David Cook - King Pinch

The thieves moved through the dreary temple grounds, never once raising a suspicion. The complacent guards, convinced their fellows on the impregnable walls had done their job, made no effort to watch for intruders. Indeed their eyes only looked for superiors who might surprise them slacking at the job. It was a simple matter to elude the notice of these buffoons.

Pinch praised the Red Priests for their diligence as he pushed open the well-oiled gates to the inner cloister. No squeak revealed their entrance. After making certain no priests were muttering their devotionals in some dark corner, Pinch led the way to the tower rising in the center of the dark, silent garden. They knelt in the bushes near the base and looked up at the smooth stone column. Just below the minareted top, the polished surface was pierced by the glow from the tower's only opening. Pinch waited for a long time, watching for shadows or some other sign that the rooftop room was occupied. Finally satisfied there were none, the rogue whispered to his compatriot, "Keep watch for trouble. I'm going up."

The other looked at the smooth wall and shook his little head. "You know you can't climb for a tinker's damn, Pinch. I should go."

The look Sprite got made it clear who would climb and who would stay. It wasn't a matter of climbing-it was a matter of trust and there was only one person Pinch trusted getting these treasures. Without a word, Sprite withdrew his suggestion and set himself to watch for intruders on their plans.

From his pouch, the regulator produced another scroll, the second Maeve had prepared. Again forcing the nonsensical syllables over his tongue, barely had Pinch finished the scroll before he started to rise into the air like a cork released at the bottom of a barrel. Ten, twenty, thirty feet he rose, just a hand's reach from the wall. When he was just beneath the level of the window, he willed himself to a stop.

Pinch hung there, breathless and trembling, drifting in the air like a cottonwood fluff. The buoyancy of levitation was a ticklish sensation that threatened to unnerve his senses and disorient him for what was to come. It was more than magic, though. Pinch panted with fear, the fear of floating over nothing against the fear of threats unknown that lay beyond the windowsill. It was beyond explanation, but these were the moments he lived for, the rush of blood as he hovered in the balance of life, or maybe death. Though it lay beyond explanation, every thief knew it, lived for it, and savored that moment more than the money, the gems, and the magic that was gained. "Gods rescue us from dull lives" was an old toast of many a black-hearted gang.

A whistle from below forced Pinch into action. Spite, barely visible in the weeds, worked a sign with his hands that foretold of trouble. Guards were coming, no doubt. With a breath, Pinch seized the sill and effortlessly swung himself over.

The tower chamber was small, no larger than a festhall crib and decorated as dramatically. It was lit by a golden fire that burned steadily from the heart of a crystal stone hung from the ceiling in an iron cage. It was a stone that would burn as brightly through all eternity until the gods grew tired of looking on it. For all its enduring power, it was hardly special, just a cheap parlor trick of holy power. The walls were hung with arras heavy enough to stifle all breezes. Each was stitched with the exploits of kings and queens, the past rulers of Ankhapur, their glories now as faded as the rugs on these walls.

At the far wall was the treasure Pinch sought, a golden cup and a glittering knife in a case of rosewood and gold. The case sat on a small shelf, unlocked, unsealed, and unprotected from thieves like himself. And Pinch didn't believe a bit of it. The Red Priests of Ankhapur were not such great fools. They knew their treasures would draw burglars like candles draw moths. Clearly, the only reason the royal regalia were before him now was that they had to be much harder to take than it looked. Pinch wondered just how many had tried before him and failed.

It was a question to be approached with caution. From his perch in the window, Pinch studied the room. There was much not to like. The coverings on the walls hid too much, the floor was too clean-it was just too easy. A lack-a-wit could figure out things were not what they seemed here. It wasn't a case of whether there were traps, but just what traps the priests had stitched up for him.

As he perched in that window, pressed against the sill so that he was nothing more than a black shadow on the wall, Pinch cursed Maeve for her drunkenness. Maybe Therin was right, that the woman's drinking was outbalancing the usefulness of her skills. If she'd been more of a wizard I wouldn't be sitting here, afraid to touch the floor. I'd have me a scroll or a ring or something to find the mantraps and show me the way. As it is, she's too drunk to properly prepare what I need most the time.

Pinch allowed himself the luxury of this frustration for a few moments and then put it away. When he was down, not hanging in some clergy's window, he would take it up with her. A little cold water and drying out would do her some good, but now there was work and it was time it was done.

From his boot, Pinch slid a slender packet of tools wrapped in soft, oily leather that smelled faintly of dried fish and cologne. He undid the strings and laid out a small collection of rods, marbles, blades, probes, and saws. Working tools for a working man. He took the rod and pulled on it till it grew longer and longer, to the length of a spear. It was rigid, light, and didn't slip in his grasp. It had cost him three particular rubies that the old dwarven smith had demanded, the stealing of which turned into more of a job than the thief had expected. Right now, it was worth it.

With the wand he brushed the hangings. The first three barely stirred at his caress. The fourth quivered at his touch like a thing prodded in its dreams. Pinch poked it again, a little more firmly. The heavy cloth suddenly snapped and writhed like a thing alive, trying to envelop the slender rod.

Well enough, Pinch thought. Stay clear of that wall.

So the path led to the right, away from the living curtain. That meant the next trap would come there, where he was being herded to go.

Careful testing revealed nothing else obvious behind the walls, so Pinch focused next on the floor. The floor beneath the sill sounded solid enough when rapped, so he tentatively set one foot on the floor. When nothing gave way, he eased down into nervous crouch. He rolled a marble from his kit into the center of the tower room. Only after it came to a stop did he move again and then he never took his eyes from it as he sidled around the perimeter of the room. If the marble moved it was a sign that something in the floor had shifted: a pivot, a trapdoor, or some sinister deadfall. He spread his arms and legs spiderlike as he moved, a painful way to get about and one that his tired, restitched muscles could barely stand, but it was the most prudent way. Should something shift, the spread of his weight gave him the best chance of recovering.

It was poised like this that Pinch discovered the next trap. With his gaze still locked on the marble, he slid a foot closer to his goal. All at once, the floor disappeared beneath his toes. There was no telltale creak, no rattle and swish of the trapdoor to give him warning. There was just suddenly nothing up to his knee and beyond.

Even expecting some trap, the drop caught the rogue off guard. His weight had been overbalanced to that side, and before he could correct it he slid until the weight of what dangled over the edge pulled the rest of him along. A frantic look over his shoulder presented a strange sight, his body being swallowed by the unbroken smoothness of the floor. Illusion! he realized in panic, the thrice-damned floor was an illusion. Gods knew how many floors he might plunge through or what lay below.