Sunday, December 29, 2019

The Heart of the Thief: The Death Dream of the Thief


Previous Chapter: The Illusions of the Disillusioned

The Death Dream of the Thief
Lying comatose with blood seeping from his abdomen, the Thief found himself backward in time. City walls rose up like forests; the mingling scents of piss, wine, and hearth smoke greeted his nose like the familiar perfume of an old friend. He was walking down a street they used to call the Row—there was Skiv the fishmonger, the daily catch on display, a huge, red octopus momentarily catching his eye—and the Thief realized suddenly as he stopped to stare at the crimson sign for Bertha’s Beauties that he was not, at this time, the Thief. There were no scars on his face, no jagged X burned into the flesh of his right hand. The thought only occupied his attention for a half-second before it faded, and then he was sneaking through the thin alley between the whorehouse and the butcher’s building, a smile spreading across his young and handsome visage. There she was, sitting on a barrel in red stockings and a black corset, Red Ginny, with hair like fire and skin the color of creamed coffee, waiting for him as she always did. He bowed courteously; Ginny scoffed but curtsied in return. There was a flower in his pocket, a white lily, and he took it and presented it to her as though it were more precious than all the gold in the world.
    “Why, thank you, sir,” said Ginny, taking it with delicate fingers. “Though I fear by accepting this gift, I will owe you a favor in return.”
    “Indeed, my lady, my intentions are not entirely pure,” said the boy, seizing her in his arms. They kissed as though time was fleeting and they might not see each other again. He let her go and looked into her eyes, a drowsy happiness plain in their dark irises.
    “Will you be ready in the morning? The Zanj leave on time. If we’re late, we will not make it,” he explained.
    “What will it be like there? A paradise, perhaps?” she asked, smiling as though she knew it would be far from a utopia.
    “There might not be as many brothels as one would like, but we’ll manage, somehow. The captain told me that they need strong men to cut timber and build roads. It won’t be hard to find a job that pays well enough to live in a place of our own. It won’t be like Capetia, where the rich feed off the poor and keep them in the gutter. Zarqu is a growing city, the new light of the world, they say. We just need to be brave enough to take the journey. You are brave, aren’t you?”
    “Far more courageous than you, pickpocket,” she said, trying to reach his wallet. “What do they do to thieves in Zanj?”
    “I’m not a thief, and I have no idea,” he said, a note of anger in his voice. “We will be new people there, you understand? I won’t be a pickpocket, and you won’t be a whore. We can be whatever we want to be. We’ll have that freedom. That’s the whole reason we’re doing this.”
    “Yes, yes, don’t be cross with me, I tease, I tease,” she said. “You better go. I have one more customer.”
    He frowned, but he knew that they’d need the money. As was his custom, he didn’t ask questions about her clientele. The boy that would become the Thief left her sitting on the barrel, still perfect moments later in his mind’s eye as he strode the Row, searching for some way to kill time.
    He was lounging at the intersection, watching the great oxen pull carts up the avenue towards the Palace, when he saw the policeman strolling towards Alberto, a fellow thief. Alberto had been tailing a doddering gentleman who had mistakenly wandered through the Row and had somehow escaped being beaten and robbed, so it was the pickpocket’s intention to remedy that oversight in the crowded anonymity of Main Street. He had not seen the policeman, a tall, brawny man whose face wore a look of stark intensity that the boy knew meant trouble greater than the usual sort. Though Alberto was no great friend of his—they were competitors, after all, and there truly was little loyalty amongst thieves—the boy knew he owed Alberto one, for he had saved him of a beating in a similar circumstance, though he had demanded half a sovereign afterward, which the boy regretfully paid him. With that sovereign in mind, the boy cut through the crowd, reaching the policeman before he had reached Alberto. He wasn’t sure what made him do it—a certain arrogance, perhaps, that he would never be able to shed—but as he tugged on the policeman’s sleeve, his other hand went for his back pocket. The man turned; the boy moved behind him, a wallet now in hand. Looming above, a scowl on his face, the policeman asked what the hell was the matter.
    “Sir,” said the boy, “it seems that I have your wallet.”
    This bold admittance of theft was a terrible idea, for policemen were not known to be understanding when it came to transgressions great or small. The Duke paid them to keep order, and order was kept by fear, intimidation, and the omnipresent threat of violence. Violence was the language of the city, and everyone spoke it, from small boys to strapping men to old women prowling around kitchens armed with rolling pins, eager to addle the brains of any prospective thief. The boy was very aware of this fact, and yet he acted with a smile, wearing a malicious grin that advertised his contempt for the city, for its laws, customs, and enforcement personnel. With dash he was across the street, waving at the policeman, taunting the man as he struggled to cross the busy avenue, encumbered by his lack of agility, which the boy was keen to use to his advantage. He waited till the policeman was almost within reach, and then he leapt up a wall like a monkey, using the guttering to pull himself up to the roof. As he turned to wave, something exploded against his head, nearly toppling him from his perch. It was an apple; the policeman had seized several pieces of fruit from a neighboring stall and was prowling around the base of the building, eyes making careful estimations regarding distance, velocity, and the boy’s aptness at dodging. The boy hurdled towards the next rooftop; the policeman followed on the ground after sending another apple his way. This continued for some time, the boy hopping from rooftop to rooftop, his pace quickening as shouts and projectiles came his way. After about half an hour, he circled back towards the Row, confident that he had lost his pursuer. He could never show his face on Main, for the policeman would be looking, but that didn’t matter; he was going Zanj to be a worker, leaving his thieving past behind. To hell with you, Capetia, he thought, you were never good to me. Perhaps after he left, the Galvanians would invade and burn half the city down.
    As he descended to the street, he suddenly wondered what sort of wife Ginny would make. Would she tend house, wash linen, prepare meals? What degree of domesticity could he expect from a whore? He knew what people like himself expected from their wives—hot meals, children, and an almost slave-like obedience—but he couldn’t see himself stumbling home after a hard day’s labors, a stony-faced patriarch, demanding conformity to the rituals of home and hearth. The whole thought experiment sent a tremor of unease through him which reverberated far more than the threat of an infuriated policeman. He stopped before Bertha’s Beauties and stared up at the sign as though asking it to predict the future.
    A Zanjman walked past, a lean man dressed in a buccaneer’s clothes, tricorne hat tilted to one side rakishly. He could tell that the man was from Zanj because his skin was black, darker than the boy’s. The pirate noticed his staring and paused, displaying his white teeth like a flag of surrender. With a wave, he called the boy over.
    “You’re a handsome lad,” he said as the boy approached. “Who’s your father?”
    “I don’t have a father,” replied the boy, his eyes showing defiance. He was as tall as the Zanjman, though not as heavily built.
    “Your mother, then. What is her name?”
    The boy did not answer. He was growing angry at the man’s ingratiating grin, which only appeared to be friendly; there was an insouciance to it that sickened his heart.
    “Come, come—perhaps I know your mother, eh? Maybe I am your father, hah!”
    The boy’s face wore a disgusted look as he tried to get away, but the man caught his hand. His grip was strong; he could feel thick callouses formed from hauling rope.
    “Where you going, boy? You thinking of coming to us? You can leave bastards from port to port like your old man. We need a cabin boy. I promise, we don’t bite. At least, not those of us without teeth.”
    “I’m going to Zarqu to do an honest man’s work!” yelled the boy, surprising himself at the ardor of his words. The evil smile of the pirate widened, while his eyes narrowed to thin slits.
    “There’s nothing honest about you, that’s plain to see. What are you, a pickpocket, a thief? This is a thief’s hand that I feel in my own—it’s got the right sort of slick slenderness to slide into a pocket and out again. I hate to break it to you, boy, but there are plenty of thieves in Zarqu—so many, in fact, that they’re not letting any more in.”
    He let the boy go, laughing to himself as he walked away. The boy suddenly had a mad desire to rush the pirate and plunge a knife into his back, but he had no blade on him, and he had already committed one egregious offense. He doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know who I am, he thought. Distraught, he pushed the door open to the whorehouse and stumbled into a chaotic scene.
    The madam was wrestling with a man in his knickers, who was shouting curses at her and Ginny, who sat crouched in the corner with her arms around her knees, sobbing. “She took my money, I get to do what I want,” the man kept repeating, his long, stringy hair falling about his eyes as he managed to wrench himself loose from the madam. He gave her a good kick, sending the stout woman to the floor, and then turned on Ginny, hitting her about the head and face with the palms of his hands. The boy saw the fire iron sitting next to the hearth and took it in his hands. He hit the man on the back of the head, the curved point of the iron making solid contact with the skull. Something unintelligible ushered forth from the man’s lips; he was driven to the floor, his body supported by trembling limbs, blood dripping down onto the worn wooden panels. The boy hit him again, this time hard enough that he did not rise from the floor. He would have struck him further if the madam had not seized his hands and pried the poker away. “Rankar save us, you’ve killed him,” she said.
    The boy who would soon be the Thief did not have much time to ruminate about committing manslaughter, for the door opened just then, and in stepped the policeman. He never quite figured out how he had tracked him down. A not so reliable source told him years later that while wandering about looking for the boy, the policeman had stumbled upon Alberto, who was coerced into naming Bertha’s Beauties as a place frequented by the dark-skinned pickpocket. It was also said that one of the other whores ran to get a policeman after the conflict between the madam, the man, and Ginny spilled into the foyer. However, the Thief didn’t believe either of those tales. It was simply dumb luck, he figured, as well as the hand of fate, that led the policeman to Bertha’s Beauties at that moment in time. Unarmed, shocked, fatigued, and more than a little emotionally drained, the boy did not flee when the policeman clamped his steely hand around his wrist and led him away.
    Capetia clung to conservative notions of justice and resisted efforts to reform their system in the manner of Matera and Zanj, both of which granted a man (and even a woman!) a trial founded on the liberal notion that a person was innocent until proven guilty. Capetia only granted a man a trial if he were a noble, with the purpose of the trial being to show the guilt of the accused, which was assumed. For someone of the boy’s social class, a trial was deemed unnecessary. The boy could not argue that the brothel patron’s death was unmeditated, for no one particularly cared. For the theft of a policeman’s purse alone he was liable to spend years in a labor camp. For the murder of a noble (Cassius was his name, the black sheep of a lesser house), the Labyrinth would be his fate.
    The Labyrinth loomed large in the collective mind of the citizenry, who feared banishment to their depths more than any other punishment the state could deal out, including death. Imprisonment in the Labyrinth was, in effect, a death sentence, though the death it wrought was terrible, slow, and full of agony. A dense maze constructed long before the establishment of the Dukedom, the Labyrinth offered a half-life of constant darkness and crazed specters who prowled the skeleton-filled maze hungry, searching for fresh blood.
    They fed the prisoners a small amount of slop poured through a plumbing system that drained out in two places close to the entrance. New prisoners mistakenly battled over the gruel, which would barely have kept a dog alive, let alone a man. Most of the condemned died of starvation, yet there were a few who lingered for years, hiding in the deeper places, feeding off rats and the bodies of the deceased. Their existence was theorized rather than proven, for they never spoke and moved quieter than mice, the distinctive crunch of bone emitting from the palpable darkness the only sound to which their phantom natures could lay claim.
    They dragged the boy who would become the Thief towards the pit, two policemen pulling his limbs, their chief striding ahead, whistling as though he were taking a walk in the park rather than condemning a boy to a fate worse than death. The boy struggled, screamed, cursed, and pleaded, but they pulled him onward, their faces frozen in stony silence. They were putting an animal out of its misery; they were keeping the peace. It was not a job for soft men, and they thought of themselves as martyrs for the common good. The chief lifted the heavy doors and darkness spewed forth from the pit, along with the unmistakable odor of urine and a deep, throbbing utterance like the painful moan of a great beast. It is a mouth to hell thought the boy with horror. The chief read the look on his face and took hold of his shoulder, a gleam in his eyes.
    “Yes, son, that is the pit. The stories they tell, I know some don’t believe. But you are here, now, staring down into the bowels of hell. Did you think of this place when you stole that purse? Did you imagine what it would be like to rot in the dark when you brought iron down upon a nobleman’s skull? You didn’t, did you? You couldn’t have, you aren’t the type for reflection. Let me tell you, boy, that I’ve never cast any man into the pit who didn’t deserve it. Remember that while you’re down there. It is not my fault. The fault lies with you,” he finished, a note of triumph in his voice.

    The boy who would become the Thief tried to back away, but the hand that had been on his shoulder was suddenly against his back, and he was falling, down, into the infinite blackness. He landed hard on the floor on his hands and knees, the thin shaft of light vanishing above. His last image was of the jagged X that they had burned into the flesh of his right hand, the ragged imprint of a thief. There was no need to brand him, for no one who was banished to the Labyrinth ever reentered civilized society, yet they had done it all the same. Had he never stolen that purse… the thought vanished as quickly as light had as a shuffling noise echoed through the darkness. Boney hands latched on to him and pulled the boy to his feet.
    “What is it? How does it feel?”
    “It’s a boy. Fresh, tender.”
    “Better than the last one?”
    “Yes… just a lad. A poor, lost little lamb.”
    “Sad story. Feel its haunches. Give them a squeeze.”
    A hand grabbed his buttocks, and he felt hot breath on the back of his neck. Something hit him hard on the back of the head and sent the boy staggering forwards into the arms of a skeletal creature who clutched at his chest, sinking its teeth into his shoulder like a vampire. Despite the utter darkness and the blood dripping down his neck, panic never set in for the boy. There were three of them, he surmised; one behind, one in front, and another to the right. This wasn’t the first time he’d been attacked in the dark. As soon as he felt the air move in front of his face, he brought his knee up and swung his left arm down. A cry ripped through the blackness, and the boy used the distraction to pull the thing that had wrapped itself behind him over his head. He took off then, crashing into walls, winding through passages, steering himself through the abyss with no sense of direction or thought to where he was going, for though there was no way to outrun the darkness, he would still try. Eventually he collapsed in an alcove, trying in vain to suppress his rapid breathing, listening intently for the sound of following footsteps. He didn’t know how long he stayed there—it could have been hours, maybe even days—for the longer one spent without light, the more time became an illusion.
    Who am I thought the boy after eons in the dark, seeing shapes shudder and twist into grotesque blobs that taunted him in their formless majesty. What was a shape without anyone to see it? Shapes could be felt still, but what sort of image appeared in one’s mind when light was but a fading memory? It was startling how quickly he forgot. Soon there was no such thing as a person, only disconnected voices traveling across the emptiness. Sounds took on new dimensions, and after a while, he could calculate the distance between himself and whatever ethereal creature he was hearing. In this way, he avoided those that haunted the entrance.
    For some time, he survived creeping in the sightless void using his ears and hands. There was not much to think about as his self vanished and was replaced by a thing that only thought in the language of necessity. He ate rats when he could catch them, lapped water from the cold stones, slept in high places, little nooks carved into the maze by unknown hands. His clothes became rags, his teeth loosened in their sockets, and his body lost much of its weight. Death was close at hand, reaching its boney fingers towards his skeletal shoulders, whispering to what remained of his conscious mind how nice it would be to not eat wriggling rodents or feel the constantly burning hole in his stomach.
    When he heard the voice, he wasn’t sure whether it was real or if it was Death speaking to him in an airy, soft whisper that promised everlasting relief.
    “You don’t have to be here,” it said, seemingly from above.
    The boy looked around in terror. No one had spoken to him directly, not since they had dropped him into the pit.
    “You are a thief. I can see the mark burned into your flesh.”
    “You can see it?” asked the boy, feeling the mark on his hand.
    “I can see your black skin and how it hangs off your bones like a dead animal’s hide,” said the voice with a shade of contempt. “I am not like you, nor am I akin to the ghouls that starve in this prison. The only reason I am speaking to you is that destiny hangs around your neck like a noose. Do you want to die, or do you wish to meet fate?”
    “You know a way out of here?” asked the boy, incredulous.
    “This place is older than anyone knows. It was not always a prison, though it was always a home for death. It was a temple and a tomb for those who wished to sacrifice their lives to something ancient, terrible, and worthy of their awe. When the Emperor came and subdued the remnants of their cult, he sent warriors, priests, and magicians down here to deal with what he dismissed as a monster, a brutish, barely-sentient animal. None of them came back alive, and the temple was sealed and transformed into a tomb where people could be thrown and never seen again. However, the thing that they feared was not trapped; it simply chose to stay hidden, resting, waiting for the end of this world and the start of another.”
    The boy didn’t know what to say. He could feel the presence of the voice now, which lent an intoxicating quality to the air. He felt sleepy, lethargic, frozen in place. Every word seemed to hang in his ears.
    “I have a gift for you,” continued the voice. “I have not given anyone a gift in a very long time. You are a thief, and a thief can only steal if he is not seen. No one will notice you when you do not wish them to; you will blend into the shadows, you will vanish in a crowd, you will disappear in an alcove, your presence fleeting and never remembered. Give me your hand, and I will give you this gift, but know that you will not be the man you were before. The noose shall tighten, and fate will take what it will.”
    The boy felt his hand being seized by something cold and leathery. It touched his mark, and suddenly the darkness was lit by a faint gray light. For a moment he saw it, looming above, a menacing figure with the fanged face of a bat and huge wings that stretched to the ceiling of the cavern. Then it was gone, and he was alone, but the gray light remained, and he realized that he could see. He was the Thief then, though he didn’t realize it. Immediately he wandered through the maze, letting his subconscious guide him as he twisted through tight passageways that wound like the intestinal tract of a great monster. As he wove deeper into the maze, he encountered paintings on the walls, line figures wielding spears against bison and deer, dark handprints streaked beneath the drawings, possibly left in blood. The Thief stopped before a huge mural showing a winged beast towering over a crowd of supplicants, who cut their throats before the thing, which bathed in the pool of their shed ichor. Only then did he reflect on the nature of his gift—what price would he pay, accepting the charity of an eldritch horror? Fate was something he never dreamed of, something he wasn’t sure he believed in. But any price was worth being able to escape.
    Suddenly the gray light gave way to the brightness of the moon, and the Thief found himself standing on the edge of a pool, looking across at a waterfall, the sky spread enormous above, the moon a great eye illuminating a new world. He scaled the side of the hole, his hands finding ledges, arms barely strong enough to pull, the taste of rodent on his tongue, motivating him upward. At last he stood on the earth again in the long shadow of an aqueduct, the city that had discarded him a mile in the distance, asleep and unaware of his resurrection. He stared at it like a spurned lover, a poisonous mixture of grief, love, and rage rising to his throat. Tears fell from his eyes as he realized he had believed that he was going to die down in the Labyrinth, his corpse picked apart by things that had used to be men. When he had wept his fill, he picked himself up and limped towards the horizon, leaving the past to lurk in the darkness, his future a jagged scar burning on his hand.


    “Thief, can you hear me?”
    She looked just like she had when he had thought she was a courtesan—auburn hair, emerald eyes, an oval face of perfect symmetry. Still, he called her “Ginny” as he awoke from the fever dream.
    She scoffed, a look of disgust on her face. A strong hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him to his feet.
    “Did you see anything? Or was there nothing but the void?” asked the barbarian.
    “We stand in his blood, give him room to breathe,” said Fergal.
    “He may need help to walk. I can mend flesh, but I cannot restore the lost fluids.”
    Blinking, the Thief glanced around. Callimachus stood nearby, a visor pulled back on her head, a cutting torch in her hands.
    “Your companions explained your intentions as soon as you left,” she said, putting out the torch, “so I accompanied them down with my gear, which I thought might come in handy if you needed assistance.  Josun claims he can break adamant, and though he did bend Cassilda’s shackles, I had to use the torch to free her hands. You owe both of us your life and eternal gratitude, if I may say so.”
    “I owe the Thief, and the rest of you as well,” said Cassilda. “There are Capetians here, and that witch Almagest was preparing to use me as a bargaining chip. Let us get the hell out of here before they come looking. I presume, Callimachus…”
    “Professor Callimachus,” corrected the Northron woman.
    “Um, yes, Professor Callimachus, I presume you would be willing to fly us out of here on your airship? Provided that we can climb these stairs and reach the courtyard without any further difficulties.”
    Cassilda snapped her fingers and a green firefly materialized. Callimachus stared in amazement before reaching a hand out to touch the will o’-the-wisp, which deftly moved out of the way.
    “A hinkypunk! I feel like a child. What is the mechanism behind its conjuration? Look how it behaves, almost as though it is sentient! You magicians must be privy to principles that we in the Republic have forgotten. Will you share your secrets with me, sorceress, if I let you abscond to the sky?”
    “Oh, most certainly!” replied Cassilda, winking at her companions. “I will tell you all that I know of the forbidden magical arts.”
    “Then it is agreed,” said Callimachus. “I will hold you to your promise.”
    As they reached the top of the stairs, a contingent of soldiers rushed past, their armor rattling noisily, shouts and screams echoing down the hallway. If the soldiers saw the company, they didn’t seem to care who they were or what they were doing, for their attention was focused on the commotion happening further into the castle. The company were nearly to the courtyard when something stumbled out in front of them like an animal, causing all to freeze in their tracks. It was man on all fours, dressed in the uniform of a Beaune soldier, blood dripping from his breast where a broken spear was embedded. The man, however, did not seem to care about his mortal injury; he swiveled his head around as though it were on a loose spindle and stared at them with passive eyes. Hairs stood up on the back of the Thief’s neck, for the man’s movements and mannerisms were profoundly unnatural and possessed a disturbing amount of clumsiness and painful elasticity, giving the impression that the soul which controlled the body hadn’t much familiarity with moving on the mortal plane. Slowly, a grimace crept over the creature’s face. It pointed a broken thumb at Fergal and bared its teeth.
    “Envious monster,” it spat in a harsh voice. “Doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what it does. Soulless, stinking thing of lies and half-truths. You can’t get it back. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.”
    A spear flew and pierced the creature’s head, snapping its neck backward. A hiss issued from its throat, gradually transforming from a moan into a laugh. Its left arm grasped its head by the hair and pulled it straight so that it could look at the company with leering eyes.
    Yet Josun was already on the move. He grasped the spear and put his weight into his pull, tearing it from the skull of the monster. The head did not survive further distress, and most of the skull along with its innards splattered to the floor in a red, fleshy heap. A ball of fire hit the creature, tearing its left arm from its body. A second blast removed the remaining arm, but still it crawled forward, smearing its wasted body on the tiles, leaving a long, bloody streak in its wake. Josun leaped aside, and they watched as it crawled down the hall, unwilling to surrender to death.
    “There is a necromancer here,” said Cassilda, her voice tinged with fear.
    “Someone explain what that was,” asked Callimachus quietly.
    “A dead body reanimated by a demon. Such sorcery is forbidden under the pain of death.” The sorceress looked shocked as though she could hardly imagine such a thing. “I didn’t know that anyone knew how to perform such terrible magic other than…” she trailed off, unable to finish her thought.
    “Let’s leave now,” said Fergal, eyes on the bloody floor. The words the demon had said to him had left the Aiv shaken. They did as he suggested, winding down another hallway before entering the courtyard. There were soldiers everywhere, shouting orders, running up stairs, lighting torches, and carrying boiling caldrons of oil. It was as though they had entered another time and world, one at war. Archers stood on the walkways shooting arrows out into the darkness; the smells of blood and fire were thick in the air. One soldier stopped and glanced at them. Half of his face had been cleaved in by a mace. All the soldiers, they suddenly noticed, were sporting fatal wounds or obvious deformities.
    “Harlot,” it said, staring at Cassilda. “Black-hearted bringer of chaos. He is searching for you.”
    All the soldiers turned their gaze towards the company. The Thief felt his stomach clench into something small and unrecognizable.
    “We are going to die,” said Fergal, voicing everyone’s thoughts.

Next Chapter: The Necromancer

Friday, December 27, 2019

The Heart of the Thief: Illusions and the Disillusioned


Previous Chapter: Making a Deal

Illusions and the Disillusioned
Beaune was a hot, humid land, and Silas Amaro found himself loathing every step. Moisture slid off his face and stained the collar of his tunic; beneath his arms, dark patterns had formed, sending sweat trickling down his sides. He was used to the temperate climate of Capetia and its ocean breezes. This land, with its thick vegetation and blazing sun, seemed designed to drain a man of all the water in his body. The locals, he noticed, didn’t seem to mind. They labored through the heat of the day, picking peaches in orchards, stacking straw in barns, leaning on porches with ruddy, sun-stained faces. He could tell that Firenze was miserable beneath his ridiculous wide-brimmed hat. The Medjay too, must have been even more uncomfortable beneath their plated armor, but they marched on without complaint. They likely feel nothing he thought. They could go weeks without water, according to myth, though he had never witnessed this feat. When commanded to drink, they drank, same as any other man. When the burden of thought is removed, man can do great things. He smiled at his own witticism, thinking it characteristic of Dazbog, who was riding behind him. The old necromancer had insisted on being taken with them, despite Firenze’s protestations, and although Silas didn’t trust Dazbog, he believed that the most prudent decision was to keep the ruined wizard happy, for the time being, at least. It could not be denied that he had aided their search for Cassilda and the Heart, but the Amaro now knew it had been a grave error bringing the necromancer with them, for he was more powerful than he had realized and far more dangerous. When we are in the castle, I will have the Medjay murder him in his sleep. Battlemages that tossed fireballs and lightning were one thing, but necromancers that could alter perception to the degree where reality was indistinguishable from fantasy created problems that could not be solved with a sharp edge of a sword. At least, not a sword he’ll see coming.
    Moselle certainly hadn’t seen it coming. He had let the Medjay loose, ordering them simply to not hold back, and they had borne down upon the village with torches in one hand and their spears in the other. They supply depot was destroyed, along with all of those who did not flee or were not quick enough to escape, the Rheinelanders murdered and left impaled upon pikes for all to see. Not a single man was lost during the conflict, for no one put up much of a fight. The sudden brutality of the raid had shaken Silas out of his sea-stupor and given him a thirst for results. The long quest, it seemed, was nearing its end, and blood must be spilled to answer for the crimes committed, and he and his men were more than up to the task.
    What will you do once you have the Heart? The journey back was long, and he would have to explain his absence. Although it was unlikely that the High Priest had disclosed anything to the Duke, Capetia was hundreds of miles away, and news traveled slowly. Contingencies must be planned for, lest he be caught in an unexplainable situation. He would think of something—his talent to create believable fiction was immense—and he had some leeway with the Duke. I will spin the recovery of the Heart into a litany of titles and a more leisurely existence. After all, he had done something similar with the killing of Imul, turning blackmail and a murder into a heroic defense of his sovereign. There was no shame in self-promotion; the truth was malleable and waiting to be used to one’s advantage. Those who understood these facts of life profited, while those who clung to notions of honor fell by the wayside. He had been aware of this since he was a child cleaning tankards and living on the streets.
    A movement on his left caught his eye. Something whistled past his face and sunk into a tree. Voices shouted from the tree line and more arrows filled the air. One lodged itself into the breast of a Medjay warrior, who paused and broke off the tail, raising his shield. Silas moved his horse behind the warriors, who had formed a defensive line towards their attackers, their shields locked together as a solid wall. Silas saw several archers taking cover behind trees in the forest, popping out to take shots. We can’t move into the woods without breaking formation and thus losing our strength. Further down the road, soldiers were marching, beating swords against almond-shaped shields. They are trying to flank us. He shouted for the line to move backwards towards a large barn behind them. If they could reach it before the soldiers in front of them charged, then they could pivot and meet them without exposing too much of their right flank to projectile fire. Silas’s horse bucked; it was not a war horse and the smell of blood and the commotion had it spooked. He grasped the reins tightly and steered it backwards as the Medjay moved methodically, arrows clanking off their tall, heavy shields. The soldiers were running now, screaming to rattle the Capetians. Little good that will do thought Silas, who had drawn his zweihander from across his shoulder, letting the long, heavy sword rest against his leg. Sensing that they would not reach the barn, he dismounted and grasped his weapon with both hands. The Medjay’s formation twisted into a right angle as half of them turned to meet rushing soldiers. The attackers veered outward to try and flank the formation, but they were surprised as the Medjay leaped a great distance forward and managed to thrust their spears into the first few attackers. Two dodged past their initial thrust and came at Silas. They were big men, clad in red and gold, and they came at him like big men, throwing their girth in straight lines like bulls bowing horned heads. The zweihander cut through the air faster than a five-pound blade should, propelled by Silas’s considerable strength. The tip cut through the jerkin of the first man, slashing his chest deeply; Silas reversed the swing and caught the second soldier’s neck, slicing his throat. The first man pressed on, stumbling at him, somehow managing to stab Silas in the foot. He brought down a heavy hand onto the man’s head, driving him into the earth. Removing a knife from his belt, he sunk it into the soldier’s back and stepped away. He saw a Medjay lying in the grass, seven arrows emerging from his fallen body. The Rheinelanders were retreating after their first charge; half of their force lay dead before the Medjay, still holding their formation. Silas cleaned the blood from his sword and strapped it across his shoulder. He saw his horse behind the barn, grazing peacefully as though the battle from which it had bolted ceased to exist. The surface of his right boot was crimson with his own blood. Goddamn animal he thought, limping after the horse.
    In the barn he discovered Dazbog. The necromancer was watching the Rheinelanders flee through a gap in the siding while sitting on a pile of hay, fingering his beard. The sight of the wizard hiding from battle boiled his blood; what use was his magic if he fled from a mere skirmish?
    “I would think that fearsome necromancers would not seek refuge in a barn while battle raged on outside,” said Silas, staring down at Dazbog with contempt.
    “I am not a battlemage. What good are the mutants if they cannot defend us against rabble? What good are you, Amaro?” said Dazbog with a smirk. “Surely your oafish strength is good for something.”
    Silas cuffed the wizard, knocking him to the ground. Blood flew from a burst lip, splattering across the dry dust. The old man’s hand went to his face, touching the blood and the swelling flesh with trembling fingers.
    “I know you can’t help yourself to beat a poor, weary old man when he tries your patience. You are simply reacting to chemical impulses in your brain, atoms moving about in ways that no one understands. You don’t give in to anger any more than you give in to love, jealousy, or pride. You are a choiceless, meaningless thing, a rock in motion across an illusionary plain. This scene, what we are witnessing here, could be no other way. Wizards hide in barns and mutants shed blood while the sun sinks below the rolling hills, a demise unlike any other. Would it not be a relief if it never rose again? The suffering that you, I, Firenze, and every other man feels daily would disappear with us. Think of all the unborn lives waiting to die, to be tortured, to lose loved ones, to lie in a field with their lifeblood leaking out and their limp limbs beside them. Think of them, and then think of the sun.”
    Silas’s hand grasped his sword. The necromancer deserved to die—he was an abomination, and a stinking, useless old man—and there was no better time than now. With one quick stroke, Dazbog’s head fell from his shoulders and landed softly in the sandy dust. Where his head had been, bubbling black fluid spewed like oil. Droplets hit the ancient barn wood and burned through it like acid, smoke rising from the reaction. Silas raised his hand in alarm and felt the black oil touch his skin. The flesh of his forearm suddenly blistered and blackened and then sloughed off in thin, crumbling pieces, revealing muscle and sinew beneath, which also fell away until only bone was left. He stood examining the stark white of his radius, watching in disbelief as the tiny bones of his fingers fell apart. A cracking sound echoed through the dark space; the great beams splintered, and siding was stripped away as though a hurricane wind blew through. Through the skeleton of the building, he saw neither field nor forest, but a cold, barren scene—rocks lying in a sand-strewn valley, not a living thing in sight, only a few scattered tree trunks almost petrified by age. On the horizon, a small orange sun flickered, its dying rays providing feeble light. He tried to speak but found that he could not, for this place didn’t tolerate sound. Save for the slow rise and fall of the sun, it was unchanging, a static, eternal graveyard hiding bones that would never be revealed. Silas looked down at the ground, trying to find his bones. He didn’t look up until he heard a voice.
    “There seems to have been a coup, Amaro,” said Firenze.
    Silas looked around and saw that he was on a hillside overlooking a valley, the Palace of Beaune visible on the other side of the river. The sun was low in the sky; it appeared tired and dispossessed, a weary stranger shining a light in the enveloping darkness.
    “The necromancer. Where is he?”
    “He has left to speak to the general, as you ordered him,” said Firenze, giving Silas a look of concern.
    “What general?” said Silas. They were surrounded by most of the Medjay, who had set up a bivouac consisting of a few tents and small fires. None of the mutants rested, however; they stood perpetually on guard, only their strange eyes visible behind the thin slit in their plumed helmets.
    “Merovech, the head of the Count’s army, the man responsible for the coup and the ending of hostilities with Rheineland. Are you all right?” asked Firenze. “You seem stoned.”
    “The last thing I remember was beheading Dazbog in the barn…”
    “The bastard is alive and well, unfortunately, I assure you,” said Firenze with clear disapproval. “We found you in the barn, but Dazbog was not there, he had ridden ahead and somehow evaded capture by the Rheinelanders. You’d bled a lot from a nasty foot wound which the medic patched up best he could. The blood loss must’ve made you lose consciousness. You did act strange after your revival. You told us to make straight for this hillside and wait until Dazbog returned with a delegation from the castle. You didn’t answer questions when asked, but I figured you were in a mood, that was all.”
    “You though I was in a mood?” roared Silas. “You’re a fucking sorcerer and you couldn’t see something was wrong with me? Dazbog has done something, messed with my mind, seized control, decided what I see… he could be doing it to us right now! How do you determine if you are in an illusion?”
    “There’s… no real way to be certain. A talented illusionist can create an illusion that is indistinguishable from reality, but to keep it going for any significant amount of time would require an unbelievable amount of power, and there is no Academia-trained wizard that I am aware of that could pull off something to that effect, not without the aid of several mages…”
    Silas pulled out his knife and cut his forearm. Blood swelled up at the incision, and he felt the sting of the blade. He let out a sigh and fell to the ground.
    “That proves nothing,” said Firenze.
    “I can distinguish between real and fabricated pain,” said Silas. “I have felt enough pain and caused enough of it to know the difference.” He looked towards the castle. There had once been a large encampment before the main gate, but it was now occupied by a small force of soldiers. If they had let Dazbog through, would they also allow the Medjay to enter the castle? The fearsome reputation of the mutants was widespread, and he knew nothing about General Merovech and how he would react to a force of shock troops at his gate. Silas decided that he had no other alternative to marching up to the castle and demanding Cassilda. Who knew what sort of havoc the necromancer was weaving behind those walls?
    “Tell the troops to pack up. We’re going down to that gate, and if it won’t open, we’ll beat it down.”
    “Is that wise—”
    “It’s an order,” said Silas, fixing Firenze with a glare. The assassin backed down with a bowed head and went to tell the Medjay to pack up. Silas wondered what had happened to the sorceress during the coup and whether their agreement would hold. Almost at the end, and everything seems to go to hell. This entire ordeal had adhered to the law of entropy. Systems break down and revert to chaos. He was not a learned man, but he had once heard the Vaalbaran Ambassador discussing the laws of thermodynamics, and the second law had stuck with him, because of its inherent truth.
    In the fading light they crossed the river and marched to the soldiers’ encampment, Silas at the head of the troops. The castle loomed tall before them, an ancient fortress of solid stone. There was blood in the air—he could smell it, an old spy’s sense—and he had to fight the urge to remove the zweihander from his shoulder. They stopped when a horn blew, just a few feet away from a piked bulwark made of earth, the long spears emerging like poisonous spines. Armed men appeared on the primitive wall, crossbows in hand. A voice called out for them to identify themselves and to state their business, so he spoke.
    “I am Silas Amaro, Chief of the Capetian Secret Service, an officer of the eighteenth Duke of Massalia. The mage Hypatia Almagest bade us come for an exchange involving an enemy of our state.”
    The voice was silent for a while. Silas wondered if he had been too brief.
    “There are no prisoners here,” said the voice finally. “Go back to your ship. There is nothing for you here.”
    “I understand that there is no Count in Beaune. Oudinot has been deposed, and General Merovech rules the castle. If the General hopes to hold power, he will need allies. He could make one very easily if he so desires. What I want is the sorceress Cassilda. When I have her, I will leave, and Capetia will recognize the sovereignty of his rule,” said Silas.
    “No one gives a flying fuck about Capetia,” responded the voice. “Go, or we’ll fill you full of arrows.”
    Silas stared at the narrow path through the bulwark. He was admittedly no great military tactician, but he knew that a frontal assault was unlikely to succeed. What had the wizard done? Had he used his powers to slip through unseen? Firenze was silent, and the Medjay were unthinking implements of war. Looking at the crossbows pointed at him, Silas wondered if the smell of blood in the air was a premonition, a harbinger of impending doom. Magicians spoke of the impossibility of evading fate, and he had always thought that argument to be a coward’s excuse, yet standing there before the gate, his life in the sights of several dozen men, he understood that some choices are made for you.
    “Memento mori,” he said, barely above a whisper. The soldiers behind the bulwark would not understand Elmeric, nor would they hear him—the Medjay, however, snapped to attention, their long shields pressing together to form an impenetrable wall. Silas dived behind the formation, and the unit instantly transformed into a triangle, the point aiming for the entrance. He heard the sharp twang of crossbows, saw Firenze huddling behind the line, a look of horror plain on his face, felt his blood tingle and his hands shake in anticipation. The wall of Medjay closed in, marching through the bulwark, and Silas ducked underneath the shields of two soldiers, who were protecting against arrows from above. As soon as they were through, the triangle changed to a dense circle, the middle Medjay building a ceiling with their raised shields. Arrows rained down upon them, but the projectiles bounced harmlessly off Capetian steel, giving Silas hope. They were almost to the wrought iron gate—what they would do when they arrived there, he didn’t know—and the enemy seemed content to fire arrows at a distance instead of engaging in melee combat. Perhaps they’re waiting till we are trapped and cornered he thought with a bitter grin. If so, there would be a mountain of dead men before all the Medjay were slain.
    The formation changed again from a circle to a rectangle. The front line charged at the gate, crashing their shields into the wrought iron, whereas the rear deflected arrows and prepared to defend against a mass of soldiers who were armed with pikes and seemed to be contemplating a charge. Silas did nothing but clutch his zweihander, for the Medjay knew better than he what to do; their training prepared them for the machinations of war. The soldiers at the front had already laid their shields aside and were straining to lift the gate, attempting a feat of strength that Silas would have thought foolish had any other troops tried it. The gate rose over a foot; two Medjay squatted between the teeth and pressed upward, raising the portcullis to shoulder height. Rankar only knows how much that gate weighs thought Silas, rushing beneath it with several Medjay. He paused and watched as the defensive line backed quickly towards the open gate, only letting their shields fall at the last second. As soon as they were through the two Medjay who had lifted the portcullis let the wrought iron fall, as they themselves did, their bodies riddled with arrows.
    They were in the courtyard, and a scattering of soldiers headed towards them carrying swords and halberds. They were green men; if a coup had just occurred, it must have been a bloodless one, for these troops were fresh-faced, unsure of themselves, and less hesitant than they should have been to attack a contingent of Medjay. The mutants sensed this, and instead of forming a phalanx, rushed forward with preternatural speed. They cut through the soldiers as though they were props, skewering them on their long spears, bashing their skulls with their great shields, and sending any survivors fleeing for the other end of the courtyard. Silas made straight for the hold, three Medjay at his side. They kicked open the wide doors and were immediately set upon by four tall guardsmen, armored and armed with maces. The leader managed to hit the Medjay on Silas’s right, breaking his left arm with a sickening crack, yet the mutant simply grabbed the man by the throat and threw him to the ground, where he was decapitated with a long knife wielded by the Medjay’s remaining arm. The other guardsmen fared poorly; two were killed by spearpoint without rendering any damaging blows, and the last was beheaded by Silas after missing wildly with his weapon. They continued towards the great hall, where they found Merovech clustered with a group of nobles, unguarded. Count Oudinot, looking rather bloated and purple-faced, hung from the rafters in his underwear. The general appeared surprised to see them—his mustachioed face hung askew, as though he lacked the ability to straighten it. Silas, incensed, grabbed a nobleman and tossed him across the room, watching as the rest fled from the general. The Medjay aimed their spearpoints at his breast. It was time to speak.
    “Merovech, I’m guessing,” said the Silas, looking the general in the eye. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t care about that carcass hanging from the ceiling, nor do I give a shit about these aristocrats scampering around your ankles. If you want to be a dictator, that’s your own business. I, however, did not come several hundred miles to return to the Duke of Massalia without the sorceress known as Cassilda and the Heart that she possesses. We were invited here by Hypatia Almagest. I don’t know if she’s in your good graces or if she’s outside impaled on a spike, but a deal was made, and payment must be rendered. I’ve killed a lot of people in my life, and I won’t think twice about having one of my mutants here plunge a spear right through your chest. So I’ll ask you only once: where is my sorceress?”
    The general’s eyes had a steely-blue color reminiscent of the ocean right after it had swallowed a ship and all its crew. His mustache was thick and bushy and curled upward as though straining to reach the sun.
    “I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about,” he said, his insigne rattling. “You, man, are about to lose your head.”
    The stupid bluster of the threat enraged Silas. He seized hold of the Medjay’s spear and rammed it through Merovech before stamping his boot on his stomach and pulling the weapon free. It was a cathartic act, a release of built-up frustration, and even as Silas realized his mistake, he could not wipe the smile from his face.
    It was at this point that things really went to hell.



    Hypatia had been on her way to see the Count when they were stringing him up on the rafters. The old buffoon sputtered and cursed, but no one could understand what he was trying to say, and after years of his constant nonsensical ramblings, no one felt like granting him that small dignity. The rope had been fitted very tightly, and the Count’s face was already changing color before they started to pull his bloated body towards the ceiling. The two soldiers who were committing regicide seemed to enjoy the act; they asked Oudinot “How you feeling, your Majesty?” and “Can we get your royal ass anything, sire?” and laughed when the Count’s limbs flailed about like a fish’s fins fluttering in the cold air. Hypatia was in shock—how could this be happening; how could she have not foreseen this—but she did have enough sense of self-preservation to begin backing out of the hall. A guardsman, a giant fellow wearing a helm and carrying a mace, started towards her, but she threw him against the wall with a flick of her wrist and fled. She heard the echo of boots running on marble as she turned the corner and spied a parlor room that was seldom frequented. Darting into the room, she quickly shut the door and whispered a spell to obscure it. The pursuers stopped; there were shouts and curses, and someone said that Hypatia’s disappearance was no fault of their own, because witches were liable to go invisible at any second. This was silly, of course, for it was far easier to manipulate someone’s perception than to truly become invisible, but Hypatia didn’t think it was prudent to point out this fact in her present circumstances. She had always been something of a know-it-all—at the Academia, she had been known as Almagest the Knowledgable. Of course, if she were omniscient, she wouldn’t be hiding in a parlor like a scared little girl, waiting for the monsters to crawl down the hallway.
    General Merovech was certainly to blame. Oudinot had dressed him down for the last time, for he was a proud man who resented taking orders from an idiot. Hypatia had overestimated his loyalty to the Count, an egregious error, now that she thought about it. The gaudy pomp, the arrogance, the rash impatience—a military man who had come up under the previous Count would be hard-pressed to stand it. An image of Merovech flinching as Oudinot commanded that the court refer to him as “your Majesty,” came creeping out of the corner of her memory like a giant spider. He must have had the support of the nobility, who chafed under the Count’s harsh rule. That’s where I made my mistake she thought.
    Her thoughts turned to the Conventum, which had posted her in Beaune. What was the protocol for dealing with a coup? Hypatia had no idea. Would she be blamed for the deposal of Oudinot? It was possible. They could charge her with dereliction of duty, which would result in her being disbarred, and then she would be no different than Cassilda, an unlicensed sorceress. Wait, Cassilda—that’s my way out of this mess. The Capetians were coming to collect her, and Hypatia could bargain with them, perhaps. All she had to do was get down to the dungeon and convince Astain to release the sorceress into her custody. Durns were terribly loyal to their masters, but now that the Count was dead, whom Astain served was in question. Hypatia could be very charming, of course, though Durns were notoriously difficult to influence with charming magic. Maybe she could even persuade Astain to come with her.
    After taking a few deep breaths, she cast an illusion spell that rendered her indiscreet—passersby would only notice her if they were looking directly at her—and ventured into the hallway. It was quiet and unoccupied, though she thought she heard faint shouting somewhere in the distance. Now that Oudinot was hanged, the real question was who else was in line for the makeshift gallows? Probably just yourself she thought with horror. The nobles had likely colluded with Merovech and the army, and the Count had no real friends. There were a couple of recognized sons, yet they lived in Hampton with their mother, who had long ago tired of the Count’s dalliances and abusive manner. It didn’t seem likely that the eldest would be Oudinot’s successor, not with Rheineland waiting outside the gates.
    She crept down another hall and found the staircase that led to the dungeon unguarded. During her descent, she thought she saw a shadow before her—something tall, dark, and elongated—but when she reached the foot of the stairs, there was no one in dim prison. Down the corridor, Astain stood at attention, his gaze fixed down the hallway, staring impassively like a statue made of granite. Hypatia mimicked his pose, then walked towards the guardsman, eyes boring into his dark, almond orbs. She thought as he thought—precise, measured, focused—and concentrated on assuming the structure of his peculiar Durnish brain. A few paces from Astain, she stopped and stood silently, trying to reach through the windows and grasp at the flickering fire of his soul. There it was, bright and slender, burning blue yet casting little heat. At ease she whispered. The corners of the old guardsman’s mouth twitched. I must leave with the prisoner. The Count demands it.
    The Durn’s hand moved slowly to his chain. He took a key and stepped forward to the closest cell and unlocked it. Cassilda lay on the bed, asleep, hands bound with shackles of adamant. They both stood in the doorway, examining the sorceress, before Hypatia beckoned to Astain. The old guardsman walked into the cell and nudged the sorceress with the shaft of his spear. Her emerald eyes opened immediately, the only remaining trace of her beauty. Ah, there’s hatred there thought Hypatia. Perhaps in different circumstances, we’d be comrades.
    “It’s time to leave, my dear Cassilda. There are people here to collect you, and we must find them before we are strung up from the rafters. Do you understand? The military has seized power. They have no love for magicians, and they will kill us on the spot if we are discovered. So think twice before you shout for help.”
    A shadow loomed behind Astain, and the guardsman was suddenly sent sprawling forward into the cell. Hypatia wheeled around, and a knife cut through the air, slicing into the shadow, yet before she could move further, Cassilda had leapt up and thrust her shackles around the magician’s neck. She pulled hard, taking Hypatia to the floor; sparks shot from the fingers of the choking mage, muted by the adamant chains. I have you, you scheming bitch thought the sorceress, gritting her teeth. In her fury, Cassilda meant to kill Hypatia to pay her back for spilled blood, but the Durn stirred, shaking his battered head, and her rescuer, the Thief, lay against the wall, clutching his torso. She jumped off Almagest, hit her hard in the forehead with her shackles, and then sprinted out of the cell, slamming it shut. The Thief reached out to her, and she threw his arm around her shoulders and helped him walk down the corridor. The front of his tunic was wet with blood; she could feel the moist warmth of it soaking through her own clothes. She had to get the shackles off so she could heal his wound, but he pitched forward suddenly and fell at the foot of the stairs, groaning, and then Cassilda saw that his entire chest had been torn open by the ragged edge of the enchanted blade.
    “Thief! You must hold on! Where are the others?” she shouted.
    “They’re floating up in the sky, looking for things to steal,” he said, before closing his eyes.

Next Chapter: The Death Dream of the Thief

Saturday, December 21, 2019

The Heart of the Thief: Making a Deal



Previous Chapter: Arrested

Making a Deal
 
A cool pool of water beckoned to Hypatia as she slid out of her clothes and descended the tiled stairs. Stained glass windows rose from the floor and ascended towards the ceiling like emerald eyeglasses for the gods. Dragons, lions, and other stylized creatures stood watch, fearsome despite their crudeness. Someone colored their patterns ages ago before the establishment of the comital title, and his or her name was lost to history. Other than the soft echo of her feet, the chapel was soundless, a place for meditation and penance. No one used it besides her, nor would she have permitted them to use it, for Oudinot’s household was composed of vulgar men of low character who would have profaned the place. She had found the chapel accidentally when wandering about the ancient castle, and ever since the discovery, she’d kept it a secret for many reasons. Perfect place for an assassination she thought as she sank beneath the water. Oh well. When your time comes, it comes. It would not have been difficult to fashion a warden to guard her when she was indisposed, but the existence of such a thing would have ruined the sanctity of the environment. The cool, enveloping quiet of the water took hold, and she forgot about everything but the transmission.
    Hypatia clutched the amulet around her neck and closed her eyes. It was a dark place, the only noise the beating of her heart. Gradually, his features formed in the darkness. A lean face, goateed, with disapproving eyes and long, stringy hair. He stood on a deck, looking out over a sea; the image rocked with the motion of the waves. She watched awhile before he twitched suddenly and looked over his shoulder. Then he realized what was happening and went below deck to his chambers. After latching the door of his cramped cabin, he sat down and closed his eyes.
    “Yes?” he asked, his face impatient. There was no glimmer of recognition, which disappointed her.
    “Firenze, how are you? It looks as though the Capetians are treating you well.”
    She watched as he searched her face, looking for a name.
    “Hypatia Almagest, Dortmund class of ‘70. We had Alchemy together.” She felt foolish pointing out this fact like an ignored school girl.
    “My school days were long ago,” said Firenze, in a not-so-friendly voice. Clearly, he had no nostalgia for those days, nor had his social skills improved.
    “I am in the service of Count Oudinot of Beaune, if you were not aware. You serve somewhere in Capetia, if I am not mistaken?”
    “I’m a mercenary,” said Firenze. There was an uncomfortable silence.
    “That must be interesting work,” said Hypatia. For some reason, she had thought that Firenze had a position in the Duke’s court, but it was obvious now that he had degenerated into an assassin and probably did work for the Secret Service.
    “I’m afraid that I don’t have time for conversation,” began Firenze.
    “Are your masters missing something?” interrupted Hypatia. “Perhaps a priceless relic historically associated with Capetian sovereignty?”
    “Do you have it?” whispered Firenze, his eyes widening.
    “If you are referring to the Heart of Rankar, no, I do not have it. I do, however, have the sorceress who stole it in my custody, and I’m sure she can tell you what she did with it.”
    She watched with amusement as he tried to force his face into an ingratiating smile. It was not a good look, but no feat of facial contortion nor beautifying spell could improve the deceitful impression of the mercenary’s face.
    “Please,” he said, opening his arms and bowing, “tell me more about this sorceress.”
    “Her name is Cassilda, and she was found associating with three ruffians whom we detained, though I regret to say that they did not survive the process. She is a pyromancer and displays many other talents, though she was not Academia trained, I’d wager. There is a roughness about her, all raw nerve and tension. Perhaps she was noble-born, I don’t know.”
    There wasn’t much else to tell. What difference would it make to describe the appearance of someone who could wear another face with a snap of her fingers?
    “It seems you have our woman. It will take us two days to reach the coast, and perhaps another day to travel to Beaune,” said Firenze. “There is a reward of five-hundred sovereigns for the sorceress…”
    “You can keep your money,” said Hypatia, cutting him off. “Beaune is currently at war with Rheine. You are traveling with the famous Medjay guards, I assume? There is a supply station in Moselle that is occupied by a small force of lazy Rheineland boys who do nothing but sleep and fish all day. If it were razed, and word spread that Capetian mutants burned it to the ground, well, Rheine might be a bit more hesitant to continue with hostilities.”
    “I am not the Secretary of War,” said Firenze.
    “There are a great many miles between our two city-states. We must only make them believe that you are willing to commit troops. Two Medjay marching astride the Count as he prepares to make peace will suffice, along with the raid. That is all I am asking for the sorceress.”
    “I must run this past Amaro,” said Firenze.
    “Just accept the deal, mercenary,” said Hypatia. “The sorceress is suspected to have set the town of Hampton ablaze. There are calls for her blood, and the Count has the patience of an ape. If he decides to execute her, there will be nothing I can do to prevent it.”
    “I understand,” said the mercenary, scowling. “We will do what we can to expedite our journey.”
    “Say ‘I commit to the deal,’” said Hypatia.
    “I commit to the deal,” repeated Firenze. “Now I must take my leave.”
    “Firenze.”
    “Yes?”
    “You never said thank you.” Hypatia smiled and opened her eyes to a murky darkness. She came up out of the water splashing and gasping for air, her muscles slow to wake. Transmissions worked best with some form of sensory deprivation, and Hypatia preferred water, taking the risks that came with submersion. One had to keep conversations brief and be mindful that the longer one inhabited a shared space, the more likely paralysis was to occur. Grabbing hold of the edge of the pool, she pulled herself out of the water and dried off with a towel before dressing and leaving the chapel.
    Cassilda was in the dungeon, under lock and key in a special detention block watched by a Durn named Astain, one of the few holdovers from the previous Count. Oudinot had not loved his father, for the old man considered him a fool, and so he had purged most of his advisers. The jailer had avoided expulsion by being invisible in the same sense that a feature of the environment such as a tree or a rock is not acknowledged by those who see it daily. Indeed, he had become like a gargoyle standing watch—Durns were known for their stoicism and terseness—but Hypatia was a weakness of his. She had never had to use a bit of magic with the man, for he had always been willing to accommodate her every need. It was her looks, she was sure, that endeared her to Astain, despite being no great beauty. Durns preferred a certain degree of androgyny in their women, and Hypatia’s short, ragged hair and penchant for wearing men’s clothes must have rendered her especially attractive in his eyes.
    He let her pass with a curt nod and a grimace that passed for a smile on his leathery face. She walked down the aisle, passing grimy, empty cells inhabited by darkness, mold, and ghosts. Cassilda lay on a cot, breathing slowly as though she were asleep, the adamant shackles still clasped around her wrists. Her appearance had started to fade—the beauty with auburn hair and a perfectly symmetrical oval face had vanished—and another woman had taken her place, one with a crooked nose and shadows beneath the eyes. Hypatia unlocked the cell and opened the door, causing her captive to sit up. The eyes were the same, still an unnatural color of green. Some are marked in such a way she thought.
    “I don’t believe we have been properly introduced. I am Hypatia Almagest, councilor to Count Oudinot. As for my biography, I was trained as a magician at Bilbao, I collect Faerie artifacts, and I prefer Zanj rum to all the wine in Beaune. Also, I absolutely detest beating around the bush. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, Cassilda?”
    “You killed that boy,” said the sorceress.
    “No, you killed that boy. Haven’t you ever killed anyone? Did you manage to steal the Heart of Rankar without shedding a single drop of blood?” The sorceress registered no surprise on her face upon hearing Hypatia’s words.
    “Do you know that you are the first sorceress I have ever met? You could’ve been a battlemage with your abilities. Dortmund loves such mages. They’d have nurtured your powers, teaching you how to cause the most amount of damage in the shortest amount of time with a maximum degree of spectacle. Of course the Conventum would’ve never granted you a license. The powerful ones never actually get to practice magic. This sort of self-regulation assures that the nobles don’t feel threatened and that the Conventum’s power is protected. They need not fear being usurped by magicians such as yourself.”
    “What about Pliny the Black?” said Cassilda quietly.
    “You must be the sort to believe in fairy tales. You steal the Heart of Rankar for some eldritch purpose, undoubtedly taken in by a crusty old legend discovered in a moldy tome, and now you speak of Pliny the Black, the immortal wizard, one-thousand years old and counting, as though he might materialize out of thin air like a Durnish devil. Not to say that there aren’t powerful sorcerers roaming about—yet even they must contend with Haliurunnae witch hunters, not to mention societal institutions that brand them pariahs and outlaws. They all meet their ends, someday. You will, after all.”
    The sorceress slumped against the wall of her cell. She was not, Hypatia wagered, very engaged in their mostly one-way discussion.
    “I thought you should know that I have contacted Capetian authorities, who will arrive here shortly to take you away, likely to be tortured by an inquisitor or two. I won’t try and scare you with anecdotal accounts of the processes and methods of the Inquisitors. We have one in this castle serving the Count, but don’t worry, I shan’t call him, he’s dreadfully dull to talk to, and he doesn’t need to know about you. Perhaps you’ll see him when you go before the Count. He’ll be the tall, thin man with skin the color of a fish’s belly and bestial eyes. When you see him, you’ll know instantly that he’s the type of man who isn’t really a man at all. A man has limits. Inquisitors do not.”
    Cassilda’s hands fidgeted in the shackles, as though they itched to put themselves around Hypatia’s neck.
    “The Capetians want to know what you’ve done with the Heart. I myself would like to know. Where have you stowed it? In an extradimensional portal? In the arms of an accomplice? Did you toss it to the bottom of the sea? Give it to me, and there will be an incident. Somehow, you will escape despite all the security. Those shackles will fall from your wrists. How does that sound?”
    Cassilda said nothing and stared at the floor. Hypatia shrugged. If she wanted to die by a Capetian hand, then that was her prerogative.
    “Very well then. That was the only way-out scenario, a last-minute offer that shall not come again. Come. There are people you must meet.”
    She took the sorceress roughly by the shoulder and pulled her to her feet. Past the jailer they went and then up many flights of stairs. Beaune Castle was not the winding fortress that the Duke’s palace was, and it took them little time to reach the main hall, which was opulently adorned in golden tapestries, golden rugs, golden furniture, and golden weaponry. There was even a stag’s head mounted above the throne that had been painted gold. “Please excuse the terrible taste of the Count,” whispered Hypatia in Cassilda’s ear. “He’s all show and no tell. Gaudy is his middle name.”
    On their way to see the Count, they were stopped by a small, white-haired man with a scowling disposition. He clutched a pendant around his neck and pointed at Hypatia, his finger awfully close to her mouth.
    “Approach no further and state your business,” he said, huffing and wagging his fat finger. Cassilda thought that if she were not in shackles, she would enjoy making the man’s plump digits expand until they exploded.
    “As councilor to his majesty, I need not report to the likes of you, Scripps. Take your finger away from my mouth before you find it shoved up a place where it will be very hard to remove. Now go sit over in the corner for a while and do not bother anyone else. I don’t want to look at you.”
    Scripps shuffled away, his face contorted as though he were struggling with several conflicting emotions.
    “He thinks that pendant keeps him safe from magic, but it’s really a useless trinket. I yearn for the day when I can finally push him down into a well,” said Hypatia to the sorceress. “And here is the Count. Do not speak to him; he won’t want to talk to you. The trick with the Count is to grab his attention immediately—if you lose it, then you’ve lost it forever. Any conversation lasting more than five minutes is dismissed and forgotten. It helps to mention his name a lot. Oh, and bow deeply if you value your life.”


    The Count was a stooped, overweight man with a face that lent itself to leering. His clothes did not fit him well; he looked uncomfortable, perched on the tip of his throne as though he were trying to avoid aggravating a hemorrhoid. A military man stood before him, a general, Cassilda assumed, judging by the copious insignia that covered his uniform. Whatever he was trying to explain to the Count was not being comprehended—the nobleman’s neck was bent forward in an S-curve like a bird’s while his face tightened into an expression of senile impatience. Eventually he cut the general off with a wave of his hand and a loud grunt.
    “Excuses, they’re terrible, I don’t want to hear them, I don’t want to hear excuses,” he said, in a voice that seemed comfortable talking over others. “This is simple stuff. I thought I had the best generals. You assured me you were one of the best. I don’t care how many lives it costs, that’s war, war is terrible but necessary, you need to get out there with the best generals and make a tremendous effort, and we’ll win this thing, we’ll get tired of winning, it’ll be great. Now get out of here. Leave. I’ve had enough. No more excuses. Go win one for our great country.”
    The general was frozen for a second as dignity tried to prevent his walking away from the Count without a retort. He recovered himself just as his lips were about to part. As he made a swift exit, Hypatia approached the throne and bowed deeply. Cassilda did the same.
    “Your imperial majesty,” she purred, her voice flowing like honey. “I have entered into negotiations to form an alliance that will give us an advantage over the dishonorable Rheineland swine and put an end to this war. Capetia has agreed to send us a legion of Medjay warriors in exchange for this sorceress. They could arrive in just a few days to secure your majesty’s victory. Shall I tell them that your majesty accepts this gift?”
    A cacophony of voices erupted, and the entire retinue of the Count rushed forth, uttering protestations and hurling accusations at Hypatia. “Why do they want this sorceress?” said one. “She has been consulting foreign powers without the Count’s permission!” pointed out another. “Mutants in Beaune! The gods will smite us in retribution!” said the Minister of Religion, who had never been fond of Hypatia or magicians in general. The Count looked at the crowd, an evil grin forming on his face. He preferred infighting among his advisers because he thought that constant chaos was the best way to run a government. He was not aware of how disliked he was among the troops and the common folk, nor how close he was to losing power in a coup.
    “Tell them we accept the mutants… why do we not have mutants? Who oversees making those things? Our mutants will be terrific, they will be the best mutants. No one will have mutants like us.”
    A few voices shouted out, mingling with one another and then dying suddenly. No one wanted to take responsibility for creating mutants—the practice was a secret known only to the Capetians—and there was no use debating Hypatia’s alliance, for the Count had spoken, and he seldom changed his mind, no matter the argument or circumstance. Indeed, Hypatia was already pulling Cassilda away from the courtiers, her purpose as a prop having been served. When they had left the throne room and were alone on the stairs, Cassilda ventured a question of her captor.
    “You are manipulating him, aren’t you? You are the only one he can hear clearly,” she said, stopping on the steps. They were halfway down to the dungeon, and the thought of sitting in the cell with only her guilty conscience for company was nearly unbearable.
    “The Count is a buffoon. He used to have a certain low cunning, but his wits have left him as age and dementia took hold. I barely use any magic at all. I just speak in a smooth, viscous voice.” Hypatia smiled and gave the sorceress a good push. “Come now, there is no reason to tarry. Your cell awaits, sorceress. We must both get our sleep.”
    “The Conventum condones your actions? I thought it was treason to interfere with the mind of a ruler.”
    “It is treason to be caught interfering with the mind of a ruler,” corrected Hypatia. “The powers that be have given me free rein.”
    “You’re worse than I am, but you operate through the proper channels,” said Cassilda. “How will that knowledge make you feel when they have my head on a spike?”
    “The Count often speaks of winners and losers. He usually does so when attempting to justify some terrible policy he wants enacted. Though it pains me to say it, his Majesty (how I loathe to call him that!) is right. You are not a winner, Cassilda. How I feel about your fate does not change that fact.”
    They said nothing else. The sorceress was handed to Astain, who escorted her to a cell. In the darkness, she did nothing but brood and churn in implacable anger. When daylight came, she unclenched her fists and was surprised to discover that her palms were encrusted in dried blood.

“That’s a castle,” said the Thief, looking out across the river at the turreted heights of the Palace of Beaune rising above the river bank. A zeppelin hovered among its towers, presumably an emissary from the North.
    “Well they call it a palace, not I,” responded Fergal. “It is a rather imposing-looking fortress, especially by human standards. I never understood the reasoning that leads your people to spend such vast amounts of money and time constructing elaborate walls to hide behind. The larger the wall, the more obvious it is that something valuable is behind it.”
    “That’s always been my thinking as well,” said the Thief. “The bigger the house, the more stuff to steal.”
The sun was setting behind the palace, throwing its dying rays over the wooded countryside. The waters of the river sparkled and shone. To the south of the castle lay acres of vineyards lining the hillside. There were people moving about the well-tended rows; one might at first thought them workers, but upon closer inspection, the glint of armor identified them as soldiers. They moved among the vines like ants, and the longer one looked the more evident it became that they were a multitude, a seething colony marshaling forces. They wore red and gold, the colors of Rheineland, and their banner was a lion with three heads. The three-headed beast’s origin was unknown, though it was suggested by some sources that the Emperor, before disappearing across the sea, granted the three cities of Hampton, Beaune, and Rheine to the first Earl, who had a lion on his shield of arms. Only the eagle-eyed Fergal could spot such details, for what little it was worth, for his companions didn’t care what was on the banner of the invading soldiers.
    “You’ll never get a chance to lift a thing. The archers on the bulwarks will shoot you down as soon as you cross the river,” said Josun, stretching his leg. It was a marvel that he could walk on it. Soon after their escape, they had visited a healer, an herbalist who had thoroughly cleaned the wound and stitched it back together, sending the barbarian off with a concoction made of poppy seeds. The drugs dulled the pain and kept Josun mobile, but he could not be counted on to move very quickly, and only a sorceress’s touch could substitute for time and rest.
    “They would never see me during the night, nor do I think they would spy Fergal. It is you who would fail to make it across,” responded the Thief. “Not that it would matter. Getting to the castle is one thing. Getting into it is another. You can’t pick the lock of a barred gate. We have nothing with which to scale the walls.”
    “Perhaps the Rheineland soldiers have built a mine. They are doing something in that vineyard, and I don’t think it is harvesting grapes,” suggested Fergal.
    “Mines are built to collapse walls so soldiers above ground can enter the castle,” said Josun.
    “Well my people, in their distant days of barbarism, used to tunnel beneath the earth during times of warfare.”
    “You sure about that?” asked the Thief.
    “Well… yes, of course, though I’d have to consult my histories for specific dates and instances.”
    They heard the creak of a rusty wagon wheel. A pair of donkeys dressed in lion skins came into view, pulling a cart loaded with crates. The driver was a tall, dark-skinned woman wearing gentleman’s attire, though the sleeves of her shirt were rolled up enough that her fractal tattoos were visible, revealing a Northron lineage. Upon seeing the company, she pulled the reins and stopped the donkeys and favored them with a long, penetrating gaze. She had a broad face, curly hair, and eyes that were light brown and sparkling with intelligence.
    “You three gentlemen are an interesting sight in this country. I had no idea that Beaune was such an ethnically diverse nation, although you, sir, seem to suffer from genetic abnormalities, if I’m not mistaken,” she said, pointing at Fergal. “A macrocephalic, with disproportionate ears and enormous eyes. Your adaptations seem suited to either a subterranean habitat, or perhaps an arboreal environ. Do you understand what I am saying? Perhaps one of these gentlemen can translate.”
    “He understands you just fine,” said the Thief, who had placed a hand over Fergal’s mouth to keep him from swearing. “My companions and I were planning on entering yonder palace, but it seems that a war has broken out, and that might be impossible. That wouldn’t be your airship floating among the towers, would it?”
    “Very perceptive, sir. You must have glimpsed my tattoos and assumed that I was a Northron, and who else but Northrons travel by zeppelin? Let me introduce myself. I am Professor Rhea Callimachus, a scientist and natural philosopher. I am chiefly interested in ethnographic studies, and so I have obtained permission from the Office of Foreign Affairs to travel to Ur to study the ancient cultures and their ways. Beaune is my first stop, for Vaalbaran culture originated here hundreds of years ago.”
    “Perhaps we can exchange some of our… um, diverse knowledge with you,” said the Thief, searching for words. “I am from Capetia, and Josun here is of the Roslagen, a race of seamen and warriors. Fergal’s people originate in the Mawlden Forest, which is full of all kinds of ancient relics and monstrosities. May we accompany you to the palace? We would be pleased to assist your studies.”
    Professor Callimachus looked long and hard at the Thief before asking him what his name was. The Thief felt the eyes of his companions boring into him. A tremor twitched at the edge of his mouth as he futilely tried to suppress the answer, but alas, he could not.
    “I am the Thief,” he said. Josun and Fergal groaned, but the Professor smiled.
    “The Thief, not a thief?” asked Callimachus. “Are you suggesting by that sobriquet that you are more than a petty pickpocket or brigand?”
    “Have you heard of the Royal Bank Heist?” asked the Thief. “Where ten-thousand sovereigns mysteriously disappeared despite the most advanced security system in the world? Over fifty guards stationed in the place, and all one had to do was simply step on the wrong tile and trigger a foot plate, and all of them would’ve swarmed. What about the defacement of the Capetian Police Station? The names of the sheriff’s lovers were painted in red upon the very front of the building in broad daylight. I made a pretty penny from that, I tell you! Soon, everyone will be talking about the theft of the Heart…”
    One of Josun’s large hands landed on the Thief’s shoulder, and he fell silent.
    Surprisingly, a smile formed on the face of the Northron professor.
    “Well, you’ve convinced me! Hop on up, gentlemen. It seems that you are characters, and I make it a point only to interact with the most interesting of people, for such interactions lead to adventure, as well as revelation. I will take you to the palace in exchange for discourse. Is there a community of thieves in Capetia? Is there a robbers’ guild, for instance? Please, please, be careful, those crates are full of artifacts, and I can’t have them damaged.”
    They loaded themselves onto the wagon and set off. The donkeys pulled the cart slowly, laboring hard under the hot Beaune sun. Vineyards rose up on the left and right, the vines heavy with dark purple grapes. Fergal leaned a hand out to seize a cluster of fruit, but Professor Callimachus pulled him back.
    “Do not steal from the royal demesne, my diminutive friend. The Count is very touchy about thieves. He had a peasant’s hand removed yesterday for the very feat you just attempted. Also, there are lions hiding in the vineyard. That is why my donkeys wear lion skins.”
    She pointed to a few rows back where Rheineland troops were visible standing among the rows, idling enjoying the grapes that Fergal had been denied.
    “Will they take the palace?” asked Fergal.
    “I think not. The palace was built to withstand a siege; it’s more of a castle, really. The main force of Beaune’s army is only a few miles away, having engaged the Rheinelanders at the border and successfully repelled their assault. These troops hiding in plain sight amongst the vines were meant to sandwich the Beaune army, though they did not reach the conflict in time. Now they surround the castle, perhaps with the intention of setting fire to the vineyards. If so, they are slow to act. Indeed, they are behaving strangely, for they have not hampered anyone’s passage to the castle. Something may be a foot. A coup, perhaps? Oudinot is not popular with anyone.”
    “You are in his good graces?” asked the Thief.
    “Certainly. I am a learned woman from the North, and though the Count does not respect knowledge, he does respect ostentatious displays of power. I had many impressive things to show him—a timed grenade capable of leveling a city block, a pistol that can remove a man’s head from four-hundred yards with unerring accuracy, a steam-powered jack—and I gave these examples of Northron technology to the Count. I’m sure he’s certain he can reverse engineer them, that is, if his engineers can pry the pistol from his grubby paws, but he will be sorely disappointed. So don’t accuse me of being an arms dealer, gentlemen.”
     “We wouldn’t dream of it,” said the Thief.
    A contingent of soldiers gathered before the palace gates, nervously leaning against ramparts hastily constructed to provide some illusion of defense. Professor Callimachus had Josun remove the lion skins from the donkeys before they approached the troops. They were hailed by a horseman, who bade them to stop as he and two pikemen hurried out to meet the wagon.
    “Professor,” said the rider by way of greeting. “Who are these men with you? Surely you do not mean to bring them into the castle?”
    “They are foreigners integral to my ethnographic studies, as you can plainly see. They are not Rheinelanders. If you wish to find Rheinelanders, then search the vineyards, for you will find plenty of them there,” replied Callimachus with the dismissive air of a noblewoman.
    The soldier stared at the company with obvious distrust, before noticing Fergal hiding in the back, which caused a smile to break upon his face.
    “Hey, aren’t you Hauver’s dwarf? He used to put a suit on you and have you dance around for the amusement of the boys! You think you could do that for the men? They certainly could use some laughs. No one understands what’s happening right now. The higher ups are having us do nothing but sit here and look helpless while Rheinelanders prance about our country. How is Hauver, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
    “He’s dead,” said Fergal grimly.
    “What? How’d he die?” asked the soldier, aghast.
    “Bestiality. His rectum was torn asunder by a horse’s penis,” said Fergal.
    The silence hung in the air like passed gas. Callimachus clicked her tongue and shook her head. She leaned in close to the soldier and gestured for him to approach.
    “He’s suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder,” she whispered, “and so he says some strange things. Pay him no mind.”
    The Thief saw the Professor slip the soldier a few coins. The soldier’s face maintained its stony expression, but he waved for them to follow him, and soon they were traveling beneath the portcullis. There were many people about, mostly soldiers and courtiers roaming the courtyard, many of them frenzied. Callimachus stopped the wagon in the center and pointed up at the enormous zeppelin hovering above. As if summoned by magic, several thick ropes lowered from the sky, their ends bearing large hooks.
    “I set the wench on a timer,” she explained, “and despite our digressions, we made it back at the correct time. If you gentlemen would be so kind as to unload my luggage, we shall continue our relationship in the confines of my airship, a privilege granted to few Southrons, I assure you.”
    The Thief stared up at the zeppelin and his stomach lurched. The thought of flying in sky with hundreds of feet of nothingness below reminded him of his fall from Capanne Mons, and he had no desire to relive that terrifying experience. He knew what he had to do, anyways. He placed his hands on his companions’ shoulders and brought them close.
    “Go with this character and do your best to keep her interest. I’ll find Cassilda, and we’ll leave on the zeppelin. Trust me, I will not fail. And keep your eyes out for anything up there in the balloon that would be worth pocketing.”
    After speaking, he turned away from them and vanished into a crowd.
    “Where did the Thief go?” asked Callimachus.
    “He’ll be back,” replied Fergal. “Now show us some of your infernal machines. And please, do not refer to me as a dwarf or a grotesque any longer, for I shall tell you of my people and their culture, and after I am finished, you will have learned more about the Huldufolk than any living man or woman.”
    “And you’ll wish you had never asked,” said Josun, tugging on one of the ropes. “Let us up into the sky.”


Next Chapter: The Illusions of the Disillusioned

New Music: Firefly

  A twelve-year old song that I wrote in Cincinnati. I don't believe it was ever played live, which is a shame, since it's a nice li...