"Stow all your bilge and drink sad. We're mourning Therin, clear?" Pinch hissed to the others as he snatched up his mug and put it to his lips.

"Here's to poor Therin," Sprite, always quick to follow his master's lead, said loudly.

"May he have a clean drop," Pinch added, seconding another round of toasts. He purposely turned away from the approaching guardsmen.

Before the toast could be downed, a gloved hand clapped hard on the lead rogue's shoulder. "Master Pinch," sliced the nasal voice of Wilmarq. "Not at the hanging? I was certain you'd be there." The officer casually took the wineskin from the table. "You're dry," he said sadly, shaking the empty sack. "More drink, innkeep, and mugs for my men. I'm sure our friend can pay."

As Gurin hurried over, Pinch shrugged the hand off his shoulder and turned his chair to face Wilmarq. "It's a sad day for some of us, Hellrider." His words were a monotone.

"Losing one of your gang is always a cause for sorrow, eh?" Wilmarq sneered as he held his tankard out for the hostler to fill. "Seems like a good day to me."

"Do you have business with us?" Pinch demanded. "If not, you're making the place smell like an unclean stable."

Wilmarq reddened and his nasal voice reached a higher whine. "I could arrest you for that lifting job on Crossmarket Lane last night! Some pretty parcels went missing."

"And I'd stand before the court with a score of witnesses swearing I was here last night, boozed in my sorrow," Pinch countered. "Go ahead, make yourself the fool, Wilmarq. Maybe they snipped your wits, too, when they made you a horse-loving eunuch."

"Horse-loving eu -? Damn you, you poxy bastard!" the Hellrider blustered. The officer's body trembled so violently that the metal studs of his armor clattered out his rage. Behind him, his men grinned at their commander's humiliation. "I got your Therin, and I'll get the lot of you yet!" Wilmarq finally snarled.

With a polished boot, he kicked the leg of Pinch's chair, snapping the flimsy wood. The thief sprang from his seat just before it clattered to the floor. He landed in a half-crouch, fingers trembling eagerly to hold a blade. At another time Pinch would have gutted the Hellrider without a thought. With the officer backed by his men, now was not that time. The drunken crowd was suddenly alive as bleary eyes watched the confrontation. Hands reached for heavy mugs, blades scraped softly from scabbards, and Gurin suddenly became interested in putting away his battered plate. The troopers backing Wilmarq stiffened.

Pinch calmly straightened as the situation's tenor became clear to all but Wilmarq. "Some counsel, Commander," the thief finally offered. "Never hit a man in his own house." Only then did the Hellrider see what his men had noted – little Sprite-Heels fondling his dagger as he crouched beneath the table, Maeve idly tracing out a mystic rune on the damp wood, even Corrick warming a dirk in the candle-flame.

Wilmarq sneered, wheeled about, and pushed through his as they backed their way toward the door. " 'Lo, they bravely rode into battle,'" caterwauled a lusty voice in the crowd, singing the opening verse of a popular song. The shoddy tavern shuddered with the howl of laughter that rose from the crowd, a humor that only the Hellriders did not share. Within moments a hodge-podge chorus played the bard to serenade the fleeing patrol.

"Thank your gods for making Wilmarq an ass," Pinch chortled as he pulled up another chair.

Corrick looked up from wiping the soot off his blade and fixed a glaring eye on his boss. "Maybe, but 'e caught Therin on the double-quick."

"And word is Wilmarq'll get promoted for it," Sprite added as he scrambled out from under table. "Maybe Therin was good for something, after all."

"It ain't right," Maeve moaned as she plopped drunkenly into her chair. She made a clumsy kick at Sprite. "He gets a promotion and Therin hangs. It ain't right!"

"Not right indeed – tracking him down to your own house, Maeve," Pinch mused as he leaned back in the chair. His fingers flexed just under his chin. Sprite, Corrick, and Maeve waited and watched, knowing their leader's scheming moods.

Suddenly Pinch's thoughtful visage brightened. 'Two with one stone. That's it! Two with one stone." He sat forward and pulled the others in close. "We're going to humiliate Wilmarq by springing Therin from the very branches of the triple tree."

"Off the gallows?" gulped Sprite, sputtering his ale.

"Yer mad!" Corrick bellowed.

Only Maeve kept silent, fuzzily pondering the possibilities.

Pinch ignored the protests. "Sprite, the old catacombs – they run under Shiarra's Market, don't they?" His eyes glittered with devious fire.

"Yes," Sprite answered warily, "but not close to the gallows."

"Yer mad. I'm not risking the rope for that fool Therin – especially on one of yer mad schemes." Corrick heaved back from the huddle, shaking his bare head.

Before the old cutpurse could stand, Pinch laid a hand on his arm and squeezed right down to the bone. "You'll do it because I tell you to, Corrick, or I'll see you're the next one to stand before the hangman's crowd. Maybe it'd get me in good with Wilmarq to give you up to him. Understand?"

Corrick's gaunt face went pale. The old man nodded.

"Good," Pinch purred without loosing his grip. "Corrick, you'll borrow us a wagon with a fast team. Sprite, figure how to get us as close to Therin as you can." The halfling raised a bushy eyebrow in acknowledgement.

'That's set," Pinch concluded, releasing Corrick's arm. To your duties, lads. I'll be meeting with Therin, just to be sure he knows where his friends stand." The upright man gave Corrick a hearty pat on the shoulder. "We can't have him break before we spring him. Go to your tasks. We'll meet where Dragoneye Lane joins Shiarra's Market an hour before the hanging."

The speed and certainty of Pinch's resolve left the pair dazed. "Get going," he had to repeat before they actually stirred. "And, Sprite, mind your wandering fingers for now. I don't want you caught before the hanging."

The halfling's expression moved from dazed to disappointed. "All those purses, and I can't touch them. It was the only good to come out of this whole hanging," he muttered as he slid from his chair and made for the door. Corrick rose, eyes filled with dark misgivings, and followed the halfling. He rubbed the filthy wool of his jerkin, getting the blood back into the arm Pinch had squeezed.

"What about me, dearie?" Maeve asked. "What you got for me?"

The master thief cast a look toward the door before speaking, making sure his accomplices were on their way. When it was closed fast, Pinch turned back to the woman beside him. "Now, Maeve-good Maeve-you said it was queer how Poor Therin was bagged."

"I said it weren't right, Pinch, that's what I said."

Pinch poured her a drink from the skin Wilmarq had ordered. "And it was, Maeve. It was unnatural the way they came to your place. You spoke true; it weren't right. The whole thing's no better than a forger's will, I think." He pushed the mug in front of the doxy. 'Tell me, Maeve, you know how long it takes a man to hang?"

The towering three-story stone edifice known as the High Prison was one of Elturel's lesser known oddities. No other city of her size could boast such a magnificent structure for the incarceration of the criminal classes. Elturel's Lord Dhelt, in a fit of enlightenment, had the place built "for the reformation of those godless wretches held within." There, prisoners once kept in the dank cellars of the High Hall and the nobles' palaces could be treated as humanely as they deserved. That was the intent anyway.

Pinch didn't care what the high rider's stated purpose was. The High Prison was just another part of his life, like the thin drizzle blowing in from the River Chionthar. The thief pulled up his cloak to keep the mist from forming cold beads on the back of his neck while he waited outside the prison. Finally the latches rattled and the gate yawned open with a creaking moan. The hinges on the old wooden door always needed oiling, perhaps so their harsh rasp would inspire a little more terror in those about to enter. It would be sensible to think that a thief, especially a thief who'd spent time behind the prison's walls, would feel a shiver of dread as he stood on that portal. If Pinch was uncomfortable, he showed not a sign of it.