Honor Among Thieves

Chapter Five: Illusions

Honor watched as four dwarves, short sturdy men assolid and gray as the stone beneath Muldonny’s lair, tappedsteadily at a solid rock wall. Chips of rock tumbled to the tunnelfloor, but the pickaxes made no more sound than elven boots on aforest path.

One of the dwarves, a broad-shouldered fellow whosehead barely reached Honor’s shoulder, stepped back from his workand swiped the back of his hand across his forehead.

“It’s a mite too hot hereabouts for an old cistern,”he said. “I’m not one to be telling you your business, Delgar, butyou’re sure where we’re headed?”

The young dwarf glanced at Honor. She returned hisgaze steadily, letting him see the warning in her eyes.

“Not entirely,” he said.

His crew exchanged glances. “Then you know what wecould be walking into.”

Stories echoed in the silence, tales they’d all heardof how the adepts wrested Sevrin from the sorcerer who’d ruled itlonger than any living human could remember. Muldonny had played nosmall part in that victory. His art was fashioning liquids withterrible properties: Fire that could not be quenched, fumes thatkilled anyone within twenty paces, and solvents that ate throughmetal armor.

Muldonny kept stores of these liquids beneath hismanor and in armories scattered around Stormwall Island. Cuttingthrough the wrong wall could result in a deluge of flesh-dissolvingsludge, or send liquid fire speeding along the tunnel.

“Let me study on it,” Delgar said. “We’ll break offnow and come back at it tomorrow.”

The dwarves eyed him for a moment before respondingwith curt nods. They gathered up their tools and disappeared into anarrow side tunnel.

Among elves, such behavior would be seen as beyondrudeness and well into the realm of mutiny, but Honor knew theStone Folk’s ways well enough to recognize the deference they paidthe young dwarf.

The Carmot dwarves, like most of the other Old Races,put great store in their ancestry, but dwarves of common birth andexceptional talent were known to attract fame and followers.

Honor had no idea what Delgar’s lineage might be, buthe possessed gifts that could inspire other dwarves to take uptools, and perhaps weapons, at his direction. That made him useful,but it also made him dangerous.

She watched as Delgar moved into the tunnel openingand placed one hand on either wall. He closed his eyes and began tosing.

The song started out as a pleasant bass chant, butthe melody descended until the notes sank beyond the reach ofHonor’s hearing. She could still feel them, though. Deep vibrationshummed through the stone and echoed in her bones.

A thin, irregularly shaped layer of stone peeled awayfrom the wall near the tunnel. Delgar caught it as it started tofall forward and moved it over the tunnel opening. It fit as snuglyas a peel fits an apple.

Honor ran her fingers over the place where the tunneldoor once stood. The rock wall was seamless. If she hadn’t seenDelgar hide the tunnel, she would never suspect it was there. Theyoung dwarf’s skill at stoneshifting was nothing short ofastonishing.

“You didn’t tell them about the Thorn,” Honorsaid.

Delgar sank down on a boulder and wiped his sleeveacross his face. “If I had, they would have dug through a livevolcano to get to it.”

The elf sat down beside him. “How is it,” she saidhesitantly, “that someone of your ability cannot sense the dagger’spresence? That much carmite should be drawing you to it like aloadstone draws iron fillings.”

“Several possibilities come to mind,” the dwarf said.“Top of the list: Muldonny doesn’t have the Thorn.”

“It was stolen from my people. He bought it from thethieves.”

“You’re sure of this.”

“They confessed it before they died.”

This was not exactly what Rhendish had said, butHonor suspected her version lay closer to the truth.

Delgar accepted it with a nod. Dwarves, like elves,had pragmatic views on how to deal with enemies and thieves.

“Second, he’s keeping it somewhere else.”

“That’s a possibility,” Honor said, “but what placewould be as secure as the fortress that has successfully guardedthe entrance to Sevrin for a dozen human lifetimes?”

“True. The third possibility is that he has castmagic to hide its presence, same as you elves do.”

“He’s an adept. They don’t use magic.”

“That’s what they say. That might even be what theybelieve. But some of the things they make are magic by anothername, and no one can tell me differently.”

Honor saw no reason to dispute this. “So Muldonny hascreated an area filled with some sort of alchemical energy thatdisguises the Thorn’s powers.”

“That would be my guess.”

“Which would mean he knows more about the Thorn thanany human should.”

Delgar muttered a curse. “I hadn’t thought it inthose terms.” He scrubbed both hands over his face, then sent her asmall, rueful smile. “To be honest, I don’t like the idea of elvesholding onto so much carmite, but at least you people have thesense not to use it. I’ve yet to meet a well-informed human whocould resist acting on his knowledge.”

“Time is short.”

“Very.” He paused for a thin smile. “But thanks fornot adding ‘and so are you.’”

Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Why would I dothat?”

“Why indeed? Apparently I’ve been spending too muchtime around humans. So, what do you propose we do next?”

She considered their options in light of these newpossibilities. “Have you ever seen the Thorn?”

Delgar huffed. “Yes, the elves gladly lend it to mypeople whenever we can’t be bothered moving vast quantities ofstone around by hand.”

“Oddly enough, I’m in no mood for sarcasm.”

“Do you prefer irony? Because any dwarf I’ve ever metwould see plenty of that in this little rescue mission.”

She supposed he had a point. Most dwarves believedthe carmite in the Thorn had been stolen from one of their ancienttroves.

An idea began to take shape. “Can you work in glass?If you had to, could you create a credible glass weapon?”

He shot her a quick, insulted glance. “That’s thefirst crafting skill a Carmot learns, as well you know.”

“So if I drew the Thorn, you could make a copy. Areplica done in glass rather than crystal.”

The dwarf shifted to face her. “What are youthinking?”

“We get someone inside the adept’s manor to steal theThorn and replace it with a glass replica. Fox could do this?”

Delgar huffed a short laugh. “I doubt there’s astronghold in Sevrin that could keep him out. But Muldonny’s notlike Rhendish. He doesn’t take students and receives no tradesmen.Only his clockwork servants come and go, and a few invitedguests.”

“Then we shall have to intercept an invitation.”

“His guests are all alchemists.”

“We could send Avidan.”

“Avidan?”

“Why not? He’s an alchemist.”

“He’s. . less reliable than you apparentlybelieve,” Delgar said with careful diplomacy. “And he hasn’t leftthe tunnels once since we found him in the mirror room. That wasthree, maybe four years ago. There’s no telling how he’d react inthe outside world.”

“Is there anyone else among you who could pass as analchemist long enough to get the information we need?”

Delgar’s silence was sufficient answer.

“If you think it might help, someone can go with himto help keep him focused on the task at hand. The humans of Sevrinseem to take servants with them wherever they go.”

“That might work,” Delgar said. “Fox seldom works onStormwall Island. There are only a few people looking for himthere. Of course, there are fewer people in general. It’s harder toblend into a crowd.”

“Fairies are generally quite skilled at illusions.Perhaps Vishni-”

“No,” Delgar said emphatically.

“No?”

“Imagine the last person you’d want to take alongwhen you’re exploring an adept’s lair, then put that name on alist. Vishni’s name would be three lines south of it.”

His reaction confirmed Honor’s growing suspicionsabout the fairy. “So Vishni is not to be trusted.”

“Oh, you can trust Vishni,” he said. “The problem is,you can trust her to ‘improve the story.’ And I suspect you’veheard enough fairy tales to guess how that generally turnsout.”

“Then why do you keep her around?”

Delgar’s smile held a bitter twist. “Every storyneeds a hero. Fairy tales tend to be twisty, but the hero usuallywins. And Vishni sees Fox as an ‘archetype,’ the young tricksterhero who gets the better of wizards and lords with his nativecunning.”

“And if she changes her mind about Fox?”

“Then we’re all fuggled,” the dwarf said bluntly.“Sideways.”

Vishni and Fox strolled alongside the shores ofStormwall Island. The sun was warm, the day was summer-ripe, andthe cherry ice Fox had bought her from a street vendor tasted likestolen kisses. Best of all, the story unfolding around her promisedenough twists and corners to warrant inclusion in The Book ofVishni’s Exile.

All of this should have made the fairy giddy withdelight. Instead, her mood darkened with each step.

She still smarted from yesterday’s encounter with theelf, from the tips of her blistered fingers to the depths of herpride.

And Fox, night take him, could not stop chatteringabout the iron-clad wench!

When Vishni could take no more she wheeled around toface Fox and stomped on his foot. Not hard enough to break bones,but with enough force to earn her an incredulous stare and a fewmoments of blessed silence.

“Muldonny?” she said. “Remember him? The adept whorules Stormwall Island? Owner of the fortress we plan toinfiltrate? Looks like a fat, balding squirrel?”

That drew a snort of laughter from Fox. “He isvaguely squirrel-shaped, now that you mention it. And by allreports, he has a temperament to match. Honor says-”

“I don’t care.”

Truth be told, Vishni didn’t much care for any ofthis. Skulking around Stormwall Island, walking bridges with ironrails she couldn’t touch, watching people slaughter fish that werein no position to fight back.

At least their trip to the long pier where passengerships docked had proved fruitful.

She slipped one hand into a skirt pocket and gave thecontents an affectionate pat. Several visiting alchemists werelisted on the passenger manifests she’d stolen, but one presentedunusually promising storytelling potential.

The name Insa’amid was known in her homeland. If hersuspicions were correct, kidnapping this particular alchemist wouldmake Fox’s task easier. More importantly, it would add a poignanttouch and maybe even a bit of irony to the unfolding story.

But that was a game for another day. Her gaze skimmedthe wharfs in search of some immediate source of diversion.

Two men struggled to lift a huge, sword-nosed fishfrom a wooden boat. Both men were roughly clad, fair-haired, andstrong enough to put up an interesting fight. The older man lookedlike he’d had some practice at it. A scar meandered across hisforehead and his nose had that pleasantly bumpy, crooked look ofone that’d been broken a time or two. If there was more damage, itwas hidden by the man’s long blond beard.

Vishni liked long beards. Grabbing hold of themduring a fight was one of her favorite strategies. No one everseemed to expect it, which was half the fun.

“I don’t like the looks of that smile,” Fox said.

She adjusted her expression until she was certain nofluffy kitten had ever looked as innocent.

“See that woman by the nets? The pretty, young onewho’s sorting fish? She has an odd sort of ring.”

“You must have eyes like a hawk. I can’t see it fromhere.”

The fairy held up a little silver hoop set with chipsof green and blue sea glass. “Is this better?”

Fox’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing withthat?”

“Keeping it safe! She put it in her apron pocketbefore she started working. Taking it from her pocket when wewalked past was as easy as smiling. Anyone could have done it.”

The thief sighed. “We don’t steal from fisherfolk,Vishni. You know that. They have troubles enough.”

“Oh, the ring will turn up,” she said airily. “Maybein her pocket, or on the table, or inside a fish. .”

Angry voices rose from the dock, where two mencrouched beside a mixture of fish guts and treasure.

Fox squinted toward the pile of gold. Since each coinwas large enough to cover the palm of Vishni’s hand, it made quitea pile.

“Veldooni currency, Vishni? Seriously?”

The distant land of Veldoon had been on Vishni’s mindsince she’d picked an alchemist to charm and kidnap.

“Why not?”

“If I was going to create an illusion of treasurespilling out of a fish’s belly, my first choice wouldn’t be coinsfrom a land-locked desert country. A fist-sized emerald would bemore believable.”

That made sense, but Vishni had never admitted tomaking a mistake and saw no reason to start now.

She gestured toward the dock, where the two fishermenwere now standing toe to toe. Their shoulders were squared, theirchests expanded with as much air and male menace as they couldhold.

“Tell me,” she said loftily, “that they don’t looklike men who think bigger means better.”

As she spoke, it occurred to her that humans were alot like tomcats. Both tried to make themselves look bigger beforestarting a fight. For a moment she considered giving the fishermenthe illusion of tails. In their current frame of mind, those tailswould be very fluffy. And it would be amusing to watch the tailstwitch and swish like an angry cat’s.

The expression on Fox’s face suggested that thiswould be more trouble than it was worth.

“What are you up to?” he said.

“Didn’t you notice the way that woman keeps lookingat the younger fisherman?”

“So?”

“So she’s married to the older fisherman.” Shebeamed. “Want to know how I figured this out?”

“No.”

Vishni ignored this. “The boy who’s carrying away thebaskets of fish she’s sorting? I heard him call her Melina. That’sthe name written on the side of the fishing boat. Humans name boatsafter their people. Or maybe it’s the other way around,” she said.She gave herself a little shake. “Anyway, since the young fishermanis the one who gutted the fish, he’s obviously the worker and notthe owner.”

“Leave them alone, Vishni.”

“Once, you might have been interested in the plightof a common fisherman,” she said sadly. “Once, you had a grand andimportant quest of your own.”

A flicker of something that humans called “guilt”skittered across Fox’s face. Vishni didn’t understand this emotion,but it proved useful every now and again.

“Besides,” she added in a more cheerful tone, “everycollection of stories should have a morality tale of somesort.”

Fox drew breath to protest. She clapped her hand overhis mouth and tipped her head toward the dock to signify that theyshould stop talking and listen.

“The fish is mine,” insisted the bearded fisherman.“Any treasure in its belly is mine, as well.”

“No man can say I take anything that isn’t mine.” Theyoung man sent an insolent look toward the fish-sorting woman.“Leastwise, nothing that isn’t offered.”

The older man’s face darkened as he glanced at thewoman, who’d stopped her work to watch the small drama.

“If it’s my Melina you’re talking about, you’re aliar. And I can see by that coin in your shirt pocket that you’re athief, as well.”

“You know it’s my night to buy ale for the boys.”

“Not with my coin, you won’t!”

The youth sneered and held out hands that were bloodyto the elbow. “You go ahead and reach in after it. If it’s clean,you’ll know it came from no fish.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the bearded fishermanthrust his hand into the younger man’s pocket.

Both men stared blankly at the hoop of silver in hispalm.

“Or the ring could turn up in someone else’spocket,” Vishni added demurely.

Fox snatched the real ring from Vishni’s hand andhurried toward Melina, who was watching this exchange with a whiteface and guilty eyes.

“Did you by chance drop this ring?” he asked in acarrying voice.

Her husband turned toward them, murder simmering inhis eyes. “Another?” he roared. “How many markers do you have out,woman?”

Before Fox could say another word, both men rushed athim with raised and ready fists.

Vishni tapped her chin as she watched the brawl.“Multiple rings,” she murmured. “Yes, that would improve the taleconsiderably.”