by David Cook
Cleedis thrust the sword into the carpet and hobbled a step forward using the weapon like a cane. “Bors is an idiot—can barely hold his drool in at a temple service,” the king’s chamberlain growled. “The other three hate each other with a passion. Each claims sole right to the Cup and Knife. Vargo started it, figuring he could muscle the other two out of the race. With only one claimant, the priests would nullify the test and pronounce him the true heir.”
The tale was beginning to amuse Pinch, in as much as it was all his adopted family deserved. He lay back on the pillows, although one hand was always near the knife. “Throdus and Marac didn’t agree? By Beshaba, dissension in the house.”
“There’ll be civil war!”
“So when they’re all gone, you want me, the forgotten ward, to come to Ankhapur’s rescue and carry on the family name? How generous, Cleedis.”
Cleedis stabbed at the floor in anger. “I’ll not put a thief like you on the throne!”
Pinch sprang to the edge of the bed. “Ho! Little kingmaker Cleedis now! My, what you’ve become. So what is it you want of me then?”
The courtier stalked back to his chair. “Just a job. A quick and quiet solution to our problem.”
“Why me? You could get any queer-bird to lay them down with a cudgel, just for freedom from the gaol—or have you lost all your influence with Manferic’s death?” The aged courtier’s glare told Pinch all he needed to know. “Aye, now there’s a turn of Tymora’s wheel. You used to inspire fear in them, and now you probably don’t even have the coin for a black spell from a Thavian outcast. That’s why you’ve come to me.” The rogue let loose a gloating chuckle and settled back onto the silken pillows.
“It’s not that way,” was Cleedis’s terse reply. “First, it’s not the princes we’re after. If anything odd should happen to your cousins, there’ll be war for sure. In the second part, you can dance on the twisted hemp before I’d come looking for you. I’m here at Manferic’s bidding.”
“Oh, dear guardian; so like Manferic. He plots even after his death.” It was time to be off the bed and to the door. “Go back to his grave, Cleedis, and tell him I’m not coming. I like things just as they are here.”
“Heard there was trouble in town last night,” the elder drawled like a snake uncoiling. Pinch knew he was hearing trouble, but he kept his stride steady. He wasn’t going to play the chamberlain’s game.
“You are a fool, Janol—or Pinch, should I call you? Here I am in Elturel, where nobody’s even heard of Manferic or Ankhapur, and you don’t even wonder how I found you.”
That stopped Pinch with his hand at the door.
The seat creaked and then the floor groaned with a heavy thunk-clunk as Cleedis hobbled over, sword as cane. “The priests of Ankhapur,” the courtier wheezed out, “have gotten quite good at tracking you. Shall I tell you where you were last night?”
Pinch stared blindly at the woodwork in front of him. “I was drinking.” He could hear his own words locking into the cool monotone of a lie and cursed himself for getting caught.
“Maybe you were. It doesn’t matter,” the courtier allowed with the smooth, cold smile of a basilisk. “Guilty or innocent, it doesn’t matter to me or the constables—what are they called?—Hellriders of this town. Just a word is all it takes.”
Pinch turned a half step toward his tormentor.
“Not a bit of it, Janol,” the old man said as he weakly swung his sword to guard. “You can’t imagine me trekking to Elturel alone. I die and you’re surely doomed.”
“Bastard fool, you’ve got no proof and I’ve got evidences who’ll swear for me.”
Sword still up, Cleedis blew on his free hand to warm his fìnger joints. “Of course you do, and that’s all good for the constables, but are a high priest’s bodyguards less impetuous here than in Ankhapur? The news through the entire city is that they lost a pretty piece of property, a piece of some high holy man’s jewelry they’d been safeguarding.”
Resigned, Pinch leaned back against the door. If he couldn’t bluff the old man, he would at least pump the chamberlain for what he could. “You know a lot for being new here.”
“Don’t assume I came in yesterday. I learned a lot in Manferic’s service that’s served me better than the sword. So, are you coming or will you wait for some temple brave to cut you down? They will find you, trust me.”
There was no choice. Pinch needed to stall.
“I’ve got others who need consulting—”
“Let them hang on their own.”
“And things to get together. This evening—we’ll meet again.”
The old chamberlain considered the offer, the fierce energy that had sustained him all night draining away. “Where?”
“Here,” was the quick answer. Pinch wasn’t about to reveal any of his hideouts, either the boozing kens where he spent his days or the stalling kens where he passed his goods to the brokers.
Cleedis nodded acceptance. “Don’t turn me, cousin. I found you once; I’ll find you again.”
And I’ll be ready for you next time, Pinch thought to himself. At the door, he gave a quick bow, part old habit and part mockery, before leaving the apartment and slipping through the dawn-drowsy halls of the inn.
The rogue was wary as he made his way back through the early morning streets. By now his head was thick with the sluggish residue of stale ale, sleep deprivation, and overexcited nerves. He had to thread his way through the sunrise press of greengrocers, tinkers, and kitchen maids on their morning rounds. A butcher’s apprentice splashed by, hurrying through the muddy streets and balancing a fresh side of mutton on his shoulder while a pack of gnome striplings chased him, trying to nick bits of meat off the carcass’s dangling shank. Here and there Pinch saw a fellow knave—Dowzabell, the prison trusty; Dun Teddar, who did a counterfeit of mad singing; and Ironbellow, a dwarf who limped because one foot was a bronze peg. He begged coins, claiming he’d lost his foot as a Hellrider fighting the Zhentarim, but Pinch knew in truth that a surgeon had taken it last winter after Ironbellow had passed out from drink and got a case of frostbite and gangrene.
It wasn’t the unpredictable palliards or the murderous wild rogues that made Pinch wary, though. Like him, the ragged tramps and overdressed cutthroats were from the night world, the land of darkness and shadow. Now, as the sun rose, they, like himself, felt their powers wane.
It was the ones who knew no hour that worried Pinch—the Hellriders who patrolled the city. It was the rogue’s greatest failing that he was too well known to the catchpole and his constables. No doubt they’d be looking for him after last night.
And the Hellriders weren’t all either. The patrico’s guard would want a hand in this also, to redeem the damaged honor of their jobs at the temple. With daylight, they’d be out in force.
Finally, there was Cleedis. Given whom the old man had served all these years, it was certain the sword-master was not to be underestimated. Hellriders, even temple guards, Pinch could predict. He could not say the same for Cleedis.
It’s all my own vain fault, a biting voice gnawed within him. It was hardly fair to call this his chiding conscience, for while always at his shoulder, the sharp words didn’t care about the causes of things. Pinch’s inner voice saw the flaws in plans that might have been perfect. The trouble was, it almost always spoke in the rogue’s ear when it was too late to do much anyway. The voice seemed to relish the power of hindsight that Pinch denied himself.
So Pinch moved warily. He slipped down alleys with names like Kennel Lane and Mucker’s Mews, where the half-timbered houses leaned so close over the street that their roof peaks almost touched. He chose ways that kept him on the edges of the day markets and far from Elturel’s High Hill. Traveling thus, skirting this and flanking that, it was not until well into the morning that Pinch returned to the Dwarf’s Pot.
As the old rogue pushed open the alehouse’s creaky door, Therin unexpectedly stepped out from the shadows. “Piss in Ilmater’s wounds—where’ve you
been, Pinch?” The thug’s voice was torn between relief and stress, and it was mirrored in the long knife clutched in his hand even as his body sagged back against the wall. Pinch knew by the knife it was serious business, not just because Therin had a knife out, but because it was a skene, a long, thin dirk. It was a blade favored by Therin’s honor-obsessed people, the Gurs—Selûne’s children, the people of the highway. The skene was a sure sign of deadly intent.
“Pizzle it yourself. What’s the play here?” Without waiting for an answer, Pinch slipped to the side where he could get his back against the wall and face his foes directly. Even though Therin wasn’t threatening anymore, a man would be a fool to think all was well. With his hold-back dagger already in hand, Pinch scanned the common room for more danger.
It was empty, which even at this hour was not right. There was always at least one drunk or well-paid doxy toasting the day—but today there was nothing. Save for Therin, there weren’t even any of Pinch’s gang. “Hellriders, did they—”
Therin didn’t need the rest of the question. “It was the patriarch’s catchpoles. Came in here like apprentices to a cry of ‘Clubs.’ Set to bust up the place looking for you and the little fellow.” He stooped and slid the long knife back into its boot sheath.
“Damn Cleedis and his spies! Sprite-Heels—where is he?”
“Up here” was the muffled answer. Pinch looked up in time to see a small stream of dust fall from the roof beams, and then Sprite was dangling by his awkward little arms.
Therin nodded up with a grin but made no move to help. “Slipped out of sight and got himself up there.” He purposely raised his voice for Sprite to hear. “Can’t imagine how a runt like him managed it, though.”
“I heard that!” the halfling shrieked.
They both ignored him. “And Maeve?”
“Right here, my dear Pinch,” cooed a voice at Pinch’s ear. The old rogue could feel her warm, ale-scented breath on his cheek, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Got me self invisible as soon as trouble come through the door. Just in case.” Vanishing was Brown Maeve’s first reaction to most danger.
“Well, make yourself whole, woman.” Pinch addressed the air where he thought she stood. “And you up there, get yourself down. We’re leaving town.” He strode through the near-deserted hall toward the upstairs.
“Leaving?” There was a loud thud as Sprite dropped to the floor. Halflings, it seemed, did not land like cats. “None too soon, I think.”
A bottle on the Piss Pot’s bar suddenly upended and burbled a healthy swig. “Oy, Maeve—you’ll be paying for that!” snapped Algaroz as he came through the door from the back kitchens.
Caught with the snappings, the frumpy sorceress flickered into existence. “It’s a going-away drink,” she chided. “Old Pinch wants us to leave town.”
“And none too soon, if the officers keep ruining my trade—”
“Leave, just cause we had a little trouble with the constables? Things were looking good here. I say we stay.” Therin marked his objections by leaning significantly against the front door. With his big muscles and rope-scarred neck, he made an imposing obstacle.
“Fine for you to say when they haven’t made you, moon-man!” Sprite snapped.
Therin reddened at the name “moon-man.” It was an old insult for his kind, one that reminded him of the suspicion he’d always faced as a Gur.
From the stairs, Pinch cut it off before the pair went to their blades. “Settle it later!” Pinch shouted from the stairs. “Listen, you bastards. It’s not because the catchpoles showed, but that they showed unnatural fast—and they knew whom they were looking for. Don’t that strike you as queer, either of you?” He spat toward the spittoon, getting the flavor of treachery out of his mouth. “It was Cleedis’s doing. He’s got a job he wants me to do, and he’s tipped the temple to make me do it.”
“So we’re running then?” Therin asked archly.
Damn the man’s pride, Pinch thought to himself. “Of course we are. And if we’re lucky, Cleedis will follow—and then, Therin, I’ll let you take care of him.”
He didn’t like it. The game he thought he knew was getting out of control. First Cleedis’s manipulations, and now he had to satisfy Therin’s honor. Pinch didn’t like any of it. “Satisfied?” he snarled when Therin didn’t reply quickly.
“I’ll go,” Therin replied with a face like the losing dog in a challenge.
“Good then. You’ve all got a little time to get your things. It’ll be a trip to the country until things settle down in the city.” The man didn’t wait see if anyone questioned his orders but went up to gather his own few clothes.
An hour later he was making his way through the midday streets, accompanied by a puffing Maeve and a scowling Therin. Darting in and out among them, like a planet orbiting its greater sun, was a small, heavily cloaked figure. It was only when the cold winter brushed up the edge of the creature’s hem that a man could even notice a pair of curly-haired feet underneath.
“Take the Waterside Road; the guards ain’t so choosy there,” suggested Therin, their Gur. In their shiftless lives, the Gurs were masters for knowing the little ways in and out of the city. They were a group always ready to pack and leave on a moment’s notice. Pinch idly speculated that Therin’s newly tasted stability had made him reluctant to leave.
They followed his advice and hurried past the public docks and the fishmonger’s market, where rats challenged cats for the choicest fish entrails. Just before the city gatehouse, they broke from the main avenue and wove through the side lanes until they reached a smaller, almost forlorn gate. Two indolent guards protected the old gate and all within its walls. Pinch recognized it as the Old Trade Gate, named before commerce dictated building something more.
Sure enough, the guards were lax here. In fact, the only thing that animated the bored pair was the size of the bribe they’d get from the group. After being driven down to only four gold each—business was slow for them—the two watchmen stepped aside and let the party through unquestioned.
Outside the walls, the road threaded through a jumble of shacks that had once been thriving inns when the trade route had passed this way. Now, with the merchants using the New Road, only a few struggling hostels survived here. Nonetheless, the group did not slow its pace. This close to Elturel was still too close. Pinch wanted them farther away.
At last they reached the breakwater of the city’s expansion, a largish creek that separated city from countryside. The sluggish water was spanned by a claptrap wooden bridge that looked unsteady and probably was. Across the way, a horse grazed while its rider lounged in the midday sun of winter. As best they could tell, he sported no livery of the temple or the distinctive black-and-red armor of the Hellriders. Satisfied that all was clear, Pinch led them across.
It’s too easy, chided the rogue’s inner voice. Cleedis won’t give up, and then what will I do?
Pinch had been avoiding the question because he didn’t have an answer. Well, we can fend for ourselves, he firmly decided, without interference from any others.
In this, Pinch was wrong.
They had barely set foot on the other bank when the true nature of the rider was revealed. It was Cleedis, and before Pinch could react, the old warrior had gotten unsteadily to his feet.
“What kept you so long, Janol?” the foreigner casually asked. Before anyone could answer, a ring of bodyguards, all pointing crossbows, stepped from the gloomy bushes. “I expected you much sooner.”
“Cleedis, you borsholder,” Pinch snarled.
Sprite elbowed the old rogue’s knee. “Don’t provoke him. He may want you, but there weren’t a thing said about the rest of us.” Pinch’s three companions froze with indecision, uncertain if Cleedis’s invitation was extended to them or if they were unnecessary in the foreign chamberlain’s eyes.
“Aye, play it out Pinch,” Therin warned.
To the relief of the others, their leader slowly nodded—wheth
er to them or Cleedis, it didn’t matter. “It seems, Cleedis,” the thief said in his most politic tone, “that maybe we should travel with you. Elturel was getting stale.”
The old swordsman looked at Pinch’s three companions and then at the determination in the rogue’s eyes. The chamberlain’s face was a mask as he calculated how his charge’s compatriots changed the rules of the game. Finally, he turned and hobbled away. “Well and good. Daros, bring horses for them all. The rest of you, watch them close. We’ve found whom we came for; it’s home for Ankhapur.”
Travelers’ Tales
“Dammit, Pinch, you owe us some words!” Therin hissed softly so that the trooper riding next to him wouldn’t hear. Although it was midafternoon, it was the first chance any of them had to speak to Pinch. The small column—for Cleedis commanded his men like an army—had been forced to a halt by a poorly planked stream. As their escorts plodded across the narrow bridge, Therin seized the opportunity to maneuver close to Pinch while they waited. “Who are they and why’d you let us get taken?”
Pinch bristled at his underling’s questions. He didn’t see that Therin or the others needed to know about his past, and certainly not on their demands. His life was his own, to share as he chose and pizzle take the rest of them. Even his horse felt that anger and started to bolt, only to have the thief savagely rein it in.
“If you’d stayed in Elturel, you’d be dead by sunset.” The master rogue couldn’t hold back the snarl that drove his words. “Do you think the constables were just lucky? Are you that dense? They were tipped. They got sent—”
“That wa’rnt no reason to leave,” the younger man countered hotly, his whispers becoming dangerously loud. “We’ve beat the catchpoles before. Piss and fire, you even cheated me off the gallows tree! We could’ve slipped the lot and hid out in another ken. Those constables ain’t got the wit of us. For Mask’s eyes, their idea of searching was just to bust up a few things and say it was good! There was no cause to go abroad.”
