by David Cook
With that, the cruel huntsman left, leaving Pinch to enjoy the rest of his meal.
The Prodigal Received
When dinner finished, Pinch joined the flow of family to the private salons, the inner sanctums of his youth. At the door to the grand study, Marac suddenly stepped in Pinch’s path, one finger poised like a dagger at the regulator’s chest. “You are not welcome,” he announced, loud enough for everyone to hear him. “You’re not one of the family. Things change.”
With the grace of an eel that slithers through the conger’s nets, Pinch curled his lips in a smile of polite understanding and bowed to his hosts. Vargo clapped his hand on the youngest prince’s shoulder and loudly said, falsely thinking it would pain Pinch all the more, “Come, brother, leave him till the morrow. There’s wine to be drunk!”
As the salon door closed behind him, Pinch padded through the dark and heartless halls to his own room. The lane had been paced, the pins set, he thought to himself. Now it was time to see how the bowl would play.
Returned to his room, the master thief settled into the carved wooden chair that was scorched dry by the heat from the fireplace. He sat immobile, gazing at the flames with the same fascination a drunk might share.
Behind the visage, though, his mind raced. Preparation, Pinch knew, warded bad luck. First there was escape, if he needed it. His apartment was large and spacious, with a public salon separate from the bedchamber. However, the two rooms were cunningly less than generous about windows. These were all small portholes set high in the wall, hardly suitable for a rat to scurry though. That left the door, discreetly locked by a guardsman after Pinch had entered. Could they believe he hadn’t heard the slow grind of the heavy tumblers?
Pinch had every confidence he could work the black art on the door, even if he was a little rusty. Then in the hallway, where would he go? After fifteen years, there were changes and additions made that no longer appeared on his mental map of the palace. He replayed every step he could recall in his head, getting the sense of distance and direction sound in his memory until he was confident he could slip through the halls to the outside world.
Outside were the ogre and his hellhounds, an entirely different type of problem. Pinch couldn’t see a solution there immediately. He set it aside for later study when he could get a clearer view of the ground.
Beyond the ogre, only the palace gate was certain. The here-to-there could be fraught with perils or tediously easy. It was impossible to say who might challenge him or let him pass.
The palace gate was a certainty, though. There would be a curfew after which the doors would be locked. Here his youth as the royal ward stood him in good stead. One of his patent rebellions had been to slip into the city against Manferic’s wishes and get himself back well after the curfew horn had blown. Back then there were other ways over the palace walls, and the rogue trusted that they still existed. Some gates remained unsealed even at the latest hours to accommodate those visiting their mistresses or back from a night of mingling with the lewd folk.
Finally, silver and gold were always a solution. Unless there had been some catastrophic change in the barracks rooms, it was always possible to find a guardsman willing to turn a blind eye for the right price. Of course, he’d need to find himself some cash, but for a good thief that was hardly a problem.
So much for escape, should he need it. The next question concerned his companions and what should be done about them. Pinch mulled over his options, sinking deeper into the stillness before the fire.
Did he need them? If not, there was no need to worry about them. Certainly he was their upright man, but he felt no compulsion of mere loyalty to save them.
Pinch once again decided to choose in favor of prudence. He still did not know what task Cleedis intended for him; until he did know, there was the possibility the trio might be needed. Pinch hardly felt he could rely on old friendships in Ankhapur; he’d already been reminded how fifteen years could change a man. Grudges lasted longer than loyalty. Without more time, Sprite, Therin, and Maeve were the only rogues he knew well enough to rely on.
Having judged and deemed worthy, the regulator needed to communicate with his gang before they felt abandoned and reordered their brotherhood. They were no more loyal than his lingering presence. All he knew was the wing they were in. Tomorrow he would make sure to see them.
All these things Pinch did in his head, never once setting his thoughts to paper, never once stirring from the chair. This was more than just his usual nature. His staying in these two rooms, he was sure, was no haphazard choice. Cleedis had wizards at his side, powerful ones as evidenced by their leap across the vast distances this morning. Those selfsame wizards could be watching him this instant. He had put Maeve to it often enough in their efforts to scout out a new case before they broke during the night. He also knew from Maeve that it took a little knowing the place to make the spell work. There was no doubt Cleedis had put at least some of his spell-men to the task of knowing these rooms inside and out.
Even his own thoughts weren’t safe, Pinch knew. Those wizards could pry through his mind, dredging up his plans if he wasn’t careful. Again, Maeve and hard experience had taught him some tricks for resisting, but they weren’t sure by any means. The best of all things was not to plan, but to act by pure instinct. Instinct was something that couldn’t be measured, plumbed, or dissected by the arcane powers.
“Well,” he announced to no one, “let the committers make something of this.” And then Pinch settled in and let his mind be filled thoughts as impure, vile, horrific, and vivid as he could imagine.
And Pinch could imagine very, very well.
The next morning, Pinch took his breakfast in his room, reveling in the luxury Cleedis was willing to bestow. Even a master regulator didn’t live in princely comfort. That had been a hard adjustment when he’d first fled Manferic’s court. It had been a long time since he’d had sweet porridge laced with fatty smoked meat and dried fruits. It was a childhood comfort, a memory of dawns spent hiding in the kitchen, nicking bowlfuls from the pot when the cooks weren’t looking.
Reverie ended with a knock at the door. Before Pinch could rise or say “Enter,” the door swung open and Throdus sauntered into the salon as if the whole world were his privilege. The dark prince radiated a jaunty cheer. Without so much as a comment, he plopped into the chair opposite Pinch.
The rogue glanced up and then buried himself in slurping spoonfuls of porridge as if Throdus weren’t there.
Throdus watched this until a wry smile curled his lips.
“Good cousin, I regret my brothers’ behavior last night. It was a crude display.” The prince stopped to examine some speck on the back of his hand.
“No doubt you would have done better,” Pinch suggested between swallows, never once looking up.
“Of course. Marac did that just for our benefit.”
“I know.”
Throdus looked up from his digitary studies. “One might question his motive.”
“Not me. He’s just become more like his brother.”
“Vargo? Those two were always close.”
“Afraid they’re plotting against you?”
“They’re always plotting against me. And I plot against them. Remember, Janol, it’s a game we’ve played since childhood.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
The prince went back to looking at his hands.
“I do find it interesting that you’ve chosen to come back now.”
Ah, so that’s where my lord is casting his net. Let’s play the game and string him along, Pinch decided.
“My other choices were less pleasant.”
“Ah, the wastrel’s life—your exploits are known here.”
Pinch was surprised and not surprised. His adopted cousins certainly had the resources to learn about his past, but it surprised him that they bothered. He would have thought their own intrigues kept them busy enough.
“Father always had a curiosity ab
out your fate.” The prince brushed back his black hair and watched his adversary’s reaction. “Since he was curious, we had to be curious.”
“Always afraid that someone else was working the cheat.”
“Information is power.” The words were sharp.
“So you know my life. What will you do, give me up to the constables?”
“I just want to know why you’re here.”
Now it was Pinch’s turn to be amused. “Just that? Why I’ve come to pay my respects, my dear guardian dead and all. After that I’ll make myself master of the trugging houses in the city. Maybe I’ll even do a little brokering, not that you’d have anyone else’s goods to sell.”
“Cheap lies only irritate me. You hated Manferic more than all the rest of us.”
“I had my cause. Try growing up like the household dog.”
“He was hard on us all, but we didn’t run away.”
“You? You were all too afraid—afraid of him, afraid you’d lose your chance when he died.”
Suddenly the shadows fell across the prince’s sunny facade. “I, at least, have the right to be king. You, however, have no such claims. You’re just an orphaned waif raised above his level by my father for the gods know what purpose, and then you come back here thinking you can be like one of the blood. The only reason for you to come back here is to beg for scraps. Is that it?” The prince ended the question with a sneer.
Pinch didn’t answer, glowering at Throdus while he continued his breakfast.
“I didn’t think so,” the prince said, dismissing the possibility with a wave of his hand. “The real question is, who are you working for? Marac? That would make sense for his little show. Publicly disavow you, privately deal.”
Pinch stopped in midladle and blew on his porridge. “I told him it was too obvious.”
“Now you’re too obvious. So it wasn’t Marac. Someone brought you here for a job and I want to know.”
This was getting tedious, and Throdus’s temper was getting up.
“As you well knew before coming here, it wasn’t Marac who took me abroad.”
Throdus laughed. “You’re suggesting Cleedis? He’s a trained monkey. He just wears the hat of regent and dances when somebody else plays the music. You’ve seen it; he can’t even keep Vargo from unseating Bors at the head of the table.”
Pinch remembered the arrangement, unremarkable at the time, but now of greater importance: Bors drooling at the end of the family row while Vargo sat in the first son’s seat at the regent’s left hand. It had never been that way at Manferic’s table. The old man had kept his gods-cursed firstborn in the place of honor even after his deficiencies were clear to all.
“Why should I tell you anything? I’m no intelligencer for the constabulary.”
Abruptly the prince was no longer humorous, the indulgent mask peeling from his flesh to reveal the corded muscles of a snarl as he sprang to his feet. “Because you’re nothing but a rakehelled orphan who lives by our indulgence! Because I want to know who you’re working for and you’ll tell me.”
“A pox on that!” Pinch swore, shoving the bowl away. “I’ll not be your intelligencer, not when you come here threatening like some piss-prophet.”
“Then I’ll have your heart and roast it for the dogs!” Throdus’s hand went to the jeweled dagger at his side. It wasn’t hanging there just for show. The blade was brilliantly polished and glittered in the morning light.
The rogue grinned as he kicked the chair back and sprang to his feet. He drew his slim-bladed skene, with its leather-wrapped handle and well-oiled blade, and let the point trace imaginary circles in the air before the prince’s chest. “And I say you’re a pizzle-headed ass for thinking you can best me with your little cutter. What do you know about knife fights? Have you every jumped a man in a dark lane and pulled your blade across his weasand-pipe? Fought with a blade in one hand and a bottle in the other?” Pinch started a slow pace around the table, one that forced Throdus back from the center of the room.
“One time a captain of the guard wanted to dock me. He was a fine gentleman and thought I was too. Thought I’d fight fair. I burned his hair off before I left him hamstrung. Scarred him for life—even the priests couldn’t do anything about it.
“Do you think being a prince will protect you?” Pinch whispered softly as he picked up a heavy jug with his free hand.
Throdus’s rage had started to go pale, and suddenly he acted in desperate panic. With a snap of his arm, he flung his dagger.
Pinch reacted almost as fast and just managed to swing the jug into the blade’s path. The hard clay shattered in his hand, sending shards skittering across the floor like mice, but the knife went tumbling away. The rogue threw the useless jug handle back and Throdus bobbed beneath it.
Pinch lunged but not so hard as to be sure of a hit. Throdus escaped harm, though his waistcoat died in the attack. Pinch’s dirk pierced the fabric and stuck into the wall. As Throdus yanked frantically to pull the fabric loose, Pinch slammed his free arm against the man’s chest. The air blew out of Throdus like a puffball squeezed too hard. While still skewered to the wall like a gutted rabbit, he sagged against the rogue unable to do anything but helplessly twitch as he choked for air.
Bronzewood cracked as the dirk wrenched free of the wall and came free of the punctured clothes. Pinch slithered in close, his knee poised below Throdus’s gut as an extra insurance of good behavior. The rogue let the knife blade tickle the prince’s torso as he deftly sliced away the doublet’s strings, tracing just the thinnest line of blood down the man’s hairy chest. Gently, almost tenderly, he brought his lips close to the noble ear, till he could smell the perfumes in Throdus’s oiled hair and guess the flavor of breakfast the man had eaten that morning.
“What should I do with you?” the regulator whispered ever so softly, as if the prince within his clutches weren’t even there. “If I killed you, who would complain? Vargo? Marac? Cleedis? Maybe that’s why I’m here …”
It was to Throdus’s credit that he did not cry out, but that may have been only because he couldn’t. His gasping had broken into shivers the man could not restrain, so strong that he couldn’t even work his lips to form words. His eyes welled up with water as he stared at the knife, unable to shift his gaze from it.
“What should I do?” Pinch whispered again. “Perhaps they’ll reward—”
A rich reverberation rebounded through the apartment, the musical tolling of a bell. The sound stood out by its otherworldliness, but Pinch ignored it. It was just some errant matins bell of yet another sect, echoing up from the common city below.
“STOP.”
It was the bell, now formed into a single word. It was a phantom of his thoughts, not real noise, the rogue realized now. It’s my conscience, he thought almost breaking into laughter. I didn’t think I had one.
“DO NOT KILL HIM.”
It wasn’t his conscience. It was a voice, more powerfully deep than was humanly possible and somewhere behind him. Pinch flung the quivering Throdus aside and spun to face his challenger—
There was no one there. The room was empty and silent save for the prince who crawled, mewling, toward the door. Pinch whirled here and there, jabbing the air in case his threat were invisible, but there was nothing.
Throdus had reached the door and was struggling to his feet. It’s him; he’s doing this. I can’t let him go, Pinch thought, his own mind racing on the verge of panic. “Tell your wizards to stop or I’ll kill you!” he shouted.
“NO, HE IS NOTHING. LET HIM GO.”
The voice was behind him, Pinch was sure. In a single move, he spun and threw his dagger at the source. The skene twirled across the room and stuck fast into the wall, quivering. Nothing was there.
Behind him, the door creaked and then slammed as the prince bolted for safety. By the time Pinch could turn, Throdus was gone.
Frustrated, the rogue whirled back to face the empty room. “Damn you! Who are you?”
“LATER …” The deep tones faded away, leaving behind only a hollowness of muffled sound.
Pinch tore through the rooms, overturning chaises, throwing aside coverlets, flinging the armoire doors wide. There was nothing, nowhere. No hidden visitors, sorcerous imps, or mischievous gremlins. He was alone.
At last the rogue collapsed in the center of the frenzy, in the nest of bed sheets and clothes that littered the floor. What had happened? Who had happened? And what would happen next?
For once, the thief couldn’t say.
Visiting
“Stand aside, damn you! He attacked Prince Throdus!”
There was the leathery scrape of a tussle outside, over a handful of shouted voices. Not a one did Pinch recognize, but they were full of youth and vigor and he could well guess that they were rakes of Throdus’s circle intent on currying favor with their patron.
By the time the courtiers bulled their way past the guard outside the door and smashed through the lock, Pinch had shucked his linen nightshirt, pulled on trousers and boots, and was standing ready for them. In each hand casually held behind his back he held a dagger by the blade, ready for the toss. Another was in his boot top.
These blades were not his first line of defense, though. Pinch had no illusions that a few puny tossed daggers would stop this group. Princes surrounded themselves with hardier worthies than that. At best he could remind them he had a potent sting.
Of course, they had to find him first. Invisibility, or a thief’s version of it, was his strongest protection. While they were fumbling outside, the rogue slid into the shadowed folds of his bed canopy, between the wall and the monolithic headboard. There he shifted his shoulder so that the lines of gloom fell across it just so, tilted his head into the darkness, and pressed his legs close to the headboard until they looked like part of the carved bronzewood. There he waited very, very still. There was, after all, still the great risk that he had missed some telltale and they would discover it in a nonce. That’s what the knives were for. Fools who relied on only one chance were short-lived fools.
