DARTS (The Paladin's Thief Book 1)

by Benjamin K Hewett

“Everyone pays for evil, Magnus,” I mutter, wincing as my ribs and my pride give me a twinge. I can hear the shouts outside as the bucket brigade forms, doubtless drawing crowds from the surrounding establishments and residences.

  He pauses thoughtfully. “Hmm. That’s true. But . . .”

  I don’t have time to argue so I resort to painful honesty. “Sit your fat wagon down before you kill someone.”

  “I already . . .”

  “I mean someone who isn’t asking for it.”

  Magnus looks crestfallen. “I’d like to help.”

  Lucinda bursts back through the front door. “Tee! Where’s the spare crank?” Her desperation says our quarrel is on hiatus. “Go!”

  Lucinda grabs Magnus by the hand, pulling him out of the way while I scramble up the pillar yet again and cut down the rod and pulley used for five-alarms and festival days. Both clatter to the floor in a jangle.

  “Can you turn a crank?” Lucinda asks Magnus.

  Magnus looks offended, muscles flexing. “I can throw buckets.”

  “Nonsense. You can’t see. You’d only crush poor innocents.” She looks pointedly at me but most of her anger has burned away. She hustles him out the door, guiding him, leaving me to gather up the crank and wheel.

  At least someone agrees with me.

  When I get to the well, I can see that Lucinda has had the right idea. Magnus is straddling the rim, pulling up a bare rope with no crank. There are two men pumping the main chain, but Magnus’ fire-barrel is still coming up faster. He’s chanting some sort of work-song or prayer chant of holiness. It sounds like improvisation: “Pan-give-me-strength-and-please-make-this-water-holy-while-vanquishing-evil-and-bringing-light-to-this-benighted-village.”

  Who improvises a prayer? Certainly nobody I know. We’re lucky if we get the prayer-by-rote variety around here.

  And Lucinda isn’t doing a single thing—except maybe counting ripples on the big guy’s back. His shirt is in the mud. Why???

  “Lucinda!” I yell above the din. “Help me!”

  She snaps out of her trance, helps me set up the second crank, and two men jump up with a third rope and bucket hooks.

  My twins whizz past, carrying wet towels for the beaters.

  “Hi Da!”

  “Bye Da!”

  The town plaza is filled now with water lines, with more lines coming from the Southside Fountain down by the Prefecture. Three buildings are sending up smoke signals, all adjacent to the inn, but Carmen’s dress shop is the only one nearly covered in flames, and some of them decidedly unnatural. Hot oranges and reds flare and dance with tongues of purple and green. Even the plaster is burning, weird flames licking up into the thatched eaves.

  And then, suddenly, this fire winks out. Shouts about holy water are drowned out by cheering.

  But it’s not over yet. We sweat in the rain for another half-watch, making sure all the other fires are under control. Excepting Lucinda’s. She’s smoldering like a golden egg stuck to an iron skillet. Magnus, with all his muscle, can’t seem to pry her loose. To his credit, most men wouldn’t have tried.

  The crowd disperses slowly, though it seems that now even more people are headed to The Black Cat to hear how it started and get a drink or three.

  I’m too tired for this. Turning to say my goodbyes, I realize that the crowd has already whisked Magnus and Lucinda away.

  Across the square, tables are thumping and a raucous singing escapes the now-perpetually-open front door.

  “Timnus? Valery?” I call, but it’s no use. Even if they can hear me they aren’t likely to show themselves, or come home from a celebration. I give up looking. They’ll come home when they’re good and ready, and probably with better food than the crushed and soggy rolls in my pocket.

  I’m halfway home when a thought tickles at the back of my conscience. There’s a sword lying in the mud, ripe for the taking. It’s a good sword, worth at least a handful of kings from the right fence. Blind and beset by admirers, its owner isn’t likely to object at the moment. It’s a can’t-miss deal for any low-grade cutpurse, and Pan knows there are plenty of those about. Somebody honorable ought to do something.

  Excrement.

  I hurry back to the inn where light and smells from celebration spill out through a large table shaped hole in the wall. I have to slosh around in the mud for a minute before I find what I’m looking for. My bare toe hits something solid, well-submerged and stuck fast. The mud makes a slurping sound as I lift it free.

  The sword is a mangled wreckage, warped and grooved, but still beautiful. I let it rinse in the rain for a few minutes before stepping into the inn. The charred leather wrappings of the haft are still manageable, and it’s all I can do to drag the thing, using it like a talisman to buy my way through the crowd.

  “Belongs to the big guy over there. Lost it in the excitement. Make way please.”

  People eye me with less indifference than before. “The one pulling up the holy water?”

  “Sure. Sure,” I agree.

  People are full of crap, especially the one yelling, “Out of the way, rabble.” It’s the gap-toothed villager. “Make way for the holy man’s page,” he shouts.

  Now people are bowing and scraping to me.

  Holy excrement.

  “Ooh. A holy page!”

  “Stop that, Matilda. It’s just me.”

  “You’re a page, Teacup?”

  “The cobbler’s husband is a holy page!”

  I resign. Whatever it takes, I guess. I find Magnus pinned to Markel’s reset table by most of Lower Ector’s upper crust—if you allow that Lower Ector has an upper crust. Invitations are flying like crazy, and Lucinda is still glued to him. He’s given up on scraping her off, though he’s managed to get his shirt back on.

  “I got your sword, Magnus.” I tap him on the arm and guide his hand to the handle. “It’s going to need a proper burial.” Now that I’m here I don’t really know what to say, don’t know why I didn’t try to fence his sword for scrap metal.

  “Thanks,” is all I can manage, though I can’t figure whether I’m thanking him for the food, the kindness, or for saving me from Pale Tom.

  Magnus’s free hand skips up to my shoulder and holds me in place. “Tee?” There’s a note of panic in his voice.

  “Yep. S’me.”

  Magnus bends low and speaks in my ear. “You know of a quiet place in Ector where I can lie low for a few days until this blindness spell wears off? I can pay whatever you need.”

  Lucinda gives me a sharp look, holding his arm tighter.

  “Yes. And it’s on the house.” I hide the guilt just as I’ll have to hide the black pomegranate mixer.

  Lucinda stalls. “If you want out, you’re going to have to put on an exit show.”

  “I’ve got nothing left,” Magnus moans. “The man upstairs has gone to sleep.”

  I pat the enormous paw on my shoulder, but it’s shaking. Poison and antidotes don’t really mix well. “I’m sure he’ll be back in the morning. Until then, pretend I’m your page. You can repent later.”

  “Thanks, Tee.” The layered desperation fades into palpable relief, and it’s a testament to his suffering that he plays along. “Lead on . . .good sir,” he bellows, like he might actually mean it. I guess the lie about me being his page is a bit of a stretch for him.

  Once we get moving, I glance over my shoulder. “Amazing, Magnus. Fighting blind like that.”

  “No man is blind with Pan at his side,” he says solemnly. The grandeur of his statement is diminished as he stumbles over a chair thrust into his path by a departing patron.

  “Err, right.”

  But I sign sanctimoniously just in case. After tonight, I’d bet a queenpence someone upstairs is listening, at least to Magnus.

  “And me,” Lucinda interjects. “I’m at your side, too.”

  I sign for Pan again, hoping there’s help to spare for Lucinda.

  We’re almost to the door when Griphurk steps in front o
f me. “Wher’ yer goin’?”

  “Home, Grippy. This fella’s been cursed blind by a wizard.”

  Lucinda snorts, but holds her tongue.

  “Nightshades. Wizards. They’re all gone, but yonder game’s not a’finished.” He growls it like a miner grinding coal. Compared to his usually silky voice, it sounds like a threat.

  Magnus, sighs resignedly. “You’re right, Mr. Griphurk. A man always finishes. But Pan’s beard . . . you guys take this seriously.”

  Up close, Grippy’s smile is terrifying. “Board’s this way.”

  I thank Pan we’re in a warm, well-lit inn, where people mostly like us.

  Magnus doesn’t budge. “Give me a dart.” There’s a newfound, iron-hard edge in his voice when he speaks. Don’t push me, it says.

  Griphurk hesitates. “From here? There’s people.” I get the distinct impression he’s more concerned about the distance than the people.

  “They’ll move.” Magnus’s voice is rock hard now. It seems to surprise even himself. “Give me whichever dart you have with you.”

  Griphurk uncurls his long fingers. There is indeed a dart there. Three, actually. He hands Magnus the one with damaged fletching and keeps the best two for himself. I keep my mouth shut. A few lost coins is better than a quarrel with someone like Griphurk. And Grippy knows about the spiked drink.

  “Clear out!” Magnus orders, motioning with his hands.

  People scramble from the tables in between.

  “Which way is the board exactly?” he whispers to me. I grab his hand and point it board-ward, as close to dead center as I can.

  “How far is it?” he asks me.

  “Twenty-five meters.” I measure without thinking. I know this place like my mother’s kitchen.

  He stands still for a moment, cataloguing his position, savoring the moment. “Remind me never to play darts in Ector again.”

  “Never pl. . .”

  “I won’t.”

  His dart sails free, over the vacated tables, and comes to a shattering rest, higher than I’d aimed but still on the board, just inside the zero loop of the 20.

  “He’s split the metal!”

  This refrain is chorused by everyone between Barkus’s open jaw and Grippy’s rising black eyebrows.

  “He’s made his own loop! Good Darts!” A few people stumble over to see for themselves.

  Grippy’s pasty, green face gets pastier. He exhales an unintelligible curse in goblin-speak.

  I doubt that Griphurk can wedge a dart into the wire like that. Not with his light-weight, softie throw. And in Loops and Bumpers you have to put your dart inside the same enclosure as your opponent’s.

  The crowd turns to Griphurk. A few try to get even more out of the way, especially the ones nearest the board.

  Griphurk drops his eyebrows and then lifts his other hand. Different darts. Not from Barkus. And the craftsmanship is undeniable. They have thicker feathers and a longer steel shaft. The points are barbed.

  Grippy’s grin goes nasty as he considers them. Picking one with brown and cream hawk feather fletching, he turns and chucks it harder than I’ve ever seen him throw. It’s not a tavern throw; it’s a hunting throw, and the executing precision loses nothing for the muscle. I have a chilling image of Griphurk dodging between trees as the front-runner in a midnight raid.

  The dart pounds into the side of Magnus’s, cutting the already-damaged feather loose and shaking Magnus’s dart before lodging into the board. It’s not a winning shot, not unless Magnus’s dart falls. But Magnus’s dart holds fast. Only the feather drifts to the floor.

  Griphurk frowns. “Don t’uppose you’d care for o’ rematch?”

  Magnus’s hand twitches on his sword and his meaning is clear. “Some other time.”

  Griphurk notices this, too. The anger drains from his face as his eyes flash across Magnus’s damaged but imposing weapon. “Well then, GOOD DARTS o’man!” Griphurk steps back and throws another hunting dart so that it flanks Magnus’s winning throw like an honor guard. Pulling on a grey hood, he thumps Magnus on his uninjured shoulder and stumps out of the bar and into the rain, with a look of amazement budding on his normally crafty face.

  The room is dead quiet. “Good Darts,” Magnus calls after him.

  I’m sure as hell not waiting around any longer. I get Magnus moving again before anyone else can challenge us.

  “Go settle with Petri,” I say to Lucinda, not forgetting the cash for an instant. Between Pale Tom’s, Griphurk’s, and money from all the fools who bet against him, Magnus probably has enough for his own dress shop. Or two. And nobody will deny he’s earned it.

  “And buy a few rounds for the house.”

  She nods knowingly. We’d both prefer to keep the streets clear until we’re long gone. I don’t say anything about the horse. Barkus knows his business, even the honest parts.

  “Non-alcoholic drinks,” Magnus clarifies.

  “Non-alcoholic,” she assures him, winking at me. Fat chance of that. Before anyone else gets any ideas, we want them pissing drunk.

  She dances off to settle with Petri. I have the distinct impression that she’ll be on my doorstep first thing tomorrow to check on Palaidus, if not sooner.

  Out in the rain again, Magnus speaks up. “Tee, did you drop on poor Tom from the rafters?”

  “Yea.”

  “I thought so.”

  Our steps slosh through puddles in the gray cobblestone. He’s leaning heavily on my shoulder.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  More sloshing.

  “I’m beginning to wonder about you,” he adds after a long pause.

  “You should. I’m complicated.”

  “I’m beginning to see that.”

  “You gonna write that in your journal?” I joke.

  “I’m out of ink.”

  “Then I’ll lend you some. The best money can’t buy.”

  He grunts, too tired to talk anymore, and we listen to the rain singing new beginnings on the cobblestone.

  About the Author

  Benjamin K. Hewett is a NASA Program Analyst who lives in Houston and chases numbers for a living, though he’d rather be writing fiction. In graduate school, he won 3rd Place in the Mayhew Short Story Contest and continues to write short stories amid larger novel projects. Ben also enjoys playing with his three kids, coaching soccer, and juggling fire. He has a BA in French and a Master’s Degree in Public Administration, both from BYU. To stay informed about upcoming sequels, subscribe to Ben’s newsletter or follow his blog at BKHEWETT.COM

  About the Illustrator

  Marta Maszkiewicz is a Warsaw-based artist specializing in the fantasy and fairy-tale genres. She creates art for books, advertisements, and computer games. When not at work, she can be found reading, gaming, doing traditional Indian dance, or serving the whims of her very own cat. Marta also has a degree in architecture, which she carefully avoids using.

  Back Cover

  It’s been a bad night for Teacup. He’s hungry, wet, and tired. He’s run afoul of the assassin’s guild, lost a bag of stolen goods, and bet his last penny on the local darts champion when he should have bought bread for his kids. Maybe fate needs a little help . . .