Page 3

two

Cal

Cal strolled into The Last Drop tavern in high spirits.

He always felt on top of Allaria after a successful job.

And his latest heist at the Siren’s Call certainly deserved that honor.

By the Dark had it felt good to pull one over on those self-important nobles and protectors, robbing them of their valuables right under their stuck-up noses.

Remembering the sight of so many protectors running around like spooked rats made him chuckle.

Not to mention the dumbfounded look on that inspector’s face.

No case too difficult for him to solve?

Ha!

The Last Drop was as dank and dirty as ever, the warped floorboards caked with years’ worth of grime and the tables sporting more scars than a Razakethi mercenary.

Nodding to the obvious muscle trying their best to look inconspicuous by a door in the back, he slid into a seat at the bar and rapped the counter, beaming at the barkeep.

The barkeep paused his futile attempts to clean a permanently stained glass and eyed him.

“So, you’re back, eh? Didn’t think I’d see you around here again for a while.” The way he said it made it clear that he’d have preferred it that way.

That only made Cal grin wider.

Getting under people’s skins was a particular talent of his.

When someone was thinking less clearly, it made them easier to exploit.

“Sure am. I’ll take another of your finest bottles of brandy straight from the Lost Reef.”

The barkeep nodded and resumed his cleaning.

“Not sure what we have left. Any particular vintage?”

“Surprise me,” Cal said with a shrug.

The barkeep’s eyes widened—that was not the proper follow-up passphrase.

Before he could get too excited and sic those nearby goons on him, Cal added, “Though I’m personally a fan of the 1176 Merman’s Mettle.”

The barkeep relaxed.

He seemed almost disappointed as he nodded.

“Let me check the back and see what I can do.” Abandoning his perch at the bar, he strode past the two brutes standing watch and disappeared through the door.

Whistling softly to himself, Cal swiveled in his seat and leaned back against the bar while he surveyed the tavern.

Situated near the docks in one of Derimay’s rougher port districts, it wasn’t particularly impressive.

Tables were squeezed together to fill the narrow space.

A smattering of the usual sort of patrons sat among them, here to either drink themselves into a stupor or gamble themselves deeper into debt.

He considered joining the games to amuse himself while he waited but decided against it.

Best not push his luck too much here.

Bald Locke was one of his more lucrative contracts, and he didn’t want to risk setting off the man’s infamous short fuse.

Instead, he occupied himself by stepping back through tonight’s heist. His scheme had worked flawlessly—they usually did.

The trick was to keep your opponent always confused and guessing.

Hence all the theatrics disabling the lights, shaking the building, and conjuring the smoke.

Let Derimay’s finest waste weeks trying to solve what purpose the spells had served, or how he’d mysteriously emptied a magically sealed vault, when the truth was far less grand: he’d simply robbed it before they sealed it for the night.

Easy enough for someone with his particular talent.

He glanced down at his hand and idly channeled a bit of duskflame into it.

His hand seemed to flicker and shift, the finger’s elongating then shortening, the nails becoming colored then plain.

A sailor’s calloused grip.

An old man’s wrinkled hand.

A woman’s polished fingers.

His disguises, more substantial than mere illusions thanks to their ability to confound the senses into believing they were real, had certainly come in handy over the years.

Tonight had been no exception.

Not a single protector had batted an eye when their captain strode into the vault to double check its contents one last time before it was sealed.

Once he was inside, it had been easy enough to gather up all the jewelry and assorted valuables.

He’d left his calling cards behind and slipped away before the real captain returned to lock it.

In and out, no one the wiser.

Of course, it had seemed a shame to leave without watching the chaos unfold.

He typically avoided using his established aliases while working a job, but he hadn’t been able to resist bending the rule this one time.

After all, his Lord Heneford persona had been a perfect fit.

What better place to enjoy the show than from the Pentarchy’s own private booth?

And Dark, was he glad he had.

Not for the Pentarchy— they were as tedious as ever, and he loathed anyone that desperate for authority on principle.

But their guest of honor had proven a pleasant surprise.

Cal had expected the inspector to be as self-righteous as the rest of Derimay’s elite, and he had been to an extent.

But there was also a certain earnestness to him that Cal had found refreshing.

He could tell the inspector was the sort of man who rarely missed a thing…

which had only made deceiving him all the more thrilling.

Cal had almost regretted having to end their conversation so soon.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that the inspector’s rugged good looks had been easy on the eyes, what with his well-built physique, neatly styled brown hair, and those gleaming silver glasses that accentuated his chiseled jaw…

Cal would have loved to tag along with him after the lights went out, but that would have been a bit too reckless, even for him.

Alas. Perhaps their paths would cross again someday.

The creak of a door jolted him from his thoughts, and he turned to find the barkeep reemerging.

Looking a touch reluctant, the barkeep waved him over.

“I think I found what you’re looking for. Come and see if it’s to your liking.”

Cal stood and, with a friendly nod to the thugs glaring at him from their spots along the wall, sauntered through the door after the barkeep.

They descended a narrow set of rickety stairs to a dank cellar lined with crates and casks.

Cal wrinkled his nose at the tang of mildew that hung in the air.

By the Dark, he’d never get used to that smell.

The barkeep, thankfully, didn’t linger there long.

He moved to the nearest cask and flicked a hidden latch nestled in its wooden side.

The cask’s curved exterior swung open, revealing another staircase.

This one appeared even more precarious than the last, held aloft by half-rotten beams and a prayer.

Grateful for his keen sense of balance, Cal stepped carefully down the stairs past damp stone and earth until at last they emerged into briny air.

The little cove sat nestled against Derimay’s cliffside, tucked away out of sight.

Docks jutted out into the narrow bay while rickety buildings perched against the stone.

Cal had to hand it to Bald Locke: it was a cozy little operation he had here.

Someone in Derimay Customs must have known about it—there was no way the cove had gone undetected for so long.

But it was private enough to limit the number of fingers Bald Locke had to grease with gallants to get them to look the other way.

“I know where to go from here,” Cal told the barkeep.

“You don’t need to come with me.”

“Yes,” the barkeep grunted.

“I do. The boss doesn’t like people he doesn’t trust sticking their noses into our business.”

Cal feigned affront, clapping a hand to his chest. “This is the fourth job I’ve run for Bald Locke this year. He knows me!”

“Exactly,” the barkeep muttered, quickening his pace.

Cal hid a smirk. Touché.

He let his eyes rove over the docks they passed, cataloging everything he saw.

There was more activity than usual.

It looked like a shipment had just come in, scores of people scurrying about a small skiff tied up to one of the docks.

Whatever had arrived must’ve been important.

The barkeep eventually stopped before a closed wooden door in one of the ramshackle buildings.

Nothing marked it apart from any of the others they’d passed, but when he rapped his knuckles on the wood, a gruff voice barked, “Enter” from within.

Gesturing for Cal to do so, the barkeep turned and started back without a word.

“Have a great night!” Cal called after him.

“Can’t wait to do this again soon.”

The barkeep didn’t respond save a slight tightening of his shoulders.

Watching him for a moment with an amused smirk, Cal turned and opened the door, striding in with an air of confidence that had served him well growing up on the streets.

If you acted like you belonged somewhere, people tended to presume you did.

“Hey there, boss,” he said, sliding into the empty chair waiting for him.

“Long time, no see.”

Bald Locke was a burly brute of a man.

With the bulging muscles on his forearms, he looked like he could’ve bench-pressed one of Cal in each hand without breaking a sweat.

He wore a permanent pinched expression, his beady eyes containing a cold, calculating intelligence that belied his hulking form.

Cal’s eyes trailed to the lank black hair the crime boss kept tied back in a ponytail.

The fact that Bald Locke was, in fact, not bald at all had always intrigued him, though he’d never quite felt suicidal enough to ask why.

“Blackjack,” Bald Locke said in his deep, rumbling voice.

“You’re late. Any issues?”

Cal shook his head.

“Went smooth as a Celestial’s bottom—like always.”

“Good. Then I assume you have it?”

Reaching under his shirt, Cal tapped a finger against a small tattoo emblazoned on his upper left chest. It was part of a matching set he’d paid handsomely for, though he tended to keep this one free for whatever a particular job required.

The image of a canvas sack shimmered as he infused it with a dark sheen of duskflame.

It vanished from his skin an instant later, and a full-sized sack appeared in his hand.

He tossed it onto the desk in front of Bald Locke.

“Your papers, as requested. Along with a few other assorted goodies.”

Bald Locke opened the sack, rummaging inside until he found the leather binder he wanted.

That had been the true prize in the theater’s vault tonight.

The other thefts were just more misdirection.

And part of his payment, of course.

Bald Locke confirmed as much, waving a hand at Cal as he opened the binder.

“You can keep the rest, like we agreed.”

Cal gave a half-hearted nod, returning the sack to his thief’s mark tattoo.

Between the past heists he’d squirreled away and some of the more legitimate business he conducted under his aliases like Lord Heneford, he had more gallants than he knew how to spend in a single lifetime.

These days, it was more about the thrill of the hunt than anything else: at pushing himself and proving that he could pull off the impossible.

Though even that had started to lose its luster.

After a few moments, Bald Locke closed the binder with a grunt and slid it aside.

“Consider your contract fulfilled.” He pulled out a bag and tossed it on the desk between them with a heavy clink of metal coin.

“Fifty gallants, as agreed.”

“Much obliged,” Cal said, taking the sack of coin with a quick bow of his head and tucking it away into one of the many hidden pockets in his cloak.

“There is, however, still the matter of reimbursement.”

Bald Locke had already started to turn away, clearly ready to dismiss Cal.

He paused, slowly turning back around.

“Reimbursement?”

“Indeed. I had to expend several rather expensive runeflame scrolls to complete the job. Not to mention my ruined suit from the last job I did for you.”

Bald Locke’s eyes narrowed.

“No one asked you to wear the most expensive get-up you could find. Or to dive into the ocean while wearing it.”

It was true, especially considering Cal could’ve just illusioned himself a comparable disguise.

But where was the fun in that?

Besides, he made it a point to keep the true extent of his gift under wraps.

Only one person fully knew what he could do…

and after how that had turned out, he had no intention of letting anyone else in on the secret.

“I had to make the disguise believable,” he said.

“And you would have jumped into the ocean too if you had a pack of arcane hounds chasing you.”

Bald Locke’s hands tightened around the leather binder as he stared Cal down.

Cal felt certain that stare would break most people’s resolve in mere moments.

But it took more than a glorified thug to give Cal pause.

Bald Locke must’ve realized the same because he grunted and said, “You’ve proven to be a valuable asset for the Brotherhood’s more difficult assignments. I suppose I’d be willing to toss in a bonus. Think of it as a retainer for future work. I have a feeling we might need you again soon, so make sure you stay available.”

That piqued Cal’s interest, though he tried not to let it show as he grinned and leaned back in his seat.

“Of course. Always happy to do business with the Brotherhood.”

A knock came at the door.

Bald Locke jerked his gaze up, seeming surprised.

“What?” he called.

The barkeep stepped inside and moved over to Bald Locke, speaking softly to him.

Cal strained to listen, doing his best to read their lips.

He caught something about another contract and ‘the stone,’ whatever the Void that meant.

Whatever it involved, Cal could sense the immediate tension roiling over Bald Locke as he jerked a nod.

The barkeep moved to wait in the doorway.

Bald Locke rose and snatched up the binder, glancing at Cal.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to finish this another time. Fergen here will show you out.”

The reasonable thing to do would be to smile and accept the dismissal.

He’d already been paid, and he didn’t actually require reimbursement.

The only reason he’d even asked was to see if he could get away with it.

But when did he do the reasonable thing?

“Hold on!” he protested, the seeds of a terrible idea taking root in his mind.

“We still haven’t resolved the issue of my payment.”

Bald Locke’s jaw tightened.

“Yes. We have.”

“But what about my bonus? You said yourself that you need me.” He crossed his arms and conjured his best spoiled-noble impression.

“I’m beginning to feel like you don’t appreciate how rare my particular skillset is. I don’t like being taken advantage of.”

When Bald Locke’s face darkened with rage, Cal feared he’d pushed the smuggler a step too far.

The crime lord’s temper was legendary, and while Cal knew he was good at what he did, he also knew he wasn’t so indispensable to the Brotherhood that they wouldn’t kill him and dump his body in the cove if they decided he had become too much of a liability.

“On second thought, how about I wait here?” he said quickly.

“We can resolve the matter once you’re free. That way, there will be nothing to distract me from doing my best work for the Brotherhood moving forward.”

He held his breath as Bald Locke stared at him for several tense heartbeats, then exhaled in relief when Bald Locke glanced at the waiting barkeep and waved him away.

“Fine,” Bald Locke said.

Fresh tension ratcheted through Cal when Bald Locke’s fingers brushed over the stock of the runetech shotgun he wore strapped to his back.

The rare weapon was Bald Locke’s pride and joy, and from what little experience Cal had with Vantoric firearms, he didn’t fancy ending up on the receiving end of its magical blast.

“I and the rest of the Brotherhood value you, Blackjack. You’ve delivered for us on several occasions when no one else could. See that it remains that way.”

His hand falling from the butt of the shotgun, Bald Locke turned and left the office.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Cal waited a couple minutes to ensure that Bald Locke was well and truly gone.

Then, he went to the door and cracked it open, checking the area outside.

The barkeep had left, and no one in the immediate vicinity seemed to be paying him any attention.

Perfect . That meant he was free to do something exceedingly stupid.

Knowing he’d stick out like a sore thumb dressed as he was now in his dark cloak, he scanned the area until he spotted a nearby dock worker hauling at some nets.

Then, he channeled his duskflame.

This time, he let the flickering black fire sweep over him, coating him from head to toe.

As it did, he focused on the image of the dockworker, holding it in his mind.

While he could conjure disguises purely from memory, it was usually easier with new ones to start from a template.

Within moments, his clothes had shifted to match the grungy garb worn by that dockworker.

He altered his face as well, not trying to perfectly mimic the dock worker but just changing his features enough that he wouldn’t be recognizable as his Blackjack alias.

His disguise in place, he slipped out the door and quietly shut it behind him.

With any luck, it would be a while before Bald Locke returned.

Cal could go assuage his curiosity and see what had the crime boss so on edge.

Affecting the demeanor of an exhausted dock worker, he set off across the cove, doing his best to mimic the gait and posture of the other workers he passed.

He kept his head down and didn’t linger, glad for all his scouting during his previous visits since it helped him navigate with confidence.

He found Bald Locke back by that first dock with all the activity.

The Brotherhood leader was talking to a figure dressed all in black.

They wore a mask to conceal their face and gloves on their hands.

So, someone like Cal then who didn’t want their business being known.

Of course, that probably described most people who dealt with the Brotherhood.

Pausing off to the side, Cal made a show of fiddling with some nets hanging off the dock’s side.

It wasn’t close enough to hear what was going on—with how quietly they were speaking, he’d have to risk getting far too close for that, and the figure’s mask made it impossible to read their lips.

From the snippets he caught watching Bald Locke, it sounded like they were in the middle of an exchange.

Unsurprising, given that smuggling comprised a good portion of Bald Locke’s usual business.

Cal’s gaze strayed to the ship tied at the end of the dock.

Had some important shipment just arrived?

Desperate for more information, he focused on the masked figure, trying to get a better sense of them.

You could tell a lot about a person by how they held themselves.

In this instance, Cal judged them someone used to wielding authority and confident in a scrap.

A protector maybe, or else a private mercenary?

Either that, or they were suicidal since they didn’t appear the least bit intimidated by Bald Locke and his men.

Bald Locke held out the binder Cal had given him.

The masked figure took it and tucked it away beneath their cloak.

The two of them started walking, continuing to talk in low voices.

Cal’s pulse quickened when he realized they were strolling right toward him, where the lowered gangplank led into the ship.

He considered retreating, but that would likely draw even more attention to himself.

Instead, he stayed focused on the nets, holding his breath and praying to the Goddess that they didn’t notice him.

Thankfully, neither Bald Locke nor the masked figure seemed particularly concerned with their surroundings.

They must think themselves well insulated, here at the heart of Bald Locke’s domain.

Cal’s ears perked up as he caught more of what they were saying now that they were closer.

“—trust no harm came to it during the trip?” the masked figure was saying.

They sounded male, speaking in a low growl as though trying to disguise their voice.

Crude, but effective—Cal was duly impressed.

He’d encountered a distressing number of thieves and rogues in the course of his career who wouldn’t have thought to hide more than their face.

“Not to worry, your package is safe and sound,” Bald Locke replied.

“Just arrived this evening.”

Cal was surprised to hear Bald Locke sound almost obsequious.

This client must be an important one to have him on his best behavior.

A gesture from Bald Locke sent a waiting pair of dock hands scurrying up the gangplank.

They vanished into the ship’s hold and emerged a moment later carrying an ornate, lacquered box between them.

Cal’s eyes widened as he studied it.

He’d seen a lot of treasure in his time, but something about this one called to him.

And was it just his imagination, or did it leave a faint tingle of magic upon his skin as it drew near?

The pair of dockworkers deposited the ornate chest on top of a crate near Bald Locke, who opened it with a flourish and beckoned the masked man forward.

“Here it is, as requested. So kind of your master to smooth over its arrival—I doubt even the Brotherhood could have gotten something like this past Customs.”

The masked man studied whatever was inside.

He extended a trembling hand toward it, then seemed to think better of it and jerked his gloved fingers back, shutting the lid instead.

“My master will be pleased.”

He pulled out a small pouch and sprinkled some glittering silver dust atop the box, muttering an incantation.

In a flare of azure runeflame laced with streaks of silver, the box shrank to a fraction of its former size: small enough for the masked man to heft in one palm and tuck into a pocket on his cloak.

Cal had used such arcane trappings before.

His tattoo operated in a similar way, though the items stored inside remained shrunken until recalled, unlike this sort of shrinking dust that tended to wear off in an hour or so.

One of the many perks of living in Derimay was easy access to trade goods from Vantor.

Cal doubted one could find more readily available magical relics anywhere else in Allaria, except perhaps Vantor itself.

“I assume payment will come from the usual source?” Bald Locke asked.

The masked man gave a curt nod as he turned to walk away.

“The account transfer will be waiting for you by morning.”

Apparently, their business was concluded.

That meant it wouldn’t be long before Bald Locke returned to his office to finish dealing with Cal.

Cal glanced from Bald Locke to the departing man, hesitating.

His curiosity had been well and truly stoked by now.

An image of that lacquered box hovered before his mind’s eye, and he licked his lips as he imagined all the wondrous things it might contain.

Whatever it was, it had to be worth a Void-cursed fortune if the masked man’s master was paying via a bank account transfer rather than in person.

Such transfers were rare, reserved only for the richest patrons with thousands of gallants on the line.

Stealing such an object would be the perfect capstone to the night’s activities.

He bit his lip, his gaze trailing back to Bald Locke.

But standing up Bald Locke was a serious risk.

Even if the crime lord didn’t suspect what Cal had really been up to, leaving out of the blue risked burning his bridge with the Brotherhood.

And they were one of the few patrons he had left who still offered him work that piqued his interest.

Muffling a sigh, he waited for Bald Locke to move off, then hurried from the dock, cutting back toward the office at a swift pace.

He made it back before Bald Locke and had just settled into his chair and finished reverting his dockworker disguise to his usual Blackjack one when the door opened, Bald Locke striding inside.

Cal flashed him a broad grin.

“Have a profitable business meeting?”

Bald Locke stared at him long enough to make his skin crawl before grunting and sitting behind his desk.

“Always. Now, where were we?”

Eager to pursue that masked man while the trail was still hot, Cal forswore his usual antics, and within minutes, the barkeep was escorting him out with an extra twenty gallants in his pocket.

“Got somewhere else to be?” the barkeep grunted after Cal tried yet again to hurry him up the stairs.

Cal forced himself to relax despite his antsiness.

“Of course, my good man. Opportunity awaits.”

When they finally emerged into the grungy tavern, Cal tossed the bag of extra gallants he’d wheedled out of Bald Locke onto the bar.

The barkeep’s eyes widened.

“Here—a little something extra for all your hard work.”

Perhaps that would buy him some good will the next time he had business with the Brotherhood.

Rushing past the stunned barkeep, he exited onto the street and scanned the area.

Shadow and shade! No sign of the masked man.

Well, that was all right.

No one knew these streets better than he did.

He started toward the nearest alley, shifting his disguise to a nondescript worker the instant he was out of sight.

If the masked man was still out here, Cal would find him.

Assuming that someone with so much money to toss around wouldn’t be used to navigating the back streets of the slums, he stuck to the main boulevard heading toward Derimay’s upper districts.

Sure enough, it didn’t take long for him to spot his quarry.

The masked man was walking slower than Cal would’ve expected, moving in fits and starts.

Perhaps he was wary of an ambush?

That might make things more difficult, though at least he didn’t appear to be traveling with any sort of escort.

Cal considered and dismissed several plans before settling on a classic.

Ducking into a nearby tavern that was decidedly nicer than The Last Drop, he snagged a beer from a table by the door and splashed it over his face and clothes.

Then, he waited until he had the masked man in sight and made a show of stumbling from a nearby alley.

Beaming drunkenly at the man, he held open his arms.

“Bert!” he cried, slurring his words.

“There you are! I thought you left without me.”

The masked man spun toward him.

“What—?”

Before the man could recover from his initial surprise, Cal pretended to trip.

He collided hard with the man, nearly sending them both sprawling to the cobbled street.

Clutching the man’s arm and lower back for balance, Cal laughed.

“Whoa, careful there, Bert! You don’t seem too steady on your feet. I think you might’ve had too much to drink.”

“Get off me!” the masked man snarled.

He shoved Cal roughly away.

Cal stumbled back, pretending to almost go down again.

He leveled a bleary-eyed glare at the masked man.

“Hey, easy there, Bert. There’s no need for violence.”

“I am not Bert!” The man’s hand shifted aside his cloak to reveal a metal baton fastened at his waist. When he did, Cal also caught the faint gleam of a silver badge affixed to his chest. A protector!

Cal had been right in his guess.

The man’s fingers lingered over the grip of the baton, his voice low and dangerous.

“Now, get the Void away from me before I make you regret it.”

Cal raised his hands and slowly backed away toward the alley he’d emerged from.

“Sorry, sorry. There’s no need for that. It was an honest mistake.”

Retreating into the shadows of the alley, he waited, watching the masked man to see what he did next.

The masked man grumbled to himself, brushing off his cloak and wrinkling his nose.

Then, he continued on in his odd, shuffling gait.

As soon as Cal was certain the masked man didn’t suspect anything, he flared duskflame to shift his disguise to a nondescript beggar and slipped away, making for his nearest safe house.

He kept a half-dozen of them scattered throughout the city, along with numerous smaller hideouts and stashes he could fall back on in a pinch.

It never hurt to be prepared for any eventuality.

Cal had learned a long time ago never to trust in anything…

or anyone.

He changed disguises yet again when he reached the safe house, this time altering his appearance to one of his minor aliases who kept an apartment in the building.

The elderly woman wasn’t much so far as covers went—anyone who looked too closely might notice her extended absences or odd hours.

But in this part of town near the docks, most people knew better than to poke their noses into anyone else’s business.

The instant he was safely inside the small apartment, he let his disguise drop and reached into his pocket, extracting the miniaturized ornate box.

He grinned as he studied its gilded exterior.

It had been almost too easy to swipe it from the masked man when they collided.

Hopefully, whatever was inside had been worth the hassle.

Patience wasn’t exactly one of his virtues.

By the time the box’s enchantment finally faded and it had returned to its regular size, he’d about worn a hole in the floorboards with his pacing.

Rushing eagerly back to his prize, he checked over its exterior.

It seemed unlikely there were any defensive wards in place since he’d seen Bald Locke and the man open it at the docks.

Still, he pressed a finger to the second thief’s mark on his chest and extracted his thief’s tools in a brief flare of duskflame.

The collection of thin crystalline lock rods inside had been a gift from someone he’d known long ago, and it had come in handy over the years to help him detect and disarm any magical traps.

When he was satisfied the box was clear, he tried to open it and was surprised to find it unlocked.

Easing it open, his half-formed grin of triumph froze on his lips.

Nestled inside the box was a glass sphere of deep violet nothingness.

There must have been some manner of protective wards woven into the chest after all because now that it was open, he could sense the wrongness of the thing inside.

It seeped over his skin like an oil slick, leaving it crawling.

Though he’d rarely ever encountered voidflame, he knew at once that that’s what this must be.

No sane person would ever willingly work with a voidflame relic.

Shivering, he sat back and stared at the orb while chewing on his bottom lip.

Just what sort of madness had his curiosity gotten him mixed up in this time…