Dezra's Quest

by Chris Pierson

  Both easy marks for a young thief.

  Satisfied, she'd left the town square and headed south, to the seedier side of town, where she'd entered the Rusty Shield Tavern and ordered a whiskey and a dark ale from Brandel, the scruffy, eyepatched tapman. She'd downed the whiskey in a gulp, then nursed the beer, not speaking to Brandel or the tavern's mangy regulars. Finally, at mid-afternoon, she'd thrown back another whiskey and headed back to the fairgrounds.

  She'd wandered the fair a while, careful not to draw attention to herself. Bought a baked apple, stuffed with raisins and spices. Talked with several young men, laughing and leading them on—even kissed one, full on the mouth, to his astonishment—before leaving them behind. Through it all, she'd watched the merchants she'd marked, waiting.

  The first opportunity came when she was near the moneychanger's counter. Several stalls down, a weaver had caught a kender wandering off with a colorful blanket under his arm. As the weaver shouted for the guards and the bewildered kender protested that he was only taking the blanket to show a friend, the moneychanger's patrons had turned to watch. Dezra had bided patiently by the counter, and when the moneychanger glanced up toward the ruckus, she'd snatched a stack of coins and slipped them into her pocket.

  It wasn't much, only about fifty pieces of steel. As she strode away, though, she'd relished the surge of energy that rushed through her. She loved that thrill—except for a tumble in the stables with a young man, Dezra thought there was nothing better.

  Ganlamar, the gemcutter, was more difficult. He was shrewd, but she was confident she could beat him. She'd moved in, repeating the pattern: hover nearby, wait for a diversion, then move… .

  It had seemed like a good idea, anyway.

  This time, the distraction came from across the square, where a barker was announcing an arm-wrestling contest. One of the contestants was a centaur, of all things: a swaggering beast who drew everyone's attention. The other was Caramon. Dezra had laughed at the irony: her own father, providing the distraction she needed.

  The crowd around Ganlamar's booth began to thin as people hurried over to watch the match. Dezra sidled closer to the table, one eye on the contest and the other on the fat gemcutter. Ganlamar was in the middle of selling a pair of opals to an overstuffed spice merchant. Stones and money changed hands, then the gemcutter turned too, to get a glimpse of the horse-man.

  Lightning-quick, Dezra reached out and seized a shining amethyst. At the same moment, on the other end of the counter, a young child knocked over Ganlamar's scales.

  The balances clattered loudly as they fell, and the gemcutter whirled to see what was the matter. Dezra pocketed the amethyst, but it was too late. Ganlamar's eyes met hers, then narrowed to angry slits.

  Dezra ran.

  "Stop!" Ganlamar shouted, leaving his apprentice to watch his wares as he gave chase. "Thief! Come back!"

  Sure, thought Dezra as she dashed away, into the mob. She elbowed her way through the press of bodies, sending people sprawling. Some idiot, hearing Ganlamar's cries, grabbed for her sleeve; she shoved him into a baker's counter, then charged onward. Loaves of bread flew everywhere.

  Ganlamar was surprisingly fleet-footed. Glancing back, she saw he was catching up to her. She cast about, looking for something to slow him down, then bolted for a potter's stall. She vaulted over the counter, smashing a clay urn and drawing an outraged shout from the potter, then lunged for one of the ropes that held up his tent. She drew a dagger from her belt, and, with a flick of her wrist, slashed the rope. The tent collapsed.

  The potter and several townsfolk crowded around, grabbing for the fluttering canvas. The sudden commotion blocked Ganlamar's way, and Dezra gained another dozen strides on him before he resumed the chase. She slammed her dirk back in its sheath, laughing as she ran.

  She hadn't been heading toward the arm-wrestling contest on purpose, but there it was, just ahead. She considered turning aside, going the long way around, but Ganlamar was gaining ground again. Lowering her head, she plunged on. As she skirted the edge of the mob surrounding the contest—a mob that was now watching her instead of her father and the centaur—she caught a glimpse of her mother. Tika stood beside Caramon on the dais, staring straight at Dezra.

  "Crap," Dezra muttered as she darted past.

  There was a rope ladder ahead, hanging from a walkway. Dezra bolted for it and leapt. It swung wildly as she grabbed its rungs and began to climb. Ganlamar shouted furiously below.

  She was nearly at the top when she heard the whistles. The shrill sounds were all around her, moving along the walkways among the trees. She knew what they meant: Solace's town guards were up there, trying to head her off. There were more guards below, too, grabbing for the swaying ladder. She swore again, climbing faster, and pulled herself up onto the walkway, far above the staring crowd.

  "Over there!" shouted a voice to her left.

  Glancing over, she saw guards heading toward her, carrying spears and clad in leather cuirasses and iron helmets. She whirled and ran the other way. She led a merry chase, dashing across bridges from treehouse to treehouse, but the guards were well coordinated, several staying on her tail while the others ran ahead, trying to outflank her. Far below, the onlookers yelled and laughed. Dezra was sure some were cheering for her.

  She barreled across a walkway, which jounced wildly with each pounding step, then reached the balcony at the other end and pulled up short. Half a dozen guardsmen were waiting for her.

  They started forward. "C'mon, Dez," said the one in the lead, a youth she remembered from one particularly unsatisfactory stable-grope. "Give up before you get yourself hurt."

  "Bite my breeches," she snarled.

  She heard boots on wood behind her. Looking back, she saw several guards blocking the way she'd come. Angrily, she spat and glanced around, seeking escape.

  Then, suddenly, she saw her chance: To her right, a few feet from the balcony's railing, was another bridge. It wasn't attached to the balcony where she stood, instead linking two neighboring trees, but it was tantalizingly close, swaying gently in the breeze.

  "The Abyss with it," she muttered, and ran for it.

  There was a single guard in her way. She hit him hard, ducking low and driving her elbow into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath. Below, the crowd gasped as Dezra hopped up onto the railing, teetered for a heartbeat a hundred feet above their heads, then leapt off, toward the bridge.

  It was a day full of bad ideas.

  She made the jump, but just barely, catching the walkway with her arms and scrabbling for purchase. Her legs churned beneath her as her fingers clutched the bridge's planks. One of her boots came off, falling to the ground below.

  "Dezra!" bellowed her father, below. "What are you doing?"

  "I wish to Reorx I knew," she muttered, trying to pull herself up.

  "Help her!" her mother shrieked. "Someone get to her before she falls!"

  The guards didn't sound so coordinated any more. Their clattering footsteps milled about the balcony behind her, spreading out as they tried to find their way to her. She made another try to haul herself up, but she had no leverage. She started to lose her grip.

  She wondered which would hit the ground first: her head or her feet.

  Suddenly, the tromp of footsteps rattled the bridge. It shook so badly, she nearly let go. "Careful, damn it!" she snapped. "You'll knock me loose!"

  The man coming toward her must have heard, because he slowed his pace. She continued to slip, dimly aware of her parents' panicked shouts below. Finally, after what seemed like forever, a meaty hand grabbed her wrist. She looked up, expecting a guard, but instead saw a broad, guileless face, surmounted by a mop of blond hair.

  "Who the—" she blurted.

  He reached for her with his other hand. "My name's Uwen."

  Before she could ask more, he grabbed her arm and jerked her upward, muscles bulging. He lifted her like she was a child, then set her down on the bridge. Below, the tenor of the
crowd's cries changed from fear to relief.

  She leaned against him, breathing hard. "Thanks," she gasped.

  "You're welcome," he said. He grinned at her, his simple, blue eyes almost glowing, and Dezra groaned inside. She'd seen that look on many a drunk's face. It was dumb infatuation.

  Hobnail boots clomped toward her, from either end of the bridge. There wasn't anywhere left to run, so she pushed herself away from Uwen with an apologetic shrug. "Sorry to leave you like this," she said, turning toward the approaching guardsmen. "But I think I'm about to be arrested."

  5

  Caramon followed his daughter across the Ranging walkway to the Inn of the Last Home. He stared at her back, trying to control his stewing anger. He'd spent the afternoon dealing with the wreckage Dezra had left behind. He'd paid the merchants she'd robbed for their troubles, made amends with the one whose tent she'd collapsed, then gone to the jail to get Dezra out.

  Retark, the town sheriff, had led him to her cell. She'd been leaning against the door, flirting with one of the guards. Seeing Caramon, she'd rolled her eyes.

  "What are you doing here?" she'd asked.

  Caramon let out an explosive snort and stopped walking. Dezra sauntered on a moment, then glanced back, smiling crookedly.

  "Coming?" she asked. "I must have a good talking to lined up for me. Let's get it over with."

  Caramon stared at her, simmering, then shook his head. "Where did I go wrong?" he muttered at the vallenwoods' boughs as he followed his daughter.

  "Nine of Leaves," said Borlos, tossing a green card on the table. "Take that, you dogs."

  Smiling lazily, he reached for his lute and plucked its strings. The song he played was either The Lady of Thelgaard or My Love Came Sailing Home. Both songs had the same tune, but different words.

  "Spit," groaned Osier, running a hand through his red hair. He threw down the Six of Leaves. "You always know when I've got a weak suit."

  Clemen sorted his cards, frowning. Rotund and almost totally bald—a contrast to tall, slim Osier and short, wiry Borlos—he resembled a monk at prayer. Finally, he pulled out a silver card—the Two of Fates, marked with the symbols of the gods Shinare and Hiddukel—and laid it atop the other two.

  "Sorry," he smirked. "I'll just have to trump you."

  Borlos's fingers froze upon his lute. "Son of a—" he blurted, then laughed. He ran his plectrum across his strings. "Fair enough. Just you wait, though. I'll get you back."

  Beaming, Clemen studied his cards again, then threw down his lead: the Mage of Winds. "Try me," he said.

  Borlos was glowering at the card when the door bashed open. The players looked up and saw the hulking figure of Caramon. Dezra was with him, her arm gripped in her father's massive hand.

  Caramon gaped at the card-players, bewildered. "How'd you three get in here? This place is supposed to be closed!"

  "Laura let us in," Clemen explained cheerily. "We figured we'd play a quick game before we went to the feast."

  "She's already gone, if you're looking for her," Borlos added. "We promised to watch the Inn till you got back from the jail."

  Caramon nodded, then stopped, eyes narrowing. "How'd you know I was at the jail?"

  Borlos shrugged, grinning. "Where else would you go after they hauled Dez away in irons?" He raised his full mug. Behind the bar, a keg's spigot was dripping. "Good show, Dez. The whole town's probably heard about your little adventure by now."

  Snorting, Caramon dragged Dezra inside. She shook off his grasp, then stormed over to the bar. Caramon watched her, then glared at Borlos, Clemen and Osier.

  Chairs scraped against the floor. "Sounds like the feast's about to start," Borlos noted as the card-players rose.

  They left, Borlos plucking his lute. When they were gone, Dezra frowned. "Where's Mother?"

  "At Elise's" Caramon replied, naming one of Tika's friends. He stomped to the door and bolted it. "She'll be gone till morning."

  "Oh," Dezra said. "So you're in charge of discipline tonight, then."

  Caramon stiffened, his hand on the door's handle.

  Dezra picked up an empty tankard and poured herself a beer. "Usually you start with 'if your brothers were around to see you,' or 'when I was your age'. "She blew the head off her ale, spattering it on the floor, then took a long quaff. She nodded, wiping her lips. "Pretty good. Not the best I've ever had, but—"

  "Damn it, Dezra!" Caramon thundered.

  She took another drink, then set the mug down. "Mother would understand. Or have you forgotten she was a thief too, when she was young?"

  "That was different. Your mother was an urchin. She stole so she could eat, until Otik took her in. She isn't proud of her childhood, Dezra."

  She shrugged.

  "Stop treating this like some big joke!" Caramon roared, hammering his fist against the wall. The windows rattled. "You made an ass of yourself today, in front of most of Solace! Don't you care?"

  "No," she shot back. She spread her hands. "I don't give a damn what a bunch of idiot fanners and woodcutters think."

  Caramon sputtered, looking around as if seeking someone to share his incredulity. "What in Paladine's name is the matter with you, girl?" he demanded. "Why can't you be more respectful, like—"

  "Like Laura?" Dezra interrupted, laughing scornfully. "She's just like the rest of them. All she wants from life is to stay here, pour ale, and cook your damned spiced potatoes."

  "There's nothing wrong with that. It's honest work."

  "It's boring. You and all those dead friends you're always carrying on about? You didn't stay holed up in this wretched little village."

  Caramon's gaze turned icy. "All right, then," he said. "You don't want to live here? I'll help." He unlocked the door and yanked it open. The sky outside was darkening. Pale moonlight spilled into the tavern. "Go," he said.

  "What?"

  "You heard me." He folded his massive arms across his chest. "You want to leave? Here's your chance."

  Dezra stared in amazement, then shrugged, turning toward the stairs. "Fine. I'll get my things, and—"

  "No. No things. If you need anything, go ahead and steal it."

  She stiffened, her lip curling. Her eyes glistened in the red hearth-glow. Then she reached for the keg behind her and opened the spigot. As ale gurgled onto the floor, she strode across the taproom. "To the Abyss with you, then," she told him, and walked out of the Inn.

  The door slammed shut behind her.

  Caramon stood quietly, quivering with rage. He listened as Dezra's footsteps moved across the balcony, then down the stairs. Soon they were lost amid the din from the fairgrounds, where the feast had begun.

  When he could no longer hear her, Caramon shook his head. He jogged to the bar and closed the open spigot. The floor was awash with foamy ale, but he didn't pay it any mind; instead he leaned on the bar, beside the tankard Dezra had left behind, and stared into the shadows. His youngest daughter was gone. He'd thrown her out.

  Tika was going to kill him.

  6

  In time, Dezra slowed her pace. Moonlight or no, it was getting hard to see. To her right was the gleam of a bonfire, the sounds of music and laughter—the feast, no doubt. In its ruddy glow she saw moss on the vallenwoods' trunks. She was heading south, into the disreputable part of town.

  She smiled. It had been her wont, through her teenage years, to head this way whenever she and her parents had a blazing row. Why should tonight be different? She walked on, resting her hand on the pommel of her dagger. This was no part of town for a young woman to go unarmed, no matter how self-assured she was.

  The path opened into a weed-choked courtyard surrounded by dilapidated buildings. Most were dark, their doors shut, but the one on the far side stood open, lamplight shining within. Above its door, creaking in the breeze, was a well-rusted shield.

  The Inn of the Last Home had, since time out of mind, kept a policy of refusing business from truly unsavory folk. Before the Summer of Chaos, the ruffians and
rogues the Inn turned away had gathered at a ramshackle alehall called the Trough. The Knights of Takhisis had burned the place down during the Chaos War, but soon after they retreated from town, the Rusty Shield had taken its place.

  Ten years later, it had settled into comfortable decrepitude. Its slate-shingled roof buckled, and the paint peeled on its walls. It had no windows, nor a proper sign. Various stenches—smoke, soured ale, and worse—hung about it. Dezra smiled as she approached. She spat in a row of scrubby bushes beside the tavern's door, then stepped inside.

  "Well, if it ain't the Flying Majere," said the tapman, his good eye crinkling mirthfully.

  "Leave it alone, Brandel," she shot back. She swaggered to the bar, tossing down a few coppers. "Get me a drink."

  Still grinning, Brandel snatched up the coins and turned to a keg behind him. He talked as he poured. "I'm surprised to see you. Reckoned your parents wouldn't let you out of sight after what you did today."

  "Can we leave alone what I did today?" Dezra snapped. "I'm sick of hearing about it."

  "Whatever you say." He set her ale in front of her.

  Dezra drank in silence. The beer was stale, but she finished it and ordered another. While Brandel refilled her stoup, she turned and surveyed the taproom.

  The place was nearly empty. Besides Brandel, the only person working was the barmaid, Edelle. Youth had left Edelle behind, but that didn't stop her from trifling with customers half her age. Right now she was whispering with Fingers, a pickpocket who'd lost half his hand years ago in a failed snatch-and-grab. A couple local drunks snored in the shadows. And sitting by the door was a big, blond-bearded man with a battle-axe strapped across his back: a sellsword. She'd seen plenty of his kind in the Shield over the years, and was used to the leer that creased his face as he looked her up and down. Sneering, she turned back to the bar.

  After a moment, she heard a chair push back, and the jingling of chainmail. A shape appeared beside her, eclipsing the lamplight. He said nothing, but simply stared, breathing heavily and leaning against the bar.