David Cook: King Pinch

Resigned, Pinch leaned back against the door. If he couldn't bluff the old man, he would at least pump the chamberlain for what he could. "You know a lot for being new here."

"Don't assume I came in yesterday. I learned a lot in Manferic's service that's served me better than the sword. So, are you coming or will you wait for some temple brave to cut you down? They will find you, trust me."

There was no choice. Pinch needed to stall.

"I've got others who need consulting-"

"Let them hang on their own."

"And things to get together. This evening-we'll meet again."

The old chamberlain considered the offer, the fierce energy that had sustained him all night draining away. "Where?"

"Here," was the quick answer. Pinch wasn't about to reveal any of his hideouts, either the boozing kens where he spent his days or the stalling kens where he passed his goods to the brokers.

Cleedis nodded acceptance. "Don't turn me, cousin. I found you once; I'll find you again."

And I'll be ready for you next time, Pinch thought to himself. At the door, he gave a quick bow, part old habit and part mockery, before leaving the apartment and slipping through the dawn-drowsy halls of the inn.

The rogue was wary as he made his way back through the early morning streets. By now his head was thick with the sluggish residue of stale ale, sleep deprivation, and overexcited nerves. He had to thread his way through the sunrise press of greengrocers, tinkers, and kitchen maids on their morning rounds. A butcher's apprentice splashed by, hurrying through the muddy streets and balancing a fresh side of mutton on his shoulder while a pack of gnome striplings chased him, trying to nick bits of meat off the carcass's dangling shank. Here and there Pinch saw a fellow knave- Dowzabell, the prison trusty; Dun Teddar, who did a counterfeit of mad singing; and Ironbellow, a dwarf who limped because one foot was a bronze peg. He begged coins, claiming he'd lost his foot as a Hellrider fighting the Zhentarim, but Pinch knew in truth that a surgeon had taken it last winter after Ironbellow had passed out from drink and got a case of frostbite and gangrene.

It wasn't the unpredictable palliards or the murderous wild rogues that made Pinch wary, though. Like him, the ragged tramps and overdressed cutthroats were from the night world, the land of darkness and shadow. Now, as the sun rose, they, like himself, felt their powers wane.

It was the ones who knew no hour that worried Pinch-the Hellriders who patrolled the city. It was the rogue's greatest failing that he was too well known to the catchpole and his constables. No doubt they'd be looking for him after last night.

And the Hellriders weren't all either. The patrico's guard would want a hand in this also, to redeem the damaged honor of their jobs at the temple. With daylight, they'd be out in force.

Finally, there was Cleedis. Given whom the old man had served all these years, it was certain the sword-master was not to be underestimated. Hellriders, even temple guards, Pinch could predict. He could not say the same for Cleedis.

It's all my own vain fault, a biting voice gnawed within him. It was hardly fair to call this his chiding conscience, for while always at his shoulder, the sharp words didn't care about the causes of things. Pinch's inner voice saw the flaws in plans that might have been perfect. The trouble was, it almost always spoke in the rogue's ear when it was too late to do much anyway. The voice seemed to relish the power of hindsight that Pinch denied himself.

So Pinch moved warily. He slipped down alleys with names like Kennel Lane and Mucker's Mews, where the half-timbered houses leaned so close over the street that their roof peaks almost touched. He chose ways that kept him on the edges of the day markets and far from Elturel's High Hill. Traveling thus, skirting this and flanking that, it was not until well into the morning that Pinch returned to the Dwarf's Pot.

As the old rogue pushed open the alehouse's creaky door, Therin unexpectedly stepped out from the shadows. "Piss in Ilmater's wounds-where've you been, Pinch?" The thug's voice was torn between relief and stress, and it was mirrored in the long knife clutched in his hand even as his body sagged back against the wall. Pinch knew by the knife it was serious business, not just because Therin had a knife out, but because it was a skene, a long, thin dirk. It was a blade favored by Therin's honor-obsessed people, the Gurs-Selune's children, the people of the highway. The skene was a sure sign of deadly intent.

"Pizzle it yourself. What's the play here?" Without waiting for an answer, Pinch slipped to the side where he could get his back against the wall and face his foes directly. Even though Therin wasn't threatening anymore, a man would be a fool to think all was well. With his hold-back dagger already in hand, Pinch scanned the common room for more danger.

It was empty, which even at this hour was not right. There was always at least one drunk or well-paid doxy toasting the day-but today there was nothing. Save for Therin, there weren't even any of Pinch's gang. "Hell-riders, did they-"

Therin didn't need the rest of the question. "It was the patriarch's catchpoles. Came in here like apprentices to a cry of 'Clubs.' Set to bust up the place looking for you and the little fellow." He stooped and slid the long knife back into its boot sheath.

"Damn Cleedis and his spies! Sprite-Heels-where is he?"

"Up here" was the muffled answer. Pinch looked up in time to see a small stream of dust fall from the roof beams, and then Sprite was dangling by his awkward little arms.

Therin nodded up with a grin but made no move to help. "Slipped out of sight and got himself up there." He purposely raised his voice for Sprite to hear. "Can't imagine how a runt like him managed it, though."

"I heard that!" the halfling shrieked.

They both ignored him. "And Maeve?"

"Right here, my dear Pinch," cooed a voice at Pinch's ear. The old rogue could feel her warm, ale-scented breath on his cheek, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Got meself invisible as soon as trouble come through the door. Just in case." Vanishing was Brown Maeve's first reaction to most danger.

"Well, make yourself whole, woman." Pinch addressed the air where he thought she stood. "And you up there, get yourself down. We're leaving town." He strode through the near-deserted hall toward the upstairs.

"Leaving?" There was a loud thud as Sprite dropped to the floor. Halflings, it seemed, did not land like cats. "None too soon, I think."

A bottle on the Piss Pot's bar suddenly upended and burbled a healthy swig. "Oy, Maeve-you'll be paying for that!" snapped Algaroz as he came through the door from the back kitchens.

Caught with the snappings, the frumpy sorceress flickered into existence. "It's a going-away drink," she chided. "Old Pinch wants us to leave town."

"And none too soon, if the officers keep ruining my trade-"

"Leave, just cause we had a little trouble with the constables? Things were looking good here. I say we stay." Therin marked his objections by leaning significantly against the front door. With his big muscles and rope-scarred neck, he made an imposing obstacle.

"Fine for you to say when they haven't made you, moon-man!" Sprite snapped.

Therin reddened at the name "moon-man." It was an old insult for his kind, one that reminded him of the suspicion he'd always faced as a Gur.

From the stairs, Pinch cut it off before the pair went to their blades. "Settle it later!" Pinch shouted from the stairs. "Listen, you bastards. It's not because the catch-poles showed, but that they showed unnatural fast- and they knew whom they were looking for. Don't that strike you as queer, either of you?" He spat toward the spittoon, getting the flavor of treachery out of his mouth. "It was Cleedis's doing. He's got a job he wants me to do, and he's tipped the temple to make me do it."