by Joseph Lallo
If he wanted to free them, to truly free them, he would have to find another way.
He'd also learned that a man would rather deny his own eyes than admit that he might have been beaten—or, worse, he might have been shown mercy by a malthrope. It was a valuable lesson, but it couldn't take the sting from the other things he'd learned.
When he was certain there was no one to see, he leapt down from the roof and made his way into the moonlit dunes to find a meal and collect his thoughts.
#
Weeks more passed, and he traced a crooked path along the roads and fields of Tressor. If his mind had not been turned so dutifully to his task, he might have marveled at the sheer variety of the human race. They had found a way to live in any setting. Deep in the desert there were tribes of nomads, their homes little more than coarse cloth lashed to light wooden poles. There were homes of clay, of stone, of wood—anything that could be found and coaxed into the right shape. Where there was good soil, there were farmers. Where there was precious stone or ore, there were mines.
Eventually, he found his way to the west coast, where he stared toward the sunset across the waves of a sea that seemed to have no end and watched fishing boats harvest the waters. It was almost difficult to believe that so many different paths could be taken by the same race of creatures. Dark-skinned, light-skinned, every shape, every size. And among them mixed the other races, the races most like them. Malthropes with their beastly features were shunned, but for those creatures who were merely taller or shorter, with pointed ears or scraggly beards, a place was made for them.
He breathed in a whiff of the salty air, smelling the hundreds of humans, elves and . . . dwarves. He sniffed again, now certain. There was a familiar scent, one he'd known all of his life. For once, curiosity got the better of him and he set off in the direction the scent led him.
The port town was different than most that he'd encountered in his travels. Most Tresson villages were small, or else they began and ended slowly with houses spreading thinner and thinner as one moved away from their centers. This was a sprawling, bustling place. The streets were paved with cut stone and the houses were pressed close to one another. Though he could not read the sign he passed upon entering, the people seemed to call it Sarrin. It was a crowded, active place even late into the night, and some of the buildings were three or four stories tall, making traveling by roof both a trickier and less reliable proposition. Still, he did his best, slipping into alleys and over fences when he had to, and across roofs when he could, always moving closer to the source of the familiar scent.
Eventually, the trail led him to the shore. Stretching far into the water was a narrow pier, and sitting at the very end of it was a single-room shack.
Teyn scanned his surroundings from the shadowy mouth of the last alley before the shore. A handful of people were still lingering on the docks. There were not many, but more than enough to spot him if he made a wrong move. The pier was wide enough for perhaps two people to walk side by side, and years of sea air had warped and curled the planks. Any one of them would likely sing like a nightingale if he stepped on it. Even if he managed to move silently, he would still be a lone form, obvious and clear. It was the only way to the shack, though, and he refused to come so close without finding out if what he smelled was real. His mind offered up only one possibility, and he reluctantly prepared to put it into action. He tied his hide cloak tight around his neck, pulling the hood as far forward as he could manage. Hunching down, he shouldered his pack and lowered his head. All that remained was to wait. When the moon was hidden behind a cloud, he knew it was time. He took a deep breath and walked out from the alley.
Instantly, he felt the burning sensation of discovery and exposure, as though a thousand eyes were turned to him. The night was dark, but not so dark that a keen eye wouldn't pick out the end of a foxy snout peeking out from the hood. He had to stride steadily and confidently, as though he belonged on that pier, and pray that those who noticed him wouldn't give a second look. The dozen or so paces across the road that ran along the shore were the longest he'd taken in his life. He'd done his best to pick his moment—but, as luck would have it, a tipsy couple had chosen the same moment to stumble out of pub a short distance away. He turned his head away from them, keeping his pace steady and doing his best to appear as though he had someplace very important to be.
“Ho there!” came the slurred call of the man, his woman giggling and hanging from his neck as though she would fall if she let go.
Teyn froze, fear cutting through him. There was no doubt that the words were directed at him. Swallowing hard, he grunted a vague response without looking.
“My darling Greta has a taste for something sweet. You wouldn't know a place with something that would suit her craving at this late hour, would you?” he asked, amid more giggles.
The malthrope sampled the air again. Amid the potent mix of seaside aromas was the scent of burnt sugar, the sort of smell that he would catch drifting from the windows of Jarrad's house on the evenings of holidays and feasts. A glance aside revealed the lantern-lit doorway of a tavern a short distance away. Still without turning, he raised his hand and pointed, silently thanking his foresight in acquiring gloves.
“There.”
“Ah! Many thanks to you, good sir, and good night on this . . . good . . . night,” came the reply in the best imitation of gentlemanly eloquence the inebriated young man could manage.
The pair wavered away. Teyn breathed a sigh of relief and stepped out onto the pier. Sure enough, it was as shaky as he'd feared, swaying slightly with the motion of the water. Each step had to be taken with care to avoid a chirping squeak that would draw the attention of anyone near. After too long, his laborious and meticulous journey reached the door of the shack. The scent was strong and clear, and a dim light was flickering through the cracks of the weathered and rotten shack. Teyn stood at the door, not certain what he'd hoped to accomplish by coming this far. There had only been two people he'd ever known who would have welcomed him. One was dead, and the other had left him. This could only end poorly . . . but it had to be done.
He rapped on the door. From inside, there was a stirring. Thumps and rattles rang out for a few moments, and finally the door opened. Before him stood the dwarf named Gurruk. One of the stout fellow's hands held the door's handle, more to steady the dwarf than to steady the door. The other hand was wrapped around a clay jug, a match for three more that lay discarded on the floor of the shack. He gazed up, red-rimmed eyes measuring up the figure before him and lingering for a moment on the fox face that stared uncertainly down at him. The expression on his face, one of weary irritation, didn't so much as flicker. Finally, he took a long, sloppy swig from his bottle, wiped his mouth, and spoke.
“Well, come in then,” he stated, as though the visit was an unwanted but not unexpected inconvenience.
Teyn quietly stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The shack was almost bare and horribly cramped. There was scarcely room for the two of them to stand, and the only furniture was a net hammock strung from two of the walls and a plank shelf nailed beside one end of it. The floor had a few meals' worth of bones and what for another person might have been several weeks' worth of liquor bottles. For Gurruk, it was probably just a few days. The dwarf heaved himself up onto the hammock, using the sling as a seat.
“Gurruk,” Teyn said.
“Mally,” he replied. He took another swig. “I suppose you're here to kill me then.”
“No . . . no, of course not.”
He shrugged. “You killed everybody else. Never did know if it was out of mercy or carelessness that you spared the slaves. Should have known it wasn't carelessness. You always struck me as the thorough type. Why are you here, then?”
“I found this town and I picked up your scent. I needed to see if you were really here.”
“Why?”
“Because I had heard that the other slaves had all been caught.”
He nodded
again. “Most were. Goldie and I stuck together. Menri, too, for a while.”
“Are you on the run? A fugitive?”
“No, I'm a dock worker. I'm not much of a runner if I can avoid it.”
“But how? How have you managed to avoid getting caught? Surely one look at the brand on your arm . . .”
“What brand is that?” he said, pulling up the ratty sleeve of his shirt to show the slightest of scars where once had been the brands of value and ownership.
“But how?” Teyn asked.
“A decent healer can get rid of a few scars. It isn't legal to take off a slave's brand, but it isn't hard to convince a reasonable businessman to forget that.”
“How did you do that?”
“Same way I got the bounty hunters to look the other way. Gold. It greases the wheels, greases the palms, and makes the sun rise and set. Why do you think my brethren spend so much time in the cold, dark ground looking for it?”
Teyn's eyes opened wide. Of course. It was so simple. Gold. It was the one thing that every gathering of humans seemed to share. Whether they were fishing, cutting down trees, hunting, farming, mining, or anything else, gold was always part of it. It was the way slaves changed hands. If a slave could be bought to work, then surely the same price could buy his freedom.
“How did you get your gold?”
“I didn't. Goldie did. Turns out the skinny devil wasn't a complete liar when he said he was from an important family. I wouldn't call him a favored son, and I wouldn't say they were exactly noble, but when he needed money, he got it. He spends his days on the east coast now, running ships between Delti and . . . that town on South Crescent . . . Qualia. Smuggles people and goods. Like I said, not a noble family. Menri's further north. Heh. I heard he got himself started with a farm of his own near Bellarah.”
Teyn considered the words for a time while Gurruk drained the bottle. When he was convinced he'd gotten the last drop from it, he dropped it to the ground with the rest, causing a clink and rattle that jangled the nerves of the malthrope. He'd been taking care to be silent for so long, the thought that someone could be so careless and not worry about it was jarring.
“It is lucky you chose tonight to pay a visit. You might not believe it, but I don't do a lot of drinking these days. Spend a lot of time on the ships. Fell in the water a few times. Strong drink doesn't do much for the sea legs. Today's the day I get paid and get my days off, so today's the day I do my drinking. If I wasn't in such high spirits, you probably wouldn't have got past the door. I can't say I was keen to see your face again. I'd rather not see anybody's face from those days, but yours least of all. I see it enough in my nightmares.” He shuddered and fished around to see if any of the discarded bottles had anything left in them. “The things you did . . .”
“I know.”
“But still . . . the things they did. When Goldie and me got out, when we were hiding and waiting for the money so we could clean ourselves up . . . we talked about it. All of it. And for maybe the first time, we agreed about something. He said he saw it start. He saw them kill the old blind man and set you off. And he said that if those boys had their way, if they'd been given the chance, they'd have done as much to all of us. It wasn't like under Jarrad. Bartner—he'd have killed us and he'd have smiled doing it. You saved our lives that day. Even the ones who got caught again. There isn't a farm or mine or quarry in all of Tressor that wouldn't be an improvement over that place. Even the war with the Nameless Empire would be better. At least on the front, death's coming from a man who believes he's killing for a good reason.
“You did a dark thing, Mally, but you did a dark thing that needed doing. And I owe you a debt for that. I know Goldie would say the same. Menri, too.” He wavered slightly and emitted a worrying sound from deep in his gut. “But I'm in no condition to pay any debts tonight. And I won't be tomorrow either. You get what you came for?”
Teyn nodded slowly.
“Good. I see you once more, you ask for something, you get it. After that?” He paused, as if in thought. “Just don't let me see you after that, understand?”
Again the malthrope nodded.
“Good. I'm done for the night. Close the door behind you.”
With that, the scraggly little fellow more or less collapsed back into the hammock. Before Teyn had made it out the door, a snore loud enough to rattle the planks of the pier was rumbling out.
#
Knowing how he could achieve his goal did little to bring it any closer to completion. Teyn had never in his life had the need or desire for gold or silver. He had no idea how to gather it, and likewise hadn't a clue how much he would need. Worse, as Sorrel had so frequently observed, there was no legitimate way for him to earn a living in human society, and despite his recent travels he had yet to find any settlements of his own kind. Knowing how to craft the odd bit of clothing or perform simple repairs may have been more than enough for a human to earn a living, but no customer would buy from a monster, and no employer would hire one.
If he could not earn money the proper way, then his only recourse seemed to be to employ Sorrel's method. Alas, while he was quite adept at getting from here to there without being seen, locked doors were another matter. Worse, he simply didn't have her knack for finding valuables. Food was easy—he could just use his nose—but jewelry and coins could be hidden anywhere.
A few nights of observation taught him where the townsfolk tended to stow the things they didn't want stolen, but a week of attempting to pluck them from the pockets of passersby or pry open strongboxes led to near-discovery twice a night, at least once resulting in a long chase by an angry merchant with a very fast horse. In the end, the fruits of his labors were a copper necklace he wouldn't be able to sell and a handful of coins. In time he might develop some sort of aptitude for thievery, but without a mentor, he was left at the whims of trial and error, and the mistakes were costly. Until he could find a better way, all he could do was keep at it and hope that he learned quickly.
It didn't take long for him to learn that larger cities were better targets than smaller ones—but, just as in the forest, more prey meant more predators. He was hardly the only would-be thief prowling the dark corners, and most of the others were far more skilled. That was fine. If he needed to learn, let him learn from them. His ears were sharp, his eyes were keen, and he was patient. The rest would come in time.
Some lessons were of no use to him. Many hours were spent crouched on a roof, listening to sly men and women approach strangers and lull them into a state of trust or pity. Sometimes they would be friendly, helpful to those visiting from other towns. Other times they would be pathetic, fallen upon hard times. When two or more worked together, complex vignettes unfolded. Perhaps one thief would play the role of a fellow out-of-towner, behaving in a way the scoundrels hoped the victim would imitate. Other times, one thief would make a blatant and intimidating attempt to rob someone, allowing his partner to come to the rescue. Vast, well-orchestrated schemes played out, always to gain the trust or earn the gratitude of their chosen prey, only to abuse it and disappear into the night. These games were stunningly effective, and genuinely fascinating. Seeing how quickly the thieves determined just the sort of person that their target would trust, and just how simple it was to prey upon that trust, was humbling. He even began to understand the signs and habits that the thieves watched for, and how to identify them himself. Without a face someone could trust though, none of those tactics would do him any good.
More useful were the little tricks and skills employed by the criminals who worked alone. By watching them, he learned how they spotted a likely target. He observed clever acts of misdirection: a tossed pebble drawing the attention of a target to open them for a grab, or choosing a less-likely hiding spot to strike when the target investigated the more likely one. When the target was a house or shop, he saw robbers slip hooks and string over the top of a window or door to snag and lift a brace. He saw locked gates lifted from hinges, loose bars twi
sted free of their mountings, and unguarded upper windows used to bypass well-blocked lower ones.
After a bit of observation in any given town, he knew who the thieves were, where they hid, and how they worked. Still, he couldn't seem to master their own methods for himself. Here and there, he had successes, but too many failures and it was no longer safe for him to stay in the town, forcing the process to begin anew elsewhere. Lingering in the back of his mind was the concern of just how he would put the money to use when he'd earned it, but he knew if he didn't focus on the first step, he would never reach the next. So he soldiered on.
Finally, he struck upon a solution. He could only do half of what the other thieves did, and he could only do it half as well as they, but he could shadow them flawlessly. Inevitably, they would make their way to an out-of-the-way den or wilderness cubbyhole to stow their earnings. Most of them were painstakingly hidden, but almost without fail they were a target far enough from prying eyes for Teyn to attempt to pilfer them. There was something about stealing from thieves that was soothing to his battered conscience, and thus it quickly became his favored method.
Chapter 18
One particularly chilly night, Teyn was perched in the trees a night's journey away from a rather notable town. He'd never bothered to learn the name of the place because it was far too grand and too crowded for him to consider remaining there, but the sheer spectacle was impressive, even to his untrained eye. It was sprawling, every bit as densely built as the coastal city of Sarrin, but far from the coast and much larger. The bulk of the city was hidden behind a wall. It was not the meager wooden fence that might surround a farm, or the rough stone wall that might surround a wealthy lord's land. This wall was a work of art, many stories tall, its surface smoothed with some sort of tan plaster or mortar such that it appeared to be carved from one massive stone. There was even the faded blue evidence of fine patterns painted along its top edge, where curved and sculpted battlements now and again revealed archers patrolling its catwalk.
