The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (3 page)

Chapter Four

Storm
clouds raced across the autumn skies as the secret council sat in session.
Bandits to a man, each had seen his share of death and fought back to back
along the road to the Castle of Naeth. In all but name they owned it; this one-time
castle to the king, capital of the nation of Sturma.

            The
time of kings had passed. Now it was time for men of stout hearts to rule a
country that had been left to drift after one too many civil wars and numerous
incursions by their western neighbours, the Draymar. Fate had dictated that
they had no other borders, just coastline to the south and east, and the
impassable mountain range that cut across the north, known to all as
Thaxamalan’s Saw, the origins of the name lost to time.

            Roskel
tried to keep still while Wexel paced. He wondered if it was as tiring to watch
for Rohir as it was for him. He glanced at the pale warrior reclining in his
sick bed and caught his eye. Rohir rolled his and managed a weak shrug. He was
resigned to Wexel burning a hole in his rug with his incessant feet padding
about.

            Wexel
stood still for a moment, shook his head, and set off once more. Roskel waited
for him to speak again. They had been over the same ground many times during
the course of their discussion, and Roskel was intractable, but Wexel needed to
feel he had come to the same conclusion on his own.

            Wexel
halted and turned to Rohir.

            'Surely
you can’t let him leave? Not now.'

            'He’s
his own man, Wexel,' said Rohir weakly.

            'If
he leaves we are weakened! Not now. Not with Kar snapping at our borders and
thinking he can march through us with our own armies. Our coffers are drying
up, what little we had left after that bastard Hurth squandered most of it. We
can barely afford to pay our own soldiers’ wages. They want to go over to Kar!
Our position is untenable. We are the Stewards of the Crown. We must be strong
for Sturma. This is what we’re here for!'

            'Take
a breath,' said Roskel, not unkindly. 'I know why we’re here. Because Tarn
loved this country, even though it made him an outlaw. He knew what we would
have to do, and I know what he would want me to do. He told me before he died.
No matter what we say, what you say, I must leave. I am a thief, a bandit, a
dandy and a liar, but I know when I am honour bound and I will not shirk my
duties. I have shirked them too long. I sit and make proclamations when I would
rather be swiping some duchess’ jewels-- I smile and talk politely to men who
would not last five minutes in any reputable tavern. I lay with courtesans now
and drink the finest Stum, but I long for a tavern whore and a mug of ale. And
yet I know my duty. My wishes do not come into it. I must go. Tarn warned me of
the price of failure. It is not just me that will suffer if I fail in my duty,
but the whole of Sturma, for generations to come. I must go, Wexel,' he said
softly. 'You must take charge of this shambles until I return.'

            'But
without you we are not strong enough!'

            'You
are. You can be.'

            'But
I don’t know what to do!' cried Wexel, and Roskel’s heart went out to the
former bandit. He felt the same way every day, and still they looked to him to
lead them.

            'Look
to Durmont. He will guide you.'

            Rohir
nodded to Roskel, understanding passing between them.

            'Let
him go, Wexel. We will trust in ourselves, and our friends. We are not alone.'

            Wexel
threw himself into an armchair and stuck his legs out. 'Bloody hell. What I
wouldn’t give for a band of ruffians and sword. I’d sort out this lot in five
minutes.'

            Roskel
laughed. 'I’m sure it seemed simpler when it was just a bunch of swarthy
miscreants stealing the Thane of Naeth’s gold, but you can do this. This
running the country, the council business…everything is just banditry gilt in
gold.'

            'See?
How can we do without you? You can talk like them. I don’t even know half the
words they do.'

            Rohir
coughed hard and wiped some blood from his lips with a handkerchief.

            'Then
we’ll learn some new bloody words, won’t we?' he said when his coughing fit had
died down.

            Roskel
rose. 'It’s time we left you to rest. I will leave instructions with Durmont. I
can waste no more time. I have a long journey ahead of me, and I have already
dallied too long.'

            'Tell
us what we must do.'

            'I
will tell Durmont all I can, but know this – whatever happens, trust in
Durmont, and believe not a word the Thane of Kar says. Remember he has stalwart
allies in the northern Thanes, and we are surrounded by them. Try not to tug
their braids for I fear they will not play nice. I leave for six months at
most. If I am not back by then, by the spring thaw…you will have to find a new
steward.'

            'Don’t
talk like that, Farinder. You get back here. We need you. We can get by on
bluster for a few months, but we’re not stupid. You run this country. We might
be able to cover for a while, but we cannot replace you…'

            'If
I do not return you must. The hierarchs are abroad again, and we know next to
nothing about them. Believe me, I wish I did not have to leave but I do. Trust
me when I say I am torn, but I must follow my heart. These were Tarn’s last
wishes. It is because of him I still live. It is because of him we are free men
and not dangling corpses from a gibbet.'

            'I
understand,' said Rohir. Roskel clasped his hand.

            Wexel
looked at the floor, but Roskel would not let him ignore him and leave in bad
blood. He thrust his hand under the bandit’s nose. Reluctantly, Wexel took the
proffered hand and shook.

            'Just
make sure you come back. Dandy or no, we’ll miss you. You’re one of the
smartest men I know…'

            'Thank
you, friend. Now, come, let’s leave this man to rest.'

            They
headed out the door and left Rohir pale and withered in his sick bed.

            Wexel
embraced Roskel once they were outside, then pushed him away.

            'Not
a word, remember?'

            'Not
a peep.'

            Roskel
nodded. He knew his two friends would keep his confidence. He could not take
the chance of someone knowing where he went. He was a prize indeed, one of
three stewards. He would have to travel by night, and he had many enemies. At
least his face was not well known.

            Enemies
on all sides, and he would be a man alone. The hierarchy, their mysterious
warriors, attacking the land of his fathers for some alien reason. The Thane of
Kar and his spies, all whom would be more than happy to see him dead.

            On
top of that, he would be travelling back to Ulbridge, the city he had fled when
Tarn had happened upon him and saved him from freezing or starving to death in
the Fresh Woods.

            And
just the small matter regaining the Crown of Kings along the way. That was
child’s play.

*

Chapter Five

Orvane
Wense, Thane of Kar, sat and watched the man before him. His own castle was not
as grand as that of Naeth, but it was tried and tested. His ancestors had
fought and held the Draymar from these very walls. The castle had been
bloodied, and not only by war but by intrigue and fratricide. He knew about the
later only because it had been him that had murdered his brother. His brother
had been older than him, and in line to succeed their father. He had only been
twelve years old at the time, but he still bore the memories now he was a man
looking at his sixtieth year.

            His
own son would never have to go through such distress. He was an only child. The
Thane of Kar was proud of his son. He was a warrior born, more at home hunting
Drayman renegades than behind a desk running the Thanedom, but he would learn.
He was not weak, not like his own brother had been. There would be no doubts
over the succession.

            If
events turned out as planned he would be on the throne. The Stewards were a bad
joke. The three men could not see what was right in front of them. Already the
western legion’s commander had pledged his support to Wense. The man could not
stomach working for the bandits that resided in the castle. The only man among
them with the sense to wipe his own arse was Roskel Farinder.

            Farinder,
though, was a man with a past. Wense made it his business to know his enemies
and his friends alike. General pardon might have been granted, but Wense knew
where bad blood lay; and power. His old adversary once, the Thane of Ulbridge
was now counted a friend. True, the man could turn in an instant, but he had
been wronged once by the man Sturma now called Steward and Protector of the
Realm.

            It
would be no stretch of the imagination to trip Farinder up.

            He
turned his attention back to the man before him. His expression was implacable,
but the man before him seemed to have power of his own. He was one to watch. He
considered having him executed where he stood, but his proposal was
interesting.

            'And
what would you ask, in return for this…favour?' enquired the Thane of Kar of
the man before him.

            'Should
events go as planned, my lord, merely the opportunity to advise further.'

            'A
position on my council?'

            'Nothing
so lofty, my lord. Just a friendly ear, from time to time.'

            Wense
was no fool. It was a shoddy bargain. But although the man asked little…there
was something about him. He seemed too…serene. No doubt he knew the Thane of
Kar by reputation. People who knew the Thane were never so calm. If he was as
well placed as he said he was he would know more than just rumour. But what was
the harm?

            'Very
well. Tell me this news. In return, I will look favourably upon you, should you
wish my favour…that is what you wish, is it not?'

            'Your
favour, lord. From time to time. I ask nothing more.'

            'Then
tell me your news.'

            'The
Lord Protector, Steward of Naeth and Sturma, prepares to leave the castle this
night.'

            Wense
leaned forward in his chair.

            'And
how do you know this?'

            'That
I am not at liberty to say. My lord.'

            'And
do you know where he is headed?'

            'No,
my lord. But I have enterprising friends…should you wish it?'

            'I
do. Tomar!' he called.

            His
secretary came through the state room door immediately.

            'Yes?'

            'Give
this man a bag of gold, for his expenses. He is in my employ. Should he return
have the guard allow him through. He may have urgent messages for me.'

            'As
you wish.'

Tomar
indicated that the man should follow him. The man made to say something more,
but the Thane waved a hand at him impatiently.

            'You
have my favour. Now leave me. I have much to do. And so do you.'

*

Chapter Six

Roskel
kept his hood high as he walked the streets. He could have another find his
provisions for him, but a man needed to pick his own clothes. Unless he was
married, he thought. Married men seemed to forgo some of their freedoms.
Thankfully, that was a curse he was not afflicted with.

            His
heart raced as he walked the night streets, heading from one store to the next,
his pack bulging as he left each store.

            To
be free once again! True, he hated the road. But there were pickings to be had
along the road and as much as he hated to admit it he longed for adventure--
like the old days when it had been just him and Tarn, hiding out in the forests
to the south, living from day to day. There was freedom in living on the land.
But why do it if you didn’t have to?

            He
would be travelling as a troubadour. He had already picked his persona. He had
his short blade buckled at his hip, which he had won in a game of chance.
Stacked in his favour, of course.

            He
had purchased a fine dagger, of much better heft than the ceremonial blade he
had worn this past year. The ceremonial blade was ridiculous. He would have
been murdered after a day on the road just for the jewels.

            Just
one stop more to make.

            He
headed down a side street, checking behind carefully as he slipped into the
heavily shadowed alleyway. He had a sense that there was someone following him,
but if they were they would not follow him where he was going.

            He
ducked through a door concealed behind stacks of rubbish and knocked three
times, then three more, then once. He waited patiently for a full minute while
the men in the window of the house opposite observed him, his hood withdrawn
now and his face turned to the scant light.

            Messages
were, he knew, being passed by hand signal to the top floor of the building. He
waited still, and then the door was pulled back and a dagger was at his throat.
It was held by a one-eyed man with a lush beard and thinning hair.

            'Mark
and dagger are well met in the Saint’s Row,' he said, careful of his bobbing
Adam’s apple on the tip of the dagger.

            The
one-eyed man smiled.

            'Evening,
my Lord. Strange prowlers abroad in the city these days. Can’t be too careful.'

            Roskel
stepped into the warmly lit house and closed the door behind him. He didn’t
bother checking his back. If the men he’d come to visit couldn’t handle
whatever was following him, it couldn’t be handled.

            'Evening,
Yargreat. Friendly as ever. Same prowlers we had at the castle?'

            Roskel
just assumed the Thieves’ Covenant was as well informed on the going on at the
castle as he was, and he’d been there.

            'Shapeshifters,
aye. Bad business. Can’t trust your own wife.'

            'I
didn’t know you were married.'

            'Twenty
years now. She still earns me a drinking wage, even if she’s not as…'

            'I
don’t believe I wish to know.'

            'As
you wish, my Lord.'

            'Something’s
up, Yargreat. You’re not ordinarily so deferential.'

            'Money’s
about to change hands, your highness. I get all polite when I’m paid.'

            'Is
it ready?'

            'It
is. Took the finest craftsmen we had the better part of three months. It wasn’t
easy. Each man at the Cathedral had to remember the details and draw them from
memory. But it’s as perfect as it could be without the real thing to work
from.'

            'That’s
not good enough, Yargreat. It needs to be better than perfect. It needs to fool
those who know it best.'

            'Easy,
my lord. It is close as it could be. The enchantment is impossible to recreate,
but nobody ever approaches it.'

            'Let’s
hope not. Well, then, let’s see the thing.'

            Yargreat
went to an alcove in the wall and pushed in a couple of places. A box emerged
on a shelf from a recess in the wall that had previously been hidden.

            'Clever.'

            'My
own design.' The one-eyed man brought the box to a scarred table and laid it
down deferentially.

            'Please.'

            'I’d
rather you opened it.'

            'You
don’t trust me? Even now? I’m hurt, my lord.'

            'A
lot of money in that there box.'

            'Not
worth as much as the good will of the lord Protector.'

            Roskel
assessed the man. Perhaps he was as good as his word, but only Roskel knew of
the crown, outside of the Thieves’ Covenant. Only the Queen of Thieves and a
select few among those knew the truth, but it was still a risk…he could just as
easily be killed as given the crown…

            But
if you had to trust in someone when your back was to the wall, who better than
a fellow thief?

            He
might cut your throat for a bauble, but he was never stupid. No, Selana knew
the stakes…

            He
opened the box.

            The
copy of the Crown of Kings glittered in golden glory. Its design was simple but
it was untarnished. Just as the real thing had been. A single ruby stood in the
centre, cut a hundred times. Even though the crown was just an expensive fake,
it took Roskel’s breath away. The gold he had taken from the city’s coffers to
pay for it was money well spent.

            He
picked it up carefully, as if afraid his touch would sully it. He knew the only
way he’d ever be able to wear the Crown of Kings would be if it were a fake.
Just like his Stewardship was just a clever copy of kingship. It had the
glitter, but at the end of the day it was still a falsehood. The real artefact
would reside at the Cathedral on the Plains once more, until a true king
returned...which would be precisely never, Roskel knew.

            'It
is beautiful.'

            'It
should be. Pure gold, true ruby. The workmanship alone is worth a month’s taxes
for the country. You bought it cheap.'

            'I
am undone, Yargreat. Please pass my regards, and my goodwill. I am in the
lady’s debt.'

            'Don’t
think she don’t know it.'

            'I
wish I could see her.'

            'Once
is enough for most. Trust me, if you value your sanity, you’ll keep her as a
beautiful memory. She drives men mad if she’s of a mind…'

            'Ah,
but for a night in her arms…'

            Yargreat
shook his head. 'You’re a fool, my lord, for her touch is poison.'

            Roskel
shook his head.

            'I
know. But I’d die a happy man.'

            'Mayhap,
my lord. You’ll die just as happy if you keep it in your pants.'

            Roskel
laughed and clapped the one-eyed man on the back.

            'You’re
a wiser man than me, Yargreat. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d stabbed myself
in the foot, so to speak.'

            'So
I’d heard, my lord.'

            Roskel
put the crown in his pack, wrapped in oilcloth to keep the gold free of
scratches. He laid a heavy sack of gold on the table.

            'The
final payment. Plus a little extra for yourself.'

            'My
lord’s kindness undoes me…'

            'Enough
of the sarcasm, it’s getting old now.'

            'Fair
enough. Just a final piece of advice, if you will?'

            'What
is it?'

            'I
guess you’ll be taking a journey…'

            Roskel’s
eyes narrowed.

            'Settle
down. It’s plain for a man with one eye left to see. Just mind who you talk to
on the road. You can’t trust a man’s face no more. Not all the men you meet
will be meet, if you catch my drift. The lady would have you return. If you’re
in need on the road, seek out the Thieves’ Covenant. There’s aid to be had if
you're in need, at no price. The word is out. Just thought you’d bear it in
mind.'

            It
warms to know I still have the lady’s goodwill.'

            'Just
mind you don’t wear it out.'

            'Goodnight,
Yargreat.'

            'My
lord,' said the thief, and closed the door behind him.

            The
lady stepped from the shadows as if she were made of the darkness itself.

            'Yargreat,
really, you should not encourage him so.'

            He
started and hung his head.

            'Didn’t
mean nothing by it, my lady. Just, you know, building a bit of a legend.'

            Yargreat
kept his eyes averted as the Queen of Thieves stroked his cheek with a razor
sharp fingernail.

            'Don’t
worry, Yargreat. You are important to me. And so is he. Pass the word. Have his
back watched. He’s a fine looking man, but he has the sense of a headbreaker.'

            'Your
will, lady,' Yargreat said, and risked looking up, but she was gone. He was
only sure she had ever been there from the thin line of blood that he felt
trickling down his cheek.

*