David Cook: King Pinch

There was another grate of metal on fired clay. "It's up. Are you ready?" hissed the larger of the two.

The snap of rope as the smaller set his last knot was the answer. "Don't drop me this time, Pinch," the thin voice cautioned, only half in mirth.

"Don't try to hold back the pelfry, Sprite-Heels. Saving the best stones for yourself's not being upright. I could've let the Hellriders take you." There was no humor in the man's voice at all, and in the darkness it was impossible to see his expression. He passed the knotted rope through the small hole in the roof tiles.

Sprite-Heels mumbled an answer without saying anything, though his tone was suitably meek. Pinch, his partner, was not a man to cross needlessly. Sprite-Heels had tried it once and got caught cold at it. He could only guess Pinch must have been in a good mood that day, for the halfling was still alive. He'd seen, even helped, Pinch kill men for less provocation. He could say that Pinch just liked him, but he knew the old rogue better than that. Pinch didn't have friends, only the members of his gang.

There was a faint slap as the cord struck the floor. "Down you go," Pinch said with playful cheer. He wrapped the cord around his waist and belayed it with his arm, ready to take the halfling's weight. Little folk like Sprite-Heels were small and short, which made them good for wriggling through tiny gaps made through pried up roof tiles, but they still weren't light. Sprite-Heels for one was fond of his ale and cheese, which lent him an innocent-seeming chubbiness. That was all well and good for working the street, but the halfling was far from the lightest cat burglar Pinch had used.

The halfling studied Pinch in the darkness and then gave a shrug, unable to fathom the man. Pinch was a "regulator," the master of his shifty and shiftless fellows. The air of studied threat about him was a mask worn too long, until Pinch knew practically no other. Indeed, pudgy little Sprite-Heels was not even sure he knew the real Pinch anymore.

"Stop dallying," the rogue hissed.

The halfling jerked into motion. Squirming his rear for balance on the tiles, he tugged off a pair of thick boots and flexed his furred feet. Barefoot was better for working the rope, but a terra-cotta roof in the winds of winter was no place to creep unshod.

Pinch thrust the rope into the halfling's calloused hands.

The halfling fingered the rope. "Why don't you go down, Pinch?" he finally asked with a brazen smile. "I'll steady you."

Pinch smiled back with a grin just as predatory. "Bad knee-never any good at climbing." They both knew the answer anyway. "Get going. We're to be gone before the Hellriders come around again."

The halfling grumbled, knowing what argument would gain him. He wriggled through the hole, snagging his cloak on the uneven edges. "Climbed up here well enough, you…"

The grumbles grew inarticulate and then disappeared as the halfling descended into the darkness. Pinch's arms, wrapped tight around the rope, trembled and quivered with each jerk of the line.

As he sat on the roof, back to a small chimney, every second in the wind and darkness dragged into hours in Pinch's mind. Time was the enemy. It wasn't the guards, the wards, the hexes, or the beasts rumored to roam the halls beneath them; it was time. Every minute was a minute of more risk, a chance that some ill-timed merchant next door would rise from his secret assignation and step to the window for air, or that on the street below a catchpole would look up from his rounds to stare at the moon. There were endless eyes in the dark, and the longer the job took, the more likely that someone would see.

Pinch cursed to a rat that watched him from the cornice, flipping a chip of tile toward its pit black eyes. As the rat squeaked and ran away, Pinch damned Sprite for his slowness. There was another, Therin, who was a choice target of his oaths. It was he and not Pinch who should have been on the roof; that was the way Pinch had planned it. In fact it was all that damn-fool's fault for getting caught in a nip when he shouldn't even have tried. He hadn't the skill as a cutpurse to try for a mistress o' the game's bodice strings, let alone the purse of a Hellrider sergeant.

Pinch was just pondering who was the right man to give an alibi for Therin when the line went slack through his fingers. Instantly he bobbed forward face first into the hole, catching himself before he plummeted to the marble floor thirty feet below. He strained to hear any sounds of scuffle or alarm, even the lightest tap of a soft footfall.

There was nothing and that was good. So far everything was going according to plan. Sprite-Heels was living up to his name, now padding silently through the halls of the Great Temple of Lathander, making for the great holy relic kept there.

Pinch had a plan, and a grand one at that. The relic was useless to him, but there were others who would pay dearly for it. Splinter sects and rival faiths were the most likely, but even the temple beneath him might be willing to pay to keep their honor intact.

It was by far the most ambitious thing he and his gang had tried yet, a far cry from the simple curbing and lifting they'd done in the past. Diving, like this, they'd done, but never on so grand a scale. It was one thing to house break some common fool's dwelling. Sending Sprite-Heels diving into the temple was quite another, almost as bad as cracking a wizard's abode. Temples had guards, wards, priests, and beasts-but the rewards were so much more.

The plan was simple. The dark stretch of Sweet-sweat Lane, an alley that barely divided the temple from the festhalls on the other side, was where Pinch had plotted their entry. A few nights' pleasant scouting from the high floors of the Charmed Maiden had assured Pinch that the guards along that section were particularly lax. Still, Pinch shed a few coins so that two maids, Clarrith and Yossine, were sure to do their washing up in back, to draw off any curious eyes. Sprite-Heels had shimmied to the temple roof without a snag while Pinch took the rope and followed shortly thereafter. All went well.

Once on the wall, the pair of rogues had scurried across the guard walk and plunged into a maze of gables, eaves, and chimneys until Pinch's estimate put them over the main hall. With a pry bar and a petter-cutter, they had pulled up the tile and carved through the lead beneath-and now Sprite-Heels was inside.

Which was taking all too long. Pinch didn't like it. His calculations were right, and the halfling was certain to be over the altar by now. All Sprite-Heels had to do was grab the relic and whatever else he could put his hands on quickly, and get back to the rope.

The problem was that Sprite was taking too long.

Carefully, so as not to lose his windswept seat, Pinch leaned forward to peer through the hole. At first his eyes, a little weak in the night, saw nothing, but slowly the inside divided itself into areas of profound dark and mere gloom. Straining, Pinch tried to interpret what he saw.

"Infidel!" roared a voice just as the darkness flared with light. Pinch practically flopped through the narrow hole as his gaze was filled by a corona of blinding after-lights.

"Seize the thief." roared the voice again, echoing through the vast empty chamber of the temple's great nave.

In Pinch's blinking gaze, a small hunched blur darted across the broad marble floor. Close behind was a pack of clanking men lit by the brilliant flare of a priest's wand of light. The old rogue heaved back out of the hole, suddenly fearful he'd been seen and breathless with surprise.

The rope, previously slack, jerked and snapped as a weighty little body grabbed it and scrambled up the line. "Pinch!" wheezed Sprite-Heels through lungfuls of air. "Pinch, haul me up!"

The man seized the rope and heaved. "For the gods' piss, be silent!" he hissed through clenched teeth, too softly for anyone to hear. It was bad enough Sprite-Heels had blown the job, but he had to drag Pinch's name into it, too.