The Summons

The Thieves Guild, written by Ja Kerr, Chapter seventy three, The Summons. Karch stared at the boarded up window of his office, his jaw aching. He had been grinding his teeth for a full day, a day of silence, a day since he had sent Vesper and the girl on an impossible mission, and his entire world had shrunk to the confines of this one ruined room. His guild was bankrupt, His captains were either dead turncoats or cowering. His tower was a hollowed out monument to Larson's failure, and Karch had intended to fix it. Yet still he waited. He waited for a blade to return with the vote of a boy. There was a light knock and a guard at the door. Guild Master Quinto to see you, Sir. Karch was about to answer, send him in, when the guard was firmly, if respectfully, moved aside and Quinto entered. As Quinto approached, Carch shook his head, an entrance worthy of sax. Quinto frowned, good I hit a nerve. Karch thought Quinto was immaculate in his knight's white. For a man of the plains, he sure seems to enjoy the finery of the night. Quartermaster Karch wondered if Quinto's legendary independence and ranger of the plain's reputation was failing to the larger gild coffers and the comfortable furnishings that Sax left him. I am simply being prudent, guild Master. Time is of the essence. Indeed, one can't let one's master wait. Quinto's jaw tightened, and Karch wondered how far he could push the man. My master is the city, and the city can't wait, Karch. Karch waved to a chair in front of his death. Well fill me in, then, I assume you have news on the council. Will we be holding it at your guild? Don't you have a meeting room with a broad window overlooking the plains. That sounds delightful. Rather than sit, Quinto paste. Yes, I am here to discuss the Guildmaster's council. But no, it will not be at my guild. The council will be at Harvest House. Of course, it will be carch sighed. And when will this take place? I am here to deliver the official summons. The guild master council will convene tomorrow. Karch had expected the word, but it still hit him like a fist. Tomorrow, that is impossible. My guild is in no condition for such an important meeting, as you may expect. Larson left me a mess. I will need a week at least. The vote will be held tomorrow at Harvest House. Polo will host. Karch knew it was a lost cause, but he wanted to hear Quinto's response. Harvest House, we are voting on the craft guild master. We should meet at Kraft Tower. It is the only place where we can show respect for the guild whose future we control. It will be at Harvest House. The man was a damned brick wall. Karch tried a new tack, letting a whine of the politician enter his voice. My guild is scattered, The city is in chaos. Trader's Bridge is a memory. How am I even to get across the river? Your guild has boats, Carch, use them. I am not here to solve your problems. I will need to prepare. A day is not enough time to you. Have one day? Quinto turned to leave. Wait. Carch's voice revealed the desperation he was trying to hide. Time. He needed more time, even ours would help fine. He spat, smoothing his tunic, forcing a mask of dignity. Tomorrow it is. But if we are to hold a council, we will do it with the respect it is owed, as is the tradition. Quinto paused, his hand on the door. We will dine first, all of us at one table. We will discuss the state of the city as guild masters, not as animals. The vote will be held in the evening after the meal. He held his breath. It wasn't truly a tradition. It was the tradition on Founder's Day, but this meeting was purely bureaucratic, not celebratory. Still, Quinto paused. Quinto seemed to weigh the request, his cold eyes calculating. He finally gave a single curt nod. Dinner and then the vote. Be there, Carch. The implied threat was as clear as a blade at his throat. Be there, or you will be replaced. Quinto left the door closed, leaving Carch alone in the suffocating silence he had twenty four hours. He sank into his chair, his mind racing. It all came down to Raylen. It all came down to the miscreant boy. What if Vesper had failed, What if the boy had refused? What if he was already dead? What were his moves? He couldn't ignore the summons. To refuse was to abdicate. Polo and Quinto would have him declared rogue before the sun set, prepare for battle. He almost laughed with what Jasper and a handful of thugs who had only stayed because he'd promised them a city to loot. He was bankrupt, He couldn't pay an army. Flee The thought was a bitter acid in his throat. Where could he go? The last time he fled, it was to Sachs. There was nowhere else for. Him to go. Even the Outlanders would kill him, as they showed during his previous visit. He was trapped utterly and completely. He walked to a sideboard and poured a brandy, his hand shaking not with fear, but with a deep volcanic rage. His entire life, his legacy, his financial empire, it all rested on the loyalty of a hired killer and the word of a boy he had once paid to have beaten in an alley. He tossed back the brandy, The liquid burning a path to his empty stomach. He had no other choice. He had to trust Vesper, He had to believe the Blade would deliver A podcast Alchemy production