'Where is the amulet?' She poked at his burned hand and Pinch bit back a wince.
'I have it.'
'Give it to me.' She held out her hand without even looking up from her inspection.
'There's no cause for worry. I have protected it.'
'I have unjustly put you at risk. Please, give me the amulet.'
Argument was hopeless, especially here in the center of Lissa's stronghold. Reluctantly Pinch produced the bauble and handed it over to the priestess. Sprite sucked his teeth in unvoiced disappointment.
'Will you see to Sprite now?' the rogue asked pointedly. It was his nature; he couldn't help but set a price for all things.
Lissa took the amulet and hung it around her neck. 'Brother Leafcrown will tend to him.' She nodded to the elf who waited patiently behind her.
'Ooh, an elf!' Sprite said in mockery of the stereotype of elf-fascinated halflings. The jibe was not lost on the brother, whose expression of benign beneficence soured at the comment.
'As for your hand,' Lissa continued as Sprite was led away, 'I can heal the pain, but the scar will remain. You have been marked by Lathander.'
'What! I'm going to have this brand for the rest of my life-like some common thief,' blurted the outraged rogue.
Lissa nodded. 'It is the price of calling upon Lathander.'
'I didn't call him-or any other god,' Pinch snarled, risking blasphemy within the Morninglord's very temple. 'The damn thing just happened! I didn't ask for it.'
'Nonetheless, it happened,' she countered with the absolute resoluteness of one whose faith can only be unquestioned. 'Therefore within your heart you must have called upon Lathander's might. How else could you have gotten his mark?'
Pinch stared at his numbed and blackened hand, fearing the scars before his eyes. If he could never use his hand again, that would destroy the only talent he knew. Without a good hand, how could he hope to pick a lock or nip a purse. A one-handed thief was a cripple to be pitied by his companions and mocked by his former prey. This then was the Morninglord's revenge. 'Damn the pain!' the rogue bitterly hissed. 'Can you make my hand work?'
Lissa hesitated, and that hesitation was not encouraging. 'I-don't know. All I can do is try. It is a great honor, you know, to be marked by the Morninglord.'
'Wonderful. I'm a prophet now.'
'Not like that,' Lissa shushed him as she prepared her healing work. 'It means that Lathander sees in you something different, something greater than common men. Prophets, sages, bold captains-all of these have borne the mark.'
'Greatness-hah! I'm no prophet or king.' Pinch's heart was filled with bitterness right now. His world was crumbling around him regardless of what the god saw in his future.
'Nonetheless, Janol, our lord sees something in your future. Perhaps you will be a brave hero someday.'
'Why not? I'm no good for anything else right now- thanks to your god.'
'Mind your tongue!' Lissa snapped, furious at his casual blasphemy. She grabbed his wrist and twisted his hand palm-up, then made the passes needed to cast the spell. The burn tingled and then the pain subsided. The blackened flesh peeled away to reveal pinkish fresh skin underneath. The brand gleamed pinkish-white like a fresh scar. The pain vanished.
Experimentally Pinch tried to make a fist, but it was to no avail. The best he could do was curl his fingers into a clawlike grip, but the palm was a thick pad that would hardly bend.
'Crap. Your god has ruined me,' Pinch moaned, his voice filled with sorrow. He sat staring at his useless hand, bitter salt filling the corners of his eyes. Everything he was, everything he could do, was in his hands. What kind of cutpurse could he be, unable to hold a knife? Would he be a rooftop man unable to hold a rope? Maybe he could take up mugging and beat his victims senseless with this paw-that's all it was good for. He was only half, less than nothing in the eyes of his peers.
'I'm a blighted cripple,' he whispered to no one.
16
It was well past dawn by the time Pinch and Sprite left the temple, found their friends, and retired to the back tables of the ordinary. There, in the tawdry depths of the common room, Pinch drank. He drank with a bleak- hearted vigor, without joy or camaraderie. He drank with the bitter determination of a man trying to blot away the memories of his life. He gulped the sack without tasting it and demanded more before his cup was even empty. With his stiff hand he fumbled at the jug, and the more he fumbled the more he cursed his fate and drank again, until he would bitterly sweep the mugs, the crock, the candle aside in a rage and glare at his friends with his aching dry eyes.
His friends let him drink, since there was little they could say to stop him anyway. Sprite patiently poured the blackjacks and picked up the scattered mugs, while
Maeve did her best to soothe Pinch's raging temper. Therin sat back and said nothing, quietly considering the possibilities of this new future.
'It ain't all lost,' Sprite said once more as he tipped the jug. 'It's not the hand that makes you, Pinch. You're more than just a foin or a verser. Any rogue can do that. It's what you got in your brain pan what makes you special.'
'He's right,' Therin added softly. 'You can retire from the trade, take it easy. Look at the set-up you've got here-staying in a palace, fine food, and servants. All you got to do is sit up there, spot the rich marks, and make plans for others to do.'
'It's sound advice,' Maeve added, stroking the wounded man's hair.
Pinch grunted and kept his attention fixed on the wine.
'Of course,' Therin continued with smooth oiliness, 'there'd have to be a new regulator…'
Pinch looked up from his mug. 'Like as you?' he snarled.
The Gur let the facade drop. 'Like as me than a cripple.'
'Cripple! I should have let them hang you in Elturel, bastard! I'm still regulator here and you'll mind it or-'
'Or what?' Therin bellowed back. 'Or you'll carve me? Well, have at.' The Gur drew two daggers and tossed one onto the table. It clattered among the mugs and pots. The sound was echoed by the scrape of his chair as the younger man stood back from the table and waited, knife casually poised. Sprite and Maeve pulled back, their eyes darting from Pinch to Therin and back again. At the taps, the innkeeper took notice, setting his ash-handled mace close at hand.
'Go ahead. Regulate me.'
Pinch clumsily tried to pick up the dagger with his ruined hand but, unable to close his hand around the hilt, the effort was futile. At last he gave up and collapsed back with a fierce glower.
Therin smiled heartlessly, the grown son looking down on his enfeebled father. 'You've done me good, Pinch. You've done us all good, but now things have changed. It's come time for a new regulator.'
Pinch's lean frame dwindled, perhaps due to the drink or maybe in resignation to the younger man's words. Finally, he unfastened the bulky pouch at his side, shoved aside their drinks, and set it on the table. 'I suppose you'll want to deliver this,' he growled as he undid the strings and pulled open the bag enough to show the golden glint of their stolen treasures inside. 'First task as the new regulator.'
'Aye,' Therin allowed warily.
'The broker's waiting at the mausoleum. Tell him you're my agent and he'll deal with you.'
Therin didn't wait for more but scooped the bag from the table before his old master changed his mind. Maeve looked on in wide-eyed amazement that Pinch had surrendered so readily.
'Go to it. Let's see what kind of regulator you are,' the older man sneered.
