'The Glove of Shadows' Chapter Two- Guild Business

Annabelle Deus, in her role as William Deus, renowned Rogue, stepped through the open doorway and into the meeting hall of the Hoods.

Her and Flint’s arrival started a volley of hails and cheers. Several men, and a couple of female agents, shouted above the din, “Oy, William!”

She met and greeted many of them on her way up to the elevated platform at the opposite end of the hall, where she always gave her speeches and handed out members’ assignments.

Stockholm stood ready at his post on the platform as Anna and Flint tried to part the sea of members and agents.

“Clear the way!” Stockholm’s booming command silenced almost the entire crowd, and Pickpockets, Rogues and Strong Arm Thugs made way for their leader and her second, the Guild Prime.

Anna hopped easily up onto the stage.

Flint took one large step up, and the three stood for a moment of silence before the Guild. On Anna’s right, Flint held the post of Prime. On her left, Ignatious Stockholm held the post of Chief. Together, they led and governed this crowd of thieves from day to day, making certain that some semblance of order held.

Anna smiled broadly at nearly two hundred men and women, holding her hands up for their total attention. Their side conversations slowed, and ultimately stopped as she felt a swelling of pride in her bosom. True, theirs may not be a noble profession, but at least the Hoods retained a code of honorable conduct. Nobody got hurt, they didn’t shake down merchants for ‘protection’ money, and they didn’t take from those who had nothing. On rare occasions, these rules were broken, usually by new members of the Guild. That led to disciplinary action, and the Guild Chief’s primary function was to enforce the Hoods’ code of conduct. Stockholm believed in harsh, firm punishment, so most members kept their noses clean.

“All right, ladies and gents, let’s do this quick and get to business,” she began, speaking loudly and directing her voice at the back of the room, where her voice would echo back and around to everyone present. “I’ve got a lot of tasks to assign, paperwork to go through, and oral reports to listen to tonight. First order, of course, is the recitation of the Code of the Hoods. Mr. Stockholm! If you would please do the honors?”

The massive Red Tribe Werewolf took the center stage, clearing his throat audibly. As he opened his mouth to speak, somebody in the audience whispered to his neighbor, and both chuckled just loudly enough to be heard. Stockholm closed his mouth and glared meaningfully in the jokers’ direction. A moment of tension passed as he pulled his lips back just a small bit.

The front row of agents tried to push back away from the stage at that snarl, and Anna thought on the nickname many of them used behind Stockholm’s back: ‘The Red Menace’. She supposed more members feared him than respected him, but Ignatious Stockholm gave good reasons to be afraid of him. She also knew of his kinder nature, the true persona he hid beneath his gruff, battle-worn and tested exterior. She believed she knew a great deal more about him than even he knew, and she intended to keep it that way.

Once more he cleared his throat, and brought his left hand to his forehead in a salute. Every agent in the hall, Flint and Anna included, followed suit.

“These rules I shall vow ne’er to breach,” he began, “as a member of the Hoods! Firstly, I shall never take that which is necessary for survival from those who do not deserve theft! Secondly, I shall never steal from a Hoods brother or sister, for reasons other than jest or official Guild tests of advancement! Thirdly, I shall never cause harm when it can be avoided.”

He continued reciting the rules of the Guild alone. This, Anna had discovered, proved much more efficient than trying to have two hundred men and women repeat every word.

“Fourth, I shall never follow orders blindly. I shall question judgments handed forth that do not seem sound. Fifth, I shall honor and obey the Guild Headmaster,” he said.

Anna nodded, raising her salute hand skyward for a moment.

“The Guild Prime,” Stockholm said, and Flint raised his hand.

“And the Guild Chief,” he said, raising his own hand. “Lastly, I shall do nothing to bring shame, or the authorities down on the Guild!”

The assembled Guild members brought their hands down and stomped their right feet once.

Stockholm stepped back, and took his position on Anna’s left hand side.

Before Flint stepped forward, the Red Tribe had one final statement to make. “Ignatious Stockholm, Guild Chief!”

Flint remained planted to his spot, but raised his head a couple of inches. “Flint Ananham, Guild Prime!” Anna then stepped forward into the center of the stage.

“William Deus, Guild Headmaster to the Hoods!”

Cheers rose up from the crowd, the agents taking heart in once again seeing their leader after a month-long absence. She had popped in from time to time over the weeks, but only infrequently, to take reports from her Prime and Chief. She hadn’t addressed the entire Guild for too long, and they had become dispirited by William Deus’s long absence. Now, the agents all exhibited a sense of energy.

She stepped back and faced her two best men. “Gentlemen, I’ll be in my office. Flint, I’ll see you first for your reports, then you Stocky."

The Red Tribe rolled his eyes and murmured something under his breath.

Anna spun on her heel and stalked off through a second smaller, wooden door to the right of the stage.

“Cheer up, mate,” Flint clapped Stockholm lightly on the back. “He gets to all of us. It’s what makes him great.”

“You know I don’t like that nickname.” He narrowed his eyes as he once again spotted the two agents who fancied themselves comedians. They had spoken out of turn. He would have none of that. “Go on, Flint. I’ve got a couple of smart-asses to flay.”

* * * *

Annabelle Deus made her solitary walk to her office with a certain bounce in her step, one she hadn’t possessed for nearly a month. She opened the door to her office, which appeared to be an ungodly mess.  In truth, however, it remained just as she had left it. What appeared to others as wholly and completely destroyed made total sense to her. She walked easily around the desk to a small wardrobe in the back left corner, and started to take off her tunic top. Before she had it half off, a knock sounded at the door. She hastily pulled the shirt down and called out, “Enter!”

The tip of a brown snout poked through the door, a toothy smile plastered to the owner’s face. Flint slipped into her office and locked the door behind him, doing the chain latch as well. He sauntered up to the chair across from Anna, who took off her tunic shirt and rummaged through her wardrobe for her shears.

“So, tell me about the last few days. Only the big stuff.” She took hold of the shears and cut the straps of her bra.

“Your husband was accosted by a couple of goons at the close of business. I suppose he already told you about that.”

He nearly guffawed with laughter when he saw the trouble Anna was having trying to reach behind her and cut the straps in the back. He got up from the guest seat and came around the desk, taking the shears from her and cutting away the straps just above the tape wraps that held down her breasts. “He came to no harm, and he lost no profits,” he said, returning to his seat and pulling out one of his daggers, cleaning under his nails again. “As for the harm, well, let’s just say one of the fools stuck around and got quite a bit from ol’ Stocky.”

“Yes.” Anna pulled on her shirt once more. “I imagine he taught the goon quite a lesson.” She drew a leather vest from the wardrobe, one she commissioned from a local Alchemist, Jonah Staples.

The young Alchemist constructed the vest with the use of a Focus Site, enhancing its durability through his powers of science.

She did up the zipper, and smiled with satisfaction. It creaked and bent like real leather, but she knew from experimentation that the vest protected her better than iron plate armor. "Stocky mentioned that Lee is here?”

“Yeah, he is ol’ boss.” Flint did not look up from his distraction. “I doubt it’s anything too important, regardless of how he chooses to state the situation. It never is. Although—” he grinned. “—he did get us that job a few months back in the Manor District. That paid off well.”

“Ha ha! Yes it did.” Ann finally took a seat and put her feet up on her desk. “Isn’t that one of Lord Falco’s rings, in fact?” She pointed to Flint’s right hand.

He looked at the solid gold ring and chuckled.

“In any event, he can wait until I get the rest of your and Stocky’s reports. So, what else do you have for me?”

Flint rattled off a few menial reports, promising Anna that he’d have the treasury report ready and on her desk in a couple of days.

She thanked him for the information and discretion, and instructed the friendly Wererat to send in Stockholm on his way out.

Flint opened the door after undoing the locks, and, as expected, found the hulking Red Tribe leaning against the wall outside of her office.

“He’ll see you now, Chief,” he said.

Stockholm glared at him, a hint of pent-up aggression in his fiery, crimson eyes.

Flint hoofed it away from the Red Tribe Werewolf as quickly as his legs could carry him, and Ignatious Stockholm ducked through the doorway and into William Deus’s office.

As soon as Anna saw his lumbering form squeeze through the door, she brought her feet down off of her desk. She didn’t have to—after all, she was the Headmaster of the Hoods, not he. But Stockholm conveyed a heavy aura of power and authority, and always had. As far back as Anna could recall, he always filled the position of Chief. Perhaps, she thought, part of her reaction was still instilled by his once being her superior.

Stockholm stood a couple of feet behind the guest seat and saluted smartly. “Sir, Guild Chief Ignatious Stockholm present,” he announced, taking a deep sniff of the air.

She laughed to herself and relaxed, remembering their positions.

“Sit down, Stocky. And don’t worry, I had Norman construct that chair with you in mind.”

Norman Adwar, one of many Gnomes in the Hoods’ ranks, held the honor of being the Guild’s only scientist, a Tinker without equal in the city.

Stockholm eyeballed the chair with heavy suspicion. The last chair collapsed under his great weight, and he didn’t trust Norman’s engineering in the slightest. He’d seen better in his long years. Still, he shrugged his shoulders and sat easily in the chair.

It held, much to his surprise. He took another sniff of the air.

“Sir, I know I’ve hammered this in as hard as I can, but I still think someone makes your cologne with traces of silver in it,” he said, wrinkling his snout.

“We’ve had this discussion many times, Stocky. I like this scent,” she said, lying through her teeth. When applying the musk cologne, her eyes always watered, and always would.

“One more thing before we get started, sir,” Stockholm shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Could you please refrain from calling me that?” His voice was like an overcast sky. “It’s humiliating.”

“It’s endearing, mister Stockholm.” She leaned forward and planted her elbows on the piles of paperwork that comprised her desktop. “At least, it’s always been meant to be. Now, on to business, Stocky.” She twisted the nickname like a knife in a wound.

Stockholm growled and made a fist, but he dutifully rattled off a slew of oral reports and statistics, handing her matching documentation all the while. When he handed her the last piece of paper, she spun in her chair and opened the top drawer of a filing cabinet clearly marked ‘Stockholm’s reports’. The top drawer she normally kept nearly empty, as it was reserved for those reports she hadn’t read yet. Now, however, she had nearly and inch and a half of papers to stuff in there. She sighed wearily—Stockholm made a great Chief, but sometimes, he was all too thorough. If he ever left the Hoods, he’d make some police captain very happy.

“That’s everything, sir,” he rumbled, getting up to leave.

Before he got to the door, Anna remembered a standard question.

“Wait, Stocky. Any disciplinary problems?”

The Red Tribe turned around and gave her one of his trademark grins, the kind that turned lesser men’s intestines to gelatin.

“Three of them, sir. The Saurenson boys tried to break into Styge’s room without permission. When we found them, they were about four clicks south of the city. They thought they were being chased by a pack of Dreadnaughts, sir.”

Ah, Styge, Anna thought.

“The Saurensons. They’re the triplets that joined near the end of last month, aren’t they?”

Stockholm nodded, mercifully dropping his smile.

“So they don’t know the old man’s an Illusionist?”

“No sir. They’re near the end of their time in punishment, so I’ll send Styge to inform them. A little scare should do them some good. Especially from, as they call him, an ‘evil miser of a Necromancer’, sir.”

Anna smiled despite herself.

“See to it, Chief,” she said. “When you find him, by the way, send in Lee Toren. I’ll read your reports while I’m waiting for him, so take your time. And Stockholm?”

Once again, the Red Tribe turned to face his Headmaster.

“Get some rest. I can see the bags under your eyes.” Even canines get bags, she thought, and his fairly drooped. However, he never slept much, so the shapes under his eyes could just be permanent markings now. I’d rather err on the side of caution, she thought.

He nodded his acquiescence, even though she knew that was a load.

“I’ll go and fetch the little pest first, sir,” Stockholm called over his shoulder as he squeezed out of the doorway. He closed the door softly behind him, and once again, Annabelle Deus was left alone in her office.

“Business as usual,” she muttered to herself, taking out one of the Chief’s reports.

* * * *

Flint leaned easily against the wall of the Guild’s taproom, a small, private lounge that the Guild had for its drinking agents. Not all of the Guild’s members drank, but most did, and heavily when they saw an opportunity. The Wererat was no exception. He seldom actually sat down, keeping his drink on a nearby table, a hand-rolled cigarette in his hand, smoke pluming up out of his snout. A single smoke ring hovered up past his face and he looked down into the face of Lee Toren.

Lee stood nearly four feet in height, large for a member of his Race. But he also maintained a decent girth, much more appropriate for the men of his peoples. He blew another ring after taking a drag of his own cigarette, and smiled widely up at Flint.

“Hey there, little man,” Flint said. “Long time, no see,” he said.

“Oi, ‘ow’s it goin’ me mousy lad?” Lee took a sip of his drink, and set the mug down next to Flint’s.

Before the Wererat could clout him one, the Gnome Pickpocket waved his hands defensively. Flint hated being called a mouse. “Sorry, sorry, I know I shouldn’t ‘ave said it. Just couldn’t resist, ya know? Anyhow, when’s Will gonna see me?”

“Oh, I imagine he’ll send Stocky after you shortly.” Flint took another pull of his drink. “How’s things been for you? Seen or heard from Amon lately?”

“No.” Lee held a drag of his smoke for a long moment, then puffed out four little rings, each smaller than the last. “Ran into his nephew not long back, though. Gave him a little help as was needed at the toim.”

Tiberious Amon, Flint thought. Thirty or so years had gone by since Flint and Lee had helped the crippled Khan get to a safe location in the southern lands. “Why you ask?”

“Oh, just making conversation. Figured I may as well, seeing as you’re about to be hauled out of here.” Flint caught Stockholm’s scent from down the hall. The taproom had no door to maintain an environment of privacy, because nobody thought it necessary to lock up a taproom in a hidden sewer-based compound. People tended to get loud when they drank anyway, and every drunkard likes to have an audience, Anna reasoned. However, she also had plans to install a vault door and implement the taproom as a last resort refuge.

“Hauled out? By whom, exactly?” Lee grinned smugly. His harsh laughter echoed through the room until he saw a streak of crimson fur approaching down the hallway, towards the taproom.

“Oh Gods,” he whispered, almost to himself. Stockholm had never much cared for Lee, and the Gnome Pickpocket knew it. Everybody knew it, because Stockholm never held back his opinions of people. Lee had essentially been branded ever since he’d barged into the Chief’s private chambers one evening. Without knocking, Lee amended mentally, because that had been the biggest problem. That alone had created a chasm of a rift between he and the Red Tribe, a rift nobody liked to talk about.

Stockholm fairly exploded into the room, but Lee got lucky for a moment. Stockholm’s attention turned immediately to one of the female agents at the bar, and instead of laying right in to the Gnome, he stalked up to the woman.

The taproom fell deathly quiet, like a funeral parlor.

Stockholm barged up to the bar, and snatched the girl’s hand up in his own huge paw. “What the hells do you think you’re doing,” he growled at the stunned young Human woman.

“I was just having a glass of wine,” she blurted, tears welling behind her eyes.

For the first time, Lee noticed a slight bulge in the front of the woman’s shirt. “It’s nothing,” she almost whispered.

“It’s not nothing, Sara,” Stockholm growled, pulling her off of her stool as gently as he could without losing his grip on her wrist. “You are not allowed drink, remember? Get to the infirmary right now, young lady. We’ll discuss appropriate punishment later!”

He growled menacingly, turning to face the current server. “As for you…”

The Wererat tending the taproom bar shrank back as far as he could against the racks of booze.

“You and I shall have a little man-to-man in a few minutes. I have something else to tend to first.” He left the Wererat to sweat and seriously consider his immediate future.

Lee thought with a grimace, he doesn’t have one!

Stockholm approached him slowly, easily. He tried to keep his temper in check, because for once, Lee wasn’t the one doing something stupid, or unwelcome.

“Lee Toren,” Stockholm rumbled, towering over the Gnome at an impressive seven and a half feet in height. “William wishes to see you. Now,” he said, letting the word hang there for a moment, daring the Pickpocket to make any kind of wisecrack.

Discretion, Lee recalled someone saying, is the better part of valor. “Yes, of course.” He put his smoke out in the available ashtray near his drink. “I’ll just pop on over there. Good seeing you, Flint,” he said, heading for the hallway.

Flint watched him go for a minute before he turned back to the Chief. “You know, you terrify him.”

“Comes with the job.” Stockholm snatched the cigarette out of Flint’s mouth and stubbing it hastily in the ashtray.

Flint raised an eyebrow at his red-furred cohort.

“It’s a disgusting habit,” Stockholm said without looking at Flint. “Now, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bit of discipline to administer. If you don’t mind?”

Flint shook his head slightly, and Stockholm threw him a salute. “Prime,” he said.

Flint returned the salute half-heartedly. Best to humor the woof-dog, he thought.

“Chief,” he said, and watched as Stockholm leaped over the bar from a running start, landing heavily on the Wererat barkeep.

* * * *

Away from Stockholm, Lee’s attention turned to the news he had for William Deus. Excited, he burst into his office without knocking, flying into the seat across from the Hoods’ Headmaster, watching the thief’s eyes widen with surprise as Lee landed in the chair.

“Oi, Will! How’s things?”

Anna looked at the Gnome, noticing the vague signs of age that had marked his bushy beard since last she’d seen him.

A Gnome’s beard grows naturally white, and only darkens when they get to their upper years. Spots of brown and black peppered Lee’s scraggly facial hair now, present when they had not been a few years before. Smile lines formed on his once flush face, the yellowish hue of his skin slightly lighter along the lines.

“Just fine, Lee, just fine.” She set aside the report she had been working over from Stockholm, surprised to find that he had started making charts of the pregnant female agents, connecting them to the prospective fathers where and when he could. No Guild rules restricted such relationships, and it appeared, from the nature of the reports, that the Chief was trying to make certain none of the fathers tried to shirk their responsibilities. When a father was confirmed, Stockholm filed the necessary forms and made requests for her to approve of a transfer of Guild wages. Fathers had a portion of their monthly cut taken out and given to the expecting mothers. She’d already signed off on twelve of these forms.

“Will, have I got big news fer you.” Lee broke Anna’s drifting train of thought. “You’re never gonna’ believe this!”

“You’re right,” she said bluntly. “I probably won’t.” She knew Lee had a penchant for exaggeration.

     “I’ve got this informant, roit? Human fellah, name of Townshend,” Lee began.

Anna found herself paying attention immediately. Lee may not be very honest, but his informants always got paid well for their services, and never withheld anything from the Gnome Pickpocket. Not when the pay was as good as it was.

Lee continued by telling Anna, or rather William as he thought her to be, about Townshend’s allegiance to a Paladin by the name of Reynaldi. Townshend had related the events of the Paladin’s escapade into the ruins of a guild outpost of some sort, and his discovery of the fabled Glove of Shadows.

This discovery sent Anna reeling. The Glove of Shadows. The mere name blazed a familiar tingle in her thieving fingertips. Oh, what an artifact! The Glove allowed anybody to take whatever they wanted, and somehow nobody knew anything had happened when the Glove was used. The Glove stood as all thieves’ Holy Grail, an object so profoundly useful, in the right hands, that whoever might have it could honestly proclaim themselves the best thief in all the lands. With it, she would be the undisputed king of thieves. And it now sat in the hands of a Paladin.

“He told me that Reynaldi intends to find a way to destroy it, Will! We can’t let that happen!”

“No—no we can’t.” Anna’s mind raced to formulate a plan. With the glove in their hands, the petty wars between guilds could be ended. “Lee, did anybody else hear this informant of yours?”

“Well, yeah.” Lee looked away from Anna, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I was in a tavern in Vershak, south of ‘ere, when he rushed in to tell me. One of me mates was sharin’ a friendly drink wif me, and he’s sort of in our field of expertise, Will. ‘E took the information, er, elsewhere in the city.”

A twinge of fear streaked up Anna’s spine.

“Oh no.” She sighed deeply. “He didn’t, did he? Please tell me he didn’t.”

“He did, Will. He’s gonna sell off the info to the Midnight Suns.”

Anna ground her teeth and sat back in her chair, mulling over anew her hastily formed plans. The Midnight Suns, she thought. Those bastards’ll take his information and kill him. The Midnight Suns resided chiefly in Desanadron—the Hoods’ rival thieves guild. Their organization consisted mostly of Ninjas, Strong Arm Thugs and mercenaries of several other Classes. They employed the most brutal tactics of theft, resorting to armed mugging and outright murder to attain coinage for the Sons. Their Headmaster, a Black Draconus by the name of Thaddeus Fly, came directly from the Obura Clan of Ninjas in the southeast of Tamalaria. Anna had had a few scraps with the dangerous martial artist, coming away with many more wounds than she ever inflicted.

The Midnight Suns also resorted to a time-honored Ninja tradition for the bulk of their business—assassination. They killed the target without fail, sure, but they often left everyone else in the immediate vicinity a corpse as well. Anna despised their methods and their ways, but she knew they were capable and highly skilled at what they did.

“So, they’re going to know about the Glove, too. Well…” she put her chin on her palm. “That’s just great. Fly will no doubt get ready to set out after our good Mr. Reynaldi as soon as he finds out. Thank you, Lee. Send Flint in when you find him, but don’t be taking off.” Pulling open one of the lower drawers of her desk, she heavily thumped down four small sacks on her desk, and looked from the sacks to Lee.

The Gnome’s eyes had glossed over with greed.

“Advance payment for your help, my friend. You’ll be coming along with us.”

'The Glove of Shadows' Chapter One- The Deus Family

Annabelle Deus, called Anna by her friends and loved ones, strolled easily from the Gnome-engineered gas stove to her seat at the kitchen table. In an hour or so, her husband, Harold, would be home from the market where he sold his simple wares and homemade jewelry in order to hold up his end of expenses.

As she sat, she wondered how safe he was. The city of Desanadron treated all of its residents the same—meaning that everybody ran the risk of being assaulted or mugged on a daily basis. If you owned a business, you most likely paid protection money to somebody. And you knew who would be attacked at your front door if they crossed into unwelcome territory.

Resident gangs, Guilds, and individual bullies made up a good quarter of the city’s population. Harold, being a simple, naive kind of fellow, a trait she’d always loved in him, simply didn’t hold with the idea of paying for a bodyguard. He didn’t feel he should have to pay anybody in order to have a successful business, except of course the tax collection agents. In addition, Harold believed that a smile and a civil tone could take care of any situation.

Anna knew different, but she allowed her doting husband his thoughts on the matter. After all, she thought with a smile, the ‘boys’ are keeping an eye on him.

A timer in the kitchen went “ding,” and she slowly stood. “Better get to those potatoes.”

She moved with a speed and grace through her kitchen that spoke of a very domestic sort of woman. Strangely enough, few men ever realized that a woman moving like Anna through a kitchen, looked a good deal like an agile fighter on a battlefield. “The boys will take care of things.”

* * * *

Harold Deus pored over the small notebook he used to keep track of his sales. His long, pencil-like pointer finger ran down the sheets item by item, the total price of the product kept next to a running total.

None of his merchandise sold for much—Harold came from a long line of merchants who never got a building for themselves due to something they kept in their hearts. That particular thing happened to be called integrity, a term mostly foreign to the tongues of businessmen in Tamalaria.

His standing policy was ‘sell for only two times what you paid’. In this way, Harold managed to make just enough money to feel he kept up his end of expenses at home. He wished he could make more, so that his loving wife, Anna, wouldn’t have to put in so much time for the Councilors’ Committee. However, he knew it would be impossible for them to survive on his earnings alone. Between his sales and her earnings, the couple lived comfortably.

Harold put his pencil to the paper on the third page, and re-checked the numbers one final time. “Well, not bad all-in-all,” he said aloud, smiling toothily.

Someone behind and to the left of him cleared their throat meaningfully, sending a small, familiar wave up Harold’s spine.

“Oh no,” he whispered to himself, swallowing hard as he turned around to face the throat-clearer.

Before him two men stood, dressed in the simple, tattered clothes of folk whose lives have been supported by the earnings of others. The shorter of the two, a Human, leaned on Harold’s cart with a small knife in his left hand. He cut a slice off of a green apple and popped it into his mouth. His hair, kept under a blue cloth bandana, crept out on the sides of the rag in curls of oily black.

While the Human’s demeanor caused Harold to swallow hard and think of escape, the other gentleman, the one looming over the merchant’s miniscule frame, made him want to scream.

Standing easily at around seven feet in height, the man had the blue skin and the faint stench of a Jaft. Looking up, Harold spied the craggy face and bald head typical of the Jaft Race. He also noted the standard curved, serrated short sword hanging limply from the Jaft’s hip.

He noted the details absently as he wondered how to talk his way out of being mugged.

Behind the Jaft’s massive frame, Harold saw the Human, his long, black sleeves blurring with the speed of his movements, pocket something from Harold’s cart.

He thought over the inventory of his cart, and realized that one of his most expensive items, a bracelet made of pure gold, had been hung from one of the hooks at that end of the cart.

“Um, ah, ha ha, that’s six gold pieces, um, sir.” He pointed at the Human goon around the Jaft’s left side.

Huge, gnarled hands found purchase in Harold’s tunic shirt, hoisting him against his own cart.

He hit with an audible ‘thud’, the wind wheezing out of him so roughly his vision blanked for a moment. Then he found himself once again looking into the Jaft’s cliff-like face, the brows knitted tightly in barely contained violence. The difference was in perspective. Now he was held in front of and over the Jaft’s head.

“Um, then again, you look like you’re good for it, sir,” he murmured rather lamely.

“Glad to see ye be thinkin’ straight, bucko.” The Human thief chuckled. He tossed the half-eaten apple aside, and produced the bracelet from his shirtsleeve, eyeballing it carefully. His moustache curled up along with his lip as he grinned at the jewelry piece. The trinket may have been labeled six gold pieces, but it could be pawned for twice as much.

His day’s work done, the thief turned to his right and prepared to saunter away.

He managed two steps, not looking up from the bracelet, before he bumped headlong into a well-toned chest covered in thick, crimson fur. Those chest muscles tensed visibly in front of his eyes, and a deep, primal growl escaped the throat of the creature before the thief.

Looking up from his treasure, the Human spotted the thin straps of the open-chest vest worn by the Red Tribe Werewolf, a simple patch on its right side.

The patch indicated that the hulking Werewolf was a member of the Hoods, one of the two large thieves’ Guilds in the city of Desanadron.

“Here now, I think I’ll just, ah, put this back,” he managed, placing the bracelet back on its ring hook.

“What the fuck’re you talking about?” The Jaft turned his head slightly to look at his companion.

For a moment, the Jaft felt a tiny, tiny impulse to drop the merchant in his hands and run. An animalistic instinct screamed from the pits of evolution at him, flee now!

Whereas most of the humanoid Races tend to listen to such warnings from within, the Jaft Race still lacked a great deal of civilization and enlightenment. They looked at such instincts as a sign of weakness, and no Jaft worth his weight in salt showed weakness.

“He’s a Hood, Jeff.” The Jaft’s partner backed away from the Red Tribe Werewolf.

Jeff laughed scornfully, dropped Harold roughly to the ground and squared his body towards the Werewolf.

“So what? He doesn’t look like much of a thief to me!”

“I’m not.” The Werewolf cracked his huge, knobby knuckles.

The sound reminded the Human thief of the noise his brother’s spine had made when he had fallen off the roof of their house a few years back. Certain doom surely followed that sort of noise.

“I’m just an enforcer. You will leave, or you will pay for the bracelet, if you want it. If you opt to do neither, then I shall visit great bodily harm upon you.” The Werewolf, let his arms hang limply at his sides. His fingers twitched and curled, his whole body resonating an aura of terrible violence.

Having seen and heard too much for his own taste, the Human thief turned and put as much distance as he could between himself and what would surely soon erupt into a battlefield.

Disgusted by his partner’s lack of spine, and the fact that the Werewolf didn’t seem at all intimidated by him, the Jaft loosed a battle roar and charged his opponent, lowering his head and putting his right shoulder forward.

Hmph, the Werewolf thought. Such pathetic form, even for an amateur.

As the Jaft connected with his bull-tackle, the Red Tribe shifted his weight, wrapping his left arm around the Jaft’s head and throwing his lower body out.

The combined weight and momentum resulted in a roughneck, wrestling maneuver commonly known as a DDT—the Jaft’s face hit the cobblestone street at high speed.

As soon as the Werewolf sprang off of him, he got to his hands and knees, spitting out a shower of teeth and blood. Jeff wobbled a bit as he got to his feet, only to find that his opponent had already assumed a fighting stance.

“You’re good.” The Jaft put his own hands up and approached cautiously.

“You’re not,” the Werewolf retorted.

Damn him, Jeff thought. How can he be so calm?

He lunged forward, throwing a jab-cross combination that the Werewolf easily patted and blocked aside.

He’s mocking me! He threw a volley of wild, roundhouse punches, each knocked aside more forcefully than the last.

Finally, the Red Tribe Werewolf made his own offensive move. The crimson combatant shuffled forward, throwing a low-line kick at Jeff’s shins.

The Jaft saw it coming and moved his hands down to block. But there was no force behind the blow—a feint?

The Werewolf whipped his leg up from the forced block, crashing his muscular lower leg into the side of the Jaft’s head. The impact made a noise similar to raw meat smacking against a metal slab.

As the Jaft tottered back and forth, stars flaring in front of his eyes, the Werewolf shuffled forward and launched a vicious jab-cross-uppercut combination that broke the Jaft’s jaw and fractured his faceplate.

His vision blurring to darkness, the Jaft toppled over onto the street, bleeding and battered.

Harold, who had been watching the fight in stunned silence, clapped along with the crowd that had assembled. In Desanadron, it doesn’t take much to make the mob stand up and take notice. The Red Tribe, barely breathing heavy, glared down at his fallen opponent.

To Harold, and the crowd, which included several merchants who had already been shaken down by the two bandits, he was a hero. To the city guards, his display might make him seem a menace. Before Harold could even thank the man, the Werewolf was off and running. Within a few minutes, he was out of sight.

* * * *

The Red Tribe Werewolf darted down side streets and alleyways until at last he planted his feet in the dirt and skidded to a halt a few feet away from a suspicious-looking Wererat. The Wererat wore the black leathers and belts typical of a man of his profession, looking part road agent and part pirate. He leaned easily against the back wall of a tavern, one leg crossed over the other, cleaning his long claws with a thin dagger.

The Werewolf looked at the ground, and found the Wererat’s tracks had only been made a minute or two before his own.

“Real nice of you to help out.” The Werewolf cracked his neck. “Remind me again why you came along, Flint.” He addressed the Wererat in a low growl of thunder.

Flint chuckled softly, shaking his head and letting the point of the dagger droop until it pointed at the Red Tribe Werewolf like an accusation.

“Mostly to keep an eye on you, Stockholm.” Flint smiled as only rats can smile.

Ignatious Stockholm didn’t care much for Flint’s mannerisms, which always seemed to indicate that he was laughing at you.

“You seemed to have the situation under control, in any case,” Flint returned his attention to his nails. “I just came along to keep an eye on your temper.”

Stockholm harrumphed loudly. He stalked past Flint with a sort of dangerous, militant swagger that had become second nature to the burly Red Tribe.

“Come on, Flint,” he said over his shoulder, stopping just a few yards shy of the street.

Stockholm knelt and grabbed hold of a sewer access grate in the alley—one of the many forgotten ones that nobody seemed to notice, even when they stepped right over them. The only people who felt the grate to be of any importance tended to come from the tavern Flint had been leaning against. Most of those individuals found it made an ideal puking spot. “We’ve got to get back to the Guild hall and make ready for the meeting. William’s coming back this evening, and I’d rather the place wasn’t in total chaos.”

Flint shrugged his shoulders, pocketed his knife, and followed the massive Werewolf down the access ladder, and into the sewers.

* * * *

Anna had just placed their plates on the kitchen table when Harold, opened the front door with a loud grunt and heave on the heavy wood.

“Sweetie!” She ran into the living room and launched herself at him.

Harold caught her mid-air, spinning her as best he could for a moment before setting her down and giving her a deep kiss.

“Your timing, as always, is excellent dear! I just got dinner on the table,” she said.

Harold looked into the kitchen, where she had set their dishes and lit two candles, dimming down the rest of the lighting in the kitchen. The scene held a romantic quality, one that reminded Harold of his wife’s obligations.

“You’ve got another big conference, don’t you?” He looked into his wife’s eyes.

Anna’s smile dropped off a little, but she simply nodded and led her husband into the kitchen by the hand.

“I understand, dear. Being a Councilor’s advisor has a lot of responsibility attached to it.” Harold beamed at his lovely wife. Some folks tended to describe her as handsome, a term that Harold usually assumed should only be reserved for men. But sometimes, just sometimes, she reminded him of her brother, William Deus. So perhaps handsome would be a proper term.

Husband and wife took seats across from one another at the small kitchen table, Harold waiting to push in his wife’s chair before taking off his overcoat and seating himself. He sighed heavily, having had a rough end of business earlier, and having to practically drag their donkey, Mr. Pibble, through the streets. The ornery animal had been a present from the Merchants’ Guild of Desanadron when Harold had joined their ranks the year before, and he couldn’t have been happier at first. Using Mr. Pibble to haul the cart from the Deus residence to the marketplace and back had made things much easier the first few days he owned the beast. After a month, Harold had managed to put some weight on from the meals his wife cooked for him, because he wasn’t burning everything off by dragging the cart himself. However, as animals often do, Mr. Pibble soon developed an attitude. Some days Harold had to drag both beast and cart. Today had been one such day.

“So, how did we do today, hon?” Anna asked before taking her first bite.

Harold stopped his fork halfway to his mouth, trying to think of a graceful way to tell her he’d been accosted and almost robbed. She worried about him terribly sometimes, he knew, and he didn’t like to see Anna upset. He loved the natural smile in her eyes, the way her laughter gave his whole body a weightless feeling. He didn’t want to tell her, but he supposed that, as usual, she’d find out eventually. She’d talk to her Councilor, and he would in turn talk to the city guards. She’d find out, and she’d be furious with him for not telling her.

“Well, dear, we did okay most of the day.” He pulled out his little notebook and read over the figures one more time. “Total profit of eleven gold pieces.”

Anna smiled widely as she chewed her food.

“That’s great. That’s half the month’s rent and one left over. But you do realize you used the qualifier, ‘most’, don’t you?” She gave Harold a sly gaze, and he knew his tongue had, once again, trapped him.

Anna’s own thoughts drifted back on their four happy years of marriage, and the long, dangerous trips that Harold had to make on occasion to Traithrock in the north. He traveled to the Dwarven city in the mountains once every few months for materials to make his jewelry, always coming away with a great deal. She would love to tell him to stop making his trips there, for the road to Traithrock wound through some very dangerous territory, and some day even her own precautions wouldn’t protect him. Anna always provided protection for Harold’s journeys, though he didn’t know. Still, she couldn’t tell him to stop.

Her own line of work took her out of town for weeks at a time, and in two instances since their marriage, months. But every time she returned, it was to a loving husband who accepted the circumstances, regardless of what they might be. Her thoughts doubled back to the present moment, and she waited patiently for Harold to explain what ‘most’ meant, with regard to his day.

“Well, I was doing my calculations, checking the numbers before I closed up for the day…” he delayed the story with mouthfuls of food.

A cheap tactic, Anna thought, but one he’d try until death or divorce did them part.

“I sort of, well, noticed these two fellows—a little Human and a big Jaft. The, ah, Human, well, he tried to pocket one of the bracelets. The six gold ones,” he said, knowing that Anna kept a good track of his inventory. “Well, I told him he’d have to pay for it, and his Jaft friend sort of disagreed, heh heh.” He tried to smile bravely at Anna.

“I see.” She chewed her food meaningfully. “So we’re out six gold?”

“Oh, no, not at all dear.” Harold exploded into details about the Werewolf who had terrorized the Human thief into fleeing. He recounted the fight between the Jaft and the Werewolf, though he carefully left out the bit where he had been hoisted and dropped by the blue-fleshed humanoid.

Anna raised her eyebrows and held them there for a moment, and finally smiled her approval. Yes, she thought, the boys are good at keeping an eye on you, Harold.

“And that’s about it.” He concluded his story and his meal. “Had to fight with Mr. Pibble all the way home, the obnoxious little oaf,” he grumbled, taking his plate to the kitchen sink. “How’re things here?”

Anna put her fork down, hating herself intensely for the continuous lie she had to spoon-feed her husband in a moment.

“I have a conference tonight, Harold,” she said. “The Councilor is most likely going out of town for a few weeks afterward, and he wants me along with the caravan. I’m sorry.” She hung her head in disgust.

Harold smiled warmly at her, however, and the sight of his kindly, gaunt face made her want to break down and cry, tell him everything there was to tell. But she couldn’t, and she knew it.

“Don’t be sorry, dear.” He walked behind her and rubbed her shoulders.

Gods, he’s good at this, she thought.

“Your job is very demanding, sweetheart. I’m frankly surprised you’ve had as much time off lately as you have! No evening sessions for weeks, no trips, no conferences for almost a month. It’s been great having you home every night.” He kissed the top of her head, ruffling her long hair slightly. “Just promise me you’ll do the best you can to come home in a good mood.”

Anna put her left hand over her husband’s right, and almost broke into tears once again. Gods, she hated leaving him.

A familiar, comfortable silence settled over the household then, with Harold going into the den to read one of the used novels he bought from the bookstore every week, and Anna heading to their bedroom to pack. She looked back into the den just once before heading to their room, a single streak of dampness running down her cheek. Stay with it, girl, she told herself. This is the life you chose!

In their room, Anna knelt down beside their bed and pulled her custom-made suitcase out from beneath. A Gnome Tinker friend of hers had built it especially for her, and she rejoiced in having it. She popped the lock and opened a hidden compartment, which in truth made up almost the entire space of the luggage. She checked the contents therein, making certain she had everything she needed.

Length of rope, check, she thought. Throwing knives, lock picks, check.

She heard then the faint creaking of the floorboards in the hallway, and swiftly snapped the compartment shut, her spare dresses and feminine products now the only visible items.

A few seconds later, she let Harold pounce and wrap his arms around her. He’s getting too thin, she thought as she held his arms in place around her. I hope he isn’t getting sick.

“I love you, dear.” Harold rested his head on her shoulder.

“I love you too, Harold. I should only be gone a couple of weeks.” Her words sounded hollow and deceitful to her ears.

“Is that all?” He stood and pulling her up with him.

They faced one another, wrapped lovingly in each other’s arms. He was smiling warmly, though she saw the hint of chagrin in his eyes.

“You’ve been gone much longer than that before. Before we even got married, when we were just living together, do you remember? You were sent out of town for three months! I thought you’d been killed! No thanks to your brother,” he grumbled.

“Now don’t start in with that again, dear.” Anna chided him. “William is simply misunderstood.”

“He’s a bloody thief, Anna! One of the worst in the west.”

Though they often disagreed about her brother William, they never let it get between them. Neither would let go of the other. “I suppose he is family, though. You going to take him more clothes?”

“I may not get a chance to see him,” she replied. Her lies always went unchecked by Harold. He believed her without question. Then again, she thought with a wry smile, most people did. That went with the territory of her profession. “I’ll write you from the road.” She stuffed some men’s clothes into her bag.

Harold rolled his eyes, knowing full well who they were for. Anna may try to say they’d be for the Councilor, but he knew they were for William, in case Anna did get a chance to see her brother.

“You’ll be okay on the road?”

“Of course, dear. The Deus family is a very strong bunch.” She flexed her right arm as best she could. “That’s why you took our name, remember?” She closed the suitcase then and stood up, hoisting it with her. She walked over and gave her husband a long, deep kiss. “I love you Harold.”

“Love you too, dear. I’ll be waiting,” he said.

Together they walked to the front door of their home. She departed without saying another word, both of them understanding that any more good-byes would just make things more difficult.

Harold Deus watched his wife’s back for a long moment before he shut the door, and retired to the den. His books would keep him company until her return.

* * * *

A dark-clad figure darted from alley to alley, keeping to the shadows and away from the known guard patrols. He ducked and dodged around the drunken homeless and their piles of discarded belongings, never staying in any one place long enough for anyone to fix a keen eye on his face. The bandana over his forehead and hair whipped back and forth a bit as he ran, jumping over a refuse bin and kicking off of the wall of a residence to avoid landing on a sleeping dog in the alley.

Stockholm wouldn’t appreciate him landing on a dog, he thought.

A brace of knives rested easily in a belt around the man’s waist, commonplace for members of the Hoods. His Guild waited patiently for his arrival, he knew, but he liked to hustle just a little so as not to wear on Flint’s patience. The Wererat was the figure’s right-hand man, though he lacked the patience of his immediate subordinate, Ignatious Stockholm.

Thoughts of the two men’s clashing styles of leadership propelled the slim, agile man on. He’d hate to think of what might happen if he never came back to keep order over the Guild. The two of them might kill each other. No, he amended, Stockholm would slaughter Flint outright. No contest involved there.

Around a bend in the alley lay the sewer grate that he would drop down through to make his way to the Hoods’ headquarters.

“Time to play the game,” he whispered, throwing the grate open and dropping down in without bothering with the ladder or checking to see if anyone stood in the way. He landed in a crouch, water splashing near him as Stockholm stutter stepped backwards.

“Ye Gods, boss man! Watch where you stick that landing.”

“Cram it, Stocky.” The lithe Human figure he stood up straight and marched forward.

Stockholm fell into step beside him, a torch in his right hand.

“Give me the run-down.”

As they approached the first turn in a series of tunnels, Flint fell silently into step on the Human’s other side.

“Well, it’s been fairly quiet the last five nights. It’d still be nice if our Guild Headmaster put in an appearance more than he does. Hint, hint, William.”

William Deus made a face at his third-in-command as he rumbled on, and Flint clamped one hairy hand over his snout to keep from laughing.

Stockholm curled his lip disapprovingly for a moment before continuing. “Standard operations, essentially. However, our outside advisor friend is here to see you.  He claims it’s urgent.”

William Deus knew, from both Stockholm’s tone and the way he described the friend that the werewolf referred to Lee Toren.

“Lee Toren,” William said aloud, his slightly high-pitched voice rebounding off of the tunnel walls and back at him. William Deus had first worked with the reputed Gnome Pickpocket and self-advertised ‘gentleman’ five years before, when he had been selected as the Hoods’ new Prime by the former Guild Headmaster, Remy Torago. Lee Toren had been contracted on for an expedition to a set of recently uncovered ruins in the northeast, a little beyond the Port of Arcade. The city of Palen at that time sent a group of mages to investigate strange fluctuations of magical energy in the area of the ruins, and they unearthed the entrance to an ancient, underground city. News of the ruins spread quickly throughout Tamalaria.

Most notably, the word circulated around to thieves’ guilds like wildfire. Who knew what treasures lay in wait down there? Remy couldn’t resist sending a team to investigate, and Lee had a reputation across the continent as both a great Pickpocket, and an excellent tomb raider. Remy hired him to lead a group of five of his finest agents into the ruins and filch whatever they could.

William had taken an immediate liking to the quirky Gnome. He proved to be good for a laugh, and competent in his fields. William, Flint, and a handful of others had they plundered the ruins swiftly and profitably. Of course, they hadn’t counted on the mages of Palen posting guards, and a few scuffles had left one man dead and William wounded. The only one among the company who had any first aid knowledge was Flint, and he had learned more about William at that time than any other.

“Yes, Lee Toren, the little trouble maker,” Stockholm grumbled. “William, I know you like him, and I agree that he’s an amusing little fellow. But he’s bad news.”

The trio continued on towards their main lair in relative silence, the squeaking of the occasional rodent filling the air and the splash of sewage into the main ducts filling the air with both sound and scent.

Just before they arrived at the door that would lead to the primary meeting hall, Flint inserted himself between William Deus and Stockholm, taking his boss by the arm.

Stockholm raised a curious eyebrow at the Hoods’ Prime, who smiled winningly at him.

“Just need to have a word with the boss in private fer a tick, heh heh,” he said, hauling William around the corner of an access tunnel.

“Go on ahead without us, Ignatious,” William called out.

A moment later they heard the huge iron door open to admit the Hoods’ Chief, Stockholm’s position.

“All right, Flint. What’s this about,” William whispered, his face scant inches away from the Wererat’s snout in the cramped access tunnel.

Flint looked around, making certain with his eyes and ears that they were in fact alone.

“Still wearing that cheap musk cologne?” he asked his Headmaster. “In case you haven’t thought about that, let me make something plain. The big red woofy-dog we know and love is going to numb up to the silver dust you put in it. I’m not allergic to silver, Werewolves are, but he’s going to numb to it eventually. And when he does, he’ll know.” Flint made another check of the tunnels.

“Oh come off it, Flint,” William said. “Him finding out’s a long way off yet.” Without another word, William headed for the large iron door that would let him into the Guild.

Flint darted around in front of him, smiling his knowing smile.

“Long way off, eh? Not if he sees that strap, sir.”

William looked at his shoulder in dismay, and tucked the blue strap of cloth back under his shirt.

“How d’you forget taking that off before doing the wraps?”

“Look, it’s out of sight now, okay?” William said. “It was a minor slip, Flint. I’ve just gotten back into the routine back home, and at home, without the bra, they sag. It’s not easy, you know. You try cross-dressing for a living, rat.”

“All right, all right, I’m sorry.” Flint waved his hands to keep her quiet. “Let’s just get in there before Stockholm comes looking for us. Okay Anna?”