The other man was Marek, and when Cyric examined the face of his mentor, he did not find the aging, hard-lined visage he had looked upon just the other night, when Marek ambushed him at the inn. This Marek was younger, and the tight, curly hair upon his head was jet-black, not the salt-and-pepper-gray it should have been. His skin had only just begun to show a hint of the wrinkles that would one day develop. His piercing blue eyes had not surrendered any of their earlier fires, and the man's large frame no longer displayed any trace of flabbiness. This was the man Cyric had studied under, had robbed and committed now unthinkable acts for without hesitation. Cyric had been an orphan, and in many ways, Marek was the only father he ever knew.
"Come with us," Marek said, and Cyric obeyed, allowing himself to be led through a set of doorways into the kitchen of an inn that Cyric did not recognize. Cyric had always allowed himself to be led, it seemed, and when they passed into the lighted hallway, Cyric noticed his own reflection in a nearby mirror. More than ten years had been taken from his face — the crow's feet were gone from around his eyes; his skin seemed more resilient, less hardened by the passage of time and the hardships he had endured.
"You're probably wondering why we're here," Marek said to the grotesquely fat cook who stood near a curtain at the other end of the kitchen.
"No, not al all," the fat man said, a broad smile holding up his blubbery cheeks. He pointed to the curtain and said, "She's right in here."
Marek grabbed Cyric by the arm and led him to the curtain. "Look," Marek said and drew open the curtains very slightly. "There's our next victim, and your ride to freedom, Cyric."
Cyric looked out. Only a few tables in the taproom were visible from his vantage, and only one of those was occupied. A handsome middle-aged woman, dressed in fine silks and carrying a purse filled to overflowing sat at the table, sipping a bowl of soup that had just been brought to her by an attractive serving girl. She stopped the girl.
"This soup is not piping hot!" the woman shrieked in a voice that made Cyric's teeth hurt. "I asked that my soup be piping hot, not merely warm!"
"But ma'am — "
The woman grasped the serving girl's hand. "See for yourself!" the woman cried, and thrust the girl's hand into the steaming bowl of soup. The girl bit back a scream, and managed to wrench her hand free without spilling the contents of the bowl upon the middle-aged woman. The flesh of the girl's hand was bright red. The soup had been scalding.
"If you cannot meet my needs, I will have to take my business elsewhere!" the woman said. She rolled her eyes. "I do wish I knew what was keeping my nephew. He was supposed to meet me here." She frowned and gestured at the soup. "Now take this away and bring me what I asked for!"
The serving girl took the bowl, bowed slightly, and turned to walk back to the kitchen, causing Cyric to draw back before he was seen.
"Relax," Marek said from behind Cyric, and the curtains parted, admitting the girl. She looked at Marek and shoved her serving tray into Cyric's waiting hands. She pressed against Marek and kissed him full on the lips. Then she pulled back, grabbed a damp cloth from the sink, and wrapped it around her hand.
"I'd like not to wait for my cut this time," she said.
Quicksal eased his blade from its sheath then slammed it back again, making a sharp scrape that caused the serving girl to smile. "I promise our benefactor won't have to wait for hers."
"I'll second that," Cyric said, surprising himself with the sentiment.
The serving girl winked at Marek. "You know where to find me this evening. We'll celebrate."
She took the serving tray back from Cyric and went to a boiling pot of soup in the kitchen and ladled out another serving. Then she dropped the wet cloth and headed back to the taproom with the steaming soup.
"Stay here," Marek said, and followed the girl. Cyric parted the curtains and watched as Marek spoke to the woman. Cyric dropped the curtain when Quicksal tugged on his sleeve.
"Time to go," Quicksal said, and moments later they were once again crouched in the shadows of the alley behind the inn. The doorway opened and Marek ushered the woman into the alley. She looked around, disoriented and confused.
"I don't understand," the old woman said. "You say my nephew has been beset in this alley, that he can't be moved, and — "
Understanding lit in her eyes as Quicksal pushed away from the shadows.
"You're not my auntie," Quicksal said. "But we'll take your money anyway."
The woman started to scream but Quicksal pushed her against a wall and put his hand over her mouth. He drew his knife and placed it against her throat. "Quiet now, Auntie. I wouldn't want to have to kill you right away. Besides, this is Zhentil Keep. If your screams do draw someone here, they'll only want a share of your money."
Marek grabbed the woman's purse and rifled through it. Then he nodded with a pained expression.
"Alas, this is not enough," Marek said, and motioned for Cyric to move forward. Quicksal backed away from the woman, but kept his blade extended toward her as he did.
"I have nothing else!" she cried. "Mercy!"
"I would respect your request," Marek said sadly, lowering his head. "But I cannot deny the young ones their pleasure."
Cyric drew his blade. Quicksal placed his hand on the boy's chest and snickered. "You'll never be able to kill her, Cyric. And then Marek will be stuck with you as an apprentice forever." The blond thief moved toward the woman again. "You might as well let me kill her, Marek."
"Stand away!" Cyric said, and Quicksal turned to face him.
There were tears in the woman's eyes. "Help me," she cried, her hands shaking.
"Ah, such a dilemma," Marek said. "Who shall spill this innocent blood?"
Cyric turned sharply. "There is no innocence in this world!"
Marek raised an eyebrow. "But what crime has this woman committed?"
"She hurt the girl."
Marek shrugged. "So? I've hurt her many times myself. She didn't seem to be complaining," Marek laughed. "I think Quicksal should kill the woman. After all, Cyric, you have never showed me that you're ready to be independent, and the Thieves' Guild might not approve."
"You're lying!" Cyric shouted. With each step Quicksal took toward the woman, Cyric saw his chance for independence slipping farther away.
"A moment," Marek said, raising his hand to Quicksal, then turning to Cyric, "Does she deserve to die, just so you can have your freedom?"
"I know her. She is…" Cyric shook his head. "She is arrogance and vanity. Privilege and prejudice. Content to ignore the poor and the needy, ready to let us die before she would raise a hand to help. She is distant and cruel, except when her head is on the block. Then she cries for mercy, for forgiveness. I have seen her type before. She is all that I despise."
"And she has no redeeming qualities? She is not capable of love or kindness? There is no chance she might change her ways?" Marek said.
"None at all," Cyric said.
"Quite an argument," Marek said. "But I am not swayed. Quicksal, kill her."
The woman gasped and tried to run, but Quicksal was far too fast for her. She hadn't taken two steps before the blond thief was upon her and her throat was slit. The woman collapsed into the alley. Quicksal smiled. "Perhaps next time, Cyric."
Cyric looked into Quicksal's eyes and felt as if he had delved into twin pools of madness. "I deserve my freedom," Cyric growled and drew his knife.
"Then prove it to me," Marek said. "Show me your worth and I will award you your independence. I will give you safe passage from the city if you want it, and I will make the Thieves' Guild recognize you as a full member. Your life will be your own, to do with as you will."