Thief of Destiny: The Collected Saga of the Panther Page 6

  Strangely satisfied by Cleon’s rejection, Manwe chuckled as she sauntered back to the patio where the orgy had recommenced. “Working around Cleon will be a task, and more the better if neither of us runs into him. What do you think, Folami?” He looked to his side and discovered she had disappeared. “Folami?” Turning about in place, he spotted her in the crowds, her hand already on the belt of some lord. It came away with a small bag of coins.

  He nodded, appreciating her ploy. “Time to work.”

  A caress of a hand, an “accidental” bump into a guest, and more than a few longing glances with some interested gentlemen, Manwe soon walked back toward the manor, slipping crumpled strands of stones and silver into the front of his loincloth. Ascending the stair, he re-entered the house, thinking the more precious valuable items would be kept there.

  Returned to the inner halls of the manor, he treaded the tiled passages and found a bedroom door ajar. Within the dimly lit chamber a smaller party commenced, a gathering of four drug-addled ladies and some young men they had roped into their carnal pleasures. Drunk on wine and euphoric from the ample pots of lotus spread around the chamber, they half-heartedly went about their frolics, too inebriated to fully perform lustful deeds.

  Manwe almost passed them on when the gleam of gold flashed in the dark. He stepped into the room, wincing as the door’s hinges creaked.

  One of the ladies looked up from atop her boy, heavy-lidded and smiling like a fool. A line of large pearls draped from her neck. “Oh, perfect! More wine, slave.”

  Half-grinning, half-gritting his teeth, Manwe took on a tall posture and bent at the waist. “Unfortunately my lady, I’m not a provider for this fine soiree. I am, however, looking for a party who demanded the party magician.”

  “You’re the magician, you say?” One of the boys extracted himself from the tangle of women. “Wait, of course you are. I heard about your display out in the manor yard a few minutes ago! You have found your party, sirrah.”

  Manwe tilted his head playfully. “Are you sure, my lord? I wouldn’t want to dismay another group of fine individuals such as this one.”

  “Oh, shush,” said the first lady with the pearls. She stood and came to Manwe, her sagging breasts and fleshy hips jiggling with each skip. She took his hand and led him close to the bed. “A trick. Now.”

  Manwe clapped his hands together, looking into the eyes of his seven targets. He smiled broadly as they stared back, absent of any sense. “Well, for my first act I will need a small to medium-sized bag...perhaps one of the pillow cases on your fine bed?”

  “How utterly mysterious,” drawled a second lady with glittering earrings crusted with emeralds. She grabbed a nearby pillow and stripped it of its cover, handing it to Manwe.

  “So,” Manwe said, holding the bag in one hand. He pointed to the boy who pointed him out as a ‘magician’. “I can’t do the same trick with my fire and lights, but...” He pinched his chin. “Ah! An illusion, if you all will permit me.”

  “Of course,” said a third lady, her fingers roped in rings set with gemstones. “I needed a break, anyway.”

  “My illusion is quite simple.” Manwe balled up the pillow case in his hands and snapped it back out, returning it to its original shape. “I will make things disappear.”

  “How wonderful,” said a fourth lady, her arms dripping with gold and silver bangles. Bleary-eyed, she shoveled more dried lotus into her mouth with two fingers stained yellow and blue before passing the bowl onto the next nude participant. She licked her lips to clean off the dust. “We must find something to put in the bag.”

  “How about we make it interesting?” Manwe proposed, opening the mouth of the pillow case. Bewildered as he watched each member of his audience consume more of the potent drug, he maintained his happy façade. “Ladies, if you would, deposit your jewels. I will make them vanish and reappear.”

  “Fantastic! An illusion of risk,” said the first one with the pearls. The women removed their jewelry and dropped it into the bag. While the ladies cajoled their younger studs to ingest more lotus, Manwe twisted the pillow case lengthwise until it was tightly bound, so much so the gems of the third lady’s rings could be seen poking through the fabric.

  “And now you’ll make them disappear?” one of the boys asked, more interested in the trick than the hand pawing his genitals.

  “Oh, but to make them disappear would be such a waste of time,” said Manwe clicking his tongue. “Riches like these...well, such baubles are not meant for this world.” He gathered the rope of stolen jewels in his hands and crumpled them into a ball like a piece of trash.

  The third lady, now bereft of her rings, stood from the bed. “Sirrah! Those were priceless Juutan heirlooms that once belonged to the daughter of a noble savage chieftain. They were liberated by my father who was once the commander of the third Gypian army under Gypisius! I demand you return them at once!”

  “And with such wonderful history behind them…” Manwe grinned at her and unbound the ball with a second snap. The pillow case unfurled. “By all means, they’re yours,” he said, presenting it to her.

  Red-eyed and drowsy, the third lady’s anger vanished as she turned over the pillow case. Nothing fell out of the sleeve. Confused, she searched the bag until she broke out in laughter. “By Hya’s glossy tits, he did it,” she exclaimed, showing everyone on the bed.

  “And, for the next part of the trick...” Manwe dipped low in his bow, a display he had once witnessed an actor perform in a play. “The treasure has been secured in a hidden place upstairs. We must go and search for it.”

  “Ah-hah, an illusion and a game!” the first lady jumped up in excitement. “Come on,” she waved with spastic vigor, addled to a point beyond control. The occupants of the room emptied out, not forgetting their lotus pot, and scampered off into the hallways in search of their lost treasure.

  Manwe looked into his full hands, clutching tightly to the pearls, earrings, rings, and bangles left behind by his audience.

  His loot collected in the pillow case he had used for his “magic” trick, Manwe strutted down the hall in search of his audience members, hoping the drugged fools would lead him to even greater treasure. On his way to the grand stair in the main foyer of the manor, he was stopped by the trilling of a woman’s voice. It grew louder the farther he drew to the foyer, and stepping from the shadowy hallway, he arrived in time to see Folami in the middle of her own impromptu show.

  “The Songbird” danced around the many people milling about in the anteroom. It was an old poem set to a common melody used by their tribes out on the savannah. She was joined by a few of the servants who knew the words.

  Guessing she had paid them off, Manwe sidestepped into the shadow of an archway, curious to see how her ruse would work.

  “Don’t seek too much fame,” she intoned. She scooted by a drunk couple, stopping to lean toward the husband, her lithe body bent backward. Providing him and his interested wife a long look at her ample bosom, she took both their wrists and spun them on the spot. Delighted by the attention, the rich lord and his lady played their parts, laughing as they turned.

  Manwe chuckled from his place in the dark, impressed as Folami slipped off one of the gold bangles hanging loose on the lady’s wrist. Before he could blink, it was gone, somewhere out of sight.

  Folami backed away from them, gesturing luridly with her arms as she moved onto the next target. She landed her curvaceous body into the lap of a drunken man who had sat down beside the stair, his flagon of wine in one hand and a bag of coins hanging from his belt. “But don’t fear obscurity...” Writhing on him, all eyes drew to her liberated movements as the servants added a chorus.

  “Don’t fear,” they cooed in harmony.

  Folami turned on the drunken man’s lap, and facing him, wiggled for the amusement of the crowd. “Be Proud.” Her thumb stuck out on her left hand, and staring hard, Manwe noticed the edge of a razor glisten in the haze of the lamp-lit hall. With a quick slice s
he severed the draw strings tying the pouch to his belt, and spinning off of him, she pushed it into a potted plant beside them, leaving it to be picked up later. Her victim, dazed and delighted, fell back on the steps, where he was patted on the chest and shoulders for his participation by some onlookers.

  “But...do...not...remind the world of your deeds,” Folami sang, a sad smile on her delicate lips. A man near her reached out and groped the swell of her right buttock, whispering lewd things to his wife while others clapped and cheered.

  Manwe noticed a change come over Folami and the servants who sang along, a hint of anger. That same anger welled in the pit of his own stomach, a tell-tale reminder of a plain fact—no matter how rich the culture he, Folami, and the subjugated shared, it would always be considered a trifle to those in power, something to be taken for granted.

  The servants in the foyer chorused. “Your deeds,” they echoed, the words edged with a dire promise.

  His face scrunched at the edge of rage and tears, affected by the hidden message. One day Gypian deeds would be remembered. One day his voice, and the voice of his people, would not be taken for granted.

  Folami danced past another couple, her movements smooth and practiced. She grinned at them like a lioness smiling at two old wildebeests. “Excel when you must.” She closed in on the pair, throwing her arms around the lady’s shoulder and linking her hands behind the woman’s slender neck. Clearly the lady had spent near a fortune on her blonde coif that evening, a peculiar fashion popular among the Gypians that formed long hair into a cone held by dozens of jeweled pins.

  “But don’t excel the world,” Folami sighed loudly, supported by her backing singers. She came away, her hands held out at her sides. Manwe found his smile again, noticing that the noble woman’s cone was missing more than a few of those expensive needles.

  Storing her unseen prizes away in the skirt of her canvas shift, Folami took the center of the room, landing lightly atop a long table weighed with food and jugs of wine. Dancing among the oil lamps set in a line down the length of the wooden top, she spun and floated like a swan, snatching up coins and other baubles carelessly left behind. Through the sheer grace of her voice and the song, she remained clean of her obvious crimes, having transfixed the audience with her performance.

  “Many heroes have not yet been born,” she shouted melodically.

  “Many have already died,” thundered the servants, clapping and stamping to a beat and meter only they knew in their hearts, a hearkening call back to former glories and forgotten times.

  Swept up by the urge to join them, by the urge to be swept up in his people’s faded pride, Manwe stepped into the light of the room.

  “But to be alive to hear this song...” Folami stretched that final word, dragging it from the depths of her being. She squatted in the middle of the table and lifted up one of the burning lamps. The wick, its end a long line of bright and smoky flame, hung before her face.

  “...is victory,” mouthed Manwe.

  Folami blew out the light.

  Manwe let out a deep breath of satisfaction right as Cleon stepped in front of him.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Manwe gaped in surprise, struck silent.

  Cleon stood there, inches away from his face. Clad in his simple yellow robe, a belt made of polished glass squares cinched it around his thin waist, pulling the cloth tight to his well-firmed torso and strong shoulders.

  “Don’t stare too long, Panther,” the sorcerer teased. “People might talk.”

  Closing his mouth, Manwe realized his hand had slipped behind his back and grabbed his knife. He hid his bag of loot behind the mass of his bare leg as well, his body turned away from his opponent. “We don’t have to do this in here. Not with all these people.”

  “What does a revolutionary care about casualties when he is in the den of his enemy?” Cleon straightened, letting out of a light laugh. “I take it we’re indulging in old pastimes tonight, from the display we just witnessed. So who is this girl to you?” He motioned at Folami as she hopped off the table and weaved through the room to collect more loot. “A student, perhaps? A lover?”

  “Just a rival.”

  Cleon puckered his lips and whistled. “Fascinating, you thieves. Your lot is so industrious for so very little.” Shaking his head and clicking his tongue, his eyes roamed the room in search of something. “You’re too good to be here, Panther. Stealing little things like hair pins and what I imagine to be gaudy jewelry in that bag you’re holding is beneath a man of your talents. Something drew you here.”

  It was then Nelo appeared, draped in a length of translucent silk and The Savannah’s Tears. People gasped as she entered the foyer on the way to the stair, entranced by her majesty. The diamonds strewn along her oiled collarbone dazzled.

  “Ah,” said Cleon. His lips split in a grin. “A fair treasure, Panther. So are you and the little girl racing for it?”

  Manwe looked to the sorcerer, his expression muted to hide his surprise at the deduction. “You can only catch one of us.”

  “You think so?” He took a step back, acting as if he had been struck. “I’m here alone tonight.”

  “So?”

  “So trying to catch both of you would be a waste of time and talent. Added to the fact that I really don’t care if you rob some insufferable nobles, I hate being here. Parties are not my scene, but you’ve proposed an interesting distraction.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Manwe.

  “Oh, don’t be thick,” chided Cleon. “I’ll go get something to drink and when I am done sipping, I am going to catch one of you. I have fine feelings for you, Panther, but this little songbird...”

  Manwe leaned away from the sorcerer. “Why?”

  Cleon rolled his eyes, his posture slouched and lifeless. “I’m rich. I just want to make the days go by.”

  “Then come after me,” Manwe said quickly. “Leave her be. You want to take me in anyway.”

  “Not to the authorities, at least,” Cleon said, flirty. “What is this worth to you?”

  “If you can catch either of us by morning, we will give up our pursuit of the Tears. If not, you leave us be to go on however we wish, with whatever loot we wish.”

  “And if I catch you, can I keep you?”

  For all of his distrust of the sorcerer, for their sordid history with each other, Manwe found himself laughing at the absurdity of the man. “Not in shackles.”

  “Oh, of course not. I would tie you up with something far softer.”

  Immediately discomforted by the ease of their words, Manwe grew serious. “Do we have a deal?” he asked, offering a hand.

  Cleon looked down at it, perplexed. “You have an hour.”

  Manwe spotted Folami as she departed into a nearby hallway. Dodging and darting past the mass of drunken wealth and obliterated excess, he closed the distance before she disappeared.

  He reached for her arm. “Folami!”

  Folami flinched when his hand touched her skin, turning about on her rear foot while stepping back with the front. Small blades tied to the insides of her thumbs and forefingers flared from behind their respective digits, bared to damage. She ceased her clawing when she saw who had stopped her.

  “What is wrong with you?” she said, whining. “We are in the middle of the game.”

  “Not for much longer,” said Manwe. “Cleon caught me in the crowd. He is giving us an hour before he comes looking for us.”

  “What does he want with me? I’ve caused him no problems.”

  “Cleon doesn’t care about problems. This is a game for him to catch me, but if he gets you, he will not be so kind.”

  “Typical men.”

  Manwe made a sour face at her. “Either way, the game is over. We need to find Nelo, or at the very least a place to hide. You can have all the loot. Just leave me the necklace.”

  Drawing up her toned body in a strained sigh, Folami nodded as she pushed the air through her nost
rils.

  They remained in the foyer, where Nelo still basked in the strange adoration of her guests. Men reached out to touch her naked breasts or kiss her body while the women scratched at her exposed flesh, some of them reaching between her legs. Headed for the stairs, she picked members out of the crowd, forming a chain behind her as she ascended.

  “Hurry,” said Folami, dashing forward.

  Back into the field of party-goers, Manwe kept after her until they were at the end of the procession following Nelo as she rose to the second floor. Unlike the base level, this floor was a circular hall of rooms, each one shut off by a stout door made of olive. No torches or lamps lit the passages, leaving the group to tread in a concealing darkness.

  They were ready to follow Nelo into whatever chamber she would enter when a hand grasped Manwe’s bare shoulder. He started, turning to find Cleon standing behind them. The sorcerer grabbed him and Folami by the arms, his pale fingers dug into the flesh of their dark skin.

  “And look at that. A kitty and a birdie,” he said, smirking.

  “You promised an hour,” said Manwe, panicked.

  Folami shucked out of Cleon’s hold, her hands spread to reveal her razors. “I care little for your feud with The Panther, sorcerer,” she said, nodding at Manwe. “Leave me be or I’ll cut your throat.”

  Cleon hummed in disappointment. “You’re definitely not as fun,” he told her. “I’d watch your tongue, girl. Little black ladies tend to disappear when a suggestion is made by an upstanding member of this city’s authority.” He stepped between them and set his arms around his captives’ shoulders. “But I’m a fair sport. Let’s let these little fools go to their orgies and binges first,” he proposed, signaling ahead to the crowds disappearing into the bedrooms. “We’ll just wait right here.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Folami asked. “You have us. There’s no need to play games.”

  “I completely disagree.” Cleon pulled her in close enough to whisper. “You see, my little songbird, as I’ve previously explained to Manwe, I don’t really care if you rob the wealthy. Most of them robbed someone else for their riches anyway. What I do care about is seeing the best in this city. As the designated thief-chaser, it’s good for me to know the capabilities of my opposition. So...” He looked ahead, a leering smile on his thin face. “You and the Panther have five minutes to pick a room. Maybe it’s the one Nelo is in. Maybe it’s not. Either way, once that five minutes is over, I will catch who ever walks back out into the shadows.”