The Thieves’ Guild

by Jeff Crook

  Lining the shadowy paneled wall were eight chairs. Rich with velvet of red or forest green, polished and carved with care, they could have been the thrones of kings. One was greater than rest. Its back was wrought in the likeness of a dragon with wings outspread and head craned up at the sky. Its legs rested atop claws gripping balls of gleaming crystal. In this chair sat a massive figure dressed in darkest blue. Brass gleamed from his breast, and his cuffs were worked with gold braid. A golden bowl atop a small marble pedestal stood near his elbow, filled with cool grapes and dark succulent berries. The massive figure sat with his chin on his fist, amusement sparkling in his dark eyes. It was Captain Oros uth Jakar, who laughed aloud as Cael struggled to his feet.

  To Oros’s right and left, each chair was occupied by a figure cloaked in black. Each had his or her hood thrown back, revealing a group of faces representing a complex variety of the cultures and races of Krynn. A swarthy-faced man from Tarsis sat beside a woman from the plains of Abanasinia. There lounged a bearded Kalamanite and beside him a man who looked enough like the bearded Kalamanite to be his twin brother. Next to them a scowling, pale-eyed native of Sancrist. However, the chair to the guildmaster’s right remained empty. To his left a dark alcove hinted at a waiting figure hidden within.

  Alynthia crossed the room and took her seat in the empty chair beside Oros. Cael looked around and saw no guards but no obvious way out of the place either. He faced the gathered leaders of the Guild, acutely conscious of the blood staining his lips and the sewage drying on his tattered clothes. Any hopes for escape were drying just as fast.

  When Alynthia had sunk into her seat, a bell sounded from the shadows of the hall. The room, though quiet before, grew hushed. A voice then spoke from the dark, empty alcove, “Is this the freelance thief known as Cael Ironstaff, Cael Elbernarian, the elf?”

  It was a voice to chill the stoutest heart. Growling, full of menace, like the voice of a child of the elder dark before the Age of Dreams, weary as though burdened by countless ages. Whether it was that of a male or a female, human, elf, or dwarf, Cael could not discern.

  As for the figure, not even his keen elven eyes could be certain of the shape within the darkened alcove, which refused to come forward into the light. He saw only suggestive shadows, ebon drapes perhaps, or something couched in black robes. The voice itself seemed to leap from empty air. His neck hairs rose in the unusual sensation of fear.

  “It is, my lord Mulciber,” Alynthia answered.

  “Where is his staff?” the voice asked.

  “Lost in the sewers,” Alynthia said. “Or so he says.”

  “A shame. We are told it has great powers,” the voice of Mulciber said.

  “It is only a staff,” Cael said defiantly.

  “Why does he speak to us, as though he were one with us and our equal? Why is he not gagged?” Mulciber demanded.

  “I thought…” Alynthia began, hesitating. “I thought you might expect to question him, my lord.”

  “You think too much, Alynthia Krath-Mal,” the voice growled.

  “It was I who ordered him brought before us unbound, Lord Mulciber,” Captain Oros interjected.

  There was a pause, then the voice answered. “Very well. It is of no consequence. What then does the elf have to say for himself? Where is the treasure he stole from us?”

  “Sold,” Cael answered.

  “To whom? And at what price?”

  “I forget his name, but the price was three hundred steel coins.”

  A gasp escaped the gathered leaders of the Guild.

  “We know the name of the alchemist, my lord,” Alynthia said. “The spice will be recovered this evening, before either Mistress Jenna or Sir Arach Jannon’s agents locate it. The price was four hundred steel coins.”

  Mulciber ignored her. “A pittance! The dragonflower spice was worth ten times as much. Where, then, is this pittance?”

  “Lost in the sewers,” Cael answered. “More’s the pity.”

  “We pity all that has been lost in the sewers,” Mulciber snarled. “Does this elf know the punishment for unlicensed theft?”

  “I do,” Cael said. “It is a true thief who knows his punishment.”

  “Either he is bold or a fool. The punishment is death,” Mulciber proclaimed. The other Guild captains nodded in agreement. Cael’s chin sank to his breast, his long coppery hair fell about his face in apparent defeat, but he was desperately flexing his wiry arms, trying to loosen the cords binding them. They were tight, but if he had another few moments, he might free one hand. On the floor between his feet he had noticed numerous notches in the stone and a deep, brown stain. There might be hope.

  A door behind him creaked open, then boomed shut. Heavy clopping footsteps approached from behind, as he continued to flex his arms, twisting ever so slightly, imperceptible, he trusted, in the gloom. The cords loosened a bit, then some more.

  He glanced up and saw Alynthia stooped beside the chair of Captain Oros. With one hand shielding her lips she was whispering in his ear, while he in turn gazed thoughtfully at the doomed elf, chin propped on one massive fist. The clopping footsteps drew nearer, and Cael heard a chuffing snort, followed by the whistling swish of a blade. Cael tensed, awaiting the blow, which seemed to be falling in slow motion.

  Oros shook his head and waved Alynthia back to her seat. She returned to it, obviously annoyed, but she held her tongue.

  “Kolav! Stay your blade a moment,” Oros suddenly ordered. The footsteps paused, but grumbling sounds indicated that the executioner was not pleased.

  “What is this, Captain?” Mulciber asked. “Do you dare interrupt my order?”

  Oros answered, “Never would I question your orders, my lord, but an offer has been made for this elf’s life.”

  “One here would purchase him as slave?” Mulciber asked. The Guild captains looked from one to the other.

  “Not as slave, Lord Mulciber,” Oros said. “Captain Alynthia has lost two thieves of her Circle. Brem of Northern Ergoth was slain in the sewers last night, and Markom died in the house of Gaeord uth Wotan, by the hand of this very elf. Our numbers are still low, and we can ill afford to replace these two experienced thieves with apprentices. The elf has proven his talent. Captain Alynthia thinks he should be sentenced to take their place.”

  There was a pause during which the gathered captains of the Thieves’ Guild discussed the proposition in agitated whispers. Finally, the Guild captain from Abanasinia shook her head disapprovingly and spoke aloud for the first time. Long, raven locks rippled about her sun-darkened face. “He is freelance, Captain Oros. Freelancers are notoriously independent and can rarely learn to conform to the ways of the Guild. Better to slay him and be done with it. I have a promising young pickpocket in my Circle, if Captain Alynthia has need of replacements.”

  “Aye, better to kill him now,” growled a voice in Cael’s ear. The breath was hot, and stank of raw meat and stale beer. Cael fought the heaving of his belly while continuing to work free of his bindings.

  “He is talented, Captain Wolfheart,” Oros argued. “He entered by stealth and agility the house of Gaeord uth Wotan. How many here could do such a thing? Not even Captain Alynthia, the greatest among you, dared such a feat, preferring instead to slip away during Master Gaeord’s party, to which we were both invited guests.”

  “That is all good and well, Captain Oros,” said the Guild captain from Sancrist. “But—”

  Alynthia interrupted him, her voice rising to drown all arguments. “I am as opposed to this in principle as the rest of you,” she almost shouted. “But even I must admit that he slyly filched the spice box from my bodice while fighting off my capable lookouts. He then escaped us, and very nearly escaped us again last night in the sewers. I would like to try and break him into the Guild but will gladly kill him myself if I fail that challenge.”

  The captain from Sancrist angrily pounded the arm of his chair. He was a huge man, a head taller than any other Guild Captain. “You are
only trying to excuse your failure at Gaeord’s by exaggerating the talents of this elf.”

  “Would you care to prove those accusations?” Alynthia asked as she toyed with her poniard.

  The man started and gaped. “I… of course, not Captain Alynthia,” he stuttered. The man’s face paled, and he suddenly seemed more interested in the state of his manicure than the fate of the elf. The other captains once more huddled in whispers.

  At that moment, one loop binding Cael’s arms finally slipped off. He tore free one hand and dragged loose the other bindings. The Guild captains saw him and leaped to their feet, blades flashing from hidden sheaths. Alynthia, looking betrayed, pulled her sword, while Captain Oros merely gazed in mixed amusement and admiration.

  Spinning around, Cael ran headlong into the mountainous chest of a huge creature. He staggered back and gazed up into the face of a nightmare. Though its head was like that of a bull, its eyes burned with both the fury of an animal and the intelligence of a man. Twin horns curved from its head, dark as mahogany, polished to needle points. Massive muscles swelled beneath reddish-brown fur, as laughter boomed from its thick-corded throat It wore leather armor, barbarically studded with copper rivets and decorated with bits of semiprecious stone and bone ornaments. It stood several feet taller than the elf and in one hand held a massive tulwar, a curved sword so large the elf probably couldn’t have hoped to lift it The minotaur wielded it as though it were a toy sword.

  Its other hand shot out and caught Cael by the throat before he could recover from his astonishment. Slowly, the minotaur’s fingers tightened around his windpipe. Cael grasped at the hand, tore at its fingers, but it would be easier to pry loose the roots of a mighty oak. Black spots burst before his eyes.

  Alynthia and the other captains of thieves sat back down nervously in their chairs. Muted laughter issued from the shadowed alcove.

  “Cael Ironstaff, meet Kolav Ru-Marn of Kothas, my bodyguard, and Executioner of Justice,” Captain Oros laughed from his chair. “Try not to kill him, Kolav.”

  The minotaur’s fingers loosened around Cael’s throat but held him tightly. The minotaur shook him like a rag doll. “There’s no escape from me, little elf,” he growled.

  “Kolav here is the finest sword in all the lands of Ansalon,” Oros said.

  “All Krynn!” the minotaur roared.

  “That’s funny,” Cael choked. “I always thought I was the finest. swordsman in all Krynn.” Suddenly, he found himself flying through the air. He landed squarely on his back, driving the air from his lungs and sliding to a stop against Alynthia’s foot. He looked up, wincing in pain, and found Alynthia gazing down at him, her dark eyes filled with hatred and disgust.

  “Give him a sword!” the minotaur roared. “You heard him. He challenged me. I’ll eat his heart! By Sargonnas, I will!”

  “Now is neither the time nor the place,” Mulciber growled impatiently from the shadows. The room grew quiet, and even Kolav seemed cowed by the sound of that voice. He retreated to the opposite wall and glared across the gloom at Cael. At a nod from Captain Oros, Alynthia helped the elf to rise and led him to stand before the alcove.

  “What will you give for the life of this elf?” the voice of Mulciber demanded.

  Alynthia paused before answering, her eyes darting to Captain Oros. Unspoken words flashed between them, and all knew this episode would be debated when the two captains of thieves reached their bedchamber. Captain Oros held the upper rank, but he would feel the wrath of his lady’s tongue if he didn’t accede to her wishes.

  “With him, we shall recover one of the stolen Guild treasures,” she answered.

  The other captains turned to one another and began to whisper. Captain Oros nodded approvingly to his lover.

  “Which treasure? There are many,” Mulciber said.

  “The Eighth Circle shall name it,” Alynthia said.

  “Call Master Petrovius. We shall hear the list again,”, Mulciber ordered. Kolav opened a small door and roared the name of Petrovius into the darkness beyond. Soon, an ancient man came doddering through. His bald pate was covered with dark splotches, his eyes were milky, and when he smiled his lips parted to reveal a gaping black hole devoid of teeth. He seemed bent almost double, and he leaned upon a cane almost as gnarled as himself. He stopped beside Cael, facing the alcove, and bowed over his cane.

  “Master Petrovius, eldest of all thieves, name for us again our lost treasures and tell us if you know where they are now and who has them, or whether they are lost in the mists of time,” Mulciber said.

  “Shall I also name our brothers and sisters murdered on the Night of Black Hammers?” the old man cawed. “The list is long and long in the telling, for only three survived—myself, and young Captain Oros, who saved my life when he stole me from the Dark Knights who had captured me. The third we do not name, for it was he who betrayed us, and though he fled we found him at last and Captain Oros strangled his protests of innocence with his own hands, as was just and right.”

  “I think not tonight, Master Petrovius,” Oros said. “It is to hear of the Guild treasures that we desire.”

  The old man began to list each treasure, telling its value and when it was first won and the name of the thief who won it, where it now lay, or if it was lost. They were many and of all kinds: jewels, items of magic, famous weapons, artifacts both hideous and wonderful, but chief among them was the Founderstone of Palanthas. When it was mentioned, a great groan went up among the Guild captains, and even Cael felt a terrible temptation in his heart.

  “Of course the Founderstone is beyond the reach of any thief,” the old list keeper said. “Sadly, in these lesser days, there is no thief capable of stealing it back. It is lost to us, unless the world should change.”

  He continued on, naming now the lesser treasures, now the objects of art, now crowns and jeweled scepters stolen over the ages. Finally, his long list came to an end. Having exhausted his store of knowledge, he turned and doddered away, muttering something about his delayed breakfast. The Guild captains sat appreciatively in their chairs, as if they had just witnessed a favorite performance. During the old man’s speech, servants—apprentice thieves—had entered the chamber bearing bowls of fruit and platters of bread. Now stewards brought wine in tall flagons, and cups of silver. Each Guild captain was served, although the servants passed the dark alcove of Mulciber without a glance. When all had gone and a thoughtful silence reigned, finally the Guild captain from Kalaman spoke up. “My vote is for the Reliquary,” he said.

  “Didn’t you hear the old man?” Oros responded. “On the Night of Black Hammers, the Reliquary was taken away by the Knights of Takhisis under heavy guard. It has not been seen since, nor has any word of it reached our ears. It should be counted as lost to us.”

  “We could search for it. I suspect that it lies still within my Circle, the Third Circle of the city, in the Lord Knight’s house. Either there, or in the old temple of Takhisis in Captain Alynthia’s circle, the Seventh Circle,” he said stubbornly. “Besides, the Reliquary would be a challenge worthy of this supposed thief with talent.”

  “Put the Reliquary out of your mind, I say,” Oros said. “It is far too valuable to remain in Palanthas, where the Knights of Solamnia might somehow find it. If the Knights of Neraka know whose bones it contains, as I assure you they do, it is probably hidden away in the deepest vaults of their stronghold in Neraka, far beyond anyone’s reach.”

  The captain of the Third Circle reluctantly acquiesced.

  “What say you then, Captain Oros?” asked the captain of the Fourth Circle, the Abanasinian Captain Wolfheart. Her circle of influence was bounded by Market Street—the only road in New City that ran continuously around the full circleof the city—and included areas as widely diverse as Smith’s Alley and the main Market of Palanthas, where the vast majority of the city’s riches were made and exchanged.

  “I suggest the Potion of Shonlay,” Oros said. Surprised looks were exchanged among the other ca
ptains.

  “That lies in the house of Mistress Jenna, a powerful red robe mage,” the Tarsian captain of the Second Circle, whose name was Jakar Jervanian, said. “That is within my Circle of the city. As you know, her house offers many difficulties. We’ve tried. That is why the dragonflower pollen was to be stolen from Master Gaeord before Mistress Jenna could get her hands on it and take it beyond our reach.”

  “It can’t be as impregnable as the Tower of High Sorcery, from whence the Potion was originally stolen, long years ago in the Age of Might,” Oros answered.

  “True, but those were better days,” Captain Wolfheart agreed. “Our petty thefts cannot compare to the heroic deeds of those times.”

  “Still, it might be attempted,” the Captain of the Fifth Circle countered. Her name was Kristin Ladycandle, and she hailed originally from the city of Sanction. The Fifth Circle contained mostly residences and, where it neared the bay, warehouses. A good part of her Circle also included a portion of the wealthy merchandising district, which she shared with the Fourth Circle. Her territory was bounded on the west by Knight’s Candle Road, to the south by Silver Street, and to the east by New Itari Way.

  “Aye, I like the idea,” the Captain of the Sixth Circle agreed. “It is time we began to exert our influence over this city again. What better way than to strike where few might imagine any thief would dare to break?” The Captain of the Sixth Circle was the only dwarven member of the council of thieves. He had the usual dwarven beard and stature. However, his pale complexion and the slightly wild (some said “deranged,” although not within his earshot if they valued their lives) glint in his eye marked him as one of the Daergar race. Some might call his Circle the least interesting of all the Circles of Palanthas, but Felthorn Bloodhand took pride in his turf. Under his domain lay the Old Temple District, as well as the Purple Ridge, home of the newly wealthy families of Palanthas, whom he had vowed to make “newly poor.” The Sixth Circle was bounded to the west by the Boulevard of Gold, to the south by the Avenue of the Sun, and to the east by Shipwrights Lane.