As the Crow Flies

  As the Crow Flies

  Robin Lythgoe

  Contents

  Description

  1. Flying Weather

  2. Tails of the Crypt

  3. Of Frying Pans and Fires

  4. Whatever Shall We Do?

  5. Bearding the Lion

  6. Fitting and Sowing

  7. When It Rains, It Pours

  8. Head to Toe

  9. Unavoidable Detour

  10. Tall Tales

  11. Shining Champions

  12. Socializing in the Wilds

  13. Fascination Cast a Spell

  14. Goose Bumps

  15. Sensory Overload

  16. Things That Don't Bump in the Night

  17. Bean Soup

  18. Dem Bones

  19. Gifts of the Gods

  20. And it Was This Big…

  21. Which Way Do We Go?

  22. More on Bearding Lions

  23. Beloved of the Gods

  24. Burning, Looting, Squashing

  25. Scrambled Plans

  26. Well Earned Respite

  27. Because We Weren't Wet Enough

  28. Aplomb Restored

  29. First Things First

  30. An Abundance of Booty

  31. Strategic Transportation of Equipment to an Alternate Location

  32. Nothing to Crow About

  33. Not the Way It Was Supposed to Go

  34. A Little Help From My Friends

  35. Let the Conjuring Begin!

  36. Turn About

  37. Unexpected Visitor

  38. Who Would Have Thought?

  Discover More by Robin Lythgoe

  Acknowledgments

  AS THE CROW FLIES

  Not every prize is all it’s cracked up to be.

  * * *

  I am Crow, and I am a thief.

  Not just any thief, mind, but the best and most famous thief in all the glittering empire. Ask anyone. Ask Tanris, who’s hunted me all these years and never pinched so much as a tail feather.

  Ask Baron Duzayan, the scheming wizard who convinced me to steal a myth.

  I always said you couldn’t trust a wizard, and Duzayan is a stellar warning against the breed. He took my beautiful Tarsha. He poisoned me. And he gave me to Tanris.

  He shouldn’t have done that. I’ll fetch his silly trinket, then I’ll be back to ruin him—Or die trying…

  ________________________

  Fantasy/Epic Fantasy

  For my dear Mom,

  who introduced me

  to the wonderful world

  of words and books—

  and encouraged me on my journey.

  Miss you…

  1

  Flying Weather

  I am called Crow, and I am a thief. The name and the profession go hand in hand and, like the bird, I am not at all opposed to appropriating what pleases me. I am good at it. Crows are smart and clever. Black of hair, dark of eye, and dusky of skin, I am as like that much-maligned bird as any man can be. My nimble fingers and quick mind have guaranteed me the most profitable jobs and a comfortable place in the annals of history.

  I always work alone. Most of my life has been spent alone, a situation I never felt inclined to alter until, in my thirty-first spring, I fell in love. Ah, Tarsha, my beautiful jewel…

  It was for her sake that I perched on the ledge of a narrow window in Baron Metin Duzayan’s residence more than three stories above the churning waters of the Zenn River.

  The din of pursuit clattered down the hall behind me. Which way would the guardsmen most likely look for me? Down. Down was the easy way to go, the quick way, but any fool can leap to his death in a raging river, and I am no fool. With vengeful Winter tramping through the land, it would be bitterly cold, too. I would rather fly than take a wetting, so up it was.

  From my pack I took rope and grapnel, and in a trice I made my way to the Baron’s rooftop via an ornate corner finial. Fluted, ice-covered tiles made the roof a dangerous place and Winter, openly jeering, spat the first few droplets of a freezing rain in my face. Gaining a dubious perch, I loosed the grapnel and flipped it higher up the roof. Thank the god of ornate architecture, the hook caught on a fine-looking gargoyle straddling the upper peak. Scarcely I had pulled myself from view before I heard the shouts of the guardsmen. Baron Duzayan was the proud proprietor of many exquisite collectibles—one of which now resided comfortably in the belt at my waist—and employed guards touted as the best of the best. However, just because they were most likely to look down first didn’t mean that they would altogether neglect to look up. I had only moments in which to disappear from this location, else suffer the consequences, a fate I had nimbly avoided thus far in my life.

  I lay against the icy tiles, shivering, and looked around at my options. They were decidedly few: slide down the roof to the street, a drop of at least two stories, or continue along the peak. Having no particular desire for the probable death or crippling offered by the first choice, I naturally took the path of the second, all the while cursing the infernal, flea-bitten cat that had given me away attacking my ankles as I’d hidden behind a tapestry. I hate cats, and if not for that one, I would have decamped by way of the underground route that had been part of my original plan, and so been long gone by now.

  Using the grapnel as an ice-hook, I pulled myself along the roof until I reached the end and another sturdy gargoyle protecting the eminent Baron from Evil. Darkness opened up below me. Baron Duzayan was a rich man, and could afford the narrow strip of garden that separated his building from that of his neighbor, but at the moment, I could find no appreciation for its doubtless beauty. The distance was only some twenty-five feet, and with my grapnel and rope I crossed it quickly and ran the length of the much nicer, flatter roof of the next house, and then the next. The sounds of pursuit faded behind me. I was going to make it! Praised be the god of quick thinking!

  An alley appeared below me, but it was not so wide that I couldn’t make the jump, and I took it with a quivering thrill in my heart. No wings, no strings, an unmeasured height—and the certain knowledge of the cobbled street below. That dizzying leap on the run was one of the few ways I could ever get close to flying.

  I hit the parapet on my feet and leaned forward into a somersault that landed me on the roof proper. With a crow of delight in my throat, I skipped across the remaining space and vaulted down to the next level. The neighboring building was a burned-out shell, but along the edge of the river ran a high, narrow wall. Rather than going to the ground and stumbling through the ruins, I ran along the wall. Full of rain turning to hail, the wind at my back pushed me along. Still, if I missed my footing, it would be a nasty fall into the water. I made it without mishap, cornered, and ran a little further along the wall to where another roof hung low enough for me to scramble up. It was high time to cross the street and head for another neighborhood. Hooking my grapnel in the top of a chimney, I climbed up to the second story and made my way to the front of the house. Across the street stood another impressive mansion like the Baron’s. It was three stories high, and much decorated with fancy frills, convenient balustrades, and more grimacing gargoyles. It was, in other words, a tiny castle begging to be scaled.

  The wind coming from my right had gained in heartlessness. I shivered and flexed my stiffening fingers. Even the running I had done was not enough to keep me warm, and my flapping cloak did little to help. Tiny pellets of ice stung my face and made my eyes water. It took a miserable four tries to hook the grapnel around my newest stone accomplice, and then I swung across the street and hauled myself up to the roof hand over hand. I slipped twice on a rope grown stiff and ungainly with ice. Even so, I made it to the top without accident. The wind carried the noise of confusion and tur
moil from the Baron’s house. None of the guards had made it this far up the street yet. The best of the best had met their match. I grinned.

  Turning to make my way down the ice-slick slope of the roof, something struck my shoulder. With a shout of surprise, I flung my arms out in a vain attempt to keep myself from falling down the incline. Swearing, I slipped and slithered across the tiles. There was nothing to grab onto, no purchase to be had. Gathering momentum, I skidded off the roof and into space. Was it luck or a curse that tangled my rope around my wrist? I only know I came to a swift and painful halt as my arm was nearly yanked from my shoulder.

  The halt was temporary. I was, unfortunately, not grasping the rope, and I began the second stage of my descent with a shriek-inducing rope burn.

  The gods bless me with good fortune beyond measure. The god of chance set an opposing section of architecture beneath me to break my fall. It nearly broke both my legs as well. I landed heavily and pitched headfirst into a wall. Dizzy and battered, I tried to blink the stars from my eyes. A few loose tiles smashed behind me, and someone opened a window and shouted.

  If the shrieking and the tile flinging hadn’t been enough to capture the attention of the guards, the shouting surely would. As if on cue, a handful of them spilled down the street on the run.

  Pulling myself together, I scrambled up the valley to the lower ridge and slid down the other side. My head was still ringing, and my eyes refused to focus. My attacker, however, experienced no such problem, coming at me from behind and battering my head with hard, tiny fists. “Thief! Thief!” it squawked at the top of its lungs.

  “What—?” Broad wings covered my face, blocking my view entirely while razor-like talons dug into my scalp. Predictably, I fell. This tumble was neither as graceful nor happy-ending as the last. I smacked into something—a chimney, perhaps. It caught at my shoulder and spun me around, hurtling me sideways across the roof. From there I banged into three more unidentifiable objects, which was probably a good thing, for it slowed my descent, however much blood the encounters drew. It was, therefore, no great agony to flounder over the edge and bash myself into a new pitch of the roof.

  My body begged for me to lay there and gasp and moan for even a moment, but my assailant had other plans. Even had it not, I had to contend with the relentless slant of the roof. Still, the gods were obviously with me this night. I slid feet first into something solid and came to an abrupt halt. My knees were not going to stand up to much more torture. Surely something crunched.

  I had no time to worry over my wounds. Tearing the creature off my face, I flung it away as hard and far as possible. It was a small, winged demon, of the sort occasionally enslaved for sundry menial tasks, such as guarding the valuables of the rich. I’d seen them a time or two, but only once had to deal with one. Disgusting creatures. Despite my muddled state, I found a few choice words to vent my irritation. Evidently the creature took offense at my verbal assault, and renewed the attack.

  For all that it was a small thing, perhaps half again the size of the Baron’s attack-cat, it packed an impressive wallop. It came for me, aiming at my head. The instant I put my arms up to defend my face, it dove directly into my stomach, howling fit to wake the dead. My breath deserted me. Gasping at the frigid night air, I tried to knock the thing away. My blows were weak and clumsy. Unaffected, the demon viciously bounced on my belly, swatting my fists away with its own cruelly clawed little hands.

  Things were not going well. In desperation, I rolled away from it. However, I also rolled away from the chimney that had stopped my precipitous slide. Near death from lack of air, I finished my abrupt journey and plunged over the edge of the roof. One’s life supposedly flashes before one’s eyes in the moments before death, but I saw nothing at all. Not the building I fell from, nor even the ground below me. Perhaps I was concentrating too hard on trying to fill my lungs.

  Surely the last bit of roof I had visited had been the one over the ground floor? Why, then, did landing come as such a shock? Did it, by chance, have something to do with the rosebush?

  My leather jerkin was a blessed protection against the thorns, but it did not defend my carcass from the broken, jabbing canes. Neither did it cover my arms. A thousand tiny spears tore through my shirtsleeves and lanced my skin. Then, to add insult to injury, the demon landed squarely on my back. The fall seemed not to have slowed it at all, for it immediately began berating my shoulders with its fists. Still shrieking, of course.

  Stunned, I lay there for a moment, accepting the abuse. It was, after all, the lesser of the evils besetting me. The first order of business was to retrieve my missing breath. The icy air tore at my lungs with a vengeance, but I sucked away like mad.

  Ideally, I would have then leapt to my feet, thus freeing myself from the rosebush and dislodging my assailant at the same time. Unfortunately, it was all I could do to drag myself from the bramble and force myself into a more or less upright position, still encumbered with the wailing demon.

  The first thing that came to mind was to smash it into the wall. Staggering, I did so, backing as hard into the stone as I could manage without doing myself further injury. A strangled squeak preceded the creature’s silence, and it fell to the ground when I stepped away from the wall. I gave a savage kick, sending it flying into a bit of shrubbery.

  Now what? My breath was returning, but I’d lost my grapnel and rope. There would be no returning to the rooftops. Casting about, I found myself in a small, walled garden. I absently patted my waist, checking that the belt full of pockets in which I carried my tools—and the Baron’s pretty bauble—was still in place. The sound of the guards’ approach spurred me to inspiration.

  Dashing across the yard to a door wasn’t nearly as easy as it looked. Falling from a three-story building whilst being battered by a demon has an appalling effect on one’s muscles as well as the steadiness of one’s hands, and it took me an unconscionable amount of time to pick the lock and slip through into nearly complete darkness. I still had the foresight, however, to lock the door again behind me.

  Trying to sort out the logical layout of the house, I made my way toward the front and succeeded in finding the main hall. The house was quite large and grand, with a vaulted and beamed ceiling soaring upwards. Four cunningly worked windows let in a faint gleam of light high overhead. Fine tapestries hung from the walls, thick carpets padded the floors, and artful niches displayed handsome statuary. What caught my eye—and ’tis a blessing indeed that I am well able to see in the dark—was a pair of massive chandeliers. I could use the one closest to the door. Finding the rope that raised and lowered the thing, I loosed it and hung on tight. The chandelier crashed to the floor, hauling me up into the rafters. Two hands wide and set apart by the height of a man, the beams made an ideal catwalk. I scampered (more or less) from one end of the room to the other and positioned myself next to one of the windows. Yanking off my cloak, I wrapped it around my arm and smashed it through the glass. It produced a lovely, loud crash followed by a satisfactory shout from the guards. I trotted down the length of the beam and hid myself in the darkness of the shadows on the opposite side of the room.

  I hadn’t long to wait before the guard beat at the door and the astonished owner let them in. They came jangling through with their torches, finding both the fallen chandelier and the gaping window.

  “He’s gone out the front!” one of them shouted, and they all dashed toward the front door with the distressed master of the house tagging along behind in his night robe, wringing his hands and whimpering.

  Returning to the window, I watched as the guards split into two groups and headed in opposite directions. For all their reputation as choice guardsmen, they were making this far too easy. I had to shake my head.

  I padded quietly down to the front entrance. To their credit, one guard remained behind, quite cleverly concealing himself in the shadow created by a tall bookcase. It was my pleasure to relieve him from that duty with the handle of my knife bashed to the base
of his skull. I caught him as he sank to the floor, and eased him down so as not to alarm the master, who had gone to his liquor cabinet to pour himself a drink with hands that shook enough to rattle his delicate glassware. In the light cast by the candlestick he’d set on top of the cabinet, I could admire the clarity of the pure, graceful crystal.

  “Would you be so kind as to pour a drink for me, as well?” I asked politely, gliding up behind him. “Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

  He whirled, his face paling. “What—?” He took one look at the knife I held in my hand—the blade a generous span of fine Taessarian steel—and his eyes rolled up into his head. I rescued the wineglass from his suddenly limp fingers as he measured his length on the exquisite parquet flooring.

  “Tut, tut,” I murmured. “Another poor fool who can’t hold his liquor.” I drank down the wonderfully bracing wine, fetched a pillow for the fellow’s head, and started out. A small curio cabinet drew my attention, and I paused. Tiny ivory figurines crowded one shelf. Unless I was mistaken (and I knew I was not), they were Cataran. I counted the figures. Twenty-one. A complete set. I expressed my amazement and delight with a low whistle. A hundred years ago, Catara had been a premiere sculptor sought by the wealthiest and most discriminating of collectors. In his latter years, he had worked on commission alone, and this set—one of a dozen Emperor Gaziah had commissioned as special rewards after the Ten Years’ War—was worth more gold pieces than I had time to contemplate. They made the transfer from the shelf to the pouch at my waist without a whimper.

  Outside, the street was empty. Too empty.

  Peering through the cracked door, I watched and waited for one of the guards to reveal himself. In my experience, patience is not a virtue to be taken lightly. However, the longer I waited, the more likely were the chances I would be espied by the Baron’s returning lackeys and the more my abused body would proclaim its hurt. I most certainly did not want inactivity to stiffen my muscles. I chewed on my lip for a moment while my brain raced through the alternatives.