The Blacktongue Thief

5 A Fox to Run With

“Are you going to Oustrim?” I asked the Spanth.

This was at the inn I had tracked her to, the Roan Horse, a handsome old wooden firetrap much loved by travelers keen to spare their purses. I was sitting in a chair by the Spanth’s bed when I spoke, and it really wasn’t a fair question, considering she was sleeping.

Quick as summer lightning, she caught me up by the heel and dangled me upside down out of the window I had opened. What she didn’t know was that I hadn’t spoken until I was ready to wake her—I’d already had a peek around her room and looked through her meager worldly goods. No bath in this place, but a bowl of murky water where she’d washed, bloody wrap-linens soaking in it, fresh ones on her arm where my arrow pricked her. Her shield leaning against the wall. That pretty spadín of hers naked on the bed beside her—very like a Gunnish seax, but more elegant. An angular sword, the blade just shy of two feet long, broader near the foible, with a stout spine, a fuller, and a wicked point that called to mind a shard of broken glass. How fast she would have driven that into my heart had I breathed wrong as I leaned over her!

But there’s the thrill of the profession.

Her pouches hadn’t been hard to peek into. She had less money than you’d want if you were going far, at least on her belt. I didn’t take any. It wasn’t so much money that she wouldn’t miss whatever I took, and I wanted her on my side. It’s hard for me to leave money in its bag, though. I’ve got some sort of disease about money, a love for coin that has little to do with commerce. I just love the way it looks, and feels, and smells. I hoped one day to hoard enough of it to run through my hands with no need to spend it.

She had Ispanthian silver—three lotuses and two king’s heads complete with long-haired mustachioed King Kalith at his mustachiest—but also Holtish shillings, a few copper shaves, and even one Gallardian lion worth all the rest combined. I smelled that one, ran my thumbnail on its ridges, even put it in my mouth and savored its taste. That one was gold. Don’t worry, I dried it on my shirt before I put it back, though I stared at it again. I love the way the lion looks like he’s smiling. I love the three swords vertical and one cross dagger on the back.

Gallardians know their money, best engravers and sculptors in the east, as good as the ones in Old Kesh, before the Knock. My favorite coin is the Gallardian owlet, which isn’t even gold. Just silver. But whoever carved the stamp for that one must have loved owls, it looked just like one, you expected the bastard to hoo at you. And on the tails side, a tree with a crescent moon behind. I hate spending owlets when I get them, but eventually I have to, I always run out of money. Whatever was in the messenger bag would have to stay her secret; she had been sleeping on it.

It didn’t sit heavy where she wore it, so not many coins if it were coins. Probably had bearer notes from a bank or jewels or some other light currency, but you never know what’s in a person’s most guarded pouches. Where I thought to find money, I’ve nipped sacks containing locks of horse mane, a bag of sand, a pouch of baby teeth. The strangest thing was a dried heart, almost certainly human. I’m glad that fucker didn’t catch me.

But then, none of them catch me.

Where was I? Right, upside down. And don’t picture the Spanth holding me by the ankle one-handed like some Thrall Mountains quarter-giant. No, she had me two-handed, elbows braced on the sill. I didn’t struggle. Just crossed my arms. Felt rather good, actually, all the blood going to my head.

“Are you bound for Oustrim?” I said again. “And where’d the bird go?”

“Shut up about the bird.”

“Fine. What’s your name, then?”

“You don’t need to know it.”

“All right. But are you going to Oustrim?”

“You’re a Guild thief. You have training and magic. If I drop you, it won’t hurt you, will it?”

“If I say no, will you think of a different way to hurt me?”

“Maybe.”

“Then yes, it will hurt me very much. Please, brave knight, do not drop me on my melon.”

She dropped me, but I don’t hold that against her.

We were only on the third floor.

Using the wall to brake myself, I landed on my feet and rolled. Then I climbed back up to the window, pretty fast. She had her sword ready, but not in my face or anything. She knew I could have killed her while she slept. Not that she was careless, she’d locked the window tight, I’m just hard to keep out. And even harder to kill. If you speak Galtish and know my name, you probably figured that out already.

In our blackish, brackish tongue, a kinch is a loop in a rope, or a noose. It can also mean a tangle or an unexpected problem, which I certainly was for my mother, being only three months younger than my parents’ wedding day. I suppose unexpected trouble describes Galts generally, at least as we’ve been found by our conquerors from Holt. It took the Holtish fifty years to subjugate our lands, and they’ve spent the three centuries since regretting it. No good at taking orders, blacktongues, we’ll never be invading anybody—but we’re hell on our own soil. Galts are natural archers and good at throwing anything from a stone to a spear to a rotten squash. Fine musicians and riders, too, back when horses ran on the plains.

That, of course, was before the goblins came.

They say Galts are what’s left of elves, with our gently pointy ears and small bones. My hair’s browny copper, more red in the light, and my beard comes in ginger, what little I can grow. Not that the question of elves had been decided—most university twats said no, some said mayhap, but every village near a peat bog had the legend of some old tuber-farmer hauling up a wee manlike thing with bog-blackened skin, sharp ears, and the finest jewelry you’ve ever seen. Not that anyone you knew personally had seen one, and the jewelry had always been stolen or sold. But what did I know?

Nothing but my name.

“My name is Kinch, or Kinch Na Shannack, or fucking Kinch if you prefer. It won’t be the first time I’ve heard it,” I said.

She grunted.

I sat cross-legged on the sill, looking at the Spanth with my big, lady-killing green eyes. Eyes light like western jade, I’d been told.

“Shall we journey west together?”

She considered me. “What will you do for me?”

“It’s what we’ll do for each other.”

“So tell me.”

“I’ll watch while you sleep. Sleep while you watch. I’ll lie to you when it doesn’t matter, but I’ll also lie for you when it does. If you let me do the talking, I’ll make sure you miss the pennycock with the pizzle-itch and get the best wine in the merchant’s barrel. You’ll never again meet a door you can’t get through nor a wall you can’t get eyes over. I need your arms, yes, but you need my nose. If you do the worst of the fighting, I’ll make sure you know where your foes are coming from and cull the weak ones. I won’t be your dog, but if you’re half the wolf I think you are, you’ve found a fox to run with.”

She said, “Ask me again tomorrow,” and went to sleep with her back to me.