Back in May, I started a fantasy story tentatively titled "The Heart of the Thief." You can find part one
here. The idea was to write a fantasy epic involving a handful of character who each represented various life-philosophies. The project was mainly influenced by Thomas Ligotti and the Thief video games series developed by the now-defunct Looking Glass Studios. I don't really write genre stuff, so after about one-thousands words, I abandoned The Heart of the Thief only to take it up again recently. Make sure to check out part one linked above if you want any of this to make sense.
Part One.
...
“Save the philosophizing,” says 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?” asks 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 gets up from his
chair and stands by the window, looking out over the city. He doesn't think much
of it, for it has never been very kind to him. The pup snuggles into the crook
of his arm, sleeping. What is 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 has surfaced, one that he thought was buried. He always
had a fondness for parasites.
“You
should toss that creature out the window,” says the wizard suddenly, his mouth
twitching, his great eyebrows arched. For a second it looks as though the Thief
might do as he suggests. He takes the pup by its nape, dangles it out in the
nothingness, lets it hang there, watching to see if it reacts, to observe if it
senses its own doom. The swollen eyes do not open; the pup just continues its
ragged breathing, lost in a netherworld, unaware of its circumstances. Poor
thing doesn't even know it can die, thinks the Thief, pulling the animal
back toward him. The wizard looks satisfied as though he has learned something.
He puts the tunic, lute, and balm into a burlap sack, ties it together, and
hands 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 as long as 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
turns toward his instruments, his bony hands working feverishly. The faun
glowers at the Thief, letting him know that he is dismissed. Down the steps he
goes, wordless, his parley with the wizard having ended as abruptly as usual. I
am an instrument, he thinks to himself. Such is the natural order of
things.
…
On
the steps of his building an old man lies stretched out, a wineskin in between
his legs, his hands supinated, eyes swimming in murky pools. A ragged old
change purse sits beside him, disemboweled. A red ooze trickles from his mouth;
whiskers sprout from his chin, gnarled, twisted things of grey. He has been
sleeping for a long time, undisturbed by the urchins and rats that prowl the
street, just another fixture, a perverse statue, a tribute to the debauchery
and weakness of man. The Thief rouses him with a gentle kick; the old man
awakens suddenly, lurching forward, mumbling curses.
“What
do you want?” he asks, looking up at the Thief. “I was having a very nice
dream.”
“What
do the dead dream of?” asks 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,” says 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 places the pup in
lap of the old man.
“I
cannot care for this,” says 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 steps around the old man, opening the door.
“I
will give you your fortune, though you burden me with an unwanted gift,” says
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,” says the Thief, entering the building.
“Don't
be so sure,” replies the drunk.
He
goes up the stairs, passing a girl sitting on the steps. She makes eyes at the
Thief, large green eyes that flutter like the wings of a fly, but he doesn't
see them, preferring whores to skinny peasant girls who desire husbands to fill
their bellies and beat them only once in a while. Never has he wanted the
demands of a family, though not for religious reasons like the Antinatalists.
Just the other day he 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 cannot imagine it. Sometimes he thinks that he is the only person in
this world who enjoys himself. Existence is a matter of perspective. In the
dungeons he thought only of wine, women, and his art instead of pain and
isolation, and such thoughts prompted him to find a way, to do what could not
be done, to escape. The mark on his hand is that of a dead man's. He looks at
it as he produces the key to his apartment. A jagged X, serrated, rough at the
raised edges of the scar. There are scars covering his back, his chest, his
legs. They scar you until there isn't an unmarked spot of flesh on your body.
He turns the key and walks inside.
It
is a plain space, just one room with a mattress in the corner, a window above
it. A small shelf rests against one wall, its contents a skull and several
volumes on miscellaneous subjects. He hasn't read them, not completely, though
he will take a book down from time to time and thumb through it. A black
leather case full of lockpicks sits below the shelf, unused, a gift from a
well-meaning friend. The crowbar that leans against the case is frequently
utilized, his large hands suited more for prying and battering than subtle
manoeuvrings, though the women have never complained. He goes to the mattress
and lies 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 settle in his mind and sit, fermenting, growing like mold. A great
weariness threatens 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 was a week ago. He had come home after casing
a joint and simply collapsed on this bed, his hands finding a bottle, and the
rest was a blur, a whole day lost. He moans in his sleep, they say, murmurs
terrible things, unpronounceable names of monsters. The Thief doesn't know why
they spread rumors. He can never recall his dreams.
…
There
she is. A woman with chesnut hair and emerald eyes, long-limbed and lean, her
form hidden by a cloak, though he knows her body, he can see her movements in
utter darkness as though she were an extention of him. She walks 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 can't see it in her
hands; she doesn't answer. The coldness of the earth is changing. Hot breath
funnels 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 knows, he sees her, sees himself leaning over a fire
with dripping jaws and trembling hands. We made love and basked in our glory
and that is why I follow her. He will always follow her. He can do nothing
else.
…
The Thief waits by the porter's
gate dressed in musician’s clothes with a lute strung across his back and a
bottle in hand. He brought a bottle for the guardsman as well as one for
himself, though he hasn't drank enough from it to become drunk. People pass in the
street: bands of roving children, gentlemen on the prowl, characters hooded and
cloaked, obvious miscreants with razors hidden in their sleeves. Bernard snaps
at these fiends, telling them to keep their distance or risk feeling the point
of his halberd, which he brandishes about mencingly, bushy eyebrows raised, his
mustache inclined at a similar angle. This zealous fool doesn't seem like the
type to be bribed with a bottle of porter; rather, he seems more likely to
impale a prospective friend such as the Thief before he can even approach.
Above are the fortress walls, emerging from the mountain's side like the scutes
of an armored beast. Cassilda he whispers suddenly, testing the name on
his tongue. He looks to his left and sees a courtesan coming down the street,
smiling, a fan clutched in her gloved right hand. She passes the Thief, looking
at him with green eyes, lashes flashing, and he is at her side in an instant,
his arm entwined with hers. What is happening he thinks, as his feet
move and his face breaks into a disarming grin. They march up to Bernard, who
eyes them warily, and Cassilda curtseys and he follows with a deep bow. “For
you, sir,” he says, presenting the bottle of porter. “As a reward for your
exquisite service.”
“Aye,
what's that?” asks Bernard, twitching his mustache.
“You
are being honored, recognized for your distinction. There is no better halberd
man in the court. No men of foul repute will ever pass through this gate, such
is the greatness of your discretion. Please, take this.” The Thief offers up
the bottle, marveling at the words that have come from his mouth.
“Is
that thair some of that spiced wine? Did the boys put yere up to it? I warn ye,
I don't like being played fere a fool,” says Bernard, eyeing Cassilda rather
laciviously.
“No
one would ever take you to be one,” says Cassilda, revealing a full, shiny
denture. She extends a gloved hand, touching the hairy arm of the guardsman.
Suddenly she wraps herself around him, lips in his ear, and a shudder passes
through his body, a sesmic tremble that results in his falling back against the
wall, slumped downward, legs bent and barely supporting his stout frame. She
looks at the Thief, eyes aflame, burning with emerald glory, and points at the
bottle in his hand. He places it at Bernard's feet, and they dart into the
passageway. Rankar spare me thinks the Thief, following Cassilda as she
hurries through the hall, nearly catching up to her as she takes a left down a
winding tunnel, and then finally grabbing hold of her arm as she mount a
spiriling staircase.
“Let
go of me, vagabond,” she says, tearing free, and continuing to climb.
“We
were supposed to bribe him, not poison him,” says the Thief.
“Maybe
that's what you were supposed to do,” replies Cassilda. “Dazbog's magic is as
predictable as the whims of the Duke's royal concubine. He obviously enchanted
us without our knowledge. You followed me without question, and you spoke with
words that were not your own. Our guardsman was not persuaded. I said something
to him in Elmeric, which is odd, because I don't know Elmeric. This is all bad,
Thief. We are being used as pawns.”
“Let's
get out of here, then. I won't be used by that sorcerer.”
“I
think it's too late. Can you stop your feet?” Cassilda looks at him, turning
around as she climbs. The Thief tries to stop, but he keeps climbing, taking
each step at an inexorable pace. “Shit,” he says.
“Yes,
we seem to be in a pickle. I think it will be best to cooperate with the spell.
Trying to resist such things usually results in unpleasantness.”
“'Unpleasantness?'
What if Dazbog has enchanted us to kill the Duke? Who knows what that mad
wizard has done. You know that he is disgraced? He has grudges. We must break
this spell.”
Cassilda
laughs, wheezing, her breath shortened from climbing. Through a tiny window he
sees the city spread out beneath them, its towers distant and shrinking with
every step.
“You
know much about magic? I would think that your expertise would be limited to
how to break door jambs and twist arms for money,” says Cassilda.
“The
Valientice vault, that was my work, as was the Royal Bank heist. What do you
know of stealing, courtesan? Harlotry is your profession, no?”
“We
all do things for money. Are you good at what you do? You must be, since you're
alive and wearing that brand. Let's get the Heart and be done with it, agreed?
That's the only way to break the spell. Money from the Galvanians was what you
were promised, correct? We have our lives and our fortunes at stake. Say what
you will about Dazbog, and do what you will with him afterward, but he is a
talented magician. We will make it out of here alive. I promise you that.”
Cassilda stops, 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 tries to move his feet back down the staircase, but as soon as Cassilda
ventures out onto the wall walk, they follow her obediently like two whipped
dogs. I will kill that wizard he thinks, stepping out into the air, the
wind snapping at his frame, plucking the strings of his lute as he moves across
the narrow pathway. Heights have 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 ocassional mad leap. Cassilda clutches the smooth wall as she
rushes toward the next tower, her gaze fixed firmly on the doorway—she's
scared, he sees, though she moves gracefully enough, gown flapping as the
breeze breaks against the mountain, revealing long, lean limbs. There's a scar
on her right calf, an ugly thing stretching across the muscle like a purple
leech. Must've hurt like hell he thinks as he follows her into the
tower.
“Hey,
more stairs,” says 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 whole thing. 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.”
