'The Glove of Shadows' Chapter Eleven- Setup

Ten hours after the rest of the company had settled into the apartment, Ignatious Stockholm stepped through the door for the first time. He hadn’t learned much from his only remaining contact in Ja-Wen, an aging Human mercenary who went by the name of Crash.

Crash only knew that the Elven Paladin, Reynaldi, had a home in the northern residential districts, and that he didn’t often frequent it.

A brief stop over to the Department of Taxation and Collections yielded the precise address of Reynaldi’s home, and when Stockholm sped to the property to check on it, he found a palatial estate, spread over at least ten acres of property on the very edge of the city’s limits. Security officers patrolled the grounds back and forth.

Using the utmost stealth and silence, he’d gone around and knocked every one of them out before making his way in to the manor proper. Inside, Reynaldi had the home immaculately cleaned, and decorated with paintings and relics from another age. “Impressive,” he’d whispered to the empty corridors.

Moving through the manor, he came upon several bedchambers, dining rooms, studies, and an otherwise empty room in which only stood a single chair with leather straps all over it. The Red Tribe warrior moved into this room, the smell of old, dried blood lingering lightly on the air. Had he not been possessed of such a keen nose, he never would have noticed the scent, but being a Werewolf had its advantages. A brief look around the room revealed nothing, but a second glance at the northern wall, opposite the door, showed Stockholm a single brick that appeared to jut slightly from the wall.

“Hello Mr. Obvious,” he muttered, quickly pushing the brick in.

He heard a sharp click behind the wall, and panels slid aside in front of him, revealing a keen looking set of ‘interrogation tools’.

Rust and caked blood covered them—they clearly had been unused for some years.

Stockholm took down a belt from its hook, a long leather affair with sharpened screws set throughout its length. He set his rucksack down in front of him, and stuffed the belt inside among his travel supplies. Always good to have negative evidence on hand.

He pushed the brick trigger again, and the panels slid closed. Exiting the room, Stockholm took a brief look up and down the hallway. The hardwood floors shone with fresh polish, the scent of the natural oils used on them only a day or two old. He looked back into the stone torture chamber, and cocked an eyebrow at it. The manor, for the most part, was crafted lovingly with hardwoods and basic Elven carpentry. Why then, he wondered, would the place have a stone-hewn chamber for interrogation?

Up to the second floor he crept, silent as the best of sneak thieves. His massive frame moved gently and easily, and he found the master bedroom across from the top of the steps leading up. He opened the door slowly, noting with discomfort the way the hinges squeaked and rattled. The chamber within was lavish, decorated with fine watercolor paintings and tapestries depicting the history of Tamalaria. He moved slowly to one wall, noting the certificates of award and medals hung with pride. None of this, however, interested him too deeply. He had come looking for clues, and found little outside of the strange room downstairs.

“Pay dirt,” he whispered to himself when he spotted the filing cabinet set in the corner to his left, on the far side of the four-poster bed.

Pulling the top drawer open, he found a daunting amount of paperwork packed into the drawer—each file labeled in fine Elven handwriting. Thankfully, Reynaldi had written everything in his people’s native script—one of many languages Stockholm had learned over the centuries of his life.

He walked his fingers along the tabs of the files, finally finding the file labeled Real Estate. He tugged the file out, opened the folder, and found a brief history of Reynaldi’s property. The previous owner had been one Arthur Digbut, a Dwarven Soldier and a Captain in the Ja-Wen police department. He had installed the stone ‘briefing room’ on the first floor after purchasing the manor from the city.

“Well, no big surprise there,” Stockholm muttered, moving on down the line.

The upper drawer revealed nothing else of interest to him. The lower drawer was much less packed with files, though there was still plenty of paperwork in there. One file, entitled Assignments, caught his eye. He pulled it out and opened it on his lap in front of him.

“Bingo.”

Archibald Reynaldi kept his assignment papers—apparently as a matter of record keeping. His latest appointment had been to Fort Stone, four days’ travel to the north of Ja-Wen on foot.

“We’ll be seeing you soon, Mr. Reynaldi.” He tucked the two folders into his bag and left the manor behind him.

Now he stood turned the files over to Flint and Anna as he dropped his bag to the floor next to the door.

“Cozy setup,” he said, looking at the two recliners currently being used as beds by the two Gnomes of the company. The furniture all had a secondhand appearance, the scent of wood rot settled into the square card table dominating the center of the room. Flint and Styge sat at opposite sides of it, a deck of cards set between them. Anna handed one of the files to Flint, who set it down at the empty third seat. Stockholm seated himself opposite it, at the fourth chair.

“Cozy? Not exactly what I call cozy, pup.” Styge stared at the pair of kings in his hand. “There’s only the one bed in the back bedroom, and the couch in the study. Course, those two can sleep just about anywhere.” He craned his head towards the slumbering Gnomes. He laid down his hand, and Flint set down a full house, raking the copper pieces over toward his side of the table.

“Enough of this.” Flint packed the cards into a neat pile. “You should get some sleep old man. I’m gonna play a game of Pokchi with old red here.” The Wererat pulled out the board and its other components.

Stockholm replaced Styge at the table, and the elderly Illusionist walked back to the bedroom. Stockholm smiled appreciatively as the Wererat set up the game, dealing the cards with a practiced whip of the wrist.

“Flint—the file,” Anna said.

Flint looked over at the file, and the Wererat looked at her with tired eyes.

“Another time, boss,” he said. “I’m just going to play this game, and nip off to bed.”

Anna didn’t blame him for being tired. It was late in the evening, and they all felt fatigued from using the Alchemical transportation.

She took the file from the card table, and moved off into the study to read through the contents within. The handwriting was in Elvish, a language she couldn’t read, but Stockholm had spent a fair amount of his time out at the local library, translating the files into Common. She set herself gently down on the couch, the cushion squashing to the form of her buttocks and thighs.

Anna got up from the couch before she started reading the first file, the one on Reynaldi’s home, and locked the study door against intrusion. She opened her vest, and the shirt underneath, draping them both over the back of the couch, and set to work unwrapping her breasts. Her chest hurt from spending so much time bundled up, and she needed to get some proper air.

The last of the wrapping fell away, and she sighed deeply, letting her breasts free. “Gods I needed this,” she said to the room at large.

She opened the file on the manor, and skimmed the contents as Stockholm had inscribed them in his frustratingly neat script. Nothing too interesting, she thought, though Stockholm had included a description of the torture chamber that the file laughingly called an interview room. She completed reading the file, and then turned over to the other one. Within were Reynaldi’s Fort assignments—missions he had undertaken in service to the Order, and his instruction records, naming the various decorated officers who had been instructed by the Elven Paladin when they had first joined the Order’s ranks. The only name that caught her attention was Christopher Hayes, son of James, who was now a Cleric in the Order.

She flipped to the last page of translation, and read what she could find on Fort Stone.

One of the largest Forts in Tamalaria, it stood as the training grounds for every Knight in the Order. If Reynaldi holed up there, it would be nearly impossible for them to get at the Glove of Shadows. Of course, Stockholm and Flint could probably get in under false pretenses, and Anna’s true talents would work wonders for her.

Anna’s most useful tool in the Rogue line of work was her ability to forge documents. Put a pen or a quill in her hand and give her some parchment, and she could provide proof that you were the next king of Zombowan, if that were really a kingdom. Give her enough time and some blank leather bound books, and she could provide a history of said kingdom, placing some little village smack in the center of the territory. It was her gift, a talent she had honed while reading the exploits of James Colt, learning from his methods. She could easily provide Stockholm and Flint with paperwork that would declare them and herself as new trainees to the Order. But it would still he highly risky, and she wasn’t sure she dared enter the belly of the beast.

Anna stretched out on the couch, trying to get herself comfortable. The place was too warm, that was the problem, she thought. She got up and sauntered over to the window, throwing it open. An unbidden memory danced across her mind’s eye as a chilly breeze blew across her bare front. Her mother had stood this same way in front of her bedroom window, luring customers from the streets below with the silent promise of a close-up view of her ample chest. Anna shuffled back to the couch, and stretched out, letting the cool air fill the study. After a few minutes, she fell asleep.

* * * *

Flint struck up his third cigarette since they began their first game of Pokchi. He was down twenty points, but he still had a jack of spades in his hand, available for a counterstrike should Stockholm use a strike move again. He exhaled a plume of smoke, and looked at Stockholm’s stoic countenance.

“So, Will told you his big secret, eh?” The Wererat saw the trace of a twitch in the big man’s cheek, and he grinned despite his position in the game. Oh how I love making you feel awkward you big lummox, he thought.

“Indeed.” The Red Tribesman moved a defensive piece on the board and laid down a five of hearts. He bolstered his defensive unit’s strike power, preparing for an attack from Flint’s side of the board.

Clever, the Wererat thought, his mind only half on the game. He was very tired, and wanted desperately to sleep, but he’d have to wait until either Styge or Anna left their respective resting places.

“It doesn’t change anything, you know,” Stockholm said, looking Flint in the eyes.

“Not for us, anyway.” Flint positioned an offensive unit two spots from Stockholm’s recently moved defenders. “Might make a big difference if any of the regulars found out, though.”

Stockholm watched dispassionately as Flint laid down a two of clubs, using a ranged attack. His defenders survived, but only with a few life points left.

“It shouldn’t matter.” The big warrior darted a look at the slumbering gnomes. “William is William, and he’s the Headmaster. His, secret, as it were, shouldn’t even enter into considerations. Why would it?”

“There’s a lot of the old boys back home as wouldn’t care for it, you know.” Flint cursed himself as Stockholm moved an attacker into range of his command unit. “They would revolt.”

“Let them try.” Stockholm’s upper lip curled back slightly to reveal blade-like teeth. “I cherish my position in the Guild and am happy to serve for as long as I am wanted or needed. But let them try to bring harm on her head. There won’t be a Guild if there’s no living agents to populate it.”

Flint inched away from the table, and watched as Stockholm brought the game to a close with a final strike, depleting Flint’s command unit of life points and further expanding his points lead.

“Well, you win.” Flint packed up the game.

Styge came out of the back bedroom, and Flint checked his timepiece. He’d been playing for four hours, and it was now two in the morning. “Well, good night Chief. I’m going to get myself some shut eye.”

As he was about pass Stockholm, the Hoods’ Chief lashed out and grasped him by the wrist, hard, drawing him so they were snout to snout.

Styge excused himself and moved off into the small kitchen of the apartment.

“What’s wrong Ignatious?”

“You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?” Stockholm whispered, low and faint.

Flint’s eyes widened at the murderous glare in those deep eyes, and he shook his head no.

“Good. If you do, I will not hesitate to crush you, Flint. You’re a good ally, and one of my few friends. I’d hate to have to hurt you.”

Rubbing his sore wrist, the Wererat made his way back to the single bed occupying the bedroom, and lay down. He was asleep in seconds.

* * * *

The trail led Thaddeus Fly and his company to a squat cottage near the eastern fringes of the Allenian Hills region. Trent had reported that the tracks led onward, but Fly wanted to check the place out before moving forward. Some trace of the Paladin’s presence might give them a better idea what sort of man they would be attempting to steal from.

The cottage was a one-floor ranch-style affair, crafted almost entirely of wood. This came as no surprise to the Black Draconus, as Elves and Humans seemed to prefer wooden homes to those made of brick or stone.

Trent probed the doorframe at the front of building, searching for traps set to deter intruders. He shook his head, and Fly kicked the door open, admitting the company into a small living room.

Fly, Trent and Lain entered the abode, leaving Rage and Akimaru outside as sentries. Fly didn’t want to be interrupted, and if they were seen inside the building, he didn’t want witnesses. He ordered Rage to crush anyone who tried to enter without his permission.

He took in the living room, his eyes passing over the various bookcases, display cases, and coffee table adornments. The place had a lived-in feeling to it—a feeling confirmed when a voice cried out, from the hallway leading back to a bedroom, “Who the hell are you people?”

Fly stood bolt upright, staring down the hall at a gruff-looking Human, who Fly assessed immediately as a Soldier.

“Building code inspectors.” Lain smiled warmly at the man, who was only clothed from the waist down. He wore tattered greaves over black tunic pants, and his heavy, armored boots thudded on the floorboards as he tentatively stepped toward them. “We were just passing through the area, making sure everyone’s prepared for the oncoming storm,” she lied.

“What storm?” The man stopped about halfway down the hall.

Fly and Trent exchanged quick shrugs out of eyesight, watching with interest as Lain dealt with the situation.

“I don’t know much about it, but one of the local shamans came to our offices a little south of here the other day, said there was a big rainstorm coming,” she said. “You can go outside and ask him, while we check the building structure and interior.”

Fly watched, dumbfounded, as the Human walked to the front door, intent on speaking to the shaman. As soon as the man stepped outside, a huge green hand grabbed him by the head and twisted. There was sharp, sickening snap of his neck, and he fell back through the doorway.

“There, taken care of,” Lain said with a curtsy to Fly and Trent.

The Human Ninja clapped his hands sarcastically.

“Very well done, yes, certainly less trouble than just letting me stab him in the face,” he said.

“Less mess to clean up,” Fly interjected, defending Lain’s course of action.

She smiled bemusedly at Trent as he glowered at her, and the two of them then followed Fly through the rest of the cottage. The only thing of interest they found was a pair of bracers emblazoned with the symbol of Oun.

“Take them out to Akimaru. He may be able to glean something from them,” Fly said.

Trent gave him a curious look, to which Fly said nothing.

Outside, Trent handed the bracers to the white clad Ninja, who grasped them tightly and closed his eyes. A stiff breeze blew across the company, accompanied by the howls of strange creatures far to the north.

Trent watched with measured interest as Akimaru’s head bobbed a little from side to side.

Finally, the Ninja’s eyes opened, and he handed the bracers back to Trent. “They weren’t Reynaldi’s,” he said flatly. “They belonged to a member of his group—a Knight by the name of Salvo. He was not with Reynaldi when he took the Glove. He was waiting here for his lord’s return. The man we just killed was his younger brother, a Soldier in training to become a Knight for the Order of Oun. His name was Roderick. The Knight, not the younger brother,” Akimaru added.

“How do you know that?” Trent asked.

Akimaru simply held the bracers toward Trent.

The Human Ninja took them, and almost dropped them right away. They were as cold as ice. “Answer me Akimaru!”

“No,” Fly ejaculated. “There’s no need to explain anything, Akimaru. Trent, a word if you would.” Fly grabbed Markus by the collar of his tunic and dragged him about twenty yards away. Trent smacked his hand away and wheeled on him, his eyes aglow with fury.

“How dare you treat me like a childling?” Markus Trent hollered right in Fly’s face. “Why do you not force him to explain himself? Why do you know he can do the things he does, and what the fuck is he?”

Before he could fume further, Fly slapped him hard across the cheek, stunning him into silence.

“Know your place, Markus Trent! All things will be explained, in time.” He faced away from Trent. “I owe you as much of an explanation as I can give you. I don’t know all of the details myself, Trent.” He turned back towards the Human Ninja. “I only know that I trust Akimaru implicitly. I couldn’t even really tell you why I do.”

Trent let his hatred of Thaddeus Fly sit on a back burner as he listened. “Then tell me just this one thing. What did he just do? Those bracers were cold enough to burn, Fly.”

“Akimaru can sometimes hold an object, and look into the past of its owner. He can decipher certain images in his mind and tell us about what he sees. That’s about the half and whole of it, Trent,” Fly said. “I sometimes get insight from him when I’ve got no leads on a mission. We make use of it when we need to. You’ll have to wait for more information, Trent. For now, let’s get back to the others and get moving. It’s already three in the morning, and I’m not going to sleep in that cottage. We’ll move for a couple more hours and then make camp.”

Fly’s company headed out, still unaware that the Hoods were much closer to their destination than they. Neither did they know that they would soon be walking into a trap not of the Hoods’ design.

* * * *

Anna is thirteen years old again, rummaging through the shelves of a sundry goods store after the owner has locked up and gone home.

She is looking for the blank parchment scrolls, and once she locates them, she begins working her newly mastered craft. She writes a brief letter, and then rolls the scroll over her leg a few times, holding it high over a lit match to artificially age the paper. She rolls the scroll up, and heads back out the store’s back door.

Out in the alley, she tucks the scroll into a back pocket, and makes her way down the darkened pathways. She has lived alone in the streets for three years, scraping and rummaging here and there keep herself alive and relatively healthy. She has grifted and conned her way through life for three whole years. She has nicked people’s goods, their money pouches, and their jewelry. She has struck up a good working relationship with several pawnshop owners, bringing them the property of the rich to sell to the middle class, for which they pay her barely a quarter of the worth of anything she shows them. Still, she gets by on her earnings.

She heads to a small cottage, rented only sporadically throughout the year. She sneaks in through the bedroom window as she has for the last two weeks, and she sleeps until noon the next day.

Upon waking, she finds three constables standing over her, their eyes filled with deep suspicion.

“What are you doing here, girl?” one officer, a sickly looking Elf, asks.

She reaches into her back pocket, and produces the scroll she made night before.

The Elven officer grasps it and opens it, reading over the fine print. “Well, my apologies,” he says. “Everything seems to be in order.”

She thinks she has pulled a good one on them. She is in for a huge surprise.

“Let me see that,” an unfamiliar voice says behind the officers.

They part the way, and Anna sees the owner of the cottage, the landlord. She is in deep shit, but can do nothing about it. She stands her ground, however, because there’s nothing else she can do.

The owner, a Wererat with coarse, black hair all over, smiles impishly. “You know, I can’t believe I forgot about this girl. Her father paid me the rent, that’s why she’s here. He’ll be along in a few days, right young miss?”

She looks into the Wererat’s eyes, and sees a hidden laugh. She nods mutely, and watches the officers saunter off. As soon as they are out of earshot, the Wererat approaches her, putting one heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Why did you do that? You could have had them arrest me. This is your property, after all.”

“Aye.” He pats her on the shoulder. “And this…” he hands her the scroll. “This is one of the finest forgeries I’ve ever seen, girlie. Most girls aren’t quite so talented with this line of work.” He looks down at her, and ruffles her hair lightly. “How old are you, girl?”

“Thirteen, sir.” She’s suddenly very uncomfortable with the smile he gives her.

“Hmm,” he says, rubbing his long lower jaw. “You’re pretty scrawny, kid, but you’re quite talented. I’ll tell you what. You need this place as a lay around?”

She nods.

“All right, I’ll make you a deal. You got any other talents related to this sort of thing?”

Again, she simply nods, and his smile broadens. “Don’t just stand there mutely shaking your head, young one. Tell me what you can do.”

Anna pulls a single piece of mythril, shaped like a coin. The landlord’s eyes go wide, and he snatches it from between her fingers. “When did you take this?”

“When you had your hand on my shoulder.” She fully expects to be struck, or hauled over his shoulder and taken to the police. Neither occurs, however. He smiles again, and tosses her the disk of metal.

“Do that again around town, and give me ten percent of everything you make in a week. You know how to figure numbers, girl?”

She nods.

“Then we have a deal. Now, we shake on it.” He extends a hairy hand.

At first, she hesitates, and he draws the hand back a little. “Don’t shake if you’ve any intentions of stiffing me, my dear. There’s a such thing as honor among thieves.”

“You’re a thief?”

“How do you think I made the money to get into real estate? Now, shake my hand, or take yourself elsewhere, orphan.”

She shakes his hand, and he leaves her standing there, in the cottage bedroom, alone. It is how she will spend the next two years—alone.

* * * *

Stockholm played blackjack with Styge at the card table for an hour after Flint headed to bed. The old miser finally got up, and headed over to one of the recliners. Stockholm checked the door of the apartment, and saw that it wasn’t completely closed, and Lee Toren was not present.

The Red Tribe warrior racked his back, slumping off toward the study. He was about to curl up on the couch, but he remembered that Anna was in there. “Oh well,” he mumbled aloud. “Guess it’s the floor for me.” He turned the knob, which didn’t budge. She’d locked it, of course. But locked or not, he was going in.

Stockholm gripped the knob and turned it, hard, splintering the tumblers inside. He stepped inside, pushing the door shut behind him.

No candles lit the room, and Anna left the overhead light off. She had never been big on electrical lighting.

Stockholm took his weapons off, setting them down next to the door and walking around the couch. He glanced at Anna’s sleeping form, and fairly yelped as he stumbled back, landing flat on his ass.

Anna grunted, and opened her eyes dreamily. “Hm? Oh, Stocky.”

Stockholm suppressed a genuine laugh.

“What?”

“Um, let’s just say I think it’s cold in here,” he said.

“I thought your fur kept you pretty well insulated, she said, her head still filled with memories.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he said, pointing at her bare chest. “My guess of the room temperature is based on your glass cutters.”

She looked down and stared at her hardened nipples, standing on end in the cold air of the room. She hurriedly wrapped herself up, and pulled on her undershirt.

“Asshole,” she grumbled as he snickered. “I’m lying back down now. No dogs on the furniture, you know.”

He morphed into the form of a wolf, padded a circle next to the couch, and lay down to sleep.

* * * *

Morning brought with it sunlight, and in the eastern provinces of Tamalaria, the first snowfall of the year. Anna and her company closed windows throughout the apartment, secured their cold weather garb, and each member went about their day’s business.

At breakfast, Anna had announced that they would take this day to fully prepare for the trip to Fort Stone in the north.

At dawn the following day, they would depart from Ja-Wen and make their way to the Order of Oun outpost, and find Archibald Reynaldi, or someone who knew where the Elven Paladin was.

After their breakfast meeting, Anna and Flint headed to a church dedicated to the worship of Oun in the northwestern area of the city. A thin, cold coat of snow covered the streets and buildings of the city around them, keeping many of the residents inside for the day. The winters in the eastern provinces never threatened for long periods, and they were not harsh as they were in the north and in the west. Anna looked up into the gray thunderheads hovering in the sky, each holding the promise of frostbite.

“You know, back home, this sort of weather isn’t due for another four months,” Flint said to her, bringing her attention back to the streets. “Kind of frightening, in a way. Without the Alchemy boy back in Desanadron, we’d have been marching and jogging for a week straight, and we still might not have been here.” He watched a pair of Wererats dart into an alley after eyeballing him for a long minute.

“Think about it this way, Flint,” she said. “At least Fly and his band of merry men will be that much farther behind us.”

“Maybe not,” Flint said, attempting to strike a match to light his cigarette. A brief arctic gust snuffed it, and the next three, out.

“It’s a sign from the gods,” she joked.

“Yeah, and it’s saying to get a Gnome lighter,” Flint grumbled. He finally got one to keep a flame, and inhaled on his smoke. “You think they’ll be offended if I don’t put this out before going in?” he asked as they turned toward the front of the church.

Potted plants, resting on the steps leading up to the central double doors, whipped this way and that in the wind, the snow already covering most of their green shoots.

Anna bent down and grabbed two of the pots by their arched handles, hoisting them up.

“One good turn deserves another, Prime,” she said, motioning her head meaningfully to the other two plants. Flint shrugged his shoulders, stuck the cigarette in one corner of his mouth, and hauled the plants up. The two Hoods ascended the steps swiftly, and Flint set one of the plants down long enough to open one of the double doors long enough to prop it open with his posterior.

“Remind me why we’re visiting this church,” he said.

“It’s a church of Oun, and it’s the closest city to Fort Stone, if you don’t count a couple of villages and hamlets on the way.” She stepped through the door, into a warm antechamber. She set the plants down on one of two benches facing each other on the left and right walls of the room, and Flint set his down opposite, stubbing out his cigarette in the dirt. “Reynaldi more than likely visits now and again to recruit parishioners into the Order. We can ask whatever priest lives here about him.”

Flint grunted, uncomfortable with the whole idea. Still, he followed her when she opened the inner door to the church, stepping into a sweeping cathedral-style chamber.

The pews on either side of the room stretched from the center aisle almost to the eastern and western walls, dominating the chamber with their sturdy cherry wood construction. The scent of jasmine flowed through the air, incense sticks burning on plates set at the end of each set of seats.

Support pillars rose at even intervals throughout the chamber, solid concrete rounded and engraved with the various runes indicative of the followers of Oun. And down the aisle, carried by the acoustics of the building’s structure, a single low murmur could be heard, a priest in prayer and contemplation.

Anna and Flint saw a single Half-Elf man, kneeling at the end of the aisle, his hands clasped in front of him.

Anna deciphered his Race from the point of his ears, and the long, silver hair on his head. She thumped her boots on the thick carpeting of the aisle, hoping the preacher would hear her approach before she and Flint were too close for his comfort. The Wererat tried to stomp, but as usual, his furry, bare feet simply touched the carpet without effect.

“I heard you at the door.” The aging Half-Elf rose and turning to face them, a benign smile lighting his sylvan features. “Please, tell me how I might better help you, Mr., ah?”

Anna cleared her throat and graced the preacher with her most winning smile, flashing her pearly white, perfect teeth.

“Mr. Deus,” she said, and bowed. “And my associate is Mr. Flint.” She let Flint take his bow. “We’re actually here to ask about a man you may well know from the north.”

The preacher raised an eyebrow, and motioned for them to follow him to his office.

A plain white oak door was set in the wall behind and to the side of the lectern, at which the father gave sermons to the faithful.

The office they entered was quaint, with a lived-in feeling. Anna’s suspicions were confirmed by the sight of a fold-up cot set in the far corner from the door, behind the preacher’s desk. A humble elm desk made years before the father purchased it looked worn and faded.

“So, you are searching for a man,” asked the preacher.

“Indeed. Myself and Mr. Flint have been looking for him for a while, as we have received word from a close friend of ours that he has located an artifact of some great interest to the magical community.” Anna’s choice of words held enough of the truth to be believable. In the father’s eyes, though, she saw a natural distrust of anyone he didn’t recognize from a congregation.

He must have been a real man of the community of Ja-Wen, she thought, a man with strong ties to the area. This could go either way.

“And this, artifact…” the preacher said, pulling a jug of water from the floor on his side of the desk, pouring a glass for himself. “What exactly is it? What does it do?”

“We aren’t at liberty to divulge that, father,” Flint interjected. “We’ve come to confirm or disconfirm its authenticity. There are certain mage councils that would pay a hefty donation to the church if we were able to secure the artifact for their study.” The Wererat gave a leering smile, which the preacher returned in kind.

“Well, the church of Oun can always use donations and benefactors,” the preacher said slowly, carefully. “Very well.” He sipped of his water. “Who is it you’re looking for, Mr. Deus?”

“Archibald Reynaldi,” Anna replied.

The air around her turned suddenly very cold, and the father’s smile faded swiftly.

“Lord Reynaldi is presently at Fort Stone, to the north of the city, past Sharase. The artifact he has in his possession is the Glove of Shadows,” the preacher said with plain disgust. “It is an artifact coveted by thieves and brigands, Mr. Deus. I don’t know why Lord Reynaldi would keep such a thing around, but I am confident he will destroy the accursed thing,” the father said. “I am sorry, Mr. Deus, Mr. Flint, but I do not believe the council that sent you will be able to inspect the object.” The father rose and extending a hand toward Anna and Flint.

Anna shook his hand.  “Thank you for your time, father. I just have another question or two.”

The preacher nodded, but said nothing further. He looked at Flint, who shook his hand and left the office, slamming the door behind him angrily.

Anna, confused, looked at the door, wondering what had gone unspoken between her Prime and this preacher.

“Father, may I ask what just happened here?”

“You have my sincerest apologies, Mr. Deus,” the preacher said, seating himself and taking another sip of water. “I detest people of Mr. Flint’s species.” He smiled warmly at her, and she recognized the cold sensation she’d felt a minute before. Wererats, for the most part, were natural thieves, and seldom broke away from this stigma. Some became Soldiers, a few trained in the arts of magic, and a very rare handful even became Clerics of one religion or another. But on the whole, the world viewed them as highwaymen and thieves.

“You’re a racist, in other words,” she growled at the preacher, whose smile didn’t fade in the least. “Pompous, altar licking prick.” She shoved herself up from her chair. Before she stormed out of the room, she turned to face the preacher one last time, and she saw that his smile hadn’t faded. “You know, it’s people like you who cause real misery, father. You preach the word of Oun, and you listen to confessions and condemn people for not following your ways, but I know something about your precious religion that you seem to have forgotten.”

“And I suppose you are going to tell me that, Mr. Deus?”

“I will. ’There is no man in the world who is not deserving of mighty Oun’s grace’. For a Half-Elf, your studies don’t seem so thorough.”

“I suspect there are exceptions.  I also suspect that a man with your reputation for skullduggery and theft is rather a poor example of a person who is in any position to speak on moral matters.  I have heard of you, Mr. Deus.  I frankly have to wonder what sort of terrible parentage you had as a child to become such a man as you are, and mighty Oun condemns such louts as easily as he does men who make their livings by pilfering from others.”

She hocked an enormous wad of phlegm at the preacher.

It struck him squarely on the cheek, but he made no move to clean it. She left the office, slamming the door behind her almost as hard as Flint had.

Together, the Hoods’ Headmaster and Prime left the church.

In his office, the preacher took a cloth rag from his desk and wiped away the spit on his face before he turned to the closet behind him, which creaked open slowly.

“Do you know who that was,” the voice of the woman in the closet inquired.

“I do,” the preacher replied. “Your description of him was almost perfect. And you say they’re going to try to steal the Glove of Shadows from Lord Reynaldi?”

“Indeed,” said the disembodied voice. Though the closet door closed, the preacher could still discern no visible owner of the voice. The priest only knew that he could faintly detect the woman’s presence. “And William Deus is a convincing Rogue, father. Make certain that Reynaldi is warned against him.”

“I will.” The preacher pulled a blank piece of parchment his desk, and dipped his quill in an inkwell.

The window of his office opened, letting in a small gust of early winter wind and snow.

He closed the window and wrote his letter to Lord Archibald Reynaldi, then opened the closet again, drawing out his messenger pigeon.

He looked over the other letter on his desk, tucked carefully under his Oun Bible, and wondered again about the strange, invisible woman who had come to visit him.

The letter warned of the coming of a second group of thieves, led by a Black Draconus.

He also wondered why the two groups were traveling separately.

* * * *

Markus Trent smiled ear to ear as Teresa Evergreen reported that the deed had been done.

The Midnight Suns were still four days’ travel from Fort Stone, and Thaddeus Fly seemed impatient to arrive and take the Glove of Shadows.

Early in the morning, Teresa had made contact, informing Trent that she had followed Toren to an Alchemy shop owned by one Jonah Staples. The Staples boy had used the power of Alchemy to send the Hoods and, unwittingly, Teresa, to Ja-Wen. If Trent advised Fly to change course toward the city, they would arrive in three days’ time, and be able to confront Deus and his men.

Instead, Trent realized he could use his knowledge of the situation to his advantage. The Glove of Shadows would be best off in his own personal possession, after all, and if he could manage to get rid of Fly and the others as well, so much the better! Teresa, he thought, waiting for her to respond.

I’m listening, love.

Locate a church of Oun in Ja-Wen, and contact whoever’s there. Write a letter warning him or her of our approach to Fort Stone, but leave me out of the descriptions. Warn them as well of William Deus and his cronies, Trent thought, concentrating as hard as he could to keep his message in his head. Thaddeus Fly would surely kill him on the spot if he knew of the betrayal the Human Ninja planned.

I understand, Markus. Anything else?

Yes. A smug grin formed on his lips. When Fly and the others are arrested, get into the Fort and follow Reynaldi. He’ll lead you to the Glove of Shadows. Take possession of it, and bring it to me.

Where will you be, love?

I’ll be in Ja-Wen, of course, he replied in his mind. Trent loped ahead to Fly, and asked that he be allowed to detach from the group, to make certain that the Paladin wasn’t hiding out in the city.

“Go ahead, Markus,” Fly said with a hint of suspicion. “You’re not scared of the Order, are you?”

Trent badly wanted to wipe the shit-eating grin off Fly’s scaled face.

“No, Headmaster. I just want to cover all of our bases.”

That had been four hours before, at noon. Now, in mid-afternoon, Trent led the way still along a hilly path through the plains just south of the Allenians. He wouldn’t part from their company for a few hours off, but he was anxious to put distance between himself and Fly. The Black Draconus had given him permission to part ways, but the longer he remained with the group, the more likely it seemed that Fly would send one of the others with him. Rage would stay with Fly, because the Orc couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag. And if Lain were sent with him, Rage would sulk about it until Fly agreed to let him go as well. Which, of course, Trent thought with a hint of chagrin, left Akimaru.

The footpath down which he led the company all the way to marshland through which Fly intended to take the Midnight Suns. It could be bypassed with an extra day and a half of travel to the south.

Perhaps, Trent mused, I should take this as an early jump off point. He waited for the rest of the company to catch up.

When they did, Trent pointed south of the marshlands. “I may as well make my way around. I’ll be closer to Ja-Wen in any event.”

Fly nodded and pulled a sutra from his pack.

“Take this.” He handed the small scroll to Markus Trent, still avoiding looking the other Ninja in the eyes. “Don’t use it, just keep it on you. When we meet up again, I’ll give you more answers to your questions.” Fly turned his head slowly, meeting Trent’s blue eyes with his own yellow, reptilian eyes.

Trent saw a deep seeded sadness in Fly’s eyes, but ignored it, looking instead for the madness that had made the Black Draconus kill his sensei.

Yet again, he did not find it. For twelve long years that spark had eluded his scrutiny. If he went through with his planned betrayal, he realized, he would never have another opportunity to search for it, and his questions would go unanswered forever.

Still, he’d let go of his questions to rule the Midnight Suns. “Very well, Headmaster. As soon as I find out anything, where shall I meet up with you?”

“There is a village.” Fly signaled Akimaru to lead Lain and Rage toward the marsh ahead. “It is two days north of Ja-Wen, one day south of the Fort. We shall head there, and await your coming or messenger bird. If there are any snags in the city, let us know immediately.” Fly patted Trent roughly on the shoulder and heading after the others.

Trent watched until they disappeared into the lank, dark woods of the marshland. He wiped his shoulder with a rag, as though a leper had touched him. He considered throwing away the sutra that Fly had given him, but instead, he held it up to the sunlight, trying to read the script.

It was written in a language he didn’t know of, but he assumed it was the script of Fly’s people, the Draconus.

He tucked it into one of his various inner pockets, and started south, skirting the marshland woods.

Being alone in the wilderness of Tamalaria was never a good idea, but he knew the region well enough. If he continued south five more days after reaching the southern fringe of the marshes, he could come upon a woodland that stretched all the way south to the shores of the continent. Within those woods was a small village, inhabited by Elves, Humans, and a few Dwarves.

That particular village was only a half hour’s walk to the Obura Ninja Clan. He knew the region he now traveled through because he had often come to these plains and hills, including the marshland, when he was given time away from the clan. Few of creatures lived in the lands he would pass through could pose much of a threat to him. Still, it had been twelve years, and a lot could change in that time—for the better, or for the worse. Twelve years had also hardened him, made him more capable.

As the first of the wintry winds blew past him, he realized that winter would be fully upon the eastern provinces, and he and Fly both would be passing into snow and blustering winds in a couple of days’ time. Shivering slightly, he wrapped his uniform tunic closer to his body, and set off.

* * * *

Lee Toren watched his timepiece patiently, waiting for one o’clock and tapping his feet on the dirt road.

“Tell me again why we’re just standing around here.” Norman Adwar sat on a bench off to one side of the street behind the Gnome Pickpocket.

“I’m standing around, you’re loafing on yer arse.” Lee looked again at the door of the tavern.

A large, rough hewn wooden placard hanging in front of the window announced that happy hour started at one o’clock, afternoon time, and Lee was freezing his balls off waiting for the appointed hour.

As soon as the small hand pointed to the twelve on his timepiece, he shivered and smiled, turning to Norm and signaling with a wave of his hand for the Engineer to follow him in.

The usual suspects sat cloistered in groups at black slate tables the barkeep probably described as ‘comfortable’.

Lee looked at the squat Dwarf, standing on a stool behind the bar to better serve the alcoholics that frequented his particular watering hole. He put a flabby arm around Norm’s shoulders, and pulled him close, whispering conspiratorially in his ear. “Happy hour means drinks is cheaper, mate. Cheaper drinks means looser lips on the customers, and looser lips means better information.”

“Yeah, okay.” Norman’s high-pitched whine of a voice seriously grated on Lee’s nerves. “But what are we trying to find out? I mean, Will and Flint went to a church, and Styge went with Stockholm to pick up supplies for the trip. So what are we trying to learn?”

“We’re going to see if we can find out specific information about Fort Stone. Hard numbers and facts, mate.” Lee shoved Norman easily away, and approached the bar. He hopped up onto one of the stools, graced the red-bearded bartender with a smile and nod, and asked for a whiskey on the rocks.

He plunked down the two copper pieces, happy hour pricing for the drink, then hopped down off of the stool. “Don’t hang about, Norman,” he admonished, taking a swig of his drink. “Get yerself a drink, lest you should stick out loik a sore thumb.”

The Gnome Engineer felt awkward in the smoggy tavern. He didn’t do much drinking, and gods only knew what they put in the booze there. He climbed onto the stool, ordered an ale, and was handed a drink in the grubbiest looking glass the barkeep could lay hands on—of that Norm was certain.

He clambered down off of the stool, muttering to himself, “Germs, germs, germs. Who knows if this stuff is safe to drink?”

Lee headed over to the smokiest corner of the bar, inviting himself to an empty chair at a table where several Jafts and a Cuyotai were playing a game of cards.

Lee looked at the table for a minute, turned his head back to check on Norm, and gave him a small ‘bugger off’ with a wave of his hand.

Norman stood in the middle of the tavern, scanning the customers with a wizened glare, until he spotted a gray furred Werewolf on the other side of the serving bar.

He approached the Werewolf slowly, pulling a small device from his belt.

In the center of the device was a small, black screen, with two buttons above and three switches below. Two long, thin prongs stood out of the top of the device, and he pointed them discreetly at the Werewolf, pressing one of the buttons above the screen.

The words ‘Storm Tribe Werewolf’ blinked on the screen for a moment before Norman pressed the other button above the screen.

The word ‘Knight’ flashed across, replacing the first readout.

He smiled to himself, pleased beyond reason at how well the invention worked, and stuffed it away in its compartment.

Norman walked purposefully up to the Werewolf, and gave him a small wave.

The Storm Tribe Werewolf looked down at him, his pure black eyes ringed with bags either from drink or from lack of sleep.

From the subtle smell of sweat, and the absence of a condensation ring on the table from his mug, Norm concluded that the man must have just come into the bar not long before Lee and himself. The Werewolf wore thick leathers over a chain mail shirt, and nothing over his chain mail pants. “Mind if I sit with you?” Norman asked, his voice quivering only a little.

“Of course, little man,” replied the Werewolf in a tired voice. “It’s always good to have company. So, where do you hail from, Gnome?”

“Desanadron, actually.” Norm grunted as he tried to climb into the Human-scale chair while holding his drink.

The Werewolf grabbed his mug, set it on the table, and let Norm clamber up onto the chair, standing on it so his head poked over the edge of the table.

“You’re a long way from home then, Gnome. What’s your name?”

“Oh, Norman,” He bowed his head slightly to the Storm Tribesman. “Norman Adwar. You?”

“Trebonius Neverfall.” The Werewolf offered a gnarled, heavily scarred hand.

Norm shook it as best he could, leaning over the table, and stood back, taking a swig of his ale. As soon as it was in his mouth, an image of rank seaweed, fermented under a thousand suns, came to mind.

His gag reflex started to speak, but he swallowed the foul booze before it could shout, leaving it no recourse.

“And from the look on your face right now, Norman Adwar, I’d say you don’t do a lot of recreational drinking.” The Werewolf chuckled.

“Not really. Look, I’m not gonna try to be sneaky or underhanded like the gentleman I came in with,” Norman said in a rush of words.

The Storm Tribe Werewolf leaned back in his chair, but remained casual and smiling.

“We’re here for information.”

“Naturally,” replied the Werewolf Knight. “Ask your questions, and I’ll answer them in kind.”

“Thank you very much.” Norm pulled a pad of paper from an inside breast pocket. He clicked open a pen, a simple contraption erected from springs and a small plastic tube filled with ink. The Werewolf stared at it much as he might stare at a bull with the head of a sheep.

“Um, what is that?”

“Oh, this?” Norman held up the pen. “It’s called a pen. Lots of folks use them these days for writing things down. Much more reliable than a pencil, because whereas lead fades after enough time, ink is pretty permanent. So long as it doesn’t get wet, that is,” he added. “Now, Mr. Neverfall, have you ever been to Fort Stone?”

“A few times,” said Neverfall. “My professional occupation sometimes takes me to the Order of Oun, as I’m a soldier of fortune.”

“A mercenary? Aren’t you a Knight?” Norm raised an eyebrow as he realized he’d made a mistake.

“By Class, yes. And by the way, Mr. Adwar,” the Werewolf said after taking a swig of his own drink. “How did you know that?”

Norm held out the device he’d used to scan the Werewolf, trying to explain its functions.

Neverfall waved off his explanation, clearly lost on the subject. “No matter. Yes, I am a Knight, and no, members of the Knight Class don’t typically let themselves become mercenaries. But I’m not much of an adventurer, and I need to make end’s meet, Norman. I have a place here in Ja-Wen, nothing to write home about, but it’s mine. The odd jobs I take pay my rent and buy me food and drink.”

“When was the last time you were there?” Norm’s pen scrawled furiously on the notepaper.

“Couple of weeks past, actually. The Port of Arcade sent a request for an exorcist from Fort Stone two months ago, and advised them to send along some muscle to keep the preacher safe. I was passing by the Fort, asked the guards at the gate if they needed any hired help, and they put me along with the group since they were heading out the next day. There were horses to carry us to Arcade, so the trip was quick, but when we got to Arcade, we discovered that the actual problem was in a recently uncovered set of ruins north of the city. I’d tell you all about it,” the Werewolf said, shuddering slightly. “But I’d just as soon forget.”

“Not to seem too forward, Mr. Neverfall, but I was wondering if you could just tell me what you saw inside the Fort.”

Neverfall described the inside of the Fort to Norman, his details slightly vague, but conveying quite well what the Hoods could expect to see if they got through the front gates.

Norm wrote down everything he could, trying to keep pace, and soon had seven note pages full of information. “Thank you very much, Mr. Neverfall. May the gods bless you wherever you go.”

“And you too, Norman Adwar,” the Werewolf said.

Norm headed over toward Lee Toren, only to find that the Pickpocket was roaring drunk, and about to be tossed out into the snow on his head.

Norman apologized to the barkeep for his friend, paid for the eight drinks Lee had quaffed, and dragged Lee out into the blustering wind.

“Oi, wot’s this,” Lee complained, looking around. “Did they open the windows or somefin’?”

“No, we’re outside, you drunken devil.” Norm helped Lee back toward the apartment. “I got the information we needed, by the way.”

“Did you now?” Lee questioned Norman no further when the Engineer shoved his notebook under his nose. “Oh, so you did. Well, tha’s great, nerd boy, just foin work there.”

He stumbled over a snow-covered rock. “Who the bloody hell puts a rock in the middle of the road loik that?”

“You were on the side of the road, Lee.” Norm helped the bumbling Pickpocket into the apartment, propped him into one of the recliners, and started to review his notes. At last, he thought, I’m making a real contribution to the group.

* * * *

Styge poked at several of the bags Stockholm had tossed in the cart, listening to the horrible little squishing noise coming from within. “What are they, precisely?” He followed the Red Tribe Werewolf down another aisle in the food market.

“They’re called k rations. They’re a civilian knock-off of military MRI pouches,” the lumbering lycanthrope rumbled.

The elderly Illusionist looked up at him, a look on his face meaning ‘I still don’t get it’.

Stockholm sighed. “You tear off the top of the bag, pour a little hot water inside, and shake the bag. Poof, instant meal, elderly one.”

Styge nodded, and gave a little whistle.

“Figure we’ll need to eat on the move a lot, big man?” Styge reached up to one shelf, pulling down a can of beans and throwing it, and three of its brothers, in the cart.

“Probably. I’m not sure why, but I’ve got a funny feeling that Fort Stone isn’t going to be our last stop.” Stockholm read the label of a package of cookies, then set them back on the shelf—only to have Styge drop them in over his shoulder, probably breaking the contents apart inside the cheap plastic wrapping.

He groaned, shaking his head. "Must you?”

“Hey, if you want to have those disgusting sounding rations around, you’ll have to make a few concessions.” The old man waggled his walking stick a little at the Red Tribe Werewolf.

They pushed the cart to the checkout counter where a burly Minotaur tallied up their purchases on a pad of paper with a pencil.

Stockholm paid for the supplies, and divided them into individual bags, so everyone got an even share. The cookies he placed in Styge’s assigned bag, as well as the beans, though he knew Flint would want at least a can to himself.

The foodstuffs purchased, Stockholm and Styge returned to the apartment, giving Norman a queer look after seeing the sad state of Lee Toren.

The Engineer simply shrugged his shoulders and made a little ‘drinky drinky’ motion with his hand.

Stockholm deposited the groceries on the kitchen counter and table, and returned to the living room for a moment. “I’m going back out, Norman. I’m going to get a few more things I think will be useful for the group. Stay here and keep an eye on things.”

“Before you go, ol’ boss, I think you may want to see this.” Norman hustled over, nearly skidding on the floor where Stockholm’s wet footprints had soaked it. He handed his notebook up to Stockholm, who grinned as he rifled through the notes.

“Got the info from a very reliable source I think. Lee didn’t get much of anything useful, I think. Spent most of his time just getting soused.”

“Yes, I imagine he did.” Stockholm read over the last couple of pages of notes. Norman had been meticulous, writing down every single detail that Neverfall could provide. “This is excellent, Norman.” The Chief handed the notebook back. “Make certain William sees this as soon as he gets in.”

He patted the Gnome Engineer on the shoulder, nearly knocking him down, and exited the apartment again. He had personal business to attend to, and it would only take him an hour or so.

Ignatious Stockholm descended the stairwell, passing by the aging Jaft with his perpetual cigarette in the lobby, and stepped out into the gently falling snow. Another inch had accumulated on the streets and the rooftops, and he shivered with the cold. It wasn’t a deep chill, he thought, but he didn’t think anyone in the company was properly equipped for it.

He made his way along the city’s winter landscape mostly by memory. Memory served him well, he thought. He arrived in front of a two-story clothiers shop, owned by a man he’d known for nearly three hundred years.

He straightened his chain mail undershirt, brushed off his open-fronted vest, and smiled charmingly. “Time to call down old favors,” he whispered to the wintry air itself before entering.

* * * *

Anna used Flint as a windbreaker, letting him walk perhaps a foot and half in front of her, keeping his broad shoulders at her own head level by walking with a very slight crouch. Together, they trudged through the snowdrifts, passing by two teams of Dwarves in bright orange jumpsuits.

Each member of the five-dwarf teams slid a wide shovel along the street. In this manner, the cities of Ja-Wen, Poregbal, Ushinwa and Desanadron cleared their streets, the city footing the bill for the Dwarves’ time. Sometimes Minotaurs were used, but Dwarves, being low to the ground, made the best snow throwers.

After a while, she and Flint rushed through the door of the apartment, eager to get themselves wrapped in blankets. Small packs of ice clung to Flint, and Anna shivered uncontrollably as she looked at the old couch that hadn’t been in the apartment living room the night before.

She looked over at Styge, who gave her a wrinkled smile. “I drew it up when I got back. Go ahead, give it a try.”

Anna approached the couch, and sat down easily on it. Surprisingly, it held her weight perfectly.

“I know, it’s a bit of a waste of power, but I think we needed another place for someone to catch some rest.”

“No no, this is perfect.” She relaxed her cramped legs and stretched as Flint sat opposite her on the couch. “How long until it returns to the paper?”

“The standard twenty-four hours.” Styge lay down another card. “I’ve got a couple of doozies in this sketchbook, but the couch just seemed practical.”

Anna took a deep breath, found that she was starting to offend, and excused herself for the shower room. She stepped into the small bathing room, locked the door, and stripped naked, running the warm water into the tub.

Ah, Gnome plumbing, she thought. Good stuff.

She got the water to an acceptable temperature, and stepped into the stall, pulling the curtain shut and enjoying the stream of water.

She washed herself down, rinsed off, and stepped out of the stall, leaving the water running. She reached into her pack, which she’d brought along into the room, and grabbed up a fresh set of clothing. She got dressed, wrapped herself up again, and turned back to the stall. She left the water running, and stepped out into the living room. “All right old man,” she said to Styge. “You’re next. We all need a good shower,” she said to the group.

The Illusionist made no complaints, stepping into the washroom and shutting the door behind him.

Anna sat at the table, and Flint joined her, pulling out his Pokchi game.

She played a while with him, losing the first game, forcing a draw for the second and finally winning the third game. She didn’t play with much strategy, and no single game took more than twenty minutes, but by the time they were finished, Stockholm came into the apartment with several large bags in his hands, and one strapped to his back.

“Oh no, nobody get up to help me.” He laced his voice with sarcasm as a dagger might be with poison.

The guilt trip took Flint by the throat, and he helped the Red Tribesman by taking a few of the bags from his hands and the one on his back.

“You can all thank me later.”

Flint reached into one of the bags and pulled out a thick, black wool sweater, a dragon design embroidered on the left sleeve. He held it up, and saw that Stockholm had written the Wererat’s name on a paper tag attached to the collar.

He immediately donned the warm sweater, pulling it over his head with a tug. “Oi, thanks a’ plenty, Stocky. Is this all clothes?”

“No.” Stockholm pulled a treated tent tarp from one of the larger bags. “We may have some trouble traveling now that the winter’s come on quick, so I got us treated tents to sleep in outdoors.”

Stockholm distributed plenty of winter clothes to the members of the Hoods company—each article of clothing accepted with thanks.

“Where did you get all this stuff?” Anna asked.

“From an old friend of mine.” Stockholm winked at Anna.

Ah, she thought, an old ‘friend’.

Lastly, Stockholm handed Anna a sealed bag, and gave her a quick nod. She returned the nod, and took herself into the study as the others busied themselves with trying on their new winter apparel.

She shut the door behind her and tried to lock it, but saw that the tumblers had been broken. Stockholm, of course, she thought. She opened the seal on the bag, and looked down with one eye pressed to the small breach in the seal.

Inside of the bag, she saw a shimmering, purple dress, a formal affair to be worn at society to-dos.

She smiled, a newfound sense of appreciation for the big Chief warming her heart. It was the sort of dress Harold liked to see her in.

The door creaked open behind her, and the big Red Tribesman grinned at her like an idiot.

“I’d hug you if it were appropriate,” she said

He begged off on that for the time being.

“Something else on your mind, Chief?”

“Yes, actually.” His face turned to stone seriousness. “You’ll want to talk to Norman. He’s got some interesting information for you.”

She spoke with Adwar for a few minutes then, reading over his notes, taking in every detail and memorizing it as best she could.

Now she knew the layout of the inside of the Fort, all she needed to do now was prepare the papers that would get her, Stockholm and Flint in.

Styge and Norman could make their own way in, as they wouldn’t raise any suspicions. Lee might even find a way in, if Styge could use a little magic to disguise the Pickpocket.

Anna gathered everyone into a huddle in the living room, and reviewed her plan of approach with them, getting a round of approving nods of the head and mutterings before she took herself off to the study to wait for dinner.

After everyone had eaten, it was time for some much needed sleep. They would have two, perhaps three days of hard marching through the snow and wind northward, and then they would have to brave the danger of being found out at Fort Flag. They needed to keep their minds fresh.

She didn’t know it then, but a fresh mind wouldn’t be helping the Hoods any.

* * * *

Interlude

 

A messenger pigeon fluttered through the window of Archibald Reynaldi’s tower study, a small, mottled gray creature that chirped loudly once it perched on the inner frame of the window.

The Elven Paladin looked up from his current fiction novel and pulled his reading glasses off, walking easily over to the animal. He stroked its head gently with a long pointer finger, and took the attached letter from its leg, thanking it for its service before he shooed it away.

He opened the parchment and found a second letter inside, both signed by father Raymondo Alvisi of Ja-Wen.

He read the letters quickly, and smiled broadly, his teeth flashing into the empty expanse of the tower study. It appears, he thought, that they’ll both be arriving at about the same time. There might be a slight difference in the tactics both companies of thieves used to gain entrance to Fort Stone, but Reynaldi would let both groups in, wait until they were away from the gates and seal them inside. Ambush units could snare any of the Guild members that remained outside of the Fort, in the event of trouble. He’d gather a nice little collection of thieves—a collection he intended to let rot in the dungeons.