“What he found was beyond the dreams of dwarven avarice. The treasure of the ancient builders of the city lay before him. With this, and with the aid of Mulciber, he began to rebuild the Guild not long after the old one was destroyed,” she finished.
“Now, the Guild uses the old dwarven vaults as a testing ground for its most promising thieves. Those who succeed are brought within the inner sanctum and made officers of the Guild,” the ex-knight Pitch explained, as she slapped the hilt of the sword at her side. “Officers! With Circles of their own to command.”
“Who is Mulciber?” Cael asked.
When none of his fellow thieves offered a response, he continued, “Have you seen him?”
“Her,” Varia corrected.
“Her, then. How do you know it’s a her?” he asked. “I’ve heard him… her speak, and I can’t tell one way or the other.”
“Captain Alynthia says Mulciber is a woman. That’s good enough for us,” she snapped. “Besides, I know lots of people who have seen Mulciber.”
“Name one,” Pitch countered.
The thin thief glared at her for a moment before answering vehemently, “Lots of people. You wouldn’t know them.”
“Mancred has seen her,” Ijus inserted.
Mancred shrugged. “I might have. I saw someone. It doesn’t matter. We have a job to do.”
Cael looked to Mancred, who stood gazing at his feet. “Old one,” he said. “You have been through this test twice?”
“Aye, and each time it was different,” the elder thief answered. “So there’s no use in counting on my experience.”
“Do I have a weapon, then?” the elf asked, looking around at the weapons of his companions. Pitch wore a long sword similar to the ones favored by Knights. Ijus had his daggers, Hoag a short sword and a sling. Varia wore a short bow over her shoulder. A pair of axes were tucked into Rull’s belt. Only Mancred bore no obvious weapons, though the bulges in his sleeves could very well have hidden throwing knives.
“Captain Alynthia said you favored the staff,” Pitch said, pointing to a tall smooth dowel of polished ash leaning against the wall. “It’s not much of a weapon for a thief.”
“I prefer the sword,” Cael said, shrugging as he walked over to examine the staff. He hefted it, testing its weight, and gave it a few practice twirls that hummed with speed. “But this will do.”
Chapter Fourteen
Where are they?” Oros asked as he hurried into the room. The door swung shut behind him, as though of its own accord. He hardly seemed to notice it. He raced across the room to where Captain Alynthia bent over a large stone bowl set on a desk of marble. Across from her, a short man wearing robes that might once have been white but that were now a dull, dirty gray, sat on a stool, his hands held up before him with the fingers twisted into grotesque shapes, his eyes rolled back into his head to reveal only the whites staring blindly ahead. His lips quivered with whisperings that kept the magic of the enchanted bowl going, an oily suspiration that tickled the hairs and sent chills along the spines of those who heard it. Sweat streamed down his nose, and his yellow hair hung lank upon his forehead. He rocked back and forth on his stool to the rhythm of his incantation, teetering, as though any moment he might topple over.
The object of his magical casting-the enchanted bowl over which Alynthia eagerly leaned-was filled to the brim with water. As Oros approached, he saw lights flash from the depths of the bowl, lights reflected in the glimmering of Alynthia’s dark eyes, in the shadows of her dusky face. This was the only light in the room, and it starkly illuminated the surrounding shelves littered with all sorts of magical paraphernalia, from ceramic retorts for brewing potions, to spellbooks bound with animals’ skin (or worse). A skull leered from a shelf directly over Alynthia’s head, sending a superstitious shudder through the guildmaster’s six-foot-tall frame.
“How goes it?” Oros asked as he slid in beside Alynthia and peered into the depths of the bowl. A confusing blend of colors met his gaze, forcing him to look away or suffer a kind of vertigo.
His winsome companion started at his touch upon her back. Seeing him, she smiled, then turned her attention back to the bowl.
“He almost didn’t make it past the gulguthra,” she said, pointing at the glowing water in the bowl.
“Where are they now?” he asked. The bowl had suddenly grown dark, black as oil. Nothing moved within it.
“They’re in the sewers,” Alynthia answered. As she said this, a pale shaft of light appeared in the bowl’s view. Through this, the seven thieves passed, grim faced and eyes wide against the darkness. Water swirled about their knees. Cael led them, his staff probing the water ahead, with Hoag bringing up the rear. As he moved through the light, the thin thief glanced warily over his shoulder-then they were gone, vanished back into the gloom of the sewers.
Alynthia settled back and allowed Oros to run his fingers through the tight curls of her hair. She leaned against him, feeling the comfortable solidity of his massive frame. He had always been her bulwark. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head.
“Concerned?” he asked, as he gazed at the dark bowl over the top of her head. The sorcerer continued his sibilant chant, with only a slight narrowing of his brows to show their voices disturbed his concentration.
“Of course. It is dangerous, and they are not ready,” Alynthia answered somewhat crossly.
“They are the best in your Circle,” Oros said.
“They are ready, but not him,” she amended, her voice curling into irritation on the last word. “He will likely get one of them killed. He is still too free a spirit. We’ll never break him to the Guild.”
“Better they fail now than at Mistress Jenna’s,” Oros said. “If they fail here, only a death or two is the result. If they fail there, the repercussions could reach to the core of the Guild.” “You are right, of course,” Alynthia admitted. She turned to face her companion and lover. “But I rue the day I spoke up for him. There are other thieves, more worthy…” “Yet none so talented. The Guild has not seen his like in a thousand years, not since Geylin Blackheart and Mirathrond Inuinen,” Oros said reverently. These two famous thieves had, a thousand years ago during the Age of Might, lived side by side, sharing the rulership of the Guild as no one ever had, before or since. Though lovers, they were also bitter rivals, competing for the reputation of greatest thief in Palanthas. Their exploits were the stuff of legend, and nowadays few thieves believed even half the tales told about the duo. Some said Geylin burgled the Tower of High Sorcery itself, a tale so fantastic that few bards dared to sing it even in the company of thieves. Another version of the story claimed it was Mirathrond who accomplished the deed but that Geylin laid in wait for her outside the Tower and robbed his lover as she made her escape, thus claiming the booty and the glory for himself.
Knowing full well these legends, Alynthia was astonished by Oros’s comparison. “Cael Ironstaff, the equal of them?” she asked incredulously. “I admit he is capable, but really!”
Oros shrugged, offering no further comment, and turned his attention to the magical bowl. Alynthia knew her lover well enough to realize that Oros spoke with sincerity, and she had learned to trust his judgment, even when it went against her wishes or desires. It had saved both their lives more than once, saved her from a disastrous and foolish marriage with a Knight of Takhisis three years earlier.