King Pinch

9

"Open the door, Janol. It's time."

From the other room came the relentless thump of a staff pounded against the door.

"This is your last chance before I have them break it down." The muffled voice belonged to Cleedis, and he did not sound pleased.

Pinch hurried to the apartment door, but instead of opening it, he pulled a heavy chair over and wedged it under the door handle. If they went so far as to break the door, it would take them time and, looking in a mirror, he needed time.

First he pulled the wall shut. There was a chance that no one had magically scried his discovery of the passage, so there was no point in advertising it.

"Open it."

Pinch worked quickly. Off came the torn and dusty clothes, replaced by a sleeping robe. Shoving the clothes out of sight, he brushed the cobwebs out of his curly gray hair and splashed cold water over his face. His raw hand stung, and clearing away the dirt only made the bruises and scratches on his face more vivid.

The door lock rasped and the guard's key ratcheted in the lock. When they went to open the door, though, the chair slid for a few inches before wedging itself firmly into place.

"Dammit, Janol, do I have to break this door down?"

The door rattled on its hinges, and the chair creaked as someone bounced off the other side. Pinch could see an apoplectic Cleedis ordering his men to throw themselves at the barrier until it was shattered.

Pinch let them hit it a few more times so he could get a sense of their timing. The last thing he wanted to do was open up to face a flying wedge of guardsmen.

"Let your hounds off, Cleedis. I'm coming."

Saying that, the regulator waited just to be sure. When no more thuds resounded through his suite, he unwedged the chair and sat in it.

"It's open, Lord Chamberlain."

A furious squall entered the room, beet red and thundering. The old soldier showed more fury and emotion than Pinch had seen in him since their first meeting. "And what was the purpose of that little game?"

"Privacy. I was sleeping."

The hard sergeant in Cleedis growled disapproval. "It's midday."

Pinch shrugged.

"What happened to you?" the nobleman demanded, noticing Pinch's battered face.

The rogue refrained from a smile, though the chamberlain had given him the opening for the tale he'd planned. "I had more visitors-Prince Vargo's thugs. That's another reason for the chair."

"Vargo's? Will it stand to the proof?"

"Does the prince make gifts of his livery?"

"My men were outside." Cleedis's voice was full of wishful loyalty.

"Indeed." Though it hurt, Pinch raised an eyebrow in skepticism.

To that the old man could only stomp about the room, rapping the floor with frustration. Now Pinch allowed himself a smile, unable to restrain the malicious joy of his own handiwork any longer. There was no way to confirm his story, nor would any denial be trusted. Cleedis had no choice but to doubt his own men. There was even a chance the old soldier might set his men on Vargo's. In any case, it was a weakness in the strength of his hosts and captors. Any weakness of theirs might give him an edge.

"Get dressed," Cleedis ordered in his gruff sergeant's voice. "We're to meet your employer."

"Finally." As he rose to get dressed, Pinch kept his words sparse and light, although inside he was seething with curiosity and eagerness. At last there was a real chance of getting some answers.

He came back quickly, dressed and clean, and limping only slightly from his fall. Cleedis hadn't expected such haste, but Pinch brushed that away as the desire to get on with his duties, though in truth he'd been partially dressed beneath his robe.

As they left the room, Cleedis dismissed the guards on the pretense they should rest their aching shoulders. Only the chamberlain's personal bodyguard was to accompany them on this trip.

Hooded and cloaked more for secrecy than warmth, the small party rode from the postern gate of the palace toward the far side of Ankhapur. At first Pinch couldn't figure where they were headed, but after they'd crossed several avenues and not turned off, he knew. They were making for the grave field.

The common practice to get from place to place in bowl-shaped Ankhapur was to climb or descend to the avenue desired and then make a circuit around the center. The chamberlain had done neither. In leaving he wove through the interconnecting streets, first taking this boulevard then that avenue. The route was in part to reveal any unwanted followers, but after crossing the Street of Shames the only place left to go was the grave field.

No city likes its burial grounds, festering sores of evil. Too many things buried came back for such places to be safe. In a few cases, the dead came back of their own volition seeking revenge or just flesh. More often than not, the dead were disturbed by others-wizards and priests who saw the graves and crypts as raw material for their dark arts. The dead don't like to be disturbed and generally make ill company for the living.

Thus, different cities adopt different strategies for dealing with the problem. Some bury their dead outside the city, others behind strong walls. In a few, cremation is the rule. Ankhapur used to dump its dead far out to sea, until the Year of the Watery Dead. In that year, Ankhapur's ancestors returned: a host of sea zombies and things less wholesome that clambered over the docks seeking revenge on the city that had cast them away. The assault lasted more than a year, new waves of terror striking every night, before the undead host was finally overcome.

Aside from the death and destruction, the greatest consequence was that the citizens would no longer consign their kin to the waters. Burial and veneration of the dead suddenly became the way of things.

Unfortunately the city had grown without a burial ground and had no proper place for one. The farmlands around were all fiefs of the nobility, and no one could be persuaded to surrender lands for the dead. The only solution was to raze a section of the ghetto that lay just within the walls and crowd the crypts into there. To ensure the safety of the citizens, all the temples of Ankhapur, or at least those that could be trusted, were levied with the task of providing priests to guard the perimeter.

This was where they were headed-the Street of Crypts. As a youth, even though he'd been reckless and wild, Pinch had prudently avoided this district. All that he knew about it he knew by rumor, and the rumors were not pleasant.

The perimeter of the district was marked by a low wall, hardly enough to keep anyone out or anything in. At regular intervals along its length were small stone watchtowers. In each was a priest, probably bored or asleep, whose duty was to be ready with his spells and his faith lest the dead wander from their tombs.

The group waited at a small arch while the priests there set aside their books and prayers and undid the iron gate. The rusted hinges squealed for oil as they pushed the grill open. Pinch barely gave them a notice until he saw a tousle-haired woman among them: Lissa of the Morninglord. He considered greeting her, asking her how the search had gone, perhaps even giving her clues that he suspected someone, but there was no privacy and no time. Instead, he merely let his hood slip back so she could see his face, gave her a wink, and set his finger to his lips. She practically jumped with a start and gave it all away, but that wouldn't have mattered much. Pinch just wanted her to feel a conspirator, to draw her farther into his web.

He and Cleedis left their horses and their bodyguard just inside the gate, and the commander gave word for the men to see to the animals and get themselves a drink. "What are you fearing?" the aged hero chided. "It's day. We'll be safe enough."

The old ghetto district hadn't been very large, and death was a popular pastime in Ankhapur-someone else's death preferred to one's own. The dead were crammed into the space so tight that the lanes between the crypts were barely big enough for a team of pall- bearers to wind their way through. There was no grid or path through the grave markers. The route had all the organization of spaces between a tumble of child's blocks. The way went straight, branched, and shunted constantly. In an effort to squeeze more space for the honored dead, crypts stood upon crypts. A staircase would suddenly wind up to another lane that ran along the roof of a mausoleum, passing the sealed niches of yet more bodies.

The ornamentation on each building was just as haphazard, dictated by the fashion of the decade and what the family could afford. In one dark corner a fountain perpetually splashed up bubbles of a tune loved by someone in the last century, now more a tribute to some wizard's art. From the cracks around a crypt door blazed rays of endless sunlight from within, as good an assurance against vampires and wights as any Pinch had seen. A foul-faced carven gargoyle fixed over another door howled aloud the sins of all who were buried within. Pinch stopped to listen a bit, rather impressed by the litany of villainies, until Cleedis testily urged him on.

They had plunged a considerable way in when the narrow path yawned into an improbable courtyard, not large but jarringly empty nonetheless. Nothing should be open here, so this space was the ultimate in conspicuous arrogance.

On one side was the royal tomb, of course. No other family could command such real estate in this cramped necropolis. The mausoleum itself was a fixture of restrained style, trumpeting its tastefulness in contradiction to its garish neighbors. The other crypts around the square, noble families all, sported hideous monsters, garish polychrome colors, and overwrought iron ivy. They were a mishmash of styles over the centuries. If Pinch were of the mind to, he could have read the tastes of Ankhapur as they passed over the years.

Cleedis sat himself on a bench some kin had thoughtfully provided just in case their dearly departed wanted to rise and catch a little sun. The old man, stooped and wrinkled, looked a part of the landscape. He fiddled with his sword, as was his wont when he was compelled to do nothing but wait. Waiting ill suited him; he was once a man of action and the habit of patience had long ago been marched out of him.

"Lo, here. You've escorted me this far to sit?"

"Bide your time, thief."

Pinch sighed and leaned himself against a wall. Knowing they were to wait, he could do a masterful job of it. Half his career was waiting with one eye to the mark and the other ever watchful for the constables. He fished two bales of dice from his pocket and practiced his foists, throwing first one set and then changing it by a quick sleight.

Some time went by in this manner, until the old man nodded into a doze on the sun-warmed bench. Just as Pinch was considering nipping the chamberlain's purse and rings, the door to the royal crypt creaked open.

"Janol, it has been a long time."

The blood ran in icy droplets down the length of Pinch's spine.

"No kind greeting?"

It was the voice that froze him, a bass growl where each word was sharply enunciated. He hadn't heard that voice in fifteen years. It was different, a little thinner and breathy, but there was no mistaking.

He didn't expect to ever hear it again, either.

"Manferic?"

A dry chuckle echoed from inside the tomb. " 'Your Highness, King Manferic,' my ungrateful ward."

"You're… dead. Or you're supposed to be."

There was a long pause. "What if I am? Death is only another challenge."

Pinch swallowed hard. For maybe the second time in his life, at least since he was old enough to appreciate his feelings, Pinch was scared. Deep, hard squeezing-in-the-gut scared. It was like a cold snake coiling around his throat, squeezing on his lungs till his breath came hard.

"Come here." The dark shape moved closer to the open doorway, always taking care to skirt the shafts of light.

Pinch shook his head fiercely against that suggestion. He was not about to step into the dark with that thing. The living Manferic had been enough to drive him away; an undead one, if Manferic was truly dead, could only be worse.

"State your business with me," the rogue croaked out, doing his best to sound bold.

"I've watched your progress, son." Manferic had always called his ward "son." Pinch was never sure if it was mockery or done just to irritate Manferic's true sons. It certainly wasn't love. The king hadn't an ounce in him then, and there was certainly none left now. "You did me proud."

"I wasn't trying to. What do you want?" The rogue kept fear at bay through his bluster.

The shadow sighed within. "And I hoped this would be a warm and touching reunion. I need a thief."

"Why me? There's ten score of them in Ankhapur, and more than a few are a match for me." Pinch bumped into something solid behind him. He jumped, but it was only a pillar.

"I need someone discreet and with no connections here in Ankhapur. You."

Pinch assumed this was a lie. In life, Manferic had never been this direct.

"You are to steal the Cup and the Knife."

The Cup and Knife! Ankhapur's symbols of royal prerogative and the two holiest artifacts in the city. It was only through them that one of the four princes would be able to claim Manferic's throne. Now Pinch was beginning to understand why Cleedis had been stalling the ceremony. Cleedis and Manferic, or more likely Manferic and Cleedis, were plotting something.

"It won't stop them from choosing a new king. They'll get their king with or without the test."

The voice chuckled again, and Pinch imagined hearing the echoes of heartless mirth.

"They will never know. You're going to switch them with another set. Another Cup and Knife. I have them here. Cleedis arranged for them to be made. Come and get them."

Pinch was immovable. "Bring them out."

The dark crypt echoed with a rasping hiss. "That would be difficult. At a future time."

"Set them in the light, then."

A charcoal gray bundle slid just barely into the light that poured through the ajar door. No hand or foot came into view.

"And after I've made the exchange?"

The voice from the crypt answered. "Give everything to Cleedis. He will know what to do."

"I work for myself. What's my booty?"

"Your life, your freedom."

Pinch snorted. "Small threats. What about coins?"

The voice chuckled again. "Cleedis will see that you are rewarded.

"The work must be done quickly. Old doddering Cleedis there can't stall my eager sons much longer. The Cup and the Knife must be traded before the ceremony- and no one must suspect. Understand this clearly."

"Your points are clear," Pinch snidely answered. He stepped over to Cleedis and sharply kicked the old man The chamberlain woke quick and alert, a legacy of years of military service. The rogue nodded to the package and lied, "You're to carry it. I'm not trusted."

The chamberlain glared with resentment at being ordered so, but nonetheless waddled over and fetched the bundle from the doorway. It was heavier than it appeared, and he hefted it with a grunt.

The crypt door creaked shut. "Betray me and die. Fail me and suffer," promised the sepulchral voice from inside.

Pinch seized the bag from Cleedis's grasp and furiously undid the strings. Carefully reaching in he pulled forth the larger of two items he felt. It was a large goblet sharply chiseled from a piece of perfect black quartz. The rim was lipped with a band of gold studded with faceted rubies. At the very bottom of the smoothly polished bowl was the largest white pearl Pinch had ever seen. It was real, too, not fake. His eye was practiced enough to tell the real goods from cheap glimmers.

Blood quickening, Pinch produced the other item from the bag, a silver knife cast as a single piece. It had no rivets, no wrappings, no stones, no gold. The handle was molded into a fluid form whorled and knuckled to the grip of a hand. Perhaps the caster had cooled the molten ore in his hand, molding it the way a child squeezes clay. The blade was ground to a razored line that promised to slice skin, sinew, even bone with the smoothest of grace. The craftsmanship lavished on the copy was perhaps the equal of the original.

Hands trembled as he held the small fortune in hand, and the sheer thought of the magnificence before him overwhelmed the utter fear that had shaken him moments before. Dead king or no, thing in the crypt or what, even these terrors could not drive away the avarice the rogue felt on examining these earthly glories.

The chamberlain testily seized the treasures and stuffed them back into their bag. "I'll keep them. Out of sight. And remember my lord's words," he added with more than a little distrust of his accomplice's passions.

That reminder brought Pinch back to the reality of his situation, and as Cleedis hurried from the courtyard, the rogue's initial fear turned to calculation. He took stock of everything that had happened. He'd heard a voice, saw a door move, but never saw the departed king. There was always the possibility that what he'd imagined was true, but there were other alternatives.

First-and this thought came to him as they passed a golden-flowered tree perpetually in bloom, the remembrance of a lord for his deceased mistress-old Manferic might be secretly alive. Pinch could only rule that as very unlikely. There was the elaborate business of staging his own death and sitting in immobile state at his own funeral. A statue would never have fooled the discreet inspections of every enemy who suspected such a trick. Then there was the question of giving up power. It was a sure guess that Manferic would never trust anyone else to front him when the odds were so great. Cleedis might be loyal, but once he was named regent no one could ever say just how loyal. No, Pinch was certain the king was dead.

Dead didn't mean gone, though, as the protections around this necropolis assured. The old tyrant had been a sorcerer of considerable skill, and his arcane arts had done much to insure his steadfast grip on Ankhapur. If that really had been Manferic hidden from view, then perhaps the late king had found the path to never-ending unlife, the soulless void between the flush of blood and the feast of worms. The thought frightened Pinch. In life, Manferic had been a master of cruelties; the wrenching transition of nonlife would certainly heighten the most degenerate passions in his festering mind.

Another fear entered his thoughts as the rogue surveyed the passing crypts with their heavy doors, great locks, and carved wards. By the perverse pleasure of the gods, in death those once living gained more power. If Manferic was a thing of the darkness, his might could be beyond contending. Sorcery and death were a potent combination, a forge to fashion truly devastating power.

There was a third possibility, far more likely than that, however. Pinch hadn't seen Manferic. He'd heard a voice, a disembodied one. It didn't take too much art to conjure up a charlatan who could do a fine impression, especially given Pinch's absence of fifteen years. The whole thing could just be a dumb show, staged by Cleedis.

To what end? What purpose had the old man in concocting such an elaborate plot. Why travel to Elturel just to collect a rebellious ward and then go to such lengths to convince him his late guardian still lived? Where was the gain for Lord Cleedis, Chamberlain of the Royal Household and Regent of the…

A possibility struck him and Pinch stopped, letting the nobleman laboriously march onward through the narrow lanes. Cleedis was regent only so long as no prince was crowned. No prince could be crowned without the Cup and Knife-

No, that made no sense. If that were the case, why the elaborate substitution? Hurrying to catch up before his host became suspicious of his lagging, Pinch set his mind to work out the snares. It was a puzzle as twisted and double-dealing as his own nature. If no prince were crowned, Cleedis could rule forever-but that would never happen, because the three princes would surely unite against him and force the selection of one of them. That's why he couldn't steal the symbols outright.

That's when Pinch remembered there was a fourth prince, Bors, the one everyone discounted. Bors was an idiot-he couldn't rule. If he were the chosen king of Ankhapur there would have to be… a regent. Royal law did not allow a queen to rule while her husband lived, so no lady was likely to marry Bors on the hope that the idiot-king would die, no matter how conveniently. The gods had a way of foiling plans like those.

That left Cleedis. Somehow Pinch was sure he was planning to get Bors crowned and then continue his regency. Looking at the old man doddering ahead of him, Pinch realized that the chamberlain's thinning white hair concealed more cunning and deviousness than anyone suspected. All those years of loyal dullness were a deep mask for the man's true ambition.

As for his part in it, Pinch guessed he was the foil. If the theft was discovered, he, master rogue and unrepentant ward, would get the blame. The upright man had always understood that; it was his lot in life, both here and in Elturel. It was also his lot in life to see that such a fate didn't happen, either by not failing or by crossing those who hoped to snare him.

Why switch the regalia and why the charade with Manferic, Pinch didn't know. Before their purposes were revealed, he needed to find out.

They were somewhere near the fountain that sang when the chamberlain called a rest. Bracing on his cane against the palsied shiver in his legs, the ancient settled onto a cool stone bench. Behind the drooping lids, bright eyes studied the younger man.

"That was Manferic?" Pinch curtly challenged.

The senior nodded.

"He's just chosen to lurk out here?"

"It has been planned for many years," was the dry response.

"And you're still his lackey?"

The lined faced tightened. "I am a loyal soldier. I will not serve those worthless sons of his, schemers who fear an honest battle."

"And you're not?"

"I have never been afraid to challenge my enemies. I was a great duelist! I've just gotten… old."

"The voice said I'd be paid."

"I heard my lord. I wasn't as asleep as you thought."

"What sum?"

"Ten thousand bicentas and passage to where you desire."

Ten thousand bicentas was no small sum; a bicenta was the equal of an Elturel groat. He'd risked his life for far less.

"One hundred thousand."

Cleedis sputtered in contempt. Twenty."

"I can make that by farcing your suite."

"I can give you over to the Dawn Priests."

It was the rogue's turn to scowl.

"Seventy."

"Thirty"

"Sixty."

"Forty."

"Fifty even, then."

Cleedis's smile was that of a diplomat who hears the other side propose his terms for him. "Fifty it will be- but only when the job's done."

"Transportable, but not script," Pinch added. He didn't want to be hampered by a wagonload of coins, and he didn't trust any note of credit the chamberlain might draw up. It wasn't one hundred thousand, but it was a fair take for a single job. Of course, he doubted Cleedis had any intention of paying it. Pinch would just have to convince him otherwise.

The chamberlain cast a glance to the westering sun. Already shadows filled the alleys between the crypts. "Time to march on," the chamberlain ordered as if the rogue were a squadron of knights. He assumed the order was being followed and hurried ahead with renewed vigor.

The musical fountain was closer to the necropolis gate than Pinch remembered, since it took them only a few more twists and turns before they saw the cones of the clerical watchtowers over the rooftops. Shortly after, the small gatehouse came into view. The priests huddled at the iron grill, any arrival providing something to break their boredom. The chamberlain's bodyguard and their horses were not in sight, presumably warmly waiting at a neighborhood tavern. A few beggars were clustered outside the gate, probably drawing their trade from the masons and hired mourners who worked inside the dead city's walls.

Pinch cast a look behind, entertaining the thought that he might spot Cleedis's accomplice, the voice of Manferic, scurrying along behind. As far as he knew, this was the only exit.

"Ho there! Stand aside Lord Cleedis! Our argument is not with you."

Pinch spun around and came face-to-face with three swordsmen stepping from the shadows. He recognized them from this morning: Throdus's three clowns. Now each stood poised with a naked rapier, and they didn't look so clownlike.

"Knights of Ankhapur," Cleedis blustered, "stand aside yourselves. I order you as regent of all the realm!" The aged warrior-lord tremblingly swept his cane as if it would clear his path.

The flaxen-haired leader of the three, the one Pinch remembered as Treeve, batted the cane aside with a quick swipe of his sword. "Prince Throdus is our lord, not you. We will not fight you, old man, but do not prevent us from ridding the city of this cancer."

"I'll hang you for this!"

"We're protected by Prince Throdus. You'll do no such thing."

The regent sputtered. "Mutiny! If you were in my command, I'd have you all flayed!"

"Kurkulatain, keep him out of the way."

The slightest of the three grinned and flicked his sword tip under the chamberlain's chin, only to have the old man bat it away. The swordsman's smile went cross as he tried to find a way to subdue the irascible lord.

Keep them preoccupied, Cleedis, Pinch silently urged. He already had one hand on his sword and just needed a moment of diversion to act. So far, Cleedis held them in indecision, but they were still too watchful for the rogue to strike.

"GUARDS!" Cleedis bellowed!

The three bravos sprang toward the lord in surprise, desperate to shut him up.

It was just the distraction Pinch needed. Ignoring the one whose blade was on Cleedis, Pinch struck at the other two. With a single sweep he produced a dagger in his off hand and struck, driving the blade like a nail into the sword hand of the third attacker, Faranoch.

The man shrieked as the blade plunged through tendons, scraped off bone, and thrust out through his palm. The rapier clattered from his grasp. Pinch gave the skene a vicious twist and let go, leaving the bravo to gape at the bloody memento the rogue left behind.

The leader, realizing he'd cornered the sheep while the wolf still prowled, flailed around in a desperate attempt to correct his error. Pinch was unarmed; there'd been no chance to draw his sword. He stepped aside from the courtier's frantic lunge, but instead of using the man's recovery to draw his own sword, Pinch seized the other's wrist and stepped forward, bringing his foot up in a sweeping kick between the man's legs. Pinch connected just below the waist, and the ringleader shrieked falsetto as all the air inside him blew out in one massive gust. Treeve writhed on the ground while Pinch's first target stumbled back onto a bench where he sat clutching his transfixed hand.

"Hold where you are!" shrilled the last ambusher as he held Cleedis by the throat, sword point pressed into the sagging folds beneath the man's chin. "Make a move and I'll kill him!"

Pinch stepped away from his whimpering victim, shrugged, and finally drew his sword. "So what? Kill him."

The little man swallowed in terror.

"You expect me to fight fair. You expect me to care." The regulator walked forward, leveling his sword at the man. "I don't care if you kill him. I just want to kill you."

"Janol…" Cleedis gurgled.

"Shut up, old fool. Do you think I'll risk my life for you? You haven't earned it."

From the distance came the rattling clank of the gate being opened. Voices carried over the silent rooftops.

The man wanted to see who else was coming but was too terrified to take his eyes from his nemesis. Unintimidated, Pinch continued to close. At last the man's nerve broke, and he flung his hostage forward while bolting into the mazed warrens of the necropolis.

Pinch dodged to the side as the chamberlain gasped and stumbled to freedom. For a moment he thought about chasing the man but easily decided against it. Instead, he turned his attention to the fellow on the ground. Remarkably, perhaps driven by fear, the man had regained his sword with every intention of using it, once he caught his breath.

Pinch didn't wait for that. With a quick thrust he brought an end to this comedy. The body fell hard on the muddy lane.

The last survivor threw up his blood-covered hands to surrender, and the hue and cry of the arriving bodyguard forestalled the need for any action on Pinch's part.

"Seize him!" Cleedis commanded as his bodyguards sprinted to the scene. The armored men fell upon the courtier and savagely pinioned him on the ground. The man's expression was a wrenched mass of pain and terror.

"My lord chamberlain, what shall we do with him?" queried the captain of the bodyguard. A coarse-shaven man adept at killing and following orders, he looked over the rogue's handiwork with no small amount of approval.

"Keep the priests away," the chamberlain ordered. The captain nodded and ran off.

Cleedis walked over and placed the tip of his cane on the man's bloodied hand. "What's your name, fool?"

Perhaps he was too dazed to understand; perhaps he was too stubborn, but the man didn't answer.

Cleedis leaned forward. The prisoner screamed.

When the screaming stopped, Cleedis tried again.

"Sir Kurkulatain," was the burbled answer. Sweat and tears shined the man's face. "Vassal of Prince Throdus."

"Did the prince send you?"

"No, my lord!"

"Too easy." Cleedis leaned on his cane again. "Who sent you? Tell me and things will be easier."

The man could barely whisper. "Treeve. Word was Throdus offered us titles."

"This is the result of ambition," Cleedis admonished Pinch who'd been patiently sitting on the bloodstained bench until the questioning was done.

"It's the result of ill planning."

"Whatever," Cleedis shrugged. He turned to the captain of the guard, who'd returned from his mission. "This man"-Cleedis pointed at the prisoner-"is a traitor who has attacked the rightful regent of Ankhapur. Execute him."

"Shall there be a trial, my lord chamberlain?"

The chamberlain looked to Pinch with a cold vulture's eye. "I see no need for a trial. Do you?"

The rogue shook his head and got to his feet. "No, none at all."

"Rejoin us, en route to the palace," the chamberlain ordered, and the two took their leave. "I doubt there'll be any more attacks today."

"Lord Cleedis, have mercy!" shrieked the prisoner. His screams rang through the silent company he was about to join, until his echoes were one with the choir of silent ghosts pleading for their own justice.