by Allan Cole
I peered about and saw the reason for the silence.
A half-a-dozen killers loomed near the entrance. The Regal Rogue was at their head. The crowd stared at them. Some licked their lips in fear. Coming from these villains, it was sure sign that the killers were well known. The Regal Rogue and his men stood there, silent. Singling people out with their eyes and staring at them, flat, deadly.
The crowd began to disperse. Slowly at first. With loud excuses about the lateness of the hour or a sudden feeling of sickness. The drizzle of departures became a trickle and then a flood.
And then the Boar’s Breath was empty.
Fiorox booted the doors shut and padlocked them.
Legg and the dinksman were on either side of me, leaning against the bar.
Fiorox whispered to the Regal Rogue, who nodded. Then he advanced, followed closely by his killers. Legg and the dinksman stepped away from me, holding up their hands, protesting their innocence.
“We never set our lamps on her in our lives, Eriz, honest we ain’t,” the dinksman said to the Royal Rogue.
“Don’t know what kinda game she’s up to, Eriz,” Legg whined. “But she’s a sly bitch, she is. Fooled me good. ‘N I ain’t easy to fool.”
Eriz ignored them and stopped in front of me.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “And who’s backin’ your play?”
He leaned close, nose about an inch from mine. His breath was rotten teeth scented with mint.
“You got time fer maybe two breaths before you answer, soldier,” he snarled. “Or I’ll cut your other eye out myself.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” I said. “Hard enough to get around with only one glim, you know.”
I reached for my cloak. Eriz tensed and his killers came forward.
“Hold on,” I said, raising my good hand. “I got what your lookin’ for in my cloak pocket. Here. See for yourself.”
I spread my arms wide. Eriz hesitated, then plunged his hand into my pocket. His fingers found the bundle and took it out. He stared at the raggedy bundle. Then looked up at me, sneering.
“What’s this? Your dinner?”
“Unwrap it,” I urged.
He did. Slowly. Cautiously. Peeling away the layer of white rags. The others inched closer, some even standing on tiptoes so they could look.
The last bit of cloth came away, revealing my golden hand - the magical material glittering even in this dim light.
“What in the hells-” Eriz began.
And I barked, “Hand! Take him!”
Eriz jolted back but was too late. My golden hand shot up, fingers gripping him by the throat. The men all cried out in surprise as he was lifted from the floor, gurgling as my etherfingers squeezed tighter.
“Get back,” I roared, “or I’ll kill him.”
I made the fingers loosen enough for Eriz to squall for obedience. Then I tightened them again until he was kicking the air violently, squealing for breath.
“Do what she says, boys,” Fiorox said.
They all stepped back.
“Now, drop your weapons,” I commanded.
There was a clatter as they all obeyed.
I mentally made my etherhand float downward until Eriz’s toes were just scraping the floor. He made quite a clown out of himself as he struggled to take up his weight.
I went to him, slipping out my dirk. I pared a small curl of wood from my stump bowl.
“I’m looking for a man,” I said, sliding up into my normal speech. “I want your boys to find him for me and bring him here.”
I touched the dagger point against Eriz’s privates and he squawked and wriggled.
“Littler than I thought,” I said.
I pressed harder and Eriz jolted as if he’d been burned.
“Have him here within the hour,” I said. “Or it’ll be littler still.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE KING OF THIEVES
To my great relief they argued with me.
Fiorox and the others became alarmed when I named the man I sought and said he’d never agree to come. It was only then that I knew for certain he still existed.
I let them whine, caused Eriz to entertain us with a bit more squealing and only a little blood for urgency’s sake. And sent them on their way.
When they were gone and we had the place to ourselves I released Eriz. He crouched on the floor, gasping and massaging his throat. He watched with amazement as I removed the wooden bowl and put my etherhand back on, covering it with a high-cuffed black leather glove.
Then I thumped the bar, giving it a good whack with my etherhand to make the dirt and Eriz jump.
“Get me a proper drink,” I ordered. “I’ve been swilling nothing but water all night and I’m parched.”
Eriz scurried to do my bidding. I drank, clutching the cup with my etherhand. I sighed, relaxing as the rough brandy make a warm bed of happy posies in my belly.
It’d been days since I’d felt whole.
And I settled back to wait.
He arrived within the hour.
To my amazement a company of what had to be the richest and coldest-eyed villains in Cheapside swept out of the night and into the Boar’s Breath. They paused at the entrance to make sure Eriz and I were the only ones present. The tallest rogue whispered to someone behind him, then stepped aside with an elaborate show of respect to let that someone pass.
I looked, saw nothing, and let my gaze drop further. And then further still until I found the top of a tall hat.
Beneath that hat was Pip!
Although we’d never met, I recognized him immediately from the description in my brother’s book.
But when I saw him the first thing I thought was - I knew he was short but not that short! Measuring from his brow to the tops of his high-heeled boots he came to less than five feet.
The thought dissolved instantly when Pip stamped his staff and squared his narrow shoulders until they stretched the material of his fur-trimmed cape of royal green. He had a long narrow face, small eyes and a twitching, pointy, mouse-like nose. He held himself like royalty in miniature.
Which was only right. For to my immense surprise Pip was now a king.
Cheapside’s King Of Thieves.
“Whatcher mean callin’ me out, sister?” he growled in haughty tones. “Make her good an’ make her quick or yer’ll be usin’ yer windpipes fer a yammer!”
I straightened, shedding the last of my disguise.
“You’ve done well, Pip,” I said, nodding at his staff, which bore the emerald-eyed cat’s skull of the King Of Thieves. “Although I’m surprised at the path you’ve taken.”
Pip quivered at that unexpected thrust. He came closer, waving his men back. He looked at me closely, puzzling.
“Do I knows yer, sister?” he asked.
“We’ve never met,” I said. “But I suspect you know of me. Just as I know of you. You were in Amalric Antero’s service for many years, were you not?”
Pip’s beady little eyes turned fierce, his grip tightening on his cat’s skull staff.
“Yer’ll not speak that name to the likes’a me, sister,” he growled. “Amalric Antero was the best man what ever lived. I’ll not have his name thrown about by some drunk old soldier!”
“I have more right to speak his name than any other, Pip,” I said. “That’s why I’ve come to you. You were one of Amalric’s most trusted men. You scouted for him in his last expedition to find the real Far Kingdoms. You were among those who returned to Orissa with his final words to the world.
“You were well rewarded for that service to the Anteros, I imagine. Although no amount could ever repay you for the risks you took.”
I paused, let my eye sweep him up and down, taking in the full effect of this little man who’d risen to command Orissa’s underworld.
“But by the gods that plague us,” I finally said in unabashed awe. “I never expected you’d use that reward for this.
“Pip. King Of Thieves!
&n
bsp; “My poor brother must be laughing himself into a second grave!”
Pip jumped. “Bruvver?” he cried, gaping. “Did yer say, ‘Bruvver?”
“That I did, Pip,” I said with a smile.
Then I let my voice rise so all could hear.
“I’m Rali Antero. And I’ve come to ask the King Of Thieves to help me save Orissa.”
The room went silent. Broken only by the clatter of Pip’s cat’s skull staff as it fell to the floor.
The Antero name is loved by some, hated by some, feared by some but respected by all.
To men and women like Pip it also has the ring of true magic, good magic. It didn’t stretch his superstitious and romantic soul one stitch to hear an Antero’d come back from the dead to ask him to go on yet one more grand expedition.
Pip had stood shoulder to shoulder with Amalric and Janela Greycloak in far Tyrenia. This little man had fought the Demon King with them. In histories it’s always the generals and leaders who get the glory. The lowly soldier or brave civilian is ignored, although they are as key to the events as any of the grand folk who lead them. And perhaps even more important.
Because, you see, they are the key that turns that lock.
Pip might have been born a Cheapside thief, but he was as great a hero as any son or daughter of Orissa.
As it turned out, he’d been waiting and praying for just such a moment as when I stood before him and announced I was Rali Antero. Come to ask him to join the fight.
There’d been some back and forth, of course. Some sharp questions and thoughtful answers. In the end Pip believed because he wanted to. Desperately so.
He dropped to his knees, weeping and clutching my hand.
“By the lice what gnaws Te Date’s beard,” he bawled, “Yer Rali Antero, herself!”
His head instantly rotated and he fixed his streaming eyes on his men. “And I’ll eat the nose off any face what say’s she ain’t!”
The men all shifted nervously, saying, “Sure, Pip, sure. Whatever yer say she is, that’s what she be.”
His head rotated back. Instantly shifting from king to loyal subject. His eyes were fervent as he swore: “I’ll foller yer, Lady Antero just like I follered yer dear bruvver. Swear on any friggin’ god yer want. Trot ‘em out and Pip’ll say his piece.”
I attended to a tear or two of my own, then hoisted him up.
“Rule number one,” I said. “No kneeling.”
Pip laughed, growing easier. “An’ what’s rule number two, Lady Antero?”
“Drop the ‘Lady’ business. I never liked it. Never will like it.”
Pip nodded, grinning. “How about, Cap’n?” he asked. “You was a cap’n once, weren’t ya? Commander of th’ Maranon Guard.”
“I like that,” I said. “Captain Antero it is then.”
And by the gods it felt good to hear that name again. It was like pulling on an old dress uniform and discovering to your extreme pleasure that it fit perfectly. With perhaps just a little squinting in the mirror.
Pip nodded, swept up his cat’s skull staff and turned to his men.
“Yer there - Bugsboy! And yer - Treyfingers! Get us a rattler. A good’un, mind yer. Wi’ curtains. Like a whore’s rocker. So’s the peeries won’t spy us.”
The two men - one with a face that looked like it’d been used for dirk practice, the other with a three-fingered claw of a hand - bobbed and chorused “Sure, Pip! Right off, Pip!” And away they went to do his bidding.
For those of you who might be bewildered by thieftalk, I’ll translate. Pip had ordered Bugsboy, the man with the bitten face, and Treyfingers, the one with two missing digits, to fetch us a carriage. A “rattler.”
He wanted a rather nice one, but was insisting it had curtains we could draw so the “peeries” - Novari and Kato’s spies - wouldn’t see who was inside.
Since harlots frequently ply their trade from exactly that sort of carriage, Pip’d suggested they get a “whore’s rocker.” Which is a “rattler,” but with smoother springs, one would hope. And the “whore’s rocker,” in his view, would be perfect since it’d easily be found at this hour and come readily equipped with curtains and comfort.
All this in a short burst of a few pinched words. This was royalty in action, by the gods. Even if it did wield a thief’s staff.
Pip would prove to be all I’d prayed for and more.
Pip made his thieves’ palace in the sewers.
From its beginnings Orissa was always a fussy city with finicky ways. We were much like the water rat that thrives in the banks of our river, clean in our habits as cats - always preening in the sunlight and burying our scat as deeply and as secretly as we could. The first sewers were built ages ago. As the city grew so did the many layers of sewers. Most have been long-abandoned and forgotten. Except by the denizens of Cheapside.
As a native of Orissa I knew a little of this. But when I actually entered the criminal underworld with Pip I was stunned to realized just how under that underworld was.
The old sewers make an intricate webbed-maze beneath our city. There are hundreds of great old clay pipes and tunnels and chambers that lead everywhere. In some places, I learned, the sides of the pipe or tunnel might’ve collapsed but there was always a way to get around that barrier if you took another route.
If you happen to be reading this journal while nodding on the pot, be warned. What I’m going to say next might make you jump and soil yourself. For the purposes of thievery, you see, there is no better pathway to your valuables than through the sewers of Orissa. Because the gate, so to speak, is beneath you.
During my time in Cheapside with Pip I learned that there are special gangs of thieves called ratboys who use the privy to gain entry to the homes of rich and middling rich. So with this in mind, and if you fit that financial description, it’d be wise to pay close attention to any scurrying noises you hear coming from the soil pit. It could be some of Pip’s best ratboys.
We didn’t go directly to his lair. We changed carriages several times, going only a little real distance each time but by an around-about-way, along alleys and streets that snaked and backswitched through Cheapside. The whole time Pip’s crew scattered out in front and behind us, going like swift ghosts. Shutters banged shut all around us so those inside could plainly show they hadn’t witnessed what had passed beneath their windows. Such was the fear and awe of the King Of Thieves.
The final leg of our journey took us deep into the bowels of a tenement. A wall swung away and we descended a flight of stairs to a broad tunnel brightly lit by firebeads hanging from hooks imbedded in the stone. Two litter chairs were waiting below with four strong ruffians to carry them. We mounted the chairs and with a snarled order from Pip, off we went, charging along at an alarming pace.
Soon we came to an enormous chamber of stone. The stone was covered with a thick pelt of carpets and tapestries and pillows of incredible design and value. The chamber itself was stuffed with all kinds of exotic articles and furniture. There were chairs and couches and tables carved into the shapes of fantastic animals.
All were inlaid with fabulous designs and decorated with ivory and thin sheets of rare metals and light dustings of glittering gemstones. Some table tops were mounded with knots of necklaces and strands of pearls intertwined with expensive cutlery and other valuable household items.
Pip led me into the chamber and through a dazzling garden of thievery. Statues were draped with stolen finery, burst open trunks spilled silk and fur, kegs of looted incense and perfumed oil sweetened the air.
We came to a raised platform covered with a double layer of the thickest pillows.
Pip stopped, looked around the chamber. Then he smiled, waving at the mind-numbing surroundings.
And he said, “Nice place, huh, Cap’n?”
“For a pirate,” I said.
Pip chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “Sorter what I had in mind, Cap’n,” he said. “Saw some pirates, I did, in the EasternSeas. Sorry lot. Disap
pointin’, if’n yer want the straight truth. I thought they’d be... ” He waved, vague, “... I don’t know, grander, somehow.”
He shrugged, then nodded at the chamber filled with treasure looted from the trading ships and great mansions of Orissa.
“Thought I’d make a proper pirate’s place,” he said. “Like in the books, you know?”
