Thief of Destiny: The Collected Saga of the Panther Read online

  “Watch this,” said Cleon, who rang the guard bell.

  Manwe panicked, grabbing the hilt of his knife in an instant. “What are you doing?”

  A sentry appeared, a Juutan whose light skin and pale eyes spoke of mixed parentage. Armed with a small buckler and patinated sword the length of his forearm, he blinked a few times, as if waking from a snooze. “What do you want?”

  Cleon drew close, his eyes flashing with an unnatural light. “Do you remember me this morning, boy?”

  The youth perked at the sorcerer’s question, sudden in his awareness. “Lord Cleon! Forgive my mistake!” He dropped his sword reaching for the keys on his belt. The gates creaked open.

  Cleon nodded to Manwe to follow. “What are my orders, boy?” he called to the guard.

  The guard stood at attention, his arms presented in salute. “If anyone comes and says, ‘Cleon said so,’ I should let them out of the gate and leave the manor.”

  “Man your post,” the sorcerer said.

  Striding toward the manor with a cautious gait that mismatched his lover’s march, Manwe watched in complete wonder as every person Cleon met along the way repeated this exact sequence, with the appropriate changes made for gender and station, their gazes transfixed by the sorcerer’s enchanted stare. When they were within the confines of the manor’s foyer Manwe could no longer hold his tongue.

  “How did you charm this many people?” he asked, lacking a better word for what he saw.

  Cleon’s enigmatic grin broadened as he climbed the main stair of the Senate Consul’s house, his sandaled feet smacking the wood while Manwe’s feet made quiet pats.

  They reached the top of the stair and went down a short hall that opened to an opulent chamber of hand-hewn stonework shaped in the visages of Gypus’ gods and emperors. Seated on a couch set on a pair of lion hides, a rotund man in a tunic and cheetah-skin wrap stared into the fire of his hearth, his bloodshot eyes dull. In his late forties and balding, the salt fuzz on his face was stark against his olive skin.

  Cleon called on him. “Senate Consul.”

  “Are you back, sorcerer?” the governor of Tolivius and Gypus’ imperial representative asked, his tone withdrawn.

  “As promised, my lord,” Cleon said upon entering the chamber with Manwe. “May we approach?”

  “You’ve ensorcelled my staff, enslaved my wife to your works, and now I’m committing treason by meeting with a rebel. Do you really give a damn?”

  Cleon led Manwe to the back of the couch the lord sat on and posted him there. “I could have killed you and assumed control of the city. I was within my rights.”

  “Until you brought him here.” The Senate Consul turned and looked at Manwe with an inebriated smile. “So, you must be The Panther. I’ve heard a good bit about you for years now.”

  “And I’ve seen a good bit of you and your kind’s abuse,” Manwe replied, placid against the acid slathering the man’s voice. He spotted a chair to the immediate left of the couch and went to it. “You have thirty minutes, Cleon. No more.”

  “More than I need.” The red mage sauntered past the furniture to take a place before the fireplace, putting himself in both Manwe and the lord’s immediate view. “You two will be doing most of the work, putting together a transition and all.”

  “A transition?” asked the Senate Consul. “I was told this criminal had information on the rebels he would betray for special favor. I did not get drunk and put on my best to play statecraft with one who has no right to it.”

  Manwe failed to resist his own answer. “Typical Gypian response,” he said, chewing every word with derision. “You think you can own something that is unconquerable.”

  “My people’s swords and spears said otherwise,” the politician was quick to remind. “And they still do.”

  “Gentlemen.” Cleon stepped forward and picked up the clay jug of wine the Senate Consul had been nursing, looking about the room for some chalices. “We are not here to discuss the past, only the present and the future. Now,” he said as he recovered a pair of clay cups from a nearby serving cart, “let’s seek common ground. The rebels clearly want their revolution and are willing to go further than they should in obtaining their desires, even to the point of raising abominations. Gypus, on the other hand, has become more and more concerned about Tolivius’ stability as a launching point into the rest of Juut’s eastern jungles and the independent kingdoms of the Eastern Glories, probably because the emperor believes in providence.”

  “Get to your fucking point, Cleon,” said the Senate Consul.

  Cleon smiled as he sipped from the cup he filled. “Fine vintage, my lord. Where was it made?”

  “In my vineyard, sorcerer, where I make everything,” he replied, gruffer. “I make everything here, from the cheese I press to the clothes I wear. You still haven’t gotten to the fucking point.”

  “Hurry, Cleon,” said Manwe, taking a cup of wine when it was offered. “Before his privilege gets up and walks away.”

  “I should,” shouted the Senate Consul as he rose to his bare feet. His prodigious belly shook as he blustered, red-face and angry.

  Cleon thrust a finger in his face. “Sit down. I still haven’t forgiven you for those boys.”

  The point of his nose an inch from the sorcerer’s finger, the Senate Consul dropped back to the couch at once. He leaned as far back as he could into the plush purple cushions.

  “We are here to save our very lives, Marcus,” Cleon said again the Senate Consul’s terrified expression. “This does go beyond your privilege, or my power, or his skill.” He motioned to Manwe with the same finger he had threatened the Senate Consul. “These rebels would let the dead walk to win this city and likely their own tribes, but imagine letting the emperor know how precarious our situation.”

  “The dead none have seen,” said the Senate Consul, his tone less inflated. “You ask me to betray my emperor...nay, The Gods’ Providence, Cleon! All based on rumor and old native fears.”

  “They aren’t rumors,” said Manwe, taciturn. “I saw them. I saw the devil that made them. I saw the heroes who allowed him to.”

  The Senate Consul’s addled gaze switched between Manwe and Cleon. “We have sorcerers enough to deal with one two-bit necromancer. We have a legion.”

  “But we don’t have enough life to fight the dead,” said Cleon. “There is a reason why necromancers do not attempt to raise corpses like this—it gets out of hand very quickly, and if this Calla has already done his darkness, then we could already be too late.”

  “What would you have me do, Cleon?” The Senate Consul shrugged and held up his hands. “If I alert Gypus they will send an army and we will be swallowed. There will be a new government that will be no better than the last one.”

  “Then perhaps you should have thought about creating a better one beforehand,” said Manwe.

  “One that considers savage terrorists like you, who rapes this city’s daughters and slays it lords? Who robs, ravages, and rebels?” The Senate Consul shook his head, his round face drenched in a drunkard’s sheen.

  “Gypus or the dead, there will be many new things when this is all said and done. What matters the most here is diverting the disaster, or at least minimizing it.” Cleon turned his back on both of them and stepped to the fire, his wine cup by his mouth. “You two need to discuss a third option.”

  Silent for most of the discussion, Manwe swirled the cup in his hands, feeling the force of the liquid stirring. He stared hard at his lover, wondering if he and the sorcerer would even have a future after this conversation. An old itch to grab his knife and rip it across the Senate Consul’s fat throat bothered him, at war with the revolution that always had his mind. Instead, he took a long draw of alcohol, letting the grape’s fermented blood burn his throat.

  “You don’t want Gypus here, and I don’t want Gypians like the ones I have had all my life,” Manwe addressed Tolivius’ governor. “But I’ve seen things today that are easily forgotten whe
n troubled with the way of nations. Perhaps the line is blurred by the white walls when the sun hits them, or the laughter of the children your sons breed into my people’s daughters. We’ve both been here, Gypian and Juutan, for a long time now.”

  Glancing at Manwe, the Senate Consul sat quietly for long moments, his eyes or mouth failing to reveal his thoughts. He rose again from the couch and reclaimed his jug of wine. He took a hard slug from its mouth before offering it to Manwe.

  Manwe let him fill his cup.

  “‘Beauty before death,’ as we say in Gypus.” The Senate Consul vexed on his words. “A lot of people often think that means finding grandeur in the face of what comes, but I know better. The goal of achieving everlasting fame or fortune or worth means nothing next to what is allowed to continue.”

  Manwe settled farther back in his chair. “Maybe the beauty of the life you cultivate is what matters in the face of the inevitable.”

  “Yes,” said the Senate Consul with a smile. “I love my city. I love her white walls, her little markets, her hills. I love being left alone. This place is better for me than Gypus was, but I would rather not end up dead for it all. Third option, fine, but what does Tolivius get?”

  Manwe froze at the question. “You get to live.”

  “No, sneak-thief, you will have to give me more than that.”

  Manwe felt his entire world shift beneath his seat. Born a poor man in the countryside as a whelp whose father had withered under the lash and a mother who had endured servitude for the sake of a son who never fit in, he wondered what he was doing here making decisions for so many.

  “There would be less rebellion if...” He paused, taking a hard gulp of wine. “Things will have to change drastically.”

  The Senate Consul sighed. “Demands?”

  “Slavery is abolished tonight.”

  “You’re mad.” The Senate Consul shook his head at Manwe. “You’d shift away an entire workforce unused to freedom. Have you considered that maybe a good number of these slaves, Gypian or Juutan alike, may not be fit for the world you’d make?”

  “Pay them reparations for their bonds. They will be more amenable to cooperation.”

  “Reparations,” the Senate Consul boomed, nearly spilling his jug in protest. He shook the clay at Cleon. “You’d bring anarchists down on my head!”

  “Manwe, dear, you have to be more civil. It is hard for these rich honks,” said the sorcerer, unamused at the governor’s protestation.

  Manwe sat taller. “Slavery must be abolished. I cannot walk out of this room if it is not.”

  Cleon gave the Senate Consul a pleading look. The fat lord, reddened against his exertion, plopped back down on his couch and threw back his vice. Guzzling wine, he heaved when he finished. “Gods preserve me...graduated emancipation within five years.”

  “One,” said Manwe. “And if not reparations then a labor schedule where they are paid for their work. Fairly.”

  “And who will I demand follow this ludicrousness?” The Senate Consul groaned.

  “Lord,” said Cleon, “it is a perfectly reasonable offer. One year should be enough if you offer the Merchants’ Rows tax relief and let them control their own streets.”

  “They’ll work their way into the symposiums, in time,” grumbled the Senate Consul. “Next you’ll have them vote at the writ calls.”

  “And in three years you must allow tribal leaders and vodunis into the Philosophers Courts,” added Manwe. “Plus pardons for rebels willing to surrender.”

  “I cannot simply take such policy to the Philosophers’ Courts and say, ‘This is the way it will be.’” The Senate Consul gaped in search of a deeper breath, belching a wine stink. “And they will not like local commerce having more control than they do. It affects their pockets.”

  “There are no markets to manage when we’re all dead,” Cleon pointed out.

  “And what does Tolivius get for all of this liberalism?” the Senate Consul demanded.

  Manwe finished his wine and set the cup on the floor as he stood. “Simple. You will be alive afterward to negotiate terms.”

  “This has been an odd day,” Manwe remarked as they left the Senate Consul’s office chamber, his mouth sour from the wine.

  Cleon spoke when they reached the manor’s main level. “In times of struggle, Chaos is the only thing to be counted on. But now that is done...” The sorcerer snapped his fingers, a small spark leaping from when the pads sheared together. A loud sigh issued through the halls as if dozens of voices collectively let out a long held breath.

  “What did you do now?” asked Manwe, concerned any time his lover worked his power.

  “Oh, nothing serious.” Cleon winked at him as they traversed the stairs. “Just all those glamours and enchantments are gone. The servants will question why we are here, the guards will subdue and maybe kill us...all good fun.”

  “You didn’t,” said Manwe, stopping directly in the foyer’s center.

  “Oh, I did,” Cleon answered, jutting one of his hips out to the side playfully. “Now, here’s a part I didn’t tell you—the sugar drink your larcenous ilk crave is ready to be moved somewhere in this house. Where I don’t know, but there’s the fun of it all.”

  Suddenly the manor was not simply a manor to Manwe, but hostile territory, a place where his shadow could mean his death. His knees bent, he readied himself to spring away at the first sign of someone’s presence other than Cleon’s. “We don’t know where the loot is, which guards are on duty, how many servants there are, the location of both lord and lady...”

  “Manwe, Manwe,” Cleon whispered under his breath, drawing his finger down the center of his face. A trail of black smoke followed the path of his nail. He faded from sight like some intrigued apparition who had decided they had seen enough.

  Cleon’s voice echoed in the foyer. “Are you this city’s greatest thief or not?”

  Manwe dashed across the floor to one of the shadowy corners of the foyer, finding one of the deepening parts as the sun started for the horizon. Mouth shut and knife drawn, he backed behind a large piece of pottery, its sides depicting a relief of a red centaur wielding a spear against some old Gypian hero in black armor. He checked the ways into the room, fighting to find his breath and a moment of calm.

  Minutes passed before he left his corner. Creeping down one of the halls, Manwe recalled the last time he had visited the manor when he had lifted The Savannah’s Tears from the Senate Consul’s wife, a scandalous lady named Nelo. In the darkened halls he found small alcoves and places to hide as he cased rooms along the passages, none of them holding more than slaves. He listened to their small conversation, ears open for clues to his prize.

  Down one of the passages the hall forked in three directions. Standing in the center of the junction, Manwe listened for the patter of bare feet or sandals, his hand on his knife.

  A sudden realization caught him: he had been here before.

  He looked toward a closed chamber and remembered a heist from another time, when he had searched for a treasure he had already stolen and for the love that had vanished with it.

  An intuition born of hard times nagged at him, but Manwe took the path toward that room and hoped that the door did not have a lock—he had not brought his tools. To his surprise, the door opened with a gentle turn of the handle.

  Set in a neat stack beyond the doorway, two crates of sugar drink lay in the center of the room, next to a small stool where two oil lamps sputtered to offset the darkness. Even more disconcerting to Manwe were the two green glass bottles that rested on the top crate. He repeated the same words he uttered the last time he found himself in a room like this one, speaking them with a heavy sigh.

  “This is clearly a trap.”

  “Isn’t everything?” called a woman’s voice, its tenor strong and silken.

  Manwe turned in the doorway of the room to view the lady who stood in the hall. Standing the center of the three-way intersection, she posed like a fine statue s
titched in gaudy sequins, the sheer material of her himation clung tight to the subtle curves of a body both beautiful in form but aged from years of overindulgence.

  Lady Nelo blinked her olive eyes, her thin lips set in an unimpressed line.

  Naked save for his loincloth, a sly smile crossed Manwe’s lips when he remembered the last time he had seen her at work, the center of a drunken orgy—the same orgy where he had stolen The Savannah’s Tears right off her neck.

  “Lady,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “It seems you’ve caught me.”

  “The only time a cat is caught is when you have it by the tail,” she said, dry. “So, young man, you’ve returned to steal more. And with that bugger sorcerer somewhere in these shadows I have no doubt.”

  Manwe opened his hands and shrugged. “I must do what I must do. I’m sure you’ve heard that reason many times.”

  Nelo reached up and adjusted the silk over her bust. “And I’m sure your reason here is quite laudable by your standards, and perhaps my husband’s, given how easily swayed he is.” Folding her hands over her stomach, she studied him. “So, Panther, is it liquor now? No more jewels?”

  “Everything goes to a just cause,” Manwe said. “Your husband understands that now, I think.”

  “That boy lover understands little beyond what he is told. He’s not one for going out and getting his hands dirty.”

  “And you are?”

  “What woman isn’t?” She flashed a violent grin. “I know criminals, be they in the government or the streets I arose from. There was once a time I was not so gilded.”

  “A pretty knife is still a knife,” Manwe replied. Posted in the doorway of the treasure room, he leaned against the frame. “You’ll have to let me pass, though. I know very well how to handle a knife, even when it is not in my hand.”

  “Do you?” Her cheeks bunched with laugh lines as her grin grew. “And where would that knife plunge if I let you go? Into my back? Into the backs of those who you claim oppress you?”

  “Into those who would want you dead.”