by David Cook
Lissa was unprepared for the demand. “I … I am certain they will. By my word they will,” she added with more confidence as she weighed the artifact in her hand.
“I will prepare a receipt for you to present to your superiors,” Pinch added as an extra fillip of persuasiveness.
“Your injuries. Did you …”
“Fight for the amulet—no, I’m no hero.” Later, when the rogue told this story around the table, this would be the place where he would pause and spread his hands with the confidence that he had caught his mark. “This was, I think, an attempt to get it back.”
Lissa hastily slid the artifact out of sight. “You think they’ll try again?”
“Almost certainly. If I were a thief, I would. I fear it puts you in danger.”
“I can care for myself.”
“They’ll be looking for you.”
“I’ll take it to the temple.”
“The Morninglord’s temple here in Ankhapur is small and poorly funded. These thieves already stole it once from a better-equipped temple. They’d be certain to try here.”
“Not if you turned them over to the authorities.”
“I can’t.” Pinch was lying in this. If he ever had to, he’d turn Sprite and the others over without a qualm.
“Can’t?”
“I’m not sure who they are and even if I knew, I wouldn’t. Understand—my success is based in part on discretion. Lose that and no one will trust me.”
The priestess was shocked. “This is a business for you!”
Pinch sipped at the brew the tea vender set in front of him. “It is a service. Sometimes there are rewards and sometimes not. We can’t all live supported by the donations of others, lady.”
She felt the venom in that sting. “It’s not a pure business—”
“And I am no priest, even if I am decked out in these red robes,” Pinch interrupted. “You live to see the perfect world rise over the horizon like the sun of your Morninglord, and I laud you for that, Lissa. I must live to survive. Besides, isn’t recovering what is stolen a virtue? Maids come to priests to find rings they have lost; I just do the same without spells.”
The priestess pointedly looked at the sky, unwilling to admit the soundness of his argument. Pinch sipped his tea and gave her time, but never changed his gaze of expectant answer. He had her on the hook and was not about to let her wriggle away.
“There is virtue even in the cloud that hides the sun,” she finally murmured. It was a quote from something, probably some scripture of her church. It was her admission to accept his point, her faith overruling her good instincts.
Priests always made the best prey, Pinch thought to himself. Others were unpredictable, but priests had their codes, for good or ill, giving a sharper lever to tip them one way or the other.
“What will you do with the amulet?” he asked, abruptly changing the conversation. “It’s not safe either with you or your temple.”
“I can find some place to hide it.”
Pinch shook his head in disagreement, as if he were considering the point to himself and she were not across the small table from him.
“What?”
“What was taken can be found. It’s a saying among their kind.”
“You have a better plan?” she challenged as Pinch hoped she would.
“Yes, but there’s no purpose in naming it.” Like the hunter in the blind, he was baiting the trap to lure the prey near.
“What do you mean?”
“There is a way you could keep it safe, but you’ll not do it, so I won’t say it.”
“You are so certain!” she fumed. “How can you be so sure about me?”
“Then you will give me the amulet?”
“What?”
“See! ’Tis as I said. There’s no point in pursuing it.”
“What do you mean, give you the amulet?”
“Nothing. It was a foolish idea. Hide your treasure and let it go.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s pointless. It requires trust.”
“How does your having the amulet protect it?”
“First, because they’ll assume you have it, not I. We’ve met; what other point was there but to return your treasure? Therefore, they’ll look to you as the person who must be robbed.
“Second, they know my sting and fear it. Why do you think they gave it back in the first place? For five thousand gold nobles? Hardly. This treasure’s worth far more, if they could sell it to some rival priest or wizard.” Pinch paused and took a sip of tea. “They’re afraid of my connections and my position. As the late king’s royal ward, I could have anyone arrested and executed on my word alone. They will not cross me like they would you.”
Lissa studied her hands. “I don’t—”
“As I said—trust,” Pinch countered with disappointment. “You injure me, which is why I would not bring this up. First, you think me a thief and wound me for it. Second, you suspect me as a liar. Another wound. Third, you think that I would refuse to give it back. Any more of these cuts and I’ll take a worse beating from you than those scoundrels did to me.”
Lissa tried to sip her tea, but its bitterness felt like her soul and brought no comfort. “Perhaps … I have been uncharitable in my judgments. I … believe you are right. Take the amulet and guard it for me.”
“No.” Now was time to set the hook.
“You won’t?”
“I won’t do it just to make you feel better.”
“Then do so because you’re right,” she urged, pressing the amulet into his hand. “Hold it for me until I return to Elturel in a fortnight’s passing—because I will trust you.”
Pinch contemplated the amulet, feigning some doubt about the matter, before quickly slipping it away. “For a fortnight, then.” He raised his mug as a bond of their word and smiled his first genuine smile since their meeting. A fortnight it would be, barely enough time to find a buyer and arrange for the artifact to disappear conveniently one more time. It was almost a shame to swindle one so pretty and trusting.
She matched his toast, blind to the intent of his good cheer. Hardly had the mugs clinked but Pinch was on his feet and ready to go. “You must give me leave, Priestess Lissa, but this robe suits me poorly. I must find a tailor with a quick hand. I have no desire to return to the palace dressed as I am.” It was best to be gone quickly before she had the chance to reconsider her choice, and certainly his clothes offered the best excuse.
Their parting done, Pinch hurried down the street, into the city, and far away from the palace gates. There was still one more appointment to keep before he could begin the work Cleedis had commissioned of him.
Pinch found his company several hours later, after he’d got himself new dress. No locks were broken or heads cracked, but the Red Priests would be hard pressed to explain why one of their order was seen fleeing a laundry with a gentleman’s wash.
The three had settled into the ordinary where Pinch had sent them. On the outside, it was a squalid place, just up the alley from the fishmongers’ gathering place. To the south were the rat-infested docks, while the blocks just up the hill were notorious stews where man, woman, or thing could find most tawdry pleasures they sought. Here, in the gloomy zone between the two, the air reeked of seawater, fish guts, and cheap scented oils. The packed clay of the alley was slimy with fish cleaner’s leavings and made musical by the chittering of rats and the belches of the resident drunks. In a way, Pinch had chosen the place for its ambiance; given the air and the locale, no honest man was likely to intrude on them.
Inside, the shop was little better. A smoky fire, sputtered by grease dripping from a questionable carcass that turned on the spit, overheated the cramped main room. This was little more than a trio of tables, scored and stained by knife fights and ale, and some rickety benches pressed up against the wall. The patrons, dock rats too hard up to visit even the meanest festhalls farther up and drunken sailors stopping in for one last toast on their way down
from those same halls, eyed Pinch hungrily as he came through the canvas door. The rogue passed through their company without a word and made for the rooms upstairs.
Therin, Sprite, and Maeve were huddled at the lone table in the room Pinch had let. The rogue was pleased to see they’d exercised discipline and waited for his arrival instead of setting out on an ill-advised drinking spree. Of course, the jugs on the table showed they hadn’t spent their entire time in sober contemplation.
“Run out of lamp oil while you were dressing, did you, Pinch?” smirked Therin when the master rogue found his friends. The regulator said not a word, but pulled up a chair and set himself at their table, back to a corner as was his custom. He was dressed ill matched and ill fitting, in tattered hose and a doublet that hung loose on his chest and short on the sleeves. About the only thing right about it were the somber dark colors, well suited to Pinch’s needs for the night.
“Maybe he got caught catting and grabbed her husband’s clothes instead of his own,” Sprite snickered.
“Pinch, you wouldn’t!” Maeve added in mock horror.
“Have your wit all well and good, but have you done as you were commanded?” Pinch glowered as he tried to pour the last slops out of the jug they’d already drained.
“Aye, three for all of us.” Therin looked to the other two and they nodded agreement.
“I’ve found us an artificer who’s gambled too poorly to meet his notes. He’ll work quick with no questions for the right fee. I even filched us his fee.” Sprite plopped a bag of coins on the table.
“Keep your profit,” Pinch granted with uncharacteristic generosity, knowing full well the halfling had probably nipped twice what he was showing. “The copies?”
“Two sets of each,” Sprite answered with a mischievous twinkle. “Thought maybe we could take the second set and sell it to some coney once the word gets ’round.”
“How good’s his work?”
“Faith, Pinch, he claims he’s the best, but I ain’t seen this blackjack and skene to compare.”
Pinch accepted that. It was a pointless question anyway, since there was no more time.
“The layout? I’ve seen the inside. What more can you give me?”
Therin reached into his heavy buff coat and produced a greasy sheet of parchment that he carefully unfolded and spread over the table, avoiding the pools of drink.
“I—and Maeve,” the Gur added in return for the wizardess’s sharp kick under the table, “Maeve and me have compassed the whole of the place on this sheet. See this here”—he jabbed at a scratch mark on the sheet—“be the main gate, and that little mark there is their postern. Guard walks are here and go around in this fashion.” The fìnger drew out the path on the sheet. “This cup and knife is kept in the tower—”
“I know, I saw it. Catchpoles?”
“The watch don’t patrol the area heavy, according to the locals. They leave it to the priests to mind the peace.”
“Good. What about spells and locks, Maeve?”
“Well, Pinch, love, I couldn’t get a good read on the spells.” Maeve looked down, sheepish that she hadn’t been able to fulfill her role. “Those priests are awful leery. Felt like the standard set of wards on the doors and windows, but I’d wager the walls ain’t guarded that way. Probably rely on watchmen for that.”
“Beasts?”
“No scent, no track,” Therin said.
“Well, thank Mask for that.” Pinch leaned back and considered the map before speaking again. “Looks like it’ll be a climbing job,” he finally decided with disgust. Any hope of an easier way was dashed by the map laid out before him. “Sprite, it’ll be you and me. We’ll need rope and dark clothes.”
The halfling spit a wad of something onto the floor and nodded.
“Therin, Maeve—get yourselves back to the palace. Get word to Cleedis that I need his package tonight. He’ll find us across the square from the temple. Understood?”
“Aye, Pinch.”
“Well then, summon up the landlord and get us more drink,” Pinch ordered with grim cheer. “We’re out to do some breaking tonight.”
Night Work
The nightly steam was curling into the square from the streets and arcades. It was a thin mist but full of the flavor of fish grease and onions, bad cheese and night slops. Pinch didn’t mind the stink where he sat, nestled in a dark corner. Sprite squatted at his feet, playing with his dagger in the dust. The watch had come by twice already, calling the hours past midnight. Beyond the constables, men to be studiously avoided, the square was barely alive with the dregs of the night trade—drunken sailors vainly searching for the docks, noodle vendors closing up their carts, festhall ladies returning from assignations, and rakes prowling the ways for a fight. Pinch amused himself by picking out the foins and cutpurses among the dwindling revelers. They were easy enough to spot for a man who knew how to look: men who traveled in groups and pretended not to know each other, who circled around their mark like vultures in the sky.
Pinch watched his brothers as they watched their prey, always observant but never looking. He watched them with an idle professional interest, hoping to see a strike or a swindle new to him. Of particular interest was a trio of cardsharps who set up their game on the temple steps. It was a poor choice of place, with no privacy or distracting drink, which only meant this lot was a scrounging crew. The setter lured a coney in, the verser dealt him the cards, and the barnacle, the third, egged their mark on. Even from a distance, Pinch could see the verser was an amateur. He fumbled a chopped card so badly that only the quick thinking of the barnacle kept their coney from getting suspicious. It was clear that, at least on the basis of professional interest, there was nothing to be learned from these three.
Perhaps if Pinch had not been so absorbed by the antics of the card players, he might have noticed another soul hovering at the edge of the square—but perhaps not. There was little to note, just the bend of a low-hanging branch and the way a cur kept itself far from a certain spot as it prowled the plaza. It was not that Pinch was supposed to know that invisible eyes lay upon him.
Cleedis came skulking though the darkest part of the alley as had been arranged by messenger. Pinch winced, purely from professional concern, as the old warrior stumbled over the hidden snares of the alley. Prudently the rogue had arranged their meeting beyond the range of the temple guards’ hearing or suspicion. The rogue nodded to his companion and the halfling obligingly melted from sight.
No greeting was said between them, the old man’s impulse to talk shushed by Pinch’s admonishing finger. Cleedis handed over a bag of lusterless black and Pinch wasted no time in unwrapping the cord. Inside were the false treasures passed on by the late Manferic.
Pinch nodded in satisfaction and then steered Cleedis farther into the darkness of the alley.
“Now, tell Manferic to keep his pet jailers away from me,” he hissed into the old man’s warty ear, “or there’ll be no job tonight or ever.”
The chamberlain squinched up his face in indignation. “Don’t you make threats to me, you bastard knave! The Morninglord’s priests would still like to roast you—or have you forgotten?”
Pinch answered with a smile in his voice. “I forget nothing. It’s just that I think now they are more likely to suspect you than me. Be sure of your threats, old man.”
“I—I don’t understand,” Cleedis weakly stammered, unbalanced by this rapid upheaval of roles. He was supposed to be the threatener, the blackmailer, not Pinch. “What pet?” It was a weak stall, but all the flustered courtier could assemble.
“In the tunnels,” Pinch snarled.
“You’ve been beneath the palace?”
“I met Ikrit there. He tried to flail the husk off me.”
“Ikrit—” Cleedis choked, holding back a gasp, “—lives?”
Pinch stepped closer, pinning the old man along the alley wall. He could sense the advantage slipping his way. “And some lady. Why do they hunt me?”
> “Lady? There was a lady?… I don’t know,” the nobleman floundered.
“You are a poor deceiver, Cleedis.”
“Perhaps it was a prisoner from long ago. You know Manferic—people who angered him tended to disappear.”
“But you know about Ikrit.” The rogue wasn’t about to let his catch slip from the hook.
“It was just that … that was so long ago. I was surprised to hear the creature was still alive.”
“And the woman? She took great interest in me.”
“I don’t know. Can you describe her?”
“No. Who is she?”
Cleedis found his backbone and became defiant. “I can’t tell you. There were so many. It could have been a scullery maid who broke a prized dish, for all I know. There were times when whole staffs disappeared because Manferic was convinced they’d tried to poison him.”
“Hmmph. I just thought he had them executed.”
“He did at first. Later, death was not enough for him. He let the quaggoths hunt prisoners in those tunnels while he watched through a scrying ball.”
That matched Pinch’s images of his guardian. “So you’re saying this woman was part of one of his hunts?”
The old man nodded with a suggestive leer. “I would guess she had charms or maybe spells to please Ikrit.”
Pinch thought on this. It had the ring of those tales like Duric the Fool—too implausible to be real—but there was a chance it was true the way Duric’s tales were sometimes real under a different name.
“When I get back, old man, we will talk more.” It was not threat or promise, but the cold assurance that this matter was not done. Before the other could challenge his claim, Pinch took the bag and abandoned the chamberlain to the wet darkness.
“What was that all on?” Sprite probed as Pinch rejoined him and they slipped along the shadows of the square. “Ladies and tunnels and what.”
“Have you ever heard that big ears get clipped?” Pinch snapped, thus ending the line of conversation before it ever was started.
