Fool’s Gold

Never trust a thief

Ailric presses his blade against my throat. ‘Go ahead. Kill me,’ I say. ‘Add another ghost to haunt you.’

There’s a long pause. He pushes me away from him. Ghosts. He has enough of those.

‘In the name of all that’s holy, Danae! Why’re you here?’

I sweep my arm wide. The one that isn’t carrying my own blade.

The bank vault of Arnaus, Duke of Sygia, rises around us. Gems glint in the torchlight. Gold reflects dully. Centuries of inherited — and undeserved — wealth, waiting for the taking.

‘You left the back door open. I simply strolled in.’

I know why he’s angry. He’d used magic to disarm the goblin locks of the Bank of Dragons. It’s a limited spell and would’ve cost him dear.

Somewhere, soon, an ugly little bank manager, beside his warty little wife, will get woken from his dreams and alerted to our presence.

That’s part of the reason he’s angry. The other part is because he’d left me sleeping in a rural inn three weeks back, sneaked off and taken all my funds. And I had tracked him down.

He prides himself on disappearing.

‘You owe me,’ I say.

He sighs theatrically and throws me one of the sacks tucked into his belt. ‘We have three minutes. Grab what you can.’

For once, I do as I’m told.

Four minutes later we’re out of the bank. Ailric has horses and a mercenary waiting for him. A motley looking bastard from the North. Ailric’ll be in trouble if he doesn’t deal well with him, but that’s not my problem.

Efficiently, we load our haul on the horses and we’re away before the alarm horns wail. We make the city gates just before the guards close them.

Three weeks later, another rural inn.

The bed’s covered with jewels. So am I. I admire the reflection of warm gold, dimpling patterns on my skin.

An emerald gleams in my belly button. Matching pearls grace my ears. A ruby ring, stone as big as a quail’s egg, refracts blood light on my finger.

Ailric, drunk on expensive wine, had fallen to his knee in front of half a village to slip it on my finger. The villagers had cheered. I’d wept as I accepted.

Alric snores quietly on the palliasse now, exhausted by our lovemaking, dotted with flea bites from the cheap straw. Drunk again. He whimpers as his ghosts haunt him. He’ll never be rid of those.

Riches, it turns out, don’t make you wealthy if you have to hide them. And not if you’re running from your past.

With half an argument and an overpayment, the mercenary had long been dismissed. Ailric should’ve kept him to guard his haul.

I rise and dress quietly, fill my pockets with what I can carry and a sack with what I can’t fit in my pockets.

Solo, I won’t need much.

My body aches to leave him, but you can’t trust a thief. He’s already stolen what I value most.

Sparked by a writing prompt. More fantasy fiction by Alex Kilcannon: