© 1990 David J. Weber

Honor Among Thieves

The life of a thief is often simple; however, Tranthor had not the opportunity to know such peace and retired from its glory at an early age. Now, a year later, he still found himself drawn towards the life, though he knew it would only bring him more problems. The unwritten codes, or 'mental laws' as he referred to them, that all thieves lived by were not easy to forget or part with, nor was the bond that true thieves felt for the profession, and at times like these they kept calling back to him, beseeching him to return.

He sighed and turned away from the window, the small hut a welcome distraction from thoughts. At the table across the room sat Shearl Falaen. Tranthor met her several years before and they kept in touch occasionally, somehow he felt good about the time they spent together. There were numerous nights through which her words had comforted him and he was glad of that friendship.

"It's been a long time since you were here."

He nodded. "Over a month. . ."

Shearl paused, looking up from the dress she was patching, and said, "I think I'm in love, Tranthor." Her eyes were a soft blue and her face was pale, with red flushed through her cheeks as she spoke. Black hair framed her youthful expression and tumbled down to the small of her back. "I mean it. And you know what else?"

Tranthor shook his head numbly, his mind still reeling at the previous statement. "What else?" he whispered.

Shearl lay the needle and thread aside and smiled warmly. "He's a nobleman, rich and handsome. . .and gentle." She rose and walked over to the window, her worn dress brushing at Tranthor as she passed him to lean on the windowsill. The moonlight swung in to greet her features. Tranthor had never seen her this happy in all the time he had known her, her delight bringing him joy, yet another part of him longed to be her delight.

He turned, his dark cloak pulled taunt around him, and moved closer to her. Curly black hair fell to shoulder length as he pulled his hood back, then placed his hand on her shoulders before letting his own look carry out the window. Her excitement was strong and he winced inside, knowing its source was elsewhere, but was still moved by her emotions.

Her house was on the edge of Calais, and overlooked a rolling green field. A crystal brook raced through, sparkles reflecting in the moonlight. A quiet fell and he heard the stream running rapidly through the field, carrying its water to distant lights of the East Bridge.

"I remember the first time I came here," he said, releasing her shoulders, "so many seasons ago."

She turned and gazed up at him. "That was a special day for me. I needed a friend desperately." Their eyes held for a minute, though his face hid his feelings, then she returned to the table and sat moving the lamp a little closer as she picked up the dress once more. "I'm glad you came. I had to tell someone this. It's been. . ."

Tranthor left the window and walked over by her, pushing part of himself further inside, where no other could see it. "I understand." And the part inside him responded, 'I know how you feel'. He sat on a stool and was silent for a time; the thread dragging through the new patch was enough to listen to as his thoughts spun with questions.

"Does he know how you feel?" he asked, at last.

She sighed. "No. I haven't the courage to speak. I've only noted his kindness. He's a good man, Tranthor."

"I've no doubt of that, but who. . ." Tranthor bit his lip. "No, I'd rather not know yet. One question, though," he said, pulling his cloak about him as he rose. "When are you to see him next?"

She cast her eyes down and her chin dipped accordingly, the needle pausing in her hand. "Friday night, at the festival. I will talk to him then."

He bent and kissed the fair skin of her forehead. "Then I shall be back Thursday, Sweet Maiden."

The sun was full on the horizon by the time Tranthor reached home and washed the black dye from his hair and eyebrows. Drying his head hastily, he combed the blonde hair in waves and donned a fancy tunic and hosiery. Ankle boots and a wide sash and the nighttime vagabond disappeared.

The etched silver mirror reflected him the image of Tarrin Sorz, son of the King's armsman, Renko Sorz. He stepped into the hall and headed toward the stairs, strangely exhausted from the night's conversation.

Behind him another door opened and he spun to see his father step out. "Good morning, Father."

Renko was aging, with streaks of gray invading his hair at the temples, but his step was light and he smiled crisply as he joined his eldest son. "So," Renko said with a nudge of his elbow, "how was your night?"

Tranthor's eyebrow shot up as the two began walking. "My night?"

Renko laughed with merriment in his eyes. "Of course, you think I don't wonder where you steal off to some nights? Was it a woman or a duel this time?" Renko stopped and looked him over before shaking his head. "Must have been a women! I don't see any wounds."

Tranthor sighed as they turned down the spiraled stone stairs. "It was neither, Father. I went to see a friend."

Renko clapped him on the back and laughed again. "Keep your secrets, Laddie. 'Tis not my affair. Besides I have enough to get ready for."

Renko was referring to the grand festival in two days in honor of the King proclaiming his son heir to the throne. It was Renko's job as armsman to make certain the King's guards were duly prepared for the day and to insure the safety of all foreign nobility as well as the safety of his Highness, the Prince.

"As if you haven't prepared enough, Father. You've been breaking your back for the last two weeks," Tranthor said as they neared the bottom of the steps.

The conversation faded as they left the stairs and bumped into Talin, Renko's youngest, and went off to breakfast. As they sat down to eat, Renko began grumbling - in good spirits - about the new men the King had sent for training.

"They're a bunch of clods," he said, gesturing with his fork. "It's like training you all over again, impossible. And with having to train the guards on the side I don't have enough time for anything else. I wish you had learned how to fight so you could save my old bones this strain."

Tranthor laughed. For years he had built up an image of being a poor swordsman - the less ties between Tarrin and Tranthor the better - and it had succeeded to the point that even his father saw him as inadequate, even in the training of others. At times, Tranthor's lack of proficiency was an embarrassment to the family name, but Renko had finally learned to accept it.

"Oh, come now, Father. Surely I'm not that poor."

Renko grunted something and drank a little wine from his goblet before turning a sour expression towards Tranthor. "I know one twelve year old boy who can better men twice his age." This was directed at Talin, who beamed at the compliment. "At least we still have one swordsman in the family."

"That's true, yet there's still a thief this twelve year old boy wouldn't mind learning from," Talin said.

Renko slammed his fist to the table, the goblet splashing a little red wine to the table. "I'll hear no more of some thief! Besides," Renko continued, easing back down, "legends are always exaggerated, Son. He's probably worse than you."

Tranthor covered a small grin with his napkin, then excused him from the table. "I've errands to run, Father."

Renko looked up. "Stop by the palace and notify the King's Chancellor we'll be there Friday morning, as expected, with his guards ready for anything."

Tranthor paused in the entryway and forced himself to be clumsy as he put his sword belt on crooked. "I'd rather not attend, but I'll give him the message."

Tranthor bowed then walked out the door into the courtyard. They lived in a large estate west of Calais, and Tranthor valued the time spent riding back and forth to town. The stable was across the courtyard and he waved to the helpers who were preparing for the start of the day's training. The stable doors were swung wide and Tranthor entered, only to be confronted by the pungent smell of manure.

Jord, the stable hand, was busy cleaning out the stalls and the stable seemed a cloud of fumes. Upon seeing Tranthor, Jord dropped his pitchfork into the dirtied straw and hurried forward. "Is today a riding day, my Lord?" Jord asked, a slight wheeze to his voice. "Or just social calls?"

"Social today." Jord moved toward a large black stallion, but Tranthor waved him off, coughing at the stench. "No need to trouble yourself, Jord. Besides, I think I'll ride the mare today," Tranthor motioned to a smaller beige. "She looks like she wants to run."

Jord bowed and went back to cleaning the stalls, while Tranthor opened the gate and lead the horse into the yard, thankful they cleaned the stables only once a month. He lay a blanket on its back and then swung the saddle on, watching over its mane as some of the new trainees were arriving. Tranthor noticed immediately why his father had complained. The men were heavy footed; something Renko hated in fighters. "That's the difference," he'd say, "between a fighter and a swordsman. A swordsman knows how to hold his stance and shift his footing."

He broke out of his thoughts and finished cinching up the girth before mounting and pulling on the reins. It felt good to get an early start, for he had plenty to do before nightfall.

Though he said he didn't want to know whom Shearl had fallen for, the wondering kept chasing back to him. At first he thought it reserved to local nobles, until reminded of the feast’s importance, now he realized otherwise. Nobles from throughout the lands were hastening to be on hand and the streets of Calais were frantic with last minute preparations.

Most of his errands were taken care of by the afternoon and he stood in a clothes shop admiring several tunics and cloaks. A man stepped from a curtained doorway behind the wood counter and smiled at him. The merchant was a short man with a healthy appetite who waved his arm across the items Tranthor was inspecting.

"You have good taste, Sir. Those are the finest tunics we have." The merchant rubbed his hands together. "Quite a bargain too, considering they're the richest in Calais."

"How much for the scarlet cloak?"

The man glanced at the cloak, then lifted it from the rack. "Twelve Imperials."

Tranthor pulled off his leather riding gloves and took it from the man, testing the soft material for feel, then smiling and beginning the normal market trade. "I'll give you eight Cadres."

Cadres were the gold coins of a neighboring Kingdom and were slightly larger than their own Imperials, and thus more valuable. The man's eyes narrowed as he converted the figure in his head.

"That's worth at least ten Cadres, but I'll part with it for eleven Imperials."

Tranthor's eyes turned from the man as a girl stepped through the curtain carrying a dress. Tranthor hardly saw her as the dress immediately drew all his attention. It was of a deep blue silk substance with frills at the edges that appeared to be real gold and silver. The fabric on the lower half waved out and the top was cut low in the bodice.

The man looked between the girl and Tranthor twice before moving to take the dress from her. "You like the dress? Is it not beautiful? We just received it today."

Lying the cloak aside, Tranthor moved forward and reached out then paused, as if afraid his touch would blemish the image. "It's magical," he breathed. His eyes lit and he turned to face the man. "Is it for sale?"

"Of course, Sir. Eighty coins worth of royalty."

"Eighty coins?" Tranthor said, a bit taken aback at the price. "That's more than I have."

The merchant frowned, with a pitiful shake of his head. "It would take a King's wealth to spend such money on this. I'm sorry, Sir. I did not think. . ."

Tranthor could not take his eyes from the dress. It was perfect for Shearl; he knew that, yet eighty Imperials was half a years earnings. He stared at the dress thoughtfully, then resolved that she deserved to wear this splendor for the feast. He could at least give her this present.

He had ten gold on him and maybe twenty more saved at home. His hidden feelings told him he would do anything to get her that dress, even if Tranthor had to come out of retirement to do it.

He pulled out his pouch and pressed it into the man's hand. "There's ten coins in there. I promise you ten times that amount tomorrow if you hide the dress from customers."

The man lifted the pouch with a shake and a grin. "Tomorrow noon. If you’re not back by then, I'll sell it away."

Tranthor agreed, leaving the shop quickly and riding home. The pink tones of dusk lead him home, falling to night as he arrived at his father's estate. This would prove to be a long night for the already tired Tranthor. He hoped he wasn't too distanced in the ways of the street.

The Bloody Dagger was a tavern on the east side of Calais, where the shadows held far more than lack of light. The night wrapped around Tranthor as he moved into one alleyway and stepped over a fallen body. The king's guards usually stayed away from this part of town, the local inhabitants being relatively hostile, but tonight he detected them moving about in disguise.

His cloak wrapped loosely around him and the hood blocked out the moonlight. Empty storehouses lined the cul-de-sacs branching off to either side. From ahead came the distant sounds of music and shouting.

Guided by his ears, Tranthor soon saw the back of one old warehouse. The sounds were coming from inside, a place Tranthor had been in countless times before - the Bloody Dagger. Two large ruffians blocked the doorway, both holding long curved knives.

Tranthor looked up and pulled back his hood to present himself. The knives faded into folds of clothing and the door opened as the men muttered quick apologies. Tranthor was still very well known here.

The inside of the Dagger was smoky, but he managed to make out a long bar against the opposite wall. Oaken benches - names carved into the wood - lined the rest of the warehouse, except for a twenty-foot circle designated for fighting. They added the circle several years back, after the patrons continued to break tables to make room for a good fight. Tranthor smiled to himself in remembrance of a couple fights in the circle.

Two men were fighting even as Tranthor moved further into the room. A thick cord bound their left arms together and they each held short daggers, which they thrust at each other. The first, a sailor, wore a patch and moved with a noticeable limp; the other wore a green jerkin and Tranthor knew him as a murderer, by the name of Jak. Jak toyed with the sailor as Tranthor moved nearer to the circle.

People shouted encouragement and filthy comments as the two danced about the circle, and Tranthor joined in the mood, yelling for Jak to remove the patch. Above the din a voice called out.

"Tranthor! What are you doing here?"

He spun about, casting a stray glance for the speaker, until he spotted Krand Sanders standing atop a nearby table. Krand was an honest thief who had helped him in the past, and who, in some ways, he felt indebted to. He made his way through the crowd, borrowing the pouch of an inadvertent fellow who had far more wealth than he needed, and far more ale than he could hold, then sat down next to the already seated Krand.

"It feels good to return," he shouted, swinging the pouch across the table. "Like times before."

Krand caught the pouch. The atmosphere felt good and Tranthor waved for a drink as Krand laughed and slipped the pouch into his own. "I couldn't of taught you better. Your sharper than ever, Shadow."

Tranthor felt chill at hearing his Bondname again then smiled across the table. "And you're still killing words, Sandy."

Krand ran a hand through his sand colored hair and laughed. "I thought I kicked that name years ago."

"That's not all you'll kick if you're not careful. I heard that you stood up to Taek. Is any of that true?"

Krand's laughter faded and he took a long pull at his ale before sighing. "Yes, I'm afraid it's true. But that's nearly a year, Tranthor. I lost," he said, tilting his head to show a long scar on the right side of his neck. "Nobody takes on Taek. . ."

"I've been away from the streets for too long. Is he still head of the Thief’s Guild?"

"Yes."

Tranthor missed the twist in Krand's voice and turned to watch the fight, although there was little to see through the crowd. "I've not seen the Dagger this full before."

Krand shrugged and lifted his ale, his mood dampened after mention of Taek. "Festival. There's profits to be gotten here in two days." He drank a quick gulp then cast a sidelong glance at Tranthor. "Which reminds me, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you retired."

"I had; but I'm back for the same as the rest - money."

Krand shook his head and frowned. "No. You never wanted money. You couldn't care less for coins. What is it really?"

Tranthor swiveled back to face Krand, but the arrival of a barmaid saved him an answer. He rose and kissed the buxom girl before grabbing a mug of ale and sitting again. The ale felt good, as did playing the role he had so long neglected.

Krand slipped several coins to the girl, but continued to stare at Tranthor, waiting for an answer to his question. Tranthor took another drink then set the mug down, knowing he could avoid it no longer. "I can't talk here. Is there someplace we can go?"

Krand opened his mouth to speak, then nodded instead. He rose and led Tranthor out a side door, motioning for them to turn down the alley. They walked across two streets, the noise from the Dagger fading into quiet, then turned into a deserted house. Dust lay heavy on the floor and Krand was a shadow before him as they walked down a flight of stairs, dust clouds rising softly from their muffled footsteps.

At the foot of the stairs, Krand turned left to face the stone wall. He made a quick motion, Tranthor could not see, then pushed against the coarse stone. When the wall swung away a room opened up and Tranthor stepped through as Krand followed pulling the wall closed behind them.

Tranthor crouched in the musty darkness, unwilling to trust even Krand, but stood again when he saw sparks of flint, then the red glow of a torch. The torch smelled of tar and burned dimly as Krand placed it in a wall bracket. Carved chairs and a table rose directly out of the stone walls and Krand sank into one, a dour expression on his face. "Sit, Tranthor." It was an order, not a request, and Tranthor obeyed.

"What's this crap about money?" Krand spoke soft, but the stone amplified the harshness of his voice.

"You have no right to ask that of me. A thief's business is his own! You should know that."

"But you're no longer a thief and that makes you Taek's business, Shadow. He'll kill you if you take anything." Krand's face was rigid and his hands clenched the table.

"No longer a thief? I've always been of the Guild."

"Taek denounced you nine months ago."

The statement fell hard and Tranthor straightened in his seat, before rising slowly. "Denounced?" The phrase sounded foreign, even as Tranthor tried to accept the fact. "I did nothing to deserve this."

"You left us." Krand released his grip and leaned back, but his jaw was still set as he spoke. "When you disappeared, we hoped for your return. You were the best among us. . .are the best, yet there was no word. Some thought you dead." Krand paused and looked up, a hurt feeling in his eyes that faded as quickly as it came. "I knew more than them, Tarrin, but they wouldn't listen. Taek was too strong."

Tranthor snapped to look up at Krand. "How did you know?"

Krand could not face Tranthor's eyes. "Taek told me. He wanted me to help him make it public. I refused." Krand knotted his hands together. "He's an evil man, Shadow. As evil as they come. You better not cross him."

Tranthor leaned back against the wall, the cold stone reaching through his cloak to his skin. "I know him well enough. There's still some good in him. If I anger Taek I can handle him, but what if I want to come back?"

Krand smiled halfheartedly. "One week. After this festival. You got enough connections to force Taek to accept you." Tranthor was already shaking his head. "Why the rush?"

"Krand, believe me. I need it now. One way or another I'll get what I need."

"Is it worth risking your life? No, don't say it, I see it in your eyes. They won't like it though; an unlisted thief making plays. You'll die before Friday and I can't stop them."

Tranthor's eyes closed slightly in question. "They? Who are they? The Guild's always had but one leader."

Krand soured. "The assassins. Jak and Taek combined Guilds when you left. You remember Jak, wears green, no personality. Damn bastard, wish he weren't born. He recently got the Assassin's Guild - how I don't want to know - and started talking to Taek. Well, I tried to stop their controlling it, but. . ." he trailed off, his hand lifting to touch the scar. "They threw me out. I'm no better off than you are."

"I can't believe Taek went this far. He never would have done this before."

"Believe it, Shadow. He's as evil as I said. The Taek you knew is dead."

Tranthor moved from the wall and began pacing the four steps across the room. "How are the thieves taking this?"

"Most are loving it. The codes were abandoned and the bond has parted. You had to have noticed the guards around here." At Tranthor's nod he continued. "Well that's because there's been a few too many bodies left lay. Taek's even encouraging them to do it."

Without the codes and the bond, the thieves were turning into rogues and assassins; killing for money. His fists clenched and unclenched several times as he fought to hold his calm. "There must be some who remained true, who understand what it means to be a thief. They could not all have parted the bond."

Krand shrugged the thought aside. "Maybe a few. . .and several more who would stand by your name, but what could they do? What can you do?"

Tranthor smiled, an idea beginning to take shape. "Maybe enough for others to finish it. Gather the few together and meet me at the East Bridge tonight, after midnight."

"What's rolling through your head now?"

Tranthor's eyes sparkled in the torchlight. "I'm not positive yet, but help me spread the word, Friend; I just came out of retirement."

The rumors were flooding the streets by the time Tranthor got back to the clothes shop. He had switched his appearance back to that of Tarrin Sorz and his blonde hair shone without a touch of black. The pouch he had taken covered nearly all the cost and Krand contributed the final portion while they talked all night about fighting the Guilds, beginning to feel the ideas growing together. The rumors only required making one youth promise not to mention what he overheard, when the two of them staged a quick meeting that morning, where children were known to gather. The man in the dress shop was even questioning the news.

"It's surprising that he came back. I wonder if he's here to rob the King?"

"As long as he doesn't steal from me; but, the dress. May I see it?"

The man hurried through the curtain and came forth shortly, the dress raised high in his hands. "As you wanted, sir."

Tranthor spilled his pouch on the counter and held the dress up as the merchant counted the coins quickly. The gold coins clicked against each other as the man swept them into his apron. "Thank you, sir. Perhaps we can do business again." Tranthor turned to go, but the man called him back. "Wait, Sir." The man lifted a scarlet cloak from a rack and handed it to Tranthor. "Here's the cloak you were admiring yesterday. Call it a gift."

That afternoon was the first time Tranthor appeared during the day, to the surprise of many people. There was a dark cast about him that the sunlight couldn't penetrate, as if he dragged part of the shadows into the street with him. His hood was about his face, but there was no mistaking his identity, and most people stepped aside to let him pass. With the long cloak and dark clothing came a manner of being, that of power, and he walked boldly, like the unchallenged man he was, for Tranthor had not known defeat.

Among the common people, he was virtually a hero, for he did not take from any but the extremely wealthy. Even the King's men let him pass unquestioned, although they watched him closely. Other eyes followed him too, but he wanted those upon him; he wanted to be seen.

As he walked to the Dagger, he puzzled over opening himself up this way. There was an unreal feel to the whole situation and he entered the Dagger in a dream-like state and stopped, sensing a source of calm within him. For once in his life, he was living a responsibility that meant more than survival or wealth. This was for the people!

The Dagger quieted and he felt the tension surround him. They were waiting, and he made them wait a while longer. Whispers began to carry between the people and benches creaked as they slid away from the tables. Hands touched knives and swords, but neither a weapon was drawn, nor a word spoke aloud.

Tranthor's eyes shifted to the bar. "I want to speak to Taek." Nobody moved. He waited, tiny drops of sweat spotting his forehead inside the hood.

Then a door behind the bar opened and Taek stepped out. The older thief had changed in the past year. His sense of assurance remained strong, yet he held a tired manner like that of a man whose life had ended before he died. A small paunch had started to build, yet he remained sound and healthy, though hair was fading colors. In several ways Taek reminded Tranthor of his father, which was true to the thief part of him, for Taek trained him to be a thief years ago. Now they stood facing each other, man to man, instead of pupil to master, and Tranthor braced himself.

As Taek stepped from behind the bar, Tranthor met his eyes. They were gray and harder than Tranthor had seen them before. The face was calm, but the eyes were like ice chilling Tranthor's heart. He stood before a stranger with the eyes of an assassin.

"You're a bold man, Tranthor. We know your plans."

Tranthor shifted his footing and lowered his hood, his eyes hardening. "You, who denounced me as a true thief of the Bond, are now equally denounced as a thief. You are a rogue, Taek. A killing rogue and I have no want of men such as you." Taek's jaw stiffened and Tranthor hurt saying those words, but they rang painfully true.

Taek sneered, a hand falling to his dagger. "I can kill you for your words. In fact I may, but first I'll teach you a lesson."

"A true thief requires no lessons, Taek. They need only their compassion. There is pride in all professions, but honor in few. I bring out the honor in being a thief, while you scorn it and smear its name in the dirt. You are nothing, Taek."

Taek's hand tightened on the dagger. "Your words won't save you – not if you try to go against us. One man will never last."

Tranthor smiled tersely and pulled his hood up. "I am not one man, Taek. I am more."

Tranthor didn't know what most thought of his last statement as he walked out, but he knew Taek understood and that was his only concern. He had made his move and gained an enemy, now he must wait for the counter move.

"It's beautiful," Shearl said, holding the dress up to her and twirling in circles. She paused, her face bathed in a glow of beauty, then laughed and laid the dress on her bed before hugging Tranthor close, too excited to notice his hurt expression. "You shouldn't have."

He smiled and hid his face deeper in the shadows of his cloak, speaking softly to her. "You must look your finest for the man that you love, Shearl."

"It must have cost a fortune. . ." She pulled away from him. "You didn't steal this?"

He forced a laugh. "No. I would not deprive another of this beauty. I only take from those who can afford it, and then only rarely at that."

She turned her back, moving farther away, her hands pressing nervously against her old dress. "Why? Why did you do it?"

Tranthor's brow furrowed. "Do what? Buy you the dress?"

Her head leaned over her shoulder and he saw the tears in her eyes as she spoke. "Challenge Taek."

He reached out and pulled her too him, admonishing himself for not telling her first, then lifting her chin with his hand so their eyes met. "No tears, please. I can handle Taek."

"I don't want to lose you," her eyes hurt him and he held her close, allowing her tears to fall on his shoulder.

"You won't. Besides, in that dress you could have a hundred men; even the one you love. He'd be a fool to let you go." His cheek brushed her hair and she felt a tingling. Tears came to his own eyes when he kissed the top of her head lightly before releasing her. "I must leave. Treasure tomorrow, Shearl. I'll be watching you." He pulled away, thankful for that final embrace, and moved towards the door.

"Don't leave. There's so much I want to tell you, so much I want to know."

His hand rested on the latch as he stopped and blinked back the tears, knowing they could not meet this way again. He stood there a minute, wanting to turn and hold her, then letting his shoulders fall. "I have to leave."

A light fog lay across the fields that night. As he walked through the mist clouded field, he felt suddenly empty and cold, and wondered if Taek would kill him. The thought of death bothered him little at this point, though, as he left his heart behind him. Tomorrow there would be no time for emotions anyway. Either way, Tranthor would remove his masque and show his true self.

The lanterns from the bridge traced images through the fog and he saw several shapes moving beneath them. He paused and turned to look back towards the cottage, now half faded into the night. The window showed the supple silhouette of her body and he held the image in sight, until the window blurred as tears flowed from his eyes, blinding him.

Several minutes passed before he collected himself, wiping his face clear with the palm of his hand. He turned back to lights of the bridge, trying to settle his thoughts; the Thief’s Guild would rise with him tomorrow. The final thought was, 'for how long?'

It was the first time in three nights he managed to get decent sleep, yet the morning came far to early for him. The needed rest did nothing to settle the sharpness that clung to his every movement, like he was seeing things for the first time - or the last.

Today he wore his finery, rich crimson leggings with an azure tunic, topped off with the scarlet cloak. He wore his worn pair of fighting shoes in place of his fur lined knee boots, which lacked flexibility. They didn't match the outfit, but he managed to make them look presentable. He felt a need for them today.

Tranthor usually carried three daggers, but for this event he had hidden away three additional ones along with the sword at his waist. The sword belt he wore correctly and carried himself as he often wanted to, as his father's son. Today he was Tranthor Sorz.

At the breakfast table, Talin was talking about the rumors. Renko tolerated it, but at much a loss for appetite. And when the younger boy left to get ready for the day, he looked at Tranthor with a tired shake of his head. "He's more influenced by a common thief, than his own father."

"He respects you, Father. Give him time, I'm sure he'll outgrow this thief in time."

Renko exhaled slowly. "You're probably right, but. . .a thief."

"May I ask a favor of you?" Tranthor asked, turning the subject from thieves.

"Of course."

Tranthor set his plate aside and leaned back in his chair. "You know your chain shirt? The one you wear under your tunics to the peace councils."

"I never could trust Kings." Renko shook his head then made a snarl of disgust. "That creaky old thing? You can have it."

"No. I want you to wear it today."

"You want me to squeak all day and smell like rust all night, and in the middle of summer too. Where's your head, Laddie? I'd sweat off ten pounds before dinner."

"Then you can eat that much more, but promise me you'll wear it."

Renko looked up, trying to see into his son, before shaking his head in confusion. "Only if you tell me why."

Tranthor thought a second, then nodded. "Today Tranthor will face the Guilds. There is liable to be swords drawn and blood spilled. I'd prefer yours not to be among them."

"Are you sure it's to be today? How can you know what's going on?"

Tranthor stood and looked down at his father. "I am Tranthor." The phrase sounded right and he turned and shouted it out loud. "I am Tranthor!"

"You," his father laughed. "You can't even buckle your sword on. . ." Renko paused, seeing the belt fastened properly at Tranthor's waist. "What about the fighting? He's, according to my youngest, the greatest swordsman alive."

Tranthor drew his sword and spun, the point pressing against his father's chest before a breath passed. "I learned all that you taught me, Father, and acted as if I learned nothing. To be a thief is to be anonymous, at least if he plans to survive." He sheathed his sword slowly and frowned. "I have survived."

Renko sat stunned. "A thief. My own son a common thief." He stood abruptly. "We must warn the King."

"No. No harm will befall him, nor will I allow our prince to suffer any. This is all in my hands now."

"Your hands! You're a god damn thief!"

"And what are you, Father? Your job is to kill people. What difference is there between you and Jak? You both kill for money."

"I kill to protect our lands. You know that! That is the difference! He kills for the money, not I."

"You're right, Father. I do know. And what's more, I also know that you are confusing me with the rogues. Can't you see that I am a man, Father, flesh and bone? Being a thief doesn't change me anymore than being a fighter changes you, because it is you." Tranthor bowed his head. "I never meant to disappoint you, but I am a thief. At least try to accept that fact."

Renko reached for his wine and took a mouthful before calming down. "I think I understand, Tarrin, but something must still be done."

Tranthor sat down and leaned his head back, closing his eyes to the strain. "I would like you to protect the nobles. Taek is my responsibility. It's my place to try to stop him."

Renko stepped over and set his hand on Tranthor's shoulder. "As you will, Son. I will be there for you." Tranthor placed his own hand on his fathers in acknowledgement.

The festival began at dawn and ran throughout the entire day. The King, a speck on an aloof balcony to all but the noblest, presented his son, a smaller speck, and maintained his lineage through the ritual naming of the heir. This was done early to allow the real festival to begin.

Tables lined the palace courtyard and hundreds of cooks had spent most of the night preparing for the grand feast. The tables were loaded with food and the feasting went on heartily. Many ate, but most came to celebrate and dance in the main ballroom, while showing off their wives and riches.

Banners of the various Duchies and Earldoms hung from the pillars lining the hall. At the far end stood an alcove where a group of musicians played a lively tune, while royalty and common alike took to the dance floor in delight. Tranthor leaned against one pillar and watched the noble fools parading their wives around like objects or possessions as they conversed with other aristocratic Lords.

He tired quickly of any talking and was contented to lean and wait for the moment to come; he hoped it would come soon, for each minute that passed brought Shearl back into his mind and he needed to break free of those thoughts. He started making judgments about the nobles around him as a diversion until he was interrupted.

Phil Crentor, a neighboring Duke, provided the interruption by stepping in front of him and smiling. The Duke was about equal height, although broader in the shoulders, and his hair tended toward brown. Today he dressed without rank or blazon of status and could have been mistaken for a lesser man, but Tranthor knew him well.

"Why, young Tarrin, you seem a bit surly this afternoon. Come, let me introduce you to my friends." Phil motioned with his arm toward a gathering of people and Tranthor followed the arm.

Tranthor's eyes widened and Crentor smirked with a raised eyebrow. "I see you've observed the pretty lady."

Tranthor nodded, his eyes locked across the room where Shearl stood. He was right when he said the dress could draw a crowd, for a small group was around her, talking with and looking at her. Her gaze turned from one man and rose their direction. Phil waved in response and Tranthor saw her face flush before she coolly inclined her head.

He had not considered Crentor as a likely candidate for Shearl's love, but he admitted it was a good choice. Phil was young, handsome and extremely kind as she had previously defined him.

Rouge colored her cheeks and her hair was curled up around her head like a crown. Her beauty pained Tranthor and he closed his eyes to block what he felt. He opened his eyes again, but the love flooded back stronger.

"Let me introduce her to you," Phil said, taking Tranthor's arm lightly.

Shearl's eyes focused on him, but he pushed it off as imagination. 'She must be looking at Phil,' he thought sadly. He turned to Phil, trying to think of an excuse not to face her, then saw a page hurry through the double doors and run up to Renko.

Renko wore a burgundy doublet over his chain shirt, with a silver emblem of their family crest. Tranthor watched his father kneel and listen quickly to the page, then turn his look to Tranthor. The movement shocked Tranthor from his daze and he pulled away from Phil, thankful for the reason.

"Another time, Phil. My father has need of me. Perhaps I'll meet your friends a little later."

With that, he walked from the puzzled Duke and met Renko at the doors. Together they walked through the courtyard. It seemed that Taek was waiting outside the gate and had asked for a private audience with the King. Tranthor frowned, but listened to his father carefully.

"He has nearly a score of men in here already, not counting those we haven't spotted, so we have to handle this cautiously; if any foreign royalty get hurt, this could result in a war." Renko spoke crisply, as the King's armsman and Tranthor only now began to understand the seriousness of the situation.

"I know," he said, and Renko inclined his head to the fact.

"You had better. If this power play of yours goes awry, then yours will be the first head taken." Renko stopped and looked directly at him. "Be warned, this isn't a game."

Tranthor could only nod.

At the gate, Taek was standing with Jak and several others. He kept his face calm, but his stomach churned at the prospect of actually killing another human. Even as Taek had trained him, that was one thing he could never bring himself to do. Thieves don't kill!

Renko walked through the gate ahead of Tranthor and turned to face Taek. Taek had worn a black jerkin with the emblem of the Assassin's Guild on it - a dagger dripping blood. Jak wore his normal green in addition to an idiotic smirk.

"You wished to see his majesty," Renko stated.

Taek looked at Tranthor and tilted his head. "You stand tall. . .when you hide behind your father. I wonder how you'd fall if you had no protector."

Tranthor bit his lip, unwilling to give in to Taek's verbal jabs, and knowing that this battle would be won with swords. He would fight Taek, but the swords would talk loudest then.

"He doesn't hide, Knave," Renko sneered.

"Then let him fight me now."

Tranthor was nodding his head before Renko could turn to look at him. "I will fight," he said, facing Taek, "but only if you promise no harm to any at the festival."

Taek laughed and shook his head. "If you don't fight me, we'll kill half the leaders inside."

"And if I fight and win?"

Taek laughed harder. "That won't happen."

"I have no choice then."

Renko took Tranthor's hand and grasped it firmly. "I want to see him dead. Not defeated, but dead. Understand?"

Their eyes held for a second then Tranthor sagged and nodded. "Dead." He inhaled deeply then released hands. "My men are ready, Father. Make sure your guards cover the rest. . .and do me a special favor." Tranthor bowed his head, his toe tracing patterns in the dirt. "Guard Crentor yourself."

Renko raised an eyebrow, his eyes drawing Tranthor's look up. "Is it something I should know?"

Crentor had followed them out of the palace and now stepped out of the gate, closely trailed by Shearl. Renko's head turned to look at her and he smiled deeply. "I understand, Son. I will guard her as if she were your mother."

"Thank you."

Taek moved away from the gate and stood waiting, his sword drawn and ready. Tranthor pulled his cloak off and set it aside before moving forward, his own sword rising, left handed, from its sheath to meet Taek's.

Tranthor was one to believe you never knew a man until you had fought him and he moved slowly, beginning to see the true Taek for the first time. A man can hide his true self, but fighting brings out the deepest parts of him, hunger and survival. And as they began to circle he watched Taek's lips curl back to show his teeth.

They circled slowly at first, a couple light feints to test the other's reaction. Tranthor felt the throng begin to surround them, but kept his eyes on Taek's elusive sword point.

He shifted footing and weight and thrust sharply, driving Taek back several feet, but failed to press the attack. He had to take his time on this or Taek would have victory regardless.

He parried two quick lunges and avoided a third before his own blade swung out and caught Taek on the left shoulder. Tranthor felt power in his hands, doubting Taek had ever faced a good left- handed swordsman, and pressed the advantage by circling to the right.

Taek circled with him, trying to turn Tranthor, his own blade flashing as he cut and slashed at the evasive thief. Tranthor slid back, feeling more a dancer than a fighter, his shoes sliding smoothly through the dirt as he continued to outmaneuver the older Taek. Taek must have spotted the advantage also, for he advanced quickly, trying frantically to stun Tranthor into slowing. Beads of perspiration formed on Taek's forehead and he used his left arm to brush them away.

"Stand and fight, Coward," Taek shouted, their swords colliding harshly in an arm numbing shock.

Tranthor slipped away, his own body just beginning to warm up to the exertion. Tranthor could see that Taek was a cruel fighter, but he never allowed the rogue to get close enough to do any damage. He ducked under a high slash and kicked Taek in the shin, sending the older man to the dirt. Rolling to his feet, Tranthor waited as Taek climbed slowly to his own.

"You are good, Tranthor." A gasp came from the crowd at mention of the name, and Taek smiled. "See, even they are against you."

Tranthor kept his face calm, but his mind continued wandering. He hoped the thieves were ready. Was his father watching? Had Shearl heard what Taek said? What did she think? Could he really kill Taek?

Taek charged him and he tried to dodge, but in his mind-clouded state it was too late. They thudded to the dry earth with Taek landing on top. Tranthor dropped his sword and lashed upward, his fist hitting weakly against Taek's side.

Taek drew a dagger and Tranthor felt the blade bit into his side. It burned sharply and Tranthor gasped, his hands clenching onto Taek's arm as the dagger twisted out for another stab. He locked his arms and pushed at Taek, trying to keep the dagger away.

His quickness did him little as he fought to hold the blade above him, Taek's strength slowly driving the blade closer. Suddenly, he brought his leg up. His knee speared into Taek's back and Tranthor threw him off and rolled to the side, pulling the daggers from his wrist sheaths. His side throbbed numbly and blood began to trickle from the wound as Tranthor stood painfully.

Taek had recovered his sword and advanced slowly, his sword singing as it cut the air sideways. Tranthor tossed his right dagger, but Taek spun to the side and the dagger glanced harmlessly off his bleeding arm. Taek grinned scornfully. "You panic. You should hold your blades."

Taek lunged and Tranthor spun, his side burning like a fever, then suddenly fading as Tranthor was forced to keep moving. Taek lunged again and Tranthor moved away. They repeated the process several more times before Taek's impatience caused him to aim a high cut. Tranthor tucked quickly and rolled forward under the lifted sword, rising into Taek's chest with his dagger clenched tight in both hands.

Warm liquid covered his hands and a heavy weight slumped down upon him as Taek screamed. The dagger slipped from his hands as he grabbed Taek and eased him to the ground. They were both covered with blood and a red rivulet began to seep from the corner of Taek's mouth.

"Why, Taek? Why did you let this happen?"

Taek voice was weak and he coughed several times before he was able to speak loud enough. Even then he paused, his eyes flickering in and out of consciousness. "Tranthor. . ."

"What?" Tranthor asked bending closer to Taek.

Taek's eyes cleared and he smiled the way Tranthor remembered from his training. "Take your honor and use it wisely, Son. Correct my mistakes!"

Tranthor nodded as Taek slumped in his arms. "I will."

As he climbed to his feet his senses came back to the sight and sound of fighting. His side stung, but he took several dazed steps before someone yelled out to him.

"Move it, Shadow. I can't save you forever."

It took a minute more for the stun to fade away, then confusion swept around him and there was no time for thought. He remembered Krand's face and a sword being pushed into his hand. After that, it was all fighting as people charged at him.

Some of the faces were familiar, other thieves he hadn't cared for; some were strange, with dead looking eyes. He knew those were the assassins and fought extra careful against them. The fight moved through the gate and into the courtyard, and before long Tranthor found himself fighting in the ballroom.

He saw Jak's green colors and tried to fight his way to him, but was blocked by the fighting. Most of the nobles fled before him, though he handled all assassins who tried to get past him. The second time he spotted Jak, he was moving toward the music alcove, where Jak was charging through a side door.

He saw Renko charge through the door also then turned to see a woman spin and fall. Without thinking, he rushed to her and slashed the attacker then knelt quickly and went to lift her, but paused and looked up. Her throat was severed and it fell open raw and bloody. Tranthor sank to a sitting position and cried for several minutes at his carnage, then forced himself to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his side, and continuing to guard the fleeing royalty.

The battle lasted half an hour and resulted in many casualties, but very few deaths; most were Taek's and Jak's men. Renko and Jak fought out their battle in a stairwell near the royal bedchambers, Renko having it rougher as he stood below the experienced Jak. However, being the better swordsman, he succeeded in killing the misguided assassin.

When Tranthor saw no one left to fight, he sank against a pillar and pulled his knees to his chest, the blood darkened sword falling from his cramped hand and clanging harshly on the stained tiles. His side throbbed and burned into him as he closed his eyes against the glare. His head fell forward and he fell asleep, one question churning in his mind. Was Shearl all right?

He woke to the smell of roses and wondered how a field had magically risen in the palace. His vision cleared and he found Shearl and Phil kneeling beside him. He smiled and reached out to them, watching Shearl closely, his body cramped and sore.

"I'm glad you're not hurt," he said. He noticed Shearl had been crying and longed to comfort her but kept his attention on Phil instead. "I would have warned you if there was time. . ."

Phil raised a hand. "No need. Renko told us and made sure of our safety." He looked amused and held a smile as he continued to speak. "Since it is a little later, Tarrin. I believe I was about to introduce you two."

Tranthor turned to Shearl. "I thought. . ."

Phil let his smile show. "Didn't I tell you? It must have slipped my mind. She's been tormenting me for weeks to introduce you. I just never had the chance before."

Tranthor shook his head as if hearing things. "She what?"

Shearl was nearly in tears and he reached out to her, feeling overwhelmed by the happiness he felt. "Had I known it was you," she whispered, taking his hand in both of hers. "You always were watching me, Tarrin, and I fell in love with your manners, because they so reflected Tranthor's. It never occurred to me that you were who you are."

Phil smiled and rose. "I envy you, Tarrin." He walked away and Tranthor watched him go.

He looked back to Shearl and tears of joy filled his eyes. "I thought that. . .you and him. . ."

She shook her head, the tears falling softly from her own eyes to trace her delicate cheeks. "No."

He leaned forward, intending to hug her, then gasped as his side erupted in pain again. She moved closer, but he stopped her, looking down at his bloodied tunic. She laughed and hugged him anyway. "The dress. . ." he sputtered out.

She held him tight to her, crying gently on his shoulder. "You can buy me a new one, Tarrin." She felt good saying his name and pulled closer to him letting her emotions free.

They did not move for the longest time, satisfied to hold each other, then she pulled back and looked at him narrowly, her eyes reddened from the tears. "Why did you keep it hidden from me?"

"I didn't think. . .I didn't want. . ." His shoulders fell and he sighed heavily. "I have no idea."

"Were you ashamed of me being a peasant girl?"

"You? Never. You'll never be a peasant, nor are you just a girl, but I didn't feel it my place to open up. Not even to you." He bowed his head, fighting to find the words, then looked up into her soft blue eyes. "Being a thief brings habits, and secrecy is one of them. It's hard to change what you've tried all your life to be."

She accepted it with a frown then smiled, one hand going to his head and tugging gently at his hair. "Blonde is fitting for you."

Tranthor pulled her close again, her warmth an added delight to the sensation he was feeling. He held her tight then kissed her gently on the lips, a short sweet embrace that touched him deeply. He sighed as he leaned back then smiled as her eyelids fluttered open with dreamy pleasure. "I love you, Sweet Maiden."

Last updated: 04/14/2003 by David J. Weber

disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this page are strictly those of the page author. The contents of this page have not been reviewed or approved by UW-Waukesha.