RINGS (The Paladin's Thief Book 2)

by Benjamin K Hewett

  Petri is on me in a second, but the best I can do is roll sideways, and I’m pinned. His nose is bloody and he looks really angry. “You shoulda just handed over the box, Teacup. Now I have to give you to the thief-catchers!”

  He slides the box of rings out of my bag and into his own cloak while they hobble my hands and feet..

  “That murderous bastard killed Sara.” I tilt my head back and spit in his face.

  He kicks me in the ribs as he gets up. “I was trying to protect you.”

  “You’re a bag of day-old dog feces,” I curse back. “And Sanjuste will be twice as bad as Pale Tom. You think he’s going to let you go free?”

  This must be a big deal—a big deal—for Petri to take me down and use the town guards to do it. I’m his best guy. I always bring him the best stuff. I think about telling the guards that Petri’s my fence, but I’ve got no evidence and he’s probably already fed them some line about being the executor of the old lady’s will.

  The guards are hauling me away, thanks to Petri. I can’t hear what they’re saying, something about gallows at dawn. I have no doubt that this is another setup: Sanjuste’s. I’m the only one who can get into the house, and they played me like a fool.

  Fake-nephew Nori, too. They’re dragging him away as well, though from the looks and smell of it he wasn’t nearly as hard to catch, and has forgotten his change of underwear.

  As a courtesy, they knock me out for the trip, after the third time I slip out of my bindings and make a break for it.

  I wake up in a tiny, wet cell with an urge to pee and a Nightshade hissing through the bars of my dripping window: “You’re the famous apprentice?”

  It’s a woman’s timbre, silky and quiet. She’s crouched on the ground where the cell’s bars are, the cell being submerged in the stone footings of the south barracks. The iron-barred window is at eye-level—forehead for me—and her dark shape is blocking out the light of the stars.

  I realize that I’ve been stripped to a pair of peasant trousers, not mine.

  “Going to help me out, sister, or just keep hissing like a snake?”

  I must be pretty desperate, asking for help from an avowed assassin.

  She laughs softly. “Not for an oathless. Maybe if you’d take one to me?”

  A phrase drifts through my desperation: “Some oaths cannot be broken.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Pity. I can be an exciting teacher.” She pulls her hood back for moment so that I can see pale skin and close-cropped red hair. Her lips are scarlet even in the dark, and her shoulders and chest have a promising shape. Young. I realize with a start that she can’t be much older than the twins. Fifteen? Sixteen?

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  She shrugs her shoulders—teenage irritation, no masking that—and yanks her hood back up. “Still too young for an apprentice, apparently. Probably better this way.”

  “Help me anyways,” I say softly. “I’m the best in Ector. Slip me a lock pick and I’ll make it worth your while.” I really don’t want to take any oaths, but I don’t mind paying in unethical robberies if it will keep my family safe.

  She shakes her head wistfully inside the hood. “I find that hard to believe, given your current state. Besides, I was sent to observe and bring back word, not to intervene.”

  And then she is gone.

  Morning comes early and yet I sleep, in spite of intentions to plan my escape, an after-effect of my miserable luck these last 24 hours.

  I peer through the bars into the gloomy morning, misty and wet, a morning perfect for death. I can taste it on the air, molding apples and wet hay.

  They pull us from our cells, and since shackles don’t fit me, I’m tied at the waist to my two guards, men with bony fists and steel-tipped boots to keep me in line.

  They parade us out, and post us near the gallows with fake-nephew Nori sniveling and talking to himself quietly. He’s cracking.

  So am I, I realize. It’s the closest I’ve been to death, and the distance is closing. I wonder when my family will find out.

  It isn’t long.

  Lucinda is up and bustling through the early grocery run. I can see her but she can’t see me.

  She’s perusing the vendor stalls that sprout up every morning between the backside of the church and the blacksmith’s shop. Her back is turned, and she’s looking at a swatch of white cloth, taking a break from the produce basket under her arm, ignoring the reds, oranges, and greens of fresh produce in the carts around her.

  Beautiful, kind Lucinda. If she’d be born anywhere else, she wouldn’t have to sigh and place it gently back on the cart.

  The vendor sighs too, realizing he’s lost another sale.

  Lucinda double-takes hard on the execution notice posted on the church wall as she pats the cloth back into place. She can’t read, but the sketch of my face spells it out for her. Her hand flies to her mouth in a fountain of carrots, and she’s running, running, back toward Redemption Alley. Man, those legs can move.

  It’s touching. She’s never let on that she cared that much.

  On the other hand, it’s scary. I don’t want my kids here when they pull the stops and the floor falls out beneath me. I don’t want to see tears. I don’t want them to see mine hitting the cobblestone right now, or see me chained to the gallows’ post.

  Of course, the guards take their pretty time. They want a big crowd for their little demonstration of power. They piddle about oiling the trap door, making a few sample drops with potato sacks and the like, tie and then retie the noose. They do a big speech about stealing.

  And then they drop fake-nephew Nori. His neck cracks, snapping neatly. Done.

  They drone out another speech about the consequences of lawlessness, and then it’s my turn.

  I feel the splintering planks under my bare feet and look up to see my friends there, staring at me, and my kids, too. Valery is sobbing, wringing her cottony skirt. Timnus is snarling, scowling at Sanjuste, who is also there and looking at Timmy with amusement plain on his face.

  Timmy’s black look makes me wonder if he’s going enlist with the Nightshades just to get revenge.

  “It isn’t worth it,” I mouth to him, but I don’t think he understands me.

  Magnus has taken last night’s bandage from his eyes. It’s obvious he can see a little better now, but then again, it’s morning, and he could see better yesterday morning, too. There are tears at the corners of his blue eyes, like he’s finally seen too much.

  “Last words?” The chief executioner barks.

  I nod. “I’d like to speak to my priest.”

  The priest himself looks surprised. I’ve never been to church in my life. He starts to step forward, unsure.

  “Not that one,” I mutter to the guard, turning my cheek so I don’t offend anyone. “My priest. He’s from Fortrus Abbey.”

  The guard looks mildly impressed and a little more determined. He motions for Magnus, making the sign for last rites.

  Magnus mounts the wooden stairs. They creak loudly.

  “I can’t do anything, Teacup. I’m not ordained, and I don’t have Stay of Jurisdiction.” He’s upset, honest, and his voice is quiet.

  I don’t waste my time begging. “I was set up, Magnus.” It’s the truth. “Tom wanted me to find a box of ‘retired Oaths’ before anyone else did. I’m almost certain of it.”

  Magnus’s voice is low. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could have gone to the authorities.”

  “I just figured it out.”

  The guard clears his throat, telling us to hurry up, uncomfortable. Hangings that drag out too long get ugly.

  “Where are they now?”

  I point at Sanjuste.

  Sanjuste’s eyebrows scrunch together when he sees me pointing at him.

  “He’s working with Petri. He’ll go after Timmy and Val, too.”

  The big man’s face hardens. “Protect the innocent. Bring light to the darkness,” he intones.


  Whatever.

  “And, Magnus?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s my fault you can’t see. I put black pomegranate in your drink at the Black Cat.”

  “Black pomegranate is an antidote for poison.”

  “I tried to throw the match for my patron.”

  “And instead you saved my life.” His grim face grows darker.

  “What?”

  “I just realized you haven’t had a trial. Eastmarch law requires a trial for capital punishments, with witnesses called. I’ll talk to the guards.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and I feel a flash of heat shoot up my neck to the crown of my head. “Just in case though, be strong.”

  I don’t bother telling him that the guards have probably been paid off. That’s how it works here in Ector. There’s no chance of a trial for me.

  The guards shake their heads when he asks, one of them glancing sideways at Sanjuste in a tell-tale sort of way.

  Tempers flare. Not Magnus’s, though. He seems to sag, but argues on until they put hands on him and start dragging him off the platform. It takes four of them, and they are plainly shaken when he threatens them with a High Tribunal in Upper Ector.

  Not that a post-hanging High Tribunal will do me any good.

  There is no drum roll or count. The trap drops unexpectedly, and I’ve only worked one hand free, my lucky hand. I catch the rope above my head to soften the impact on my neck. It helps, but my hand slips, and then I’m hanging hands-free from a hemp ring. I’ve always been a wiry fellow, but unfortunately there isn’t much I can do without air. I can’t seem to get my lucky, rope-burned hand into a useful position.

  Sanjuste is smug; Petri is looking at his shoes.

  The square, the crowd, and the gallows fade, and I apologize to Sara for failing. And to the kids.

  I hear Pale Tom chuckling, clouds of laughter around my foggy brain.

  “What a lousy apprentice. Never seen a Nightshade die so much.”

  “I’m not a Nightshade.”

  Pale Tom only grunts. Or is that my conscious body trying to breathe?

  I try again. “I tried to tell him.”

  “Who?” Tom says.

  “Magnus.”

  “Oh. They only hear what they want to hear.”

  I wake up with a start, still swinging, my lucky hand wedged between rope-fibers and itching neck.

  Barkus emerges from the crowd, huffing and puffing as if he’s run all the way from the Black Cat.

  “Idiots!” he yells with his stage voice. “You’re hanging the only man in Ector who has ever stood up to the Nightshades!” For the sake of the argument, he leaves out Magnus and Pale Tom, though they’ve actually done most of the heavy lifting in that regard. And Pale Tom’s not much of an argument, since he was Nightshade. But I keep my trap shut. I don’t really have a choice. It’s awfully hard to breathe, even with a handful of fingers trapped in the rope.

  I fade again for a second.

  I can’t for the life of me get my left hand free from its hog-tie to my waist and feet. If I could do that, I could invert myself and bring my legs into play.

  I think of Carmen sewing silk scraps for my burial shroud. Maybe she’ll use my stolen banner.

  Barkus is arguing forcefully with the Captain of the South Guard who has just arrived, upon hearing about several “irregularities.”

  “I tell you, he’s the real deal. Two nights ago he stuck his knife so deep into Pale Tom LeBlanc that it couldn’t be removed, not even for the funeral wrap!”

  I worry that Barkus has exaggerated a bit too much, but the crowd seems to like it. “And yesterday morning he took care of one that was coming after his kids. You’re going to hang a man who executes Nightshades for a living? Look at him. He’s begging you to reconsider!”

  I am not. I am begging for a lungful of autumn air.

  The crowd, many of them, are shaking their heads in dismay.

  The Captain of the Guard looks angry. “This is a question of justice! He was caught breaking and entering the late Widow Pétanque’s house on Lantern Street. The Executor of the Will informed us of suspicious behavior, and we were able to apprehend him and recover the stolen goods.”

  “Stolen goods? Stolen goods!” Barkus spits, looking back at the captain. “James! You know good and well that Pale Tom took up residence in that place the moment the old bat bit the big one. He’s the one you should have hanged for stolen goods!”

  This is news to Captain James. He looks to his lieutenant, who nods slightly.

  Then he snaps back at Barkus, with a little less venom. “It doesn’t change the facts, Barkus. It was still a robbery.”

  “A search for evidence, more likely.” Barkus corrects. He turns to the crowd, plays it up just loud enough. “Don’t worry, friends. Captain James is a good man. He’s not going to kill the Nightshade Slayer.” That last bit he says more theatrically.

  Captain James winces. “Please don’t say that.”

  “I know, James. . . . I know. . . . You wouldn’t want it on your record that you executed a Nightshade Slayer without a trial.”

  “Captain. It’s Captain.” James can tell he’s losing control. He’s good, mind you, but he’s no match for Barkus.

  “Sorry, Captain James. But it’s the truth, and the Nightshade Slayer had a deal with old Tom, an inheritance. The old man told me himself that he’d given Slayer his ring.”

  “That’s a conviction, not a help.”

  “Not when I tell you that’s how the two of them killed twenty Nightshades in one night. Right in my own inn.”

  “Six,” the Lieutenant interrupted. “The others were told to leave in peace.”

  “Seven.” Barkus takes control of the narrative. “But it felt like twenty. And this man,” he gestures at me, “would’ve done more if Pale Tom hadn’t stopped him.”

  James’s face is incredulous. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes. It was all part of the deal, see. Tom wanted Teacup to polish him off at the end of it, make his retirement complete.”

  Captain James shakes his head, even though the crowd is whispering. They’ve all heard about the fire and the fight, and this embellishment is going to spread like lice in an orphanage. The Black Cat will be so packed that I’ll have to walk across people’s heads just to get to my perch, assuming I live that long.

  “It’s too much. You’re a good innkeep, Barkus, but you don’t know about law. We’ve got a thief, and we need to make an example of him.”

  Barkus stamps his foot. “He and Old Tom had a deal!”

  Magnus is looking confused, but Lucinda’s telling him to keep his mouth shut, that he’s an idiot to start talking about High Tribunals right now. One wrong word will put an end to me. It only takes one good arrow. I can even see a few archers eyeing me lazily from the barracks roof, begging me to do something stupid. I don’t. As long as I stay on the gallows I should be fine.

  That doesn’t mean I need to be hanging from them.

  Pop! My other hand slips free.

  I flex it a few times to get the blood moving, then position both hands above my head and invert myself slowly to get the weight off my neck. It feels so wonderful, along with the gulps of air, that I climb up the rope backward, using my feet to help, careful to leave the noose in place. I sit on the top of the scaffolding to watch the drama of my hanging unfold.

  The archers flex their bows, so I decide not to push my luck, except to swing my feet jauntily in the open air.

  There are impressed whispers in the crowd. Okay, so I am showboating a little, but it might be my last chance.

  Barkus’s gift is just as rare, and Sanjuste has made a mistake by letting the man talk. The innkeep can spin a whole world in just a few sentences and he’s doing it now, knitting a tale about assassins and Tom and hopes and dreams. The thief sketcher, now execution sketcher, seems to have caught the flavor. He’s drawing frantically with a charcoal, while the captain continues to argue with Barkus and an
other squad of guards brings out the chopping block on a two-man handcart, since the noose is obviously not good enough for the mighty Nightshade Slayer.

  The chopping block is a big, nasty black-oak thing that would turn the river crimson for a day if you managed to heave it in. It’s generally saved for special occasions, but I guess they want to test it on my neck, since the rope wasn’t enough. It’s a nice gesture to know I might get to add my blood to royalty and foreign marshals.

  Suddenly there’s a commotion. Valery is chatting up the guards, getting in the way of the cart without making it obvious, showing them her new boots, turning her ankle for admiration. It’s obviously a sales pitch. She motions for Timmy to demonstrate the finer points of the boots, and as he bends over one hand flits near the cart’s wheel while the other flourishes near some complicated stitching, and a little too much leg. I’m going to have a talk with Lucinda about that. Maybe.

  The guards wave them off angrily and they scamper back to Carmen, who sews them up in a gigantic hug.

  I smile as I realize Timmy knows a wheel-pin is important. Or maybe Lucinda told him. I can’t tell. She nods curtly at him thirty seconds later, though, when the cart’s wheel falls off in the middle of the square and the head-block tumbles down onto the cobblestone. It’s heavy, and no amount of grunting will get it back into the sabotaged cart, or the back-up cart, and no one in the gathering crowd will help them lift it now. Not even Sanjuste, who is pushing his way from the crowded square.

  The people push back of course. They all want to crowd in close to hear the drama.

  And then Lucinda is standing next to Petri, arguing with him as he presses something into her palm. Magnus is smiling, because there’s a courier on a horse headed for the gallows, waving a Cease-and-Desist order over his head. A flustered Captain James doesn’t know it yet, but this execution has just kicked the bucket.

  The weirdest part is how Lucinda catches up with Sanjuste just as he breaks from the crowd. Her hand darts in and out of his pocket.