Another gulp, time for round three. Veronica smiled. “Yes, that was one I adapted. Using a base poison from a tree spider common to the woods of your mother’s homeland in the great forest of Filestalas, I modified it with cave fungi. The resulting poison was superior on two counts: it is tasteless and odorless, but perhaps most importantly—” she paused and allowed herself a wicked grin, “—it dissolves perfectly in wine.”
Silverfist stopped himself in mid-pour, turning to face Veronica. After an awkward pause, he pinched the stem of his wine glass, slowly rolling it slightly between his fingers. He resumed his pour. “How exquisite. You truly are a gem, Veronica. I must have your recipe, I can see how such a poison would be invaluable to our new acolytes. But let me assure you—just in case you got any ideas—you do not want my job. It is not unheard of for the leadership of our Guild to pass indelicately from one to another through the means of our profession. It has happened before. But before you try and take advantage of my fondness for good wine, you should know that there is a benefactor already lined up for your services in the field who will pay you much more than my humble take. But first you must pass your third and final test: The Selectivity Test.”
Trevor
Trevor shook his head, wishing he had more food, but disciplined himself. He quietly pulled a few leaves off a nearby branch and examined them. Edible. Slowly he gathered a handful, taking his time, enjoying the process of reaching without moving, making virtually no noise as he carefully tore leaf after leaf off nearby branches. Fresh, green, and healthy leaves. Slightly fragrant, not quite as sharp as evergreens, but a bit maple-y smelling. A delicate leaf salad.
Nibbling quietly, he sighed. His little bakery revolt wasn’t even part of his Test. He was on the third and final portion of his quest to become a Master Thief. It was a significant designation in the Guild. Many tried; most failed. Anyone can take something that doesn’t belong to them; few are qualified to be paid to take what doesn’t belong to them, be it an object, a person, or a secret. A Master Thief earned his living not by what they stole; they lived well on what they were paid by others to steal.
Which brought Trevor back to the Test his Master had devised for him. There were always three parts: The Test of Concealment, the Test of Technique, and the final Test of Thievery. The Test of Concealment yielded Silver; the Test of Technique yielded gold. The Test of Thievery yielded you the designation of Master, and with it, contracts. There was no shortage of demand for a Master Thief’s talents in this Dark World.
Up in the tree, patiently waiting, Trevor had time to recall the Tests his Master had set before him that led him to this point. It passed the time.
***
Thinking back on his Test of Concealment, Trevor found it to be child’s play. So many would-be thieves never took seriously the art of disguise. I had no choice he thought ruefully. His short stature, mismatched eyes, flaming red hair—if he wanted to go unnoticed, he would need to perfect his concealment techniques. Make up, wigs, false features, and a keen eye for clothing were all basic necessities. However, Trevor had a secret even his Master knew nothing about. A couple years ago, he had stolen enough gold to afford his prize possession: a pair of shoes. Not just any cobbler’s workmanship; these were special. He had a mage of some modest talent with illusion create a spell on these shoes that would make whomever wore them appear taller. A short man draws attention, pity even. A really tall man also draws attention, admiration even. Trevor wanted neither. His job was best performed when there was nothing remarkable about him whatsoever. And when he donned these shoes, he appeared six or seven inches taller, a very uninteresting height. Coupled with his mastery of camouflage, and his Concealment Test was a breeze.
It was simple, really. A panel of seven Master Thieves were gathered in a tavern. They all knew Trevor; many had instructed him. The challenge was to rob each thief of a silver piece that they carried loosely in a pouch. Picking their pocket wasn’t the primary challenge; if you couldn’t do that, you would never have progressed past the most basic level in a life of thievery, and the Guild would eventually expel you. No, Master Thieves were well beyond that. The challenge was that it was in Shoal, in a large tavern, filled with people who knew you (though most had no idea that you were a thief, of course). But the Masters in the Guild did. And if you were recognized, they would call you out. Loudly and openly. It would be public, and your failure would result in imprisonment, and perhaps the loss of your hands. You might be able to escape Lord Arrington, the overseer of Shoal, but your chances of becoming a Master Thief were finished.
The Masters were, naturally, always on guard for any protégés. The point wasn’t to protect their silver pouch per se, it was to observe people and see if they could recognize anyone from their secretive Guild that evening. This was the Test of Concealment, after all. They ordered mugs of ale, which they all watered down to keep their wits about them. They studied the crowd, the barkeep, the serving maids. Anyone could be disguised. No beggar would escape their suspicions on this night, knowing the Test was in effect.
He had heard stories of thieves that passed this part of the Test by dressing up as women, or hiding in shadows unseen, or rich thieves that splurged on an invisibility charm. Trevor couldn’t afford that; all his savings had gone into those shoes, which was a pricey enough spell. He couldn’t fathom what an invisibility charm would cost, and he wasn’t sure that would impress the seven Masters anyhow.
His plan was simpler. After several hours of watered down ale, eventually one of the seven Master Thieves got up from the tavern to relieve himself. He waited for the right one to step outside and head to a nearby waste ditch, and he knocked him out, stripped off his clothes, bound him and gagged him, dragging the body behind a tree. Reaching down, he grabbed the pouch with the coin. That was one.
Disguised as the Master Thief, he returned and hung out right in front of them all night. They never suspected one of them would be the attempting thief that night. So, even though their guard was up, the other six were focused on everyone else around them. It was therefore fairly easy to pick their pockets unobserved throughout the evening. Once he had all seven silver pieces, he excused himself once again to step outside and revealed himself to the Master he had caught unaware, returned to the Guild in the wee hours of the morning, and was unanimously passed to the second portion of his Test. When asked how he had changed his looks so radically—including his height—Trevor only smiled. The Masters didn’t press him; every thief had their own tricks and secrets.
Veronica
Veronica finally finished her first glass and reached for a pitcher of water nearby. “The Selectivity Test…what type of test is this?”
Silverfist’s only betrayal of excitement came with the slightest raise of an eyebrow and a modest widening of his almond-shaped, dark brown eyes. “The Selectivity Test is one that pulls together elements of the first two, and calls upon all your skills, including those more common to the Thieves Guild. A Master Assassin frequently receives a contract to execute someone who is often not alone. Heretofore, all of your kills have come about once you’ve isolated the individual. That is the ideal, of course. But on occasion, you must master the art of killing someone who is not alone at the time of the kill. You must selectively kill them, while leaving the others alive. A man might give you a contract to kill his wife, but he doesn’t want his son killed. When you first were invited to join the Black Guild, you had killed three people, but were only truly motivated to kill one of them. A Master Assassin must be more selective. The more killing, the greater the risk of getting caught. But what’s worse—you’re killing for free at that point. A Master, a True Master Assassin, is better than that. She knows who she is targeting. She feels no hesitation, guilt, or remorse over the contract. She employs the perfect technique to fit the situation. And she plucks that person out of whatever crowd they may be hiding within…in order to end that life—and only that life—to collect on her contract without being identified, ca
ught, harmed, or killed. The Selective Test pulls all those elements together. It is…the final test, if you truly wish to be a Master. ” Silverfist replied steadily, flatly, emotionlessly. The only giveaway that he was excited at all was his half smile.
Veronica stood up and walked casually over to the small bowl of incense, letting it fill her nostrils and cover her clothes. Tiny wisps of smoke emanated from the coals in the bottom of the bowl as the spices burned on top. Clove, with a pungent acidity. She breathed deeply and took a drink of water to calm her excitement and moisten her suddenly dry mouth.
“So, Master, tell me about my assignment for the third Test, for I am ready to become a Master myself.”
Trevor
The memory of his Concealment Test helped take Trevor’s mind off the daunting task ahead of him. He needed to sleep, and while he fit snugly up in the tree it was hardly comfortable. That, and his mind was overactive. He found it satisfying—even confidence building—to revisit the accomplishments that brought him to this point in time. Having recollected his success with concealment, he found his mind now wandering toward the second part of his challenge to become a Master Thief: The Technique Test. Though he wrapped up this portion of the test a month ago, the memories were still fresh, probably because he made it a point to recall them so frequently.
***
The Technique Test required a Thief to employ several elements of their training—resourcefulness, lockpicking, trap setting/neutralizing, etc. The Test was straightforward: on the outskirts of Shoal was a cave that led underground. The system of caves led to a bag of gold. The challenge was simply to return with the bag, which, as an added bonus, the successful thief could keep. Of course, nothing from the Guild is that simple.
Armed with the small supply of silver he was able to keep, Trevor decided to look at some potions. Some thieves who made it this far spent their money on love potions, or gambled it away on dice. More focused thieves tried to find something practical, like a weak healing potion or more extensive lockpicking tools.
Trevor’s eye was caught by something else in the apothecary shop. He decided to spend his silver on a small vial of “sticky draught.” He had no idea what he would face in the caves, but he had an idea that if he could hide from an animal, he might be able to set a trap of some sort with the potion. Rations, a glow ball, extra water, rope, stiff wire, his usual makeup and lockpicking tools, his blow darts, and some poison rounded out his supplies.
It was a humid, summer morning, with a hazy heaviness blanketing the cave opening. He turned around to see if one of the Masters was still watching him enter. He had the honor of having the Head of the Thieves Guild, Nathaniel Mist (whom the students just referred to as “the Mist”) to see him off. Should I wave? That would be weak. Turning, he plunged into the cave, which magically sealed behind him.
Plunged immediately into darkness, Trevor reached into his pack for his glow ball. Instead he found a crumpled piece of parchment that appeared to have some writing with light embedded in it. Smoothing it out in the pitch-black cave, the glowing letters fairly jumped off the page.
Be thankful we stole nothing else from you. Guard your provisions better—you aspire to rank of Master within a Guild of Thieves, and it is a Dark World, after all.
N. Mist
Utter darkness. This would never do. He wondered if they always stole something from would be Masters, or just him. Probably just me. This world always seemed to close in on him, to deal with him unfairly. There were no breaks for a short, ugly, red-headed thief with mismatched eyes. Nothing came easy for Trevor Blink.
So be it. Waving the parchment in front of him slowly in every direction, the glowing ink provided a foot of light, allowing him to get his bearings. To his left and right were the cave walls. Conveniently, a torch was hanging on the left. Using some stones on the cave floor, he was able to smack them together to create the occasional spark. An hour later, covered in sweat, and having made more noise than any thief should be allowed, he had captured a spark on his parchment, which eventually caught fire, which he eventually transferred to his torch. I thought we were testing the techniques of a Thief, not a bloody Ranger.
He moved on. The cave did not offer any side paths or options. It just kept going further and further down, winding around and doubling back amongst itself. Trevor had no sense of time as he walked, torch aloft. But it must have been a few hours since he’d started, and he knew he was descending the whole time. The air was stale this far down; there was oxygen, but it smelled—even tasted—different. His torch still burned.
Rounding a curve in the path of the cave, he saw the roof of the cave expanding, just as the path began to widen until he finally reached the edge of the bend in the path. It opened up into a larger cavern, now twenty or thirty yards wide and another twenty yards from floor to ceiling. A ring of torches dotted the massive underground grotto.
“No Thief has passed on my watch, and you won’t be the first!” The mail-clad knight shouted. He stood next to a small fire pit, whose flames reflected and danced off his shiny plate. He also had Trevor’s undivided attention.
Polished to a fine gleam, the knight’s armor was in ridiculously good condition. Only the wealthiest merchants or city officials could afford a guard such as this. Or the Guild, he thought ruefully.
It was then that Trevor made out what the knight was guarding: A wooden rope bridge, maybe twenty-five feet across, spanned a chasm at the back end of this underground cavern. On the other side of the bridge was a door. The knight stood in front of the narrow bridge, sword drawn, but he did not move.
“Who are you?” Trevor shouted from a safe distance.
“I think it’s obvious,” came the knight’s response. He didn’t even lift his visor.
“I don’t suppose you’d let me cross if I agreed to split the gold with you?” Trevor rolled the dice, and guessed the knight knew about the gold.
“I am already under a more lucrative contract. And besides—unlike your ilk, I do not double-cross those who put their trust in me. As I said, no thief has passed on my watch.” He drew a massive sword.
Trevor looked at the knight. He believed him. The man was huge, easily a foot and then some taller than him. He thought about poison darts, but there was no chance in hell a dart would penetrate his plate mail. He had seen other knights; Lord Arrington had several in the city guard. But this knight looked almost regal in his shiny, dent-free mail. Not regal—ostentatious.
Of course, the Guild earns a small portion from all the thieves’ takes—at least, those they knew about from members of the Guild. One of the long-running jokes amongst the Guild is that they got robbed more than anyone. Yet they were still fantastically well-funded. Certainly wealthy enough to rent a knight.
Trevor did not see the knight armed with any long-distance weapons, and he did not appear to be in a mood to leave his post, knowing full-well that Trevor held the edge in quickness, given his heavy armor. But standing there in front of the narrow bridge, sword drawn—the knight could not be in a better position. Furthermore, Trevor quickly ruled out a direct confrontation. The thought of the knight slicing his head off and rolling his body over the edge of the chasm gave him more than a pause. ‘No thieves have passed on my watch’…I wonder how many failed attempts landed a thief at the bottom of this pit.
Watch? Of course! Backing up, still twenty yards away from the knight, he slowly retreated out of sight around the bend. He heard the knight yelling, “Come back and fight little thief! You cannot return!”
Up off the cave floor about ten feet was a natural rock shelf in the cave formation. Trevor soundlessly scrambled up there, and with a small sigh, he extinguished his torch. There was just a glimmer of light from around the curve in the path leading to the well-lit cavern that he could see his hand in front of his face. He aimed to change that.
Carefully applying some make-up to his hands, face, and parts of his clothes to blend perfectly with the rock face, he waited patiently of
f the ground, in the dark shadows. He even nibbled on a piece of flatbread, all the while thinking of the knight around the corner, a man whose armor would feed him for a month. If he was right…
Seven or ten hours later (Trevor had no way of gaging time), sure enough, he heard a clanking and squeaking coming toward him. A knight was coming down the way he had come, passing below without so much as a glance up toward Trevor. He heard a shout from the first knight, and they obviously talked. Sword drawn, the first knight (presumably), slowly walked back down the way the other knight and Trevor had come. He had a torch with him in his other hand. The light passed close to Trevor, but all the knight saw was rock. He moved on.
After about an hour or longer had passed, Trevor put his plan into action. He stretched a trip wire from his pack across the floor of the cave, still far around the bend and out of sight from the bridge. He drizzled some of the black “sticky draught” a few feet behind the trip wire. This was the first phase of his plan to get past the knight.
Returning to his alcove, Trevor waited, allowing himself a few hours of Thief’s Sleep—a light sleep awakened by “the click of a lock” as they say. But it was not a lock clicking that awoke him this time.
Crashing to the ground with startled curses was a fully-clad knight, decked out in the finest, heaviest plate mail, as he stumbled over the trip wire. As the six-foot-five behemoth sought to push himself up from the cave floor, he was doubly surprised to find his breastplate stuck irretrievably to the cave floor. “What devilry is this, Thief!” The knight was slowly trying to fold his arms back toward his hip to reach for his sword.
Trevor was down from the alcove and atop of the knight with amazing speed. Wordlessly, he pulled his helm off and jabbed his small dagger through the light chain mail and padding underneath. The knight’s spine was cut at the base of his skull, and he died with a scream that ended abruptly. How’s that armor working for you now, knight?
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 5