David Tallerman - Giant thief

He nodded, and ducked inside the tent flap. A minute passed, and another. Clattering sounds echoed out to us. The flap twitched, finally, and he stepped out. He held up a rounded flask of grey pot.

"Oh dear," I said, and sighed with theatrical exasperation. "Kneel, Saltlick."

He obeyed, and I climbed down the netting on his back, trying hard to look as though it wasn't the first time I'd done it. I strode to the guard, snatched the flask from him, and waved it in his face. He actually flinched.

"Do you know what this is?"

"Medicine?"

"No. Not medicine."

I pulled out the stopper, and sniffed. From the rank, peppery odour, it might actually have been some herbal remedy. I took a long swig — or rather, feigned one, an old trick I'd perfected from hustling at cards. Still, a little slipped down my throat. It tasted worse than it smelled, and I hoped it wasn't poisonous. When I was sure I wouldn't throw up, I grinned, and said, "Medicine for a man's soul, perhaps, but not much good for his body. We'd best return this for when Moaradrid wants to celebrate his victory."

I moved towards the entrance of the tent.

An iron grasp on my shoulder held me back. It was the guard who'd brought the bottle out. I stood very still. From the strength in his fingers, I suspected my arm might snap if I didn't.

"Look," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "why don't you come with me? You can stand sentry just as well inside as out, can't you? Only, I have to find this medicine or we're going to be up to our necks in — well, let's just say we'll all be happier if it doesn't come to that."

I craned my head to see his face, and tried to judge what was going through his mind. It was about as helpful as watching a tree to see whether it was growing. Eventually, however, he turned to his companion and said, "One minute."

His grip on my shoulder turned into a shove; I tumbled into the tent. It was very dark inside, and what little light came through the flap was cut off when the guard stepped in behind me. A lamp hung from a bracket inside the smoke hole, an elegant construction of black iron patterned with stars and diamonds of coloured glass, but it was extinguished, as was the hearth beneath it. My escort paced past me, tore the flask I was still carrying from my fingers, and returned it to its place on a low set of shelves to our right. Beside the shelves was a large collapsible table, with maps, charts, and other papers spread over its surface. The only sign of luxury was a few patterned rugs tossed over the dirt floor, seemingly at random. Most of the remaining space was taken up with the bed, a low wooden frame draped with furs.

Looking past, I saw the metal-bound chest beside it. My heart clenched.

"Did you look in there?" I asked, pointing.

"It's locked."

Well, of course.

"I'm sure Moaradrid would have mentioned that. It's probably just stiff."

I walked over to it and kneeled down. It was large and decorative, made of some reddish wood and ornamented with a flowing geometric pattern along the metal bindings. All that really interested me, though, was the lock. It looked like a standard five-pin tumbler, and not a very sophisticated one at that, for all its artistic embellishment. I kept my body between it and my escort and drew my picks.

"Are you sure there's nothing on that table?" I called.

"I've looked."

"Well look again, can't you? Perhaps if you lit that lamp we could both see better."

Sliding in a pick, I sought for the back pin. When I was sure I'd found it, I followed up with the tension wrench. The back pin and the fourth broke easily, and I started to feel confident.

"What are you doing?"

"I think it's caught on something. Give me a moment…"

The third was trickier. I kept misjudging, and losing it. At last it broke, with a definite click. I moved straight to the second, and an instant later, that went too.

There were footsteps on the carpeted floor. He was coming towards me.

The front pin was another difficult one, or my nerves were getting in the way. My fingers were greasy with sweat.

"Get away from there…"

My tension wrench turned as the cylinder popped. In one motion, I palmed my picks, swung the lid up, and reached in with my free hand. "Ah, there we are. There's nothing in here, though, only clothes. I'm sure he said…"

My fingers closed on rough leather. I snatched my hand back and let the lid drop.

"No, nothing," I said, slipping the bag inside my cloak and into the hidden pocket I had sewn there. "How about you?"

"Stand up," he said, "and get away from that."

"Fine. I told you, there's nothing here but clothes. Have you found it?"

His hands were clearly empty. Instead of answering, he glared as if he'd like to strangle me.

I pointed past him. "What's that?"

It was the pot flask he'd originally brought out, sat on the shelf where he'd left it. I marched over before he could stop me, and called, "This might be what we're after."

"That," he said, anger dripping from every word, "is the one I gave you."

"Is it? Are you sure?"

I pulled the stopper, sniffed, and tried not to gag at the familiar odour.

"Really? Now that I think about it, it does smell something like medicine. Could it be…?"

I turned back to him, an idiotic smile plastered across my face.

"Wait, there's writing on the bottom: 'For inflammations, distensions, and eruptions'. This must be it."

I didn't like the way his fingers were twitching around the hilt of his sword.

I went on quickly, "You've been a huge help. I'll make sure to mention that to Moaradrid and skim lightly over how obstructive you were earlier."

I bounded to the flap and ducked under it before he could decide that chopping my head off might be worth the subsequent aggravation.

"Look, Saltlick," I cried, "we found the medicine. Your agonies will be over in just a minute."

I heard the tent flap rustle as my watchdog came out behind me. I darted towards Saltlick, who was where I'd left him, thankfully, still kneeling on his colossal haunches.

With his bulk between the guards and me, I made a noisy show of emptying the contents of the flask into the mud, calling, "Just a dash, old friend, this has to go round your companions as well."

I pocketed the bottle, leaped up, and hauled myself back to my perch upon his shoulder. I was gratified to find that both guards had resumed their posts and were glaring back at me. As long as they weren't trying to kill me, that was just fine.

"Gentlemen," I shouted, "your help has been indispensable." To Saltlick I added, "Hurry, back up the hill."

He did as instructed, and moments later we'd reached a point where other tents obscured the view between Moaradrid's pavilion and us. I let out a shuddering breath, and realised how terrified I'd been, how close I'd come to gambling my life away. It was worth it. Revenge and wealth both in one, and all for five minutes work! No one would take Easie Damasco lightly ever again, not now that I'd proven myself the greatest thief in all the lands.

I knew our departure was long overdue. But I could feel the moneybag bulging against my stomach, and what difference could a few seconds more make? A glance around told me that neither the main force nor Moaradrid's guards were on our heels.

I reached in and drew it out. It was satisfyingly weighty in my hand. I loosened the drawstring, pried wide the opening, gazed inside.

I nearly choked.

I avoided looking in the pouch for the next few hours. Nothing was worth the way it made my heart palpitate.

It would have been difficult, in any case. Saltlick pounded along the road for mile after mile, seemingly immune to fatigue or distraction, and I hung on for dear life, bemoaning the sore spots multiplying across my body and trying not to think about what was inside Moaradrid's moneybag.