King Pinch

4

Cleedis did not welcome the news of an additional traveling companion.

"The woman is no concern of mine," he huffed, after pointing out that eight of his men were dead because of meeting her. The miserable performance of his troopers had stung the old warrior's pride, and he had already given the captain a blistering rating over the shabby performance of the company. All failure lay upon the officer, in Cleedis's mind-failure to drill them properly, failure to stem the rout, failure to issue clear orders, failure to grasp the basics of tactics, even a failure of will. Cleedis ignored his own contribution to the debacle and ignored the indignant captain's fuming efforts to point it out.

Given the losses, Cleedis was at least wise enough to lay no blame on the men. The captain was beside himself with rage and at one point came to the brink of offering up his commission that he had paid so dearly for, an offer Cleedis would no doubt have taken on the spot.

Pinch was for the woman, and his firmness was aided by the cool moral strength that comes after the rush of battle. While the two argued, Lissa knelt beside a trooper who'd taken an axe blow just above the knee. His tentmates were certain the leg could not be saved and were fretting over whether to finish the amputation with a clean blow or bind him and hope that shock and gangrene didn't set in before they reached civilization.

The priestess ended the debate with sharp orders to hold the man down, orders given in the tone a soldier was conditioned to obey.

They pressed him flat in the bloody mud, two men holding his shoulders while a third sat on his kicking legs and ignored his screams. While the patient writhed in their grasp, Lissa laid her hands on his gaping wound, closed her eyes, and prayed. Within moments the gash was gone and the trembling pain passed from the man. His screams gave way to murmurs as he lapsed into blissful sleep.

After that, there was no question that Lissa would ride with the company.

The priestess healed all she could while the soldiers buried their dead, for whom there was no help. Pinch warned off Sprite from rifling their pockets by pointing out that the troopers would surely spit the little halfling if they caught him at it. "And I'll let them," the upright man added. "Get your booty from those two high lawyers."

"Waste of time-after all they was robbing her," the halfling groused while looting Ox and Lance. The slim pickings he got-a ring, two wallets, and a necklace- were commandeered by the troop sergeant.

"Pensions for the dead men's wives, you thieving terrier," said the windburned sergeant, as shallow a lie as any the halfling could have put up.

After fumbling and grousing about certain over-zealous hypocrites, Sprite gave up his booty. Still, when the halfling rejoined Pinch, Therin, and Maeve, his face was a bubble of unsuppressed glee. "What gulls! I could dine off them for weeks," he chortled. With a quick nod to his hand, the little rogue flashed a fistful of cut stones and worn coins. "Didn't think I'd let him have it all, did you?"

"Then we'll divvy up tonight," Pinch stated, as coolly matter-of-fact as if he'd just done the job. "Square splits for all." The other two, sorceress and bravo, nodded their agreement.

Sprite-Heels scowled but nodded too. He had better sense than to cross his partners so openly. "Tonight then," he muttered before scurrying away.

"Maeve-"

"I'll keep an eye on him," the witch assured before Pinch could finish his words. Slip-slopping through the mire, she was already falling in behind the halfling, her voice wheezing from the effort of talking while she rushed after. "Sprite, hold slow for me, dearie…"

Pinch watched the pair weave through the scattered packs of men, Sprite poking what he shouldn't at every chance. They played the roles they had played in many a throng, that of mother and child, old Corruption's family.

Then the cold-shock settled onto Pinch. The wet, the chill, and the grime stroked his bones with their ferocious touch and drew their cruel pale to his skin. Two troopers, one a pock-faced veteran who had spent his years raising malingering to a substantial art, the other a bull with a broad, flat nose smashed in a tavern brawl, had stoked up a fire for drinks, as troopers will do given any short stop. Pinch took Therin by the arm and led him toward the growing blaze.

"Pinch, what about her?" Therin whispered with a quick tilt of the brow toward the only woman at the circle-Lissa the priestess, already favored with a seat in the troopers' midst.

"We don't panic," the regulator whispered back, cheek to cheek.

Therin turned himself away, conspicuously trying to avoid her notice. "I saw her sign when she was working spells! She's one of the temple-"

"Stay that!" Pinch hissed. He pulled the man back around and pushed him forward.

The big rogue stumbled a little step forward and stopped. "But what's she doing here?" Therin's whisper was filling with panic.

"She's looking for a thief." The dig of an elbow got Therin moving again so that his terrified stare was not so obvious.

"Damned gods, she's made us!" he blurted. "You go first, Pinch."

"Stow it and get going, you fool. She's not made me, you, or anybody. The temple's sent out patricos to watch every road out of Elturel. She's fishing and, by damn, I'm setting her to the wrong catch."

"Uncle said, 'Never rob a temple.' Too many people get too interested. Get myself hanged all again, I will-"

"I told you to stow it, so clamp your flapping lips and play a dumb show." Pinch hissed one last time as he pulled Therin toward the camp circle. The old rogue couldn't stand such whining. Their lives were their lives, not given to them, not chosen for them. Therin had chosen to be a high lawyer and a rogue, and right now that meant taking the dues in full.

I won't snivel so, Pinch scornfully reminded himself, not while there are other choices to be made.

"Now let's get warmed up before we freeze." There was no bother to wait for an answer. The rogue sent Therin stumbling into the bunch with a firm shove from behind.

The cold shivers of the group, the tight banter of near death, and the swallowed scent of blood were an effective disguise for the pair. Nobody sat comfortably around the fire, so there was nothing to note when Therin sat himself opposite the priestess and tried to stare at her without staring from across the flames.

Cleedis didn't waste time with orders to bury the highwaymen. His men heaved the bodies into the brush, far from the stream, where their decay wouldn't pollute the water. The burials of their own, dug down into the muddy half-frozen soil, were ceremonies of brutal custom-the wrapping of the body, the sergeant's words, the file-by of those who lived-all done by passionless drill.

The work done, Cleedis came by the fire and stood in the sputtering warmth from the too-wet wood. His fur-lined robes were hitched up above the muck so that he was nothing more than a grotesque mushroom, a stem of two feeble legs that tottered under the bulging top of thick winter robes. "Put it out. We're leaving."

Cloaking their irritation behind dutiful yes-sirs, the two guards set to packing their kits. Therin, proudly clinging to the image that he was uncommandable, tore his gaze from the priestess. "Now? You've already wasted your light. You won't get a mile before dark."

"We're leaving. There may be more bandits about, but you can stay if you want," Cleedis offered, his hands spread in willingness.

"You best come with us, miss," said one of the two troopers, who'd been goldbricking till now. The pock-faced veteran touched his eye in a sign to ward off evil. "There's unblessed dead here and evil they was, to be sure. Ain't wise to sleep near 'em, what with them so recent killed. Sure to know they'll come for live folks in the night. 'Course, you being a priestess and all, this ain't no puzzle to you."

"Tyr's truth to all that," murmured his flat-nosed companion.

"Quit stalling, you two!" boomed the sergeant's baritone from across the glade. "Lord Cleedis wants us on the trail now, so get your arses in your saddles, if it would not be too much effort, gentlemen!"

With a flick of his thumb, Therin went off to get their horses.

"Get to work," bossed the pock-faced fellow when his companion gawked dully. The veteran reinforced the words with a kick of mud in the other's direction. While the flat-nosed fellow juggled the still-scorching pots into his haversack, the veteran snapped off his own rude gesture as soon as the sergeant's back was turned.

"Prig-faced jackass."

"Lost his sense of the trooper's life, has he?" Pinch's question hung with the air of casual conversation.

The veteran's wary weather eye, sensing the gray front coming, fixed on the rogue. "He's well enough, and a damn stretch better than you, magpie."

The words slid off Pinch's well-oiled conscience. "Least I don't make others dance to my jig."

"That may be and that may not. Your friends don't ride too far from you." Therin slogged back through the slush, leading two horses by their jingling reins.

"Only fools split their strength in the camp of the enemy." With a middle-aged man's grunt, Pinch got one foot into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. A snap of the reins moved him away from the fire.

"What was that all about?" the younger thief puzzled as he trotted up beside.

"Salt in the wounds and oil on the water, my aide-de-camp." The old fox grinned. "Never miss a chance to rile them up and make them think you're on their side. Right now he's testy, but maybe by Ankhapur that horse soldier won't snap back so hard."

Therin saw the message. "Friends in the right places, eh?"

"Friends in all places, boy," the master corrected as the troop fell into line. With a wink and a nod to his lieutenant, Pinch reined up his horse alongside the priestess Lissa.

"Greetings, Lord Janol." Her eyes, previously open, were now wary.

"And to you, milady." Pinch bowed in his saddle. Years of tutoring in courtly manners had not all been a waste.

"Thank you again for saving my life." Although she could not be but grateful, her words lacked conviction. They were the pleasant hedge of small talk behind which she could hide her true convictions.

"What else could I do?"

"I could have been a criminal and they the innocents." The mask of suspicion was beginning to slip from her eyes.

Pinch smiled and shifted in his saddle, trying to find comfort for his sore legs. "I'm a quick judge of character."

Perhaps he answered too glibly, for the words stung. The hint of Lissa's smile, almost visible in the torch-flicker shadows, collapsed. "I'm learning to be one," the priestess announced.

"I've noticed, Lord Janol, that they do not treat you with the respect due a peer," Lissa continued. Pinch had let slip the advantage in their volley and the woman was quick to seize on it.

"Prisoners seldom are so treated."

The priestess's eyes narrowed. Without shame she asked, "A prisoner… for the crime of-"

"Inconvenience."

Pinch had to continue before his unwitting pursuer could form deductions of her own. "Too much popularity, and too little of it with the right group of people. Leaving Ankhapur was expedient, just as coming back now seems… prudent."

The rogue was lying extemporaneously, an unfair advantage he had over her.

It went as Therin had said.

In less than a mile the sun, bleeding orange, was all but screened out by the winter-barren trees. Dusk held sway briefly in the sky before vanishing into the reach of night. Winter owls and wild dogs paced them through the darkness, chasing down the mice and rabbits that bolted from the clattering horse hooves. Other things marked their passing too, with grunts of humanlike bestiality that were passed down the line of march. Torchlight brightly reflected creatures with eyes too many or too few. The clatter of steel sent them scurrying away.

It was only after hours of night riding that Lord Cleedis signaled a halt. The troopers hurled themselves to the cold, wet ground until the sergeant came by and pressed them to their duties with the hard application of his boot. With much grumbling and reluctance, the tents were pitched, double guards posted, and cold meals prepared. Pinch, Therin, and the others avoided all details and collapsed in their tents as soon as they were pitched.

For three more days the squadron rode, Cleedis holding the riders to a steady pace. Three more men were lost to a catoblepas, a beast so vile its mere look could kill. It had ranged out of the great swamp to the south in search of food. That battle had been sharp and dangerous, and seeing as there was no profit in it, Pinch and his gang had kept well back from the beast's horrifying visage.

The old rogue was concerned, though he kept his counsel to himself. Ankhapur was months away, across a great stretch of wilderness where beasts far worse than the catoblepas were far more common. They'd barely ridden the smallest portion of that distance and already eleven out of the twenty troopers had been lost. The odds seemed strong to Pinch that he and the others would be stranded well out in the wasteland without the protection of men and weapons. Could it be that Cleedis, empty without Manferic to serve, was embarked on a mad effort to lead Pinch to his doom? It wasn't impossible. In his years, the rogue had certainly heard of stranger passions-the wizard who built a magical prison just to torment his unfaithful wife or the war captain who led his entire company into Raurin, the Dust Desert, to do battle with the sand. Word was, in the stews of Elturel, the soldier destroyed his company just to avenge an insult. It was madness like this, beyond all norm, that Pinch worried about. Cleedis was old and had never had the wit of a great wizard or statesman.

And then Cleedis called the march to a halt, stopping his dwindling command at the edge of the woods, where the trees abruptly gave way to a brown, dry meadow of winter-burned grass. Even though there was still a good half day's light, a commodity precious in the shortness of the days, the sergeant bellowed out the camping drill command. The sergeant played the role of martinet extremely well, abiding no goldbricking from his men. Pinch and his companion were thankful for the cold efficiency of the squadron, since it spared them any labor.

"Pitch your tents, boys. I want a detail of five men to gather firewood-remember, two men on guard at all times. Troopers Hervis, Klind-get your bows. Bag some fresh meat for the whole camp."

The rogues couldn't help notice the reaction of the troopers to this announcement, more than just delight at the reprieve from stale rations. Never before had the sergeant sent out a hunting detail.

The three men stomped in the mud, hugger-mugger, while Maeve stayed in her saddle. "New business, this is." Sprite Heels punctuated his observation by spitting into a lump of melting snow.

"Aye." There was nothing much to say about it. Pinch spied Cleedis nearby, struggling to read something from an unruly scroll of parchment. The sheet would curl every time he let go of the bottom to trace out a line.

Catching the page, Pinch pulled it tight. "Why camp now, good lord?" the rogue asked bitingly. Looking over the top, he noted the scroll was a scrawled grid of suns, moons, stars, and seasons.

"What day is this?" Cleedis grumbled as he battled the ever-curling sheet.

Pinch felt annoyed at being ignored so clumsily. It wasn't that he hadn't been ignored before. His stock-in-trade was to pass unseen under the eyes of those who had good cause to watch for the likes of him. But it was his choice now to be seen and heard. He, the master regulator of Elturel, was important, and it wasn't even a lord chamberlain's place to forget it. Pinch hadn't come looking for Cleedis; Cleedis had come this far just for him, so the old man had no right pretending he didn't matter.

With less than good grace, the rogue pulled aside the scroll with a brusqueness certain to get his escort's attention and repeated, "Why are we camping? Ankhapur is months away, and I for one don't want to dally out here as your invited guest."

The chamberlain did something with his face, and his beard swelled to the proportions of an irate porcupine. "We're stopped because it's not the right day and we'll stay stopped until it is. You're so clever, Master Pinch, that I thought you'd have the sense to see I didn't waste my days trekking through this uncivilized land. It would have taken the whole bodyguard of Ankhapur to make the distance and months more than I've got. We're waiting for an appointment to be kept. By my calendar, tomorrow is the first of Nightal. On that particular day, at a particular hour, certain wizards in Ankhapur, still loyal to Lord Manferic's memory, will gather and cast a spell. When they do, on this spot at that time will be our way back home-without hiking or riding that whole distance.

"Now who's so clever?" Cleedis trumpeted as he bundled the scroll and thrust it under his arm.

I am, Pinch thought to himself as the man stormed away. You need me in Ankhapur more urgently than it seemed, enough to make the wizards send a whole troop across the continent to find me. Pinch didn't say a thing but shrugged like a man outsmarted and went away.

Lissa had joined their little knot by the time Pinch returned. In the days since their first meeting, he had carefully cultivated his relationship with her. Her awe at his position as Lord Janol hadn't hurt, and he carefully played on it. She was, to his mind, usefully naive, apparently unable to impute base thievery to anyone of rank. Thus, his careful suggestions that Cleedis was suspect were met with amazed acceptance. She behaved as if the veil had been lifted from her eyes, yet all the time Pinch was obscuring her target even more.

It had taken a little more art to explain away his gang to her satisfaction. They hardly met the image of suitable servants. Pinch could hardly present himself as wise and trustworthy if he employed such a crew of ingrates, unthrifts, and rinse pitchers as Therin, Sprite, and Maeve. Maeve would get drunk and confide something completely beyond the pale of any household cook. Therin, though a good lieutenant, was too proud to play the role without bristling. And Sprite-Heels- well, he might play along for a while, but only if he could ruin it with some disastrous prank.

Instead Pinch took a tack not too far from the truth. He was, the rogue explained, the once-wastrel ward now destined to be redeemed and reformed. Still, Pinch claimed, he could not surrender old companions without remorse, no matter how vile and fallen they had become. These few companions had stayed steadfast friends through his darkest days. For him to abandon them now, simply because he had regained the proper sense of his true class, was the height of callousness. He owed them and so was bringing them home where he might bestow on them small pensions for the rest of their years.

As tales went, it had just enough pathos and honor in it to appeal to the young priestess. Pinch was just, the meek were raised, and the proper order of the world had been restored. Still, the rogue couldn't resist adding a fillip: Cleedis was the villain, albeit not a grand one. The old campaigner was the shadow of Pinch's enemies, those who might not want him in Ankhapur alive. The lean shark didn't press the idea, even allowing as how he might be mistaken, but let the suggestion float through his tale.

The woman listened with a disdainfully worldly finger to her nose, dismissing most of what her traveling companion said. She was not so naive, contrary to what the youthful brightness of her face proclaimed. When she snorted at his claims or poked at her cheek with her tongue, the senior rogue pretended not to notice any more than a suitor would his paramour's sour moods. Pinch didn't expect her to believe the whole story, indeed she didn't need to believe any of it. She needed to doubt her suspicions, whether it was because she was naive or just entertained.

All that didn't matter anymore. She'd have to find her own way to Ankhapur now. Cleedis's arrangements were at least going to remove one gnawing worry.

"We've stopped." It was a cool observation, not profound but as if she held Pinch somehow responsible.

"The venerable's given orders to camp. I think he intends a rendezvous."

"Ah?" It was one of her favorite expressions.

"Arranged with the court wizards of Ankhapur, I'd guess."

"Ah." Without more comment, Lissa strode through the mud, intent on catching up with Cleedis. Pinch was about to follow when his attention was snagged by the raised squeal of an enraged halfling.

"Put me down! It's not my fault you lost!"

The halfling was dangling by his arms at eye level with a swarthy trooper, so close he could have licked the man's grubby nose. "Let's see yer dice," slurred Sprite's captor.

Pinch sloshed casually through the mud, picking his way through the sudden clot of onlookers. He took his time, curious to see if Sprite just might lick the man's nose.

"It's not my doing you lost the hazard. How could I say I'd throw a bale of deuces? It's just bad luck and you're not taking it well!" the hanging thief protested.

"Pigsy luck, indeed. When it's 'Let's play for drinks,' he throws a whole set and never makes a point-"

"There, you see, just luck!" the halfling kicked and squawked.

"But nows it's 'Lets play for coin' and he can't lose. Play for my coin maybe. I'll be wishing… you'll be wishing you was wishing you was playing somewhere-body else." The drunken trooper tried to unmangle his meaning while he groped for the purse at Sprite's waist. "Lemme see them dice and then maybe I'll gut you-"

Darkness slid forward and dealt the man a sharp rap across his fumbling fingers.

"Maybe you want to gut me, too."

The trooper looked at the bright-bladed dirk that hovered just over his hand, slithering to and fro in Pinch's shifting grasp. It was a snake, violently coiled and tempting the other to foolishness.

"Set him down and go, before I tell Cleedis you were boozing on duty."

Fear-drunk eyes darted to his fellows for support, but he had gone invisible before their gaze. Suddenly, the soldier knew where he stood: alone, wet, and dirty in the beech wood. Something unholy hacked out an asthmatic howl just across the stream, a howl that almost shaped hungry words of welcome.

Slowly the man set the halfling down.

A pointed flick of the dirk sent the man scurrying, and without him the crowd drifted away to jeer his cowardice. Already the stinging puns and cruel poesy were forming in their minds.

"YOU," Pinch intoned while snagging Sprite before he disappeared, "give me the dice."

Sprite fumbled in his shirt and produced the pair.

Pinch didn't even ask if they were loaded. There was only one answer.

"Get to the tent."

"What's this, Pinch? Since when would you be knocking in fear from these king's men?"

The rogue answered the challenge by shoving the runt forward. "It's time for a little talk," he whispered through clenched teeth.

The tone was enough to get Sprite doing what he was told. The two squeezed into the small tent where Therin and Maeve were chatting, squatted on the ground.

"Listen well." Pinch thrust Sprite onto a pile of blankets in between the other two. Ducking sideways to avoid the ridgepole, he continued without preamble. "Well be in Ankhapur soon, a few days at the latest. When we get there, things are going to change. Cleedis came north to get me, and just me. I don't know why he's allowed the rest of you along, but I'd guess he means to use you to keep me in his shackles." The old rogue smirked darkly. "Though you're a damn sorry lot of hostages.

" 'Course, he might not be such a fool as to think you've got any sway over me. We all know what happens when somebody gets caught. He's on his own."

Therin rubbed at the scar around his neck and noted bemusedly, "You snatched me from the gallows once."

Pinch didn't like being reminded of that now, or the others might think his motives then were sentimental. "I didn't get you off the gallows. I let you hang and then I brought you back to life. And I did it for other motives. From here on, this is different. Ankhapur's not Elturel."

"Ohhh?" Maeve cooed. "They're both cities. What makes this one so special?

"Besides being your home," Sprite chimed in.

Pinch looked at Maeve's thick-veined cheeks and the knobby little carrot that was her nose. He could not describe the true Ankhapur to her, the one that filled him with despised love.

"Ankhapur the White." The words came reverently and then, "Piss on it. Bloody Ankhapur, it's lesser known. City of Knives, too. Ankhapur's fair; it's got whitewashed walls that gleam in the sun, but it's all hollow and rotten inside. The Families"-Pinch stressed it so that there was nobody listening who didn't hear the salt in his words-"control everything they want, including lives. You'll never find a more cunning master of the confidence games than a man from Ankhapur. Who do you think trained me to run a gang like you? Elturel?"

Therin flopped back on his rick, clearly unimpressed. "So it's got competition. We've taken down worse."

Pinch snorted. "You're not competition-none of you are. What kind of competition are you for a king who kept a personal assassin on the payroll? Or his sons who taught playmates how to strike down their enemies? This isn't just doing the black art on a weak lock or ripping the cove from a temple roof." Pinch slipped the Morninglord's amulet from his shirt and plopped it on the damp ground between them. "They're playing for stakes that make this look small-title and crown of all Ankhapur.

"We're just a bunch of petty thieves. They're princes, dukes, and barons of the land. First Prince Bors, Second Prince Vargo, followed by Princes Throdus and Marac- there's a murderous lot. Bors is too much of an idiot to be any danger, but don't worry. Our dear Lord Chamberlain out there, the duke of Senestra, has gone begging for a fool to protect his own interests. Oh, and there's more. Tomas, Duke of the Port, is Manferic's brother, and Lady Graln was his sister-in-law. She's got whelps, princelings of the Second Order, for whom she'd kill to see crowned. Finally, there's the Hierarch Juricale. They call him the Red Priest, he's got enough blood on him. He and his sect hold the Knife and the Cup, so you can imagine no one gets crowned without his say." With slender fingers, Pinch counted out the titles until there were no fingers left. "Every one of them's a scorpion in the sheets. Compared to them, we're lewds."

"They sent Cleedis up here for you," Sprite mused, as his foot gently slid toward the bauble at his feet.

"Royal Ward Janol, Pinch to you," the regulator mocked. A light kick with his boot kept the halfling's furred foot at bay. "It's not as though the royal ward has any chance or claim. Cleedis wants me for some reason, but it's just as like there'll be a mittimus for your arrest as soon as we strike Ankhapur. From here on, abroad or in the city, cut your words goodly and keep your eyes open like quick intelligencers or somebody'll cut your weasand-pipe for certain." That said, Pinch scooped up the amulet and turned to leave.

"And you, Pinch dear?" Maeve asked.

The rogue considered the truth, considered a lie, and then spoke. "I'll stand by you all and cross-lay old Cleedis's plans any way I can." He smiled a little, the way he chose when no one was to know his true thoughts. The afternoon shadows, creeping through the door, gave all the warmth to his thin reassurance.

Outside, after ten steps, he met Lissa as though she'd been lurking around waiting for this casual rendezvous. The woman had finally shed her saintly armor, and the effect was a transformation. Pinch had become so used to the rumpscuttle mien of a warrior woman that he was taken aback by her change to more demure clothes. Her silvery vestments, though long and shamefast, were still more flattering than battered steel made to cover every weak point of her sex. Her arms were half-bare to the cool air, and her slender, fair neck uncased from its sheath of gorgetted steel. Hair, brown and curly, tousled itself playfully in the breeze. Without all that metal, she stepped lighter and with more grace than did the clank and jingle of her armored self. The transformation from amazon to gentry maid was startlingly complete.

"Greetings, Lord Janol," Lissa hailed, catching the rogue not at his best. "How fare you and your companions? Lord Cleedis says we shall be upon Ankhapur on the morrow."

"We?"

With a knowing, impish smile, Lissa brushed a loose wisp back into the tumble of her hair. "Certainly. Like yourself, Lord Cleedis is a gentleman. He's offered me passage to Ankhapur rather than leave me in this wilderness."

Either she now suspects me and favors Cleedis or the chamberlain is playing the game, using her and her temple as a threat over me. If that's the case, does she know her part, or can I still direct her? Taking up his mantle as the lordly Janol, Pinch smiled and bowed while making his cold calculations.

"As well the chamberlain should. And if he had not, I would have insisted upon it."

"Well, I'm glad you would because I'm still counting on you to help me find a thief." Her voice dropped to a whisper of winter wind through the beeches.

"If your thief is here."

Lissa nodded. "They are-I've had dreams."

"Dreams?"

"The voice of our lord. He speaks to us in our dreams. It's our way."

She could be naive, misled, inspired, or right; Pinch withheld judgment. He couldn't think of any good reason why a god shouldn't talk to his priests in their dreams, but why not just burn your words in a rock or, for that matter, limn the offender in holy fire? Had she seen him in her dreams? If not, then what was her god revealing? At least so far, that seemed to be nothing.

Gods always took roundabout ways to the straightest of things, and he for one felt they did so for his personal benefit, although perhaps not in the case of Fortune's master. Pinch did feel that the Mistress of Luck was a little too indirect in his own case-so much that he, only acting from a sense of just deserving, did what he could to speed the turn of her wheel along. So if the gods wanted to be indirect with him to the point where he helped move them along, it was apt that her god was equally oblique.

In this simplified theology, it was clear to Pinch's mind that Lissa was being tested. Succeed at the test and she would find the thief. Fail-and well, who knows?

He pulled at his ear to show doubt. "I could never place so much stock in dreams. What if you have a nightmare?"

The seminary student got the better of the priestess. "It's my duty to interpret the meaning in what I have received. If I can't, then I need to dedicate myself even more."

"Well spoken," he applauded, while settling onto a punky log, fallen several years back and now riddled with insects and mold.

She reddened at the compliment.

"So you don't really see the thief in your dreams, only some sort of symbol?"

"The words of our god transcend simple images. He speaks a different language from us. In our dreams, we filter though the things we know and find parallels for his voice." Lissa's hands flew as she talked, sometimes cupping the words only to spill them in a burst of excitement.

Pinch let her go on to explain how to tell true dreams from false visions, the five precepts of action, and more than Pinch needed to know. Still it was a good diversion from the hectic preparations for home, and before the rogue had completely succumbed to boredom, dusk wafted in from the east and it was time to retire.

The night passed quickly, dreamless for Pinch. As for the others, none would say. What kinds of dreams were left to an outcast Gur, a drink-sodden sorceress, and an unrepentant halfling?

Dawn scratched at the canvas, scarring the tan haze with morning shadows. Pinch stepped out of the sweat of tent air. It was a clammy dawn of stale wood smoke and horse manure, but over it all was the incongruous thick scent of geraniums and jasmine. The jarring sweetness clung in the throat and choked more than the stench of ordure. In the cold of coming winter, it could only be that the wizards were here, borne in on a wind of flowers of their own making.

Stumbling out of his tent, the rogue wandered through a queue of clay-colored troopers, pilgrims awaiting their turn at the shrine. Each man led his horse, fully packed and carefully groomed. They jostled and talked, smoked pipeweed or whittled, and every few minutes plodded ahead a few more steps.

At the head of the column was a small cluster of strangers, as uncomfortable as choirboys milling outside the church. As each man of the column came abreast, one of the strangers stepped from their shivering mass, thin robes clutched about him, and gestured over the line. A greenish flash bubbled out from his fingertips and swallowed trooper, spellcaster, and more. When the bright air cleared, wizard and soldier were gone.

"The time is best for you and your companions to take their place in the line," Cleedis noted as he ambled over to where Pinch stood. There was no haste or desperate urgency in the man's way; those who weren't ready could be left behind.

A swift yank on the tent pole roused the rest. As they stumbled out, Lord Cleedis, playing host and master and accompanied by Lissa, led Pinch to the front of his troop. The rogue's mates fell into line, grumbling and slouching, unruly children mocking their parents. At the front a pudgy, boy-faced wizard who couldn't be much older than twenty and hadn't gotten himself killed yet-more than a little feat for an ambitious mage-bowed to the Lord Chamberlain. With apologies, the wizard arranged them just so, positioning the five of them to some invisible diagram. Cleedis's impatience and Sprite's impish refusal to cooperate made the young mage all the more nervous until, by the time he was to say the words and make the passes, Pinch worried whether they would have their essences scattered across a thousand miles. Pinch always worried though; suspicion is what kept rogues like him alive.

Then, before the last words had gotten through the boy-mage's lips, the air around them went green, lightly at first like a fading hangover on a too-long day. It got brighter, swallowing the blue out of the sky, the cold from Pinch's boots, even the creaking of saddlery from the line of men behind him. In flickering moments, the evenness of the green overwhelmed everything, eventually even the green of the color itself. The world became a perfect color and Pinch could not see it.

The world returned with a nauseating rush. The green vanished, flooded out by other colors: blue sky, curling gray clouds, the brown-mottled turf of freshly turned fields, the fleshy green of still-leaved trees, and the glittering silver of a nearby sea. The ground lurched beneath him, practically toppling him from the unexpected jolt. Lissa clutched at his sleeve and he seized the belt of someone else. A heave of nausea washed over him and then passed.

Blinking in the sudden new light, Cleedis tapped Pinch and pointed toward the sea. Sited on the shore, between the water and the close nest of hills, were the tarnished gypsum-white walls of Ankhapur. A fog had rolled back from the thrusting wharves. Atop the hills, the morning bells of the temples had started to sound. And filling the top of the very highest hill were the colonnaded buildings of the royal palace, millipedes clinging to the rich garden slopes.

Cleedis turned and beamed a drillmaster's smile as he waved his hand up-slope. "Welcome back to Ankhapur, Janol."