The Thief
A Craft of Shadows Book
By Diavosh Bassiti
Copyright Notice
Published by Vincto Publishing.
ISBN: 978-1-911179-02-3
The Thief copyright © 2015 by Diavosh Bassiti
Cover copyright © 2015 by Diavosh Bassiti
Gondola SD font used with credit to Steve Deffeyes https://www.deffeyes.com/
The Thief is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places and incidents are either products of my imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, excepting of course historical events of past centuries which may have inspired me, although I will likely have plundered with a great deal of artistic license and should also in no manner be taken as accurate representations. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, brand names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if one of these terms is used.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical without prior written permission from Diavosh Bassiti.
For more information about Diavosh Bassiti, please visit diavoshbassiti.com.
The Thief
Falling from this height, thought the thief, will most certainly kill me outright. I wonder, will it be a brief instant of agony and then death, or some long drawn-out torment?
He recalled bodies he’d seen twitching after losing their head to a sword.
Do they feel pain, or are they like a plucked flower, an already decaying imitation of life?
Alone in the dark. Frozen by fear. Three hundred feet above the next highest spires of the city’s lofty towers. Hanging grimly on to cracks in the sheet rock-face that were mere ripples in the texture of the stone. He’d lost his nerve.
His wandering mind recalled his arrival in the city a few nights earlier. Just a youth from more primitive lands, seeking wealth and adventure, and following a thousand legends and wide-eyed traveller’s tales. Visible across the desert for miles, the towers and minarets of the greatest city in the land were spun around a thrusting narrow peak. Almost perfectly smooth and tapering and seeming to scratch at the clouds. God’s Finger they called it, and other appendages as well, when too much had been drunk and humorous blasphemies were exchanged. Atop the towering spire of rock there stood the fortified palace of the sultan.
The wealth he had come in search of had proven extremely hard to come by. Even simple thievery was met by rapid sanction, and a thorough beating, from representatives of the ever vigilant Thieves Guild. As a stranger they awarded him the luxury of a single warning. He took the thrashing gladly; their generosity rare in such matters.
With no friends, an empty belly and a coin-purse which had not been full on his arrival and now had the lightness of a sock, he’d sulked in the shadows. He’d sipped his weak beer slowly to stretch out his time inside the tavern, rather than sleep in the cold street. The tales did amuse however. The people of the city spun glorious yarns of adventure and debauchery, each trying to exceed the other in the glamorous or the decadent.
One tale in particular had caught his attention, drawled from the lips of a brown, creased man between puffs on his smoke swirled pipe. The fabulous palace, itself a symbol of the sultan’s wealth and power, also contained his private storehouse. Within the most secure vault there was a treasure known as the Jewel of Nineveh; worth more, said the sultan, than the entire city and all its surrounding lands together.
Contemplating the acquisition of the sultan’s hoard, the thief had faced a singular problem. The only entrance to the citadel was through a spiralling stairwell, scarcely two men wide, that had been carved from the foot of the spire to its very summit. It was said the palace could never be taken, even by an army of millions. It would be impossible to fight up such a narrow staircase that could be defended by the sultan’s elite guards armed with little more than a good supply of boulders.
This treasure seemed to the thief a most intriguing concept. A task which, accomplished suitably discretely, would avoid the attentions of the Thieves Guild, and resolve the emptiness of both his coin-purse and his growling belly. His natural land of birth was high in the mountainous regions to the north, and unlike these flatland desert-dwellers, climbing had been a sport to him since childhood. He and his friends would dare each other to tame one improbably impassable crag after another, surviving solely by skill and strength. It was true he had lost more than one young companion to a grim death, smashed and twisted on sharp rocks far below, but they were the weakest, with the least skill and the least resolve.
It was that very resolve he found now being tested to its limit. Climbing is an expression of confidence and the utter faith that your fingertips will hold, that your toes will not slip. Lose that confidence and you lose your grip and perish. For the longest moment of eternity the thief hung motionless from the rock, his stare fixed on the next grip. Surely it is too slight? A dusky moth fluttered past his face. He smiled; the moment had passed. He swung his arm easily and grasped the fingertip-wide fissure and climbed up; foot after hand after foot after hand.
His grip finally gained the capital stone of a finely wrought wall, pierced through with geometric shapes. The scent of jasmine caught by a cool evening breeze, and somewhere close by a nightingale sang; clattering chorus and melodious verse. Drawing himself up slowly he peeked over the edge with barely the top of his head visible. A large courtyard garden, almost a small park, lay before him. Elegantly trimmed trees and bushes, neat jardinières laden with flowers. A small stream ran to a languid pool with a fountain whose cascade fell on pebbles and the thief allowed the lapping of the water to calm his mind.
Further in were armoured men, pikes at their shoulders, circulating on prescribed paths, their open blades glinting in the light from the crescent moon. None passed near him so he lightly slipped over the wall and sank into a darker patch of shadow. A small guard house was built here as part of the wall, room enough for a single sentinel left on watch during colder nights, that they might shelter themself from conditions inclement, whilst gazing out at the city far below. The thief untied the curious long package he had borne on his back during the perilous ascent. It was cylindrical and wrapped in soot-blackened paper; nearly his height in length yet only a fat hand-grip in depth. He lofted it easily with one hand and slid it to lie unnoticed on the guard house roof.
The guards were moving again, closer now. The thief bowed low and scurried along the side of a low hedge cunningly woven with honeysuckle, its enticing sweet scent drawing modest complaint from his hollow stomach. He crawled closer to the palace, the detail in the fabulously fired tiles becoming visible though their hues were grey in the moonlight instead of brilliantly vivid. The guards were whispering to each other, a shared joke, an impugnation of one of their fellows. The whispering was good, the thief could place them without looking, and save his eyes for the pressing matter of determining his route forward.
The lawn was terminated by a paved veranda leading up to the wall. A door was ajar, but the lamp that burned above it too bright for a stealthy entrance. The thief drew his tool-roll from within his shirt and removed a narrow tube. He tore a leaf from the bush, and chewed it for a moment, then raised the tube to his mouth and blew the masticated wad to strike out the very flame of the lamp.
Nothing to see here. Lamps blow out all the time.
He sneaked forward, keeping his profile low, fingertips tracing the terracotta tiles beneath his feet.
He froze. He heard footsteps coming down the corridor,
his heart hammering loudly enough to betray him. The whispering guards had fallen quiet and were no doubt following their orbits as before, yet he had no clue where they were. A single guard, taken from behind by surprise, could well be handled silently and efficiently; but not two, not without raising an alarm.
Draw the blade deep across the windpipe; remember to lift the jaw firmly with your left hand, lest they whimper.
A new guard marched out of the corridor and nearly collided with his fellow coming the other way. A startled laugh, an apology, a never-mind, and then they were on their respective ways. The thief, spread-eagled across the ceiling above where they had just stood, arms and legs jammed hard against roof joists, listened to the departing footsteps then dropped to the ground with all the noise of a falling leaf and crept inside the palace.
‘Inside’ proved to be a transitory experience and he was immediately faced with another doorway. The wall he had first taken to be that of the palace was but one of a network of corridors constructed around a series of elaborate pleasure-gardens. Within each lay the room proper, a central installation of modest size but great delicacy. It was beautiful, to be sure, this inversion of traditional construction, however it was a confusing layout and without an obvious place to start the search for valuables. The new garden he stepped into was not open to the sky as had been the last, but had crossbars and mesh for a ceiling, allowing for passage of light and air, that lent it an enclosed and eerie feeling. Grey doves were sleeping in purpose-built coops raised on poles, their drowsy cooing and mumbling an echo of the flowing water of the room before. The central structure; a skeletal tea-house with lacquered ribs that rose to support a sloping shade-roof. It was strung about with wire bird-cages of many shapes and sizes. Far beyond another wall marked the boundary of the aviary.
He skirted the border of the cultivated cloister, preferring the shadows of the walls. The decoration grew more elaborate, the displays of flowers more exuberant. The scents produced by the blooms was intoxicating, reminding him strongly of the fancy bordello he had strolled past on his second day in the city. Ladies of uncommon beauty, clad in transparent and revealing robes of chiffon so fine it was diaphanous. Painted and preened, and far above the reach of his meagre monies.
Keep your mind on current matters. The ladies will still be there when you return tonight.
Guards. Two of them. They were just idling and gossiping then the thief’s attention was caught. He tilted his head, straining to catch every word spoken in the thick patois these city-folk used. The soldiers were pleased their shift guarding the Jewel was complete, and of the wine and song awaited, then they passed away into the night.
The treasury must be near.
Just across the meadow the thief spied a solid door, bound across with iron clasps. Riveted and plated too. The first locked door he had yet seen. The first serious attempt at security aside from the guards.
Progress then, of a sort.
He checked for any observers, and finding himself alone he kneeled before the door, putting his eye to the lock to judge its class. The tool-roll came out again and from it this time, a bent piece of wire. The wire mated with the lock and was adroitly gyrated. A click was heard as the work was consummated and the spent wire withdrawn.
The door opened easily enough. As he stepped through something caught on his ankle and he froze motionless and breathless. A wire, fine and almost invisible, was strung across the doorway, inches from the bottom, and it was stretched taut against his leaning shin. A trap or an alarm? Either could mean his death. The toolkit was still in his left hand. Moving sparsely he sought within and withdrew a cylinder of hard wax. Holding it in his teeth he broke off half the stick and kneaded it to pliancy with his free hand. Bending carefully from the waist so as not to move the wire he gracefully swept his fingertip along the wire as a dancer would bow to the audience. He caught the end of the wire, protruding from a brass trap-box fixed to the frame of the door. Carefully, oh-so carefully, he wadded the wax into the wire-hole until it took the tension of the line and he withdrew his foot.
The thief stepped past the trap and shut the door behind him. This new quadrangle was elaborate beyond all the beauty he had seen before. Ghostly peacocks lay sleeping, feathered shrouds on a short-cropped lawn of scented herbs. Whispered notes from wind-chimes. The walls were decorated with finely wound climbing-roses, their intertwining stems and branches woven to spell out words of poetry. The thief took in the heady scent-mix, but the poetry was beyond him as he had never taken much time with his letters. His attention was fixed on the central building, the finest he had yet seen, a mosaic celebration in turquoise and gold, yet with wooden-bound and iron-barred windows. There was a single heavy door, with two lump-faced guards framing it, pikes resting on broad shoulders. In front of them another marched the span of the structure. The guard measured out thirty steady paces, then turned and repeated.
The thief flowed like liquid darkness around the courtyard. No footfalls were heard. With each footstep he trailed his toes in the grass so that the unaware would think it only the faintest murmur of the wind. He circled around the decorated pavilion, but found no other portal offering more ready access. Over or under, never go straight; the thieves’ stratagem. He placed a foot on the sill of the shuttered and barred window then scaled the wall in a step and a bound and landed whisper-soft on the flat tiled roof.
The roof was bare of decoration, functionally purposeful and not meant for the sight of pampered guests. The shadows of the geometric cornices of the walls were drawn across the flat surface. The builders had set up shutter-boxes to let the air flow in the summer and to stay it in the winter. Iron bars within a stout frame had been fixed to the top of the boxes, but the boxes were still only wood jointed into the roof beams. The thief squatted and took out his heavy boot knife, and began to work the joint where box met roof. The knife was a good blue-steel he’d brought down from the mountains. The wood was soft and the box came away readily after a few moments of diligent persuasion. He lifted it free and set it down beside him. Glimmering light shone through the hole.
The thief uncoiled a thin, light rope he had worn wrapped diagonally across his torso. He tied it to the pierced stone edging to the roof, took hold of the other end and slipped headfirst into the opening, turning his ankle to grip the rope. His climbing boots had very thin soles and he gripped the line with his toes on his descent.
Inside the pavilion was filled with the bouquet from rose-oil candles that were arrayed on golden platters. Lavishly patterned paper prints decorated the walls. Translucent silks were draped over an ornamented frame that hung above a sumptuous bed, an alluring tent in the flickering light. He frowned in puzzlement, twitchy annoyance miring his thoughts, and wondered if the efforts of this evening were to go unrewarded.
He heard a soft sigh, and mumbled half-words that trailed off. Her tone was sweet and beguiling, even in sleep. He slipped silently down the rope and dropped to his hands and feet in a feline crouch. Creeping carefully so, he approached the bed. Through the gauzy canopy he saw the outline of a slender naked leg. He cautiously slipped his head under the fluttering drapes to peek up over the end of the mattress.
The flush that burned his face took him by surprise, and for a second he could not breathe. Such beauty! Such innocence on her sleeping face; so full her lips and smooth her skin. The thief understood now that she was the sultan’s treasure—she was the Jewel of Nineveh. Under protection ceaselessly, until she would come of age, be married to him, and join his harem as their new queen. The thief admired her sinuous curves and scratched his chin ruefully. That time was almost at hand now; the sultan must have extraordinary restraint. A grin grew and crawled its way across his face, cheeks creasing in roguish merriment. He had conquered many challenges in his quest for the Jewel, so have a prize he must.
Guiding the silks with one hand so they slipped without sound, he moved around the bed till he stood at its head, and then lowered his to hers. Eyes closed i
n mirror of the seductive slumberer. He breathed in her soft floral breath and then kissed her as gently as a lover.
Her scream was extraordinarily shrill and loud, and he leapt back protecting his ears. In a moment he heard the guards bang urgently on the door and inquire as to her fright, then the heavy grinding of the lock being worked. Under no misapprehensions that discretion was the better part of staying alive, the thief sprang for his dangling rope and hoisted himself through the ceiling and out of the harem room.
The girl’s wardens were clamouring and shouting in loud pandemonium beneath his feet. He vaulted off the roof and sprinted for the exit, wrenched the heavy door open, jumped over the tripwire and ran across the corridor. From behind he heard bells beginning to ring, the alarm had been raised. Seconds later the bells rang from in front as well; a well-rehearsed military drill. The thief lowered his head as he pushed himself to sprint faster.
Through the aviary, clouds of birds rose in noisy fright. Breathing hard and sweating, he ran headfirst into a soldier coming the other way. The two smashed hard to the ground in a jumble of limbs and hands grasping for weapons. The thief brought his knee up hard and the guard wheezed, his eyes watering. The moment was all the thief needed and his wrist knife punched with grim finality though the guard’s voice box and then ripped sideways. The thief rolled off the corpse and to his feet; a crimson arc spewing behind and staining the doves.
Quickly now, more will follow.
The thief was off again, sprinting hard. He burst through the last doorway, there were torches everywhere.
A trap.
He saw four more guards only a second before they saw him. He was already moving, arms and legs pumping and then rolling across the grass in a tight ball as a well-flung spear pierced his shadow. Up again, chest on fire.
Faster now!
He leapt for the guard-post at the wall catching the edge of the roof and vaulting bodily up. He twisted to the side, whipping out of the way at the last moment and landing in a half crouch as another spear flew perilously close. The guards were getting nearer. He grabbed his hidden bundle and gave the guards a grin and a flourish. Then he jumped from the wall, off the summit of God’s Finger and fell free.
The shocked guards clustered of the edge of the wall, staring after him, jaws slack in amazement. Unbelieving they pointed as the plummeting man tore open his package. Flapping cloth unfurled as sails and wires spread wide the wings of a giant kite. The canvas wings fluttered feebly then filled with air and snapped taut, jerking aloft the man who grasped the cross-spar. A moth sailing off into the night.
The Thief: A Craft of Shadows Tale Page 1
