by Eric Angers
“Wait.. wha-”
The other man cut Norgaard off. “Just what kind of work were you intending to get in the morning... I’m sorry what did you say your name was?”
“Norgaard.”
“Give your real name up to strangers that quickly, do you?”
“Not normally. I didn’t catch your name?”
“I didn’t throw it.” the stranger retorted. “So what kind of work were you going to look for?”
“Well, I am a locksmith by trade.”
“An apprentice by your age. Or journeyman if you’re good. ‘Fraid that position is filled in Asunder. Not sure you’ll pry much business away from ol’ Garr. He wouldn’t be too happy about it either. And that’s a man you’d rather not cross.”
“I’m not just an apprentice,” Norgaard insisted, standing, “I was the best in Sundsvall-”
“We really are going to have to work on that. You are far too free with your tongue. Drink?” the older man said as he pulled a bottle of wine from within his jacket.
“I think I’m done here,” the boy said, striding to the door. The other man stood, protesting.
“Hold on, hold on. It’s cold out there and you have nowhere else to be. Hear my proposition. My name is Vastian and I have much to offer you. Now, you may walk out that door and never seek my aid again, or you can stay and become MY apprentice. If you stay you can back out at any time but you cannot be allowed to live should you decide to tell anyone about me. Choose now.”
The boy stood there, motionless, not knowing what to do. It all seemed a bit melodramatic. Something told him to go, to run and not look back, but another part of him wanted to know, needed to know, what this man’s secret was. He took his hand from the door and returned to his seat.
“Good. I am also known as Shade, the thief no one has ever caught. I do not say this to brag, only to inform you of my skill set so that you will understand what I am training you to become. You need work, but you have some background to work with. Where you may have been the best lockpick in Sundsvall, I will make you the best lockpick in the world. Where I am the most famous thief in the world, I will make you the most skilled. No, no questions now. Get some sleep, we start tomorrow.”
Norgaard was dumbfounded, but the man who called himself Shade, Vastian, lay there and closed his eyes to sleep. He left no room for argument, and he knew he could walk right out that door at any moment and never see him again. Never know if his story was true or false and maybe never have an opportunity like this again. The logical side of Norgaard wanted to go, but his mischievous side refused to let this chance slip away. He smirked at his own thoughts and settled himself in one corner.
Chapter III.
Norgaard
Norgaard tossed and turned that night on the dusty floor of the one room shack. Norgaard’s strange new benefactor, naming himself Vastian, snored loudly in the corner on a pile of straw. He could not help but notice there was enough of the bedding to share, but he had not offered Norgaard any at all. He rolled around trying to find a comfortable position, he had even tried sleeping in the rickety old chair, to no avail. Finally, just as his body had fatigued enough to allow him to slip into a deep and restful sleep he was awakened by icy water splashing over his face and Vastian standing over him with a still-dripping bucket in his hands. Norgaard gasped and turned over to lean on one elbow and squinted up at the older man.
“Time to start training, boy,” Vastian said, turning and opening the door. “Clean this place up, I’ll be back in an hour.” He wrapped his cloak around him and left the shack. The door opened once again briefly, his hand slipping through to deposit a broom before closing it behind once more.
Norgaard just stared at after Vastian for a moment before surveying the area; the room was as they had left it that night: dusty, straw bed in the corner, table and chair and a few glowing coals remaining in the fireplace. He hoped the one he supposed he should call master was actually worth something, and not just using him to clean his tiny home. Standing, he brushed the water off and smoothed out his clothes, wrinkled and now dirty from the mixture of water and dust. He had done chores at his father’s workshop and at home for years so this tiny single room would be easy by comparison. He took up the broom stifling a quick yawn as he set to work, sweeping the dirt and dust out the door, then he found firewood just outside and remade the fire. The chair was easy enough to fix, a quick hammering of the loose nails back into place with his boot. He then separated the straw into two piles, one on either side of the fireplace. No, that would not do. He swept the grimy straw out into the alley and left the shack for a few moments, returning with fresh hay to pile up on either side of the fireplace.
Pleased with his work, he sat and waited, examining his surroundings. The chest. He had forgotten it was even there. He wondered what the man might be hiding. Probably just money, he thought. But, if he was a master thief as he claimed, it could be something better, perhaps even something worth enough that Norgaard would not have to worry about working or doing this crazy old man’s bidding. But then, if it were something good, it would mean Vastian was not lying and sticking around would be a good idea.
An hour. He had said he would return in an hour. It had only taken Norgaard half an hour to clean up the shack and it would take him no time at all to get into a lock like that. Simple enough mechanism, he would just need a couple of tools, something like a nail, and perhaps the hardware on the broom. He worked quickly. Dismantled the wire ring used to hang the broom. Shaped it by bending it against the table. When he was satisfied he wiggled one leg of the chair until the nail was loose again and pulled it free; it would be just long enough. He went to work on the locked box, first inserting the bent wire, then the nail. To the untrained eye, it might have appeared he was simply wiggling the tools up and down, back and forth, but to Norgaard’s trained touch and ear, he was carefully maneuvering, slipping past wards and pushing aside the pins. Click. The lock opened and the chest revealed its contents.
Inside, Norgaard found a parchment rolled and tied atop a leather case folded over itself three times. Within the leather case were varying lengths of thin metals with different tips; curved, hooked, blunt, straight, crooked. Along with them were differing widths of flat iron. These were thieves tools, just about everything one might need to pick locks. So he really was a thief. Carefully he untied the parchment and unrolled it.
Norgaard, I was hoping you would find this. These tools are yours. Never go through my property again, it read. The door opened and Norgaard instinctively stood up from his crime. Vastian did not appear surprised in the least.
“The tools are yours, but we won’t be using them. You don’t have a problem with locks, it’s your pinching that needs practice. So, I’m going to stand here and close my eyes. You are going to steal items off of me. If I detect you, I will tell you to stop and try again. Once you have something, we can go get something to eat.”
Vastian stood there and closed his eyes offering Norgaard no opportunity to respond. He wore black leather boots, well-worn, that reached to the top of his calves, brown breeches held up by a black leather belt. His cloak was swept back over his shoulders, revealing a coin purse tied to his belt, and his plain gray shirt. Norgaard stepped forward to begin his attempts but Vastian stopped him with a shout, “Stop! Try again, I can hear you.”
So it would be like that, he thought. Trying two more times, he was stopped before his first foot even fell. This was not what he was used to, the man’s ears were sharper than they had any right to be. Or he was lying. But, he never stopped him before he started to move. This time, Norgaard waited, remaining still and slowing his breathing. He held firm and before impatience took him, frustrating him and causing more mistakes, he moved, carefully. His footfalls were silent, slow and deliberate, his movements were fluid, graceful. Now he reached out and touched the bag of coins before his master shouted for him to stop. “Try again. Norgaard sighed, gritted his teeth and tried again. “Stop! Again.
”
This went on for hours, Norgaard would get closer and closer then get caught and his frustration set him back even further on the next try. Hunger grew with the as the shadows lengthened. Frustration overtook him and yet his master stood still, eyes closed, waiting. There was a puzzle here, Norgaard knew. It seemed to him it would be impossible to steal from a skilled thief who was aware he was to be stolen from. He was beginning to think his master might be testing him, that he chose his words carefully, and perhaps there was more to the exercise.
“Master,” the boy began, “are you not hungry yet? It’s been hours.”
Vastian spoke without so much as opening his eyes, “Of course not, I took breakfast while you were cleaning up in here.”
A gurgling issued forth from Norgaard’s stomach as if in response.
“You know, I really don’t think I’m ready for this challenge. You know it’s coming,” he said.
Vastian’s eyes opened and stared hard at his pupil for a moment. “You’re right, you are not ready for this challenge.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of bells with hooks on them. “Put these on, attach them to your clothing at the joints.”
Norgaard eyed the bells suspiciously, trying to think how this could possibly improve his odds. He did as he was instructed, however, and minutes later looked up, awaiting his next task, stomach rumbling.
“Let’s start simple. Cross the room.”
For hours and hours Norgaard worked. First Vastian had him crossing the room, stopping him with every sound and forcing him to start again. Once he could cross the room silently, he had him touch all four corners, thus having to avoid obstacles in his way and again, Vastian stopped him with even the slightest sound. Finally he instructed him to walk the perimeter going over, not around, any obstacles in his way. This exercise took the longest, stretching well into the evening before Norgaard slumped to the ground, exhausted, hungry, and frustrated. “No more, I can’t..”
So the first day of training ended. Norgaard did not eat that night but he assumed Vastian did when he went out once more after their training session ended. Without money of his own, Norgaard decided it best to stay a while longer, even without food, before he would give up entirely. There must be a way to beat him, he thought while he lay in his pile of straw. He had to, it was the only way he could survive. Maybe the game was not over, he wondered. Maybe it would still count if he managed to steal something from him at any time.
That night, Vastian returned and silently went to his own corner of the room slipping off to sleep without so much as a word to his Norgaard. He had carried in a small leather-bound book and held it on his chest. The coin purse still hung on his belt and Norgaard could see no other objects he might pluck. When the snoring began, he moved, bells still attached to his own clothing, but he kept them silent through the skills he had learned earlier in the day. Creeping up on his master’s resting body, he assessed both items. The coin purse was tied and also held metal coins that could clink together. The book, however, would make no noise, though it was being held as well as resting atop Vastian’s chest. That might be an advantage. He looked around, searching for something he might use to replace it. The only other item even in the shack was his thieves tools and that pouch was just about the same size, shape, and feel as the book. It may have even been the right weight. Retrieving them, he set about swapping the two items out. Yes, he was losing something that belonged to him, but his master never specified, only told him to steal something off of his person. It was his best chance. During every breath in and out, Norgaard pushed his tool pouch in with one hand, and pulled the book out with the other. Every peak of his master’s breathing, he paused, knowing that if the body detected any unanticipated movement, he would wake up and the game would be up. Minutes of agonizingly slow work passed and finally the book slid free. Carefully, Norgaard straightened, mindful of the bells, and returned to his own corner. Flipping through the book, it appeared it was empty, just a journal to be, nothing special. He clapped the book closed. The snoring stopped.
“Take some coins and get yourself some dinner, boy,” Vastian whispered, groggily. Norgaard then heard the clink of coins being jostled together as a leather pouch hit the floor. That night, Norgaard ate like a king.
The following day was much like the first; it started early and Norgaard was presented with a seemingly minor challenge that forced him to use the basic skills he did possess in addition to critical thinking and skills he did not yet know he needed. For the next several weeks, nearly every day was like this, and many days, he went hungry. They worked on stealth and pick-pocketing exclusively, not going near locks or combat. Whenever Norgaard questioned his methods Vastian simply said, “you’re not ready.”
Chapter IV.
Vastian
Diversion never came easy for Vastian when he was not on a job, stealing that which could not be stolen. That was the reason he began stealing in the first place: the challenge. At least it was what he had concluded about himself. He had to keep his mind busy with complex puzzles like how to get inside impenetrable security else he might drink himself to death. However, lately he had become bored with even his criminal pursuits, having already conquered the highest mountains of the underground. He had been laying low, trying to find fulfillment in a normal life after everything he had been through. Attempting to be normal. But it was not working, he was not normal, he had held in his hands the rarest artifacts, priceless gems; he had killed thugs, princes, kings, felt their hearts slowly give in as he held their fate in his hands. He had washed the still warm blood from his knives and hands in his victim’s own bath water. Fun, for him, was not in drinking and carousing with women, it was in doing the extraordinary, fulfilling his purpose, changing lives. Changing the world. But the same satisfaction did not even accompany those things anymore. Too much had happened that he wanted to forget. Not the killing, other things. Losses, regrets. The flavor had been drained from his work by the memories he could not forget. That was the real reason he fled to Asunder to live like the common man. When he was in his cups, he was numb to the pain at least, even while he danced with death. If he found no pleasure in his old work, he was compelled to find another task to fill his days, lest he end the dance and lay with the Lady herself. There was one task he had long known forbidden to him. But on his own there was nothing holding him back. Should he find a worthy apprentice his pursuit would be to be teach the craft. Passing on his gift must be the meaning he sought. If it was not, it was only a matter of time before She courted him.
Norgaard had come into his life by chance exactly when he had needed the change. In fact, he had thought for a long time about finding a student, someone he could train, mentor and tell the tales he dared never tell, even to the others in his line of work. Someone who might care enough to share his story and continue his legacy when he was rotting in the ground. The boy had blown in from the cold, clumsily and desperately attempting to pilfer a pittance merely for survival. A motivation he would have to break him of, for that was not the way. He was a bit sheltered, but the potential he saw in him ran deep. Vastian had the boy running drills, skulking about in the daylight, attempting to slip coins into people’s pockets without being detected. It was much easier to explain charity than theft, and the practice was just as good. He would be busy for hours if he followed instruction, and the boy always did. It gave Vastian a chance to make his rounds, check his drop locations and other safe houses. Friends from the two guilds still kept in contact with him, and he still responded, giving advice here and there, minor aid, but nothing serious. He resolved not to allow himself to get dragged back in.
Most of his locations were empty today, except for two: one, a letter from the Dead Men. It was encoded, easy enough for him to decipher from memory, and then the seemingly normal everyday conversation revealed a message offering a target for him if he wished it. Secretly, a part of him did wish it, but he no longer worked for the guild, he worked for himself selecting h
is own victims even if it no longer brought him any joy. He did not like that word, ‘victim.’ It always made him think the mark was innocent. And no one was innocent. He wondered to himself why he still thought of them that way. Vastian found that there was a perfectly good reason to kill almost anybody with a little digging. They were all deserving, some just a little more deserving than others. And some deaths caused a greater and more desired effect. Those were the ones the Dead Men killed.
The other was a note from an old friend, Jaerr Skule, a Dead Man himself, but he didn’t send the note as such. This one was sent as a friend, perhaps even dropped personally, and its message was very serious, requesting help. It said the Dead Men were under assault, from the inside, and someone was trying to use them for their own purposes, maybe even trying to bring them down. He wanted, by his words he ‘needed,’ Vastian’s help to find the one pulling the strings and take the guild back for its intended purpose: keeping the world from sliding into chaos.
No, he thought, it was no longer his problem. The Dead Men got along without him before, and it gets along now; it will have to get along without him in the future, too. He slid the kill order into his pocket and burned the other in a cookfire he passed on his way back to the safe house he shared with Norgaard. The one safe house he told the boy about. He reminisced about the old days as he wound his way through the city. A time when he had first found the Dead Men, or rather, when they had found him.
