Ophelia was about to place her hand on his shoulder when Theo bolted for the door. He was quick, but Ophelia stood near enough at the entrance to block him. She grabbed his hood and yanked him back.
Theo’s eyes were wide. He struggled against her. “My friends! Some of them are sick!” Quentin helped Ophelia hold Theo down. The boy kicked and screamed, yelling, “Let me go, I have to get to them.”
“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Quentin said firmly. He sapped his fingers and the door locked. Theo stared at it, defeated. He begged Ophelia with his eyes.
She looked away. “I’m sorry, but I know how they move. The red soldiers would draw you out and then hunt all of you down. It’s you who they want. You're the thief that keeps eluding them.”
“If I don’t come out now, they will kill them,” Theo said.
“If you go out now they will blow you all up,” Ophelia said.
Theo was still struggling, but losing his strength. The boy may be quick, but he isn’t that strong, Quentin observed.
A single tear rolled from the corner of his eye. “How did they manage to find our hideouts? They were enchanted.” When Quentin and Ophelia let go of his arms, he added weakly, “There’s this old woman who’s been taking care of all of us since we were children. Big old woman named Laia. She found me on the streets stealing bread.” He looked at Ophelia. “Even before the red soldiers came, plenty of us were already on the streets.”
“I’ll find her.” Ophelia moved before Quentin could stop her. She was out the door, her white robes flapping in the wind.
Quentin propped Theo back at the bar and tried to soothe him with a glass of milk and cookies. “Have one,” he said to him.
Theo, too numb or worried to care, brought the sweet cookie to his mouth and chewed. He stared at the cookie and finished it all in several crunchy bites. He reached for the warm milk and gulped emptied half of it.
“You’re looking at me,” Theo said.
“I am,” Quentin replied. He was looking at whether there were any significant changes to the thief, but he had no magic reserves like Ophelia. Or if he had, it was dormant. He wondered what a thief class could do, other than the obvious pilfering.
Theo looked warily at the innkeeper. “How did you see me back then when I stole from that kid? Nobody else did, but you.” Before Quentin could respond, he said, “Must be this inn. You’ve got a special place here, boss. You look like a big pile of mystery yourself.”
Quentin did not say anything. He went to arrange the chair Theo kicked, watching him from the corner of his eyes. Now that Theo wasn’t pretending to be innocent or charming, the lad was watchful and distrustful. Of course, he was, Quentin thought. You have to be to survive, even he knew that. He remembered Ophelia mentioning before that people were wary of kindness after not experiencing it for so long. they were waiting for the fangs behind the smile.
Theo yawned. It was approaching midnight. Quentin removed one of his common lodger’s keys and slid it to Theo. “Pick any room you like.”
Theo stared at it and looked at Quentin without emotion. “You won’t be worried that I’ll steal your stuff?”
“What’s there to steal?” Quentin said. “You said it yourself, you only steal from crooks or bandits or the richer folk. I’m not any of those. And what can you get her that you won’t get someplace else? Sugar, butter, milk, pillows...?”
Besides, Quentin was confident that not even a talented thief like Theo could enter the enchanted locked doors of Emralle’s chamber or even the pantry. He also had a strong feeling about the boy. He may be a thief, but he wasn’t a criminal.
Theo slid from his barstool, picked up the key, murmured thanks to Quentin, and walked through the passageway and up the stairs. Quentin heard him open a door and close it. He placed an empty basin under running water and a nice clean cloth to bring upstairs later.
___
Ophelia came back after midnight. A tall mug of cool ale was ready for her.
“I couldn’t find Laia,” she said, setting the mug down. She looked frightened. “But I saw some of his friends being carted away into Lower Brewlithe. Even the higher tiers were split between the middle class, the aristocrats, and the nobles, you see. They were… they looked worse off than my students.” She placed her hand on her neck. “They were in cages. I overheard the soldiers that they would transport them to the dungeons, but I didn’t catch when. There were too many of them gathered around. I couldn’t help them. They said that they’re planning to draw out more tomorrow evening.”
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“The dungeons?” Quentin asked, patting her shoulder.
She gulped her ale. “It’s… I don’t exactly know where it is. It could be in the lowest part of Brikkenbale or someplace else.” She stared at the fireplace, her hand massaging her temple. “How’d he evaded them for so long? I could learn a thing or two from him.”
“We carve our own streets,” Theo said. He appeared on the border of the passageway leading inwards.
“By the goddess, Theo!” Ophelia had jumped and was now pressing a hand to her chest. “You’re like a shadow!”
“I thought I was until this one saw me sneaking around his inn,” Theo said, nodding towards Quentin.
Ophelia strode towards Theo, so close, that Theo was drawing back. Her arms went around him, hugging him. Theo was so taken aback, that he did nothing, only giving Quentin a bewildered look. Quentin shrugged. “She does that.”
She stroked his hair. “I heard from one of the soldiers why they want to desperately want to capture you.” She looked at both Quentin and Theo. “This boy is no common thief. He’s been helping the poor villagers of Brikkenbale. He steals what he can from Brewlithe and gives them to Laia. You’re carving your own streets, you say?” She looked at Theo fondly. “So that's what they meant when the red soldier said something about discreet operations of handing out food and other resources to those who need it.” She held Theo’s face in her hands. “Brikkenbale is managing to survive even with scant resources because of you…. but…”
Theo looked down. “We stole out of necessity.” He carefully pried himself off from Ophelia’s hands and looked at both her and Quentin firmly. “Show me where they took my friends.”
Ophelia stood firm once more. “Absolutely not.”
“If not you, then I’ll just ask anyone. Might as well tell me now.”
“You won’t get anywhere if I lock the doors,” Quentin said.
Theo sounded frustrated. “You’re not helping me. You’re not helping anyone by trapping me here. You should have left me on the streets. All that I care about is out there.”
“We have to come up with a plan.” Ophelia raised her hands and pointed gently to the table with three seats. They all sat down on it.
“Why are you helping me? You don’t even know me.”
“Because we can,” Ophelia said simply. She and Quentin looked at each other. “We didn’t even know each other when Quentin helped me.”
Theo shook his head. “The more I stay here, the less they’ll survive. They’re going to hunt for them. My friends… they don’t know how to fight. They only hide. I’m the only one that can throw a knife. I’ve already hurt people, Sister Ophelia. I’ve already drawn blood and nicked skin and stabbed ankles.”
“I’ve hurt people, too,” Ophelia said softly. “And I’m certain that you did not do it out of malice.”
Quentin tapped the bar. “If you were evil or unworthy, then this inn would have rejected you. You wouldn’t even be able to see it.”
He looked around the inn. “Well, I hope you’re right. You do know what the promoted class of thieves are?”
Ophelia murmured, “You’re not going to be an assassin or shadowslayer. Besides, there are other class promotions for thieves.” She added firmly, “The class we are born as doesn’t define who we are and our profession. I’ve seen unpromoted old thieves settle nicely as farmers and lawyers. I've seen some pretty sadistic white mages.” She looked steadily at Theo. “You know I’m right. Not even the lord of thieves was cruel or evil.”
“Kyrrho,” Theo said, slinking back into his seat. “So, what’s the plan?”
All through the night, the three bowed their heads low and murmured, coming up with ideas. None were strong enough to become full plans. They retired for the night, defeated.
That night, Quentin had another dream about the gods who used to rule this realm. They were in a large pool covered by trees. He was with the green goddess and the bright goddess, made of earth and sunlight, respectively. They were playing something: passing an orb, he thought. Then there was a great cold wind blowing through the trees. The goddesses sensed danger, turning towards it. The bright one whistled and then there was a greater wind that came from the shadow of the trees. He was grabbed by a swift god, speeding him away from the goddesses. For a while, there was nothing. Then there were red and black skies. He saw the swift god battle with a magnificent flaming being. They were all there in this chaos, volcanic boulders thrown into the thunderous sky. The gods of this realm tried to hold this beast back but were losing. He was swept away, again by the swift god. He told Quentin to run, and he saw him fly through the darkness as the other divine beings chained and whacked at the flaming beast. The swift god carried its many flaming hearts and scattered them throughout the realm, tweaking the creature.
Quentin woke, his keys glowing. The trail led to one of the enchanted doors in the inn’s passageway. He grunted, combed his long hair back, put on his boots, and approached the glowing door. A doorknob and lock manifested, and the sigil of the god of thieves and merchants etched themselves in the wood before disappearing.
Quentin knew what to do. He placed his palm on the surface of the door and whispered. “Lord Kyrrho, master of shadows, let me pass.”
He put the silver key on the door and turned, revealing a dark chamber with some vaults stacked on top of each other. Quentin pulled one open and saw nothing. It wasn’t even that it looked empty. It looked like if he put his hands in them, they would be swallowed by an endless void. He shivered and closed the vault tightly. Then a lantern lit itself in the furthermost center of the room. Quentin saw a golden plate raised on an ornate marble column. On that golden plate was a levitating bright purple dagger. The hilt was the size of a young lad’s hand.
He locked the door behind him and went into Emralle’s chamber, preferring the calmness here to the coldness of Kyrrho’s. He planted the new crops in their beds. He noticed that the area where he planted the barley, rye, and parsnips looked less fertile. Quentin brought a pail of water from the well and watered them gently.