The Thieves Guild Friday Binge - Chapters 67-71

The Thieves Guild, written by Jake Kerr, Chapter sixty seven, Reunion. Mayla's return to the tower was not the triumphant arrival she had imagined, delivering all the information and more to Raylan to his appreciative response. Rather than being appreciative, he seemed distracted. She and Vesper parted ways in the bustling main hall of the Thieves Fortress, the Blade disappearing into the shadows with a curt nod, his mind clearly already on Carch and his plots. Maela was left standing alone, suddenly overwhelmingly tired. The long, agonizing trek through the mountain, the confrontation with Prosper, the Tens, and the final grim meat with a crippled Allard, only to end with a conniving Carch recruiting her aid. It had all drained her to the core. She wanted nothing more than to find Dalla, hold her tight and perhaps not let go. While she slept for a week. Mahler climbed the stairs to the third floor quarters she and Darla had claimed. When she pushed open the door, she stopped. The dusty, disorganized space she remembered was gone, The old mismatched furniture had been rearranged, and some of it replaced. The floors were swept clean. A small, bright yellow flower, undoubtedly picked from the old quarter's surprisingly vibrant window boxes, sat in a cup on the main table. It felt warm. You're back, Darla's voice came from the adjoining room. She emerged, her face lighting up with a joy so pure and absolute it struck Mailer speechless. In a blur of motion, Darla crossed the room and rapped her in a fierce hug, lifting her clean off the floor. God's I missed you. Her face was buried in Maela's hair. I was so worried. Maela clung to her, her eyes closed, letting the exhaustion she had held at Bay finally wash over her. The smell of darla clean linen soap and the faint earthy scent of the mines that still clung to her, or that Maeler imagined clung to her, was the only thing that mattered. I missed you too, desperately. I'm just tired, so tired, I know. Darla set her down, but kept her hands on her arms, her eyes scanning Maela's face. You look like you've been through a wall close. Enough Maela allowed herself to be guided to a chair. She sank into it, the simple act of sitting feeling like a profound luxury. You must be starving. I've been helping in the kitchens. You won't believe the difference. That old cook haul He's taught me so much. She was a word wind of energy, pulling out a small loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and an apple, her words tumbling out in a happy, breathless rush. And the cistern, Maeler, the water is so cold it makes your teeth ache, but it's so pure and refreshing, the purest water I've ever tasted. And the tapestries in the west Hall, did you know one of them shows dwarves building dragon road. Maeler watched her, a small, tired smile on her face. This was not the tense, guarded woman she had guided through the mountain. This was not the hesitant, lonely guard she had met in a prison cell. This was Dalla, alive and vibrant, a Dala that she hadn't seen since they were forced to live in a small cabin in the unnamed forest beyond the mountain. And Filos said, if I can organize the mill rotations. I can have a permanent role in the tower's upkeep. I think I can do it, Maeler, I really think I can make this place better, a real home, you know, not just a dreary tower. Dalla finally poured her cheeks flushed with excitement, and set the food in front of Maela. Sorry, I'm rambling. You're exhausted, and here I am talking about kitchens and tapestries. Maela reached out and took her hand. Darla's skin was warm, her grip strong. No, it's it's good. It's all good. She thought of their time in the Woodlands cabin. How Darla had been so content to build a life, while Maela had paced the clearing desperate to escape. Now it seemed that role had evolved. Darla had found her purpose, her project right here, and it wasn't just about putting a bright flower in a vase. It was about making the tower, the community better. And Maela, for the first time in her life, just wanted to stop crouching in shadows. She wanted this, the quiet room, the flower in the cup, the woman in front of her. Tell me more, tell me about the kitchens. You don't really want to know about the kitchens, do you You're just asking to make me feel better. Maela lifted Darla's hand and kissed it. No, my love, I want to hear I need to hear it. It's important to me. Calling Darla my love was a major step. They were lovers, certainly a couple, they didn't really hide that, But their relationship wasn't about romance. It was about a partnership built on steel and stone. Not anymore, Maela thought. She repeated to herself what she had just said to Darla. I want this, I need this. Darla stared at Maela and her eyes shone with welling tears, but as if acknowledging the change in their relationship without lingering on it, she pulled her hand back and smiled widely. Well it all started when I went down to the cistern. As Darla spoke. Mayla ate the simple food, tasting better than any feast. She listened to the stories of the one eyed cistern keeper, the armorers in the mending hall, and the shy boy who tended the message birds on the roof. Mayla was shocked. She didn't even know about the cistern, and she had never met the bird Boy, the war Allard, Polo Karch. It all faded, replaced by the simple, grounding reality of the life being built within these walls. When Darla finally wound down, Maela stood and pulled her partner to her feet. She didn't say anything, She just held her her head resting on Darla's shoulder, breathing in her scent. First we sleep, and tomorrow you can show me everything. Welcome Home, My Love, A Podcast Alchemy production. The Thieves Guilt written by Jake Kerr, Chapter sixty eight, The disturbing truth of a vacant mind. Darla left Meela sleeping, a deep, exhausted sleep that she knew would last well past noon. She felt a twinge of guilt. She had wanted to stay to just lie beside her, but she had another responsibility. A stranger, a child, an enigma prosper She made her way to the small, sparse room on the fourth floor that had been assigned to him. The door was slightly ajar as she had left it. She had learned quickly that he disliked the sound of a closing door. It reminded him of things he couldn't quite remember. She found him sitting on the floor by the window, his back against the stone wall, staring at the sliver of the ashfields visible in the distance. He was doing the same thing she had found him doing yesterday, meticulously arranging small pebbles and chips of mortar he'd collected into intricate swirling patterns on the floor. Prosper. He didn't look up, but the tiny, focused movements of his fingers stopped. I brought you breakfast. She set the wooden tray, bread, cheese, and a cup of water on the floor beside him. He looked at the food, then at her, his eyes the same placid, empty blue she had seen every day since the mountain. Thank you. His voice was flat. He picked up the bread and began to eat with a slow, mechanical obedience. Darla sat on the edge of the room's single cot, watching him. This had become her routine. Maela was her heart, but Prosper was her duty. She had brought him here, she had seen what his magic had cost him. She couldn't abandon him, but God's she didn't know what to do with him. He was a puzzle she couldn't solve. She thought back to him, telling her that he sent Raylan away, and then Raylan had disappeared, only for her to find out that he had passed paths with Raylan, and in passing, told Raylan he should find his path. The encounter pure chance, as Raylan had left to investigate the ashfields, had been interpreted by Prosper as something much more. But was it pure chance? These are the things that worried Dalla. There was something frightening locked in Prosper's vacant mind, and could that somehow push the guild master to the ashfields when he was simply going to check on something else? Did he truly send Raylan away? Even if Raelan didn't realize it, He was a puzzle she wanted to solve. Prosper. Do you remember the tower when we first arrived? He nodded, still chewing the bread. Yes, the stones are sad. Prosper stopped chewing. He set the bread down and turned his gaze from the floor to her. The air in the room felt suddenly colder. The placid emptiness in his eyes sharpened just a fraction into something focused, something aware. It is the home of the wizards. When they left, the stones became. Sad, Darlah recalled their disturbing conversation on the balcony. She still didn't know if it was the ramblings of a madman or some mystical insight. He said, the Ageless One banished the wizards and they fled. What did you mean? Why? Why did the wizards leave? Why did the ageless One banish them? Who is the ageless one? Prosper shook his head, a look of genuine confusion clouding his features. The spark was gone. I I don't remember. Darla resisted the urge to grab him, to shake the answers out of him. She had to be patient, she had to be precise. But you know this tower, don't you. You said so, You said you knew it. Well, Yes, it is the Tower of the Wizards, a place of great power. Prosper stood, walking to the window and placing his hand on the cold stone. He looked out at the city, a city he had no memory of, yet seemed to understand better than anyone. He is the one who cast the great forgetting. He is the one who sealed the road. He is the one who who. His voice faltered, his hand on the wall began to tremble. He is the one. A look of profound, agonizing lot crossed his face, A storm of emotion so sudden and violent it made Darla flinch. He clutched his head, his knuckles white. I I can't it's gone. It was it was mine? What what was yours? Prosper? What do you mean? What is the great forgetting? He turned to her, his eyes no longer empty, but filled with a terrible, fresh grief. He looked lost, a child waking from a nightmare. I I don't know, I don't know what I've lost. It just hurts. He slid down the wall, curling into a ball on the floor, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Darla rushed to his side, her own mission forgotten, replaced by a simple, overwhelming pity. She knelt beside him, putting a hand on his back, feeling the tremors run through him. It's all right, Prosper, it's all right. You're safe here. Dallah didn't know what was going on with Prosper, but she knew it was important. A Podcast Alchemy production, The Thieves Guild written by Jake Kerr, Chapter sixty nine, The Missing Key. The Cell in Goutland had become a library of frustration for three days, Raefe and Cray had been locked in Pietro's study, surrounded by a single life's work that refused to speak. The silence was broken only by the scrape of parchment and the low guttural curses of the old dwarf. Cray slammed a heavy leather bound volume, shut, the sound echoing like a hammer blow in the stone room. A cloud of ancient dust plumed into the air. It's useless. His voice was thick with aggravation. He ran a hand over the elegant, unreadable script on the cover. An entire history, and he locked it behind a cipher with no key. It is the act of a madman or a genius, and I am beginning to believe they are the same thing. Rafe, his eyes burning from hours of staring at the meaningless swirls of ink, pushed back from the desk. He left the marginalia, the symbols, the serpent, the tear, the flame. We know what he was writing about, the order, the river, the ashfields, or at least a commentary using those things. Tons teases from the grave. I do not need a commentary. I need the text. I need the y. He stood and began to pace the small confines of the library, his heavy boots thumping on the thick rug, Rafe turned his attention from the books to the room itself. He was an apprentice of the thieves Guild. Perhaps he was looking at this like a librarian when he should be looking at it like a thief. He ran his hands along the heavy, dark wood of Pietro's desk. He felt for seams, for catches, for the subtle inconsistencies that signaled a hidden space. His fingers brushed against a small, almost imperceptible knot in the carving beneath them draw He pressed it. Nothing, It was just a knot. He stood up and looked around as Cray raged. He looked at the walls, the floor, every surface. Instead of turning pages, he turned over lamps and rugs. Still nothing. At that point he felt as frustrated as Cray. He collapsed into a chair and looked around. What am I missing? There must be something here that can help. His eyes landed on the box frame on the wall, the empty box frame. Raife sat up straight. Cray, Yes, boy. What if the key isn't something hidden somewhere in this room? What if the key is something that's missing from this room? What is missing? Whatever is supposed to be in there? Raefe pointed to the wooden box frame on the wall above the fireplace, which was clearly designed to showcase something, but sat there empty. Good thinking, Rafe, can you reach it? Raefe grabbed a chair and hauled it over. He quickly climbed the chair and reached up to the box frame. It was secured firmly against the wall. He ran his fingers along the inside, along the top, and along the sides, inside and out. The inside had a liquid cloth feel and was clearly expensive and meant to showcase its now empty contents. There's nothing, law Master. It's meant to hold something long and thin, A dagger maybe. Perhaps, But I think you're right. Why is there something meant to be showcased and yet be missing? It's important, and perhaps it is the key. Rafe couldn't help but let the frustration fill him as he once again fell back into the chair. What use is a clue to a key if the clue simply let them know that they didn't have it. Cray must have noticed Rafe's frustration as he walked over and put his hand on Raefe's. Shoulder, be strong. We now have a clear idea as to the key that makes ourus search that much easier. Craze squeezed Rape's shoulder. We are looking for a dagger or a knife. The podcast Alchemy production. The Thieves Guild, written by Jake Kerr, Chapter seventy, The Burns of Leadership. Rogers strode through the living halls of Harvest House. The green clad guards no longer an enemy to be avoided, but a courtesy to be endured. They nodded to him as he passed, their expressions a mixture of respect and awe. Captain Rogers, the hero of the pit, the guild master in waiting the titles, felt like a shroud, heavy and ill fitting. He was a captain of three guilds, soon to be master of one, and he felt like a pawn in a game he had never asked to play. He descended to the sub level cells, his steps echoing on the stone. The guards at Allard's door, men who would have run him through a week ago, now stepped aside with deference. Captain. He dismissed them with a nod and entered the cell. It was exactly as he remembered from his first visit. Comfortable, dry, and a cage all the same. A lad sat in his crude rolling chair, a blanket across his legs. He looked up as Rogers entered, his face unreadable. You look weary, Captain. The burden of command does not rest lightly, it seems. Rogers let out a sharp, humorless breath. He didn't sit, opting instead to pace the small stone room. Command. I don't know the first thing about commanding that guild. Rogers purposefully used the words that guild, as he felt he could quite effectively lead the thieves. That was a guild where his talents would be realized. Where he knew the captain's he knew the lay of the land, he knew the politics. As the guild master thief, he and the guild would thrive. He stopped and faced his former commander. I am a thief, a lord, a captain of thieves. I know the alleys, the safe houses, the shadows. What do I know of the craft Guild. I don't know their hierarchies. I don't know their money counters. Who's the tower, Captain Bertram? Is he even still alive after carch marched in? And if he's alive, do you think he'll listen to me. To a harvest hero appointed by Polo, Allard watched him, his gaze steady, his large hands resting on the wheels. Of his chair. The money counter will count the money. The captain of the guard will guard. That is their function. It is not your concern, then what is my concern? Rogers's frustration finally broke the surface. You are to lead. Rogers started to pace. Leading men attacked in their homes. Yes, I can do that, leading a force against an invading army. I can do that too, Lead an underground guild that operates in the shadows. I was born to do that. But lead a bureaucratic organization like the craft Guild. I'm lost. It's not hard, Rogers. It simply requires you to approach it the same way you approached your defense of the pit. Work with the other guild masters, know who can be relied on, what their strengths are, and most importantly, to be the rock that Polo and Quinto can build on. To stabilize Ness, to keep Karts from burning it all down and Polo from burning the city down to get his revenge. Stabilized Ness a lad my new guild hates my old one. The craft guild has been a target of the thieves for decades. And what of Raylan? He is the guild master, thief, the deciding vote at this farcical council. I am supposed to work with him. The old resentment was still there, the image of the reckless boy who had stumbled into power. That is perhaps your most difficult task. And you must manage Polo. He trusts you now. Do not lose that trust, even old Polo. I thought you were managing Polo whispering in his ear, playing the part of his counselor. A slow smile spread across Allared's scarred face. My work here is almost done. He placed his hands on the armrests of his chair. A plan on escaping the moment you are elevated. Roger stared at him, baffled escaping How you're a prisoner in a chair on wheels. Even with my help, your escape would be hopeless in that chair. To Rogers's absolute shock, Allard's smile widened with a smooth, fluid motion that belied no injury, no weakness. Allard stood the thick blanket pooled at the base of the empty chair. He was steady, on his feet, a giant of a man, filling the small cell with a sudden, terrible power. Rogers stood shocked at what he was seeing, his mouth agape, your your legs. Allard took a step forward, then another, his boots silent on the stone. He walked directly to Rogers and placed a heavy, firm hand on his shoulder. The gripiron and the power undeniable. How will I escape? Why? I'll walk out the front door, of course. The podcast Alchemy production. The Thieves Guild written by Jake Kerr, chapter seventy one, more than an ally. The door to his library closed with the ominous echoing thud they always seemed to do in these old stone buildings. It made the resulting silence that much more powerful. Whether it was dark or serene, Raylan wasn't quite sure what it was as he thought over his meeting with Maeler and Vesper and their report an alliance with Karch. The idea was so absurd, so fundamentally wrong, that Raylan's mind couldn't quite hold it. Karch was the enemy. He was the shadow that had always poisoned his relationship with his brother. No, his brother was at fault, but Karch was always all too enthusiastic at taking Larsen's harsh guidance and turning it into something darker, something sinister, something sadistic. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the old anger mixing with a new, baffling confusion. The child Raylan no longer existed. He was leading a guild and Vesper Essper's logic was cold, sharp and undeniable. A lad was Polo's prisoner. Polo wanted to install his own man. Carch was cornered and desperate, and the entire fragile balance of ness rested on his vote, a vote he as guildmaster thief held on the council. He needed to think, no, he needed to talk to some one who wasn't a thief, or a killer or a guild master. He found himself walking, his feet carrying him down the hall, up one flight of stairs to a simple, unadorned door. He was acting on pure instinct. He needed an anchor, and the only one he could think of was her. He raised a hand to knock, then hesitated. It was late. What was he doing. He was the leader of the city's thieves, coming to a woman's door in the middle of the night, like a lost boy. He knocked. A moment of silence, then the sound of movement. The door opened, a crack, then wider. Rebecca stood there, her black hair falling over one shoulder and shining in the candle light like a waterfall at midnight. For a moment, she looked confused, and in that moment, Raylan could see the Rebecca that was his age, the Rebecca who was, in many ways struggling with the same things he was. He stepped back. He also saw that she was wearing a night gown. It was the plainest thing one could imagine, just white linen, high at the neck and loose falling to her ankles. There was nothing provocative about it, and yet it was the single most arresting thing he had ever laid eyes on. His mouth went dry. He was suddenly acutely aware of how she smelled clean and yet warm and something more complex. It was a smell he couldn't possibly describe, yet it filled every part of him. Raylan, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost. I I'm sorry to bother you. Get in here. She stepped back, rolling the door wide. He entered and stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor while she belted a simple robe. She walked over and sat on the edge of her bed with its sheets and blankets still pulled down in a mess. Talk and so he did. The words tumbled out Vesper's arrival, the news about alad Polo's plan, Carche's desperation, and the council vote. He paced as he. Spoke, the restless energy of the meeting, overcoming the unwonted and confusing thoughts of Rebecca. Rebecca didn't interrupt. She sat on the edge of her bed, her arms crossed, listening. She wasn't just hearing him, she was analyzing his words. She was analyzing him. When Raylin finally stopped, the room was silent save for the sound of his footsteps, which made himself conscious. So he stopped and stood looking at Rebecca. So you have to choose Polo or Carch, A presumably good man but with uncontrollable emotions that lead him to doing bad things, or a bad man but with a cold mind that doesn't know what the word emotion means. I can't choose Carch. Raylan started pacing again. I can't why, because he's a brute. They're all brutes, Raylan, that's what those that wheeled power are. No, it's it's more than that. Whenever my brother would give me some task to do or some punishment for not doing it, Karch would be the one to manage it. He managed me, and he did it in the most sadistic and violent way possible. I've lost count of the bruises he's inflicted on me. He expected her to be shocked, to offer sympathy. She wasn't. Her expression hardened, but it wasn't with pity. It was with a cold, clear anger that was almost frightening. It was an anger for him. Good. She stood up. Good? What do you mean good? He showed you who he is. He's a man who uses power in a way that is understandable. He beats on the weakned cowers in front of the strong. That's why he is reaching out to you. Can you imagine what is going through his mind. He is asking this child that he had beaten for no reason, for help. Rebecca walked over and stood in front of Raylan, looking up into his eyes, her own face showing a fierceness that Raylan found inspiring and intoxicating. This is how you get back at him Raylan, not by hiding in your tower, not by wishing him dead. You walk into that council and you use the power. He doesn't want to admit you have the power he desperately wishes you didn't have, and he didn't need to rely on. Rebecca smiled and then patted him on the arm. You back his play. You get Vesper on that throne, and you then own the man. Who beats you. But that's giving him what he wants, is it or is. It containing him? You said it yourself. Polo is the real threat. He has allad he has the knights. If he gets the craft guild, he's a king. Cark is just a problem. This is a chance to use one problem to solve another. You vote with Kart, you install your guild's man Vesper, and you keep Polo from winning. You will control two guilds, Polo will control two, and Karch is alone looking for someone to save him. She stepped back and smiled, a mischievous smile. And you know it won't be Polo. The words all made sense, but they still made Raelen uncomfortable. He simply wanted peace and goodness for everyone. These political moves were foreign to him, and to make matters worse. Even when he saw the political path, it still wasn't one he wanted to walk. He thought of the simple words he spoke to the Harvest Guild members in the Old Quarter. They entered scared and yet still hating the Thieves Guild. But he was honest and his actions backed up his words, and now they were working alongside the Thieves, their children playing together. This is I know you're a good person, Raylan. You don't want power. You want to help people, and that's why you're the only one who should have it. Men like Carch, men like Polo, they want it. That's what makes them dangerous, even when they think they're not you. You don't even think in terms of power. You think of it as just one necessary thing on the way to what you really think about. Her words hit him, settling deep in his chest. A necessary thing. Yes, it felt like a burden, but it also felt, for the first time, like a purpose. You're right, I'll do it. I'll go to the council. He looked at her, at this strange, fierce, brilliant woman who saw him more clearly than anyone. He was suddenly aware again of how close she was aware of her smell, aware that their faces were inches apart, and that they were, in that moment, connected in a deeper way than just physical distance. He liked her. He liked her in a way that was new, a way that made him want to to what. He had no idea, He just knew he didn't want to move, or, if anything, to move closer. He thanked her, his voice hoarse, and took a step back. She stood still, watching him, but then followed him as he stumbled toward the door. He turned and froze again, watching as she once again walked right up to him. She was so close. A small smirk played at the corner of her lips, breaking the spell. Are you going to stand there all night? Or are you going to go run your city? Guild Master? He let out a shaky breath, a small smile touching his own face. The tension was gone, replaced by something warm and familiar. Right run the city. He turned and walked out the door. He heard it click shut behind him. He walked down the hall, the weight of his decision settling on him, but it felt lighter. Somehow. He wasn't alone. He had an ally. He had Rebecca. A podcast alchemy production,