by David Cook
“Manferic?”
“The late king.”
“Wounds!” Sprite sputtered wine all down his chin.
“Is he that vile?” Maeve asked hopefully.
“He’s a lich. What do you expect?” Therin pointed out.
“Moreso and worse. I should know; he was my guardian. When I was ten, the peasants on the nobles’ estates drew up a list of grievances against their lords. It seemed they were taxed at twice the rate demanded by the crown, old men were executed when they could no longer farm, and young boys were driven by whip into the ranks of the militia. Five of their bravest presented the list to Manferic—”
“And he killed them?”
“Nothing so simple,” Pinch corrected. “That would have been almost human. No, he listened to their complaints and promised them action. The next day, while he ‘considered’ their request, he sent Vargo and Throdus with a detachment of priests to the houses of these five men. They killed the wife in each household and animated the corpse. The next day, Manferic said he would enact reforms—provided the men loved and honored their wives for the rest of their days. Should one of them fail, he would exact his revenge on all the rebels. It did not take long before he had the chance.”
Sentimental Maeve let a tear well up in her eye while the other two looked uncomfortably at the floor. “Unnatural monster,” muttered Therin. “The Gur know about lords like him—always persecuting our kind, blaming us for their crimes.”
“So what’s this Cup and Knife got to do with it?” Maeve asked to change the subject. “You told us how they use them to pick a king, but how’s that going to help him? He’s dead already.”
“Won’t do him no good at all, since Iron-Biter interfered. The real Cup and Knife are still in the tower. Right, Pinch?”
“No.” Pinch looked about the common room. It was deserted at this time of the morning. Even the landlord, seeing there was to be no fight, had gone into the back to tend to the day’s chores. As he spoke, the regulator unwrapped the pouch in front of them all. “Like you said, Sprite, Iron-Biter’s a fool. Remember that I had two copies of the regalia made?
“Well, when Iron-Biter made me pass over the garbage, he never thought to check for forgeries. All I did was give him the other fake—so he switched fake for fake. Never occurred to him that I had the real ones on me all that time.” With that, Pinch finished opening the pouch and drew out four golden, jewel-encrusted pieces. To the trained eyes at the table, the craftsmanship of the goldwork and the deep luster of the stones was readily apparent in the genuine pieces. A collective sigh of greed escaped the three.
Sprite scritched at his curly hair. “Why give it to him, Pinch? We could scamper out and sell this for a good price in Amn or Waterdeep.”
“Cleedis found me once. If he did it once, he can do it again—and I don’t think Manferic will be as forgiving the next time as he has been now.”
“Well, I don’t see it. What’s he gain from the stuff?” Maeve asked again.
“I’m not sure, but I think he means to control the choosing. Everybody’s been saying Cleedis is backing a dead horse—my idiot cousin, Bors. Just suppose, though, that the idiot becomes king. Then Cleedis doesn’t look so dumb. It’s as certain as Sprite here rolling a rigged bale of dice that if Bors is chosen, Cleedis will name himself regent before anyone can protest.”
“Fine for Cleedis, but that doesn’t do a thing for Manferic.”
“Cleedis is weak. His only strength is his loyalty. Make him regent and he’ll be Manferic’s lapdog for sure. Until Manferic does him in and takes over directly.
Therin shrugged. “So what’s it matter to us if a lich takes the throne here or not?”
“Ever hear tales of Thay?” Maeve warned. Ruled by undying sorcerer-kings, Thay’s excesses and cruelties were legendary throughout the Realms and were a particularly sore point with wizards of nearly every stripe.
“We don’t,” Pinch interrupted. “We don’t a care a pizzle for who rules here. All we want is to get out of here alive.”
“And rich,” Sprite added.
A gloom fell over the group, one of those sullen silences that seems to strangle conversations at regular intervals, this one probably infected by Maeve’s sour scowl. Drunkard and scalawag she might be, but she was still a mage and didn’t like the notion of liches playing with their unnatural magic.
“Show us how it works, Pinch, this ceremony you were telling us about,” Sprite asked in an attempt to lift their dour moods. He hopped up onto his chair and set the genuine artifacts in front of his fellow rogue. “Maybe that’ll give us some clue.”
The question brought back memories of Pinch’s youth, when he was Janol playing with his royal cousins Throdus and Vargo. The two princes used to insist he attend their ‘coronations,’ so they could make him bow and scrape at appropriate times and lord over him for being outside their blessed circle. They loved playacting the rite, nicking themselves with knives to let a few drops fall into a table goblet while they mouthed all sorts of holy prayers. Of course, each prince would naturally be the chosen heir, and so these little charades usually ended with the young princes rolling on the floor trying to thump the ‘impostor’ senseless. Pinch had always enjoyed egging them into a fight.
Why not? he decided. There was an irony that appealed to him. Now he could playact with the real thing while his dear cousins would go through the real ceremony with fakes.
The master rogue grinned and rolled up the sleeve on one arm. “As you will, Sprite; I will show you.
“First, there’s a whole lot of business that consumes time and makes the whole affair important. Every candidate has to step forward, announce his lineage, something like, ‘I am Janol, only son of Sir Gedstad of Alkar.’ ”
“Sir Gedstad?”
“My father, Maeve, or so I’ve been told.”
“Go on, go on. What happens next?” Sprite eagerly chattered. He propped his chin in his hands and watched intently, always keen on a good story. Even Therin, still hesitant about where he stood, leaned in a little closer.
“So then there’s some business from the priests, presenting the Cup and Knife to each candidate. A lot of prayers and the like for blessing the whole thing.” Pinch actually managed to remember a few and mumbled them out while making pompous passes over the regalia. Without realizing it, he was letting himself get caught up in the business, letting it distract him from his own woes.
“When that’s done, the two objects are passed down the line.” Setting the Cup in front of him, he took up the Knife and very carefully sliced the tip of his thumb. The knife cut through his skin like soft cheese. It stung sharply for such a small cut and, given what he’d been through in the past two days, Pinch was surprised that he noticed it so much. Almost immediately blood began to form a ruby red bead. “The prince pricks himself and squeezes a little blood into the cup.” He let a few drops fall into the golden goblet.
“The cup gets filled with wine”—Sprite hopped up and, cradling the jug, sloshed the goblet full—“and the prince drinks.”
Pinch raised the heavy goblet, waved it in toast to his friends, and drained it in one long draught. He set the Cup down like a tankard and let out a hearty belch before continuing. “If the prince is the chosen heir, then he’ll be surrounded by a—
“Glow!”
It was a breath of whispered astonishment, simultaneous from the three of them. Their gazes were fixed on him, wide eyed beyond all possibility. Sprite tried to step back and practically fell off his chair, while Therin had to lean forward and support himself on the table. Maeve’s weak little chin trembled up and down as she tried to form her lips to say something.
“What is wrong with you three? What’s going on?”
“You …”
“… you’re …”
“… glowing.”
“What? I’m what? You’re all drunk.”
They shook their heads.
Pinch snatched up the Knife and looke
d in the polished blade at his reflection. There it was, a golden nimbus around his head, like the sun setting behind a cloud. Looking around now, he noticed that the whole dark corner of the commons was awash in the sunset hue. In terror, he dropped the Knife and ran his hands over his body to make sure there wasn’t some weird growth manifesting itself on him. There was nothing.
“Maeve!” he roared when he couldn’t deny that he was indeed glowing. “If this one of your tricks—the lot of you put me up to this!”
“No, dearie—I wouldn’t. Honest,” Maeve squeaked. She was still staring at him wide eyed. “Sprite?”
“Not me, Pinch. Wouldn’t know how,” he gulped in terror.
The regulator just glared at Therin, and the man’s mute astonishment was enough to set his innocence. Pinch sank limply into his seat. The reflection in the blade showed the glow was still there, slowly fading as he watched. At last it was gone, like the sun behind the horizon.
He felt drained. “It’s impossible.”
“It happened, Pinch. We all saw it.”
“It can’t. It only works on those with royal blood.”
“What about your father?” Maeve questioned.
“He was a no-account knight who died in battle. Not him.”
“Your mother?”
“A lady-in-waiting to the queen, I’m told.”
“Are you sure?” Sprite asked.
“I don’t remember my parents. All I know is what people told me about them.”
“Maybe they lied to you,” Therin suggested.
“Lied? Why?”
Therin looked thoughtful for a moment, fingering the Cup. “You say this thing works only for royal blood. So who’s got that in Ankhapur? The princes and Manferic—anybody else? Dukes, earls, counts, brothers of the king, people like that?”
Pinch shook his head. “Manferic did in his brothers—and his uncles and sisters, the whole lot. Purged his family tree. He was determined that no one would challenge him.”
Sprite goggled. “He murdered them all?”
“He was king—he had absolute power. If he wanted you dead, you were dead. The beauty of it was he didn’t even have to do it himself. That’s what lackeys like Cleedis were for.”
“If they’re all dead,” Therin continued, “and, like you say, that thing works only on royal blood—then Pinch, there’s only one place it could’ve come from.”
The regulator swallowed a great gulp of wine. He needed it. “You’re saying—”
“Maybe that knight’s not your papa.”
The four all stared at each other, nobody wanting to agree but unable to deny the conclusion.
“Crap.” Pinch broke the silence. “Crap! Damn Manferic’s cursed soul!” Years of pent-up fury surged out of him. He hurled his mug across the room, flung aside the table, and kicked away the chairs. Sprite went scrambling for the treasures as they skittered across the floor, while the landlord hurried in from the back room, brandishing his mace. He was confronted by a raging madman, swearing and cursing at demons he couldn’t see. The sight of Pinch in this state was more than enough to keep the landlord at bay. Seeing as he had their belongings upstairs for security, the landlord wisely scuttled well out of the way.
The three let Pinch rage, not that they had any power to stop him. He fumed about the room, sullenly kicking at chairs and cursing Manferic with every oath he knew. When he’d run out of damnations and tortures to inflict on the lich and his kind, Pinch stopped and turned to the trio who waited at the table.
“That bastard robbed me of my birthright,” the master said as his shoulders quivered with exhaustion and rage. “He let his precious sons drive me out fifteen years ago and didn’t raise a hand to aid me. I was supposed to have been a prince, not some back-alley bravo.”
He righted a chair and slid it over to join the others. Enthroned on it, he lapsed into a dark silence. The others held their tongues. Their master was in one of his scheming moods, not to be disturbed until he returned to the surface with some plot in his grasp, like the diver who swims through the blind murk in search of the pearl.
Pinch pondered for a long time. There were so many questions and so many pieces: Manferic, Cleedis, Iron-Biter, and—most of all—the woman in the tunnels. Was she his mother? A nursemaid? A madwoman? Or something yet he could not fathom? There were too many questions.
“Therin, Maeve, Sprite—gather in,” he said when he at last raised his head and noticed them. With his arms beckoning he drew them close. “How would you like to be rich—and respectable?” he asked with a conspiratorial whisper.
“Us, Pinch?” Sprite snickered. “There ain’t nothing respectable about us.”
“ ’Struth for you, you little weasel, but I’ve a mind to be a lady someday,” Maeve sniffed. “I could stand for being respectable.”
“Respectable’s not worth a whit without money. How rich?”
“A treasury at your command, Therin. Is that loot enough for you?”
“Aye. If you’ve got a plan, I’ll go along with being rich.” Therin still looked dubious. “Does your plan intend taking on this lich?”
Pinch looked very solemn until the worst fears of the others confirmed themselves in their looks. Only then did he break into a grin. “That would be a fool’s task—so we’ll let fools do that for us.”
“So what’s our plan?” Sprite asked, signaling his support of the enterprise. The halfling never could resist an adventure, no matter how rash.
Pinch studied the others to make sure they were all in before he went on. Their eyes told it clear: a bright hunger for adventure, revenge on all who’d looked down on them, but, most of all, money.
“The best of all plans—quick wit and light step. I’m going to shake the family tree and we’ll see what falls.”
“It’s a thin plan for hanging our lives on, Pinch.” Therin sounded less than confident.
“It was as much of a plan as I had for getting you off the gallows in Elturel—and that worked, didn’t it, or you wouldn’t be here complaining, you over-learned ogre,” Pinch countered.
The big Gur rubbed at the rope-scar under his scarf with self-conscious discomfort. To say he’d been rescued from the gallows wasn’t quite honest, though he had to allow that Pinch had rescued him. It was that business of being hanged and then saved that left Therin with nightmares. “It’s just I don’t relish dying again, Pinch.”
“Then be smart and you won’t.” There was little sympathy in Pinch’s words, and seeing that the younger man remained sullen, the regulator poured drinks around. “Here’s what—we’ll not take this alone. I’ve got a mind we should have some allies, though they won’t be knowing it. Maeve, I want to you visit the priestess Lissa. Inform her I’ve tracked down her thief and that she should stand ready to come at my word if she wants to catch him.”
“Me, Pinch? I’m not particular cunning with words.”
“Don’t worry, the lass is gullible. You’ll make a touching plea, I’m sure.
“Therin, I’ve got a job with profit for you. Mind, it’s going to take a light touch. Go to Iron-Biter—”
“Who?”
“That ox-head of a dwarf who spins in Vargo’s orbit. Here’s the charm: Tell him he’s been tricked, that the real regalia ain’t in the tower, but you can lead him to it. Of course, you’ll want money.”
“Of course, but where am I supposed to lead this prize ass?”
“You’ll have to wait for Sprite to show you.”
“Me?”
“Aye, you.” The regulator stopped to wrap a bit of cloth around his still-bleeding thumb. “It’s upon you to give the signal. Now, get away with your business you two.” With a sharp nod he urged Maeve and Therin toward the door.
Just as he was leaving, Therin turned back for one last question. “What if we don’t show?”
“Then sure as there’s gods in the heavens, there’ll be not a whit of loot for any of us, the master rogue promised. “Don’t fail if you want your cut
.”
Therin grunted in sour understanding and was on his way.
“What about me, Pinch?” Sprite asked after he was sure the door to the street was closed.
“Two jobs for you, old friend.” The words were soft, as if invisible ears might try to overhear. “First, you must follow Cleedis when he takes me to my rendezvous. Learn the way so you can guide the others to me.”
“What’s the other?”
Pinch tapped his brow. “Keep a weather eye on our fine Gur. I don’t trust him. He’s like to sell us all—me in particular—if Iron-Biter makes the right price.”
“So why in the hells did you send him to Iron-Biter?”
“Fishing takes the right bait and the right hook. I’m the bait. Therin’s the hook. Iron-Biter’s a fool, but he’s not gullible. Who’s going to convince him—Maeve, playing a part, or Therin, who just might get it into his head to sell us cheap?”
Sprite stared into the dregs of his cup. “I’d feel better if the dice were more to our favor. It’s a risky game you’re playing.”
Pinch poured them both another round. “Don’t be so glum. We either live or we die. What other kind of game is there?”
Meetings
Pinch swept through the palace halls, leaving a trail of whispers and arched brows in his wake. The regulator paid them no mind. It wasn’t how he was dressed, which was a like a proper lord, or the way he passed by. No longer did he casually slouch through the chambers like a bemused man observing the ways of some alien class. No—now he strode through upright and boldly with every sense of possession. He was transformed and carried himself confidently, absolute in the knowledge that he had a place here in his own right and not by the noblesse oblige of others.
These things did not set tongues wagging, although they were noticed and added fuel to the speculation. No, that wasn’t what Pinch’s sharp ears picked up. It was his very presence at all that set the courtiers abuzz. Clearly, word had gotten around—no doubt from Iron-Biter—that he was missing and not expected to return. It pleased the rogue no end that his entry made such a spectacular impression. Now was not the time to be subtle. He wanted everyone to know that he had returned; the consternation it would rouse in certain quarters was only to his advantage.
