Again with the rain . . .

It wasn't getting any more fun, what with the weather and all. There was lightning now. While that did mask sounds and make it easier to move quickly, it wasn't exactly the greatest news in the world for a guy who's soaking wet and planning to spend large amounts of time on rooftops. I'd already seen several flashing bolts strike the tall posts that were gathering lightning for . . . well, for whatever purpose the magic-crafters gathered it. I'd also seen a few lightning bolts strike several roofs with no posts adorning them, and with an ear-splitting, fatal sort of intensity.

It was a good night to stay off of rooftops and other high vantage points, if you weren't the suicidal type.

Sometimes I'm just so blessed, it hurts.

On the plus side, I had a pretty good feeling that the “wraith” would be out tonight. He'd already been out every single night out of the last three, but if I had to pick a night I was sure he'd be out, this would be it. How could he possibly pass up an opportunity to be dramatically back-lit amid peals of thunder, bits of cloth whipping ominously around him? It seemed tailor-made to his particular brand of theatrics.

There were several miserable knights out walking the streets as well (when they weren't standing under shop awnings talking quietly to each other, glowering), paired up and with hands resting on the pommels of dangerous looking swords. Not just Blackstaag's knights, either, but Forschell's as well.

It seemed that he'd taken Theo's advice to heart, if he hadn't already increased patrols for some other reason.

Dismayingly, the appearance of Forschell's men wasn't quite as positive a development as I'd first imagined it would be. Forschell was a fairly moderate, soft-spoken sort of Lord who didn't go out of his way to antagonize people. I imagine this was the very reason his knights weren't acting confrontational when encountering Blackstaag's knights, despite the fact that they were roaming into territory they clearly had no business being in. I'd seen discussions between a few of them when they happened upon each other, a couple of nods, and the odd smile.

Not what I'd hoped for, really. In fact, since neither one of the two factions of knights appeared in the mood to argue or confront one another, it actually made my job a little harder, what with the extra sets of eyes to try to avoid.

I really should be used to things going sideways on me by now.

During the beginning of the evening, to pass the time (and maybe just to vent a little), I spent an hour distracting Blackstaag's men. I'd grabbed a handful of gravel for my sling before heading to a second-story perch above a well-lit street, and spent some time practicing my marksmanship on the backs of their legs just as they were about to turn a corner, or when they were looking away. Now and then, I'd even fire a noisemaker or two behind Forschell's men, just to see how far they'd chase the laughing, taunting sphere down the rain-soaked street with their swords drawn.

Of course, there was a purpose to this, the whole reason why I'd gone out so early. If you toy with knights enough to annoy them, they'll tend to hang around the area that odd things were happening in, certain that someone was around somewhere. Noisemakers and distractions aren't all that great for slipping past someone unnoticed, but they're wonderful for making guards suspicious, or planting the idea that something unusual is going on nearby. This usually kept them from wandering into areas that you eventually wished to visit yourself.

And so, after shaking up various patrols like a hornet's nest and drawing several knights to where I wanted them, I sped off to the spot where I'd planned to spend the night observing Forschell Keep. It was about three stories up, overlooking a nice big patch of flat roof. The roof was just the sort of place I'd jump to if I was hastily leaving Forschell Keep via the southwest balcony . . . definitely the way I'd choose if I was able to magically float to the ground.

I settled in, reclining comfortably into a nicely concealed and fairly dry little nook with an edge of tiled roof above it. My thoughts began to wander almost immediately, keeping me company as I kept watch from the shadows and waited for the Lord I'd taken to calling the “wraith” to show up.

I shook my head. Wraith. I had yet to understand the purpose for the disguise. There had been no sightings of any sort prior to Cyrus spotting him briefly in my keep, which made me wonder. No Lord actually wished to be identified during a robbery, and they usually took great pains to disguise themselves or keep their face covered. (Look where getting recognized had gotten me these past few nights, after all.) A theatrical disguise, however, almost suggested a desire to be seen by someone, or identified somehow. How long would this fellow have been dressing up as a wraith if he didn't want to let himself be seen?

Either the disguise was a recent innovation that was intended to be seen these past few attempts, or it had been worn for all of the thefts. If the latter was true, it could mean that this wraith fellow was beginning to get sloppy.

And what role, if any, did religion play in all this? I hoped it wasn't substantial, although it could explain why things weren't making sense to me. It was hard to discern things like motive from people you didn't really get in the first place. How could you think like the thief you were trying to thwart if you couldn't even understand the rationale for some of the most basic tenants they'd based their life around?

The objects seemed to be a clue. There was a sameness about the stolen items that I couldn't dismiss, and some new information picked up by Cyrus seemed to confirm that there was an overall theme guiding these thefts. He'd made inquiries all that day, and had learned what was stolen from two other Lords. Both thefts involved objects that their owners were very sentimentally attached to.

One was a journal, though not one penned by a relative of the Lord it had been liberated from. It was actually the much-prized journal of a long dead Haraelian Prince, which the Lord himself had no ancestral ties to.

The other, however, was an extremely valuable wedding necklace, the owner of which, in addition to being angrier than a tethered cat, was still very much alive.

Which kind of messed up the whole “stealing from the dead” theory.

Every time I came up with a possible motive, some little thing like that would dash my brittle logic to pieces. When I finally did catch this fellow, it would be very hard not to tie him to a chair and cuff him repeatedly until he disclosed the mystifying reasons behind the various things I'd uncovered so far.

Whoever it was, they had an agenda that wasn't entirely clear either. You could make a connection between the types of items stolen, perhaps, and come up with all sorts of links and similarities shared by those items that had gone missing. However, the actual purpose behind the thefts was still a bunch of question marks.

Why was he doing this?

I spent the next few hours asking myself that question over and over. Sometimes, sitting alone during a stake-out can be a useful and meditative thing, during which you become introspective and ponder questions like that at length. I usually got no closer to any answers, but at least it felt like I was doing something besides lying in wait in the shadows, trying to stay awake, attempting to keep blood circulating through my legs.

A short time after midnight I began asking myself a few new questions, potentially useful ones. For example - If I knew it were possible to float in mid-air after leaping from a forty-foot high wall, who did I know talented enough in magic to come up with such a device? Could I track down the fellow that way?

How many Lords in Harael were even rich enough to take a razor to an entire thoughtcloth outfit, one that likely cost thousands of gold marks to tailor? How many of them could afford to do something like that, just so they'd resemble a wraith while engaged in an activity where it's best not to be seen at all?

Had it truly been chance that we'd caught a glimpse of the thief during the robbery of Tucat Keep, or had that been the intention of the “wraith” all along? Was it significant that I, the Lord practically everyone believed to be responsible for these thefts, was the first to discover some clue as to the wraith-like appearance of the thief?

What exactly did he want? What was this all about?

And what in Baal's name was that thing that just moved out of the shadows down there?

I blinked.

Every thought that I'd been juggling up to that point bounced off my brain and fell forgotten in a tumble as I shifted from my reclined position to a crouching one, giving my full attention to what my eyes were telling me they were seeing. The rain was still thick, and the lightning gave the impression that the entire city was moving when it provided its deafening illumination. I'd seen a shadow that hadn't been there before, moving along the wall in a manner that would have been crafty had there not been a sudden brilliant flash that chased away the darkness . . .

A cloaked figure, moving purposefully to the edge of the roof nearest Forschell Keep.

Son of a bitch. I'd been expecting to spot him fleeing Forschell Keep, not slinking towards it. I'd take whatever good fortune I was given, though.

My heart began to race.

This didn't appear to be a wraith outfit from what I could see, but then again all I could really make out was a shadowy blob hugging the wall, creeping forward slowly but with purpose. The cut of the figure's cloak seemed to suggest that he wished to remain quite dry, and it wasn't very hard to imagine a tattered wraith outfit being worn beneath it. That made sense - why get wet before a job if you don't have to? Being dripping wet is an unpleasant complication when you're trying to break into a place undetected.

I watched the figure stop and crouch near the edge of the rooftop to inspect something, extending a very slender arm in the process. Skinny, but not skeletal, and definitely flesh-colored.

It was him. It had to be.

Everything came into sharp focus. The rain sounded different to my ears, and the various smells and textures that made up the night air hit me in a way that chased away all traces of tiredness from my body.

This was my chance, what I'd been waiting for.

After making very certain that my legs were fully functional and capable of pursuit, I stood with exaggerated slowness, not wishing for my movements to be picked up by the flashes of light that were illuminating the sky. I forced myself not to get too excited, hand reaching above my head and locating the sling ammo I'd already tied to a secure wooden post there. I pulled a generous amount of the thin thread from its spherical container before loading the bauble in my wrist sling and taking careful aim at the portion of stone wall I'd considered ideal for this maneuver, trying like hell to remember everything regarding how I'd planned to get down to the roof below.

The marble sped away from me with a quiet sort of “thwee” and slammed into the patch of rock wall I'd been aiming at, black thread trailing lazily behind it and then snapping into a straight line once the connection between the two points had been made. This ammo was very much like the stuff I'd used the night before. It didn't have the same brief glow, which might have given me away, but it was just as safe and reliable.

Sort of.

I whipped out my leather strap by one of its handles, flipping the far end over the tight wire above my head with my right hand and gripping the other handle firmly with my left. Lining up the metal groove with the thread, I whispered a brief prayer to the god of luck before pushing away from the wall, holding on for dear life.

About five seconds later I had traveled most of the length of the wire, released my left hand's grip and allowed myself to fall into a roll onto the flat rooftop. Despite my speed, the only sound that my descent made was the tiniest splashing noise that would have been covered nicely by the sound of falling rain, even if a particularly loud thunderclap hadn't timed itself to perfectly coincide with my landing, almost as if I'd planned it.

I scrambled to the shadows of the nearby wall, the very same shadows I'd seen the figure step out from moments before. Even if someone had been able to hear me, I doubt they'd have been able to spot me once I'd landed and secured a place to hide.

I was careful not to celebrate my good fortune. It seemed that whenever I did, something bad happened immediately afterward.

The cloaked figure was still crouched, back to me, about fifty or so feet away. Perfect.

Even from this distance there was no mistaking the fact that this thief had a slight build. The dark cloak hung from shoulders that weren't too terribly far apart, and though he was still hunched over whatever it was he was working on, it didn't appear that he was taller than me. That was a good thing – ambushing someone sort of suggests that you have the means to subdue them in the first place, and when the person you're attempting to snag can physically overpower you it gives rise to all sorts of potential complications.

Of course, a sharp knife in the right hands uncomplicated things nicely.

I crept forward, staying as close to the wall as I could, silently drawing the wickedly curved dagger I'd brought with me. A guy can be tall or short, well-muscled or skinny, placid and calm or lost in the throes of a violent drunken rage . . . but my experience is that no matter who you are, there's a very primal part of your brain that takes over once it realizes that razor-sharp steel is being pressed against your throat. It tends to become very agreeable and easy to manage . . . at least for a while.

As I got nearer the figure, I began to consider exactly how I would go about subduing him, given his position relative to mine. He was still working away, cloak moving slightly from time to time, and gave no outward sign that he knew I was there. If I surprised him, he might spring forward off of the rooftop itself, which wasn't what I wanted at all. He could float, and I couldn't. I didn't have any pre-planned way of getting down to the street level from where he was crouched, and I'd be damned if I was letting him slip through my fingers a second time. There was no way I'd be letting him off this rooftop – not if I could help it.

Lightning flashed blindingly once more, and the booming sound that followed was nearly instantaneous, feeling loud enough to shake my lungs from my chest. The figure before me twitched at the noise – that, or the brief illumination had provided the illusion of movement. I licked my lips nervously.

I had good cover. The best way of going about it would be to slide up the wall towards him, dagger in my right hand with the blade resting against my forearm. Once there, I'd grab his shoulder and pull him backwards and to my left, throwing him against the wall. I could manage that fairly easily, judging from the thief's slight build. All I'd have to do then was follow up with my right forearm, pressing the steel against his throat. It needed to be done carefully, since I didn't want to injure the fellow before finding out details such as who he was, and what he'd done with my father's journal.

Doing things that might injure him after I'd found these things out, well, I suppose I'd just have to play it by ear.

About ten feet or so away from him, I wondered what I'd say.

It's odd where your thoughts can take you sometimes, especially when you're in the middle of some sort of tense situation. I paused for an amused moment to consider the matter, watching him. There were a couple of lines that I'd been mulling over during my long stretches of sitting and waiting, and I settled on the one that I figured sounded the best. You wanted to sound like you were in control at moments like this, like everything was going according to plan and that you knew everything . . . even if you didn't.

Five feet away, and I could feel the blood racing through my temples, my breathing becoming so shallow that I was almost not drawing breath at all. I prepared to step forward . . .

The figure before me shifted and turned slightly.

I froze.

A moment later he turned back, attention once more focused on the task before him. I was almost close enough to touch him at this point. I exhaled quietly.

I could see slender hands working away at something resembling a trip-wire of some sort. I nodded to myself – this was likely going to be a smash-and-dash sort of theft, the thief rigging traps that might be tripped by anybody who was chasing them. It wasn't the most common plan for a thief to adopt, but then again, neither was attempting to rob a different Lord every night.

I allowed a small amount of my anger to build up as I closed the distance between us, inching forward noiselessly with my left side forward slightly, arm outstretched. My fingers hovered over the cloak where the neck met the shoulder.

Teeth clenched, I firmly slapped my hand down onto the dark cloak, grabbed a fistful of material, and pulled.

He stiffened as I wrenched him backwards with a solid yank. Then I shifted my feet and pushed him sideways from me with a slight spin, all in the same motion.

My fist never let go of the cloak. An instant after pushing him I hung on, pulling myself after him to close the distance between us, my right arm moving to neck height. He slammed against the wall with a startled yelp, and I slammed into him a moment later.

Instantly, the figure began to twist away from me, heading for the roof edge. I tightened my grip on the cloak and yanked the slight figure back towards me. We connected solidly, and I pushed once more, shoving him up against the wall.

A clenched fist shot out at me from behind the voluminous full-cloak. I batted it aside with my left forearm even as that hand still clutched the wet fabric. A second hand flew at me, and I avoided it with a deft twist of my body.

I stepped forward to close more distance between us.

Placing a boot against the wall, the dark form pushed and changed its direction mid-step, leaping towards me just as I'd been half expecting a pull. The cloak was wrenched free from my grip, and I felt a solid elbow connect with my chest. Fabric to my right twitched for a moment, and I felt a stinging jab connect firmly with my jaw, knocking me back a little..

Snarling, I dropped to a crouch with my arms held out wide and violently shouldered myself forward, throwing all my weight at the struggling mass of dark cloth.

Again we slammed into the wall. This time I heard a surprised cough of impact.

I reacquired my firm grip on the cloak and brought the knife swiftly into the space between us, sidestepping another quick blow that had been aimed at my ribs. I heard a sharp intake of breath as I leaned in and pressed the cold, wet steel of the knife edge against the slender neck that I could now see clearly.

The pressure was firm, but not enough to cut. The struggling ceased instantly.

See? It works.

Both of us stood there, completely still.

I felt the excitement twist my mouth into a confident smirk as I opened my mouth to recite the carefully crafted line I'd settled upon, tugging gently at the hood in front of me.

“You know,” I sneered, “you actually seem pretty solid for a-”

The hood of the cloak chose that precise moment to fall away enough to illuminate the face it covered, and I found myself looking into a pair of eyes that were wide with panic and fright.

Lovely, pale green eyes.

I stared at Talia, my own eyes becoming as wide as hers. There was a sudden roaring in my ears that had nothing to do with the sound of falling rain.