn can get their hands on it and destroy us all.”
The thug kept his eyes locked on the floor. “Yes, Priestess Saryle.”
She stepped behind me, ruffled my hair with her dagger-like nails, and scratched me behind my left ear. “Be at the library at sunup tomorrow, pet. Don’t be late.”
REPUTATION ADJUSTMENT
-5 with the Church of the Freehold faction.
-5 with the Priests of Hoald faction.
-10 with Sisters of Merciful Fortune faction.
This just kept getting better.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Hoaldites pushed me out of the church and onto the street not long after the Priestess left. Moving all those boxes from the temple to the library, wherever that was, was going to be a ton of work and I didn’t get the impression the boss was going to tolerate any lollygagging. I almost pitied the priests and acolytes who’d have to do the heavy lifting.
Almost.
Seeing as how I was already ridiculously overdue for my meeting with the Grandfather, I decided to risk pissing him off even more by delaying my visit a bit more. If I could get down to the bazaar and sell off the Lens I’d stolen from Indira, that might get me enough cash to pay him off. Surely showing up late with all his money was better than showing up on time with some of his money. Right?
And I’d gotten out of the temple without any of the priests noticing I’d stolen something from them. Maybe that would get me even more cash. I sneaked a peek once I was well away from the church.
BRACERS OF THE STRIKING SERPENT
Object Class: Worn, arms
Object Power: N/A
Rarity: Rare
Even the prick of a needle can kill if you suffer enough of them in quick succession.
The Bracers of the Striking Serpent enable the wearer to attack much more frequently than would normally be possible.
Whenever the wearer of these bracers makes a successful 1-H Piercing or Unarmed attack, they immediately make a second attack against any target within melee range. This second attack has no activation time.
Additionally, for every successful 1-H Piercing or Unarmed attack the wearer’s Speed is increased by 50% for the next 10 seconds.
Well. That was something. I slapped the bracers around my wrists and admired them for a few moments before heading down to the marketplace. They were made from supple green leather that had faded to an almost gray hue that blended in quite nicely with the rest of my armor. Shiny copper studs formed sinuous patterns on their surfaces, giving them enough flash to look impressive without drawing undue attention to themselves.
The market was still packed with adventurers trying to find new equipment to replace the pieces they’d outgrown. Both NPC and player merchants hawked their wares from dozens of stalls and makeshift auction platforms. Unlike the World, businesses in Invernoth were open all night and day to cater to the needs of gamers from all over the globe. Even in the middle of the night in Brooklyn, Frosthold was filled to the brim with players from all over the world. While the devs prized realism, even they had to draw the line somewhere. Shutting down most of the game for half the day wouldn’t make them any friends amongst the player base.
I found an unoccupied crate, climbed up, and pulled the Lens out of my inventory. It didn’t blaze with fire the way it had for Indira, but the gold rim and flashing glass center made a spectacle just the same. Before I could speak, I’d attracted the attention of some prospective buyers. “For sale: One Focusing Lens of Primal Flame! Make me an offer!”
A weedy little guy in black robes squinted up at the lens. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Stop trying to rip people off.”
That wounded my pride. I had ripped people off before, but I most definitely was not trying to run a scam right that second. I just wanted a fair price for an overpowered magic item.
Which I’d stolen.
But still! “What are you talking about?”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s a quest item. You can’t even trade those, much less sell them.”
Oh. “Are you sure?”
That earned me a derisive snort. “Of course I’m sure. I’ve seen this scam a hundred times. You show the newbs a fancy magic item more powerful than anything they can get on their own, get them to hand over their money, then run off before your victim figures out what happened. Classic troll move.”
Frowning, I stashed the lens in my inventory. “That’s not what I was doing. I just didn’t know.”
He shrugged as the rest of the crowd dispersed. Now that there wasn’t some rare magic item up for grabs, no one cared what I had to say. “It’s a bad idea, anyway. The guards take that kind of thing seriously.” He leaned in close, and whispered, “They consider it theft.”
Then he drew his thumb across his throat and made an annoying skkkkrrrrrt noise that sounded surprisingly unlike slitting someone’s throat.
Trust me on that.
What was the deal with everyone getting so freaked out over a few picked pockets? “Thanks for the warning,” I said.
“Sure. Stay out of trouble,” the spoilsport warned. He threw me a smug little wave as he strolled off into the crowd.
That guy was a little too chummy for my tastes, but he’d given me some solid info. I thought about tossing the Lens down the nearest storm drain but decided to hang onto it.
Even if I couldn’t sell it, something so powerful had to have some use.
Unfortunately, for Indira, that was truer than I knew.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Finding my way through the city still wasn’t easy, but it was getting easier. My brain was adapting to the ever-increasing scale of the city, so I only felt completely lost about half the time. The other half, I was just mostly lost.
Score one for me.
I found the Grandfather of Shadows kneeling in front of the Sanctuary’s altar with his lips moving in silent prayer and his hands clasped to his forehead. I sneaked in and eased into one of the stone pews, quiet as a mouse.
A ninja mouse.
“Still haven’t mastered the art of silence, I hear.” The Grandfather flowed onto his feet and joined me on the pew. The old guy moved like oil on water. “One of these days, that carelessness will get you killed.”
The Grandfather knew everything there was to know about being a thief. He wasn’t very humble about his vast store of knowledge, either. The old guy could really get on your nerves no matter how much ancient wisdom he had to impart. “Today is a bad day to die,” I said. “I need more work.”
The Grandfather unleashed a weary sigh. “You fail in your task and return seeking yet more responsibility?”
So much for hoping the old guy forgive me for the failed quest. “I don’t have the money.”
There. I’d ripped the bandage off, and it was all over but waiting for the hammer to fall.
The old man said nothing. He stared into the darkness so long I considered waving a hand in front of his cold eyes to make sure he hadn’t croaked. When he spoke, I nearly jumped with surprise.
“The Shadows are like a clockwork mechanism. All of our parts must work in concert. When you fail at an assigned, your failure impacts us all. Even now, other stratagems have been abandoned. While you were gallivanting about town, the rest of us have been working to regain the ground you have lost.”
When he put it like that, I sounded like a total asshat. I untied my belt pouch and held it out to the Grandfather. “This is most of what I owe you. I can get the rest—”
The Grandfather’s left hand lashed out and knocked the pouch out of my grasp, sending a rain of coins flying across the Sanctuary. “The penalty for your failure was 500 silver pieces. Not 400. Not 300. Five. Hundred.”
His words stung more than my bruised fingers. The old man was a cantankerous bastard, but I didn’t want him thinking I was a loser. There were some pretty massive extenuating circumstances around my failure. “We went to the merchant’s house. We waited for him to fall asleep. I was doing everything just the way you wanted. Then these goblins showed up—”
The Grandfather snorted. “That merchant was within a bow shot of the city. A goblin would never dare come so close to territory protected by Frosthold.”
Now he thought I was a liar? “Maybe one wouldn’t, but quite a few of them did dare. It was like feeding time at the goblin zoo out there.”
The old man rested his hand on my shoulder. His bushy eyebrows gathered like storm clouds over the clear gray pools of his eyes. “You’re not just making excuses for your failure?”
Now he was pissing me off. Sure, the old guy could kill me without breaking a sweat, but he didn’t have to be such a dick about it. My tongue ran away from me before I could rein it in. “I didn’t shake down the merchant, that’s my fuck up, but I’m not a liar. There were a bunch of goblins, and then a wizard showed up and helped us fight them, but it was too late, and the merchant was already dead so I couldn’t deliver your stu—.”