Dragon Thief (4 page)

I had gone to sleep hanging on to two small optimistic thoughts.

The first, at least this time my foray into a new body was much less threatening to life and limb than the time I was displaced into Princess Lucille. Second, I had a small hope that when I did wake up I would find myself back in the princess's bed.

Wrong on both counts.

“Wakey, wakey,” someone whispered into my ear.

The voice did not belong to the woman with whom I spent the night.

My eyes shot open and I tried to spring out of bed. That didn't work so well. As I sat up, my face collided with someone's fist, and I fell backward, head ringing. I shook my head and realized that my hands and feet were being held down by a quartet of very large men. Two of them were familiar. So was the man going, “Tsk, tsk,” into my ear.

“Sloppy, Snake,” Weasel said, holding a very sharp dagger up to my throat. “I'm disappointed.”

“You're persistent,” I said, spitting blood from a split lip.

The dagger withdrew and he began pacing around the bed gesturing with it so occasionally it would reflect the cold winter sun from the window into my eyes. I could feel the icy draft on my naked skin. If they had come in that window, they must have been very quick, or very quiet, or both . . .

Or I'd slept too deeply for my own good.

“You've led me on a merry chase. Much farther north than I'm comfortable with. I've found you very annoying.”

“Likewise.”

He spun around and placed the dagger against my face. “I would like nothing better than to cut you into. Tiny. Little. Pieces.”

The contrary self-destructive part of my brain decided to ask the guy, “Why don't you then?” I think that part of me was still trying to punish me for last night.

He drew the blade across my cheek, and I winced as it sliced a stinging cut under my eye.

He whispered, his breath hot and foul against my ear, “Because I love money more than I hate you.” He stood up and said, “Bag him.”

 • • • 

Unlike our prior encounter, I didn't have either luck or surprise on my side, and with four accomplices, Weasel could just lean back against the wall, paring his nails with the dagger. I would have shouted some questions, but the first thing his goons did was shove a rag in my mouth and tie the gag in place. They did a workmanlike job of tying me hand and foot before shoving me into a musty burlap sack.

I suspect Weasel didn't bother with my clothes just out of spite. The burlap was bad enough against my naked skin. But add to that the fact that whatever grain had occupied the bag before me had gone to mold and made the air incredibly unpleasant to breathe. And the less said about the weevils, the better.

They hefted the bag and carried me across the room. I felt a sharp cold draft though the weave of the burlap and had a brief moment to think,
They aren't going to throw me—

Then they did.

There were only two stories to the inn, but it felt as if I tumbled forever in free fall. Bound as I was, all I could do was pull myself into a ball and hope I didn't land headfirst.

Someone caught me, then tossed me aside into a pile of something that was supposed to be yielding. Given the feeling of a hundred brittle stabby things trying to poke through the burlap, I suspected that it was a pile of straw that had been left outside to freeze. The little light that leaked through the weave in the burlap went away as someone tossed more straw on top of me.

At least it cut down on the draft.

I heard footsteps, creaking wood, and the snorting of a horse or three. I heard a muffled voice say, “You caught him finally.”

Weasel's voice responded from farther away. “Your tone suggests a lack of faith in my skill.”

“This ain't just some guy skipping out on his debt—”

“That's why the guild is paying us so much. Get on the wagon, I want to get back to Delmark while we still have daylight.”

Crap.

I knew Delmark, and it was much farther north than I wanted to be. That meant there were at least two kingdoms between me and Lendowyn—more if we were actually north of Delmark at this point. I felt the ground shift beneath me, more wood creaking and footsteps.

I figured that they were transporting me in a hay wagon piled with straw. It seemed reasonable camouflage, and it meant that—if there had been any doubt—these guys were not in league with the local city authorities. I heard reins snap, and suddenly we were racing down bumpy roads that jammed frozen straw into my skin with every bounce of the wagon.

Someone asked Weasel, “Think West River Guild would offer more for him?”

“Don't be a greedy sot. Playing West River against the White Rock Thieves' Guild was how our guest got a price on his head.”

“Yeah, but he made off with how much from both of them?” I heard a thump. “Ow, why'd you—”

“Shut your trap.” Weasel sounded pissed. “First, ‘made off with' implies surviving to enjoy the fruits of your labor. Our friend Snake ain't going to, is he? Second, Snake's a lot smarter than you and he was only able to pull it off by sparking a bloody war as a distraction.”

Again, crap.

Now I understood what was going on. Apparently Nâtlac's charm hadn't just found me a new body that matched my gender; it found one that matched my former profession. Weasel and company were talking about the two major thieves' guilds in Delmark, both of whom seemed to have an interest in seeing Mr. Snake.

As they bounced down the road, I heard more detail.

The former owner of this body had, somehow, conned both guilds out of a substantial share of their treasuries and managed to convince each guild that the other was responsible—escaping in the chaos that erupted. Weasel had been employed by the White Rock Thieves' Guild to find Snake and return him in a condition where they could extract the location of the missing horde from him.

I could only see this ending in pain and tears for everyone involved.

If I wasn't at that moment bound up in a sack, contemplating being tortured to reveal information I didn't have, I might have spent a bit more time worrying about the fact that I had released this “Snake” guy in the middle of the Lendowyn court disguised as the princess.

 • • • 

We rode an hour out of the city without my captors ever naming the place. Even though the city was long gone, for some reason I found it frustrating not knowing if we were traveling toward Lendowyn or away from it. Not that it really mattered. Unlike the popular stories, not every thief is an escape artist. That was a whole separate skill set unto itself. Sure I could pick locks and break in or out of most buildings people would think secure, but use of my hands was sort of a prerequisite. Tie me up and I was pretty useless.

My only chance at this point was to try to talk my way out of it when these guys delivered me to the White Rock Thieves' Guild in Delmark.

In other words, I was doomed.

To all appearance, the guild expected to be handed a con man. And one of the first rules of conning people is never try to con someone who's expecting to be conned.
Especially
someone who's already been conned.

It didn't matter now if I tried to tell them the whole unvarnished truth, the point stood.

About an hour out, the wagon came to a sudden stop.

I heard the horses scream and buck, followed by people shouting incoherently over each other. Then we were off again at a thundering gallop that tried to shake the wagon apart at every bump in the road. Then we slammed into a massive bump—a tree root or a crater in the road—and the wagon bounced up and didn't come down for way too long.

I felt the straw bedding tilt beneath me before the wagon finally slammed down. I was too disoriented to tell where the real ground was, but when we hit I heard a crunch of splintering wood, and everything continued tipping, flinging me out of the top of the wagon.

I tumbled blindly into snow that wasn't quite enough to cushion the blow from slamming into the frozen ground. I rolled downhill until I struck a small tree.

To my surprise, the tree kicked me so I rolled on my back. Through the coarse weave of the burlap, I saw the tree reach down and grab the material. A blade penetrated the burlap, an inch from my face, slitting the burlap from top to bottom. Sudden exposure to the frigid air made me appreciative of the weak protection the burlap sack had provided. I sucked in a breath and the cold stabbed like a knife. My lungs spasmed with nostalgia for warm mold and weevil dust. As I coughed into the gag in my mouth, the tree stared down at me.

He wore elaborately tooled black leather armor and a mask that covered the lower half of his face, half in leather and half in black cloth. Where the mouth should have been, my tree had an eye painted in a shade slightly less black.

The tree did not look like part of Weasel's crew.

He said, “You are a hard man to find.”

“Not hard enough,” I mumbled incoherently into the gag.

Mr. Tree raised his head and turned toward the actual trees surrounding us. He let out a high-pitched whistle that, I suspected, was to alert his compatriots that he had found his quarry, which given the circumstances, I assumed was yours truly—or, more accurately, the Snake gentleman whom I had displaced.

I began to suspect that Snake may have gotten the better side of my alcoholic decision-making skills.

Mr. Tree whistled again, and that proved to be once too many. Instead of alerting whatever allies he had in the forest, it apparently alerted one of Weasel's men, because a large black crossbow bolt sprouted from the man's shoulder just below the collarbone. His hand jerked, dropping his dagger on my chest—hilt-first fortunately—and he let loose with a litany of curses in a language I didn't understand as he dove for cover behind a fallen tree larger than he was.

I heard more whistles, short and long, and I saw shadows moving through the trees to the left and right.

I didn't pay much attention to the sound of fighting around me. Weasel's men had made one mistake. They had tied my hands at the wrists in front of me. It had been pure laziness on their part, not rolling me over on the bed to tie them behind me. But that error put the fallen dagger in my reach.

I might not be a professional escape artist, but put a dagger in my hand and I can fake it pretty well.

Once I cut my bonds I rolled out of the bag, toward the cover of the forest and away from the remains of the wagon where most of the sounds came from. I got to my feet halfway toward the densest part of the woods, and a bolt sprouted from a tree next to me.

I ran.

By all rights, I shouldn't have been able to escape a pitched battle by running stark naked into the woods. However, it seemed Weasel's crew was more interested in fighting the guys in leather armor than they were in keeping me. At least I hope that was why the one leather-armored guy between me and the woods got a quarrel in the face. The other option was that it had been just too hard to hit a running target at that distance.

I was lucky.

Not really.

The last time I got displaced from my body, into the princess, I had found myself in a similar situation. Back then I had also found myself running off into the woods away from hostile people who wanted me—or who they thought I was—for less than pleasant reasons. But there were three very significant differences.

Last time had been midsummer. Last time had been daylight. And last time I'd been clothed. My feet were already growing numb from the cold, and blundering through the dark I had already lost my sense of direction.

It was a measure of how bad things were that I found myself wishing Sir Forsythe was around. Say what you want about him, he had given me a ride the last time I was stuck alone in the forest. Of course, that time I was a princess in distress. This time I was a naked thief covered in blood that was mostly not my own—blood already freezing to my skin.

I stopped running because I was out of earshot from the battle.

“Another bad idea,” I whispered to myself in a puff of fog. My muscles shuddered in the frigid air. Every small breeze felt like a knife flaying my skin. I probably only had a few more minutes before the cold finished me off.

I slowly turned around, trying to get my bearings. I needed some sign of civilization, a cave where I could take shelter, a sleeping bear that I could cut the skin off . . .

I wasn't thinking clearly anymore.

I turned around slowly, squinting into the woods. Everything looked the same. So much so that I wasn't quite sure when I had made a complete turn. I hugged myself and shivered. I knew it was the cold, but I felt a wave of fatigue wash over me.

I had to get moving again, if only to buy myself a few extra minutes.

But what direction?

I turned around again, not even opening my eyes, when I smelled something.

Smoke.

My eyes shot open, and I ran in the direction of the smell, against the wind. Smoke meant fire, and fire meant a place that might be warm enough to keep me from dying.

 • • • 

The smoke came from a large campfire. I emerged from the woods and ran right up to it, feeling the cold melt away from my skin in waves of agonizing pins and needles. I held my arms up, and had to pull back because the stench told me I was close enough to scorch the hair on them.

I turned around slowly so that each part of my body could face the fire as I squinted, looking for who it belonged to. At first I didn't see anyone. I saw logs drawn up to the fire, footprints, and a trio of tents that appeared empty.

I peered into the dark interior of one, wondering how likely it was that I could steal some winter clothing before everyone came back.

It wasn't more than a thought before I heard the crunch of a footstep. I spun around, afraid that either Weasel or one of his leather-clad opponents had chased me down.

Neither was the case, unless one side or the other had gotten into the habit of employing teenage girls.

“D-Don't you move,” she said while pointing a shaking dagger in my direction. I exhaled a little, relieved that I wasn't about to experience a reprise of Weasel and company. The girl was maybe fourteen, it was hard to tell because she wore oversize clothes that had been made for a guy about twice her size.

But they looked warm.

“Okay,” I said. “I'm not moving.” I wasn't really that inclined to move. I had spent long enough out in the cold. Until I had something to wear, I was happy to stay right where I was, next to the fire.

“You're n-naked,” she stammered.

“You're observant.”

“W-why are you naked?”

“Long story. Can you put down the dagger?”

“P-put down yours.”

I glanced down and saw I was still armed. I sighed. I decided that, even with the dagger, the way she was shaking, she wasn't really a threat.

“Fair enough,” I said and tossed my dagger down to thunk upright in a log next to the campfire.

The girl straightened and said, “That's better.” The stammer and shaking were suddenly gone, and she asked again, “So why are you naked?”

After the sudden change in demeanor I thought,
Oh, you're good. Your dad's watching us from the trees with a crossbow, isn't he?

“Because the guys who kidnapped me didn't let me get dressed first,” I answered her. She reminded me a bit of a younger Lucille—the human version. I wondered if it was because she was a pale blonde with her hair tied back, or because she was beginning to annoy me.

As I spoke, I saw that I was only half right. There
had
been someone covering for my little con artist, but it wasn't her dad. Five girls emerged from the woods around the campfire, most no older than the girl facing me. The youngest may have been twelve or thirteen, the oldest could have been sixteen, or a tall fifteen. They all wore similarly ill-designed clothes that, despite alterations, were obviously meant for men of a much bigger stature. Though their clothes seemed to have been modified to the point where their movement wasn't affected.

The girl with the dagger gestured at the tall one, a lanky redhead who was apparently in the midst of a growth spurt, giving her the best-fitting clothes. Red ran up and pulled my dagger from the log next to me. Red gave me a sidelong glance as she did so. She blushed, unnecessarily reminding me I was naked.

Apparently the girl with the dagger was in charge.

I might have tried to stop Red, but one of the other girls, a dark-skinned fourteen-year-old with hair braided tightly to her scalp, had a crossbow pointed in my direction. I questioned whether someone that size could successfully wield a crossbow, but it didn't seem prudent to put that question to a practical test.

Once Red had retreated with my dagger, Fearless Leader asked me, “You were kidnapped? You worth a ransom?”

“More like a price on my head.”

The youngest one, whose tight-curled hair was a shade between Red and Fearless Leader, frowned at me. “You hurt, mister?”

“Don't worry, it's not my blood.”

Everyone withdrew from me and huddled around Fearless Leader, though the crossbow stayed pointed in my direction. I got more sidelong glances at my nakedness that probably should have embarrassed me, if it wasn't for the fact I still felt disconnected from this body.

As they whispered things to each other, I got a good look at all of them. Six in all, outfitted with outsize garments and weapons. It made sense since there wasn't a booming market in chain mail and swords fitted for fourteen-year-old girls.

But, however large the garments had been, they had all been carefully altered. The alterations were rough, but skillful enough to suggest they'd been wearing this kind of thing for some time. All of them had some sort of weapon, and either had their hair tied or cut back. One of the girls had her hair cut so short that, if it wasn't for the context, I probably would have taken her for a slightly effeminate boy.

All of them had a lean and weathered look suggesting they'd been out here a while.

Their leader wasn't the obvious one. Any group of youngsters will invariably hand leadership to the biggest and most physically powerful. That's the way kids' minds worked. It took some maturity, and some experience, to hand the reins over to the most qualified to hold them. This group had been through something, multiple somethings, and the blonde with the vanishing stutter had been the one to get them through.

Fearless Leader pointed toward one of the tents, and a pair of girls ran off toward it, going around the side of the campfire opposite me.

“I seen it before, Grace.” I turned my attention back to the main group because someone, Red, had raised her voice. All was not paradise in girltopia.

Fearless Leader, who was apparently named Grace, had sheathed her own dagger and was examining mine, turning it over in her hands. “I know, but they don't move this far north,” she said.

“Not less someone pays them,” Red responded.

“You think he . . .” Grace pointed the dagger in my direction and everyone turned their heads toward me. I had the sudden intuition that this might not be a good thing.

The two girls returned carrying boots, a cloak, a linen shirt, and a pair of breeches. No undergarments, but I wasn't choosy at this point, and I didn't know where these came from anyway. I tried a gracious, “Thank you,” and a small bow toward them, and they both scurried away, giggling.

The conversation between Grace and Red continued in less audible tones, and I dressed myself. I tried to ignore the two bloodstained holes in the shirt.

After a bit longer, Grace broke ranks and walked up to me, holding my dagger. She stood just out of reach and held it up between us so that the elaborately engraved hilt reflected the campfire.

“So,” she asked, “can you explain why a naked man is armed with a dagger belonging to the Assassins' Guild of Sanhom City?”

I shrugged. “The prior owner didn't need it anymore.”

“You were kidnapped by the Assassins' Guild?”

“Not quite.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I was
kidnapped
by a group of thugs working for the White Rock Thieves' Guild out of Delmark. They were ambushed.”

“By the Assassins' Guild?”

“By the dagger guy and his friends. We weren't properly introduced. I was busy removing myself from—”

“What you have to do with White Rock?”
The redhead's shout interrupted my dialogue with Grace. The girl with the crossbow pointed it right at me. As she sighted down it, I got to view a long scar along the left side of her face.

Grace spun around and said, “Mary! No!”

“Have him say what he has to do with White Rock!” Mary spoke through clenched teeth. She was so tense I could almost see her muscles vibrating under her altered leather. “Now!”

“Mary! Remember the rules!”

“But—”

“We all agreed.”

Mary took a deep breath.

Grace turned to the girl with the crossbow. “Laya?”

The crossbow lowered a fraction. As I watched her I noticed an accessory that I hadn't before. Laya wore a necklace whose primary component consisted of polished human teeth.

Grace turned back toward me and I saw that she wore similar jewelry. Only hers seemed to consist of finger bones and was a little less obvious.

“What rules?” I asked in a whisper.

Grace whipped the dagger up toward my throat. “Answer her question. Who are you and what do you have to do with White Rock?”

Teenage girls shouldn't be intimidating.

The question also put me in a tough spot. Should I tell her the whole truth? What
was
the truth at this point? I finally hedged and said, “Of late, they've been calling me ‘Snake,' and I think both guilds in Delmark are upset with me at the moment.”

She lowered the dagger and slowly shook her head. She stared at my face, as if she was looking for something.

“Apparently the Assassins of Sanhom as well,” I added.

Everyone stared at me as if I'd announced that I was the Dark Lord Nâtlac. The entire group had fallen silent. Enough that I clearly heard Red whisper,
“You're the Snake?”

Snake's reputation had preceded me again.