Thief Who Knocked on Sorrow's Gate

by Michael McClung

  “Damn it,” he muttered and let go of me.

  It yanked me through the remains of the door.

  It dragged me out into the center of the street.

  I could see dozens of other tendrils of fog retreating from doors and windows all along the street, all contracting toward a central mass, which I was rapidly being pulled toward.

  “Stop,” I told it.

  No.

  It yanked me into the heart of its central mass. The world disappeared in a green blur. The fog plunged down my throat, into my nostrils, rubbed up against my eardrums.

  Now, you cease, it said matter-of-factly.

  Along with the terror and the agony, rage boiled up inside me.

  NO! I screamed silently at it and sensed again, somehow, Mount Tarvus tremble beneath me. And then, my flesh began to burn. My skin, my throat, my lungs.

  NO! I shrieked again with all my will as I felt first my eyelids and then my eyes begin to dissolve and dissipate.

  NO, I decided with all the force of my will. What was left of my hand, where Abanon’s Blade had turned to dust, throbbed in sympathy. And I felt the world crack just a little.

  I’m a thief, not a mage. I’ve seen massive magics done and been both healed and badly hurt by magic, but I know no more of the doing of it than I would know how to fly by watching birds. Holgren would probably be able to describe what happened so that it sounded clear, concise, and rational. There was nothing clear, concise, or rational about what happened next as far as I could tell.

  It felt as if some metaphorical wall had cracked open, and through it streamed a blinding light. I knew, without knowing how I knew, that the light was meant for me, mine to shape. Mine to use. Mine to make with. To make what?

  Anything. It was pure, undiluted possibility.

  As my skin boiled away, and I shrieked silently in agony. I grabbed onto that light, let it fill me. Let it suffuse me. Let it harden me. Let it force the fog from my lungs, from my hand. And as the fog retreated, the light mended all the horrid damage caused.

  No, said the fog monster.

  I pushed the light outward so that it did not just fill my body, but surrounded me in a cocoon of radiant power.

  No, the fog said again.

  I opened my newly regenerated eyes and saw the world and the world in between.

  I lay on the cobbles, curled up like an infant. Beneath me, deep down in the heart of Mount Tarvus, I sensed a restless ocean of power, of possibility. Here was where the light poured out from for me to use. I glanced up at the fog, wavering uncertainly above me, and saw a black, smoky thread in the center of it, the end nearest me twitching back and forth like the tail of an angry cat. I followed the thread with my eyes and saw that it plunged down into the street then ran under it, maybe a foot or more beneath it, and went…somewhere. I couldn’t see the other end.

  “Where do you go, I wonder? Who’s at the other end?”

  I grabbed that twitching cat’s tail and pulled.

  Cobbles and packed earth flew as the smoky thread was yanked out of the ground. The thread writhed, trying to escape, but I wouldn’t let it. Hand over hand, I pulled on it, pulled more of it out of the ground, creating a new ditch there in the center of the street. Cobbles flew, but none could touch me.

  “I’m coming for you,” I told whoever or whatever was on the other end of that thread.

  Apparently, they heard me, whoever they were, because they cut the thread. I fell backward on my rump, and the thread just dissipated in my hands.

  “Bastard,” I said. Then, I passed out.

  Chapter Eight

  I woke again when Keel started slapping my cheek with his one good hand. I opened my eyes and saw only the same mundane world I’d ever seen before that day. I was where I had fallen in the street.

  “Trying to give me rosy cheeks?” I said or tried. What came out was more like, “Trrgmpfh mrgle chuuh?”

  “Gorm on a stick!” he said, a particularly vulgar epithet, seeing as how Gorm had died via impalement. “Are you all right?”

  I tried to speak again, got no better results. I settled for raising one hand and waggling it back and forth from the wrist. So-so.

  “I don’t know whether to help you up or run away screaming. What the hells just happened?”

  “Not. Really sure,” I finally managed, and with his help, I got to my feet. I felt weak. And very, very hungry.

  “Do you need anything?”

  I pushed away from him, stood on rapidly steadying feet. “We need to get away from here.” Blacksleeves would eventually show up now that all danger had passed. “And I need food. Lots and lots of food. And wine.”

  “Do you want to talk about—”

  “Gods, no. Not yet. I need to think. For a while.”

  “Because it sure looked like you—”

  “Keel.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t know what happened. I swear to Kerf.”

  He thought about that for a moment then said, “You’re a very scary lady.”

  “Call me a lady again, and you’ll have reason to be scared.”

  #

  It was not the most expensive eatery in the city. Not even close. It wasn’t nearly high enough up Mount Tarvus. It was, however, the one place I remembered well enough after fifteen years to go to without having to ask directions.

  The thing that made the Garden memorable, or at least impressed me as a street rat, was the fact that there was indeed a small water garden in the center of the place with ferns and mossy rocks and big, bright fish circling lazily in small pools.

  I’d seen it from above; the garden area was open to the sky with the eating area surrounding it on all sides being roofed. It was no challenge at all to climb up there and watch the fish and the rich (rich to me at least, at the time) stuffing their faces with all manner of foods I had no names for then.

  It was an Elamner eatery back then and still was, as we discovered when we went inside. It was smaller than I remembered and more dingy, though that might just have been due to the passage of time. But the smell of the cooking was just as good as my memory insisted.

  The man at the front smiled and led us in. As with most Elamner establishments, it was all low tables and cushions instead of chairs. Elamner eateries also meant searingly spicy food, mostly grilled, and awful wine. I was fine with everything but the last.

  Once he’d seen my silver, the man sat us in a quiet, screened corner and at my request sent a boy to fetch a bottle of table Fel-Radoth that I knew from experience would go well with the meal. Then, he assigned someone to hover unobtrusively while we ate—a fine line to walk, but the girl managed well enough.

  Both of us were hungry. Not much talking got done as dish after dish appeared and disappeared. Finally, neither of us could eat any more, and as if on cue, tiny cups of veul dom appeared before us, the after dinner drink Elamners claim aids digestion. I’m not partial to it myself. When it became apparent that Keel was, I pushed mine toward him.

  “Time to talk,” I said. He nodded.

  “You’re a mage. Why hide it? You could have just told me.”

  “I’m not a mage, and it’s time to talk about you, numbskull, not me.”

  “I saw you. You went from wet meat to not a mark on you in a heartbeat. You re-grew your eyes. Then, you got up, floated above the ground, made that killer fog go poof, and destroyed most of Southgate Street. But no, you’re not a mage. Not possible.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Look, I don’t know what happened, Keel. It sure as hells has never happened to me before. If I am a mage, no one would be more surprised than me.”

  He stared at me. “You’re serious,” he finally said.

  “Completely.”

  “That’s…that’s awesome and terrifying all at the same time.”

  I grunted. I was suddenly very, very tired.

  “Look,” I told him. “I was going to interrogate you about y
our pal Ansen, but I just don’t have the energy. Do me a favor. Take me to an inn, somewhere nice. Then, tell Ansen to come meet me there. Say, tomorrow afternoon.”

  “All right. You want nice, or very nice?”

  “I’ve got money and don’t want to share my bed with any creepy crawlies.”

  “Follow me then.”

  I paid, and we left.

  #

  The innkeeper was fat, bald, dainty, and unimpressed with me and Keel. His inn, the Copperbark, was smallish but very, very well-appointed.

  “I want a bed,” I told him as we entered his brightly lit common room.

  He raised a plucked eyebrow. “I’m not sure this is the right establishment for you. I believe you’d be more comfortable wharfside. Something with an hourly rate, perhaps.”

  I turned to Keel. “Did he just call me a whore?”

  Keel shrugged. “Maybe he meant me. I’m younger. And prettier.”

  I turned back to the innkeeper. “I changed my mind,” I said. “I want a suite. You do have a suite, right?”

  “Very amusing,” he replied. “Now if you don’t mind, I have guests with coin that I need to see to.”

  I pulled out a doeskin purse from an inner pocket. There were enough gold marks in it to keep me in a place like that one for half a year. Say one thing about Bellarius; it was far cheaper than Lucernis. I tossed it to him, and he caught it, visibly surprised by its weight.

  “Let me know when that runs out. Meantime, I’ll want a bell to ring for service. And I’ll want you to answer it personally, day or night.”

  Money doesn’t make anybody better than anybody else. But it can make servants out of those who believe it does.

  The suite had a sitting room complete with couch and stuffed chairs; a bedroom with an enormous, curtained bed; a balcony behind heavy, expensive drapes; and a bathroom with an actual copper bath. Everything was meticulously clean and neat and of a very high quality if a bit precious for my taste.

  I made sure the innkeep knew Keel was free to come and go as he pleased then dragged myself to the bedroom, threatening death to anyone who disturbed me as I closed the door. Then, I fell face-down onto the feather bed. I think I was asleep before I hit the mattress.

  #

  I woke sometime in the night to the muted sound of rain on the roof and on the balcony. I lay there in that enormous bed for a long time, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. One thought chased the next through my head. Finally, I gave up, lit a candle, and started pacing up and down a monstrously expensive Helstrumite carpet.

  You’d think I was thinking about my using magic. You’d be wrong. I didn’t want to think about that because it made absolutely no sense and scared me spitless. When I finally saw Holgren again, yes, I’d unpack that mystery and pore over it with him, try to figure out what had happened. But on my own, I wasn’t even equipped to ask myself sensible questions much less come up with reasonable answers.

  What I couldn’t keep my thoughts away from were the attacks on me at the dock, then at South Gate. Two magical attempts on my life.

  I didn’t really have any doubt that someone was trying to end me using magic, and they weren’t concerned about others getting dead in the process. For the life of me, though, I couldn't get a handle on why. No doubt there were a few people out there in the world that would like to see me dead. Most of them were people I had stolen very precious things from. But those people wouldn't know who exactly had stolen their shinies. Unless I was very, very unlucky, they would never know the identity of the person who'd robbed them. And anyway, you didn't hire a mage to kill a thief. You hired a guy with a knife and a bad reputation.

  It was the magic that didn't make sense. It was the use of magic, and maybe my sensitivity to it, that nagged at me. I was pretty sure these two things pointed to who and to why someone wanted me dead, but if they were clues, they were written in a language I didn't read.

  I’d always been sensitive to when magic was being actively used around me. I’d never met anyone else who could feel it though—but it’s not like I go around asking people. When Holgren had first discovered I could sense him working magic, he’d been surprised but not exactly dumbfounded. But then I couldn’t imagine Holgren being dumbfounded by anything. Ever.

  Just how unusual was my talent, exactly? And was it something that improved over time? I’d never before been able to feel with such clarity the shape or form or whatever the correct word was for what a spell was and how it worked. I had at the dock and had again, even more distinctly, at South Gate. I recalled with absolute clarity the feeling of a giant spider web settling on me, shuddered, and resisted rubbing my skin free of magical webs that weren’t actually there.

  Was this increased sensitivity to do with me or the particular magic that had been used? I just didn’t know enough about magic to even make a guess. But I was more than half-convinced that these spells had been laid down ahead of time and left to wait for me to come along and trigger them. The first at a place I was more than likely to arrive at; perhaps the other docks were similarly spelled. I wasn’t curious enough to go wharfside and jump up and down on docks to find out. Unless I had to.

  The second at South Gate. I was willing to bet all three of the Girdle’s gates had been fitted out with a nasty surprise for me—

  A series of truly frightening thoughts occurred to me then.

  Were these traps set to keep me out, or keep me in, or just to do me in, whichever way I was going?

  Would these magical traps reset?

  Would I be able to leave without being attacked if I retraced my route?

  Were they only placed at strategic choke-points in the city that I was likely to pass through, or were they scattered randomly around Bellarius?

  Kerf’s dirty beard.

  #

  I slept again for maybe four hours—surprisingly deeply, considering. Then, the most damnable itch on the palm of my hand woke me up.

  It could have been my imagination. It could have been the last, wispy remnants of a fading dream that I saw as I opened my eyes. But the palm of my Blade-stained hand was glowing faintly blue for an instant after I pried my sleep-gummed eyes open.

  Even sleep-stupid, I made the connection. After all, the faint discoloration was still there, where Abanon’s Blade had disintegrated at my will.

  It could have been a dream. Sure. Kerf’s crooked staff, what did it mean? I had no idea, other than trouble.

  At least the itching had faded along with the glow.

  I got up.

  I needed to see how deep into the trap I actually was. And I needed to decide what I was going to do about it.

  I passed Keel on my way out, sleeping with his mouth open on the couch in the sitting room. Asleep, he looked even younger. Really just a kid. It seemed I was stuck with him for a while. I thought about that, decided I didn’t much mind.

  The night watchman bowed as I went out into the chill pre-dawn. The rain had stopped, but I knew it would be back. It was the season for cold, wet rain, and once it settled in, it would go on, off and on, for days, even weeks at a time. I was going to have to get a cloak. Hells, I was going to have to get a whole wardrobe. Nearly everything I owned had burned up on the dock.

  I hate shopping. Fortunately, I had enough money to make the shops come to me.

  #

  Southgate Street hadn’t been repaired yet. It looked like it hadn’t been touched at all. The deep furrow in the cobbled street had collected a little rainwater and a little rubbish, but the whole area looked exactly the same as it had the afternoon before, barring the early gray light and the sparrows.

  There were thousands of sparrows on the street, on window ledges and rooftops, and criss-crossing the air between me and the gate.

  Hopefully, they’d be the only witnesses if things went horribly wrong and I was killed by magic and my own stupidity in unleashing it for the second time in as many days.

  I walke
d along the crumbling edge of the furrow I’d somehow created using the magic that seemed to now reside inside me or beneath me. I tried to sense something, anything, of that magic, either an echo of the previous day’s goings-on or anything still waiting for me or in me. I felt nothing at all. Not a single hair on the back of my neck stirred. No mystic sunlight appeared to my inner eye or whatever. Everything seemed to be perfectly mundane.

  As I got closer to the gate, I had to slow my pace. It wasn’t the unsure footing that was the problem. It was the sparrows. They kept darting under my feet, as if they wanted to block my path. The closer I got to the gate, the more suicidal they became. It finally came to the point where there was nowhere left for me to place a foot that wasn’t already taken up by several fragile little bird bodies.

  I tried to take a step forward, to scare them out of the way. I couldn’t. They wouldn’t budge. I wasn’t walking any closer to the gate unless I was willing to kick or squash a few sparrows.

  “This is ridiculous,” I told them. They had nothing to say in reply.

  “The gate’s only three or four paces ahead. I can easily jump the distance even flat-footed, you know.” Yes, I was actually talking to sparrows. Yes, I knew it was crazy.

  Even more crazy was that they seemed to understand me, for as soon as the words were out of my mouth, hundreds more sparrows launched themselves from the surrounding rooftops and swarmed the air between me and the gate, creating a living, swirling, winged curtain that blocked my path.

  Of course, the only thing stopping me from walking or jumping through the gate was my own reluctance to injure a few small, fragile birds.

  It was enough, that reluctance. That and the fact that somebody or something obviously thought me passing through the gate wasn’t the greatest of ideas and would rather I didn’t do it. That made me very, very curious.

  “All right, all right,” I sighed. “I know when I’m beaten. But I think I’d better have a talk with your boss.”

  As I walked away from the gate, the sparrows rose up in a storm of wings and flew once again in a ragged cloud to somewhere deeper in the Girdle. I followed them at my own, non-winged pace.