King Pinch

by David Cook

  Cleedis gave the priests the backhand of his attention. The bodyguard formed an aisle, their swords a blued-steel fence. Given the determined disregard the chamberlain showed, the priests let their curiosity and outrage quickly fade. They made a great show of falling back into their daily habits. How fitting of man’s noblest sentiments, the thief sarcastically noted. Only Lissa remained undaunted.

  “Lord Cleedis, I take your leave,” the regulator said. “I’ve some contriving to do, now that the job’s clear.”

  Deep beneath the regal finery, the paunchy wrinkles, and the white-frosted pate, Cleedis still had the soul of a barracks-room trooper. He saw how Lissa had caught Pinch’s eye and got it completely wrong. He leaned over to whisper, “She’s not the kind to have you, or any man, you poxy rascal. I’ll hazard my finest firewine you can’t charm her.”

  Pinch met the suggestion with a jump of one eyebrow. It could have been an acceptance of the challenge or it might have been a gambler’s tic, the sort that betrays a man’s astonishment before he’s even sensed it fully.

  “I’ll be happy to drink good wine,” the rogue drawled encouragingly. He didn’t correct the lord; indeed, he wanted the old man to go on dreaming of Pinch’s peccadilloes. It would keep his mind from the thief’s real motives.

  “And what will you pledge?”

  Pinch shrugged. “What little I wear is barely more than I came with, but perhaps a purse or two of your choosing.”

  “Fair on. My wine against your fingers.”

  Pinch raised his hand and waved the aforementioned fingers in farewell. “I’ll make my own way back.”

  When the troop rounded the corner, he sought out Lissa. The man found her gathering her holy scrip. Pinch gave a weather eye to the sky. The long shadows had pushed out from the narrow lanes and were thickening in the broad lane to the gate.

  “Going somewhere?” Pinch nodded toward the gate.

  “What you did in there, executing—”

  “I didn’t execute anyone.”

  “You walked away while they killed one,” she protested.

  “What was I supposed to do? Interfere with the direct orders of the royal chamberlain?”

  Lissa pressed her fingers to her eyes, confused. “You could have argued against it—”

  “Asked for leniency? Those men came to kill me.”

  Lissa’s eyes locked with his. There was the jagged hardness of rock in her glare, something Pinch hadn’t expected from a priestess of the Morninglord.

  “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

  “Dyed through and through,” Pinch answered gleefully. The priestess opened her mouth to say something, but Pinch did not stop and rocketed through a litany of infamy. “I’m also a fiend, rakehell, wastrel, and ne’er-do-well as well as a shirker, cock-lorel, swigman, swadler, and wild rogue, but not a palliard or a counterfeit crank.” He stopped to gasp in a huge breath. “My clothes are too good for that,” He explained as an aside before launching in again with a hurried, earnest whisper favored by theatrical conspirators. “If I were you, I’d count my rings and silver and lock up my treasures when that Janol’s around. I’d change the locks to the wine cellar and cast new wards on the royal treasury. I’d even make sure all the ladies-in-waiting were ugly and well out of sight.”

  The rogue tapped his nose with a wink and a grin, like a child’s favorite old uncle. “ ’Struth. I haven’t seen one since I got here.”

  Lissa had stopped her packing, quite taken aback by Pinch’s sardonic good spirits. “You’re teasing me. No one’s that bad.”

  “That bad? What about Core the Cuckolder or Fine-Cloth Durram? Now, they were that bad, I assure you. I once heard how Durram drank the best of a lord’s wine cellar in one night and then came back for the goblets on the next!” Pinch kept the banter flowing while casually steering her away from the necropolis gate. He didn’t want the priestess brooding on what had just happened. He needed her to like him, if not trust him.

  “Let me escort you to safer streets,” he said casually, offering her his arm. His gaze swept over the mud-spattered street. Save for the boulevard they were on, the neighborhood was a tangle of narrow, crooked stews and warrens of ill intent. The little garretted town houses rammed up against each other piecemeal, in places so furiously trying to steal the sunlight from their neighbors that no light reached the streets and alleys at their base. Throughout this tangle, the gardens of the festhalls provided touches of color, tenderness, and sweet fragrance that the cheap stews disdained, but only for a price. They were streets full of the unsavory, the unstable, and the immorally ambitious. They were the streets of Pinch’s youth.

  “Why, I could be that bad, I’m sure,” he continued. “No doubt every father and mother in town would live in fear of seeing my pepper-haired pate come knocking at their door, because, you see, they’d know I had no morals, few scruples, and far too many dark habits to be safe around their daughters. Nay, if I were a proper priestess like you, I’d not spend time with that Janol, or your superiors would think you’re no more than a bawdy basket.”

  He grinned the cat’s grin and gave her a sweeping bow to cap his whole speech.

  Lissa reddened and tried to wear a scowling smile but only succeeded in twisting up her face and betraying every one of her emotions: suspicion, belief, skepticism, and amusement. “Enough already. You’re telling me tales.”

  “Of course, nothing but.” Pinch made sure that his answer was too eager, like a man in the trial box denying a truth—which he was, of course.

  She looked at him in just the way he hoped she would.

  People who are too innocent become eventually distrusted, tripped up by some trivial character flaw; the obviously guilty never gain trust to start with. The best course was to be neither and both—believably unbelievable. Done right, the priestess would vacillate between suspicion and trust until guilt made her blind to his faults.

  “How goes your hunt?” he asked, sliding the conversation into a topic she could not resist.

  Now it was her turn to be evasive. “Slow progress.”

  Pinch nodded. “That poorly, eh?” He could see in her eyes he’d cut to the quick of her lie.

  She kept her counsel on that matter, instead focusing on the cobblestones of the street.

  “Well, perhaps I have news.”

  “You do?”

  “I cannot be sure—you remember I warned you of Cleedis?”

  She nodded.

  “Things have happened that make me wonder.”

  “Things?”

  “It’s hard to say. What are the powers of this thing you seek?”

  “Powers? It has no powers.”

  Pinch shook his head. “Never try dissembling with an Ankhapurian. They—we’re masters of the art. I learned how to spot a lie a long time ago, a lesson from my royal cousins.

  “Your temple has hunted this thing enough for me to know it has special powers. It’s not just sentiment that makes them search so hard; otherwise they would have given up long ago.”

  “It’s a relic of the great Dawnbreaker. Isn’t that enough?”

  Pinch searched through his royal tutor’s lessons for what he might know about a Dawnbreaker. There was nothing.

  “Depends. Who or what is the Dawnbreaker?”

  Lissa slid naturally into the role of patient missionary. With so many gods, so many martyrs, every priest became accustomed to explaining the myths and icons of his faith.

  “The Dawnbreaker was a great prophet who served the Morninglord.”

  “Of course.” They were all great prophets—or profits. Temples without prophets or seers tended to be poor, miserly things. This Pinch knew from experience.

  “He was. He predicted the Wintry Summer and the razing of the Unshadowed Palace of the Night Queen.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s very ancient history. The gospel is that when the Dawnbreaker died, the Morninglord burned away the impurity of his flesh and commanded
an amulet be made from the bones of his skull.”

  Pinch arched an eyebrow at this.

  “So this bauble is really a skull? Is that what I’m looking for? ’Struth why my examinations have failed. I was looking for a mere trinket, not some old prophet’s pate!”

  “No, it’s only a piece of his bone bound inside an amulet of rare metals.”

  Pinch nodded and pursed his lips as though he were imagining the relic, though that was hardly necessary since he wore the thing beneath his shirt. He hesitantly asked, as if shy at intruding into the secrets of her sect, “It wouldn’t have any special powers, would it? Things that might reveal its presence?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well—and this may sound folly—curiosities have plagued me at the palace. Voices, witchlights, and the like. That wasn’t …?”

  Lissa cocked her head, letting her curly hair spill from the edge of her hood. “The scriptures do say the Upholder of Light called on its might against the Sun-Devourer.”

  “Upholder of Light?”

  “The Dawnbreaker. It is another sign of our respect for the great prophet.”

  “Upholder, Dawnbreaker—what does it mean he ‘called on its might’? What did it do?” Pinch leaned against the stuccoed wall of the first building across from the necropolis gate. It was a smoke-blackened ordinary with a very grim signboard overhead: The Shroud. Nonetheless, it sounded festive enough inside. Their conversation had steered her well away from her assigned post.

  “The scriptures are very vague on all that. They just refer to some great power without really describing much. Not everyone could use it either; only the faithful are described as being able to use it.”

  “ ’Tis not me, for certain, to gain from such a thing,” Pinch lied. “I never knew about the Morninglord until I came to Elturel.”

  The truth was that Pinch’s gain would have been all in coin. He’d spent weeks casing the Elturel temple, working out its wards, guard schedules, and even just where to make the break in the roof. The plan had been to filch the amulet and then pass it off to Therin. The Gur was to carry it west in the next caravan until he found a good broker on the Sword Coast to take it off his hands.

  Cleedis had ruined all that.

  Now the rogue felt like he was stuck with the thing. True, there were more than enough brokers in Ankhapur who would pay for an artifact of mysterious power, but Pinch knew his chances of getting good coin were very slim. The hue and cry embodied in Lissa’s presence made matters all the worse. Every broker in the city would know where the object came from and probably who had stolen it. That knowledge could be a powerful threat to Pinch’s freedom. The rogue had no ambition to discover the pleasantries of Ankhapur’s prisons.

  “So many questions. Maybe you’ve heard news?” The quick tones of Lissa’s curiosity intruded on Pinch’s reverie. She spoke with allegro phrasing in tones and shades that carried more meaning than her words. Pinch could imagine her in the ranks of the temple choir, a place that better suited her than the slop-strewn stews that surrounded them now.

  “Maybe.” The rogue kept his answer short. Talk killed thieves.

  “I think the Dawnbreaker’s amulet is here, in Ankhapur.”

  “How can you be sure?” Pinch really wanted to know her reasons, but he had to take care not to sound too intrigued. If she suspected someone, he had to include the possibility she suspected him.

  “The patriarchs in Elturel have divined that the amulet is not within that city. They’ve sent word.”

  Pinch scratched at his stubbly beard. He’d not had time for grooming since some moment yesterday. “That hardly places the proof here.”

  Lissa lowered her voice as a drunk ambled out of the Shroud, a hairy brute whose naked chest barely fit beneath the scarred leather apron he wore as a shirt. The man strutted past them, arrogantly challenging these well-dressed strangers who ventured onto his turf.

  “The amulet is in Ankhapur. Believe me on this.”

  “An informer? Someone’s given you word, or tried to sell it. You think I have it? Or another?”

  The musical pleasantry of her voice suddenly disappeared. “If it were one of your friends, would you reveal them?”

  “Sprite, Maeve, Therin—you think it’s one of them?”

  “I meant hypothetically. Someone brought it from Elturel. I can feel it.”

  “You think I consort with this thief.” Pinch straightened himself in indignation.

  “I’ve said too much already. It is here, though, and I will find it.” Her tone was unabashed by his accusation.

  Pinch assumed an air of almost theatrical injury. “I’ve known rogues and thieves most of my life, priestess, but do not mistake me for one. I like their company. They drink better and they’re more honest than the snakes of the court. Just because a man’s company is not to your taste, don’t impute on his friends. Yes, Sprite is an imp and Maeve drinks a bit, but they’re good people. As for me, I’m only seeking to recover what you’ve lost. If you’re not pleased with this, then I shall cease.”

  Perhaps he just pressed too hard, perhaps she was just wary, or perhaps he had always been the target of her suspicion. Whatever the reasoning, if there was any reasoning to it at all, the priestess suddenly withdrew even as she rejected his offer. She pulled her things about her with the urge to go, although the rogue noted his words at least caused her to keep one hand at her dagger.

  “I meant no affront, Master Janol, but I will find this thief, no matter who he—or she—is.” With that the priestess broke away as if afraid that Pinch could somehow charm her to think otherwise.

  Pinch let her go, watching her carefully pick her path around the turgid puddles of slops. There was no breaking the frost of cold courtesy that had settled on her.

  Pinch looked up to the Shroud, with its wooden drapery creaking from the signboard overhead. There was work to be done, and a drink was as good enough a place as any to start. Alcohol keened his plotter’s mind, perversely laying bare the twisted paths of a multitude of schemes. Besides, he was thirsty.

  Pinch sat at a dark table in a dark corner the way he always preferred. From the dawn light until now, he reviewed the day’s events. Too much was happening that he didn’t control: strange voices, stranger hands in the dark, Manferic returned, and Lissa retreating. Everything about it was the design of fates beyond his control, and that Pinch could not abide. For fifteen years he had fought to be the master of his own life, and now in the span of a few days, everything was conspiring to take that apart.

  One by one the drinks came, and as part of the ritual his mind followed in its cunning, Pinch dedicated each mug to a threat to future well-being.

  “Here’s to Manferic,” the rogue toasted to no one in particular on his first blackjack of heady wine. “Were the bastard’s memory truly dead.” It was a toast to more than just bitter memories. The undead king was the first and foremost problem. There was little doubt what Pinch’s reward would be when his job was done. King Manferic had always been brutally efficient at removing useless pawns. The rogue drained the mug in one long gulp, slapped it on the table, and sat brooding as he stared at the chisel work of a previous customer. Several times he waved off the landlord while plots played themselves out in his mind.

  At last he called for a second blackjack, and when it came he raised it high. “To Cleedis.” Again he repeated the ritual of drink and brood. What was the chamberlain’s part, and just whom did he serve? Dead Manferic used him, but the late king trusted no one, that Pinch was certain. But old Cleedis wasn’t a fool, though he played the role for others. As a general he’d had a cunning mind for traps and lures. The rogue was running the gantlet for these two without knowing even where it would end.

  With these two, Manferic and Cleedis, at least the threat was clear. They wanted him to do the job and then they wanted him dead. The rogue was clear on that. Already he was threading plots within their plots, plans to keep himself alive. It was life as normal in A
nkhapur.

  With his third mug, Pinch contemplated the coldest challenge of all. He raised his blackjack to Lissa and her quest. She was close, too close. The rogue was sure she’d gotten her suspicions from Cleedis or maybe one of the princes, though Pinch doubted they were that well-informed or clever. It was a way for Cleedis to keep him under good behavior, to control his life.

  He could kill her and have done with it, like he’d once considered on the road, but the thought didn’t appeal to him. He was getting sentimental, fond of her easy gullibility. There had to be a use for her alive.

  The only other choice, though, was to give her a thief. It couldn’t be just any thief. It had be someone she suspected. Which one could he do without, Pinch wondered: Maeve, Therin, or Sprite? If it came to it, which one could he give up?

  Pinch ordered another drink and brooded even more.

  Low Cunning

  The great, swollen, and single eye of the Morninglord was not yet gazing upon Ankhapur when Pinch sidled out of the mist and back into the marbled confines of the palace. The thick, warm steam, fresh from the sea, cast him up in its wash, the great cloud that blanketed the commons of Ankhapur breaking into its froth just at the hard stones of the palace gate.

  Pinch sauntered under the portcullis, raised for the cooks and spitboys off to market, passing the guards with the confidence that he belonged there. It had been years since the feeling of arrogant privilege truly belonged to him. He had never forgotten it and carried it with him through all his dealings with petty thugs, constable’s watch, prison turnkeys, and festhall girls. He always held that knowledge of his own superiority as the key to his rise and dominance in Elturel. Having the sense of it, though, wasn’t the same as the confirmation of one’s entitlement that came in moments like this.

  At other times and places, fools had tried to convince him that respect was the mark of a true leader—foolish old men who believed they were the masters of great criminal clans, but in truth little men with little understanding. Pinch knew from his years under Manferic’s sharp tutelage that respect meant nothing but useless words and bad advice. Fear is what made men and beasts obey—utter and base fear. Manferic had been an artist in instilling fear. The common people feared the terrors that awaited dissidents and rivals who vanished in the night. The nobility dreaded the moment Manferic might strip a title or confiscate lands. The princes feared the moment their father might turn on them and bloodily solve the question of succession. None of them knew the scope of the chasm that was his soul, and none of them dared find out.