David Cook: King Pinch

"How'm I supposed to find my way out?"

"She'll know the way," Pinch growled, flashing his yellow teeth through a cold smile of hunger. "Just be at the Rite of Choosing.

"He's right, Therin. Let's go." Maeve gathered up a lantern and waited for the Gur to come.

The regulator immediately dispensed with them and turned to Sprite-Heels and Lissa. "I'll need you two with me. Sprite, can you pace us out to someplace other than my rooms?"

The halfling nodded. "Couldn't get this lot back into your kip, so I had to find another way in. That's what kept us from…" Sprite let it trail off as he wasn't sure it was good business to raise his failures up right now, especially since Pinch hadn't fared too well.

"Then stop prattling and go. Late off the start's almost cost the race already."

There was a disconcerting way to Pinch's saying it that gave life to the blue-gray pallor of his skin. He was a cold thing with a hunger that was only going to be satiated with cold revenge.

Sprite moved with uncanny confidence through the twisting passages, rejecting branches Pinch thought looked more likely. The rogue had no choice but to trust his lieutenant. The others stayed ahead of him, unwilling to look on his terrible visage any more than they had to.

At length they reached a dead-end. "Here," Sprite held the light to the polished stone. An iron ring was set in the wall. More to the point, with his newly sensitive sight the transmigrated rogue easily traced the outline of the jamb, where the cracks let the least glimmer of light in. Even Sprite, with his talent for finding things, probably couldn't see the outlines.

"Beyond's a side courtyard not far from your apartment-"

"The rite'll be held in the main feast hall."

Pinch seized the iron ring and pulled as hard as he thought was right, forgetting his body's strength in the process. The door flew open with nary a sound. Whoever had engineered this entry was a master, for the heavy, veined marble slid with ease. Pinch practically tumbled backward from the lack of resistance.

The courtyard beyond was lit by the palest of moonlight that barely reached over the high buildings enclosing the artificial forest within. Verdant shrubs filled squat pots, and fine-leaved trees waved gently to the rhythm of the splashing fountain in the far wall. Moon-flowers spread their ivory petals to absorb the night. Caged birds hung from the beam ends all around, and a few nightingales woke to sing their arrival. As the door gaped wider than was needed to spy, Sprite and Pinch both scrambled into the shadows, acting on years of larcenous instinct. Had an observer been in the small garden, he would have assumed that Lissa alone had managed the great door. Fortunately, there were no observers.

When there was no alarm, the two rogues moved quickly through the potted jungle, getting the lay of the land. Of the three other doors, one in each wall, two led to nothing, just rooms shuttered up for the night. The third was a gate of wrought iron that opened on the avenue linking the Great Hall to the world beyond the palace gates. The pair took care not to be noticed, for there was a steady stream of revelers all bound in the direction of the feast.

Pinch was just checking the oil on the gate hinges before opening it when Sprite touched his arm. The halfling had a cloth from his sleeve to cover his face. "Wisely good, but how you going to get around, Pinch? You ain't your inconspicuous self."

Lissa, who'd kept herself silent and distant to this point, added, "You've got the stench of death to you, too."

Pinch's smile was an awkward grimace. "Sprite, boy, do you know what day it is in Ankhapur?"

"Some sort of festival, Pinch."

"It's the Festival of Wealth, my halfling friend. For one day, the fine citizens of Ankhapur celebrate the gods of money with food, drink, and masked balls."

"So?"

Pinch looked to Lissa, mindful of her disapproval as he spoke his true mind. "We're thieves, boy- scoundrels. Out there the streets are filled with folks in costumery-gowns, cloaks, and… masks."

"Who just need a little persuading to help us out." A sly smile enriched the halfling's face. " 'Struth, Pinch. I'm sure some kindly generous souls truly want to help us."

"Ankhapur is noted for its generosity." The dead-bodied rogue nodded, flaking little hunks of his neck as he did. "All it takes is a little proper explaining."

"So how are we planning to get them in here? Nobody trusts a halfling-"

"And I'd scare them off."

The pair turned to look at Lissa.

"No. No-you're not suggesting I go out there and-"

"Our need is great," Pinch croaked.

"It's only once," Sprite added.

"It's a sin in the eyes of the Morninglord!" she resisted, shaking her head.

"Maybe he's not looking. Gods can get awfully busy, you know." The halfling at her side couldn't help being flip, and for it she gave him a wicked glare.

"I suppose Ankhapur will manage." Pinch tried for a sigh of resignation, but without breath it sounded more like a quack. "And I'll get used to living in the tombs, where I won't have to walk the streets and listen to the screams of the women and run from the swords of men. The tombs are quiet. I'll have lots of time to… sit."

Sprite sniffed.

"Enough!" Lissa threw up her hands. "I'll do it. I just want you to know, you're vile and evil and I hate you both!"

The two rogues, one dead, the other short and shiftless, smiled and did their best to look angelic.

"That's not very fair," Sprite sniffed, his tears turning to wounded honor before they'd even welled up in his eyes. "We're only this way because there's no other-"

"You are a person to rely on," Pinch extolled. It was best to shut the halfling up before he changed her mind for her. With a hand on her arm he steered her toward the gate. "Be quick-three people, our size, with masks." Before she could have regrets, he gently pushed her into the street.

Fifteen minutes later, three revelers, two men and a woman, one short, two tall, hurried toward the Great Hall. The woman wore a delicate domino mask and a gown that didn't fit quite well, too tight at the bodice and too long in the leg. The tall man was resplendent as a great black raven with a golden-beaked mask and a coif of feathers that flowed down into a lustrous black cloak that served well to hide the grimy clothes underneath. The little man waddled along, trying to keep up with the others, his effort constantly hindered by the papier mache head that was as big as him. His tabard jingled with every step as the bell-stitched hem dragged on the ground. The shiny, grinning jester's face lolled drunkenly, threatening to decapitate itself at any moment.

"Wonderful choice," the short one groused. The nasal voice had a dead echo like the inside of a barrel. "It's not like you could have found a worse disguise-"

"Sprite, stow that," snapped the raven in truly dead tones. "Be thankful to Lissa she found anything."

"Oh, I should be thankful that I'm going to die dressed like this." The halfling struggled to avoid tripping over his jingling hem, casting an envious eye at the ease with which the priestess handled her oversized gown. "You know, Pinch, I'm not so sure this fighting a lich thing is such a good idea. I mean, you could just stay like that. You'd get used to it after a while and it's got some positive advantages. Think about the insurance we could run. There wouldn't be no sensible merchant who'd withhold a payment from anyone who looked like you. We could run ourselves a nice system, me and Therin fronting it and you taking the collection-"

"Sprite-stay your rattling trap!"

So much was the vehemence in that voice that the halfling squeaked quiet.