Thief

“Duck!” screamed the monk. “It has found us. Flee! Flee!” The poor panicked refugees dove for cover and scrambled into the underbrush.

Steven lay on his bedroll with the severed hand on his chest. It was withered, but it also wore a ring on its finger—a ring that Steven recognized. He picked up the lifeless hand and flung it toward the fire.

“No!” screamed the monk as he made a diving catch before the appendage hit the flames. “Not in the fire! My hand!” He cradled the fingers in his arms and Steven could see the stump that protruded from the long black sleeve. The monk lay on the ground whimpering and was not nearly as frightening as he had been only moments before. “My hand, my precious hand,” the monk continued to whimper.

“Pablo Ibin Ariaga, Thief of Byzantium,” Steven called out to the monk. “Come out, come out wherever you are.” The monk jerked upright with a snarl and pulled himself to his feet to face Steven.

“Who are you to summon me, Steven George the Liar,” asked the man in the robes of a monk. He threw back the cowl on the habit and Steven could see his face clearly in the firelight. “You lied to me! Now look at me!”

“I have never lied to you,” Steven said calmly.

“You said that a hand severed with that sword would reattach itself. I chose the weapon that cut off my right hand and clutched it to myself as I fled the marketplace,” Pablo Ibin Ariaga stuttered in his rage. “It never grew together. I held it in place. I lashed it to my wrist with leather straps. I nearly died, but it never grew together. You lied! You lied! You lied!”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Steven said, indignantly. “It was a story. How can you imagine that a mere story would a fact? Are there ogres to slay? Gnomes in the garden? Damsels to rescue? Dragons to master? They are stories.”

“But my stories are true,” cackled the thief. “Just ask the villagers if you can find any left. The Terror stalks them and drives them from their homes. Men have died when the hand has struck them. You should have died!”

“The Terror is just a story,” said Steven, “and people have believed it like you believed that the sword could sever your hand and reattach it. What people believe doesn’t make it true.”

“But you know The Terror is real, Steven George,” said Pablo, “else why have you not looked into my eyes? Come my little dragonslayer friend. Come look into my eyes. Are you afraid?” When Steven had first met the thief so many years ago, he had fallen under his spell when he looked into his eyes. Steven remembered how the deep black wells of Pablo’s eyes could mesmerize you. How his voice could turn you into his servant in moments. He also remembered how Pablo had taken everything Steven had—his horse, his knife, his sword, his coins—and left him with only a donkey. Well, that had worked out all right in the end.

Steven slowly raised his eyes to look deeply into Pablo’s. They held each other locked in a gaze as if each waited the other’s first blink. There was no sound but the crackling of the fire. Suddenly Pablo shook his head violently and backed away from Steven.

“What has happened to you, Dragonslayer?” he asked. “Have you indeed mastered your terror?”

“Thief,” Steven said, “I have looked into my own grave. What fear should I have of you?” The thief backed away another step and turned to run. Steven reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out three hard round balls which he launched in rapid succession at the back of the fleeing thief. They struck and the thief fell forward. Steven stood over him with a foot in the middle of his back.

“Pablo Barcenas Ibin Ariaga, I arrest you in the name of the King. All those who honor their lands and the kingdom of Montague Magnus, come out and witness the arrest of The Terror of Rich Reach,” Steven intoned in a loud voice. The frightened refugees crept out from the shadows slowly.

“By what authority do you arrest me?” the thief cried. “I am a free man. I’ve paid my debt with my right hand. All I did was tell stories. You have no authority to arrest me.”

Steven reached into his pocket again and pulled out a leather thong with a rock at the end. He placed the thong over his neck.

“I arrest you as a member of the King’s Guard,” Steven said. “The crime is terrorizing the Principality of Rich Reach.” Again, Steven reached in his pocket. This time he pulled out a ball of yarn given to him by Orithyia the Spinner. With this Steven bound Pablo’s arms to his sides, being unable to tie his hands together. The spun wool was strong and held the prisoner firmly, as if he were Chrivu awaiting execution. At this, the rest of the refugees emerged from the shadows whispering.

“Is it true?” “Was this the terror?” “Is this all?”

“This is all that you were afraid of,” Steven said calmly. “You may not believe yet, but the fear was inside you. Now gather round. I owe a story debt to this thief and I will tell it before we sleep.”

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