Thieves' Honor Read online

  Tyrell glared at the young noble and tried to carefully word his response so that he wouldn’t have to admit his shame to the likes of this audience. I swear, he mused to himself for the dozenth time tonight, that meeting one of Alhambra’s demonic minions would be more pleasant than working as a nobleman’s pet wizard. At least the demon would have the courtesy to eventually rip him apart.

  “Frankly,” said the wizard, “I found adventuring to be a bit too dangerous for the money. Too much risk for too little reward. I was making only slightly more than when I was living on the streets, so I decided to turn my talents to something more profitable.”

  He whirled around suddenly to the man on his other side. He hoped to strike up a conversation before the little fop could continue his drunken tirade, but the other lord was so engrossed in his dinner that he was face down in his plate. An echoing snore bubbled its way through the congealed gravy on the serving dish.

  There was another tug on his sleeve. Tyrell whirled around, frustration and rage boiling beneath his glare. “What,” he snapped.

  “Yer too court-like to have lived in the streets.” The duke hiccupped and wobbled, but to Tyrell’s chagrin, he just wouldn’t pass out. If I were a real wizard, he thought, I’d turn this little toad into something nice and quiet, like a rock.

  “I grew up in the streets of Daltivar and learned sleight of hand tricks to keep myself fed. I was fortunate enough to have caught the attention of a wizard who was so impressed with my aptitude that he offered me an apprenticeship. I learned enough to start adventuring, but shortly left my company, and began to work for nobility. That’s my story, here I am, and if you’ll be so good as to excuse me, I think I see someone important that I want to talk to.” The wizard jumped from his seat and pushed his way through the assemblage towards the far end of the table. Tyrell swore a silent oath to Taradon, the patron deity of wizards. Even speaking to Lord Kandlemeer wasn’t as annoying as listening to that little twit. Hells, he thought. I could be gnawed upon by a toothless dragon, and wouldn’t feel so annoyed. Tyrell couldn’t help but smile in spite of himself.

  The wizard hoped to pass by the chair of his employer unnoticed, but fortune apparently still had some bone to pick with him this night. “Tyrell,” called the fat nobleman, “you should’ve just heard the tale told by this good, worthy gentleman.” Kandlemeer slapped his neighbor again on the shoulder, sloshing wine all over his immense tunic. The wizard sympathized with the gentleman beside his employer. From the expression of pain on his face, Tyrell assumed that Kandlemeer had given him so many good-natured slaps to the back that the man wouldn’t have the use of his arm for days.

  Tyrell bowed. “Lord Kandlemeer, you’ve given an . . . unforgettable party as always, but I believe that I shall now re-.” The mage was suddenly interrupted by a tugging at his sleeve. Please, gods, he begged, don’t let it be a drunken, petty noble who can barely hold on to his wine cup. He slowly turned around.

  It was a drunken, petty noble who promptly spilled the contents of his wine cup on Tyrell’s boots. “Show me a trick. I don’t think you can fool me,” said the swaying lordling. He pulled a ring bearing the crest of some noble house, presumably his own, from his belt pouch. “Make this disappear.”

  Kandlemeer roared with a belly shaking laugh, and slapped the table so hard that plates leaped into guests’ laps. “Yes, Tyrell, my friend, please amaze us with one last trick at Lord Tessarin’s request. One final stunt before ye leave us for the evening.” A crowd had begun to form around the wizard.

  Tyrell smiled weakly and bowed to his patron. He took the ring from Tessarin, studying it carefully. “I’d rather make you disappear, you little fiend,” he muttered.

  “Speak up so we can hear you, lad,” bellowed Kandlemeer.

  Tyrell cleared his throat. “I will now make this disappear, if you know what I mean,” he said. He elbowed the young duke in the ribs, making sure to add just a little extra force just for his own satisfaction. Tyrell smiled, and with a dramatic wave of his hands, he palmed the ring, tucking it into his sash, and out of the audience’s sight. It was a very simple trick, but Tyrell figured that this drunken crowd would be none the wiser.

  He nearly laughed out loud at the gasps of genuine amazement when he opened his empty hands. Tessarin’s jaw dropped to his chest as he looked back and forth for his missing ring. The crowd pressed close, jostling Tyrell roughly as they strained to see.

  “Bring it back now,” yelled Tessarin. “That’s my family’s signet ring.” The duke looked as though he were about to burst into tears. The crowd laughed at Tessarin’s outburst.

  “Of course, Lord Tessarin,” said Tyrell. He waved his hands again, reaching into his sash with a casual pass. This night couldn’t possibly get any worse, the mage thought.

  He was wrong.

  Tessarin’s ring was gone. Tyrell quickly patted his waist to see if the ring had shifted, and then searched on the floor in case it had fallen out, but he saw no trace of the missing bauble.

  “Is something wrong, Tyrell,” asked Kandlemeer in a low voice.

  “Of course not, my lord,” replied the wizard. He forced a smile. “I’m only building up dramatic suspense.” The crowd laughed again, but Tyrell was sweating now. Someone had to have stolen the ring from him when the crowd jostled him. These dinner parties were notorious gatherings for pickpockets. He studied the crowd quickly, but couldn’t begin to guess who the thief might have been. He had to do something.

  “Where’s my damn ring,” growled Tessarin, who was suddenly more sober than he had been all night long.

  “My lord,” said Tyrell slowly, “I beg your pardon, but your ring is no longer where I placed it. I don’t know if I dropped it, or if it was stolen from me, but I fear I no longer know its whereabouts.” Tyrell shrugged and looked to Kandlemeer for help.

  Before the wizard could say anything else, Tessarin punched Tyrell squarely in the face, knocking him into the waiting arms of one of Lord Kandlemeer’s house guards. Before the wizard could protest, the armored man clubbed him in the back of the head with a mailed fist, and Tyrell plunged into darkness.

  ***

  Coins clattered onto the table. “I’ll raise you forty royals,” said the red-bearded warrior, “and I suggest you get out while you can, friend. I may be from a barbarian tribe, but Nestor Canaith is civilized enough to know when he’s got someone beaten so badly that he offers them mercy.” Clad in rugged leather armor, and bulging with battle-hardened muscles, the hulking Nestor looked at the King’s Cycle he held in his hands, the second best outcome in the game of Tharot. The young gambler across from him had played a charmed game all evening, but Nestor couldn’t lose this. More importantly, the money he would win would more than pay his debt to the church of Kuriathor, the god of chance.

  Nestor’s hand touched the pouch of shattered crystal that hung from his waist. The god of fortune had certainly abandoned him after he had accepted the task of carrying a crystal sculpture from the dockyard to the church. It was bad enough that he had dropped the fragile treasure, but to have dropped it right at the feet of the church Patriarch was even worse. He still didn’t understand why he had to carry the pieces around with him until he could compensate the church though. ‘Luck will provide’ indeed. He sighed.

  The barbarian’s opponent studied his cards and then threw his money into the center of the table. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Nestor smiled as he laid out his hand. “Looks like this round is mine, Count Remen.” The barbarian started to rake the money to him when his opponent put down his cards.

  “I don’t think so, Redbeard.” Nestor’s smile melted when he saw the natural King’s Blade, the highest hand in the game. “Guess your luck just wasn’t here tonight, my friend.” The count laughed as he drew the money to him. The nobleman pulled out a leather pouch, shoveling his winnings into it.

  Nestor was in shock. What in Alhambra’s Hells was he supposed to do now? He winced in defeat as
Remen left the table with the jingling pouch full of coins in his hand. The warrior slammed back the rest of his drink, and let the liquor burn his throat as he pondered what to do next. Suddenly, his break came.

  A large, drunken patron rose from his chair just as Count Remen passed by, and knocked the nobleman to the ground. Remen’s money pouch landed a few feet from Nestor. Quickly, the barbarian scooped up the Count’s pouch, tucking it away while he replaced it with his own pouch of broken crystal. He approached Remen, who had been helped to his feet by the offending man.

  “You should be more careful about throwing your money around, my lord,” said Nestor. He gave the pouch an appreciative jingle. “Not all men are as fortunate as you are.” The count nodded his thanks and collected his hat as Nestor dashed out the door. He prayed that he would be long gone before his dupe was discovered. Fortune, however, hadn’t finished toying with the barbarian.

  Nestor was barely ten strides from the tavern door when the cries of “Stop, thief” came from within. Remen barreled out of the door, hurling the pouch of crystal at Nestor’s head. The warrior easily ducked the clumsy missile but was unable to dodge Remen’s blow to his stomach. Nestor staggered back, and the Count followed up with a solid punch to the side of the barbarian’s head. Nestor fell to the ground, but grabbed his attacker’s boot, and jerked Remen’s feet from under him. The nobleman crashed to the cobbles beside Nestor.

  Canaith sprang to his feet again. He tasted blood and dirt on his lips. Remen was up just as quickly and stared boldly at the bigger, stronger man. “Give me back my money, thief. I am not without mercy, and I will let pass this entire incident. Otherwise, you’ll hang for this.” As the Count shook his fist at the warrior, a card fell from the cuff of his sleeve. Remen stared in stunned silence as the card floated to the ground.

  “You cheated me,” growled Nestor. “The money is mine by right.”

  “I don’t see it that way. You should have found a way to out cheat me.” The Count threw a wide punch, which Nestor easily ducked. The warrior brought his knee into the nobleman’s stomach and then fired a crushing blow across the man’s jaw. Remen staggered, but when Nestor closed in for a follow-up attack, the aristocrat’s knee came up powerfully into the barbarian’s groin. “I don’t play fair in any sport, friend,” he purred into the crouching barbarian’s ear. Remen moved to the side of the road, tearing a loose rock from the cobblestone street. “You should learn to admit when you’ve lost.”

  “A lesson for us both,” snarled Nestor. A dagger flashed in the barbarian’s hand and whipped across the distance separating the men. The hilt blasted Remen’s nose into a bloody smear. Nestor charged forward, landing another powerful blow that sent the nobleman to the ground once again. The aristocrat’s head slammed against the cobbles, and he lay motionless. The barbarian quickly checked to see that the man was still breathing, retrieved his weapon, and turned to run. The last thing he needed now was for any spectators from the tavern to join in.

  Nestor spun around to leave the scene, only to find six city guards with swords drawn blocking his path at the end of the street. Fortune, it seemed, had yet to play its last card.

  “I don’t suppose you’d allow me a head start before you give chase,” the big man asked. Wordlessly, the soldiers surrounded the warrior and fastened shackles around the big man’s wrists. Knowing that resisting arrest would only get him in a worse predicament, Nestor accepted his capture stoically.

  Suddenly, a scream broke the relative silence of the night.

  The watch sergeant swore. “Take this one in quickly,” he said as he jerked his thumb at Nestor. “I’d hoped for a quiet evening, but looks like we’ve got another Dockside Slaying to deal with tonight.”

  ***

  The shadowy figure closed the windows with no more sound than he made when he stalked his prey. He smiled a thin smile and licked away the last drops of blood from his lips. All of his plans were proceeding flawlessly. Not that centuries of diligent planning could have any other result, he mused. He thought briefly of his victims from tonight’s revels. It was a pity that the last one had been so noisy. He had needed to rush the kill before people came to investigate.

  The shadow indifferently noticed that the girl’s corpse had been removed as he went into the dark corner near the fireplace, and opened a secret panel there. He descended the stairs that went deep into the bowels of the city, arriving at last to his daily resting place. With the strength of ten men, he moved aside the stone lid of the sarcophagus and crawled inside. Yes, he thought to himself, my plans are proceeding exactly as I had hoped. Soon this wretched city would kneel to him.

  “And the best part is just beginning.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tyrell awoke with his head resting against a slimy, stone wall. A tiny window in a stout door provided just enough light for him to see that he was in a cell. The close cubicle reeked of human waste, sweat, and blood. A painful rasp of breath from the far corner of the cell drew the wizard’s attention to the dim outline of a young man curled up on the filthy floor.

  “Where are we,” asked the mage. The man across the room slowly rolled his head around to face Tyrell but was wracked by agonized coughing. The wizard saw dried blood and fresh burns all over his newfound companion. The coughing fit finally passed, allowing the younger man to slowly draw in a breath.

  “We are currently enjoying the hospitality of the city dungeons,” he croaked. Tyrell crept closer to better see his cellmate. Sweat ran down the man’s face as he clenched his teeth in anguish. He held one hand to his ribs while a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Even in the low light of the cell, Tyrell could see it was the bright, pink blood of a punctured lung.

  “Did they torture you,” asked Tyrell. He tried to pull the young man’s hands away from his wounded side, but the mage’s cellmate jerked away from him. The pain of the sudden movement nearly caused him to pass out.

  “Got kicked in the ribs before I was brought here. The guards weren’t exactly gentle or attentive to my injuries on the way to this place. At least I stopped coughing up blood a little while ago, so there is that. Shame I probably won’t be around long enough to join you at the gallows though. Be sure to give my warmest regards to the hangman, and tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t attend.” He started to chuckle, but the laugh turned into a retching cough.

  “Let me see if I can ease your pain,” said the wizard. He pushed the younger man’s hands away from his side and saw the ugly purple bruise through the tear in his shirt. Tyrell closed his eyes, letting himself fall into the embrace of the magic around him. Carefully, he channeled the energy into the body of his cellmate. As he directed the healing of the shattered rib, the mage felt rather than heard his companion’s breathing ease. Tyrell released his hold on the realm of magic, feeling the familiar wave of exhaustion settle over him that came from pushing his skill to the limits of safety. He closed his eyes, stretching out along the cell floor.

  The other man rubbed his side, surprised to find that it hardly ached now. Even most of his burns had faded. “Thanks,” he said. “I guess now instead of dying in a pool of my own blood, I can have my neck stretched.”

  “No one ever said there was a good way to die,” said Tyrell. He opened his eyes and studied the other man’s face. “You seem rather young to be in here. What did you do to attract the hangman’s notice?”

  “Same thing you did.”

  A chill ran up Tyrell’s spine. “What do you mean?”

  “Stealing from an aristocrat is a capital offense. Don’t worry though. At least you’ll have some company at the gallows pole now.”

  “I don’t suppose anyone would believe me if I said I was innocent, would they?”

  “You don’t say? Well, there’s a twist. We should dash straight up to the Lord Magistrate’s office. I’m sure he’ll jump to correct this mistake.” The thief snorted. “Forget it, friend. This is a court of law we’re dealing with. Whatever made you think they wer
e interested in justice?” He sighed. “All they care about is giving an entertaining public execution from time to time.”

  “With us as the main attraction.”

  “Now featuring the notorious Galen Thale, and the ever amazing-” The thief paused, and looked at the mage with his eyebrows raised. He stretched his hand out in mock introduction.

  “Tyrell Amalcheal, wizard and soon to be corpse, apparently.” He grabbed Galen’s hand, shaking it firmly.

  “Oh, come on,” said Galen with a laugh. “Did you want to live forever?”

  “Well, I was somewhat taken with the idea.”

  “Not me. I think immortality would get boring after awhile. I mean, you can only steal so much treasure, and chase so many barmaids before it becomes a dull routine. Then it starts to seem too much like work.” Galen laughed again, and Tyrell found the thief’s mirth infectious. Two condemned men laughing in the jail cell must seem insane, the wizard thought, and he laughed harder.

  The door suddenly burst open, and soldiers threw a hulking, red-bearded barbarian into the cell. The door slammed shut with a loud bang. “Bastards,” roared the barbarian as he hammered his meaty fist against the door with enough force to rattle the planks. “Don’t think for a moment that this is finished!” Finally, the newcomer turned and glared at the other men.

  “What are you scum staring at?”

  “Fellow scum”, replied Galen.

  “I’m an innocent man, you gutter trash.”

  “Another one?” Galen grinned at Tyrell. “So, the criminals truly are running the courts. Never saw a jail so full of innocent men. What is this city coming to?”

  “Easy, friend.” said the wizard. He hoped that the burly warrior didn’t hear Galen’s comments. “We’re-”

  “Nestor Canaith is no friend to beggars and thieves.”

  “Beggars and thieves,” asked Galen incredulously. “We prefer to be known as the League for the Betterment of the Poverty Stricken. As you can see, when our membership is made public, we are treated rather rudely. Seems those with all the money are intent on keeping it for themselves.”