Chapter 2 – All That Glisters Is Not Gold

Sir Roland stood in the window of a small room on the third floor of a disreputable inn located at the north end of the market. The inn's ground floor was an alehouse, while the upper two floors consisted of small rooms rented mostly by the hour. From his vantage point he watched his student amble down a narrow aisle way in the market. He had to squint to see her clearly; it was dusk and his vision was not what it had once been. Or his stamina, or his strength, for that matter, he opined. He idly twisted the black metal ring he wore on his left hand. His command of Shadow Magic was both blessing and bane. It helped make up for his advancing years, but there was a price to be paid. Thank Tymora, or rather her Matriarch, for a generous stipend. It helped him afford the elixirs and tonics he needed to offset the effects of both age and the Shadow curse, and continue to do his work. Or was it Tymora's work? After so many decades serving his Goddess and her Matriarch he was no longer certain where their needs left off and his began. He sighed, heavily. There was still much to teach his unwitting apprentice, but little time.

Tymora's Divine Seeker shook his head, trying to banish the melancholy mood that had overtaken him, and returned his attention back to the market. He had watched the elf's progress for the last hour; his eyes sweeping over the crowds below when not on her. Merchants and their customers, gawkers, soldiers; rich, poor and in-between; male and female; mostly human folk, but a fair number of elves and Hin; only a handful of dwarven-folk. The market, one of Capitol's largest, was a bustling, noisy, place. Hundreds of voices spoke a dozen languages. All was babble and an orderly chaos.

Aisles ran straight for many yards only to end at a stall, or suddenly turn and split into two or three aisle ways. Many stalls had awnings stretched over them, offering shade in the day, and perhaps obscuring the quality of the wares being sold from the less astute buyer. Most awnings had been taken down after the sun had set, but a few remained up, affording additional privacy to the merchants and their select customers. Small torches and lanterns had been lit in most of the stalls.

He had spotted several thefts over the last hour, but only two carried out by his student. Other thieves were working the marketplace, as they did every day. The City Guardsmen who patrolled the edges of the market on both foot and horse were more interested in watching and talking to the more attractive of the many young women who strolled in and out of the square than in enforcing the law. He knew that only in the event of an altercation escalating into something large and ugly, would they interfere.

Daelynn's first two lifts of the day had gone well. The first was a well-dressed young woman wearing far too much jewelry, who wandered the market not to buy anything but to show off her wealth. The second, a tipsy soldier gawking at passersby near the east fountain. The loss of the brooch would give the damsel something to complain about for weeks; the soldier would think he had drunk his pay away at a faster rate than usual.

Her next and last target of the day was a merchant in large stall at the end of an aisle by the wall that separated the market from the Scribe's Quarter. The fat purse on his belt was tempting. The merchant, a large, bearded man, was oblivious to everything around him, focused solely on adjusting the goods that crowded the shelves of his large, disorderly vending stall. An easy lift. The man turned away from her, his purse still obvious, but now Daelynn would have to enter the stall if she wanted to get it. She shuffled forward, dirty hands indiscriminately picking over items on the shelves; shawl covering her head and face. Just an older woman, one of Capitol's many poor, trying to find a bargain.

What an odd assortment of junk, Daelynn thought! No rhyme nor reason to its order. How could anyone keep track of the mess in here? She noticed a bored, bland-looking red-haired man in a grubby smock standing near the entrance, eyeing the merchandise with little real interest. Daelynn worked her way closer to the merchant, moving slowly, not paying any outward attention to the man. The purse looked heavy. Possibly attached to his belt by a stout cord, or maybe a fine chain? Grab, cut, and run would be the best way to handle that. A failed lift left little opportunity for a second attempt.

The young elf was now beside the merchant. She pawed through items with her right hand while her left hand drifted towards the man's belt and purse. A strong hand unexpectedly grasped her left wrist and twisted, creating a sudden, sharp pain.

Roland saw that Daelynn was inside a stall, working her way closer to a large dark-bearded man who had his back half turned to her. A second man casually moved closer, effectively barring any exit from the stall. A Thieves Guild trap for rogue pickpockets. Attracted to a fat purse, the unlucky thief is hemmed in. The two enforcers would take whatever coin their prey had, then either press them into the Guild's service or send them on their way with a beating. The Guild barely tolerated competitors and this was their way of letting freelancers know that it was a safer course of action to pay guild dues than not.

"Enough o' that, wench! You'll now answer to the Guild! We don't stand none o' you rascals and it'll be…"

The large man's next words were cut off as Daelynn easily twisted her arm free and jammed the heel of her right hand into his nose. A quick glance over her shoulder showed her the red-haired, whom she had thought a customer, closing in. Turning, she ran to the back of the stall which abutted the stone wall, and vaulted onto the disorderly shelves, the Guild member a step behind her. She jumped onto the wall, pushing off it with both feet and throwing her body backwards. She had timed it perfectly. Her outstretched hands found the man's shoulders, her body and legs pivoted, swinging up and over him. Landing in a crouch a half-yard behind him, Daelynn quickly shifted her weight and released a powerful kick into the back of the Guildman's left leg. The leg buckled. He fell heavily to the ground.

Now, where was the 'merchant'? She whirled around, still in a crouch. He stood between her and the exit, a scowl on his bloodied face, feet wide apart, and in his hands swung a length of heavy chain made of large, rusted iron links. The makeshift weapon was intimidating looking, but too heavy to be deployed with any speed. Daelynn charged. The 'merchant' swung the chain with both hands, intent on striking down the insolent figure in front of him, but the elf was too fast. Before the chain could complete its arc, she dove forward between the man's splayed legs, sliding on the sandy ground, almost to the stall's exit.

The chain ended its course by slamming into the ground at the spot where she had been crouched. The large man roared in frustration, turned and started after her, followed by his cohort who could only manage an awkward, limping run. Away from the Guild's stall the aisles were crowded with end of day shoppers. The two men pushed through the throng, each nursing their own particular wound. At an intersection of two wide aisles they found a dirty shawl on the ground. There was no sign of their prey.

Daelynn quickly passed through the maze that was the Old Market. She turned left, made two right turns and a final left, slipping into a darkened doorway at the far side of the square. Through the partly open door she surveyed the street. No one seemed interested in where the woman with the ratty clothes had gone. And no sign of her two pursuers. She watched a moment longer then, smiling to herself, walked to end of the short hall and mounted the stairs to the third floor.

She passed a few men and one woman in the hall. All parties kept their eyes averted, as was the custom when visiting such an establishment. Strict confidence was the rule. No one wanted to lock eyes with a neighbor, friend or family member in such a place. Daelynn knocked on a door, giving the pre-arranged signal. Roland's voice answered her from inside the room. She entered and saw the lanky figure of her instructor leaning against the window frame. He was peering outside, a feeble lantern on a small table beside him illuminated his face. He looked thinner then when they had first met several months ago, his face more lined. Was it age, fatigue, worry?

"Did you know?" she asked.

"What? Thet it were a trap? 'Course I did. Just weren't sure they were set up today or thet ye'd find yer way there."

Daelynn sighed heavily.

"Does the testing never end?"

"If I'm not testin' ye, then life is," was the man's reply. "Good lifts. And ye evaded the Guild. So, well done. Ye pass. We're done for the day!"

Daelynn was silent on their walk to the market's north exit where their coach had been stationed. Her eyes casually scanned the crowds, noting people, their dress, manner of walking. 'Know the ground ye walk on, know the places ye tread' had been a painful lesson learned few months past.

A tall, modestly well-dressed, young man walking, no, striding through the press, caught her attention. His manner spoke of a sense of purpose. Chest thrust out, chin held high. A self-satisfied smile on his face. Was that a glint of gold at his waist? He absently brushed long hair from his eyes. The back of his left hand sported a black tattoo in the form of a jagged scar.

The crowd surged and flowed as crowds do; people pressed together, then pulled apart. A foot trod on by a stranger; someone's elbow accidently stuck into another's ribs; a hand brushing lightly across a body trying to avoid too close a contact. An awkward, uneven, dance.

The two thieves settled into the coach and Roland tapped on the roof. The vehicle swung off to the east. "I saw thet", he stated. "Black Scar, weren't he?"

"Aye", she replied, and handed him a small tube made of leather. "I thought it was gold, but it appears to be only a gilt!"

The tube was as long as a man's hand, less than half a palm wide, and embossed with a wavy pattern. Both ends of the tube had metal and leather caps. A moment earlier it had been secure in the sash of Black Scar messenger.

Roland smiled. "An odd contain'r. Message tube p'rhaps? We may as well have a look, eh?"

He handed the object back to the elf. Daelynn appraised it. End caps sealed with wax. Mediocre craftsmanship and worn by rough handling. The gilt had been added to make the item look more valuable. She flaked away the cheap wax and drew the cap off. Inside was a rolled piece of parchment. She pulled it out, unfurled it and tried to make sense of the message. Roland watched her brow furrow. The elf's lavender eyes flicked up and down, then across the parchment. A lock of dark hair fell across her face. She absently brushed it back. After a few minutes Daelynn shook her head and handed the message to Sir Roland.

"I can make no sense of it. Three lines. Each with several symbols and a few runes."

"Yer Heraldry trainin's of little practic'l use, it seems."

"We are still studying how a Court functions. Missives are to be covered later."

The elder thief scanned the parchment, a small smile on his lips. He handed it back to Daelynn, with a question.

"What are the key components in most any message?"

"Easy", replied the elf. "Who? What? Where? When? Why? How?"

"Of course. Now 'who' is not likely a part of any message carried by a lowly gang memb'r. Ye tell 'im where to go and to whom to deliver it. It's a short note, so not much room for explainin' a 'why' or 'how'. Questions thet need answ'rs like thet are asked face to face."

The elf's brow was still furrowed as she again looked over the message. "Three lines. Possibly orders? 'What', 'Where' and 'When'?

"Aye. The last line is a date. See the three moons? Third week in the month. The dwarven rune? It's the number five. So, fifth day of third week. Thet's t'day. And moon symbols and not suns mean night, not day."

"The last moon has a cross on it," Daelynn observed.

"Crossed sun is midday. Crossed moon is midnight."

The elf was quiet for another moment. "Ah! The second line is 'where'. I am sure of it. Oh, I should know it. The symbols are familiar. I have seen them before!"

"Ye have indeed," Roland agreed. "A cross and a star hangin' on a trader's balance. The Cross and Star Merchant House. They're down 'tween the river and the c'nal."

"But the first line? Another trader's balance but circled in black, and what looks like three suns next to it? No. Coins. Gold coins."

"Thet calls fer special knowledge. It's a Black Bazaar, lass."

Daelynn stared at Roland, a blank look on her face.

"Stolen goods up fer sale to the highest bidder," Roland explained. "Maybe happens only once ev'ry half decade? Highly illegal, the Bazaar is sponsored by the Thieves Guild but anyone who can pay the fee can auction an item. Usually only rare objects are put up. Things thet can't be easily fenced. Stolen or illicit goods thet need a home. P'rhaps even a magical object or exotic creature. Lots o' side deals and tradin' go on, too. A Black Bazaar attracts all types; the less than scrupulous merchants, gangs, acquis'tive lords an' ladies, collectors of antiquities, even mages an' the odd Baron."

"Please tell me we are going!"

Roland laughed at her eagerness. He started to shake his head, then stopped and looked intently at the young elf.

"I've been out of touch this last half-year or so, odderwise I'd ha' known about this. Never has it been of interest to ma employer because I'd ha' appr'piated whatever they wanted bef're it could get to a Bazaar. But maybe ye should see this. A lot of our more competent and dang'rous competit'rs in Capitol would be there. 'Tis neutr'l ground for the night. Well, mostly. All right then. We go."

A small, sharp noise echoed from the coach as it passed a gang of street urchins, startling them. It could have been the squeak of a wheel rubbing against an axel, or maybe a squeal of delight.