Thief of Destiny: The Collected Saga of the Panther

  Thief of Destiny

  The Collected Saga of the Panther

  Jay Requard

  Contents

  I. Thief of Shadows

  1. The Gem of Acitus

  2. A Light in the Dark

  3. By the Tears

  II. Thief of Secrets

  4. When Shadows Walked on Legends

  5. Loss

  6. The Free and the Damned

  III. Thief of Nations

  7. Design in Malice

  8. Frontlines

  9. Run the Jewels

  Falstaff Books

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Jay Requard

  Part I

  Thief of Shadows

  1

  The Gem of Acitus

  Manwe leapt for the upper balcony, his hand outstretched to catch the small length of rope he had tied to the platform’s façade the previous night. No longer than a foot, the hemp cord dug splinters into his palm, drawing a hiss of pain.

  He dangled in the air. Muscles screamed in agony, braced on the point between snapped tendons and dislocated joints. Forcing himself not to let go, Manwe checked the gardens below him. Guards decked in iron breastplates and horsehair-crested helms roamed the edges of the hedgerows, unaware of the intruder to their master’s home. Their spears glinted in the light of the braziers set on a red clay patio, the only light save for the stars in a pitch sky.

  Manwe slowly pulled himself up, one hand at a time until he found purchase on the balcony rail. He vaulted to the other side, his body beaded in sweat.

  Through the arched doorway a lavish bedroom waited, its cool shadows calling him to leave the balmy warmth of the summer night. He slipped inside the house, crouched, and allowed his eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness.

  A young woman slept naked on the wide bed, her white body swaddled in thin sheets of silk. Ringlets of black hair framed her supple breasts.

  He paid her little attention as he passed by, drawing a small pick from the linen cloth tied around his wrist. Manwe squatted in front of a chest on the far wall, prodding the lock near its hinge. Two tumblers clicked in unison. Taking a small file, he inserted it into the key slot and slowly turned it. The lock opened with a sharp pop.

  Manwe lifted the lid, and there it sat: The Gem of Acitus. An emerald worn by some of history’s greatest conquerors, its green facets sparkled with promise of wealth. Cushioned upon a large pillow of red satin, it was the only thing in the chest, the immediate sign of a trap.

  He eyed a line of sharp iron running along the inside of the lid to a wire near the chest’s hinge that stretched down the side and underneath the pillow. If he lifted the gem, the lid would snap and take his hand.

  “Is it worth it?”

  Manwe spun to one of the room’s corners, where the darkness was the deepest.

  The girl had sat up in her bed. A slight grin curved her pouty lips.

  He slowly rose, taking his hand off the knife stuck in the rear band of his loincloth. “Why aren’t you calling the guard?”

  “I’m curious.” She crawled forward on her feather mattress, the outline of her body revealed in the low light of the nighttime ambiance. “It’s not every day I meet a burglar.”

  “Aren’t you frightened?”

  “No.” She rolled onto her back, on full display. “So how are you going to do it? How do you get past the trap?”

  “How indeed…” Manwe looked around the room and spotted a strange wooden pole near the door. Three pieces of ivory tusk stuck out from the top like a crown, and on one of these horns hung a delicate cloak of green silk. “What’s that?”

  “That? Some odd ornament some tribal elder gave my father in tribute. We didn’t know what to do with it until I hung a cloak on it one day. They’re now the craze in Gypus.”

  “A waste of good tusks.” He retrieved the strange piece of furniture. Rolling its heavy weight in both hands, he walked back to the chest. “A waste of good ebony, too.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “You’ll see.” Manwe propped the stand on the edge of the chest. The girl gasped as he thrust his right hand into the box and lifted the gem from the pillow. The wire warped as it broke, the lid snapping down. The sharp edge chopped into the dark wood of the stand, levering its entire length off the floor.

  Manwe slipped his hand out. He held the gem up to show her, his smile wide.

  She giggled, clapping her hands. “So you must be The Panther. Tolivius’ best thief has come to my home.”

  “Correction. The greatest thief has come to your house. And you’ve been a wonderful audience.” He dipped for a slight bow and headed for the balcony.

  “Wait,” she called after him.

  Manwe stopped in the doorway.

  The tip of her tongue probed the edge of her lips, and dark eyes gleamed in lust. “Is that all you’re going to take?” she asked. “There are still treasures in this room.”

  “And yet I only came for this one.” He laughed at her wounded expression as he left.

  Manwe sat on the wide branch of the jackalberry tree, his back pressed against its massive gray trunk. He swung his feet as the morning sun emerged on the horizon. Orange light bled into the sky to banish darkness from the earth’s face, revealing the endless grassland dotted with forests of scrub trees. Umbrella-thorns waved at the sunrise as the wind moved their bright green boughs.

  The way the trees swayed, the brush of the air against his bare chest, the song of the birds—the savannah was his piece of the goddess, a treasure beyond anything he could ever steal. The outline of Tolivius, the city the Gypians had built long ago when they conquered his people, also sat on that same horizon. The only piece of civilization for miles, the sight of the metropolis was the lone damper of his joy.

  He looked down at the gem in his lap. One day, one bauble at a time, that city wouldn’t be there.

  Out of the corner of his eye rose a line of dust in the distance, a rider charging through on route to Manwe’s tree. Tall and handsome, his linen tunic buffeted against his wiry frame as he dug his heels into the sides of his dappled mare. Drawing up to the jackalberry, he slid off the saddle and let the beast carry off into the grass.

  “Do you have it?” the man called from the ground, his eyes brown and bright.

  “What’s the passphrase?”

  “Oh come, Manwe,” the rider said, hands on his hips. “You know me.”

  “And you know we are supposed to say a passphrase before the start of all business.”

  “Fine, fine. ‘Hippo’.”

  Manwe gave him a wink. “Get up here, Toba. I have it.”

  “You have actually Acitus’ emerald?” Toba scurried up the tree, finding the natural handholds in the ridges and bark. He climbed onto the same branch as Manwe and sat in front of him. “Let me see!”

  Manwe held up the gem to let the sunlight glitter in its facets, refracting verdant beams that dappled the space between them.

  Toba gaped in amazement. “May I?”

  “Of course.” Manwe placed it in the center of his palm. “You’re going to fence it, after all.”

  “And the gold I shall get,” he said, mesmerized. He closed his fingers around the gem. “Did you run into any trouble?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning.”

  “And there were no other problems?”

  “Nothing.” Manwe eyed him warily. “Why? What have you heard?”

  Toba shook his head and tucked the gem into his shirt. “Nothing at all. I just imagined this job would be harder than it was.”

  “So how much gold
do you think you can get?”

  “For the Gem of Acitus?” Toba grinned and glanced toward Tolivius, now gleaming white as the morning struck its high walls and thin towers. “I can probably get five thousand drachi for it. I’m sure that the Gypian you stole it from will have his men out looking for it, but the buyer was adamant.”

  “Make sure three-quarters go to your brother first. We’ll split the rest.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want a bigger cut?”

  Manwe sniffed and leaned forward. “No. Spears and shields for the people, pleasures second.”

  “You know he wants to meet you,” Toba said. “Kosey tells his men and women about ‘The Panther.’ He’s building a legend.”

  “Then it is better that we don’t meet at all. The less he knows, the safer I am, and the less I know, the safer the cause.”

  “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.”

  The two sat in silence. The wind roared as it swept over the savannah. A herd of blue wildebeests emerged from the grove below and ambled off slowly in the direction of a nearby pond. The smaller ones charged ahead of the adults while the older ones, their heads hung low under the weight of their large black horns, sauntered behind.

  “I should go,” said Toba. He held up a hand to Manwe, the fingers spread apart.

  Manwe took hold, his fingers laced with his lover’s.

  Toba never returned with their payment.

  Manwe left his tree three days later, taking the dirt highway north instead of slinking his way through the wilds of the plain. The sun was high in the noon sky when he made it to Tolivius’ iron gates, its stone frame carved in the reliefs of great elephants. He hid his sneer as he passed by the guards posted in the long tunnel to the city’s proper, drawing his beet-red cloak around his shoulders to conceal the knife tucked in the twisted band of his loincloth.

  The streets were stained with the ruin of the “civilized.” The poor huddled in the mouths of alleys, their bowls and cups held out for any alms a passerby might give them. A few were lepers, their skin spotted and crusted with lesions, who lay crumpled against the corners of buildings as they struggled to beg through the pain. A few were even children, orphans left to wander alleys where they were hunted by those larger and more lecherous.

  In Tolivius’ temple district was a brothel run by the priestesses of Hertathia, the Gypian goddess of the night and lovers. A small set of stone steps behind the main temple led down to the establishment, a place frequented by many of the thieving world’s fences when they had the coin to spare.

  He knocked four times on the olive-wood door.

  A viewing slot slid open, and a pair of dark blue eyes lined in black gazed out at him. “What is the goddess’ secret?”

  “The goddess has no secrets,” Manwe answered.

  The slot shut and the door cracked open. A buxom woman with white skin and blonde hair, an exotic creature in a city of olive hues and wine brown skins, welcomed him inside. Transparent pieces of blue silk covered her breasts and groin, supported by thin chains of brass around her neck and hips.

  “Welcome, Panther,” she greeted, bowing her head slightly. “I did not imagine you would be visiting today. Come for the pleasures?”

  The first chamber of the brothel lay before Manwe. Oil lamps lit the walls in warmth, fluttering red and blue banners draped the ceiling’s edge. In one of the room’s corners stood a statue of Hertathia herself, her voluptuous body bared to the flickering light as she held the moon up in her hands. Around her hung tapestries depicting every sort of position with every sort of partner, showing man and woman, man and man, woman and woman, and even the beasts of the far-off west in the midst of copulation.

  “No, Magera,” he said, refocusing on his task. “Is Sophicus here?”

  “He’s in the back.” Magera adjusted the shift over her bosom. “Should I let him know you’ve come to call?”

  “Has he paid you yet?”

  “No. In fact, he increased his promissory notes for a later date. I had no choice but to let him in.”

  “No choice?”

  “He brought his guards into this house of peace and serenity,” she revealed. “To watch the door of his chamber in case his wife shows up again, of course. It is quite serendipitous you came today, now that I think about it. The goddess works her ways, no?”

  Manwe nodded, treading farther into the carnal den. The second room was the public area, where an orgy of men, women, and boys commenced in a fervent tangle of twisted bodies, lost among the heat of the hot stones set in the center of the floor. Past the moans and through a third door was a short split hall that went off to the left and the right. Every few yards lay the door of a private chamber, a cozy bedroom well-off patrons could rent for the evening.

  In the left wing, near the end of the passage, stood two tall Gypians dressed in patched tunics. Manwe strode toward them, his hands hidden under the folds of his red cloak.

  The man to the right of the door moved to block the way. “Where are you going, kitty cat?”

  Manwe looked up at him, placid against the guard’s scowl. “I’m here to see Sophicus, Braeus.”

  “Nobody sees the boss right now,” said the second guard, a gap-toothed fellow he knew as Tarsis. “He’s busy.”

  “Not busy enough.” Manwe stepped to the side.

  Braeus thrust his arm out to bar the way. “Who do you think you—”

  Manwe drove his knee into the guard’s crotch, putting him on hands and knees. Tarsis lunged at Manwe, who shot his legs out behind him and sprawled, his full weight on the man’s head and shoulders. Scooting back up to his feet, he held the Gypian’s head in one hand and drove a palm into his large nose. Blood squirted as the second guard fell backward. Braeus, still clutching his groin, rose off his knees to be met with a hard cross to the jaw.

  Leaving the two roughs on the floor, Manwe grabbed the handle of the chamber door and pushed it open.

  Inside two women writhed on a pallet of linen and cotton, their oiled bodies gleaming in the light of the few lamps set on a tiny shelf. Sandwiched between them lay a man in the throes of ecstasy. Sweat beaded on his forehead as his hands groped and probed the two priestesses, their joined cries of pleasure growing.

  Manwe cleared his throat.

  “By Adias, can’t you see—” Sophicus the Pretty sat up in bed, his mouth opening in protest when he saw who stood in the doorway. The two girls stopped as well, but did little to cover themselves from the gaze of the room’s intruder.

  “You two should go,” Manwe said to them. Both complied without a word.

  “I paid my donation for those girls, Panther,” Sophicus said.

  Manwe shut the door behind him. “No, you extended your credit. Too many times, if the lady of the house is to be believed.”

  “Braeus,” he shouted. “Tarsis?”

  “They’re taking a break.” Manwe stepped over the footboard of the bed and sat down on it, perched like a cat. “I thought the city’s top fence and its best thief could chat in private.”

  “You’re middling at best, these days. Revolutionaries don’t make money,” Sophicus retorted. “What do you want?”

  “Where’s Toba?”

  Sophicus’ anger faded, and he pulled a blanket across his lap to cover his genitals. “You should live here and not on those damned plains. You would’ve heard by now.”

  “Heard what?”

  The Gypian’s full lips bent a frown. “You stole too big, Panther. You should have taken the Gem of Acitus and nothing more.”

  Manwe furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “The man you stole the gem from. You raped his daughter.”

  “What?” Manwe shot to his feet. “What treachery is this?”

  “That is the word of a Gypian woman, Panther. Her voice holds more weight than some thief’s,” Sophicus answered, his hand up to stop his advance. “Please. It’s just what I heard.”

  Manwe searched the wall above Sophicus, at
a loss for words against such a horrid accusation. “What happened?” he asked after a few moments, aware that something far worse might have already occurred.

  Sophicus crossed his legs under his blanket, his elbows on his knees. “Apparently Toba went to take the gem to the buyer and hasn’t been seen since. Some think the buyer’s guards took him as a way to punish you. One dead Juutan is usually enough to sate us Gypians, in these cases. Count yourself lucky. I doubt anyone’s coming after you now.”

  “Who was the buyer?”

  Sophicus waved a finger at him. “A deal is between the fence and his buyer, and only between them. There are rules that not even I would break.”

  “But you know all the buyers, just as you know all the fences. You put the word out for them when they are looking for men like me.” The dim light of the room caught the edge of Manwe’s knife when he drew it out. “And it is just you and I in here.”

  “There are witnesses.” Sophicus gulped behind his cocksure grin. “You’d be hunted.”

  “Did you know that you don’t die immediately when your throat is cut? You spend the last few moments gasping for air…” Manwe crawled forward on hands and feet. “And all you hear is the blood bubbling in the wound.”

  “You’ve made your point,” Sophicus said in a hurried manner, putting up a hand again to stop him. “It was the merchant, Leomachus.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Ivory Row.”

  Manwe slinked off the bed. “Remember to pay your debts to Magera, Sophicus. Next time I won’t be so charitable.”

  The manor of Leomachus was not the grandest manor in the merchant quarter, not that it mattered next to the fact that it sat in the middle of Ivory Row, where only the wealthiest lived in an area of the city known as Merchant’s March. Situated near the northern wall, the square building made up for its lack of elegance and sophisticated design with the many guards patrolling its grounds, a better display of wealth than any gaudy construction or décor could ever convey. More than twenty men walked the perimeter behind the tall iron fence, their spears and shields covered in tar to dampen the reflection of the full moon.