Temple Hill (3 page)

As for the cities beyond the Dragon Coast …well, Lhasha didn’t know much about them at all. Rumors, tall tales and hearsay was the limit of her understanding of what lay beyond her homeland. Fendel might know something about them, she thought. The old gnome was her closest, dearest, wisest friend. Her only friend, to be truthful, but that didn’t diminish his wisdom. If anyone could see a way out of Lhasha’s dilemma it would be Fendel.

Lost in her thoughts, Lhasha wasn’t paying close attention to where she was going. She hadn’t noticed the drunken soldier staggering through the crowd, oblivious of everyone else in his inebriated state. The man outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, and when they collided Lhasha was sent reeling to the ground. The soldier tottered, but managed to keep bis balance despite the alcohol coursing through his veins. He didn’t stop to help her up, didn’t pause to apologize—just continued to bull his way heedlessly through the crowd.

A host of voices flooded in on her as several male hands eagerly helped her to her feet. “Are you all right?” “Did he hurt you?”

“The Maces should arrest the drunken lout!”

“I’m fine,” Lhasha assured the shoppers who had jumped to her rescue. As she brushed herself off she added, “Don’t call the Maces, its not worth it. Just let him go—

The half dozen men gathered around her slowly dispersed, casting hateful glares at the soldier’s heedless back, muttering to themselves about the death of chivalry and lack of decent manners in today’s society. Lhasha herself didn’t stay to cast aspersions on the soldier, but slipped away into the crowd, the money purse of her rude assailant tucked away beneath the sleeve of her billowing blouse.

Picking bis pocket had been pure instinct. When their bodies collided her hands had just reacted—bump and lift, a skill so basic to her profession it was virtually automatic. Now that the deed was done, Lhasha felt more than a little satisfaction at the small measure of revenge she had extracted from the drunken soldier’s belt.

She let the small leather pouch slip from her sleeve into her palm. It felt light, almost empty. Strange, considering how well soldiers and mercenaries were paid in this city. She undid the drawstrings and peeked inside— three coppers. Not even enough to buy a decent meal. This was why she preferred burglary, the payoffs were almost always worth the effort.

Lhasha quickened her pace and doubled back through the throng of shoppers, curious to see what kind of a man came down to the Fair with so little money on him. Her quarry was easy to spot; he left a wake of upset shoppers and angry curses as he stumbled through the crowd.

He stood about six feet tall, with a solid build and dark hair. A scraggly, ill-kept beard covered his chin and cheeks. He wore chain armor, and a sword was strapped to his hip. But his armor was rusted and stained, his scabbard shabby and worn. Lhasha felt the first rumblings of guilt. With burglary she could chose her victims carefully, scouting them out before making her move. She never stole from those who couldn’t afford it. Lhasha herself knew all too well what it was like to be poor, to go to bed hungry, or to sleep on the street because you couldn’t afford a room. Still, it wasn’t her fault the drunkard had bowled her over.

Lhasha was still debating her next move when she noticed the soldier’s arm—or rather, the lack of it. Everything a few inches below his right elbow was missing. Lhasha had no ethical qualms about lifting trinkets and baubles from wealthy nobles, but she wasn’t about to steal the last coppers from a destitute cripple.

She’d have to put the purse back. She quietly slipped through the crowd, edging ever closer to the one-armed man. Lhasha had never tried to “unpick” a pocket before, but how hard could it be, given the soldier’s current condition? He kept his eyes straight ahead, completely ignoring the other people in the street. Even when he knocked into them he would simply bounce off and continue on his way without a second glance.

The weaving, uneven steps of her target made it difficult for Lhasha to time her move. She tried to anticipate whether the inebriated man would sway to the left or list to the right, but she continually guessed wrong. When the soldier bumped into a rather heavyset man in blue robes and staggered back against her, Lhasha seized the opportunity and jammed the purse back under his belt— only to see it fall to the ground after the soldier had taken a few more unsteady strides.

Cursing silently, Lhasha was forced to admit that unpicking a pocket was proving to be no simple task.

“What do you make of that, Captain?” Gareth had only been in the Maces a month, and despite his eagerness, he had sense enough to wait for orders from his superiors before taking action.

Kayla, Captain of Elversult’s thirty-first watch unit, turned her attention in the direction the young man pointed. An attractive young blonde lady—barely old enough to be called a woman, Kayla thought—in finely tailored, brightly colored clothes was following very closely in the path of a drunk lurching down the street. She was hunched forward, hands reaching out toward the drunk as he shoved his way through the throng. Every few seconds the woman would lunge forward, several times appearing to slip her hand beneath the drunk’s belt, or trying to, at least. Occasionally the girl would pause, pick something up from the ground, then resume her strange behavior. The man was completely oblivious to the bizarre charade.

“I think she’s trying to pick his pocket,” Kayla said at last, still not quite convinced. “But she must be the worst pickpocket the Dragon Coast has ever seen.”

“Should we bring her in?” Gareth asked, already drawing the weapon for which the city soldiers were named.

Kayla held up a hand to stay the anxious rookie. “I don’t think well need that to bring in one girl.” Noticing the sword strapped to the drunken man’s belt she added, “But be ready just in case.”

On a single order from Kayla the five member unit began to move in on the unsuspecting woman, still hunched forward and completely absorbed in her work.

The crowd, recognizing the uniforms of the city constables, parted before the Maces. In less than a minute they had fallen into step behind their quarry, close enough to hear the young lady exclaim, “At last!” in an exasperated voice as she abruptly stopped, stood up straight, and cracked her back.

Kayla clamped a firm hand down upon the woman’s shoulder, and the girl let out a shriek.

Corin staggered through the crowd, tuning out all the sounds of the Fair—snippets of conversations, the haggling of the customers, the merchants barking out their inventories, even the angry shouts of those foolish enough to get in his way. Protected by a fog of alcohol and apathy he managed to ignore it all. Yet when he heard a woman’s scream right behind him his ingrained White Shield training to guard and protect took over.

Reacting to the sound, he spun on his heel and dropped into a fighting crouch, his left hand falling to the hilt of his blade. He may have been too drunk to walk a straight line, but a dozen years of drills and exercises still allowed his muscles to react to combat situations with military precision.

The scene behind him was not what he expected. A blonde girl was being accosted by a group of thugs. No, Corin realized, it wasn’t a girl. Despite the waifish features and slight build, the blonde was definitely a woman— though her age was difficult to determine. She looked to be twenty, at most, but Corin thought he could detect a faint trace of elf heritage in her sharp features. If she had elf blood in her

veins she might very well be over fifty, despite her appearance.

A much larger brunette woman in full scale armor had grabbed the small blonde by the shoulder. A few feet away four men stood ready, weapons drawn. Maces. The bitterness and anger perpetually simmering just beneath Corin’s surface boiled over at the sight of the Elversult city guards.

“Release the girl, or I swear by Helm’s Hands Fll crack your skull.”

The armored woman’s jaw dropped open, her expression one of horrified surprise. Behind her the other Maces recoiled at his words, as if the venom in Corin’s voice had stung their cheeks.

Corin took an unsteady step forward, and half drew his sword. “I said … let… her … go.”

The brunette woman flinched beneath his hate-filled gazed, but held her ground. “We just saved you from becoming the victim of a crime,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a child too young to understand the situation. “The least you could do is thank us.”

Corin had no intention of thanking anyone, least of all a patronizing member of the Elversult city guard. “Crime?” he asked the woman sarcastically. “I don’t see any crime here.”

One of the guards in the background, a young man, stepped up to stand beside his female partner. He pointed the butt of his mace at the blonde. “This woman just picked your pocket.”

The blonde girl began to protest her innocence, but Corin ignored her, just as he had earlier ignored the sounds of the Fair. KeepirTg his eyes focused on the soldiers in front of him, Corin slid the stump of his right arm beneath his belt, working it through the loop of the drawstrings on his money purse. He held the leather

pouch up as proof that the guard was lying. It dangled from his amputated limb.

“There’s nothing so cowardly as making false accusations.”

There was no reply. The Maces just stared at Corin’s severed arm. Corin endured their gawking for a few seconds, then sheathed his sword and grabbed his purse with his left hand, stuffing it back under his belt.

“What else could I expect from the Maces, but incompetence?”

The young man tried to step forward and say something, rising to the bait, but the brunette woman— obviously the captain of the patrol—held out an arm to block his path.

“Let it go, Gareth,” she said to him over her shoulder, cutting off his words. “We’re here to keep the peace, not pick fights.”

The young man refused to be cowed. “We keep these streets safe!” he shouted from his spot behind his captain, jabbing his finger in Corin’s direction. “We deserve your respect!”

Corin spit on the ground. He could have been a Mace, had even applied to the city guard after the White Shields disbanded, but they had refused him because of the injury to his arm, hadn’t even given him a chance.

“You think you’re something special, just because you wear a uniform?” he shot back at the young man. “Even with one hand, I’m more soldier than youH ever be.”

From the corner of his eyes Corin noticed the blonde edging toward the crowd of curious onlookers that now gathered around the confrontation. The patrol captain noticed as well. She snapped-out her hand, grabbing a fistful of the smaller woman’s silk blouse to prevent her escape. “The only place you’re going is the Jailgates, my pretty pickpocket.”

Gareth, no longer held back by his captain, took a long stride that brought his face just inches away from Corin’s own unshaven mug. He grimaced at the reek of alcohol and unwashed sweat cloaking the one-armed man, but didn’t recoil.

“We’ve brought order and discipline to this city! Without us there’d be anarchy!”

He had more to say, but Corin ignored the tirade as he sized up his chances in a fight. One-on-one he was a match for any city constable, even with nearly a dozen ales in his gullet. But faced with overwhelming odds he wouldn’t be able to let the rhythm of the battle develop, he wouldn’t get a chance to pick up the subtle patterns of his opponents’ thrusts and parries and exploit them. Outnumbered five to one Corin’s only hope was blind rage and desperate fury, a clumsy, ineffective way to fight. Eventually they’d overpower him and haul him off to the Jailgates. The smart thing to do was walk away.

The young Mace, Gareth, was still shouting into Corin’s face. “We protect those who can’t protect themselves— like drunks and cripples!”

Corin’s head-butt dropped Gareth to the street, smashing the young man’s nose in an eruption of blood. Gasps of horror came from the crowd surrounding them, mingled with a few cheers. Caught off guard by Corin’s violent outburst, the remaining members of the patrol hesitated a split second before reacting. Corin didn’t.

He dropped another of the city guards with a kick to the knee, and by the time the pop of the dislocated joint reached his ears Corin had already drawn his sword and brought the flat of his blade down across the helm of the third man, stunning him. Corin, despite the dual fogs of alcohol and rage, still had enough self-control to keep from using his sword’s lethal edge on an Elversult guard officer.

The fourth Mace had the sense to jump out of the reach of Corin’s initial mad rush. He swung his weapon in a low arc, looking to sweep Corin’s legs out from under him.

Corin parried the blow and retreated—right into range of the female captain’s attack. Her weapon missed his temple by inches, but came crashing down across his right shoulder.

Corin’s arm went numb and his knees buckled under the force of the blow, but he managed to keep his feet. He threw his elbow back and was rewarded with a painful grunt from the patrol captain as he caught her in the chest. The man still standing in front of him swung his mace in a downward arc, but Corin spun away to the side.

The crowd had formed a wide circle around the melee—safely out of range of the violence, but close enough to watch and egg the participants on. Violence in Elversult’s street was officially discouraged since Yanseldara came to power, but a good street brawl could still get the general population fired up with bloodlust.

As Corin spun away from yet another of his opponent’s attacks, he caught a glimpse of the blonde disappearing into the circle of enthusiastic spectators.

One of the Maces on the ground—the one with the dislocated knee—grabbed Corin by the ankle. Corin stomped down quickly with his free leg, leaving the pattern of his boot on the man’s forehead as he kicked his opponent into unconsciousness.

While Corin was distracted by the man at his feet, the captain and the other Mace still standing tackled him, dragging the enraged warrior down to the ground, but they couldn’t pin him. Punching, kicking, and twisting wildly he managed to work himself free and scramble away from his would-be captors—though he lost his sword in the struggle.