Gifts are Given, Not taken

Lazaro wended his way through the crowded ale house, one hand greeting everyone with a warm handshake, the other slipping fingers into pockets that were not his own. He beamed, and smiled, and thanked everyone for coming out on this cold, blustery evening to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of his birth, a most auspicious occasion.

By the time he had circumnavigated the room and arrived back at the bar, everyone was in rowdy, high spirits. He leapt up on the counter, his diminutive height put him at just a head above the crowd, and, flinging his arms wide, announced in his high-pitched voice, “Ale for all!” With a flourish, he emptied his pockets into the hand of Aldon, the bar keeper, who obliged him by cracking open a brand new barrel.

The crowd cheered and wished Lazaro the happiest of birthdays and as everyone jostled towards the bar keeper, cups raised to be filled with the free ale, Lazaro slipped away, settling in the furthest, dimmest corner of the room. There he perched on a well-worn chair to examine the contents of his other pocket, the one sewn to the inside of his vest. With his curling dark locks tumbling into his eyes, he hunched over the table to admire a shiny brass thimble, too big for his thumb and a silver ring engraved with twining roses that glittered in the lamplight. He counted out one hat pin inlaid with ivory in the shape of a butterfly, three mother-of-pearl buttons and a handful of handkerchiefs delicately embroidered with flowers along the edges. It was a beautiful collection of miscellaneous objects that delighted his heart.

“What do you have there, little man?” A soft voice startled Lazaro out of his intense study of his haul. He jumped, sweeping the glittering items back into his pocket with nimble fingers, before looking up into the dark eyes of a stranger. In a town where everyone knew everyone else, it was rare to encounter someone so completely foreign and unknown, and Lazaro experienced a deep uncomfortable sensation in the region of his gut as this stranger examined him.

“It’s my birthday present.” Lazaro felt compelled to explain as those burning eyes stared deeply into his soul.

“Indeed,” the stranger said, his voice betraying no emotion. “A gift is usually given, not taken.”

Lazaro shifted uncomfortably on his stool, unable to break free of the penetrating gaze.

“It is very rare to see a whendren with two hands and all his fingers. Especially when they live in a town such as this one.”

Lazaro shoved his hands protectively into his pockets. He was rather attached to them, especially his nimble fingers.

“I have a job for you,” the stranger said as he lowered himself into the chair next to Lazaro.

“I don’t take on jobs anymore. I’m quite retired.”

“Oh, really? Now that is a shame. There’s a huge reward, and only a little investment of your time and skill.”

“No, sir. I’m done with that life. You see, I live here comfortably with lots of friends, and much with which to occupy myself. I am quite content. No sir, I will not be tempted from my home by a stranger with no name.”

“Forgive me,” the stranger said. “I am very remiss in not introducing myself. I am Glondor of Frorwick.”

Lazaro’s little eyes bulged as he recognised the name. The ‘Master of Swords and Keeper of Secrets’ was not unknown in these parts, but none had ever seen the man. His was a name from fireside stories. A legend beyond the realm of mortal men. What would such a man want in the tiny town of Ressin? Aldon’s Ale House was the last place in the entire kingdom that Lazaro would expect to see a man of such renown.

“Forgive me, Sir Glondor,” Lazaro mumbled, his words tangled up with awe. “I am not interested in grand adventures and experiences anymore. I am turned fifty this very day and have put all that behind me.”

“Ah, Lazaro,” Glondor laughed quietly, with no real humour at all. “You have not put it behind you. I witnessed your agility, that regardless of your advancing age, is still quite exceptional. What would all these people have to say if I told them you lightened their pockets just now?”

Lazaro was speechless. How did the great Glondor know his name? And was the man threatening him?

“I am certain that the constabulary would be very interested in the contents of your pockets, so much so that they might want to remove a finger or a hand.” Glondor spoke casually, but there was a subtle menace in both his tone and the wicked glint of his eye. Definitely and unquestionably threatening.

“It’s my birthday. These are presents.” Lazaro shifted uncomfortably beneath the direct and intimidating gaze of the other man. There was a solid lump that rose beneath his breastbone, making breathing slightly more challenging.

“You may keep telling yourself that, but we both know it to be a lie.” The Master of Swords leaned close, his dark greyeyes searing into Lazaro’s soul as he spoke with a false gentleness and intimacy that was somehow even more frightening than if he’d yelled. “If you want your hand to remain attached to the end of your arm, I suggest you listen and accept my proposal. I didn’t come all the way to this tiny hovel of a town to be dismissed by a whendren who lacks the good sense to recognise when he is beaten.”

Lazaro gulped and shrank into the back of his seat to escape the fire in those intense eyes and the force of the man’s presence. 

“I’m not beaten,” he squeaked. “Last I checked, I was a free whendren.”

“Free? Ha! All whendra are property of the King. There is no such thing as a free whendren. Your kind are good for one thing only, and that is the sole reason your species has been allowed to exist. You can get in and out without being detected. That is what your King needs from you.”

“If that’s all the King needs, then any whendren would do. Why me?”

“You’re the best.”

It was true. Once he had slipped into a dragon’s hoard and taken its crystal egg while the beast slept. But that was long ago, before he realised how risky such behaviour was. Once it awoke, the dragon roared and set flame to the entire village; however, Lazaro had been long gone by then. It still pained him to recall that hundreds of villagers had died for that mission. It was the reason he refused to work for others anymore. One never knew the true cost of a job.

“I’m retired. I don’t do that anymore. Tell the King to find someone younger.”

“There is no one younger. At least no one who is still in possession of both hands.”

Lazaro pressed his lips together to keep them from betraying his inner thoughts. Sometimes it was as if there were two whendra inside him. One who still yearned for adventure, itching to slink undetected into small spaces to palm fancy items, thriving on the thrill of the chase. The other who enjoyed the slow pace of town life, the luxury of two complete, working hands, and the security of knowing that he brought harm to no one.

“What is it to be, little Lazaro? Shall I call the constabulary? Shall we see what happens to your precious fingers once they establish the rightful owners of the items that currently reside in your pockets?” Glondor leaned back in his chair, his face allowing a glimpse of superior smugness to erode his impassive expression. “Or will you perhaps prefer to come with me to assist your king and country?”

Lazaro felt the illusion of freedom crumble around him as his heart stammered with simultaneous dread and excitement.

“I no longer work blindly,” he said. “I will need to know more.”

“You, my little whendren, are in no position to bargain. You shall be told what I deem necessary for this mission, and no more.”

Lazaro examined his fingers in the flickering light thrown by the roaring fireplace. They were long, nimble, and strong. He rather liked them just the way they were. They had served him well over the course of fifty years, never once fumbling a filch, and had never been caught by the constabulary. It would be a shame to lose them now. He raised his eyes to study the room. This little town of Ressin had become home and these people, his family. Few whendra experienced such an extraordinary existence, being quite solitary creatures by nature. Whichever choice he made, he would lose. If he accompanied the master of swords, he would lose his home. If he stayed in Ressin, he would lose his hands.

“I do not wish to leave Ressin. I am comfortable here.”

“Once you complete the mission, you may return.” Glondor assured him smoothly. Too smooth by half.

“We both know that to be untrue. Once the King has me in his pocket, he will never willingly let me go. I do not want that life. I wish only to have an uneventful existence here in Ressin, living out my remaining days in peace.”

“Very well. You should be careful what you wish for.” Glondor scowled at him, eyes alight with anger. “You have made a poor choice, little whendren.” He stood and called for the constabulary. Lazaro considered running. It would be the wise thing to do. However, this was his home. He admired his hands one last time, noting the slope of his fingers as they tapered towards the nail, the pattern of creases on his palm, committing every feature to memory. Without them, he would never pick a pocket again, never experience the incredible thrill of lifting an object without detection. A whendren without hands was like… well, he wasn’t sure what it was like. A whendren without hands simply could no longer be a whendren.

Lost in his own misery and introspection, he was unaware of the conversation carried on above him, but he was drawn roughly to his feet as Burkam, the burly Chief of the Constabulary, lifted him by the elbow.

“This here gent is accusing you of theft, Lazaro,” Burkam growled. “You understand what the punishment for the crime is now, don’t you? I’ll be needing you to turn out yer pockets.”

Without a word, Lazaro gulped, nodded, and slowly reached into his pockets to empty the shiny trinkets onto the table, his fingers caressing each object one final time.

“Well, Lazaro. You better have a good reason for having Mistress Teely’s thimble and Master Kit’s ivory pin.”

“I…” Lazaro couldn’t think of a reason. He couldn’t lie to the Constabulary.

“What is the problem here?” Aldon, the barkeeper, interrupted, his arms folded over his ample chest as he glared between Chief Burkam and Glondor.

“It seems that our Lazaro is a thief,” Burkam explained, pointing to the table littered with trinkets that glittered in the firelight. “This stranger is Glondor, Master of the Sword and Keeper of Secrets. He claims to have witnessed our friend here taking these from the pockets of your patrons tonight.”

Aldon examined the trinkets, then studied Lazaro’s defeated posture. The bar keeper never hurried. Some might call him slow, but it was only because he examined every minute detail before committing his thoughts to words.

Finally, he looked directly at the Chief of the Constabulary, ignoring the lofty stranger. “Your witness is mistaken, Burkam. These are birthday gifts. It is Lazaro’s fiftieth anniversary of the day of his birth. We have been celebrating all night.”

Lazaro gasped and gazed up at the big man in surprise.

“I beg to differ,” Glondor interrupted. “Gifts are given, not taken.”

Aldon turned his unimpressed gaze upon the stranger in the group, sizing the man up in his slow, considering manner. “What makes you the expert?” he asked. “We like to give gifts in such a way that the recipient enjoys receiving. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Glondor glared at the bar keeper, lips pressed together, then cast a furious scowl at Lazaro.

“Since it is the occasion of the celebration of your birth, I also have a gift for you.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small wooden box decorated with mother-of-pearl inlay. He placed it on the table in front of Lazaro leaning in to whisper ominously. “Know that I will be watching and waiting for you.” 

Lazaro gulped. There was a certainty in the man’s tone that frightened him.

Glondor stepped back from the table a glint of superiority in the half smile that titled one side of his mouth.

“Happy birthday,” he growled, then stalked from the bar into the bitterly cold night.

“You’d best return your ‘gifts’ to their rightful owners,” Chief Burkam advised Lazaro gruffly. “I’ll be checking your pockets on the way out.”

Lazaro nodded, and the Chief returned to his own table to enjoy the free ale.

Looking up at the big bar keeper, Lazaro whispered, “You lied for me. Why?”

Aldon wiped his hands on his bar rag, then picked a shiny, silver button from the pile of trinkets, placing it back into his pocket before replying.

“We’re family here. We look after our own,” he explained and returned to his work serving the free ale that Lazaro had purchased with purloined coins.

Lazaro sat before his haul, sorting each item for return. His new challenge was to slip every trinket back into the correct pocket as stealthily as he had lifted it. With some amusement, he realised that the task of replacing items secretly was nearly as fun and challenging as taking them.

When everything was returned, he took the box Glondor had given him. Curiously, he opened the lid and gasped when he saw the contents. A map, a treasure map, if he was not mistaken. The itch in his blood stirred, and he slammed the lid closed. No good would come from following such a temptation.

He slipped the gift box into his inside pocket, just in case.