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Cityscape
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Contents
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Prelude: Dead End
The cellar door banged open with a hollow crack, and the
thief stumbled out into the night. His name was Selion,
and most of the time he was considerably more graceful
than this.
The fl oor of the alley was slick, wet from an early evening’s
rain, and the dampness seeped into the elf’s thin frame almost
immediately. He muttered a quick and quiet curse as a practiced
kip-up brought him to his padded feet, which took at once to
motion, carrying him down the alley and out of sight before
the sound of his oath had even faded from the air. Around the
corner, he allowed himself the briefest of moments to shake off
the chill, and was gone.
himself, undoubtedly—had cautioned the human to increase
his security.
And increase his security he had. . . .
A tiny, circular window on the top floor—barely wide
enough for a child to pass through—was the weakness of
design that ultimately permitted the thief entry. He knelt
beneath that very window now, taking a moment to allow his
nerves to settle into a relaxation he rarely permitted himself
while on the job. His confi dence came mostly from a pair of
sweet sureties: That the worst was behind him, and that he
would have plenty of time to search the house at his leisure.
(Today was Vendorsday, and he had chosen to break in tonight
because he knew Windbag was a creature of habit—one who
had a habit of descending into the red light district every
Vendorsday night, and just as habitually refusing to return
until the wee hours.)
As was his custom, Selion paused for a moment, one hand
on the pommel of his blade, to allow his eyes to adjust to the
low light conditions, and as they did, bade them carefully
scrutinize the surroundings. In the dim half-light, shadowy
forms began to take shape: an oaken four-post bed with gos-
samer canopy; a wide hope chest set against the near wall; a
sturdy dresser pressed against the far. He was in the bedroom
of a young lady. Judging by the fabrics and the decor, she had
probably seen fewer than fourteen winters. He could fi nd out
for sure with but a minute’s search of her belongings, but he
had more pressing matters to attend to. The valuables he
would doubtless fi nd in the master bedroom down the hall,
for example.
Pushing the dresser’s gently cloying fragrance from his
thoughts (could that be lilac?), Selion crossed the breadth
of the room in three silent strides and paused again at the
door to the hall. Silence. The elf nodded to himself and
quietly slipped into the hall, closing the door behind him
as he did.
He now found himself next to the landing at the top of a
lavish staircase that circled the edge of the home’s spacious
interior, winding the full two stories down to the first floor.
Stepping to the railing, he peered over and took in the scene.
From this vantage point, he could see with clarity what would
be easy to miss, had he been standing on the ground fl oor: The
central section of fl oor that was open to the vaulted ceiling was
one large, stained glass panel. Although the lighting was poor,
he could see that the scene depicted a slavering pack of hounds
giving chase to a startled fox across a foggy lea, the silhouettes
of several huntsmen in the woods beyond. Selion did a quick
accounting of the panel’s value, sighed at the impossibility of
his leaving with it, and proceeded down the hall to the master
bedroom door, his fi ngers tracing a path along the railing as
he went.
What the thief found within gave him further pause.
Although the rest of the home was maintained in a manner
befi tting the reputation of a well-to-do antiquities dealer—
cleanly, attractively, and with not so much as a single sumptuous
* * *
4
It wasn’t that the thief had been off his game tonight. Selion
considered himself a master of his trade, and as such, rarely
had what he would consider an off night. Under ordinary
circumstances, he could be in and out of even the most secure of
structures—taking precisely what he came for, and leaving no
evidence of his passing—all in the time it takes to stall a wet
horse after a good run. But of course, these were no ordinary
circumstances, thanks to that damned Lord Marshal.
Ever since the incident with the Lord Marshal’s daughter
some months back, matters had grown increasingly more
complicated for Selion in this city. Clients who had heard about
that event became hesitant to call upon the thief’s services, for
fear of drawing unwanted attention from those who sought
his head, and even long-standing contacts were beginning to
dry up at a pace the elf found disquieting. Clearly, the Lord
Marshal was sparing no expense in his effort to catch the “low
cur” responsible for his daughter’s condition.
As even the lowliest cutpurse can attest, any man in Selion’s
position has only three worthwhile options at his disposal: One
can skip town, and hope that the reach of those with whom
he is unpopular does not extend to his new destination; one
can lay very low, and hope the matter blows over with time;
or one can stand up to the pressure, and if the gambit pays
off, reap a measure of respect from one’s peers. Selion had
decided to embrace a combination of the latter two—to hole
up with a secret friend while making the occasional foray into
the night—and the approach had been largely successful . . .
until tonight.
The elf had chosen as his mark for the evening’s operation a
casual acquaintance of the Lord Marshal’s; an aged windbag
who dealt in antiquities and who seemed to be, judging by the
state of his home, practically inviting theft. Initial reconnais-
sance revealed a thoroughly predictable (and stale) routine,
compounded by a handful of so-called security precuations
that would be child’s play for any common cutpurse, let alone
a master burglar like Selion. Once he was inside, however,
it became stressfully clear that someone—the Lord Marshal
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cushion out of place—the master bedroom was an absolute
mess by comparison. Clothing, sheets, and what seemed like
reams of parchment were strewn haphazardly throughout,
making a crinkled and colorful tapestry of the chamber fl oor.
A faint odor wafted into the elf’s nostrils then, and he struggled
to recall its source. After failing to unearth it from memory,
he pushed it too from his mind and set about his task. His
first priority had to be the lockbox he was certain was in
this room.
When he located his quarry, as he knew he would, the elf
snickered aloud. Only a human would have the nerve to hide
valuables inside other valuables in such an obvious fashion; in
this case, to put a strongbox inside a hinged-top dresser with a
three-hundred-year-old lock.
Selion eased his tools into the lock that held the top of the
dresser shut, and in a matter of seconds the hinged panel was
free. He pushed the top up far enough to see a strongbox resting
on a shelf inside, as he had suspected. The lock on the strongbox
would surely put up more of a fi ght, but even modern locks were
but a minute’s work for a talent like his.
He elected not to move the strongbox from its hiding
place, guarding against the presence of a trap that would be
triggered if he did so. Instead, he went to work on the lock.
As the last of a satisfying series of clicks sounded, the hasp of
the lock fell away, allowing the strongbox to be opened. In
that instant a silent alarm went off in Selion’s mind, and
out of instinct alone, both of his hands jerked back out of the
dresser’s top compartment. He almost wasn’t fast enough.
A second after that final click, a blade emerged from the
bottom edge of the opening in the dresser with a hushed
“shing,” and the top of the dresser dropped back down with
a concussive rattle, nearly slicing the thief’s hands off in
the process.
In a series of whispered curses, Selion let out the breath he
had been holding while working on the lock. His surprise at
having missed the trap, coupled with his growing frustration,
caused him to abandon all pretense at subtlety. His intent had
been to reclose and relock both the strongbox and the dresser
before leaving (true to his calling card as a burglar), but now
he just wanted to get what he came for and get out. With a
couple of well-placed kicks, he smashed the top of the dresser
to splinters. He rid the strongbox of its contents, and after a
fi nal quick sweep through the chamber, left by way of the door
through which he had entered.
Back out in the hall, he found his escape route had been
quickly and silently closed off during his quarrel with the
dresser. There, in the hall between the master bedroom and
the young lady’s bedchamber, stood three vicious-looking dogs,
the eyes of each one fully fi xed with unshakeable intent upon
the intruder before it. The hall now reeked of that familiar
odor—the smell of canines. Selion knew he had scant seconds
to formulate a plan.
Therefore, the plan was a simple one: Jump. Planting one
hand firmly on the railing, the elf swung his legs high and
vaulted himself out into the open darkness. The stained glass
fl oor below him shattered as he dropped onto it. That impact
helped to break his fall, as he knew it would, but the shock
was nonetheless jarring, and his body tensed as he waited for
needles of jagged glass to pierce his skin. But to his surprise, he
had suffered only minor scrapes by the time he found himself on
the cool fl oor of the chamber beneath the panel. There was no
time to savor his skills as a tumbler, for even now, the growling
dogs were lumbering down the staircase after him.
A quick scan confirmed that he was in the cellar. He had
been in countless homes of this design, some in this very
neighborhood, and one of the features they all had in common
was a method of direct egress from the cellar. As the thought
formed, he swiftly spun to fix his gaze upon the far wall,
and there it was—a door. He pulled himself up, wincing,
as shards of glass fell away from his clothing, and bolted for
the exit at full speed, the howls of the dogs growing closer by
the second.
The cellar door banged open with a hollow crack, and the
thief stumbled out into the night. . . .
* * *
Only when he was cer tain the dogs were no longer in pursuit
did Selion slow his pace to one more in keeping with the gait of
a commoner. After a quick look around to make sure nobody
was watching, he removed his cowl, stuffing it into the bag
that now contained Windbag’s valuables. With a satisfied
smirk, he calmly doubled back the way he had come. Within
a few minutes, he stepped out of yet another alley and came
upon his friend’s door. Seeing no activity in the area other
than a pair of beggars shuffl ing along in the street, the thief
slipped inside.
Seated at an oak table in the middle of the room were two
men, each one grinning at the sight of Selion’s surprised expres-
sion. One, a middle-aged dwarf wearing a skullcap, streaks of
gray running through his rust-colored beard, was his secret
friend, Pordo. The other was a tall, broad-shouldered human
of about fi fty winters, clad in fi nely tailored chain mail and a
cloak emblazoned with a lion rampant.
Before Selion could whirl and escape back out the door, he
heard sounds from outside as the human spoke.
“My men have the way blocked. You have nowhere to run,”
said the Lord Marshal.
“Good evening, Lord Marshal,” said the thief, straining
to retain his dignity. And then, to the other man, “Why,
Pordo? Money?”
Still smiling, the dwarf slowly shook his head. “No, Selion,
not for money.”
“Why, then, old friend?” The elf asked, his voice suddenly
like ice.
The dwarf’s eyes narrowed.
“Because I have a daughter, too . . . old friend.”
5
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