by David Cook
"Faith, Pinch, he claims he's the best, but I ain't seen this blackjack and skene to compare."
Pinch accepted that. It was a pointless question anyway, since there was no more time.
"The layout? I've seen the inside. What more can you give me?"
Therin reached into his heavy buff coat and produced a greasy sheet of parchment that he carefully unfolded and spread over the table, avoiding the pools of drink.
"I-and Maeve," the Gur added in return for the wizardess's sharp kick under the table, "Maeve and me have compassed the whole of the place on this sheet. See this here"-he jabbed at a scratch mark on the sheet-"be the main gate, and that little mark there is their postern. Guard walks are here and go around in this fashion." The finger drew out the path on the sheet. "This cup and knife is kept in the tower-"
"I know, I saw it. Catchpoles?"
"The watch don't patrol the area heavy, according to the locals. They leave it to the priests to mind the peace."
"Good. What about spells and locks, Maeve?"
"Well, Pinch, love, I couldn't get a good read on the spells." Maeve looked down, sheepish that she hadn't been able to fulfill her role. "Those priests are awful leery. Felt like the standard set of wards on the doors and windows, but I'd wager the walls ain't guarded that way. Probably rely on watchmen for that."
"Beasts?"
"No scent, no track," Therin said.
"Well, thank Mask for that." Pinch leaned back and considered the map before speaking again. "Looks like it'll be a climbing job," he finally decided with disgust. Any hope of an easier way was dashed by the map laid out before him. "Sprite, it'll be you and me. We'll need rope and dark clothes."
The halfling spit a wad of something onto the floor and nodded.
"Therin, Maeve-get yourselves back to the palace. Get word to Cleedis that I need his package tonight. He'll find us across the square from the temple. Understood?"
"Aye, Pinch."
"Well then, summon up the landlord and get us more drink," Pinch ordered with grim cheer. "We're out to do some breaking tonight."
14
Night Work
The nightly steam was curling into the square from the streets and arcades. It was a thin mist but full of the flavor of fish grease and onions, bad cheese and night slops. Pinch didn't mind the stink where he sat, nestled in a dark corner. Sprite squatted at his feet, playing with his- dagger in the dust. The watch had come by twice already, calling the hours past midnight. Beyond the constables, men to be studiously avoided, the square was barely alive with the dregs of the night trade-drunken sailors vainly searching for the docks, noodle vendors closing up their carts, festhall ladies returning from assignations, and rakes prowling the ways for a fight. Pinch amused himself by picking out the foins and cutpurses among the dwindling revelers. They were easy enough to spot for a man who knew how to look: men who traveled in groups and pretended not to know each other, who circled around their mark like vultures in the sky.
Pinch watched his brothers as they watched their prey, always observant but never looking. He watched them with an idle professional interest, hoping to see a strike or a swindle new to him. Of particular interest was a trio of cardsharps who set up their game on the temple steps. It was a poor choice of place, with no privacy or distracting drink, which only meant this lot was a scrounging crew. The setter lured a coney in, the verser dealt him the cards, and the barnacle, the third, egged their mark on. Even from a distance, Pinch could see the verser was an amateur. He fumbled a chopped card so badly that only the quick thinking of the barnacle kept their coney from getting suspicious. It was clear that, at least on the basis of professional interest, there was nothing to be learned from these three.
Perhaps if Pinch had not been so absorbed by the antics of the card players, he might have noticed another soul hovering at the edge of the square-but perhaps not. There was little to note, just the bend of a low-hanging branch and the way a cur kept itself far from a certain spot as it prowled the plaza. It was not that Pinch was supposed to know that invisible eyes lay upon him.
Cleedis came skulking though the darkest part of the alley as had been arranged by messenger. Pinch winced, purely from professional concern, as the old warrior stumbled over the hidden snares of the alley. Prudently the rogue had arranged their meeting beyond the range of the temple guards' hearing or suspicion. The rogue nodded to his companion and the halfling obligingly melted from sight.
No greeting was said between them, the old man's impulse to talk shushed by Pinch's admonishing finger. Cleedis handed over a bag of lusterless black and Pinch wasted no time in unwrapping the cord. Inside were the false treasures passed on by the late Manferic.
Pinch nodded in satisfaction and then steered Cleedis farther into the darkness of the alley.
"Now, tell Manferic to keep his pet jailers away from me," he hissed into the old man's warty ear, "or there'll be no job tonight or ever."
The chamberlain squinched up his face in indignation. "Don't you make threats to me, you bastard knave! The Morninglord's priests would still like to roast you- or have you forgotten?"
Pinch answered with a smile in his voice. "I forget nothing. It's just that I think now they are more likely to suspect you than me. Be sure of your threats, old man."
"I–I don't understand," Cleedis weakly stammered, unbalanced by this rapid upheaval of roles. He was supposed to be the threatener, the blackmailer, not Pinch. "What pet?" It was a weak stall, but all the flustered courtier could assemble.
"In the tunnels," Pinch snarled.
"You've been beneath the palace?"
"I met Ikrit there. He tried to flail the husk off me."
"Ikrit-" Cleedis choked, holding back a gasp, "- lives?"
Pinch stepped closer, pinning the old man along the alley wall. He could sense the advantage slipping his way. "And some lady. Why do they hunt me?"
"Lady? There was a lady?… I don't know," the nobleman floundered.
"You are a poor deceiver, Cleedis."
"Perhaps it was a prisoner from long ago. You know Manferic-people who angered him tended to disappear."
"But you know about Ikrit." The rogue wasn't about to let his catch slip from the hook.
"It was just that… that was so long ago. I was surprised to hear the creature was still alive."
"And the woman? She took great interest in me."
"I don't know. Can you describe her?"
"No. Who is she?"
Cleedis found his backbone and became defiant. "I can't tell you. There were so many. It could have been a scullery maid who broke a prized dish, for all I know. There were times when whole staffs disappeared because Manferic was convinced they'd tried to poison him."
"Hmmph. I just thought he had them executed."
"He did at first. Later, death was not enough for him. He let the quaggoths hunt prisoners in those tunnels while he watched through a scrying ball."
That matched Pinch's images of his guardian. "So you're saying this woman was part of one of his hunts?"
The old man nodded with a suggestive leer. "I would guess she had charms or maybe spells to please Ikrit."
Pinch thought on this. It had the ring of those tales like Duric the Fool-too implausible to be real-but there was a chance it was true the way Duric's tales were sometimes real under a different name.
"When I get back, old man, we will talk more." It was not threat or promise, but the cold assurance that this matter was not done. Before the other could challenge his claim, Pinch took the bag and abandoned the chamberlain to the wet darkness.
"What was that all on?" Sprite probed as Pinch rejoined him and they slipped along the shadows of the square. "Ladies and tunnels and what."
"Have you ever heard that big ears get clipped?" Pinch snapped, thus ending the line of conversation before it ever was started.
Resolutely quiet, the pair plotted their course around the open fringes of the plaza. Pinch was pleased to note the cardplayers were gone. He
didn't want to deal with them, especially if they got it into their heads to interfere. Honor among thieves was a joke, for there was no better target to rob than a thief himself.
By the map Therin had made, there was a corner of the temple wall that jutted across an old alley and then pulled itself back in line, like the bastion of a fortress. No doubt it had been configured at such odd angles to nestle against some other building now long gone. Pinch could remember nothing from his youth that might have forced them to build so. At just that point, the wall came close enough for a perilous leap from rooftop to guard walk and while not safe, it was their best chance. Climbing the temple wall would take too long and risk too many chances to be seen by the guards, especially with Pinch's weak knee. With a single jump, they could clear the span and be out of sight before the watchmen made their rounds.
Getting to the rooftop proved easy. The old tenement was a jumble of sills, cornices, eaves, and railings that gave the pair easy purchase. Sprite, the more nimble of the two, led, pointing out the grips and holds to Pinch as he followed.
After what seemed the time required to scale a torturous mountain face, the roof was reached. On their bellies they slithered to the top of the ridgepole, until they could peer over the edge of the wall walk just across the way. It was a gap of ten feet, maybe a little more. Pinch figured he could do it, especially since the roof sloped down and would give his run some extra momentum. Sprite, though, with his short legs would never be able to clear the distance.
Carefully Pinch unrolled the parchment he'd brought for this need. "Stand up, but stay out of sight," he said in a curt whisper while he fought to stretch the sheet flat. Intricate whorls of writing glowed faintly in the dark, filling the entire page. "Hold still while I read the spell."
"What's it do, Pinch? Make me fly?" Sprite had positioned himself behind a crumbling chimney.
"It'll make your runty self jump good. Now let me read."
Sprite peered into the gap between the two buildings. The ground was barely there in the darkness.
"What if it don't work?"
"Then there'll be a nice explosion and we can both blame Maeve. She taught me how to read this." Pinch mumbled over the complicated phrasings on the scroll, taking care not to say them outright until he was ready. Finally, he held up the sheet and read it aloud, looking up every few words to make sure Sprite was still in front of him. It was just reading, it should be easy, the rogue kept telling himself, but somehow saying the words was more torturous than he expected. About halfway through, it took conscious effort to shape the phrases. They wanted to escape him. When he reached a syllable he couldn't remember, Pinch tried not to show his panic and guessed, hoping he'd made the right choice. Finally, with a faint damp of perspiration on his brow, Pinch uttered the final words.
The rooftop did not shake with a fiery blast but the lettering faded from the sheet, leaving only a blank page of brittle parchment.
"See, it worked," Pinch boasted. Maeve also said it was possible nothing might happen, but there was no point worrying the little halfling with that.
"I don't feel different," Sprite answered with sullen suspicion. "Maybe if I jump a little bit-"
"Don't try it. You only get one chance." Pinch nodded toward the top of the guard wall. "Just a light step over there."
"I'm not-"
Pinch didn't wait for the rest of the protest but, seeing the walk was clear, heaved to his feet and sprinted down the shingled roof. His footing was poor on the mossy shakes, but the rogue let momentum carry him past all hazards. At the very edge of the eave, he sprang forward, out across the gap. He crossed the distance with ease and tumbled onto the stone walkway, risking more in tumbling off the back of the wall than he did leaping the gap. He lay flat on his belly until he was the sure the clatter of his arrival had raised no alarms.
At last he peered over the crenellations to find Sprite, certain he'd have to urge the halfling to make the leap. Just as he was scanning the rooftop, trying to spot the halfling, the little thief gave him a light poke in the side.
"Bless Maeve, it worked," Sprite panted, his face flushed with the thrill of it. "I ain't never jumped so far in all my born days!"
Pinch shushed his partner and motioned for them to move out. Now they were in the enemy camp. Caution, silence, and speed were their goals.
The pair hurried in leaps and starts, from the shadow of this arch to the curve of that wall, with the sure confidence of memory. Therin's map was good, even sketching out the passages closed to outsiders. Pinch wondered what priest had profited from Therin's research. It would have been fitting to reclaim that payment tonight, too.
The thieves moved through the dreary temple grounds, never once raising a suspicion. The complacent guards, convinced their fellows on the impregnable walls had done their job, made no effort to watch for intruders. Indeed their eyes only looked for superiors who might surprise them slacking at the job. It was a simple matter to elude the notice of these buffoons.
Pinch praised the Red Priests for their diligence as he pushed open the well-oiled gates to the inner cloister. No squeak revealed their entrance. After making certain no priests were muttering their devotionals in some dark corner, Pinch led the way to the tower rising in the center of the dark, silent garden. They knelt in the bushes near the base and looked up at the smooth stone column. Just below the minareted top, the polished surface was pierced by the glow from the tower's only opening. Pinch waited for a long time, watching for shadows or some other sign that the rooftop room was occupied. Finally satisfied there were none, the rogue whispered to his compatriot, "Keep watch for trouble. I'm going up."
The other looked at the smooth wall and shook his little head. "You know you can't climb for a tinker's damn, Pinch. I should go."
The look Sprite got made it clear who would climb and who would stay. It wasn't a matter of climbing-it was a matter of trust and there was only one person Pinch trusted getting these treasures. Without a word, Sprite withdrew his suggestion and set himself to watch for intruders on their plans.
From his pouch, the regulator produced another scroll, the second Maeve had prepared. Again forcing the nonsensical syllables over his tongue, barely had Pinch finished the scroll before he started to rise into the air like a cork released at the bottom of a barrel. Ten, twenty, thirty feet he rose, just a hand's reach from the wall. When he was just beneath the level of the window, he willed himself to a stop.
Pinch hung there, breathless and trembling, drifting in the air like a cottonwood fluff. The buoyancy of levitation was a ticklish sensation that threatened to unnerve his senses and disorient him for what was to come. It was more than magic, though. Pinch panted with fear, the fear of floating over nothing against the fear of threats unknown that lay beyond the windowsill. It was beyond explanation, but these were the moments he lived for, the rush of blood as he hovered in the balance of life, or maybe death. Though it lay beyond explanation, every thief knew it, lived for it, and savored that moment more than the money, the gems, and the magic that was gained. "Gods rescue us from dull lives" was an old toast of many a black-hearted gang.
A whistle from below forced Pinch into action. Spite, barely visible in the weeds, worked a sign with his hands that foretold of trouble. Guards were coming, no doubt. With a breath, Pinch seized the sill and effortlessly swung himself over.
The tower chamber was small, no larger than a festhall crib and decorated as dramatically. It was lit by a golden fire that burned steadily from the heart of a crystal stone hung from the ceiling in an iron cage. It was a stone that would burn as brightly through all eternity until the gods grew tired of looking on it. For all its enduring power, it was hardly special, just a cheap parlor trick of holy power. The walls were hung with arras heavy enough to stifle all breezes. Each was stitched with the exploits of kings and queens, the past rulers of Ankhapur, their glories now as faded as the rugs on these walls.
At the far wall was the treasure Pinch sought, a golden
cup and a glittering knife in a case of rosewood and gold. The case sat on a small shelf, unlocked, unsealed, and unprotected from thieves like himself. And Pinch didn't believe a bit of it. The Red Priests of Ankhapur were not such great fools. They knew their treasures would draw burglars like candles draw moths. Clearly, the only reason the royal regalia were before him now was that they had to be much harder to take than it looked. Pinch wondered just how many had tried before him and failed.
It was a question to be approached with caution. From his perch in the window, Pinch studied the room. There was much not to like. The coverings on the walls hid too much, the floor was too clean-it was just too easy. A lack-a-wit could figure out things were not what they seemed here. It wasn't a case of whether there were traps, but just what traps the priests had stitched up for him.
As he perched in that window, pressed against the sill so that he was nothing more than a black shadow on the wall, Pinch cursed Maeve for her drunkenness. Maybe Therin was right, that the woman's drinking was outbalancing the usefulness of her skills. If she'd been more of a wizard I wouldn't be sitting here, afraid to touch the floor. I'd have me a scroll or a ring or something to find the mantraps and show me the way. As it is, she's too drunk to properly prepare what I need most the time.
Pinch allowed himself the luxury of this frustration for a few moments and then put it away. When he was down, not hanging in some clergy's window, he would take it up with her. A little cold water and drying out would do her some good, but now there was work and it was time it was done.
From his boot, Pinch slid a slender packet of tools wrapped in soft, oily leather that smelled faintly of dried fish and cologne. He undid the strings and laid out a small collection of rods, marbles, blades, probes, and saws. Working tools for a working man. He took the rod and pulled on it till it grew longer and longer, to the length of a spear. It was rigid, light, and didn't slip in his grasp. It had cost him three particular rubies that the old dwarven smith had demanded, the stealing of which turned into more of a job than the thief had expected. Right now, it was worth it.