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Part One: Protégé
High above the sprawling tapestry of Karim, the crow wheeled lazily, wings outstretched to catch and ride the warm thermals of Mesa Roja’s perpetually cloudless sky. Night descended quickly over the desert city. While the distant glow of the Arc provided some light, it did little to dispel the shadows gathering in the city’s winding alleys and many-nooked rooftops. The crow’s ink-black plumage absorbed and dispersed the incoming rays, rendering it nearly invisible as it retracted its wings tight against its sides and swooped low, its gaze always on the high-walled compound below.
Even at this height, the crow made out the tiny forms of sentries patrolling atop those high walls—men, clad in dark clothing and armed with wicked rifles, pacing alongside hunting cats and larger birds of prey.
“Murkrow,” the crow rasped plaintively. His master had grown more daring of late, each target a higher risk than the last. His bold escapades had garnered Conrad Jamboy a certain notoriety, not only among Karim’s nobility, but the city guard as well. Tales of the thief echoed in council chambers and smoke-choked taverns, bathhouses and back alleys—tales of a figure, hooded and cloaked, infiltrating the most closely guarded manors and guildhouses of Karim and disappearing without a trace.
The crow croaked with mirth at that thought. Set in their superstitious ways, they likely thought Conrad to be a specter—perhaps a powerful wizard, or the agent of a supernatural entity, sent to punish them for some unknown crime. The sheer expertise with which Conrad conducted his heists had even caused many to look inward, suspecting rival houses or even members of their own families and guilds.
Karim had no shortage of thieves, the too-wise Murkrow knew. Trespassers were common in the lesser houses, where defenses were sparse. But Conrad Jamboy, bred by circumstance—forged by the unforgiving culture of the city’s underground into an almost preternatural pilferer—, had long ago graduated from such petty endeavors, and all before his sixteenth year. The crow croaked again, a wheezing sound not unlike laughter. It wished dearly to witness the reactions of Karim’s elite when they learned a mere street waif had introduced such chaos and paranoia into their midst.
Coming out of its dive, Murkrow settled atop the spire of a tall clock tower across from the compound. It craned its neck to see its master, a dozen feet below, crouched in the shadow of an ornately carved gargoyle. The crow gave a soft caw, and Conrad’s smiling visage turned upward to greet his beloved partner. A single flap of its wings brought Murkrow to Conrad, the crow settling easily on his shoulder.
“Murkrow,” the bird rasped quietly, anxiety evident in its tone. The two companions had run hundreds of these operations over the years, but this time Murkrow truly feared for its master. Few in all the Crossroads had tangled with Giovanni and lived to tell the tale.
“Quiet.” Conrad locked eyes with the crow, his expression severe. His brow unknit immediately, and he flashed a sheepish grin. “Sorry Murk. I just don’t want them to… you know.” He gestured to an oblivious guard atop the compound wall, less than thirty feet away.
The bird glared, but kept its beak shut.
Still watching the guard, Conrad pulled his red gloves tight and drew his hood tighter around his face. From a pouch dangling from his belt, he withdrew a handful of pellets. Peeling back a flap of fabric from each knuckle of his left glove, he inserted the pellets one by one, taking great care not to rupture them and release the potent spells they contained. The set of his jaw told Murkrow the time had come.
“You know the drill,” Conrad said tersely. The smile had faded from his face, but his steel-gray eyes showed their usual eager glimmer. “See you on the other side, Murk.” The bird bobbed its head, flapping its wings once and tucking its taloned legs in tight against its body, cloaked in shadow as it darted off over the compound.
Conrad leaned forward on his perch, careful not to emerge from the ensconcing shadows and risk being spotted. He counted off the guards again: four on the wall facing the clock tower; two in each of the sentry turrets forming the corners of the compound’s perimeter; and a handful of Pokémon, including a Pidgeotto, a Liepard, and an Arbok. Pokémon were rare in the Crossroads, Conrad knew, and those that did exist tended to be wild and untameable. In all his years in Karim, he had never seen one other than Murkrow.
That is, until Giovanni arrived in the city. The whispers spread rapidly of his collection of rare and dangerous creatures, often seen patrolling the walls of his palatial compound. As soon as Conrad heard the whispers and checked out the compound for himself, he had started planning to break in and see what was inside. Now, on the cusp of that very break-in, the young thief found himself hesitating. Was he in over his head, he wondered, perhaps for the first time in his life. Had he let his insatiable curiosity get the best of him?
He shook away the thoughts and gathered back his focus, dispelling the apprehension. He was Conrad Jamboy, perhaps the most prolific thief in Mesa Roja. He had stolen from guildmasters, wizards, even visiting dignitaries from across the Crossroads, and he had always escaped unscathed. “It’s what I do,” he whispered, steeling his resolve.
The guard across the way turned right—right on schedule—and started walking away, the coiled Arbok following his lead. Without another thought, Conrad hooked an arm inside the gargoyle’s gaping mouth and swung out from his perch, plummeting toward the ground some forty feet below. Just when it seemed his descent had grown too rapid to stop, he caught hold of a gutter and pushed off again, dropping onto a sharply sloping rooftop. His head shot up, surveying the guard and the enormous cobra to see if he had been noticed. The two continued their practiced routine, oblivious as Conrad landed catlike on the wide avenue running between the clock tower and the compound. Secure in his secrecy, he trotted across and flattened himself against the compound’s outer wall.
He drew short, shallow breaths, waiting for his heartbeat to settle after the exhilarating drop. Overhead, he heard the terse murmurs of the guards as they completed their revolution, settling into their new posts. To their credit, they seemed a lot more disciplined than the last place he broke into, Conrad noted. In Pasha Pook’s manor, he had slipped right past two guards throwing bones, less than five feet away, and still they hadn’t noticed. Somehow, he sensed he wouldn’t be as lucky this time around.
When his heartbeat had slowed, Conrad closed his eyes and fell within himself, reaching out for the consciousness of his avian companion. He sensed Murkrow, still wheeling high above the compound, waiting for its master’s call. When Conrad opened his eyes, his steel-gray orbs had been replaced by the yellow eyes of Murkrow. Instead of seeing the clock tower rising ominously above him he saw Giovanni’s entire compound from a literal birds-eye view—looking through the eyes of the faithful crow.
It took a moment for him to adjust to the abrupt shift in perspective, but when he did he took in the layout of the compound, memorizing its many courtyards, walkways, and clustered buildings. He looked to the wall against which he was flattened, but couldn’t make himself out in the deep shadows. Peering intently, he made out a spot on the other side of the wall. Reaching up slowly with one hand, he pressed his right thumb against the knuckle flap of his left hand, crushing the pellet nestled inside. The Murkrow vision broke, and he was again seeing through his own eyes…
… from inside Giovanni’s compound.
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