A Thief in the Palace: A Wielders Novel, #4

By Anthony James

Tan Skulks is a thief, but now he's been asked to assassinate a king.

A brief stop in the city of Jingus becomes much more involved than Skulks had bargained for. An unexpected meeting with two men sends him on a dangerous mission - one that he can't possibly refuse and doesn't dare fail.

Wizards and demons are vying for control of the city and when everyone's trying to kill each other, it's not easy to decide who is friend and who is foe.

Fortunately, in a situation like this, there is always the opportunity for a man versed in the noble arts of thievery to abscond with a bulging sack of someone else's property.

All roads lead to the Queen's palace, where there's plenty of chance for adventure. Can Skulks once more save the day?

A Thief in the Palace is the fourth instalment in the exciting and humorous Wielders series.

This book was previously published under the author name Max Anthony.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony James
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223523253

Book preview

A THIEF IN THE PALACE

Tan Skulks is a thief, but now he’s been asked to assassinate a king.

A brief stop in the city of Jingus becomes much more involved than Skulks had bargained for. An unexpected meeting with two men sends him on a dangerous mission - one that he can’t possibly refuse and doesn’t dare fail. Wizards and demons are vying for control of the city and when everyone’s trying to kill each other, it’s not easy to decide who is friend and who is foe.

Fortunately, in a situation like this, there is always the opportunity for a man versed in the noble arts of thievery to abscond with a bulging sack of someone else’s property.

All roads lead to the Queen’s palace, where there’s plenty of chance for adventure. Can Skulks once more save the day?

A Thief in the Palace is the fourth instalment in the exciting and humorous Wielders series.

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JINGUS SUNSET

The hour was late and the wizard Pookonimus was struggling to concentrate. Before him on his desk sat a weighty tome, into which he’d been writing some ideas for magic spells to improve the lives of others. ‘Brain Bombardment’ was the latest buzz-term from on high.

Sit in a quiet room and jot down all of your thoughts as quickly as possible. Don’t reject anything, no matter how foolish it seems, went the instruction from Hinty Tipple, the recently-elected head of the Wizard and Mage Advisory Board. ‘Advisory’ was something of a misnomer in this case and Hinty Tipple was already proving herself to be a keen dictator.

Pookonimus was going to give a presentation to the board next week and he was eager to impress. Although not especially materialistic in nature, he did have his eye on a swanky new purple hat that all the big wheels in wizardry were beginning to strut around in. Swanky new purple hats didn’t pay for themselves and Pook was rather hoping to get a promotion this year, with a commensurate increase in his salary.

He put aside his writing stick and looked at what he’d committed to the page, his lips moving slightly as he read.

Gracious spell of wizardly plenty. To be cast on the eve of Wizard’s Day to bring a feast to the general populace. To be accompanied by drink and much merriment. Use of this spell will promote Wizard’s Day and boost the profile of the Wizard and Mage Advisory Board.

It wasn’t the greatest idea he’d ever come up with, admittedly. In fact, when he stared at it for some time, he realised that it was actually a load of codswallop. Agatha, the Stooped Queen of Jingus, wasn’t the cruelest of rulers by any means, until recently at least, but she wasn’t stupid. If she thought that a bunch of wizards were looking to undermine her authority with a ‘Wizard’s Day’ celebration, she’d soon have them carted off to the cells for a session of intense questioning. Pook didn’t fancy the idea of having a sharp piece of metal pushed down behind his fingernails. He picked up his writing stick again.

What is the collective noun for wizards? he muttered under his breath as he wrote. Calling us a bunch of wizards makes us sound like bananas or sausages. How about a majesty of Wizards? No, that might antagonise royalty. A greatness of Wizards?

He ceased his musings and laid the pen to one side again, wondering at the nonsense that this Brain Bombardment method had prompted him to write. Pook looked out of the window. The sun was in the last minutes before it set completely below the horizon. Its deep red glow filtered through the winter clouds on the horizon in a sight of almost heart-stopping beauty. ‘Jingus sunset’ they called it in the tourist brochures. ‘Sit with your loved ones on a roof terrace and lose yourselves in the Jingus sunset’. Not that the brochures mentioned how you’d be freezing your bits off in the process of watching the spectacle, because Jingus Sunsets primarily took place during the winter months.

Pook wasn’t stupid and knew when he was distracting himself. He’d once heard someone say Always give work to the busiest person. Right now, Pook was very, very busy and the work just kept on rolling in. He still had a book of accounts to sort out and had recently noted one or two large and unexpected discrepancies in the record-keeping that he needed to follow up on. Also, there were some meeting minutes to write up and countless other minor administrative tasks that would keep him away from his preferred duties of working on new and exciting spells. Spells that exploded or summoned colourful birds – not these silly spells to do away with disease or conjure food for the hungry. Then, an idea came to him and he stood up in excitement, clapping his hands together in happiness at it.

I’ll get an assistant! he said.

1

The sky was full dark above. A rowing boat made its way slowly through the choppy waters towards a stone jetty some distance away. The jetty itself was clearly visible, illuminated as it was by the countless bright lights along the Jingus docks. The evening was a time for celebration, though for most this merrymaking was in honour of little more than the end of a long day’s toil. Jingus was a wealthy city, but down on the docks the hard men and women who laboured there day after day had hardly anything to look forward to, apart from a warm tavern and a heavy meal. Such small pleasures were what kept the city in order.

The rowing boat had an oil lamp tied to its prow, its wan light scarce enough to illuminate the faces of the men who were sat there. Two of these men strained at the oars, grunting with the effort, though in truth they were young and strong, hands leathery from years of oar-friction, shoulders and backs broad and powerful. Their faces were dissimilar, except for their expressions. Both were somewhat peeved to be out at sea in a rowing boat, when they’d have far rather been five cups into the evening’s ale drinking.

The assistant harbourmaster sat closest to the oil lamp. He looked like an old workhorse and indeed he was. He was called Pilk Thatch, but known to all as ‘Fatch’, owing to his problems with voiceless dental fricatives. Fatch was past the age where he enjoyed smacking the rumps of unwilling tavern girls and getting falling-down drunk every night. Nevertheless, he’d have rather been tucked up in bed than freezing his todger off in the front seat of a creaking little boat in the Jingus harbor. Fatch was a pleasant fellow in general and prone to gossip with any newcomers to Jingus. Although he wasn’t widely-travelled himself, he was content to explore the world vicariously through the tales of others.

Fatch and his crew were rowing two men ashore this evening, from the merchant ship Happy Landings. This ship had left the city of Hardened two weeks ago, and it had been due to dock yesterday morning, but an unfavourable wind had delayed the ship’s progress, leaving it anchored off-shore, where it awaited the morning light. The Happy Landings’ captain planned to remain docked for a few days while the ship was unloaded and reloaded, so the first mate had been sent ashore to procure lodgings for those who would prefer not to stay aboard. The mate was called Juck, a thick-set man with a broad, stubbled face and a permanently furrowed brow. He’d already cracked a series of increasingly filthy jokes with the oarsmen in an attempt to cheer them up, though only the one about the harbourmaster and the buttered chicken had raised a smile.

Next to the first mate sat another man. This man was something of a mystery and Fatch could think of no reason why he might be coming ashore with such urgency. He had dark hair and was dressed all in black. He was of average height with a slim build and nothing whatsoever about him suggested he was of any note. Fatch cleared his throat, the sound suggesting that a considerable quantity of mucus was dislodged as he did so.

Been to Jingus before? he asked, directing his words at the man dressed in black.

A time or two, came the reply.

It’s a shame that winter’s drawing in, though the cold weather brings out the meatball stands. You can’t beat a good meatball cooked in cheese. Fatch thought he saw a flicker of interest at these words, yet the man uttered no response.

And it drives the wizards indoors, too, continued Fatch conversationally. Seems like we’ve got more wizards here than we used to. A lot of them spend the cold season in Jingus because our winter is a lot shorter and milder than elsewhere. The light from the oil lamp was unsteady so Fatch couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a small tic appeared next to the passenger’s face at the mention of wizards. The man in black stroked one of his hands, a faraway look on his face. Fatch looked closely because it appeared that the stroked hand was inexplicably a lighter shade than the other.

The remainder of the short journey was completed in silence. Even the first mate had given up on his jokes and spent his time studying the lights along the shoreline. Eventually, with a bump and a scrape, the rowing boat came alongside a low stone jetty, build specifically for smaller vessels to arrive and depart. Fatch spent a few moments tying the boat off against a thick metal bar. He turned back to the passengers.

Take it carefully up the ladder please. You don’t want to take an unexpected dip in the harbour.

Fatch blinked a couple of times in surprise. Instead of two passengers, there was now only one. He looked quizzically at Juck. The first mate simply shrugged and pointed up the ladder to indicate that Tan Skulks had already made it safely onto the dockside.

2

Tan Skulks shivered, though it was not because of the chill evening air. His vastly high metabolic rate kept him warm in the depths of the coldest winters, even if he did experience a certain degree of shrinkage and shrivelling in his undergarments when the weather become especially bitter. The reason for this shiver was anticipation, as he watched the man in front of him push a dozen meatballs around on a hotplate. Skulks’ salivary glands flooded his mouth painfully as the smell reached his nostrils. Slowly and tantalizingly, the meatballs approached readiness.

That’ll be six Flags please, young man, said the elderly gentleman at the stall, little realizing that Skulks was by several centuries the older of the two.

Skulks reached into a pocket and withdrew a ten Flag coin, which he handed over. Give me an extra four Flags’ worth on top please, he said, wishing he’d just asked for more in the first place. He watched as more meatballs joined the first batch on the hotplate. The food served on the Happy Landings had been peculiar and inadequate. The cook thought of himself as a cut above and had tried to dazzle with an array of what were described as ‘exquisite dishes’, but which Skulks thought were horrendous. He recalled one occasion when he’d been reduced to staring at a few leaves of wilted spinach artfully arranged on his plate, when all he’d really wanted to eat was a suet pudding. The captain had been in favour of the new healthy eating regime on board, to the extent that he’d once commanded the crew give the cook a round of applause after a particularly unctuous serving of artichokes in honey.

Skulks had suffered in silence for some days, puzzled by the crew’s acceptance of the food put in front of them. Being a sailor was demanding work and such men normally had simple tastes: they liked meat, pastry and lots of it. If it brought them out in spots, then so be it. Skulks had even explored the crew’s quarters early one morning, convinced that they kept a hidden stash of meat products somewhere in their hammocks in order to sustain themselves. They had not. The only conclusion Skulks had been able to draw was that the crew genuinely enjoyed their meals, as bizarre as that might be.

Driven by desperation, Skulks had searched through the cargo hold, eventually finding a barrel that contained dried, salted fish, mixed with a not-inconsiderable quantity of flies which had alighted on the product during the drying process. After two days of resistance, Skulks had raided the barrel and found the contents to be delicious, in spite of the flies. Unfortunately, the fish took so much chewing that Skulks felt he was probably expending more energy in mastication than he was gaining from digestion. So all things considered, he was quite ready for a plate of meatballs.

The meatball seller heaped the first batch of twelve into a paper cone, sprinkled them with cheese and topped it all off with a few chopped herbs. Skulks was keen to indulge in conversation because he’d not been to Jingus in many years, but every time he opened his mouth to speak, his hand pushed a meatball into the aperture. The elderly gentleman watched patiently. Business was poor tonight and he’d already charged Skulks tourist rates on a four-Flag batch of his semi-fresh meatballs, though Skulks knew when he was being fleeced and had already stolen back his ten Flag coin. It was not usual behaviour for Skulks to steal from food vendors, but he didn’t like to be taken advantage of so flagrantly.

Only a short time passed before twelve meatballs became zero meatballs. As he waited for his next four Flags’ worth, Skulks dipped his toe in the conversational waters.

I’m heading for Casks in the morning, he said. Any news about what’s happening in that end of the world?

You’re correct to call it the end of the world, said the meatball seller. Though ‘arse end’ would be more appropriate. The word is that King Meugh’s settled with King Warmont for peace, though everyone knows that Warmont’s got nothing left. Lula Grindy’s been a thorn in Meugh’s side for a while now, but everything’s settled down for the winter, they say.

Do you reckon Meugh will come for Jingus when he’s done with Grindy? asked Skulks.

What do I know? I only sell meatballs for a living, said the man, suddenly wondering why he was volunteering information without payment. If it’s political opinion you want, get yourself to a tavern. It’s not like there’s a shortage of them.

This small outburst surprised Skulks, who was accustomed to finding out fifty percent of his useful knowledge from food vendors. Normally they wouldn’t shut up when asked to venture an opinion on local or world affairs. The flickering of guilt Skulks had started to feel about stealing back his ten Flag coin was washed away by the fellow’s abrupt response. He took his second helping of meatballs.

Perhaps I’ll do just that, he said to the man, leaving him to his hotplate and on-the-turn meat-based wares.

Jingus was a wonderful city for the wealthy. For the not-so-wealthy it could be a death-trap of endless, back-breaking work in order to eke out a meagre living, all so that one could have the privilege of dying without a Flag to one’s name, but with a severely atrophied liver, arthritis and blood vessel linings that were furrier than a rat’s bum.

As with all cities, the architecture reflected the contrasts between the rich and poor. On the dockside, a vast flow of money from commerce fought a running battle with the poverty endemic in the people who worked here. Most of the buildings were tall and loomed dark, with bright lights set behind many of the windows. The dockside itself was cobbled and shabby, but even at this late hour it was populated by roustabouts and urchins, with the occasional well-to-do gentleman hurrying quickly through. It was exactly what Skulks liked in a city.

Skulks had a mission, one that he’d been tasked by none other than the worthy Heathen Spout of Hardened’s Chamber Council. As she’d delivered her instructions, Skulks had been looking out of the window and thinking about socks, but even so he had not needed her to repeat the words.

Tan, she’d said. The Chamber Council wants you to kill King Meugh.

He hadn’t been surprised by this. In fact, he’d known exactly why he’d been invited into her office, which was why he’d been thinking about socks instead of paying attention. He was wearing these socks now. He’d picked up a pack of five pairs for three Slivers, which he’d thought was a bargain at the time, but now his big toe was poking through the end of the third pair and it was already looking likely that he’d need to buy some more. Damned cheap rubbish, he thought to himself, wriggling his foot to try and get his protruding big toe back inside its sock. His efforts were in vain, but had provided all the distraction he’d needed to reach the place he wanted to be, just as he finished his last meatball. Bimble’s Beauty said the sign hanging from the wall.

Well, well, it’s still here, said Skulks to himself as he absent-mindedly batted away the seeking hand of a seven-year-old pickpocket.

Me mates’ll come and get you, mister, called the offended little oik as Skulks vanished inside the tavern.

Giving little heed to the threats of a seven-year-old, Skulks walked to the bar. The lady behind looked at him, too bored to muster a smile.

I’ll have a mug of Whooper’s Beam, please, Skulks informed her. And a plate of your finest meatballs also.

We don’t have no finest meatballs, said the lady, hardly even willing to be civil. They’re just meatballs. So don’t you come in here with your airs and graces, wanting fancy meatballs.

Skulks smiled at her, already wondering if there was something about him that was bringing forth the inner rudeness in all of Jingus’ people. Instead of returning rudeness with rudeness, or stealing the bar lady’s silk garter she wore beneath her apron, he asked:

How’s old Hagface? Still owns the place, does he?

At the mention of Hagface Bimble, the lady’s face became only moderately surly. He’s my dad, he is. How’d you know him, then?

Skulks’ face brightened. Little Rita Bimble? I was drinking with your father when you were a babe in his arms. He used to put vintage Cow’s Piss in your bottle when you wouldn’t sleep. ‘Nothing but the best for my Rita’, he’d tell me.

The bar lady perked up a fraction at Skulks’ musing, even serving him a full mug of ale, instead of disguising a short mug with a quantity of froth. Then she looked suspicious again.

How’d you know me when I was a baby? You look hardly older than me.

Skulks had been asked similar questions in the past, so deflected this one with ease. I’m older than I look, said he. And I was blessed with young-looking parents. Also, I ensure I cleanse my face every day with a variety of expensive and all-natural ingredients. This last bit was certainly not true. The only all-natural ingredient that found its way onto his skin with any sort of regularity was the drool which leaked copiously from his mouth whenever he slept.

In truth, Skulks wasn’t really that keen to re-acquaint himself with Hagface Bimble, the man being something of a bore. He’d come to this tavern for old-times’ sake more than anything. Just as Rita Bimble decided that Skulks was the most interesting man she’d ever met and started telling him about her childhood, he feigned a tightening of his chest and excused himself that he might sit down, though not before he’d reminded her that he’d ordered a plate of meatballs.

Wheezing through clenched teeth, Skulks found himself a table as far from the bar as possible and dropped into a chair, whereupon he enacted a most remarkable recovery from the constriction he’d felt within his ribcage. He looked about the place. It was three-quarters full, with the majority of patrons clustered as close to the roaring fire as they could get. The dockside buildings were invariably ancient and most of them were poorly-maintained. Consequently, Skulks was not surprised to feel a draught whistling up his trouser leg, just as another draught found its way down the back of his neck. He looked behind him and saw gaps around the panes of the window next to where he sat. Some of these gaps had been partially-filled with what looked to be a mixture of dried sputum, mucus and snot, doubtless left by customers who preferred to drink their ale in the warmth.

Skulks sipped at his ale and considered his situation. Some weeks ago, he’d stabbed the demon King Meugh twice in the back while the monarch was head down in his privy pan belatedly trying to evacuate some poisoned beef from his stomach. Undaunted by the holes through his innards, King Meugh had proven himself to be stubborn and persistent in his efforts to depose the rightful administration of Hardened, even going so far as to send in a necromancer with a potion that would have turned the city’s occupants into a shambling army of undead slaves.

At the time he’d stabbed Meugh, Skulks had agonized over whether he was an assassin or a thief. It hadn’t taken him long to decide that a murderously-intent demon deserved nothing in the way of such deliberations, hence the striking blades it had been unhappy to find slicing easily through its enormous cage of protective wards.

Now, Skulks had been sent for a second bite at the demonic cherry. The Chamber Council had decided it was best if they cast aside their efforts at international relations, as King Meugh didn’t even pay lip service to honesty and decency, what with him being a demon and all. Thus, the requirement for Skulks to make this trip overseas. However, the port of Casks was currently closed to shipping and even had it been open to traffic, it would have been unwise for Skulks to skip down the gangplank into the waiting arms of the King’s Ears.

Why don’t I just row ashore a little bit further along the coast? he’d asked.

Because we have some more international relations for you to assist with. In Jingus, Heathen Spout had replied. We need you to see Queen Agatha.

Skulks was a splendid smooth-talker, but a diplomat he was not. Even he occasionally recognized the fact. So why not send someone else with me to speak to this queen? he’d asked.

We don’t require you to do any diplomacy, Spout had replied. You simply need to hand her a letter that we’ll give you. And then go and kill Meugh.

In other circumstances, Skulks would have thought this all to be most excellent. A super jaunt overseas, during which he’d indulge in a spot of gambling with the crew on the ship, before meeting with royalty and then killing a demon masquerading as a human king. This was just