Chapter Text
Kanrik almost doesn’t remember how old he was. Seventeen? Eighteen? Old enough to have found himself on the streets fending for himself, learning to use a knife on street corners and run faster than police, victims, and fellow thieves alike. Knives always fit him the best. They were fast but effective, easily hidden, and perfect for use in dark corners. He was always going to end up a thief. He was just too good at it not to.
Besides, what else was there to do? There were no jobs in town, especially not for a homeless traveler. And begging was useless and degrading. People feared thieves, they spat on beggars.
He knew this, because he had seen it. Finley was a pitifully frail old man—a jubjub, of all things—with patchy blue fur and feet so worn he could barely wobble on them, and when he begged the Meridellians would turn up their noses or kick him aside. When Kanrik approached them with his weapon in hand, they didn’t dare try anything of the sort.
Finley would sometimes fumble over to Kanrik when he was sitting alone in the back streets. He would plop down, smile a toothless grin and request Kanrik make a fire, “something to warm this aching feet and brighten your moody face!” The young man would obey without a word, and Finley never seemed to mind his silence; rather, he preferred Kanrik as a listener when he talked about everything under the midnight moon. His wares for the day, the weather, Kanrik’s choice in clothing, his past…he claimed to have been a champion of downhill rolling racing, before the cheese rolling business moved in and drove the rolling jubjubs out of business. “And to think,” he would say in a raspy laugh, “we thought that ‘take home your winning cheese’ gimmick would never last!”
Kanrik wasn’t sure if he believed him. He’d never heard of Jubjub Rolling Racing, but yet it seemed so very much like the kingdom he was stuck in. Meridell, Neopia’s capital of the odd and vaguely cruel.
He never said more than two words to Finley per night, but when he decided to change his life for good, that chatty old man was the only one he could think to tell.
He had learned about the Thieves Guild through the little birds of the shanty towns; the whispers passed through bars and gangs about the largest, most feared society of robbers and con-men in all of Neopia. The Thieves Guild was ruthless, dangerous, and the best network of opportunity and protection a lowlife can find. It was devilishly alluring. Kanrik knew where he needed to be.
“So I there I was, baggusses all over the floor and the quiggle acrobat’s wife hanging from the rafters—“
“I’m joining the Thieves Guild.”
The fire crackled into the inky sky as Kanrik’s words rose with them. Finley, for the first time since Kanrik had met him, had nothing to say.
Nothing, except “…how?”
“I have my eye on some wares that would endear me to them.”
“That’s a ruthless organization, Kanrik. You have to be willing to do…pretty much anything. Their leader is a brute and a bully. Is that really what you want?”
Kanrik raised an eyebrow. “How do you know so much about them?”
Finley fixed his eyes on his bound and leathery feet. “I…crossed paths with them. A long time ago.”
“In the rolling racing rings?”
Finley chuckled, but his solemn expression didn’t change. “Yeah. The ‘rolling racing rings.’ Didn’t like it, decided not to associate with them anymore. And…” he rubbed his feet together, “you’ve seen the rest.”
Finley never came to speak to Kanrik again after that night, even though by then Kanrik was already in the habit of making fires. He sat alone, watching them burn and crackle into the still air, and planned for his burglary.
He had presented his royal jewels to Galem himself. It had required a few unconscious Meridell guards and avoiding a few blasts of faerie magic (something Kanrik never really trusted; the faeries had never done much for him, only seemed to cause him trouble), but the fine collection was worth it, and as much as Galem had tried to seem aloof, Kanrik could see the glint of impress in his eyes.
He was admitted right then and there.
…
Kanrik watched her recover from a distance.
Every morning he told himself he’d leave. Every morning he’d look out to the sunrise and try to convince himself that today was the day, he was done, time to put this entire experience behind him. You’d done your duty, he’d think, more than it, in fact. You should have run off days ago with a few trinkets as a reward for bringing her this far. But even when he had moved from his place by the window of Talia’s igloo and walk toward the door, he’d always found himself taking one last glance back against his better judgment. Just one more, and then I’ll be gone. Just one. He watched her lying there with tangled but soft brown hair splayed out in disarray around her head, frame rising slowly with breaths and, most of all, a red mark burning on her upper arm. The sight of the last always caused a curious weight in his stomach. And every time he’d looked, he’d stopped, sighed, cursed himself, and leaned back against the wall, sharpening his knife as if he was actually going to go out and steal something.
On one occasion, she briefly woke up to see him still leaning there. He saw a weary smile flicker across her face before being replaced by a smirk of disbelief.
“What are you still doing here?” she asked. Her voice was low and a bit raspy, like rusted pipes.
He shrugged his shoulders. A completely sincere gesture, because he didn’t know. In a few moments, she was asleep again, and he was alone with his thoughts once more.
He tried to watch the fire Armin had made; tried to study the flames dance and their light reflect across the snow walls, twinkling like tree lights in the Month of Celebrating. He tried to look out over the mountain and the view over the icy tundra, picking out the tracks of various species of wintery petpets before they were blown away by the piercing wind. But no matter how he tried to fill his mind with everything but her—the battle, the thieves guild he’d have to rebuild, the newly discovered bori—his thoughts always wandered to the little usul in the igloo behind him.
He was angry at her, just a little. What business did she have, being so lively and empathetic even when he was trying to manipulate her? How could accept him back after his betrayal? How could she, for the first time in his life, make him feel so indebted as to go out of his way to take her to safety? How could she still not let him feel like that debt was repaid so he could move on with his life?
It was then that he realized that as he carried her to Talia’s, holding her tight like precious cargo, he had not spared one thought for himself. He had been either staring at her pale face and begging her to continue breathing or to the path in front of him, practically praying to see Talia’s igloo glowing through the snow. His thoughts were so consumed by his debt to her that he hadn’t even noticed the strangeness of it all. No one, not even Masila with her enticing words and enchanting eyes, had managed that in years.
And that scared him.
He lowered his hood and pulled his cloak to cover his body.
…
Eventually, he did manage to leave.
He waited until she had been on her feet, and slipped away quietly in the night so she never had a chance to say goodbye. It was better that way, he figured, she could forget him more easily then...and vice versa.
But forget her he did not.
Not that he was too distracted; the Thieves Guild needed wrangling and it was his duty to hold the rope. The position of Leader was his by right after killing Galem, but that wasn’t going to win him the loyalty of everyone instantaneously. Even despite the changes he made in hopes of uniting them—he was to be the Leader, not Lord, because he was no King, and thieves could keep most of their earnings—Kanrik could feel the critical eyes on his back wondering how a quiet man in his twenties could have overpowered the fearsome Galem, especially one stupid and reckless enough to get involved with the manipulative Masila—the one Galem had long claimed as his. He found himself always working. His eyes stung with sleep deprivation and his every word bit with tired irritation. Yet he always had to give an air of cool confidence. He was being watched, studied, for any kind of weakness.
Kanrik came to power through betrayal and murder. You go the way you came.
Children scurried out of his path when he walked through camp. Their parents watched with nervous eyes, still unsure of how this new leader would treat them. Kanrik was not known to be especially cruel, of course. He knew that much of his reputation. But, he figured, people had been known to change in power.
He did nothing to allay the parents’ fears. He didn’t loosen his frown or slow his stride. He didn’t say words of patience and respect. What would he say, after all? That he’d give their children more than they’d had, a probably empty promise even if he tried his entire life? They were thief kids. They took what they could get. They would probably live under him dusty and barely fed enough, kicking and scratching each other and making more competition than friends, just as under Galem. At least cold silence meant never saying something weak. Or false.
He passed Des every once and a while. At the sight of her sliced ear, he subconsciously always tried to pull his cloak over the knife that had done it to her. Because he still needed the loyalty of all thieves, he told himself when he realized what he was doing. She looked away, hardly ever speaking to him unless he was commanding the thieves.
Despite it all there were nights, however few, when the thieves returned with a comfortable haul, the sky was clear with the twinkling of stars, and warm wine filled everyone’s stomachs to a comfortable, calming weight, that he would find a quiet moment in his tent to clear his head. He’d watch his single candle waver in the slight breeze, its warm light casting shadows all around him. His mind would wander in the haze. His thoughts drifted over the oceans and past many lands, back to Terror Mountain where the little usul had lay—she would no doubt be recovered and back home by now, he thought—with similar flames warming her sick body. Somehow, his tired limbs ached less.
He’d catch himself quickly. No matter how calm the night was, there was no time for dreaming. Especially not about…some girl. Some girl he’d never see again, most likely, and certainly wouldn’t take an effort to do so. He’d then return to the jovial thieves or simply fall into a restless sleep, keeping one eye open like he always did.
But he knew something was very, very wrong the night his best lupe bandit, someone whose loyalty he needed to keep, managed to surprise when he was lost in thought.
“Sir?” the lupe asked, obviously confused when Kanrik didn’t hear him coming. The Master Thief should always hear everyone coming. Not to would be vulnerability that he couldn’t afford to show.
“What!?” Kanrik shouted and stood with a start. His chair nearly toppled under him and his hip rammed into his table, sending his candle shaking. He almost winced; he couldn’t have displayed his surprise more clearly if he’d tried too.
“If this is a bad time—“
“No. Everything is fine.” Kanrik stiffly readjusted his chair and sat down. He glared at the lupe, daring him to make another comment on the matter. “What is it?”
They were trivial things. Spats between guild members. Low level pickpockets with petty complaints. Missing treasures of little consequence. But things that needed to be addressed nonetheless.
He blew out his candle and followed the lupe out of his tent. His life needed him.
…
“You answer to me. You go where I tell you to go. All of your valuable finds come by me first. You shall refer to me as ‘my Lord’ unless I instruct you otherwise. Disobey me, and you’ll be severely punished. Betray me and you’ll be killed. Fail the Guild and you will be banished. And trust me, son, being a banished former member of the Guild is worse than never having been a member at all.”
At those last words, Kanrik’s mind drifted to Finley.
He had to admit he was taken by surprise. A thief’s life was supposed to be free of laws and oversight, and here he was being ordered at like a groveling follower of a king. Then again, he supposed that Galem was a king, in a way. A king of outlaws with subjects more spread and numerous than any other ruler in Neopia.
Galem kept a cold eye on him from behind his throne of stolen goods. Gold and crystals glittered over his table underneath maps of prime stealing spots. The pelts of the rarest of wild petpets were draped over the walls and the floor. Weapons from the Lost Desert to ancient Maraqua hung from a rack in the corner, and there were even what looked like faerie artifacts scattered across the room; Kanrik could almost feel the pulses of power emanating from them. Galem may dress like a thief, but the young gelert couldn’t imagine that anyone save Fyora herself had a collection this impressive. Now if Galem had any idea how to use any of the powerful objects in his possession, that was a different question altogether, and Kanrik had a feeling that the Galem didn’t have a slightest clue.
If Kanrik had been more perceptive at the time, he may have noticed how Galem had deliberately walked him all the way across camp to this lavish tent when the conversation could have been held anywhere else, or the way the Thief Lord suspiciously side-eyed him whenever they weren’t looking directly at each other, or perhaps how he had always stood with his chest wide when Kanrik sat, like a giant noil puffing up his mane to seem bigger than he is. Kanrik may have noticed that, even then, it seemed Galem had a hunch.
If there was any thief in the camp that could take him from power, it was the gelert boy who hadn’t yet realized his own skill.
“Stop twitching those ears, boy; nervous ticks will be the death of you and I can’t afford it.”
Kanrik obeyed.
…
He shouldn’t have taken the job on Krawk Island.
When the thieves reported of a recently discovered treasure trove hidden under an unremarkable pawn shop on the most wretched and beloved hive of all Neopia, Kanrik’s immediate thought was to tend to it himself.
He wondered if he simply forgets, sometimes, that he is the Master Thief now who should be sending subordinates to do his dirty work. No, he simply misses the thrill, and after months of sitting in his tent drawing strategy on maps or divvying out nightly shares of loot taken in by his agents, he couldn’t describe how he loved getting out into a chilled night. It was an indescribable sensation, soundlessly running through the dim streets, and feeling the adrenaline pump in his blood as he ran his fingers through glinting gold before tossing it into his satchel. It was like relapsing on a glorious drug.
As he slinked through the streets the next night on the hunt for more, smaller pockets to pick, he found himself standing in front of a very familiar tavern. Singing and laughter from sailors of all walks of life emanated from every window, but one voice stood out in particular to him.
It couldn’t possibly. By Fyora.
Perhaps the exhaustion had gotten to him and addled his wits. In any case, he was a foolish man indeed, because suddenly he thought that he could use a drink.
I shouldn’t go in, he told himself as he went in.
Kanrik slid into a rickety chair in the farthest corner of the tavern. The walls of cramped building seemed to creak and shudder under its weight, and his sensitive gelert nose twitched with an overwhelming stench of alcohol, aged leather, and rot, while the clicks, clangs, and shouts at beleaguered waitresses nearly drowned him. He hoped no one recognized him from his last visit here, and from the sound of the continued bustle, that seemed to be the case. It figured; the bar was the type of place where no one asked questions as long as you could pass over a pretty dubloon, be the passer a cabin boy or a wanted killer. Or, perhaps, the Leader of the Thieves Guild.
A zafara waitress approached him with a smile. Her dress hung off her shoulder and corset was laced tight. She tossed a curly hair, escaped from her elaborately pinned up-do, from her flirtatious painted eyes. Despite his stealthy line of work, Kanrik did have an appreciation for Neopians who got by through completely abandoning the art of subtlety.
“Anything I can get you, sir?” she said, slowly and deliberately as she batted her eyes.
He’d been around long enough to recognize the way she looked him over. Usually he would have seriously considered the unspoken aspect of her question, but he found himself too…tired? Distracted? Simply not interested today.
“Just a whiskey, thanks,” he replied dismissively. A look of disappointment crossed her face, and when she turned to see where he was looking, she smirked.
“Figures,” she mumbled before she flounced off.
He just then realized he had been watching Hannah.
“No one has met a more fearless, daring, accomplished treasure hunter than me! I am the one the ghosts and ghouls fear, I am…” Figures, indeed. That woman had long turned lacking subtlety into an art form in itself.
A few jaunties later, Kanrik stared intently and unblinking at his drink till his eyes burned. Every once in a while, he spared a glance towards her. Hannah lofted her sloshing mug to the air as she spun on the table, singing a bawdy and rather vulgar song (as well as catchy, as he had to stop himself from humming along), her brown hair as wild as her stories and dancing around her as she moved. She laughed, boasted, and mocked her rivals, eyes gleaming with mischief. He nearly smiled; it’s amazing how little she changed over the course of the war. He admired her for that, just a little.
Kanrik let his hood fall farther over his face and forced himself to ignore her. The annoyance he felt watching her at Terror Mountain flared again; why was he here? Why did he care what Hannah was doing? Why was he wasting his time like this? His mug slammed on the table.
He didn’t see her eyes finally lift to him as he walked out, nor did he hear her call out his name.
…
The stars pierced into the inky blackness of the sky, and Kreludor glowed in the waves of the Krawk Island Pier. The water sloshed peacefully against the docks, breaking the quiet. It was a lovely night, by all accounts; that is, all except Kanrik’s. Silent, steady anger bubbled inside him as he slid his finger over one of his knives and watched the moonlight flicker on its polished surface.
His ride home was late.
Whoever was sailing this ship would be punished in time; there is nothing more important to a thief than a hasty escape, and though he was keeping alert in case of an ambush, he could feel anxiety rise in his bones. He kept his hood down, but every so often his long ears twitched in frustration and anticipation. He gritted his teeth. The twitching was a habit that he had rid of in his early days in the Thieves Guild, but sometimes it resurfaced…usually when he had a lot on his mind. Which was often, these days.
More often than he could afford.
Kanrik sighed, and his breath ghosted into the cold night. Part of him thought this transition into power would be…smoother. Perhaps if he had the good sense to just quietly stab Galem in his sleep and take over like a normal usurper, that would have been the case, but there he had to go and get himself involved with—
He heard someone step towards him.
He knew it was towards him; it was not the fast pace of a late night traveler knowing he shouldn’t be near the docks this late, or the slow listless saunter of an off-duty bar maid waiting for lonely sailors to supplement her meager income. It was a deliberate, cautious step in his direction, and he reached for his knife from his belt. Their scent…it was familiar, but he couldn’t place them. From the side of his eye, he could see a small dark figure approach him.
“What are you doing here?” the figure asked, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“Of course,” Kanrik whispered. Who else would he be expecting?
“Are you following me?” Hannah asked, stepping into the light. Her hair was tied back and her limbs were limp, and was that sweat on the collar of her dress?
“Don’t tell me the incredible legendary Hannah has exerted herself bragging on a barroom table,” Kanrik replied coolly, leaning against the wall in an intentional display of nonchalance.
Hannah raised her eyebrows. “Tell me one thing I said that wasn’t—“
“I’m fairly certain that you had not, in fact, knocked over six ice soldiers with one push or,” he mimicked her accent slightly, “ ‘single handedly discovered and saved a new species, tell me you old scallywag, how many of you in here have done that?’”
“Oh, look who’s found a sense of humor,” Hannah deadpanned as she swaggered closer to him, and he wondered why his first instinct was to scoot away. “By Fyora, it’s a miracle.”
“I suppose so.”
She rolled her eyes, and he resisted the temptation to say that he’d always had a sense of humor, and just because she hadn’t seen it yet…
“Ok, I may have stretched the truth…a little. That’s what you gotta do with those boys. But you still didn’t answer my question.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, I was not following you. I was stealing something. I do that on occasion.”
“Oh, there’s that sense of humor again. Incredible.” Hannah shook her head, waving him away. “And to answer your question, it s 3 am, I’ve been drinking all night, and yes, I’m a bit tired. Plus drunk, which is why I’m still out here talking to you. I may be the greatest adventurer to ever live,” she gave him a smug smirk, and he returned it, “but I do have a mortal Neopian body.”
“Faeries forbid.”
“Goodnight, Kanrik. Enjoy your thieving,” she sang and turned to walk away, and before he could think, before he could even realize what he was doing, Kanrik did the worst thing he thought he could do at that moment.
“There’s word of treasure hidden on Mystery Island and I’d like you to help me find it. I’m going next month.”
She stopped, but didn’t face him. There was silence for a few moments, and she started to touch her shoulder…he felt the curious weight in his stomach from all those months ago return. How foolish of him, how stupid! He hadn’t even intended to ask her. He didn’t want her along. And of course she’d say no, after—
“I’m guessing it’s near Geraptiku,” Hannah mumbled.
“Yes.” Cursed, dangerous Geraptiku. “You of all people must know how awful those temples are when it comes to traps.”
“Actually, I’ve never been there,” she glanced back at him, face surprisingly timid looking, “but I have thought about it…you’re positive you’re not just vying for more cannon fodder?” There was a touch of weak playfulness in her voice, but Kanrik could see through it; this was a perfectly genuine question. The weight got deeper.
He nodded. “If I just wanted that, I have plenty more trustworthy candidates back home. “
“I get half of the treasure.”
Kanrik scoffed, pushing from his place on the wall. “Half? Absolutely not. I was the one who got all the information about this!”
“And I’ll be the one setting and avoiding all the traps, right?” Hannah gave him a pointed look, with that smug smirk Kanrik was sure would drive him crazy. “If you don’t like it, you can deal with the arrows yourself.”
He groaned, running two fingers down his muzzle. “Fine. You win. Half of what we get, if you are successful in getting both of us through the city without any injury.”
“Alright then, next month. Send me a message as to when specifically and I’ll meet you at the port.”
“It’s a—“ and before he could say “deal”, she had disappeared. The street was once again empty and quiet in the pale moonlight. A scrap of paper blew over the cobblestone. A woman laughed in the distance, and he thought he might have heard uni hooves clop before they faded away.
Must be how she avoided all of those traps and monsters. Kanrik shook his head at his own stupidity for asking her along. Sure, it was purely business; not even platonic. But he did leave her for dead, and that might encourage her to being emotions into this ordeal. He didn’t need to deal with those kinds of emotions. Hers, anyway. He had no problems controlling his.
Still, he had to wonder what he had gotten himself into. You’d think, at some point, he’d have learned what happens when you mix thieving with feeling.