King Pinch

2

It was one of those statements that could be understood only with mouths agape, and the three did so admirably. Maeve blinked a little blearily, her slack mouth giving her the look of a stuffed fish. From out of sight, Sprite-Heels suddenly stopped hiccuping. The grumbling of a drunk as he argued the bill, the clatter of dishes carried to the back by a wench, even the slobbering snore of an insensate drunk filled the silence the three scoundrels created.

It was up to Therin, naturally, to ask the obvious. "You know this Cleetish?" he asked, wiping his sleeve at the drool of ale on his chin.

"Cleedis-and yes, I know him," was the biting answer. This was not, Pinch thought, a subject for their discussion.

" 'Swounds, but ain't that a new one. Our Pinch has got himself a past," the big thief chortled.

By now Sprite had hauled himself up from his sprawl on the bench. Though his hair was a tangled nest of curls and his shirt was awry, the halfling's eyes were remarkably clear for one who only moments ago was half done-in by drink. Still, his words were slurred by ale. "Wha's his nature, Pinch-good or ill?" The little thief watched the senior rogue closely, ever mindful of a lie.

Pinch tented his finger by his lips, formulating an answer. All the while, he avoided the halfling's gaze, instead carefully scanning the common room under the guise of casualness. "Not good," he finally allowed. "But not necessarily bad. I haven't seen him in a score of years, so there's no good reason for him to be looking for me."

"From Ankhapur, eh?" Therin asked more ominously, now that the drift of things was clear. "Where's that?"

Pinch closed his eyes in thoughtful remembrance, seeing the city he'd left fifteen years ago. He tried to envision all the changes wrought on a place in fifteen years, see how the streets would be different, the old temples torn down, the houses spread outside the outdated walls. Still, he knew that the Ankhapur he imagined was as much a dream as the one he remembered.

"South-too far south for you to know, Therin," the rogue finally answered with a thoughtful grin. It was no secret that Therin's knowledge of the world ended about ten leagues beyond Elturel. Pinch could have claimed that Ankhapur drifted through the sky among the lights of Selune's Tears for as much as Therin knew. Still, maybe it was the remembering that made Pinch more talkative than he had ever been. Home and family just weren't topics of conversation for those of his trade. "It's the white city, the princely city, built up right on the shores of the Lake of Steam. Some folks call it the boiled city. Take your pick."

"So who is this Cleedis, Pinch?" Maeve wheedled. "He seemed like a gent."

"An old, foolish man," Pinch answered offhandedly to end his reminiscence. Maybe there was more to be said, but the rogue offered no further explanation.

Sprite, his judgment decidedly impaired, was not going to let Pinch slip away. "So wha' do we do? We goin' to meet with him?"

The other poured a blackjack of sack and gave Sprite a jaundiced glare. "You're not doing anything. This fellow's looking for me, not you. We've had success tonight, and it calls for some drinking. Here's to my little diver!" the rogue raised his leather mug for the toast, and the other three quickly followed.

"Here's to Sprite," Therin and Maeve chorused.

"Aye, here's to me," the halfling burbled happily. He buried his childlike face deep into the overfull mug of wine, greedily tipping it back with two hands until the drink streamed down his chin.

Pinch took a judicious draught of his wine, while Therin and Maeve drank long and hard. Even before the others had finished, their master stepped away from the table. "I'll look for you in the usual places," Pinch advised. "Finish your drinking and keep your eyes and ears sharp. The patricos are going to be looking hard for their thieves. It won't do to have any of you scragged now."

"As you say it, Pinch," Therin murmured dourly as he set his blackjack on the greasy table. Brown Maeve nodded her receipt of Pinch's caution. Sprite was silent, already insensate and snoring on the bench.

Gathering his mantle tight, Pinch stepped over the sleeping dog by the door and walked out into the bracing dawn.

The muddy lane was flecked with clumps of long-lasting snow that clung to the patches of daytime shade. Right now it was neither light nor dark but the point where time hovered between the two. The false dawn that dimmed out the lower stars was fading, replaced by the true dawn. Here though, the sun's first light struggled against the winter mists common to Elturel. How like Ankhapur, Pinch thought as he watched the hovering frost swirl through the night alleys. The comparison had never occurred to him before, not even when he'd arrived fresh from the south. Travel had all been new, wonderful, and terrifying then; there was never time for such frivolous speculation.

The man shook his head with a snap of his curly hair, as if to shake loose these romantic notions and rattle them out his ears. Such thoughts were all fatigue, and he could not allow himself that luxury of rest. First there was Cleedis.

The Five-League Lodge was far from Pinch's normal haunts. It perched halfway up the slope of Elturel's High Road, halfway between the base world of the common man and the uppermost crest of nobility. In Elturel, a man's address said much for his status. Chaperons in their salons counted how many streets a prospective suitor was from the top of the hill. Ragpickers always claimed their gleanings were gathered from the very summit of Elturel, an artless lie their hopeful customers accepted anyway.

For Pinch, all that mattered was that the best pickings were found in the streets that looked down on the city. Of course, the higher streets had the most watchmen and wizards, too. It was here that the city's leaders lived in aeries at the top of the great High Hill, the temples of those gods currently in favor clustered around them. Farther down, those merchants who aspired beyond their class vied for the choicest-hence highest- streets left to choose from. The Five-League Lodge had done well, holding practically the last address before the realms of the privileged crowded out all others.

By the time Pinch reached the block of the inn, the morning vendors were already straining their carts through the streets. Eelmongers and bread carts competed for attention, along with the impoverished prestidigitators who went from door to door offering their skills. "A quick spell to clean your house, a word to sweeten your wine? Or perhaps, madam, you're looking for something to make your husband a little more amorous. I can do these things for you, madam. It'll only take a few coins… and he'll never know what happened."

Pinch knew these old tricks well. Tomorrow the house would be dirty again; in a few days, the husband would be as doltish as ever. The wizard wouldn't care. Some probably wouldn't even remember, the grinding scramble of the day drowned away by cheap wine in taprooms like the Dwarf's Piss Pot. That was the way things were-everybody out to make their coin.

It was the hypocrites who pretended to live above it who irritated Pinch. He'd dealt with constables, trusties, watchmen, even executioners, buying them with a few gold or silver coins, and yet they still pretended to be pure and unimpeachable. That was a joke; nobody was beyond gold's reach. Rogues knew the lies and self-deceptions men used, and made their living trading on those weaknesses. Perhaps that was why Pinch stayed in the bottom town, unlike other upright men who pretended to the ranks of the gentry. Down among the common folk, at least a man knew his business and wasn't ashamed of it.

Pinch abandoned his ruminations at the door to the Five-League Lodge, a sprawling compound of timber and stone. He stepped through the door and into the common room, this one a good deal cleaner than the place he had just left. The hall was empty save for a single charwoman cleaning the floor. Her dress hung in greasy tatters, far out of keeping with the fine appointments of the room.

"Girl, come here," Pinch commanded as he took a chair. After a start of surprise, the woman hesitantly shuffled over. As she drew near, Pinch laid a silver coin on the table and idly pushed it about with one finger. "Do you have a guest named Cleedis?"

The charwoman's gaze was fixated on the promise of the coin. "The one that looks like an empty money sack? Aye."

Another coin, matched by a scowl, was laid on the table. "That's the one. Where?"

"Up the stairs to the best chambers in the house."

With a deft tap he scooted the silver toward her and she snatched it up before it had even stopped moving. Coin in pocket, she hurried to disappear before the chance of blame arose.

Pinch was up the stairs before the innkeeper might stop him, since no doubt like all innkeepers, the man truly believed he was the lord of his domain. At the top of the stairs, it was hardly difficult to find Cleedis's room; the one entrance with double doors had to be it. The doors were a rich wood unseen in these parts and probably shaped by elves, judging from the elaborate carved panels, not that Pinch was much of an appraiser of the forest folks' handiwork. He did, however, note the keyhole of thick dwarven iron. Locks were something more in his line, and this one looked formidable. Worse still, it was probably enchanted. The last thing he needed was for the lock to shout out an alarm.

A good thief was always prepared, and Pinch prided himself on being a good thief. The slim rod of dull bronze he pulled from his pouch didn't look like much, but getting it had cost two others their lives and Pinch very nearly his. Not that his killing them bothered him; if there'd been an honest beak on the bench, both would've been hanged long ago. Death was their reward for plotting against him.

The old rogue knelt by the door and gently touched the rod to the metal lock, so carefully as not to make a single clink or tap. At the barest contact, the rod melted before the dwarven metal, dripped down its own shaft before it coagulated into a thick mass. Pinch shook it briefly, as if scattering the excess metal. When it was done, what had been a plain rod was a perfect duplicate of the lock's true key, form and shape stolen from the memory of the dwarven metal itself.

Still, Pinch held his breath as he slipped the forged key over the tumblers. There was always the chance of another safety, especially with dwarf work. The dumpy smiths were always vying to outdo each other in one form or another, building in this new intricacy or that. Fortunately, this lock did not look particularly new.

The tumblers clicked and rotated, the bolt slid back, and nothing screeched in alarm. Still Pinch waited to be sure. When no innkeeper roused from his morning kitchen came puffing up the stairs with guardsmen in tow, Pinch pushed the door open until he could just slide his body through into the gloom beyond. Once inside, he checked the lock's other side. Dwarves had a fiendish fondness for little traps like one-sided locks and other infernal tricks.

Once satisfied that the Five-League Lodge was not at the forefront of lock design, the old rogue softly pressed the door shut and looked about the room. The front salon alone was larger than any private room Pinch had seen in Elturel. The entire common room of the old, dark-stained Piss Pot could easily have fit in here. Worse still for Pinch, everything was of the finest quality-the brocades, the statuary, the plate. It was a cruel thing to have to suppress his natural acquisitive instincts. He restrained himself, not from any sense of morality but because he had business that he did not want to jeopardize. Besides, the rogue knew he wasn't equipped to do the job right. Pilfer a little now, and the owner would surely tighten his wonderfully lax precautions. Instead, Pinch made a note of the place, its best treasures, and its weaknesses. Any man who guarded his treasures so ill just might be fool enough to turn over the lot to a quick-witted coney-catcher like himself, Pinch guessed.

But the rogue shook his head ruefully, knowing his thoughts were getting away from the matter at hand. With all the stealth he could muster, Pinch slipped to the bedchamber door and gently pushed the gilded panel open. It swung on silent hinges, which suited the thief well. A dying glimmer in the fireplace lit the gloom in the far corner, casting its rays over the dark hump in the center of the bed.

With a supple twist, Pinch slid his wrist knife into the palm of his hand. He had no intention of killing Cleedis, but there was no point in letting the man know that. In three quick strides he would be at the bed.

Halfway through his second step, a light flared from the corner opposite the lamp.

"All night I've waited," groused a figure in the light, filling a high-backed chair like a lump of fallen dough. "I expected you earlier."

"Cleedis!" Pinch gasped, though his teeth were clenched. Instinct seized the thief. He whirled on the balls of his feet, blade already coming up-

"None of that!" the other barked sharply. He shifted slightly and a flash of steel glinted from his lap. "I know you too well, coz. It was me that taught you the sword."

Pinch rocked back with wary slowness. " 'Coz,' indeed, Chamberlain Cleedis. What brings you so far from Ankhapur? Fall out of Manferic's favor?"

The swordsman rose from his seat, his overweight and flaccid body filling with the stern strength of piety. "Your guardian, King Manferic III, is dead."

It was clear the old courtier was playing the news for shock, and Pinch was not having any of it. With his best studied coolness, he laid his knife on the nightstand and settled onto the bed, disinterestedly pulling the coverlet back. Underneath, a breastplate and clothes made up the lumpy outline. "So?" the rogue drawled. "He turned his back on me years ago."

"The kingdom needs you."

That got to Pinch. He couldn't help but stare at Cleedis in surprise. He looked at the courtier closely, comparing what he saw to the man he once knew. The hair, once black and rich, was receding and almost pure white. The weather-beaten campaigner's skin was now cracked and loose, his eyes sad pits without humor. The soldier's muscles were now flaccid and tired. In Cleedis, Pinch saw the fate of the warrior turned statesman, the toll that years of compromise and patience would extract from the flesh.

Pinch stared until he realized he was staring, then he gave an embarrassed snort of disgust as if to claim his shock was only an act. "I'm not such a gull, Cleedis. There are my dear cousins; what about the princelings four?"

Cleedis thrust the sword into the carpet and hobbled a step forward using the weapon like a cane. "Bors is an idiot-can barely hold his drool in at a temple service," the king's chamberlain growled. "The other three hate each other with a passion. Each claims sole right to the Cup and Knife. Vargo started it, figuring he could muscle the other two out of the race. With only one claimant, the priests would nullify the test and pronounce him the true heir."

The tale was beginning to amuse Pinch, in as much as it was all his adopted family deserved. He lay back on the pillows, although one hand was always near the knife. "Throdus and Marac didn't agree? By Beshaba, dissension in the house."

"There'll be civil war!"

"So when they're all gone, you want me, the forgotten ward, to come to Ankhapur's rescue and carry on the family name? How generous, Cleedis."

Cleedis stabbed at the floor in anger. "I'll not put a thief like you on the throne!"

Pinch sprang to the edge of the bed. "Ho! Little kingmaker Cleedis now! My, what you've become. So what is it you want of me then?"

The courtier stalked back to his chair. "Just a job. A quick and quiet solution to our problem."

"Why me? You could get any queer-bird to lay them down with a cudgel, just for freedom from the gaol-or have you lost all your influence with Manferic's death?" The aged courtier's glare told Pinch all he needed to know. "Aye, now there's a turn of Tymora's wheel. You used to inspire fear in them, and now you probably don't even have the coin for a black spell from a Thavian outcast. That's why you've come to me." The rogue let loose a gloating chuckle and settled back onto the silken pillows.

"It's not that way," was Cleedis's terse reply. "First, it's not the princes we're after. If anything odd should happen to your cousins, there'll be war for sure. In the second part, you can dance on the twisted hemp before I'd come looking for you. I'm here at Manferic's bidding."

"Oh, dear guardian; so like Manferic. He plots even after his death." It was time to be off the bed and to the door. "Go back to his grave, Cleedis, and tell him I'm not coming. I like things just as they are here."

"Heard there was trouble in town last night," the elder drawled like a snake uncoiling. Pinch knew he was hearing trouble, but he kept his stride steady. He wasn't going to play the chamberlain's game.

"You are a fool, Janol-or Pinch, should I call you? Here I am in Elturel, where nobody's even heard of Manferic or Ankhapur, and you don't even wonder how I found you."

That stopped Pinch with his hand at the door.

The seat creaked and then the floor groaned with a heavy thunk-clunk as Cleedis hobbled over, sword as cane. "The priests of Ankhapur," the courtier wheezed out, "have gotten quite good at tracking you. Shall I tell you where you were last night?"

Pinch stared blindly at the woodwork in front of him. "I was drinking." He could hear his own words locking into the cool monotone of a lie and cursed himself for getting caught.

"Maybe you were. It doesn't matter," the courtier allowed with the smooth, cold smile of a basilisk. "Guilty or innocent, it doesn't matter to me or the constables- what are they called? — Hellriders of this town. Just a word is all it takes."

Pinch turned a half step toward his tormentor.

"Not a bit of it, Janol," the old man said as he weakly swung his sword to guard. "You can't imagine me trekking to Elturel alone. I die and you're surely doomed."

"Bastard fool, you've got no proof and I've got evidences who'll swear for me."

Sword still up, Cleedis blew on his free hand to warm his finger joints. "Of course you do, and that's all good for the constables, but are a high priest's bodyguards less impetuous here than in Ankhapur? The news through the entire city is that they lost a pretty piece of property, a piece of some high holy man's jewelry they'd been safeguarding."

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."

"So we're running then?" Therin asked archly.

Damn the man's pride, Pinch thought to himself. "Of course we are. And if we're lucky, Cleedis will follow- and then, Therin, I'll let you take care of him."

He didn't like it. The game he thought he knew was getting out of control. First Cleedis's manipulations, and now he had to satisfy Therin's honor. Pinch didn't like any of it. "Satisfied?" he snarled when Therin didn't reply quickly.

"I'll go," Therin replied with a face like the losing dog in a challenge.

"Good then. You've all got a little time to get your things. It'll be a trip to the country until things settle down in the city." The man didn't wait see if anyone questioned his orders but went up to gather his own few clothes.

An hour later he was making his way through the midday streets, accompanied by a puffing Maeve and a scowling Therin. Darting in and out among them, like a planet orbiting its greater sun, was a small, heavily cloaked figure. It was only when the cold winter brushed up the edge of the creature's hem that a man could even notice a pair of curly-haired feet underneath.

"Take the Waterside Road; the guards ain't so choosy there," suggested Therin, their Gur. In their shiftless lives, the Gurs were masters for knowing the little ways in and out of the city. They were a group always ready to pack and leave on a moment's notice. Pinch idly speculated that Therin's newly tasted stability had made him reluctant to leave.

They followed his advice and hurried past the public docks and the fishmonger's market, where rats challenged cats for the choicest fish entrails. Just before the city gatehouse, they broke from the main avenue and wove through the side lanes until they reached a smaller, almost forlorn gate. Two indolent guards protected the old gate and all within its walls. Pinch recognized it as the Old Trade Gate, named before commerce dictated building something more.

Sure enough, the guards were lax here. In fact, the only thing that animated the bored pair was the size of the bribe they'd get from the group. After being driven down to only four gold each-business was slow for them-the two watchmen stepped aside and let the party through unquestioned.

Outside the walls, the road threaded through a jumble of shacks that had once been thriving inns when the trade route had passed this way. Now, with the merchants using the New Road, only a few struggling hostels survived here. Nonetheless, the group did not slow its pace. This close to Elturel was still too close. Pinch wanted them farther away.

At last they reached the breakwater of the city's expansion, a largish creek that separated city from countryside. The sluggish water was spanned by a claptrap wooden bridge that looked unsteady and probably was. Across the way, a horse grazed while its rider lounged in the midday sun of winter. As best they could tell, he sported no livery of the temple or the distinctive black-and-red armor of the Hellriders. Satisfied that all was clear, Pinch led them across.

It's too easy, chided the rogue's inner voice. Cleedis won't give up, and then what will I do?

Pinch had been avoiding the question because he didn't have an answer. Well, we can fend for ourselves, he firmly decided, without interference from any others.

In this, Pinch was wrong.

They had barely set foot on the other bank when the true nature of the rider was revealed. It was Cleedis, and before Pinch could react, the old warrior had gotten unsteadily to his feet.

"What kept you so long, Janol?" the foreigner casually asked. Before anyone could answer, a ring of bodyguards, all pointing crossbows, stepped from the gloomy bushes. "I expected you much sooner."

"Cleedis, you borsholder," Pinch snarled.

Sprite elbowed the old rogue's knee. "Don't provoke him. He may want you, but there weren't a thing said about the rest of us." Pinch's three companions froze with indecision, uncertain if Cleedis's invitation was extended to them or if they were unnecessary in the foreign chamberlain's eyes.

"Aye, play it out Pinch," Therin warned.

To the relief of the others, their leader slowly nodded-whether to them or Cleedis, it didn't matter. "It seems, Cleedis," the thief said in his most politic tone, "that maybe we should travel with you. Elturel was getting stale."

The old swordsman looked at Pinch's three companions and then at the determination in the rogue's eyes. The chamberlain's face was a mask as he calculated how his charge's compatriots changed the rules of the game. Finally, he turned and hobbled away. "Well and good. Daros, bring horses for them all. The rest of you, watch them close. We've found whom we came for; it's home for Ankhapur."