Bottom Rung, page 2
“Really?” the man said with a snort. “Go ahead, pick my pocket.”
He watched the man’s face and only saw mocking disbelief. Tibs looked around for guards, and considered how he’d do it.
“Don’t worry about them.”
Tibs looked the man over. “No.” He tried to pass him.
The man stepped before him. “You’re not going in unless you do it.”
“Get out of my way,” Tibs demanded.
“Not happening unless you pick my pocket.”
Tibs shoved the man, who barely took a step back. “I can’t do that when you know I’m going to do it!” He shoved him again, harder, his fingers slipping into the jacket’s pocket in the process. The man staggered out of the way and Tibs stepped past him, something hard and angled in his hand. Not a coin.
The hand on his shoulder stopped him before he reached the group; some of the men and women at the back turned to watch the exchange. The man turned Tibs and he prepared himself for the blow.
When it didn’t come, he opened an eye. The man’s gray eyes were leveled on him, amusement in them. “That was actually pretty good, considering how young you are. The shoving was a clever distraction under the circumstance. Now open your hand and show me what you took.”
Tibs considered proclaiming innocence. He could always flick whatever he held away before bringing his hand forward, but the man’s eyes weren’t focused solely on Tibs’s face. They flicked around from his face, to his hand—the left then right of them. Tibs figured the man missed nothing.
He opened his hand. He held a crystal, like the one the man in the robe had handed to the woman. It was clear with a few cracks in it. Not particularly valuable, Tibs thought.
The man took it from him. “Go on and join them.”
Tibs made his way to the front. This time, he wanted to see whoever did the talking. Around him he made out thieves and beggars, as well as a few older ones Tibs was sure had been enforcers before they were caught. They should be with the fighters, not here.
“What d’you get caught on?” someone asked in a whisper.
“Breaking in a house,” was the whispered answer.
“Stealing bread,” whispered another.
“Fingers in a pocket,” another.
“Me too.”
“Coming out of a house with rotten pears in my hands.”
Tibs felt eyes on him and glanced to see a woman in rags looking at him expectantly. She wanted him to add to the conversation.
“Pockets,” he answered, not bothering to whisper, and those around him nodded knowingly.
Picking pockets was the simplest way to survive the street if you were talented enough. And the fact they had both hands showed they all had been, even if, like him, they hadn’t been good enough not to be caught this one time.
A tall and regal woman stepped before them. She wore some sort of cloth armor—a heavy-looking shirt and pants in pale green. Her hair was long, and so black that it seemed to form a hole around her head and shoulders. Her eyes were strange; the color in them seemed to shift as she moved. She looked them over and people took a step back under the gaze, which seemed to amuse her.
“My name is Tirania,” she said in a soft, but strong voice. Tibs shuddered as the image of her suffocating him with a pillow came, that soft voice soothing him as she killed him. “You don’t know me, but I’m the only person in this entire…” Tibs thought she was looking for the right word, but instead she lost a fight for control as her face became a mask of disgust. “Town, you need to concern yourself with. I am the final authority regarding what happens to those of you who will survive the coming trials. I am the one you need to impress if you want to proceed further.”
She walked to one side of the large group, then the other, looking them over, frowning and nodding. She paused slightly as she looked Tibs over, who was a good head and a half smaller than anyone around him, before continuing.
“You called yourselves light-fingers, pickpockets, lock-breakers, roof-artists, thieves,” she said with disgust, “and many other fancy names that made you feel better about being the waste of space you were.” She stopped and fixed her gaze on a woman in the process of opening her mouth. “If you’d been worthy of a better title,” Tirania said, “you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have been caught.”
She returned to the center of their clearing, placed her hands behind her back, and looked them over. “You are among the fortunate who get a chance to speed through the hardship most of our kind need to go through to earn the noble title of ‘rogue’.” She paused, seemed to expect something, then continued. “Others will do their best to convince you the rogue is the least important member of any group. That all you’re interested in is getting a larger proportion of the rewards. That greed is all that drives you. Don’t listen to them.” She waved dismissively. “Without you, no group can survive a dungeon, not even the simplest, because it is you who will be able to tell if an empty room is filled with traps. If the attacking monsters are there to push you into a tricked corridor. And yes, if there is a hidden cubbyhole where more treasure hides. If your party doesn’t give you the respect you deserve, feel free not to tell them about that treasure. They won’t miss what they don’t know is there.”
Tibs chuckled with the others. He didn’t think of himself as a bad person. He picked pockets and broke into houses to survive and for a place to sleep, not to hurt anyone, but he had no problem returning mistreatment of one form with another.
“On any day you are not going into the dungeon, you will be spending the mornings with a trainer. They will evaluate your skills, then teach you what you need to know to round them up and increase your chances of survival.”
“How often are we going in the dungeon?” someone asked, sounding nervous.
“That will depend,” she answered, not looking at that person. “The dungeon is new, so for the first few days, we’ll send one team per hour. As it grows, clearing it will take longer. Then there’s the number of people here. Teams will be five people strong, and as potential rogues, one of you will be called to be on each of those teams. You will be rotated, but as more and more people don’t exit, those of you still alive will be called on more often. Based on previous dungeons, half of everyone here will be dead within a month. We will not bring anyone new until after the dungeon graduates, so take full advantage of this opportunity.”
“Is it true a new dungeon can make someone rich?” someone asked.
“How many coppers do you need before you consider yourself rich?” she replied.
Tibs tried to find who asked the question, but while he couldn’t. He saw others considering what she asked.
“The answer is,” she continued, “that if you think coppers are enough for you to be happy with, you aren’t right for this class. If copper’s enough, go join the fighters right now.” She waited. Tibs heard shifting, but he didn’t think anyone left. “The pickings are always horrible the first few days, so hope you’re in a later team. Dungeons need some experience to grow enough to provide anything worth mentioning, but even the first team should be able to find a few coppers. But don’t get attached; coins go to the guild.
Outrage exploded among the crowd, and Tibs shared it. They were going to do the work, they deserved the coins, but her expression kept him quiet. She was amused. “Do you prefer being back in your cell, waiting to lose a hand? This isn’t employment,” she said harshly. “It’s an alternative to you dying on the street.”
“What if I don’t want to give what I find?” a voice asked, sounding far. The distance provided an illusion of safety, Tibs figured. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Me?” She shrugged. “Nothing. It’s the adventurers who will be searching you when you exit you need to worry about. Feel free to try to hide a coin from them if you want. It’s good to weed out the idiots early on, and they’ll be happy for a reason to work out their anger on you.”
She waited. “Good. Now, I’m not here to indulge you, so don’t bother asking more questions. I’m here to tell you what will happen, nothing else. You know about the dungeon and your mornings. During the afternoons you will assist with the building of the town. If you cause problems, I will not hear about them. The guards will deal with you directly and permanently. Your continued survival depends on more than walking out of the dungeon. This is your town now. You will only survive if it does, so don’t get in the way of that.” She turned and walked away.
Tibs waited until the crowd thinned before following it. “Kid,” the man by the sign called to him, indicating a group to the left. “You’re going there.”
Tibs joined the group with an older man in worn leather looking at them in disappointment. He led them away from the others, then distributed locks and other contraptions, demanding they open them or take them apart. Tibs spent the rest of the day working on locks and traps, all under the annoyed attention of the older thief.
When they were finally released, the sun was low over the distant tree line. Tibs wanted to head to the lake he could just make out, but his instructor stopped him. They weren’t allowed outside the town, so he turned and headed to the mess hall, where the food was no better than Tibs expected.
Then he carried himself to one of the large tents with cots and fell asleep as soon as he laid down.
* * * * *
A commotion woke him in the night. Screams, fighting, then quiet again. In the following silence, as Tibs tried to fall back asleep, he overheard a whispered conversation. A group had tried to run, had been caught and killed.
He fell asleep considering the implication of there already being fewer people.
Chapter 3
“You,” a voice called as Tibs exited the large tent that was the barracks. He and those around him froze. Tibs controlled his urge to run. On the streets, you didn’t wait for the guards when they called, not if you wanted to keep your hand. As he turned to face the adventurer who’d spoken, some fled. The man was a fighter. Big, in chain mail, with a sword at his side and a shield over his back. His eyes were a gray matching his sword, and his gaze was piercing.
Tibs couldn’t move as it fixed on him, and he heard more people run off. The adventurer glanced away and Tibs thought he’d have his chance, but the eyes were on him again.
“Looks like there’s one smart guy in this town.” The man smirked. “You’re going in the dungeon today. Be at the gathering point two hours before zenith.”
“My training?” Tibs asked, before realizing there was a more important question. “Where is that?”
“The dungeon is more important; just tell whoever’s training you that’s where you’re going.” He studied Tibs. “Are you even one of the crooks they brought here? If you’re just pretending, I’m warning you. You don’t want to go in the dungeon.”
Tibs nodded. In the three days he’d been here, that was the most common reaction. When he joined the work-groups after the training, he was dismissed and told to go back to his parents. Now, this adventurer also thought he might be some merchant or worker’s son. Too late, he realized it would have gotten him out of going into the dungeon.
The adventurer clasped his hand on his shoulder and pointed toward the mountain. “Just go where you were assembled when you arrived.”
“The clearing?”
“Yeah. You’ll see the others. You aren’t with the first group.” The fighter released him and walked away.
Tibs hesitated, then hurried to the mess hall for a bowl of the slop they called breakfast—the same substance they’d called dinner the previous night, or lunch before that. After, he joined his training group and informed the old thief he’d need to leave for the dungeon partway through the training. He received a disinterested shrug from him. The others gave him surprised and worried looks.
Before anyone could ask him questions, they were set to studying traps.
* * * * *
People were assembled closer to the mountain, at the bottom of a slope leading to the rocky facade where three people were exiting a crack in the rock. It seemed narrow, as they had to help the last one through, then they were supporting them, walking down, as a group of five were motioned to head up to the crack.
“You,” someone called as Tibs headed for the groups at the bottom of the slope. Again he froze at the authority in the voice, and looked in its direction. “Come here.” The man stood behind a table with shirts, swords, bows, and knives on it. He wore a worn, but bright red robe.
Tibs cast a glance at the assembled people and noticed they wore shirts the same dirty gray as those on the table.
The adventurer looked him over, frowning. “What are you?” His eyes were the same strange, shifting colors as the woman who’d addressed all the thieves that first day.
Tibs struggled, trying to figure out what he meant.
“Your class, dimwit.”
“Thief?” Tibs had meant to make it a statement.
“You sure? If you’re some merchant kid who thinks he’s going to have fun in there, you’re wrong.”
“I am a thief,” he stated.
The man didn’t look convinced, but he shrugged and threw a shirt at him. “Put that over what you’re wearing.
The weight as it impacted Tibs almost made him lose his balance. The fabric was thick and without any holes in it. It was too big for him, going down almost to his knees, but despite not being as thin or supple as what he normally wore, he managed to fold the sleeves until his hands and forearms were free.
The adventurer snorted and Tibs glared at him, which earned him an amused smirk. The man handed him a knife that had seen better days and pointed to the assembled people. “Now you can join them.”
Before he reached the people, whom he realized were gathered into groups of four or five, a woman stopped him. She wore leather armor colored in mottled browns and had an unstrung bow on her back.
“What are you?” she asked. Her red eyes piercing him.
“Thief,” Tibs answered, this time without hesitation.
“You should get used to calling yourself a rogue.” She looked the groups over and pointed to one with four people. “You’re with them.” She gave him a light push in their direction.
As he headed for the group, the three who’d exited the crack walked by them. They were in bad shape, bloody, and their shirts cut up. The group of five who’d started up the slope had reached the entrance, and Tibs could tell now it was narrow as they entered one by one, turning sideways.
“I don’t want another kid! This is a dungeon run, not a creche!” the tallest of the four yelled to the woman as Tibs reached them. He was wide-shouldered and wore the same kind of shirt as Tibs, although on him it just went down to his belt, and seemed to stretch around his chest and arms instead of hanging loose. He had a sword that had seen better days too. His pants were ripped and a little too short for him.
“He’s not a kid,” the adventurer called back, “he’s your rogue. No team goes in without one, and you’d do well to listen to him. Dungeons are sneaky.”
“It’s a dungeon,” the fighter yelled back derisively, “not some dragon. It’s just a bunch of rooms with stuff to kill.”
The adventurer ignored him, but one of the injured members of the passing group—an archer by the broken bow in her hands—looked in their direction. She opened her mouth, but the fighter with her said something sharp Tibs didn’t catch. Her brown eyes were filled with fear and pain, and Tibs thought it wasn’t because of what her companion had said.
He looked at the crack and wondered exactly what was in there.
“Are you listening to me?” the fighter said, and Tibs focused on him again. “I said, don’t get in my way. That goes for each of you.” He looked around at the three others. One was an archer. She gave Tibs a shy smile when he looked at her. Next to her was another girl, a little older, holding a sword. The last looked only a couple of years older than Tibs, in robes the same dirty gray. A sorceress, he realized, which meant it had been a sorcerer behind the table.
Tibs swallowed. He’d heard stories of what sorcerers could do. Burn someone to ashes. Turn them inside out with a gesture. He fought the urge to step away. According to the stories he’d heard, sorcerers were all crazy.
A hand slapping on a surface made him turn. While he and the sorceress studied each other, the group had reached the table where Tibs had received his shirt and knife. The injured archer handed over the pieces of the bow, while the fighter with her dropped his sword and a few coppers on the table.
Tibs stared at them—whole coppers—as the sorcerer grabbed them and dropped them in a metal box. Tibs wondered just how many whole coppers were in that box, and where the box went when the day was over.
“How about I blast your ass right now?” the sorceress said, and Tibs turned to face her. What had he done? But she was glaring at the fighter. “That’s going to make things simple for you, won’t it?”
The fighter snorted. “Like you can do anything at this point. Unlike you, I know how to use a sword. So I’m going to go through that dungeon and if you get in my way, I’ll just cut you down along with anything else in there. I don’t intend on wasting my time. I’m going to graduate fast, and that means killing as much of the things in there as I can. Just don’t get in my way and you can get my leftovers.”
The sorceress raised her hand, the amulet around her neck beginning to glow. She opened her mouth and Tibs moved away. He didn’t want to be caught in whatever she was going to do.
A hand clamped on the sorceress’ shoulder and a man was suddenly behind her. “If you don’t close your mouth, I’ll have no choice but to rip your tongue out.” The words were casual, almost friendly in how they were delivered.
Her mouth closed with an audible click of teeth.
“Good,” the adventurer said. Tibs couldn’t see any sort of weapons on him. The man caught him looking and smiled. His eyes were black and Tibs swallowed. “If your teachers haven’t explained how this works yet, let me. There is no magic outside the dungeon. No thievery, no fighting, no shooting unless you are with your trainer. This is the only warning you’ll receive. If you break the rules again, you’ll receive the punishment you were in your cell waiting for. Trust me, surviving the dungeon when you’re handicapped becomes impossible.”
