King Pinch

14
Night Work

The nightly steam was curling into the square from the streets and arcades. It was a thin mist but full of the flavor of fish grease and onions, bad cheese and night slops. Pinch didn't mind the stink where he sat, nestled in a dark corner. Sprite squatted at his feet, playing with his- dagger in the dust. The watch had come by twice already, calling the hours past midnight. Beyond the constables, men to be studiously avoided, the square was barely alive with the dregs of the night trade-drunken sailors vainly searching for the docks, noodle vendors closing up their carts, festhall ladies returning from assignations, and rakes prowling the ways for a fight. Pinch amused himself by picking out the foins and cutpurses among the dwindling revelers. They were easy enough to spot for a man who knew how to look: men who traveled in groups and pretended not to know each other, who circled around their mark like vultures in the sky.

Pinch watched his brothers as they watched their prey, always observant but never looking. He watched them with an idle professional interest, hoping to see a strike or a swindle new to him. Of particular interest was a trio of cardsharps who set up their game on the temple steps. It was a poor choice of place, with no privacy or distracting drink, which only meant this lot was a scrounging crew. The setter lured a coney in, the verser dealt him the cards, and the barnacle, the third, egged their mark on. Even from a distance, Pinch could see the verser was an amateur. He fumbled a chopped card so badly that only the quick thinking of the barnacle kept their coney from getting suspicious. It was clear that, at least on the basis of professional interest, there was nothing to be learned from these three.

Perhaps if Pinch had not been so absorbed by the antics of the card players, he might have noticed another soul hovering at the edge of the square-but perhaps not. There was little to note, just the bend of a low-hanging branch and the way a cur kept itself far from a certain spot as it prowled the plaza. It was not that Pinch was supposed to know that invisible eyes lay upon him.

Cleedis came skulking though the darkest part of the alley as had been arranged by messenger. Pinch winced, purely from professional concern, as the old warrior stumbled over the hidden snares of the alley. Prudently the rogue had arranged their meeting beyond the range of the temple guards' hearing or suspicion. The rogue nodded to his companion and the halfling obligingly melted from sight.

No greeting was said between them, the old man's impulse to talk shushed by Pinch's admonishing finger. Cleedis handed over a bag of lusterless black and Pinch wasted no time in unwrapping the cord. Inside were the false treasures passed on by the late Manferic.

Pinch nodded in satisfaction and then steered Cleedis farther into the darkness of the alley.

"Now, tell Manferic to keep his pet jailers away from me," he hissed into the old man's warty ear, "or there'll be no job tonight or ever."

The chamberlain squinched up his face in indignation. "Don't you make threats to me, you bastard knave! The Morninglord's priests would still like to roast you- or have you forgotten?"

Pinch answered with a smile in his voice. "I forget nothing. It's just that I think now they are more likely to suspect you than me. Be sure of your threats, old man."

"I–I don't understand," Cleedis weakly stammered, unbalanced by this rapid upheaval of roles. He was supposed to be the threatener, the blackmailer, not Pinch. "What pet?" It was a weak stall, but all the flustered courtier could assemble.

"In the tunnels," Pinch snarled.

"You've been beneath the palace?"

"I met Ikrit there. He tried to flail the husk off me."

"Ikrit-" Cleedis choked, holding back a gasp, "- lives?"

Pinch stepped closer, pinning the old man along the alley wall. He could sense the advantage slipping his way. "And some lady. Why do they hunt me?"

"Lady? There was a lady?… I don't know," the nobleman floundered.

"You are a poor deceiver, Cleedis."

"Perhaps it was a prisoner from long ago. You know Manferic-people who angered him tended to disappear."

"But you know about Ikrit." The rogue wasn't about to let his catch slip from the hook.

"It was just that… that was so long ago. I was surprised to hear the creature was still alive."

"And the woman? She took great interest in me."

"I don't know. Can you describe her?"

"No. Who is she?"

Cleedis found his backbone and became defiant. "I can't tell you. There were so many. It could have been a scullery maid who broke a prized dish, for all I know. There were times when whole staffs disappeared because Manferic was convinced they'd tried to poison him."

"Hmmph. I just thought he had them executed."

"He did at first. Later, death was not enough for him. He let the quaggoths hunt prisoners in those tunnels while he watched through a scrying ball."

That matched Pinch's images of his guardian. "So you're saying this woman was part of one of his hunts?"

The old man nodded with a suggestive leer. "I would guess she had charms or maybe spells to please Ikrit."

Pinch thought on this. It had the ring of those tales like Duric the Fool-too implausible to be real-but there was a chance it was true the way Duric's tales were sometimes real under a different name.

"When I get back, old man, we will talk more." It was not threat or promise, but the cold assurance that this matter was not done. Before the other could challenge his claim, Pinch took the bag and abandoned the chamberlain to the wet darkness.

"What was that all on?" Sprite probed as Pinch rejoined him and they slipped along the shadows of the square. "Ladies and tunnels and what."

"Have you ever heard that big ears get clipped?" Pinch snapped, thus ending the line of conversation before it ever was started.

Resolutely quiet, the pair plotted their course around the open fringes of the plaza. Pinch was pleased to note the cardplayers were gone. He didn't want to deal with them, especially if they got it into their heads to interfere. Honor among thieves was a joke, for there was no better target to rob than a thief himself.

By the map Therin had made, there was a corner of the temple wall that jutted across an old alley and then pulled itself back in line, like the bastion of a fortress. No doubt it had been configured at such odd angles to nestle against some other building now long gone. Pinch could remember nothing from his youth that might have forced them to build so. At just that point, the wall came close enough for a perilous leap from rooftop to guard walk and while not safe, it was their best chance. Climbing the temple wall would take too long and risk too many chances to be seen by the guards, especially with Pinch's weak knee. With a single jump, they could clear the span and be out of sight before the watchmen made their rounds.

Getting to the rooftop proved easy. The old tenement was a jumble of sills, cornices, eaves, and railings that gave the pair easy purchase. Sprite, the more nimble of the two, led, pointing out the grips and holds to Pinch as he followed.

After what seemed the time required to scale a torturous mountain face, the roof was reached. On their bellies they slithered to the top of the ridgepole, until they could peer over the edge of the wall walk just across the way. It was a gap of ten feet, maybe a little more. Pinch figured he could do it, especially since the roof sloped down and would give his run some extra momentum. Sprite, though, with his short legs would never be able to clear the distance.

Carefully Pinch unrolled the parchment he'd brought for this need. "Stand up, but stay out of sight," he said in a curt whisper while he fought to stretch the sheet flat. Intricate whorls of writing glowed faintly in the dark, filling the entire page. "Hold still while I read the spell."

"What's it do, Pinch? Make me fly?" Sprite had positioned himself behind a crumbling chimney.

"It'll make your runty self jump good. Now let me read."

Sprite peered into the gap between the two buildings. The ground was barely there in the darkness.

"What if it don't work?"

"Then there'll be a nice explosion and we can both blame Maeve. She taught me how to read this." Pinch mumbled over the complicated phrasings on the scroll, taking care not to say them outright until he was ready. Finally, he held up the sheet and read it aloud, looking up every few words to make sure Sprite was still in front of him. It was just reading, it should be easy, the rogue kept telling himself, but somehow saying the words was more torturous than he expected. About halfway through, it took conscious effort to shape the phrases. They wanted to escape him. When he reached a syllable he couldn't remember, Pinch tried not to show his panic and guessed, hoping he'd made the right choice. Finally, with a faint damp of perspiration on his brow, Pinch uttered the final words.

The rooftop did not shake with a fiery blast but the lettering faded from the sheet, leaving only a blank page of brittle parchment.

"See, it worked," Pinch boasted. Maeve also said it was possible nothing might happen, but there was no point worrying the little halfling with that.

"I don't feel different," Sprite answered with sullen suspicion. "Maybe if I jump a little bit-"

"Don't try it. You only get one chance." Pinch nodded toward the top of the guard wall. "Just a light step over there."

"I'm not-"

Pinch didn't wait for the rest of the protest but, seeing the walk was clear, heaved to his feet and sprinted down the shingled roof. His footing was poor on the mossy shakes, but the rogue let momentum carry him past all hazards. At the very edge of the eave, he sprang forward, out across the gap. He crossed the distance with ease and tumbled onto the stone walkway, risking more in tumbling off the back of the wall than he did leaping the gap. He lay flat on his belly until he was the sure the clatter of his arrival had raised no alarms.

At last he peered over the crenellations to find Sprite, certain he'd have to urge the halfling to make the leap. Just as he was scanning the rooftop, trying to spot the halfling, the little thief gave him a light poke in the side.

"Bless Maeve, it worked," Sprite panted, his face flushed with the thrill of it. "I ain't never jumped so far in all my born days!"

Pinch shushed his partner and motioned for them to move out. Now they were in the enemy camp. Caution, silence, and speed were their goals.

The pair hurried in leaps and starts, from the shadow of this arch to the curve of that wall, with the sure confidence of memory. Therin's map was good, even sketching out the passages closed to outsiders. Pinch wondered what priest had profited from Therin's research. It would have been fitting to reclaim that payment tonight, too.

The thieves moved through the dreary temple grounds, never once raising a suspicion. The complacent guards, convinced their fellows on the impregnable walls had done their job, made no effort to watch for intruders. Indeed their eyes only looked for superiors who might surprise them slacking at the job. It was a simple matter to elude the notice of these buffoons.

Pinch praised the Red Priests for their diligence as he pushed open the well-oiled gates to the inner cloister. No squeak revealed their entrance. After making certain no priests were muttering their devotionals in some dark corner, Pinch led the way to the tower rising in the center of the dark, silent garden. They knelt in the bushes near the base and looked up at the smooth stone column. Just below the minareted top, the polished surface was pierced by the glow from the tower's only opening. Pinch waited for a long time, watching for shadows or some other sign that the rooftop room was occupied. Finally satisfied there were none, the rogue whispered to his compatriot, "Keep watch for trouble. I'm going up."

The other looked at the smooth wall and shook his little head. "You know you can't climb for a tinker's damn, Pinch. I should go."

The look Sprite got made it clear who would climb and who would stay. It wasn't a matter of climbing-it was a matter of trust and there was only one person Pinch trusted getting these treasures. Without a word, Sprite withdrew his suggestion and set himself to watch for intruders on their plans.

From his pouch, the regulator produced another scroll, the second Maeve had prepared. Again forcing the nonsensical syllables over his tongue, barely had Pinch finished the scroll before he started to rise into the air like a cork released at the bottom of a barrel. Ten, twenty, thirty feet he rose, just a hand's reach from the wall. When he was just beneath the level of the window, he willed himself to a stop.

Pinch hung there, breathless and trembling, drifting in the air like a cottonwood fluff. The buoyancy of levitation was a ticklish sensation that threatened to unnerve his senses and disorient him for what was to come. It was more than magic, though. Pinch panted with fear, the fear of floating over nothing against the fear of threats unknown that lay beyond the windowsill. It was beyond explanation, but these were the moments he lived for, the rush of blood as he hovered in the balance of life, or maybe death. Though it lay beyond explanation, every thief knew it, lived for it, and savored that moment more than the money, the gems, and the magic that was gained. "Gods rescue us from dull lives" was an old toast of many a black-hearted gang.

A whistle from below forced Pinch into action. Spite, barely visible in the weeds, worked a sign with his hands that foretold of trouble. Guards were coming, no doubt. With a breath, Pinch seized the sill and effortlessly swung himself over.

The tower chamber was small, no larger than a festhall crib and decorated as dramatically. It was lit by a golden fire that burned steadily from the heart of a crystal stone hung from the ceiling in an iron cage. It was a stone that would burn as brightly through all eternity until the gods grew tired of looking on it. For all its enduring power, it was hardly special, just a cheap parlor trick of holy power. The walls were hung with arras heavy enough to stifle all breezes. Each was stitched with the exploits of kings and queens, the past rulers of Ankhapur, their glories now as faded as the rugs on these walls.

At the far wall was the treasure Pinch sought, a golden cup and a glittering knife in a case of rosewood and gold. The case sat on a small shelf, unlocked, unsealed, and unprotected from thieves like himself. And Pinch didn't believe a bit of it. The Red Priests of Ankhapur were not such great fools. They knew their treasures would draw burglars like candles draw moths. Clearly, the only reason the royal regalia were before him now was that they had to be much harder to take than it looked. Pinch wondered just how many had tried before him and failed.

It was a question to be approached with caution. From his perch in the window, Pinch studied the room. There was much not to like. The coverings on the walls hid too much, the floor was too clean-it was just too easy. A lack-a-wit could figure out things were not what they seemed here. It wasn't a case of whether there were traps, but just what traps the priests had stitched up for him.

As he perched in that window, pressed against the sill so that he was nothing more than a black shadow on the wall, Pinch cursed Maeve for her drunkenness. Maybe Therin was right, that the woman's drinking was outbalancing the usefulness of her skills. If she'd been more of a wizard I wouldn't be sitting here, afraid to touch the floor. I'd have me a scroll or a ring or something to find the mantraps and show me the way. As it is, she's too drunk to properly prepare what I need most the time.

Pinch allowed himself the luxury of this frustration for a few moments and then put it away. When he was down, not hanging in some clergy's window, he would take it up with her. A little cold water and drying out would do her some good, but now there was work and it was time it was done.

From his boot, Pinch slid a slender packet of tools wrapped in soft, oily leather that smelled faintly of dried fish and cologne. He undid the strings and laid out a small collection of rods, marbles, blades, probes, and saws. Working tools for a working man. He took the rod and pulled on it till it grew longer and longer, to the length of a spear. It was rigid, light, and didn't slip in his grasp. It had cost him three particular rubies that the old dwarven smith had demanded, the stealing of which turned into more of a job than the thief had expected. Right now, it was worth it.

With the wand he brushed the hangings. The first three barely stirred at his caress. The fourth quivered at his touch like a thing prodded in its dreams. Pinch poked it again, a little more firmly. The heavy cloth suddenly snapped and writhed like a thing alive, trying to envelop the slender rod.

Well enough, Pinch thought. Stay clear of that wall.

So the path led to the right, away from the living curtain. That meant the next trap would come there, where he was being herded to go.

Careful testing revealed nothing else obvious behind the walls, so Pinch focused next on the floor. The floor beneath the sill sounded solid enough when rapped, so he tentatively set one foot on the floor. When nothing gave way, he eased down into nervous crouch. He rolled a marble from his kit into the center of the tower room. Only after it came to a stop did he move again and then he never took his eyes from it as he sidled around the perimeter of the room. If the marble moved it was a sign that something in the floor had shifted: a pivot, a trapdoor, or some sinister deadfall. He spread his arms and legs spiderlike as he moved, a painful way to get about and one that his tired, restitched muscles could barely stand, but it was the most prudent way. Should something shift, the spread of his weight gave him the best chance of recovering.

It was poised like this that Pinch discovered the next trap. With his gaze still locked on the marble, he slid a foot closer to his goal. All at once, the floor disappeared beneath his toes. There was no telltale creak, no rattle and swish of the trapdoor to give him warning. There was just suddenly nothing up to his knee and beyond.

Even expecting some trap, the drop caught the rogue off guard. His weight had been overbalanced to that side, and before he could correct it he slid until the weight of what dangled over the edge pulled the rest of him along. A frantic look over his shoulder presented a strange sight, his body being swallowed by the unbroken smoothness of the floor. Illusion! he realized in panic, the thrice-damned floor was an illusion. Gods knew how many floors he might plunge through or what lay below.

Desperately Pinch scrabbled at the floor, but the vein-creased stone was polished to a perfect and ungenerous beauty. His fingers squeaked greasily over the sheen. All at once the cold stone popped away from his chin and, like a sailor drowning in a shipwreck, his head dropped into the ocean of magic. The world of light and substance disappeared into a swirl of irrational color, the blend of mottled stone, and then gloom.

In the last instant, Pinch's fingers closed on the only thing there was to seize, the sharp edge of the stone rim. With the instinct of years of practice, he set his fingers the way a mountain climber clings to the smallest ledge of rock. The strain on his arms was tremendous; his fingertips almost gave way at the jerk of his sudden stop. His prize tool pouch tumbled from his waistband, spilling the marbles, rods, and steel into the darkness that swallowed everything beneath him. Through the panic and the strain, he listened for them to hit bottom, to at least give him some clue in their departing plunge.

They dropped forever and then finally hit something with a soft, crunching plop. As Pinch dangled helplessly, he could only think that the noise was not one he would have expected. If there had been the clank of steel on stone or even the splash of water, that would have made sense, but a sound like that of an insect crushed under a boot was just beyond understanding.

And then deep below, he heard the sound of the floor slithering.

Just what was beneath him? It wasn't good, whatever it was. Futilely Pinch tried to pull himself back up to the floor, but his grip was too poor and his muscles too spent from the rigors he had already endured. The priests had healed him, but the healing left him still weak. Perhaps it had all been intentional on their part, and they had foreseen what the night would bring him.

Pinch fought to drive the panic out of his mind. Concentrate on what was known and drive out speculation. Think and act, think and act-he recited the litany in his mind, driving out the burn in his arms, the bone-cracking pain in his fingertips, the fear of what waited below him.

His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, which was not complete. From the underside, the illusion was like a thick filter of smoke. Against it he could make out the lip of the real floor. It curved a semicircle against the back side of the small chamber, except for a small landing at the very wall that most certainly had to be in front of the shelf. The gap formed a moat, the last line of defense around the royal regalia.

The slithering below grew louder, though not closer. It was as if a host had been roused and not some single thing. In the near darkness, Pinch could barely see a gleam of white, perhaps the floor, though strangely folded and misshapen. He looked again, harder, straining to see clearly, when all at once the floor heaved and shifted.

Gods damn, I'm looking at bones.

His fingers creaked and almost gave way, so that Pinch couldn't suppress a shriek of pain. The cry reverberated through the pit and, as if in eager concert to it, his voice was taken up by a sussurant hiss as the white gleam of the bones rippled and pulsed in a slithering crawl.

The floor was alive with maggots, thick fleshy things that coated the shattered arches of bone like pustulant skin and mounded themselves in squirming heaps against the walls. The skeletons beneath him were the bones of those who'd tried before, scoured clean by a slow death in the nest below. How long could a man live among them? How excruciating would the pain be as they burrowed into his flesh? Better to die in the fall.

Fear dragged from inside Pinch the last reserve of his strength. With his fingers slipping, he kicked his legs up madly. His toes flailed for the ledge, scraping it once as his fingers started to pull free. Desperately he tried again. One foot hooked over the edge and he pressed his weight on it. The leather sole slid, then held, but his strength was fading fast. Frantically, the rogue levered one elbow over the edge and kicked his other foot up until he could raise his head above the sea of phantasm and see the real world again. Half-supported on his forearm, Pinch risked letting go with one hand. Almost immediately he started to slip backward, so with a desperate lunge he slapped his hand down as far onto the stone as he could. His cramped fingers burned, his palm stung, but his crude grip held for the least of instants. In that second he wrenched himself up and over, seizing on the momentum of his lunge to carry him to safety. Barely he twisted his hips over the edge and onto solid ground.

Pinch lay drained on the cool stone floor, unable and unwilling to try any more. All he wanted to do was collapse and rest, to come back another night and try again. Sweat soaked his doublet, and beads of it matted down his curly gray hair. His shoulders were shaking and his fingers were knotted like claws, clumsy and useless to his trade.

Nonetheless, Pinch knew he wouldn't quit. As he lay panting on the marble, he felt alive with the thrill of it all. It was the joy of risk, the game that he'd outwitted again. This, surely, was what a thief lived for. If he left tonight, he knew he'd just come back tomorrow to risk it all again.

Sprite was waiting, he reminded himself as he struggled to his feet. There was no more time to waste here.

Barely collected or steady on his feet, the rogue gauged the distance to the ledge. The priests had designed their trap well. The moat, he guessed, was just large enough for a man to cross in a single giant stride, like clearing a puddle at the side of the street. The landing gave enough space for him to stand discreetly but well, from what he remembered from below. It was just a matter of knowing where to step and where to avoid, and he'd had that lesson already.

Taking up the bag Cleedis had brought, Pinch sized up the possibilities and then finally, with only a small twinge of misgiving, boldly stepped out over the emptiness.

The next thing he knew, he stood on the landing, the box of rosewood and gold right before him.

The Cup and the Knife were dazzling as merited their role, but even the box was extraordinary. The gold work was the finest of dwarven hammered wire, the rosewood perfectly treated and polished. Pinch dearly wished he could take the box too, as personal profit, but that was not in the plan. The switch had to be unnoticed, which meant that the case had to stay.

Still, for all his covetousness, Pinch was not about to snatch the items up and run. The greater the treasure, the more fiercely it is protected. Instead he carefully studied every aspect of how the treasures were displayed. He attended to the velvet they were nestled in, the case, its locks, even the shelf and the wall around it. These efforts gave the welcome reward of slightly longer life when he stopped to trace out a thread no thicker than a spiderline that ran from the dagger to the edge of the lock. The line for a trigger, he knew without a doubt. He didn't know what it triggered, but that hardly mattered for it could only be ill to his well-being.

It was delicate work, cutting the thread without discharging whatever it was connected to, but Pinch worked as a master. He had no desire to be roasted, frozen, electrified, paralyzed, or just killed outright. When the line was finally loose, he checked the whole over again before he was satisfied. Priests were almost as bad as mages for trapping their possessions. The counting rooms of moneylenders were almost never this difficult. The whole thing probably had more to do with the arrogance of the clergy than the actual value of what they protected. Priests figured that whatever was important to them was naturally important to the rest of the world.

Still expecting the worst, Pinch lifted the relics from their shelf. When nothing happened, his hand began to shake, an unconscious tremor of profound relief.

Now was the time to hurry; the dangerous part was done. From the bag at his waist came the replicas. Like the perfect form and its shadow, the one outshone the other. The confidence that this crude replica would fool anyone waned when sun was held to the stars. It would have been better if there had been more time to find a master artificer. The only solution, of course, was to hide the sun so that only the stars remained. Indeed, confidence rose as he wrapped the originals so that the copies glittered in their own right.

The quick work slowed as he set the fakes in place and worked at reattaching the thread. Pinch doubted his place in the pantheon of thieves would be assured if he were blasted trying to reset a trap. More than likely Mask would deny him the comforting rest of shadows for such bungling.

It was a point of theology that blessedly remained unanswered. The thread was reattached and the job done. His work accomplished, the rogue's hands trembled again as the tension drained away.

With a light, almost joyous step, Pinch spanned the concealed gap, taking a mind to keep well away from the suspicious hanging Maeve's scroll had detected. Regretting the loss of his fine tools, Pinch gathered up what little gear remained, unbound a slender rope from his waist, and prepared to leave. He'd slide to the ground, feed back the rope and be gone without a trace of having ever been there to start with.

The sharp nip of a dagger point into the small of his back killed Pinch's jaunty mood.

"Please give me cause to thrust this home, Master Janol," whispered a voice at his back. It was a deep voice, familiar and cold, luxurious with the ripeness of cruelty. It was a voice filled with the resonance of a massive chest and strong lungs.

"Iron-Biter…"

"Chancel Master Iron-Biter of the Red Priests, Janol-or should I call you Pinch like your friend did before I stuck him?" The dagger pricked sharper into his skin in response to the contraction in Pinch's muscles at hearing the news. "Hold steady, thief. This is a dagger of venom at your back. All it takes is one prick, and then do you know what will happen?"

"I thought priests were above poisoning."

"The temple does what it must. Now give up the Cup and Knife. Just remember, one trick and you're dead. The venom on this blade is particularly nasty. It'll be a long, painful death for you."

Pinch very carefully nodded his understanding. Iron-Biter's expertly applied pressure kept the blade a hairs-breadth from piercing the skin. He reached into the pouch and very carefully removed the Knife. He offered this behind him, handle first. The rogue was not about to do anything to aggravate the dwarf.

"Perhaps we can come to an understanding…"

The dwarf hissed like angry steam. "Unlike some, I am loyal to my temple-"

"And to Prince Vargo. That's who you're doing this for, isn't it. You just didn't happen to be wandering through the garden in the dark."

The dwarf plucked the dagger from Pinch's grasp. "The prince is the rightful ruler of Ankhapur. We won't let Cleedis's little games change that."

"We-or just you? What has Vargo promised you?"

"The Cup. Give me the Cup!"

"Why? You'll kill me if I do."

"I'll kill you if you don't give it to me. If you do, I'll let you live."

"Why?"

"It would be better if no one asked questions about your disappearance."

"And what if I talk?"

There was a sharp laugh behind him. "I know what you are now, Pinch. Suppose the entire city knew."

The regulator paled. Exposure-it was the most fearsome threat any rogue could ever face. To be named and branded a thief was as good as death and worse still. Brokers would avoid him, marks grow wary in his presence. Old partners would frame him for their jobs, and the constables would pressure him to spill what he knew. He'd seen it happen before, even used the knowledge against his rivals. He'd reveled in how they had squirmed helplessly on the hook. It led them to penury, drink, and even suicide-and it could do the same to him.

There was no choice in it, Pinch grimly knew. With hateful reluctance he passed over the Cup. It was snatched from his fingers.

"Turn around," the dwarf ordered.

As Pinch did, he understood now how a dwarf of no skill and monumental size had managed the catch. It was not right to say he came face-to-face with his captor, for where the dwarf should have been was nothing, just empty air. The only signs of any presence were the Cup and Knife half-visible in the folds of an invisible cloak.

"God's cursed spells!" Pinch hated the way they upset his plans.

The air chuckled. "With them I can move quieter and more unseen than you'll ever hope to, scoundrel. Now, to the wall." A poke with the dagger indicated the direction Pinch was supposed to move-toward the trapped arras.

"You said you wouldn't kill me."

"I need to make sure you won't trouble me while I put things right. Move."

Pinch took a hesitant step and, when nothing happened, the dagger urged him forward again. The thief's mind was racing with desperate plots. Could he fight an invisible foe? What there any chance he could lure the dwarf into the trap instead of himself, or even get the little priest to take one step too close to the maggot-infested pit below?

With one more step, it all became futile speculation. Barely had he moved forward under the poisonous blade's urging than the arras that had hung so thick and limp on the wall suddenly writhed with inanimate life. The tassels at the top, draped over the iron hanging rod, released like little hands and lunged forward in an eager embrace. The thick cloth wound tightly around him, hugging him in its grip like the wrappings of a corpse. The speed and the strength of it spun Pinch to the floor and left him gasping and choking as the rug tried to crush the cage of bones around his heart.

Pinch fought it as best he could, writhing like a worm to brace against the pressure and steal enough air to prevent suffocation. At the same time he had to be mindful of the floor, lest he wriggle himself over the concealed lip and into the fetid pit below. Iron-Biter's dark laugh showed the dwarf's sympathy for his struggles.

At the limit of Pinch's attention, the air shimmered and a swirl of form emerged from nothing, like a curtain parting in space to reveal another world. From the play of folds and fabric, it was clear the dwarf's invisibility came from a magical cloak that he now neatly folded and stowed away. Ignoring Pinch's mortal struggle, the priest carefully spanned the gap to the shelf, barely able to cross with his short legs. There he made a few passes over Pinch's fakes and then casually replaced them with the goods the rogue had handed over. The dwarf studied the frauds for a moment and then casually tossed them through the insubstantial floor.

By the time Iron-Biter leapt back to Pinch's side of the concealed pit, the rogue could feel his ribs creak, crushed to the limit of their bearing. "I… die," he struggled to say with the last air in his lungs, "there will be… questions."

Iron-Biter looked down, his beard bristling as his lips curled in a broad smile. "You are a fool, Janol, Pinch, or whomever. No one at this court cares about you. Your disappearance will ease their worries. You were never missed and never wanted here."

With that, the dwarf seized the edge of the arras and spun Pinch to the edge of the pit. "Let the worms have you!" and with a single, twisted syllable, the rug suddenly released its hold and Pinch rolled through the floor and into the darkness.