Soargyl herself, he speculated. Mora Soargyl was a big woman reputed to be a bit like a dwarf when it came to fashion-lots of wealth, little grace, and even less taste.
Still, the price of any one of these urns would have kept Jak in coin for a month. But that's not why I'm here, he reminded himself.
Surrounded on all sides by the tasteless artistic trappings of Soargyl wealth, Sarntrumpet's squat towers jutted out of the center of the courtyard like five thick stone fingers. Crimson tiles shingled the roofs of each spire, blood red in the starlight. As with everything in the courtyard, the manse was built entirely of stone-marble, granite, and limestone mostly-with wood used only as necessary and evergreen shrubbery absent altogether. The few windows cut into the stark exterior were dark-bottomless mouths screaming from the stone. Hideous gargoyles chiseled from granite perched atop the roof eaves and stared ominously down on the courtyard.
To Jak, the grounds evoked the image of a grand cemetery surrounding a great mausoleum, or one of the cities of the dead built around an emperor's tomb like those he had heard about in tales of distant Mulhorand.
He had approached the manse from the back, so he could not see the main entrance. A few outbuildings stood in a cluster in the northwest corner-a stable and servants' quarters, he assumed.
From atop the manticore, he had a full view of the perimeter walkway that surrounded the courtyard and saw that not one, but three pairs of torch-bearing guards patrolled it. Not only that, but a full squad of guards in heavy cloaks patrolled around the manse itself. The Trickster only knew how many more men were within.
Could be worse, he thought with a grin, and jumped down from his marble perch.
Still using the magical vision granted him by his spell, he determined a safe path through the enchantments. Always alert to the location of the guards, he darted from shadow to shadow, from pillar to fountain, until he stood amidst a tight cluster of tall statues within fifty paces of the manse. Close enough that Sarntrumpet itself stood within the range of his spell, he saw that the high windows also shone with enchantments, though the actual tower walls did not. He nodded knowingly, having expected as much. There was too much wall space to protect it all with spells, but windows provided access for flying wizards and climbing thieves. Only a fool left them unprotected.
He focused his attention on the central tower, the tallest of the bunch by over two stories. The great spire was windowless on this side except for three expansive, closely packed panes near its top. All three glowed with the bright, red-orange light of powerful magic. That has to be the place, he thought, while he eyed the sheer walls critically.
He had not come into this job unprepared. Though he worshiped Brandobaris-the halfling god of rogues who ran pell-mell into the Abyss itself and still managed to escape with his hide-he nevertheless made it a habit to plan carefully before taking risks.
Because you're a god, and I'm a man, he thought, and hoped his oft-repeated phrase justified his habitual caution in the Trickster's eyes.
Since he wanted his new holy symbol to be an item taken from the very bedchamber of the brutal Lord Soargyl himself-a bedchamber whose location within Sarntrumpet Towers was hardly public knowledge-he had for the previous two tendays sprinkled coins and discreet inquiries among the city's architects. When that idea had failed to produce any useful information, he had ruefully decided to rely on the unpredictable humor of the Trickster. Before setting out this evening,
he had cast a divination spell and requested the location of the bedchamber. The response from Brandobaris that popped into his head had been surprisingly frank, if a bit overwrought:
Through darkness thick, and dire-filled gloom, Where danger lurks, and shadows loom, In tallest spire that stabs the sky, within is where the treasures lie.
He smiled and sat back on his haunches under the watchful eyes of a marble swordsman. The Trickster had given him the location, but it was up to Jak to get in. And out, he reminded himself.
He sat casually under the statue, eyed the guard patrols as they circled the manse, and tried to tune their routes. While he watched, he took the time to relish the moment and congratulate himself on his skills. The Trickster had set him a hard task, but he had proven himself up to the challenge, as usual.
While waiting for the guard patrol to complete its circuit around the manse, he studied Sarntrumpet and tried to guess at its internal layout from its external features. It did not surprise him that Lord Soargyl had chosen the highest spire in the manse for his bedroom. Nobles in Selgaunt were notoriously arrogant, and Lord Soargyl was reputedly worse than most. Only a room that looked down on the rest of the city's citizens would satisfy his ego.
Strangely enough, Selgaunt's rogues typically respected the city's strict social hierarchy. Thieves only rarely tried to infiltrate a noble's home. Not only was such a thing likely to fail and result in an ugly death for the thief-at least for those less lucky and skille than Jak-it simply wasn't done. The manses of the nobility were treated as sacrosanct. There were exceptions, of course-the Night Masks under the Righteous Man, for example. And me, he thought with a smile.
Unlike most native Sembians, Jak resolutely refused to play by Selgaunt's unwritten rules-he ran as an independent rogue in a gang-dominated underworld. He prided himself on his halfling blood in a city that held halflings in barely concealed contempt. He thought that respecting nobles simply because of their titles and bloodlines was among the silliest things he had ever heard;
Feeling self-satisfied and pining for his pipe, he leaned back against the pedestal of a statue and blew out imaginary smoke rings. Sandwiched between the guards stationed at the manse and the guards on the walkway, the inner courtyard provided a kind of thieves' sanctuary, if one could avoid the alarm spells-which he had.
He smiled and pushed his hair back from his face. Thirsty, he took out a leather skin and had a gulp of water. Around him loomed the towering marble figures. All stood upon stocky square pedestals and had a nameplate inset. Unable to read, Jak could not tell what they said. Not for the first time, he reminded himself to ask Cale to teach him. That bald giant reads nine languages, he thought, marveling. Nine! He shook his head in disbelief.
He ran his fingers along the nameplates and imagined what they might say. Most of the statues were of armored men holding swords aloft in victory, though some seemed posed in the midst of ferocious combat with an unseen foe. Jak assumed them to be representations of past Soargyl patriarchs.
He eyed the statues critically. Judging from their heroic proportions, the Soargyls of old had been impressively built men; either that, or the sculptor had been paid to take some creative, and flattering, liberties. More likely the latter.
The green cloaked squad of twelve house guards again trooped around the corner of the manse, mail clinking, boots thumping. The moment they appeared, Jak began a mental count. Then he waited, counting all the while. By the time they had retraced their route and again come around the same corner, he had reached one hundred and forty-seven, and his seeing spell had expired. He had plenty of time.
He waited for the guards to vanish around the far side of the manse again before making his move. As soon as the last of the men disappeared around the far corner, he began his count. One, two…he bade the dead Soargyls farewell, darted from the shadows, and raced to the base of the central tower. Seventeen, eighteen… there he crouched low, peering into the darkness behind him. No one. Sarntrumpet Towers was as lifeless as a tomb.
Why would people surround themselves with nothing but dead stone? he wondered, followed immediately by a whispered oath. 'Dark.' He had lost his count.
He grinned sheepishly. His Harper colleagues would not have been surprised. A worldwide organization of diverse operators, the Harpers worked behind the scenes to thwart the schemes of various evil-minded factions. Though he had worn the Harper pin for over six winters, Jak still had a reputation among them as a bit of a stray quarrel. If they had known of it, they would not have appreciated his burglary tonight. It was too risky.
Ah well, he thought, and gazed up the face of the sheer central tower. The Harpers could afford to take some more risks.
Jak had joined the organization because they tried to do good, and because he approved of their methods. Where possible, the Harpers tried to influence events using only political pressure. They resorted to killing only when deemed necessary and justified. Someday he hoped to sponsor his friend Erevis Cale for membership, but for now, he knew Cale was not ready. The big man turned too readily to blood. The Harpers would not approve of that. Cale would fit into the organization even less well than Jak.
For years Jak had felt torn between his friendship with Cale and his membership in the Harpers. He thought Cale a good man, but a man who killed at the slightest provocation. He disliked that about his friend. Yet he knew that Cale would always stand by him, and that he liked. He wasn't so sure he could say the same about the Harpers. Especially if they had known about tonight's little job.
