The Thieves’ Guild

by Jeff Crook

  The room was dark, but not so dark as the hall. It was little more than a cupboard, long and narrow, with a small window at the far end. A little light spilled through the cracks in its shutters and gleamed off dozens of shelves of some of the finest gold and silver plate in the city. The shadow-intruder, though, ignored the riches at his fingertips and rushed to the window. He drew back its bolt and carefully opened the shutters.

  The window overlooked the front lawn. He leaned out, his head passing easily between the window’s thick iron bars. Directly below him stood the two guards, still at their posts by the front door, their ribbons fluttering in the breeze rising from the bay. He climbed up into the window embrasure. It was barely large enough for a kender, but somehow he managed to squeeze into it. He slipped one leg through the window’s bars, then the other, then twisted and contorted himself to pass his body and shoulders through, and finally his head, until he dangled by his fingertips fifty feet above the unsuspecting guards. He looked down between his legs, took a deep breath, and let go.

  The shortened hem of his cloak fluttered up around him as he fell, but before he had dropped a dozen feet, his fingers touched the tiny decorative ledge running along the wall between the third and fourth stories. He caught at it, stopping his descent in almost perfect silence. Only a slight scuffling of his boots on the polished stone wall betrayed him. He lay still, dangling by his fingertips, then glanced down. The guards had not moved.

  Now, with perfect care, he slid one hand along the ledge, pulled his body and other hand after it, then repeated the action. Though people passed in and out of the party, some arriving and some leaving, others merely stepping outside for a breath of air, no one happened to look up. Not that they would have seen much of interest had they done so. A shadow perhaps, shapeless, hardly seeming to move at all. The sweet-smelling torches illuminating the grounds below blinded people. The intruder moved slowly, but without pause, along the ledge, crossing the front of the house and turning the corner, then made his careful way another dozen yards. The deepest part of the reflecting pool lay below him now.

  Below the ledge but twenty feet above the water, an iron cage projected from the wall, attached by several stout bolts. The cage protected not a window but a door, like the door of a loft. Through that door, many of Gaeord’s most precious cargoes were delivered at night, moving by boat up the canal without ever passing before the eyes of a Palanthian customs officer. A block and tackle could be affixed to the inside of the cage, while its bottom swung open to allow the cargo to be lifted inside. This hinged aperture was sealed by a massive lock that looked strong enough to defy even the heaviest pry bar, and the top of the cage was protected by tall iron spikes.

  Having positioned himself directly above the cage, the intruder kicked out from the wall and sailed outward like an acrobat or a flying squirrel. The trajectory of his fall took him beyond the edge of the cage. A little closer to the wall and he could have landed atop the cage, and he would have been skewered by its spikes. A little farther out, and he’d have gone for a swim in the reflecting pool. As it was, his outstretched fingertips brushed the upper bars of the cage before catching hold of the bottom rung and stopping his fall with arm-wrenching abruptness. The cage held his weight with barely a shudder. He dangled from it for a few moments as though catching his breath, then swung like a monkey along the underside of the cage until he reached the lock. A fish plopped somewhere in the pool, sending long ripples across the moonlit water.

  Letting go with one hand and dangling from the other, he removed from a pouch at his belt a strange device. It was a tube of dull metal, no longer than his smallest finger and not much thicker. Small square plates of steel covered both ends. This he worked carefully into place between the body of the lock and its metal loop. Once it was in place, he gingerly squeezed the center of the tube. With a sharp clang, the lock burst open. Its fragments, as well as the lock-breaking mechanism, splashed into the water below. The intruder then slid back the bolt and let the bottom of the cage swing open. He climbed up inside it, then swung across and landed in the embrasure of the door.

  A pair of wooden doors confronted him now, but these were not meant to keep out thieves, only the wind and rain. A thin-bladed dagger slipped between the boards followed by a sharp upward jerk and the bar was lifted. He opened one door wide enough to slip a hand inside to catch the bar, then slowly opened the door and dropped into the room beyond.

  By some instinct or uncanny intuition, he recoiled instantly. With leopardlike reflexes, he caught the hand that guided the dagger aimed at his heart. Another blinding parry trapped the fist that would have shattered his teeth, and a lifted knee foiled the boot meant for his groin. He jerked his assailant into the moonlight in front of the doorway.

  The figure was dressed much like himself, except that where he wore a full mask to hide his features, his assailant wore only a strip of cloth over the lower half of her face. A pair of dark flashing eyes glared at him from beneath her hood. She struggled a moment longer, silently, then grew still, her breath hissing sharply through her mask.

  “You are hurting me,” she whispered venomously.

  “You would have done much worse to me,” he answered.

  “You surprised me,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “I am a thief,” he said, “like yourself.”

  “You are a thief, but you are nothing like me,” she spat.

  “Ah, yes. You must be a Guild thief,” he sighed.

  “Yes, and you are intruding upon Guild business, you freelance pig.”

  He ignored the insult. Instead, he sniffed, testing the air for some elusive scent. He drew the daggered fist closer to his face. Suddenly, she jerked away, but he held her fast. He forced her wrist closer to his face until the point of the dagger tickled the thick muscular cord below his ear.

  “The yellow Ergothian lotus, said to drive men mad with passion. In Palanthas, all know this perfume you wear, Lady Alynthia,” he whispered.

  “And your mask cannot hide the fact that you are an elf,” she countered.

  He stiffened as though insulted. “My name is Cael Ironstaff,” he said. “Is that the name of an elf?”

  “Call yourself what you will,” she hissed. “After this night, the Guild will hunt you down like the dog you are. You will not escape us.”

  “Why should I wish to escape you, Mistress Alynthia?” he answered. “I can think of nothing so desirable as being pursued by you.”

  “Pig!” she almost shouted, her feet flailing at his knees and groin. He twisted her around and pinned her arms behind her back until she grew still, her chest heaving, breath hissing between clenched teeth.

  “Do you have it?” he asked sternly.

  “Do I have what?” she snarled over her shoulder.

  “You know what I—”

  He had not yet had time to take in his surroundings, and for that he was now heartily sorry. A door somewhere within the warehouselike chamber opened. A light spilled in, sending shadows leaping up the walls. He forced her down behind a crate, clapping one hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out while holding her tight with the other. For a moment, he felt her tense and struggle, but then slowly she seemed to relax against him. He felt the smooth curves of her flesh cupped into his own, and the warmth of her body sent a thrill though his limbs. The delicate perfume of the yellow Ergothian lotus began to drive him to distraction, despite the danger.

  Then a whispered voice pierced the silence. “Captain Alynthia?” it inquired. “Are you here? Guards are approaching. We’d better— what the…?” The lookout had just spotted the open loft door.

  Alynthia wormed herself free for a moment. “Over here,” she barked. “Slay me this…” her voice trailed off in a string of muffled curses.

  He jerked her to her feet and stepped back until he stood in the loft door, keeping her between himself and the lookouts. Opposite him, a hook-nosed thief crouched half-hidden by a wooden crate, a dagger poised by his ear,
ready for throwing. A second hid in the shadows by the open door, a small crossbow in his fist. Alynthia struggled and twisted until her mouth was again free.

  “Slay him, you fools,” she ordered the lookouts, but they hesitated, afraid lest they strike their leader by mistake.

  The intruder faced no such obstacle. With a deft twist, he pried the dagger from Alynthia’s grasp and sent it flying at the hook-nosed thief. Hook-nose ducked behind the crate only just in time, as the dagger whistled by his chin and buried itself in the eye of the thief by the door. He dropped like a poleaxed cow, dead before he bit the floor.

  Freed from his grip, Alynthia spun around with fists clenched, but by some trick she found herself flying backwards through the air. She landed on her rear with a thump and slid across the polished floor, tumbling into Hook-nose who had just risen to launch his dagger. With a mocking laugh, the intruder stepped out of the loft and dropped from sight. Hook-nose rushed to the loft door and leaned out. He whistled in amazement.

  “What is it?” Alynthia asked as she dusted herself off. “Did you get him?”

  “No, Captain,” the thief admitted.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s not there.”

  “What do you mean? He must be there. He’s in the water,” she said.

  “There’s not a ripple, and I didn’t hear no splash,” the thief answered as he turned away. He sheathed his dagger with a snap. “He must be some kind of wizard.”

  “Perhaps,” she admitted. “Well, at least he didn’t get the…” She slapped at her pockets, a strangled howl of rage rising in her throat.

  Chapter Three

  Has anyone thought to question the owl?” the man asked as he knelt on the floor. A voluminous robe the color of driftwood hid his entire body, including his head. On the floor before him lay a congealing pool of dark blood.

  “The owl?” the master of the house, Gaeord uth Wotan, asked nervously. He was a man unused to being afraid of anyone or anything, and he disliked the feeling. He fidgeted with the heavy gold chain dangling below his chin, and nervously ran a hand down the front of his blue silk pajamas.

  “The owl by the door,” the man in the robes said. “The one given you by Amil of Sanction in exchange for certain, how shall we say, advantages in Palanthian pearl importation.”

  “Begging your pardon, Sir Arach,” Gaeord stammered. With a sigh, the gray-robed Knight of Takhisis pushed back his hood and stared languidly at his portly host. “The magical owl said to have the power of speech,” he said with weary patience.

  “Oh, that owl!” Gaeord laughed nervously. “The magical power wore off some months ago. How did you know?” he whispered.

  “It is my business to know, Master Gaeord,” Sir Arach Jannon said. “It is my business to know everything that passes within this city. I am its Lord High Justice, am I not? I am also the highest-ranking Thorn Knight in the city, and as such all things magical also come under my domain, especially since the unlicensed ownership of magical items is illegal in this city.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gaeord said.

  “I knew about this owl of yours, just as I know that most of these boxes and crates,” he said with a gesture at the contents of the room, “have never seen the inside of a customs house, that they arrive by night from your ships, pass through the water gate into your reflecting pool, and are unloaded through that loft, the loft through which your burglar either entered or made his escape.”

  “Which is it?” Gaeord asked, trying desperately to change the subject. “If he entered through the door, why break the lock on the loft cage? If he entered through the loft, who entered through the door?”

  “Exactly! And once here, how did he die and where is his body? If he did‘ die here, then who was it that escaped? This case presents some interesting perplexities, Master Gaeord,” Sir Arach said. “I am very glad you brought it to my attention. So glad that I may overlook certain irregularities in the way you choose to conduct your business.”

  “I knew of your interest in such puzzles. I am only thankful that nothing was stolen,” Gaeord said quickly, with just a bit too much enthusiasm. He had not sent for Sir Arach. The man had unaccountably appeared at his door at dawn, announcing his intention to investigate the burglary of which only Gaeord and a few of his most trusted servants had known. Gaeord suspected that the Thorn Knight had spies in his household, just as it was rumored he had spies in the house of every important family in Palanthas.

  “Yes. You are indeed fortunate that nothing was stolen,” Sir Arach responded, his voice tinged with irony. Droplets of sweat broke out on Gaeord’s brow.

  At that moment, a servant appeared at the door, clearing his throat.

  “What is it?” Gaeord snapped.

  “Mistress Jenna to see you, sir,” the servant said nervously. “She demanded—”

  Before he could finish his explanation, a woman pushed past him and entered the room. She was clad in long robes of a deep wine-colored red, bound about the waist by a belt of gold twined with what appeared to be a living vine. Her long gray hair was pulled back in a simple yet elegant braid, allowing the gold hoops in her ears the freedom to swing and glint in the light.

  Though well into her sixties, Mistress Jenna was still a strikingly beautiful woman. Her steps were firm and sure, her stride vigorous. She was perhaps the most powerful mage in the city, respected, even feared. Her shop, the Three Moons, dealt in magical items, potions, scrolls, and spellbooks (though the latter were of little use since the moons of magic disappeared from the skies after the Chaos War). Strangely enough, or perhaps not so strangely, considering the position of influence that she held in the city, the Knights of Takhisis never questioned her right to deal in magic, even though the law against the sale of such items was strictly prosecuted in all other cases. Now Sir Arach rose at her entrance, and it was an indication of her position in society that he bowed slightly upon meeting her eyes.

  She cast a swift, bitter glance over him, then turned to the master of the house.

  “Mistress Jenna, this is an unexpected surprise,” Gaeord said rather unconvincingly. He coughed, and using the excuse to cup one hand over his mouth to hide it from Sir Arach’s view, mouthed the words, “Say nothing.”

  Mistress Jenna seemed not to notice. Her gaze had just as quickly strayed to the blood stain on the floor. “I heard there was a robbery,” she said, as her eyes lighted on the open loft door, then flickered over the various boxes and crates that half filled the room.

  “Nothing was taken,” Gaeord quickly affirmed. How many spies did he have in his house anyway? He determined as soon as this was over to question all his servants most thoroughly.

  Sir Arach merely smiled, his black eyes “Why, Mistress Jenna!” he exclaimed with mock surprise. “I had no idea that you and Master Gaeord were such close friends. It really is too kind of you to visit him in his hour of need, but on its face, this case seems simple enough, and we certainly shouldn’t need to call upon your considerable magical powers to solve it.”

  “You suspect who the thief is?” Gaeord asked.

  “Not a clue,” the Thorn Knight admitted without hesitation. “But I have every confidence that I shall discover his identity. It is a shame about that owl, though. Most strange that it should lose its magical powers, now, at this particular time.”

  At these last words, a strange quiet fell over the room’s occupants. Gaeord wondered at its cause, looking in some confusion at his two uninvited guests, who seemed to be staring at each other. A more imaginative man might have fancied that the gray eyes of Mistress Jenna were fighting a duel with the sharp, black eyes of the Thorn Knight, each mage probing the other for some clue as to what he or she was thinking at that moment. Though no word was said, whole conversations seemed to pass between them.

  Suddenly, like a wrestler who flings off his opponent to escape him, the Thorn Knight tore his gaze away from Mistress Jenna. He then spoke slowly, as though fighting to regain his composure, “Yes,
we might have learned much from the owl.”

  Mistress Jenna turned to Gaeord. “What were the thieves after?” she asked.

  “I have many things in my house that such daring thieves as these would be willing to risk their lives to obtain,” Gaeord bragged. “But I assure you, they failed in their attempt to steal whatever it was they were after. See, they were interrupted and fled!”

  Sir Arach clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Come, come, Master Gaeord,” he said. “How can I possibly be expected to solve this crime if its victim withholds pertinent facts? I must know everything if justice is to prevail.”

  Despite his wealth and station in Palanthian society, Gaeord uth Wotan’s face turned gray at these words. A man such as he was long accustomed to dealing with government officials while conducting his business of importation and trade. His ability to guarantee the sort of profits his partners and investors demanded depended on operating, now and then, outside of the normal confines of the law. Ways were opened and means obtained by the judicious and discreet application of coin, favors, gifts, intimidation, even violence. He was no criminal, no one would dare to call him such. It was simply how business was conducted in Palanthas.

  Standing before him, however, was a man notoriously impossible to influence. Sir Arach Jannon, one of the most powerful men in all Palanthas, could not be bribed and he certainly could not be intimidated. It was he who intimidated others. Nothing could be hidden from him. He had spies throughout the city, it was said, in every household of any importance, even those of his fellow Knights of Takhisis. What was more, the man was a Thorn Knight, a magic user of the Gray Robes, and magic worried Gaeord almost as much as high taxes.

  Those who opposed Sir Arach often found themselves under intense scrutiny. Those with business practices that could not bear close examination had no desire to conduct business with those under Sir Arach’s eye. More than one great Palanthian family had been destroyed by this man, often without one charge ever being leveled against it.