Sword of the MacLachlan - 6. Boy-Assassin

It was noon. The deep winter sun was bright in a pale sky as the companions and the three Boy-Thieves crested a hill overlooking Forrest Green. It appeared to be a prosperous market town. The smoke that trickled from the chimneys was thin and white; they were burning hardwood rather than peat or dung like the slovens in the last village. The fields were bordered by well-defined windbreaks, and all were turned in preparation for spring planting. The stone walls were neatly whitewashed; along the walls, brightly colored pennons flew.

“Andrew, this is where we part. I won’t ask how you will get into the city…but I know you will. Thank you, again, for saving my friends.” Patrick hugged the boy, and whispered. “I’m sorry you lost your companion, but you will see him again in another life.” The boy wiped away tears as he and his remaining friends waved goodbye.

The guard at the gate was a tween, outfitted in a crisp uniform. He was augmented by a bright-eyed Sembler. They were brisk, yet courteous, asking the companions names, most recent home, and destination.

“I am Patrick late of Arcadia; this is my companion, Alan, also of Arcadia…” Patrick continued to name the others. “Most recently, we lived at the Monastery at Piedmont. We travel to Bowling Green.”

The Sembler frowned slightly as Patrick mentioned Piedmont and Bowling Green, but nodded to the guard. Apparently, there was enough truth in what Patrick said to please the truth-seer.

“You’ll find several inns down this street,” the guard began. He looked over the horses with a practiced eye, noting their quality. “You folks will want to stay at the Beau Clair. It’s third on the right.”

“Where would you stay, if you were a traveler?” Alan asked.

“Me? I’d be at the Brown Dwarf. The Publican’s wife is the best cook in town…for plain folk, that is…”

“Then that is where we will stay. If you may do so, and would like, please join us there for supper and ale later this evening,” Alan said. “Ask for Alan.”

The tween’s face brightened. “Thank you. I’d like that. My name is Francis.” Continuing in a more official vein, “You may wear weapons in the city, but please walk your horses…it’s the last day of market, and the streets are crowded.”

After securing a room at the inn, the companions walked to the town square. The market was still operating, and the square was filled with vendors and buyers. Darryn stopped to look at a bright yellow tunic. His hair was brown, unlike the bright red, gold, auburn, yellow, green, and blue hair of most elves. In an attempt to make up for what he perceived as his plainness, he dressed in bright colors.

As he fingered the tunic, and calculated how big a dent its purchase would put in his purse, Darryn was roughly pushed aside. Stumbling, he nearly fell into the vendor’s stall.

“Watch where you’re going, child,” a man’s voice boomed.

“I am not a child, and perhaps it is you who should watch where he is going,” Darryn said briskly, but not unkindly.

“Oh, ho! The child is a boy…and it has a sword! Perhaps you’d like to teach me a lesson, little one?” The man, dressed richly in soft leather and velvet, stood in the street, feet apart and arms akimbo.

“It is not my responsibility to teach you…” Darryn replied with a tight smile.

“Well, perhaps I will teach you to defer to your betters,” the man said, angry now.

“You are certainly my bigger, but I doubt that you are my better,” Darryn answered, his voice flat and emotionless.

Indeed, the man was two feet taller than Darryn, and probably weighed twice as much. He was armed with a sword and poniard, and perhaps a dagger or two hidden in the wide leather belt around his waist.

“Perhaps a good beating with the flat of my sword will show you who is better than who.”

“That’s who is better than whom,” Darryn said icily, “And this is no place for a fight.”

The man didn’t seem to believe that Darryn posed a threat. He drew his sword with a flourish, and started to reach for Darryn’s arm, apparently intending to carry out his threat of beating the elven boy with the flat of his sword. However Darryn moved faster. Drawing his sword and a dagger, he slapped the man’s free hand with the flat of the dagger, not to draw blood but to show that he could have done so, while deflecting the man’s sword with his own.

As startled as the man was, he was quick to respond. His face reddened with rage as he swung his sword at Darryn…a killing stroke. Darryn parried easily, then stepped back and cried, “Pax!” in hopes that the fight could be stopped, but it was not to be. The man swung again, and again Darryn parried, this time putting a shallow cut in the man’s cheek.

“I’m a better swordsman than you are…you can’t win this fight…we’re in the middle of a crowd…others are in danger…we must stop!” Darryn panted in between parries.

The man refused to let up. “I’ll show you, you pup!” He swung wildly, now, and Darryn parried easily, raking the point of his sword across the man’s knuckles and then his forehead to scratch without disabling the man.

Suddenly Darryn felt strong arms seize him from behind. His eyes widened with fright, believing that the man would now kill him. Before this could happen, two men in uniform stepped from behind him on either side.

“Pendras, you are a lout and a bully,” one of the men said coldly, holding his sword at high guard.

“And your skills with a sword are no better now than they ever were,” said the other, whose own sword was drawn and held at middle guard to protect himself and Darryn.

“Put your sword away and go home,” the first man said.

Darryn’s tormenter, Pendras, snarled, but obeyed. He slammed his sword back in its scabbard and stalked through the crowd, pushing aside any who got in the way of his anger and shame.

Darryn’s companions, drawn by the noise, had just made their way back when the man behind Darryn released the elven boy’s arms. “You can put your sword away, now, lad. Please accept our apology for the behavior of our townsman.”

Darryn deliberately wiped his sword clean on his handkerchief before putting it away, using the time to regain control of his emotions. He turned to the man who had held his arms. “Thank you, for stopping this fight, for it was not of my making…You’re Francis’ father, aren’t you?” The resemblance between the man and the tween at the gate was unmistakable, and the uniform made it easier to see that resemblance.

The man was nonplused. “How do you know my son?”

“He was on duty at the gate when we entered this afternoon. He made us feel most welcome. I’m rather glad that the welcome wasn’t spoiled…Oh, these are my companions…”

Patrick strode forward. “I am Patrick; I stand with this boy. Please, what happened here, Commander?”

Francis’ father answered, “Your friend encountered the town bully, and acquitted himself admirably. I understand you have met my son?”

“Francis…the tween at the gate…” Darryn reminded Patrick. “This is his father.”

“We are obliged to you for your son’s courteous welcome, and for your intervention here.”

While the Commander’s men shooed the crowd away, he spoke quietly to Patrick and Darryn. “I was happy to intervene, and only sorry that I could not do so sooner. I did not like to see the boy in danger—although as it turns out, he apparently never was!” The man smiled at Darryn. “I saw Pendras deliberately push the boy, and heard their exchange. The boy…”

“Darryn, if you please,” he piped up.

“Yes, of course. Darryn was calm and polite; Pendras was looking for a fight. It was only after Pendras drew his sword that Darryn drew his. You could have sliced his hand off in the first move, and would have, had you not turned the blade of your dagger. I saw that, too.

“As my men and I pushed through the crowd, we heard Darryn offer Pax and then urge Pendras to stop fighting. Pendras refused all offers. You are a remarkable boy, Darryn.”

*****

That evening, the companions sat at a circular table in the common room of the inn. The food was as good as Francis had promised, and better. They had scarce begun their meal when the tween, himself, came in, still in uniform. Alan saw him, and waved him to an empty seat between himself and Darryn.

“Francis, you heard our names earlier, but perhaps…” Alan began.

“No,” laughed Francis, “Let me try. You’re Darryn…I heard about you and Pendras.” He lowered his voice, “Father was so very pleased that Darryn bested Pendras. Perhaps it will teach him a lesson. He’s a troublemaker and a bully, but he’s very, very rich.

“You’re Patrick; you’re Greyeyes…but they’re green, aren’t they? You are Thom; you are James; you are Kenneth; and you, of course, are Alan. There, how did I do?”

“Very well. Very well, indeed,” Alan announced. “Now, here’s a plate. You were right about the cooking here…please…help yourself.”

*****

Comfortable in their surroundings, they did not set a watch, although Patrick put a locking spell on the door, as was his custom.

Around the 7th hour of the night, a boy approached the door. Had anyone been watching, he might have seen a glow from the pick-locks the boy silently employed to unlock the door. A student of magic would have recognized that the boy possessed Innate Magic, honed to great skill that allowed him to overcome the effects of the Patrick’s magical lock.

Still silent, the boy entered the room. Sensing no movement, he drew a dagger from his waist. By the light of its glowing blade, he examined the faces of the sleepers. Finding Darryn, the boy raised the dagger, and slammed it down through the light blanket and into the sleeping elf’s chest. There was a thunk as the dagger struck the Sept medallion Darryn wore around his neck. The knife slid sideways, slicing a deep groove in Darryn’s chest, before penetrating the ribs. This was followed by Darryn’s sharp cry, which woke first Patrick, who was sleeping next to Darryn, and then the other companions.

The would-be assassin drew in his breath sharply, and turned to run, but Alan’s hand caught the boy’s leg. The boy fell heavily to the floor. His dagger skidded across the floor; its light dimmed.

By this time Greyeyes had thrown open the shutters of a dark lantern and turned up the wick, lighting the room. The lantern’s light revealed a chaotic scene. A bloodstain on Darryn’s blanket was rapidly widening; his face was white and his teeth were clenched. Patrick simultaneously tried to calm the boy and pull back the blanket to examine the wound. Alan, stark naked, was standing beside the bed. He held upside down, by the ankles, a struggling boy, dressed in black tights, black skin-tight tunic with long sleeves, and black felt slippers. A blob of black cloth on the floor was the cap he had been wearing. Green bile flowed from his mouth as he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor. James and Kenneth crouched on either side of the now-closed door, daggers and poniards in hand, prepared to assist Alan or to repel an attack from outside.

The lantern light also revealed the would-be assassin’s dagger that had slid into a corner of the room. Kenneth reached for it, but James stayed his hand. “Careful, it may be enchanted, or poisoned.” Kenneth quickly withdrew his hand.

Patrick was next to speak. “James, I don’t think we’re in any more danger. Please, come help with Darryn. He’s in a great deal of pain, and has lost…well, more blood than it would seem. He’s about to go into shock. Would you address the pain?”

James handed his poniard to Kenneth and joined Patrick beside Darryn. James did not stop to gather magic, but put his hand on Darryn’s forehead and channeled some of the boy magic he received from Greyeyes earlier in the night through his hands and into Darryn’s body, directing the creation of endorphins to ease the boy’s pain. As Darryn’s body relaxed, Patrick pulled back the blanket to reveal the wound.

Greyeyes brought the lantern closer and hovered over the scene, his concern for Darryn apparent.

“He’ll be fine,” Patrick gently assured the boy. “Hang the lantern…there, please, and bring me a basin of water.”

James and Patrick exchanged looks. James knew that Patrick had lied to Greyeyes, and that Darryn’s injury was worse than it appeared.

“James, please treat for shock,” Patrick whispered. While James focused on stabilizing Darryn’s heartbeat, and keeping blood flowing to the brain and vital organs, Patrick dove deeply into the boy, seeking the wound that was about to kill him. There, the knife nicked the aorta and tore the left lung. He’s going to bleed to death if he doesn’t drown in his own blood, first. “James, slow the heart…ease the pressure…there’s a tear in the aorta.” Patrick gathered magic to pull the sides of the wounded vessel together, his task made easier as James helped the boy’s body reduce its blood pressure.

When Greyeyes returned with the basin of water, he could not help but see the strain on Patrick’s and James’ faces. “Wha…!” he cried, as he reached for Darryn, only to have his hand stayed by Kenneth.

“Shh…don’t interrupt,” Kenneth whispered, pulling the elven boy to him. “Let them work.”

Greyeyes struggled, but Kenneth was stronger. Kenneth hugged the elven boy tightly.

The aorta will hold, as long as Darryn’s blood pressure remains low, Patrick thought. “The aorta’s closed, but still weak,” he warned James. “The left lung is mangled and filled with blood. That’s next. Can you assist breathing?” Patrick sensed rather than saw James’ nod.

As James split his attention between heartbeat and breathing, Patrick prepared to address Darryn’s lung. This will take some concentration—and a lot more magic, he mused. Sitting back, he sent boy magic into his fingers, reinforcing them so that he could gather magic. The magic gathered as Patrick wove his spell. Slowly and cautiously he directed it into his own body, to his lungs to be impressed with the shape and substance of the tiny alveoli and bronchial branches that led them. The shaped magic was then directed ever so cautiously into Darryn’s chest to be impressed on his lungs.

Kenneth suppressed a gasp of shock when the boy saw the magic move through Patrick and take on the pattern, then move into Darryn. That’s dangerous, he thought. I didn’t know Patrick could do that! I didn’t know anybody could do that!

Patrick watched as Darryn’s lung knitted, then released the magic back into the field.

“James,” he whispered in his exhaustion. “You and Kenneth are going to have to finish. His lung is repaired, but weak, as is the aorta. Internal…blood needs to be removed, and the puncture and slash must be closed.”

Patrick moved away, shaking with fatigue. James gestured to Kenneth to take Patrick’s place. “Would you clean the wound, and then repair it? It goes rather deep. Patrick has repaired the lung, but there’s blood within the pleura.”

After drawing the blood from inside Darryn’s chest cavity, Kenneth sprinkled water on the wound and employed a bit of magic to scrub the wound and surrounding area without touching it. The water, carrying blood and any potential disease organisms away, ran over Darryn’s side to soak into the mattress. Next, Kenneth delicately gathered magic and focused it on the wound. As Greyeyes watched, the wound on Darryn’s chest closed. Had Greyeyes been able to see more closely, he would have seen the muscles and larger blood vessels knit, then the layer of fat just below the skin, and then the skin itself. Within minutes the wound was reduced to an angry red line in Darryn’s flesh. Kenneth continued pouring magic into the area, directing the tiny blood vessels and nerves to rebuild their pathways. As Darryn’s body took over the task of healing, Kenneth sat back and used more magic to clean the last of the blood from the elven boy.

James stopped stimulating endorphin production and relaxed his hold on Darryn’s heartbeat and breathing. Both rhythms continued on their own: slow and steady; there were enough endorphins in Darryn’s body to keep him in a semi-trance.

With Greyeyes’ help, Alan had stripped the Boy-Assassin of his clothes and used them to bind him. The boy sat on the floor, glowering sullenly at his captors.

Greyeyes, having pulled on a pair of tights and boots, approached the captive, dagger in hand. “Who sent you? Why did you attack Darryn? Tell me, or I’ll cut your fingers and toes off one joint at a time until you do.”

The captive boy remained silent, nor did his expression change.

“That wouldn’t work, my friend,” Patrick said quietly to Greyeyes. “The boy is strong, and well-trained. Even if he could be broken by physical torture, I doubt that I’d have the stomach for what it would take.”

“But he tried to kill Darryn!” Greyeyes said. “He tried to kill Darryn!”

“Yes. And we must know why. But there are other ways.”

When Patrick had first spoken, the captive had smiled. No, he would not yield to torture. But the smile faded as the tall, red-haired elf turned his green eyes on the boy. If there had been any hope in the boy’s eyes, it faded as Patrick approached.

“I’m sorry, boy, this may be worse than torture. But you did try to kill our friend, and in doing so you forfeited your life. As you know, elves are masters of the Extreme Orgasm Spell. In a moment you are going to experience the most intense pleasure you’ve ever imagined…no, it will be greater than you can possibly imagine. You will then answer my questions, because you will want that sensation to be repeated. I am prepared to do this over and over and over until you answer all of my questions truthfully. Your body may survive what I am about to do, but your brain will be destroyed. Oh…and when I am finished, I will still not allow my friend to kill you, but will leave you alive as a shambling, drooling vegetable.”

Patrick stood before the boy. He raised his hands and began to weave them through the field of magic that permeated the room. Using a tiny bit of the power, he captured light from the lantern, and used it to illuminate the magical lines of force, so that it appeared that he was gathering strands of ruddy light into his hands. It was a simple trick, one that an Illusionist might use, but it was apparently unfamiliar to the boy. The look of defiance on the boy’s face was replaced with one of fear, even dread.

“No! No! Please!” The boy whimpered. “I was hired by Pendras! Please! I don’t want to die…”

Before he made the magic visible, Patrick had cast a truth-telling spell on the boy, and knew that he was being truthful. Patrick opened the fingers of his hands, slowly releasing the magic back into the matrix.

*****

Greyeyes was adamant. “We can’t leave Pendras alive. You said it, yourself, Patrick. When he tried to kill Darryn, he forfeited his life. And I don’t know why you’re letting that assassin live!”

Darryn, awake and refreshed after having slept most of the day, weakly tugged on Greyeyes’ hand. Greyeyes, still weak with relief that Darryn wasn’t dead, wept unashamedly at Darryn’s touch. “It’s Light and Dark, Greyeyes,” Darryn whispered. “Isn’t that right, Patrick?”

“Yes,” answered Patrick. “It’s Light and Dark and the Balance between them. Pendras is Evil. Not Evil enough to justify our killing him, I don’t think. He is subject to Royal Justice. We should tell Francis and perhaps his father about this. The Boy-Assassin isn’t Evil, either. Right now, he just thinks he wants to be Evil…at least, he did yesterday when he accepted this job. He’s never killed, before, you know. Oh yes, killing leaves a mark on a person. It’s invisible except to Mage-Sight. And there’s no such mark on this boy.”

“There’s no stink of Evil on him, either,” Kenneth added. “I can usually smell when a person is Evil, and I don’t even have to try. When I do try, I can always tell…at least, it’s always worked before.”

“So the boy and Pendras are to be spared, and we are to report the assassination attempt to Francis’ father. Are we all agreed?” Alan asked.

All nodded yes, except for Greyeyes, who simply scowled sullenly.

“You must agree, Greyeyes,” Darryn whispered, “We promised—our oath—to obey willingly, so you must mean it, too.”

“Is this what you want?” Greyeyes asked. When Darryn nodded, Greyeyes addressed Patrick. “It is what I want, too.”

Francis’ father, Abner, addressed Patrick. “This is the final blow against Pendras. Your statement and the statements of your companions were taken under oath and compulsion. They have convicted Pendras of attempted murder. He will be executed…as soon as we can find him. Even as powerful as he is, he’s someone we don’t want here.”

Abner paused, and then continued, “But the boy…what can be done with him? We don’t need an assassin—or a boy who thinks he wants to be an assassin—here. He is guilty of attempted murder, and could be executed. I do not believe that is the best course.”

Patrick waited patiently as the man thought. “Would it be sufficient, I wonder, to treat the matter as an assault on the boy…Darryn? He is the injured party. What would he have me do, or what would you ask on his behalf?” Abner asked, then added. “If you do not wish this burden…”

Patrick spoke quickly, “We must stay here for several ten-days…more, perhaps, until Darryn’s wound is thoroughly healed. How long might it take to get a letter to Arcadia, and a reply?”

Abner mused. “Today is what? Hmmm. The post is due through here tomorrow. It’s a ten-day to Arcadia in this weather. Another ten-day back. A couple of days turn-around in Arcadia. What do you have in mind?”

“One of my teachers lives there,” Patrick dissembled. “I’d like to ask his advice. Would you hold the boy until then?”

Abner agreed, and invited Patrick to use his office to compose the letter to be sent through the Royal Post.

Patrick wrote to Cadfael, using the name and address for open letters.

We are in Forrest Green. Our next destination is Bowling Green, James’ home. We’d hoped to be there in a tenday or so, but have been delayed. In Forrest Green, we have met Abner Goodman, the Chief of the City Guard, and his son, Francis. Abner is, indeed, a Good Man.

Not everyone in the City is as Good. One of our companions had an encounter with the town bully, who retaliated by sending an assassin. The Boy-Assassin not only picked the spelled lock on our door, but was able to grievously injure Darryn before we captured him. We are staying in this city, with the blessing of Abner, while our companion heals.

Abner has presented us with a quandary: As the injured party, Darryn may claim redress from the Assassin. Since Darryn is a boy under my protection, that right devolves to me. I cannot bring myself to turn the Boy-Assassin over to Royal Justice. He is not Evil; he has not killed. He is scarcely more than a child. The people who need to be punished are the one who presumed to train him and who sent him out, and the one who hired him—and I intend to do so, if it is possible.

Nearly five years ago, when Alan and I were wandering without direction, you helped us find direction. The assistance and advice you gave us then, and subsequently in your letters, have been invaluable to us. Had we not met you, our path would have been much different, and without the purpose and sense of rightness you gave us. It occurred to me, therefore, that you might help this boy find his direction. If I can arrange to send him to Arcadia, would you assume responsibility for him? Or, if you have a friend in Forrest Green who shares our beliefs, could you refer us to him?

*****

There, thought Patrick, I’ve let him know that we’re okay; I’ve told him, I think, that the Boy-Assassin might be an asset to the intelligence network. If Cadfael can’t or won’t take him, perhaps he has an agent here who can help us. Let’s see.

“There is one more thing I must tell you,” Patrick said. “I can only hope that it does not change your kindness toward us.”

Abner looked puzzled, and invited Patrick to continue.

Patrick described their experience in the village, and with the Boy-Thieves, concluding with, “We couldn’t leave the boys there. They’d have been killed. If they tried to follow us on foot, they’d have died of cold and hunger. I could not allow that, either.”

Abner’s eyebrows had risen higher and higher as Patrick spoke. When Patrick finished, they dropped and Abner’s face was once again its usual stony mien.

“First, I agree that you did the best thing. I know of that town. It’s a pustule on the face of the land. Had the boys remained there, they wouldn’t have remained committed to Balance for long. That town turns to Evil anyone who stays there long enough. No, it would have been Evil to have left the boys there. It’s a credit to them that they realized that.

“Second, you were right not to leave them on their own. If they hadn’t died, they’d have made it to Forrest Green, and found their way to the Thieves Guild here. By bringing them here, and putting them under oath, you put them under obligation to you. And, if those companions of yours who look to you for leadership are any indication of your character, being under obligation to you isn’t a bad thing.

“Third…well, third will have to wait until tonight. Will you come to my home at compline?” Startled, Patrick nodded. Abner continued, “I’ll send Francis to escort you there and back.”

After supper, taken in shifts so that Darryn was never alone, the companions retired to their room. As the others puttered with one thing and another, Kenneth sought out Patrick.

“I saw how you healed Darryn’s lung…I could see you push the magic through your body, and I saw the pattern it had taken. Once, I read something about impressing patterns on healing magic, but when my teacher realized I’d read it he forbade me ever to try it. Then he said it was impossible, anyway. How did you do it?”

“Kenneth, your teacher was right to forbid you. It is possible, but you should not try to do it until you are much, much stronger, even though you saw me do it. If my attention had wavered for an instant, if you hadn’t held Greyeyes away and if he had touched Darryn or me, Darryn would have died, and I would have, as well. The first time this happened was when Alan was brought to me, torn up by a mountain lion. He was about to die, and I didn’t know where to start healing him. I gathered magic for healing, but didn’t know where to start. Suddenly, without any planning or effort on my part, I felt magic go through me, using my body as a matrix to show his what to do. It worked, and he lived. I don’t know how I did it then, and I’m not completely certain how I did it today. I would not have tried it except that Darryn was about to drown in his own blood, and I knew of no other way of saving him. It was terrifying. I saw a road and a fork in that road. One fork led to a seething cauldron of magic that was poised to pour through me and into Darryn, utterly destroying us if I had faltered; the other fork led to Darryn’s death if I didn’t try.

“Those are the most difficult choices, I think—the either-or choices where there’s no room for a middle road. Sometimes, it seems, there are only two choices, though, and neither is easy.”

“There are few choices among rotten apples,” Kenneth mused.

“What? I’ve heard that, before,” Patrick said.

“It’s from an entertainment. The story is a very dark one about greed, but it’s also about loyalty,” Kenneth answered. “A band of players who visited my home called it King Lear. I remember, especially, that phrase because at the time I was faced with some difficult choices. Not,” the boy smiled at Patrick, “not as difficult as the choice you faced. Thank you for telling me about it. You are a good teacher.”

Francis and another guard, whom Francis introduced as his companion, Ben, came for Patrick as compline tolled. “Father told us about Darryn…we’re so sorry,” Francis said. “How is he?”

“Resting, thank you,” James replied as Patrick prepared to leave. “He will heal, but it will take time.

Francis and Ben escorted Patrick to Francis’ father’s home. Once there, the two boys waited with Francis’s mother, who fussed over him—to his embarrassment. After greeting his son and Ben, Abner escorted Patrick to his den. In one corner, his face hidden in shadows, stood an imposing figure.

“Patrick, will you swear on the Light to keep the secrets you learn tonight?” Abner asked.

Patrick was startled, but he knew Abner served the Light, and trusted that the man would not draw him into a false oath. Patrick replied, “On the Light and in its service, I swear.”

Abner glanced at the man in the shadows. When the man nodded, Abner turned up the wick on the lamp to reveal a plainly dressed man with dark hair. His black eyes burned with intelligence and something else, less obvious.

“Abuun, may I present Patrick? Patrick, please greet in friendship Abuun, Master of the Thieves Guild of Forrest Green.”

Patrick held out his hand in greeting as the man stood and stepped forward. “I greet you, Master Abuun…I don’t know what to say…I can’t greet you in the Light, since you are of Balance…” The tween’s voice drifted off.

“Then I shall greet you in the Light, lad,” Abuun said. He smiled. “Please understand that I neither fear nor eschew the Light. Balance does not come from favoring Darkness over Light. Balance to me is ensuring that both Light and Darkness have a place, but that neither reigns absolute. Hmmm. I see I do not explain well. We will talk of this more. Tonight, however, my friend Abner says you have something to tell me.”

“I thought you could tell of your adventure among the Goths, and its aftermath, better than I,” Abner said.

Patrick repeated what he had told Abner earlier that day. When he had finished, Abner added, “I believe that he did the right thing, bringing the boys here and putting them under oath.”

Abuun addressed Patrick. “Abner told you true. You did the right thing. Further, I am in your debt. Those boys’ lives are my responsibility. By rescuing them, you did what I should have done but did not. I should have visited that pesthole years ago. If you will tell me their names, I will ensure that they are welcomed and cared for.”

As Alan and Patrick lay together later that night, Alan whispered to his friend, “I always thought the Intense Orgasm Spell was just the product of boys’ imagination, told in the shadows and snickered over when one encountered the village idiot. Would you really have put that spell on the boy? Would you really have turned him into an idiot?”

“Oh, no,” Patrick answered. “You see, I don’t know the Intense Orgasm Spell. Oh yes, it does exist, but it requires a knowledge of the brain that I do not have. The spell is not one that has many uses in service of the Light—I can’t think of any good reason for turning someone into an idiot. I was counting on his fear of the spell…and on his youth. I doubt that he’d ever run into a real challenge. Not here. He probably thought he was immortal. Boys do, at that age. I was happy and relieved that my ruse worked. I can kill; but even if I knew the spell, I don’t think I could ever destroy a mind.”

Patrick, James, and Kenneth had split the day so that at least one healer was with Darryn all the time; the other companions arranged likewise, so that there was someone to run errands or merely keep company. The following evening, James, Alan, and Kenneth had just finished supper when Francis and Ben arrived and were assured that Darryn was still recovering.

“Would you share a pitcher of ale with us?” Francis asked.

The boys shared more than one pitcher of ale as Alan regaled them with stories of adventures that no one could tell were truth or fable.

“The warriors you tell of…they must have been very skilled,” Ben said.

“Yes,” Francis added, “they probably had better training than we can get here. My father does what he can, but there’s no really good Weapons Master.”

James described the training he’d received at the temple in Bowling Green, and Alan told about the time he spent at Master Edo’s school in Arcadia. Francis and Ben were much more interested in the training Alan had received. “We’re not ready for the kind of commitment that the temple requires,” Ben explained.

*****

“If Abner does not know who the Master Assassin is, then it’s likely that only the boy can tell us who trained him. The threat of Death by Intense Orgasm spell worked last time; do you think it will work, again?” James asked.

“Not likely. The boy’s had a chance to think. He’s in official custody, and not being held captive by a bunch of wild, naked boys. No, we’ve lost that edge,” Patrick replied.

“Let me try,” Greyeyes said.

“Greyeyes, your oath…” Darryn said weakly.

“That is exactly what I’m thinking of,” Greyeyes said.

The Boy-Assassin started, and cowered against the wall when Greyeyes entered the cell carrying a tray with the boy’s food.

“Please don’t be afraid,” Greyeyes said, putting the tray on the floor and looking around. The room was empty and the boy was naked; he had been left nothing with which to fashion a weapon or tool, and nothing with which to harm himself. There were two windows more than 12 feet above the floor on otherwise featureless walls; there was no latch or handle on the solid door that had been closed behind Greyeyes when he entered the room.

“Please, I won’t hurt you, truly,” Greyeyes said as he sat on the floor beside the food tray. “They told me that you only get one meal each day. If you don’t come here and eat, you’ll be hungry.”

“You said you would cut my fingers and toes off! So why won’t you hurt me now?” the boy demanded.

“Because Patrick…” seeing the puzzled look in the boy’s face, Greyeyes added, “…the tall, red-headed elf…Patrick told me not to, and I’m oath-bound to him. Just like you’re oath-bound to your master.”

“You did swear an oath to your master, didn’t you?” Greyeyes asked the boy.

“Of course,” the boy replied.

“An oath of obedience, just as I swore to Patrick, right?” Greyeyes asked.

“Obedience and silence,” the boy said. “I know what you’re trying to do. You want to know who my master is, and I won’t tell.”

“Of course you won’t; you swore not to,” Greyeyes said.

After a pause, the elven boy continued. “When I swore my oath to Patrick, he swore an oath, too. He swore to provide for me, to protect me, to teach me, to honor me, and to cherish me,” Greyeyes said. “What did your master swear to?”

The boy looked surprised, “Why, nothing!”

“Nothing?” Greyeyes asked, raising his eyebrows. “He didn’t swear to secrecy? He didn’t swear to provide for you? He didn’t swear to teach you? To nurture and cherish you? Hmph. Sounds pretty one-sided to me. Here, eat your lunch.”

The Boy-Assassin sat down on the floor on the other side of the tray from Greyeyes, and picked up the bread and cheese. “How do you know that Patrick would keep his oath?” he asked.

“Well, in the first place, I know Patrick is a Good person, and that an oath is important to him. Second, I know that Patrick and Alan…he’s the one who held you upside down…swore an oath to Thom when he became their companion, and that they’ve kept that oath. Third, the oath Patrick made to me was witnessed by more than a hundred people and sealed by magic. But most important, Patrick saved my life at risk of his own when he stepped between me and a man who was about to kill me…or at least hurt me really badly.”

Greyeyes continued, “Of course, your master is a Good person; and you know that he’s kept his oath, before; and your oath was witnessed…what’s the matter…you’re not eating.”

“No…none of those things. He’s not a Good person. No one witnessed my oath to him…and he swore no oath to me…you know that!”

After another brooding pause, Greyeyes continued. “You were a thief before you were an assassin, weren’t you?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“You picked a magic lock…Kenneth…he’s the boy healer …found your lock picks and saw the magic on them. I just figured you had been a thief. Probably a good one, too.”

“Yeah, I was.”

“I thought Thieves were sworn to uphold the Balance between Light and Dark,” Greyeyes said. “How did you become an Assassin? Oh. Of course. The Thieves Guildmaster released you from your oath to him.”

“No…no…” the boy stuttered, his voice catching in his throat.

The boy had eaten all the food on the tray, and drunk the water in the jug. Greyeyes pushed the tray aside and sat facing the boy. “Then you are foresworn! Oh, I’m so sorry!”

As the Boy-Assassin collapsed in tears, Greyeyes pulled him close, hugged him, and rocked back and forth, saying over and over, “Shhh, it will be okay. Shhh…”

When the boy’s tears had stopped, and his breathing returned to normal, Greyeyes said, “My name is Greyeyes. What is your name?”

“Theron,” whispered the boy. “Why do you tell me your name? Why do you ask mine? I tried to kill your friend.”

Greyeyes selected his words carefully. “My friend’s name is Darryn. When we became boys together, we swore an oath to live by the Light. When we joined Patrick and Alan and the others, we were invited to die with them if necessary in a fight for the Light. That fight is more important than any of us.” He paused.

Greyeyes continued, “The man who you think of as your master is Evil. Not because he is an assassin, but because he invited you to foreswear yourself, and because he sent a boy to kill a boy without true cause, and because he invited you to swear an un-Balanced oath, and because he hides behind you, a boy.”

“Theron,” Greyeyes said softly, still cradling the boy, “Your oath to this man is not binding on you. It is un-Balanced, and you serve Balance. He is Evil, and you serve Balance.”

“I…I don’t know,” the boy said, “You’re trying to trick me!”

“On my honor, I am not. Theron, look at me. Look into my eyes.” When Theron raised his head, Greyeyes continued, “Theron, on my life and on my love for Darryn, I am not trying to trick you, I am trying to save you.”

“He is called Ayden,” whispered Theron. “He has a pawn shop on Prester Alley.”

*****

“I can have a score of soldiers back you up,” Abner offered.

“If you don’t mind, Commander, I think a small force would be best. And it would be best if it were made of people that aren’t known to be your people. If you agree, Francis and Ben will join us, in mufti and in disguise,” Alan replied.

After Patrick had identified the Master Assassin, he’d asked Alan to put together a plan for the man’s capture. They presented their plan to Abner, and he had agreed that the man should be arrested and brought to justice. “I’m the senior Royal Officer here. The City Master is selected by the Guild Masters, and they are selected by their Guilds. As far as justice is concerned, it’s pretty much up to me. I’m pleased that you’re willing to undertake this, and will gladly allow Frances and Ben to join you.”

Two by two, the companions and their local allies, Francis and Ben, entered the pub. Darryn, still weak, had been left in the inn under the watchful eye of six of Abner’s men. Greyeyes, Patrick, and Kenneth were heavily disguised to conceal their elvish heritage. Alan’s ash-blond hair was hidden under a leather cap and a liberal handful of greasy dirt. Francis and Ben were wearing second-hand clothes, recently purchased at a rag shop, and their hair had been blackened. They all looked thoroughly disreputable, which, as a matter of fact, was an asset.

If the building really were an inn, the large room on the ground floor would be called the common room, but this place, on the edge of the town and on the edge of civilization, wasn’t an inn. It was a den of iniquity where anything could be purchased: noxious intoxicants, poisonous substances suitable for ridding one of rats or relatives, and recently, an assassination. Abner knew of the place, and tolerated it. “Better to know where people like this are operating, than have them operate in secret.”

As each pair entered, they took ale from the bar, and went to a table…a different table, and ignoring the others. Pretending to sip their ale, they waited. Patrick and Kenneth, together at one table, were approached by an old man. “You can get better ale elsewhere, but you can’t buy this anywhere but here,” he said, pulling a folded paper from his pocket. Opening the paper, he revealed a cone, about an inch high that appeared to be made of brown sugar. “Incense. Incense of a very special kind. Burn this under a blanket, and you’ll be taken to the sweetest dreams you can imagine. Only half a crown.”

Patrick grunted, “No,” and looked away. The man curled his lip, and went to another table.

Meanwhile, a tween, so emaciated that the skin was transparent over the backs of his hands where the veins stood out like cords, crept to the table where Alan and Greyeyes sat. “You’d be safer with a magical dagger, you know. My Master makes ‘em to order. Tell me what you want and for two crowns he’ll have it for you before nightfall.”

“This dagger would go through you without you ever feeling it,” Greyeyes muttered, partly drawing his poniard so that the boy could see the blade. The boy backed away, looking for another potential victim.

Patrick’s cough was clearly audible over the background noise of the bar. The companions tensed. Those facing the door saw a tall, thin man enter. The light from the door limned the figure, and it was difficult to make out his features.

Alan kept his eye on Patrick, who raised his hand in a casual gesture that meant, to Alan, certainty. This was what Alan had been waiting on. One hand put a whistle in his mouth and the other reached for his sword. As he stood, he blew the whistle and drew his sword. The others, warned by Patrick’s cough, stood as one, throwing back cloaks and pulling out swords and poniards. They rushed to surround the tall figure, forming a circle with Patrick, Alan, Thom, and Ben facing the man, and James, Greyeyes, Kenneth, and Frances facing outward. Patrick threw the net of magic he’d been quietly weaving, while pretending to drum the table nervously, and pulled it tight. The man’s eyes widened in surprise as he felt his arms pinned invisibly to his side. He opened his mouth to shout, and Ben jammed a wadded kerchief in it. Thom and Alan wrapped their arms around the man, lifted, and began walking toward the door. Ben quickly added his strength to theirs.

The swords of those on the outside of the circle weren’t necessary…the clientele of the bar was more interested in self-preservation than in getting involved in whatever was going on. Some bolted, and some sauntered, toward the back door. Most, accustomed to stranger goings-on in that place, remained in their seats, ignoring the whole thing.

When the group was outside the building, they re-formed. Alan looped rope around the man, replacing the fading magical bonds with something more substantial. Thom removed two daggers from the man’s belt, and one from each boot.

*****

The door crashed open and the man was brought face to face with the would-be Boy-Assassin. The man controlled his face, but Theron could not. The look of horror on his face was the final proof. The man was the soi-disant Master Assassin.

*****

“Why did you decide to capture him in a public place, rather than in his shop or in the street?” Greyeyes asked Patrick.

“His shop might have contained defenses of which we would have been unaware; on the street, we might have endangered innocents. No one in that pub was an innocent. Even though we turned him over to Abner, as far as the people in the pub know…encouraged by Abner’s deliberately leaked information…we were bounty hunters from far away, and our actions will not cause the other bad elements to abandon the pub.”

*****

“It doesn’t matter if I know your real name or not. If you don’t tell me who you are, you will die anonymously. I will not even record the pseudonym you used. If you tell me who you are, we will be able to record your name in the City ledger when you are executed.” Abner paused to give the Master Assassin time to think. When the man remained silent, Abner said, “So be it. On the testimony of these witnesses, and by the authority of Auric, Prince of the Realm, your life is forfeit.”

The man looked startled. “But there was no trial! That boy said nothing!”

Abner’s face was grim. “Your ignorance of Royal Justice is not a defense.”

*****

The crowd in the plaza was somber. There hadn’t been an execution in the town in many years. The Master Assassin, looking forlorn in a plain, black robe, stood alone on a platform. The platform abutted the building that held Abner’s office, and could be reached only by stepping out of the window of that office. The Master Assassin was tied to a post, and his feet were manacled to the floor of the platform.

City officials and all the Guildmasters save Abuun sat in hastily erected stands. Although it was under Prince Auric’s authority that the execution was to take place, Abner Goodman wanted them to be highly visible. His invitation to attend the execution had been firmly worded, and delivered by soldiers—courteous, but well-armed.

The black-robed and hooded executioner stepped from the window onto the platform. A hush came over the crowd.

Francis was somewhat nervous at the start, but his voice gained strength and confidence as he read the proclamation.

“In the City of Forrest Green, and in the Presence of the Magister, Council, and Guildmasters of that City, by the authority of Auric, Prince of Arcadia, and on the true testimony of sworn witnesses, this man stands guilty of attempted murder by proxy in that he sent a boy to murder in his sleep another boy. His life is forfeit.”

When Francis started reading, the executioner stepped from the back of the platform to stand behind the man. The instant Frances stopped reading, the executioner drove a glowing blade into the nape of the man’s neck and swiftly pulled it out. The man collapsed, dead. A gasp came from the crowd.

The crowd, muttering, milled about as if to depart, but stilled when Francis stepped forward, another proclamation in his hand.

“In the City of Forrest Green, and in the Presence of the Magister, Council, and Guildmasters of that City, by the authority of Auric, Prince of Arcadia, and on the true testimony of sworn witnesses, Pendras, Citizen of this City, stands guilty of attempted murder by proxy in that he sent a boy to murder in his sleep another boy. Having escaped before he could be captured, Pendras was judged in absentia. He is declared anathema and forever exiled from this city. By the authority of Auric, Prince of Arcadia, he is named Outlaw and his life is forfeit. Any man or tween who encounters him within the borders of Arcadia may kill him with impunity. Pendras’ property is forfeit and reverts to the Crown.”

Several in the crowd gasped, and the Magister and several of the Guildmasters muttered among themselves. They hadn’t believed that Abner would take such a step.

*****

Darryn continued to heal; the companions took turns tending to him and ensuring that he was never alone. The door to the room was spelled, and there was always a fighter and a healer present. In addition, there always seemed to be a couple of off duty soldiers drinking fruit juice in the common room. The companions got the impression that Francis or his father had something to do with that.

Patrick, off duty for a while, took a walk through the market, hoping to find some tanned leather to make a new belt, when he sensed a presence, and then felt light fingers groping for the dagger he wore. He quickly snatched the hand, and turned to face the would-be pickpocket.

“Andrew!” he said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You-know-who told me to find you and invite you to have coffee with him. He didn’t say how I was to invite you, though.” the Boy-Thief grinned impishly.

Patrick, who still held Andrew’s hand, pulled the boy to him and hugged him. “I’m very glad to see you, Andrew. I’m also glad to see that you’re well and happy.”

Andrew enthusiastically returned the tall elf’s hug. “And I’m glad to see you again, Patrick. I heard what happened to Darryn…and the whole Guild knows you were responsible for the fate of the Master Assassin. He was too Evil…You restored the Balance, again, you know.” The boy winked at Patrick. “Are you sure you’re not a Thief?”

Abuun was sitting in the back of the common room of an inn hidden on a side street. The inn had no sign, and a traveler who didn’t know the inn wouldn’t likely have found it. When Patrick walked in, every eye turned to him, but when Andrew walked in behind him, the others in the room suddenly didn’t see him any longer, but turned back to their own business.

As Patrick approached the back of the room, he felt as if he’d stepped through an invisible, heavy, felt curtain. Noise from the front of the room was muffled, and vision was distorted. A privacy screen. That’s an interesting spell, and a difficult one. One of the men at the bar must be a mage. I should have paid more attention. Am I in danger?

Abuun stood, and gestured to Patrick to sit. At another gesture, Andrew went to the front of the room, and sat at a table beside…Yes, it is the other two boys, Patrick thought. And they look well. I’m so glad.

When Patrick was seated, a server brought coffee for him and tea for Abuun. “I understand you like coffee, my friend,” Abuun began. “Too bitter for me, but I had the boys steal some for you.”

Patrick started, and Abuun laughed. “Not really…but the money that bought it was stolen, so what’s the difference?”

“Is that what you want to talk about? Morality?” Patrick asked. “Why do you care what I think of you?”

“If anyone else asked me that question, I’d tell them that I didn’t give a whit what they thought about me and that if they thought otherwise they were flattering themselves. Well, not anyone. I care what Abner Goodman thinks of me; and for some reason, I care what you think of me. I asked Andrew to invite you here for a very selfish reason. I want to know why I care what you think of me!” The Master Thief sat back and stared at Patrick. “What do you think about that?”

“I truly don’t know what to think, Master Abuun. I was surprised when I met you because of where I met you. I still don’t understand how he justifies his acquaintance with you. I don’t understand how the Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild could greet me in the Name of the Light. And I don’t understand Balance. I thought I did, but apparently I do not. And finally, I don’t understand, either, why you would give a whit what I thought of you. Truly, I’m more mystified than you.”

Patrick paused, unsure how to broach the question that had been uppermost in his mind since Andrew had found him in the marketplace.

“Andrew said that the Guild knew I was involved in the capture of the master assassin. We…I…had hoped to keep that secret,” he said.

“I understand,” Abuun replied. “It is a secret known only to members of this Guild, as well, of course, as he who introduced us.”

“But how does the Thieves Guild—” Patrick began.

“Just as he who introduced us watches the place where the capture took place, so do I. He knows I watch, just as I know he watches. He watches to ensure there is not too much Evil; I watch to maintain Balance—and in self-defense,” Abuun began.

“Andrew was one of my watchers on the day the master assassin was captured,” the Guildmaster continued. “Oh, don’t worry. He was well supervised and protected. He recognized you, despite your disguise; he told his two companions. Someone overheard and the information began to spread through the Guild. As soon as I heard it, I declared it secret. I believe that the information has been—contained.”

“I am glad to hear that, and thank you for your concern and actions,” Patrick replied. “But you have puzzled me once again in your talk of Balance and now, of self-defense.”

“I speak of defending the integrity of the Guild,” Abuun said. “It would not be in my interest to see any of those who lurk there become either strong enough to challenge me. It is an axiom that it is easier to do Evil than to do Good. I have never questioned it, because I have seen too often the seductive power of Evil. I have not only sworn to uphold Balance, but also to protect the members of this Guild. If Evil—and that place surely harbors and nurtures Evil—were to gain the upper hand, I would have failed in my oath and my vocation.”

Abuun seemed willing, even anxious to answer Patrick’s questions about the Guild.

“We do not steal from a poor man; we would not steal from a man who would then be unable to feed his children. We steal from the fool who flashes his wealth in the marketplace; we steal from the dandy who ties his purse loosely at his belt.

“We do not steal in order to live a life of luxury. Coffee is a luxury; it is not in our larder, which is why I had to steal some for you. Just kidding!

“We steal from the rich…but we don’t give to the poor. That’s the duty of almoners. We do help the poor, though, by using the money we steal to buy what they produce.” Abuun chuckled. “We keep money in circulation, and that keeps bread on everyone’s table!”

“What is Evil, and what makes a man Evil?” the Master Thief asked.

He answered his own question, “The self-styled monks whom your companions killed when they rescued Andrew and his friends: were they evil? How do you justify killing them? The boys could have been freed and spirited from the monastery. Why were the monks killed?”

Patrick answered quickly, “They were evil in large part because they forced themselves on the boys. In large part because they kept the boys prisoner—chained in a dungeon or chained by ties of love to other boys who were chained in a dungeon. In part, I suppose, they were Evil because they were worthless…they had been given Life and Light, or at least a choice, and elected to waste them.”

“So it was their actions that made them evil. But, were they truly Evil? And, you still haven’t said why they were killed,” Abuun reminded Patrick of the rest of the question.

“I…I wasn’t there to assess, to make decisions, to direct,” Patrick equivocated, but Abuun jumped in.

“Those boys were under your command, by oath and custom. You are responsible for their assessments, their decisions, and the direction they took.”

Patrick sat, stunned. Was I responsible for the deaths of six—was it six? How awful not to be certain of the number!—of six men and those three boys who died in the attack? And was it wrong for them to have been killed?

Abuun looked kindly at Patrick, “Don’t beat yourself up, Patrick. And don’t have doubts. And don’t, whatever you do, go back and question your companions. They did what was right at the time and with the information they had. They did what was right because you had been and still are a good leader. Our mutual friend has told me about your companions. He’s a stern man, but an excellent judge of character, and he thinks you are all pretty wonderful. Otherwise he would not have let you lead his son and the boy’s companion on the raid that netted the Assassin, now would he?

“When we say we serve the balance, we’re actually ensuring that there is always some motion around the center….”

“Perhaps,” Patrick suggested, “it would be more correct to say that you serve chaos than that you serve balance. On the other hand, you also serve—what? stability?—in that you work to ensure that things don’t get too far out of balance.”

“When water does not move, it becomes stagnant, and vile things grow in it, is that not so?” Abuun asked.

“Usually so,” Patrick replied. “So you work for chaos rather than balance?”

“Motion which is life, rather than chaos,” Abuun said, firmly as if he had only now grasped the idea.

“If there were no tension between light and dark, kings, princes, and armies would have no place,” Abuun said.

“Nor thieves?” Patrick asked.

“Nor thieves,” Abuun agreed.

“Balance does not mean that Darkness rules Light, nor that Light conquers Darkness, but that there is always a little bit of shadow in which Thieves can operate.”

*****

Abner, himself, delivered the letter to Patrick, and did not seem at all surprised to see that his son, Francis, and Francis’ companion, Ben, had spent the night with the adventurers.

Patrick noted that the seals—both physical and magical—were intact, and opened the letter.

As the tween scanned the letter, a smile broadened on his face. “Commander, would you join me for coffee while this crew gets themselves ready for breakfast?”

Abner nodded, a bit puzzled, but followed Patrick to the common room where they found a corner table. When coffee (and tea for Abner) had been delivered, Patrick spread the letter in front of Abner, who read silently,

My friend Patrick,

You honor me with your thoughts. I had no idea that you and your companion, Alan, felt so kindly disposed to me. I am happy to hear that you are well, and that you continue to pursue your goals, which are also mine.

The boy who attacked your friend is of interest to me. If you believe that he can be salvaged, please send him to me, under a kindly escort. It would be best if he were decently treated, and not shipped as a common prisoner. Have his escort notify Centurion Merkle of the City Guard when they arrive. He will ensure that the boy is well treated, and brought to me.

I should have known that you would find the best man in Forrest Green. Abner Goodman is an old friend, and will certainly want to help you in this endeavor. Please speak to him as you would speak to me, and remind him of the dinner we had at the Pleasant Pheasant in Arcadia.

With kindest regards and best wishes,

Cadfael

Abner looked at Patrick and smiled broadly. “It seems that not only do you and I have a common friend, but a common master, as well. I knew…I should have known…that there was something uncommon about you and your companions. One seldom sees such a concentration of talent and Good in one place,” Abner paused and signed wistfully, “If only I were younger…I would like to join you on your adventure.”

“But,” the man continued briskly, “that is not to be. Of course I will help. If it is your desire that this boy be sent to Arcadia, I will arrange to do so. You will, of course, destroy the letter?”

Glancing to see that no one was looking, Patrick poured magic into the letter, breaking molecular bonds until nothing remained but a light dust that he flicked onto the floor.

No sooner had he done so than Francis and his friend Ben came down the stairs. At his father’s welcoming gesture, the two tweens joined him and Patrick. After exchanging good-mornings, Francis launched into a speech that he’d obviously rehearsed.

“Father, Ben and I want to go to Arcadia and enroll in Edo’s school, where Patrick and Alan studied. We’ve saved enough to pay for a year’s training, and Alan has agreed to write a letter commending us to Edo.”

Abner looked at his son proudly. “You may do so with my blessing. What do Ben’s parents think about this?”

“Well, we were sort of hoping that you’d go with us to ask them, Father,” Francis replied.

*****

Patrick found his own way back to the headquarters of the Thieves Guild. He was somewhat relieved that Abuun was present; he was unsure if he would have been allowed to enter, otherwise. The Guildmaster beckoned to Patrick and to the serving boy.

“Master Abuun,” Patrick said when he was seated, “I would ask a boon. I find myself on the horns of the bull. I do not know how I could repay you for what I am about to ask, and still serve the Light, but my service to the Light compels me to ask.”

“Go on,” the man encouraged.

“A Thief, a boy, sworn to you, foreswore himself. He served briefly the Dark. He regrets his action, and has redeemed himself in a service to the Light that restored the Balance. I would ask that you forgive him, and release him from his oath to your Guild, but not ask his name.”

“I know his name, Master Patrick. It is Theron, and you speak of the boy who tried to become an assassin.” The man paused. “Master Patrick, I forgive Theron, and I release him from his oath. You owe me nothing for this. I do it for his sake, and not because you asked it. I do this because of my oath to him, which binds me even though he, himself, was foresworn.

“I cannot go to him in Government House and relay these messages. He cannot be brought to me without unacceptable risk. You cannot relay these messages without knowing more about the Mysteries of my Guild than an outsider may know. I am on the horns of the bull, now.”

Abuun’s black eyes twinkled as he exclaimed, “Patrick, you will join the Thieves Guild, be sworn, be shown the Mysteries, and then carry the messages of forgiveness and release to Theron.”

“Master Abuun, I cannot! I am sworn to the Light!”

“Master Patrick, on my life, you will not be foresworn,” the Master Thief said.

*****

The room was filled. Men, boys, and tweens stood in ranks on two sides of the room. Patrick was not entirely surprised to see the skirts of several women, as well. All in the room were hooded save Patrick, Abuun, and the three boys rescued from the monks: Andrew, Kevin, and Kyle. Of course, Patrick thought. I already know their identities.

Patrick stood on a dais with Abuun, who spoke, “For reasons I find necessary and sufficient, I propose and present Master Patrick for initiation into the Thieves Guild. Know you all that he is a sworn Servant of the Light, and therefore cannot advance beyond Probationer in our Guild. Who among you will second him?”

Andrew, Kevin, and Kyle stepped onto the dais. Andrew spoke for the three boys, “We do, on our lives, which he and those under his leadership saved twice over.”

“Who among you would deny him entry into our company and knowledge of the Mysteries appropriate to a Probationer?” Abuun asked. Another reason for the hoods, Patrick thought. Anyone can reject me, anonymously. There was no response, not even a rustle of clothing, or a cough.

“Master Patrick, do you swear as a Servant of the Light, never to reveal the Mysteries which will be revealed to you here today, having my assurances as your friend and Master of this Guild that doing so will in no way jeopardize oaths previously taken?”

Patrick answered, “I swear.”

The ritual that followed was as solemn as any in which Patrick had participated. Those signs and symbols of the Guild appropriate to a Probationer were shown and described. Another oath was sworn, first by Patrick, and then by Abuun. At the conclusion of the ceremony, most of the figures in the room drifted away, singly and in pairs, through various doors and archways. Several came forward to remove their hoods and offer their hands to Patrick.

“Wow!” Andrew exclaimed when at last he and the other boys were alone with Patrick. “You really impressed them! Most won’t show their faces to a dodger. Leastways not until he’s proven himself.”

“Did I miss something?” Patrick asked. “What’s a dodger?”

“It’s what we call apprentices, sometimes,” Kevin said. “Usually boys, though. I’ve never know a tween apprentice, before.”

*****

“Theron?” Greyeyes called as he stepped into the cell, “Oh, good, they’ve given you clothes. I’ve brought some visitors.”

Darryn was the first to enter. Theron started, and would have hidden behind Greyeyes, but Greyeyes held the boy firmly. Darryn walked to where Theron was standing and hugged the boy. “Theron, do not be afraid of me, for I forgive you.” Darryn kissed the startled boy, and quickly left the cell.

The next visitor was Alan, who also hugged the boy. “Theron, I forgive you for harming my friend.”

One by one the companions gave the same message to Theron.

When Patrick entered, Greyeyes left, closing the door behind him.

“Theron, do not fear me, for I forgive you, too,” the tall elf began. “I bring also a message from The Keeper of the First Mystery of the Emerald Arcana.”

Theron gasped. “You know…”

“By my word and on my oath, by the authority of The Keeper of the First Mystery of the Emerald Arcana, by the Sword of Barnabas, by Thaler’s Cup, by the Hand of the Mountains, I say to you that you are forgiven your transgression of foreswearing your oath as a Probationer in the Guild of Thieves, and that you are hereby and herewith released from that oath and from that Guild but that you are charged on your life never to reveal the Secrets and Mysteries of the Emerald Arcana. Do you agree, and do you so swear?”

“I do…” the boy whispered, “But you know that I am foresworn. Why do you ask me to swear? What makes you think that I won’t be foresworn, again?”

Patrick looked the boy in the eyes and said, “When Alan held you upside down, you threw up. You didn’t throw up because you were afraid for your life; you threw up because you thought you’d killed Darryn. It wasn’t until you knew that Darryn would live that you became defiant, again. True?”

“You’re reading my mind…” Theron whispered.

“When you told me who had hired you, it was not because you were afraid of me; it was because you knew that you had done wrong. You let me believe that I had frightened you, because that excused your foreswearing your oath to the Master Assassin. True?”

“Yes,” sobbed the boy.

“When you told Greyeyes the name of the Master Assassin, it was because you knew that you had done wrong, and that you had to do right to restore the Balance. True?”

“Yes,” Theron choked out. “Yes.”

Patrick lifted the boy’s chin. “Look at me, Theron,” he commanded. When the boy’s eyes met his, Patrick declared, “Theron, you are forgiven by those you wronged; you are forgiven by those whom you foreswore; your oath to Ayden is null and void; you are freed of oaths and free of guilt.”

Patrick paused to let this sink in. “You should be smiling, boy, not crying.”

Patrick continued, “Theron, you cannot stay here. You are a boy with no Guild and no Master. Although Darryn and his companions have forgiven you, Royal Justice still has a claim on you. There is in Arcadia a man who was good to me. He is a very wise man and a very kind man. In a few days, I will send you to him. Two of our friends will accompany you, and make sure you arrive safely. He has agreed to help you find yourself, your true self.”