contrast to the dreary, gray corridors that was a delight to the eye. I glanced round this rather wealthy interior, assessing the value of the contents (well, I can’t help it, it’s a habit). Expensive paintings by well-known masters of the past, illustrating scenes from divine mythology; a yellow Sultanate carpet on the floor; wonderful furniture; a miniature gold pedestal of Sagot. My friend certainly held a high position in the hierarchy of servants of the god of thieves.
“Harold! My boy!” A huge, fat man in the grayish-white cassock of a priest got up from the table and came toward me, throwing his arms wide. “What brings you here? It must be a hundred years since you last came to see this old man!”
“Hello, For. Glad to see you alive, well, and fat!” I laughed as I embraced the old priest.
“Can’t be helped, it’s the job,” he laughed in reply.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! I saw that, you old rogue! Come on, give back my purse!” I exclaimed. “So you haven’t lost your touch, you old thief?”
“How can we old men possibly compare with you youngsters?” For replied jokingly, and tossed me the purse he had just removed from my belt. “Come to the table, I was just about to dine.”
“You’re always dining, whatever time of day I arrive. Serving Sagot has made you three times the size you used to be.”
“Sagot’s will must be done,” For said with a doleful shrug. “You sit here, I’ll bring your favorite wine.”
He laughed, winked at me, and went through into the next room, puffing and panting. I sat on a massive chair, solid and strong enough to support For, and put my cloak with the crossbow wrapped in it on the table.
Old For—“Sticky Hands For.” One of the most famous master thieves of former times, who in years gone by had carried out such daring robberies on the most influential houses that his feats of thievery were still talked about in our professional guild to this very day.
For was the man who had first noticed that skinny, constantly hungry youth, Harold the Flea, taken him under his wing, and started to teach him the art of the Supreme Mastery instead of petty pickpocketing.
For ten years he struggled and strained with me, until finally Shadow Harold emerged, with a skill equal to his teacher’s. But it was a long time now since For had retired and entered the service of Sagot.
The good priest, Brother For, “Protector of the Hands.”
That title still set me laughing; I simply couldn’t believe that the most successful and talented thief of all had actually retired. Of all the living creatures in this insane and dangerous world, the only one I trusted was my teacher and friend.
“Here I am.” For’s red face beamed a triumphant smile. He was holding a pair of dust-covered bottles in each hand.
“Amber Tears!” I exclaimed.
“Precisely! Old stock, the finest wine of the bright elves from beyond the Mountains of the Dwarves. You’d better appreciate it.”
“I already am.”
“I was scarcely hoping to see you for the next few years, kid. There are all sorts of rumors creeping round the city.”
“Rumors!” I snorted. “What sort of rumors?”
“Well, they say you’re at daggers drawn with Markun and sooner or later things will end badly. It’s not yet clear exactly for which one of you, but bets are being placed.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really.”
“I hope you’ve put your money on the right side?” I chuckled.
“But of course! According to other gossips, Frago Lanten shut you away in the Gray Stones. And then some claimed the Doralissians were searching very hard for a certain Harold. So tell me, kid, are these mere rumors, or have you got yourself into some kind of fix?” For gave me a quizzical look as he gnawed on a pork rib.
“Not exactly rumors,” I began cautiously. “The entire world seems to have gone crazy, For.”
“May Sagot save your wayward soul,” the priest sighed, and set the gnawed bone down to one side. “The world is poised on the brink of a great war, Harold, and you’re still wasting time on your idiotic subterfuges. If everything I’ve heard is right, it’s time for you to disappear. To somewhere in the Lowland. Although I don’t think everything’s calm there, either. The Nameless One is only the beginning, my old bones can feel it. He’ll provide the initial impetus, be the fuse, as the gnomes say, that ignites the powder keg. Then it will choose for itself exactly how to blow up