Elaine Cunningham: Honor Among Thieves

“I don’t like this.”

A short huff of laughter escaped him. “Fear ofheights, Vishni? Completely understandable. It’s not as if youcould fly . .”

“No one flies far in a cage.” They edged closer tothe left gate. “And only a fool willingly steps into one.”

“Stop fussing. We’re not riding the Mule.”

He tipped his head toward the other gate. Her gazefollowed the gesture. Her eyes widened at the sight of theblack-bearded official who stood with one booted foot on a cart’swheel spoke, scowling down at a bill of lading.

“Is that-”

“The hero of ‘How Gompson Wed the Gorgon?’ The manwhose bride you locked in a root cellar because switching bridesmade for a better story? That’s him.”

“ Hero?” Vishni sniffed. “Gompson knew fullwell the girl under the veil wasn’t the girl whose dowry he’dalready spent. He just thought it was a different differentgirl.”

“Thanks to your illusions.”

“So? Every story requires a twist or two,” she saidas they shuffled a step closer to the gate. “Everyone assumes truelove will win the day. A good storyteller subverts expectations. Ifyou ask me, it’s more satisfying to see a trickster paid in his owncoin.”

Fox nodded as he scanned the bustling scene.

“I could create a diversion,” Vishni said.

His gaze snapped back to her. “Yes, because thatworked out so well last time.”

She pouted and folded her arms. “It’s not my faultDelgar got himself captured.”

Actually, it was, but Fox saw no profit in pointingthis out. More to the point, a diversion of another sort demandedhis full attention.

A pair of barefoot urchins clambered up themountain’s steep rocky face, sure-footed as mountain goats. Theyclimbed to a jutting outcrop of rocks that came within a few feetof the Mule’s lower rope. One of the boys shuffled carefully to theedge of the rock.

Someone noticed and raised a hand to point. A murmurran through the crowd, and people fell back from the gate to get abetter look.

A Mule carriage swept downward toward the boy’sperch. It would clear the rock with little room to spare.

The woman behind Fox gasped like a blacksmith’sbellows.

“Too low,” she moaned. “Flatten him, it will, like acartwheel over a toad.”

Other people were coming to the same conclusions.From somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed at the boy to getdown. Two of the guards tried to climb up after him, only to beshouted down by their captain.

“Get ready,” Fox murmured.

When the carriage was a few feet away from him, thelad leaped and caught the rope. He whooped and kicked as he rode itdown, the carriage following at a safe and steady distancebehind.

The boy let go of the rope and dropped onto the thickstraw thatching of a small shop that stood under the Mule’s ropesand just outside the walls. He rolled down, landed on his feet, andbounced off into a run.

For several moments, chaos reigned.

A stout woman rushed out of the shop in a cloud ofdust and straw, yelling at the boy as she brushed thatching fromher shoulders and hair. Three dogs darted after the boy, whovaulted over a flatbed cart loaded with wooden chicken crates. Oneof the crates tumbled to the street and broke apart. A dozen or sopanicked hens scattered. Two cart ponies shied and reared, tippingover the cart and its cargo of apples.

The crowd was evenly divided between those whohurriedly distanced themselves from the disturbance and those whorushed forward to take advantage of it. Children scrambled forapples. A few boys started an impromptu battle, pelting each otherand anyone within range with bruised fruit. One of the dogs gave uppursuit of the urchin in favor of chasing chickens. The merchantsnatched up his hen and held it high overhead while the dog leapedand snapped at its prey.

Fox and Vishni slipped through the gate, unnoticed,and fell in behind a group of grumbling artisans.

They ducked into a narrow walkway between two stoneworkshops. Fox stooped and slid a pair of silver pennies into acrevice. The boys who’d staged the disturbance could collect theirpay at their leisure.

“Not bad,” Vishni said. “But just imagine how muchmore interesting that could have been with an illusion or two.”

“No illusions,” he said firmly.

The girl propped her hands on her narrow hips. “Thenwhy, exactly, am I here?”

Fox’s stern expression wavered. “We might need you tocast an illusion. But only as a last resort.”

She rolled her eyes and started down the walk. Foxcaught her arm.

“I’ll meet you at the waulking bowl.”

Vishni’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Trying to getrid of me?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I’m going to theherbalist to get a restorative for Delgar. He might not need it,but if he does, it will save us the trouble of carrying himout.”

“I’ll meet you at the waulking bowl,” Vishni saidflatly. She spun on her heel and took off the way they’d come.

Fox smirked and continued down the walk. To Vishni,“herbalist” was another way of saying “green witch.” Her kind hadreason to avoid humans who meddled with plants and potions.Hestopped on the way to buy a pair of ducks, dressed and plucked andready for the pot. The herbalist lived on what her garden provided.It seldom occurred to her to eat anything else, and as far as Foxknew, he was the only one who bothered to remind her.

The door to the herbalist’s shop stood open, but Foxhad another, safer way in. He slipped into the shadows beside thecooper’s shop, where stood a courtyard paved with large, flatstones.

He slid a barrel aside as quietly as possible toreveal a stone twice the width of his shoulders. He removed twosmall, rounded rocks wedged under either edge of the stone andstepped onto one side. The rock spun on a hidden central hinge anddropped him into a low tunnel.

After securing the stone door from below, he creptthrough the tunnel. A short incline led to a door fashioned of thinwood covered by an even thinner layer of stone. He cracked it openand checked the room for occupants. Moving quickly, he pushedthrough and swung the door back into place. The facade blendedseamlessly with the thicker stone of the workshop wall.

Delgar, it must be said, did very good work.

Fox rose to his feet as the herbalist entered theroom, humming tunelessly.

Once, perhaps, she had been beautiful. The passage offorty hard years had left deep tracks on her face. Her eyes hadfaded to the same pale gray as her kirtle and shift, and she was asthin and pale as any tunnel-dwelling beggar. She would be ascolorless as rainwater, except for a thick braid of rich darkauburn draped over one shoulder.

The woman caught sight of him. Her eyes glazed withterror and the pottery in her hands clattered to the floor.

Too late, Fox remembered his disguise. Chagrin sweptthrough him like a winter blast. This woman had more reason thanmost to fear gatherers.

He ripped off the blue bandana, revealing hair as redas hers.

No flicker of recognition lit her eyes.

Fox cleared his throat. “I’ve come for arestorative.”

Her face cleared. “For whom?”

He held out his palm. In it lay a tiny gray pebble,barely larger than a grain of sand.

Most people wouldn’t understand the significance. Butthen, most people believed that dwarves were long extinct.

The woman closed her eyes and listened for the musicFox had never been able to hear. After a moment she nodded and ledthe way into her back garden.

A hundred familiar scents swept over Fox. He brushedhis fingers over the lacy fronds of a fennel stalk as if greetingan old friend.

The herbalist moved among the terraced beds, pickinga sprig here, a blossom there. When her apron was well laden, shereturned to the shop and set to work.