The Gilded Leash

The Thieves Guild, written by J. Kerr, chapter seventy four. The gilded leash the quarter's Polo had given him were beautiful. The walls were made of living woven wood, and the air smelled of green things and damp earth. It was Roger's thought the most comfortable prison he had ever been in. He was a man of stone, of alleys, of the cold, hard certainty of the Old Quarter's pavement, and the warm life of the Lower Quarter's chaotic heartbeat. This living, breathing fortress felt alien, as if the very walls were watching him. He was a hero to these people. He was the captain who had saved the pit. They smiled at him in the halls, brought him food and wine, and he had never felt more trapped. He was waiting waiting for a sign from Allard, who was somewhere beneath his feet in a real cell, waiting for Rogers to take his place, waiting for the hammer to fall. It fell in the form of a polite knock. A harvest guard one of Gan's men stood in the doorway. Captain Rogers, guild Master Polo, request your presence in the rooftop garden. It was a request but it was not a question. Rogers nodded, his face a mask of stone. He followed the guard, his green harvest tunic, feeling like a costume. He was a captain of three guilds and a member of none. He ascended to the roof the open air, a brief, sweet relief. Before he saw them, Polo was at his small table, a pitcher of wine gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Guildmaster Quinto was with him, standing stiffly, his white knight's cloak a stark blot against the garden's green. Ah. Rogers, the man of the hour, Come sit. Polo smiled, a broad, genuine expression of pure satisfaction. He stood and clapped Rogers on the shoulder. Rogers did not sit. He stood before the two guild masters, a soldier awaiting his orders. We have excellent news. Guild Master Cauch has finally seen reason. The council is set to morrow evening. We will dine, and then we will vote. Your elevation will be the first order of business. The Craft Guild has been without a master for too long. Polo raised his glass. Congratulations, Captain, or should I say Guildmaster Rogers. The congratulations hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Rogers felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach. He was a thief, He was a Lad's man. He was a spy in the heart of the enemy's fortress, and he was being handed a crown. Of course, he could look over the health of the thieves guild in his new role. He could help in tangible ways, but it felt false, something a blade should be doing, not someone like Rogers. You're very generous, guild Master. Nonsense. It is a partnership, my boy, a new age for ness. He gestured for Rogers to sit, and this time Rogers obeyed. The chair a living, pliant thing that seemed to wrap around him. Polo leaned forward, his smile fading, his eyes sharpening. The politician was gone, replaced by the guild master. This will stabilize the city. Karch claims innocence, But he was Larsen's man. When he left Larson, did he come to me, No, he went to Sachs. That should tell you all you need to know. We will isolate him. With your vote, we will finally bring order order. Indeed, Polo, we filled his own glass, your first actor's guild master. Of course, will be to approve the new joint guild patrols. Quinto's knights, my harvest guards, and your own craft artisans. All working as one, we will secure the city. Every quarter, Polo laughed, Karch will be left powerless, surrounded by those that will keep a very close eye on him. Rogers's blood ran cold. Every quarter Polo focused on Carch, but he also clearly meant the old quarter. He meant the thieves. Rogers was being asked to build the very cage that would trap his own people. And then there are the merchant tariffs. Karch has been strangling this city, and his guild has profited. We will need to adjust them in our favor. Of course, for the good of the city. Your vote as craft guild master will be essential. Rogers stared at the wine in Polo's glass. He was not being made a guild master. He was being made a lackey, a tool, a second guaranteed vote to give Polo and Quinto absolute control of the city. He was a thief being handed the keys to the treasury so another thief could empty it. His entire life, his code was built on not being this. He was not a man who bent his knee. He was not a man who followed. He was a captain, but he thought of Allard, crippled in the darkness below. A lad wanted this, why I understand? Excellent. This is a great day, Rogers, a great day. Now go rest, you have a long day to morrow. Guildmaster Polo smiled, the warmth returning, the snake coiling back into the grass. Rogers stood. He gave a curt nod to Polo, then to Quinto. He turned and walked out of the garden, the word guildmaster echoing in his ears like a curse. He was a thief, and he was being commanded to be a king, but not a real king, a servant to the real king Polo, and he knew, with a terrible, sinking certainty, that he was about to betray someone. He just didn't know who. A Podcast Alchemy production