Seishin stood up and gently grasped her by the arms. “I have to admit, I am not crazy about it, but I don’t see as I have much choice.”
Korti shook herself free of his grasp and glared at him. “Then you are a bigger fool than I thought.”
She turned toward Draigo. “You of all people must realize how absurd this is. Can’t you talk some sense into these buffoons?”
Draigo’s expression remained stony. “I’m afraid I cannot. I trained Seishin as I trained you. He can handle this task.”
Korti’s cheeks turned flaming red. She swept her gaze between the three of them, her hands waving about wildly. “Then you’re all idiots! We should be marshaling our forces, not running off in all directions after some phantom weapon that hasn’t been seen in over a hundred years!”
Seishin felt torn. The world as they knew it could be coming to an end. The last thing he wanted was to be separated from those he cared about. Yet he had sworn to do the right thing despite his own desires.
Korti stood with her hands on her hips, staring at him expectantly.
“Please excuse us,” Seishin said, not taking his eyes off Korti. He held his hand out to her. She stared at it for a moment, then begrudgingly took it.
Seishin led them into the foyer. He halted in front of the portrait of Korti’s parents. “When you showed up last night, you said you wanted to make them both proud of you. Do you really expect me to do anything less?”
Korti pressed her lips together and shook her head at him. “That’s not fair—using my own parents against me.”
Seishin shrugged. “You didn’t give me much choice.”
The barest of smiles crossed her lips. Seishin wrapped his arms around her waist. She slid close to him and pulled his head down until their lips met. One long, passionate kiss ensued. Seishin reveled in it, knowing it might be the very last.
When their lips parted, Korti gently pulled back and rested her head on his chin. “Do what you need to do. I have my own people to worry about.” She pushed away from him and went to the door.
Korti halted in the open doorway and turned to face him one last time. He could see the mixed emotions in her eyes. “If you manage to live, you know where to find me.” With that, she closed the door behind her.
Seishin stood there alone in the foyer, feeling numb inside. He had placed honor above his own desires, yet with that choice came an incredible sense of loneliness. It took him a few moments to recover, but in the end he drew himself up. The young Shin Tauri went to rejoin the others and face the road that he had chosen.
Art of the Steal
Jeffrey L. Price
1
The Fagin
The old bard wiped the chicken grease from his hands and downed the last of his wine, then stretched his hands out toward the crackling fire, skillfully ignoring all the eyes staring intently at him.
“Please,” pleaded a young, golden-haired maiden with wide, bright green eyes. She was just coming of age and blossoming into her full womanhood. The Old Bard sighed inwardly, mourning the passing of his youth. Back in his adventuring days, he’d have thought nothing of sweet-talking his way into the lovely young lass’ bed. But alas, those days were far, far behind him. Now he was more concerned with keeping his belly full, having a warm, comfortable place to sleep, and maintaining a steady stream of gold coming into his purse from the wealthy patrons he served. And his current patrons had indeed paid him well to keep them entertained on their long trek across the wilderness. The caravan route to and from Tarsmoor was a long, lonely, and often treacherous one, and he wasn’t about to risk getting left all by his lonesome out here with nothing but the clothes on his back just for a night’s pleasure with the girl, no matter how lovely she appeared.
The Old Bard sighed to himself again. Perhaps his old masters had been right after all. Age really did bring with it a small amount of wisdom.
“Please!” The girl pleaded again.
“Pretty please!” her younger sister piped in. She, too, had long, golden locks just like her older sibling, only hers were more tightly curled.
The Old Bard made a show of shaking his head no. “I’ve told you enough tales for one night. It’s late; you should be in bed,” he said, pretending to scold them.
“I’ll be good! I promise!” the younger girl said with all the earnestness a six-year-old could muster. “Besides, I’m not tired yet!”
“Oh, please? Won’t you tell us just one more?” the older girl asked. The pleading in her eyes was echoed in the rest of the faces around the campfire.
The Old Bard smiled to himself. He knew he had them.
“Oh, all right,” he said, pretending to give in. “Perhaps I could be persuaded by a cup of your very fine sweet wine.”
The young maiden got up and quickly filled his cup from her family’s private cask of wine. The Old Bard took it gratefully from her hands and took a long, slow pull from the vessel. He let the deep, rich purple liquid linger on his tongue and the back of his palate. The wine was from one of the finest vineyards in Thac. He had once visited the place in his travels, but that was ages ago. Yet the taste of the wine brought back a flood of memories, and he could almost smell the sweet scent of the grapes on the summer breeze again…
But those were memories for another day, and he had a willing audience before him—and he made it a point to never disappoint a willing audience.
The Old Bard held his tongue for a moment longer, letting the anticipation build in the faces of those before him. Then, when he sensed they could stand it no longer, he finally spoke.
“I have already told you stories of the Heroes of Ravenford,” he began. “About the bard-king Elladan, and his stalwart companions Aksel the Wise, the powerful wizard Glolindir the Grey, the stealthy rogue Seth, the quiet forest-archer, Xellos, and the battle prowess of the noble Lord Lloyd Stealle, and his friend, the dragon-slaying barbarian, Cyclone.
“But there is one member of their company I have yet to speak of…”
“Donatello!” the young maiden exclaimed.
“You know your history well, my dear,” the Old Bard complemented her.
The young woman blushed. She wasn’t often complemented on anything other than her looks.
“There are many tales about that dashing swordsman’s adventures with the Heroes of Ravenford, and some of them are even true. But very little is known about him before that time.”
“I heard he sprang from the womb of The Lady of Luck herself, because she was bored with the affairs of mortals and wanted to introduce a little more mischief to the world!” said the young maiden.
“No, no, NO!” her little sister countered. “He was a young elven prince, stolen by a band of gypsies and raised as one of them!”
“You’re both wrong!” said a young boy of about twelve. He was a brash lad training to be a knight in his employer’s household, and the Old Bard had already forgotten how he was related to his patrons. “I heard he was the bastard son of the Pirate Queen Rowena and some merchant she’d captured!”
“Alas, all those stories may be true, or none of them, for our friend Donatello seldom spoke much about his early life, and on those rare occasions he did, he never told the same story twice!”
“But you know, don’t you, Sir Bard?” the little six-year-old girl asked him earnestly.
The Old Bard flashed her his best smile, winked and tapped her gently on the nose. “You bet I do, young one! I’ve discovered what even the great bards of Lukescros haven’t been able to uncover. I’ve spent many a fortune and a good number of my years tracking down the secrets of Donatello’s past, and it’s not a story I tell just anyone.”
“May I remind you, Sir Bard, that we are paying you well for your services,” the girls’ father, his patron, said haughtily.
“Indeed you do, M’lord,” the Old Bard nodded deferentially at him. “But there are some tales… some tales that are so grand… so enthralling… so captivating that they deserve something spe
cial, don’t you agree?” he asked with a sweeping gesture that encompassed everyone seated around the fire.
“Indeed it does,” his patron’s wife said enthusiastically as her husband harrumphed, unconvinced. But at the urging of his lady-wife, he removed a small, jeweled golden band from his finger and dropped it in the bard’s cup of wine.
“Your payment, bard,” he said unhappily. “So this had better be a good story!”
Unfazed, the Old Bard took another draught of his wine. After he set the cup down, he raised his had to his mouth and gently removed the ring which he’d stuck his tongue through and momentarily examined it. It was worth at least a month of his wages.
“Oh, it will be, my lord,” he said. “It will be.”
“The true circumstances of Donatello’s birth, I’m afraid, are lost to the mists of time, but the first time the world seems to have taken notice of him was when he was about four, still practically a newborn in elven terms.
“He was spotted wandering the streets of Kreel, stealing food from the carts of the merchants along the high street. He was well-dressed for an urchin, and so small and innocent-looking, he went mostly unnoticed. He could pluck a mouthful of bread or piece of fruit from a cart and disappear into the crowd, appearing no different from any of the other children accompanying their parents on a shopping trip. And on those occasions a merchant did catch him trying to pilfer his goods, he’d either wordlessly pretend to be the child of a distracted patron or just look up at the merchant with a pitiful expression in his big green eyes and the merchant would let him go.
“No one can remember how long Donatello survived like this, but it wasn’t long until he came to the attention of The Fagin, a seemingly kindly, well-to-do merchant who had a soft-spot for the city’s young waifs and strays. But in secret, he was the leader of the town’s notorious thieves’ guild, who used the orphans he collected to steal the people of the city blind.
“On the fateful day The Fagin first saw him, Donatello had stolen from one merchant once too often and this time the merchant decided to give chase instead of letting him go.
“The Fagin watched the chase with interest as the youngster nimbly maneuvered his way through the crowd. He showed great promise and just as the boy was about to make good his final escape through a small crack in a wall, The Fagin stepped in, blocking his path.
“Gotcha!” The Fagin exclaimed, grabbing hold of the surprised boy as the merchant finally caught up with them. “Now then, what’s this commotion all about, eh?” he asked.
“That… that… urchin… stole a baguette from my stand!” the merchant huffed and puffed. “Been doin’ it for a while now. Only just caught ‘im!”
The Fagin looked down at the boy, pretending he was seeing him for the first time, when in fact he’d already sized up the lad. His fine clothes were now filthy and tattered, and he was so malnourished that if he turned sideways, he’d’ve practically disappeared.
“That true, boy?” he Fagin asked.
“Donatello looked up at him with his big, sad, green eyes and slowly nodded yes.
“What’sa matter boy?” the merchant taunted. “Cat got your tongue? Well I bet the cats the town guard wield will make you talk, alright!”
“Easy now, Mr. Burntkrust! Can’t you see you’re scaring the boy?” The Fagin admonished. “This boy is starving! He needs a good home and decent meals, not a whipping!”
“What about all the bread he stole from me?” the aggrieved baker asked. “What am I to do about that?”
“This boy can nary afford to give you a pound of flesh,” The Fagin said, pinching Donatello’s scrawny arms. “And taking it from his hide will not return your lost earnings to you. I will make you a deal, Mr. Burntkrust. Let me take him to my school for the wayward youth of our fine city, and I will pay you for what he took.”
“Well as you can imagine, Mr. Burntkrust liked the sound of that, and he immediately began trying to coax The Fagin into paying him a greatly inflated price for all the bread Donatello filched. “Dunno, that boy looks small, but he can sure eat a lot,’ the baker began. “And been stealin’ from me for a while, understand. Musta cost me… twenty-five gold crowns by now.”
The Fagin didn’t flinch. He opened his purse and gave the man his price without haggling. He could afford to be generous—for now. He’d have his gang of orphans take the man for at least twice that by the turn of the new moon.
The matter settled, The Fagin brought Donatello to his ‘orphan’s school,’ a small and slightly run-down manse situated on the bank of the river Greystrem, conveniently near the outlet for the city’s sewer system. There he turned the boy over to a young, exotic-looking, mocha-colored beauty named Xira, who The Fagin introduced as his wife.
In reality, though, The Fagin had many such ‘wives,’ for his lust for gold was only equaled by his lust to possess beautiful girls.
But Xira was his current favorite. She not only satisfied his carnal desires, but she had the unusual knack of being able to reproduce any document she saw, and the The Fagin knew how to put that talent to good use. He had her reproduce royal writs, deeds, and titles of nobility, selling them to unwitting and overly anxious visitors who came to the city seeking to better their lot. He had her duplicate ancient illuminated manuscripts and passed them off to traveling monks and clerics as the originals. He even had her recreate a famous painting or two, so that when he had the original stolen, he could replace it with the forgery so the original owners would be none the wiser.
Now, having lived so long on the streets alone, Donatello was naturally mistrustful of anyone new. He’d followed The Fagin home because he’d had no choice in the matter. But Xira was a kind and gentle woman, and she took good care of the boy. She bathed him and found him new, clean clothes and fed him. She spoke to him in a soft, lyrical voice and gave him a comfortable place to sleep, even tucking him in at night. And despite his initial misgivings, Donatello found himself warming to her.
During those first few weeks with her, Donatello would sit on his small stool, munching on the food she’d given him to make him strong, and watch her work at the table. One day she noticed his intent stares, and lifted the boy onto her lap and began to show him what she was doing.
“You like to try, yes?” she asked him.
Donatello looked up at her and nodded. She took a scrap sheet from the side of her desk, moved it in front of him then gently took his small hand in hers, helped him to pick up her quill and began to teach him how to draw.
“Why you no speak?” she asked him as they practiced making shapes.
Donatello just shrugged and went back to drawing.
Xira looked at him sadly. “What happened to you that scared away your voice, my little one?” she asked. He didn’t answer her. In fact, he never answered her when she’d ask him something. Since the day The Fagin had brought him to her, she’d never been able to coax a word from him—not even his name.
But while Donatello’s voice was slow in coming, he proved himself a fast-learner, quickly picking up the drawing skills Xira was showing him. In the weeks that followed, they’d spend hours together at that table, Xira working on another assignment from the Fagin, and Donatello making pictures of trees and forests and houses and people Xira didn’t recognize.
Those were perhaps the happiest days of the young elf’s early life, but like so many things, those happy times don’t last.
One day after Donatello had regained his strength and put on some much-needed weight, The Fagin made a rare daytime appearance in their room.
“Well, my young friend,” he said in a friendly way that still somehow carried a tone of menace. “You’re looking fit and fiddle! Looks like our Xira here has treated you well. Been feeding you well, eh?”
Donatello slowly nodded. He’d begun saying a word or two by now, but only for Xira.
“Getting enough to eat, have we?”
Again Donatello nodded.
“Glad to hear it!” he said in the sam
e overly friendly voice that Donatello knew meant the exact opposite. “But all those victuals don’t come cheap, my boy, and I think it’s time you help earn your keep around here. Don’t you agree?”
Donatello cast a quick glance at Xira. But she was staring at the floor, her expression blank. His eyes quickly returned to The Fagin’s expectant face. He nodded in agreement, sensing he didn’t have much of a choice.
“Good lad!’ The Fagin said, patting him on the head patronizingly. “I knew you were a smart boy the moment I spotted you.”
The Fagin then took Donatello’s hand and led him to a large hall on the lower level of the manse to meet the other “students” at the “school.” They ranged in age from about four to fifteen, and while most were human, he did spot the occasional small, tapered ear of a half-elf, and at least one dwarf.
And so it was among this collection of cast-offs, strays, and ragamuffins that our friend leant the art of the cutpurse, pickpocket and lock-pick.
At first it seemed like they were teaching him a secret game they played against the townsfolk and city watch. It was like tag-and-run or hide-and-seek. And Donatello especially enjoyed evading the lumbering men of the city guard. He thought them slow and bumbling oafs, and couldn’t understand why they had such difficulties following him through the crowded streets, down narrow alleys, over high walls or between tight gaps in some walls.
Yet in truth, Donatello’s slight stature, nimbleness and fleetness of foot made even the most experienced of his new brothers and sisters look clumsy by comparison, just as The Fagin had foreseen.
It soon became apparent that Donatello was becoming the most talented member of The Fagin’s band of child-rogues and lavished the boy with attention, praise and gifts while punishing the others, demanding they be more like his star ‘pupil.’
Now, you might think that this would have engendered lots of jealousy toward Donatello from the other children, but you’d be wrong! Donatello cared little for the rewards The Fagin gave him, and shared his good fortune with all his new found brothers and sisters—especially Xira. He’d save the prettiest trinkets for her, or sometimes use whatever fortune he’d acquired to buy brushes, pigments, inks, or scraps of canvas or parchment for her just so he could spend time drawing or painting with her at her table.
Tales From Thac Page 15