He plucked a lantern from the wall and lit it, quickly and quietly returning to the dark room. Then Dhamon slipped inside and closed the door behind him. He breathed deeper now, uncomfortably so. There was no window in here and the room was as small as a pantry, the air inside dead and stifling. He worked the wick, coaxing more light and revealing shelves upon shelves from floor to ceiling, all containing wooden bins, satchels, coin purses, and more. There was little space to move. Each item was painstakingly labeled with the owner's name-safe from thieves who might slip into patients' rooms and steal their valuables while they were too sick to resist, safe until their owners were well enough to leave, or in the most unfortunate circumstance, until survivors arrived to claim them.
A smile spread wide across Dhamon's face as he noted that the shelves had built-in ladders to accommodate the short dwarves. He wouldn't need the ladders. He guessed ten minutes had passed since he left his room. Twenty minutes or more left. Still more than enough time.
Setting the lantern on the floor he began opening one pouch after the next, swiftly collecting pieces of jewelry- rings mostly, but also a few thick gold and silver neckchains that belonged to the wealthier Knights. There were a few feminine pieces, one an old dainty ring set with tiny pearls, another a delicate cloak pin. They either belonged to lady Knights or were keepsakes from wives and lovers.
Dhamon discovered a small velvet purse filled with loose black pearls-a good find, as most of the pouches contained only coins. Behind the purses he found a sizeable leather bag and two well-worn backpacks, one with a crude broken arrow lodged in it. He set the bag and the largest backpack carefully on the floor, trying not to make a sound, opening them and nudging the lantern close. A neatly folded spare tabard was inside one, bearing the Legion of Steel emblem. He discarded it and emptied the other backpack, too. All they carried were garments.
Then he returned to the shelves and moved faster. Within moments rings and bracers found their way into one backpack, along with coin purses filled with steel pieces, daggers with ornate handles, and a variety of other small, valuable objects. He used the tabard for padding so the baubles wouldn't «chink» together. Coins and jewels were stuffed into the sack.
Dhamon ignored swords and axes labeled with patients' names. Too cumbersome, he decided, and many a man would let his coin purse disappear but would hunt forever for a favorite weapon. Ah, but not this sword. Dhamon decided he would not be leaving this behind. He paused for a moment in front of a broadsword sheathed in a scabbard covered with the fine-tooled images of flying hippogriffs and pegasi. He drew it, noting it was sturdy and elegant and well balanced, undoubtedly belonging to a Knight of some importance. The pommel was inlaid with brass and ivory and bore a hallmark.
"Now it belongs to me," he whispered, "until I gain something better." He strapped it around his waist and left his own sword hanging on a hook, the tag dangling from it reading "unknown human patient, Room Four." Then he made his way to other bins. There were more coins inside, a ruby brooch that he snatched up and thrust in a pocket, and a heavily jeweled Legion of Steel ring that he decided must belong to a commander laid up here- perhaps the same owner of the broadsword. Dhamon pushed the ring on his index finger and continued.
When he could fit no more in the leather bag and when the backpack was straining its seams, he filled his pockets with small pouches, tying a few to his sword belt. A final pouch, small, but made of expensive material, he clenched between his teeth.
Able to carry no more, he blew out the lantern, opened the door, and peeked into the hallway. Still empty. He wriggled into the heavy backpack and hoisted the sack over his shoulder. He stood like a statue for a few moments, listening intently, picking through the soft moans and snores for noises of alarm and getting used to the weight of his new possessions. Satisfied all were soundly asleep, he closed the door behind him, glided down the hallway, and reached the stairwell. His goal was to return to his room as quickly as possible, retrieve his boots, and slip out the window.
But the Legion of Steel sentries coming up the stairs altered his plans.
Dhamon's throat went dry. He couldn't have guessed wrong on timing the sentries. What had happened? Hugging the shadows, he skittered down the hall, sweaty feet softly squeaking against the tiles as he strained to hear the Knights' hushed conversation.
The body he spotted a few minutes ago! They were coming upstairs for their dead comrade. And eventually, their dead comrade's personal effects.
Dhamon scowled and slipped into the next doorway, one of the large wards filled with a dozen patients and the smells of balms, blood, and soiled sheets. He held his breath and headed toward the back of the room where the shadows were thickest, and where he knew a window would be-a stirring of air told him so.
Have to hurry, he urged himself. Come on!
"Who're you?" This from a patient only a few feet away. The Knight was propped up on several pillows.
Come on! Dhamon had the shutters open. Another moment and he was standing on a narrow stone ledge.
"Who?" the patient persisted. "What're you doing?"
It was hard to navigate the ledge with the bulging pack on his back. The fingers of one hand dug into the cracks between stones, the other hand gripped the heavy sack on his shoulder. Shuffling along on the balls of his feet as his heels hung over the edge, he worked to keep his balance. The ground was roughly ten feet below.
"A wild man," he heard a patient say, likely the Knight who spoke to him. "A wild mountain man with hair like a bear went out there… out the window."
Dhamon balanced the sack on his shoulder and reached for his knife. Not there. He had forgotten. Damn. Lucky for the man, Dhamon thought to himself, for his instinct was to climb back in to slit his throat.
Dhamon hoped the patient was talking to himself or to another bedridden fool, not one of the passing Knights or caregivers. Time was wasting. He scurried along the ledge toward a drainpipe. Testing the pipe with his weight, he slid down, his knees thunking and the small pouch falling from his teeth. "Damn!" he spat at the falling pouch and the noise he'd made.
Crouching behind a low, wide bush and releasing the large sack, his hands flew across the ground around him searching for the lost item, his fingers pushing aside twigs and rocks. "There!" he whispered to himself. The dirt stuck to his feet and fingers. Dhamon idly rubbed his hands on his trousers and caught his breath.
I've not been discovered, he told himself. Maybe I can sneak back to my window, get my boots… then be on my way.
He could still hear music drifting faintly from the tavern. It sounded better this time, with no one singing along. He peered out from behind the bush. There were three dwarves on the street, just wandering into his line of sight beyond the hospital's brittle lawn. Two of them were supporting the third. Leaving his plunder hidden behind the bush, Dhamon crept like a crab along the wall, back to the center of the hospital where he judged his room to be. He paused beneath the window for only a moment-but it was long enough. Dhamon heard voices inside-two dwarves talking worriedly about a missing, delirious patient who'd unbandaged himself. A search was to be immediately mounted with the aid of the Legion of Steel Knights.
"Splendid," he hissed. He would miss those boots. Whirling, he hurried back to the bush and snatched up the sack and backpack, holding the small pouch in his free hand. The dwarves were still on the street. One of them was sitting stiffly, the other two were trying to tug their woozy friend to his feet.