side stories
Calhan was born on the floor of the Rogue's Guild headquarters, screaming and crying, into the arms of the healer Quinn. Elder Green, the only other one present at the birthing, would say later that Calhan's mother had held him in her arms for barely a minute before the bloodloss overcame her.
As the story went, Quinn had taken baby Calhan from his mother's limp arms, wrapped him in an itchy blanket, and presented him to Green for naming. "Calhan would be fitting," Green had said and took the child in her arms.
Many children were born this way to the Guild, destined to thievery not by choice or gift but by tragedy. Sickness, famine, and poverty claimed so many birth-parents, and the Guild had little means with which to support growing orphan children.
The rule went like this: a child younger than six could only remain in the Guild should a member agree to serve as guardian and should an Elder approve the choice. If both conditions were not met, the child would be left to beg or starve. It was unfortunate but necessary.
Quinn chose to serve as Calhan's guardian, and Elder Green approved the choice. In only a few minutes after his birth, Calhan's path was laid out for him. All he need do was follow it.
Quinn was good at what he did. He didn't mince about with kind words and gentle hands, though he would sometimes spin stories about the stars as he set broken bones into place. He had been an enforcer before the healing gift had found him, and he was still all large hands and rough grunts, but he was skilled and that was the important part.
When Calhan was old enough to walk, he worked as Quinn's apprentice. Unlike Quinn, he had no magic to speak of, but magic was not needed to carry bandages and mix poultices, and he had nimbler fingers, better suited for digging shards of metal or scraps of cloth out of wounds before Quinn magicked them closed.
"Thief's fingers," Elder Green would sometimes say. "You waste him as your apprentice, Quinn."
Quinn would snort. "Saving lives's never a waste, Elder," he would reply.
Calhan grew up believing that, but occasionally, he resented being kept inside with pungent herbs and bloody rags while other young Rogues ran the streets, learning to pick-pockets and to spin cons.
As time passed, Calhan's responsibilities in the Guild grew. Now, Quinn would sometimes let him handle less serious patients on his own, although, more often, his duties involved running errands between Guildhall, lineners, and the tiny herbal shop off the main road.
At fourteen, Calhan had little time for the tiny, dark-eyed nine-year-old who flitted about the shop, fetching bottles of rosemary essence and folded clothes containing pressed, dried sage for her merchant father.
There were rumblings in the Guild as Calhan turned fifteen. There were rumors that one of the local band leaders had his eye on an Elder's chair, and more and more frequently, brawls broke out between those loyal to the band leader and those loyal to Elder Brown.
Quinn joked at first that this was a tide of good fortune in the healing business, but soon the brawls became armed clashes and then a full-scale internal war. Nearly fifteen Rogues died before the band leader managed to take out old Elder Brown and usurp his place, and Quinn was among them.
Elder Green watched out for Calhan after Quinn's death. For a very long time, the arrangement worked, he pretended to ignore her attentive eyes just as she never asked for thanks, but soon he grew restless with being the Guild's only healer, and a poor one at that.
Increasingly, the Rogues turned to the herb merchant, Conary, for healing, and Calhan found new ways to occupy his time. He smuggled weapons to southern lords, he sold information left and right, and when he was desperate for money, he would mug the occasional banker or merchant.
He spent less and less time at the Guildhall, and then less and less time in Achryn. As his eighteenth year drew close, Tyball was as much his home as any, and while sometimes he missed the motherly way Elder Green spoke to him or the quick wit of Conary's young daughter, Tyball was exciting and dangerous, like the dark-haired women he found to take to bed.
--
It was purely accident that Calhan was present for Conary's funeral, but all the same, he found himself standing in the little cemetery on the outskirts of town as a tanned Ilithian priest sang the burial prayers.
Conary's daughter stood nearby, stone-faced, and when asked to say a few words for her father, all she said, in a clear, steady voice, was, "Life itself is a fight against death." She looked up at him as some of the stronger Rogues began filling in the grave, and there was more red in her brown eyes than he remembered.
Hans and Jerome dressed in wigs and long, gray cloaks that night to mime Conary's life in the dining hall of the Guild. The daughter retreated to her room, and for reasons he couldn't quite place, Calhan followed her.
She didn't say a word at first, when he sat down on the edge of her bed, but eventually, she sighed. "It will be all right."
"Through death and sickness... as long as you come out the other side, it'll be all right in the end," he replied.
--
The whispers of war came with Prince Greggory's coronation. They swept through Tyball's capital and through the countryside. Calhan picked up what rumors he could, of conquests, defense, and an end to the centuries old conflict between Achryn and her northern neighbour.
Where once Calhan had been satisfied to stay months at a time in Tyball's cold, grey-walled cities, now he found himself returning every few weeks with scraps of new information for the Elders and a new scrape here and there for Conary's daughter to tend to.
She was growing well, straight, sturdy, and sensible; although, sometimes Calhan wished she would let go of her sensibility and dream a little. He would often spend his nights in her bedroom window, telling the stories Quinn used to tell about the patterns of stars in the sky.
She would laugh and say that it was all make-believe silliness, little escapes to help ease the pain of the real world, and Calhan would look at her over his shoulder and ask, simply, what's wrong with that?
When Calhan turned twenty-four, he began to wonder if the path, his path, the one laid out for him since his mother's death, was not, in fact, his path, but a tiny side road to her's. He wondered if somewhere along the way, his road had intersected with her's and was swallowed up by where ever the strong force of her will was going to take her.
When Calhan turned twenty-five, he knew for sure, and he didn't care.
As the story went, Quinn had taken baby Calhan from his mother's limp arms, wrapped him in an itchy blanket, and presented him to Green for naming. "Calhan would be fitting," Green had said and took the child in her arms.
Many children were born this way to the Guild, destined to thievery not by choice or gift but by tragedy. Sickness, famine, and poverty claimed so many birth-parents, and the Guild had little means with which to support growing orphan children.
The rule went like this: a child younger than six could only remain in the Guild should a member agree to serve as guardian and should an Elder approve the choice. If both conditions were not met, the child would be left to beg or starve. It was unfortunate but necessary.
Quinn chose to serve as Calhan's guardian, and Elder Green approved the choice. In only a few minutes after his birth, Calhan's path was laid out for him. All he need do was follow it.
Quinn was good at what he did. He didn't mince about with kind words and gentle hands, though he would sometimes spin stories about the stars as he set broken bones into place. He had been an enforcer before the healing gift had found him, and he was still all large hands and rough grunts, but he was skilled and that was the important part.
When Calhan was old enough to walk, he worked as Quinn's apprentice. Unlike Quinn, he had no magic to speak of, but magic was not needed to carry bandages and mix poultices, and he had nimbler fingers, better suited for digging shards of metal or scraps of cloth out of wounds before Quinn magicked them closed.
"Thief's fingers," Elder Green would sometimes say. "You waste him as your apprentice, Quinn."
Quinn would snort. "Saving lives's never a waste, Elder," he would reply.
Calhan grew up believing that, but occasionally, he resented being kept inside with pungent herbs and bloody rags while other young Rogues ran the streets, learning to pick-pockets and to spin cons.
As time passed, Calhan's responsibilities in the Guild grew. Now, Quinn would sometimes let him handle less serious patients on his own, although, more often, his duties involved running errands between Guildhall, lineners, and the tiny herbal shop off the main road.
At fourteen, Calhan had little time for the tiny, dark-eyed nine-year-old who flitted about the shop, fetching bottles of rosemary essence and folded clothes containing pressed, dried sage for her merchant father.
There were rumblings in the Guild as Calhan turned fifteen. There were rumors that one of the local band leaders had his eye on an Elder's chair, and more and more frequently, brawls broke out between those loyal to the band leader and those loyal to Elder Brown.
Quinn joked at first that this was a tide of good fortune in the healing business, but soon the brawls became armed clashes and then a full-scale internal war. Nearly fifteen Rogues died before the band leader managed to take out old Elder Brown and usurp his place, and Quinn was among them.
Elder Green watched out for Calhan after Quinn's death. For a very long time, the arrangement worked, he pretended to ignore her attentive eyes just as she never asked for thanks, but soon he grew restless with being the Guild's only healer, and a poor one at that.
Increasingly, the Rogues turned to the herb merchant, Conary, for healing, and Calhan found new ways to occupy his time. He smuggled weapons to southern lords, he sold information left and right, and when he was desperate for money, he would mug the occasional banker or merchant.
He spent less and less time at the Guildhall, and then less and less time in Achryn. As his eighteenth year drew close, Tyball was as much his home as any, and while sometimes he missed the motherly way Elder Green spoke to him or the quick wit of Conary's young daughter, Tyball was exciting and dangerous, like the dark-haired women he found to take to bed.
--
It was purely accident that Calhan was present for Conary's funeral, but all the same, he found himself standing in the little cemetery on the outskirts of town as a tanned Ilithian priest sang the burial prayers.
Conary's daughter stood nearby, stone-faced, and when asked to say a few words for her father, all she said, in a clear, steady voice, was, "Life itself is a fight against death." She looked up at him as some of the stronger Rogues began filling in the grave, and there was more red in her brown eyes than he remembered.
Hans and Jerome dressed in wigs and long, gray cloaks that night to mime Conary's life in the dining hall of the Guild. The daughter retreated to her room, and for reasons he couldn't quite place, Calhan followed her.
She didn't say a word at first, when he sat down on the edge of her bed, but eventually, she sighed. "It will be all right."
"Through death and sickness... as long as you come out the other side, it'll be all right in the end," he replied.
--
The whispers of war came with Prince Greggory's coronation. They swept through Tyball's capital and through the countryside. Calhan picked up what rumors he could, of conquests, defense, and an end to the centuries old conflict between Achryn and her northern neighbour.
Where once Calhan had been satisfied to stay months at a time in Tyball's cold, grey-walled cities, now he found himself returning every few weeks with scraps of new information for the Elders and a new scrape here and there for Conary's daughter to tend to.
She was growing well, straight, sturdy, and sensible; although, sometimes Calhan wished she would let go of her sensibility and dream a little. He would often spend his nights in her bedroom window, telling the stories Quinn used to tell about the patterns of stars in the sky.
She would laugh and say that it was all make-believe silliness, little escapes to help ease the pain of the real world, and Calhan would look at her over his shoulder and ask, simply, what's wrong with that?
When Calhan turned twenty-four, he began to wonder if the path, his path, the one laid out for him since his mother's death, was not, in fact, his path, but a tiny side road to her's. He wondered if somewhere along the way, his road had intersected with her's and was swallowed up by where ever the strong force of her will was going to take her.
When Calhan turned twenty-five, he knew for sure, and he didn't care.