Previous Chapter: The Thief and the Wizard
The Thief waited by the porter's gate with a lute strung across his back and a bottle in hand. He had brought a bottle for the guardsman as well as one for himself, though he hadn't drunk enough from it to become drunk. People passed in the street: bands of roving children, gentlemen on the prowl, characters hooded and cloaked, obvious miscreants with razors hidden in their sleeves. A Haliurunnae witch hunter clad in feathers and wearing a jackal’s face stopped and stared at the Thief for some time before huffing and continuing down the street. Bernard snapped at these fiends, telling them to keep their distance or risk feeling the point of his halberd, which he brandished about menacingly, bushy eyebrows raised, his mustache inclined at a similar angle. The zealous fool didn't seem like the type to be bribed with a bottle of port; rather, he seemed more likely to impale a prospective friend such as the Thief before he could even approach. Above were the fortress walls, emerging from the mountain's side like the scutes of an armored beast. Cassilda he whispered suddenly, testing the name on his tongue. He looked to his left and saw a courtesan coming down the street, smiling, a fan clutched in her gloved right hand. She passed the Thief, looking at him with green eyes, lashes flashing, and he was at her side in an instant, his arm entwined with hers. What is happening he thought, as his feet moved and his face broke into a disarming grin. They marched up to Bernard, who eyed them warily, and Cassilda curtseyed and he followed with a deep bow. “For you, sir,” he said, presenting the bottle of port. “As a reward for your exquisite service.”
“Aye, what's that?” asked Bernard, twitching his mustache.
“You are being honored, recognized for your distinction. There is no better halberd man at court. No men of foul repute will ever pass through this gate, such is the greatness of your discretion. Please, take this.” The Thief offered up the bottle, marveling at the words that came from his mouth.
“Is that there some of that spiced wine? Did the boys put you up to it? I warn ye, I don't like being played for a fool,” said Bernard, eying Cassilda rather lasciviously.
“No one would ever take you to be one,” said Cassilda, giving him a winning smile. She extended a gloved hand, touching the hairy arm of the guardsman. Suddenly she had wrapped herself around him, lips in his ear, and a shudder passed through his body, a seismic tremble that resulted in his falling back against the wall, slumped downward, legs bent and barely supporting his stout frame. She looked at the Thief, eyes aflame, burning with emerald glory, and pointed at the bottle in his hand. He placed it at Bernard's feet, and they darted into the passageway. Luck spare me thought the Thief, following Cassilda as she hurried through the hall. He grabbed a hold of her arm as she mounted a spiraling staircase.
“Let go of me, vagabond,” she said, tearing free, and continuing to climb.
“We were supposed to bribe him, not poison him,” said the Thief.
“Yes, that was the plan,” replied Cassilda. “I took the initiative, however, because I felt that Bernard might not have let us through. You might call it a gut feeling. Don’t thieves trust their intuition? Survival dictates that sorceresses must do so, for the unconscious knows better than the conscious mind in many cases.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth. You used your magic to speak through me.”
“I did nothing of the sort!” Cassilda turned around and faced him in mock fury. “I put a spell on you to make you more eloquent, that was all. You saw how the man brandished that halberd. Had you approached him with your natural charm, I dare say that you would’ve been impaled or beheaded. Do you forgive me?”
“Forgive me, my lady, for my ruffian nature often overcomes my better sense. I realize that I lack the skills of a gentleman and that my speech often resembles the braying of an ass. For my failings, I apologize, and I heretofore defer to your superior wisdom, endeavoring to cooperate to the best of… damn it, woman, I will not be your puppet!” sputtered the Thief, finally regaining control of his tongue.
“Will you not? Can you stop your feet?” Cassilda looked at him, turning around as she climbed. The Thief tried to stop but kept climbing, taking each step at an inexorable pace.
“Yes, you seem to be in a pickle, as they say in Vaalbara. I think it will be best to cooperate with the spell. Trying to resist such things usually results in unpleasantness.”
“Unpleasantness?” spat the Thief, gritting his teeth in fury. “What are you going to do, have me walk off a ledge? You need me, you said it yourself.”
Cassilda laughed, wheezing, her breath shortened from climbing. Through a tiny window he saw the city spread out beneath them, its towers distant and shrinking with every step.
“Yes, of course I need you, but you must be reminded that I oversee this stage of our heist. You took the money I offered, therefore you are my employee, and if I choose to improvise, I will not be seconded-guessed by a subordinate, especially one of such questionable character.”
“I am no one’s subordinate, woman,” said the Thief, his nostrils flaring. “Your arrogance will get the better of you someday. You magicians think you can do anything to anybody and not suffer the consequences. There’s a reason they behead your kind in the North.”
“You know much about magicians? I would think that your expertise would be limited to how to break door jambs and twist arms for money,” said Cassilda.
“The Valientice vault was my work, as was the Royal Bank Heist! Yours truly stole the Kardenian diamond from the pirate marauder Edward Thatch, but don’t ask me what I did with it, or I’ll have to kill you. What do you know of stealing, courtesan? Harlotry, not sorcery, is your profession, no?” snarled the Thief.
“We all do things for money. I’ve never really understood the shame in survival. Let's get the Heart and be done with it, agreed? No more quarrels. We will make it out of here alive, as well as considerably richer. I promise you that. One of these days I’ll keep one.” Cassilda stopped, finally having reached the summit of the stairway. “Well look at that. There's an allure ahead. I hope you don't get vertigo. It's rather high up and there's not much of a parapet.”
The Thief tried to move his feet back down the staircase, but as soon as Cassilda ventured out onto the wall walk, they followed her obediently like two whipped dogs. I will kill that sorceress he thought, stepping out into the air, the wind snapping at his frame, plucking the strings of his lute as he moved across the narrow pathway. Heights had never bothered him; he always considered the rooftops of the city to be his highway and an easy way to travel if one didn't mind making the occasional mad leap. Cassilda clutched the smooth wall as she rushed towards the next tower, her gaze fixed firmly on the doorway—she was scared, he saw, though she moved gracefully enough, gown flapping as the breeze broke against the mountain, revealing long, lean limbs. There was a scar on her right calf, an ugly thing stretched across the muscle like a purple leech. Must've hurt like hell he thought as he followed her into the tower. He thought it odd that she had not removed such a blemish.
“Hey, more stairs,” said Cassilda, already moving upward. “We will reach the lowest level soon, and then we'll go to the atrium and see who's congregating. You look like a social person. Perhaps you play that lute?”
“I know many bawdy songs. I even know one about a harlot who gets a thief killed.”
“I'm sure that will go over nicely with the other courtesans. To tell the truth, I'm very worried about your role in this stage. You look as though you'd rather use that lute as a weapon than an instrument. Are you capable of guile, Mr. Thief? You do realize that a lute is a poor thing to arm oneself with? A tongue works much better in my experience.”
“A truncheon works best for ending unpleasant conversations,” replied the Thief. “Though I tend to avoid people and their conversations as much as possible. Violence is always the result of a failure of preparation. You can't hurt what you cannot see.”
“You can become invisible? I didn’t realize that you were a magician,” said Cassilda.
“I know how to blend in with the darkness, how to find an alcove in an instant, how to walk down a street as just another shadow. There's a certain amount of magic about it, yes, though I’ve never asked any wizard for an explanation. It's not about casting spells or performing arcane rituals. If I do not wish to be seen, then no one will see me. There's no method to be taught. There was only the dank darkness of the Labyrinth and the gift of a monster. The mark...” He stopped himself, realizing that he had just spoken of more than he’d intended. The sorceress didn't need to know of his secrets, yet here he was, speaking like Dazbog, revealing things that should not be discussed.
“Don’t worry, Thief. You have revealed very little.” Cassilda turned and touched his shoulder, flashing her eyes, lips set in a pout. He was captivated by her beauty, manufactured though it was; even if his feet were not compelled by magic, he knew he would have followed her. His eyes consumed her face, her neck, and the subtle curves of her figure with a rashness he didn’t attempt to hide.
“You are very easy to read for a master of disguise,” said Cassilda, removing her hand. “Here we are. Beyond this door is a hallway that leads to the bailey, which we will cross to get to the atrium, where we will find the gentry of court retiring. Please leave everything to me, Mr. Thief, for your services are not yet required. Play that lute, I guess. What will we call you? I know you thieving folk like to use aliases, but Mr. Thief is a little too crass, don't you think?”
“Smith,” said the Thief, shrugging his shoulders.
“Blacksmith? Silversmith? Arrowsmith? What kind of smith? You're supposed to be a troubadour, not a beater of metal. There was a poet by the name of Robert Zimmers who played the lute at a tavern in my youth. You look like him somewhat. Zimmers it is. Onward, sir,” said Cassilda.
They quickly crossed the small courtyard and entered the atrium, a large rectangular room with an open ceiling to reveal the stars and a pool in the center to collect rainwater. On long, low benches the gentry and minor nobles reclined, with courtesans and other service people standing around them, some offering bottles of wine, others whispering in ears. Incense burned in an urn; the air was filled with a saccharine smell, thick and sickly-sweet. Brightly-dressed people flittered about, exchanging hands, moving ruffled sleeves into pockets, removing hats and plucking peacock feathers from the glittering gowns of the courtesans, who smiled and held out their hands. The Thief passed a mummer wearing a beaked mask, his arms moving in wide circles, crow feathers flying from his black coat. Across the pool a lady let a fat man in an ill-fitting tunic drool over her neckline like a ravenous beast, his greedy lips making porcine sounds. An ape with a chain around its neck leaned in a corner, oblivious to the crowd, slowly pawing at the floor with feeble gestures. Cassilda weaved through it all and steered the Thief towards a gentleman sitting by the edge of the pool, his swollen feet submerged in the water, his face lined with pox marks and a drooping mustache. She curtseyed, extending a gloved hand, her smile ingratiating, a wide, inviting line of whiteness and courtesy.
“My lord Dempsey, it is a pleasure to see you again,” said Cassilda. “How are you feeling this evening?”
“Absolutely terrible, just terrible. This damnable inflammation is unbearable. Praise Rankar that they heat these pools. Otherwise, I don't think I'd be able to move.” Lord Dempsey adjusted his feet, both of which were fat and deformed at the joint of the big toe. “Worst of all, no one is paying any attention to me. The ladies flock to younger, more agile men. I am not that old, you know, it is only the gout which robs me of my strength. Furthermore, I am richer than any man in this room. I feel insulted.” Lord Dempsey sighed, his red striped tunic deflating.
“I'm afraid that is all my fault,” explained Cassilda. “They know that you are my favorite.”
“Indeed,” said Dempsey, examining Cassilda. “Though I have not seen you much of late.”
“Forgive me, my lord, I have been rather busy with trifling matters. I have something planned for us tonight. This gentleman here is Robert Zimmers, the famous singing poet of Zanj whose songs are sung in taverns across Pannotia. He is an excellent storyteller, having captivated audiences with his tales of romance and history. His lute playing is simply divine. I thought he could accompany us on a tour, after which, of course, you and I will retire to private quarters for an intimate discussion between friends.”
“Zimmers, I believe I have heard of you,” said Dempsey. “Wrote some song about the times and how they are changing. The men of Zanj are usually more ebony-skinned than copper-colored, though. What is this about a tour? Cassilda, you know I cannot stand on my feet for long in my condition.”
“The poet was wondering if he could perhaps see the Pyramid of Arat...”
“The Pyramid? Why does he wish to see it?” asked Dempsey, suspicious.
“He has traveled far and wide, and seen many great wonders, from the flying zeppelins of Vaalbara to the healing waters of the Selt Sea. Yet the temple of Rankar and its precious relic, the last piece of the elder god, why, what could compare to the pride of the Capetian dynasty? They say it granted mankind awareness of our own existence. The Pallas Emperor touched it with his own hands! Who would not wish to see such a holy thing?” asked Cassilda. The Thief watched her eyes as she spoke and noticed that they glittered with green flame.
“You know no one is allow to see the Heart,” whispered Dempsey. “Frankly, you should not be speaking so freely of such matters. To do so is forbidden, and if a priest were to hear you, your life would be forfeit. These are troubling times, Cassilda. They say tensions with Galvania are increasing. There may be spies about.”
“Things are always tense with Galvania. They have been for ages. Have you ever met a Galvanian, my lord? They are a most carefree and amiable people. Why, one of the couriers, a most respected man, has a Galvanian wife. Sometimes I wonder if it is all a ruse by the nobility to keep us commoners civil.” Cassilda sat down next to Dempsey, crossing her legs. “My lord, there is no danger in showing us the Pyramid. I would most appreciate it and would reciprocate the favor in a way of your choosing.”
“You are being crass, Cassilda,” said Dempsey, though he displayed a pained smile. “I'm not sure my brother would tolerate it.”
“Your brother, the High Priest? Why, you are family. And besides, you are a very important man at court. Do you think the guards would deny the Duke's Standard Bearer from seeing the temple?”
“My military days are over, though I still hold the title,” said Dempsey with obvious pride. “Fine. You have convinced me, my dear. Please fetch me my cane. I will take you and your foreign friend to see the Pyramid, though the Heart is out of the question. I've never seen it myself, you understand.”
“Splendid!” said Cassilda, handing Dempsey his cane. The Thief said nothing but followed.
She watched out the carriage window as they climbed, seeing the gilded towers, the throngs of gilded people as they marched upward on the never-ending steps, on pilgrimage for themselves, noblemen, merchants, priests, thieves. The fortifications gave way to the splendor of the palace, which spread itself up the mountainside, the power and wealth of the Capetians on full display. Only they could have built their house on the great Capanne Mons with their plundered fortune, stolen from nations at sea, built with the bones and blood of a thousand kings. She had swum in their seas long ago; she knew the calls of ocean birds; she always had the smell of salt in her lungs. She had watched as the man she loved was torn from her grasp and thrown overboard while the waters churned and the sky flashed bruised colors, aubergine and crimson. There seemed to be a storm brewing on the horizon, back towards the ocean, a mighty tempest that she could feel, even up here, thousands of feet above the waves. Some things you could never forget. The fat lord prattled on, speaking to the supposed master thief about dockside whores. The reason none of the girls would go near him was because he had syphilis. Only the rich, nobles, and priests get ahead she thought, looking at the climbers. The Thief listened patiently, absorbing Dempsey's foolish words. He hadn't given any sign that he remembered anything; frankly, she thought him something of a dullard, a petty thug rather than the romantic swashbuckler Dazbog had described. All things have their uses. A great mollossus pulled their carriage, using its stunted wings to ascend the steep path, its shaggy head lolling from side to side, seeing the world through compound eyes. Not a day went by that she didn’t think of the ship. Do I live only for my vengeance? Maybe she would ask a priest at the temple to tell her. But it is forbidden to speak to the holy ones. She had no respect for them, shaved walking skeletons wearing elaborate robes of red-dyed silk, suffering for their god, giving themselves in the fervent belief that their hunger would feed his quivering heart and prolong the Time of Man. She had always hated priests, having never met one that was not a hypocrite. Believe they said, offering the Heart as evidence of Rankar's glory, of the beauty and love of the Creator, the Sufferer, the One who gave all His children the hope of reincarnation, the endless quest for a better life. It is a lie she knew; Rankar didn't sacrifice himself to make Pannotia, it was formed from his suicide, his futile attempt to annihilate his self. No benevolent overlord would've allowed Ambierce to die, not in the manner that he expired: beaten, castrated, having watched his protege's rape, and then tossed into the depthless sea. What thoughts were in his head as he drowned, staring up through the darkness, wondering if she still lived? Did he have any hope? Did he trust in God, the same god that watched his death with heartless abandon? She would never know, and that was why she could not forgive. She placed a hand on Dempsey's thigh, her face smiling, giving the gout-stricken lord a glimpse of her straight, white teeth. They were almost to the top. Just keep smiling a voice told her. It's not as though she had a choice in the matter.
“Why didn't you join the temple?” asked the Thief.
“There must be a male heir to continue the family name,” said Dempsey. “Though I have produced nothing but bastards, my wife being a barren creature. Besides, I was never much of a spiritual person. I didn't want to fast. Chastity seemed like a perverse thing, if I must be honest. All that falling down on the knees, why, I don't think I could've made it.” The lord tapped one of his swollen feet with his cane. Ahead of them, priests passed in a hallway, their heads bowed, hands cupped together, feet padding softly on the worn stone, murmuring silent prayers. “I shan't take you much further,” continued Dempsey, giving the holy men a wary glance. “I really don't have the authority you assume of me, Cassilda. I was surprised they let us past the anteroom at this hour.”
“You have no sense of adventure, my lord,” said Cassilda. “Can you not show us more?”
“There is nothing more to see,” said Dempsey. “The Pyramid is a labyrinthine structure, with most of it closed off to all but the inner circle of the priesthood. Now, I think we should be going before they start to look for us...”
“The Heart, my lord. You must take us to it,” said Cassilda, drawing close to Dempsey. The Thief saw something clutched in her hand, something that sparkled emerald in the coal-lit hall. Dempsey stared at her dumbly, his face contorted, showing signs of struggle. Her powers are failing realized the Thief as the lord's eyes settled into a dull stare. A sliver of drool formed at the right corner of his mouth; Cassilda whispered in his ear, speaking ancient words. As soon as she finished, the lord turned abruptly and began marching down the hallway, further into the temple. “Keep your distance,” said Cassilda, as they followed him. “I don’t know how long the spell will last. The enchantments of this place are strong. I expect you'll deal with any unpleasantness we may encounter?” asked Cassilda.
“I'm not a hired thug. With that oaf lumbering in front of us, I don't know what I'm expected to do. Eventually he's going to run in to somebody, especially if he's taking us to the Heart,” said the Thief.
“And what will you do then? Disappear into thin air? Utilize your thiefy powers of invisibility?” asked Cassilda, mockingly.
“If I can. Seeing how my actions are directed, I may not have a choice.”
“Oh, I always believe in choice, master thief. You are a puppet no longer. You are being steered in the right direction, I would say.”
“Just like Dempsey,” said the Thief. Cassilda smiled and pointed ahead at Dempsey conversing with two priests.
“What could he be saying to them, with his brain all befuddled?” asked the Thief.
“Whatever it was, it must've worked,” replied Cassilda. “Though they're coming our way.”
The Thief grabbed her, pulled her towards him, and placed his hands on her face, tilting her head downward. “Clasp your hands together,” he said, bowing his head. “Don't speak. Don't look at them.”
“This seems like a rather stupid plan...”
“Quiet.”
The soft footsteps of the priests grew louder. You don't want to look thought the Thief. There is nothing here but two praying novices, steadfast in their devoutness, hands cupped, their minds blank slates. Nothing is out of the ordinary; you continue as you are. He could tell by Cassilda's breathing that she was relaxed, committed, trusting his judgment. Are you playing me, witch? he wondered. His feet were now his own; the spell that commanded them had worn off. Here was his last chance to abandon the heist. He needed simply to sidle towards the priests and follow them away from the sorceress and her sphere of influence. If she could brainwash Dempsey, she could brainwash me, he thought. Yet his instincts told him to continue, either because of professional pride or out of admiration for Cassilda. Probably a bit of both, he thought with a smile.
The priests passed without a glance. Cassilda exhaled moments after they were gone, her eyes already moving down the hallway where Dempsey disappeared.
“Not bad, courtesan. You do well under pressure,” said the Thief, following her as she ran after the vanished lord.
“You do know some type of magic or weirding way, though you cast no spell,” replied Cassilda.
“Not magic—just a manipulation of will, presence, and bodily suggestion,” said the Thief.
“If you don't wish to reveal your secret, I understand. Let us turn here. I believe this is where he has gone.”
The Thief heard the mountain's voice before he reached the end of the passageway. Muraled walls gave way to endless space; giant stone columns stood like petrified tree trunks, their ceiling having long ago eroded into nothingness. A great staircase rose, its steps nearly edgeless, the summit a long climb on hands and knees, the wind howling and threatening to send any ascendant to their demise. And there was Dempsey, already halfway up the steps, dragging his swollen feet, leaning heavily on his cane but still climbing, taking each step as though it might be his last. The Thief looked at Cassilda, whose eager eyes fixed on the enchanted lord. “Up,” she said, placing her feet on the staircase. The moonlight fell on her, bathing her skin, illuminating her slender form as she rose, nervous, afraid of the precipitous incline yet moving onward, upward, ever closer to the Heart. The Thief had known obsession before, witnessed it on the streets, felt it in the Labyrinth as he gazed into blackness, trying to will the ether to part, yet this witch, this fake courtesan, she reeked of desire such as he had never seen. What does she want the Heart for? Suddenly he realized that he had never asked her what she was planning to do with a piece of God. The green amulet appeared in his mind, and he saw himself trapped beneath its contours, and instantly he knew that Cassilda had bewitched him when she had appeared at his door. He was not a killer—even if he had knocked a ruffian over the bridge at Via Sacra, he hadn’t meant to do it—yet he considered seizing the witch and throwing her from the steps into the emptiness of the mountain air. She’s a woman, gentle thief said a voice. She was right above him, carefully placing her feet on the slippery stone. He moved his hand slowly, reaching towards a slippered foot, his fingers grasping the air. “Let's see where this goes,” he said, as she climbed out of reach. He could deal with the witch. He just had to stay ahead.
They met at the summit, winded, bent over and clutching their knees. Ahead yawned an opening into the buried Pyramid of Arat, lit by tall beacons and guarded by two sentries dressed in golden mail, their helmets crested with the purple-red plumage of the bennu bird. Medjay thought the Thief; he could tell by the way they stood motionless like marble statues, their eyes hidden behind a thin slit, that they were of the Duke's elite troops. Conditioned from birth and raised on the far side of the mountain in the harsh Dash-Margot Desert, Medjay were feared for their unwavering loyalty and dispassionate thoroughness. They were rumored to be mutated through an arcane ritual originated by the magician-priests of the pharaohs, giving them a resistance to enchantment and physical prowess that bordered on superhuman. The ritual had side-effects; their faces were disfigured horribly while their skin developed a sensitivity to light that made unprotected exposure extremely painful. He had expected their presence, for though the Cult of Rankar operated independently from the Capetians, the royal family considered the Heart key to their sovereignty and worthy of their protection, despite its location in the inner temple of the mountain pyramid. And there goes Dempsey right towards them.
The gout-stricken lord stopped a few feet away from the sentries, leaning on his cane. The Thief could hear his wheezing from a hundred feet away, as he and Cassilda slunk into the shadows. A plague on them both he thought, glancing at Cassilda as she watched Dempsey with plain eagerness. This will not go well.
“I am Lord Horatio Reginald Dempsey, the twenty-second of my line, bearer of the Duke's standard and brother to the High Priest. I demand that you step aside, for I am to escort two guests to see the Heart of Rankar, the lifeblood of our great city, so that they may know the glory of our religion and the truth of our way. I will suffer no delays. This is a matter of great importance,” concluded Dempsey.
“No one sees the Heart,” said the right sentry.
“Not without the Duke or the High Priest in accompaniment,” responded the left.
“I am the High Priest's kinsman! His elder brother, in fact! You know it could have been me who became the High Priest, but someone had to preserve the family name. Someone had to produce an heir!”
The sentries remained unmoved by Dempsey's protestations, their spears barring the way into the inner temple. Their silence further infuriated the lord, who began wielding his cane menacingly, his face red, spittle flying from his lips.
“Who do you think I am, some Galvanian spy? Who placed you nitwits in charge? I say, I will have your rank and privileges revoked and the both of you thrown into the Labyrinth for insubordination.”
“We are Medjay,” said the right sentry.
“Our titles are not for you to remove,” said the left.
“Well that explains your insufferable attitudes! Medjay! That means you were born peasants. Deformed peasant lunatics are now giving noblemen orders! What hideous times!”
“Can you sneak past them?” whispered Cassilda.
“Not in plain sight,” replied the Thief.
“You hid us from the priests in the hallway. Why can't you do that again?”
“There are no shadows to play with here. Just two bright beacons and two sentries looking for my kind of scoundrel. Besides, Dempsey already mentioned us.”
“So the lighting matters? What are you, an actor of the theater? You were hired to steal the Heart, master thief. If your powers of stealth are not as formidable as billed, what exactly do you suggest we do?” said Cassilda, her mouth curling into a frown.
“This isn't my usual policy, especially with women,” said the Thief, looking her in the eyes, “but I suggest you tell me the truth, for one.”
“The truth, Mr. Thief?” asked Cassilda.
“You bewitched me just as you’ve bewitched Dempsey. That amulet on your neck holds a power strong enough to contend with the enchantments of this ancient temple, which is interesting, considering you’re not even licensed to practice magic. I accepted this job without even knowing what you want to do with the Heart, a violation of my usual policy of understanding my employer’s motivation. You’re using me, and I want answers before I go traipsing before two armed Medjay who could skewer my torso in the dark from fifty feet away.”
“What powers of deduction you have! I am impressed,” said Cassilda.
“Do you feel this?” asked the Thief, grabbing her arm and pulling her close. A knife emerged in his other hand and quickly moved towards her throat. “I suggest,” he said, gritting his teeth, the tip of the blade pressed against her skin, “that you start talking unless you wish to have your larynx removed.”
“I thought violence was the mark of an amateur,” said Cassilda, seizing his hand. The Thief locked eyes with her, felt his anger dissipate like steam rising from boiling water. Her other hand touched his face, lingering on the scars, and he swore that he could feel the raised flesh recede at the soft caress of her fingertips.
A loud bellow interrupted their conversation. Dempsey was being dragged away from the temple by one of the Medjay, who pulled him by arm with some difficulty, for the gout-stricken lord was thrashing about, swinging his cane at his attacker, who bore the lashes with no obvious signs of pain. The other guard watched dispassionately, his attention diverted, and the Thief saw a chance. Before he had even realized what he was doing, he had darted from the shadows and stalked towards the entrance, approaching the Medjay peripherally, his body hugging the wall. He can’t see me through that visor, thought the Thief as he slid through the doorway, inches from the oblivious guard. He heard Cassilda shout at the Medjay—unhand him, he’s drunk!—before he flew down the darkened corridor and entered the forbidden Pyramid of Arat, the ancient tomb of the pharaohs, where no man of his station had tread in eons, and where no thief had ever escaped with his life.
Next Chapter: The Temple
