The Thieves’ Guild

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Supper is ready!” Claret shouted from the kitchen. She backed through the door, balancing a heavy crockery tureen on a thick pad while carrying a loaf of bread under each arm. Cael followed her with bowls, plates, knives and spoons piled in the crook of his good arm. The other was wrapped in a clean white sling.

Alynthia slid into one of the chairs and tucked a napkin into the collar of her loose silk blouse. “Smells delicious,” she commented as Claret eased the soup tureen to the table.

“It should be. It’s an original elven recipe,” the girl said.

“Elves!” Alynthia scowled. “I’ll bet its full of leaves and twigs.”

Claret took the bowls and plates from Cael and stacked them beside the soup. “Sit down,” she ordered. “I’m serving.” The elf gratefully sank into a chair.

“As a matter of fact, elves don’t eat leaves and twigs,” Claret continued. “It has clams and lobster and fresh grouper, eel, squid, and octopus. The tomatoes were difficult to find, but I managed it.”

“Indeed!” Alynthia said. “Tomatoes this late in the year! You are a marvel.”

“That’s what I tell everyone, but no one believes me. Gimzig says I’ll make someone a wonderful wife someday.” (This was for Cael.) “Or a first rate thief.” (This was for Alynthia.)

She sighed when both her companions ignored her hints. “I hope I don’t have to wait too long for either. Oh! The butter!” She dashed back to the kitchen.

Alynthia tore one of the loaves in half and handed a hunk to the elf. He took it without speaking, bit off a piece, and chewed while his eyes strayed to the window overlooking the bay. Behind him, the bedroom door stood open, and moonlight shining through the window illuminated a pack lying on the bed, and his staff propped next to it.

“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” Alynthia asked softly.

“No,” he said. He looked at her, his sea-green eyes distant. “No, the Knights of Neraka are still hunting me,” he continued. “Even though they think Arach Jannon and the minotaur fought and killed each other atop the city wall, I am still under the court’s death sentence. Then there’s Mistress Jenna.”

“The Guild could protect you,” she said, reaching a hand across the table to cover his. “I could protect you.”

“Not forever,” he said. “Remember, I am an elf. I will outlive you by several centuries. The Guild will not always be friendly to me.” He thoughtfully stroked his bushy red beard, which reminded him of his dwarven friend, Kharzog Hammerfell.

“There will always be a place within the Eighth Circle for you, as long as I am its master,” Alynthia said.

“I have… questions, which need answering,” Cael continued. “There are people I have not seen for many years. And I have hurt enough people here.” He gazed at the kitchen door. They heard Claret banging among the pots and dishes. As though prompted by a terrible thought, he rose suddenly from his chair.

“In fact, I should go now,” he said. He strode quickly to the bedroom and gathered his things.

“But… what about supper? Claret will be so disappointed,” Alynthia whispered. “Please stay and eat, stay just a little longer, and then you can say goodbye.”

“I can’t say goodbye, not after what I cost her,” Cael said. He hurried to the door. Alynthia followed and caught him before he could leave.

“You can’t even say goodbye to me?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Please don’t ask me to.”

“Very well,” she whispered huskily. “Will you return?”

“Some day,” he said. “You’ll take care of her in the meantime?”

Alynthia nodded. He pressed her hand for a moment, then turned and strode away. Alynthia watched him go. As he approached the end of the street, a squat figure appeared from the shadows and joined the elf. The figure turned and waved to Alynthia. She lifted her hand limply in farewell, but the elf never looked back. She closed the door and leaned against it.

Claret entered from the kitchen with a bowl of butter, glasses, and a jug of wine. She paused, seeing Alynthia at the door.

“He’s already gone, isn’t he?” she asked.

“Yes,” Alynthia whispered.

“He’ll be back,” the girl said with perfect assurance. She set the butter and the glasses on the table.

“A wise woman once told me, ‘Never trust the love of an elf. We grow old, while they remain forever young?” Alynthia returned to the table and poured herself a glass of wine from the jug.

“Yes, but then again Cael is not of pure elven blood,” Claret said.

Alynthia pondered this for a moment, then swallowed a sip of her wine. She smiled. “That soup smells delicious. Let’s eat before it gets cold!”