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A bold, slight figure strode through the great gates, up the
white chalk white cliffs, overlooking the sea that burned
orange from the light of the sun. Others were around him,
Japanese and American tourists hoping to catch a glimpse of
the old war-time tunnels.
The figure however looked most out of place, whereas others
secured themselves with jeans and sweats and cameras that
hung down their necks like protective charms, the man wore a
dark grey tunic with a black sash, pants and thin pointed
shoes that made hardly a sound on the soft, damp earth. Thus
as a result, he got a few stares.
As they ascended, the wind became brisk and chilly as the
fiery disc that was the sun became pale and defunct.
There were no trees which gave the visitors a view of the
city of Dover. Stretched out before them, it was almost
crescent-shaped with a long, thick road of parked cars like
ants that smothered the neat beech which the waters lapped
like the tongue of a gentle dog. And further away was the
great harbour that jutted confidently out from the land,
full of braced ships raring to go. And in the distance were
more cliffs of the same, steep white cliffs, and atop,
bracken and brush.
But before us lay the castle, thick, broken walls,
battlements and ramparts, towers and a huge, old square
building propped in the centre with several more houses and
buildings littering the area.
We passed through part of a building that hung over the
path, arching over it which the path cut clean through and
on the other side we were met by a tumult of trees on our
left. The walk was long but we soon reached a small discreet
area in the corner overlooking the calm waters. It was an
entrance.
Wet and dingy was my first impression. Actually like my
600th since I’d been around here a lot. The pathway was
smooth with linoleum and the walls arched with white chipped
paint, very claustrophobic. There was little wind yet it was
very cold and wholly uninviting. At one point, outside a
gift shop was a balcony that once again overlooked the
waters, from here on a clear day I could see France. There
were packets of people around here looking regally outwards,
forgetting their troubles, and for a moment, I was one of
them. I finally left and carried on through passageways.
There were fake hospital rooms and storerooms of food from
the Cold War era (not the food itself; that would be
disgusting). We passed through a room of old style radio
equipment and maps with pieces on top from the World Wars.
And there it was; the restricted area.
I pulled on my black cowl, overhead a woman was talking.
There was no one around. I ran quickly but the passageway
was quite long. A family walked by, I opened the door, a few
of the children whimpered and cuddled to their mothers,
pointing. All they saw was a shadow. The voice overhead
said, ‘Some believe these halls to be haunted.’ The
passersby shivered but continued.
I was inside the Thieves Guild.
***
This entrance was more crypt-like, the stones round and
jagged with cobwebs on the ceiling and great stone stands
with braziers burning bright, shedding a warm orange glow.
The first room was full of arched doorways on the right wall
with a passageway dark with flickering shadows.
There was a high, circular altar here with a step on the
side and a small candle in a gold plate holder, the hot wax
dribbling onto a golden plate beneath.
I passed through the room into the passage and emerged into
a larger room. It was void of anything other than old sturdy
benches where plenty of men, women and children in the same
clothing as I waited and chatted.
There were three doors, one on each wall, panelled, with
great iron bolts and hinges.
I took the one directly ahead.
‘Dedi!’ My hand had been on the brass ring, ‘Dedi is it
true?’ I turned and smiled. He was a weedy boy with dark
hair and black eyes, a Greek complexion with thin, cracked
lips that were smiling maliciously with unmasked cruel
pleasure.
‘Is what true?’ I snapped.
‘That you... failed?’ his voice cracked, he couldn’t have
been a Thief for more than a week.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked politely.
‘I am Ikarios, Wielder of the 2nd Finger of the Hand of
thieves, I have robbed the houses of the rich,’ he exclaimed
pompously.
‘Oh haven’t we all, I am Dedi of the Golden head, Wielder of
the 3rd Finger of the Hand of Thieves, I am the Ghost of
Cairo, I have walked through the Valley of Kings, I have
scaled the Great Wall of China, and I am the finder of the
lost texts of Alexandria.’ We Thieves use our experience to
show how good we are and how long we’ve been around, making
it vague like that makes it more impressive. When I scaled
the Great Wall, it was to run away from the officials that
were chasing me after I stole a sacred Chinese artefact.
I would like to say he looked with awe.
‘Oh, cool, well whatever dude,’ that arrogant, stuck up
little—
I opened the door into a small, desolate ante-chamber, at
the other side was another wooden door where a portly man
stood, a quill and parchment in his hand.
‘Good evening,’ he grumbled, all dark and mysterious.
‘Yeah, yeah good evening and stuff,’ I said dismissively,
waving a hand, ‘look I’m here to see the council Weylan.’
He stared at me with a deep look in his eyes that could have
meant a thousand things.
‘And why do you wish to see them?’ he asked, like he didn’t
know.
‘I’ve finished a quest,’ he nodded.
‘Indeed,’ he scrabbled something down, probably just
doodling in the corner (bless him he doesn’t get out much
and you don’t know how hard it is to make someone like him
appear impressive) ‘I shall inform them now.’
He opened the door a touch and slipped through, I yawned.
After several minutes he reappeared with a purposeful look
in his eye as if he had just done something of the utmost
importance.
‘I have spoken to the elders, you may enter,’ he formed his
word with deliberate care (see). I rolled my eyes and walked
in.
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