The Skull and the Crow Chapter 4: My Heroes Always Were Thieves

"And explanations," said Sir Orion Drake. "Now." As long as those people depended on him, Orion would be a general, not a person. They needed a leader, and therefore, he issued orders instead of engaging in conversation. Somehow, this was comforting for others.

The soldiers and servants instinctively kept their distance from Orion, Trebane, Ingram, and Ashlen, maintaining an unspoken hierarchy. Orion disliked bowing and flattery; he wanted to punch anyone who dared to call him "lord." Yet he understood that hierarchy quelled fear. Ashlen grimaced.

"Maybe when we find a better place to rest..." 

Orion said nothing; he simply didn't look away. 

"Right. Okay, so..." 

The tunnel was longer than they had expected, stretching in a zigzag pattern until it opened into a network of caves, corridors, and chambers. All natural, there were no support beams or signs of human passage. They eventually found themselves in a large, leaky chamber where they could sit and detach from one another. Trebane remained unresponsive. Ingram, with the innate knowledge of earth, stone, and underground that all dwarves possessed, assured them they were not lost—they just didn't know where they would end up.

"Okay, then."

***

A witch had stolen Ashlen Ironsmith's foot and her courage. 

It had been a time of impetuosity, when he was very young, still trying to have fun even after the painful death of a friend. Ashlen had been part of a band of adventurers, drawn in by the desire to see the world and be different. But trapped in the witch's tower, he had fallen into a trap. His foot had been torn and rotted, and it had taken months before they managed to escape. By then, the fun was over. 

Ashlen was gone, mutilated in both leg and spirit. 

Reaching the Imperial City of Valkaria, the capital of Deheon, was not difficult for an adventurous thief. The Kingdom, a coalition of nations that dominated the continent, was led by Deheon, and in the Capital Kingdom, few were richer than the Ironsmith family. 

When Ashlen arrived, dirty and limping, at the gates of the great mansion that proudly bore the coat of arms of his bourgeois lineage, he was shooed away. He had hoped that at least one of the governesses who had watched him grow up would remember him. But Ashlen was someone else now, and not even in speaking or asking for help was he recognized. He hadn't realized how different he had become. 

At least he got a piece of stale bread. 

There was no shortage of Ironsmith family properties where he could try again. Blacksmith shops, established generations ago by a talented and ambitious ancestor, dotted the city, their constant industry overflowing the family coffers. Expelled from the first workshop, he found a brother in the second. Andrei Ironsmith was nearly fifteen years older, busying himself with numbers and supervision, dressed in a coat and ruffles. He regarded Ashlen's face with disbelief before rushing over to him. 

Supported by a makeshift crutch and a wooden stump, Ashlen opened his arms, ready to fall into his brother's embrace. Andrei took a step back, holding him at a distance, and nodded for two employees to come and help him. It was just that Ashlen was very dirty. 

"I hope you've learned your lesson now," Andrei said, and Ashlen feared he actually had.

***

All eight brothers, plus their father, gathered in the mansion's large meeting room. Ashlen, the ninth child, was clean of dirt and infection and was no longer bleeding. He ate and waited for a clergyman to be called, a holy man to restore his foot. Then they would see what to do next.

"Where have you been, my son?" asked old Roland Ironsmith.

"I was going to be a hero, Dad."

Roland couldn't contain a fond smile. Ashlen had received an effusive welcome from his father, mixed with disapproval, joy, and indifference from his brothers. In any case, Roland Ironsmith was almost everything in that family: he ran the business, resolved dilemmas, and advised each son about money, life, and women. He had worried when Ashlen decided to pursue the life of an adventurer, but it was impossible to chain a child to the house—or to common sense. 

"He means he was a mercenary," said a middle brother.

"Or a tomb raider?" another poked.

"Enough," said Roland, and immediate silence followed.

Ashlen began to feel something else—a trial. 

"We came here to decide what to do with Ashlen," the father continued, "not to massacre him." 

"He can still learn the trade," said the eldest son.

"Ashlen doesn't have the physique to be a blacksmith."

"He can take care of business."

Everyone nodded.

"So, Ashlen?" Roland asked with a determined smile. "Is your head still sharp? Your brothers need more people in the general treasury."

Ashlen started to babble, everything coming out too fast.

"What I think," said Anton, one of the youngest, "is that Ashlen should be put in charge of making deals, softening up customers and suppliers. Don't you remember his way with words? He can ensnare anyone."

Ashlen leaned back in his chair.

Roland began to reminisce about Ashlen as a child, recalling how dexterous and cunning he had been. Soon, they were exchanging amusing anecdotes about their younger brother, sharing playful indignation and affectionate slaps on the shoulders. They had immense fun.

"It's decided then, Ashlen," Roland said. "What do you think? You will do what you do best." 

Not all the brothers were satisfied. Andrei wore an expression that suggested he was too lenient toward the stray. Some rolled their eyes but remained silent. Ashlen felt himself drowning. 

"I wanted to rest," his voice trailed off.

"Don't worry, child. Of course, you will rest, and you will have time to recover from all this confusion. You will also tell me the stories of your life as an adventurer. It must have been interesting."

Drowning.

"I wanted to travel, Dad."

"Which is great because you're going to be traveling a lot. There are suppliers in other cities and even other kingdoms. You'll have to please some clients with personal visits, parties, you know." One of the brothers interrupted.

"Was the life of an adventurer interesting, Father? It was a lack of responsibility, that's what I say."

Roland wore a conciliatory face, and his smiles were no match for Ashlen's own best performances.

"Every child needs to play. Ashlen has been a child for longer than he should have, but now he is going to become an adult. And he will remember the adventurous season as a fun game." He went to Ashlen and held his shoulder with affectionate strength. "I like that you enjoyed your youth, my son. Don't hold onto frustrations. Now, when you truly embrace your life, you will have no regrets."

It was a decision made.

"Dad, my foot..." 

Roland closed his eyes, trying to harden his resolve. 

"My son," he sighed reluctantly, "we all agree that you have to learn to deal with the consequences of your actions. It's good that you had adventures, but I don't want you to think that others will solve your problems. I'm not going to pay for the magic that will restore your foot, Ashlen. You will pay—with your work, with your gold. It will be quick, especially because we need you to be presentable for your new duties. Until you earn your own Tibares, you will keep this memory." 

"It will be motivation," Anton added.

Everyone agreed.

"Dad, I'm an adventurer!" Ashlen exclaimed, getting up from his chair, nearly falling if Roland hadn't supported him.

"No, you are an adult now. You're very welcome, Ashlen. You will see how much better it is than being a child forever."

Why had he left the group? Why didn't he face the others? Ashlen looked around and saw familiar faces—Ironsmith faces, full of resolve, disapproval, affection, and genuine concern. They were already planning how to help him, imagining a welcome dinner. They wanted him to meet the latest wives and children, introduce him to two or three pretty young women, teach him the intricacies of current negotiations.

Open arms.

A prison.

***

A year later, Ashlen fell into the gutter and was kicked, but he didn't feel it because he was so drunk. 

He expelled pure liquid vomit and noticed that he was being robbed. It didn't matter. They took away his coins, of which there were few, along with his dirty coat, some ornaments, and his shoes. When they saw the metal foot, they laughed and wanted to take it off too, thinking it would be amusing. Then Ashlen roared and growled, kicking at them, and the men decided to leave. 

Ashlen buried his face in the stench of the gutter, drooled, cried, and slept. If that had been the worst night, it wouldn't have been so bad.

He woke up in the usual way, with two servants carrying him to the carriage. No matter what tavern or brothel he visited, they always found him. Defying them had almost become a game, except that wasn't the game; it was drinking, paying prostitutes, and wasting away. 

"Next time, you won't find me," he slurred, his tongue feeling like a lazy slug.

The employees did not respond. One of them, older, had seen him as a child and witnessed his departure as an adventurer. He pursed his lips. Ashlen slept again in the carriage, but the rocking caused him to vomit, and he nearly drowned as they helped him.

The sun was already high in the sky as they passed two Ironsmith workshops, where work bustled with prosperity. 

Ashlen slept again in his room, on silk sheets that reeked of urine. He woke up at dusk, craving a drink. 

He spat out the taste of soles on the floor, rubbed his bleary eyes, and saw his brother Anton opening the door.

"What?" Ashlen growled.

Anton stood in the middle of the room, having closed the door behind him.

"Come here, Ashlen."

"Go away."

"Come here, Ashlen."

He didn't argue; arguing involved filling his lungs with air and thinking of things to say, and that was too much work. He got up and took a step, only to fall, opening his forehead.

"Help me."

"No."

It took Ashlen a long time to crawl back onto the bed. Anton waited silently. 

"What do you want?"

"Don't you see, Ashlen?"

"Go to hell. What do you want?"

Anton took a step closer.

"Why didn't you do anything about your foot?"

Ashlen made a limp gesture of annoyance and opened his mouth to ruminate on something, but he gave up and lay down, facing the wall. He covered himself with the fetid sheet. 

"I'm not leaving. Why didn't you do anything about your foot, Ashlen?" 

He ignored Anton for a while longer, tossing and turning in bed, scrunching up the sheets. He eventually sat up again.

"Do you want to talk? Okay, but get me the water basin."

"No. You take it."

Ashlen tried to stand but found it too difficult, so he crawled to the other side of the room. With great effort, he grabbed the basin from the dresser and crawled halfway back. He washed his mouth with the dusty water and then drank it.

"Why didn't you do anything about your foot?"

Ashlen stared at the basin for a moment. 

"I did. Don't you see? I have a brand new foot. Made at the Ironsmith workshop. Have you heard of it?"

It wasn't funny at all.

"Dragging that grotesque thing hanging from your leg isn't going to do any good, Ashlen. I know what you're trying to do—draw attention, shout to everyone that you're a cripple to make them feel sorry for you. Well, you can give up. You're going to have to pay for the magic, Ashlen."

"Or I could be crippled forever. It's great, you know? Women love fragility."

"It's also great because you get a little less from the brutes in the taverns, don't you?"

Ashlen's mouth twitched, but he remained silent.

"How do you expect me to pay for this rubbish?" he finally said, rain pouring down his words. "If you helped me, I would be fine now and working."

"A year ago, you showed up on our doorstep, Ashlen. One year. In two weeks, you would have earned enough in the treasury. Hell, if you were working, your dad would probably pay for you."

"He pays for the taverns and the women," Ashlen sneered. "He never denied me money for that."

Anton ran his hands through his hair. Roland had trouble denying anything to a son, and Ashlen had indeed spent his gold on his rotten nights. There was never a shortage of gold. The principle was that Ashlen paid for his own decisions, that he shouldered the risks of youth. Two weeks of work, or even one.

"One day," he continued, "I might take his gold and look for a cleric myself. So what is he going to do? What are you all going to do?"

"Why don't you do it, then?"

Ashlen fell silent.

"Come on," said Anton. "Instead of going to a brothel, for one night, look for a temple. Pay for the ritual. You will be whole again. Deceive Dad. Come on, why don't you do this?"

There was no answer. But Ashlen's insides itched at the thought of a night without his habits.

"That's what I thought."

Nothing.

"You know what's worse, Ashlen? Today I worked all day. Now, at night, I'm going to a dance, and I'm going to get drunk. I'll dance with the most beautiful girls, and maybe I'll hide with one of them in an empty hallway. It's going to be great, and I won't pay anything for it. And tomorrow, I'm going to work again, and there will be more parties, and more dancing, and more willing young girls. No one is asking you to be like Andrei or like our father. Just be an adult."

Ashlen looked at the ground, which was rotating slightly.

"And no one will rob me, and no one will hit me. Then we'll swap stories, Ashlen. Let's compare and see who had the most fun night."

Anton breathed for a while, his jaw set, and then turned his back and left. Ashlen felt an itch on the foot that was no longer there. He scratched his metal prosthesis, gritted his teeth, and remembered the witch's tower. His face was soaked with tears and saliva. He searched for a bottle he had hidden there.

***

Three of the nine Ironsmith brothers were at the Wyren family ball. A fourth had just arrived, bringing his wife. The hall, lit as brightly as daytime by magical globes of pure, transparent light, housed dozens of men and women adorned with jewels. Valkaria's dearest and richest were in attendance, alongside guests from other parts of the Kingdom, all for the party. Electric whispers speculated whether King-Emperor Thormy would actually make an appearance. The music of elven instrumentalists spread harmoniously throughout the space as couples spun, laughed, and exchanged confidences.

At the tables, the elderly discussed politics and the good past while smoking aromatic pipes. In the corners, the youngest arranged future secrets. Jugglers and buffoons dotted the room, performing tricks that entertained the eyes for fleeting moments. 

Anton Ironsmith had already located and attracted his favorite of the night, and he was happy. After the third dance with the girl, during which he made her laugh by whispering in her ear, he thought it would be good to walk around a bit. However, he was soon approached by two gentlemen he knew from business.

"And your father, Anton?"

"If I know him well, he must still be working."

They laughed and exchanged pleasantries until the question arose.

"Is your little brother better now?"

Ashlen's return had become known throughout Valkaria society. However, due to his youngest son's condition, Roland Ironsmith preferred to invent an illness for him. This excuse grew increasingly complicated as months passed, with no shortage of instructions on what to do or questions about why, after all, magic was not capable of curing the plague.

Anton avoided the topic, but one of the older men had a priestess of great power in the family, and he offered a favor.

Then a loud murmur surged like a wave from the doors, and Anton grew cold with foreboding. Couples stopped dancing, the music faltered for an instant, and heads turned to what appeared to be a grotesque procession crossing the ballroom.

Ashlen had entered the party, wearing extravagant new clothes, embroidered with so much gold that Anton imagined their weight. In his hand, he carried an amphora that dripped with wine. He couldn't walk—not really. He was carried by two large, rough-hewn men, who looked more like dockside bandits than nobles or servants. Anton was sure they were classmates—Ashlen's tavern cronies, those who had robbed and beaten him—but they were now dressed in coats encrusted with stones.

"The newest Ironsmith has arrived!" Ashlen shouted. "I'm cured of the disease! I'm back to the city lights! And I'm single!"

He was already drunk.

Anton disappeared before anyone could ask him questions. Ashlen continued parading, carried by the brutes, interrupting the dance. He snatched an entire tray of snacks from a servant and stuffed them into his mouth three at a time.

"What rubbish!" he said, spitting out half-chewed food.

The Wyren family guards were beginning to take notice.

Anton appeared, blocking the brutes' path. 

"Put him in a chair."

"Keep taking me, my steeds!" Ashlen laughed, drooling wine all over himself. "Run over this villain! Load!"

"Move, and the Ironsmith family will ensure that you die," Anton warned. The two big men exchanged glances and placed Ashlen in a chair. He mumbled something and planted his metal foot on the table, nearly in the face of a lady who promptly fled.

"What are you doing, Ashlen?"

"I came to your ball. Let's compare and see who had the most fun night."

"Go away."

"You go. In fact, I think it's better to go. You're going to be really embarrassed when I tell everyone that you've been hiding from me for a year."

"Ashlen, please go away."

"Call the guards if you want. Arrest me. Come on, do you have the courage?"

Anton tried to appear tough, but fat tears rolled down his cheeks. He wanted to hug his brother and kick him at the same time.

He ended up leaving.

The ball continued, and the guests attempted to ignore the inconvenient young man. Ashlen occasionally fought with his henchmen, but he grew tired when no one paid attention to him. He took two or three of them aside to recount the story of the gangrene in his foot, but in the end, he was only served more drink. The servants gave up on serving him and being insulted, leaving a small alcoholic supply next to him on the table.

The jesters performed acrobatics and juggled as they passed him by. Until a woman, dressed in colorful court jester attire, somersaulted toward him, producing four spheres to perform elaborate juggling tricks. Ashlen could only see her back.

"Are you tired of being crippled?" she whispered over her shoulder. "I heard you were a thief. Come find me, and we'll teach you a thing or two."

Turning toward him, she curtsied and quickly whispered an address. Ashlen's eyes widened.

The juggler danced away with acrobatic flair, closely followed by an embarrassed and reluctant woman—a graceful lady who appeared to be in her sixties. It was Lady Gertrud Wyren, an amphitheater. 

Ashlen was still too shocked to be rude.

"Welcome, young Ashlen," Lady Gertrud forced a smile, extending a hand to be kissed. "We were all very happy to know that you are cured." 

Ashlen looked at her beautifully made-up face.

"My family can pay for anything."

Lady Gertrud attempted a mild comment.

"And truth. Anything. How much does a night with you cost, Gertrud?" 

The lady made an affected but genuinely horrified gesture.

"Is it very expensive? Just a few hours? What if your daughters join us? Are any of them virgins? I'll pay, I'll pay double, triple. Come to think of it, just you. Name your price."

She took a step back, and in an instant, was surrounded by guards. Ashlen's brutes tried to rush him, but were subdued before they knew what was happening. Ashlen was immobilized and carried, this time to a dungeon. 

Thrown to the ground, his metal foot clanked against the stone, and the door slammed shut, plunging him into darkness. 

Trapped again, like in the tower, Ashlen screamed and banged his head against the walls, pulling out clumps of his hair.

In the distance, sounds of the dance tried to continue.

***

Finally, Ashlen lost heart in despair. He also lost track of time, left staring into the dark indefinitely. He turned his head when he heard a soft noise behind him.

"Do you intend to stay there all night?"

It was the juggler.

Ashlen scrambled back, scraping his metallic foot on the stone floor.

"What a predictable reaction. I expected more from you."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"The juggler," she replied, as if explaining to a child.

"What is your name?"

"Juggler."

Ashlen remained silent.

The door was still closed, and the ceiling and walls were solid stone. Yet the woman stood there, incongruous like an exotic animal—like himself. Her outfit was colorful, with flashes of purple, red, yellow, and blue in a fabric that clung to her sinuous curves. She had generous breasts and hips, her hands and feet encased in cute shoes and gloves, both overflowing with lace. Her face was painted green, and she wore a long, soft conical hat adorned with three bells. Strangely, the bells only rang when she wanted them to.

"Do you want to stay here all night?"

Ashlen couldn't think of anything better to say. 

"No."

"Then come with me."

"How did you get here? Are you a mage?"

She raised her hands and rolled her eyes.

"No! Again: juggler."

Ashlen shook his head. She was still there, and then he shrugged. He extended his hand, and the juggler took it, lifting the young man with ease. She opened a smile that split her face and produced a key from among the lace and ruffles of her gloves. In an instant, the door creaked open, now quiet.

"Stay here for now," said the juggler.

The dungeon was small—more of a temporary holding area for troublemakers than a dark dungeon. A short corridor led to three airtight rooms that served as cells, a small room where an unhappy jailer wished he were at the ball, and a staircase that led to the Wyren estate. It was clear that this family did not keep prisoners or torture there—there weren't always dark secrets.

The juggler began walking around the room as if she owned the place. Her bells were silent. She walked right next to the table where the guard sat, who looked the other way at the precise moment she passed. The guard had a short coughing fit that closed his eyes, just as she crossed the corridor and disappeared down the stairs. When he recovered, he heard her bells as she descended, now in plain view.

"Oh, I think I got lost," said the juggler.

"Girl, you shouldn't be here," said the guard.

"How do I get to the kitchen?"

The guard was distracted for a moment, looking to the side and pointing out instructions. The juggler glided over to Ashlen and dragged him along as if he weighed nothing, keeping him hidden from the jailer's gaze. The guard looked at both of them but didn't seem to see the boy. The juggler moved her body with millimeter precision, always finding an angle that completely hid Ashlen. The noise of the bells masked the occasional clang of the metal foot.

"Thank you," she said after pushing Ashlen toward the stairs.

The guard smiled politely, looked again at the juggler's body, and sat down. Before long, the two had slipped out of the property and onto the street, always encountering servants, guards, and guests, never raising a hint of distrust.

"How did you do that?" Ashlen asked.

"You saw it."

He looked at her, searching for explanations.

"A woman like me, dressed in that outfit, showing what I'm showing, with my green face and that hat. Do you really think anyone is going to look at the dull boy behind me?"

"They didn't even see me."

"Exactly."

"I was a thief," he bit off the words. "On burglar. That's the worst stealth outfit I've ever seen."

"Of course, Mr. Specialist."

They were in an alley. Ashlen looked around, trying to find something that made sense. "I know: you are an avatar of Hyninn, the God of Thieves."

"Now, please."

She stood still, then began to whistle a tune, looking out into the night. A stray cat approached, and she scratched it behind the ear. The animal grunted with satisfaction. 

"Teach me."

"Finally," she said, sending the cat away with a pat. "I thought you would never ask."

They walked for a few hours, and Ashlen struggled to keep up, but the juggler did not slow down. Soon, he was forced to find a way to keep pace.

Ashlen thought about visiting the city, but the juggler led him to regions he had never explored. Not that they were hidden; it just had never occurred to him to turn a certain corner or cross a particular square. They weren't dangerous or rude neighborhoods either—early in the morning, people were getting ready for work, the smell of bread filled the air, and merchants set up tents. They were neither rich nor poor areas—common; so common in everything that they blended into other memories.

Halfway there, an old woman in a corner asked them for alms. The juggler ignored her. All along the way, the woman drew attention, performing tricks and acrobatics for the few passersby. She even garnered some applause and a few Tibares, appearing just like a street acrobat.

Finally, they arrived at a house like many others. Not hidden at all; on the contrary, it was right next to a busy workshop that, Ashlen was surprised to discover, belonged to the Ironsmiths.

The juggler knocked on the door. She was greeted by a housekeeper in a clean uniform, compact in stature, with tightly tied hair and the face of someone who had been receiving visitors too early.

"Trying?" 

"Don't you have some milk and bread for two artists?"

The housekeeper muttered something vaguely polite and impatient, ushering them inside. From the street, several people looked at the scene and saw nothing strange.

The interior of the house was decorated discreetly with mediocre good taste. "Is this the one?" the housekeeper asked.

"Yes. Ashlen Ironsmith."

Suddenly, the governess tackled Ashlen to the floor, caught one of his arms in a deft lock, and covered his mouth. From her apron, a thin, strong rope emerged, binding his hands and feet together like a pig. Ashlen began to scream, but he was already gagged. The housekeeper assumed a fighting position for a moment before hoisting him up onto her shoulders like a sack and carrying him away.

"Who's there?" the juggler asked.

"Few. Most are on a mission or didn't bother to come."

Ashlen was taken to a room, into a closet with a ladder that led down into a massive basement that resembled a cross between a dungeon and a mansion. They traversed narrow corridors, passing torture devices and cells filled with caged creatures, and rooms full of complex mechanisms with uncertain functions. They passed through refined environments, where a perfectly arranged table awaited two diners who could be the king and queen, and immense wardrobes overflowing with dresses, coats, and exotic costumes, until they reached a meeting room.

Three unlikely figures were seated at a long table, waiting. A boy of six or seven years old looked wide-eyed at everything, an immensely fat man cried convulsively, bent over his own arms, and the old beggar woman who had approached them in the street seemed the frailest of them all, barely able to sit still. She nibbled on a cookie with her gums, taking a long time to swallow a piece.

The housekeeper produced a knife and cut Ashlen's bonds and gag. He could speak, but found nothing to say.

"Welcome, Ashlen Ironsmith," the boy said, slurring his words. "Do you like being arrested?"

Ashlen looked at everyone and then at the juggler. The man was crying, the housekeeper began to remove imaginary powder from somewhere, and the beggar woman continued to nibble on the cookie. 

"No."

"We will teach you whatever you want to know. You've been crippled for a year now. You'll learn to love the gangrene that stole your foot, Ashlen."

"How?" he tried to ask, but suddenly, the old woman jumped across the long table, grabbing him by his hair, with a dagger making a small point of blood at his neck.

"Welcome, Ashlen," the old woman said. "I'm the Beggar, and I'm the leader around here. We're all harmless, Ashlen, and so we can kill whoever we want, steal whatever we want, go wherever we want. We are expensive and we are good, and no one knows about us—without removing the dagger."

"Why?" Ashlen managed to say.

"You're a great candidate, and you can afford the training. If you want, you'll never be arrested again."

Ashlen swam in new ideas, trying to process everything.

Suddenly, a dry impact echoed from somewhere. A diffuse shape fell to the ground. After a moment, Ashlen realized it was a man with no arms or legs. He crawled on his stomach, presenting a grotesque comedy, until he was very close to the table.

"Good morning, Worm," said the Beggar.

The Worm coughed, choked, and expelled a necklace from his throat, adorned with a huge diamond. "Here it is," he said.

"Excellent. The Worm will train you, Ashlen. I've lost count of how many cripples he's taught over the years. What do you say?"

Ashlen accepted.

***

The guild had no name, and it was so simple and obvious that Ashlen had a hard time believing it. Their main goal was money. They worked on all fronts—murder, robbery, and extortion—and even provided training for those, like Ashlen, who wanted to turn a crippled appearance into an asset. In exchange for gold.

They were impossible to underestimate. The Worm, Ashlen discovered, was a master thief, capable of entering any structure and stealing anything. He had been caught multiple times but claimed that few guards had the stomach to do anything against a poor guy like him. People were masters at inventing plausible explanations for what didn't make sense to them.

"They create much better alibis than I could," he said, laughing.

The Boy had been adopted by a wealthy family, was thirty-four years old, and had seventy-eight deaths under his belt—including his current adoptive father. The Governess, an expert in unarmed combat, provided protection for powerful regents and nobles, often without their knowledge.

Ashlen was considered too perfect; his disability too small, but he could still be used.

That first day, Ashlen watched, listened, and learned the basics of maintaining a harmless appearance. At the end of the night, the juggler presented him with three amphorae full of wine. 

"Drink," she said. 

"No, I don't feel like drinking anymore. I want to learn."

"And your family won't notice if, from one day to the next, you stop being a worthless drunk? Until you learn how to fake it right, you're going to get drunk, and fast. Nothing about Ashlen's habits or behavior could change; nothing could attract attention. This included the bruises from beatings, which the Governess took care of without delay. 

In the stories, Ashlen remembered, a short training was enough to awaken a hidden potential in the hero. It wasn't like that in the guild. Ashlen trained for eleven years, pretending to live the same life of wine and whores.

Until he was deemed ready and kicked out of the house.

The next day, he tried to return, only to find it occupied by a new family of residents. Perhaps they were all members of the guild—a housewife, a shoemaker husband, and two children—or perhaps not.

He left without being seen, limping heavily, visible to everyone but noticed by no one.

***

Ashlen still didn't know what to do with his training. A year had passed, and he had remained sharp but uncertain. He had thought about looking for the old group, discovering if anyone had died—or if anyone lived. Then he woke up one morning, only to find himself blind.

He groped out of bed, his ears wide open, maintaining the appearance of limping and sliding around the room. He opened the door, went downstairs, and knew it was morning by the smell. He stepped carefully, his metal foot never making a sound, and he heard no noise in the house. But then he heard a trickle.

Ashlen listened for a moment, searching for danger, and decided it wasn't water, as it was too viscous. Blood. Immediately, he was at the bottom of the stairs, groping for the back door, seeking no explanation or thought—just escape. His real foot brushed against a texture of hair, and he moved his head free. Ashlen bent down, telling himself not to, and felt his father's cold face. The body wasn't far away.

He ran, resting his metallic foot lightly on the floorboards, zigzagging like a mouse. In a corridor, he was invaded by the iron smell of profuse blood. The bile rose in his esophagus and filled his mouth, and he knew that it was Anton's corpse. He forgot to be careful, forgot to be quick, and he felt the lined faces in the corridor—eight brothers, many servants, and an unfortunate old man who had been passing by.

A tiny scrape behind him startled Ashlen, and he bolted to his feet, running. He stepped carelessly at a point where, through practice, he knew something was wrong. His ankles were entangled, caught in a tight noose, and he was thrown into the air, head down—trapped in the same position in which he had torn his foot.

Ashlen screamed, but a gauntleted hand clamped down on his throat, taking away his voice. He could only cough.

"You're good," said the voice. "Better than I imagined. It was wise to blind you first—a little test. Maybe I had underestimated you. It's always good to be cautious." Ashlen felt himself being tied up, his arms twisted behind his back. Handcuffs bound his hands, and a rope connected everything to his feet, bending him backward and hurting his back. "You're going to answer some questions for me, Ashlen Ironsmith. You will answer me, and then you will die because I want to and because I have to. Do you understand? I already killed your entire family, even those who weren't in this house. It was your fault, and you will answer me because you will be tortured, because you feel guilty and because there is no harm in answering me."

The gauntlet grabbed Ashlen's finger and broke it. He still couldn't scream. "I'll start the torture soon because I think it's a waste of time trying to convince you first. Let's just say this is a sample, and I can continue as I please." 

Ashlen flew through questions. He even allowed himself a bright streak as he considered it a final test for the guild.

"Tell me about your old group, Ashlen Ironsmith. Your band of adventurers. What happened to them?"

Ashlen could suddenly speak, but he didn't say anything. He didn't know. He had left the group when the mutilation turned adventures into tragedies, and he had never seen anyone again. He had learned that Vallen Allond, his former leader, had looked for him at home shortly after all that. He had hidden himself in shame and mixed regrets.

"I don't know anything. I haven't seen them for many years."

The voice fell silent for a moment, as if in consideration. Then it broke another of his fingers. "What happened on that mission? The hunt for the killer. What happened, Ashlen?" 

He had never found out whether the albino killer had been captured. He would only live a futile, maddening chase. Maybe everyone had lived through it; perhaps it would never have ended, and everyone would have died, with the albino escaping without anyone ever finding him. "There was a wizard, wasn't there? What was his name? Who was part of the group?"—another finger broke.

Ashlen almost smiled and opened his mouth to tell. He remembered everyone, as if all that had happened just now. Somehow, he felt that his current life was passing very quickly, that very little time had passed, and if he happened to meet the others, everything would be exactly the same.

He knew, and he felt compelled to tell to satisfy the voice, but then he remembered who it was. "There were five elves," said Ashlen. "All trained in Tamu-ra, and were luxury prostitutes and clerics of the Crocodile God"—and he laughed.

"Lie!" the voice spat, pulling out a tooth with its hand.

Tears streamed backward down Ashlen's forehead, but he was still laughing. He was being tortured—much worse than that, he was trapped, and if he continued like this, a liquid fear told him he would lose his hand too. But he decided he wouldn't betray his companions. He wouldn't say anything, no matter how futile, and he would escape because he was Ashlen Ironsmith.

"In fact, there were thirteen dwarves looking for treasure. I accompanied them to a dragon's lair."

Ashlen knew his tormentor was in front of him, watching closely, but he began working on his hands and feet without the other noticing. When the other hit him or broke something, Ashlen writhed as if in pain, but it was a millimeter of movement that loosened the ropes. Soon, the knots were undone, held in place by sheer immobility. 

He pulled out a small wire stuck under his fingernail and opened the handcuffs. He held them so they wouldn't make noise, and when he felt the air stir with a fist coming back to punch him, Ashlen broke free.

He was still blind, but he was sure he heard a gasp of astonishment in the voice. In an acrobatic movement, he landed on his feet and jumped, using the prosthesis for speed, over the corpses of his brothers. A sword's edge passed him a hair's breadth away, but Ashlen was quicker, hiding in plain sight inside the house, reaching the door, and entering the street.

A small community of beggars had formed outside the Ironsmith house. Old Roland and especially Andrei had tried every method to expel them, but they always returned. Oddly enough, they were all cripples.

Ashlen disappeared among the men he had planted there months before and vanished down an alley. Within hours, his vision returned. 

He decided to run away.

The Ironsmith family had many properties, and Ashlen passed through all of them during his escape. Each one was attacked and destroyed, always by the executioner he had managed to glimpse one day. The figure wore full black armor, wielded two swords, and had a skull-shaped helmet. Ashlen crossed the Kingdom on the run from Black Skull, and no hiding place provided safety for more than a few weeks. There was always an informant, a traitor, someone secretly working for the bounty hunter. Ashlen never discovered why the man was chasing him, but he had been hunted for months, and he was determined not to die, not to speak, and not to be arrested.

He was, after all, an escapist. Running away was what he did.

The stakes had risen because Black Skull suddenly had troops. Ashlen didn't think he could run much longer until he reached Fort Arantar.

***

Of everything, Ashlen only told a part. He spoke of the massacre of his family and the hunt.

He didn't mention the guild, as it was dangerous, nor did he speak of the old group, for he had now decided to be loyal.

Even if he hadn't been before.

"That doesn't explain a damn thing, boy," Ingram said.

Ashlen shrugged.

"Well," said Sir Orion Drake, "we will help you."