King Pinch n-1

by David Cook

  "That bastard robbed me of my birthright," the master said as his shoulders quivered with exhaustion and rage. "He let his precious sons drive me out fifteen years ago and didn't raise a hand to aid me. I was supposed to have been a prince, not some back-alley bravo."

  He righted a chair and slid it over to join the others. Enthroned on it, he lapsed into a dark silence. The others held their tongues. Their master was in one of his scheming moods, not to be disturbed until he returned to the surface with some plot in his grasp, like the diver who swims through the blind murk in search of the pearl.

  Pinch pondered for a long time. There were so many questions and so many pieces: Manferic, Cleedis, Iron-Biter, and-most of all-the woman in the tunnels. Was she his mother? A nursemaid? A madwoman? Or something yet he could not fathom? There were too many questions.

  "Therin, Maeve, Sprite-gather in," he said when he at last raised his head and noticed them. With his arms beckoning he drew them close. "How would you like to be rich-and respectable?" he asked with a conspiratorial whisper.

  "Us, Pinch?" Sprite snickered. "There ain't nothing respectable about us."

  " 'Struth for you, you little weasel, but I've a mind to be a lady someday," Maeve sniffed. "I could stand for being respectable."

  "Respectable's not worth a whit without money. How rich?"

  "A treasury at your command, Therin. Is that loot enough for you?"

  "Aye. If you've got a plan, I'll go along with being rich." Therin still looked dubious. "Does your plan intend taking on this lich?"

  Pinch looked very solemn until the worst fears of the others confirmed themselves in their looks. Only then did he break into a grin. "That would be a fool's task- so we'll let fools do that for us."

  "So what's our plan?" Sprite asked, signaling his support of the enterprise. The halfling never could resist an adventure, no matter how rash.

  Pinch studied the others to make sure they were all in before he went on. Their eyes told it clear: a bright hunger for adventure, revenge on all who'd looked down on them, but, most of all, money.

  "The best of all plans-quick wit and light step. I'm going to shake the family tree and we'll see what falls."

  "It's a thin plan for hanging our lives on, Pinch." Therin sounded less than confident.

  "It was as much of a plan as I had for getting you off the gallows in Elturel-and that worked, didn't it, or you wouldn't be here complaining, you over-learned ogre," Pinch countered.

  The big Gur rubbed at the rope-scar under his scarf with self-conscious discomfort. To say he'd been rescued from the gallows wasn't quite honest, though he had to allow that Pinch had rescued him. It was that business of being hanged and then saved that left Therin with nightmares. "It's just I don't relish dying again, Pinch."

  "Then be smart and you won't." There was little sympathy in Pinch's words, and seeing that the younger man remained sullen, the regulator poured drinks around. "Here's what-we'll not take this alone. I've got a mind we should have some allies, though they won't be knowing it. Maeve, I want to you visit the priestess Lissa. Inform her I've tracked down her thief and that she should stand ready to come at my word if she wants to catch him."

  "Me, Pinch? I'm not particular cunning with words."

  "Don't worry, the lass is gullible. You'll make a touching plea, I'm sure.

  "Therin, I've got a job with profit for you. Mind, it's going to take a light touch. Go to Iron-Biter-"

  "Who?"

  "That ox-head of a dwarf who spins in Vargo's orbit. Here's the charm: Tell him he's been tricked, that the real regalia ain't in the tower, but you can lead him to it. Of course, you'll want money."

  "Of course, but where am I supposed to lead this prize ass?"

  "You'll have to wait for Sprite to show you."

  "Me?"

  "Aye, you." The regulator stopped to wrap a bit of cloth around his still-bleeding thumb. "It's upon you to give the signal. Now, get away with your business you two." With a sharp nod he urged Maeve and Therin toward the door.

  Just as he was leaving, Therin turned back for one last question. "What if we don't show?"

  "Then sure as there's gods in the heavens, there'll be not a whit of loot for any of us, the master rogue promised. "Don't fail if you want your cut."

  Therin grunted in sour understanding and was on his way.

  "What about me, Pinch?" Sprite asked after he was sure the door to the street was closed.

  "Two jobs for you, old friend." The words were soft, as if invisible ears might try to overhear. "First, you must follow Cleedis when he takes me to my rendezvous. Learn the way so you can guide the others to me."

  "What's the other?"

  Pinch tapped his brow. "Keep a weather eye on our fine Gur. I don't trust him. He's like to sell us all-me in particular-if Iron-Biter makes the right price."

  "So why in the hells did you send him to Iron-Biter?"

  "Fishing takes the right bait and the right hook. I'm the bait. Therin's the hook. Iron-Biter's a fool, but he's not gullible. Who's going to convince him-Maeve, playing a part, or Therin, who just might get it into his head to sell us cheap?"

  Sprite stared into the dregs of his cup. "I'd feel better if the dice were more to our favor. It's a risky game you're playing."

  Pinch poured them both another round. "Don't be so glum. We either live or we die. What other kind of game is there?"

  17

  Meetings

  Pinch swept through the palace halls, leaving a trail of whispers and arched brows in his wake. The regulator paid them no mind. It wasn't how he was dressed, which was a like a proper lord, or the way he passed by. No longer did he casually slouch through the chambers like a bemused man observing the ways of some alien class. No-now he strode through upright and boldly with every sense of possession. He was transformed and carried himself confidently, absolute in the knowledge that he had a place here in his own right and not by the noblesse oblige of others.

  These things did not set tongues wagging, although they were noticed and added fuel to the speculation. No, that wasn't what Pinch's sharp ears picked up. It was his very presence at all that set the courtiers abuzz. Clearly, word had gotten around-no doubt from Iron-Biter-that he was missing and not expected to return. It pleased the rogue no end that his entry made such a spectacular impression. Now was not the time to be subtle. He wanted everyone to know that he had returned; the consternation it would rouse in certain quarters was only to his advantage.

  It was late in the afternoon, and the palace was teeming with lord, ladies, pages, and squires. Tomorrow was the Festival of Wealth, which alone would have been enough to fill the palace. Tomorrow was a day more than that, though. The Red Priests had declared that day auspicious for the Rite of Ascendancy. Pinch was certain Vargo had played the astrologer for this choice. With Iron-Biter's assurance that Pinch had been foiled, Vargo would want to act quickly before the stakes changed.

  Consequently, anyone who hoped to be anything- which meant everyone-had descended on the palace. Counts, knights, poets, and merchants hovered in the halls or held court in the salons. Like gamblers at the track, the courtiers flitted from one faction to the next, trying to guess the outcome of the race. No man wanted to side with the losing party, but no one wanted to look indecisive either.

  Friends were to be rewarded, enemies bought or crushed, and neutrals ignored. That was the way of these things.

  It amused Pinch to read the faces of those around him, their plots so easily exposed in the astonishment of seeing him. Pinch's appearance upset the odds. Suddenly the Lord Chamberlain's faction wasn't so weak and hopeless as it had been moments before. Everyone knew Cleedis had brought Pinch back to Ankhapur, but no one could say for sure why. Only Iron-Biter had any clue, and even he did not know the whole of it.

  Pinch threaded his way through the crowded salons, passing through the circles of courtiers. First there were the revelers, blissfully dumb of the greater stakes that tomorrow held. Dressed in the
ir festival finery, these vain lackwits came to drink, to dance, and to be seen. Pinch perused them with the eye of a poultry buyer at market, making professional note of their plumage and purses. In his other life, these would have been the targets of his trade. Even now he looked at his stiff hand and yearned for a chance to put himself to the test.

  Reluctantly he plunged into the next layer, where the ladies danced in stately lines while their lords hovered in knots of casually earnest discussion. This was the realm of hopefuls, those who conspired to advance by guessing the right horse. They eyed Pinch with suspicion and lust, eager to know what he portended, afraid to approach lest they be branded his ally. There was no comparison for them in Pinch's previous life; they had been as far from his reach as the moon and stars. Now he was as much above them and warranted them less concern than he had the revelers of moments before.

  The third circle, the core of it all, was his goal. There, in those salons deepest from the city, swaddled in the layers of bodyguards, claimants, and sycophants, were the objects of all concern-the three princes. Cleedis was right where Pinch expected to find him, at the center of Bors's faction. Dwarfed by the soaring pillars of the Great Hall, the shunned coterie of the Lord Chamberlain drifted forlornly, waiting for a vitalizing spark. The princely idiot Bors clapped to the music that echoed from the dancing halls while Cleedis stood in serious conference with the few plump, waistcoated lords committed to his side. They were an unhappy-looking lot, men trapped by their titles, friendships, and favors to what looked for certain a losing cause. Few held any belief that the benevolent gods of Ankhapur would choose Bors as fit to rule the city. Cleedis alone held firm in that faith, futilely trying to rally supporters to his cause.

  Pinch's arrival carried that wanted spark. The paunchy old knights, former captains of Manferic's army, drew aside for the younger man, younger at least by comparison.

  "Lord Chamberlain," Pinch said as he came up behind old Cleedis, who to that point had been quietly haranguing a flagging member of his entourage, the Royal Steward of the Stables.

  The old man stopped talking with a sort of choked gasp and turned about all in one go. It was a credit to his years of toadying that the Lord Chamberlain didn't blurt out his surprise. "Master Janol, how fare you? Rumor was spoken by certain mouths that we would not see you again."

  "Sometimes rumor are just rumors. I'm well, Cleedis." Pinch let the pleasant smile drop from his mask. "A word, Cleedis. Now. Privately."

  The old man arched one graying eyebrow. "Of course, cousin. Glindon, send word to Princes Vargo and Throdus that should they hear tales of their cousin's absence, they are not to worry. Tell them such talk is completely groundless and that he is well and with us here."

  The page rolled his eyes, trying to remember the exact wording, and then hurried off to complete his task.

  "Lords, excuse me." Taking Pinch by the arm, Cleedis hurried them both into a small side chamber, barely larger than a dressing closet. The old man shut the door, latched it, and turned on his agent, the bluish veins on his temple standing out.

  "Where have you been? Vargo's had it out that you're dead or scuppered off someplace. There's been havoc to play with the ranks, positive mutiny. They think I've lost control." The chamberlain was hopping with indignation, furious but dependent on Pinch for answers.

  "It was near enough to the truth, but I've made it."

  "Do you have them-the items?"

  Pinch found the old man's haste annoying. Brokering was a fine art that, properly done, should be approached casually. This eagerness was unseemly.

  "They're where I can put my hands on them. Let's talk payment.

  "We did. Fifty thousand bicentas."

  Pinch regretfully shook his head. "That was then. Now I think the job's worth more."

  Cleedis sucked at his teeth, clearly unwilling to name a figure. Finally he expansively offered, "Ten thousand more."

  Pinch laughed a short, derisive snort. He held up his branded hand. "My price is another fifty thousand."

  It was the chamberlain's turn to sputter. "Fifty more? Impossible!"

  "I have the items; you don't."

  "What of that? They're not necessary for the plan," the old man snapped.

  Pinch pricked up his ears. It was the first Cleedis had let on that he knew the whole of Manferic's scheme. He answered with a heartless drawl. "It would be unfortunate if the genuine articles were discovered by Vargo or Throdus."

  "I'll kill you myself first!"

  "Harm me and it's guaranteed.

  Cleedis glowered. "Thirty more," he finally said with a sullen mumble.

  "Forty-five."

  "Thirty."

  "Forty, or Vargo learns everything."

  The old campaigner broke into a hacking cough. "Forty then, damn you," he gasped as the fit subsided.

  "Forty more it is, Cleedis." With triumphant cheer, Pinch clapped the other on the shoulder. "In gems-mixed sizes and properly appraised. Don't try to cheat me on that. My friends have good eyes for stones. Agreed?"

  "Agreed." There was hardly any cheer in Cleedis. "It will all be ready when you deliver the Cup to Manferic."

  "Me deliver? No, I'll pass it to you."

  "Our lord insists you bring it to him. The stones will be ready then." It was the chamberlain's turn to drive a hard bargain. "If you do not deliver, there will be no payment."

  "When?"

  "Tonight-after the banquet."

  Pinch didn't like it but he could not refuse. There was still one more card in this game he needed to play. "Agreed, tonight."

  Cleedis shuffled to the door. "After the banquet. Now, I must return before more bolt from my side."

  Just as the old man started to open the door, Pinch played his last trump. "One other condition, Lord Cleedis. My mother-you will take me to my mother.

  The hand stopped on the knob. "That's… impossible. She's dead."

  "Don't lie to me, old fool. I know she's alive and that Ikrit guards her." Pinch was bluffing on a dead hand, but there was no need for Cleedis to see that.

  "How much do you know?" the chamberlain whispered.

  "Everything. Manferic, Mother, all of it."

  They locked gazes, gamblers trying to read the bluff in the other's eyes. The stakes were new to Pinch, but the game he knew. Cleedis tried his statesman's best, but in the end the silent struggle went to the younger man.

  "I can't," he whispered. "I didn't even know she'd survived all these year until you came. Ikrit was supposed to have killed her long ago."

  Pinch smiled grimly. The bluff had succeeded; what he'd guessed was true. "Why, Cleedis? Why did he deny me for all these years?"

  The chamberlain shook his powder-white head. "That you'll have to ask Manferic when you see him- tonight." With that, the weary official slipped away before Pinch could impose any more conditions.

  The questions asked, Pinch suddenly felt the weariness of his life settle over him. He'd been about for days now with barely a rest, twice beaten, twice healed, underfed, and overimbibed. He couldn't take another revelation, another wonder, without first the benefit of sleep. With a perfunctory bow to the lords assembled, he took his leave of Cleedis's clique and headed for the relative safety of his rooms.

  As he passed a small salon, he was hailed by a voice that could not be ignored.

  "Cousin."

  Pinch stopped and gave a weary bow. "Greetings, Prince Vargo."

  "Cousin Janol, stay awhile. I want a word with you." With a sharp signal, the dark-haired prince dismissed those clustered around the chaise where he'd been lounging. "Sit here and attend me." Vargo pulled aside the sweep of his dressing gowns to open a seat for his guest.

  Pinch inwardly cursed himself for blindly straying too close to the prince's orbit, but now snared he could not escape. A quick scan of Vargo's hangers-on revealed Iron-Biter was not present, and that was a small relief. There was no saying how the dwarf might greet him and Pinch was not ready to find out. Stifling his re
signed sigh and falsely filling himself with enthusiasm, Pinch took the seat offered.

  "There was word you were unwell, cousin," Vargo said as he sipped at his morning tea. He oozed the charm of an unquestioned superior merely marking time to his ultimate victory. "Everyone was concerned."

  Pinch accepted the tea a servant offered. "My lord, as you see, I am quite well. You should be wary of those who spread gossip. Perhaps they sought to embarrass you."

  "I considered my source unimpeachable." The false concern was slipping away from his royal host.

  "And yet I'm here and your source has been impeached."

  Vargo set his cup aside. "What service have you done for old Cleedis? I know you, Pinch. You're a guttersnipe playing at nobility, like you always were and always will be. Well, guttersnipe, name your price. I can make you a wealthy man. That's what you want, isn't it?" The words hissed with soft anger between them.

  Pinch ignored the cut. His pride could not be wounded by hollow words. There was only one thing untrue in what Vargo said-he wasn't just playing at nobility. He had the blood in his veins-all these years. Vargo's taunt was the finger that released the bolt, the magical words that triggered what was locked inside him. All the memories that he'd forgotten, set aside, and ignored roiled back to the surface-the slights at his parentage, the constant reminders that they were greater than he, the threats and promises that always began, "When I become king…" Vargo was right, he did have a price. So why not steal from them the only treasure they cared for? It would be the grandest theft of all and it warmed the cold side of his heart.

  Draining the last of his tea, he stood and politely bowed to his enemy. "What I want, you won't pay me, Vargo."

  "Name it. Gold? Magic? Women? Charter for a thieves' guild? Iron-Biter? Maybe you'd like the dwarf for your revenge? Take him, do what you want. He's yours if you want him."

  Pinch just shook his head. "Your crown, the one you covet. For that I might even give you back your life."

  The prince's face went red, then purple, and Pinch thought for certain he was about to explode in a gale of rage. All at once Vargo burst into a thunder of laughter. The servitors and courtiers craned their necks to see what was happening even while they pretended not to notice.