Skate the Thief

by Jeff Ayers

  “Good, Boss, good. I’m having trouble finding space to look when he’s not around, though; he hardly ever goes anywhere. But I’m pretty sure I’ve at least found where he keeps the valuable stuff.”

  “That’s good, Skate, very good,” he said, stuffing a fat pipe with tobacco leaves extracted from a vest pocket. “I have been hoping for good news on your job for a week, now.” He took his lighting stick from the flame of the oil lamp and brought it to the tobacco, puffing gently to coax the flame.

  “And I got news to give, Boss, but it might not be…exactly related to my job.”

  “Oh?” He wasn’t looking at her but was focused on getting the tobacco to light. As Skate spoke again, it caught, and he took a deep breath.

  “I may be able to get Jack Gherun into business with the Ink.”

  Boss Marshall spluttered and coughed as his eyes went wide. “You—you what?” he managed to get out between hacking, rumbling coughs. He took a swig from the glass near the edge of his desk, which helped to settle him enough to receive an answer, though his great belly trembled from residual small coughs.

  “I stole from him as part of my job, to get more time with Belamy and his goods, you see, and it turns out, he thinks the theft was part of a plot from the Ink to get him on board. He thinks I—we—were trying to send a message with the burglary. If the Ink were to make contact, quickly, I think we’d have him.”

  Boss took another drink and cleared his voluminous throat. “Skate, how can you know what the likes of Jack Gherun thinks or fears? He’s a wealthy, well-respected man. I can hardly believe he would somehow confide in you, the thief of his belongings, all of this information.”

  She explained the conversation she’d overheard when Gherun came to Belamy’s home. “They’re friends, you see!”

  “Ha!” The Boss had been listening attentively, and the laugh shook his cheeks. “A friend indeed, to send a burglar into his home. Still, if you’ve heard it from his mouth directly, that’s enough for me. The meeting he described did happen, so I’ll believe you got it from him.” He saw someone behind Skate and waved them in. “Oh, this is great news, Skate. At least, I hope it will be. Well done.”

  Haman now stood beside her. He gave her a nod of acknowledgement, then handed a stack of papers to the Boss. “Haman,” Boss said, “Skate may have inadvertently helped get Jack Gherun into business with us!”

  The young mage’s eyes widened at the news, and he turned to regard Skate more closely. “That would be a feat, Skate,” he said, his tone indicating a desire for clarification. With encouragement from the Boss, she retold the stories of the burglary and of the meeting with Belamy.

  “But there’s a problem,” she said when she got to the end of the latter tale. Their expressions soured a bit at the unwelcome turn, but the Boss motioned for her to continue. “The old man, Belamy, he doesn’t want his friend messing around with ‘ruffians.’ He wants the books returned when he’s done with them, no Ink involved. He doesn’t know nothing about the Ink, though,” she added in response to increasingly disappointed faces. “As far as he knows, it might as well just be you two and the Big Boss. Those are the only names he’s got, so my cover’s still good.”

  Neither man’s expression improved. Haman spoke first. “Skate, while it’s good news that he knows nothing of your connection to our organization, the fact that he has a name and description of us from Gherun is not good news. Not at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wizards can find people,” Boss Marshall said, puffing several times on his pipe and frowning, “wherever they go. Strong ones can, anyway. And information helps them do it. Name, description, piece of clothing, a bit of hair—any and all of that makes such searching easier. If your mark is serious about investigating the Ink, we may be in some trouble.”

  “It might be wise to take precautions, sir,” Haman said, rummaging through his pockets and producing a small badge; a brief glimpse of it before he handed it over to the Boss showed a golden eye, wide and lifelike.

  “Big Boss has his own ways around it, but I’ll inform him just the same.” Boss Marshall placed the badge on his vest and returned to puffing. “You did well to tell us this now, Skate. Hopefully, we’ve caught it soon enough to avoid prying eyes. If you can convince Gherun that the Ink was, in fact, threatening him with that burglary, you’ll have won a great prize, one the Big Boss himself wants. Before making a move on Belamy’s goods, you need to make that a priority.” The smoke he blew out smelled dark and somewhat sweet. “That rich idiot’s monthly contribution would make a fine credit to your name, girl, a fine credit.”

  She wanted to ask, How much of one? but thought better of it. Instead, she asked, “How do I do that?”

  “Why,” Haman said, leaning slightly to put a hand on her shoulder, “I’m sure the mastermind behind the heist that spooked him in the first place should have no trouble figuring that out. Right, Boss?”

  “Just so, Haman, just so,” the Boss said with a chuckle that blew out more of the dark, sweet smoke. “You’ll figure it out just fine, girl, don’t worry. Smart one like you will do just fine.”

  Skate accepted the compliment with a sheepish smile and looked down. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “That-a-girl,” Boss Marshall said, picking up the packet of papers Haman had brought in and scanning the page with half-interest. “And make sure that old fellow doesn’t catch on to whatever you choose to do.”

  “Oh, that’s another thing,” she said, snapping her head up. “I found out what he is. You were right—he’s a dead thing. He said he was a lich.” Boss Marshall’s eyes went wide, and he set the papers down. Haman sat back in his chair and took a deep breath, which he blew out in a steadying sigh. “He said it was something wizards turned themselves into to keep from dying.”

  “That’s correct,” Haman said, nodding, his expression revealing as little as possible. That was a sure sign he was bothered. “And what a terrible thing to do. I am not familiar with the specifics, but all the literature I’ve read has emphasized the heinousness involved in enacting such a transformation. Vile magic, vile.” He shook his head as he spoke. His façade had fallen, and disgust was plain on his face. “I’ve done that which I’m not proud of, but if the hints as to what is required of lichdom are a reliable indication, your host is a monster beyond compare.”

  Skate was silent. I am no monster, Skate. I found another way. That had been the claim. She found that she couldn’t match the horror on Haman’s face with her image of Belamy. Whether it was deception or not, she believed Belamy was more than a monster.

  She kept this to herself.

  “So what, Haman, he just won’t die of old age now?” Boss Marshall continued to puff as he had before, but his wide eyes betrayed a deep fear of the subject. “That’s a handy trick, no doubt.”

  “More than that, I’m afraid. A lich does something quite unnatural with its soul during the process. It sort of…tethers its life force to a physical object outside itself. As long as that object survives, the life cannot truly be destroyed.”

  “What do you mean?” Belamy had not gone into such detail when discussing the situation with Skate; she was eager to learn whatever he had kept from her.

  “So, think of it this way,” Haman said, leaning further back into his chair and rubbing his chin in contemplation. “Your soul is tied to your body, as is every other living thing’s. When a living thing dies, its soul is wrenched away from its body. That connection between soul and body severs, and that’s what we call death. A lich, though, chooses an extra tether, an extra link to its soul. If the body is destroyed, the soul does not fly off to whatever infernal reward such a creature must surely deserve, but instead flies toward this selected object, where it resides over a period of weeks until the lich’s body re-forms. Then the original connection is reestablished. This soul container is the lich’s greatest treasure and must be protected from all harm, else the undead thing finds itself vulnerable to de
struction, just like everything else.”

  Skate’s mind flashed to objects that Belamy had carefully hidden from her, to a locked door in a hidden basement, to red stones and a fine statuette on the fireplace. “I think I might know what Belamy’s tether is.”

  “Oh?” Haman leaned forward. “What’s that?”

  “One of two things, really,” she said. “It’s either a little statue that he used to have over his fireplace but took down once I started living with him, or it’s a little red gemstone that he keeps locked away.”

  Haman sat back again, a hand on his face as he considered the possibilities. Boss Marshall popped the pipe out of his mouth and looked at him. “What do you think? Those the types of things a lich might attach his soul to?”

  “It can be anything,” Haman responded. He was tapping his temple as he spoke. “It’s certainly a possibility. You say he keeps these things out of sight?”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t before I moved in. It’s like he doesn’t care if I see anything else he owns, but those two things are gone now.”

  “I think you’re probably right, then,” Boss Marshall said, taking the pipe back into his mouth and puffing again. “Sounds like he’s taken what’s most precious to him and hidden it from you. Can’t say I blame the fellow; if I had a known thief in my home, I’d want my soul protector thing stored safely out of reach. What say you, Haman?”

  The young wizard continued looking pensive. After a moment, he said, “I say that a man who has something treasured is a man who may be controlled.”

  Boss Marshall did some leaning back of his own. “Go on.”

  “Think of this, Boss: when we put pressure on people to get them to pay us for protection, we always do so in their homes, or their businesses, do we not? The reason that’s so effective is that by making the offer in that place, whatever it may be, the new customer gets a visual, inescapable reminder of what they stand to lose if they refuse.”

  “Sure,” the Boss said, waving his hand impatiently to get him to continue.

  “That works because the people treasure things: their homes, their work, their families, and so on. And once these are threatened, they’ll do anything to protect them. They effectively put themselves under our control to avoid losing whatever it is they treasure.” He stood and placed a hand on Boss Marshall’s desk. “What may a man willing to become a monster fear to lose?”

  “The thing he wanted to protect more than anything,” the Boss answered, picking up the thread of Haman’s thinking. “Yeah, Haman, that’s good. A man willing to do anything to save his own life would be easy to handle if we held that which contained his own life, yeah? We get the object he’s tethered to, we may have ourselves a new special weapon.” He turned his attention to Skate. “There’s your target, girl. Find out which object he values most—not necessarily the most expensive thing, you understand—and make that your priority.”

  “You mean to take him prisoner?” The question was genuine, not rhetorical; these men had been all but quaking in their boots a few moments ago at the thought of the terror they assumed Belamy to be, so the jump to trying to force him into service seemed a bit rich. “You think that’ll work?”

  “I do, Skate, I do.” Boss Marshall was now sagely puffing away, his eyes narrowed and his tone that of a lecturer holding forth to an imaginary rapt audience. “This is a man who so feared his fate that he was willing to do whatever it took, however horrifying and wicked, to escape it. If we can threaten such a man with the only thing he fears, is there anything he won’t do to save himself? I think not,” he concluded with a chiding chuckle. “After all, who among us, at our best, has stared the specter in the face and refused to quail or shudder? That he has been willing to so degrade himself in order to stave off the final waking tells me he’d take to such a threat like vermin to garbage. I’m sure of it.”

  “Has it changed your mind?” Haman asked. “Does this slight change in your goal in the burglary make you rethink what you need to do?”

  “No.” She said the word automatically and was surprised to find that she somehow felt dishonest in doing so. Stealing something, even something extremely pricey, from the old man had not bothered her, but the idea of trapping him in servitude put a small knot in her stomach. It’s just a job, she tried to tell herself, and he’s just a mark. What’s it matter?

  It mattered. She didn’t have time to explore why right now, but it mattered. “No, it just means I gotta find the things I was looking for anyway.”

  “Good girl,” Boss Marshall said, nodding to her. “Better get after it, hadn’t you?” Skate took that as the dismissal it was, and ducked out of the room in a hurry. “Haman, get the door, will you?” The wizard nodded and smiled ever so encouragingly as he closed the door after her.

  Twitch was where she’d left him, but he’d stuffed his small pipe with tobacco and was producing a cloud over his head as he played cards with another thief, one many years his senior. He talked without taking the pipe from his lips as he gambled, alternatively laughing, cursing, and trading insults with his opponent.

  “You’re a fast dog, aren’t ya?” the grizzled thief asked through several missing teeth.

  “Was a fast one that f-fathered you, sir,” Twitch said back, throwing his cards down and pulling the piled copper coins toward him, winning the hand.

  “Hark at him! The pup’s cut his teeth, make no mistake,” the grizzled thief said to another thief sitting nearby. The other thief took a large gulp from his cup, belched, and laughed.

  Skate waved the unpleasant cloud away as she took her seat. The tipsy fellow dealt another hand and did his best to reveal nothing about his cards. Being drunk, he found this a more difficult feat than he’d anticipated, and Twitch coughed to cover his smile. There was little wonder that the man thought the boy to be such a master of the game, which relied on bluffing and misdirection, when his own faculties were so impaired.

  “How’d it g-go?” Twitch asked, tossing some coins in the pot.

  “Not nearly so bad as what you was worried for,” Skate answered. “They took my news well and changed my job a bit, but nothing too hard. Hurry up here, so I can tell you about it.”

  Twitch puffed twice more, then went all in; the drunk took the bait and followed suit. He stared dumbfounded at Twitch’s hand as the boy scooped up the coins into a grubby sack. He cursed and muttered as he went away, leaving his companion to his rotten burps, which were endlessly amusing to their supplier.

  Skate laughed and shook her head, patting Twitch and pointing to the door. Twitch emptied the ash and straggles of tobacco from his small pipe and pocketed the dirty thing. Once he’d put away his winnings as well, the two made for the tunnel they’d come through.

  Only when they were almost out of the smoky, boozy crowd did Skate notice a pair of eyes, eyes that reminded her so much of those of a snake, following their progress. Kite was watching the two of them, and it was anyone’s guess as to how long he’d been doing so. He did not avert his gaze at her notice, but continued to watch their movements.

  Someone broke the line of sight between the thin young man and Skate, and Kite disappeared.

  Skate took Twitch by the arm and hurried him out of the room.

  “Ease up, w-will ya?” Twitch had been trying to watch the darts match as they went, and the sudden lurch of her insistence pulled him away.

  “Kite,” was all she said, and his indignation melted into understanding.

  They moved through the dark tunnel quietly, each understanding without communication that they needed to listen for any following steps. They heard nothing but their own breathing, but that was no comfort. Kite was a skilled sneak and could move as silently as the air when he wanted.

  Skate picked up her pace as the light from the doorman’s lamp peeked around the corner ahead. With a wave and a nod, they were gone, and would surely hear the creak of the door if anyone followed them out.

  The midday sun was doing nothing to help the cold of
the wintery day. The snow had stopped falling and sunlight came through the breaks in the clouds, but warmth was still hard to come by. Out in the relative safety of the open city, the pair felt the stifling call to silence lift.

  “W-what do you think Kite wanted?”

  “Nothing good. I think he wants payback for me embarrassing him the other day.”

  “Embarrassing?”

  “He cornered me while I was on a job, and I…got him to leave me alone.” Twitch, she decided, didn’t need to know about Rattle’s attack. “So, he’s probably still mad.”

  Twitch looked over his shoulder to see if they were being followed. “Just s-so you know, Boss is moving hideouts to the s-space in the warehouse.” The warehouse hideout was in the Old Town, close to Lady Ossertine’s home. Half of the building functioned as an actual warehouse, while the other was set aside for the use of the Ink. It comfortably held the ruffians of a single Boss’s crew at a time, and they would be unbothered in the space; the owner of the warehouse had been a thief himself before he’d made the purchase, and was more than happy to give his structure for the use of his fellow thieves. The Ink paid him for his trouble, which meant he offered storage at discounted rates. All things considered, it was a good deal for everyone involved.

  “That’s where I’ll bring the news when I have it, then.”

  “So what’re they getting you to d-do?”

  She sighed. “I’m still stealing from the old man, but the target has changed. Instead of looking for the things that’d be worth the most in gold or gems, I’m supposed to find the thing that’s most important to him and steal that. They wanna hold it over him to get him on board with the Ink.”

  “They’re trying to ex-extort from a wizard? Are they c-crazy?”

  “An undead wizard,” she clarified. “He made himself this living corpse so he’d never die for real, but it all depends on a single object. That’s what I have to find. That’s what’s most important to him.”

  “This s-sounds really dangerous, Skate.”