by Layton Green
The soft illumination of the tabletop glow-orb warmed the room, a luxury in this part of the city. She ordered a plate of venison, candied yams, the vegetable medley, and a pitcher of the finest ale this side of the Great River. A minstrel strummed softly from a corner, accenting the susurration of lovers and old friends. The fire crackled, steaks sizzled, a gentle rain shower tapped against the windows and then made a polite exit.
When Mala’s meal arrived, the aroma of charred game and cinnamon-topped yams almost made her swoon. She kicked off her boots and curled into the booth, sighing with pleasure. As she finished her meal and relished her ale in silence, deep in the abyss of her thoughts, her attention turned to the reason she had joined the gypsy caravan to avenge her parents in the first place.
Kjeld.
An involuntary shudder passed through her, which in turn caused her to clench her mug in anger. The very thought of the red-bearded giant was enough to cause her face to feel hot and her heart to thump against her chest. Frightened like a little schoolgirl. Her hand slid to Magelasher, stroked the leather-wrapped hilt.
Soon, warrior-mage, she whispered. Soon.
Yet even to have a chance to confront the First Don of Majitsu, she had to elude the dhampyr. With a deep breath, she drained her ale and paid the bill. She had a warm bed to fall into, and business to conduct in the morning.
After stepping onto a sidewalk lit by mauve glow orbs attached to silver lampposts, Mala glanced down the high street in both directions, looking past the shuttered shops and restaurants for a sign of anyone out this late who might pose a threat.
Except for a few arm-in-arm strollers, Live Oaks was empty. Another reason Mala frequented The Velvet Temple: it lay within walking distance of her home in New Victoria.
She followed the street until it crossed over a swampy canal into the Thieves Quarter. The change was marked by the absence of glow orbs and a worn cobblestone street that replaced the red bricks of the Live Oaks district. To a pedestrian unaccustomed to the serpentine lanes and peaked roofs of the Thieves Quarter, the shadows would seem alive, every corner and darkened window a robbery waiting to happen.
Right after the footbridge crossed the canal, the shadows congealed, and she made a sharp left onto a cul de sac dotted with commercial warehouses shuttered for the night. Looking back to ensure no one had followed, she stepped between two tin-roofed buildings, hopped a stone wall that ran behind them, and found herself on a footpath that tunneled beneath a canopy of vine-laden oaks.
It was one of the secret places in the city. Few knew it even existed. The land bordering the two neighborhoods was public trust, one of the green spaces the city had allocated to clean the air and provide erosion barriers. Too swampy for parkland, and too overgrown for tourists or commuters, she had rarely seen anyone use the path.
A hundred feet in, she crossed back into Live Oaks, swept aside a curtain of Spanish moss, hopped another wall, and strolled into a quirky neighborhood of garden paths, swaths of trees and tropical vegetation, and bungalows hidden deep within the foliage. Home to artists and wealthy residents seeking privacy, it was a small but mazelike community secreted within the thick jungle canopy.
Several turns later, down a twisting lane overgrown with bougainvillea and then through a locked iron gate, Mala felt her step lighten as she beheld her stone bungalow for the first time in many moons.
After pacing the clearing around the house, she unlocked the door and searched the interior, ensuring no one had trespassed during her absence. She climbed to the second story, then through a trap door that led to the flat-topped roof. An enormous live oak loomed above the house, and she used a rope ladder hanging just above the roof to climb into the higher reaches. She had a series of steps and platforms built into the tree, an elaborate tree house that allowed her to spy on the neighborhood from above, or escape into the canopy in case of an attack. She checked to ensure everything was as she had left it, then returned to the house.
Mala yearned to crawl into bed, but first she approached a wooden door reinforced with iron bands. A padlock also protected the door, but the real defense was the magical ward built into the mechanical lock which, if the correct numbers were not selected, would release a lethal dose of mage-fire.
She entered the code and breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened to reveal the large closet housing her spare weapons and chests of coin and magical items.
Everything looked intact. Knowing Nagiro was loping along in the moonlight that very moment, she studied her collection. Most of the major arcana she had found over the years had been procured for her clients, and her past few adventures had dangerously depleted her supplies.
In the treasure room of the sorcerer king, along with Magelasher, she had managed to pick up the decagon of Kirna Tuluth, a ten-sided amulet commissioned by an ancient king of Persia for his wife. According to legend, the bearer of the amulet was supposed to keep a strand of his or her beloved’s hair inside the talisman. The magic would connect the two souls. She wore it around her neck, though how it worked, Mala didn’t know. She could always consult a magecrafter. Regardless, she didn’t see how it could help her against the dhampyr. As she paced the room, she saw nothing at all that would give her a real chance of victory.
After replacing her stock of fire beads, she filled her purse with coin and decided to seek out an old acquaintance. Hardly a friend, for there are no friends among thieves, but someone who was at least not her enemy.
Someone who had access to powerful resources and would entertain her proposal of a business transaction.
Mala was wise enough to know she needed help, and she was going to her first home in the city, the storied Thieves Guild of New Victoria, to attempt to get it.
The next morning, after coffee and breakfast in a neighborhood café tucked inside a palm grove, Mala returned home to don a light blue traveling cloak over her leather pants, sleeved blouse, and jewelry. The cloak would help shield her identity and allow her to conceal an array of weapons and magic items.
After returning to the Thieves Quarter, she progressed deeper into the seedy neighborhood, passing a string of dive bars, flophouses, pawn shops, and random businesses that were barely-concealed fronts for money launderers. The potholed streets and decaying buildings, the shouts of the street vendors, the smell of cheap ale and manure and greasy kebabs: it all brought her back to the time when she had walked these streets on a daily basis, plying her craft and making deals and frequenting the taverns.
She hesitated to call it nostalgia. That period of her life had been too harsh for that. But it was something. A part of who she was.
Though haggard in appearance, the Thieves Quarter was not a slum, or nearly as impoverished as it looked. Most of the city’s criminal elite lived in the district, in well-guarded compounds hidden within the maze of narrow streets. No beggars clogged the intersections, because they all begged outside the quarter. Off the main roads, there were gems to be found, good restaurants and rogue-oriented blacksmiths and specialty shops of all sorts. If one knew where to look and how to avoid being robbed, the Thieves Quarter offered some of the best, and certainly the most eclectic, shopping in the city.
Mala had no time for that. The clock was ticking.
Keeping a tight grip on her weapons, she strode through the quarter and entered the central plaza, a busy square with attractive gothic architecture hidden behind the grime. The plaza was home to a constant stream of shady denizens and no-nonsense professionals, clustered in pairs or small groups around the benches and fountains, sipping coffee or grog as they planned heists and conducted negotiations. No street performers called out for coin in this plaza, no tourists dared cross the patterned tiles.
On the far side, a spiked iron gate rose high above the crowd, guarding a crumbling brick mansion whose turrets and peaked towers took up almost an entire city block. The headquarters of the New Victoria Thieves Guild.
Except for wizards, who tolerated the organization because it p
rovided useful services and helped regulate crime, no one who valued her life went through the front door of the Thieves Guild. After debating which secret entrance to choose, Mala ducked into an alley to the left of the mansion, following the muddy lane until it intersected with another, and then another. Slipping inside an old building that looked abandoned but which she knew was crawling with guards, Mala lowered her hood and entered.
Dusty, antique timepieces covered the wall, an old clock shop gone to seed. A fresh-faced lad drew his knife when he saw her. As he took a threatening step forward, an older rogue with an eye patch backhanded the weapon out of his grasp.
“What’re ye thinkin’, boy? Don’t ye know who this is? If me old eyes don’t deceive me, that’s Mala of clan Kalev standing in front of me. She’ll take yer knife and shove it backwards up yer arse before ye can blink.”
“Brock,” Mala said with a nod to the older man, as the younger thief retrieved his weapon. She knew Brock Bentgill to be a skilled and clever thief who had managed to stay out of prison for decades.
“Are ye a ghost, or back in the fold now?”
“Neither, I’m afraid. I need to speak with Dashi.”
The old man’s eyes slipped away. “If yer not on the ledger, I’m not sure I can—”
Mala snapped her fingers twice to cut him off. “Tell him I have a proposition for him. He’ll see me. I’ll wear a hood if he desires.”
Brock clicked out of the side of his mouth. “Aye, lassie. That I can do. Get her a glass of ale if she wants,” he said to the younger man, “and try not to get yerself killed.”
The younger thief, whose name was Benji, threw Mala a nervous look. He didn’t bother offering her ale, instead waiting in sullen silence for Brock to return. One of the grandfather clocks chimed the hour, startling Mala.
Minutes later, Brock returned with a trio of guards and curled a gnarled finger. “No need for a hood, he says. Yer still family.”
Mala knew that was a lie, and that either they were taking her on a secure route she already knew by heart, she wasn’t coming out alive, or they wanted to gauge her reaction for some reason. She followed behind as Brock led her through the rear of the clock shop and into a conjoining derelict building, then through a long stone tunnel set with wards. She knew the route well.
Once inside the guild, Mala collected stares from every cutpurse, assassin, and beggar they passed in the halls of the old mansion. In her day, she had been the youngest person to obtain guild master status in the history of the organization. Yet climbing the ranks so fast had left enemies in her wake. The cutthroat internal politics of the guild was one of many reasons she had left.
Brock led her through a series of hallways to a quiet wing marked by fading Oriental carpets, expensive tapestries, and a variety of daggers and lock picks displayed in glass cases on the walls. The air smelled of incense and leather, and had she not known better, Mala might have let her guard down. Though this area of the guild was reserved for meetings with visiting dignitaries and city officials, she knew the eyes and ears of the guild were behind every cabinet and tapestry. All manner of traps, from poison darts to remote magical detonators, lurked within the furnishings.
Brock rapped on a door with a raven’s head knocker, then pushed it open. Inside, a lean and very tall man of mixed Asian descent, two decades older than Mala, afforded her a pleasant smile from a high-backed armchair.
“It’s been some time,” Dashi said. He pointed towards a matching armchair across from him. “Please, sit.”
A vain man who colored his black hair, he was wearing his typical outfit: red silk shirt over brown leather pants, silver city boots, and an assortment of jewelry almost as extensive as Mala’s. Dashi was an expert swordsman, and kept a rapier within easy reach on a table beside his armchair. His sword was called Soulskein, and was reputed to be sentient.
During Mala’s time at the guild, Dashi had been a high-ranking council member who had recognized her potential and lobbied for her ascension to guild master. He had brought her along and taught her many valuable lessons, both in craft and in politics. After she left, he had risen to the rank of First Guild Lord, second only to the Guild Maven, Ilianna Nightwing. One of the most powerful non-wizards in the city, Ilianna ruled the guild with an iron fist, and had not been happy to see Mala go. There were too many insider secrets at stake. Only an oath by Mala, and Dashi’s intervention on her behalf, had prevented a bloody confrontation.
Mala knew she risked a lot in coming back, perhaps even her life. But she felt she had no choice.
“You never write,” she said, in a playful tone.
“And would you have returned my letters?”
“Of course. You’ll always be my mentor, no?”
“One wonders who would mentor whom, these days. You have much experience in the field, Mala. If the rumors are to be believed, and some are quite unbelievable, you have traveled the breadth of Urfe since you left the guild.”
“Yes, I have traveled far. Though in the ways of prose and politics, I fear I’ll never be your equal.”
Dashi tipped his head forward. “The years have softened your edges. Charm was never your weapon of choice.”
“Nor is it now,” she said coldly, lest Dashi or anyone else listening think for a single moment that any of her edges were less rough. “It was simply a statement of fact.”
Dashi’s hand fluttered, and out of nowhere he produced a tiny blade, an inch-long thumb dagger with a poison tip that he wove between his fingers almost too fast for her to follow. The Guild Lord had the nimblest fingers Mala had ever seen. “Have you come to rejoin us, Mala? For one so young, I can only imagine the limits of your potential.”
Mala knew he wanted to ensure she would not become a rival, and also suspected his words were some sort of veiled political message to the unseen observers. Everyone knew Dashi had designs on the maven’s power, and that he didn’t want to wait another decade or two for her to step down.
“I’m afraid not. As I told Brock, I have a transaction to propose.”
After a moment, the thumb blade disappeared. Dashi opened a palm. “I no longer entertain commercial proposals, but for you I’ll make an exception.” This better be good, his tone implied.
“Obliged,” she murmured.
“Intrigued,” he replied.
Mala drummed her fingers on the smooth fabric, choosing her words carefully. “Someone is seeking my head. An Alazashin. He will come here, to the city.”
Dashi’s eyebrows lifted. Mala had known that would get his attention. Though they feared and respected the infamous league of assassins, the New Victoria Thieves Guild was no friend of the order. Every time someone in the city used their services, they took business that would otherwise have belonged to the guild.
The Guild Lord smiled. “Who have you offended?”
“Does it matter?”
“Surely it has something to do with your past involvement with the Alazashin? Some long-held grudge or slight?” He leaned forward, his smile turning cruel. “Just how did you escape their grasp? It’s been the talk of the guild for some time.”
“That’s a story I’m not prepared to tell. Nor should it matter. I came to conduct business, not to arouse sympathy.”
“Why would you need my help against a single assassin, in New Victoria? Or have they sent a team?”
“Not a team,” she said evenly. “They’ve sent Nagiro. One of the dhampyr twins.”
Dashi’s eyes widened. “That is . . . unfortunate. For you, that is.”
“It’s also an opportunity.” Mala smirked. “For you, that is.”
Dashi’s eyes bored into hers.
“Imagine,” she said, “the value of such a prisoner. Nagiro is one of the Zashiri. Some say he is next in line to the Grandfather, should the old man ever die.”
“I thought the Alazashin do not bargain for hostages?”
“That rule applies only to the common body. To my knowledge, one of the Twelve has never
been taken.”
“So you don’t know for sure.”
“Nagiro knows the secrets of the mountain. I believe they will open their strongboxes—pour them in your lap—to see him returned.”
Dashi cast a greedy look around the room, as if hoping no one else was listening—or at least no one unfriendly to him.
“We both know one of the Alazashin will never willingly give up secrets,” she continued, “but we also both know that is not a problem for the guild.”
He answered with a shrewd glint in his eye. “Your timing is quite interesting. I wonder if you’re aware of the Congregation’s recent interaction with the Alazashin?”
“I’m afraid not. I just returned from the Mayan Kingdom.”
“Unearthing the Coffer of Devla, if I’m not mistaken.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So you’ve heard.”
“Possibly before you unearthed it.” He steepled his dexterous fingers, pressing them against his mouth. “I also know it’s been stolen.”
“As I suspected. But by whom?”
“Both the Alazashin and the Congregation are trying to find out. The Congregation has sent a promising young mage by the name of Val Kenefick in pursuit. A spirit mage, no less.”
The name caused her to start. Val Kenefick. How many spirit mages in New Victoria could share the same uncommon first name? Was it possible Will’s brother had joined the Congregation under an assumed identity?
“And the Alazashin, well,” the corners of Dashi’s lips parted, “someone apparently desires to interrogate you.”
“It won’t help them, because I’ve no idea where it is. But no matter. What will it be, Dashi? Will you help me?”
“As I said, your timing is interesting. The Congregation and the Alazashin have broken the accord, and their assassins are no longer welcome in the Realm. Should we manage to capture Nagiro, we could barter for his return to the mountain or hand him over to the Congregation. In exchange for a slew of magical items, of course.” His eyes sparked as his long fingers twitched in his lap. “What did you have in mind? A dhampyr is exceedingly dangerous, Mala. Even one who is not a world-class assassin.”
