Realms of Infamy - James Lowder [61]
Sprite-Heels and Maeve stood helplessly by, encircled by swords.
"And thus Tyr's justice is done," the priest concluded from the platform.
The crowd drew a collective breath.
"Oh, Pinch, save me!" wailed Therin through the silence.
A tear trickled down Maeve's cheek.
Pinch's hand slid slowly toward his dagger.
There was a rattling bang as the trap fell open, followed in the next instant by a shriek of delight from the crowd. The cheer almost drowned out the twanging snap as the rope reached the end of its drop. Therin's feet, still kicking, almost touched the cart's bed before they recoiled up again. The crowd roared with each sway and bounce.
"Yer a failure, Pinch!" Corrick gloated from where he stood, safe by Wilmarq's side. "Yer'll be gone and I won't, so guess who'll rule this town now! The commander and I 'ave an understanding."
"Do you?" Pinch let his hand fall away from his dagger. Even with Therin still kicking overhead, the mob roaring for blood and swords all around him, the master thief remained remarkably calm. Maeve was already sobbing, perhaps more for herself than her departed Therin. Sprite looked ready to take up religion-any religion.
"Perhaps the commander and I can reach an understanding, too. Sprite, do you have it?" Pinch asked without ever taking his eyes off Wilmarq or Corrick. The old cutpurse's brow furrowed at the turn things were taking.
"Yes-and then some. Struck a gentleman, I did," the half-ling replied nervously. He passed the leather purse to Pinch's outstretched hand.
"It might be best, Commander, if we talk in private." Pinch nodded toward the covered wagon. "Therin's not going to distract this crowd forever."
Wilmarq hesitated, looking from Pinch to Corrick and back again, like a dog choosing between two bones. "Bring these two," he ordered the guards nearest him, then pointed at Pinch and Corrick. "And watch those two for tricks." Wilmarq climbed into the shadows of the wagon. The guards shoved Corrick in afterward.
Pinch slowly climbed in. He noted Therin still swinging on the scaffold, his legs slowly jerking. In the darkness of the wagon, the upright man could see Wilmarq, sword poised but uncertain, perplexed by Pinch's game. Taking care not to startle him, Pinch tossed the leather bag to the commander's feet. It hit the wooden boards with a loud, clinking plop. Wilmarq scooted back in surprise.
"There's over five hundred nobles in gold here," Pinch pronounced. "If you take it there could be five hundred more tomorrow, if…"
"If?"
"If you give me Therin's body and let us go." The upright man couldn't suppress the smile he felt inside, a cold, evil smile like a cat's grin. He had Wilmarq; he knew it. The offer was more than the bastard could refuse.
The officer glanced at his men outside. "I'll need a body to replace him," he said slowly.
"Yes, you will," was Pinch's confident reply.
"It'll have to look like him."
"It will."
Corrick's old eyes widened as he listened to the exchange, barely audible over the noise of the crowd. "Pinch, you don't mean-"
"His body," the thief said to the soldier.
"Wait," Corrick said, "I-"
With a sudden single thrust of his sword, Commander Wilmarq cut the rest of Corrick's quavering words short. "The thief's dead," he shouted to his men outside. "Cut him down!"
Without waiting, Pinch went into action, poking his head out the front of the wagon. "Maeve, your spells. Sprite, get Therin in here!"
Brown Maeve, suddenly dry-eyed and calm, heaved herself into the cart and knelt by Corrick's body. The wizardress mumbled a few words of a spell as she passed her hands over the corpse. The old thief's wrinkled flesh softened and flowed until it appeared that Therin lay on the boards. Sprite was already heaving the unconscious but very much alive Therin from the scaffold into the back. Pinch dragged the boy in. Side by side, the pair looked like twins in death.
The crowd, still hungry for thrills, rushed the scaffold