The Thief and the Wizard
He moved through the shadows of the city, watching the beaten trod the streets, his form hidden, hooded, obscured. Crows perched on the crumbling stone of ancient walls reduced to knee-high rubble; he traced his hands along the pathways, fingers following the prints of time. Birds squawked and fluttered but did not leave, for they knew him well as he passed, a nondescript shape, a cloak stepping out of the alcoves and into the crowd. Such sprawl, such cramped confines—he witnessed lives being lived, suppers being cooked, blows exchanged, kisses and caresses and knives and the whole bloody mess—but he was just a silhouette, a breeze, the faintest rustle of fabric on the move. Over the stacked slums and tenement houses rose the smoke of the temple pyramid, nestled in Capanne Mons above the palace, where the Duke and his priests resided along with the noble families, their servants, and their guardsmen. Built into a mountain side, the palace towered over the people in their squalor. He leaned against a lamp post and let an oxen-pulled cart pass, admiring the great beasts with spiraling horns. A pickpocket tried to get close to him, but he glided again into the shadows, letting the evening blanket his passage, his destination ahead, the ruined tower of a ruined wizard. In the street before him three boys beat a small dog with sticks, joyful curses flying from their lips as the pup cowered and whimpered under the blows. It was no special occurrence—the boys were likely beaten often themselves and so looked for something weaker to abuse—yet he couldn't pass, not this time. He cuffed the largest boy, sending him to his knees, coming out of the darkness tall and heavy, a looming creature spreading wings of doom. The boys saw the scars, the brand on his hand, and knew him to be the Thief. Terror manifested on their dirty moonfaces; eyes widened, shouts were born and then died suddenly in their throats. He pointed a finger at an alleyway, and they dropped their sticks and scattered, vagabonds, orphans, cowards. They were children of Capetia, motherless urchins, destined to grow into feeble men who raped and plundered each other, blind to their cannibal madness, lashing out at their own progeny, who would in turn repeat the curse. The pup lay bruised and battered at his feet. He took it by its nape and went to see the wizard.
The tower was all that was left of an old castle belonging to the Pallas Emperor, the mighty conqueror who came from the sea four-hundred years ago and bequeathed the Dukedom of Massalia to the remnants of the Pharaoh’s dynasty. There was once a great house built around the tower, but it burned down in a conflagration, leaving only solitary stone. The Thief did not know how the wizard had come to own it; he didn't care, being uninterested in much besides his art, women, and vintage wine. It was a crooked structure, leaning to the west, its thatched roof built hastily to replace a rampart that had been destroyed in an ancient war. He stepped up to the thick wooden door and beat the twisted iron knocker four times, then let himself in. The stairs wound upward, hugging the walls, and he began a long climb, stepping carefully, hands once again tracing worn stone. It was impossible to know how many feet had climbed these steps; they were edgeless, slippery, dangerous. How the wizard managed them he couldn't understand, but that was the way of wizards, Dazbog being no exception. Eventually he reached the top and stood before the door, observing green smoke oozing out from beneath, the smells of onion, garlic, and blood tingling his nostrils. The pup, silent all this time, whined. Again he rapped the knocker, beating it four times. He entered.
From whence the smoke had come he did not know, for he saw just a dimly lit room with a lantern swinging from the ceiling. Books were stacked against the walls in half-hazard piles, volumes of long-forgotten lore; optical equipment, strange plants, and pagan figurines rested on a lengthy work bench. A painting caught his eye—he had stolen it, after all—a portrait of a smiling faun, its teeth large and uneven, lips bruised red, a peculiar gleam in its eyes, a certain mischievous evil telling of sins that whispered to the Thief. Suddenly a voice spoke, a raspy croak full of dust and embers. The Thief turned and saw the wizard standing near the window. He was tall but hunched, dressed in a dingy old robe of burlap, one bony arm grasping a broom for support, his great bulbous nose red, beard filthy, stained, and stinking of wine.
“What did you say?” asked the Thief, finding a chair. He did not like to stand around the wizard, for the old man came too close, spreading his reek and spittle.
“He says you'll lose that hand,” said the wizard.
“Which one?” asked the Thief.
“The one that has stolen the most, of course. Why did you bring that creature in here? I don't eat dog, thief. I am no savage. Believe it or not, I once dined daily on venison and suckling pig. Give him here, all the same.”
“The painting speaks to you?” asked the Thief, still clutching the pup.
“Why of course it does, my slinking friend. That is Prax, one of the heretical Seven, a God of the forest and lord of debauchery, the patron of the lost, drunk, and misinformed, a true seer, they say, of what really lies within the so-called soul. Somewhere in my library I have a volume dedicated to his cult, which has, sadly, died out in all but the most remote places. There were certain heathen festivals coinciding with the harvest, involving violent, sexual rituals, all done in Prax's name. Even a man of your relative uncouthness can see how the holy men of Rankar’s Cult would not tolerate such discord. An unknown artist did this most excellent portrait. He sees right through you, doesn't he? That's because there's nothing inside that skull, thief. You are a false construction as I am a false construction. We do as we must. We cannot choose to make a choice. Do you understand me?”
“I never do,” said the Thief, reaching out towards the work bench where a bottle of wine rested. He ignored the wizard's frown as he uncorked the bottle and put it to his lips.
“It is my curse to be misunderstood or ignored,” said the wizard. “Consider my expulsion from the Academia and the ruin of my bright career. I should be at court, you know, whispering truths into the Duke's ear. He is surrounded by optimists, men who lie because it is easy, men who tell him what he wants to hear. They look at the fractured horizon and say tomorrow will come, that invisible blood still beats in the last piece of our dead god. We linger and fade, my friend. The glories of yesteryear have past. This is the twilight of Pannotia, and soon our misery shall cease.”
“I could live without more misery,” said the Thief.
The wizard smiled ruefully. He picked up a carved statue from his table. It depicted a desiccated man with limbs like fleshless bones and empty hollows for eyes.
“Indeed, the Lilu feel nothing, for sentience has been taken from them, tied as it is to an organ of God. You know the real story, do you not? These days, religion is a privilege that only the wealthy can afford, but the Cult still manages to churn out its propaganda that God sacrificed Himself for the good of creation. Rankar, the great creator, could not live with his consciousness, the terrible weight of being, and so desired death. This is apocryphal, Thief, so of course it is true. Immortal and therefore unable to bring about his demise, Rankar divided himself, creating the universe; yet the will to die was preserved in all living things. We are always fighting the drive towards death, even when it will bring us peace. Such is the central paradox of life.” The wizard pivoted on his broom, looking out at the city, which glowed and simmered with thousands of scattered lights. “Man pretends not to see, Thief. He is miserable, suffering, a brute unaware of the strings which pull him to and fro, making him dance. Here, give me that bottle before you drink all of it.”
The Thief shrugged and handed him the bottle. The pup shivered weakly in his grasp, its eyes swollen shut. The wizard, of course, had a job for him; wizards, however, were never straight to the point, possessing a love for the sound of their own voices. Thankfully, patience was one of his few virtues.
“I have a task for you, a grand heist worthy of your skill. I want you to steal the Heart from the Pyramid of Arat, the last remnant of Rankar.” The wizard paused but did not turn towards him. “What say you? Can you do this?”
“Do you wish me to kidnap the Duke as well? What about the royal consort? Surely each will bring a handsome ransom.” His scarred face smiled, then turned to a frown. “What do you want with it? And what could you give me in payment to perform such an impossible task?”
“The Galvanians want it, not I. They will pay us a fortune, for they have always desired the pride of the Capetian dynasty. Having the Heart will grant them legitimacy when they take this city and deliver us from the tyranny of the Duke and his nobles. But you don't care for politics, do you, Thief? Here is an advance, a small portion of the gold that awaits. Five-hundred sovereigns. You are to meet a courtesan who calls herself Cassilda. She will reveal the rest of the plan.”
The wizard tossed a pouch at the Thief's feet, but he made no move to take it. On the wall the faun stared, his grin growing wider, teeth crooked mountains.
“Blasphemy, treason, the ire of an entire city. You’ve never been in the Labyrinth, wizard. I had to eat rats while listening to the screams of the dead. I can't imagine what tortures await the man who attempts to steal the Heart.” He bent down and took the pouch, opened it, counted the coins, thought of his rent, wine, and Guinevere the prostitute. Five-hundred sovereigns was enough to live quite comfortably for a good while, yet money wasn't worth much when you were not around to spend it. He was, however, the Thief, not a thief, an artist, a true professional, and the wizard, despite being cantankerous and somewhat mad, was also a credible source and true to his word. A reputation was built on performing the impossible.
“Where do I meet this Cassilda?” he asked.
“At court, of course. You will not go dressed in your slinking clothes, however. You will wear this,” the wizard held up a green and yellow-striped tunic, “and carry that,” he said, pointing towards a lute lying against the window sill.
“A minstrel? But you know I can't sing, nor can I play the lute. And have you ever seen a minstrel with a thief's brand? Or scars on his face?” The Thief touched his hand, feeling the raised flesh, remembering the pain and the hours spent clutching the wound, the darkness his only constant companion.
“You forget that I am a wizard, oh prowling menace. I will give you a balm to cover your marks, a potion to improve your voice, and this lute, which just so happens to be a magic lute, upon which you can play no wrong note.” The wizard smiled, his denture yellow and incomplete. “That ego of yours, residing in your imaginary self, prompts you to do as I ask. You are a slave to it, an automaton guided by internal impulses, invisible processes of which you are not aware.”
“Save the philosophizing,” said the Thief. “I hear enough of it from various sources.”
“Unless you have elevated your company, I doubt that the gutter riff-raft have much to say beyond voicing their complaints. To whom else beside myself would you turn for stimulating conversation, my terse friend? Were it not for me, you would be blind to the essential horror of your existence. Rankar knows you wouldn't ponder the nature of your being on your own initiative. You are a man built for a single purpose if I have ever met one, Thief.”
“How do you know this courtesan?” asked the Thief. “She can be trusted?”
“What a fool you must think me to be. I am most assured of her loyalties. Believe it or not, I have dealt in these schemes before. Dazbog is no mere conjurer of petty tricks. Cassilda is, shall we say, disgruntled. Her life has not proceeded as planned. The poor creature does not realize what little control she has.”
“That's all you speak of. Control, or the lack thereof.” The Thief got up from his chair and stood by the window, looking out over Capetia. He didn't think much of it, for it had never been very kind to him. The pup snuggled into the crook of his arm, sleeping. What was he doing with this animal? He should have let the boys beat it to death. Just another hungry mouth to feed, a burden on its owner. An old weakness had surfaced, one that he thought was buried. He had always possessed a fondness for parasites.
“You should toss that creature out the window,” said the wizard suddenly, his mouth twitching, great eyebrows arched. For a second it looked as though the Thief might do as he suggested. He took the pup by its nape, dangled it out in the nothingness, let it hang there, watching to see if it reacted, to observe if it sensed its own doom. The swollen eyes did not open; the pup just continued its ragged breathing, lost in a netherworld, unaware of its circumstances. Poor thing doesn't even know it can die, thought the Thief, pulling the animal back towards him. The wizard looked satisfied as though he had learned something. He put the tunic, lute, and balm into a burlap sack, tied it together, and handed it to the Thief.
“Go to Cassilda tomorrow night at the twentieth hour and wait by the porter's entrance near the westward tower on Ablemarle. There will be a guard, a drunkard named Bernard. Give him a bottle of cheap port. He is used to being bribed if you act as though nothing is out of the ordinary. You have such a way with people, my friend. Utilize your natural charm.” The wizard turned towards his instruments, bony hands working feverishly. The faun glowered at the Thief, letting him know that he was dismissed. Down the steps he went, wordless, his parley with the wizard having ended as abruptly as usual. I am an instrument, he thought to himself. Such is the natural order of things.
On the steps of his building an old man lay stretched out, a wineskin in between his legs, his hands supinated, eyes swimming in murky pools. A ragged change purse sat beside him, disemboweled. A red ooze trickled from his mouth; whiskers sprouted from his chin, gnarled, twisted things of grey. He had been sleeping for a long time, undisturbed by the urchins and rats that prowled the street, just another fixture, a perverse statue, a tribute to the debauchery and weakness of men. The Thief roused him with a gentle kick; the old man awoke suddenly, lurching forward, mumbling curses.
“What do you want?” he asked, looking up at the Thief. “I was having a very nice dream.”
“What do the dead dream of?” asked the Thief.
“The same things all men do. Virgins, drink, and a warm hearth. I've never been able to obtain all at the same time.”
“You've never owned a thing in your life, old man,” said the Thief. “I brought something for you.”
“An offering? I was an oracle once. You know that, right?”
“Only women are oracles. Will you care for this beast?” The Thief placed the pup in lap of the old man.
“I cannot care for this,” said the drunk.
“You can beg for two. When it is older, it will keep the rats and urchins away. A dog is warmth in the winter.” He stepped around the old man, opening the door.
“I will give you your fortune, though you burden me with an unwanted gift,” said the old man. “Nothing will go right for you. One cannot survive on luck alone. Be wary of your friends. You have none.”
“So nothing will change,” said the Thief, entering the building.
“Don't be so sure,” replied the drunk.
He went up the stairs, passing a girl sitting on the steps. She made eyes at the Thief, large green eyes that fluttered like the wings of a fly, but he didn't see them, preferring prostitutes to skinny peasant girls who desired husbands to fill their bellies and beat them only occasionally. Never had he wanted the demands of a family, though not for religious reasons like the Anti-Natalists. Just the other day he had passed one of their lot down by Market Street, a wretched creature holding a sign, the desiccated remains of his genitals dangling from his neck like dried carrion. To deprive oneself of one of the chief pleasures of life—he could not imagine it. Sometimes he thought that he was the only person in Pannotia who enjoyed himself. Existence was a matter of perspective. In the Labyrinth, he had thought only of survival and liberation rather than pain and isolation, and such thoughts had prompted him to find a way, to do what could not be done, to escape. The mark on his hand was that of a dead man's. He looked at it as he produced the key to his apartment. A jagged X, serrated, rough at the raised edges of the scar. There were scars covering his back, his chest, his legs. They scarred you until there wasn't an unmarked spot of flesh on your body. He turned the key and walked inside.
It was a plain space, just one room with a mattress in the corner, a window above it. A small shelf rested against one wall, its contents a skull and several volumes on miscellaneous subjects. He hadn't read them, not completely, though he would take a book down from time to time and thumb through it. A black leather case full of lock picks sat below the shelf, a gift from a well-meaning friend. The crowbar that leaned against the case was more frequently utilized, his large hands suited better for prying and battering than subtle maneuverings, though the women never complained. He went to the mattress and lay down, not taking off his cloak, his eyes fixated on the cracks in the ceiling, the spiraling shapes flowing with a river's mad sense of direction. Events settled in his mind and sat, fermenting, growing like mold. A great weariness threatened to seize him, to take the Thief and wrestle his spirit away, leaving only a tired, spent creature with no desire to do anything but sleep and drink. That was how it had been a week ago. He had come home after casing a joint and simply collapsed on the bed, his hands finding a bottle, and the rest was a blur, a whole day lost. He moaned in his sleep, they said, murmured terrible things, unpronounceable names of monsters. The Thief didn't know why they spread rumors. He could never recall his dreams.
There she was. A woman with chestnut hair and emerald eyes, long-limbed and lean, her form hidden by a cloak, though he knew her body, he could see her movements in utter darkness as though she were an extension of him. She walked beneath the earth, creeping down the throat of the world, the only beacon a faint light glittering like a star eons away. Do you have it? He couldn't see it in her hands; she didn't answer. The coldness of the earth was changing. Hot breath funneled through the tunnel, the warm exhalations of a colossal creature, something unimaginably old and beyond understanding. Did she eat it? Have we eaten it? Suddenly he knew, saw her leaning over a fire with dripping jaws and trembling hands. We made love and basked in our glory and that is why I followed her. He would always follow her. He could do nothing else.
He awoke to the sound of someone gently knocking on his door. Have they come for me at last? From beneath his pillow, he took his knife and unsheathed the blade. It was a long drop from the window above, and he might sprain an ankle or even break a leg. Had the knocking been more violent, he would have risked it, but the tentative tapping was too polite to belong to a policeman. It was dark in the room, which worked to his advantage. He crept to the door and peered out the keyhole. A pair of shapely legs in dark stockings stood before his door. Rising, he unbolted the latch and opened the door a crack.
A woman with brilliant green eyes and reddish-brown hair stared at him with a slight smile on the corners of her delicate mouth. She was quite striking, the Thief thought, her cheekbones high, her nose proud and elegant as though it had only sensed perfume and the aroma of apricots. She wore a black jerkin halfway unlaced which revealed much of her neckline. Slim, gloved hands reached out with palms outward in a gesture of supplication. Without hearing her speak, he opened the door.
“I am Cassilda. I’d like to have a word with you, if possible.” Her voice was throaty, full of deep melodies and an undercurrent of angst.
“Come inside,” he said, opening the door wider.
“Into that portal of darkness with a man of your repute? You will have to excuse me, sir. I will require a bit more illumination than what you are offering.”
The Thief chuckled to himself and placed his hand in his pocket to remove a match, but a sudden brightness stopped him, and as he turned, he found his small apartment lit with a pale green light which hovered in the center of the ceiling like a will-o’-the-wisp.
“That’s better,” she said, moving past him to sit in his only chair.
“You’re a witch,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“I am a sorceress. A witch lives in the woods and cures gout with boiled frog legs and provides remedies for sour milk to bucktoothed peasants. Witches also sometimes eat lost children and are quite repulsive to look at. Am I repulsive to your eyes?”
The Thief didn’t provide an answer, feeling that none was required.
“I would appreciate if you wouldn’t go telling anyone that I am a sorceress, however, since sorceresses are forbidden to practice magic, having no license to do so. Dazbog, our mutual employer, is also not aware of my talents. I understand that you have worked with him before?”
“More than once,” said the Thief. There was something off, he decided, about her beauty, though he could not say what it was.
“Do you harbor any especial loyalty to our aforementioned wizard?” asked Cassilda, batting her eyelashes.
“I don’t burn bridges unless I have to, though friends are rare in my profession,” admitted the Thief.
“I understand the sentiment. I was hoping, however, that I could persuade you to go into business with myself. How much has he promised you?”
“Six-hundred sovereigns, with a bonus awarded after the job is finished.”
“Here’s seven-fifty,” she threw a purse at him, “with an additional seven-fifty waiting for you after the Heart of Rankar is in my possession.”
The Thief looked hard at her beautiful face. The perfect symmetry, the intensity of her eyes, the nose that could have been carved by a sculptor. She is the artist he realized suddenly. Only magic could make a face so impeccable, so excellently designed to captivate the perceiver.
“Earn the enmity of a wizard and the favor of a sorceress. I’m not sure that’s an even exchange. Why do you even need me? Surely your magic is powerful if you can conjure light out of nothingness and alter your appearance.”
Cassilda stared at him with surprise for a moment before her face settled back into a charming smile. I played that card well, thought the Thief.
“My magic is powerful, thief, and do not forget that fact. Yet magic cannot solve every problem. No spell can be cast within the buried pyramid due to the enchantments and expertise of the Priesthood. The skills of a master thief are required to take the Heart, and your reputation precedes you.”
“What if I say no? What if I don’t trust you? If you are willing to betray Dazbog, then you are willing to betray me.”
Cassilda’s smile grew wider, and the Thief thought she looked like a tigress baring her teeth.
“Let me tell you something about that wizard,” said the sorceress, green eyes aflame. “He was kicked out of the Academia for necromancy, so he became a Haliurunnae witch hunter and scoured the Dash-Margot Desert with the tribes, maiming and killing innocents, most of which were only guilty of being born beneath the wrong stars. He is a nihilist, a murderer, a schemer of evil. There is no betraying such a creature, for through his actions he has betrayed mankind and thus abdicated the rights of a man.”
“What does a thief like me care about such arguments? I am a criminal, and you are a criminal, and Dazbog is a criminal. It is hypocrisy for us to criticize the moral failings of one another. What concerns me, sorceress, is that you wouldn’t have made this offer without knowing that I’d accept, which means you have something besides a heavy purse to tempt me in dishonor. Before you scoff and recite the common adage, let me respond by saying that there is, in fact, honor among thieves, and it is known throughout Capetia, especially in the Row, where I must fence my goods. My reputation, as you said, precedes me, and that reputation is more valuable than fifteen-thousand sovereigns. I might live fat off such a payment, yet that sum is scarcely enough to afford a villa in Beaune with a vineyard, the only prize for which I might give up my art, for if I betray Dazbog, I may as well never show my face in Capetia again. What else do you have to offer me, Cassilda?”
The Thief leered somewhat as he spoke. Shaking her head, Cassilda removed an amulet that she had worn hidden around her neck and held the green stone before the Thief’s eyes.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It is a very old and very expensive periapt that I acquired through dubious means. It may be of Faerie make, though I lack the expertise to know that for certain. What I do know is that it is an invaluable tool that I have relied upon for many years. Let me show you how it works.”
The Thief stared deeply into the emerald green of the amulet, so alike the eyes of the sorceress. Something glimmered in the stone, drawing him forward, and as he did so, he felt a slight pang as though someone had pricked his chest with a needle. Out of the depths of the periapt, his own face rose, staring back at him, trapped within the walls of the jewel. Suddenly, he was leaning against the wall, blinking, staring with confusion at Cassilda, who sat calmly in his chair.
“I’m glad we have come to an arrangement. I understand Dazbog has left you a crudely-drawn map of the temple within the pyramid. Any tools that you may require, I suggest you hide them in your lute. We will proceed with the wizard’s plan, with only the discussed deviation. Thank you for your hospitality, but I’m afraid it is rather late, and I must be going. I will see you tomorrow,” said the sorceress, rising from her chair.
“What arrangement?” asked the Thief, still trying to shake the fog out of his mind.
“You are to steal the Heart of Rankar for me in exchange for the considerable sum of fifteen-hundred sovereigns. That’s what we agreed to, remember?”
“Yes… yes, of course,” said the Thief. He remembered now. The sorceress was beautiful and intelligent, possessing the wisdom of a thousand scholars.
“Goodbye,” she said, shutting the door. The Thief found himself alone in a darkened room. He staggered off to bed and fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
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