Circle of Thieves: Legends of Dimmingwood

by C. Greenwood

  My hand moved of its own accord to my sleeves but faltered as I remembered my missing knives. Even if I’d been armed, I couldn’t afford to let an impulsive act cost me my chance at the Praetor.

  Observing my empty motion, the Fist smirked, but the satisfaction quickly disappeared from his eyes as he announced, “His lordship will see you now.”

  I grinned insolently, despite our precarious situation. “Come Fleet. His Greatness deigns to see his humble vassals after only a few hours’ wait.”

  “His lordship is a busy man,” the Fist said coolly, looking at a spot somewhere above my shoulder. “He has little time for granting audiences to lice-infested street curs and filthy woods rabble.”

  “It was he who requested this meeting,” I pointed out, but the Fist seemed not to hear. Turning on his heel, he instructed us to follow him out of the room.

  We fell into step behind him, the other two Fists closing in at our sides, so that we were effectively boxed in as we started down the wide outer corridor. There was no direction to run except back the way we came, and a surreptitious peek over my shoulder showed even that route led to no escape. Too many of the Praetor’s personal guard lined the corridors.

  I mentally ran over the plan again, readying myself for the moment of confrontation. I didn’t think I’d left any loose ends. The apothecary on Smith Street hadn’t asked what I intended to do with the poison I purchased. I’d made certain Fleet wasn’t looking when I’d dipped my dagger into the lethal mixture before slipping it into my boot with a strip of sacking wrapped around the blade to protect me from a possible scrape of the razor edged steel.

  I felt guilty about dragging the unsuspecting Fleet into my deception. I had accepted from the moment the plan entered my mind that I wouldn’t survive this hour. I considered my life a small price to pay for vengeance, but it would be a shame if my friend was taken down with me for an act in which he had no part. But when I thought of Brig and my parents and countless other deaths I could lay at the Praetor’s door, my resolve stiffened.

  I studied our surroundings as we passed, committing the off-branching corridors to memory, noting which open doorways were guarded by Fists and which looked like they might lead to possible escape routes. Escape was unlikely, but if we did get the chance to run when this was over, for Fleet’s sake, we would take it.

  The inside of the Praetor’s keep was not as grand as I had always imagined it would be. The rooms we passed were furnished with more wealth and comfort than anything I’d ever seen in my limited experience of fine surroundings. But there was little in the way of decoration here. Surveying the spartan furnishings and colorless tapestries on the walls, all of which depicted gory battle scenes, I was reminded that it had been years since the Praetor’s lady had been alive and in residence. This keep was less a home than a fortress and a museum to glory days past.

  We came upon a set of wide iron-banded doors engraved with the image of a rearing bear. A Fist drew open the doors and we entered a large antechamber. It was a long room with a high vaulted ceiling crisscrossed with thick beams and supported by timber braces from floor to ceiling. A fireplace large enough for a man to walk into blazed at one end of the room, so that despite the cold outdoors, the air within was stifling. Immediately, sweat beaded across my forehead.

  I noted in a glance that the room was windowless and the doors through which we had entered were the only way in or out. But it would have made little difference if there had been a dozen exits in the room, because the walls were lined with armed guards.

  I ignored the soldiers, focusing instead on the purpose of my coming.

  His powerful presence hit me like a hammer blow to the face, and I recognized it as the same presence that had invaded my mind long ago on the streets of Selbius. But this time I had the advantage, because I was aware of him, and he had not yet noticed me. I’d been prepared for this, had entered the room with magical barriers already constructed and waiting, and I slammed them into place now, sealing them tightly enough to hold out even the most overwhelming of senses and emotions.

  It was like dropping a snuffer over a candle flame, so suddenly did that other presence flicker out in my mind. I couldn’t even sense Fleet or any of the others around me. I gritted my teeth and endured the wave of panic brought on by the abrupt emptiness. I was conscious of the weight of the bow on my back, reminding me I wasn’t alone. Even in this state I still felt its voiceless presence huddled in the back of my mind.

  With an effort, I redirected my attention to the Praetor. He sat on a high backed throne-like chair on a raised dais at the far end of the hall. A handful of well-dressed men I assumed were his advisors clustered around him, but I spared little attention for them.

  The approach to the dais was a long one, the burly Fist leading the way, and I had ample opportunity to observe my enemy. The Praetor Tarius looked different than on the last occasion I had seen him during his procession through the streets of the city. He had exchanged his armor for a dark tunic with a wide-sleeved robe of scarlet velvet falling in loose folds to the floor. The effect was majestic. I felt as if I were approaching a king rather than a mere provincial lord and felt sure that was the feeling he intended to cultivate in all who waited on him.

  Despite the grandeur of his attire, his restless shifting in his seat and the listless way he flicked at the sleeves of his robes when they fell over his wrists hinted the man had little patience for formal audiences and the finer trappings of his status. His dark eyes sharpened when they fell on our party and he straightened. I was aware of his singling me out with interest after a more cursory glance over Fleet and our accompanying escort.

  I studied him as openly as did he us, noticing the streaks of gray at his temples and the light creases around his eyes and mouth. My gaze fell to the tanned strong looking hands resting atop the polished arms of his chair, and I could easily imagine them still wielding a sword alongside his Iron Fists. My examination wasn’t idle or even born of a desire to know my enemy, to look into the face of the man I had come to kill. I was searching for something, some outward physical sign to confirm the suspicions I had once voiced to Hadrian. I had long suspected the Praetor of being a mage, and nothing I saw now lessened that belief.

  The Fist who was head of our escort greeted his lord with a bow and a hand to his sword hilt, before shoving Fleet and I to our knees before the dais. I could have resisted, but the defiant gesture didn’t seem worth the blade in the gut it would likely cost me. I would bide my time.

  “My lord,” the Fist was saying, “this is the peasant rabble whose presence you commanded.”

  The Praetor leaned forward to study me, his brows drawing forward as if he examined a living fish that had somehow flopped its way onto his dining table. I forgot to breathe. Here was the man who had all but wielded the sword that had killed my parents eleven years ago. Here was the man who, either by direct order or carelessness, had caused Brig to be killed most brutally. I was so close I could almost stretch out a hand and touch him. I could touch him if I lunged forward. All I’d have to do was whip out my poisoned dagger, scramble to my feet and up the few steps, somehow avoiding the descending blades of his guards.

  But it wasn’t going to happen. Not yet. I needed to be closer or my brave effort would only end on the tip of a Fist’s blade.

  The Praetor’s face cracked into a sudden grimace, which it took me a moment to realize must be what passed for him as a smile.

  He said, “So this is the great Hound, whose fame and daring feats are sung of in the streets? I’m disappointed. I ask for a great hero and am handed a mere child.”

  No one had called me a child since I had gone up against the Fists for Brig. Hearing the insult from him of all men was particularly grating, and I couldn’t hold my tongue.

  “This child has outwitted your best men on more than one occasion,” I pointed out. “And I wouldn’t be before you now had I not come of my own will.”

  At my insolence, the Fist at
my side moved as if to strike me, but the Praetor lifted a careless hand, motioning him to hold back.

  “So. The brat has courage and at least the wits to defend herself,” he said to the room at large. “Perhaps we did not do so badly after all. I may indeed find a use for her.”

  A use? For what purpose had he summoned me? To enter his employ? That made no sense. If he knew so much about me he must also be aware I was a woods thief of Rideon’s band. He wouldn’t want any more association with me than the time it took to have my neck stretched.

  Mimicking his method of speaking over my head, I commented to the tapestry on the wall behind him, “I have no interest in being of use to the Praetor. I wouldn’t dirty my hands or my conscience by touching a copper from his purse.”

  He laughed, an unpleasant hollow sound, but at least he finally spoke to me directly. “These are proud words from one who runs with outlaws. But I suppose your thieving days are over, and you’ve since reformed yourself. That’s a story I hear often from this chair, a feeble excuse put forth by the pathetic wretches bowing before me. They kneel right where you do and beg for mercy.”

  I met his challenge with a defiant glare. “You’ll never see me do that.”

  He searched my face. Did I imagine it or was there a glimmer of newfound respect in his eyes?

  “That’s as well,” he said. “I’ve no interest in hiring a sniveling coward. If I thought you lacked the intelligence or the courage for the task at hand, I’d have you marched immediately to the market district and strung up alongside your friends. I may yet do so.”

  “No!”

  I started at the unexpected protest, and the Praetor whipped his head around to glare at the offender, one of a group of guards and advisors standing behind him.

  Looking abashed, the speaker quickly rephrased his protest. “Forgive me, my lord, but surely nothing could be gained by killing one we have gone to such lengths to procure. The girl is stubborn and sometimes arrogant, but I’m sure once she is made to understand the situation, you’ll find her cooperative and most useful. She is very capable at what she does.”

  The stranger turned to me, his face at once defiant and vaguely imploring, and to my surprise I found myself looking into a pair of familiar violet eyes. I scanned Terrac up and down, unbelievingly. The mental barrier I’d locked into place on entering the room must have prevented my sensing his presence, but with the physical change in him I hardly recognized him even now. A broadsword sheathed at his side, he wore the shining dark plate of the Praetor’s guard, a scarlet cape trailing down his back, and his hair had lengthened sufficiently to be scraped back into a soldier’s queue. Taller and broader than the last time I had seen him, he was more a man now than a boy. I was startled to realize for the first time that he had the sort of features that some would call attractive. They might have been called so by me if they had belonged to anyone but Terrac.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the soldier’s outfit he disguised himself in or some intuitive sense that told me he was no longer the weak-willed nervous priest boy I’d once known. If there had been a glimmer of anxiety in his eyes as he defended me, his face was now carefully devoid of expression.

  The Praetor was speaking. “Yes, Under-Lieutenant, I remember your report of the girl. More importantly, I’m mindful of other reports.”

  Under-Lieutenant? The last time I had seen Terrac he’d spoken of becoming a Fist, but I wondered what he had done to bring about such a quick advancement.

  The Praetor leaned forward in his chair and said to me, “My spies bring me word you and a circle of your followers are responsible for the anonymous information that, until now, has helped us keep the foreign invaders in check.”

  I shifted, as much to stall for time as to relieve the numbness in my knees.

  “I command no circle of followers,” I lied. “I’ve always worked alone.”

  The Praetor frowned. “You needn’t protect your friends. For the moment, I’ve no interest in learning their identities or uncovering their hiding places. I have the ear of their leader and that is enough. Now I am going to explain to you my dilemma, and the solution I have worked out for it, and you will nod your head and say, ‘As my liege wishes.’”

  I blinked. “My liege? If you think for one moment I’m about to swear any oaths of fealty—”

  The Praetor cut me off. “I’ll have no impudence, woods thief. Still your wagging tongue, or by my mother’s ashes, I’ll have it sliced out.”

  Sensing he meant the threat, I fell silent. I didn’t dare look at Terrac right now. Would he defend me if the Praetor’s men did lay hands on me? I wouldn’t bet my knives on it.

  Settling back into his throne-like chair, the Praetor said, “Here is how the matter stands. The situation with the Skeltai invaders is intolerable, yet we have no method of stopping them. I am told they travel by means of the dark art of magic.”

  He made a distasteful face and even the guards and advisors gathered around shuddered. I remembered it was likely in this very room, and before a number of these people, that the prejudices and allegations against magic had first been born. This was where the Praetor had determined it was the wielding of magic that was responsible for beginning the rotting plague that swept the province years ago. From here had come the decree that all those known to possess the gift be slaughtered for the greater good. I tried not to think of my parents. This wasn’t the time for it.

  The Praetor continued. “Thanks to their command of the vile arts, Skeltai sorcerers and their evil minions are capable of appearing at any time in whatever place they wish. For all we know, one could materialize right here in the next instant. Clearly such a state of affairs is intolerable, yet due to the mysterious nature of their foul talents, my best men are unable to devise a means of countering these attacks. The only instances in which we were able to fend them off were on those occasions when anonymous informants,” he inclined his head to me, “—saw fit to pass us word of their movements within Dimmingwood. That flow of information has recently ceased.”

  He paused as if expecting an explanation, but I kept silent.

  He continued. “I do not ask to know the reason for the silence. I do not even concern myself with how you and your spies procured information my people could not. I am disposed to credit even one such as you with a twisted sense of patriotism. If I was persuaded there was treachery behind your knowledge you would not be alive here now. No, I simply want my information network back. Whatever has become of your spies, get them back into place. Needless to say, you will all be paid handsomely for your efforts.”

  I laughed then. I couldn’t help it.

  I heard the chink of armor as my Fist escort drew back to slap me, and this time the Praetor didn’t call his man down. The blow fell, ringing across my skull. For a second I saw blackness. Ignoring the echoes of pain, I fought off the rising darkness until the afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows and the dimensions of the big room gradually came back to me.

  The Praetor proceeded as if there had been no interruption. “I expected you and your friends would be reluctant to accept my authority. But let us not forget what your people are, after all. Forest brigands. Thieves and miscreants of the worst nature. Believe me when I say you may spew self-righteous drivel against my rule, but when my coins flash before your eyes you will snatch them as greedily as a pauper stealing bread.”

  My anger rose all the more because there was truth to what he said. Hadn’t the circle been eager enough to accept his money before?

  He said, “I see you recognize the sense of my words, and I will take it then that we have an arrangement, although naturally I will require oaths of obedience to secure my trust. You will kiss the ring like any other vassal pledging himself to my cause.”

  I thought quickly. “That would be difficult considering I haven’t been allowed off my knees since I arrived.”

  I felt Fleet beside me stiffen in surprise at my easy acquiescence.

  The Praetor
nodded to my Fist escort, and I was hauled to my feet. My numb legs nearly gave way beneath me, but I was permitted time to work the blood back into them before climbing the dais and kneeling at the Praetor’s feet. A large hand was extended to me, and I bent my face to it, even as I reached surreptitiously into the top of my boot.

  “Vow obedience,” the Praetor intoned formally. “Vow fidelity and service.”

  Fidelity and service. The motto of the house of Tarius. An image flashed through my mind of the brooch my mother had given me so long ago with those words engraved upon it. My mother who was dead because of the laws of this man.

  There was only one ring on the long fingered hand he extended to me, a thick circle of silver encrusted with red gems and the ancestral emblem of past Praetors graven into the center: a rearing bear.

  My lips hovered over the ring, even as my fingers inside my boot found the bone handle of my dagger. My heart beat fast, and I forgot to breathe. Now was the moment I had been waiting for all these years.

  I swept my knife from its hiding place and the rags around the blade fell free. Sunlight gleamed off the poison tipped steel.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There was an audible gasp throughout the room, accompanied by the ring of swords being drawn, but I scarcely heard any of it. I looked into the eyes of the man I hated and slashed my knife across the hand I held so firmly in mine. Deep red blood flowed instantly from the wound, running to the floor.

  The Praetor looked at the minor wound uncomprehendingly while I sat back, task finished, and waited to die. I heard the thundering footsteps of the guards descending on me, but didn’t turn to meet my death.

  “Hold!” The Praetor’s order ripped through the air.

  The guards froze and every eye in the chamber focused on their lord, whose attention was still on the thin trickle of blood flowing from his hand.

  A murmur rose from his counselors.

  “My lord, you are injured!”

  “Is it serious?”