Dragon Thief (17 page)

Crumley led us through several corridors piled with threadbare and mildew-spotted carpeting. We passed overfilled bookshelves where volumes seemed to have been shoved to be forgotten as they slowly crumbled away. The air was damp and heavy, and the halls were dark aside from the occasional candelabra. As we walked, Krys reached out to run her fingers along the spine of one of the books. Without turning, Crumley stopped and grumbled.

“No touching!” he shouted back. Krys yanked her hand away.

He grabbed a torch from a wall sconce and led us down a narrow stone stair that descended through arched vaults where the walls were thick with white mineral deposits. Parts of the walls glistened from the moisture. The steps themselves were stained green and black from mildew, mold, and algae.

Someday I was going to find a wizard who enjoyed working in the open air and sunshine.

Crumley's workshop was deep underground. So deep that I suspected it was not only beneath the surface level of the Fell River, but possibly beneath the floor of the riverbed—if any of that mattered in a town that was only half in our world at best.

Crumley's workshop was a vast space where the torchlight didn't quite reach the far wall. The immediate area was dominated by several long tables piled high with all manner of artifacts; jars of liquid, powders, dried leaves; large mineral specimens; skulls from various creatures; arcane volumes open to arcane passages describing arcane rituals in arcane languages. One space near the foot of the stairs held a half circle of tall black candles as thick as my forearm. They flickered around one of the few clear spaces on any of the tables. Inside the arc of the candles a ceramic crock steamed above a small brazier filled with glowing coals. Crumley held up a hand as we reached the foot of the stairs. “You interrupted me, now please wait.”

He hobbled over to the steaming crock, climbed on a small stepstool that stood before it, and strained to lean over it. He inhaled deeply and smiled. “Good. Perfect.”

He reached over to a glass vial filled with white crystals and carefully poured a small amount into the crock. He grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred the mixture. After a moment he grabbed a small china cup from the mess on the table, squinted to look inside, and shook it out over the floor. He set it down next to the brazier and started pouring the contents of the crock out into it. A small spider jumped out of the cup and scurried over the side and away before it drowned.

Crumley glanced back at us and asked, “Anyone care for some tea?”

Several voices behind me said, “No thank you,” simultaneously.

Crumley took his china cup and took a sip. He smiled and stepped off of the stool. “This is about you and the dragon, isn't it?”

I looked over at Lucille and said, “Yes.”

He picked up his driftwood staff with his free hand and gestured to a couple of chairs deeper in the room. “You two sit over there.”

He pointed it at the girls, Brock, and Sir Forsythe. “You all stay out of the way.” Then he spoke to me and Lucille. “What are you waiting for? You're paying for this.”

We walked over to the chairs and sat as directed. Crumley walked in front of us and stood, staring, as he sipped his tea. After five minutes or so of uncomfortable silence, Grace asked, “What are you doing?”

“Quiet!” Crumley slammed his staff down on a nearby table without looking around. “No talking!”

He peered at us for several more minutes, occasionally grunting to himself. Then he finally set down his tea and pulled a pair of spectacles out from the piles on one of the long tables. He perched them on his nose then fished out a bundle of herbs from another table.

He lit the top of the bundle on fire from one of the black candles. He let it flame for a moment before blowing the fire out. He walked up to us and started weaving the smoking bundle around us in a set of intricate patterns. The smoke wrapped us in a white fog that reminded me a little too much of Brock's little packages at The Headless Earl. My eyes watered and I started coughing.

“Well, well, well . . .”

“What?” I gasped. I was dizzy and light-headed from the smoke. I glanced at Lucille to see how she was doing, and I wasn't that surprised that the shadow I saw through the dissipating smoke was more dragon-shaped than Lucille-shaped.

“Both of you have been touched by the Tear of Nâtlac.”

“We could have told you that,” I said.

“Oh really,” Crumley said. “You came all the way here just to impress
me
with your expertise?”

Lucille punched me in the arm. “Please go on,” she said.

Crumley paced around. “The Dark Lord's influence has woven itself into your souls, even before the effect of the artifact, I see. This is not the first time your spirits have been uprooted. In you especially—” He pointed at Lucille.

“Me?”

“Clearly your soul was birthed in that body, but it no longer fits, does it?”

“Uh—”

Crumley pivoted to me. “And you, it fits too well.”

I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

He chuckled. “Just that someone who hates their body doesn't want clothes that fit too closely.”

“Snake is nothing like me.”

Crumley shook his head and held up a finger. “The Tear chooses first the soul's own birth body.” He pointed to Lucille. “If your spirit is already displaced, the Tear of Nâtlac will send it home even if it wasn't the Tear that displaced you.”

He held up two fingers. “But if it can't do that, it
will
find the best fit.”

“My soul doesn't fit in this bastard!”

Crumley strode up and placed his face less than an inch from my own. “A life centered on being something you are not. A liar, a thief. An outlaw tied to royalty and to the Dark Lord himself. A disregard for consequences. Dissatisfaction with where you find yourself in your current life. A deep-seated desire to see King Dudley of Grünwald rotating slowly over an open flame—shall I go on?”

“B-But—” Lucille shook her head, and I think she might have been crying. “I don't understand.”

To my relief Crumley and his breath retreated from me. “Understand what?”

“You said my soul doesn't fit.
This is my body!
”

Crumley shook his head. “Not anymore, my dear. The soul is not static. It grows, changes, and becomes what we are. You've moved beyond where you began. Unlike your wife over there.” He gestured at me and chuckled.

“Enough,” I said. “How do we fix this? Short of waiting a year and a day?”

“Oh, I'm afraid even that won't work now.”

“What?” Lucille and I said simultaneously.

 • • • 

Sir Forsythe had been more or less right about the Tear of Nâtlac and what it did, as far as he went with it. Wearing the jewel swapped the wearer with the inhabitant of closest “compatible” body somewhere, for the jewel's own measure of compatible, and the soul's birth body took precedence over other considerations—Lucille's current discomfort to the contrary. Normally the passage of a year and a day would reverse the effects.

Unfortunately, “normally” in this instance meant that the souls in question stayed where the jewel had put them. By accident or design—and I leaned toward design—Snake's maneuver to get Lucille to wear the jewel had mucked everything up. It was bad enough that the Tear of Nâtlac swapped Lucille with someone already affected by the same jewel, but it also swapped her back into her own body.

The expiration of the effect on me meant my soul would want to return to the body I had vacated—but Snake was no longer there to swap back. Worse, when the second transfer expired, Snake's soul would “want” to transfer back to Lucille's body, where it had been. But Lucille was now resident in her own body, and the mere expiration of an enchantment would not have the strength to displace it again. Lucille was not going to move again unless someone invoked a new enchantment.

Snake had effectively made this all permanent.

“Impressive how he exploited the loopholes—”

“Damn it. I want to know how to undo what he did.”

“What if someone gets killed?” asked Mary.

“Umm . . . Normally killing someone would knock their soul free and abort the effects of the enchantment—” Crumley leaned over and peered at Lucille. “You're still a bottleneck, though.” He stroked his beard. “But it's possible that killing this body might clear the obstruction.”

“That's not a solution,” I said.

“Brock wonders if someone destroyed the artifact—”

Crumley snorted. “That's treating an arrow wound by burning the bow. Not that you could manage it anyway.”

In the end, the wizard was not very helpful. We came away from Crumley with only three pieces of good news.

First, even if she represented a threat to his claim to the throne of Lendowyn, killing Lucille was going to be last on Snake's to-do list since that was one thing that could prematurely de-dragon him.

Second, killing me was probably just as low on the list, since it seemed likely that his coup in Lendowyn was only a prelude to a claim on Grünwald's throne, a claim that he probably wanted to stake wearing his own skin.

The third point flowed from the second. He was not going to destroy or lose the Tear of Nâtlac anytime soon, since that was his only sure ticket back into that skin.

That meant we did have a solution to the Snake issue: All we needed to do was locate wherever he had the artifact stashed, steal it, and—somehow—get a few tons of dragon to wear the thing so he gets deposited back into his own body.

Simple.

I suppose it could have gone worse. My past interactions with wizards had not been what one would call pleasant. I couldn't help feeling a little cheated, though. Somehow I had half convinced myself that hiring one decent magic user would fix everything. In the end, we had spent a lot of gold for someone to tell us he couldn't do much of anything for us. The only concrete thing we were left with after parting from the waterlogged wizard was a small iron token on a metal chain. According to Crumley, like a compass, it would find itself magnetically attracted to concentrations of the Dark Lord's power.

In theory it should make finding the Tear of Nâtlac a bit easier.

I just wished it didn't look so evil. The twisted abstraction of the pendant appeared way more like an icon of unimaginable evil than any of the actual evil magical artifacts that I'd ever seen. I stashed it under my shirt, and it felt as if the unclean metal shape was trying to burrow under my skin.

As we returned to the inn, I allowed myself to think that we had earned a moment or two to breathe, relax, and figure out what our next move would be.

It's never what I expect.

As we entered The Talking Eye, I knew instantly that something was wrong. Having the professional thief's appreciation for quiet and subtlety made me aware of the normal sounds that populated the world around me as well as an appreciation of the fact that there were actually very few circumstances where complete and utter silence was a good thing.

This inn at dusk, time for the evening meal, was not one of those circumstances.

Sir Forsythe picked up on it as quickly as I did. “My Liege—”

“I know.” I held up a hand. “I think it may be a good idea to leave, right now.”

“What's the matter?” asked Grace. She hadn't picked up on it yet, but I didn't hold it against her. She plied her trade in the woods, and probably didn't have the kind of instincts about people and groups I did—and frankly, I didn't have them when I was her age.

I turned around to usher everyone back out the door. “I'll explain once we're safely outside . . .” I trailed off because everyone was looking
past
me, not at me. I sighed. “It's behind me, isn't it?”

“Yes, Prince Bartholomew.”

“We are behind you.”

“Or do you prefer Francis Blackthorne?”

Past our group, through the still-open door, I saw at least a score of sword-wielding guardsmen quick-march into position on the street in front of The Talking Eye, cutting off any retreat.

I turned around slowly to face the speakers. “Call me Frank,” I said. “I hate Francis.”

Three tall figures stood in front of us, dominating the common room of the inn. They wore long robes that were primarily colored in shades of black, white, and gray, though the fabric shimmered in the evening light, subtly reflecting every color I could name. The hoods they wore hid most of their faces in shadow, except for the mouth and chin, which barely moved as each figure spoke in turn.

“Then we will address you as Frank.”

“Your presence here has caused us problems.”

“Problems that must be addressed.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Lucille spoke up from behind me. “I am the Princess Lucille of Lendowyn, and in the name of the king I demand to know who is addressing us.”

“Uh—” the trio responded before I could compose a coherent objection to her throwing her royal weight around.

“The Princess Lucille, indeed.”

“The source of other problems.”

“Perhaps you know you are missed?”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“We are the Triumvirate.”

“You are within our demesne.”

“And you are under our authority.”

Sir Forsythe stepped in front of both of us, his own sword drawn. “I am Sir Forsythe the Good, and I accept no authority aside from that I have pledged fealty to. You shall allow My Liege to pass unhindered!”

“Do not test us.”

“Do not threaten us.”

“Force shall not be tolerated.”

All three gestured in unison and Sir Forsythe's sword glowed red and the air filled with the tang of heated metal. Sir Forsythe's gauntlets began to smoke and he dropped the sword, hopping backward in an undignified manner. The glowing sword fell to the wooden floor, and waist-high flames shot upward from where the sword burned itself into the wood. Another synchronized gesture and the flames snuffed out, leaving a long puddle of once molten metal cradled in a blackened trench in the floor.

Note to self, raising arms against a trio of powerful mages is a bad idea.

“What do you want from us?” I asked.

“We must maintain neutrality.”

“We must protect our demesne.”

“You must depart.”

“We got what we came for,” Lucille said. She turned to me. “That shouldn't be a problem, right?”

I nodded. “It shouldn't be. But given the fact these three brought an army I suspect there's a reason we might be expected to object. Right?”

“There are forces at play.”

“Forces not of our concern.”

“We will not be party to your wars.”

“Wars?!”
Lucille snapped.
“What wars?”

“The Lendowyn king masses his army.”

“He waits on his shore.”

“He demands his princess.”

“The Lendowyn . . . Father?” Lucille's voice sounded weak.

“Of course he is,” I said, rubbing my temples. “He's probably still under the impression that you're me and were kidnapped by Grünwald. Snake's probably convinced him Fell Green has an alliance with them now. Not a stretch, since Dudley's been known to frequent this place.”

“What a mess,” Grace muttered.

“So we go back,” Lucille said. “We can talk to Father and get this straightened out.”

“Frank cannot go with you.”

“The Prince of Dermonica masses his own army.”

“And he calls for the man in Prince Bartholomew's skin.”

Oh crap.
“I don't believe this. I can understand King Alfred the Inconvenient, we've been riding across Lendowyn territory for days, but how in the world did Prince Oliver find us here?”

Someone behind me cleared their throat. I turned around and saw Rabbit holding up a dagger. A familiar-looking dagger.

“Where'd you get that? You were all disarmed when—” I picked up the assassin's weapon and it wasn't exactly the same one I had carried during my escape. “They were at The Headless Earl.”

Rabbit nodded.

“Of course they were. Why didn't anyone mention this to me?”

“We thought you knew,” Mary said. “We dragged four of them out of the same room you were in.”

“Four . . .”

“You have brought armies to our border.”

“This is not tolerable.”

“We must return you to them.”

“I get it,” I snapped. There was no way to fight this. We were outnumbered by the guard outside, and even without a small army backing them up, it would require a very special kind of stupid to try and defy wizards who apparently were the major force for law and order in a town filled with other wizards.

I took Lucille's hands. “You need to go back to your father.”

“And leave you to Dermonica? No, I'm not—”

“We don't have a choice.”

“What about Prince Bartholomew? He's still a dragon. Even if I tell Father what's happening, even if he believes me, he's still legally the prince and my husband in that body.”

I nodded. “But you'll be safe. He can't hurt you without risking his position.” I reached into my collar and pulled out the iron pendant. “Take this to find the Tear. We just need him to wear it and it will send him back to his own body.”

She took it from me and wrapped her hand around it. “Simple.”

“Go with Brock and Sir Forsythe, they can corroborate your story.” I glanced over my shoulder at the trio of mages. “The Dermonican prince, did he mention anyone else?”

“He demands the Prince Bartholomew.”

“The king demands the Princess Frank.”

“Only you. Only her.”

“Frank?” she whispered. “I don't want to lose you again.”

I suddenly felt the real possibility that I might not see her again. I leaned down and gently kissed her forehead. “Don't worry,” I whispered to her. “You're not going to be rid of me that easily.”

I think I may have said it more for me than for her.

I turned around to face the Triumvirate again. “The girls aren't part of this, right?”

I heard Grace said, “Wait a minute.”

“We have no quarrel with them.”

“They may remain.”

“As they wish.”

Grace grabbed my arm. “Are you crazy? You're going to walk out to that prince and a bunch of assassins alone?”

“I'm not going to fight. I'm going to surrender.”

Her hand dropped. “What?”

“It's not your fight. Time we parted ways.”

“You're giving up?”

“This isn't something I can fight head-on
or
sneak around. I'm going to have to rely on the fact they want me alive. Besides, they don't want me, they want Snake. I just need to convince them where Snake is, and we might have an ally in this.”

“That's crazy,” Grace said.

“That's why I'm going alone.”

 • • • 

I'm still trying to figure out how I managed to be so matter-of-fact in front of everyone. Even though I had faced arguably worse situations, I'd never walked into one so deliberately. Even though I likely had no choice, it still gave me way too long to contemplate what I was doing.

The guards of Fell Green escorted me through the town, and I imagined a half-dozen scenarios where I slipped away from them and back into the city. A younger Frank Blackthorne would have made the attempt. But the worst part of my experience of the last week was the loss of my blissful obliviousness to the consequences of my own actions.

I missed it.

I couldn't help but imagine what my successful escape might result in, not just for the girls, who were ready-made hostages to the powers of Fell Green, but for the city itself. I had no love for wizards and the shady merchants who dealt with them, and none for assassins or the royal house of Dermonica, but could I blithely set the two at war? It was something Snake Bartholomew would do, and something deep inside me balked at Crumley's assertion that I held such common ground with the last tenant of this body.

So they brought me to the Dermonica side of the bridge and I set out upon it, alone. I walked down the center of the cobbled span as the wizard city evaporated behind me. Ahead of me, I saw a dozen of Oliver's masked assassins. They stood on the ground where the bridge made landfall, waiting.

I glanced behind me, and with the island gone from between us, I could see the opposite shore, and the arrayed forces of Lendowyn. I could hear cheering in the distance, and while I couldn't see Lucille in the crowd on the distant shore, Brock and Sir Forsythe were easy to distinguish.

I turned back to my own welcoming party.

They still waited, hands on their weapons now.

I could run, back across the bridge.

And spark a war with Lendowyn . . .

I could jump into the river . . .

... the swollen, icy, violent river.

Maybe I should stick to the plan.

I sighed, because like most of my extemporaneous plans, this particular one was tissue thin and dangerous as all hell, and my new awareness of the consequences of my actions didn't stop with the options I had rejected.

This wasn't going to go well.

The assassins grabbed hold of me as I stepped off the bridge. I didn't resist. They dragged me back to their campsite where Prince Oliver stood waiting for me next to a wagon that supported a heavy-looking iron cage.

A pair of the assassins held me up before him.

“Hello, Your Highness.”

Oliver scowled, strode to me and backhanded me across the face.

Not well at all.

I spat blood on the ground and said, “Can we talk a moment?”

For someone of his girth and aristocratic upbringing, he hit pretty hard. As I shook some sense back into my rattled skull he grabbed my chin and pulled my face up to look into his own. He reached up with his other hand and wiped blood off my cheek with his thumb. “Talk?” he said in a conversational tone.

I made an almost-nod against the hand gripping my chin and said, “There're things you should know.”

“Are there?”

“Yes I—” What I was about to say was cut off by his fist's unwanted advances in the vicinity of my left kidney. My legs dropped from under me. I think I heard the assassins holding me groan with the sudden weight, though it may have been me.

A fist twisted itself in the hair at the back of my head and yanked my head back. Oliver smiled down at me.

At least someone was in a good mood.

“I'm listening, Bartholomew.”

I struggled to get the words in the right order as they stumbled out of my rapidly swelling mouth. “I'm not who you think I am. My name's Frank Blackthorne. The man you want used an enchantment to swap bodies. He's in the Lendowyn court now.”

“Really? Fascinating.”

“Yes, King Alfred will need allies to fight against him. Snake's appropriated the body of a dragon, and is probably preparing now to lead forces against Grünwald.”

The fist loosened in my hair. “That is an incredible story.”

“I know, but it's what happened. It's why I came back here, willingly, alone.”