by David Cook
When he was little Jan, as he was known then, he never wondered, never questioned. In his eyes, the king was kind and good, his “brothers” mean. He quickly learned their meanness stemmed from arrogance and jealousy. He was the intruder at their hearth, a thief of privilege duly belonging to them.
It was only later that he learned a harsher lesson: that kindness and love were only masks for cold self-interest. That was the day he learned the true reason that the old king had raised him with such care.
“He was … evil.” It was what he meant, but Pinch couldn’t say it with the conviction the word needed. Good, evil were no longer for him the sharp lines of separation they once were.
“Enough wasted time. There’s more I want you to do. The three princes are likely to make trouble. An ear to the wind should give good warning of any moves.” The rogue turned to his lieutenant. “There’s three idiot courtiers in Throdus’s camp—Treeve, Kurkulatain, and Faranoch. Make a conveyance to know them, Therin; they may be ripe informers.”
“Sprite, find us a hole in the city.” Pinch tapped his temple. “My memories are past use. After fifteen years, things change.”
Finally he turned to the hung-over sorceress, who winced at every sound, and in his gentlest voice said, “Now, dear, I want you to dress your finest and make friends here in the court. Use your spells. Find out what these fine people are really thinking. I may need to know were everybody stands.”
“Me? Out there with them? They’s a bit above my rank, Pinch. I won’t know how to behave like a proper gentry mort.”
The rogue touched her reassuringly. “There now, you’ll do fine. A little touch of makeup and some new clothes and you’ll be sitting right beside them at their tables. You always were a quick doxy.”
There were no more orders to be said. Each of his journeymen nodded off on their part. The roles were not new to them; each had the eye and skill for the part Pinch gave them. With no questions, Pinch went out onto the balcony again. Just before slipping over the rail, he added one last caveat. “Therin, mind your sword. There’ll be no blood in the house. Sprite, mind where you filch, too. They draw and quarter thieves here without waiting for the start of term-time. And Maeve,” he added lastly, “keep yourself sober. Drink despoils a lady.”
And then, like a morning mist, the rogue melted through the rail and away.
Iron-Biter
“Well indeed, Iron-Biter, see who comes upon us.”
The voice rang clearly through the hallways as Pinch made his way back to his apartment. It resounded from the smooth surfaces, as cold as the gleaming marble was even in the generous sun.
Pinch’s first reaction was that the subject was someone else, and he could still divert his track down another hallway before he was made. There was no need to hide, no one had restricted his movements, but it was the natural urge of a man who has spent his life in hiding.
There was no place to escape. The click of boots on stone told him his captors were already there, coming upon him.
True enough, there ahead was Prince Vargo and a stocky dwarf. Vargo was every bit the lord of the manor, casually dressed in green hunting breeches, shirt, and riding cloak that was anything but casual. The material was brushed to a dazzling sheen so that if the day’s light had managed to angle through the narrow windows and strike him he would have burned with the fire of a roman candle, flooding everything with reflected green.
The dwarf was a barrel overturned and given legs. His chest was broader than he was tall and carved to Herculean proportions, and his little arms could barely touch fingers in the center. The traditional dwarven beard and braids formed a golden-hued knot for a head. Here was a dwarf who probably cracked his dinner bones with his fingers just to suck out the marrow.
They formed an improbable couple, the lean and the tall, the short and the blocky.
Pinch hadn’t noticed them because they’d been hidden behind a statue.
“Well, little Jan,” Vargo hailed with unexpected good cheer, “it is a surprise to meet you here. Quite surprising, don’t you think, Iron-Biter?”
The dwarf looked over Pinch, starting at his toes then moving upward, assessing every bone for its likely resistance to his marrow-popping fingers.
“An unexpected occurrence,” the dwarf said after finishing his scan of Pinch’s curled head, more interested in the cranium beneath the scalp.
“Iron-Biter, Master Janol. Janol, Iron-Biter. Iron-Biter’s my right hand, useful in all manner of things. A master of useful trades. Janol is the late king’s ward, Iron-Biter. I’m sure you’ve heard me speak of him.”
The dwarf made a sharp, precise bow to Pinch. He moved far more gracefully than his squat little body should have allowed. “It is a pleasure. I seldom meet worthy adversaries.”
“Indeed,” was all Pinch could manage. Two lines into a conversation and already he was being challenged.
“Iron-Biter’s just a little overanxious,” Vargo purred. “We heard about your meeting with Throdus.”
“Oh.”
“Throdus is an idiot. He should not have wasted time talking to you.”
“No?”
“If it had been me, I would have gutted you on the spot.”
That got Pinch’s bristle up. “If you could have.”
Vargo examined the ceiling for a moment. Iron-Biter did nothing but glare at Pinch. Finally the prince said, “You remember our fencing instructor? The one you could never beat?
“Yes …”
“A month after you left, the fool irritated me. I ran him through at our next lesson. I still remember the look on his face when he realized it was no longer a lesson.”
“It’s been fifteen years, Vargo. Thing change.”
“I’ve only gotten better,” the prince replied with complete confidence. “Haven’t I, Iron-Biter?”
The dwarf, who to that point had never taken his eyes from Pinch, spared the briefest glance toward his lord. “Certainly, Prince Vargo.”
“I think, Jan, that you are not worth bloodying my hands. Iron-Biter, show him why I drag you around.”
The dwarf barely acknowledged the insult. There was in him the devotion of a killer mastiff, the beast eagerly awaiting its master’s command. A grim smile crossed his lips as now he got to perform. Gesturing to the statuary that filled the niches of the hall, he asked the rogue, “Do you like art?”
“Only for its resale value.”
“Ah, a true connoisseur. So, which one has the most worth?”
Pinch smiled because he knew where this game was going. He would choose one and then there would be a crude demonstration of Iron-Biter’s might, all to supposedly impress and terrify him. The Hellriders of Elturel had often used this clumsy ploy. It did have one good effect, though; it showed which enemy you should eliminate first.
“That one, I think.” He deliberately chose one of lesser value—a large marble hydra, its seven heads carved into elaborate coils. The work was solid but unimaginative in pose and pedestrian in its craftsmanship.
The dwarf tsked. “A poor eye. Perhaps you’re not the challenge I thought.” Instead he turned to a small piece carved from a block of jade the size of a melon, a delicately winged sprite perched on the blossom of a fatpetalled flower.
The dwarf muttered softly while he gently stroked the statue. Slowly, under his gentle caress, the stone twitched. With a snapping creak the little wings fluttered, the head swiveled, the flower petals drooped. All at once, the clouded green sprite took flight, its wings clicking frantically to keep its slender stone body in the air.
It soared upward in the great arched hall. Darting into a gleam from the transom windows, the translucent stone shattered the ray of light into emerald-hued brands that blazed the walls, statues, even the trio that stood watching below.
It was beautiful, and the secret of its beauty was both in its grace and in the power that had created it. This Iron-Biter was no mere thug, as Pinch had first presumed. There were few who could bring m
ovement to cold substance; it was a feat given only to priests of power.
“Enough,” Vargo sighed in utter boredom.
The dwarf-priest plucked the stone flower from its stand. Holding it out, he gently chirped, drawing the jade sprite down. It hovered uncertainly before finally allowing itself to be coaxed onto the crystal leaf. With his thick hand, Iron-Biter stroked its back and the sprite responded with a clattering purr.
“Iron-Biter, I have other things to do,” Vargo snapped with impatience.
The dwarf nodded and in midstroke squeezed the stone fairy between his palms. The stone wings crackled, the slender arms shattered. Shards and dust fell through his fingers. The hall filled with the shriek of it all, though Pinch wasn’t sure if it was just grinding stone or if the animate little sprite had found its voice in the last moments of death.
The pair left without further word, leaving only a pile of jade rubble for the servants to clean.
When Pinch returned to his apartment, he was displeased to see two new guards posted outside his door. Unlike the fellow he’d left behind, these two looked alert and attentive.
They were polite and gracious, stepping aside so that he could enter. The corporal of the pair bowed and said, “Lord Cleedis is concerned for your safety, Master Janol. Thus he asks that we stand ready to protect you from dangerous visitors.”
Pinch poked his tongue into his cheek. “And whom might those be.”
The corporal was unfazed. “Within these walls, it could be anyone. Our orders are to let no one in without our lord’s approval.”
“And if I want to leave.”
There was an answer for that too. “Lord Cleedis feels it would be best if you did not risk your safety beyond these chambers. We are instructed to see that you remain safe and unharmed.”
“In other words, I’m a prisoner.”
The corporal frowned. “If that would make Master Janol more comfortable—yes.”
“My comforts are not Lord Cleedis’s concern,” the rogue snapped as he closed the door.
So this was it; the ring was closing in. Cleedis wanted him, but only on the old man’s terms. Is he truly afraid for my safety, or is he afraid I’ll make alliances with the others? It didn’t matter really. Whatever Cleedis’s motives, the regulator refused to be bound by them, but to do that he needed a way out.
The prospect from his windows was dim. The portholes were no larger than before and, even if he could wriggle through one, climbing was not his strong suit. He’d only managed to reach Therin’s balcony because the way had been ridiculously easy.
If he wanted an escape, he had to find another way, and he was convinced there must be one. It was a combination of several things that made him certain. First there was the voice. Whoever had uttered those words had seen what was happening. It could have been done by magic, but he didn’t think so. There was a hollowness in the echo that suggested someone there and close to the scene.
There was also the reality of family history. Pinch knew Ankhapur’s past, the intrigues, assassinations, and plots that defined the character of the city. He could not accept the idea that the queen who’d built these rooms would leave herself trapped by only one door. There had to be another way out.
Methodically, the rogue started an inspection of every inch of the fine wood paneling on the walls, even so far as to stand on a chair for extra height. He ran his fingers down every tongue and groove of the walls, poked and turned every baroque ornament, pulled wainscoting, and kicked baseboards. Given his thoroughness, it was hardly surprising when a section of the wall, just inside the bedroom door; responded with the faint click of a hidden spring. A small piece of the woodwork slid away to reveal a small handle.
This was it then, what he had been looking for.
With a swollen wax candle to light the way, Pinch pushed against the door. The wooden wall budged a fraction of an inch and then stuck. Clearly, this old passage was long forgotten and never used anymore. Pinch shoved harder, cursing Mask, god of deceptions, with each straining breath. The panel yielded an inch with each shove, the old wood grinding across a hidden stone threshold.
Dead air and the odor of cobwebs breathed through the gap, exhaling the soft dust of centuries. With one more shove, the doorway popped open, swirling a fog of powder from the floor. Inside was a stygian passage, all the more gloomy for the feeble glimmer of the candle. Without the taper, the way would have been merely dark, but in its light the walls quivered away into blackness.
Fastidiously slicing the cobwebs away, Pinch rounded a corner and almost tripped down a flight of steps. “No soul’s been here recent,” he muttered to himself. The gray blanket on the floor was undisturbed. It was all the more a puzzle. Pinch was sure in his heart that someone had spied from this passage, but there was no trail of anything or anyone. The descending stairs ruled out the possibility of another path that led to a different section of his rooms.
Pinch pressed on. A passage like this led somewhere, and he wanted to know just where that was. One end was grounded in his apartments. The other could be—well, anywhere.
The staircase was long and kinked around several times until the rogue was completely separated from the surface world. He could no longer say this was north and that south, or that he had progressed any sure number of rods in a given direction. Was he under the courtyard or the west wing, or perhaps neither. Dwarves, he was told, could innately tell you these things at the snap of a fìnger, and he’d heard a few of the grim little potbellies cite with fondness that they were once this-and-such leagues beneath the surface as if it were the most natural understanding of things. He didn’t like it. Plunging into the depths was too much like being sealed in one’s crypt. It was a stifling feeling that he choked down even as he pressed forward. He needed the moon and the open night over him.
Somewhere underground, probably at the depths where bodies were interred in catacombs, the stairs splashed into a narrow hallway. Left and right, the choices were twofold. As Pinch leaned forward to look, a wind racing through guttered his lone flame and splashed hot wax on his hand. The thief pulled back at this reminder of how tenuous was his connection to the daylit world.
Over the hiss of the wind, or commingled with it, the regulator heard a clear note that rose and fell in jerky beats. Was it another voice snatched up by the wind and carried to his ears, or just the handiwork of nature in the air’s headlong rush? It was beyond Pinch to say. The cry, if it could be called such, had the sad quality of a lamentation, the type sung at wakes by drunken kin almost in time and harmony.
As he paused to listen, the rogue spotted a new element. All down the length of the passage, from left to east, west to right, were tracks. Not just rat trails or the squirms of snakes, but real footprints.
They were human, or at least as much as Pinch could tell, and there were at least two sets, but beyond that he couldn’t say. The rogue was no huntsman. The overlapping jumble of tracks before him was beyond his ability to decipher.
Shielding his candle, Pinch guessed on a direction and followed the trail. Who did each track belong to? The princes? Cleedis? Or someone else? One set seemed too small and dainty for prince or chamberlain, the other quite possible. Still, Pinch ruled out the princes. He couldn’t imagine any of them traipsing through cob-webbed corridors, not when they had flunkies to do the job. Cleedis, he knew, would do his own dirty work. Perhaps the old man had been spying on him.
A flickering light immediately ahead ended all speculation. It had emerged without a preceding glimmer, perhaps the shutter raised on a lantern. Pinch immediately hid his light, tucking the candle into a sleeve. The flame scorched his arm. There was nothing to do but bite back the pain and endure in silence. Without a stick of Kossuth’s sulfur, there was no way to relight the candle should he need it later.
The distant light darted back around its corner, frighted by his own gleams. The rogue lightfooted after, determined not to lose this other interloper. He moved with quick puffing steps,
years of stealth aided by a thick carpet of dust.
He peered around the corner, candle still cloaked and dagger ready, barely in time to see the rays disappear around another bend. The rogue’s breath thrilled at the challenge of the chase.
His prey was as quick as he was stealthy, darting through the labyrinth of passages. Pinch guessed they were in some old catacombs beneath the palace. Left, right, right, left—he struggled to remember the turns. It would do no good if he could not get back.
As he rounded one more turn, the floor vanished, replaced by empty space. Unable to recover, he plunged forward, hit a step, lurched, and then the candle slipped from his hand. As the rogue frantically batted at the flame in his sleeve, he lost all hope of balance and tumbled into the darkness.
The fall was mercifully short, but not short enough. Pinch managed to crack what seemed like every bone against the jagged stone steps. His hose snagged ripping edges, his hands tore along the rasping walls. And then it ended with a hard crash as the man spilled onto a floor of cold, greasy stone.
Slowly and with a great deal of pain he could easily have lived without, Pinch tottered back to his feet, supporting himself on a wall he could not see. It was black, without even the little twinkling lights they say a man gets from a sound whack to the head. His head throbbed enough, but no whirling colors appeared.
What if I’ve knocked myself blind? The thought triggered panic.
A gleam of light dispelled that fear. Whomever he pursued was still up ahead. They had certainly heard his fall, there was no more point in secrecy.
“Whose light? You’ve lured me this far. Show yourself and let’s have done with it.” Pinch tried bravado since surprise was out.
There was no response. The light wavered and then began to fade.
“Damn you,” the rogue muttered to no one but himself. “You’re not slipping me.” His only choices were to follow or grope his way back, and he couldn’t remember the turns to his room. The fall had knocked the order loose and they drifted around, right-left, left-right, he didn’t know for sure. There really was no choice but to hobble forward.
