The Spirit Thief

CHAPTER 3

Down below the stable yard, quivering away from the ghosthound’s fearsome scent, a rat darted through a narrow crack in the castle’s foundation and made a break for the wall. It bounded through the ornamental gardens as if all the cats in Mellinor were on its tail, though nothing followed it in the dim evening light. What terrified the rat was not behind it, but inside it, pressed like a knife against its brain. It hit the castle battlements at full speed and began to climb the rough white stone, running vertically as easily as it had run along the ground. The knot of guards at the castle gate didn’t notice as the rat crested the wall behind them and, without so much as pausing for balance, launched itself into the air. For a terrifying moment, the rat scrambled in free fall, then, with a clang that made the guards jump, landed on a drainpipe. The rat clung to the pipe, stunned for a moment, and then the pressure was back, the inescapable voice pressing down on its poor, fright-addled mind, and it had to go on. The rat scurried down the drainpipe to the cobbled street. Keeping to the gutters and dark places people forget to sweep, it made its way through the tangled streets of Allaze, following the sewer ditches away from the castle, down and west toward the river, into the darker parts of the city.

Scooting between the tilting wooden buildings, the rat threaded its way through the blind turns and back alleys to a ramshackle three-story nestled at the end of a row of identical ramshackle three-stories. Without missing a beat, the rat jumped on a gutter pipe and, quick as it had climbed the castle wall, scaled the pipefitting to the building’s third floor. The window had been left open for it, and the rat tumbled inside, squeaking in relief that the horrible journey was almost over. It landed on the floor with a scrambling thud, but the momentary triumph was pushed from its mind by a wave of pressure that thickened the air to syrup. The attic room it had landed in was scarcely bigger than a closet, and the slanted ceiling made it smaller still. Broken furniture and discarded rags were stacked in dusty piles, but the rat’s attention was on the figure sitting in the far corner, the source of the pressure.

The man sat slumped against the wall, rolling a black ball in a circle on his left palm. It was the size of a large marble, black and shiny like a wet river stone. He was thin and long, with matted blond hair that hung around his face in a dirty curtain. For a moment, the man didn’t move, and then, slowly, lovingly, he slid the black sphere into his pocket and beckoned the rat closer. The pressure spiked, and the rat obeyed, crawling on its belly until it was an inch from the man’s bare foot.

“Now,” the man said, his whisper humming through the room, resonating against the pressure that threatened to crush the rat’s mind. “Tell me what you saw.”

The rat had no choice. It told him everything.

Crouched on the floor in the hall with his eye pressed against a crack in the baseboard, the boy had to cover his mouth to keep from shouting. The blond man who rented the spare room had always made him nervous, which was why the boy took it upon himself to spy on him. He’d told his father over and over that their renter wasn’t right in the head. He’d seen him talking to the walls, the floor, even the junk in the room as though they could answer back. Every time, his father had told him to lay off and leave the renter be. The blond man had come with the house when they’d moved in last year, and his money kept the family in shoes and off the street when times were hard. But this time was different. This time, the boy had actually seen the blond man open the window for a rat. His father was a butcher who kept his shop on the first floor. Once he told him the renter was letting vermin into the house, his father would have to throw the crazy man out, money or no. Grinning fit to break his face, the boy got to his feet and started to tiptoe toward the stairs. Before he took two steps, a strange sound stopped him. It was coming from the rented room, and it took the boy a moment to realize that the renter was laughing.

The door to the renter’s room burst open, and the blond man was on him before he could run. Still laughing, the man grabbed the boy by his patched collar and dragged him up with surprising force.

“Young man,” he said in a smooth voice, and something cold and heavy slid into the boy’s shaking hand. “Take this. Find whatever passes for a tailor in this pit and bring him here. If you’re quick, I’ll give you another.”

He dropped the boy as suddenly as he’d grabbed him. The boy landed on his feet and immediately looked at the object in his hand. It was a gold standard. His eyes went as wide as eggs, and, for a moment, he forgot that he disliked the strange blond man. “Yes, sir!”

“Tell your mother to bring some hot water up as well,” the renter called as the boy tumbled down the stairs.

The child began to bellow for his mother, and the blond man stepped back into his rented room. The rat lay twitching in the corner where he had left it, and he kicked it aside with his foot. Such weak spirits were only useful once. He’d need something else. He turned his attention to the dusty wall beside him and grinned as the timbers creaked in fear.

“Find me another spy.”

A fine cloud of grit fell from the ceiling as the wall shuddered its response. “Yes, Master Renaud.” The room began to buzz as the order spread through the building, asking for a new rat.

Renaud slumped against the dusty piles of junk and stared out the open window at the last glow of the setting sun as it lit up the tall towers of castle Allaze, just as white and beautiful as he remembered from his childhood. Now, finally, after eight years of shame and banishment, eight years of watching for a chance, any chance, fate, it seemed, had paid out in spades.

He began to chuckle, and it was all thanks to a simple wizard thief.

His chuckle became a full-fledged cackle, and Renaud doubled over, his shoulders shaking. He laughed like that until the butcher wife’s timid knock interrupted him.

There was much coming and going at the butcher’s house that night, enough to attract the neighborhood’s attention. Contrary to his usual nature, the butcher wasn’t talking, and that just made the whole thing more interesting. Down the road in the raucous Merrymont Tavern, men with missing teeth made wagers about what was going on. Some put money on a murder; others said it had to do with the ruckus up at the castle. One man was blaming wizards, though he was a bit unclear about what exactly he was blaming them for. This led to more betting and speculation and, in their excitement, no one noticed the swordsman sitting at the corner table quietly nursing the same drink he’d been on for hours.

On a less interesting night, a swordsman would have been a fine topic of conversation. Especially this one, with the wicked scar he bore over the left side of his face, but with the mystery at the butcher’s and rumors of a wizardess riding up to the castle on a dog the size of a house, the people had no breath left to spare for a swordsman. For his part, the swordsman didn’t seem to mind the lack of attention. He simply sat in his corner, swirling his drink and listening. As the night dragged on, the talk began to go in circles. Finally, after the same theory was brought up three times in a quarter hour, the swordsman stood, laid his coins on the table, and, carefully tucking his wrapped sword into his belt, slipped out into the night.

He walked north for several blocks, ducking in and out of buildings almost at random. Only when he was sure no one was following him did he turn around and begin walking purposefully toward the butcher’s house.

Renaud was fastening the starched cuffs of his new jacket when he heard it, an icy, blood-thirsty whine that grated against his thoughts. He froze. The butcher’s wife stood in the corner, her eyes roving, looking at everything except him, just as they had for the last four hours. She gave no sign she heard anything.

“Get out,” Renaud said.

The woman jumped and hastily obeyed, closing the door behind her. Renaud resumed working on the small buttons at his wrists. Outside his tiny window, the night was drifting toward morning, and in the faint gray light he saw the man’s shadow seconds before he heard the window scrape.

“If you’re going to sneak up on someone,” Renaud said coldly, turning to face the man who was now crouched on the windowsill, “learn how to keep your sword quiet.”

The man smiled, but the scar across his cheek warped the expression into a leer as he sat down on the window ledge and laid his gloved palm against his sword’s wrapped hilt. The wailing stopped, and Renaud let out a relieved sigh.

The man’s smile widened. “So it’s true,” he said. “There is a wizard in Mellinor.”

Renaud did not move, but somehow his slouched posture shifted from bored to threatening. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“First answer”—the man leaned back against the window’s bowed frame—“my name is Coriano, and I’m a bounty hunter. Second answer, I was curious. You’ve caused quite a stir.”

“A bounty hunter?” Renaud laughed. “I’m afraid you’ve found the wrong wizard. The one you want has already struck and gone.”

Coriano’s good eye narrowed. “On the contrary, you’re exactly the wizard I wanted to find, Renaud of Allaze.”

Renaud’s hand slipped into his pocket and gripped the glassy black sphere that lay hidden at the bottom. “How do you know that name?”

“It’s my business to know,” Coriano said dryly. “But don’t worry, I’m not here to threaten you. In fact, I’d like to make you an offer.”

Renaud’s fingers eased their grip. “And what could you offer me?”

“Something that will help you reach your goals.”

Renaud arched an eyebrow. “What would you know of my goals?”

“I told you,” Coriano said. “It’s my business to know.”

“All right,” Renaud took his hand from his pocket and folded his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”

Coriano, grinning, hopped down from the windowsill. Renaud gave the sooty, warped glass a warning look, and the window slammed itself shut with a terrified squeal, locking the men’s words away from the brightening sky.