When he reached the shape, it resolved into the prone figure of a man in travel-stained clothes. Gribly rolled the fallen traveler onto his back, and stared. It was a young man only a few years older than himself, his face caked with dried mud and his hair a wild tangle of walnut-brown. He looked stronger and harder than Gribly had thought a youth could look, but weak moaning came from inside him, and his eyes stayed shut. It was odd, but none of it surprised the would-be rescuer more than the short stabbing-sword belted at the young warrior’s waist.
It occurred to him briefly that he could take the weapon and any other valuable thing the traveler might have, then run. But he knew he could never leave the young fellow to die- why, he might be in the same position if he hadn’t been able to use his gift last night. What puzzled him was how in Vast the warrior-boy had gotten here in the first place…
With a sudden rush, his dream of the mountain and Traveller came back. This is the adventure, isn’t it? he realized. If I save this soldier, I’ll never be able to go back to normal life. For a second he was scared. Then…
Normal life? There’s no such thing anymore. There never was. Out loud, he said, “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but I’m going to save your life. Then maybe you can tell me why my life is falling apart, eh? You’d better be worth it.” He grunted, trying to lift the young man off the road. He was heavy, blasted heavy. There was a pack of some kind on his back, but there was nothing in it except a letter in a language Gribly couldn’t read.
“All right Sleepyhead,” the thief grumbled, “I’ll have to bring you into town the hard way.” Gripping the muscled young soldier by the wrists, he began to drag him down the road.
~
By the time he lugged the soldier’s dead weight all the way to the city gates, the sun had made its way across half the sky. It was hellishly hot, and only the grit of hardened desert living kept Gribly from collapsing on the way. He could only wonder how the mysterious warrior had made it so far from… wherever he’d come from. By the time he made it to the gates, they were wide open and guarded. A caravan was coming out at a snail’s crawl: a bulky train of carts pulled by Rhine Horses and weighed down with packaged wares and colorful tent-cloth.
Gribly waited until the guards were distracted, inspecting the cargo of one of the carts, before he dragged his burden past them and into the city. He had seen inside one of the canopied carts, and it had held strangely shaped metal machinery like the contraptions he had seen inside the tent the day before. The thief had no wish to be recognized, if any of the merchants or their servant caught a glimpse of him.
At the rate he was going, it would have taken too long to reach his burned-out shell of a home. So instead, Gribly pulled the unconscious soldier a short way into the slums, to the corner where he knew the old pickpocket who trained him lived.
He wasn’t exactly afraid of the slums, but the time he had spent there in his childhood soured his memory and made him nervous ever to return. That was why he had stayed with Murie so long, and taken what he could from the houses of the rich. The streets in the outer city were lined with low, poorly built homes and shops. Thieves, brigands, and robbers lounged side by side with the common folk who were too poor to live anywhere else.
Keenly aware of the spectacle he must be making, Gribly stayed out of sight as much as possible. In and out of the alleyways he pulled his burden, past alehouses and sooty, tumbledown inns; past the low, round buildings where the destitute gambled away what small earnings they had on cock fights and death matches; past the houses of ill repute. Finally he made it to the old thief’s corner: the edge of two streets that intersected, where a group of burglars held sway over a small, cheap wine-shop.
A pair of burly, hairy men stopped him at the entry arch.
“What’s your business here, whelp?” one of them growled.
Gribly let go of the soldier’s hands, letting the body slump as he leveled his gaze with the men and replied. “I’m looking for the Old Pickpocket,” he answered.
The men sneered. “Costs yuh two bronze t’ see him now,” one of them growled.
“The blaze it does!” shot the thief, determined not to show weakness. “I know the old ‘un better than any!”
“Don’t matter if yer his own long-lost son!” snapped the bouncer, his face reddening with anger.
“Come now, Crutus,” someone said disapprovingly, “yeh wouldn’t hurt my own son, would yeh?”
It was the old pickpocket, poling himself through the door to the wine-shop on his long wooden crutches. His twisted, useless legs hung beneath him as he used the crutches to walk. A wiry gray beard splayed out from his chin as he grinned mischievously. Gribly barely suppressed a sigh of relief at seeing him.
“He… why…” sputtered the angry man, but thought better of it and turned away, growling like a beast. His companion, smirking, followed him.
“Come inside,” the old pickpocket ordered Gribly. The boy grabbed the wrists of his burden again and obeyed, dragging the body as carefully as he could across the threshold and into the wine-house’s shadowy, chilled interior.
Chapter Eight: Lauro
The pickpocket led him past the small main room, threading through patrons and tables, behind the heavy clay counter, and finally into a small, deserted storeroom in the rear of the building.
“Throw the goods up on this,” instructed the old man. Gribly tediously lifted the body up onto the waist-high table indicated, spreading it out comfortably and checking for a pulse.
“Whoever this is,” he told the old one, “He’s tougher than the desert. He’s still alive after being dragged all this way.”
“Where in the blazes ‘ave you been, though?” drawled the pickpocket. He moved forward as if to embrace the lad, who stepped back with a raised eyebrow.
“You really think I’m so soft after all this time? I’m not about to let an old thief near me, not while I’ve got what I’ve got!”
“What ‘ave you got, then?” asked the pickpocket, backing off. “I can’t exactly ‘elp you without some sort o’ payment. After all this time away, yeh bring in some half-dead brawler from… wherever, an’ expect me to fix ‘im up? For free?”
Gribly snorted. “Of course not. I’m not such an urchin myself, you oldskin… Neither of us are simple thieves anymore.” The pickpocket furrowed his brow, skeptical. To belay his suspicions, the youth reached into his nearly-forgotten pouch and removed the rough crystal sphere he’d sacrificed so much for. “Do you know what this is?” he asked the sour old thief.
“Eh…” the pickpocket mumbled, reaching out for the balm. Gribly tentatively handed it over. Balancing the crutches in his armpits, the old one felt all around the sphere, inspecting it with experienced hands and failing eyes.
He looks like an ape, Gribly thought. He had seen a few of the fabled forest-dwellers in the animal cages at the Royal Market.
Gradually the old pickpocket’s eyes grew wide with wonder. “Where in blazes did yeh get this, Grib’? This’s worth more n’ a bag o’ gold!”
“Don’t try to fleece me,” cautioned the younger thief. “We both know it’s worth much more than that. I want this man here healed completely, and I want food and lodging here until he’s fixed. Even then you’ll be getting far more than you deserve. Don’t pretend.”
The old pickpocket searched the youngster’s expression for a while before replying. “Well, well… I guess I’ll ‘ave to take you up on that. ‘Course, it might be ‘ard ‘aving yeh here while haf’ the guards in Ym’r are out lookin’ fer the one who near killed Lord Ym’rio…”
“Keep the balm,” Gribly snarled, “And just do what I want.”
“Whate’r the little lord wants,” shrugged the aging thief. “An’ just t’show I feel no ill will t’ward yeh, I’ll start right now!”
Bending forward with practiced ease, the pickpocket uncorked the balm, swiped one wrinkled, dirty finger inside, and spread the creamy mixture on the unconscious traveler
’s face. It was only a little, but it did its job in seconds. Gribly had stolen well.
No sooner had the old pickpocket stuffed some of the balm in the fallen man’s nostrils, then the almost-dead came back to life, sneezing and coughing in his sleep. Next the old thief snatched up a jug of water nearby: cool, sweet, precious water… and dumped it in the poor soldier’s face.
Gasping and wheezing, the young man shot up straight, spitting and snorting, swinging his hands everywhere as if he fancied himself under attack. That was simple, Gribly thought. Both the thief and his old master jumped back, waiting for the stranger to wake up entirely.
“What in… where… who…?” choked the youth. Finally deciding he was not about to die, he regulated himself to wiping the wet slop off his face and clearing his eyes. When he was done, he slapped his palms down on the table and looked over to where Gribly and the old pickpocket stood.
“I…” he began, glaring at them. Then he tried again. “I suppose I owe you two my life. Well, thank you for it.” He lapsed into silence again, watching the two intently. When the pause became awkward, the older thief left the room, swinging his crutches resolutely forward, the healing balm safe in a pouch of his own. The resurrected stranger started at the sight of the pickpocket's injured legs, looking to Gribly for an explanation.
“He fixed you up,” the young thief said. “I brought you in from the desert where I found you. We’re going to try and help you if we can.”
“If you found me,” wondered the young man, “Then… I must have made it! Where are we?”
“This is the city of Ymeer,” Gribly stated. “The only civilized place in Blast… which isn’t saying much.” He decided to introduce himself. “That old man is the owner of this house. I don’t know his name- no one does- but my name is Gribly.”
He held out his hand as he had seen the noblemen do on his trips to the Inner Walls. The stranger hesitated, then completed the motion by grasping his wrist. They shook hands, then the soldier-youth kicked his legs out over the edge of the table so as to be sitting, facing Gribly.
“My name is Lauro. I live in Vastion, in the south, and I am a soldier in the King’s army. I am here on a mission of the utmost importance, and if you value your life or freedom… you will help me.”
~
The long and short of the young warrior’s message was easy to follow, but hard to believe. The soldier-messenger who called himself Lauro apparently did not understand how the world here worked.
“What do you mean, the Dunelord won’t see me? I’ve traveled uncountable leagues with a message from King Larion Vale himself! Lord Ymorio has to see me, if he’s got any sense or loyalty at all!”
“You can’t just walk up to the Dunelord and talk to him,” snorted Gribly. The young soldier was barely three hours back from the dead, and already he was putting on the airs of a nobleman from the southlands… or from the Inner City of Ymeer, for that matter. His cultivated accent wasn’t exactly what Gribly thought of as “soldierly,” either. He stood facing out the small window of the room the old pickpocket had rented to the pair, watching the blood-red sunset settle over Ymeer’s edge, with his hands clasped behind him. His hair was combed (but not washed- there wasn’t enough water), and he looked like a prince in exile.
“Why not?”
“Why not??? Because you’ll be torn apart, that’s why! His guards won’t let you into the noble sectors, much less the Dunelord’s own palace.” And besides, the thief added to himself, no one cares about the outside kingdoms anymore, not even big ole’ Vastion. He kept his mouth shut on the last comment, but Lauro forced the issue. He turned with a raised eyebrow as if he believed Gribly’s story less than the thief believed his.
“What?” he asked. “Have Ymeer and the rest of Blast forgotten their old masters?”
“Not forgotten,” Gribly frowned, straightening to look the messenger in the eye. “Ignored. The southlands don’t matter to us here… none of them.”
The change in Lauro’s face was remarkable. He turned scarlet and seethed silently for a full minute before he could respond, and when he did his cool composure and unreadable expression was stronger.
“The Dunelord will see me,” he persisted. “And you will help me.”
“Suit yourself,” Gribly snapped back, “But count me out.” He was about to continue when something- something disturbing- changed his mind. The resurrected soldier looked ready for a fight, and he was ready to comply. Then, over Lauro’s shoulder where he couldn’t see… something flickered.
The shape of a man in a gray cloak and faded blue cap.
“Traveller…” murmured Gribly.
“What?” snorted Lauro. Gribly ignored his puzzled look for the moment: the Aura had given him a message, and he was desperately wondering what it could mean. Finally he answered the soldier, his mood changed.
“Nothing,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is how I’m going to get you into Blast Palace to see the Dunelord.”
Relief registered on the soldier’s face. “You’ll help me then?”
“I will… for a price.”
“What price? You know I have no money, and I believe you would have already taken it from me if I did.”
“I resent that,” Gribly snapped, but his tone was half joking.
“Live with it,” Lauro shot back, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Unexpectedly, strangely, the two boys found that they were friends.
“All right. I’ll name my price before either of us hurts our pride anymore,” retorted Gribly, really grinning this time. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, and now that he had seen the Aura- or part of it- outside of his dreams, he was sure that it wanted to help him.
“Well, out with it,” urged the young soldier.
“I can get you close enough to the Dunelord to talk, if you’re sure he’ll listen to you. Getting around unnoticed is my specialty, so that’s not really the problem. What is the problem is that only yesterday I was chased around the palace grounds by some sort of sorcerer or demon… or something, and now every city guard is going to be on the lookout for me. They think I tried to kill the Dunelord.”
“You don’t exactly look like the trustworthy type. Did a demon really chase you? I’ve heard of Blast’s dust devils- everyone in the south has- but I’ve never seen one.”
“No… It wasn’t like that. It was a man, maybe even a boy. He didn’t look much older than you or I, and he called himself a Pit Climber… I think.”
“Pit Strider,” corrected Lauro. His face had turned slightly paler, and his lips were set in a thin line.
“Yeah… that. What- have you heard of him? I’d love to know where that scumface lives- he killed my… well, the old woman who took care of me before.”
Lauro frowned sadly, and put a hand on Gribly’s shoulder, startling him. “I am sorry for your loss, and yes, I have heard of the Pit Striders. They’re usually thought of as myths, but then again...” He frowned again, but thoughtfully this time. He suddenly took his hand off of the thief’s shoulder and reached back to rub his opposite shoulder blade, as if he had a wound there that pained him. When he noticed what he was doing, he stopped and spoke to Gribly again. “It sounds as if the old myths are becoming more real all the time, aye?”
“Aye.” Gribly nodded ruefully, thinking quietly of his dream of Traveller… and, strangely, his gift. Could the two be connected? They must be.
“So,” the soldier prodded, “What exactly do you need from me?”
“If you succeed in this wild quest of yours, the Dunelord’ll be ready to listen to anything you say. I want you to tell him I’m innocent, and I want you to convince him to pay my way out of this dung heap of a city.”
“Tall order,” remarked Lauro.
“Yes it is. Can you do it? Can a simple messenger like you really get the ear of Dunelord Ymorio? That’s the question now, isn’t it?” The young warrior seemed to perk up at that, smiling with a know
ing look.
“Oh, he’ll listen to me easily enough. It’ll be hard convincing him you’re not a demon bent on killing him, though… not once he sees your ugly mug.”
“You know,” said Gribly as he turned to leave the room and get some food for them both, “That was almost funny. Keep working at it, and you might sound like a normal person.”
He left without waiting to see the absurdly pleased smile on Lauro’s face. Soldier? The thief shook his head as he walked briskly down the hallway outside. Aristocrats are the same everywhere, even in the south. Blast me if this messenger isn’t a nobleman’s son, sent to the army to knock the attitude out of him. Rolling his eyes and chuckling to himself, he sneaked downstairs to demand food from the old pickpocket.
He had no idea how right he was.
Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One) Page 7
