The Band of Thieves, Part One

This other world runs on three great industries.

The first, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of course, is food. Staying alive begins with eating. Sword Master or Archmage, a man still has to eat if he means to go on living.

The second is the greatest engine this world possesses: the slave market. In a realm that has yet to produce even a steam engine, the chief resource — and the chief source of power — is the human being.

And the last is the trade ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that belongs to this world alone. The magic-item market. From luxuries and precious metals to civil works, industry, and war, magic items of every conceivable kind are made and sold.

Goods of every sort were laid out and put through their paces, a riot of magic items dizzying enough to set the eyes spinning. Had it not been for Aphago, my purse might have been shaken out to the last coin.

"Those blink boots, I fear, manage a distance of barely two meters. At that range one might, with some luck, slip a lesser thief's ambush — but they are not self-casting, and if they require an incantation, one might as well simply throw one's body clear. The difference would be negligible."

"The spell laid upon that magic sword is a fourth-circle Fire Wall. Splendid, if one admires it as an area spell, but unless the quarry is a swarm of insects it is nearly meaningless. It cannot even drop a goblin in a single blow, so for hunting monsters it is all but useless."

"A spear enchanted with cold. Smear the blade with poison — or, failing that, with dung — and one could raise its killing power by roughly the same margin. There is simply no need..."

Aphago, which prided itself on being the finest magic item in the world, picked the others apart without mercy. The riding golem I had fallen for at a glance was no exception.

"Some call it mage armor, for it is armor of a kind. It was developed as a siege weapon, and once knights began to ride inside it, the thing rewrote the very idea of war. Thick steel plate, a greatsword three meters long — unless one fields mage armor of the same class, ordinary infantry can scarcely face it at all."

"Then why didn't any of those show up at the Battle of Alvredo? If they had something like that, there'd be no reason to grind slave-soldiers into the dirt for nothing."

"Well. There may be any number of reasons, but the one that matters is money."

"Money?"

"The price is so extreme that even a nation cannot own many of them. So unless it is all-out war, they are rarely committed. The moment one side sends them forward, the other has no choice but to answer with mage armor of equal grade, and should a fight between them break out and even one be lost, the loss is severe."

"Ah."

"Nor is mage armor omnipotent, even so."

"It isn't?"

"It reads its user's movements and drives that huge, ponderous body accordingly. The mass and the reach can overwhelm an opponent, yes — but it carries a fatal flaw."

"A flaw? What flaw?"

"It cannot fully capture what the user does."

"It can't catch all of it?"

"No. However far the output is raised, the armor's nervous system simply cannot contain every motion of the one inside. And the greater the rider's ability, the wider that gap becomes. Military mage armor can reproduce some eighty to ninety percent of an ordinary person's responses, but for a knight who has awakened aura, it is said to manage only about half."

"Ahh."

"Which is why the finer the knight, the more he keeps his distance from mage armor. For that price, a full plate of adamantium is much the better investment. No constraint upon one's movement — and if aura is laid over the armor, its defense can exceed ordinary plate by ten times or more."

Listening to Aphago, I began to see a stiffness in the thing's movements. Then again, a single suit ran to 2,700 gold. That was enough to buy two hundred and fifty to two hundred and seventy able-bodied adult slaves. I clicked my tongue at the waste and tore my eyes away from the mage armor.

They say you never buy the first thing you see. A better one would come along later. With that much consolation, I left the spot.

The shopping, however, was not finished. Even beneath Aphago's withering critique, a few items began to survive.

"What about that ring? They say it's got a fifth-circle shield built in. How good are we talking?"

"Let me see. Fifth circle, and if the range is extended it can raise a hemispherical shield out to a radius of two meters. It may also be compressed to the wearer's skin. Compressed, the defense would stop even a single strike of the penetrating power in the magic wand the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Baron currently carries."

The magic wand was the RPG I carried. I called it Allah's Magic Wand, and Aphago had taken the nickname at face value. Even so — if it could stop an RPG's penetration even once, that was more than decent. Mine used a shaped-charge warhead. The blast was modest, but the straight-line punch was surprisingly serious, enough to go clean through the armor of an ordinary tactical vehicle. Stop that, and you were roughly at the plating of a third-generation tank. At that grade, grenades, anti-tank weapons, improvised charges, or a mass-killing device like a Claymore would all meet a real defense. Too good to walk past.

"And I rather like that it triggers on its own. Not bad, in its way. Of course such things spill over in the dungeons, so it is a pity you insist on paying coin for one."

A hundred and ten gold was no small sum, but this was an investment in my own body. I saw no reason to pinch it.

Next to catch my eye was an item called a Servant of Darkness.

"They have sealed a familiar inside that glass bottle. Its strength is about that of an average grown man. Ordinarily one keeps it bottled, and lets it out when sleeping or at rest. Once released, it hides in its master's shadow, and when an intruder draws near it either removes them or alerts its master. Quite useful, I should think. Of course, absent an attempt on one's life, one may assume it is simply loafing and playing in the dark. Duration — let me see. Twelve hours. With two of them, one could keep a watch the whole day through, turn and turn about."

The lid came off a bottle no bigger than a palm, and something like black smoke slipped free. It circled the mage who was selling it, briefly took the shape of a hooded figure's upper body, then dissolved into smoke again and went on circling. The mage tossed an apple from his hand as if to say watch. Black smoke stretched. A sharp dagger formed of it split the apple hanging in midair clean in half, and the people who saw it broke into applause.

"Oh — now that's something."

"But can it cut anything besides an apple?"

"I wouldn't mind having one of those."

"Please. Who's going to kill you?"

"You never know. Later, once I'm making real money."

This, too, concerned my own hide, so I paid up and bought two bottles. I picked up several other things besides. By the time I came back to myself after wandering the item market, a thousand gold had already walked out of my purse. I pulled myself together and got out of there at once.

The moment I returned to my lodgings I looked over what I had bought and turned the regret over and over — but every bit of it was for my own body, so I decided to endure it.

The encampment that had seethed with hundreds lay quiet at last, the silence bought by a single round of slaves sold off. All that remained were some thirty adult slaves and a hundred children. The Sahara Merchant Group's camp slept in the dark, and only the bonfire at its heart still held a light.

Through the shadows that light threw, figures in dark night-clothes moved without a sound. They had reached the very edge of the camp when a subordinate drew up beside Carlo, the man who led them.

"Quiet. They said he'd sold off every slave he brought, and it looks like that was the truth."

"There seem to be quite a few inside that tent."

"Children, that's all. Once a commotion starts, children are too frightened to do anything but run. We grab the company master, take the money from the slave sale, and get out. No mercenary escort, just as we heard. This is served up on a plate."

"That's what worries me. Too little of it. A company this size, and almost no escort."

"They say the company master is a greenhorn. Doesn't know enough of the world to be afraid of it. Running a company on this scale without so much as a mercenary band — one escort swordsman trailing after him, and that's the lot. He might as well be telling thieves like us to come and dine."

"I wonder. A greenhorn company master sold more than two hundred slaves in four days? Does that sound right to you?"

"Well. He must have gotten lucky. None of the other companies had ever heard of the Sahara Merchant Group. If he'd already had friends among them, the merchants would never have spread a rumor meant for our ears."

"Hmph. Cowardly bastards. They can't stand the sight of someone else making money."

"Well. For us or for the merchants, if you mean to live, the other man has to die. Same thing, isn't it? Thanks to that, we get to skim a tidy profit of our own."

"Right. Which tent is the company master sleeping in?"

"That one. The red one. Hard to miss."

"John, Varisco, and I take that. You take three and remove the escort. Everyone else sets the fires and puts down any slaves who resist."

"Yes, boss."

The shadows moving in the dark numbered twenty. Broken into three knots, they drew their daggers. Soot blackened the blades until they drank even the moonlight, and the shadows made ready to fall upon the tents. In the instant Carlo, boss of the band, opened his mouth to call the attack, an unfamiliar voice rode the night air, clear and distinct.

The thieves locked where they stood. They were still reeling at the fact that the raid had been seen when the tent flap was swept aside and a knight with a sword at his hip stepped out.

Caught in a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠situation he had not planned for, Carlo was still weighing what to do when he saw the owner of that voice — and decided at once.

Still just a boy. Then we cut him down fast and loot the company as planned.

Had Argon simply remained inside the tent, Carlo, knowing the plan was blown, might well have chosen to withdraw. But the face was younger than expected, the build slender besides. Carlo concluded that Argon was nothing more than a man with sharp ears in the dark.

"Kill him!"

With the words he hurled himself at the red tent.

"Honestly. Why does everyone insist on this?"

The boy's hand found the grip of his sword. Already moving on Carlo's order, the thieves flung their daggers and charged. Leaving his back to his men, Carlo drew his own daggers and ripped through the cloth of the red tent.

Skriiip—!

Skriiip—!

The twin blades crossed. In a single stroke Carlo opened a hole and vaulted into the tent.