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look across the room. "Well, it was worth a try, anyway. We can at least help
your grandmother get back her sight. She'll need some rootwart balm
enhanced with a brightening spell."
He stepped toward the dry sink, and I saw my opportunity.
Most thieves carry the mundane things of the trade lockpicks and glass
cutters. Some also use whatever enchanted items they can lay their hands
on things like magical pouches complete with spells to shrink large objects
for easy transport. Yet, with all that, the one thing a good thief depends upon
is natural-born ability. In the years that skulduggery has earned me a living,
I've always found my talent for sleight-of-hand the most useful. With the dwarf
looking away from his precious bottle of Spring Tonic, I found my chance to
nip the goods.
I made a small movement, turning a bit to the side to hinder the dwarf's full
view of the table. Scraping the bottle against the wood, I pretended to return it
to its square inch. In the few seconds it took, I gently fingered a neighboring
container closer to the relinquished space and slid the Spring Tonic into the
inside hem of my cape sleeve.
Elbari moved to search the other table. "Yes, here it is," he said, turning
back to face me. "For five pieces of gold, your grandmother will get her
eyesight back. She'll need to use the balm three times daily."
"I'll see that she does." I answered with a smile.
* * * * *
After visiting Jig Elbari, I knew one thing for certain: Bareen Tykar was a
liar and skinflint. He could have bought the tonic for the right price, but instead
thought to steal it. I can't fault a man for resorting to these tactics. If they
didn't, I wouldn't be in business. Still, such people give me concern when
they're not up front with their motives.
I stood in the center of his shop, and took my weight low in the legs in case
I needed to spring toward the door. Bareen Tykar licked his lips and looked at
his two associates. They were moon elves, and in their silver-tinged beauty
they appeared like stone statues waiting to be freed by some wizard's spell.
Stationed to either side of the old merchant, each elf leaned on a glittering
scimitar, the point of which ground into the wooden floor. To crystalize the
scene, a hundred candles sparkled on the shelves behind the counter. The
effect was beautiful, but my wariness didn't allow me to enjoy it.
"You have the elixir?" Bareen Tykar demanded.
"Do you have my commission?" I asked.
"Of course."
"Show it to me."
"After I see the goods."
"No."
He snapped his fingers and the two elven statues animated. They raised
their weapons, approaching. "Search him," their master ordered.
I slowly retreated, meeting their advance by unsheathing my hunting knife. I
could feel the taut pull of my riding leathers along the inner sides of my thighs,
and I took a heartbeat to wonder what tricks I had buried in my boots. The
elves were on me before I could remember.
I sliced at one, but my blade fell wide of its mark, cutting empty air and
enraging the fellow. He smacked me in the face with the flat of his hand and
pain shot through to my ears. I growled, kicking his partner in the stomach. He
buckled for an instant, recovering with a snarl of his own. Backpedaling, I tried
for the door, but they wedged me against the wall, instead. I was pinned there
while they searched me for their elixir.
"He doesn't have it on him," one elf said.
"Where are you hiding it?" Bareen Tykar asked.
"The bond is broken between us, Merchant," I barked. "You won't get it
from me. Send one of your thugs back to the mountains to find it for you."
"You were going to take my money and run."
With that, I received a slap to the head, and the room spun.
"One more chance," Bareen Tykar said. "Where is it?"
Spitting blood, I cursed him. "To Shar with you! May the Lady of Loss dog
your every step!"
My answer only made matters worse. "See that he doesn't steal again for a
long while," Bareen Tykar ordered.
I squirmed against the strong arms pinning me down. My knife was gone,
snatched from my grip, and my legs were wound up with those of my
assailants. One elf grabbed my hand. Before I could react, before I could
untangle myself, he yanked on my wrist and twisted hard. Stabbing agony ran
up my arm, and I screamed out. They tossed me into the empty street,
shutting the door on my cries.
I lay in the gutter staring up at the heavens. For how long, I can't say. A
street sweeper brushed by, ignoring me, intent on his evening duties. All the
while the pain in my broken hand grew, and with it, my rage. Finally I rolled to
a stand and returned to the carved door of Bareen Tykar's shop. Glancing in
the window, I saw that it was dark and empty inside, the old merchant and his
bodyguards gone out some back way.
Reaching my good hand out, I felt in the darkness for the intersection of the
twisted wood design of the door. Gouging my fingers into the deep recess, I
pulled out the small bottle of Spring Tonic I had hidden there.
* * * * *
Revenge smudges the sensibilities. Nothing matters except getting even,
and as far as I was concerned, I would hurt Bareen Tykar. He would suffer a
thousand times for what he did to me.
My hand had been mangled. The cleric with all his healing magic wasn't
sure I'd ever get full use of it again. I was lucky to have a storehouse of goods
to sell, so while I tried to recover my mobility, I could at least earn a living.
After hearing the prognosis, I returned to my lair in the Sunset Mountains.
The moon courted me as I rode toward the wall of shrubs and boulders
hiding the entrance to my retreat. A stream-fed waterfall spilled over the
granite face of the mountain's upper brow, and I angled toward its gentle
sound.
Stealth stepped into the wide groove formed by several huge rocks and
stopped when he neared the lair's door. I paused in dismounting to breathe in
the cold, fresh air, filling my lungs and reviving my spirit as no spell-slicked
Spring Tonic could. My horse nickered, seeming to agree. Grunting when the
wrappings on my hand snagged on a saddle buckle, I slipped off, slapping
Stealth gently on the rump. He made for the overhang of his stone barn.
My lodge was situated in a deep cave on the ridge overlooking Oak Island,
a spit of land breaching into a high, wide lake. Here, in shacks and shanties,
were the remains of the village where I grew up. I returned here often, though
the mountaintop had long turned toward ghosts and memories. The people
were all gone, my family included, trading the freedom of alpine life for a living
in the lowlands. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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