A Carriage Ride

The Thieves' Guild, written by Jake Kerr, Episode 57, A Carriage Ride. The wagon Karch provided was as functional and devoid of sentiment as the man himself. It was a simple merchant's cart, its canvas cover stained with the grime of a hundred journeys, its wheels groaning a low, constant complaint against the cobblestones. Karch hadn't offered it out of kindness. He had provided it because it was the fastest way to get two blades out of his newly claimed office and pointed in the direction of his problems. He didn't even provide a driver, so Vesper swung himself into the driver's seat, the reins feeling clumsy and foreign in his hands. He was a creature of alleys and shadows, not open thoroughfares. Beside him, Mela settled onto the hard wooden bench, her posture alert, her eyes scanning the chaotic streets around Merchant Tower. He believes it will work. He believes a tie vote and a council of captains is all it will take. It's not the worst plan. The Craft Guild captains fear you. With a tie vote, it's up to them. What are you worried about? I'm worried about the Guildmaster. Vesper snapped the reins, urging the tired horse into a grudging trot. You say his vote is guaranteed, but he's unpredictable. It is a strength, but it is also a weakness if you are counting on him. Besides, Polo is holding Allard hostage. You think he won't see that as a point of leverage? A reason to negotiate? Mela thought of Raelynn. She remembered his foolish, reckless charge at the Night Tower to free Allard. He was emotional, yes, even reckless. But his emotions were always pointed in the same direction, loyalty to his people. Allard being a prisoner won't make him negotiate. It will make him want to burn Harvest House to the ground. His vote is secure. Vesper grunted, unconvinced. Then we're worried about the same thing. A signal is unpredictable, but an emotional response is a weakness. It creates openings. If Raelynn acts rashly, Polo wins. If he hesitates, Polo wins. Our only path is a cold political calculation, and the Guildmaster is not a calculator. He's a thrown rock. They rode in silence for a time, the reality of their mission settling between them. Mela believed in Raelynn, at least she believed in his heart, that they were betting the future of three guilds on the hope that they could convince him to make a strategic move against an old, entrenched wolf. The wagon lurched to a halt well before the entrance to the Great Bridge. This is as far as we go. A merchant cart this close to the bridge is an invitation for trouble. Mela jumped down beside him. He slapped the horse on its flank, sending it trotting back toward the tower, the empty wagon rattling behind it. From here, we are just two more travellers. The Great Bridge was a river of lost humanity. Throngs of Harvest Guild members, their faces etched with shock and despair, continued their slow hopeful march back to the lower quarter. They clutched meagre bundles, a rolled blanket, a cooking pot, a child's toy, the last remnants of lives that had been consumed by fire. There were no merchant guards here, no knights pushing them along. There was just the quiet, shuffling momentum of a people returning to a city that had betrayed them. The lawlessness was a low hum beneath the surface. The Thieves Guild knights remained on their side of the bridge, and with the Merchant and Knight Guilds unwelcome, the Harvest Guild members were essentially on their own. A man tried to sell a stolen loaf of bread for the price of a full meal. A woman sobbed quietly as two youths snatched the cloak from her shoulders and disappeared into the crowd. There was no authority to appeal to. There was only what you could hold onto. The fight, when it started, was a sudden, ugly thing. Two men, one in a faded green cloak and the other in a soot-stained blue shirt, were screaming at each other, their faces inches apart. Your Guildmaster started this. The man in green shoved the Merchant. I'm a victim too. My home was burned to the ground. The man in blue roared back, shoving him harder. A crowd formed, a circle of grim, hungry faces eager for the release of violence. A fist flew. The two men fell upon each other, a clumsy, desperate tangle of limbs. Vesper and Maela didn't stop to help. They stopped because the brawl and the increasingly large crowd was blocking their path. Vesper moved first. He didn't push through the crowd. He simply inserted himself into it, a knife appearing in his hand as if from thin air. He didn't brandish it. He just held it, the steel, a cold promise. The crowd parted. Maela followed in his wake. She reached the two brawlers. The man in green was on top, his hands around the Merchant's throat. Maela didn't shout. She didn't pull him off. She simply reached down and drove the knuckle of her middle finger into the nerve cluster below his ear. The man's body went rigid, his eyes wide with a shock that had nothing to do with anger. His hands fell away and he collapsed sideways, conscious but unable to move. The Merchant scrambled to his feet, a wild look in his eyes. He saw Vesper and froze. Vesper hadn't moved, but the look in his eyes was enough. It was a look of profound, lethal disinterest. The Merchant looked from Vesper's knife to the twitching man on the ground, and all the fight went out of him. He turned and scrambled away, disappearing into the shuffling crowd. Vesper and Maela didn't say a word. They simply continued walking, the crowd melting away before them, their passage now cleared. They were halfway across the bridge when a new obstacle appeared. Three men, their faces hard and opportunistic, stepped in front of them. They weren't guards. They were predators who had scented weakness in the city's chaos. That's far enough. There's a toll for safe passage. This is a first. Someone charging to enter the old quarter. The man looked confused at their mutual lack of fear. It doesn't seem right. I think we should kill them. Maela considered Vesper's threat just that, a threat. So she reached for the knives at her back. But as she did, Vesper was already moving. He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't change his pace. He simply walked forward, his eyes fixed on the leader. I don't think you understand. I said... He never finished the sentence. Vesper's movement was a blur, too fast to follow. One moment he was walking, the next his hand had shot out, not in a punch but in a precise fluid motion. He grabbed the man's cudgel-wielding arm at the wrist with one hand and the elbow with the other. He twisted. There was a wet, sickening pop, a sound that cut through the murmur of the crowd. The big man screamed, a high, thin sound of pure agony. The cudgel clattered to the stone. He stared at his arm, which now bent at an impossible angle, his elbow a grotesque, alien shape. Vesper hadn't even broken stride. He walked past the screaming man, leaving him to his two companions, who stared, paralysed with a mixture of terror and disbelief. Mela winked at them, flipping one of her knives in her hand, deftly catching it in her palm. She stepped around the man, now writhing on the ground, without giving him a second glance. They were blades. The chaos of a broken city was not a threat. It was simply the environment in which they worked. And they were very, very good at their jobs. A podcast alchemy production.