She matched his toast, blind to the intent of his good cheer. Hardly had the mugs clinked but Pinch was on his feet and ready to go. "You must give me leave, Priestess Lissa, but this robe suits me poorly. I must find a tailor with a quick hand. I have no desire to return to the palace dressed as I am." It was best to be gone quickly before she had the chance to reconsider her choice, and certainly his clothes offered the best excuse.

Their parting done, Pinch hurried down the street, into the city, and far away from the palace gates. There was still one more appointment to keep before he could begin the work Cleedis had commissioned of him.

Pinch found his company several hours later, after he'd got himself new dress. No locks were broken or heads cracked, but the Red Priests would be hard pressed to explain why one of their order was seen fleeing a laundry with a gentleman's wash.

The three had settled into the ordinary where Pinch had sent them. On the outside, it was a squalid place, just up the alley from the fishmongers' gathering place. To the south were the rat-infested docks, while the blocks just up the hill were notorious stews where man, woman, or thing could find most tawdry pleasures they sought. Here, in the gloomy zone between the two, the air reeked of seawater, fish guts, and cheap scented oils. The packed clay of the alley was slimy with fish cleaner's leavings and made musical by the chittering of rats and the belches of the resident drunks. In a way, Pinch had chosen the place for its ambiance; given the air and the locale, no honest man was likely to intrude on them.

Inside, the shop was little better. A smoky fire, sputtered by grease dripping from a questionable carcass that turned on the spit, overheated the cramped main room. This was little more than a trio of tables, scored and stained by knife fights and ale, and some rickety benches pressed up against the wall. The patrons, dock rats too hard up to visit even the meanest festhalls farther up and drunken sailors stopping in for one last toast on their way down from those same halls, eyed Pinch hungrily as he came through the canvas door. The rogue passed through their company without a word and made for the rooms upstairs.

Therin, Sprite, and Maeve were huddled at the lone table in the room Pinch had let. The rogue was pleased to see they'd exercised discipline and waited for his arrival instead of setting out on an ill-advised drinking spree. Of course, the jugs on the table showed they hadn't spent their entire time in sober contemplation.

"Run out of lamp oil while you were dressing, did you, Pinch?" smirked Therin when the master rogue found his friends. The regulator said not a word, but pulled up a chair and set himself at their table, back to a corner as was his custom. He was dressed ill matched and ill fitting, in tattered hose and a doublet that hung loose on his chest and short on the sleeves. About the only thing right about it were the somber dark colors, well suited to Pinch's needs for the night.

"Maybe he got caught catting and grabbed her husband's clothes instead of his own," Sprite snickered.

"Pinch, you wouldn't!" Maeve added in mock horror.

"Have your wit all well and good, but have you done as you were commanded?" Pinch glowered as he tried to pour the last slops out of the jug they'd already drained.

"Aye, three for all of us." Therin looked to the other two and they nodded agreement.

"I've found us an artificer who's gambled too poorly to meet his notes. He'll work quick with no questions for the right fee. I even filched us his fee." Sprite plopped a bag of coins on the table.

"Keep your profit," Pinch granted with uncharacteristic generosity, knowing full well the halfling had probably nipped twice what he was showing. "The copies?"

"Two sets of each," Sprite answered with a mischievous twinkle. "Thought maybe we could take the second set and sell it to some coney once the word gets 'round."

"How good's his work?"

"Faith, Pinch, he claims he's the best, but I ain't seen this blackjack and skene to compare."

Pinch accepted that. It was a pointless question anyway, since there was no more time.

"The layout? I've seen the inside. What more can you give me?"

Therin reached into his heavy buff coat and produced a greasy sheet of parchment that he carefully unfolded and spread over the table, avoiding the pools of drink.

"I-and Maeve," the Gur added in return for the wizardess's sharp kick under the table, "Maeve and me have compassed the whole of the place on this sheet. See this here"-he jabbed at a scratch mark on the sheet-"be the main gate, and that little mark there is their postern. Guard walks are here and go around in this fashion." The finger drew out the path on the sheet. "This cup and knife is kept in the tower-"

"I know, I saw it. Catchpoles?"

"The watch don't patrol the area heavy, according to the locals. They leave it to the priests to mind the peace."

"Good. What about spells and locks, Maeve?"

"Well, Pinch, love, I couldn't get a good read on the spells." Maeve looked down, sheepish that she hadn't been able to fulfill her role. "Those priests are awful leery. Felt like the standard set of wards on the doors and windows, but I'd wager the walls ain't guarded that way. Probably rely on watchmen for that."

"Beasts?"

"No scent, no track," Therin said.

"Well, thank Mask for that." Pinch leaned back and considered the map before speaking again. "Looks like it'll be a climbing job," he finally decided with disgust. Any hope of an easier way was dashed by the map laid out before him. "Sprite, it'll be you and me. We'll need rope and dark clothes."

The halfling spit a wad of something onto the floor and nodded.

"Therin, Maeve-get yourselves back to the palace. Get word to Cleedis that I need his package tonight. He'll find us across the square from the temple. Understood?"

"Aye, Pinch."

"Well then, summon up the landlord and get us more drink," Pinch ordered with grim cheer. "We're out to do some breaking tonight."

Night Work

The nightly steam was curling into the square from the streets and arcades. It was a thin mist but full of the flavor of fish grease and onions, bad cheese and night slops. Pinch didn't mind the stink where he sat, nestled in a dark corner. Sprite squatted at his feet, playing with his- dagger in the dust. The watch had come by twice already, calling the hours past midnight. Beyond the constables, men to be studiously avoided, the square was barely alive with the dregs of the night trade-drunken sailors vainly searching for the docks, noodle vendors closing up their carts, festhall ladies returning from assignations, and rakes prowling the ways for a fight. Pinch amused himself by picking out the foins and cutpurses among the dwindling revelers. They were easy enough to spot for a man who knew how to look: men who traveled in groups and pretended not to know each other, who circled around their mark like vultures in the sky.

Pinch watched his brothers as they watched their prey, always observant but never looking. He watched them with an idle professional interest, hoping to see a strike or a swindle new to him. Of particular interest was a trio of cardsharps who set up their game on the temple steps. It was a poor choice of place, with no privacy or distracting drink, which only meant this lot was a scrounging crew. The setter lured a coney in, the verser dealt him the cards, and the barnacle, the third, egged their mark on. Even from a distance, Pinch could see the verser was an amateur. He fumbled a chopped card so badly that only the quick thinking of the barnacle kept their coney from getting suspicious. It was clear that, at least on the basis of professional interest, there was nothing to be learned from these three.