The Fly Guild (21 page)

Men spilled in behind him. Some were
security men and some were soldiers. All had weapons out and were ready to
fight, but there was no enemy to be found.

The elf sat back down on the bed as the
men continued to look for the unseen enemy. “A human boy, about 12 or so. He
has my boots and my sword and went out the window. A huge reward is offered to
the man who brings me my belongings back.” The men knew the elf was rich beyond
their wildest dreams. Half ran to the window and the other half headed back
down stairs, yelling about the reward to everyone.

While all this was going on, Quinton
managed to get part way back to the roof by going along the other side of the
window, but his progress was very slow. He heard the men break in, then heard
nothing, but the next thing he knew, there were several angry and greedy faces
poking out the window, looking for the boy and the reward.

“Where’s the boy?” one of them yelled to
the guards below. One of them looked up.

“What?” Then he saw Quinton. He pointed
excitedly. “There’s a man on the wall.”

The man looking out the window looked to
his left. His mouth fell open as he saw Quinton clinging to the wall. “Here
comes my reward.” He tried to swing his sword, but it was too short to reach
him. Quinton desperately began searching for the next handhold or foothold, but
the building was very smooth.

“Give me a spear!” the man yelled, but
others were already trying to crowd past him so they could be the one to get
the elf’s belongings back. It was a mass jumble at the window as heads banged
into heads and weapon points got bumped into. Multiple cries of pain emitted
from the room as the guards were accidentally cutting each other.

One of the guards below moved away from
the building and flipped the spear in his hand up over his shoulder, ready to
throw. “I’ll get him,” he said calmly.

Looking over his shoulder, Quinton saw
that the man was taking aim at him. The man’s arm snapped forward and he saw
the spear coming for him. It was a little off target but was headed for his
left arm. He instinctively moved it, but by doing so, lost his precarious hold
on the wall. The spear hit the plaster, its blade blunting on the hard surface,
then dropped to the ground. Quinton tried to grab at something, but there just
wasn’t anything there. Both feet slipped, and he braced to hit the street
below. 

But nothing happened. He and all the
guards, including the half-dozen heads leaning out the window, all looked on in
disbelief, their eyes wide, as he just stood on the air, not holding anything.
Quinton wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t falling, but just standing there
wasn’t doing him much good. The other three guards below were already moving to
throw their spears at him.

He leaned forward, his hands searching
for something. His lifted his left foot and felt along for a toehold. He found
a very small ridge and attempted to pull himself up. His foot slipped off of it
almost immediately, but his foot didn’t come down. It was almost as if he were standing
on an invisible rung of a ladder. Using the same motion he would use to step up
onto a low wall, Quinton moved up into the air a few feet. Two spears hit where
he had just been and clattered to the ground below. He lifted his right knee as
if to climb the next rung on the invisible ladder and moved up again. Then he
did it in quick succession, gaining the edge of the roof. But when he went to
step forward, he didn’t move anywhere and continued to float in the air. It was
no different than if he had been on a ladder and was trying to walk off of it.
His foot just pawed the air, with nothing to support him.

By this time, the men below were shouting
and Quinton could see more torches -- a lot of torches -- heading toward the
building from both directions. Reinforcements were on the way, and there were
sure to be some archers in the lot. He’d be brought down like a wounded goose.
He couldn’t get onto the roof by moving forward, so he went the only direction
he knew worked: up. Step after step he went, getting higher and higher until
the building blended in to all the other buildings below and the individual men
were no longer visible.

He began to worry that whatever magic was
in the boots or the sword would run out and he would plummet back to the
ground. And even if it didn’t, he couldn’t live the rest of his life hovering
several hundred feet above the city. It was much breezier up high than it was
down on the street, but it felt good as the sweat evaporated from his forehead
and his hands. He looked down and noticed that he had moved laterally in the
wind. He could see the lights from the shoreline and a few small specks of
torches in various parts of the city. Apparently the breeze was strong enough
that it was actually pushing him a bit.

Probably an hour had passed, and he was
beginning to really worry. How did you get down? He tried doing a reverse
ladder-climbing motion, but that didn’t work at all. He couldn’t get his foot
to go down beyond the invisible force. He was really getting tired of standing
and his ankles were getting stiff. He started to roll his ankles around to
stretch them out, then momentarily drifted down a few feet when he pointed his
toes down.

“Of course,” he said. He stretched his
feet so the toes on both his feet were pointed down. He slowly began to descend
through the darkness. Within a few moments, he drifted to a comfortable landing
on top of a roof well away from the plaster building. Apparently he had drifted
further in the wind than he realized, but he was glad to be back on the ground
again. He carefully walked across the roof and found that the magic wasn’t
impeding his regular progress anymore. He lifted his leg high, using the ladder
motion again, and instantly went back up in the air one step. He pointed his
boots down and drifted back down. He had it figured out. Just to be safe, he
took off the sword and tried it again. It worked the same way, which told him
the magic was in the boots and not the sword. He grabbed the sword, strapped it
on and headed for the edge of the building. Compared to the plaster wall, the
old stone was a breeze to descend. When he was within a few feet of the ground,
he dropped down silently, kept to the shadows and made his way back to the
guild.

***

When Quinton entered the Guild, Red eye squinted
as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing.

“What are you doing here?” he
stammered. 

Quinton had never seen him so
discombobulated. His usual arrogance was missing. He reached in and pulled out
the scroll tubes from his shirt. “Mission accomplished,” he said, shoving the
tubes into Red eye’s chest.

Red eye grabbed the items, then stared at
them for a moment as if Quinton had placed a handful of snakes into his palm.
He finally regained his composure, but his eyes widened when he saw the sword
around his waist. 

“Give me that weapon,” he demanded. His
eyes narrowed as he put his other hand out.

“I claim this sword and these boots under
the guild’s seventh law,” Quinton said, his voice firm and his right hand
resting on the pommel of the sword.

Red eye pursed his lips and half raised
his hand as if to strike him. “Who are you to lecture me on the laws of this
guild, you worthless maggot?” His voice was almost a scream. “Who do you think
you are?”

Quinton felt no fear of the man anymore.
He was confident and saw Red eye for what he was: a coward. “I am Quinton. I
have accomplished my task and have claimed these items as prescribed by guild
law.”

“How dare you use your name,” he said,
his voice falling to a whisper. “How dare you, you worthless maggot. He started
to raise his hand again, but stopped when he saw Quinton’s hand move from the
pommel of the sword to the grip. He stared at the boy for a few seconds before
speaking again. “The room next to Fist’s office. Go there and wait.” He didn’t
even wait for Quinton to comply but left the room and disappeared back into the
main part of the guild.

***

Quinton waited in the small room that
held only a small table with three good legs, the fourth being a small stack of
flat stones halfway down, along with a few mismatched chairs that were in poor
shape. He had been in the room for the better part of an hour, his mind clear
of any troubles or thoughts, when he heard loud voices coming from the
direction of Fist’s offices. Men were yelling, and one booming voice stood out
above the others.

The door swung open, drawing Quinton’s
attention from the small black beetle that was making its way up the table leg.
“Fist will see you now,” said Red eye, who avoided eye contact with him. He led
Quinton to the door, opened it, showed him in, then closed it behind him as he
left.

Fist was standing in front of his desk,
his arms crossed and a deadly stare on his face. Beside him stood Sands, who
looked concerned and also looked like he had been in a fight or two tonight.

“You turned the guards on us,” said Fist
flatly.

“I completed my mission as instructed,”
Quinton said, his voice devoid of any emotion. If Fist rushed him, he would
draw his sword and fight the man as best he could. 

Fist studied him for a minute, looking at
the boots and the sword. “You will give me those items,” he said, pointing at
the sword and boots. 

“I claim them under the seventh law of
the guild,” he said.

Fist sneered. “You would do well to do
what I say.” Sands turned to look at Fist.

“The maggot is correct, my lord. He has
claimed the items during a mission assigned to him by his seniors. He has the
right to take them, as they were not part of his assignment.”

“Do not lecture me on my laws!” Fist
boomed. His mind was torn as he greedily looked at the sword and boots but knew
the repercussions of not following the laws would be precarious. If he broke
the law, that would be the signal to all the guild members that the laws no
longer applied and they could do whatever they wanted and his empire would
quickly run dry of food and money. He required another tactic.

“You used your name to Master Red eye.”
Fist was now calm. He was in charge again. “We took your name from you when you
entered the guild. Only we can give you a name. Your punishment is death,
unless you agree to hand over those items. If you do so, I will forgive your
transgression and you may return to the maggot pit unharmed.”

Quinton looked at Sands, but his face
offered no clues as to what to do. He looked back at Fist and knew that his
life hung on every word.

“Master Fist, Master Sands,” he started.
“I was assigned a mission that was extremely difficult. I completed the mission
as asked and provided you with the information you sought. My life was in great
risk throughout the mission.” He paused momentarily to let the two men know he
was well aware of the setup that failed. “I achieved the mission and avoided
capture. The reputation of this guild will grow tenfold because of what
happened tonight. The Fly Guild walked into the walled city, entered one of its
most secure spots and walked out with whatever it wanted. As a result of these
actions, I request that I be promoted to master for my accomplishments.”

Fist started to speak, but Sands quickly
cut him off. “As the apprentice’s master, I approve of his petition and fully
endorse it. What he accomplished tonight is more than many of our existing
members have achieved in an entire lifetime of service.”

Fist glared at Sands. Quinton figured
that Sands had just taken advantage of a political situation, most likely the
fact that only a master can petition for acceptance.

“You play with fire,” Fist muttered to
Sands, his giant hands clenched together into giant clublike fists. “But you
are also within the law to do so,” he added dejectedly.

Fist looked at the boy. “Very well,
maggot.” He walked back behind his desk, sat down in his chair and leaned back,
plopping his feet up onto it. “I accept Sands’ petition and make you a master.
You may use the name you want: Quinton.”

Quinton nodded in response, unsure of
what to say. 

Fist looked at Sands. “Tell the maggot,”
he paused and smiled sarcastically, “I mean Quinton here, what happened tonight
and what’s going on.”

Sands nodded and started the tale. As he
explained how they were going to set Quinton up and use him as a diversion for
Sands to break in, Quinton was uncomfortable, because he talked like Quinton
wasn’t even there. There was no remorse at all for potentially killing his own
apprentice.

“When you didn’t walk down the street as
planned, our entire operation fell apart. When you sent the guards from the
front door down the street, they eventually blundered into most of our people,
setting off alarms and calling for reinforcements. We were prepared to swoop in
as soon as the guards were weakened after your capture and simply overpower
everyone while I raided the room. But it didn’t quite work out that way.”

“Yes,” Fist interjected. “You outsmarted
us.” Quinton didn’t like his carefree tone. If it was possible, Fist looked
even more dangerous than before.

“We spent the rest of the night on the
run, and it wasn’t until we returned home that we were informed that you had
successfully completed the mission and stolen the scrolls,” Sands finished.

“And let’s not forget you also relieved
the elven viceroy of his sword and pretty boots,” Fist added. “He’s going to
want those back, you know. And there’s bound to be a big reward.” Fist looked
up to stare at him as he emphasized the last word.

Sands shifted uncomfortably and then
continued. “The scrolls, some of which are inventories and payrolls lists and
the like, proved very useful. One of the tubes contained what we were looking
for, as it yielded answers to many riddles.”

Fist dropped his feet back down to the
floor with a heavy thud. “It seems as though all the disappearances are the
doings of the elf, at least indirectly. He’s paying for each human male child.
Wren is just taking advantage of the situation. He wants us cleaned off the
streets, so he’s sapping our strength one maggot at a time. He figures as the
maggots dwindle, we’ll have less and less food and money and will be forced to
spend more time in the open, where he can stomp on us with his soldiers. Then
he would be rid of us once and for all.”