The Fly Guild (20 page)

“I’m not a diversion,” he whispered, his
anger cutting through the air. “Tonight my name is Quinton and the rules I play
by are changing. You want me to break into the elf’s room, I’ll break in to the
elf’s room. But I’ll do it my way.”

He looked around. The buildings on either
side of him were about three stories tall. If the elf was important, they were
likely to have several men at different points on the street, as well as on the
roof. He knew the elf’s men were taking security seriously, based on the
conversation he overheard in the field. Sands had mentioned something about
soldiers, as well, so he would have them to contend with. But his advantage was
that there were two groups working to achieve the same task. Their weakness
would be a lack of familiarity and a lack of communication. He started working
out a plan and headed for the building on his right. He would take advantage of
both weaknesses. 

Within a matter of a minute or so,
Quinton was on the roof bounding the final block toward his destination. He
felt no fear, only a sense of anger and betrayal. The guild was supposed to be
protecting him, not sacrificing him like some worthless animal. He had played
by the rules and this was what he got? 

He slowed as the white plastered building
came into view across the street. The entrance was lit by two torches that
illuminated a pair of spear-wielding soldiers on either side of the door. He
assumed there were probably other soldiers inside and started looking for the
biggest threat, the security men. As he scanned the rooftop across the street,
he discerned movement. A man was shifting about up near the far corner. All you
could see was a darker shadow, and even that was only noticeable when he moved.
Quinton turned his attention to his side of the street, scanning the rooftop
for any signs as he crouched low. After a moment, the man on his side shifted
and turned, giving away his position. The man started prowling about, walking
along the front of the building across from his target, probably out of
boredom. Quinton crept closer, confident he was hidden in the deep shadows of
the rooftop and the low walls that separated each building from the next across
the common roof.

The man started walking along the side of
the building, staring down at the street below, unaware he was being stalked.
As he turned to patrol the backside of the building, Quinton, who had closed
the gap to ten paces, attacked. The boy broke into a full sprint, his eyes
burning into his target. The man heard a noise when Quinton drew near and
turned, but it was too late. The boy leapt, feet first and chest high, straight
at him. His feet hit the man square in the chest, knocking him off the building
to the street below. He landed with a sickening thud and lay unmoving in the
street below. Quinton peered over the building. No one was in the back alley to
see the sprawled and broken form of the man below.

Now for the others. Quinton backtracked
about halfway down the street, climbed down, then ascended the building on the
other side. He carefully made his way across the rooftop until he spotted the
man in the same position near the corner he was in before. If he attacked this
one the same way, he would fall on top of the guards and alert everyone. He
needed a better plan.

Quinton tensed as the man suddenly moved.
He watched as the guard bent over, picked up what must have been a small rock
and tossed it onto the rooftop across the street. The man stared intently for a
moment, then picked up another one and repeated the motion. After throwing the
second one, the man was almost hanging over the edge of the roof as he craned
to see into the darkness across the street.

“It’s a signal,” Quinton said to himself.
He fumbled around the wall he was behind until he found a small piece of loose
stone. He arced it high into the air so it would land behind the man but not be
obvious which direction it had come from. The rock hit with an audible noise
and the man turned to look. The guard snorted and felt around for the rock,
then threw it hard across the street. Bored, the guard was trying to hit the
other with a rock.

Quinton had an idea. He gathered up
another stone, crept dangerously close to the man, then tossed the rock almost
straight up into the air so it would land between him and the man. As the stone
flew, he drew the knife he had taken from the man at the butcher shop and felt
the reassuring hilt in his hand. The stone hit and rolled back toward Quinton.
The guard laughed to himself briefly, then turned, his eyes scanning the dark
roof for the stone. He spotted the stone, a lighter shape on the wooden beams.

As he reached down for it, he noticed he
wasn’t alone. But it was too late. Quinton’s knife flashed upward in a vicious
arc, severing the man’s vocal cords and his major artery as well. The guard
grasped his throat in a fruitless attempt to contain the lifeblood now spurting
out of him, gurgled twice, then fell over dead. Quinton wiped the knife on the
man’s sleeve and moved to the front of the building.

Below, the two soldiers still stood
vigil, unaware of the violence above them. Their round helmets reflected the
orange fire from the torches. Quinton mustered up his deepest voice and called
out to them.

“You two,” he gave them a second to peer
up in the darkness above, “there’s movement down the street. Go check it out.”

The two soldiers looked at each other,
unsure of what to do.

“We’ll watch the building,” Quinton
reassured them. The two guards still didn’t move. “Shall I call for my master?”
he threatened them.

They frowned and started off down the
street at a trot, spears across their chest. Quinton hoped that some of the
guild members were down there. Having a couple soldiers walk into their plan
would really make for an interesting evening for them.

Quinton didn’t waste any time. If there
were other guards, he had no more time for them. He swung over the roof edge
and found a very precarious footing on the rough plaster. It took him some time
to find the next one, and he still had one hand on the roof. If he took too
long to get in, the guards were likely to come back, and his dark form on the
white plaster would easily be seen in the firelight below. At last he found a
small broken area of plaster where he could get a grip on the stones underneath
and let go of the roof. Beyond that, there was another foothold where the
plaster was overapplied and gave him a toehold next to the window ledge. As he
stepped on to the ledge, the plaster piece broke off and fell to the street
below. He would not be able to climb back up. His only escape would be down.

The window ledge was wide and easily
navigated. There were two large stained-glass windows. Quinton stood to one
side and used his knife to flip up the flimsy latch on the inside. He swung
open the window just enough to squeeze through, then silently dropped on to the
floor inside and looked around.

The room had a soft glow that had no
visible source that Quinton could see. It cast a warm orange color onto
everything. There was a large four-poster bed in the middle of the far wall,
and he could see someone was lying in it. There was a door to the left of the
bed, and Quinton could see lights underneath it that were occasionally interrupted
by shadows -- probably additional guards in the room beyond. He gave the floor
a quick scan, looking for any sort of trap or alarm setup, such as a string
attached to bells, but seeing none, he silently padded across the thick rug to
the door. With a quick flip of his wrist, he carefully dropped the small metal
bar that served as a lock so that he wouldn’t be disturbed. On the other side
of the room was a large dresser and next to it were several pegs where bits of
clothing had been hung over a pair of boots. 

Quinton crept up to the bed and listened
to the slow and steady breathing; whoever it was was asleep, or at least
pretending to be. He could barely make out the features of the elf. His face
was more angular than most humans and his eyes were partially open, revealing
only the white area, giving him a creepy dead look. His hair was dark, fine and
scattered about his head on a thick pillow. The bed looked so comfortable,
Quinton was half tempted to climb in to it with him, but he passed on by to look
at the dresser. 

The strange orange light illuminated
several scroll tubes on top of the dresser. He took all of them and put them in
one of the many inside pockets he had inside his old shirt. After a quick scan
of the drawers, which were mostly empty or had a few random items of clothing,
he turned his attention to the pegs, but not before taking another long look at
the elf and listening to his breathing. He remembered what Sands had told him
about people detecting you by hearing your thoughts, so he kept thinking about
being a rug whenever possible.
Nobody
here but us rugs
, he said to himself.

On the first peg was slung a scabbard and
a short sword that was covered in elven letters. He knew enough of their
language that they appeared to just be decorative, like a man’s initials
interwoven into a pleasing pattern. He was going to leave it, then remembered
the laws Sands taught him. He was on a mission for the scrolls. That mission
was complete. He could take anything else he wanted for himself. There were no
instructions otherwise, and a sword would really come in handy in the swamp. He
plucked it off the peg and strapped it on. The belt was an exact fit.

The second peg had a nice cloak on it,
but it was far too new and clean, and it would only draw attention to him, so
he left it. Likewise, the third peg had a rather girly looking hat with some
sort of feather in it, so he left that as well, though he considered taking it
back to Fist as a gift. But he would have never have lived long enough to laugh
at him. Then he looked down at the boots. 

Oh, the boots. His shoes were mostly rags
tied around his feet. But these boots looked like they were soft leather, with
intricate patterns on them, but the patterns were only noticeable when you
looked very closely. He had never had a pair of boots before. He pulled them
away from the wall, quickly undid the rags around his right foot and slipped on
the boot. It was tight going down, but once his foot was in, it was like they
were made for him. He ditched the rags on the other foot and pulled on the
other boot.
Who’s the elf prince now?
he thought to himself.

The elf’s breathing changed and he rolled
over to one side, thankfully the side facing the door and not the dresser.
Quinton scolded himself for not thinking like a rug and started gathering his
thoughts about his escape. He would have to go down the wall into the street,
because going back up the smooth plaster was not an option. Then he noticed the
bedpan under the bed and got an idea. 

He slowly moved across the room and eased
the mostly full crock out from under the bed, noting that elf piss smelled just
as bad as human piss. He moved back toward the window, gently pushed open the
sash and looked out on the street. The two guards had not yet returned, and the
two torches still burned brightly on either side of the door. He leaned over
the ledge and took careful aim, then poured part of the contents out in a slow
stream, moving it around until it was over the first torch. The flames hissed
and smoked, then went out. The other torch was too far away for him to guide
it, and he was low on piss. He was only going to get one shot. 

He took measure of the distance, then
flung the contents of the crock forward. Elf piss rained down in the area of
the torch and a few drops hit it. It flickered, but didn’t go out. Quinton
sighed. One torch was better than none. 

That’s when he heard lots of noise moving
down the street. From the heavy clanking and banging, they were soldiers and
they were in a hurry. First they appeared as a large, dark mass, then they came
into view of the firelight below. There were probably a dozen of them, all
armed with spears and swords, their metal helmets and chainmail glinting in the
night. The leader, a shorter burly man, pounded on the door, which made an
ungodly amount of noise. Quinton glanced back at the elf, who stirred again,
flipping back over to face the dresser.

“Men are about,” he told some unseen
person behind the door. “Wake the viceroy and take him to the lower level until
we determine it’s safe.”

Quinton wondered if the men he was
referring to were the other guild members, the ones who were supposed to be
doing this job. He could already hear men stirring on the floors below him and
a voice called up to the guards outside his door. He looked outside again. Some
of the men had gone inside, but there was a guard of four men posted at the
door, all of whom were alert and looking down both ends of the street for
trouble. His only choice would be to try to get back up on the roof again.

“Boy, what are you doing here?” came a
voice from the bed. Quinton tensed up, but thinking fast had saved him before.

“Forgive me, master, I did not mean to
wake you. I was sent to empty your bed pan.” The elf was still lying in bed and
had just raised his head up off his pillow.

“You didn’t wake me; all that infernal
racket downstairs woke me. What’s going on?”

Quinton was trying to keep the shape of
the sword hidden along his leg so the elf wouldn’t see it. “I’m not sure, but
some soldiers just arrived.”

The elf gave a deep sigh and dropped his
head back on the pillow. “Why is everything always so complicated?”

Someone started pounding on the door.
Quinton had to move now.

“It’s open, you idiots. You told me not
to lock it so you could come in if you needed to.” Someone tried to open the
door, but the metal lock bar kept it from opening. Various men started yelling
for the viceroy in excited voices.

“Boy, why did you lock the door?” he
asked as he got up from the bed. He looked to the window, but there was no one
there. The elf instinctively dropped and rolled toward the door, popping up
while knocking open the lock. There was no one in the room. And then he noticed
his sword was gone from the wall. He moved to get his boots, then stopped when
he realized they were gone, too. “Damn!”