The Thieves Guild Friday Binge - Episodes 52-56

The Thieves Guild written by Jake. Kerr, episode fifty two, A Command in the Dark. Rogers walked through the living halls of Harvest House in a state of pleased shock. He was a captain of the Harvest Guild, a title that opened doors and bowed heads. Guards who would have viewed him with suspicion a week ago now nodded respectfully as he passed their deference a tangible thing. He felt the seductive pull of it, the easy authority. This was the power he had always envisioned for himself within the Thieves Guild, respect earned, not stolen. The deputy guild Master is taking his midday meal, Sir. He is in the sub level cells, but the guild master has ordered he be treated with respect. Shall I escort you? The offer was so simple, so devoid of suspicion, that it left Rogers momentarily speechless. He simply nodded, I was wondering when you would visit. Allard nodded toward the corner, which contained a small wooden stool. Rogers pulled it close and sat down. We have much to discuss, indeed we do. Rogers recounted his story and clipped efficient sentences. The chaos after the Outlander invasion carches inexplicably, promoting him to captain of the Lower Quarter, Polo's own command, and finally, his duties to his own guild. Through it all, Allard just listened, his gaze steady, offering nothing. The guild is leaderless, Raylan is on some irresponsible journey, and you, you are in no position to command. I can take charge. The captains respect me. I can hold things together until you are free, said at his bowl aside. He didn't look angry, he looked tired. Raylan has things well under control. A bitter laugh escaped Rogers's lips. Raylan, the boy who ran off with an Outlander girl on some fool's errand the miscreant who stumbled into the guild mastership as a punishment. He couldn't control a tavern brawl, let alone this guild. Allard was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, the weariness was gone from his voice, replaced by a cold, hard anger that made the air in. The cell feel thin. You were not there when he walked into the heart of the night Tower to free me. You did not see him face down his own brother at the banquet. He's crawled through sewers, He's journeyed over plains. You have no idea what he has faced, what he has overcome. He has earned his place, Rogers, do not ever question that in my presence. Again. The rebuke was so sharp, so absolute, that Rogers felt a flush of shame. He looked down at the floor. You will be the guild master of the Craft Guild. Rogers's head snapped up. What that's impossible. It's a trap. Quinto knows I'm a thief. Quinto knows you are a hero who saved harvest families in the pit, and he knows you are Polo's choice. He is a man of honor. He will not stand in the way of the city healing. He will not trust you, but he will accept you. This prison is not a cage, Rogers, it is a council room. I have Polo's ear with you. Leading the Craft Guild. The thieves can guide this city back from the brink, a quiet, steady hand on the tiller. Rogers was unconvinced the plan was audacious, insane. He thought of the respect he'd felt walking through these halls, the simple, uncomplicated power of being a harvest captain. It felt good, but this was a path of shadows and lies, a game of immense risk. And Raylen, you would put the fate of the Guild of the city in his hands. This is to request, Captain, this is a command. Take your well earned position of leadership. You will serve alongside Raylen, Polo, Karch, and Quinto. It is a worthy group. Even cart. Allard's gaze was steady, is certainty absolute. Karch understands power and that is why your position is so important. Allard didn't elaborate, but rather simply lowered his head and continued to eat his stew A podcast al Me production, The Thieves Guild, written by Jake. Kerr, Episode fifty three, The Sleepwalker. A fitful sleep had left Dalla restless. She swung her legs out of bed, the cool stone floor a welcome shock against her bare feet. The tower was silent, a deep, breathing choiet that was different from the dead stillness of the mines at night. That was the oppressive choiet of stone walls. This was the choiet of rest. She moved to the main room to get a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, but a river of moonlight from the hallways stopped her. Prosper's door was ajar. An open door was not a good sign when a man with an empty mind lay behind it. She crept to his doorway and peered inside. The bed was empty, the blankets in a chaotic jumble, half on the bed, half on the floor. He was gone. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs. She moved quickly, silently, checking their small suite of rooms, first the main room, the small alcove where they stored supplies, even the bathing chamber empty. She grabbed a simple leather tunic and pulled it on over her sleeping clothes, her mind racing where could he have gone? Perhaps he had just walked out of their quarters and was now lost in the tower's lower levels. She descended the winding staircases, her steps light and quick. The lower floors were a labyrinth of sleeping quarters and common rooms, all dark and silent. Near the main entrance hall, she found a lone guard on his watch, a hulking shadow leaning against a massive stone pillar. Have you seen a man in a sleeping tunic? He wanders sometimes he's not well? The guard straightened, his expression, weary but alert. No one's come down past this post in ours, Mistress. I've been watching the lower level since the moon was high, only rats and shadows. Darla's blood ran cold. If he hadn't gone down, he could only have gone up toward the guild Master's private floors. Toward the roof. She turned and ran, taking the stairs two at a time. She passed their own floor, then the mending hall, its forges now cold and silent. She ascended past the aviary, the soft cooing of the pigeons, a ghostly murmur in the night. She passed a floor she hadn't investigated before, its heavy iron door slightly ajar. Inside was nothing but crates and boxes appeared unopened for years. It wasn't a storage room, but it was clearly used for that purpose. She navigated the narrow paths between the crates, but Prosper was not there. She kept climbing, her breath coming in ragged bursts, until she reached the final landing, the top floor Raylan's quarters. The grand carved doors stood wide open to the dark hallway. A deep sense of trespass washed over her as she stepped inside, her hand instinctively going to the knife she tucked into her belt. She moved through the rooms Raylan had claimed for his counsel, the library, with its scent of old paper and dust, and then into his private study. It was all empty, silent, the furniture just shapes in the moonlight filtering through the high windows. Then she saw the open doors to the balcony. A figure stood at the stone, railing a dark silhouette against the glittering expanse of ness. Prosper. He was motionless, his back to her, staring out at the sleeping city. A cool night wind whipped his night shirt around him. Prosper. You need to come back inside, You need to sleep. He didn't turn, He didn't seem to hear her. He just stood there, seemingly dazed, his gaze fixed on some distant, unseen point. He raised a hand, his finger tracing a line in the air. The ageless one is dead. Did you know that, his mission, however, is not. Darla stopped a few feet behind him, her plea to return dying on her lips. A strange, prickling sensation ran up her arms. This wasn't the lost gentleman she cared for. This was something else. He pointed down toward the distant dark patch at the edge of the ash fields. Look down there. It's in shadow, but you can see it, the great tree, the one the Dragon's breath poisoned. Dahla followed his gesture. She knew of the tree from Mailer's stories. She had called it Harvest House, an interesting but sad pairing with Darla's own guilds home in the Upper Quarter with the same name. Poisoned. The words sent another chill through her. Prosper's hand swept to the left, indicating the vast, scarred expanse of the flats and the lower triangle. And over there, see that, that's the lower Quarter. That is where the Ageless Ones sent the guilds as punishment. That is why they summoned the dragon with the wizards. But the Ageless One was too powerful. He banished the wizards and turned the four guild masters to stone as punishment. The Founder's statues in the park. The thought screamed through her mind. Could it be? It couldn't turned to stone. It was impossible, It was insane, and yet, listening to the hollow, certain voice beside her, she believed it. She took a step closer, a hundred questions warring in her mind, but she found herself unable to do anything but listen. He finally turned his head, his eyes vacant in the moonlight, seeing her, but not seeing her. But you want to know the real secret? The air on the balcony felt thin, charged. Dada could only nod yes. Prosper turned his gaze back to the sleeping city, to the secrets buried beneath its stones and its lies. A faint, sad smile touched his lips. So do I. The podcast Alchemy production. The Thieves Guild, written by Jake. Kerr, Episode fifty four, Empty Quarters. Prosper's last words hung in the cold night air, a final chilling note in his strange symphony of forgotten history. So do I. Darla's mind reeled, trying to grasp the enormity of what he'd revealed. Petrified guild masters, poisoned trees, an ageless one. It was all too much. This wasn't a report for a captain, This was a matter for the guildmaster himself. She turned from the balcony's edge, suddenly realizing that she had just marched through the guildmaster's quarters. She peered into the rooms expecting to see an angry Raylen approaching, perhaps having been woken by their voices, But he was nowhere to be seen. The library was empty, The grand chair behind the table where Rogers had held court was vacant. His sleeping quarters were just beyond the door. Slightly ajar, she pushed it open. The bed was made, the room still and silent. He wasn't there A new kind of unease, sharp and immediate cut through her oar. She walked back out to the balcony, her boots loud on the stone. Prosper hadn't moved. He was still staring out at the city, a statue with nothing more than a slight breeze swaying his night shirt, Prosper. Her voice was tight. Where's the guild master? Prosper turned his head slowly, his eyes as empty as the starless patches of sky over the plains. I sent him away. The words were so simple, so devoid of malice or triumph, that they were more terrifying than any threat. What are you talking about? How why? Prosper just blinked a slow, languid motion. He offered no further explanation. He simply turned his gaze back to the distant sleeping city. Frustration, hot and sharp, flared in Darla's chest. Another mess, another impossible situation, dropped in her lap by this broken, maddening magician. She had hoped to build a home for her and mailer, to be kind and careful prosper but this was too much. With a muttered curse, she left him standing there and stormed back inside her mission. Now clear, find Raylen, she descended the winding staircases, her anger giving way to a more practical urgency. He had to be somewhere in the tower. Perhaps he'd gone to the kitchens for a late meal. She reached the main entrance hall and saw the same hulking guard from before. His posture unchanged. The guild master. Her voice was sharp, Has he come down this way? The guard straightened, his expression a mixture of confusion and deference. No, mistress, No one's passed this post. As I mentioned earlier, The guard's words hit her like a physical blow. Her frustration evaporated, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. If Raylan hadn't come down, she turned and raced back up the stairs, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She took the steps too at a time, her mind a chaotic whirl. He couldn't have just vanished. There had to be another way, down, a passage she didn't know. She burst back into Raylan's quarters, the silence of the top floor. Now feeling oppressive, sinister, she searched again, this time with a desperate, frantic energy. She threw open wardrobes, looked under the massive council table, even checked behind the tapestries in his study. Nothing. Her search led her back to the hallway, to the iron door she had passed on her way up. She pushed it open and stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of ancient wood and dust. Moonlight streamed through a high, narrow window, illuminating the rows of crates and trunks. She scanned the room, her eyes darting into every shadow. She walked between the crates, peering behind some and even shoving aside others. It was empty. Where where could he be? The question was a silent scream in her mind. She left the room and continued her search, her steps echoing in the empty halls. She looked everywhere she could think of, every room, every alcove on the upper floors. The tower kept its secrets, its stone walls, offering no answers. She eventually ended on the guildmaster's balcony alone. Prosper was gone, having presumably wandered back to his own room. She stood where Raylan should have been, looking out at the broken, charred city he was supposed to guide to a better future. He had vanished from the top floor of a secure tower, a fortress teeming with his own guards, without making a sound, without leaving a trace. She gripped the cold stone of the railing, her knuckles white. The wind whipped a strand of hair across her face, cold as a ghost's touch. The mystery was no longer about ancient history or forgotten magic. It was about her new guild master, and it was a mystery to which she had no answer. Where could he be? The podcast Alchemy production. The Thieves Guild, written by Jake Kerr, Episode fifty six Embers in the Plains. The planes were a hard, unforgiving sea, and Rebecca navigated them with the quiet competence of a ship's captain. She'd made her camp in the lee of a low, stony rise, a meager shield against a wind that carried the scent of dust and distance. The fire was small, built in a shallow pit, and fed with dried brush. She gathered with a practiced eye. It burned with a clean, hot flame, a single point of defiant warmth against the immense gathering dark. Her movements were economical, stripped of all wasted effort. She had learned survival not in the chaotic rush of Goutland's alleys, but in the harsh solitude of the plains, during long journeys with Pietro, journeys he'd insisted upon the world is a book, my girl, His eyes twinkled. You must learn to read all its pages, not just the ones with ink. Now alone under a sky awash with the cold glitter of unfamiliar stars, his words felt like another of his infuriating riddles. She pulled the wand from the worn leather sid at her side. In the firelight, the dark wood seemed to drink the flames, its spiraling script a silent, mocking puzzle. She ran a thumb over the raised letters, the language she'd spent half her life studying in Pietro's journals, yet could not command. The secrets are all here. The memory of her grandfather's voice was a ghost on the wind. You can unlock them, I know you can. She asked for the key again and again, but all he would say was that the time wasn't right. There was more to do. He was ancient by then, the old men calling him old. She would beg for him to read the journals he said were so important, but he simply said that the time had not yet come. He had given her the key, but then told her not to unlock the chest. Frustration, sharp and familiar, coiled in her gut. For years, she was the sole believer in his grand mad vision. She had lived in the shadow of his purpose, a life second hand, a life no one took seriously. This mission, the wand the oath, the library was supposed to be her emergence from that shadow. It was meant to be the moment she stopped living vicariously through his tales and started writing her own instead. She was just a girl with a stick, lost in the middle of nowhere. She closed her eyes, the one cool and inert in her hand. Doubt, a cold serpent wound its way through her thoughts. What if Pietro wasn't a secret genius? What if he was exactly what every one in Doubtland had thought him to be. A beloved, harmless old man who told fantastical stories no one believed, a man whose greatest political achievement was being friends with the crown Wilhelm, a friendship built on the amusement of a leader who loved Pietro for the tales he told, precisely because no one, not even Wilhelm, believed them. And Wilhelm's sufferance, which others took as kindness, was another frustration. She wasn't royalty, She wasn't a recognized heir. She was the story telling thieves girl, the living legacy of the city's favorite madman. To Wilhelm and his court, she was a curiosity, a pet project. They had educated her, trained her, given her a place at court, all out of a fond, patronizing respect for her grandfather's memory. She was a living monument to a man they'd loved but never truly respected. They humored her studies of Pietro's arcane texts, her talk of magic and forgotten history, in the same way they had humored the old man himself. She was a harmless distraction, an echo of an echo, And now this final frustration. Pietro had been clear, if he were to die, she was to seek out his heir in the Thieves Guild. They would help her unlock his secrets. Of course, she cried and asked him why wait until his death, why not now? And yet again another smile, another pat on the head, and then he showed up the one who could help her unlock everything, a boy like her, someone young and with the desire to unlock the secrets to change the world. But then, he, like Pietro before him, ignored her desires. His own uncanny, chaotic grasp of power took precedence over Pietro's mission. He had sent her away, and Rebecca wondered if it was her fault. She took out her frustration by poking the fire with her stick, sending tiny flares of light into the night sky. Her aimless frustration turned into something beautiful. She looked down at the wand her grip tightening. She didn't need Raylan, She only needed his guidance to get the wand the oath that always seemed Dubio to her away for Pietro to secure his beloved guild, to shepherd his mission forward. But she could do it herself. She would be his successor in truth, a power in her own right, beholden to no one, not Wilhelm, not Raelen, not even the ghost of her grandfather. She held the wand out, her arms steady, her mind a focussed point of desperate will. She poured every ounce of her frustration, her ambition, her desperate need to be more than a shadow into the wood. She didn't know what to think, what to do, But did it matter, she believed. The fire crackled, the wind whispered over the plains, and the Wand remained a cold, dead thing In her hand, A tear of pure hot rage traced a path through the grime on her cheek. She was alone, adrift on a sea of forgotten history, with no land in sight. Eh The Thieves Guild. Written by Jake. Kerr, episode fifty six, The Plight of the Plains. The sun was a hammer and the planes were an anvil. Rebecca rode with her head down, the brim of a borrowed hat pulled low against the glare. The brief desperate thoughts from the night before had burned away with the morning mist, leaving behind the familiar, gritty residue of her reality. She was alone, the wand was inert, and Goutland was still days away. Her pride, a brittle thing, was the only provision she had in abundance. She saw them first as a smudge on the horizon, a wavering distortion in the heat. Not rangers. Their movement was too slow, too shambling, not a merchant caravan. There was no dust cloud from wagon wheels. As she drew closer, the smudge resolved into four figures, and a knot of caution tightened in her gut. They looked like ghosts. The planes had coughed up a man, a woman, and two small children, all dressed in rags that might have once protected them from the elements, but now just did little more than protect their modesty. The man stumbled forward as she approached, one hand held out in a gesture that was half greeting, half plea please. His voice was dry and weak, the sound of dust and thirst. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, and the skin was stretched tight over his cheek. Bones, food, water, anything. Rebecca reined in Brownie, her hand resting near the long knife at her belt. She assessed them with the cool, practical eye of a survivor. They were no threat. The man was swaying on his feet, and the woman, who held a small, listless child in her arms, looked as though a strong gust of wind might carry her away. I have a long journey. I can't spare much. She unslung her satchel, the meager weight of it a stark reminder of her own vulnerability. She pulled out a hard biscuit and a strip of dried meat. It was a paltry offering, but it was a day's ration. She tossed it to the man. He caught it with a fumbling desperation, but he didn't eat. He turned and broke the biscuit, giving a piece to the older child, a boy with eyes too large for his face. It was then that the woman stepped forward, a fierce, skeletal protectiveness in her posture. That's not enough, he's sick. She nodded toward the child in her arms. He needs more. It's all I can spare. Rebecca's tone hardened. This was the law of the Plains. You looked after yourself. Pity was a luxury you couldn't afford. The man took a hesitant step closer his desperation. Overriding his fear, A rusty skinning knife, a pitiful weapon, appeared in his hand. It shook not with menace, but with the tremor of starvation. Please, we're not bandits our homestead. The rains never came. We were heading for ness. But his voice trailed off, his gaze falling to his starving family. Rebecca looked from the trembling knife to the hollow eyes of the children. She could end this in a dozen different ways, a quick disabling blow, a flash of steel. They were no match for her. She had been trained by the Crown's own guard, had faced down hardened men without flinching. But what victory was there in this to cut down a starving farmer in front of his family, to ride away, leaving them to die. Her mission secured over the bones of children. The words of her grandfather, the core of his strange contradictory philosophy, echoed in her mind. We take, so we can give. It was the creed of the thieves guild, a justification for their criminal enterprise. But here, stripped of all politics and shadows, the words held a different, purer meaning. Just give. She looked at the vast empty plains stretching toward Goutland. She thought of her mission, of Pietro's legacy, of the desperate need to discover her own legacy. Then she looked at the small, desperate world contained in the circle of this starving family with a quiet sigh that was more resignation than pity. Rebecca made a choice. It wasn't a choice born of compassion, not really. It was a choice born of brutal pragmatism. This was an unwinnable conflict. There was no honor in this fight, and no victory worth the name. The only way to win was not to play without a word. She swung the satchel from her shoulder. She opened it and emptied its contents on to the dusty ground. Two more biscuits, the rest of the dried meat, a small wheel of hard cheese, and her water skin. It was everything. The family stared at the small pile of food as if it were a king's ransom. The man dropped his knife, a clatter of metal on stone, and fell to his knees. The woman just sobbed, clutching her child tighter. Rebecca didn't wait for their thanks. She didn't want it. This was a transaction, not a charity. At least that's what she tried to convince herself of. She had paid the price to be free of them, to be free of the choice they represented. She turned Brownie's head, her movements crisp and efficient. She nudged the horse into a walk, then a trot, leaving the family to their desperate, life saving meal. She didn't look back. She rode for an hour, the sun hot on her back, the emptiness of her satchel a hollow weight against her side. She stopped and looked toward the western horizon, toward Goutland. Three days ride, at least, without food, without water, It was impossible. The math was simple, brutal, and absolute. Her solo mission, her one chance to forge her own path, to escape the shadow of Pietro and the condescending kindness of Wilhelm, was over. She had failed. Pride hot and bitter rose in her throat. She would be returning to ness, not as a conquering hero with a magic wand, but as a failure, a girl who couldn't even manage a simple journey across the plains. She would be returned to Raylan. The thought was a complex knot of frustration, and something else, something she refused to name. She had left him to his duty. Now she was being forced back into his orbit by her own. With a grim finality, Rebecca pulled hard on Brownie's reins, turning the magnificent horse around. She faced east toward the distant, hazy smudge on the horizon that was Ness. The fortress she had just escaped was now her only sanctuary. A Podcast Alchemy production