Trials of a Master Thief: Chapter Two

Despite both its location in one of the shadier parts of the city, and the inauguration that was still going on, the Marquis and Barrel tavern was still occupied by a fair amount of people. This was due in part to the fact that’s its location actually kept away most of the guards, who didn’t want to patrol this far into the warren-like maze of streets that made up the Rogue’s Quarter on a good day, but also because it was as warm and clean as anything on this side of town ever got. The surprisingly good food and cheap ale was only a bonus as far as most of its patrons were concerned.

Lloyd began to relax as soon as he entered the tavern. Lyn moved away from his side to find a seat, muttering something about just wanting her usual order. He approached the counter, waving in greeting to a few faces he recognised. The tavern’s owner Aron Beck, a rather short, compact woman with a love of good food and better stories was gesturing wildly at one of the patrons. Said patron was tall and thin, his dark hair tied back so that it barely brushed the collar of a shirt not unlike Lloyd’s own. He could tell the man was new in town, firstly because of the long, travel worn cloak that concealed most of his form, and secondly because Aron was reciting her, now wildly embellished, tale of how the tavern had been named. He listened, his lips curving upwards, before stepping in. Both Aron and the stranger - dark skin, a thin scar on the left cheek of his aristocratic face beneath the most gorgeous brown eyes he had ever seen - turned to face him.

“Of course, if you want to know what really happened I’m afraid Aron is the last person you want to talk to.” His smirk broadened, reaching his eyes. “If a fight of such epic proportions happened here, she would be cowering in a corner somewhere. I’m afraid that the real tale is much simpler. The Eastwatch Marquis got a little too drunk, tripped over his feet and landed head first in a barrel. The poor man never quite recovered.”

Aron mock-glared at him, waving a finger, pale from too much time indoors, in the air between them. “And how am I supposed to make a name for myself when you make light of my brave deeds?”

“Spare me your precious, wounded, ego for now Aron. I’m more interested in three of your finest drinks and the identity of your friend.” Lloyd’s eyes ran over the stranger a second time.

Sadly the man’s face remained an expressionless mask, although from the movement of his eyes Lloyd could see he was also being sized up. He straightened, frustrated to discover that even at his full height he was still the shorter of the pair by a few inches. Aron coughed in the background, placing three flagons of ale on the somewhat stained counter without spilling so much as a drop of foam.

“He’s Alistair Cantrell. You know, the assassin whose number two on our new Consul’s personal hit list?”

As the pair turned to look at the barkeep, Lloyd decided not to question how Aron seemed to be the first to hear everything that went on in Shorebridge. Cantrell appeared to be following in suit, instead turning his gaze back on Lloyd. “You seem to be familiar with this city. I’m curious to who the so called “Master Thief” currently at number one is.”

“I am.” Lloyd could’ve slapped himself, would’ve if he thought it would stop this juvenile desire to impress Cantrell.

And Cantrell was clearly impressed, even despite the raised eyebrow. “You’ll have to tell me how you managed it. I hate losing, even to a worthy opponent.”

“And would you consider me a worthy opponent?”

“Perhaps.”

Lloyd wished he could master the cool, blank looks that gave nothing away, wished he didn’t blush quite so easily or so obviously, wished he wasn’t currently reliving his awkward adolescence. Fortunately the assassin put him out of his misery. “I do believe your - sister - is waiting for you?”

Lloyd turned to look in the same direction as Cantrell, realizing that he was looking at Lyn. He was about to correct the man when the door swung open, the handle banging into the groove on the wall as Kyden Tobyr swaggered in at the head of his gang of thugs. Lloyd cursed inwardly, using words he was never going to repeat around Lyn, as the city’s most brutal crime lord’s beady eyes swept the room and settled on him.

Tobyr approached leisurely, slinging an arm around Lloyd’s shoulders and pulling him close enough. Lloyd suppressed a shudder as the young crime lord's greasy red hair brushed his neck, and a wince as his voice boomed out uncomfortably close to his ears. He was aware of Cantrell watching the situation with interest and of Aron sidling away behind the bar.

“Lloyd! It’s been too long. Remind me why I’ve made this unforgivable blunder of ignoring such a good friend for so long?” Tobyr’s words oozed menace, and not just from the stench of his breath.

Lloyd kept his voice calm, hoping the man would get bored sooner rather than later. “Neither I, nor my apprentice, appreciated the advances you were making. And I assure you, from where I’m standing it hasn’t been nearly long enough.”

“Oh of course!” Tobyr smirked. “Dear little Lyn. You haven’t lost her, have you? Thieving can be such a dangerous line of work.” He jabbed a meaty finger, adorned with two golden rings in her direction. “No, there she is!”

Lloyd met Tobyr’s eyes, his voice taking on a hint of danger and desperation. “I don’t like where I think you’re going with this. If you’re threatening her…”

“Me? Threatening? I’m just warning you, as a friend. Just like, as a friend, I tracked you down to tell you about the new toll.”

“What bloody toll?” Lloyd’s eyes narrowed.

“The crime toll of course! The one stopping me and my men from handing any known criminals over to the Consul. Don’t worry, as a favour to an old friend I’ll let you off the hook this time. But I’m afraid I can’t make the same exceptions for everyone.” He snapped his fingers, signalling for a couple of his men to approach Lyn.

Lloyd surged forward, his fist connecting with the crime lord’s chin. It was like punching a brick wall. A living, breathing brick wall that was very capable of holding grudges. Tobyr drew back his own fist, sending Lloyd flying backwards when he hit him. The thief’s head hit the counter and he slid to the floor. Get up, get Lyn, get out, he told himself, struggling to return to his feet.

He had barely moved to the side when another patron came flying through the air, slamming against the counter in the same place that he had. As soon as he had checked that the man, he thought it was a man, was still breathing he stumbled onwards, snatching up a chair that he held in front of him like a shield as he tried to push his way through the crowd to where he had last seen Lyn.

He could hear Aron yelling on his right as she held off two of Tobyr’s gang with a frying pan, could vaguely see a shape that he assumed to be Cantrell moving through the crowd as if this was all a familiar dance to him. And there, there was a small, dark haired figure standing on a table and kicking a man who tried to grab her in the face. He felt a surge of pride, then despair at how far away she was.

“Clear out! Clear out now!” Tobyr’s voice cut through the fog as the man ran from the bar, his gang following close behind.

Lloyd launched himself forward, determined to smash the chair over Tobyr’s head if it was the last thing he did. He hissed as someone grabbed it, prying his hands off and tossing it away. “Calm down. She’s fine for now, but Tobyr only left because the guard are on their way. We need to get out of here, unless you want a private chat with the Consul.”

He must have been taking too long to respond, because he suddenly found himself being lifted off the ground. He cried out indignantly even as the bar spun before his eyes. “I’m going to kill you Cantrell. I’m going to bloody kill you.”

The assassin chuckled, a deep, rich sound. “When you’re not fighting a head injury you’re welcome to try.” And with that the man fled the bar followed, Lloyd hoped, by Lyn.

He ran over badly paved streets that bounced Lloyd’s head up and down, around sharp corners that scraped against his arms and legs. Evidently he wasn’t used to carrying a living human. Lloyd almost considered asking him to just dump him on the ground and leave him for the Consul, anything to make his head stop aching and his vision stop blurring. As if the gods could read his thoughts he felt the first drops of rain land on his back.

Finally they stopped, in yet another shady alleyway. The assassin deposited Lloyd back on his feet, propping him against a wall. He promptly, in a move that he was going to regret later, leaned forwards and emptied the contents of his stomach over Cantrell’s boots. Gathering the strength to turn away he pressed on arm against the rough brick of the wall, resting his weight on it as he dry-heaved for a while. Two sets of concerned brown eyes watched him. He groaned between coughs. “Kill me now.”