Finally, with a weary nod, Mancred indicated that all magical protections had been removed. A glance at the door showed that the mysterious patterns in the grain of its metal had vanished. The old thief stepped back, his work completed. He collapsed against the wall and mopped his sweating forehead with a black rag.
At a motion from Alynthia, and a warning finger across her mask-hidden lips enjoining silence, Hoag slipped up to the door and crouched before it. From a pouch at his belt, he removed a thick leather wallet. He placed it on the floor between his knees and opened it, then expertly eyed the massive blue steel lock. After a few moments, he chose a thin rod as long as his middle finger. He inserted it into the lock, gave it a deft twist, and a tiny silver needle appeared at the center of one of the lock’s many rivets. A droplet of amber fluid glistened on its tip. Hoag carefully removed this deadly metal fang and flicked it aside, perhaps in the hope that Mistress Jenna might step on it in the dark with bare feet.
Now he set to work. First, he chose a pair of thick wires and inserted them into the lock, then pushed a narrow flat shim in beside them. Working carefully, the sounds of his tinkering muffled by the cloaked bodies around him, he jiggled, prodded, levered, wrenched, twisted, and finally with a satisfying click turned the lockpicks in the lock. He slid the lock from its stout iron staple and set it on the floor beside the door.
Alynthia stepped forward and pushed against the door. In well-oiled silence, it swung wide. The thieves grinned at each other through their masks. Cael wasn’t sure whether it was because of their success or because Alynthia so trusted their abilities that she opened the door herself rather than order an underling to risk the possibility of an overlooked ward. They crowded into the doorway beside her, even old Mancred, anxious to see what fabulous treasures awaited them.
Before allowing them into the chamber, Alynthia indicated by a stern look and a raised finger that each thief might choose one item apiece, and that they must choose quickly. The thieves nodded their silent agreement, and she stepped into the room, while the others followed.
The treasure chamber looked worthy of all their efforts. Over the years since Mistress Jenna first established her Three Moons shop, she had acquired one of the strangest and rarest collections of curiosities, artifacts, relics, and magical items known on Krynn. Not even the fabled Towers of High Sorcery at the height of their power could have surpassed her treasury. Indeed, it was very likely that a great many of the items to be found here had once decorated a shelf in some tower master’s library or rested upon a table in his conjuring chamber. There were wands in jeweled cases, potions in bottles of silver, porcelain, pottery, and glass. One shelf was reserved for rings, while another was stacked with what appeared to be ancient books of spells and incantations. From a bar hung a rack of wizard’s robes and cloaks, some black, some red, some white. All were apparently magical, or at the very least arcane, from the runes and sigils stitched on the sleeves and hemmed in threads of silver and gold. One appeared to be sewn with something like starlight, for upon close inspection no thread was visible, but from a distance a clear silver-blue stitching was plain for all to see. A pair of rolled rugs stood in one corner, while opposite them was a wide golden brazier in which coals had been placed but not lit.
The chamber was illuminated from above by three clear glass balls that floated in the air and glowed with an inner spark. Directly below these light globes stood a number of marble pedestals atop which were placed perhaps the greatest treasures of the chamber. Some seemed quite ordinary, such as the small octagonal-framed spectacles lying atop a black velvet cloth, or the pair of plain leather gloves, somewhat tattered, that lay in a box of finely carved mahogany. Others were more fantastic, such as the great brazen horn tipped with ivory that lay on a red pillow, or the fine belt of tooled leather, gilded with gold and silver and studded with jewels that were worthy of a crown.
It was among these items that the Potion of Shonlay stood. The bottle was tall, almost as long as a man’s arm, narrow as a straw near the lip. The glass was milky white. Colors swirled within it-green, red, and blue, and clouds like black ink.
As Mancred entered the chamber, his eyes settled on the octagonal rimmed spectacles. Without even a glance at the other items in the room, he walked straight towards them and lifted them lovingly in his hands. Cael followed him, detouring to inspect the gloves. Alynthia strode round the room, eyeing everything but choosing nothing, completing the full circle of the chamber in a few hurried strides. She returned to the door and turned to watch her thieves.
Hoag had already chosen his treasure-a dagger with a blade as red as fresh blood. Cael slipped’ the gloves onto his hands and felt them mold to his fingers, wrapping his hands in velvet softness that was both comfortably warm and pleasantly cool. His fingers felt tremblingly alive, as though he might pluck the moon from the sky if he so desired. Meanwhile, old Mancred slipped the glasses onto his face and glanced around the room. His eyes opened wide in surprise, and a smile spread beneath his mask, but he did not explain his reaction.
A warning hiss came from the hall. The thieves froze, every ear straining, no one daring to move. They heard a noise like someone playing bowls in the hall outside. What they saw filled them with wonder and apprehension.
A huge silver ball rolled to a stop outside the door. Where it had come from, no one knew, though it might have issued from one of the open doors at the ends of the hall. The ball stood almost to Alynthia’s waist. It rocked back and forth ominously. Finally, it rolled into the room. Alynthia stepped aside to let it pass, a look of horror widening her dark eyes.
The ball rolled almost to the center of the room, stopping mere inches from Cael’s foot. Again, it rocked back and forth as though uncertain what to do. It shuddered to a stop and split along its equator, opening like a great silver clam. The upper hemisphere of the thing was hollow, but the lower appeared solid, its upper surface etched with spiraling lines. As they watched, the spirals began to whirl, and a great horn or funnel spun itself up out of the ball. It looked like one of the shouting devices sailors used to communicate between ships during heavy seas.
Mancred inched his way toward the door, while Cael held his breath and wondered if the thing could hear the pounding of his heart. It was close enough for him to see, by standing on tiptoe, down into the thing’s funnel ear. There he saw a tiny white membrane, like the skin of a drum.
Hoag was closest to the Potion of Shonlay. Alynthia motioned for him to grab it, then move with greatest stealth to the door. Cael, however, seemed stuck. So close was the listening device that he feared even to budge. Hoag was slowly inching over to the pedestal where the potion stood. Though his eyes seemed more often on the listening ball than his destination, he crossed the half-dozen steps without incident. Breathing a silent sigh, he reached out and grasped the bottle.
Cael saw, a moment too late, the lead seal atop which the bottle rested. Without thinking, he cried out, “Stop!” but to no avail.
At the sound of Cael’s voice, Hoag froze, the bottle in his hand lifted an inch above the pedestal, his head half turned toward the elf with a look of astonishment frozen on his face. His skin, clothing, cloak, hood, and mask all faded to a dull, stony gray. He moved and breathed no more. Alynthia screamed in rage but was forced to dodge aside when the silver ball spun down its funnel ear, snapped its lid shut with a musical chime like a large silver bell, and rolled rapidly through the doorway, nearly trampling her in its haste. Mancred yanked her aside at the last moment, else she might have been crushed. The thing smashed into the wall opposite the door, sending a spiderweb of cracks radiating across the stone for several feet, then spun off toward the stair. A high, shrill voice began to shriek, “Mistress Jenna! Mistress Jenna!”