Kalag's Memoirs, Part 1 (book)

Kalag's Memoirs, Part 1

I am Kalag, the first Kalag of what I hope will be many. This is my diary. Fellow thief, I dedicate its contents to you. Read on. May what I write here help you along the Shadowed Path we've both chosen.

Chapter One: Arrival

I came from nowhere you've heard about, nor is it important. It doesn't exist anymore, like so many other villages that have been hit by the spate of recent plague years. Without families to take care of the fields, there were no crops. Without crops, there was famine even among the farmers. When famine came, the villagers had two choices. Stay and die, griping to the bitter end; or leave for larger towns. I chose to leave.

The obvious place to go was River Crossing. Reputation had it that the place wasn't as stuffy as River Haven, or quite as large (yet) as much older Lanival's Town, though growing fast. An easier place, all in all, to make a start. I ignored the idea of hitting up the Elven and Dwarven communities. The Dwarves I'd encountered were friendly enough to outsiders, but clannish. The Elves offered less than that.

I arrived in River Crossing with a little training, a few tricks to barely stay alive and hardly anything to call my own. I expected to hang out and watch things quietly, doing a little scattered shoplifting and picking of the younger elements while I bettered my combat skills outside.

As soon as I headed down a dingy little lane in the southwestern part of town I could see things weren't going to turn out as planned. Instead of marks with loose pursestrings I was confronted with an old man being assaulted by 2 young toughs. One was a musclebound barbarian type with a twohanded sword, blonde and dark-skinned like many mercenaries I'd seen from the Wolf Clan. The other was a pale spidery creature who looked like he'd fall over in a good breeze, even if he was wielding a short, nasty-looking curved blade. Then he opened his mouth and grinned, and I saw that his teeth had been sharpened to fine points. I no longer considered him a pushover.

They were hitting on an old man, like I said, kind of bent, his head covered with a few wisps of long white hair. His skin was more mottled and shrunken than a prune with sunstroke. In his left hand was a badly repaired cloak, draped to fend off attacks. In his right hand was a pretty dagger, a gold-hilted thing surmounted by a fine emerald.

A derelict can die with a rusty knife in his hand, and no one thinks twice of the lump until the air starts to stink. A wealthy nobleman can die in battle, too, surrounded by a much better class of garment and weapon, and though he comes to a better funeral it all seems just as natural. But when a stick who looks like he's been working the begging trade for 65 years tries to defend himself with an emerald toothpick, there's something curious there that raises my interest.

Curiosity has always led my fortune, both good and ill. I took a step forward out of curiosity, here. The barbarian immediately turned to face me while his shorter friend wove a web of bleeding scratches around the oldster. I knew at once I had taken sides.

He came at me with a big, broad grin, swinging that piece of metal back like a summons to death. Retreating slowly, I tripped and fell. I could see the helplessness reflecting back at me from the glint in his eyes as he moved in for the kill.

Then I sprawled back on my elbows and pushed hard, upwards and out, with both my feet. They caught the barbarian right between the legs, mid-bulge. No leather armor could cushion that kind of force, but then only a fool would rely on leather armor when using brute strength. I doubted he'd do it again, as he collapsed with a hoarse cry.

There was little time for satisfaction, however. His friend glanced around, first in alarm, then with a look of more concentrated hatred than I've ever seen on anybody else since. He tore at me, tossing aside his blade.

I still had no weapon out. I admit being surprised by his reactions; a mistake. He was quickly on me, using nails and teeth. The pain was awful, like being gored by some wild animal instead of killed cleanly with a single blow. I tried to push him away, hearing screams that I dimly realized were my own.

Then just as suddenly he coughed oddly and shivered, and fell to one side. No longer breathing, his eyes remained wide open, and blood dripped from his mouth and fingers: my blood. A dagger stood out of his back, its pommel decorated with an emerald. It was the last image I recall before fainting.

I came to on a wooden palette in a one-room hut built of caked earth and straw. There was a woolen blanket around me-- discolored and tattered, but clean. The old man whose life I saved was seated on a chair. Watching me. He nodded.

"How long?" I asked.

"Two days," he replied.

"I don't usually faint."

"You probably don't fight too many snowbeasts barehanded, either."

"Snowbeast?"

"An osaebraith, yes? Maybe not." He shrugged. "Maybe the light deceived me. Human or snowbeast, he was fury, and your death was written on his heart."

"So we're even, then," I said.

The old man peered at me quizzically. "Even? Oh-- you mean, you saved my life, I saved yours. Yes, if you want to think of it that way. We're even." He snorted and rose, then walked out of view. I heard him rummaging around.

"We're not?"

"You're full of questions," he said, coming back with a mug in his hands. It was half-full of something brown with red flecks swimming in it. "Shut up, if you don't mind. And drink."

I took the mug and cautiously sipped the contents; then less cautiously, for it was amazingly good. In fact, I ended up gulping it down, and licked my lips. He chuckled. "Good, right? You'll sleep now. We'll talk again later." I started to ask him what he meant about my sleeping now, but stopped because my body felt wonderfully warm and completely relaxed. Maybe I'd just take a nap after all, and save the argument about who directs my actions until later.

When I woke the world in general seemed a much friendlier place, probably because I felt like I was still numbered among the living. Not that my body was in the best of shape after that encounter, but even the pain felt good when I considered the alternative. The old man was seated across the floor with his back to me, on a squat, heavily carved wooden stool that looked filched from some rich merchant during its better days. He scratched his rump absentmindedly, and fiddled with some mechanical contraption.

"You have a name?" I said.

He didn't drop his intense scrutiny for a second. Whatever he was working on issued a metallic pop. "Call me Lyanothe. You?"

"Kalag Ka'hurst. What are you working on?"

I heard some tapping, and a couple of musical notes like chimes; then a long grating sound and a loud click. "Nothing," chuckled the old man. He turned around, and held forth an elaborate contraption of springs, levers and pulleys. In among these were two small balloon-shaped bags with nozzles pinched by ragged- edged tines. "You have never seen the like to this before," he said, indicating the object in his hands. I agreed.

"It is the prototype of a new trap, created by Xeros Monlinde for the Traders' Guild-- specifically Arnile Hanskwin. Syndic Hanskwin is a pushing man, and he pushes new methods to forestall thieves." Lyanothe tapped the contraption with a long, thickly jointed finger.

"How did you acquire it?"

Lyanothe tenderly lowered the device into his lap, and sighed. "Xeros and I have a long-running feud. He claims he makes unpickable locks. I claim there isn't a lock that can't be picked, given the right tools and the right man. Hanskwin knew this, and turned the matter to his advantage. He has a genius for that.

"Using the guild coffers, he required of Xeros a complex gas trap beyond any that has ever been seen, and beyond any that could ever be picked."

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. Slowly rising, I sat hunched over. "What," I continued after catching my breath, "is the value of a chest you can't open?"

"The Traders' Guild hates roguery of all types, be it performed by pickpockets, cutthroats, or locksmiths. Not unreasonably so, though they also employ such people for specific tasks. Like me. -In any case, Hanskwin had the idea to create chests you couldn't disarm, and sell the device to the smarter creatures that lie beyond normal contact. Imagine finding a box on a goblin or rock troll. You try to open it, it explodes..."

"I must be dense. What critter will place its belongings in something it can't open?"

Lyanothe grinned at me. "Who spoke of placing valuables in such a chest? Lad, the boobytrapped chest would be a hoax. A scheme in concert between traders and creatures to kill as many greedy thieves as possible. I don't doubt that the traders planned to make money off the selling of such a device, either."

I blinked. "Do the traders hate those they call thieves that much in River Crossing?"

He pondered. "No more than the thieves hate traders. Some work well with thieves, like them personally. Some hate all with fervor. Some save their anger for a select few. Some seek to perform dispassionate deeds of malice when chance and the Gods permit. Syndic Hanskwin is like that. Developing new ways to harm those who live in the shadow of the town aids his chances at rising to the top of his guild.

"So he approached me with a proposition: disarm the chest successfully, and what was inside would be mine to keep. Fail, and I would assuredly die from the trap."

"You did not die."

"No. And as for what is inside--" Lyanothe delicately pulled open a small drawer in the middle of the trap, and lifted out a large teardrop amethyst. After a quick glance he placed it in his clothing. I whistled low and slowly.

The old man shrugged. "It will be our reprieve from death," he said simply. "A short one, considering what life's fallen to in this town right now. But any reprieve is a good one, and such a pretty bauble can buy some decent time out of the jail when we get caught."

"We?"

His proposal was simple. I was young, strong, but new in town and very green. He was knowledgeable but getting on a bit. Though he took forever explaining it, the thing boiled down to a mutual aid society. "I'll teach you whatever your liver can hold," he said. "You'll protect our mutual belongings and run errands. We'll split everything 75/25."

I chuckled briefly, until it started to hurt too much. "Look, I may be green, but I'm not green enough to fall for an argument like that. I put myself in the way of every in-coming dagger, arrow or sword aimed at your heart, you teach me in safety, and I get one cut to your three? My father wasn't from Dartle Vale, you know."

"And I'm not a smooth-minded cleric, Kalag. I'll do what I can in the defense of our fortunes, too; it's just that I can't do as much as I once did. As to the learning I can provide, this is not a meagre matter, I assure you."

"You've seen a sample of my wares," I countered. "Let's see some of yours. Give me your first lesson, a free one. Then we'll talk about partnerships."

Lyanothe nodded. "Very well." He removed a set of curious tools from a small, worn, discolored sack hanging from his tunic belt.

"Now we will also have a chance to see how good a student you'd make. For I could relish teaching an apt pupil with a gainful mind. Truly, there aren't many about." And with that, he started his first lesson.

It was an overview of lockpicking. He started with the variety of chests and the purposes of traps. Then the discussion expanded into a broad summary of the currently available types of traps. Poison traps, which combine ingredients when tampered with to release a sickly green cloud to gradually destroys health. Acid traps that spray a powerful corrosive agent, eating into body and armor alike. Gas traps that render movement uncertain and balance impossible. Blade traps that are unsubtle but very effective against lightly armored locksmiths. Lightning traps that have an opposite effect: they do the worst damage to those wearing heavier metal armor. Flare traps that blind everyone in the area. Explosive traps that generate a quickly expanding gas which does shock damage itself and propels shrapnel in all directions. Stun traps that weak versions of these last, causing concussive damage which may be shortlived, or may create enough internal bleeding to lead to death.

"All these we will examine one at a time in our later lessons," Lyanothe continued, "along with the appearance of each trap, the concerns regarding its removal, probable effects and strategies for lessening potential damage. For now, it is merely necessary to note the existence of divers lock trapping methods. We resume."

Having considered traps, the old man turned next to locks. He said that locks appeared alike to those uninitiated in the Craft, and success at opening them seemed almost random. In fact, locksmithing involved the use of several skills and personal attributes, which in turn could be improved with hard work and rare implements. These latter included different types and strengths of lockpicks, from cheap pieces of stiffened wire to professionally designed lockpicks which were light, durable, well-balanced, and capable of almost intelligent response to the touch of a wafer-thin plate or invisible hair.

"With all this arrayed against us, one might reasonably wonder if locksmiths shouldn't consider a simpler, safer profession," Lyanothe said, "such as cleaning the teeth of cougars, or soliciting marriage contracts from S'lai scouts. However, danger is abated by a steady hand, a good eye, and great knowledge; and the rewards for the successful locksmith can be worth the effort. We turn next to the contents of chests, and their appraisal."

It could have been a statement like, you'll find coins and gems in chests that make picking them worthwhile. It wasn't. It was a discussion of the kinds of gems, and what they might appraise at in different shops, and whether the weight of certain coin denominations were worth carrying around by locksmiths on the road-- which slipped into a discussion of encumbrance and its effects.

"Greed is a failing that has killed more than one locksmith. Professional pride is understandable, but greed is a base failing. Pride may rely for its growth on a genuine estimate of increasing skill. Greed has nothing to do with personal attributes; it nullifies advantage; it whispers lies about personal safety. There are stories about greedy locksmiths, and they are without exception cautionary tales that end in death," said Lyanothe grimly.

So we briefly examined the encumbrance values of different pieces of armor, whether the use of each outweighted its drawbacks to locksmiths. We considered the kinds of weapons that were lighter, took up less space, and could be wielded with less effort in sudden battle.

Just then we heard the watchman's sticks clatter together 8 times as he passed down the street. I realized as Lyanothe lit a small oil lamp that we had been in darkness for sometime. "Three hours," he said simply. "I apologize for boring you at such length."

"Your point's made. I have a lot to learn, and you're the man to teach it. But I have a counteroffer."

Lyanothe's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

"Yes. Good as you are as a teacher, I'm just as good a pupil. You teach me well and I'll be joining you in the business soon enough. Nowhere near as good as you, but when you add that to being the business' arms and feet...so let's say, 75/25 for the first 2 months, then we examine my progress and renegotiate the terms."

"Three months. You'll need at least that to make a barely decent locksmith under my daily tutelage, and you still won't have experience-- just knowledge. Maybe 3 months is too short a time."

I grinned. "Three months it is." We touched hands. I stood up and stretched, feeling my wounds scream and glad to be alive. Lyanothe removed the piece of moldy cheese, stale bread and watered wine that would furnish our feast to celebrate a first night's partnership.

Then, there were the traders. Always plenty of traders. They came in assorted shapes and sizes, from Humans to talkative Halflings, to snooty Elves and argumentative, friendly Dwarves. They hung out a lot in the marketing district on the small east side of town, beyond the Segoltha, but they also bought, sold and gossiped among non-merchant folk in the main western area.

If you watch anything you get to understand it better, and if you watch people you get to see a lot. Sitting there, passing the time in the shade of the Town Green, I saw rag children hand out leaflets, and criers singing the goods of their clients. Hopeful families, fresh from the country, gazed about in wonder. Beggars died silently on the street, and were pushed into the sewers by passing guards or small armies of jeering boys.

I was also beginning to acquire a standing. Regular inhabitants waved when they saw me take up my post. Even a couple of the guards unbent sufficiently to nod. I was "Lyanothe's Fetcher," but increasingly customers who needed a quick pick on a chest would drop it in my lap. Some said they didn't want to wait a day. Others said they liked watching me work.

One day a broad man in a purple robe lined with ermine swept through Uthmor Square when I was there, and stopped opposite me. "So," he said in a deep, powerful voice. "Lyanothe's taken my advice. Got himself an apprentice. Good." He motioned to a pair of large guards to halt and leaned forward, dropping his tone as close to a whisper as he could manage. "Boy: learn well. Steer clear of your master's other interests, and you'll live long in the employ of your betters." Without waiting for reply he turned away and continued on his business, his coin-heavy velvet purse dangling impudently in full view.

I asked Lyanothe that evening about the man I'd met. "Arnile Hanskwin, Syndic of the Traders' Guild," he said without pause. "Well-informed as usual, and passing judgement about things he doesn't comprehend. Also as usual."

"Could these other interests he mentioned be tied to that little event which led to our meeting months ago?"

Lyanothe grinned faintly. "They could be." He pondered a moment. "How shall I put this? -Locksmithing is an honorable trade. But with so many locksmiths around, the competition is fierce. Few patrons recognize the advantages appertaining to craftsmanship. They would rather hand their chests to rank amateurs and risk the loss of a small fortune, then pay a pittance for the security my efforts bring.

"Necessity speaks. I have to supplement my income. In my spare time I'm a reasonably decent pickpocket, which few citizens suspect."

I nodded. "Glad to hear that's all it is. For a moment I suspected you were a spy for the Dark Hand or the Minatain hordes."

Lyanothe snorted. "Some would say the line of work we're in consists of nothing but spies and traitors. We're needed, but we're treated like dirt."

This wasn't a new argument to me. I'd heard it from fighters, warmages, empaths, even wealthy traders-- every person's occupation was the special target of the anger of the gods, it seemed. Everybody else's was given preferred treatment. I sighed inwardly, and prayed that the gods were more forbearing than their worshippers.

"As it happens," I said, changing the subject, I'm interested in pickpocketing, too. Probably should learn some of that. Might prove useful someday."

"No, Kalag. Not now, I think. A second pickpocket in the family can only get us into more trouble with people we aren't equipped to handle." By now I knew it was useless to argue with him in this frame of mind, so I decided to wait out the point.

"However," he continued, "now that we are building a reputation, I think we require more than youth and the image of competence for our defense. No offense meant. I trust to your street smarts and perceptiveness. It's just that...well, a kick in an oaf's groin is one matter. The methodical disposition of a clever adversary is another." I had to agree. My success against the barbarian was still a sweet memory, but the scars on my back and shoulders refused to forget his smaller friend with the claws.

"You can use some weapons training-- and I know just the fellow to provide it. An old companion of mine, a wanderer who hates staying in one place more than a few months at a time. We've been through some times together." Lyanothe's features briefly took on a prouder, more concentrated countour. For a moment his years fell away, and I wondered (not for the first time) at my partner's origins and identity.

Lyanothe stretched. "Any other matters we need to discuss before calling an end to the day?"

"Yeah. One. It's been 3 months since we formed our partnership. Three months, and time to review the conditions of our contract."

I stated all I'd learned during that time from Lyanothe, and recited a list from memory of all the chests I'd picked. You understand, I wasn't one-quarter the locksmith he was, but I also furnished the legs for our operation, and the brawn (what little had been required yet) when that was needed. I figured that, adding everything together, my contribution equalled Lyanothe's.

He figured the same, of course. I knew it, and he knew I realized it. We needed one another. The old man protested, we dickered, but in the end the terms of our relationship were changed. I was now a full partner.

Chapter Three: Sevent Teal

A couple of weeks later I came home to find Lyanothe standing near his workbench talking to another elderly Human. He was nearly as slim as Lyanothe, but looked a lot less fragile. In fact he was built like a windhound: broad in the chest, narrow and long everywhere else and not an ounce of civilized fat on him. His features were tanned and crinkled like a piece of old parchment you'd crumple up and toss in the fire.

"That's him," Lyanothe said, pointing a thin pick probe at me. The unknown nodded, and advanced.

"Attack me," he said, simply. I waited, but he didn't have any weapon. "It's alright. Draw your sword. Attack me. Give it all you've got."

I did as requested, an overhand chop. He avoided the blow easily, leaning to one side. I tried again, slicing at his midsection. Strongly, I thought. He bowed inward-- I must have missed him by an inch, but he didn't even blink. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lyanothe grin.

By now I suspected nothing I could do would touch this stranger, but I wasn't about to give up so easily. I launched a series of attacks in quick succession, circling him and weaving about. I dropped suddenly to the ground, shooting my sword out in a splayed arc. I lunged at him. Nothing seemed to make a difference. He hung there, dodging without effort, not even breathing hard while I huffed like a musk hog.

Suddenly a blade appeared in his hand. His eyes opened impossibly wide, and with a tearing scream he jumped forward. I went on the defensive and watched him warily. Nothing else happened for a few seconds; then he scanned me, frowning thoughtfully, and backed away. His blade vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Well?" asked Lyanothe.

"He's strong," replied the other man. "He'll never be very fast, but he's out of shape and could become quicker with work. He overuses his arms, and he thrusts his head forward like a shield, which is stupid. He forgets the rest of his body most times. He dodges badly. He thinks his enemy is a stationary target. Still, he kept his temper when he couldn't hit me; that's important. And when I attacked he behaved smart, wasn't surprised."

"That's because I've been surprised once and paid the price." I grimaced.

He shot me a glance. "So? If you've learned a lesson and lived, all the better. Ditch the short sword; with your strength, it stinks. I'll bring you another weapon when we start training.

"That'll be tomorrow at six calls, for one hour. Theory and practice. Again at twenty calls, one hour, strategy and practice. We'll meet at the ferry site on the western bank of the Segoltha. Don't be sluggish, and don't be late. Fair warning. I enjoy giving pain." He showed the first emotion I'd seen since his arrival, an unpleasant, lopsided smirk.

With that he nodded curtly to Lyanothe, and left. "Your friend?" I asked.

"My friend. His name's Sevant Teal."

"He sounds like he knows his business."

"He was expert at it when I first met him, 22 years ago."

"What exactly is his business?"

"The perfection of his technique-- I think." Lyanothe carefully placed his lockpicking tools away in a stained purple chamois pouch. "Truthfully, I never asked, nor thought it important." He stretched, massaging his joints, and turned up the small tira stove we used these days to warm our meals.

"Should I take him as seriously as he takes himself?"

The old man glanced up as he unwrapped a parcel of meat and dalato dough. He peered at me quizzically. "La, yes, Kalag, take him very seriously. Teal is a cruel man. He enjoys the suffering he can cause others. I've seen it. But he's as disciplined as they come, and saves his pleasure for his opponents. He's loyalty itself to his friends."

"And you're numbered among his friends?"

The pungent aroma of frying lamb began to fill the place. Lyanothe shrugged. "As much as anybody could be, I suppose. All I know is, if a band of mercenaries decided to single me out for their sport I'd like no better company than Teal, and require no more, either."

I met with Sevant Teal the next morning and evening, and the next, and the next...every day without fail. That first week's end I replied with concern when he said we'd meet the following day. He just snickered and asked whether I'd like to lose a finger up to one knuckle in exchange for a regular day off.

And I'll give the man credit. Before I met Teal, I could hold my own against the other low-blow streetfighters...mostly by watching and practicing the things I'd seen on the streets of River Crossing. But it was only after I'd trained a few weeks that I began to realize there were systems to fighting. You didn't just run up to a critter and whack at it with whatever was handy; well, you didn't if you wanted to keep the critter from dying in a laughing fit. You sized up your opponent, knew well your fatigue level, skills, goals and number of adversaries.

I saw that different weapons demanded different approaches. I learned to respect them, the same way I respected Lyanothe's lockpick set-- maybe more. Lockpicks could possibly keep me alive, someday, if I needed a trade in an unknown place. Weapons would keep me from dying. All the difference in the wide, wonderful world. Even the cheapest, most ordinary weapon and armor deserved to be looked after and repaired from time to time. Anything else was damn foolish.

But for all the instruction that Teal supplied, it was talk on his part, performance on mine. I never once got to see him in action-- that is, until about about four months into our lessons. It was another morning appointment, and when I arrived at our meeting place Teal wasn't there. Five other men were.

They turned swiftly and drew weapons as one, advancing on me without a word. I drew my katar (which Teal had provided) and fell back slowly, keeping everyone in sight. There was no bravado here, just death waiting with perfect calm.

The next second something large and grey whirled past me. Four of the men lie gasping out their lives on the muddy earth. The fifth was missing a right hand, which a grinning Sevant Teal waved teasingly at him. The man ran off whimpering into town.

"Nice job," I gasped, as Teal casually flipped the bloody thing into the river. "You think maybe Hanswkin sent them? The traders aren't fond of us."

Teal stared at me, expressionless. "Hanskwin paid for half your tuition."

I blinked. Syndic Hanskwin? "The other half?" I said.

"Lyanothe."

"Not so," I countered. "We share the books. I'd see any money spent like that, unless..."

"Lyanothe paid on the installment plan. In friendship." He sneered. "Come on." He trudged away without glancing back. "We have most of our lesson time left if we don't chatter. I hate wasting time."

From then on Teal announced the next training site at the end of each lesson. We continued in this pattern for another 5 months, until something happened which prevented me from making it over on time. I arrived an hour late, and Teal wasn't there. Nor did he ever appear in my life again.

<Continued in Kalag's Memoirs, Part 2>