|
| Chapter 55. An Uncommon Thief | |
| << back | next >> |
 |
he pale sun climbed to noon, spreading blue shadows among the spruce and fir. He had weathered a long cold night, curled in a tree well near the caravan's encampment. Gos felt as if his feet would never truly be warm again and he had suspicions about the existence of his toes. In motion, the caravan was easy to follow, for he flitted between trees, watching and counting the company. He easily identified a fellow assassin: a grim faced woman he was careful to give a wide berth on his closer surveillance runs. At the end of the train, a scraggly male necromancer and a muscular elementalist walked and joked together with the gruff easiness of friends at arms. Taking up the lead, a burly warrior strode stolidly ahead of two others, younger warriors who gazed upon him with something approximating hero worship or amusement. There were two wagons each drawn by a pair of shaggy oxen. The trailing wagon was stacked with boxes, barrels and crates beneath the drape of dirty oilskins. The other had a canopy of dun oilcloth to shelter its contents and occupants from the wind. A portion of the wagon was set aside for the comfort of the weaker members of the expedition. He had glimpsed cushions and blankets being laid out below the high teamster’s bench. A toddler and his mother often rested there with a hooded figure draped in loose black robes. This silent figure was blind and fragile given the way his people fussed over him. He reminded Gos of the redemptors from the old Kurzick houses. At night the entire contents of that wagon were unloaded. Some of the items were tents, bedding and provisions, but the rest were clearly items of value and were stowed in the central tent where the man in black dwelt alone. Gos suspected it was this cargo that had caused the Justicar to send him on this mission. He made note of the half dozen servants who had been brought to drive the wagons, secure the loads, tend the animals, pitch the tents, and cook the meals. There was also a tiny bald monk whose piping voice was often followed by the laughter of her companions. He was amused by her despite never getting close enough to hear what she had actually said to elicit guffaws. Her animated figure was humorous enough. With the passing of another day, he discovered nothing that truly merited the badge of outlaw. They were kind to one another, jovial and relaxed. They processed slowly, their wagons rumbling over the narrow track in an orderly fashion. A couple hours after noon he watched them easily dispatch a pack of mountain minotaur that descended upon them as they wound toward the highest point of a pass. Gos melted into the trees and watched as earth, vitriolic curses and steel chopped through muscle with ease. These people obviously knew each other well. He decided they were guild mates though no cloak or insignia was visible. In battle, they were intensely focused and none of them were in any danger. Their defenses blinded and confounded the beasts while the warriors beat them down with brutal efficiency. When the caravan moved on past the ambush, he examined the corpses and admired the precise, well trained cuts that the other assassin had made. She was no Kaineng thug. Evening streaked the steely sky crimson. Facing the high massif of Ice Cave Pass, they made camp earlier than they had the night before, wisely deciding to make the treacherous ascent in daylight. He squatted among a stand of aspens and ate a little as he watched them pitch tents. The man in black was accommodated first as always. Gos wondered if perhaps the man was an elder of the guild, or even the guild leader, and thus a priority for his enemies. Gos could not help but smirk at how the little bald monk plucked at the figure’s arm. Her laughter carried up the slope, pure and spontaneous. For an hour the blonde woman and the monk vanished with him inside the central tent, a round spacious affair with heavy felt and canvas walls. The others saw to the livestock or raised the tents. The toddler suffered himself to be tickled and fussed over by the warriors and servants relaxing around the fire. A stew was set to simmer over the campfire and soon the rest of the crew gathered around the flames to warm themselves and tell stories. An hour passed and his stomach growled as the meaty odor of the repast made Gos long for just a taste of it. The pretty blonde woman emerged from the central tent looking weary and strained. She flashed a smile at the little boy when he burst from the grasp of one of the wagoneers and collided with her legs. Only then did it strike Gos as odd that they would be transporting a mother, child and sick old man through the mountains at a dangerous time of year. He began to suspect that there was something sinister going on. In his experience only evil people sought the demise of the weak. But he desperately needed the money, he told himself. He did not have to tell the Justicar anything, just enough to collect his fee and move on. Then he could buy the dolyaks his guild, his family, desperately needed to survive. “You know the Justicar was a bad man. And what would Dale and Tasha say if they found out you betrayed a helpless child and his mother?” Gos slinked around the perimeter of the encampment when the little bald monk emerged to fill two tin bowls with stew and disappeared back inside of the tent with them. With everyone chattering and eating contentedly, it was not difficult to reach the sheltered side of the tent and dwell in the deep shadows there. He listened to the faint murmur of voices, the gentle, soothing tones of the woman and the tense, weary voice of the man upon whom she attended. “… and then after that I asked them where the octopus feeders were. They didn’t have to laugh at me.” Gos smirked, for he knew both the common tongue of Tyria and the language of the dragon empire. “Liang Meng, I believe you made a mistake in your pronunciation,” said the man, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “Oh Penny, I do so hope Isabeau can help you. You should eat more, too, and you will tell me if you have enough blankets?” “I would appreciate it if you didn’t call me that.” “Sorry, Penny… Peng Ren.” He made a long suffering sigh and there was the busy silence of eating. “Want me to get more?” “No, I’m fine, Lem. I should study for a while,” he replied, his words cut off by an enormous yawn. “Sleep, Pen, you look so tired and whatever Isabeau did it took a lot out of you.” “I suppose,” he murmured and Gos listened as blankets were unfurled and the busy sounds of bedding down was concealed by the increasingly loud singing of the crowd gathered around the campfire. “I like Isabeau,” Liang Meng said, “I wish you could spend more time with her, I think she’s good for you.” “I could grow fond of her,” he replied blandly, “Good night.” “Once you place the Celestial Sigil, though, you’ll get to visit as much as you want, so I suppose it’s not all bad that you’ll be apart. And just think, we’ll all be able to see Army and Brigit get married.” “Assuming Zhou does not keep me busy. Assuming I get it right,” the man replied with an edge of bitterness. Gos’ ears pricked up at the mention of the Sigil. “Zhou would not have entrusted you with the sigil if he did not believe you were capable,” Liang Meng said lightly, “And sleep makes everything better. Besides, maybe the foundations won’t be ready when we arrive. That means we’ll have to wait around and that’s more time with Isabeau.” “Lemony, stop being silly. I’m twice widowed and I have two children to worry about. An affair of the heart is out of the question,” he snorted. “But you two are so right for each other,” Liang Meng protested, “She isn’t married and she obviously likes you…” “Lemony, enough. It’s possible to like someone and enjoy their friendship without jumping to the conclusion that I am looking for a third wife,” he replied angrily, cutting her short. “Well of course,” Liang Meng countered, hurt by his rebuke, “but… well maybe it would be nice to have someone to love you and…” “I’m done with love, Lem. Twice was enough.” “Aw Penny, don’t say that…” “Wake me early so I can study before breakfast.” “Alright, Pen,” she sighed after an awkward pause, “Need anything before I go?” “No, good night,” he said groggily. Gos remained in the deep shadows, hiding under a wagon as members of the caravan went to their tents or to their guard posts. The monk shared a smaller tent with the golden-haired woman and her child while the necromancer and the burly elementalist went to another. It was hard to remain objective as his mind returned once more to mention of the Celestial Sigil. With a sigil, so many troubles would end for his guild. The only question that remained was whether or not the device was here in this encampment. One simple theft from an invalid and he could be away. He would not have to collect the money and he could leave these people to their own devices. “But you’re not a common thief.” Gos scowled at himself in the darkness, realizing that on the balance of things, a theft on behalf of his loved ones was less troubling than getting innocent people killed with his spying. And besides, a sigil was just a thing that could replaced like anything else. It would inconvenience these people to lose it, but it would not cause anyone to die. It might save lives, he decided, most notably those of his guild members and his soon to be born child. “Grenth, do not judge me harshly for what I must do,” he whispered under his breath. If he had to guess where the sigil might be, it was with the man in black. Gos rose to his feet and slowly stretched and warmed his body. Within the tent he could hear the low soughing of the sleeping man. He meditated for a few moments in the darkness, concentrating, infusing himself with the shadows so that his movement would be nothing more than a skein of smoke against the night sky. He passed with the ease of shadow through the oiled canvas, noting with relief that a little oil lamp had been left alight. Its wavering flame gave him just enough light to search by. Gos remained still, listening and watching as the man continued to sleep. He wore no mask now, revealing that he was neither old nor Canthan. His russet moustache and hair were meticulously groomed and lacked the silvery dignity of age. Peng Ren was what Daneska would have called ruggedly handsome. He had lost the bloom of youth and was now careworn, tending toward gaunt. Peng Ren’s breathing betrayed shallow sleep. He would awaken easily. Gos slowly reached down into his armor beneath the thick outer clothing. On his belt he carried a pebble filled sap for stunning his victims. Its heavy weight hung on the end of a short length of chain. Looking at the man's pale face, Gos decided not to hit too hard. He did not want to kill the man, just buy time to search for and hopefully steal the sigil. He whirled the cosh to snap it against the man's temple and missed. To his horror and surprise, Peng Ren rolled away with the swiftness of a serpent. For a moment they locked eyes. Gos stared into a face pale with terror and desperation. He had little time to act. He lashed out at the man’s solar plexus, seeking to silence him before he had a chance to cry out. Peng Ren dodged away like a particularly flighty and wary bird, quite the opposite of a blind and crippled elder. With his back pressed against the stacked up crates, Peng Ren’s eyes widened in undisguised terror as Gos unsheathed his daggers and flourished them threateningly. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Gos hissed into the dimness, deciding the man was too frightened to make a sound and could thus be manipulated, “Give me the Celestial Sigil and I’ll leave.” “No!” Peng Ren wheezed after a moment, his mouth moving after long effort, “May you rot in Torment, demon.” Gos sighed inwardly as he looked up into the frightened Ascalonian’s face. No one took him seriously. He had been cursed with the body of a boy. Why did he even bother to threaten people? “Shut up and give me the sigil, or I’ll gut you!” He instantly regretted his words. The man made an unearthly cry born of terror and fury. Instead of being cowed by Gos’ empty threat, it had transformed him. Peng Ren’s eyes blazed like emeralds in the flickering lamp light. Gos was transfixed, caught between apology, terror and need as he desperately slashed his daggers into the bags and crates, knowing that he had mere seconds to find what he had come for. A leather bag disgorged an elaborate ivory-inlaid box. Gos seized it, knowing from the look of blank disbelief on Peng Ren’s face that it was the sigil. He thrust past the impotent figure, shoving the box down the front of his fleece coat as he prepared to flee into the shadows. "Die!" The man hissed at his back, his voice trembling. Gos intoned the brief incantation that would carry him beyond the canvas walls and to freedom. The words died in his throat amid an intense blaze of agony. Snarling chaos magic denied him the shadows and safety. His very bones vibrated with pain as he lunged for the tent flap. The man wheeled around with the grace and swiftness of a cat. A very angry mesmer wreathed in a halo of ghastly magenta barred his way. Gos’ mind was overwhelmed by the vitriol of hatred. Despite the pain, he slashed at the side of the tent and weathered the convulsion of muscle and failing life energy as the mesmer continued to hex, his words like dry leaves on an autumn wind. Gos had to run, for while he might very well be able to take down a mesmer on his own, he could not take on the entire company and he could sense them stirring now. He rushed through the jagged rent in the fabric and ran with the swiftness of shadows as the mesmer’s fury stained the night with curses and profanity. A sharp blow came from the side. Gos collided and spun with a nearly invisible figure. Blood flew in a swath from a weal carved into his back. He twisted mid air, propelling himself on one foot to escape the grip of the other assassin. She missed her next blow and tumbled aside on the impetus of her charging assault. He let the shadows drive him towards the night and the shelter of the frozen forest. He held his breath, hoping against all reason that he had escaped. The frigid air congealed around him. His lungs spasmed painfully as he gulped the inhospitable air. He could barely move and there were people all around him as he inched pathetically forward. A noose of hexes settled over him, awaiting his slightest error in judgment. The assassin came again and he turned to defend himself, dagger ringing on dagger as he followed her moves, noting through the dullness of imminent defeat that she fought in the imperial style. She said nothing when his frozen grip slipped on his left dagger and she found him vulnerable, slamming a blade beneath his ribcage and drawing it down with a twist. He screamed as she lifted a foot and kicked his legs from beneath him, hurtling him to the snow. Gos struggled to rise, stumbling in the snow amid a shower of his own blood. He gasped for air, his guts on fire with agony as she approached to deliver the finishing blow. "Stop!" He could barely hear the little voice over his own hoarse breathing. The boiling pain in his guts almost made him plead for an end. He squirmed on his side, gripping at his belly, pressing at the long gash in a vain attempt to seal it. The assassin used her foot again to turn him onto his back. She knelt, gazing into his eyes to let him know that death came. Gasping past the froth of his increasingly painful breaths, he wished she would hurry. He did not want to lose his composure as the insidious hexes continued to burn at his flesh and mind. "Grenth take me," he whispered, knowing he had little time as he tasted the blood in his mouth. His mind fought for comprehension, to be lucid in the last moments, to think of Tasha. Tears were in his eyes now, as hot as the blood on his hands. He was crying out in pain, unable to control his raw emotions as the others drew closer to watch their quarry. The assassin drew a hooked blade from her personal arsenal to slit his throat. "Ming! No! Let me help him!" the little monk squealed. She shoved past the watching group and came to his side, skidding to her knees in the bloody snow to block the killing strike with her tiny form. "He wants to die," the woman growled, "He asked for Grenth." "Nonsense, who wants to die?" the little monk protested. He moaned in agony, babbling the name of the god of death, unable to find another word to express how he felt or what he now desperately wanted. He wanted the pain to go away, he wanted Ming's dreadful stare to go away. "If you so much as move, you die." Ming hissed at him. He nodded as healing energy coursed through his body. Pain faded along with the hexes, abandoning him to exhaustion and deep, piercing cold. A large man came out of the darkness and simply picked him up like baggage, bearing him back to the campfire. The warrior set him down beside the flames with little care, a signal for Ming to tear aside Gos’ coat and reclaim the sigil. “You honorless thief!” Ming spat at him. Gos was faintly aware of the drama unfolding in Peng Ren’s tent. Several of the others had retreated from the fire with him, leaving Gos alone to face Ming’s tender mercies. “I never wanted to harm anyone,” Gos coughed, “My guild is poor and desperate… We need a sigil. I’m sorry.” The woman narrowed her eyes with anger and hatred. And then, to his horror, the cloth emblem the Justicar had given him dropped accusatorily at his feet. Ming snatched it up as if it were something vile and disgusting, her jaw hardening. A mind shattering blow to his face made him droop to his knees in the grasp of the burly warrior. “Worse!” Ming snarled, shaking the badge in his face as she spoke, “You are a spy! You filth! You dishonorable son of a wallow.” "The White Mantle sends little boys to spy on us now?" said the lugubrious voice of the necromancer. His perpetually staring blue eye fixed upon Gos’s face. "He's no little boy." Ming growled, "He's a Kurzick trained assassin. He fought well. If he had not panicked, we might still be chasing him. We should kill him now and send his head back to his masters." "I daresay Bei might have a few sharp words for him," the necromancer said with a humorless laugh. “Bei would not concern himself with Mo Zing spies. He has other concerns.” “Kazuma is right,” said the burly elementalist, “This one is odd. Isabeau said he is invisible to her and Peng Ren keeps mentioning demonic influences. I know Bei. He would want this one delivered to him.” Gos shuddered when Ming turned her hateful gaze upon him once more. Bei was no doubt their leader, someone they respected and deferred to. He already knew he did not want to meet him. “Very well. Bind him and watch him through the night. In the morning I will decide who will deliver him to Bei.” |
