King Pinch

by David Cook

  “Magic,” Pinch croaked. His throat was raw from smoke and dry for lack of drink. “The bastard’s got more magic than any proper dwarf I know. Snared me the same way.”

  Sprite nodded. “What happened down there? Was he down there?”

  The regulator struggled to his feet. “He’s bolted. Back to Vargo, I’d think. We’re best off before more priests come. There’s more to say later.”

  “What about that?” Sprite nodded toward the shelf where the artifacts rested.

  “Let them rest,” Pinch said with a smile. “Pater Iron-Biter wasn’t quite as clever as he thought.”

  Working together, the two thieves managed to lower themselves out of the tower, not an easy task for two walking wounded. Sprite-Heels had made light of his wounds, but by the sheen of sweat that rose with every effort, Pinch could tell fighting the poison had taken more from him than the halfling let on. There wasn’t much to be done for it but press on, though. By the time they’d crossed the last wall and reached the safety of the heavy shadows in the alleys outside, the two could barely stand on solid legs. Given that they were staggering anyway, Pinch paid a coin at a tavern window and bought them each a skin of good wine. His tattered and dirty state hardly raised an eyebrow with the wench who served him. In the hours before dawn her establishment had all manner of customers, and Pinch was just another filthy beggar up on his luck.

  Fortified, refreshed, and rewarded, the two went lurching through the streets. “What now, Pinch?” Sprite asked after a long medicinal pull at the jug. “I could use a touch of comfort for me side.”

  “Healing,” Pinch grunted, pulling the jug from the halfling’s hands. Sweet wine trickled through his beard as he gulped down their improvised painkiller. His hand throbbed mightily, so much that he could barely flex it. “Got to get this fixed ’fore it ruins my trade.

  “Can’t go back to the Red Priests,” the rogue muttered to himself, pondering their problem with excessive effort. A night’s worth of black work and the beatings he’d taken made the alcohol doubly potent. “Don’t want no one knowing of this …”

  “What about Lissa? She’s still around, ain’t she, Pinch? It’s a wager you could persuade her into helping us—especially if you got me there to cross-lay the tale.”

  The suggestion made Pinch grin. “ ’Struth, she stands mostly favorable with us—and I’ve got just the tale for her. Come on, Sprite. We’re off to the house of the Morninglord.”

  Half-lurching, the two walking wounded wound through the alleys to the temple of the Morninglord. Being mindful of their previous company and made worrisome by drink, the pair watched their trail closely for any sign that might reveal an invisible shadow. Only when no alley cats hissed unexpectedly, no splashes appeared in empty puddles, and no gates opened of their own accord did the two set course for the temple.

  The Morninglord’s shrine was a pizzling affair compared to the grand glories of the house they’d just left. As was the custom of the Dawn Priests, the temple was at the easternmost end of the easternmost street in the city. It was one building with a single tall tower, both featureless from the west. The eastern side of the building was no doubt lavishly decorated for the dawn god to see, marked by stained glass windows that opened onto glorious altars. This was all well and good for the faithful but did little to create an impressive public facade, and the temple languished as a consequence.

  It was an elf who answered the door, dressed in the garish yellow, orange, and pink robes of the order, although the colors were faded and his sunburst tiara a bit shabby. Though it was near enough dawn for worshipers to come to service, the sallow-faced elf viewed their arrival with a start of surprise, as though visitors here were as unexpected as rain in the desert. He murmured expressions of greeting profusely as he showed them in, and for a race noted for its haughtiness, he managed to bow and scrape most ambitiously. It was a sign of how hard up the temple was if this elf was willing to fawn for donations from a pair as raggedy as them. The regulator put up with it as long as was necessary to send for Lissa.

  When the priestess appeared, it was in the full robes of her order, and Pinch was frankly shocked at the transformation. The robes imbued her with a radiant femininity that had been hidden beneath her plain working dress. It was clear he’d been too quick to dismiss her before. The orange, the pink, the golden ribbons, and the sun-sparkled headdress that had looked tawdry on the elf shone on her like cloth of gold. Her hair escaped the edges of her headdress, and her face beamed with fresh-scrubbed brightness.

  “Greetings, Lissa,” he began with an unfeigned awkwardness, so suddenly taken aback by her beauty, “I—we—have come for you help—”

  “You look terrible, Master Janol! What happened?”

  Lissa’s compassion was just as Pinch had hoped, and his nervousness faded as she gave him the opportunity to spin his tale. “Thieves—we were set upon by thugs looking for the amulet. Sprite’s been stabbed.” The halfling picked up his cue and gave an appropriate groan at this point.

  “But you—your clothes—” She stopped, noticing the putrid smell about him for the first time. “And … your appearance.”

  “A bath and clothes will set me right. I seem to be going through my wardrobe of late.” Pinch tried to make light of his own state. Now that he was here, it did not seem such a good idea to reveal the brand that the amulet had given him.

  Discretion failed him though, for Sprite blurted, “And his hand—he hurt his hand too, miss.”

  Pinch gave Sprite one of those glares, and the halfling could only look drunkenly sheepish as Lissa firmly examined the regulator’s burned hand.

  “What did this?” she demanded. By her tone, it was clear she already knew the answer. “You’ve been marked, haven’t you?”

  “Marked?”

  Her soft compassion was replaced by earnest concern. “The amulet—you were holding it?”

  Pinch nodded to buy a little time to create an embellishment to his story. “When the thieves jumped us, I sought to protect it. I was sure they meant to steal it, so I held it in my hand.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. It flared in a brilliant burst of light—”

  “Killed them outright it did!” The halfling blurted out the fabrication to corroborate his leader’s tale. Unfortunately, at that same moment, Pinch finished with “—and scared them away.”

  “Killed them or scared them?” Lissa asked suspiciously. It was clear there was more to this than she was being told.

  “Scared them,” Sprite hastily corrected.

  “Both,” Pinch expanded, though once again tripped up by his companion. The regulator gave Sprite another look to shut up. “Some were … killed and the others ran away.”

  Lissa gave the rogue a hard look. She doesn’t believe me, Pinch thought. A better story was needed. “I—”

  “Where is the amulet?” She poked at his burned hand and Pinch bit back a wince.

  “I have it.”

  “Give it to me.” She held out her hand without even looking up from her inspection.

  “There’s no cause for worry. I have protected it.”

  “I have unjustly put you at risk. Please, give me the amulet.’

  Argument was hopeless, especially here in the center of Lissa’s stronghold. Reluctantly Pinch produced the bauble and handed it over to the priestess. Sprite sucked his teeth in unvoiced disappointment.

  “Will you see to Sprite now?” the rogue asked pointedly. It was his nature; he couldn’t help but set a price for all things.

  Lissa took the amulet and hung it around her neck. “Brother Leafcrown will tend to him.” She nodded to the elf who waited patiently behind her.

  “Ooh, an elf!” Sprite said in mockery of the stereotype of elf-fascinated halflings. The jibe was not lost on the brother, whose expression of benign beneficence soured at the comment.

  “As for your hand,” Lissa continued as Sprite was led away, “I can heal the pain, but the scar will
remain. You have been marked by Lathander.”

  “What! I’m going to have this brand for the rest of my life—like some common thief,” blurted the outraged rogue.

  Lissa nodded. “It is the price of calling upon Lathander.”

  “I didn’t call him—or any other god,” Pinch snarled, risking blasphemy within the Morninglord’s very temple. “The damn thing just happened! I didn’t ask for it.”

  “Nonetheless, it happened,” she countered with the absolute resoluteness of one whose faith can only be unquestioned. “Therefore within your heart you must have called upon Lathander’s might. How else could you have gotten his mark?”

  Pinch stared at his numbed and blackened hand, fearing the scars before his eyes. If he could never use his hand again, that would destroy the only talent he knew. Without a good hand, how could he hope to pick a lock or nip a purse. A one-handed thief was a cripple to be pitied by his companions and mocked by his former prey. This then was the Morninglord’s revenge. “Damn the pain!” the rogue bitterly hissed. “Can you make my hand work?”

  Lissa hesitated, and that hesitation was not encouraging. “I—don’t know. All I can do is try. It is a great honor, you know, to be marked by the Morninglord.”

  “Wonderful. I’m a prophet now.”

  “Not like that,” Lissa shushed him as she prepared her healing work. “It means that Lathander sees in you something different, something greater than common men. Prophets, sages, bold captains—all of these have borne the mark.”

  “Greatness—hah! I’m no prophet or king.” Pinch’s heart was filled with bitterness right now. His world was crumbling around him regardless of what the god saw in his future.

  “Nonetheless, Janol, our lord sees something in your future. Perhaps you will be a brave hero someday.”

  “Why not? I’m no good for anything else right now—thanks to your god.”

  “Mind your tongue!” Lissa snapped, furious at his casual blasphemy. She grabbed his wrist and twisted his hand palm-up, then made the passes needed to cast the spell. The burn tingled and then the pain subsided. The blackened flesh peeled away to reveal pinkish fresh skin underneath. The brand gleamed pinkish-white like a fresh scar. The pain vanished.

  Experimentally Pinch tried to make a fist, but it was to no avail. The best he could do was curl his fingers into a clawlike grip, but the palm was a thick pad that would hardly bend.

  “Crap. Your god has ruined me,” Pinch moaned, his voice filled with sorrow. He sat staring at his useless hand, bitter salt filling the corners of his eyes. Everything he was, everything he could do, was in his hands. What kind of cutpurse could he be, unable to hold a knife? Would he be a rooftop man unable to hold a rope? Maybe he could take up mugging and beat his victims senseless with this paw—that’s all it was good for. He was only half, less than nothing in the eyes of his peers.

  “I’m a blighted cripple,” he whispered to no one.

  Fatherhood

  It was well past dawn by the time Pinch and Sprite left the temple, found their friends, and retired to the back tables of the ordinary. There, in the tawdry depths of the common room, Pinch drank. He drank with a bleak-hearted vigor, without joy or camaraderie. He drank with the bitter determination of a man trying to blot away the memories of his life. He gulped the sack without tasting it and demanded more before his cup was even empty. With his stiff hand he fumbled at the jug, and the more he fumbled the more he cursed his fate and drank again, until he would bitterly sweep the mugs, the crock, the candle aside in a rage and glare at his friends with his aching dry eyes.

  His friends let him drink, since there was little they could say to stop him anyway. Sprite patiently poured the blackjacks and picked up the scattered mugs, while Maeve did her best to soothe Pinch’s raging temper. Therin sat back and said nothing, quietly considering the possibilities of this new future.

  “It ain’t all lost,” Sprite said once more as he tipped the jug. “It’s not the hand that makes you, Pinch. You’re more than just a foin or a verser. Any rogue can do that. It’s what you got in your brain pan what makes you special.”

  “He’s right,” Therin added softly. “You can retire from the trade, take it easy. Look at the set-up you’ve got here—staying in a palace, fine food, and servants. All you got to do is sit up there, spot the rich marks, and make plans for others to do.”

  “It’s sound advice,” Maeve added, stroking the wounded man’s hair.

  Pinch grunted and kept his attention fixed on the wine.

  “Of course,” Therin continued with smooth oiliness, “there’d have to be a new regulator …”

  Pinch looked up from his mug. “Like as you?” he snarled.

  The Gur let the facade drop. “Like as me than a cripple.”

  “Cripple! I should have let them hang you in Elturel, bastard! I’m still regulator here and you’ll mind it or—”

  “Or what?” Therin bellowed back. “Or you’ll carve me? Well, have at.” The Gur drew two daggers and tossed one onto the table. It clattered among the mugs and pots. The sound was echoed by the scrape of his chair as the younger man stood back from the table and waited, knife casually poised. Sprite and Maeve pulled back, their eyes darting from Pinch to Therin and back again. At the taps, the innkeeper took notice, setting his ash-handled mace close at hand.

  “Go ahead. Regulate me.”

  Pinch clumsily tried to pick up the dagger with his ruined hand but, unable to close his hand around the hilt, the effort was futile. At last he gave up and collapsed back with a fierce glower.

  Therin smiled heartlessly, the grown son looking down on his enfeebled father. “You’ve done me good, Pinch. You’ve done us all good, but now things have changed. It’s come time for a new regulator.”

  Pinch’s lean frame dwindled, perhaps due to the drink or maybe in resignation to the younger man’s words. Finally, he unfastened the bulky pouch at his side, shoved aside their drinks, and set it on the table. “I suppose you’ll want to deliver this,” he growled as he undid the strings and pulled open the bag enough to show the golden glint of their stolen treasures inside. “First task as the new regulator.”

  “Aye,” Therin allowed warily.

  “The broker’s waiting at the mausoleum. Tell him you’re my agent and he’ll deal with you.”

  Therin didn’t wait for more but scooped the bag from the table before his old master changed his mind. Maeve looked on in wide-eyed amazement that Pinch had surrendered so readily.

  “Go to it. Let’s see what kind of regulator you are,” the older man sneered.

  Sprite sidled close to Pinch’s side. “It ain’t proper. You can’t let him do this to you so easy,” he pleaded, but the rogue held up a hand to silence him.

  “Go on, do it.”

  With an uncomfortable swallow, Therin nodded. The ease of his victory unnerved him. There was supposed to have been a battle. He expected Pinch to rise to his challenge, to fight with every trick the old man knew. He was ready for that. He wasn’t prepared for this gutless surrender.

  The Gur had won, though, and he couldn’t show weakness now. He glared at the three, shouldered the bag, spun on his heels, and strode for the door.

  When he was two steps from the table and one from a pillar, Therin’s dagger, the one he’d left on the table, sang by his ear and drove, point in, to the scarred wood of the beam. The weak sunlight quivered off the blade as it hummed with the force of its throw.

  “You’ll need a better plan for dealing with a lich than you have with me,” Pinch announced darkly as the younger man wheeled about in frightened surprise. The older man sat upright, not nearly as drunk as he was before, his off-hand poised where it had stopped at the end of the throw. Sprite and Maeve had swung around to his side of the table, letting it show where their loyalty—such as it was—lay.

  “Lich—you didn’t say nothing about no lich.” Therin’s voice was weakly brave. His face, flushed with temper moments before, was rapidly losing it
s color to an ashen pale. “What lich?”

  “Lich?” Sprite gulped, looking to Pinch. “We been working for a lich?”

  “Aye,” the old man answered, never once looking away from Therin. With his good hand, he drew another dagger from the scabbard at his wrist. “We’re dealing with a lich.”

  Therin slowly came back to the table and set the bag down. “Maybe I was being a bit hasty, Pinch. It wasn’t like a challenge—just a chance for you to live a gentleman’s life while we did your dark work for you.” The Gur looked desperately to the other two. “It was like that, wasn’t it?”

  As if joined in a single malicious thought, Sprite and Maeve let him dangle for a bit before answering. A line of sweat trickled down the young man’s temple.

  “Sure, Pinch,” Maeve finally drawled, “he was only thinking about you and your well-being. Can’t you see?”

  “S’right. I’m sure he’s touched with concern,” the halfling added with a malicious grin. “Indeed, he even told me yesterday how he was thinking of giving you his share of the swag from this job.”

  “That’s right, Pinch. I think you’ve earned it.” As costly as it was, Therin seized on the halfling’s suggestion. The fact that he had almost blundered into trading with a lich had unnerved the man.

  The now-undisputed regulator nodded his head. The Gur stifled a sigh of relief. The nod was all he would get, but it was a sign the peace was made—for now.

  “ ’Tis proper generous of you, Therin,” Pinch purred, “but you’re building the house before the foundation’s set. For there to be shares, we got to collect our fee.”

  “He’s not likely to pay?” Maeve asked.

  “ ‘It’—and it’ll want us dead. Me, in particular.”

  Sprite prodded the goods in the bag. “Just who we dealing with, Pinch? This Cleedis ain’t no lich.”

  Pinch massaged the rough brand on his palm. The drink and facing down Therin made him feel expansive. “Cleedis is just a go-between. Manferic’s our real employer.”