“I…” stuttered the thief.
“Could it be,” wondered the merchant in a lowered voice, “Ah… Maister is very bold, if he thinks he can get so far, and not be uncovered, ah, or discovered…”
Gribly turned to run.
“Wait!” grunted the wrinkled man, lurching across the table of jewelry to grip the turbaned lad on the arm. His grasp was iron-hard and impossible to break. “Wait,” he repeated, slower this time.
“What do you want with me?” Gribly hissed, dropping his pretended accent completely and hoping that no one nearby noticed what was going on. He would attack this man if he had to, but only if there was no other way out.
“Nothing, nothing at all, Maister,” smiled the jeweler deceptively., “But, ah, you may want something from me.” His voice was intensely serious now.
“Nothing comes to mind,” snapped Gribly.
“Then, Maister, you would not want to know… ah, that you have been discovered already, perhaps?”
“Well…” stalled Gribly, ready to brain the man.
“But not by me.”
“What?”
The wrinkled man pulled Gribly close enough to hear what he whispered next. “Speed. Silence. Stealth. Someone is coming for you, Maister. Leave before it is too late…”
Another thief? It wasn’t impossible, he decided. The youth turned his head, saw a flash of black in the seething crowd of colors, and turned back to the jeweler.
“What’s going on? Who’s found me?” The merchant glanced beyond him and his face paled.
“Too late…” he gasped, and gave Gribly a shove that propelled him backwards into the street, where he collided with another man, fell to the ground, and was swallowed up by the thronging crowd. It was not a moment too soon: as the youth struggled to his feet and slipped away, he could hear the wheedling, high voice of the jeweler protesting loudly behind him, something about “Never having seen the boy in my life.”
All at once, the protesting stopped. As Gribly allowed himself to be swept away by the current of market-goers, he chanced a glance behind him, hopping up and down to get a glimpse over the sea of heads. What he saw was the jeweler, white and trembling, held by the throat by a tall, ghostly man in a sweeping, blood-red jacket. The man was speaking, and even without hearing him, Gribly felt cold and afraid as he never had before. The jeweler’s head shook vigorously in the suffocating grip of his assailant. Finally he raised his finger and pointed… in the opposite direction.
In the next second he was lost to view, but not to thought. He’s helping me! Gribly was shocked. No one had ever risked their life for him before, and certainly not anyone from the higher parts of the city. But what puzzled him even more was that the jeweler, apparently, knew the same thieves’ motto he and the old pickpocket did. Could there be some sort of brotherhood between the two? Had the old thief who’d taught him somehow had connections with thieves in the noble and merchant classes?
It opened up all sorts of ideas for Gribly, and he would consider them later. The balm, and then escape, were his first priorities, no matter what kind of ghoul was after him.
Another tense, several minutes passed before the disguised thief found what he had been looking for. On the very edge of the courtyard where the royal market was held sat a huge, circular canvas tent as tall and broad as a house, striped gold and violet, with an endless array of ropes and thin cables spreading outward around it, each nailed into the sandy ground with wooden stakes. Behind the tent rose the third set of walls in Ymeer: Blast Palace, where Dunelord Ymorio kept court and ruled the city from his great golden throne.
The common people detested Ymorio, but his legion of guards and his friendship with the oppressive and powerful noblemen of the city kept him in power. He was a cruel but capable ruler, easily managing his land without much contact with the outer world, other than his contacts through trade. Gribly would have loved to see what wonders were contained in the Dunelord’s own palace, but even with his climbing gift he knew it was an impossible task.
As soon as he peeked inside the enormous tent-flap, he knew he had come to the right place. The herbs, potions, and delicacies sold inside needed more than mediocre cooling from the arid desert air, and so a veritable army of servants almost as snobbish as their masters had been enlisted to provide a constant stream of coldstones, ice, and ice-water from cellars carved a half-mile deep below Blast Palace’s foundation.
The tent’s interior held about twenty of the land’s most prosperous merchants, with their retinue and wares. Each one dealt only in the most volatile and rare objects any man, nobleman, or king could desire: exotic fruits and candied nuts, concoctions for skin and hair, beauty-potions and heartstringers, and, of course, the healing balm Old Murie needed so badly for her joints and wrinkles. All this, Gribly saw in an instant- then a bronze-clad guard saw him peeking in and addressed him gruffly.
“Hoi, lad! What’re you doing with your master’s cloak and turban? I’ll have you skinned!”
Foiled, the boy let go of the door-flap and darted away around the back of the tent, in the small space between the canvas and the wall of Blast Palace. Speedily and silently he pulled the turban off his head and allowed his wild yellow bangs to fall into his eyes again. Dropping the head-piece in the dirt, he quickly shrugged off the rest of his disguise, then straightened his simple serf’s tunic and britches, patting the pouch that still hung at his side. Deception had got him far enough; now it was time for some good, old-fashioned thievery.
Chapter Three: The Sorcerer’s Scream
The next minute was a blur of action. Gribly could do more with sand and stone than just climb them, and soon he had dug out a sizable hole in the ground under the tent’s side- ground that was too solid for a pick or shovel. His palms seemed to mold it at will, and after a few more scoops he could easily slip under the edge of the heavy canvas without being noticed. He had judged his digging spot correctly; there was no one near the place where he crawled in, and he was in luck, for he had crawled out behind the very display of healing concoctions he needed.
As soon as he saw the creamy, off-white balm in its transparent, multifaceted crystal sphere, the thief knew that being caught stealing it would bear the penalty of death. He had seen Old Murie use the last of her own sphere some time ago. She had said of it was that it was worth more than a king’s jeweled crown in some places- Ymeer being one of those.
“Then I’ll steal the king’s crown itself for you!” Gribly had roguishly declared, and the old gypsy had laughed.
The young thief was not laughing now. He was hiding behind a large, hollow stone cube upon which sat a giant candelabrum with sixteen glowing candles; behind him was the entry hole, and past a jumble of boxes and crates off to his right sat one of the most marvelous things he had ever seen: a stone fountain shaped like a man-high marble pillar with four marble chutes spreading out from its peak at the four points of the compass.
The chutes ended atop smaller square pillars, and were filled with ice. Amid the ice sat many different spheres, vials, and crystalline containers, each of which held some sort of balm or potion. Cold water bubbled up from inside the central pillar, ran down the chutes, cooling the balms, and disappeared into the square end-pillars. That was not what surprised Gribly. What did were the pipes, cranks, and gears that ran from pillar to pillar, from the center to the outside, and even up around the chutes to connect with one or two of the vials.
It was a machine, something a lad from the slums could never have imagined. The oddness of the whole thing caught him momentarily off guard, then he inched forward among the crates until he was mere feet away from the crystal sphere he needed. He had forgotten how quiet it was: few patrons were rich enough to afford the precious wares the tent had to offer. From behind a particularly large box he spied out over the deceptively peaceful scene: a few richly-clad lords and ladies with grotesquely painted faces browsing from one merchant to another. Many of the booths were empty of customers, and this, co
upled with the watchfulness of the guards posted at intervals throughout the tent, made Gribly extremely cautious.
He inched forward another half-foot, and then his chance came. A trumpet blew loudly outside the tent, the door-flap was thrown back, and a crier could be heard announcing to all within:
“Make way for our sovereign ruler, Ymorio Highfast, Dunelord of Ymeer!”
The Dunelord- here? Suddenly Gribly was afraid that his plans might not run so smoothly after all. He peeked up over the crate where he hid.
A procession was entering the tent: two rows of four black-skinned guards in silver plate-mail, with wild, knotted locks of ebony hair and tattoos covering rippling, muscled arms. At their backs were slung wide, long scimitars made of beaten steel, and they carried heavy, painted wooden shields. Behind them walked the crier with his trumpet and strange pointed ears and high, nasally voice, and among them walked Ymorio himself.
Gribly never caught more than a fleeting glimpse of the man, and he could never after remember what he had looked like. Everything happened too fast: he edged forward, taking advantage of the universal distraction the Dunelord’s entrance caused. He was a foot away. He was there at the fountain. He had grasped the round crystal container; he had lifted it up out of the ice…
…A large, white hand gripped his arm from above. Sharp nails dug into his arm and drew blood. The lad jerked his head upwards and saw the very man he’d been trying to avoid: the noble with black-and-red robes and a face hidden by shadow. He held Gribly with one hand, and where his sleeve fell back from his pale fist the thief could see dark tattoos or brands. A sorcerer!
“You are mine!” hissed the apparition. The thief did the only thing he could think of: he screamed. Everyone’s gaze- including the Dunelord’s- was instantly drawn to the struggling pair. Gribly could not risk dropping the sphere and losing his prize, so he hopped up onto the fountain and pushed off with both feet. The ghostly man was not much taller or stronger than Gribly; his grip was broken and the lad sailed back into the crates five feet behind. It hurt, but he tucked the balm into his chest and rolled onto his feet. By now the tent was in an uproar, with merchants rushing to protect their precious wares and guards running to protect the Dunelord and guards running to attack the ghost-man and guards… guards…
Gribly stumbled back, slipping the balm into the pouch at his waist as he did so. His fingers fumbled with the buckle and secured it, then he was dodging a heavy-handed bronze-clad guard intent on stopping him. He leaped up onto a crate, then up onto another one, leaping off the top just as the angry guard smashed into the pile of crates, bringing the whole thing down on top of him. The young thief landed on his feet, dove onto his stomach (avoiding another guard), and slipped through the hole in the ground he’d made earlier.
As he pulled himself out and scrambled to his feet outside, a deafening BOOM shook the interior of the tent. He jumped at the sound and stumbled as the very earth under his feet trembled. Inside he could hear men roaring and swords being unsheathed with cries of “Protect the Highfast! Protect the Dunelord!”
A deep, commanding voice, probably the Dunelord's, cried above all: “Back, DEMON!”
Another explosion shook the world, then all was silent inside. Smoke billowed up from Gribly’s hole. The petrified thief stood stone-still, waiting for the outcome of whatever horrible conflict had happened. For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then, with a horrible shearing noise, the canvas in the back of the tent not three feet to Gribly’s right began to burn. The clawed fingers of the demon-man were tediously ripping a hole in the fabric. What looked like red-hot, molten sand was dripping from the widening tear. The thing was still after him!
“By the Aura!” swore the thief. He had never encountered magic before- it was no more than mythology in Ymeer, aside from the few tricksters and harlequins who pretended to be able to tell futures or brew love potions. The city had a cleric, too, but he was on the Dunelord’s side. Whatever this demon in the shape of a man was, and whatever he wanted, Gribly had no desire to find out. Tightening his pouch, he ran like the wind as far away from the burning staff as he could get. As he made it around the tent, the door-flap, closed during the fight, was shoved open, and none other than Dunelord Ymorio himself stumbled out.
The Dunelord’s fancy, puffy leggings and boots were smoking and burnt. Only a small vest covered his muscled, sinewy chest, which was scarred and welted from whatever fight had gone on inside. His tanned face and lion’s mane of bright blond hair was wild and blackened, and blood seeped into his eyes from a gash in the side of his skull. Pointing the shattered blade of a scimitar at the young thief, he gasped out in pain and fear.
“Help me, boy!”
For a moment, Gribly was uncertain. The man was wounded, possibly dying- but he was an enemy! He was one of the oppressors, one of the aristocrats, one of the men who forced their subjects into poverty and crime just so they could have a few more sips of cold water on a hot day when no one else had the least bit of relief.
With a horrific riiiiiping sound, the ghost-man burned through the remainder of the tent. Guards from all quarters of the inner courtyard were running towards the source of the commotion now. Escape was impossible back the way he’d come, and the pale demon was in view now.
Gribly had but one choice. He left the Dunelord gasping in the dust and ran around the corner of Blast Palace. The great gate was still open; Ymorio and his attendants had only a minute ago come out. The youth sprinted for the opening just as someone intelligent in the gatehouse realized the castle was under attack, and took action. The huge iron portcullis was released and slid downward with a horrendous grinding and screeching of metal on metal.
Gribly used his gift in a way he never had before: he willed the sand beneath his feet to push him forward; to make him faster than he could go on his own. He was climbing- but climbing flat ground.
With a terrific leap, the young thief hurled himself forward and under the portcullis. He made it with hardly an inch to spare, rolling under the deadly metal spikes as they slammed into holes in the ground: an enormous iron grid that no enemy could possibly get past.
He sprung to his feet and bounded away. The ghost-man was not far behind. He looked around frantically, hoping the demon couldn’t burn through solid metal with those fiery claws of his. The lad found himself in a straight, high tunnel that ran on for several yards before coming out into a small courtyard surrounded by towers and ramparts of every kind. He pressed himself into a small, dark doorway in the tunnel wall, hoping the ghost man could not see him.
His pursuer ran up to the closed portcullis and glared inside. His dark, scarlet robes whipped about his ankles even without wind, and his dark hood lay about his shoulders. Gribly was shocked to discover that the sorcerer looked not much older than himself. His face was still mostly hidden in a mess of midnight-black hair that hung to his shoulders, and what showed was so covered in markings that he was unrecognizable. His mouth was contorted in a venomous snarl. He could not burn through iron after all, it seemed, and he stuck his face up to the bars, wildly searching the tunnel and courtyard beyond with his eyes only. They were bloodshot and had bags under them as if the man had never slept a day in his life.
“I will find you, little thief. I will find you and bring you down to the Pit where you belong. Your talents are needed by my masters… Come to me…” His voice, hollow and unnatural as it sounded, seemed to draw Gribly’s mind. He wanted to obey this ghost, wanted to submit himself and grovel in the torment he deserved for fleeing so long…
No! I cannot give in to this monster! The thief told himself, and bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed, hoping the pain would stop the influence of the demon’s mesmerizing voice. The blood trickling down his chin and the sudden clearing of his mind convinced him that he had succeeded.
There was a huge commotion outside- the guards who had reached the Dunelord were now rushing towards Blast Castle, swearing and shouting. The ghost-ma
n peered through the portcullis bars one last time, spitting out his parting words as if they burned his lips.
“You have ignored your only chance for my friendship. When next we meet, your fate will be far, far more painful. You have crossed paths with a Pit Strider. Savor what time you have left!”
This is friendship? I’d hate to be your lover, then, Gribly thought. It was all the young thief could do to keep still. The sunken eyes of his enemy passed over him, and the icy hand of fear threatened to claw out his heart. At last the specter turned and faced the wave of bronze-clad guards, raising his hood again as he did.
Crack. The pale man slammed his staff on the ground in front of him, and the noise could be heard as loud as if he had shattered a stone. The rushing guards paused in the middle of their charge, suddenly very silent and uncertain. Who in Vast was this monster?
“Would you challenge me?” The skeleton of a man raised his free hand high in the air, gesturing as if he would sweep all the soldiers away in a single motion. “You do not know your danger. I am no simple sorcerer!” Suddenly he threw back his head and screamed at the sky. The sound was deafening, and carried all the horror of a thousand gruesome deaths with it. Gribly bit his lip again, clapping hands over his ears as he sunk down to his knees in the shadows. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying to he-knew-not-whom until the noise subsided.
Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One) Page 3