The Thieves’ Guild

by Jeff Crook

  When he awoke again, the battle had ended. Someone had rolled him over, and he lay now on his back, staring up into the sky. A steady, heavy downpour sent a plume of steam rising from the burning building. It was as though, with the work of the Knights of Takhisis completed, the rain had come to douse the fires lest they spread throughout the city. The fallen rain flowed red with blood into the gutters of Smith’s Alley.

  The dwarf turned his head and met, face to face, the former master of the former Thieves’ Guild of Palanthas. Daavyd Nelgard’s head lay next to his, lusterless eyes, lids drooping, bruised lips in a death grimace revealing teeth clamped tightly on a bloated purple tongue. Already, a rat had been chewing on his nose. The dwarf recoiled in horror, only to bump into another body. He raised himself onto his elbows and found that he had been placed in a long row of corpses that stretched into the shadows in either direction. How many had died, he could not hope to count. Of those who lived, he recognized three.

  Sir Kinsaid was being tended by a healer, having the wound in his side bound with strips of cloth while two Knights stretched a tarp overhead to shield him from the rain. Sir Arach Jannon was picking through the remaining pile of loot taken from the Guild house and directing the clerks and bearers where each item, crate, or box was to be taken. Meanwhile, Captain Avaril, his face once again hidden by the heavy cowl of his cloak, sat on a crate, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands, exhausted. Rain spattered on his back and hood, but he paid it no mind. Knights and guards meandered about, searching the dead, cataloguing the booty, tending their own wounds or recounting their deeds of the night.

  All over Palanthas, the same scene was being played out in a hundred other alleys. Towers of smoke and oily steam rose into the storm-wracked sky, while Knights of Takhisis, their officers and servants, sorted, recorded, and carted away the collected belongings of the Thieves’ Guild of Palanthas. They counted and identified the dead according to a large book that each senior officer carried under his or her arm. This book, which would in after days come to be called the Book of the Damned, bore the names and descriptions of every member of the Guild as of 27 Darkember, 34 SC. Those who had not been slain were being hounded, hunted, and smoked out of every Guild house, safe house, and sewer in the entire city. Not a single secret of the Guild, not a member, not a sympathizer, not a rat hole or bolthole, nor even the lowliest treasure hole, though it contained but a pair of thin coppers, was overlooked or missed. The jails had been emptied hours before of their least-dangerous criminals, just to make room for the sudden influx of Guild thieves this night would bring. Old dungeon cells, which had not been inspected for centuries, had their doors pried open, their hinges oiled, their locks repaired. For weeks afterward, there was a notable shortage in chain and rope throughout the city. The price went through the roof, and ropemakers and blacksmiths found themselves the unexpected benefactors. Fortunes were hurriedly invested in fresh supplies of these commodities, only to be lost when the mass executions began and all that surplus chain and rope was reintroduced into the Palanthian markets. Meanwhile, a huge mass grave, a death pit, was dug into a mountain valley five miles south of the city. Though at first the gravediggers complained of the depth of the mass grave ordered by the Dark Knights, in a few weeks it was feared that it might prove too small.

  This night, as the rain sluiced Smith’s Alley of some of its refuse, the dwarf lay mere feet away from his most hated enemy in all of Krynn. A short sword, broken near the tip but otherwise serviceable, lay inches from bis grasp. The old doorwarden of the Guild edged closer to the weapon, careful that he make no noise.

  Rain and blood had made the sword’s grip slick, and his hands were grown feeble, weak from pain and loss of blood. The sword slipped and scraped across the cobblestones as he lifted it. Captain Avaril glanced up but did not move. Lightning flashed, shadows leaped up, startled. One shadow in particular caught the dwarfs attention as he gripped the sword. It loomed over him like a tower. He looked up in time to see a boot lifted above his head. With a clap of thunder that shook the ground, he knew no more.

  Chapter Two

  20th day of Brookgreen, 38 SC

  A rustle in the rose bushes by the wall marked the spot where Petor and Marta had secreted themselves for the better part of an hour. A giggle and a hushed whisper preceded their stumbling appearance on the garden path just beside a white statue of a centaur aiming his marble bow at the moon. A great oak, growing in the midst of a spacious lawn, cast its moon shadow over the path, but torches set atop tall poles illuminated the garden path at regular intervals. Petor hurriedly buttoned his blue velvet coat and fluffed the white silk ascot at his neck, while Marta brushed bits of dirt and leaves from her gown. She giggled again and plucked a rose petal from Petor’s hair.

  “Stop that!” he hissed. “We mustn’t be seen!”

  “Oh, what do I care anymore?” she laughed.

  “I do! Your father would kill me!” Petor cried. He was a young man of nineteen summers, his companion older than he by a mere month.

  “Daddy? He’s harmless,” Marta said offhandedly.

  “Ha! He’s the seventh richest man in all Palanthas!” Petor exclaimed under his breath.

  “Riches and wealth. That’s all anybody ever thinks about,” she sighed.

  “It took my father eighteen years to be invited to one of your father’s Spring Dawning parties. If I ruined it for him by being caught in the bushes with you…” His voice trailed off with a shudder.

  He took a few moments to collect himself, making certain his fine clothes were in order, while Marta toyed with her hair and twiddled the rings on her fingers. Petor hurriedly glanced about, then grasped Marta by the hand. She gazed longingly into his eyes, her lips parted expectantly.

  “I’m going in by the kitchen. Do try and not be seen returning to the party,” Petor pleaded. Without another word, he dashed away, his fashionable goldbuckle shoes rutching noisily on the garden path.

  “I’ll do as I like!” she called after him, then turned on her heel and stomped away. Her dainty, bejeweled slippers made walking difficult on the loose gravel. She turned once more and shouted to the darkness, “I’ll go in by the front door!” She spun round and stalked away. “That’ll show him.”

  When she had gone no more than a few steps, a shadow dropped silently over the wall, landing like a cat behind the rose hedge where Petor and Marta had had their assignation. It slipped out to crouch behind the marble centaur, then flitted across the path (its footsteps making no sound on the gravel) and seemed to meld with the trunk of the massive oak on the lawn. A rustling of its long cloak, as of a breeze stirring the stems of the rose bushes, was the only sound of its passing.

  Marta continued obliviously on her way, mumbling to herself, her feet crunching on the path. The shadow slipped from tree to tree, bush to bush, paralleling her course as it crossed the lawn. It seemed too swift and silent for a man, and it moved with a deadly purpose. It ran in a crouch with head eagerly thrust forward, darting across the open moonlit spaces in a flash, but when it stopped and its cloak settled about it, the normal eye could not distinguish it from wood or stone. It seemed somehow to merge with whatever shadow it crossed and to blend with the shrubbery and the trees.

  Marta straightened her back and livened her step as she neared the house. The sweet sounds of a spring dance floated from the open windows. The house itself was monumental in its construction. Through only four stories tall, it loomed like a snow-clad mountain in the early spring night. Spacious lawns and luxuriant gardens surrounded the house on three sides, but on the north side a reflecting pool, fed by a canal from the Bay of Branchala, extended all the way up to the building’s foundation. The estate lay in the northeast quarter of Palanthas, at the foot of the terraced slopes of an area known as the Golden Estates. It was surrounded by a tall stone wall, with an iron gate opening onto Bookbinder’s Street. The wall crossed the canal by way of an arch, and there a water gate and guardhouse prevented
intrusion. The canal was large enough to let small boats pass. Several guests had arrived at the party this way, for their barges stood in rows, pulled up along the shore of the reflecting pool.

  Except for a narrow decorative ledge between the third and fourth stories, the walls of the house were of white marble polished to a glassy sheen and seemingly without joint or crevice, while the depth of the window embrasures showed the walls to be as thick as the bole of the oak in the garden. Every window bore stout shutters of iron-banded oak, and each was likewise protected by heavy bars of iron set directly into the stone of the walls. Though on this night many of the shutters were thrown wide, allowing light and the sound of merrymaking to spill out onto the lawn, when closed up tight and locked from within, the house of Gaeord uth Wotan stood as impregnable as a dwarven mountain stronghold.

  As well it should be. Master Gaeord was one of the city’s most successful merchants, with a fleet of seventeen ships sailing the seas of Krynn and bringing home their profits to fill their master’s coffers. The home of Gaeord uth Wotan was known throughout the city for its collection of art, fine plate, jewels, and antiquities. Few Palanthians could boast such wealth as his.

  Still, he was not a noble and his house not the home of a noble, as even the most plebeian visitor to the city could discern from a cursory glance Compared to the elegant estates of Nobles Hill, the house of Gaeord uth Wotan was about as aesthetically pleasing as a jail. In truth, it had once been a warehouse—a huge, flat-roofed block of stone and iron. What is more, the estate did not lie within the precincts of the Old City, which fact forever doomed the Wotans to the merchant class, no matter how great their wealth might grow. The noble families of Palanthas could trace their bloodlines back to the city’s founding citizens, and no amount of money could purchase a title of nobility. Gaeord uth Wotan had only gained his considerable wealth in the past thirty years, a period of time that seemed but a single drop of a water clock to the two-thousand-year histories of many Palanthian families. He was respected and honored for his contributions to the city, and not a few feared his power and influence. His Spring Dawning party was one of the premier events of the festival. An invitation to it meant prestige for the bearer, so much so that even the noble families of Palanthas found it necessary to make an appearance, however brief.

  The finest minstrels in the city filled the air with their music Marta paused as the music slowed to a waltz. She began to dance alone upon the lawn, straying nearer and nearer her silent shadow. It never moved but crouched like a boulder beside a fountain of rose quartz. Marta laughed, her gown spreading about her as she twirled, so near now that the hem of her dress actually brushed the shadow. Still, it did not move. Finally, she danced away, and as the music changed once more to a vigorous spring ring, she skipped across the lawn and rounded the corner of the house. Her shadow leapt after her silently, pausing to peer around the corner before following.

  All the estate between the front door and the gate was aglow with torches burning with sweet resins. Carriages of all styles and periods covered the lawn as thick as bison on the plains of Abanasinia, while servants and coachmen tended the horses or gathered into groups to share a skin of wine or gamble with dice. Marta danced along the circle of the drive, stopping occasionally to curtsey to an imaginary suitor or admirer. Her shadow moved among the carriages, paralleling her all the way to the door.

  A pair of mail-clad guards suitably attired for the occasion with ribbons of green and white wrapped like a maypole around their pikes, lounged near the front doors. At Marta’s approach, they discreetly turned aside and became engrossed in a discussion of the moon, abandoning their post rather than confront their master’s scandalous young daughter. Marta stuck out her tongue at their backs as she danced into the house. Her shadow slipped in almost on her heels, crossing the threshold unnoticed except for a pet owl perched on a gilded stand beside the door. The owl ruffled its feathers in an alarmed manner and swiveled its head around to watch. Her skirts swishing over the marble floor, Marta whirled down the broad entry hall toward the ball room, while her shadow ducked aside, choosing instead a wide stair spiraling up into darkness. The guards resumed their post without noticing.

  At the top of the stairs, the intruder paused, freezing like one of the marble busts standing on pedestals along the balcony overlooking the grand foyer. To his right, the balcony ringed the circular foyer before disappearing beneath a marble arch. Bronze guardians stood to either side of the arch, female warriors with long slim swords at their sides. Halfway between the stairs and the arch stood a gilded mahogany door. It creaked open. The intruder instantly stepped into a niche, somehow slipping behind the pedestal filling the niche, though there didn’t appear to be room enough for a cat. He steadied the rocking marble head atop the pedestal with his fingertips and merged into the shadows.

  A man stepped through the door, closing and locking it behind him. He dropped an ornate brass key into his waistcoat pocket and turned toward the stairs. He was round as a bowl, but he walked with the swagger of a man long accustomed to striding the decks of a sailing ship. He wore a coat cut from the finest blue broadcloth, and several necklaces of rich gold hung about his thick, sunburned neck. A green emerald as large as a quail’s egg sparkled from one of his fingers. Walking, he whistled out of tune with the music echoing from the ballroom below. As he passed the niche and started down the stair, a black-gloved hand flickered out from behind the pedestal and fingered the pocket into which the brass key had been placed. just as quickly the hand withdrew as the portly man brushed irritably at his breast as though it were a fly and not a bold thief’s fingers disturbing his pocket. He continued without stopping. The intruder stepped out from the niche and watched the master of the house, Gaeord uth Wotan, cross the foyer below him, still whistling out of tune.

  With a swirl of his black cloak, he spun round and glided to the mahogany door. He paused and examined the lock, then rose and proceeded toward the arch with its bronze guardians. His footsteps slowed, his head swiveled from one guardian to another. The statues seemed ordinary enough, if rather ornate in design. The female faces were extraordinarily beautiful and as alike as twins. Each bore a slim sword gripped in a long, shapely hand, one in the left hand, the other in the right. They were naked to the waist, sublimely muscled, perfectly cast. The dim light playing over their dark metallic forms gave almost the semblance of movement, of breathing.

  Suddenly, the intruder dashed forward, his cloak billowing behind him. At a movement to his left, he dove, rolling beneath the arch just as two razor-sharp bronze blades sheared a span from the hem of his cloak. He continued his roll another dozen feet before rising to his feet, already running. He glanced over his shoulder. The hall behind him was empty. He slowed his steps to listen for a moment, and hearing nothing, shrugged and continued on his way.

  He hurried down the darkened hall as though he possessed full knowledge of the layout of the house. He passed without pause numerous rooms and chambers, many promising untold wealth by the stoutness of their doors and locks. But he never hesitated. Finally, he stopped at a small, nondescript door almost hidden behind a fine tapestry. Without pause, he opened it quickly and stepped through, closing it silently behind him. He found himself on a narrow landing. Plain stairs, illuminated at this landing by a pair of braziers hanging from the ceiling, rose from below and continued up into darkness. He mounted the stairs three at a time until he reached the top landing, Where they ended at another door. This he opened as before and stepped out into another hall, closing the door behind him.

  To his right, torches in sconces burned along an unadorned wall. The floor was laid with unpolished stone, well worn in the middle by the passing of many feet. From a door at the far end, sounds of raucous merrymaking echoed along the hall’s empty length. To the left, the hall was dark as a cave. His cloak unfurled like a flag as he turned, and he vanished into the gloom, invisible in his ebon clothes, mask, and hood.

  The darkness seemed not
to hinder his movements. He strode quickly down the hall, right hand lightly brushing the wall as though to guide him. No obstacle arose to trouble his path, and after turning a corner, he quickly reached his destination. It was a door, no different than the score he had already passed. Removing his black gloves, he knelt beside it and produced a leather pouch from some hidden pocket in his clothes. From this, he chose a thin metal wire and slipped it into the door’s weighty lock. Beside this, he inserted a second, thicker wire and began to work these back and forth inside the lock.

  Minutes passed, and a sigh escaped him, the first sound he’d made since climbing over the garden wall. He chose a different wire and tried again but to no avail. He sat back on his heels and rested, tucked a stray strand of coppery hair back into his hood, chose a third wire, and tried the lock again. Still it would not turn, and he was just reaching for a fourth wire when a light appeared at the end of the hall.

  A female servant of the house turned the corner, a candle in a silver holder illuminating her flushed face. She hurried along the passage while fiddling with a ring of keys in her free hand. The intruder eased away from her,moving down the hall about twenty feet before stretching himself out flat where the wall joined the floor. The servant stopped at the door he’d been trying to enter and tried several keys in the lock. The intruder tensed, noticing his pouch of lockpicks lying on the floor between her feet. Finally, she slid an iron key into the lock. It opened with an click. She hurried into the room, leaving the door open behind her. The intruder rose silently and crept to the door, retrieved his lockpicks, then slipped into the room and ducked behind a barrel. After a few moments, the servant exited, a large gold platter tucked under her arm. She closed the door, locked it, and hurried back the way she had come.