The free and mighty city of Eskemar, foremost of all the settlements in the hill provinces of the Eastern Realm, the abode of a hundred thousand souls, was prudently situated at the confluence of two great rivers. It was girdled twice around with a network of zig-zagging double walls that had not only kept out invaders but floodwaters, for the better part of the last two centuries.

  Numerous wharves hugged the banks of the rivers on the city’s south and east sides, where the littoral confluence embraced Eskemar, with a massive gate on each. The southern one – named the Caravan Gate, also lead straight to a stone bridge that bounded over the smaller of the two rivers in seven shallow arches, to end (or begin, depending on the direction of travel) with a guard tower set over it that housed the squad of soldiers who inspected goods and collected tolls. From there a road, well paved with limestone slabs, stretched off to the southwest, to the fertile plains of Nethermidden and ultimately to the harsher steppes with their wild conglomerations of restive nomadic tribes.

  Eskemar jealously guarded its trading privileges, chiefly by stifling those of its neighbors, and the city, with its Lord Paramount nominated by the Most Wise Council of Nine and confirmed by the royal court (after sufficient and judicious bribery), was not subject to any liege but the king and conducted itself with a marked degree of prideful autonomy. This benign and traditionally gentle oversight, among other reasons, had created an ideal environment for bustling markets and innovative funding and investing mechanisms. Trading houses and money lenders had manses as large and ornate as guild halls would be elsewhere. Indeed, guilds held scant sway here, and Eskemar more functioned as a place where items and commodities were brought, traded, stored, and then taken away to somewhere else (after a suitable amount had been siphoned off for the city’s necessities, of course), rather than a place where those items were crafted. A prime geographic location, a beneficial relationship with an intermittent authority, and shrewd and one might say, unscrupulous merchants, had pushed proud Eskemar to the topmost echelon of cities, rivaling the grand capital itself, and allowed its name to spread far and wide. Season by season, wealth accumulated like silt left behind by the annual floods, and the councilors usually had countenances that conveyed a certain satisfaction and tranquility.

  Unfortunately, this tranquility had been rudely disturbed because the Lord Paramount was now dead. And the manner of his death had set tongues to wagging.

  “Took a bad tumble, he did; found at the bottom of the Grand Stairs.”

  “Aye, but was he pushed? That’s the question!”

  “Pushed or no, that’s not what I heard done killed ‘m!”

  “No? Tell – or is this another one of your wild rumors?”

  “Mark me – ‘tis said that he was found with foam coming out of his mouth, and the Lord’s eyes were wide and all bloodshot and staring like they had seen something that warn’t there.”

  “Poison?”

  “Could be. Wouldn’t surprise me none.”

  From his perch at the end of the bar, lit by a single nearby candle, Terchin listened while keeping still, absorbing the gossip.

  Terchin the Thief, as he was once known, was a thin man with wavy brown locks of hair and several days of stubble on his face. He was dressed in unassuming but finely made leather garments, and he was nursing a tankard given to him by Widow Marinx, the proprietress of The Laughing Lass. It was one of his habitual haunts, a tavern a mere stone’s throw from the Caravan Gate, where many departures embarked and the clientele often mixed with the influx of thirsty travelers that entered the city for business or pleasure, and loosened tongues abounded. Though his pilfering days were behind him, he still liked to keep his fingers on the pulse of Eskemar. A man cannot be too well informed, he reflected, not for the first time.

  Now his attention was taken by the entreaties of a young man – a squire by the look of him, judging from his red griffon tabard – who was practically begging a hard-looking lot of ruffians sitting in the shadowy corner by the mead casks to accompany him out to the Barrowlands to scour out a crypt that had already claimed some associates of his. The men appeared noncommittal.

  Terchin didn’t get to hear the rest because his acute senses warned him that he was being approached. He began to turn even before the friendly hand clapped him on the shoulder. “Terchin!” cried his old friend Kesset, ”one of these days I’ll manage to sneak up on you!”

  “Not unless I lose my hearing – you have the tread of an ogre,” he replied, pushing out a stool which Kesset promptly occupied.

  “Haven’t seen you in here for a while – and never so early. Is this the Big Day?”

  Terchin sighed. “Aye, it is at that. The boy should be here any moment.”

  And like a prophecy fulfilled (a rare thing indeed in the Eastern Realm), the door opened, and a lanky young man walked a trifle uncertainly into the establishment. He stopped for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior. Then he spied his father.

  Terchin nodded to him as their eyes finally met and beckoned his son over. As he approached Terchin once again appraised Oreus, his only son. He was as tall as his old man now, despite being only 16 summers – taking after his mother, no doubt, Terchin thought wryly. He stood up and looked the lad over as Kesset and Oreus greeted each other.

  “Do you have everything? Did you sharpen your knife like I told you?”

  “Yes Father.”

  “Did you buy that rope and the extra flask of oil?”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Yes, AND, before you ask, I gathered up the map, pouch of caltrops, the heavy woolen blanket, and the salve.” Oreus looked a bit peevish, wanting to be regarded as a responsible young man rather than a boy whose head wasn’t on straight.

  “Salve?” Kesset inquired, one eyebrow raised.

  “The boy here is not used to riding a horse for long periods – it’ll help him out with the saddle sores he has coming to him!” Terchin explained. Kesset snorted (somewhat like a horse himself) and smiled.

  “Where are the others?’

  “At the gate already,” Oreus said. He looked a bit unsure. Terchin could understand it – the ambivalence of wanting to strike out into the wide world while harboring the trepidation of one who has never left home before and is therefore naturally regarding the prospect of leaving everyone and everything he knows behind with some anxiety.

  “Well, they seem like a good lot, if a bit wet behind the ears. And if they don’t bring you back safe and sound, they’ll answer to me!” Terchin almost bellowed, causing a few nearby customers to turn his way, for he was not known as a boisterous man. “You really sure you want to do this? You don’t have to, you know. Gods know I like having you about –“

  “Fa –,“ Oreus almost pleaded, ” I’ve never been anywhere, and never done anything. How else am I going to be a great adventurer like you?”

  Terchin sighed. He should have never told the boy all those stories. But they had talked this all out many times before. It was time for the bird to fly the nest, just like he had once done, oh so many years before. Later he would offer a prayer and sacrifice to Letressa, goddess of Fortune, especially favored by travelers and pilgrims who took their chances on the road and the waves, in the hope that his son would also return. It was out of his hands.

  Terchin took a bulging pouch from his belt and held it out for Oreus to accept. “I know you have some, but here’s a bit extra – a goodly amount of silver plus a few gold ducats, too. Should come in handy - provided you don’t get it stolen!” Oreus smiled as he took the proffered coin, and thanked Terchin.

  “I guess I have taught you enough for you to make your way – if you remember the lessons,” he said gruffly, more brusquely than he intended. To make up for it he held out his arms and the two embraced.

  “Take care of yourself, lad.”

  “I will, Father. With luck, I’ll be back by spring.” And as Oreus turned to go, Terchin reached out one last time and placed one hand on the back of his son’s head, rifling his hair. Gods, this was tougher than he expected. And a moment later, Oreus was gone and Terchin was sighing as a sudden fit of melancholy descended upon him.

  “So that’s it then,” Kesset remarked. “Home alone. Daughter married off, son leaving to see the world, and just us two old burglars going stir crazy in the crowded by-ways of Eskemar.”

  Yes, Terchin thought to himself, home alone. Just me and the shade of my departed wife, gone now these past five years…ah Kywrie! He shook his head. He would have to keep busy, else his thoughts would go to a dark place.

  “Any other interesting news?” He needed a distraction or at least a change of subject.

  Kesset leaned forward and pitched his voice low. “You might have heard tell of the appearance of the fey folk in our fair city?”

  Terchin nodded. A troupe of elves, somewhat bedraggled, had just been through town to purchase supplies as they retreated ever further into the forested hinterlands to take refuge with kin, fleeing the sorcerer-fronted legions of the Murak in the East.

  “Knowing desperation when they see it, the merchants had slyly jacked up the prices – just for a few days, mind you, and are now flush with coin. Coin that a competent thief – or pair of them – could relieve them of. What say you?” Kesset asked, his eyes atwinkle with mirth. Terchin grinned. The tricks of the grasping merchants were well-known to the city folk, but outsiders were often beggared blind with their swindling. They deserved to be swindled themselves.

  But no, that was not who he was now. “Sorry friend, that’s a play for ones who yet have the fire in their belly. But you go ahead if you’re so inclined, and I wish ye good fortune.” He sighed. “I suppose I best be getting home before you get me into trouble.” And with that, he bade his friend goodbye and strolled back home, taking the long way, restless and somehow world-weary at the same time.

  He didn’t know why he felt so dissatisfied. All things considered, he had done pretty well. Had traveled and had more than his share of adventure – and lived to tell the tale. He had found love – and a wife (the two being, though not mutually exclusive, hardly synonymous from what he had witnessed over the years) – begot and raised two intelligent and respectful children, and had successfully made the transition from unscrupulous rogue to somewhat scrupulous trader.

  Back when he and his comrades had decided to dissolve their little mercenary band, he had carefully considered his options. A man of his attainments would typically be expected to found his own thieves’ guild, but the endless drama that would entail, what with schemes for advancement up the chain of command, prospective coups against the leadership, slighted manners inspiring betrayal, greedy chiselers short-changing his take, fending off rivals threatening the guild’s turf, ensuring secrecy and all the other attendant messiness that comes from trying to govern a clandestine organization staffed with cutthroat men and women who would as soon stab you in the vitals as share a drink with you seemed taxing beyond all hope of suitable recompense. He had no wish to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder to maintain a precarious position over a gang of dishonorable malcontents who might sell him out for a handful of coins one day or slip poison into his morning porridge.

  Using some of his accumulated loot, Terchin had instead purchased a handsome if narrow steeply gabled three-storied house on one of the winding streets in the mercantile district. It was not far from the river gates, but far enough away that any smells from the docks or discharging sewers would not trouble him.

  In the following years, he had leveraged his nose for news and became an occasional informed investor, financially backing various trade missions and expeditions into possible emerging markets. All entirely respectable and above-board, if not without substantial risk. A few deals had gone sour but more had succeeded, and he was now held in a certain amount of esteem by the pillars of the community, although they would never say so out loud. Yes, he was completely out of the thieving profession. Naturally, there were certain safeguards inspired by his previous occupation – like the tunnel he had surreptitiously dug in the cellar from the back of his house to the storehouse he had also purchased occupying the lot directly behind him – under Kesset’s name. And there was the odd trap here and there to keep the overly inquisitive and avaricious at bay. And his attic had a cabinet containing disguises and certain implements of his trade. Just in case. Old habits die hard, he thought as he fingered the familiar hilt of his favorite dagger.

  As he neared his house, he cut through a dusky alley and almost stumbled upon a pair of forms hidden amidst the trash. He caught a glimpse of two bleary, dirty faces that seemed to be fixating on something only they could see, one of whom began muttering to himself. With some distaste, he stepped over them and hastened on his way before they could register his presence and commence begging. He thought his neighborhood was more upscale than this. Ah well, live and let live – that was his approach to his fellow man. ‘Twas none of his affair…