As the Crow Flies Read online

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  The Loaf and Jug was as crowded and smoke-filled as usual. I had chosen it for its standing as a sort of halfway house. The only stipulation for mixing class or moral station was to leave your troubles at the door. It was a rule strictly enforced by the owners—two brothers of enormous proportions and little fear.

  I made my way through the throng, exchanging greetings and insults with those I recognized and picking the pockets of those I didn’t. I could justify the activity as re-establishing my routine, but the truth was that the game amused me. The real challenge was in lifting something of value from one person and planting it on someone else. I paused for a moment, squinting through the smoke in search of my new partner. A disgruntled growl came from behind me.

  “Where’s my purse? Someone’s stolen my purse! And what in tarnation is this? Where did these come from?”

  “Hey! That’s mine!”

  “How did you get my flask?”

  I turned to watch, feigning innocent interest as a small group near the bar began to sort things out with increasing outrage and a tendency toward shoving and punching. Within a few moments the brothers were compelled to sally forth from behind their station at the bar, shouting and swinging small clubs. They efficiently cleared the room, and I caught sight of Tanris sitting in a dark corner. Three bottles were carefully arranged on the table, and he held a fourth, studying it with the careful consideration only a drunk can manage.

  It infuriated me that he was deliberately poisoning himself while I would do anything to be rid of my own. The apothecary had a long list of possible combinations of herbs that might induce the results Duzayan had described, but the baron’s declaration that he’d concocted his own recipe complicated the issue. I was probably dying already, and I’d been too addled to ask for the blasted draught before we got ourselves escorted out the door and dropped on the street.

  “I went to see the baron,” I said, sliding onto the bench across from Tanris. Knocking on the baron’s door and requesting an interview had failed, which meant I would have to find another way in. “He is not receiving visitors.”

  “Thash a shuprise. Ha!”

  “I have a plan.” I plucked the bottle from his grasp. The first step was accomplishing Tanris’s sobriety. I tipped the bottle up and took a pull.

  “A plan?” He looked at me blankly.

  “For storming the baron’s citadel.” I drank again, then set the bottle clumsily down on the table. It tipped, overbalanced, and rolled off. With a satisfactory clink! the contents spilled all over the floor. Alas, there went his ready supply.

  “Hey,” he said without much enthusiasm. “My wine.”

  “Sorry. I’ll get you another, but first answer me a question.” Tanris had been working with the baron for some time and I wondered how well he knew his master. “How well do you know the layout of the mansion?”

  “What masshon?”

  “The baron’s.”

  “The baron?” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Don’t like him mush. He’s a sheet—a lorry shackin’—” He trailed off in confusion, then tried again, peering sadly through bloodshot eyes. “He’s a two-fayshed son of a—of a cow.”

  This wasn’t going to be as easy as I hoped. “Indeed. Why don’t we go take a look?” I suggested.

  “Look a’ th’ baron?”

  “I want to show you someplace.” It wasn’t a place he would thank me for, but Tanris himself had made a detour necessary.

  “Wha’ plashe? Th’ baron’s? I know where tha’ is,” he said with a somber nod. “Ish very big. He hash a lotta money.”

  “That he does. We’ll look into redistributing some of it later. Come along, now.” Tanris was not a particularly small fellow, and it took considerable heaving and grunting, and the assistance of one of the invincible brothers, to get him out of the tavern and across the street to a hostel chosen purely for the sake of convenience.

  Praise the gods of the afflicted, a room was available on the ground floor. Tanris was past caring about the casual bumps and bruises acquired getting him through doors and into bed, but even in his cups he had a fairly decent singing voice. And lungs, too. I have no doubt whatsoever that they heard him all the way to the emperor’s palace halfway across the city. I tucked him into bed, pocketed the wizard’s map, and gave him a pat on his shaven head. He promised to lock me up and throw away the key, and I went on my way. There was, after all, work to be done.

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  Marketh, the seat of Emperor Gaziah’s considerable domain, is a dazzling metropolis of diverse cultures, ethnicities, commerce, and opportunity. Touted as the city that never sleeps, it is a fact of nature that people do sleep, and the dealer I’d chosen was not at all happy about me waking him in the wee hours of the morning to do business, in his esteemed and unhappy opinion, better done in daylight hours. A substantial portion of Baron Duzayan’s purse convinced him otherwise—a portion the wizard was going to replenish, whether he knew it or not. I would simply have made my way inside the dealer’s establishment and helped myself, but in some instances such boldness is too detrimental to be of value. Take, for instance, the acquiring a dangerous and unpredictable bird of prey. And appropriate feathers.

  Two blocks away, I stuffed my pale, fluffy, far-too-expensive owl into a sack I’d brought along for the purpose. While it weighed not much more than an average chicken, I am no falconer and I had no patience for putting up with its wing constantly smacking me in the face as it rode along on my uplifted and already aching arm. Nor was I particularly fond of the idea of having my skin pierced through by talons that could be put to excellent use on weapons. Perhaps someone had already thought of that business opportunity; I would have to look into it.

  Of course the owl grossly objected to confinement in a sack and fought for freedom every step of the way. After several blocks and vainly repeated assurances on my part that I would soon relieve it of its misery, I’d had enough. Not only did the thing’s squawking annoy the spit out of me, but with that kind of noise the Baron’s Best would hear me coming for blocks and blocks.

  Adamanta Dust was potent, rare, costly, and not a drug to use casually. It was a product of the seed capsules of the lovely and frail adamanta flower from across the Rahiya Strait, a flower that grows wild in small, isolated places and refuses domestication, which is something of a vexation for dealers in arcane medicaments and poisons. A breath of it will cause unconsciousness; more than that can induce a comatose state or, if one is using it even more generously, death—though there are other, less expensive means of murder. I didn’t want to murder the bird, no matter my extreme dislike, but trying to administer just one very tiny dose nearly changed my mind. The bird finally fell silent. I had to stop twice to make sure I hadn’t inadvertently killed it.

  My earlier study of the baron’s residence, together with the investigating I had originally done prior to purloining the Great Gandil, provided me with the knowledge that Duzayan’s magical protections were confined to the upper levels, and the best-of-the-best guards did a smashing job of securing the ground level. Long past midnight, normal people—except for the guards—were fast asleep and consequently out of my way.

  Getting to the baron’s rooftop was a tricky endeavor made more challenging by the icy grip of deep winter, but it was not impossible, even with my sack wriggling and complaining. I picked out a window on the third floor—and hopefully out of the immediate reach of the guards—set my hook, and carefully made my way down.

  Clever and skillful as I am, I had chosen the leeward side of the mansion to make my entrance. While the wind whistled merrily and quite noisily between the buildings, I took a moment to reclaim my hook and rope, then warmed my fingers a bit, rubbing my hands together briskly. I also waited to discover whether such proximity to a window had set off any magical alarms. When nothing untoward happened after several moments, I loosed my bagged bird from where it hu
ng on my belt.

  I had not anticipated the difficulty of removing the bird’s hood and jesses with fingers stiff from the cold in spite of my attempts to warm them. My fumbling revived the owl, who took exception to being handled and attempted to peck me. Fortunately, he’d not fully regained consciousness. “One more minute,” I grumbled, and stuffed it back in the bag. “Uncooperative ingrate. Do you not listen to me? You are to be a hero, saving countless lives. Well… Two or three, at least, and mine in particular. You could have made this a great deal easier on yourself, you know.”

  Fortunately, the bird did not answer or I cannot say what I might have done. The bag hooted and grumbled in obvious displeasure. Calmly, I stashed the leather hood and straps safely in the pouch I wore at my waist and withdrew a small bag full of feathers. Taking a fistful of them, I bashed the window. The glass made a satisfying jangle as it crashed inward.

  5

  Bearding the Lion

  Quick as a wink, I reached in and unlatched the catch, heaved up the sash, upended the wobbly owl onto the floor amidst the ruin of glass. I shoved the glove and the sack into my pouch and slipped into the room. I had to work swiftly, and I had to make sure I avoided the glass, lest I inadvertently create a trail—or slice my boot (and possibly my foot) to unpleasant ribbons. Quickly lowering the sash again, I stepped carefully around the glassy area and retired from the room before the herds of the Baron’s Best arrived.

  Thank the gods of floor-coverings, thick carpets served to cushion my footsteps as I ran down the hall. I needed a suitable hiding place. A quick peek into the first door revealed what I already knew: this floor was relegated to sleeping quarters. Very grand sleeping quarters, but Duzayan was a rich man and could afford to devote space the size of a decent cottage to rooms whose occupants would spend most of their time with their eyes closed. There was, alas, no place to hide.

  The second and third doors offered the same lack of sanctuary, along with the knowledge that Duzayan didn’t entertain a lot of guests. All three were quite empty but for their furniture, which was probably good news for the maids, as cleaning an unoccupied room was surely easier than cleaning up after careless visitors who assumed they could make messes because someone else would clean them up.

  Victory was mine behind the fourth door, and none too soon. The rich carpeting and tapestries Baron Duzayan preferred did nothing to conceal the clatter and thunder of the arriving guards. Speedy as they were, I could only surmise that there was some sort of guard station on each floor, and it had been my supreme good fortune to pick the hall furthest from them when I arrived. I flung open the trunk at the foot of the bed, only to find it filled with linens. Linens! Did the staff not have a better, more central place to store such things? Surely the baron could have converted one of his monstrous—and very empty—bedrooms into a linen closet!

  A quick glance around revealed the shadowy bulk of a wardrobe on the other side of a canopied bed. That was far too obvious, but the bed had possibilities. I transferred the contents of the trunk to the bed, stuffing them between mattresses, then giving a quick brush to the bedclothes—velvet, of course, and I wished briefly for a light so I could discern the color, but I had no time to dawdle. Drawing a deep breath, into the trunk I went.

  Now, one might recall at this point that I am somewhat averse to dark, cramped quarters. Trust me, I did not forget. A person in my line of work is, however, ofttimes required to avail himself of whatever concealment is handy, and that includes trunks, closets, crates, sewers, privies—though privies are a last resort, as the stench they impart has a particular quality impossible to miss—baskets, barrels, cisterns, and the like. A professional of my caliber can usually avoid such confines by careful planning beforehand. Notwithstanding, it is always wise to be prepared.

  From the pouch at my waist, I withdrew a length of wire to wrap tightly around the prongs of the catch so it would not become locked. I closed the lid all but an inch or two and waited for the guards to arrive. At least the smell of cedar was comfortingly rich and aromatic. There was considerably more shouting and banging down the hall than I might have expected from the Baron’s Best, and it took a few moments for me to realize that the owl was living up to the heroic potential I had envisioned. The strangely high-pitched cries were not the shrieks of operatic guards, but the outraged squawking of a trapped owl. My lovely, expensive trapped owl…

  I left the lid of the trunk somewhat ajar so that I could listen. I do not know by what means the bird was subdued, but it didn’t take terribly long for the shouting to die down to purposeful conversational tones, and the Best set out to make a cursory inspection of the rest of the floor, as I had known they must. Truthfully, were I the one answering to the wizard, I would have made a very, very thorough inspection. When the bedroom door opened, I quickly, quietly closed the lid of the trunk and put my weight on the wire I’d twisted around my gloved hand.

  Sure enough, one of the guards had the intelligence to attempt to look into the trunk. My weight held the lid down and he, most naturally and just as I had anticipated, assumed it was locked. The doors of the wardrobe banged, knees thumped into the pile of the carpet as someone looked beneath the bed.

  They took their sweet time.

  The scraping and bumping as they searched the room became the noise of rats sneaking closer to crawl into my clothes. Cold sweat dampened my skin. Teeth clenched, I hung onto the wire and breathed in the scent of cold, damp stone.

  No! No, it was rich, warm cedar. My breath came faster and my nose tingled. I forced myself to concentrate on the noises outside and, when it finally grew quiet, I made myself stay put for a little longer—until the air in the closed chest became uncomfortably stifled and I had to open it or pass out.

  My hands shook so badly I could hardly unwind the wire. I wanted nothing more than to gasp in great lungfuls of breath, but common sense demanded I be as silent and as unobtrusive as possible. Once I had regained my aplomb, I had but to exercise my incredible patience for a bit longer while the residual hue and cry of an owl crashing through a window settled down.

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  Morning dawned much too early, and although I had made good use of my time and searched a great deal of the baron’s immense home, I did not find the women. The ways to the subterranean levels were carefully guarded, and if I was to do any searching there I would need some clever distractions and time I feared I didn’t have. Duzayan struck me as a man who would keep his newly leashed pet on a very short tether. If he said that I had four months, then it was four months to the day, and no time for bad weather or unforeseen circumstances taken into account. But I have always been blessed by inordinate good luck and I could devote one day, and one day only, to my endeavor while I puzzled through my dilemma. It pained me to think what might become of my beautiful Tarsha if I did not find her. What had the nefarious wizard already done to her in the time since my capture?

  As the palace came alive, I made my way to the wing devoted to cooking and cleaning and other such menial chores. A darkened alcove above a stair landing more than comfortably held an ancient suit of armor and myself. I’d run into a spider’s web whilst climbing up into the space, and in spite of having wiped my face and neck several times I felt like it still clung to me. Worse, the funny little tickling sensation it produced migrated beneath my shirt until I wondered if an entire colony of spiders lived in the armor and I, having just invaded their space, was being invaded myself. I have dealt with spiders and webs before. I do not like them, but as spiders are considerably smaller than I, and quite susceptible to being flattened, they do not much trouble me. I could not see any spiders, and the occasional irresistible urge to slap the tickle on my neck or face produced no oozing little bodies. I even got up twice to look about and finally concluded I was imagining things, but more and more I felt the urge to leave.

  A good twenty minutes of lurking finally produced a servant about my height and weight. Soundlessly, I
slipped out behind him and glided up close. One hand grabbed the handle of the bucket he carried while the other took the mop and brought the handle up to whack sharply across the lad’s skull. He was sturdier than he looked. He stumbled sideways, but did not fall, and I had to thump him again. I supported him as he slid to the floor. Much to my consternation, he was still conscious, looking at me vaguely through glassy eyes. The mop handle came down a third time, and his eyes rolled back into his head at last.

  I concealed the mop and bucket in my nook, then dragged the servant after. I froze—albeit briefly—as a pair of maids took to the stairs. My weakened condition made getting up into the alcove with the servant an extremely difficult business, and all praise to the gods of chattering women, they did not spy us up above them as they passed. Up the stairs and to the left was a convenient storage room for clerks and such. Holding the servant tightly 'round the chest, I hitched him up a bit and searched for the ledge with my foot, then down onto the stairs proper. I had scarce begun my journey upward before hushed chattering assaulted my ears once again. Did the maids not know that they were supposed to be working, not lollygagging up and down the stairwell?

  Back into the alcove I dragged the servant, hugging him close and hoping the maids were too busy with each other to notice me. The steady rising of the sun was making my hiding place less and less “hidey” by the moment, and I was more than ready to leave the invisible spiders behind. Our ascent brought us into contact with the suit of armor and I froze again, waiting for the thing to go crashing and banging right into the path of the maids. Perhaps they would run away shrieking and I would be blessed with a moment in which to recover the situation before the Baron’s Best were once again underfoot.

  To my vast delight and relief, some of the deities were watching out for me again. When I had a moment, I would ardently thank the gods of armor, armorers, thieves, good intentions, and as many others as might qualify for the occasion. Perhaps the armor was fixed solidly into place, which would explain how the thing stayed together at all, it was so old. In that case I should thank the gods of good sense who’d inspired the decorator to take such precautions. At any rate, the armor did not so much as budge, so I squeezed my eyes shut and waited. It is a well-known fact that some people can sense when others are looking at them, and I had no desire to test the theory on the maids.