Chapter Text
“Ah, Peter. Just the man I hoped to see.”
Peter looked up sharply from the worn desk and scrap of parchment. He had been writing a letter, and swore inwardly when the sudden movement smeared the ink. He carefully attempted to repair the damage with a square of blotting paper. “What's going on?” He kept his expression outwardly pleasant, despite the damage to his letter.
“I have someone I need you to find. A fugitive.” Simon, the Captain of the City Watch, stood patiently waiting while Peter set his writing utensils to the side and regarded him with his full attention.
“Oh? I hadn't heard there was trouble – or no more than usual,” he amended. Peter's abilities weren't sought out for run of the mill cutthroats and thieves. He was called in to bring down bigger, more difficult prey. Usually if his services were in need, something of note was going on.
Simon made a considering face as he rocked back slightly on his heels in thought. “We-ll, this one is a little different. You've heard of James Light-Foot?”
“Um, hmmm...sounds sort of familiar.” He set aside the ink stained blotting paper and turned his full attention to Simon.
“Or James Nimble? He has a number of colorful appellations.” Simon sighed. “He's a thief, a very successful one.”
“The guard can't take care of this? Not that I mind, it just seems unusual. Did he kill someone?”
“No, he's never been known for bloodshed. Seems to avoid it.... here's the thing, word of his exploits have travelled around, he's becoming a popular figure with the common people.”
Peter rested his chin on his hand, easily reading between the lines. “And the powers that be are worried it will give the populace ideas.” Peter couldn't drum up the same level of concern, coming from a less exalted background himself. Average people liked stories where the upper classes got their noses tweaked. It gave the illusion that the world was a little fairer than it actually was.
Simon shrugged. “Last year was hard what with the floods along the Arn and the raids along the northern border. We don't need people getting riled up over a criminal. Word has it he broke into the Overseer's estate over in Climpt, made him look a fool.”
Peter schooled his expression to look suitably serious, even though he was laughing inside. He knew the Overseer in question, and the man was a horse's ass. “Ok, can you give me any kind of description?”
“That's the problem. Stories spread around, they get exaggerated, and there's no telling what's true or false. That's why I'm coming to you. You have other methods at your disposal. I thought you might be able to make headway. He's making us all look ridiculous, and if people can't take the Guard and the Watch seriously...”
“Point taken. Alright, I'll try my best. I'm not promising anything, but I'll try.” Peter found himself ungrudging in his offer. It had been quiet lately, and he liked the idea of having a problem he could sink his teeth into.
A look of relief crossed Simon's face, having successfully pawned his problem off on someone else. “Thank you, and keep me updated.”
Peter shook his head and turned back to his letter.
* * *
While Peter did indeed have various methods at his disposal that Simon and his ilk didn't, it would be helpful to know a little more about his quarry. If this mysterious James Light-Foot, or whatever he was going by, had the people talking, well, you went where the people were. Peter slowly nursed his mug of ale, and mostly kept his ears sharp, looking for a good opening. He had made certain to leave off the hood that marked him as part of the Capitol Guard, and he looked like most other people that frequented the establishment -traders down from the countryside, craftspeople, and laborers, not the city's poorest residents, but not the wealthier merchant class either. They wouldn't see Peter and think 'outsider'. It helped that Peter could have easily been one of them, having been born a blacksmith's son.
“Where are you from, friend?” Peter asked a man in a simple brown tunic and trousers, his skin weathered from sun and wind.
“Ah, from over in Delph – between here and Climpt. Had wool to sell, and it was either here or Climpt. I'll get better prices here.”
“I heard there was trouble in Climpt – the Overseer was robbed?”
The man's face split into a grin. “You heard rightly. Couldn't have happened to a more deserving fool. Man rides around like he's Lord of the Earth, meanwhile he's utterly useless. When half his land flooded, people lost near everything. Supposedly the one who did it is untouchable – been blessed by Jiddia herself.”
“He'd have to be to pull something like that off. And no one even got a look at him?”
The man shrugged. “Not that I know of. I heard he was a great big man with a sword, and I also heard he was small and thin enough to fit through a crack in the door. Some said he was a pale man and some said he was dark like the folk from Gandra.” He looked Peter over with interest. “And what do you do?”
“Clerk,” Peter lied, holding up an ink stained hand.
The information regarding James whatever-his-name-was ended up being as sparse and contradictory as Simon had said. Peter walked home that evening mulling over the problem. “Elizabeth?” He called out, shutting the door to a decent sized, well built dwelling – one of the perks of his profession.
“I was wondering when you were coming home.” His sister flashed him a smile. She had married a sailor on a merchant vessel, and he could be gone for weeks at a time shuttling goods back and forth to Semintal. So with Peter being unmarried, and Elizabeth being alone for stretches of time, the three decided to pool their resources and make a household together.
He ate a late supper and told her about his new assignment. “I'm going to see if the spirits can find him.” It was to Peter the most likely solution.
“Will they be able to not knowing who he is?”
“Normally, I would say no. But he's made enough of an impact here, that they might be able to track him down. It's hard to know sometimes what they are and aren't aware of, and they don't think like humans.” Magic was a wonderful tool, but it wasn't fool proof. It was why he also learned to use a sword and how to talk to different sorts of people, to listen, and to observe.
The best teacher he had told him once, “it's not just about the amount of energy you can raise up, it's how you use it. In fact, it's mostly how you use it. Remember that. If you can use what you have well, you'll go far.” So Peter didn't turn his nose up at mundane skills, and it indeed served him well as he made a name for himself in the Capitol Guard taking down spies, would be assassins, and serious troublemakers – not people like James.
After he ate, he retreated to a small room at the back of the house. A protective circle had been painted on the floor, the paint having been mixed with protective herbs and blessed water from the temple. He lit the candles that stood in the corners of the room, the room having no windows. Just as well, less distraction from prying neighbors. Simple wood shelves stood across the back wall holding a small cast iron bowl, bottles and bunches of dried herbs and other ritual paraphernalia. He took the metal bowl and the necessary assortment of herbs and set them in the center of the circle. Then he paused, breathing deeply to calm his mind and ground himself, feeling the pull of the earth beneath his feet and the faint thrum of magical energy around him.
When he felt ready, he walked the circle, pulling in energy through his left hand and releasing it with his right to empower the circle. Then he lit a coal in the bowl, sprinkling the dried herbs over top to create a fragrant smoke. It was a blend his familiar spirit liked and would draw it like a moth to a flame. He called out the being's name, though his voice was barely above a whisper. It didn't matter. It wasn't about volume, but about the ripple of energy being directed towards the entity, catching its attention.
After a few moments, the hairs on the back of Peter's neck began to stand up, and he was no longer alone. In the dim flickering light, among the curls and wisps of smoke, an amorphous shape formed, serpentine, sometimes blending with the smoke, sometimes its shape becoming clear.
“You called?” It asked, dancing above the bowl.
“Yes, I have a problem, and I'm hoping you can help.” The key to working with spirits was being polite. Peter couldn't let them scare him or push him around, but trying to dominate them never worked well. And Peter had developed a relationship with this particular being.
“Oh, and what is this problem?” It turned its horse like head into the smoke as if inhaling the fumes. Peter added some more of the herbal mixture.
“I've been tasked with finding someone, but I have no good description of him. He's a very successful thief.”
“And is that not a description?”
“Yes, but humans are more visual. People have been talking about him, his exploits. Some call him James Light-Foot or James Nimble, but those aren't his real names.”
The spirit was silent for a moment. “Why shouldn't they be? Do they not describe the nature of the man? Light-foot, Nimble, master thief, these are good descriptions. I will see what I can find.”
“Thank you.”
The spirit writhed in amongst the smoke for a few more minutes before disappearing. Peter didn't exactly know what it got out of the incense other than an energetic exchange had been made. But if it made it happy, Peter was perfectly willing to supply it with what it wanted. He broke the circle and cleaned up.
Elizabeth had readied for bed by the time Peter re-emerged. “Any luck?”
“Maybe. It seemed confident the information I had would be enough. I guess it uses different criteria than we do.”
* * *
Peter spent his childhood believing he would follow in his father's footsteps. As he grew older, he helped out in the smithy, and he hadn't minded the idea. Sure it was hard work, but Peter had never shied away from hard work, and blacksmiths were a necessary part of the community – it was a profession that would provide a stable home for himself and future family.
Then the priest came to town. They did so every few years to test the children for magical aptitude, and Peter thought nothing of it. It just never occurred to him that he would be any different than his father or his father's father. As it turned out, Peter had been wrong. At first he felt guilty, because it meant leaving home and helping his family, but his family was thrilled. Peter would have opportunities at education and a life much better than a smithy in a small village could offer, and it only increased his family's reputation. So Peter found himself packing his meager possessions and traveling to the capitol to the Temple of Senta the god of war and wisdom, the patron of the royal house. Peter would have preferred the more familiar Orune, who brought bountiful harvests and looked after the common people. But Senta was a god of power, and knowledge and magic were forms of power. There was also of course, the Lady, but only women were sent to her temple in the mountains. Meanwhile, his younger brother took over Peter's position in the forge, assuring family business would continue.
Over the next few days Peter tried to glean more information regarding James, but had little luck. Eventually, when arriving home, he felt the presence of the spirit. He couldn't see it – it needed help in order to manifest in a way Peter could communicate with it, so he returned to the workroom and repeated the little ritual from a few nights before.
“I have found your light-foot thief,” it said. And though it was hard to tell for sure, it sounded pleased with itself. “It wasn't difficult – nimble though he may be, he made ripples.”
“Can you tell me what he looks like, where he is?” Peter asked, excitement growing.
“I can take you to him. You cannot speak to me outside of the circle, but if you bring a dowsing rod, I can direct you.” Dowsing rods were usually looked down on as an instrument of low magic, but Peter thought the distinction silly. If a thing worked, it worked. “However, I must ask you something first.” Its sibilant voice hissed out.
“Certainly.”
“I take it you have been tasked with finding this light-foot thief, because he is wanted. Before he is punished, speak to him.”
Peter regarded the spirit, puzzled. “Sure, is there something I'm supposed to ask him about?”
“You will understand, if you take the time to speak to him.” The spirit gave Peter what he felt was a pointed look.
Peter sighed inwardly, wishing the spirit would just come out and say whatever it was. He supposed it had its reasons, they always did, they just weren't always clear. “Alright, I'll speak with him before anything else happens. Is there anything else I should know?”
“There are ripples.” And with that, the spirit vanished.
“There are ripples. It would be nice, if you were more specific,” Peter grumbled. As annoying as the cryptic language could be, the spirit wouldn't have said what it had, if it hadn't deemed it important. He wondered what about a human thief would interest a spirit.
* * *
Grey blue shadows draped the narrow streets, sometimes cobbled, sometimes dirt, always a hive of human activity from children playing, to laborers returning home, to a young woman chasing several errant chickens. Neal moved through the familiar hubbub feeling at ease in his surroundings. He didn't stand stand out from any other young man, though some might have noted his attractive features and confident gait.
“That's one to look out for, there,” one older woman said to her companion. They exchanged knowing looks. If Neal had heard them, he would have been amused. They weren't wrong, just not in the way they thought.
Several rings set with valuable stones nestled in a pouch under his tunic. Soon, they would be melted down, the metal sold, the stones repurposed, and Neal that much richer. It wasn't difficult to obtain the items. The difficulty lay in transforming them into coin without causing suspicion, so he brought a few pieces at a time to his trusted associate. His ultimate goal being to save enough back for them to overwinter in comfort, and he was well on his way.
The sun began sinking lower leaving a light haze of pink smudged across the horizon. Neal shivered, feeling something brush against him. Something that was not a person, not of the material reality. His skin prickled. Neal had always been able to sense spirits, and if he took the time, he could stare right into the Borderland itself – though he preferred not to as a general rule, finding it a little unnerving. He kept walking, not wanting to seem out of the ordinary.
Besides, the presence of a spirit wasn't out of the ordinary. The energy and activity from so many human lives in one place had undoubtedly attracted it. Neal could just see them better than the average person. Deciding this was the most likely explanation, he shook off his momentary unease, thoughts turning to the task at hand.
The spirit, however, seemed content to follow him down the street. “Little one,” it said, its voice a sibilant hiss he was certain no one else could hear. “Do not run.”
Neal's heart sped up at that – in part because the entire interaction was unexpected, and partly because he knew he was being watched. He could tell by the crawly feeling between his shoulder blades and the back of his neck. “Who are you?” Neal asked it, mostly directing his thoughts at it, barely murmuring the words. He could feel the spirit twine itself about him like a floating cat like snake.
“A friend,” it soothed.
Whatever was going on, Neal didn't like it. Spirits sometimes interacted with him of their own accord, but not like this. This was purposeful rather than the usual curiosity. So Neal did the opposite of what the spirit instructed, he ran. The street had cleared out a good deal as the sun dipped towards evening, allowing him to make his way with little trouble, his feet pounding the cobble stones, then dirt as he turned a corner towards a seedier part of the city, needing somewhere he could lose himself.
Neal could hear footsteps behind him, also running. Damn it! he swore to himself. Worse, the spirit had returned. He could see it's ghostly form keeping pace with him, could feel it watching him.
He took a sharp turn, hoping to throw off whoever was chasing him. “Little one, stop,” the spirit said again, twining itself around his torso. It couldn't physically stop him, it didn't have the power on the material plane, but the sensation was distracting and uncomfortable.
“Jiddia, Queen of Darkness, Mother of Thieves, hear your child,” he prayed as his feet continued to fly. “May I pass unseen...”
He turned again, and found himself on a street he didn't know. He paused for a moment in the shadow of a doorway, listening, and after a moment footsteps could be heard, two sets. The spirt hovered near his shoulder. Neal took off again, knowing he needed to lose his pursuers. The street turned into a a dead end with an alley extending both to the left an right, he hesitated, not being sure which way to turn. He was positive the canal lay on the other side of the wall.
Right, he decided after a fraction of a second, his mind quickly orienting itself by way of the canal.
“Stop!” a very human voice called out, male and authoritative.
Neal ignored him and started to turn, only suddenly he couldn't. He couldn't turn, run, move, do anything. He stood trapped, held slightly off the ground with his toes just brushing the dirt. A mage, of course. A mage using the spirit to track me. And a good mage at that to be able to hold him, but this show of force took effort, effort he wouldn't be able to keep up for long. Neal just needed to be ready.
The spirit stopped in front of him so they were face to face. Neal had the feeling it was studying him. Neal continued to try and struggle, knowing the force holding him would weaken, and he could feel it starting to give. The spirit let out a sigh. Unfortunately, it wasn't giving fast enough, and Neal started to worry, to really worry. He had always avoided getting too close to mages, to the people who could see him for what he was.
Hands gripped him roughly by the shoulders, and the force holding him disappeared with a snap. He attempted to wriggle his way out of his captor's grasp, but a foul smelling cloth was pressed over his mouth and nose, the world went grey, and he knew no more.
* * *
“Is this really necessary?” the guardsman asked. “You realize they're just going to hang him, anyway.”
“Look, I need to talk to him when he comes to.” Peter made sure the bindings were tight, and then hefted the young man up.
The guard seemed nonplussed. “You like to pass the time with all the thieves they bring in?”
“No. We have him now, because my familiar spirit brought me to him. It also advised me to speak to him, and since it was helpful so far, I thought I might take the rest of its advice.”
The guard looked uncomfortable. “Is it still here?” He looked around cautiously as Peter struggled under the weight of James the thief.
“Yes. It won't hurt you, though I wouldn't go trying to execute our friend here. Help me with him?”
The guard, being suitably cowed by the prospect of a spirit hanging around, did as asked with no further objections. Peter breathed a sigh of relief. Trapping James had left him spent – he wouldn't have been able to hold him for that long, if the spirit hadn't lent him some of it's strength. Why is it so interested in him? he wondered again.
“Where are we taking him?”
“To the temporary cells at the City Guard. Simon will be happy at least.”
It was with relief Peter saw James dumped unceremoniously in a holding cell. As a precaution he left him tied up and double checked the locks. James had a reputation, though what was fact and what was fantasy remained unclear. The spirit remained, Peter could feel its presence, occasionally catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.
Peter took a moment to study the man that had the Guard and the Watch up in arms. James himself was a few inches shorter than Peter with a slighter build. He wore decent clothes – clean, well kept, a little worn, mended in a few places. The kind of outfit that wouldn't look suspicious – not wealthy, but not destitute, either. He would have fit in well with the Tavern goers from a few days before.
A few people drifted by to goggle at the legendary thief, and Peter wondered what the hell the guardsman had drugged him with, when finally he stirred, blue eyes opening. He seemed out of it for a moment then his eyes widened in alarm, and he struggled to a sitting position, made difficult with his hands tied behind his back.
“You alright, there?” Peter asked him.
James turned his attention to the sound of Peter's voice. “What? Why am I here?”
Peter gave him a look, leaning against the bars of the cell. “Why do you think?” He held up the pouch with the rings and shook it gently. There was no way someone dressed the way James was and frequenting that section of the city had possession of the rings legally. Peter had garnered a professional reputation that allowed for a comfortable life, and he wouldn't have been able to touch them.
“I was just delivering those – running an errand.”
He lied well, but Peter had inside information. He couldn't see the spirit, but he was aware of it in the cell with James. Interestingly, Peter could almost swear James could tell it was there too, the way he kept trying to focus both on Peter and a little to the left of him.
“OK, James Light-Foot, or whatever your name actually is, I was told to speak to you.”
James looked puzzled at that. “What do you mean, by who?”
Peter made an educated guess, and pointed at where he knew the spirit was hovering near the other man. James turned his head slightly and actually flinched. “You know it's there, don't you.” He studied James carefully. “How do you know it's there, is the question.” This last was said mostly under his breath.
“I don't know what you mean,” James said, smoothing away the disquiet as if it had never been there.
“Yes you do.” His eyes flicked over the prisoner, considering. He was bound at the wrists and ankles, it was doubtful he'd be going anywhere, even if he did try and pull something. So Peter unlocked the door, and slid into the small space next to him, being watchful of feet and sharp knees.
He took his hands and gently cradled James' head. He felt the spirit's energy sharpen and a look of fear crossed James' expression. He let his focus settle on the young man, what he felt like energetically speaking. Peter felt the moment of connection, where something of his spirit touched James' – energy thrummed under Peter's hands, strong, practically glowing through the young man's skin. Peter stared at him in shock, finally understanding what it was the spirit wanted him to see.