The Gur bristled at the slur but said nothing. He wanted to hear the rest of the story.
"Worse for them-civil war. It would have torn the city apart. There were factions in factions ready to fight for their man."
Therin brushed Maeve away from the back of his chair. "So what's it got to do with this cup and knife?"
"Patience with my tale," Pinch advised as he held up one hand to restrain his lieutenant's impetuousness. "It turns out this story has a wise man, a priest-like there always is in these things. He said the choice should be up to the gods; let them pick the royal heir who was most fit to lead the city. He pointed out they could all slaughter each other for no gain but a smoking ruin of a city, or they could take their chances with the gods. How he got them all to agree, I don't know, but he did.
"So as the story goes, this priest and his servants go off praying and doing whatever it is they do, and after some time they return with the answer. And that an- swer is the Cup and the Knife."
"I don't see it," Sprite protested.
"Whenever there's a new king to be chosen and there's more than one contender, it's the Cup and the Knife that decide. Each heir takes the Knife, pricks his wrist, drips a bit of blood into the Cup, and mixes it with wine. Then he drinks the stuff straight down. If he's the one chosen by the gods, he'll be wrapped up in a ball of holy light, or something such. I never saw it done for real."
"So then, that's what's going to happen here soon, eh Pinch?" Maeve asked.
"And without this Cup and Knife, none of the princes can be crowned?" Therin added.
"So if someone were to steal them, they could name their price?" Sprite chimed in, scuttling to Pinch's feet. "We're going to steal them, aren't we? And then we'll ask for a ransom and clean out the royal treasury! It's genius, Pinch. Why, they'll know our crime from here to Waterdeep!"
He'd told them too much already, the regulator decided, and there was no need to tell them any more- not about Manferic, the switch, or what their fates were likely to be when the job was done. They were with him now, and there was no point in giving them unnecessary details, especially ones that might make them question his plans.
"Yes, we're going to steal them and sell them back. Something like that."
"Temple robbing again." Given their last try, the halfling sounded almost cheerful at the prospect. He gave a nod to Maeve, who seemed in almost as good a cheer.
"It'll be the death of us yet," Therin gloomily countered as he pulled the scarf up to cover the rope scar on his neck.
Ikrit
After he gave them their missions, arranged to meet, and slipped away; after he'd padded through the halls avoiding everyone and bluffed his way past the guards at his door, Pinch collapsed into bed. Bleak exhaustion flowed into him. He knew he should be drawing his plans, setting his traps like a master rogue, but his mind could not get his body to obey. His eyelids insisted on folding shut, his brow on sinking deep into the eiderdown pillows.
I'm getting old, he thought. The nights of carousing, dashing from rooftops to beds to taverns, the nights sitting in the cold alleys, they're sapping the youth from my marrow. I have to be smarter now, work from my web and pull the lines like the spider that senses its prey. I have to think.
A pox on all that, he decided. I'm old. I'm going to sleep.
As he slept, Pinch dreamed, and he remembered those dreams-a thing unwarranted for him.
A shadow shape stalked him. First it was Manferic who, weeping by his own tomb, tried to draw Pinch into his mourning. The dead king's face was hooded, but the fabric of it shifted ever so slightly with the mewling wriggling of something alive. "Help me, son," clacked the dry jaws.
A panic clenched Pinch's dream-self. Then the shadow became Cleedis in a Hellrider's colors, hangman's noose in hand. Pinch could feel, if he truly felt in a dream, the cut of the hemp on his neck, burning the flesh to leave a scar like that around Therin's neck. Cleedis became Iron-Biter and Vargo, two creatures so alike, height to height the same. His dream attached great importance to the fusing of that pair. The one-who-was-two converged on him with the gleaming blade of the Knife held high and the Cup eager to receive his blood. His legs struggled to run, but his toes only brushed the ground. The noose cut into his neck, lifting him higher and higher. He soared above the reach of the Knife, above the scrape of the ground, up to the gallows height. His menacer changed again, and there was Therin laughing on the ground below, past the view of his own dangling feet. The lieutenant wore Pinch's clothes and was counting out the silver of his purse. Somewhere a magistrate's voice read the roll of his crimes and the punishments he had earned. Darkness closed till he hung in a single point. The roll was almost at its end, the creak of the executioner's lever eagerly waiting to finish the litany.
A woman's voice, cracked with age but holding a gentleness uncommon to Pinch's ears, carried through this darkness. "Janol," was all it said, over and over, unearthly hollow and never growing closer. It wasn't Maeve, the only woman Pinch had ever felt close to, although his dream-self half-expected it. It was a cry of anguished poignancy, yet one that offered safety in the darkness. Pinch strained against the noose, the logic of his dream creating ground beneath his dangling feet. The noose cut tighter, cold blood ran into his collar, but the cries grew no nearer. The rope creaked and a black-gloved hand came into view, ready to pull the trapdoor lever.
The hand pulled the lever. There was a rattling thunk. The rope swished. Pinch was falling.
"Janol."
The rogue jerked forward, hands clawing to pull loose the rope around his neck. It actually took moments, during which he ripped at his collar, before Pinch realized the noose was not there. He was sitting up in a mess of bed linens, still dressed in his day clothes, and gulping air like a fish. His mouth was dry and his jaw rigid with fright.
"Janol."
The regulator whirled about. He heard the voice. He was certain it was here somewhere and not just in his dream. It came from somewhere, anywhere in the room-but there was no one. He froze and waited expectantly for it to repeat.
Nothing happened; no cry came.
It had been only the residue of his dream, his nightmare. Sliding out of bed, he rubbed his temples until the echoes and the fog fled away.
Nightmares and dreams. Pinch didn't like either. There were priests who said dreams were the work of the gods, omens to be studied for their insight into the future. Perhaps because of this, Pinch had made a point of banishing dreams. He slept, he woke, and he never remembered what the gods might have foretold for him.
This nightmare was all the more galling because it would not go away. If it was a message from the gods, then his future was grim indeed.
Still, there was no point in brooding over what he couldn't control.
The small light though the windows, such as they were, suggested the best of an honest man's day was gone. It was time then for him to get to work. The regulator shrugged out of his tired clothes and into a doublet and hose of dark crepe that the servants had provided. He disdained the fine lace and silver buckles-too visible in shadows-and chose instead his worn hanger and well-used sword. Working clothes for a working man, he mocked as he admired himself in the mirror.
Ready, he cracked open the door to the hall slightly, although there was no reason for such caution. It was just old habit. Cleedis would have his guards outside, but there was no reason to conceal his goings from them.
The view outside reminded him that old habits existed for reasons. Cleedis's guards were there all right, their backs to him in an indifferent slouch, but beyond them were two more men equally bored, but wearing the livery of Prince Vargo.