David Cook: King Pinch

The tumblers clicked and rotated, the bolt slid back, and nothing screeched in alarm. Still Pinch waited to be sure. When no innkeeper roused from his morning kitchen came puffing up the stairs with guardsmen in tow, Pinch pushed the door open until he could just slide his body through into the gloom beyond. Once inside, he checked the lock's other side. Dwarves had a fiendish fondness for little traps like one-sided locks and other infernal tricks.

Once satisfied that the Five-League Lodge was not at the forefront of lock design, the old rogue softly pressed the door shut and looked about the room. The front salon alone was larger than any private room Pinch had seen in Elturel. The entire common room of the old, dark-stained Piss Pot could easily have fit in here. Worse still for Pinch, everything was of the finest quality-the brocades, the statuary, the plate. It was a cruel thing to have to suppress his natural acquisitive instincts. He restrained himself, not from any sense of morality but because he had business that he did not want to jeopardize. Besides, the rogue knew he wasn't equipped to do the job right. Pilfer a little now, and the owner would surely tighten his wonderfully lax precautions. Instead, Pinch made a note of the place, its best treasures, and its weaknesses. Any man who guarded his treasures so ill just might be fool enough to turn over the lot to a quick-witted coney-catcher like himself, Pinch guessed.

But the rogue shook his head ruefully, knowing his thoughts were getting away from the matter at hand. With all the stealth he could muster, Pinch slipped to the bedchamber door and gently pushed the gilded panel open. It swung on silent hinges, which suited the thief well. A dying glimmer in the fireplace lit the gloom in the far corner, casting its rays over the dark hump in the center of the bed.

With a supple twist, Pinch slid his wrist knife into the palm of his hand. He had no intention of killing Cleedis, but there was no point in letting the man know that. In three quick strides he would be at the bed.

Halfway through his second step, a light flared from the corner opposite the lamp.

"All night I've waited," groused a figure in the light, filling a high-backed chair like a lump of fallen dough. "I expected you earlier."

"Cleedis!" Pinch gasped, though his teeth were clenched. Instinct seized the thief. He whirled on the balls of his feet, blade already coming up-

"None of that!" the other barked sharply. He shifted slightly and a flash of steel glinted from his lap. "I know you too well, coz. It was me that taught you the sword."

Pinch rocked back with wary slowness. " 'Coz,' indeed, Chamberlain Cleedis. What brings you so far from Ankhapur? Fall out of Manferic's favor?"

The swordsman rose from his seat, his overweight and flaccid body filling with the stern strength of piety. "Your guardian, King Manferic III, is dead."

It was clear the old courtier was playing the news for shock, and Pinch was not having any of it. With his best studied coolness, he laid his knife on the nightstand and settled onto the bed, disinterestedly pulling the coverlet back. Underneath, a breastplate and clothes made up the lumpy outline. "So?" the rogue drawled. "He turned his back on me years ago."

"The kingdom needs you."

That got to Pinch. He couldn't help but stare at Cleedis in surprise. He looked at the courtier closely, comparing what he saw to the man he once knew. The hair, once black and rich, was receding and almost pure white. The weather-beaten campaigner's skin was now cracked and loose, his eyes sad pits without humor. The soldier's muscles were now flaccid and tired. In Cleedis, Pinch saw the fate of the warrior turned statesman, the toll that years of compromise and patience would extract from the flesh.

Pinch stared until he realized he was staring, then he gave an embarrassed snort of disgust as if to claim his shock was only an act. "I'm not such a gull, Cleedis. There are my dear cousins; what about the princelings four?"

Cleedis thrust the sword into the carpet and hobbled a step forward using the weapon like a cane. "Bors is an idiot-can barely hold his drool in at a temple service," the king's chamberlain growled. "The other three hate each other with a passion. Each claims sole right to the Cup and Knife. Vargo started it, figuring he could muscle the other two out of the race. With only one claimant, the priests would nullify the test and pronounce him the true heir."

The tale was beginning to amuse Pinch, in as much as it was all his adopted family deserved. He lay back on the pillows, although one hand was always near the knife. "Throdus and Marac didn't agree? By Beshaba, dissension in the house."

"There'll be civil war!"

"So when they're all gone, you want me, the forgotten ward, to come to Ankhapur's rescue and carry on the family name? How generous, Cleedis."

Cleedis stabbed at the floor in anger. "I'll not put a thief like you on the throne!"

Pinch sprang to the edge of the bed. "Ho! Little kingmaker Cleedis now! My, what you've become. So what is it you want of me then?"

The courtier stalked back to his chair. "Just a job. A quick and quiet solution to our problem."

"Why me? You could get any queer-bird to lay them down with a cudgel, just for freedom from the gaol-or have you lost all your influence with Manferic's death?" The aged courtier's glare told Pinch all he needed to know. "Aye, now there's a turn of Tymora's wheel. You used to inspire fear in them, and now you probably don't even have the coin for a black spell from a Thavian outcast. That's why you've come to me." The rogue let loose a gloating chuckle and settled back onto the silken pillows.

"It's not that way," was Cleedis's terse reply. "First, it's not the princes we're after. If anything odd should happen to your cousins, there'll be war for sure. In the second part, you can dance on the twisted hemp before I'd come looking for you. I'm here at Manferic's bidding."

"Oh, dear guardian; so like Manferic. He plots even after his death." It was time to be off the bed and to the door. "Go back to his grave, Cleedis, and tell him I'm not coming. I like things just as they are here."

"Heard there was trouble in town last night," the elder drawled like a snake uncoiling. Pinch knew he was hearing trouble, but he kept his stride steady. He wasn't going to play the chamberlain's game.

"You are a fool, Janol-or Pinch, should I call you? Here I am in Elturel, where nobody's even heard of Manferic or Ankhapur, and you don't even wonder how I found you."

That stopped Pinch with his hand at the door.

The seat creaked and then the floor groaned with a heavy thunk-clunk as Cleedis hobbled over, sword as cane. "The priests of Ankhapur," the courtier wheezed out, "have gotten quite good at tracking you. Shall I tell you where you were last night?"

Pinch stared blindly at the woodwork in front of him. "I was drinking." He could hear his own words locking into the cool monotone of a lie and cursed himself for getting caught.

"Maybe you were. It doesn't matter," the courtier allowed with the smooth, cold smile of a basilisk. "Guilty or innocent, it doesn't matter to me or the constables- what are they called? — Hellriders of this town. Just a word is all it takes."

Pinch turned a half step toward his tormentor.

"Not a bit of it, Janol," the old man said as he weakly swung his sword to guard. "You can't imagine me trekking to Elturel alone. I die and you're surely doomed."

"Bastard fool, you've got no proof and I've got evidences who'll swear for me."

Sword still up, Cleedis blew on his free hand to warm his finger joints. "Of course you do, and that's all good for the constables, but are a high priest's bodyguards less impetuous here than in Ankhapur? The news through the entire city is that they lost a pretty piece of property, a piece of some high holy man's jewelry they'd been safeguarding."