by DB King
Marcus had been exiled from the guild as soon as the news got around. Everybody was very regretful, but it didn’t change the fact: no member of the thieves guild could have a bounty. Marcus was expelled and had to leave straight away. He must never return to the guild, under pain of death. He must never claim the guild’s protection or use their name, no matter what the reason.
Just like that, he was on his own again.
At least he’d been left with more than an old fishing net this time. The guild gave him a good set of clothing, enough gold to keep him for a few weeks with care, a short sword, and their blessing. They left him with his three spells, too. Once you swallowed a spell-powder, the gift was yours for life. And they hadn’t taken his skills either.
He might not be able to claim the guild’s protection, but he was not prohibited from using his education. He could read and write in three languages, could fight with all manner of weapons, and he knew how to talk to people; the graduates of the thieves guild often became the most skilled diplomats. Nothing was stopping him using those skills. In the years that followed he made good use of his training, but all that had seemed cold comfort when he’d turned his back on the guild and walked away for the last time.
Marcus went back down to the docks and sought out his childhood friends again. It didn’t take long for him to find his old crowd. Some had died, some had moved on, and there were many new faces, but there were some who knew him well enough and they welcomed him. He needed a place to stay, so they showed him where they lived.
He moved in.
Living in the Underway was a shock at first. He soon got used to it, but he never forgot his roots as a docklands urchin. The docklands had a way of staying with people, in them, like blood on a white cloth.
The Underway was a labyrinthine network of abandoned tunnels under the city that stretched for miles. No one knew its full extent—it had never been fully explored—but the Gutter Gang had made their home in one section, where there was an entrance near the slum district of the city. Here lived a gang of rough men and women from all walks of life, people who had fallen on the hardest of times and had nowhere else to go.
Marcus was welcomed in like a long-lost cousin.
The Underway could be a dangerous place to live. The Gutter Gang were not the only inhabitants. There were the Ratmen, giant rats the size of humans, who walked upright and wore leathers and armor like men. They fought with cunning weapons, and were notoriously cruel. They inhabited a large, deep section of the Underway, and nobody who went there ever came back to tell the tale.
Then there were the Murgals, vicious half-troll, half-amphibian creatures that lived in gangs near the waterway exits from the Underway. They could sometimes be encountered roaming through the tunnels on the hunt for food.
And, of course, there were other gangs of humans living down there. Though they mostly kept to themselves and didn’t bother the Marcus’s Gutter Gang, it was a bad idea to stray too close to their dwellings. The biggest gang called themselves the Sewer Slayers, and they were rumored to have a steady stream of income from managing smuggling operations for unscrupulous ship captains. Because the Underway had many openings out to the sea, contraband could be moved into the Underway on small boats and then transported to one of the many exits within the city. The Sewer Slayers charged a good price for this service, but they defended their territory and their business interests fiercely.
As a member of the Gutter Gang, Marcus put his skills to good use, thieving and selling his stolen goods to make a living, but it was never enough to do more than live day to day, and always the bounty hung over his head. He could never quite relax knowing that one day, down on the docks or drinking in one of the cheap dockside taverns, he might be recognized and seized.
There was no doubt about what would come next. He would be sent to the salt mines on Bitter Island - a small island not far from the docklands coast. Kraken City did not execute criminals, but nobody had any illusions about what became of those who were sent to the mines. No one ever returned from Bitter Island. The salt mines there were as good as a death sentence. From the few stories he had heard about the place, it sounded like a headsman would have been kinder.
Eventually, Marcus had decided he’d had enough. In his favorite dockside tavern, he had heard about a ship that was soon to come in, bringing a special delivery for Diremage Xeron. His ears had pricked up at that. Diremage Xeron was rumored to be a former Vampire Hunter from Doran, a powerful mage who had come to Kraken City in suspicious circumstances some years ago.
He had extensive trading interests in the docklands, and lived in a big manse up in the Merchants’ Town. He was famously rich and arrogant, and was supposed to be dismissive of the threat of thieves. He was taking no chances this time, however. The rumor was that he had hired the Bloody Hand—a mercenary company—to guard his villa for the next two weeks. The Bloody Hand didn’t come cheap, everyone knew that, and the thought of that loot had itched at Marcus. Then one day he heard what the cargo was. One of the customs men from the port authority had too much to drink in a tavern one night and let it slip. Soon the rumor was all over the docklands—the cargo was spell-dust, a large consignment.
Any thief who walked away with that would have enough gold to live for a year if he were careful. And a man who wanted to escape Kraken City altogether and start a new life, well, there were always ships that could be hired, and Kraken City gold was just as good in Doran as in Kraken. He kept thinking about it and thinking about it until at last he decided he just had to go for it.
If he was caught, he would be sent to the Bitter Island salt mines or to some other back-breaking hard labor for the rest of his short life. That was, of course, if he was not killed outright during the robbery. But if he escaped and got away with it, he would have enough money to get a berth on a ship headed for the Kingdom of Doran, and to set himself up in a new life when he got there. He knew the language, he could read and write and do figures, and he knew how to use the courtly manners that would be expected at the King’s court in Doran City, the huge, shining capital city across the sea.
“An opportunity like this, for someone like me, only comes once,” he had told himself. And that had been that.
For days, he watched the docks.
At last, the ship came in, conspicuous because of the strong company of Bloody Hand mercenaries who guarded its unloading. Many people gathered and watched the show. Marcus had just been one face among many, gazing on as the mercenaries formed up around three covered wagons drawn by hooded and cloaked riders on black horses. Spears at the ready, the mercenaries escorted the goods up the hill from the docks toward Merchants’ Town.
That had been on yesterday’s morning tide. Marcus had slipped through a narrow entrance between two nearby warehouses and found himself in a disused courtyard. In one corner, half-covered by a broken cart and a stack of mouldering planks, there was a heavy bronze circular cover. He levered it up with a plank of wood and slipped through, closing it carefully behind him. He found himself in the cool, echoing darkness of the Underway.
Half an hour’s walk through the winding corridors and massive, echoing hallways of the Underway had taken him to the Gutter Gang’s base. The sentry let him through without question, and Marcus found his own little chamber and went to sleep. He would want to be at his best for tonight’s work.
“Ah, at last,” Marcus smiled. The City Guard’s legs had finally gotten stiff from standing at his post, and Marcus watched with satisfaction as the mail-clad man walked away from the gap in the wall. Not wasting an instant, Marcus slipped silently from his vantage point and landed on the muddy street again. Immediately, the thick fog swallowed him again.
It was a short sprint across open ground from here to the gate, and Marcus covered it in one swift dash. He pressed himself up against the gatepost, listening for the guard’s footsteps returning. Nothing.
Marcus took a deep, steadying breath and raised his hand. “Stealthy Tread,�
�� he muttered, feeling the familiar warmth of the enacted spell washing over him. Now, he had a few minutes during which the guard would have to stare right at him to notice him. The spells were short lived, but powerful. While the spell was effective, it was likely that even if he looked directly at Marcus, the guard would mistake him for a shadow, or a cat, or at the least for someone who was meant to be there.
Two steps took him through the gate. Walk, don’t run. A glance to the left. The guard bent over a stone water-fountain, filling the metal cup that was chained to the wall beside it. Two more steps, and Marcus was back in the shadows. The tall stone building was taller than any down in the slum district, and it cast a thick shadow.
As the guard finished drinking and turned away from the well, Marcus slipped away between the buildings, sticking close to the walls as he felt the Stealth spell wear steadily off. He was in.
Spell: Sneak Level 3
Level increase: 2%
Current progress to next level: 35%
Diremage Xeron’s house was at the top of Merchants’ Town, set back from the main cluster of buildings. Marcus jogged along in the shadows, keeping a wary ear open for patrols. He was about halfway when he heard the first one. The tramp of their sandals and the clink of their mail shirts was unmistakable.
They’re coming round the corner, he thought. This was an inconvenient spot to run into a patrol—there were no lanes or alleyways nearby to hide in, not even a dark doorway to duck into.
Marcus glanced up. A stone lip stuck out from the side of the building next to him.
He didn’t hesitate. A deft spring took him halfway up. Pushing his foot off the wall got him the rest of the way. He caught the edge of the stone lip. With a soft grunt, he swung himself up and crouched on the narrow ledge, still as a statue.
As the men passed below him, he held his breath and took care not to stare at them. Sometimes, he knew, if you stared hard at a man you could make him glance up and look at you. That would not do now. Marcus let his eyes drift out of focus and thought of the gray sea.
He let his breath out slow once the guards were gone, then dropped down, back onto the cobbled street and began to jog again.
Kraken City was built on one massive, cone-shaped hill, so you were always climbing. Only down in the slums and on the docks were the streets flat—everywhere else, you were either climbing or descending. Marcus made his way through Merchants’ Town, climbing all the way, until when he turned he could see the docklands off to his left.
A forest of masts bristled up, inky black against the moon-lit sea. On the wide-open flagged area around the docks, Marcus could see little lights moving back and forth and hear the distant voices of late-night revelers.
Kraken City never really sleeps, he thought to himself with a smile. Inland, the thick fog made a gray blanket in the moonlight, hiding the slums from view. All around him, Merchants’ Town was silent as a graveyard.
Only a few minutes later, Marcus found himself nearing Diremage Xeron’s generous manse. It had a big garden for Kraken City. Even in the wealthier parts of Merchants’ Town, space was at a premium, so the walled acre of green space around Xeron’s home was a rare luxury. Marcus climbed the outside of a stone townhouse to get a better look, finding a convenient alcove about twelve feet up. He wedged himself in place.
At the thieves guild, they had always taught him that skill at climbing was a thief’s best friend. Marcus had always found it to be so.
From his vantage point, he could see over Diremage Xeron’s ten-foot garden wall. He took his time, watching for movement in the grounds. Several Bloody Hand mercenaries patrolled the perimeter. Four—no, five. Big men, veterans armed with weighted nets and long barbed spears, with short swords at their belts. They wore linen britches and chainmail coats over hauberks of boiled leather. Their leather helms reflected blotches of moonlight.
Marcus watched for an hour as the moon crept slowly across the sky, until he was satisfied that the guards were not expecting trouble. They had a routine that they were not varying at all. Four moved back and forth along the outside of each wall, slowly, looking from left to right. Every fifth time a guard made it to the corner, he met his fellow guard and swapped with him. Back and forth, back and forth, back, and swap.
When they swapped, they exchanged a few words. That’s my opportunity, Marcus thought. He waited until the moon went behind a cloud then slipped to the ground and moved as silent as death toward the garden wall. Trees lined the approach, and he ducked down, lying flat in the shadow of one of the trees. The wall was only 20 feet away. His eyes followed the progress of the guard. Back, forth, back, forth, back, and...
“Stealthy Tread.”
As the guards met at the corner and exchanged a few words, their eyes were on each other, not on their watch. His spell active, Marcus dashed across the open space and flung himself over the wall. He dropped to the grass beyond and immediately dived into the shelter of the nearest shrub. The whole maneuver had taken him just seconds.
“Now for the difficult part,” he said to himself, grinning fiercely in the dark. The house was ahead, a looming shape rising out of the trees and bushes of the grounds.
Moving from bush to tree to shrub, Marcus approached the house. The garden smelled strongly of exotic flowers in the dark. Xeron was known to import strange plants from overseas for his garden. Some said that it was just vanity, but other rumors said that the plants he imported had magical properties.
The house was a big structure, three stories of heavy sandstone, each stone block three feet long by two high. The whole thing towered up over the low trees. Marcus was pleased to see that no lights shone in any of the windows. It was the small hours of the morning now, and the moon had fallen low in the sky, making the black shadows long and thick across the ground.
He made it to the shrubs that carpeted the base of the wall, forming a thick hedge all around the structure. The moon shone down on the right side of the house, so Marcus moved off to the left where the shade was deepest.
Now to find a window... he thought. There would be a guard posted on the front door, no doubt about that, but Marcus needed no door to enter a building like this. The lower windows would be locked and bolted, and would probably have magical wards over them. Marcus could use his unlocking magic against such things, but the lower windows were likely to have the best locks and the most powerful spells. He could make an attempt, but a failure here might cause a noise, and that could cause an alarm. The upper windows, however, were likely to be less strongly guarded...
For a moment longer, Marcus considered trying his magic against one of the lower windows, but decided against it when he saw a stout branch of ivy cladding the corner of the house. The ivy had fat red leaves and a stalk as thick as his forearm. He glanced up and found what he was looking for: a small window on the first floor, half-hidden by the ivy.
“Perfect,” he said, and began to climb.
The ivy supported his weight, and it was so thick that he could have pressed himself into it and hidden completely if he’d needed to. He did not. The guards patrolling outside had their eyes turned outward, and nobody was patrolling the grounds.
When he reached the little window, he raised his hand and focused his attention, muttering the spell, “Ward Detect.”
Ward detected: minor guard.
Trap detected: none
He concentrated. As Marcus had suspected, Xeron’s ward spell was not a strong one, and it had not been renewed for a long time. Spells degraded over time, like rust on an iron lock, and a conscientious mage had to return to his spells regularly if he wanted them to remain effective.
“Seems that Diremage Xeron has bigger things on his plate than checking on his upper window ward spells,” Marcus muttered through gritted teeth as he concentrated on the minor guard spell.
“Charm and Disarm,” he said, then sighed with satisfaction as he felt the Diremage’s weak ward spell dissipate.
He slid his fingers along the b
ottom of the narrow window and found the catch. No need for a spell here. He lifted the window, the catch slipped back, but he caught it and let it gently down before it could make a noise.
And we’re in, he thought, with a smile.
The window was narrow, only a foot and a half in height and three feet long. That was probably why the ward spell on it was so poor—nobody considered it a threat. But for someone with thieves guild training, every window was a threat.
When Marcus dropped into the little storeroom beyond, he stifled a sneeze as thick dust rose up from the bare boards.
Seems like nobody’s been in this room for a year, he thought, easing the window shut behind him. The risk was slight, but still it wouldn’t do for someone to glance up and see it open. A good thief takes no chances, and Marcus was very good.
He stood for a long minute, letting his eyes become accustomed to the dimness. When they did, he looked around. He was in a tiny lumber-room, stacked to the roof with junk: broken furniture, a harp without strings, piles of papers bound with tattered cord, chests that looked as if they had not been opened in a decade. In the corner, there was a long spear with a great hooked blade encrusted with gemstones. Marcus looked at that for a moment. That was strange—he’d never seen a weapon like that before. Restraining his interest and keeping focused on his objective, he moved to the wooden door.
“Ward Detect,” he said again.
Ward detected: none
Trap detected: none
Marcus smiled. Diremage Xeron doesn’t put wards on his inner doors, he thought. Sloppy.
He eased the door open a fraction of an inch at a time, so slowly that even if it had creaked nobody would have heard. The door let into a long, carpeted corridor, dark but for the moonlight that filtered in through a window at the far end of the corridor.