by David Cook
“Ho, that’s right. He’s always got me, if I’d ever let him!” Maeve added with a laugh.
Pinch let the comments slide, eying the man across from him. “Therin, my boy,” he finally asked with only a little comradely warmth, “what happened? I thought the constables had you for nipping a bung.”
The younger man smiled knowingly. “Seems I had good witnesses to say it wasn’t me with his hand in the gent’s purse. By their eyes I was here, drinking with them at that very time.”
Sprite’s boozy voice came from below the edge of the table. “Our farmboy’s learned to hire good evidences, even if he ain’t learned to nip a purse. Isha shame—always learnin’ the wrong thing first.”
Therin rubbed at the scarf around his neck. “I’ve been hanged once. I don’t need to be hanged again.”
“See!” came the hiccup from below. “Mos’ men saves the hanging lesson for las’.”
Pinch propped his head on the table and gave Therin a long, hard stare, his face coldly blank. “There’s some who’d say you’re just bad luck, Therin. Maybe not fit to have around. It was you supposed to be there tonight.” His mouth curled in a thin smile. “But then, your bad luck seems to affect only you. It was your neck for the noose and your money for the evidences. Sprite-Heels and I did just fine, didn’t we?”
“Ish true, Pinch, ish true.” The halfling heaved himself up till he could look over the top of the table. He was still spotted with the muck of the sewers. Fortunately the air of the Dwarf’s Pot was so thick with wood smoke, stale ale, and spiced stew that his reek was hardly noticed. Right now Sprite-Heels breath was probably deadlier than his filth. “Wha’d we get? I’ didn’t look like more ’an a cheap piece of jewelry.”
Pinch scowled at the question and waggled a finger for silence. That was followed by a series of quick gestures that the others followed intently.
Magical … important … temple … wait for money. The gestures spelled it out to the others in the hand-talk of thieves. From the quick finger-moves, they puzzled it out. Clearly what they’d taken was of great importance to the temple, so important that it was going to take time to sell. Pinch’s sudden silence told them as much as his hands. The rogue was suddenly cautious lest someone hear. That meant people would be looking for what they had stolen, and Pinch saw no reason to openly boast of what they had done. Even Sprite-Heels, fuzzy-minded though he was, understood the need for discretion. The three turned awkwardly back to their mugs.
“What’s the news of the night?” Pinch asked after a swallow of ale. They could hardly sit like silent toads all through the dawn.
Sprite collapsed back onto the bench since he had no answer. Therin shrugged and said with a grin, “There was a job at the temple. Somebody did them good.” He, too, had nothing to say.
Maeve squeezed up her face as she tried to remember something the hour and the drink had stolen away from her. “There was somebody …” Her lips puckered as she concentrated. “That’s it! There was somebody asking about you, Pinch.”
The rogue’s drowsy eyes were suddenly bright and alert. “Who?”
The memory coming back to her, Maeve’s contorted face slowly relaxed. “A fine-dressed gent, like a count or something. Older, kind of puffy, like he didn’t get out much. He was all formal and stuffy too, kind of like a magistrate or—”
“Maeve, did he have a name?” She was rambling and Pinch didn’t have the patience for it.
The sorceress stopped and thought. “Cleedis … that was it. He was from someplace too. Cleedis of …”
“Cleedis,” Pinch said in a voice filled with soft darkness. “Cleedis of Ankhapur.”
Janol of Ankhapur
It was one of those statements that could be understood only with mouths agape, and the three did so admirably. Maeve blinked a little blearily, her slack mouth giving her the look of a stuffed fish. From out of sight, Sprite-Heels suddenly stopped hiccuping. The grumbling of a drunk as he argued the bill, the clatter of dishes carried to the back by a wench, even the slobbering snore of an insensate drunk filled the silence the three scoundrels created.
It was up to Therin, naturally, to ask the obvious. “You know this Cleetish?” he asked, wiping his sleeve at the drool of ale on his chin.
“Cleedis—and yes, I know him,” was the biting answer. This was not, Pinch thought, a subject for their discussion.
“ ’Swounds, but ain’t that a new one. Our Pinch has got himself a past,” the big thief chortled.
By now Sprite had hauled himself up from his sprawl on the bench. Though his hair was a tangled nest of curls and his shirt was awry, the halfling’s eyes were remarkably clear for one who only moments ago was half done-in by drink. Still, his words were slurred by ale. “Wha’s his nature, Pinch—good or ill?” The little thief watched the senior rogue closely, ever mindful of a lie.
Pinch tented his finger by his lips, formulating an answer. All the while, he avoided the halfling’s gaze, instead carefully scanning the common room under the guise of casualness. “Not good,” he finally allowed. “But not necessarily bad. I haven’t seen him in a score of years, so there’s no good reason for him to be looking for me.”
“From Ankhapur, eh?” Therin asked more ominously, now that the drift of things was clear. “Where’s that?”
Pinch closed his eyes in thoughtful remembrance, seeing the city he’d left fifteen years ago. He tried to envision all the changes wrought on a place in fifteen years, see how the streets would be different, the old temples torn down, the houses spread outside the outdated walls. Still, he knew that the Ankhapur he imagined was as much a dream as the one he remembered.
“South—too far south for you to know, Therin,” the rogue finally answered with a thoughtful grin. It was no secret that Therin’s knowledge of the world ended about ten leagues beyond Elturel. Pinch could have claimed that Ankhapur drifted through the sky among the lights of Selûne’s Tears for as much as Therin knew. Still, maybe it was the remembering that made Pinch more talkative than he had ever been. Home and family just weren’t topics of conversation for those of his trade. “It’s the white city, the princely city, built up right on the shores of the Lake of Steam. Some folks call it the boiled city. Take your pick.”
“So who is this Cleedis, Pinch?” Maeve wheedled. “He seemed like a gent.”
“An old, foolish man,” Pinch answered offhandedly to end his reminiscence. Maybe there was more to be said, but the rogue offered no further explanation.
Sprite, his judgment decidedly impaired, was not going to let Pinch slip away. “So wha’ do we do? We goin’ to meet with him?”
The other poured a blackjack of sack and gave Sprite a jaundiced glare. “You’re not doing anything. This fellow’s looking for me, not you. We’ve had success tonight, and it calls for some drinking. Here’s to my little diver!” the rogue raised his leather mug for the toast, and the other three quickly followed.
“Here’s to Sprite,” Therin and Maeve chorused.
“Aye, here’s to me,” the halfling burbled happily. He buried his childlike face deep into the overfull mug of wine, greedily tipping it back with two hands until the drink streamed down his chin.
Pinch took a judicious draught of his wine, while Therin and Maeve drank long and hard. Even before the others had finished, their master stepped away from the table. “I’ll look for you in the usual places,” Pinch advised. “Finish your drinking and keep your eyes and ears sharp. The patricos are going to be looking hard for their thieves. It won’t do to have any of you scragged now.”
“As you say it, Pinch,” Therin murmured dourly as he set his blackjack on the greasy table. Brown Maeve nodded her receipt of Pinch’s caution. Sprite was silent, already insensate and snoring on the bench.
Gathering his mantle tight, Pinch stepped over the sleeping dog by the door and walked out into the bracing dawn.
The muddy lane was flecked with clumps of long-lasting snow that clung to the patches of daytime shade.
Right now it was neither light nor dark but the point where time hovered between the two. The false dawn that dimmed out the lower stars was fading, replaced by the true dawn. Here though, the sun’s first light struggled against the winter mists common to Elturel. How like Ankhapur, Pinch thought as he watched the hovering frost swirl through the night alleys. The comparison had never occurred to him before, not even when he’d arrived fresh from the south. Travel had all been new, wonderful, and terrifying then; there was never time for such frivolous speculation.
The man shook his head with a snap of his curly hair, as if to shake loose these romantic notions and rattle them out his ears. Such thoughts were all fatigue, and he could not allow himself that luxury of rest. First there was Cleedis.
The Five-League Lodge was far from Pinch’s normal haunts. It perched halfway up the slope of Elturel’s High Road, halfway between the base world of the common man and the uppermost crest of nobility. In Elturel, a man’s address said much for his status. Chaperons in their salons counted how many streets a prospective suitor was from the top of the hill. Rag-pickers always claimed their gleanings were gathered from the very summit of Elturel, an artless lie their hopeful customers accepted anyway.
For Pinch, all that mattered was that the best pickings were found in the streets that looked down on the city. Of course, the higher streets had the most watchmen and wizards, too. It was here that the city’s leaders lived in aeries at the top of the great High Hill, the temples of those gods currently in favor clustered around them. Farther down, those merchants who aspired beyond their class vied for the choicest—hence highest—streets left to choose from. The Five-League Lodge had done well, holding practically the last address before the realms of the privileged crowded out all others.
By the time Pinch reached the block of the inn, the morning vendors were already straining their carts through the streets. Eelmongers and bread carts competed for attention, along with the impoverished prestidigitators who went from door to door offering their skills. “A quick spell to clean your house, a word to sweeten your wine? Or perhaps, madam, you’re looking for something to make your husband a little more amorous. I can do these things for you, madam. It’ll only take a few coins … and he’ll never know what happened.”
Pinch knew these old tricks well. Tomorrow the house would be dirty again; in a few days, the husband would be as doltish as ever. The wizard wouldn’t care. Some probably wouldn’t even remember, the grinding scramble of the day drowned away by cheap wine in taprooms like the Dwarf’s Piss Pot. That was the way things were—everybody out to make their coin.
It was the hypocrites who pretended to live above it who irritated Pinch. He’d dealt with constables, trusties, watchmen, even executioners, buying them with a few gold or silver coins, and yet they still pretended to be pure and unimpeachable. That was a joke; nobody was beyond gold’s reach. Rogues knew the lies and self-deceptions men used, and made their living trading on those weaknesses. Perhaps that was why Pinch stayed in the bottom town, unlike other upright men who pretended to the ranks of the gentry. Down among the common folk, at least a man knew his business and wasn’t ashamed of it.
Pinch abandoned his ruminations at the door to the Five-League Lodge, a sprawling compound of timber and stone. He stepped through the door and into the common room, this one a good deal cleaner than the place he had just left. The hall was empty save for a single charwoman cleaning the floor. Her dress hung in greasy tatters, far out of keeping with the fine appointments of the room.
“Girl, come here,” Pinch commanded as he took a chair. After a start of surprise, the woman hesitantly shuffled over. As she drew near, Pinch laid a silver coin on the table and idly pushed it about with one finger. “Do you have a guest named Cleedis?”
The charwoman’s gaze was fixated on the promise of the coin. “The one that looks like an empty money sack? Aye.”
Another coin, matched by a scowl, was laid on the table. “That’s the one. Where?”
“Up the stairs to the best chambers in the house.”
With a deft tap he scooted the silver toward her and she snatched it up before it had even stopped moving. Coin in pocket, she hurried to disappear before the chance of blame arose.
Pinch was up the stairs before the innkeeper might stop him, since no doubt like all innkeepers, the man truly believed he was the lord of his domain. At the top of the stairs, it was hardly difficult to find Cleedis’s room; the one entrance with double doors had to be it. The doors were a rich wood unseen in these parts and probably shaped by elves, judging from the elaborate carved panels, not that Pinch was much of an appraiser of the forest folks’ handiwork. He did, however, note the keyhole of thick dwarven iron. Locks were something more in his line, and this one looked formidable. Worse still, it was probably enchanted. The last thing he needed was for the lock to shout out an alarm.
A good thief was always prepared, and Pinch prided himself on being a good thief. The slim rod of dull bronze he pulled from his pouch didn’t look like much, but getting it had cost two others their lives and Pinch very nearly his. Not that his killing them bothered him; if there’d been an honest beak on the bench, both would’ve been hanged long ago. Death was their reward for plotting against him.
The old rogue knelt by the door and gently touched the rod to the metal lock, so carefully as not to make a single clink or tap. At the barest contact, the rod melted before the dwarven metal, dripped down its own shaft before it coagulated into a thick mass. Pinch shook it briefly, as if scattering the excess metal. When it was done, what had been a plain rod was a perfect duplicate of the lock’s true key, form and shape stolen from the memory of the dwarven metal itself.
Still, Pinch held his breath as he slipped the forged key over the tumblers. There was always the chance of another safety, especially with dwarf work. The dumpy smiths were always vying to outdo each other in one form or another, building in this new intricacy or that. Fortunately, this lock did not look particularly new.
The tumblers clicked and rotated, the bolt slid back, and nothing screeched in alarm. Still Pinch waited to be sure. When no innkeeper roused from his morning kitchen came puffing up the stairs with guardsmen in tow, Pinch pushed the door open until he could just slide his body through into the gloom beyond. Once inside, he checked the lock’s other side. Dwarves had a fiendish fondness for little traps like one-sided locks and other infernal tricks.
Once satisfied that the Five-League Lodge was not at the forefront of lock design, the old rogue softly pressed the door shut and looked about the room. The front salon alone was larger than any private room Pinch had seen in Elturel. The entire common room of the old, dark-stained Piss Pot could easily have fit in here. Worse still for Pinch, everything was of the finest quality—the brocades, the statuary, the plate. It was a cruel thing to have to suppress his natural acquisitive instincts. He restrained himself, not from any sense of morality but because he had business that he did not want to jeopardize. Besides, the rogue knew he wasn’t equipped to do the job right. Pilfer a little now, and the owner would surely tighten his wonderfully lax precautions. Instead, Pinch made a note of the place, its best treasures, and its weaknesses. Any man who guarded his treasures so ill just might be fool enough to turn over the lot to a quick-witted coney-catcher like himself, Pinch guessed.
But the rogue shook his head ruefully, knowing his thoughts were getting away from the matter at hand. With all the stealth he could muster, Pinch slipped to the bedchamber door and gently pushed the gilded panel open. It swung on silent hinges, which suited the thief well. A dying glimmer in the fireplace lit the gloom in the far corner, casting its rays over the dark hump in the center of the bed.
With a supple twist, Pinch slid his wrist knife into the palm of his hand. He had no intention of killing Cleedis, but there was no point in letting the man know that. In three quick strides he would be at the bed.
Halfway through his second step, a light flared from the corner opposite
the lamp.
“All night I’ve waited,” groused a figure in the light, filling a high-backed chair like a lump of fallen dough. “I expected you earlier.”
“Cleedis!” Pinch gasped, though his teeth were clenched. Instinct seized the thief. He whirled on the balls of his feet, blade already coming up—
“None of that!” the other barked sharply. He shifted slightly and a flash of steel glinted from his lap. “I know you too well, coz. It was me that taught you the sword.”
Pinch rocked back with wary slowness. “ ‘Coz,’ indeed, Chamberlain Cleedis. What brings you so far from Ankhapur? Fall out of Manferic’s favor?”
The swordsman rose from his seat, his overweight and flaccid body filling with the stern strength of piety. “Your guardian, King Manferic III, is dead.”
It was clear the old courtier was playing the news for shock, and Pinch was not having any of it. With his best studied coolness, he laid his knife on the nightstand and settled onto the bed, disinterestedly pulling the coverlet back. Underneath, a breastplate and clothes made up the lumpy outline. “So?” the rogue drawled. “He turned his back on me years ago.”
“The kingdom needs you.”
That got to Pinch. He couldn’t help but stare at Cleedis in surprise. He looked at the courtier closely, comparing what he saw to the man he once knew. The hair, once black and rich, was receding and almost pure white. The weather-beaten campaigner’s skin was now cracked and loose, his eyes sad pits without humor. The soldier’s muscles were now flaccid and tired. In Cleedis, Pinch saw the fate of the warrior turned statesman, the toll that years of compromise and patience would extract from the flesh.
Pinch stared until he realized he was staring, then he gave an embarrassed snort of disgust as if to claim his shock was only an act. “I’m not such a gull, Cleedis. There are my dear cousins; what about the princelings four?”
