by David Cook
Next to Bors, and looking none to happy for the seat, was Duke Tomas. Had he been two seats over, Pinch would have mistaken the duke for Manferic, his late brother, even though the duke was gleamingly bald where the late king had had a full head of hair.
"Dear coz, the years have made you forget your manners." The jab brought Pinch back to the front and center, and he bowed quickly before even looking to see who had stung him. It didn't matter; even after fifteen years it was impossible not to recognize the voice, a baritone of biting silk ripe with arrogance.
"Quite true, Prince Vargo. Otherwise I would have remembered your impatience, too."
Across the table glowered a muscular man, Vargo, second son of Manferic. He was several years Pinch's younger, although his face was hard and sharpened to a point by his impeccably trimmed Vandyke. His casually tossed blond hair offset the red of his beard, and he easily could have been a dashing cavalier if it weren't for the unsatiated savagery that twisted even his brightest smile.
"I present myself, Lord Chamberlain," Pinch-now-Janol continued before his adversary could recover from the rogue's bon mot. "I am Master Janol, royal ward of the late King Manferic."
A susurration of muted surprise trickled from the outer wings, as those guests previously clueless of Pinch's identity grasped the import of his arrival.
"I… beseech… your permission to join you at table as was the courtesy my late guardian extended to me." This part of the ritualistic greeting came hardest for the regulator. It was galling to go through the show of asking the favor after the old man had forced him here in the first place. Hiding a grimace, the prodigal courtier bowed once again, this time with more flamboyance. The fear that threatened to paralyze him was fading as the familiarity with the air around him grew.
Lord Cleedis raised a glass of amber wine as if this were the first time he had seen Pinch in years. The gold elixir sparkled in the light from the mullioned windows that lined the base of the dome above.
It was all a conceit. Everyone at the table knew the old man had gone to fetch the errant ward, though the thief couldn't imagine why the chamberlain had risked absence from the court for so long. Gods knew what the princes had done-or might have done-in the regent's absence.
"Truly we are pleased to see our long-absent cousin. I, who was your guardian's servant, will not dishonor his name by sending you from this hall. Prepare a place for Master Janol where he can sit with honor."
In an instant the servants silently swooped on the diners, producing a chair, linens, goblet, and trencher. It had all been prearranged, of course, so there was no need for direction as they uprooted the foremost noble of the second tier and laid a place for the rogue. This displacement triggered a chain reaction of shifting and squeezing as each noble vainly refused to relinquish his position in the chain of importance. At the very end of the semicircular table, the lowest courtier of the lot found himself dangling off the end, trencher perched on his knees.
Pinch squeezed himself into place between Prince Marac and a glistening courtier simmering at the insult of being supplanted by a mendicant relative. The man sipped his wine through clenched teeth and eyed Pinch in way that was reminiscent of the lizards he used catch. Pinch considered being friendly, but the man was a reptile and hardly worth the effort. Instead the rogue ignored him, because it made Pinch's presence all the more stinging and that made Pinch happy.
"Prince Marac…" The rogue's cup raised in a genial toast.
Marac, youngest of Manferic's sons and the one Pinch liked the best of the slippery lot-because the youth had been easy to intimidate-eyed Pinch the way one neighbor eyes the other when his best hound has disappeared. He tried to look for the evidence of a bloody knife while trying not to seem like he was looking.
Marac was no longer the ten-year-old youth that Pinch remembered. That one had been replaced by a poor imitation of Prince Vargo. His face was fuller and rounder than sharp-cheeked Vargo, and his beard had the thin, brushed softness of youth, but already the eyes were hidden barbs. His straw-blond hair was longer than his brother's and straight where the other's was tangled. With all these differences, there was still a foundation that was Manferic's bloodline. Perhaps the two weren't Manferic progeny, but unfinished duplicates the wizard-king had fashioned in some long-forgotten laboratory, and their lives from childhood to death were one vast experiment. It would be so like the way he raised me, just to see what he could build, Pinch thought.
Prince Marac acknowledged the toast, and the glow of his face melted into a lipless smile. "Your unexpected return is a pleasure, cousin Janol."
That was all lies, from front to end.
The prince sipped at his scented wine while the servants dished out the next course, a sweetly stewed, steaming joint of some meat beyond the rogue's ken.
"An excellent cut, isn't it, Your Highness?" suggested the lizard-eyed noble at Pinch's other hand. The man was determined not to be left out of the conversation.
"Quite good hunting on your part, Lord Chalruch."
As if the words were a signal, the table that had been so quiet while Pinch sat himself roiled into gossip and banter once more.
"Thank you, milord. I bagged him in a perfect-"
"So cousin, how fares it you've come back here? How long has it been?"
"I've been abroad on fifteen years, Prince Marac."
"Not long enough," Vargo suggested from the other side of the pearly Lady Graln.
She laid a hand on his. "Vargo, you're being unkind."
"And what possessed you to return now?"
"— shot at a range of a good hundred rods-" the bore continued to a young lady on the left, who being reduced to helplessness by the seating struggled to feign interest.
"Indeed, what?" spoke a new voice from the other side of the Lord Chamberlain. Pinch had to lean out to get a clear look at his interrogator. It was Throdus, the sharpest thinker of the princes. In looks he was coal to his brothers' bonfires: dark hair, smoke-filled eyes, lean, and pale-as unlike Manferic as the other two were like him. Only the icy rigor of his manner showed the true family line.
"I brought him back," Cleedis intervened while chewing on a piece of bread. "It was your father's request, one of his last. He wanted his ward reunited with the rest of the family. Toward the end, he greatly regretted certain events of the past. It was for his memory that I tracked down and brought back Master Janol."
"Father's mind went soft," Vargo stage-whispered to Lady Graln.
"And now Cleedis's, too. It must be contagious," added Marac.
"— clean through the slug's heart." The bore prattled on, apparently determined to slay his trapped audience as surely as he had the beast. Tired of the man's determination to plow blindly onward, Pinch deliberately jerked away from Marac with staged indignation.
"They wrong you, Cleedis!" At the same time, the rogue banged his elbow against the bore's arm just as the other was about to sip his wine. The yellow liquid splashed all over the man, soaking his white silken doublet an off-color stain.
"Sir, you've bumped me!" he blurted out, seizing Pinch by the arm.
Pinch gave the lord a cursory scan. "A terrible accident, indeed," he said with a fraudulent sympathy. "If I were you, I'd go change or people will think I didn't have time to go out back and pluck a rose."
"Pluck a…?" The indignant bore stopped when he followed Pinch's gaze to the honey-hued stain that spread over his hose. His face reddened. "Perhaps that's sound," he said as he slid away, holding his napkin strategically in place. "But you'll hear from me again, sir, and soon I promise!" With that dreadful parting threat, the man hurried away.
"I'm sure I will, though any time is bound to be too soon."
A sigh of relief rose from those who'd been audience to the man's court.
"I must say cousin Janol has at least livened conversation at the table," the Lady Graln smirked from her seat. "These dinners were threatening to poison us with dullness." She held up her goblet to be filled from
the fresh bottle the servant was pouring down the line.
"Better poisoned words than poisoned wine," Pinch suggested. He raised a fresh glass in toast. Everyone automatically lifted their glasses, only to hold them just at their lips, suddenly alarmed by the rogue's hint. Each watched for someone else to take the first sip.
"Come, drink!" urged Pinch once again raising his glass high, cheerfully stinging the group like a sandfly. "Drink to… oh, the memory of King Manferic! A toast to the late King Manferic!" he offered loudly so that no one could ignore it.
"To Manferic!" echoed the room. Glasses tipped back as the lesser tiers drained away their cups, while at the main table, indecision still paralyzed the lords. Refusing the toast meant a loss of face, drinking required trust. For a long moment, nobody did either.
Finally, disgusted or courageous, Vargo gulped down his portion. As he thumped his goblet down on the table, there was a long swallow from the others as they followed suit. It was only when they had all set their goblets down that they noticed Pinch had not touched his.
The rogue smirked a know-everything smile. "No taste for the bub, I guess."
"We were wondering why Father had you here," said Throdus from down the line, "and now we know. You are dear Father's last cruel jest. This way he can mock us even from beyond the grave."
"Enough of this!" Marac blurted with all the grace of a master-of-drill. "Cleedis, when do we hold the ceremony of the Knife and Cup? Things have gone long enough without a true king."
"Hear, hear!" chimed in Throdus. "You've been stalling four months now, first saying one thing and then another. I say we have the Hierarch declare the date today."
"There should not be haste," Vargo countered, sounding uncharacteristically statesmanlike.
The Second Prince was stalling, Pinch realized, until he could get other plans realized. That was important knowledge, since it meant the Second Prince was a man to be watched.
"Prince Vargo speaks wisely," defended Cleedis. "Rushing the ceremony will bring evil luck to the whole kingdom. The Hierarch has chosen the date-the first day of the Money Festival. He says that is the best day to guarantee profit and prosperity for the new reign."
More time was not a bad idea by Pinch either, since he wasn't even sure of his own part here. Cleedis had dropped enough hints for the rogue to know his job involved those instruments of the succession. Whatever he was to do, after the ceremony would be too late. Thus it was the rogue weighed in, "Fools spend a copper and hurry themselves to the gaol, while sages spend an ingot and buy the judges."
"What's that supposed to mean?" sneered Marac.
In his years abroad, Pinch had faced witnesses in a score of trials and, as was the obvious testament of his being here, had yet to feel the noose. "Patience for fools."
At that, Marac abandoned the table with a snarl. "If that's the decision, then I see no cause to remain here!"
"Nor I," calmly added Throdus. He stepped away from the table. To Vargo he added, "You have a plan and I will find it out."
The creaking thump of the great doors marked the pair's departure. After they were gone, Vargo, too, took his leave. As he left, he laid a hand on Pinch's shoulder and whispered a word in his ear.
"I don't know what your game is, dear coz, whether you're sided with Cleedis or another, or whether you're just a fool to come back here. But remember this: Cross me and you'll cross no one else in Ankhapur."
With that, the cruel huntsman left, leaving Pinch to enjoy the rest of his meal.
6
The Prodigal Received
When dinner finished, Pinch joined the flow of family to the private salons, the inner sanctums of his youth. At the door to the grand study, Marac suddenly stepped in Pinch's path, one finger poised like a dagger at the regulator's chest. "You are not welcome," he announced, loud enough for everyone to hear him. "You're not one of the family. Things change."
With the grace of an eel that slithers through the conger's nets, Pinch curled his lips in a smile of polite understanding and bowed to his hosts. Vargo clapped his hand on the youngest prince's shoulder and loudly said, falsely thinking it would pain Pinch all the more, "Come, brother, leave him till the morrow. There's wine to be drunk!"
As the salon door closed behind him, Pinch padded through the dark and heartless halls to his own room.
The lane had been paced, the pins set, he thought to himself. Now it was time to see how the bowl would play.
Returned to his room, the master thief settled into the carved wooden chair that was scorched dry by the heat from the fireplace. He sat immobile, gazing at the flames with the same fascination a drunk might share.
Behind the visage, though, his mind raced. Preparation, Pinch knew, warded bad luck. First there was escape, if he needed it. His apartment was large and spacious, with a public salon separate from the bedchamber. However, the two rooms were cunningly less than generous about windows. These were all small portholes set high in the wall, hardly suitable for a rat to scurry though. That left the door, discreetly locked by a guardsman after Pinch had entered. Could they believe he hadn't heard the slow grind of the heavy tumblers?
Pinch had every confidence he could work the black art on the door, even if he was a little rusty. Then in the hallway, where would he go? After fifteen years, there were changes and additions made that no longer appeared on his mental map of the palace. He replayed every step he could recall in his head, getting the sense of distance and direction sound in his memory until he was confident he could slip through the halls to the outside world.
Outside were the ogre and his hellhounds, an entirely different type of problem. Pinch couldn't see a solution there immediately. He set it aside for later study when he could get a clearer view of the ground.
Beyond the ogre, only the palace gate was certain. The here-to-there could be fraught with perils or tediously easy. It was impossible to say who might challenge him or let him pass.
The palace gate was a certainty, though. There would be a curfew after which the doors would be locked. Here his youth as the royal ward stood him in good stead. One of his patent rebellions had been to slip into the city against Manferic's wishes and get himself back well after the curfew horn had blown. Back then there were other ways over the palace walls, and the rogue trusted that they still existed. Some gates remained unsealed even at the latest hours to accommodate those visiting their mistresses or back from a night of mingling with the lewd folk.
Finally, silver and gold were always a solution. Unless there had been some catastrophic change in the barracks rooms, it was always possible to find a guardsman willing to turn a blind eye for the right price. Of course, he'd need to find himself some cash, but for a good thief that was hardly a problem.
So much for escape, should he need it. The next question concerned his companions and what should be done about them. Pinch mulled over his options, sinking deeper into the stillness before the fire.
Did he need them? If not, there was no need to worry about them. Certainly he was their upright man, but he felt no compulsion of mere loyalty to save them.
Pinch once again decided to choose in favor of prudence. He still did not know what task Cleedis intended for him; until he did know, there was the possibility the trio might be needed. Pinch hardly felt he could rely on old friendships in Ankhapur; he'd already been reminded how fifteen years could change a man. Grudges lasted longer than loyalty. Without more time, Sprite, Therin, and Maeve were the only rogues he knew well enough to rely on.
Having judged and deemed worthy, the regulator needed to communicate with his gang before they felt abandoned and reordered their brotherhood. They were no more loyal than his lingering presence. All he knew was the wing they were in. Tomorrow he would make sure to see them.
All these things Pinch did in his head, never once setting his thoughts to paper, never once stirring from the chair. This was more than just his usual nature. His staying in these two rooms, he was sure, was no haphazard
choice. Cleedis had wizards at his side, powerful ones as evidenced by their leap across the vast distances this morning. Those selfsame wizards could be watching him this instant. He had put Maeve to it often enough in their efforts to scout out a new case before they broke during the night. He also knew from Maeve that it took a little knowing the place to make the spell work. There was no doubt Cleedis had put at least some of his spell-men to the task of knowing these rooms inside and out.
Even his own thoughts weren't safe, Pinch knew. Those wizards could pry through his mind, dredging up his plans if he wasn't careful. Again, Maeve and hard experience had taught him some tricks for resisting, but they weren't sure by any means. The best of all things was not to plan, but to act by pure instinct. Instinct was something that couldn't be measured, plumbed, or dissected by the arcane powers.
"Well," he announced to no one, "let the committers make something of this." And then Pinch settled in and let his mind be filled thoughts as impure, vile, horrific, and vivid as he could imagine.
And Pinch could imagine very, very well.
The next morning, Pinch took his breakfast in his room, reveling in the luxury Cleedis was willing to bestow. Even a master regulator didn't live in princely comfort. That had been a hard adjustment when he'd first fled Manferic's court. It had been a long time since he'd had sweet porridge laced with fatty smoked meat and dried fruits. It was a childhood comfort, a memory of dawns spent hiding in the kitchen, nicking bowlfuls from the pot when the cooks weren't looking.
Reverie ended with a knock at the door. Before Pinch could rise or say "Enter," the door swung open and Throdus sauntered into the salon as if the whole world were his privilege. The dark prince radiated a jaunty cheer. Without so much as a comment, he plopped into the chair opposite Pinch.
The rogue glanced up and then buried himself in slurping spoonfuls of porridge as if Throdus weren't there.
