Proper Thieves

by Smith, Luke CJ

  Nalan winced as he climbed to his feet. The guards had been none-too-gentle with him on the way up. He glanced over at Phaedra. As a general rule, Nalan didn’t make much eye contact with anyone, but he desperately wanting to avoid looking Phaedra in the eyes. “Looks like you were right about her, Devan.”

  “Yes and no,” Devan replied, not taking his eyes off Phaedra’s for an instant.

  “Shut up,” the third-stripe mage hissed. One of the armored guards reached into the satchel Nalan had slung over his shoulder. From it, he produced the real bronze icons. As the third-stripe mage took them from the guard one at a time, her eyes flicked back and forth at the space between them, no doubt watching what Allister had described to Nalan as 'ripples of energy' that connected them.

  “Right about what?” Phaedra said, faking panicked confusion and faking it well. “About working for Mr. Faerathore? Of course I do. I'm his chef's assistant!”

  “Shut up,” the third-stripe mage snapped again. “All of you.” She tucked the icons into the pocket of her robe and turned to one of the guards. “I want you to take these three to Mr. Faerathore's personal holding chamber. I'm sure he'll have some...questions...for them.” Then she turned to Phaedra. “As for you, young lady. You work with the chef, you say?”

  “Yes, ma'am.” With tears running down her cheeks and hands folded at her waist, Phaedra looked the very picture of compliance and cooperation.

  “It would—” In a lull between cheers, the small crowd that had gathered in the gaming hall could hear a man's voice, groaning sharply, then trailing off. The third-stripe mage squinted up at the mezzanine, where the noise seemed to have come from, then continued, “It would seem The Palace owes you a great debt, miss...”

  “Phaedra, ma'am,” Phaedra said with her perfect little smile. “Thank you, ma'am.”

  Nalan looked over to Devan. Devan’s eyes were fixed on the floor. They weren’t darting back and forth as his mind raced to find a solution. They weren’t looking around trying to find an exit they could run for. They were still, empty, distant. When he noticed that Nalan was looking at him, Devan turned his face away. He looked ashamed.

  Devan was done. And that's when Nalan knew he was done too. He closed his eyes and tried not to cry.

  The mage swept an arm toward the same service stairwell where Devan and Allister had been trying to reach. But now, instead of going down to the airship bay, they would be going up, into the tower, to Faerathore’s quarters. “Take them...”

  She stopped talking, as if startled by the sudden volume of her voice. Nalan knew that feeling; when all the other conversations in a room come to a lull at the same time, Nalan was usually the one still talking, and in that moment of sudden quiet, his voice always felt deafening.

  The Palace was experiencing a moment of sudden quiet. From the Grand Archway, not a sound could be heard. The arena, and its capacity crowd, was utterly, terrifyingly still.

  The mage craned her neck to try to see out into the arena from where she stood. One by one, each of the guards, each of the mages, Allister, Nalan, Phaedra, and Devan all turned and looked too.

  Breigh

  (Moments Earlier)

  Arachnus' boot found Breigh’s fractured rib once again, and she rolled, landing on her back, choking on the thick dust that swirled around her broken body. Over the cheers and chanting, Breigh heard a man's voice, groaning sharply, then trailing off. But it wasn’t Arachnus’ voice, so she paid it little mind.

  Her hand rubbed the wound on her thigh, trying in vain to milk the toxin out of her system. But it was too strong and too far into her blood now. Her vision was a pinwheel of colors, punctuated by periods of darkness. She couldn't stand. Whether she was dizzy from poison or blood loss, she could not say.

  It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing but getting up. She balled her fists again and began to push herself up on one elbow, only to get pushed down again. Arachnus's boot was in the middle of her chest, holding her down. She couldn't see it. But she could surely feel it.

  The boot raised up and she tensed for another stomping, but instead the pressure came down on her shoulder. Then another pressure, this time on her other shoulder. His knees. He had mounted her, pinning her to the ground with his knees.

  The crowd roared as she lay there, trapped, helpless, while the one-armed beast brandished her mace. He struck the ground with it, inches from her head. Again. Again. The crowd began to clap along.

  Some part of Breigh wanted to close her eyes and just let it happen. But the voices of a dozen trainers, a dozen teachers, echoed in her head. “You die tonight,” they had all said. But it was just something they said. It didn't mean anything until just this moment. Maybe that was the point.

  Breigh of the Fold and Fael kept her blind eyes open. “A demon comes,” she choked out through a mouthful of blood.

  No sooner had the words left her mouth than the world became clear. She could see. But she wasn't seeing through her own eyes. She could see herself. Arachnus. The pit. The audience. She could see them all. From above.

  For a moment, she entertained the notion that she was dead. But then she saw a hand waving in front of her face that wasn't her own.

  Zella.

  Breigh could see one more thing. She could see Bloodfeast, lying in the dust, its handle between her feet.

  Ballstomp pounded the earth.

  Breigh's legs swept the dust, feeling for the hilt, the blade, anything.

  Ballstomp shattered a stone, spraying her blood-spattered face with debris.

  Her feet made contact with the handle. She pressed them together hard, gripping at the stock as best she could with the sides of her boots.

  Arachnus snarled. He took Breigh's mace in his remaining hand.

  He drew back.

  And Bloodfeast embedded herself in the back of Arachnus’ skull.

  The clapping stopped. A complete and total silence blanketed the entire arena. Breigh's feet released their grip on the hatchet, which hung there, a torrent of crimson gushing free all around it. In the stands, ten thousand witnesses sat in mute amazement.

  And then they lost their minds.

  Devan

  From the Grand Archway, a legion of crazed gamblers came stampeding into the gaming hall, pushing and shoving, knocking each other over and stomping on the fallen. “Sixteen to one!” someone was heard to yell. “Sixteen to one!”

  Along the back wall of the gaming hall, the gold-blonde cashiers at their betting counters scrambled to prepare for the coming horde. They had the luxury of being behind brass bars. The third-stripe mage, who was swept aside by a large, unpleasant man in a stained jerkin, was not so fortunate.

  “Go!” Devan barked above the sudden clamor of the crowd. “Go!” He dove between a pair of red-suited Hinterlanders and landed on the third-stripe mage before she hit the floor. His quick hands snagged the icons out of her pocket despite her furious slapping. She had spells that could reduce him to a puff of ash if she was given a moment to think. He didn’t give her that moment; he was already gone, limping furiously into the crowd.

  Ahead of him, he could see Allister and Nalan pushing their way through the throng, fighting the crowd like they were walking upstream through white water. Allister jumped every third step to keep his head above the tumult so he could keep his eye on the stairwell door. Nalan merely shoved; his steel gauntlets made an effective plow.

  But Devan couldn’t keep up. He’d lost his cane when he dove onto the mage, and his leg was still in agony from pushing the cart down the hall. He pulled himself forward on the shoulders of the gold-crazed gamblers flooding into the room, one leg dragging feebly behind. The world around him was a mass of tangled bodies, all jockeying to occupy the same space, and Devan had no leverage. He stalled. He stopped. He started again as he tried to mash his body through any opening he could find.

  He tried to focus on making his way through. Even though he could feel those two armored guards and those four mages looming over hi
m, their hands about to seize him and drag him back, he tried to will himself not to look back. He tried, failed, and over his shoulder, he found a worst case scenario: the two armored guards, uncomfortably close and bearing down upon him.

  Devan felt a hand on his bum leg and he bolted—twisting, writhing, pushing, and finally tossing himself up and over a pair of Azjeeri merchants in front of him. His momentum and their weight plowed over a third man and knocked down four or five more fightgoers as everyone toppled to the rug.

  From the top of the pile, Devan looked up, and his heart stopped. Above him, the two guards in their midnight black armor looked down. They both reached for him…

  ...and one of them burst into flames.

  Shocked, the other jumped back, forgetting where he was, and he was instantly bowled over by the stampede of gamblers. The area cleared, as the threat of fire trumped the promise of gold, and as the guardsman screamed in his red hot shell, Devan could feel an arm wrap around his torso and haul him to his feet. The arm was cast in iron.

  “No!” Devan shrieked, twisting and pulling. “No, you bastards! I won’t—”

  “Devan!” Nalan yelled into his ear. “It’s me! Come on!”

  Devan threw an arm over Nalan’s shoulder and the two ran for the door. In their haste, they almost pushed past Allister, who was still standing with one hand stretched out toward the burning guardsman. He seemed rooted to the spot, too shocked at what he’d done to even move.

  “Move, damn it!” Nalan barked, pulling Allister by the collar. Nalan kicked open the door to the service stairway, pulled his two friends through, and slammed it again.

  Allister grabbed the knob with both hands, and mouthed a silent incantation. “Locked,” he said. He looked like he was in shock.

  “Come on!” Devan shouted, shaking his friend out of his reverie. Devan threw an arm over Nalan’s shoulders and the three of them raced downward, taking the steps three at a time.

  Breigh

  Impossibly, Arachnus clamored to his feet, his eyes bulging from his skull. A thin trickle of blood dribbled from his mouth and down his chest. He reached back, trying to pull the hatchet free, but his own bulbous musculature prevented it.

  He dropped Ballstomp. Breigh picked it up.

  Arachnus sank to his knees. Breigh circled around behind him.

  She watched herself from above as she drew back her mace, took aim at the flat back side of her hatchet's head, and swung.

  In a blast of rubies, Bloodfeast was suddenly free. It hurtled end over end, cutting the air as it spun, before embedding itself blade-first in the dusty floor of the pit.

  Breigh staggered, but she stayed on her feet. She stayed on her feet and she raised her mace toward the gods.

  A ball of red fire crossed the sky above the arena, painting the world in triumphant crimson. And what remained of the crowd screamed her name.

  Utterly spent, Breigh let her arm fall limp to her side, and as she did, her vision became her own again—a clouded smear of hazy colors and forms. She staggered left and right. She couldn’t see to make her way back to the pens. The crowd was chanting her name. Her breath gurgled wetly in her chest.

  She began to turn around. And around. Her mind searched feebly for something to latch on to—an action to take, a direction to walk—but her mind felt like it was wrapped in cotton. Slowly, as she spun, she noticed one gray blob growing larger and more distinct; someone was approaching—running—across the battlefield. Breigh staggered as she turned to face the interloper. She brought Ballstomp to the ready.

  “Oh. Good.” Her voice was slurred. He body stumbled into first position. “Who’s next?”

  “Breigh!” came Zella's voice. “It’s me!” As she approached, the blob slowly turned into her friend, dressed in a drab gray suit.

  “Zella?” Breigh asked thickly, her words lisping around a broken tooth. She looked her up and down. “What are you wearing?”

  And with that, she pitched forward, nearly crushing Zella as she fell.

  Allister

  Devan ripped his shirt off, sending a hail of buttons flying across the interior of the airship. He tore the white linen into strips and handed some to Nalan. Nalan tied one of the icons to a post that helped hold the craft's ceiling up.

  “This thing is super sexy.” Allister whistled, leaping into the pilot's seat. “It’s, like, throbbing with power. This is going to be like driving a horse erection.”

  What? asked the voice in his head incredulously.

  “That's really great, Alli,” Devan said, strapping a second icon into position. “Now can you point this thing toward the big fucking gate and get us out of here maybe?”

  “With pleasure,” Allister said, holding his hands out, palms down. The ship began to rise awkwardly toward the ceiling, tilting one way then the other, causing Nalan and Devan to grab hold of the poles they were working on to keep from colliding with a wall. Of course, it didn't matter, because when the ship actually hit the ceiling, they were both knocked off their feet anyway.

  “So,” Allister said quietly. “That does that.”

  How are you joking right now? the voice asked. You just burned a man to death. You and your friends are about to get…

  Allister just chuckled nervously to himself and pretended not to hear. He was absolutely bathed in sweat.

  “Yeah, don't let that do that again,” Devan shouted to the front of the car and climbed back to his feet. Nalan was already back up, securing the third icon.

  Shut up, Devan, Allister heard himself thinking through the haze of hysteria. Distantly, he realized that, when he’d heard himself think that, it sounded like his own voice. When the voice in his head said things, it didn’t.

  Below them, the door from the stairwell burst open and a small army of guards began filling the bay. “Close the gate!” someone barked. “You down there! Close the gate!”

  At the far end of the room, the guards stopped taking bets on the fireball colors and scrambled to grab hold of the gate’s huge doors.

  “Go forward,” Nalan commanded in a very un-Nalan-like tone. “Now.”

  “What a good idea!” Allister shot back at both of them. “Do you have any further counsel? Like, maybe how to manipulate the etheric plane in such a way as to...”

  Nalan reached over Allister's seat and pushed the fronts of his hands downward. With a violent jerk, the ship leapt forward.

  “Shit!” Allister yelled. Nalan held onto Allister's hands, keeping them in position. Below them, the floor rocketed past.

  “Nalan!” Devan clung to the seat back next to Nalan. “How are you doing this?”

  “I read,” he said, concentrating.

  Allister looked back at him. “You read my books? I read my books. How do you know how to do this and I don't?”

  “I understood them,” Nalan said.

  Allister's eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

  The voice in Allister’s head couldn’t stop laughing.

  The airship was absolutely devouring the distance to the gate. The closing doors drew closer and closer. So too, Devan noticed, did the floor.

  “Go up!” He yelled, too late. The ship bounced, skipping like a stone across a lake, and rising again. Rising too fast, it turned out. Another collision, and the ship bounced off the ceiling again.

  “Keep it steady,” Nalan ordered.

  “You're the one driving!” Allister turned to shout in his ear.

  “The doors!” Devan pointed out the front window. The heavy oak gate doors were nearly shut now. In front of the narrowing gap, four of the guards had positioned themselves, lances extended, pointing toward them.

  “We can go over them,” Allister breathed.

  “No,” Nalan said.

  “No?” Allister shrieked.

  “They could puncture the floor. We could lose the gold.”

  “Then we go through them,” Devan said, bracing himself. “You sure about this, Nalan?”

  Nalan pressed down hard on Al
lister's hands. “No.”

  Zella

  Zella did her best to brace Breigh upright. But Breigh was huge.

  “Come on,” she whispered, trying to push the gargantuan warrior woman toward the curtain to the pens. “Come on, honey. They're coming for us.”

  “Finally!” Breigh laughed. “I was getting bored!” Leaning on Zella as she loped along, Breigh gave her mace a lazy swing, and it slipped from her grasp. “Where's my mace?” She asked casually, as if merely curious.

  Zella reopened the link, inviting Breigh to see through her eyes again. It seemed to help Breigh's coordination. They were closing the distance; the door to the pens was only a handful of meters away...until the pair of them collided headlong into an invisible wall.

  Zella looked back over her shoulder. She saw the angry group of Kaulethi fishing magnates she had pushed through on her way to the edge of the pit. Behind them, she saw the obese couple she had landed on when she'd leapt from the mezzanine. Above them, she saw a mage, four stripes adorning his hooded blue robes, conjuring the force wall before them with one outstretched hand. And behind him, she saw Thomme Faerathore. The Palace's draconian lieutenant, scourge of thieves, cheats, and liars across the six worlds.

  He was clutching his aching testicles.

  “You kicked Faerathore in the sac?” Breigh laughed, sharing Zella's view.

  “I needed to make an intense, interpersonal connection with him.”

  “That's what I'd call it.” Breigh cackled wetly. “Did it work?”

  Guards began to file into the arena, clanking and clattering their way across the blood-streaked sand.

  Zella bit her lip. “Does it matter?”

  Breigh pushed away from Zella and stood on her own. She balled her fists. “Come on, then,” she said quietly. Zella's stomach tightened. Breigh never said anything quietly.