Jeff Crook - The Thieves’ Guild

“Not likely. Probably, she didn’t even see him. I marvel, though, at his iron nerve, to stay hidden while she danced so near. In any case, her path leads toward the house, his leads, unaccountably, away.” Again, the puzzle crossed his narrow brow. Rising, he continued along the trail only his eyes could see.

It led them eventually into the garden, and finally to the rose hedge beside the wall. Sir Arach stooped beneath the hedge, vanishing through a barely perceptible gap in the thick thorny screen. He returned almost immediately, something bright glimmering on his outstretched palm.

“I marvel, Master Gaeord, at the baubles you leave lying about your garden. What fruits do you expect to grow from it? This, I believe, is one of the famous Laertian Combs, renowned for their priceless rubies, which you gave to your daughter on her sixteenth Day of Life Gift. And here is an ivory button-not really ivory, whale’s tooth actually, which is favored by the middle classes over the more expensive true ivory. I don’t imagine you would allow your own daughter to wear such trash. Perhaps her companion lost it.”

With a strangled cry, Gaeord snatched the condemning evidence from the Thorn Knight’s palm. Sir Arach vanished again behind the roses. Jenna chuckled and looked away.

A burst of insane laughter erupted from the rose bushes. “What a fool I’ve been. It was before me all the time. There is nothing so misleading as an obvious clue,” the Thorn Knight berated himself, all the while cackling hideously. The sound of it, like nails dragged across a slate board, made the others cringe.

His head appeared through the bushes. “Come, come. You must see this. Ah, I can’t have been so blind. Watch yourself. The thorns are sharp.”

With obvious reluctance, Gaeord stooped through the rose bushes and found himself in a close, shadowy arbor completely hidden from any passersby in the garden. At the back of it, the outer wall of his estate rose some dozen feet above him.

Jenna remained on the path outside. “I’d rather not,” she said to the Thorn Knight’s entreaties.

“Suit yourself. You’ll miss seeing what a fool I’ve been,” Sir Arach said.

“I am certain other opportunities will arise,” she answered coldly.

Returning to the arbor where Gaeord crouched red-faced and breathing heavily in the shadows, Sir Arach motioned to the wall. There, he pointed out the clear marks in the deep garden loam of two bootprints. Gaeord looked at them for a moment, then turned a questioning gaze on the Thorn Knight.

“Don’t you see?” Sir Arach asked. Gaeord shook his head.

With a sigh, the Thorn Knight continued. “If you were to stand at the wall and leap for the edge, what sort of marks would your feet leave?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Gaeord answered.

“Toes indented, dirt flung away from the wall,” came the shouted answer from beyond the rose bushes.

“Thank you, Mistress Jenna,” Sir Arach shouted in response. Turning back to the bootprints, he continued, “As you can see, the toes here have hardly left any impression at all, while the heels are indented quite deeply, which is indicative of someone landing, not jumping.”

“I see,” Gaeord sighed appreciatively. “But what does it mean?”

“It means, dear Gaeord, that either your thief crossed the lawn by running backwards, or he wore his boots turned around backwards, or the boots themselves were magically altered to leave backwards impressions.”

“Of course!” Mistress Jenna exclaimed from without.

“So he jumped over my wall wearing backwards shoes,” Gaeord said, still confused.

“No, he dropped from the wall into your garden wearing backwards shoes.” Taking the sweating merchant by the sleeve of his pajamas, Sir Arach led him back to the garden path.

“Where has Mistress Jenna gone?” Gaeord asked as they emerged from the roses.

Sir Arach looked around, equally puzzled, then shrugged and continued his explanation as he led Gaeord back to the house. The red-robed sorceress had vanished, as was her wont.

“Having gained entrance to the estate, he then followed your daughter. from her assignation across the lawn and into the house, past the guards who probably thought it best to not see her entrance, in case they were questioned later. He then went up the stairs, hid for a moment in the niche, then continued down the passage after narrowly avoiding the attack of the magical bronze guardians.”

“But you can’t get to that chamber from that hallway,” Gaeord argued.

“Yes, I know,” Sir Arach said absently. He walked along, eyeing something he had drawn from a pocket of his gray robes. “Of course, I should have known at once that the boot prints were a ruse. The rose thorn stuck to the hem of his cloak proved that he had been in the garden before entering the house.”

“What about the second thief?” Gaeord asked as they stopped at the front door. “This doesn’t account for the thief you say entered through the loft. I should think he is the more talented and dangerous of the two.”

“My dear Gaeord, why worry yourself needlessly? Let a professional do the thinking, for it isn’t your strength. Now that I have a track to follow, I shall surely hunt down both thieves. Give me two turns of the glass on the grounds and about the house and I’ll give you your men.” With these words, Sir Arach turned and strode off in the direction of the reflecting pool.

Gaeord was just finishing a breakfast of ham and fried potatoes, a servant standing at his elbow to retrieve the empty plates, when Sir Arach returned, red faced and excited by his efforts. He slid into a seat at the table quite uninvited, and said without being asked, “Yes, thank you, I am famished. But no potatoes. I prefer eggs, poached, lightly salted if you don’t mind. And do hurry, I am expected at the Spring Dawning ceremonies in little more than an hour.”

The servant glanced at his master, and at Gaeord’s nod, hurried away to the kitchen.

Gaeord set aside his knife and fork and dabbed at his lips with a linen napkin almost as large as a ship’s flag. “So you have solved it then,” he muttered through the napkin.

“Most assuredly,” Sir Arach answered, as he examined the silverware. Gaeord had the uncomfortable feeling that his every possession had been carefully noted, categorized, and filed away in the enormous intellect of the Lord High Justice of Palanthas. “An interesting case, with several remarkable features. I thank you. I wouldn’t have missed it for all the jewels in Ansalon.”

“So who is the thief?” Gaeord asked, as a servant entered and began to clear away the other dishes and glasses.

“Thieves,” corrected Sir Arach. “No, perhaps you were right-thief. I’ll tell you who it is not. It is not the man who is currently at the bottom of your reflecting pool attracting sharks from the bay. Nor is it one of your household servants, nor one of your guests of the night before. They have all been accounted for. No one is missing.”

So one of the thieves was dead! Gaeord let out a sigh of relief and wiped his brow with his napkin. Then a cold chill prickled the nape of his pomaded neck, for he realized that, during the course of an hour, Sir Arach had ascertained the current whereabouts of every guest who had visited his party, as well as all his servants. This hinted at an enormous network of informants and spies, a network more fantastic than even the most fantastic rumors circulating in Palanthas.

“Who is at the bottom of the pool, then?” Gaeord asked timidly.

“Most likely one of the servants hired for the evening-a steward, wine servant, or musician. He slipped away during a lull in the party. It is possible that he had assistance from someone else on the inside,” Sir Arach said.