Tothor flattened himself against the wall, feeling the worn sndstone press into his back. He pulled his habit
around him and shivered silently as the water trickling down the stones seeped into its cloth. The satchel
hanging around his neck seemed to take on an unusual heaviness and he tried to put out of himd what it
contained...the guards would be changing soon and for the hundredth time he cursed the clouds for opening to
reveal a bright yellow moon. He had been promised a night of rain--a night of darkness--and yet what he had were
pools of sharp-edged moonlight and scant shadows. So far he had been lucky and all the other information he had
was good enought hat he had already achieved half his task; the North Star had been taken from its sacred altar
and nobody had yet noticed. Now it was lying against his hip and he had to just wait a little longer, then he
would be away from this cursed city never to return.
Realizing that he had had been holding his breath he let it out in a silent sigh and tried to concentrate on
keeping his heart rate in check. Someone was muttering on the wall above him, a quiet conversation almost out of
earshot and Tothor found himself straining to listen, holding his breath again. He relaxed; they were only
talking about the weather and one of their sisters who had fallen out of God's graces instead of organizing a
silent search for the thief amongst their ranks. He forced himself to relax once more but kept a furtive watch
across the courtyard. Nothing was stirring but the cobbles glistend with the monochrome light and recent
rainfall--anything that did step out would be spotted immediately. He would have to wait, hope that one of the
acolytes would not happen to wander into the inner sanctuary and disvoer that the relic was missing. It was only
a matter of time before somebody noticed but he was hoping at this hour of the night people would be saying their
prayers from the bedchambers instead of wandering about the monestary. The guards will change soon, he told
himself, just have to wait a bit longer. Wait for the sound of weary footsteps wandering back to the guardhouse
to rouse the next shift. Tothor knew that the next shift would be slow to rouse, knew that the guards currently
on duty would have to leave his post to find out what had happened to their replacements. He fingered the pouch
of herbs he had hanging from his habit and smirked into the darkness. Finally his lessons in herblore had been put
to a useful purpose instead of preparing the constant stream of concoctions for The Bishop and his group of Old
Boys. Tothor would be glad to get away from their cloying clutches, finally make it away and walk freely into the
world. There would be a hunt though, he reflected and another shiver trickled up his spine, the smirk disappeared
and he twisted his brow unconsciously. They would turn the world upside down to find him and he only hoped that
the arrangements he had made were good enough. So far only the weather seemed to be against him and he was
counting on the fact that there were many, even in the regular congregation, who would be glad to offer aid to
someone fleeing the guards of the citadel. With a little bit of luck he would be away and in three days he would
be beyond the country's borders to safety.
