Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One) (11 page)

  
“He… why…” sputtered the angry man, but thought better of it and turned away, growling like a beast. His companion, smirking, followed him.

  
“Come inside,” the old pickpocket ordered Gribly. The boy grabbed the wrists of his burden again and obeyed, dragging the body as carefully as he could across the threshold and into the wine-house’s shadowy, chilled interior.

Chapter Eight:
Lauro

  
The pickpocket led him past the small main room, threading through patrons and tables, behind the heavy clay counter, and finally into a small, deserted storeroom in the rear of the building.

  
“Throw the goods up on this,” instructed the old man. Gribly tediously lifted the body up onto the waist-high table indicated, spreading it out comfortably and checking for a pulse.

  
“Whoever this is,” he told the old one, “He’s tougher than the desert. He’s still alive after being dragged all this way.”

  
“Where in the blazes ‘ave you been, though?” drawled the pickpocket. He moved forward as if to embrace the lad, who stepped back with a raised eyebrow.

  
“You really think I’m so soft after all this time? I’m not about to let an old thief near me, not while I’ve got what I’ve got!”

  
“What ‘ave you got, then?” asked the pickpocket, backing off. “I can’t exactly ‘elp you without some sort o’ payment. After all this time away, yeh bring in some half-dead brawler from… wherever, an’ expect me to fix ‘im up? For
free
?”

  
Gribly snorted. “Of course not. I’m not such an urchin myself, you oldskin… Neither of us are simple thieves anymore.” The pickpocket furrowed his brow, skeptical. To belay his suspicions, the youth reached into his nearly-forgotten pouch and removed the rough crystal sphere he’d sacrificed so much for. “Do you know what this is?” he asked the sour old thief.

  
“Eh…” the pickpocket mumbled, reaching out for the balm. Gribly tentatively handed it over. Balancing the crutches in his armpits, the old one felt all around the sphere, inspecting it with experienced hands and failing eyes.

  
He looks like an ape,
Gribly thought. He had seen a few of the fabled forest-dwellers in the animal cages at the Royal Market.

  
Gradually the old pickpocket’s eyes grew wide with wonder. “Where in blazes did yeh get this, Grib’? This’s worth more n’ a bag o’ gold!”

  
“Don’t try to fleece me,” cautioned the younger thief. “We both know it’s worth much more than that. I want this man here healed completely, and I want food and lodging here until he’s fixed. Even then you’ll be getting far more than you deserve. Don’t pretend.”

  
The old pickpocket searched the youngster’s expression for a while before replying. “Well, well… I guess I’ll ‘ave to take you up on that. ‘Course, it might be ‘ard ‘aving yeh here while haf’ the guards in Ym’r are out lookin’ fer the one who near killed Lord Ym’rio…”

  
“Keep the balm,” Gribly snarled, “And just do what I want.”

  
“Whate’r the little lord wants,” shrugged the aging thief. “An’ just t’show I feel no ill will t’ward yeh, I’ll start right now!”

  
Bending forward with practiced ease, the pickpocket uncorked the balm, swiped one wrinkled, dirty finger inside, and spread the creamy mixture on the unconscious traveler’s face. It was only a little, but it did its job in seconds. Gribly had stolen well.

  
No sooner had the old pickpocket stuffed some of the balm in the fallen man’s nostrils, then the almost-dead came back to life, sneezing and coughing in his sleep. Next the old thief snatched up a jug of water nearby: cool, sweet, precious water… and dumped it in the poor soldier’s face.

  
Gasping and wheezing, the young man shot up straight, spitting and snorting, swinging his hands everywhere as if he fancied himself under attack.
That was simple,
Gribly thought. Both the thief and his old master jumped back, waiting for the stranger to wake up entirely.

  
“What in… where… who…?” choked the youth. Finally deciding he was not about to die, he regulated himself to wiping the wet slop off his face and clearing his eyes. When he was done, he slapped his palms down on the table and looked over to where Gribly and the old pickpocket stood.

  
“I…” he began, glaring at them. Then he tried again. “I suppose I owe you two my life. Well, thank you for it.” He lapsed into silence again, watching the two intently. When the pause became awkward, the older thief left the room, swinging his crutches resolutely forward, the healing balm safe in a pouch of his own. The resurrected stranger started at the sight of the pickpocket's injured legs, looking to Gribly for an explanation.

  
“He fixed you up,” the young thief said. “I brought you in from the desert where I found you. We’re going to try and help you if we can.”

  
“If you found me,” wondered the young man, “Then… I must have made it! Where are we?”

  
“This is the city of Ymeer,” Gribly stated. “The only civilized place in Blast… which isn’t saying much.” He decided to introduce himself. “That old man is the owner of this house. I don’t know his name- no one does- but
my
name is Gribly.”

  
He held out his hand as he had seen the noblemen do on his trips to the Inner Walls. The stranger hesitated, then completed the motion by grasping his wrist. They shook hands, then the soldier-youth kicked his legs out over the edge of the table so as to be sitting, facing Gribly.

  
“My name is Lauro. I live in Vastion, in the south, and I am a soldier in the King’s army. I am here on a mission of the utmost importance, and if you value your life or freedom… you will help me.”

~

  
The long and short of the young warrior’s message was easy to follow, but hard to believe. The soldier-messenger who called himself Lauro apparently did not understand how the world here worked.

  
“What do you mean,
the Dunelord won’t see me
? I’ve traveled uncountable leagues with a message from King Larion Vale himself! Lord Ymorio
has
to see me, if he’s got any sense or loyalty
at all!
”

  
“You can’t just walk up to the Dunelord and talk to him,” snorted Gribly. The young soldier was barely three hours back from the dead, and already he was putting on the airs of a nobleman from the southlands… or from the Inner City of Ymeer, for that matter. His cultivated accent wasn’t exactly what Gribly thought of as “soldierly,” either. He stood facing out the small window of the room the old pickpocket had rented to the pair, watching the blood-red sunset settle over Ymeer’s edge, with his hands clasped behind him. His hair was combed (but not washed- there wasn’t enough water), and he looked like a prince in exile.

  
“Why not?”

  
“Why not??? Because you’ll be torn apart, that’s why! His guards won’t let you into the noble sectors, much less the Dunelord’s own palace.”
And besides,
the thief added to himself,
no one cares about the outside kingdoms anymore, not even big ole’ Vastion.
He kept his mouth shut on the last comment, but Lauro forced the issue. He turned with a raised eyebrow as if he believed Gribly’s story less than the thief believed his.

  
“What?” he asked. “Have Ymeer and the rest of Blast forgotten their old masters?”

  
“Not forgotten,” Gribly frowned, straightening to look the messenger in the eye. “Ignored. The southlands don’t matter to us here…
none
of them.”

  
The change in Lauro’s face was remarkable. He turned scarlet and seethed silently for a full minute before he could respond, and when he did his cool composure and unreadable expression was stronger.

  
“The Dunelord
will
see me,” he persisted. “And you
will
help me.”

  
“Suit yourself,” Gribly snapped back, “But count me out.” He was about to continue when something- something
disturbing
- changed his mind. The resurrected soldier looked ready for a fight, and he was ready to comply. Then, over Lauro’s shoulder where he couldn’t see… something flickered.

  
The shape of a man in a gray cloak and faded blue cap.

  
“Traveller…” murmured Gribly.

  
“What?” snorted Lauro. Gribly ignored his puzzled look for the moment: the Aura had given him a message, and he was desperately wondering what it could mean. Finally he answered the soldier, his mood changed.

  
“Nothing,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. What
does
matter is how I’m going to get you into Blast Palace to see the Dunelord.”

  
Relief registered on the soldier’s face. “You’ll help me then?”

  
“I will… for a price.”

  
“What price? You know I have no money, and I believe you would have already taken it from me if I did.”

  
“I resent that,” Gribly snapped, but his tone was half joking.

  
“Live with it,” Lauro shot back, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  
Unexpectedly, strangely, the two boys found that they were friends.

  
“All right. I’ll name my price before either of us hurts our pride anymore,” retorted Gribly, really grinning this time. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, and now that he had seen the Aura- or part of it- outside of his dreams, he was sure that it wanted to help him.

  
“Well, out with it,” urged the young soldier.

  
“I can get you close enough to the Dunelord to talk, if you’re sure he’ll listen to you. Getting around unnoticed is my specialty, so that’s not really the problem. What
is
the problem is that only yesterday I was chased around the palace grounds by some sort of sorcerer or demon… or something, and now every city guard is going to be on the lookout for me. They think
I
tried to kill the Dunelord.”

  
“You don’t exactly look like the trustworthy type. Did a demon really chase you? I’ve heard of Blast’s dust devils- everyone in the south has- but I’ve never seen one.”

  
“No… It wasn’t like that. It was a man, maybe even a boy. He didn’t look much older than you or I, and he called himself a Pit Climber… I think.”

  
“Pit Strider,” corrected Lauro. His face had turned slightly paler, and his lips were set in a thin line.

  
“Yeah… that. What- have you heard of him? I’d love to know where that scumface lives- he killed my… well, the old woman who took care of me before.”

  
Lauro frowned sadly, and put a hand on Gribly’s shoulder, startling him. “I am sorry for your loss, and yes, I have heard of the Pit Striders. They’re usually thought of as myths, but then again...” He frowned again, but thoughtfully this time. He suddenly took his hand off of the thief’s shoulder and reached back to rub his opposite shoulder blade, as if he had a wound there that pained him. When he noticed what he was doing, he stopped and spoke to Gribly again. “It sounds as if the old myths are becoming more real all the time, aye?”