The Dungeoneers

by John David Anderson

  “More like locks, traps, and . . . more complicated locks.”

  Colm leaned forward on his stool, catching the glint of moonlight in the man’s eye. Suddenly it dawned on him. “You’re a thief,” he whispered.

  Finn raised a finger. “I prefer the title of rogue, if you don’t mind. If I were an out-and-out thief, I would be laughing my hindquarters off as I slipped into the darkness with all of your family’s valuables . . . though in this particular case,” he added, taking a long look at the cramped and boxy house, “I’d come away disappointed. No offense.”

  A thief. No matter what he wanted to be called, it was clear that’s what he was. It explained the two missing fingers. And the disappearing coin. But he obviously wasn’t just any thief. Traps? Castles? Though his clothes were shoddy, the sword by his side looked finer than anything Colm had ever seen. But why would his father bring a man like this back from the magistrate’s? Was this stranger supposed to set Colm straight about the dangers and depravity of a life of stealing? If so, this Finn wasn’t a terribly good example. He seemed quite comfortable with himself. “So then what are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for new apprentices, actually.”

  “Apprentices?”

  “Apprenti? I’m not sure how you say it. Individuals with certain . . . proclivities. Talents that often escape the attention of a more traditional education.”

  Colm shook his head. “So you run a school for thieves . . . I mean, rogues,” he corrected.

  “I don’t run it. I’m just a member in fine standing. And it’s not a school. Schools are for learning to read and write, and I presume you already know how to do both of those.”

  Colm nodded.

  “Excellent, because there’s no time for learning your alphabet where I’m from. It’s not a school so much as an organization. And it’s not just for rogues. We train all kinds. Warriors. Clerics. Mages—”

  “Mages?” Colm interrupted. “You mean wizards?”

  “Wizards. Sorcerers. Spellcasters. Call them whatever you like. Personally I don’t associate with them more than I have to, but even I admit they have a certain value.”

  Colm rubbed his eyes. At first he had thought this man was one of the magistrate’s lackeys, here to torture him or drag him away. Now he realized that Finn Argos was simply out of his mind. “Next thing you are going to tell me that you and your . . . apprentices . . . venture into caverns, fighting off trolls and unearthing chests of gold,” Colm scoffed. He waited for Finn to laugh along with him.

  “Actually, most trolls don’t live in caves,” the man said thoughtfully. “They tend to dwell in swamps or forests. And nobody buries gold, really. It’s too hard to remember where you’ve put it. Much simpler to stick it in a vault and guard it with a hundred screaming, ax-wielding goblins.”

  Colm took in the expression on the man’s face. Not a trace of a smile. “You’re serious?”

  “Deadly so,” Finn replied.

  Colm shook his head, bewildered. “And what exactly do you teach them? These apprentices of yours?”

  “The only thing worth learning: how to get rich.” The rogue took the last swig from his cup, setting it on the porch beside him. “And how to share and work together and all that warm and fuzzy stuff. It’s a joint enterprise. We have to work together. It’s the only way any of us ever gets out alive.”

  Finn Argos leaned back on his stool and cracked his knuckles. “And now we get to the part where you ask what this has to do with you and your little venture in the village square yesterday. You see, I was fortunate enough to be at the magistrate’s when your father arrived. I heard the conversation, and I offered a solution that seemed to satisfy all parties involved.”

  “A solution?”

  “Yes. I offered to pay off your financial obligation to those you wronged, including additional compensation to the magistrate for his leniency, all in return for an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity?” Colm could do nothing but echo the man’s words. Did this mean he wasn’t in trouble? That he wasn’t going to lose his hand? What had his father promised this man?

  “A chance to get your coin back,” Finn said, again holding the piece of silver between his two fingers as if it had been there all along. “You see, Master Thwodin is always on the lookout for promising individuals, those he thinks might be a good fit for our program. Based on your performance yesterday, I’d say you have potential. Therefore, I propose we take a journey, you and I. Won’t take more than a day. I’ve already discussed it with your father, and I assume he is in the process of clearing it with your mother. One day, during which I challenge you to get this piece of silver. If you don’t, I will simply give it back to you and see you safely home.”

  “And if I do?”

  The man named Finn flashed his silver and gold teeth again. “If you do . . . let’s just say that someday there will probably be a story written about you.”

  He made a flickering motion with his four fingers, and the coin disappeared again.

  There was more. So much more. There were papers to sign. Logistics to be arranged. But most of it would have to wait. It all hinged on what Colm decided. He could either accompany this Finn Argos on his journey back to this castle of his and learn what the man had to offer, or he could go face the magistrate and accept whatever punishment the governing head of Felhaven chose to mete out. If he went with Finn, then all charges of thievery would be dropped. Colm could keep both of his hands, and the Candorly name would not be smirched. If he didn’t, Finn didn’t know what would happen.

  Colm wasn’t sure what choice he had.

  When Colm walked back into the house, he saw his mother had been crying. She came up to him and crushed him in her arms, squeezing over and over as if she were kneading dough. His father stood behind her, frowning.

  “Where’s Mr. Argos?”

  “He figured our quarters were a little cramped already. He said he would find a place to sleep for the night and then come back in the morning.”

  Colm’s sisters huddled together in a bundle around the table. Celia was the first to look him in the eyes.

  “What did he say?” she demanded. “What’s happening? Is he going to take you away?”

  Colm considered telling them everything. That the stranger who appeared at their door was a thief who was not a thief. That there really were goblins and trolls and dungeons filled with chests of gold and many other things that they had heard about but never seen before. And that this rogue had promised to teach Colm how to get that gold.

  But he could see in the bite of her lip, the color drained from her cheeks, she was worried enough. So instead he told them only what they wanted to hear. That everything had been taken care of. That they had nothing to worry about.

  And that he would come back soon.

  3

  THE BALLAD OF TRENDLE TREEBAND

  The next morning Colm woke up before everyone, including Elmira, who usually beat the sun to the start of day. He washed as best he could in the premorning gloom and put on his cleaner pair of pants and less-tattered shirt. He double knotted his laces and tucked his spare pair of socks into his pocket. He had no idea how far he was going or what the journey entailed, but it never hurt to have a change of socks. Then he lay in bed and waited for the house to stir.

  He wondered if it wasn’t all a dream. The cloaked stranger coming to visit them last night, filling Colm’s head with stories, insisting he could repair the damage Colm had done. Even better, that he might someday make Colm rich. It sounded too good to be true, which, Colm had learned, meant not only that it was, but that the reality might bite him where he sat.

  But it wasn’t a dream. There, right outside his window, Colm saw that same man making his way up the road. He moved with a surprising swiftness, Colm noticed, tending to gravitate toward the shade—the shadow of a wagon, the canopy of a tree, the long silhouette of the house—as if he couldn’t bear to be in the rising sun. Colm watched him slink u
p to the porch. Heard his knock on the door. Heard his mother’s voice.

  “Mr. Argos,” she said, bright as polished steel. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”

  Colm opened the door of his bedroom to find everyone seated at the table already. His father and all eight sisters. It was the first time he’d seen Seysha out of bed in two days. She looked better, though she still huddled in two layers of blankets and her plate was empty. Obviously she had insisted on coming downstairs to say good-bye. All the girls were glancing back and forth from Colm to the man standing in the doorway. Colm had never gotten such concerned looks from the whole lot of them before. He took a moment to revel in it.

  The rogue smiled at Colm, then turned and gave a humble bow to his mother. “It smells divine, Mrs. Candorly, but I’m afraid Colm and I have a long journey ahead of us. It might be best if the boy takes his breakfast with him.”

  Colm’s mother’s face fell. “Oh,” she said. “Very well, then,” and she glanced at Colm before turning and rummaging through her cabinet for some food that might travel better. “I’ll just pack a bag.”

  Rove Candorly rose from his seat at the head of the table and bent down to inspect Colm’s boots. His mother with the pantry. His father with the boots. His sisters whispering and tittering to one another. They were all looking for comfort in the things they knew best.

  Colm’s father inspected the laces. Lifted one boot up and then the other, checking the heel, flicking the steel-tipped toes. “Seem all right to me,” he said, straightening himself. “Yes. They’re good,” he said. “Quite good. They should hold up.” He put his hands on Colm’s arms as if making sure he was solid too: no holes or frayed ends, no parts needing to be nailed or glued together. “All good,” Rove Candorly concluded, then turned to the girls, who instantly stopped their twitter. “Aren’t you going to say good-bye to your brother?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, as if each of the sisters dared the others to speak first. Naturally it was Celia who said something, but it wasn’t to Colm. It was to the man by the door.

  “Mr. Argos,” she began. She was only ten, but looking at her now, Colm might have guessed her to be the oldest of the eight. So calm and determined.

  “Please, you can just call me Finn.”

  “Fine, Finn. I want to know, is it dangerous, this place you are taking our brother?”

  The rogue pursed his lips, considering the question. He struck Colm as a man who carefully considered everything: Which table he took in a tavern. How much of his face to show in public. Which side of a cup to drink from.

  Which pocket to keep a pilfered piece of silver in.

  “I’ve found that, in most cases, it’s not the places themselves that are dangerous, but the people who inhabit them. So no, the place we are going won’t pose any threat to your brother.”

  “But there might be danger somewhere, maybe somewhere along the way, perhaps. After all, you carry a sword. Men who carry swords are obviously afraid of something.”

  Colm’s father told Celia to hush, but Finn was laughing.

  “Too true, Miss Candorly, and I would be lying if I said that I was fearless.”

  “You might be lying about everything,” she snipped.

  “Celia!” her father barked.

  “Rove!” Mrs. Candorly scolded.

  But in response, Finn took two steps toward Celia, knelt down before her, and took one of her hands between his gloves.

  “You are wise beyond your years, Celia Candorly. But I make you this promise: I will look after your only brother with the same ferocious devotion that you would yourself.”

  Celia leaned in and whispered something in the rogue’s ear that Colm strained to hear but couldn’t. Finn nodded, then kissed her hand and stood up. He turned to Colm. “I will give you a moment,” he said, looking over the full table. “Or maybe ten. When you’ve said your good-byes, I’ll be right outside.” Then he bowed to Colm’s mother and father in turn and moved swiftly toward the front door, where he paused. “The difference between a good-bye and a bad one is in thinking there’s a hello at the end.”

  Finn closed the door, and on cue, all of Colm’s sisters rose from the table and swarmed him. Even Elmira, sensing the occasion, grabbed hold of one leg and latched on. There was a flurry of questions. Would they see him tomorrow or next month? (He didn’t know.) Where exactly was this castle that Finn was taking him to? (Finn couldn’t say.) Would he get a sword too? (Maybe; he hadn’t really thought about it. Which was, in fact, a lie. He had thought about it all last night.)

  There were a dozen more. But none of the answers really mattered, Colm knew, because he didn’t really have a choice. He had to go. So he hugged them each in turn, spinning Elmira around twice for good measure. He had been smothered in his sisters’ kisses before, but always as a form of torture. This time he didn’t mind as much.

  When he came at last to his mother, she handed him a thick wool hat and a small burlap sack full of food.

  “Keep your cloak wrapped and stay out of the wind. Don’t go stomping in puddles—you’ll only dampen your socks. Be sure to eat, even if you’re nervous. And no matter what happens, you let us know, somehow or other.” Colm shrank under the weight of another crushing embrace.

  His father held up his empty hands. “I wish I had something to give you. An heirloom or something. Maybe something to protect you.” Colm thought of the hatchet they used to make kindling, thought of the dull knife his mother used to slice potatoes. He imagined his father handing over the knife, reverently: “Your grandfather used this butter knife, and your grandfather’s father, and his father before him. Wield it well, Colm Candorly, and may your bread never be eaten dry.”

  Instead, Rove Candorly leaned in close, whispering. “Watch out for that Finn fellow, understand? Be polite. Do what he asks. But at the first sign of trouble, you get away from him, you hear? You run as fast as you can and find your way back home. I don’t care what the magistrate says.”

  Colm nodded, then clasped his father’s hand. Behind him, Cally and Nila whimpered in unison. Colm made for the door before his mother could catch hold of him again. He heard his sisters telling him they loved him, probably even meaning it this time. Outside, he took a few faltering steps, as if imitating Elmira’s wobbling gait. He looked back to see everyone standing in the door or the open window, watching.

  Finn was preoccupied, staring at the pattern of veins along a leaf. He let it drift lazily to the ground when Colm approached. “They act like they’ll never see you again,” he said.

  “I know,” Colm said, faking a laugh. “Silly, isn’t it?”

  “There’s nothing trivial about a family’s devotion,” Finn replied.

  “Don’t eat wild berries!” his mother shouted to him through the open door. “Watch out for wolves. Don’t take food from strangers! And for gods’ sakes, be careful!”

  “She’s a worrier,” Colm muttered.

  “She’s a warrior,” Finn corrected. “Anyone who can have as many children as you have fingers is a force to be reckoned with.” He turned and bowed to Colm’s mother once more, then pushed Colm forward, giving him the momentum he needed to take the next step.

  They walked to the dirt road, taking it the opposite way of the town square, which meant the opposite of every time Colm had ever traveled that road. He wasn’t entirely sure what was out this way. More villages. Then woods. Mountains. And apparently, somewhere, castles. Colm didn’t dare look back at that moment, afraid he would lose his nerve and run back into the house, so instead he looked at his new companion. The rogue was humming softly to himself.

  “Mr. Argos?”

  “Finn.”

  “All right. Finn. I don’t mean to pry, but what did my sister whisper to you back there?” Colm thought of the deadly look on Celia’s face.

  Finn fingered the hilt of his sword and smiled. “She said if anything happened to you, she would hunt me down and kill me herself.”

  “I’m su
re she meant it. My sisters can be vicious.”

  “One thing you should know about me, Colm Candorly. I never make a promise that I can’t keep.”

  “There’s a difference between can’t and won’t,” Colm said.

  Finn looked over at Colm and then laughed.

  “Oh, yes. You are going to make a very good rogue.”

  They walked in silence for a ways, Colm nervously shifting his pack from one shoulder to the other, finding comfort in the fact that he could still make out the speck of his house on the horizon behind him, Finn continuing to hum quietly. He seemed to be a man perfectly at ease by himself, nearly oblivious to the fact he even had a companion. At one point Colm looked over and saw the rogue cutting an apple with the dagger from his boot. Finn licked the juice from the blade with a tongue nearly as pointed and popped the slice into his mouth.

  “Want some? It’s yours,” he said, holding the half-eaten apple toward Colm. “Technically, it was yours.”

  Colm pulled open the bag around his shoulder. His mother had packed bread, figs, and a sizable hunk of cheese. There had been three apples. Now there were only two. “But how did you? I mean . . . it was on my back the whole time.” Not that Colm minded sharing—it was more the audacity of the thing. And the skill. “You could have just asked, you know,” he said.

  “And I should have,” Finn replied with a nod. “I’ve broken the very first rule.”

  “The first rule of what?”

  “The first rule of being a rogue. Do not steal from your own kind unless it is absolutely necessary.”

  “From my own kind?”

  “Men, of course . . . and women . . . and children, for that matter, though anyone who steals from children is less than human.”

  At least Finn didn’t consider Colm to be a child. “Then who do you steal from?” he asked, but Finn put up one of eight fingers.

  “Just listen; there will be plenty of time for questions later. Corollary to rule number one,” he continued, pointing the tip of his knife at Colm. “You may steal from your own kind if the thing being stolen is rare or unique or cannot otherwise be acquired through more honest means, apples excluded.”