89. (The Best Damn Thieves: Chapter Two)

Marcus found piloting the silver craft easy; it handled significantly smoother than their previous vehicle. Below them, the clouds were thinning out with the dawn as the sun just barely peeked over the horizon. The big man leaned over carefully--Fergy had fallen asleep with her head on her arms, her arms crossed on his lap--and below the ship he could see a dense, thick forest.

He put his free hand on his wife's head and stroked her hair absent-mindedly, letting his thoughts wander. They had been on this job a long time, and some days he could feel it taking its toll. Three months back they had been contacted through rather unusual means by Lady Elizabetta of Merriam to the north, and Dame Rose Thieren of Bilox. Marcus and Fergy's presence, the letter informed them, was requested, to discuss a matter of employment. The letter, which had appeared on the bed of the room they had rented for the night, while they were still sleeping on it, crumbled and turned to dust only seconds after they had finished reading it.

"Magic," he'd muttered disdainfully.

It wasn't much of a surprise, then, when they met in person, to find the Lady Thieren garbed in heavy red robes lined with glowing white slashes; the woman, who looked to be roughly in her fifties, had shoulder-length white hair that flowed in loose ringlets and never seemed to be still. What was a surprise was how old she looked--her skin and facial features didn't seem enhanced at all, an oddity among magic users. It was a rare thing to meet one who didn't look fresh out of her teen years. "You must be Marcus," she'd said as they'd disembarked from their airship, "And Fergesdottir."

"'Fergy' will suffice, thank you," Marcus' wife had replied, smiling coolly; she hated her full given name. "And you must be the ladies Thieren, or rather, the lady and the dame."

"Indeed," Lady Thieren said, bowing. "The proper titles are important--they'll keep us from getting each other confused." She'd winked, smiling with an oddly crooked mouth.

Behind her, Dame Thieren inclined her head slightly in greeting. It was easy to tell she wasn't a magic user, once you got a good look at her: she was a woman in her middle years, her bare arms showing an unusual degree of musculature for what was essentially a lady of the court. She was at least two hand-breadths taller than Marcus. A bastard sword hung across her back, and she wore what looked like a strange cross between an elegant dress and a suit of leather padding and chain mail. Despite her size, garb, and choice in armament, there was oddly very little masculine about her.

"Welp," Fergy had interjected, clapping her hands once, "Enough of the pleasantries. You wanted us here, might I ask what the hell for?" She grinned, and placed her hands on her hips.

The job, as explained by Lady Elizabetta, was simple enough: fly to Pikely, break into her son's keep, and acquire from his person an amulet of some worth. "You're probably wondering," she'd said at the time, "Why I just don't spirit the amulet away with magic or some such, yes?"

"The idea had crossed our minds," Fergy replied. "After all, you planted a letter on us, without ever entering the room. You could say it piqued my curiosity."

"The explanation is simpler than you'd expect," Dame Thieren elaborated. "You're both people of the world, I'm sure you're aware of my brother's reputation. Suffice to say, it's well-earned. He is, in so many words, a very bad man, with the aforementioned very bad reputation, which he himself is aware of. In recent years, he's grown somewhat paranoid that the League of Magisters wants him taken out."

Lady Elizabetta grinned at this, unable to stifle a chuckle. "The League couldn't give a fig, of this I'm sure. They do their best to avoid becoming as meddlesome as they were before the king died."

Fergy asked, "He put up an anti-magic field, didn't he?"

"Indeed," the sorceress replied. "We don't know how, exactly, he's done so--like Rose he takes after his father more than me--but it's there, and I can't get through it, even to verify his location; I only know he's there because I can't find him anywhere else. I imagine the amulet is at the heart of it. Incidentally--if you find he's no longer at Pikely, your contract extends to finding him and finishing the job, regardless of location, at double the pay."

Marcus had spoken up then, "The place is pretty fortified, if what I've heard is true. How do you expect us to get in, much less get an object that... you say he keeps it on his person?" Already a plan had been beginning to come together in his mind.

"My understanding is that you're the best there is at what you do." Lady Elizabetta had smiled. "Besides, I can already see the gears turning in that rugged head of yours. Once you've acquired the amulet, you are to meet Rose in Aeros, where she will be waiting for you. Now," she had extended a hand, which Fergy and Marcus had both shaken, sealing the deal, "Come inside, dears, I've had our cook throw together a bit of a spread. Come eat and relax, and we can discuss the details of your payment."

At the "spread", which was more like a feast than anything he had had in the past, Marcus had gotten to know Dame Thieren a little better while Fergy dealt with the dame's mother.

"You know," he'd said, "A female knight such as yourself isn't exactly... rare, these days, but you're something of an oddity--unless I'm mistaken about your actual title."

Dame Thieren had looked at him over her wine-glass, bemused. "Mother did make it a point to emphasize it, didn't she?"

"She did," Marcus replied. "You're Dame Rose Thieren of Bilox, right?"

"You're correct, yes."

"Bilox, as in the Bilox Shipyards?"

"You know your geography." She'd leaned against the table and regarded him, more curious now. "Have you been there yourself?"

Marcus grinned. "I have. My point is--it's very far from here, on the coast. What's a knight of Bilox doing all this way north?"

"I was born, like my brother, in Pikely. Mother brought me here to Merriam, and I married my way into the Bilox court." The Dame poured herself another glass of wine and drank it down quickly. "My husband was the Lord of Bilox, master of the shipyards. Sadly, we lacked much in military might--"

Marcus held up a hand; "Which is why your mother sent down the might of Merriam and her allies to aid you when Gotha invaded."

"Geography and history," she'd said, amused now. "You're a box of surprises, aren't you?"

"Not so much. Do you know who, exactly, the Duke of Gotha formed his armies with?"

"Rabble, basically," Dame Thieren had replied. "Hired muscle, mostly, cutthroats and corsairs, thieves and mercenari--" She stopped, realization hitting her. "Oh."

Marcus just crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, watching her face.

"Well, I hope you don't harbor some kind of personal grudge," the dame continued, recovering from the shock.

"Of course not," Marcus replied, grinning. "The best part of hired thugs is that we don't have a personal stake in what we get into, for the most part--as long as we get paid."

"If only we could all be so lucky," Dame Thieren murmured.

"Allow me to be frank, Dame Thi--"

"Rose, please. We're in my home, there's no need for formalities, despite what mother may say."

"Allow me to be frank, then, Rose," Marcus repeated, pouring himself a glass of wine. "What the hell happened? Everything was going along fairly dully--skirmishes here and there, both sides grabbing this chunk of land and losing that piece of the coast. And then one day you came sweeping down on your horse, your forces behind you, and you just... smashed us. I'd never seen anything like it."

"It got personal," Rose replied. "My husband fell--and not in battle. Cutthroats in the night. The two of us led the Biloxan forces together, side by side; we treated our men fairly and well. We ran a clean war, pushing your forces back as cleanly as we could--no torture, no rape, and so on. The men my mother sent down to help us were all good men, clean men."

"And in the night," Marcus continued for her, "Dirty men snuck into your camp and put a knife in your husband's ribs."

Rose nodded, lost in thought for the moment. Without a smile, Marcus reached across the table and put a hand on her wrist. "I understand," he said, nodding towards the other end of the room, where Fergy and the Lady Thieren were conversing animatedly.

Rose followed his gaze, frowning. "In any case," she said, "It was a long time ago. Lordship of Bilox was handed over to me, but I turned it down, handing it over to the local nobles, and returned home. I was young still, and it was too much for me. Before I left, they granted me a knighthood for my valor in the final days of the battle."

"You were terrifying," Marcus admitted. "In all that black armor. We called you the Iron Widow. Gothans still tremble at the name."

She furrowed her brows at that. "You knew the moniker? Then why ask me what happened?"

"Getting to know a client," Marcus replied, "And I was curious if the rumors were true. We do dirty deeds for people, Dame. It's good to know how badly it's going to come back and bite us in the ass."

She seemed entertained by the notion. "Well, let me say now that I think you have nothing to worry about on that front. We waged a clean war then, and we'll run this thing clean too. You have my word on that, on my honor as a knight."

"I'm sorry if I've opened up old wounds," Marcus said, smiling.

"No, no. Like I said, it was a long time ago. Now--tell me of your past. If we're going to hire a couple of thieves, I'd like to know they're not going to rob us blind." She grinned, pouring another glass of wine.

They'd talked for a while after that, until Fergy had dragged him off to their room to get some rest. "I like her," he'd said, as they lay in the large bed the Thierens had provided. "It's nice to get a job from someone who isn't a complete terror to be around. We need a better client list."

"Do I need to be jealous?" his wife had murmured, half-asleep.

"You know better."

"Her mom's a hoot." Fergy chuckled, and they drifted off to sleep.

It had taken them two months to properly gather the information needed to set their plan into motion--they'd had to figure out exactly where in the keep Duke Thieren slept, where he kept his spoils, how many soldiers he employed--and that was when they'd realized they were dealing with Rickards, who was almost as notorious as his master. His presence added another level of complexity to the plan--they not only had to catch the Duke off his guard, in a small room with the fewest possible number of guards, but they had to do it without the majordomo there to defend him.

"You scared of one little henchman?" Fergy had chided.

Marcus only response had been a curt, "Yes."

The silver airship they had stolen from him ran so quietly that, lost in his thoughts, it took Marcus a few minutes to realize that the propulsion device had cut off. He frowned, pulling a few levers and hitting a few switches, but none seemed to have any effect on the craft's performance. They were, once again, traveling by momentum alone, and slowly descending towards the forest. "You've got to be pulling my leg," he muttered to himself. He leaned on the control shaft, trying to steer the silver ship towards the edge of the woods--but while he could hear the rudders in the rear turning, the ship itself continued on its course.

"You have got to be pulling my leg," he exclaimed. Leaning back in the pilot's chair, he put a hand on his wife's shoulder and shook her gently. "Ferg. Hey, Fergy love, wake up."

"Did we make it to Aeros already?" she muttered groggily.

"Not quite," Marcus responded. He explained the situation to her.

Fergy's lips twisted into a crooked frown. "We're being pulled down there," she said eventually. "This is going to end stupidly. I've just got a feeling. That's the kind of luck we've been dragging around with us this whole job. First the letter, then that nut in Sully, then my airship..."

"I don't doubt it," her husband replied. "Well, we're about to hit the treetops, better tie yourself down. I'm sure it's going to get bumpy."

A few minutes later they touched down on the forest floor after a short, strangely smooth descent. Marcus stood on the deck, staring up at the canopy, a confused look on his face. "There's no way we just flew straight down through that without either zigging and zagging, or hitting something."

"That's great and dandy. Can you fly us out of here, baby?" Fergy hopped over the guardrail and landed on the thick grass, stumbling forward slightly with the impact.

"Just give me time and I'll get it working again." He jumped down beside her and moved around to the back of the ship, muttering to himself.

"Just do your thing. I'm gonna see if I can find... I dunno, some berries or something. I'm starving and we left all our food on the other ship." Fergy picked her way across the thick underbrush. When she was what she figured was a suitable distance away, she dug around in her pack for a moment and produced two objects: a brown cylinder a little bigger around than her thumb, and a gold cube, open on one side. She held the cylinder between her teeth by one end and placed the other end inside the cube; a moment later the cube produced a flash and a faint hissing noise. When she moved the cube away, the end of the cylinder not in her mouth was glowing bright orange with a smoldering flame. The cube disappeared into her pouch and she stood there, puffing idly at the cigar, surveying the area around her.

The forest was just as dense and thick as it had looked from the sky, and Marcus was right: there was no way the airship had just slipped through the canopy as easily as it had without some kind of outside influence. She had just started going through a checklist of possibilities when a voice behind her piped up: "Lass, if'n ye don' mind, could ye put that abominable thing out?"

Fergy spun around, her hand moving to her dagger instinctively--but the weapon stayed in its sheath. The speaker was a good distance away, its hands held in the air--if they could be called hands. It appeared to be a stocky, stumpy approximation of a man, made entirely of brown, knotty branches intertwined into a roughly human shape. Its arms and legs terminated in round clubs. Its face was a single sheet of wood, blank and expressionless--ambiguous--with a horizontal slit approximating a mouth. There was something off about it, though--the proportions were all wrong: the head was too small for the shoulders, the arms too long for the torso, and the legs too short for the whole thing.

Fergy took the cigar out of her mouth and examined it, then smelled the shaft, frowning, before looking back at the tree-person. No, it wasn't one of the "special" cigars she'd acquired in Sully, so she was definitely seeing the stumpy figure and not hallucinating. "And..." she stopped, unsure of how exactly to react, "And if I don't?" She puffed at the cigar defiantly.

The tree-man hobbled towards her, making a noise that could almost be called a sigh. Then, it made a sort of wet rattling sound, drew back its head, and spat--with uncanny accuracy--a glob of something directly onto the burning end of the cigar, dousing the fire. A bit of it splattered on Fergy's cheek and into her hair; she reached up and touched it, flabbergasted: it was sticky sap.

The tree-man let out a dry chuckle, crossing its arms. "C'mon then, let's go get ye compan'in." It hobbled past Fergy in the direction she'd come from. "Th' pair o' ye got business wit' me queen." She walked behind it sullenly, trying to scrape the sap off of her cigar. She slipped it back into her pouch before they reached the airship.

Hearing them approach, Marcus peeked out from behind the silver craft. He stared at the tree-man for a moment. "What the bloody hell is that?"

Fergy shrugged, walking past the stumpy figure to her husband. "It says we have business with its queen."

"Aye, lass, t'was me queen wot brought ye down here. She be in need o' ye."

The couple exchanged a look, and Fergy took the lead: "Well, we refuse to get involved. We were just passing through--over, even, we've got urgent business elsewhere."

"Oh aye? I don' remem'er given' ye a choice, lass."

"What are you going to do?" she asked, grinning, "Spit sap on us 'til we submit?"

Again, the tree-man made a sound like a sigh, a dry rattling like leaves in what was meant to be his throat. There was a creaking noise, like a great tree blowing in a heavy wind--and then it was like the forest had come to life around them, as vines and other plants shot up from the undergrowth to intertwine their way into the airships inner workings, pulling and tearing at it. And at the same time, two massive, club-like tree-branches swung down from above them, battering the silver craft around like it was a toy. As Fergy and Marcus scrambled away from the attack, the combined might of the plants of the forest bent the ship in two, and then tore it apart, scattering gears and bits of metal everywhere. It only took a matter of seconds, and then silence fell over the woods again.

The tree-man made a noise like it was clearing its throat. "Did tha' get the pi'ture across, ye two?"

Marcus eyed the remains of their stolen craft. "I don't... think we really have a choice, do we?"

"Tha's a good lad. Let's mosey." It turned and hobbled deeper into the woods, Fergy and Marcus trailing behind it.

"You know," Fergy said, after about an hour of difficult hiking through the forest, "He was just asking a question. He wasn't refusing, so much as finding out what would happen if we did."

The tree-man chuckled. "An' I showed ye."

"Which is true, yes," the woman continued. "But think about it. We could've just flown the airship to your queen, saved us a lot of time."

"Would ye 'ave?"

Fergy pursed her lips and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Probably not," she answered.

Behind them, lagging a few steps, Marcus slipped his hand into his jacket and produced a silver flask, which he took a sip from; he never took his eyes off his wife while he drank, and as she started to glance back, he slipped it silently back into his pocket.

"How long has it been since we got any real sleep?" she asked him, walking backwards for a moment.

Marcus shrugged. "Couple days, I reckon. We were up all night last night, at the Duke's soirée, and the night before, we--well, we were awake. So yeah, a couple days."

Fergy turned around and resumed speaking to their escort. "See, it's just that we're bloody tired. I mean--I dunno, do you even get tired? Do tree-people... er... what the hell are you, anyways?"

"A nymph o' th' wood," it replied.

"Wait," Marcus interrupted, "Wait, whoa-whoa-whoa--you're a wood nymph?"

"Aye, what'd ye expect? A bloomin' faerie or summat?"

"Well, yes."

It let out another dry chuckle. "Well, ye're only 'alf wrong, lad. See, I am a bit mo' faerie-like than I'm lettin' on--but ye cannae see me, flittin' aboot th' forest. Ye' mortal eyes jes' en't built for it."

Marcus lit up, understanding; "Then this is a representation--a form you've taken to communicate with us, built out of branches to represent something like us. But if you'll pardon my criticism, that's a pretty shoddily formed human-look--you look like an overweight kid more than a grown male."

"En't 'ooman. S'posed t' be a dorf."

Fergy piped up then: "But how do you know what a dwarf even looks like? They don't ever come out of their caves."

"En't true, one o' em passed t'ruough 'ere couple weeks back. Took a fancy t' 'im, but 'e wouldn' 'ave any o' it and fled t' tha' damnedable tower."

"Took a... fancy?"

"Aye, but 'e wouldn' let me in. Took up a fight an' ran offt, like I say."

Marcus' brows furrowed. "Wouldn't... wait, what does your queen want us for?"

"En't for me t' say." After that, the nymph's stumpy form went silent, and the couple couldn't get an answer out of him. Eventually, they reached a clearing, in the middle of which was a large stump, formed almost like a chair, with a large green plant apparently growing out of it. "'Ere we are now, ye two, th' queen o' th' for'st."

At first, they weren't sure what it was, exactly, they were looking at. Then, like a blooming flower, the plant--the queen of the forest--rose from its throne and stood to its full height, a good head taller than Marcus. Green vines and leaves, brown branches and twigs, twisted and wound into a willowy human-like shape. Looking at it, it was clear that a more skilled hand had created the lanky body than the one that had created their stumpy escort, but even then, it wasn't quite right. The figure's hips and breasts were too wide and round, its waist too narrow and its neck too long; it looked almost like a caricature of a human being, like a child's drawing. From behind the flat wooden face, identical to its servants, long green vines streamed out, each "hair" spouting tiny pink flowers.

Marcus bowed and Fergy curtsied, lowering her eyes, and when they both rose, the queen stood before them, oddly majestic. "Well, aren't you lovelies something nice to look upon?" it said, the voice coming at once from behind the wooden face and from all around them. "Yes, yes, darlings, you will do nicely."

Fergy took a step towards the green creature, and curtsied again. "Your grace--you've plucked us from the sky and destroyed our means of conveyance. Is there some job you'd like us to perform, some task?"

The queen gave out a musical little laugh, sounding almost human. "To the west of this spot, deep in my woods, magicians built a tower of stone, wherein lives a sorceress. Around it, she has created a ring of fire and scorched ground, chopping down and burning my trees, my plants, to keep me out." The queen reached up one green arm and stroked Fergy's cheek with the end of it--the arm lacked hands and simply came to a point. "You can imagine how frustrating that might be? This place is more than my home, it is me. Can you imagine it? A creature, say, setting your shoulder on fire and living in the burn?"

Fergy tilted her head to the side. "The circle keeps you out--you can't handle fire. Would you have us cross this ring and fetch something for you? That's sort of our specialty."

Again, musical laughter echoed from the forest queen. "Aren't you a funny thing? I'm the queen of the forest, darling--why would I send a common... a thief, you say? Why would I send a common thief when I could just do it myself, dear?"

Marcus interjected, "But you just said you couldn't do it yourself, you can't reach the tower."

"Indeed no," the queen replied, now idly stroking Fergy's hair. "Not in this body, at least. Why do you think I dragged your magic boat out of the sky?"

Realization hit the couple. Fergy tried to take a step backwards but the queen's arms were behind her neck and back, holding her in place. Marcus tried to grab for her, but the stumpy tree-man threw itself between them and shoved him violently back with its club hands; he was oddly strong, and the much-larger Marcus lost his balance and fell. Fergy stammered out, "No no wait wait wait, whoa, no no no!" and squirmed to get free as the queen brought its wooden face close up against Fergy's. The tree-man held Marcus down, aided by the undergrowth of the forest itself.

A heavy silence fell over the clearing, an utter stillness as Marcus watched helplessly from the ground. He struggled again to get free, but was held too tight.

And then Fergy cocked her head to the side and asked, "Wait, what? Was something supposed to happen there?"

The queen pulled her face back, and almost seemed to frown. "Quite."

"Didn't work, did it?" the woman continued.

"No. Hang on, lovely, let me try again." And again, the queen brought her face close against Fergy's, but again, nothing happened. "Well," she said, "That is really frustrating. How are you doing that, darling?"

Fergy just smiled.

"Well you're doing it somehow, anyways." The queen stroked at what would have been her chin, were she human. "Well, I suppose you want to make it more difficult. A very human trait, I love you for it, dear. Well then, we'll just torture that handsome mate of yours until you let me in."

Fergy held up her hands; "Wait wait wait, I'll cooperate, under one condition."

"Speak your terms."

"Let my husband go."

Marcus struggled more fervently to free himself--and suddenly he was free, though the tree-man interposed itself between him and Fergy.

"Done," said the queen. "Now now, let me in, dear."

Fergy was still smiling. "Can I at least kiss him good-bye?"

"Of course, darling. However, any sign of duplicity and he'll be dead before you know it, and I'll torture you until you let me in. I only want your body in top form, I don't need it that way."

Fergy curtsied; "Wouldn't think of it. Hell, I'll even show you why you failed." Still smiling, she walked around the tree-man her husband, standing close against him. "Trust me," she whispered, winking, before leaning in to kiss him, her hands slipping into his jacket to brush against his chest. "Love you."

Marcus had a confused look on his face. "Love you too."

"Right then," Fergy said, turning back and walking to the queen, "First things first, this is how I screwed you over." She grinned hugely, reaching into her pouch and pulling out the golden cube. She held it in front of her eyes, the open side facing off to the left. "This is how I got away. It's called a lighter, it makes a tiny bit of fire."

The queen leaned in close, her mask-face tilting slightly. "Just a bit, darling? That would hardly keep me out of your brain."

"I know. Wait, I'm sorry, I cocked that up. I said it's how I got away--it is, in fact, how I am going to get away."

"Duplicitous darling! But a tiny bit of fire isn't going to save you."

Fergy laughed. "Of course not! That's why I have this--" With her other hand, she held up a silver flask, unable to keep back a huge, mad grin. "This, your grace, is liquor. Whiskey, I think." She took a long drink from the flask, and spat it out in a stream at the queen, and at the same time activated the lighter, turning the spray of alcohol into a blast of fire. The queen lurched back, and burst into flame. "Hoof it!" Fergy yelled, sprinting away in the confusion. Marcus shoved past the tree-man and followed quickly after her.

Behind them, the queen let out a horrid howl, a howl that was echoed by the forest itself, and soon all the vines and trees and undergrowth they ran through was reaching for them, trying to stop them, trying to smash them. They didn't look back.

"You know you only pissed it off!" Marcus shouted over the noise, leaping over a tree-limb as it swung down to trip him up. "That wasn't its real body!"

Fergy threw herself to the ground and rolled, barely missing a second branch. As she sprung back to her feet at a run, she called back, "I know! But it bought us time, didn't it?!"

"We need to go west, towards this tower it mentioned," Marcus said, running beside his wife now. "This is west, right? I think we're going west."

"We're going west, baby."

"Was that my flask?!" he asked, laughing and dodging a bush as it leaped out at him.

"Yes."

"How did you even know I had it?"

Fergy grinned at him. "We've been married for over a decade, Marcus, it's a bit hard to keep secrets from each other!"

Still running, he threw an arm over her shoulder and shoved her head down protectively. "I knew you hadn't stopped smoking!"

"Did you?"

Marcus laughed. "No--look, there, fire, a wall of fire--the tower!"

"Told you we were going west!" Around them, the forest let out a roar of frustration. "Jump through it?" she asked.

"Jump through it!" Marcus yelled, and together, then sped ahead and jumped, hand in hand, towards--and through--the wall of fire.

On the other side, they landed in a soft bed of burnt plants and ash, rolling and slapping each other to put out the fires that had sprung up in their clothes. Extinguished, they lay there, still holding hands, laughing, covered in ash and soot.

"So how did you do it?" Marcus asked, standing up and attempting to dust himself off in vain.

"What, snatch your flask from your jacket?" Fergy stood up and did the same, and attempted (also in vain) to straighten her hair. "Easy enough."

"No no, how'd you keep that thing out of your brain?"

Fergy shrugged, her smile fading. "No idea. I was as surprised as it was."