Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [7]
Lhasha was too independent to ever join the guild, and she was far too young to retire. That didn't leave her with a lot of options. A second visit from the Masks wouldn't end with just a warning. She could leave town, set up business somewhere else. But where could she go? All the major trade centers along the Dragon Coast had established thieves' guilds running the show. In Teziir the Astorians would be more likely to break your knees as a warning than leave a dagger behind. In Westgate the Night Masks wouldn't have given her any warning at all.
As for the cities beyond the Dragon Coast…well, Lhasha didn't know much about them at all. Rumors, tall tales and hearsay was the limit of her understanding of what lay beyond her homeland. Fendel might know something about them, she thought. The old gnome was her closest, dearest, wisest friend. Her only friend, to be truthful, but that didn't diminish his wisdom. If anyone could see a way out of Lhasha's dilemma it would be Fendel.
Lost in her thoughts, Lhasha wasn't paying close attention to where she was going. She hadn't noticed the drunken soldier staggering through the crowd, oblivious of everyone else in his inebriated state. The man outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, and when they collided Lhasha was sent reeling to the ground. The soldier tottered, but managed to keep bis balance despite the alcohol coursing through his veins. He didn't stop to help her up, didn't pause to apologize-just continued to bull his way heedlessly through the crowd.
A host of voices flooded in on her as several male hands eagerly helped her to her feet. "Are you all right?'' "Did he hurt you?"
"The Maces should arrest the drunken lout!"
"I'm fine," Lhasha assured the shoppers who had jumped to her rescue. As she brushed herself off she added, "Don't call the Maces, its not worth it. Just let him go-
The half dozen men gathered around her slowly dispersed, casting hateful glares at the soldier's heedless back, muttering to themselves about the death of chivalry and lack of decent manners in today's society. Lhasha herself didn't stay to cast aspersions on the soldier, but slipped away into the crowd, the money purse of her rude assailant tucked away beneath the sleeve of her billowing blouse.
Picking bis pocket had been pure instinct. When their bodies collided her hands had just reacted-bump and lift, a skill so basic to her profession it was virtually automatic. Now that the deed was done, Lhasha felt more than a little satisfaction at the small measure of revenge she had extracted from the drunken soldier's belt.
She let the small leather pouch slip from her sleeve into her palm. It felt light, almost empty. Strange, considering how well soldiers and mercenaries were paid in this city. She undid the drawstrings and peeked inside- three coppers. Not even enough to buy a decent meal. This was why she preferred burglary, the payoffs were almost always worth the effort.
Lhasha quickened her pace and doubled back through the throng of shoppers, curious to see what kind of a man came down to the Fair with so little money on him. Her quarry was easy to spot; he left a wake of upset shoppers and angry curses as he stumbled through the crowd.
He stood about six feet tall, with a solid build and dark hair. A scraggly, ill-kept beard covered his chin and cheeks. He wore chain armor, and a sword was strapped to his hip. But his armor was rusted and stained, his scabbard shabby and worn. Lhasha felt the first rumblings of guilt. With burglary she could chose her victims carefully, scouting them out before making her move. She never stole from those who couldn't afford it. Lhasha herself knew all too well what it was like to be poor, to go to bed hungry, or to sleep on the street because you couldn't afford a room. Still, it wasn't her fault the drunkard had bowled her over.
Lhasha was still debating her next move when she noticed the soldier's arm-or rather, the lack of it. Everything a few inches below his right elbow