Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (32 page)

J
aeron mopped the sweat from his face and neck. He sheathed his blade and knelt on the reed mat placed at the center of the courtyard for meditation. Three cleansing breaths loosened his muscles.

At the close of the fourth cycle, I’m too close to the wall.

A breath and the thought faded.

What am I going to do about Chazd?

Jaeron purged the worry and sought the calm that had been eluding him for weeks.

Can I lead the Hands and still meet with Teichmar’s approval? Am I seeking justice? Or vengeance?

Again, he tried to empty his mind. He was so close this morning.

He felt the elusive change in his senses. The sunlight no longer felt as warm on his eyelids. Another breath and that thought was gone and the sensation with it. Sounds faded. The couple arguing houses away, the songbirds in the courtyard next door, the chanting prayers drifting from the Cathedral.

Jaeron pushed these away, too, until a different sound captured his attention. It began as a light tinkling and grew into a familiar tune. It was the music from the box Rodin had brought them.
No, it’s the fireplace mantle.
The resonance was different.

Eyes still closed, he could see it. The engravings on the mantle came to life. The three priests bent in prayer, stood and waved to each other saying goodbye. They separated, leaving behind a great city, and went…

Jaeron’s eyes snapped open. The vision was gone.

Without cleaning up, Jaeron went inside to the front room and picked up the box. He descended into the basement, pausing only to light enough of the candle lanterns to see. At the workbench, he unwrapped the toys, allowing the light to glimmer on the polished wood.

What in Teichmar’s name is going on?
He had never felt so drawn to anything outside of his faith and the church.

Jaeron had not played the music box since the day of Rodin’s visit. Almost involuntarily, he wound the hand and turned the key. The melody began, flooding the tiny cellar. As soon as the introduction was complete, Jaeron felt the urge to begin singing. He fought it. His muscles trembled, already exhausted from the morning’s exertion. He gripped the table. As the second measure ended, so did any resistance. He opened his mouth and began to sing.

The final words of “The Three Priests” came out through a wracking sigh. Tears ran down his cheeks as the music stopped.
I should never be so out of control. Never.
  Succumbing to the music defied Teichmar’s tenants about sorcery. It violated every principle of his practice of Pevaran sword mastery. It was an affront to everything Jaeron believed.

His hands shook as he ran them over the letter that had accompanied the gift of the wooden toys. Avrilla had put everything back together. “…you will each find a full life, beginning with stories and songs from the hearth…”

Just as before, Jaeron had little recollection of the song he had just sung. A vague notion of three priests beginning a long journey, each carrying something important.
Something…
Jaeron had a flicker of insight. He picked up the knight, feeling the solidness and warmth of the wood against his skin. Something tied the song to the toys.

As suddenly as it had come, the comprehension was gone. It left Jaeron with only one, clear thought. The priests were real. It was not just a song, but a history. He promised himself that when Avrilla returned, he was going to wind the box again and ask his sister to write down the lyrics.

C
hazd fidgeted in position on the rooftop. In the past weeks, he had enjoyed his excursions onto the ceiling of the city. On the roofs, he could travel as he wished. Particularly at sundown when the foot traffic on the streets was light and most of Islar was home or at a tavern eating dinner. But the hours of lying in wait for something to happen were taking their toll. The time on the city heights meant discomfort and tedium, neither of which washigh on Chaz
d’
s list of favorite things.

The glazed shingles of the two-story candle shop were already getting warm this morning. Chazd glanced back over his shoulder. The pink glow dispersed into a golden hue. Sunrise was breaking over the bay, though he could not see the water from here. It was going to be hot.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Summer is only a week away.

The notion of taking over Vengh’s area had made Jaeron uncomfortable. Chazd had seen it in his stance, the manner in which he gripped the hilt of the sword when they discussed it. For a thieves’ guild to have control of a block or street meant control of all of the underlying activity. Extortion. Prostitution. Child pickpockets and street pilfering. Jaeron’s religion despised all of it. Chazd looked at it more pragmatically. If they were not skimming off the top, another guild would be.

He checked the sights of his crossbow, scanning the positions that Sten recommended. He could not see his guildmate yet, but he spotted both of Vengh’s men working the street. Sten had been confident that the Islar Guard would not interfere this morning. But as he looked down the length of Wright’s Road, Chazd got a peculiar feeling. There were so many shops and side alleys to cover. We should have brought more of the guild.

A clapboard shutter slapped against the wall of a store below him, startling Chazd into a higher state of alertness. The two members of Vengh’s Three Mill Legion guild entered the first shop, a woodcarver who sold inexpensive platters, trenchers, and tableware. The men were rugged looking street toughs, both in patchwork leather and dark cloaks. One carried a short piece of lumber that had a handle carved into one end. The other wielded a small mace devoid of points or edges. A practice weapon.

As they disappeared into the store, Chazd looked for Sten.
Where is he?

Raised voices filtered out from the woodcarver’s store. A moment later, the toughs came out of the shop smiling and started toward the next shop. And his position.

Sten appeared almost directly across the street from Vengh’s men. He made a sign to them, ‘Easy mark?’

Finally.
Chazd smiled at the cockiness of the three men below. Then he saw another movement on the street. A second pair of men emerged onto Wright’s Road from behind him.

Chazd shifted to get a better view. The newcomers stuck to the shadows.
Not guards then.
They were armed and moved like thieves.
More of Vengh’s men?

The Three Mill Legion toughs spotted the newcomers, too. They paused a second, then their weapons came up.
What in Mara’s name?

He had to peer over the edge of the roof now as the new arrivals were directly below him. He was not going to get a good shot at them unless he shifted his weight out over the edge of the roof.

Sten slid out of sight into a narrow space between two buildings.
Thrice damn. He doesn’t know who they are either.

Vengh’s men were moving in and Chazd questioned the bravado behind that choice. A wooden club and small mace would not get good odds over a pair of short swords.

Chazd checked the bolt in his bow.
Of course, they don’t know I’m here.

He leveraged himself out over the ceramic shingles. The four men were converging about thirty yards away. It would be a difficult shot, due to his awkward position on the roof. Sten was still missing from the scene and Chazd hoped he was moving into a position for a sneak attack.

With a fierce cry, one of Vengh’s men charged forward toward the unidentified pair before they could draw their swords. The wood whistled as he swung. But the armed men were well trained. One leapt aside into a low crouch that brought him into the street. The other managed his sword from its sheath and executed a low backhand block. It was late, but effective enough to only permit getting clipped with the wood.

The crouching man pounced just before Chazd could fire. He engaged the mace wielder. Metal clanged on metal. The swordsman soon had his opponent pressed against a wall on the far side of the road. The other swordsman was splintering the wooden club, bits flying with each strike and block. It sounded like someone preparing firewood.

Neither man was going to last long against their opponents, but Chazd worried about getting a shot off that he could be certain would not hit either of Vengh’s men. Then Sten appeared, flanking the mace fight. He flicked his hand and the swordsman lurched, grunted. His hand went to his side. A small throwing dagger, Chazd realized.
That fight will be over soon.

Back at the first melee, Chazd was surprised to see that the tough with the lumber was proving to be a match for his opponent. He was faster than the swordsman and had a longer reach, which together were compensating for the other’s better weapon.

Okay, a little excitement. But back to business.
Chazd started shifting back into his original position when he spotted two more swordsmen emerge onto the street. Weapons bared, they honed in on the fight with the club wielder.

Chazd did not want to give away his position, but the Three Mill Legion guildsman was not going to survive against three foes. He leveled the crossbow and fired. The shot stopped their approach. For the one he hit, it was permanent. The bolt took him through the cheek and went out the other side of his head. His partner dropped into a crouch next to him and scanned the roof line for Chazd’s position.

A loud crack echoed on the street. The mace wielder had clouted his foe on the nose. He was down, blood gushing from his face. Chazd rolled to his back to redraw his string while Sten and the thief with the mace headed in to help his friend. It looked like they were going to get through this disaster. He rolled back into position and fished for another quarrel to load in his bow.

More movement behind Sten…
Mara’s monthly flows! What is going on?

The target moving in behind Sten was huge. His cloak was so small on him it could not cover his shoulders. Though Sten was in the way, there was too much of a target to miss. Chazd checked his sight and fired.

Sten spun around as the bolt whistled by, no more than a foot from his head. The missile hit its mark, of that Chazd had no doubt. But the massive man never broke stride. He swung at Sten with a mailed fist, catching him in the shoulder. Sten screamed over the snapping sound of breaking bone as he was knocked to the street.

I hit him. I know I hit him.
Chazd rolled again and fumbled with the box of quarrels at his side, nearly spilling them in his half-seated, half-laying position on the roof. By the time Chazd levered the bowstring into place and got a bolt loaded, the big man had reached the rest of the melee. Using just fists enveloped in heavy leather gloves, covered with metal studs, the man turned the battle. Pain riddled moans followed each thick slap of leather on meat. In moments, the Three Mill Legion mace wielder lay on the street, face bruised and bloody beyond recognition.

Vengh’s other man had exchanged his lumber for a fallen opponent’s sword and was staging a fighting retreat back toward Sten. Sten was standing, daggers in hand. But he weaved on his feet and his right arm hung limp.

We need to get out of here.

Sten took a step forward and then cried out, arching his back in a spasm of pain. The point of a curved sword broke through the front of Sten’s leather jerkin and a fountain of blood erupted from his mouth.

Chazd clamped down his jaw, desperate against the instinct to cry out. Chazd fired at the new enemy, barely visible behind Sten’s body. Chazd’s shot was rushed. The bolt went wide and skittered across the cobblestone.

Where in the Malfekke’s hells had he come from?

Another shout of pain brought Chazd’s attention to the Three Mill Legion guildsman. The remaining swordsman had finished him. As he realized that he alone was still alive, the fired clay tiles near his arm exploded, sending rock-hard shards toward his face. Chazd jerked back and scrambled to stay on the roof.

Quarrels fell, raining off the roof and his crossbow went flying as he clambered toward the peak. He grabbed the awning of the small side roof and heard another missile strike nearby. He felt the impact of more broken tile across his leg.

“Balls!” Chazd could not suppress it.
Who is shooting at me?

In the instant before he made it over the little roof, he caught sight of the huge man picking up another fist-sized rock. Heart pounding he tumbled into a roll down the other side. Then he ran out of roof and was airborne. He tried to get his feet beneath him but lost all sense of direction. He landed on his back and felt something wet and cold explode across his midsection. In the distance, someone yelled for the city guard.

Finally, he thought, before he blacked out.

L
arsetta could not see the purple haze that bled from her irises, but she felt the light prick of pain associated with it. The hallway lit up in her enhanced vision, a complex view of grays and blues that allowed her to see perfectly as she explored the abandoned building.

She followed the hall to the rear door and found it open, the door jamb broken. The room beyond was empty except for some broken furniture and a heavy rug at the back of the room. She could smell the blood that had spilled here. She could almost taste it in the stale air, overpowering the undercurrent of sweat, smoke, and the metallic tang of coins.

The situation was as bad as she thought. Gerlido had not been losing money on his gambling hall. The hall itself had been attacked. It confirmed her fears. Gerlido’s organization was being assailed.

Interesting.
Larsetta glided through the room, pausing in each location where violence had taken place.
I hadn’t considered that someone else would be up to the task of taking on the Black Fangs.
Which means there’s an unknown piece on the board.

Larsetta evaluated the fight. Parts were obscure, contaminated by the hasty clean-up undertaken by Gerlido’s men. What she saw, however, was enough to know that the attack had been quick and clean. Not assassins, but a quick stand-up fight.

She frowned. Several of the Black Fangs got away. Why had the attackers not finished off all of the witnesses? And where were the survivors?

Larsetta considered correcting the situation herself, but with Gerlido pushing at the boundaries of her control, she decided to let events play out. Perhaps another guild leader would emerge to provide her with a more powerful Feral piece in the city. Islar was going to be hers. She would use every advantage to make sure that happened, even if she had to sacrifice one of her more powerful minions.

Still, I should give my wayward ‘son’ a little incentive to stay in the game. Larsetta slipped out of the building. She would see Gerlido the next day.

~

The back door cracked open. Jaeron looked up from his lunch and jumped to his feet.

“Chazd, where have… what in Mara’s name happened?” Avrilla ran to help her brother into the kitchen.

His brother was pale, covered in cuts and dirt. He was walking with a limp and he seemed to be having trouble focusing.

“Chazd?” he asked.

“We were ambushed, Jaeron. Maybe set up. Vengh’s men… Sten…” Chazd lowered his head and closed his eyes.

“Chazd!” Avrilla grabbed him before Jaeron could. “Are you all right?”

Chazd shrugged. “Not sure. Head hurts. Can you get me a drink?”

Jaeron filled a crock ware mug with diluted wine and passed the cup to Avrilla. She helped their brother take a couple of sips.

“Thanks.” His voice was mumbled.

Jaeron helped his sister guide Chazd to a chair and together they took stock of his wounds. Most of them were superficial cuts, but there was a deep gash on his leg. “We need to get you to the Cathedral.”

Chazd nodded. “In a minute. You need to know… Sten’s dead. And probably both the Three Mill Legion rumblers he was meeting. Six guys showed up, Jaeron. Swords, armor, ready for a fight. Two of them…”

“Shh,” said Avrilla. “You can tell us later.”

Chazd shook his head. “No. By all the gods, Jaeron, one of them was big. I’ve never seen anyone hit so hard. And the one who killed Sten moved like quicksilver.”

Jaeron tried to have his brother talk through the attack from the beginning, but Chazd was too rattled. He skipped all over the morning’s fight. Eventually though, Jaeron had a picture of what happened.

“When I woke up, I was lying in a garden. Smashed melons all around me. Guess I fell a full story. Good thing I didn’t hit the pavestones. Probably wouldn’t be here.”

Jaeron put his hand on his brother’s head until Avrilla pushed him aside to enfold their brother in a hug.

“Come, Avrilla. Let’s get him over to see Matteo.”

~

Avrilla knew that her brother was against her making this visit to the Crooked Window alone. Despite Matteo’s assurances that Chazd’s injuries were not severe, Jaeron had become overprotective to the point of frustration. They needed to attend the Equine Council Ball and, so far, had only thought of two ways to do so.

The first suggestion, from Chazd of course, was that Avrilla should attend in place of one of the courtesans from Paisley House. Regardless of the discomfort she felt at the suggestion, Jaeron had been resolutely opposed to the notion. The second suggestion was to attend as an invited guest.

Jaeron had asked Shaels first, but the guild lieutenant admitted that neither he nor Ortelli could provide an invitation. However, they had a short list of individuals who they knew had been invited in the past. One name on that list was Master Jancis Rodin.

Avrilla waited until dusk before going out under the disguise of the old street woman. She made her way through the Temple Ward to Dockside and into the Window’s main room. Rodin was playing, which meant she was not able to talk to him straight away. She stayed in character, ordered a thimble of the cheapest liquor, and nursed it until Rodin’s break.

The musician was surrounded as he maneuvered to a table and it took some effort for Avrilla to push through the crowd to get close to him. He sighed and rolled his eyes when she forced herself into the seat across the table.

“Dear lady, I must have a few moments of privacy before returning to the stage. I-”

Rodin’s eyes widened just a fraction in recognition as he took his first good look at her face.

“Ingomel’s beard.”

Avrilla smiled and ducked her head. People were still close and it would not do for anyone to know that she and Rodin knew each other.

“Is there someplace we can talk?”

“I do have to play another set.”

Avrilla wished she could stay and listen to the man another hour, but she shook her head.

“This can’t wait.”

Rodin sucked his tooth and squinted with one eye. But he bobbed his head and moved off his seat.

“Come with me.”

Avrilla followed the bard back through the crowd, appreciating his ability to deflect his admirers. He was so courteous and complimentary. They each went away feeling like they had been given a gift. She could never be so charismatic.

They went upstairs and along a side hall when Avrilla realized that they were probably going to his room. She stopped in the hallway, considering the propriety of the situation. Then she laughed. In her clothes and make-up, no one knew who she was.

Rodin turned at her giggle, raising an eyebrow. She shook her head at him, motioning for him to continue. Avrilla explained her outburst when they were inside the room, making Rodin smirk.

“Well, I am pleased that you feel comfortable enough to share that with me.”

“I do. I’m not sure why. It’s not just your relationship with Chazd, or your words with Jaeron. There’s something… a feeling like we’ve known each other before. As impossible as that is.”

Rodin gave her a curious look but did not comment on her statement either way.

“What can I do for you, Miss deAlto?”

“We understand that you have been invited to the Equine Council Ball in years past. Were you invited this year?”

Rodin’s brow furrowed.

“I am. I hadn’t been invited in a couple of years, but I have been rebuilding contacts in Islar. That earned me an invitation. Why?”

Avrilla was not sure how much to tell the man. After what he had done for them with the music box, she thought that demonstrated his trustworthiness. But she did not want to put him in any danger.

“May I see the invitation?”

Rodin’s curious frown transformed into a sly smile.

“You and your brothers are planning to attend?”

“We will have someone attend. I don’t think we know who yet.”

“I could attend for you.”

Avrilla considered, but shook her head. “No, you’re too… visible for what we need. And you are connected to Chazd. That might not be good. We’ve started a vendetta with the other guild. From what we can gather, they are involved in the event.”

“So, you’re going to need a forgery invitation made?”

Avrilla smiled, “I’m going to do it.”

“You… Miss deAlto, you continue to surprise me.”

Rodin stood and went to his desk. He shuffled through several documents and brought one over to her.

“This should be what you need.”

Avrilla unrolled the parchment. It was new and crisp. The script had been inked with a wide, flat quill in black ink. There was an embossing at the wax seal and a historiated initial on the first paragraph. She recognized it as a woodcut stamp. It would be time-consuming, but she could copy the document.

“May I borrow this? A day, no more. I promise.”

Rodin waived his hand at her. “Keep it. I was not planning to attend… unless you have need of me?”

“I will ask Jaeron, but I don’t think so.”

Avrilla rose and curtsied to Rodin as he stood with her.

“Thank you, Master Rodin. We are again in your debt.”