The thief did not intend to enter the palace by just any window. He knew
precisely where he was going.
The task of regaining line and arrow was more difficult than he had anticipated.
He silenced snarls and curses. Knot a rope ten times and try swinging on it and
the accursed thing might well work itself loose. Shoot an arrow to wrap a cord
slimmer than a little finger around a damned gilded brass flagpole, and he had
to fight to get the damned thing to let go!
Within four or six minutes (with silenced snarls and curses) he had sent enough
loops and twitches ripple-writhing up the line to loosen the arrow. It swung
once around the spire, twice, encountered the line, and caught. More curses, a
sort of prayer, and more twitches and ripples riding up the line. Reluctantly
the arrow ended its loving embrace of the pennon spire. The line fluttered
loose. Down came the arrow. It fell with a clatter that, to a shadowy thief in
shadows, sounded like thunder on a cloudless day.
Sleepy sentries heard no thunder. Only he noticed. He reeled in line and arrow.
In a crouch, he reached behind him into hi snugly fitted backpack. From it
he drew two cylinders of hard wood wrapped with black cloth. Around them he
looped his line arrow detached. He held silent for a time, listening. A fly
hummed restless and loud. The thief heard nothing to indicate that any o his
actions had been noticed with anything approaching alarm.
Rising, he went on his way. Along the perimeter of the palace along the flagged
walkway betwixt dome and toothy wall.