T Lain - Treachery's Wake

Lidda waited as the man passed by. She was looking for an opening in the crowd where she might melt into the throng unobserved. A horse-drawn carriage rolling down the street offered her the diversion she sought. On the streets of Newcoast at the close of the business day with a storm on the horizon, it was every peasant for himself. Obviously the wagon driver took that credo to heart. People on the street moved aside as the wagon rumbled past, pressing themselves against buildings and spilling into alleys. The banker shook his fist at the teamsters and muttered under his breath, but he joined the crowd leaping out of the way.

Lidda darted from behind the stack of barrels and fell into step a few paces behind the man. She noted the girth of the rope belt holding his cloak shut as she slid a dagger from a sheath at her thigh. A quick flick of the wrist severed the strap and the follow-through slipped a small slit in the crimson robe. With a spring, Lidda hurled herself into the banker’s bulk. Her shoulder hit his back and her hand shot through the slit in his robe.

“Sorry,” she muttered, pushing against the man with her arm as though to regain her footing. “You really should be more careful.”

Lidda slipped through the press of people and into the alleyway from which she came. A pouch of coins dangled from her hand. She chuckled to herself and dissolved into the crowd on the other side of the alley, well out of sight of her victim. A yell went up from the street behind her, but the rogue was long gone. She dropped the coins into a pocket of her tunic and hurried down the road.

She did, after all, have more important business to attend to.

The thieves’ guild in Newcoast occupied a large and elaborately decorated stone building on the outskirts of the city’s market district. Erected by a wealthy merchant almost a hundred years previous, the structure functioned as his home and place of business for the first fifty years of its life. It had since become the headquarters of one of the most powerful thieves’ guilds on the coast, though it kept the appearance of its former purpose. To most, it was just one of many warehouses sheltering trade goods.

The previous owner had been an entrepreneur of sorts who profited handily in the early days of the first dwarven war against the trolls. His luck eventually ended and a series of poor business decisions ran him afoul of the guild’s founding members. The man handed over the building’s title to settle an unpaid gambling debt in exchange for keeping nine fingers. It was, the guild masters would say, a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Very few were privy to the “unofficial” business that took place behind the guild’s walls. The building did function as a warehouse and clearing house, but most of the goods that passed through the building were stolen. A handful of the city’s politicians were in league with the guild and utilized the guild’s services when elections drew near, taking credit for city streets largely clean of petty cutpurses and pickpockets.

Lidda approached the door of the guild. The portal stood nearly nine feet tall and was banded with thick pieces of iron. The ornate carvings of the building’s previous occupant had been sanded smooth and the door was quite simple. She patted the pouch of coins in her tunic and knocked. A small, square section of wood slid open in the center of the door a few feet above Lidda’s head. A moment later, it snapped shut again and a similar door, this time at the halfling woman’s eye level, slid open.

“Name and business, please,” a stern voice prompted from behind the hole.

“Name’s Lidda,” she replied. “I have dealings with Eva Flint.”

“Yes, m’lady was expecting you an hour ago. You’re running a touch late, eh?”

“Some other pressing business came up,” the halfling replied, “so if you’d be so kind as to open up…”

Lidda heard the intricate working of a number of locks and bolts and the groan of wood on wood as the door swung inward. She stepped inside.

The guild’s interior was as impressive and imposing as its outside. Heavy, well-worked stone blocks betrayed the building’s dwarven origins, each stone fitting its neighbor precisely. Dim lighting from sparsely placed wall sconces added to the guild’s ominous feel and Lidda’s sense that her every move was being scrutinized by an unseen watcher, no doubt peering at her through a tiny spy hole. The doorkeeper, a severe looking man, short and lean of stature, cleared his throat.

“Follow me, please,” he said, his voice still hushed but with an urgent undertone. “Watch the third brick on the right there,” he said, pointing to a section of flooring, “it’s a bit loose.”

Lidda gave the stone a wide berth as she walked past. What sort of trap the stone triggered she could only guess at. That it was trapped went without saying in Lidda’s mind. Providing they managed to avoid prison or death, most rogues would eventually find themselves in the patronage of a guild. Until that happened, underground networks of thieves could be just as dangerous to a fledgling pickpocket as the authorities. Jail cells or a stab in the back aside, Lidda knew that she would be contacted sooner or later.

For her, sooner had been just a few days ago.

Eva Flint’s room was larger and more impressively decorated than most in the guild. The guild master was seated behind a great oak desk, leafing through a leather-bound ledger. A single candle and a small pot of ink were the desk’s only adornment. Eva closed the ledger as Lidda was shown into the room. The light from the candle added a highlight of yellow to the woman’s short, red hair. The short sleeves of her loose-fitting blouse showed off well-defined muscles. Were she not seated, Eva would have towered above Lidda’s head. Her face was stern and chiseled but not unattractive.

“You’re late,” Eva said sharply, pushing her chair back on its two rear legs and kicking her feet up onto the desk.

“Yes, I’m sorry, m’lady,” Lidda said, stepping forward and drawing the pouch of coins from inside her tunic. She dropped the sack on the desk, where it landed with the pleasing jingle of coin on coin. “I would have been here earlier, but I was caught up with some other business that I thought you might appreciate.”

“Well, at least I see that you have respect for guild protocol, even if your sense of time is a bit off. That banker that you ‘did business’ with is a regular customer of the guild who’s fallen behind on his bills. You’ve just saved me an unpleasant house call.” An upward curl tugged at the corners of Eva’s mouth, taking the edge from her words as she looked Lidda up and down. “This might work out yet.”

So, Lidda realized, she had been followed that day and quite possibly for many days previous. It made sense—the guild contacted her, not vice-versa. Still, she was unsettled at the prospect of having been on the rodent’s end of a cat and mouse game. It was a situation the rogue was not used to and definitely not fond of.

“I’m glad that you accepted my offer of meeting,” Eva continued. “I’d hate to have to drive you from town, or worse. I think that you will find an association with the guild quite advantageous.”

Eva rose and moved to a door on the side of the room. She opened the door and an elderly man entered. He wore a long blue robe laced with intricately embroidered patterns of silver thread. He was clearly of the magic using sort. Judging by the deep wrinkles lining his face, he had attained great age, and Lidda knew that where wizards were concerned, great age and great power often went hand in hand.

“Allow me to introduce Horace Wotherwill,” Eva said as the man moved through the door.

Wotherwill stepped forward and took Lidda’s hand in his own. His dry and wrinkled skin reminded Lidda of a goblin’s hide in its roughness and she had to fight back the urge to pull her hand from his.