The Thieves’ Guild

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A month later, Cael stood at the foot of the bed, one gauntleted fist on his hip, the other thoughtfully tugging at the groomed red beard on his chin. Claret had trimmed it for him, since he hadn’t the slightest idea how to do it himself, and he didn’t dare visit a barber. He and Alynthia never left the room except after dark, and even then they avoided places like shops and taverns, instead preferring to stroll along out-of-the-way streets, alleys, and parks. Their nightly constitutionals had helped to restore Cael’s health. He felt new life and a new purpose for living flowing like hot wine through his veins.

The window over the bed was thrown wide, allowing the cool breeze off the bay to waft through, rustling his hair and stirring in him the Wanderlust he always felt at the first scent of autumn. A whole summer had passed during his imprisonment, illness, and recovery, and he felt its loss acutely. To his right, the window overlooking the bay was propped open, and the plaintive cries of gulls reached his ears. Toward the open sea, beyond the Bay of Branchala, the sky was the color of iron, while over Palanthas some sunlight shone through the clouds.

Behind him, the bedroom door was closed. He heard Alynthia and Claret in the next room arguing over the cut of some cloth Claret was sewing. Before him, hanging from the wall was an old polished silver mirror. He stared into it as through probing the depths of a well for some glimmer of water. He rubbed his beard, tugging his chin first to the left, then to the right, examining his profile. He pushed back his long red hair to reveal his pointed elven ears, as though checking to make sure everything was still there.

At last, he shook his head and let his hand fall to his side. It came to rest on the pommel of a long, slim rapier. Claret had managed to get the weapon for him from somewhere. He didn’t know where, as unlicensed bladed weapons were illegal in Palanthas. She was indeed a neverending marvel of resourcefulness. Without her, he and Alynthia would have barely gotten by. Cael caressed the pommel of the blade. In the dungeons of Palanthas, he had been helpless to defend himself against his torturers and guards. That lingering fear left him feeling empty and afraid, even after his recovery, but the presence of the weapon, the blade at his side, gave him the confidence to face the world again.

He drew it from its sheath and, in imitation of the Knights he’d faced in the alley, saluted himself in the mirror. Lunging suddenly forward with a loud stamp of his foot, he thrust the blade ahead, parried an imaginary blade, and continued the thrust to its fullest length, hammering the tip into a spot in the wall. The blade sank into a patch of wood that looked as if it had been peeked by a hundred woodpeckers. Chips and flecks of sawdust flew as he leaped back, on guard for the next attack, his green eyes blazing.

He met his own gaze in the mirror again. He slammed the rapier home in its sheath, then resumed contemplation of his own profile, tugging his bearded chin this way and that.

“Don’t even think about it. You can’t shave it off,” Alynthia said as she entered the room.

“Why not?” Cael asked distractedly, continuing to examine himself in the mirror.

“It’s the perfect disguise,” she said. “They’ll never look for you, an elf, wearing a beard. Here, try this on.”

Cael turned and found Alynthia holding a hooded tunic of close-woven black wool. Claret stood at the door, a sewing basket over one arm and a needle held between her lips as she gazed at the elf.

Cael stooped so Alynthia could slip the garment over his head. He worked his arms through the sleeves while she pulled it snug to his waist. She stepped back to examine him.

“Oh, here,” she said, stepping towards him again. She pulled the tight-fitting hood over his head and adjusted the set of the tunic on his shoulders, pausing to briefly touch his muscles beneath the cloth. “You’ve filled out nicely,” she commented. “Better than before.”

Cael turned to Claret. “How do I look?”

“Like a thief,” she said with a laugh.

“You look like a lamplighter,” Alynthia disagreed. “That’s how I designed it. I have another I’ve cut down to fit me.”

Cael turned back to the mirror. His red beard spilled from the hood like a blaze. The tunic did loosely resemble the unofficial uniform of the Palanthian Lamplighters’ Guild, but he did not have the perpetual squint of a lamplighter. He practiced one, evoking a guffaw from Alynthia. Claret shook her head and exited the room.

“Tell me again why we’re pretending to be lamplighters tonight,” Cael asked as he adjusted the fit some more.

“So we can get into the Old City,” Alynthia said. “At night, lamplighters are a common enough sight. The Thieves’ Guild has a secret pact with the Lamplighters’ Guild. At our request, they will allow the lamps to burn out in areas we designate, to better aid our business.”

“A collaboration that’s not very secret, I might add,” Claret noted with a scowl as she reentered the room. “Everyone knows the lamplighters and the thieves are in cahoots.”

“Fine. That much I understand,” Cael said. “What is our reason for entering the Old City at all and taking the risk of passing the Gates?”

“We’ve already discussed this,” Alynthia said with an exasperated sigh. “We are going to the Great Library to research the Night of Black Hammers. If we can find some information about the distribution of Guild treasures, we might find a clue as to the location of the Reliquary.”

“Why do we want this Reliquary again?

“With it, we can win our way back into the Guild’s graces,” she said.

“Why? The Guild has betrayed you. Your husband…” his voice trailed off at Alynthia’s dark look.

“The Guild will gladly accept the Reliquary as the price of our good standing. Alone in this city, with both the Guild and the Knights hunting us, we are bound to be captured sooner or later. Don’t you want to rejoin the Guild? Or do you wish to return to the dungeons of Palanthas?”

“I’ll never return to the dungeons of Palanthas,” Cael said gravely while fingering the sword at his side. “That’s why I must recover my staff. I can defend myself with this,” he said, indicating the rapier, “but I need my staff. It was given me by my shalifi.”

“Your what?” Alynthia asked.

“My master. Master Verrocchio. He was the finest swordsman on all Krynn. He gave me that staff in solemn ceremony, and it was given to him by the sea elves before I ever met him, to be given to the one whom the staff would serve. It is bound together with my destiny. I’ve told you all this before. I must get it back!” he shouted for emphasis, as he slapped a gauntleted hand against a gauntleted fist.

“Do try not to be so damned selfish for once, will you?” Alynthia snarled. “Think of all those who have suffered for you. Will you throw all away on a fool’s errand? You can’t get it back from Arach Jannon without risking your life-and after we have worked so hard to save it.”

“I can get it back, with your help,” Cael said.

Alynthia opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. She blinked at the elf, who solemnly returned her gaze.

“All right,” she said at last, her voice breaking. “I’ll make you a deal. We go first to the Great Library. If we cannot find evidence of the Reliquary, then I will show what a soft-hearted fool I am and help you steal back your staff. But if we do find evidence, then we steal the Reliquary first.”

Cael paused a moment, then said, “Agreed.”

He extended one gauntleted hand. She took it, and they shook hands firmly.

Suddenly, she pulled herself to him and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she said, blinking up at him with her dark sparkling eyes. “I wouldn’t want to go on my next job without you.”

“I wouldn’t let you go alone,” he said, a shadow of a smile parting his red beard.

“You’ve grown taller,” she commented.

“No, you have shrunk. I reached my full height before you were born.”

“Yes, and elves can’t grow beards,” she said.

“Don’t let’s talk about it.”

“Now who’s speaking like a romantic poet?”