Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (15 page)

I
t came out forcefully, despite his best effort to keep his voice hushed.

“Later,” Jaeron said, then perhaps seeing Chazd’s heating temper he added, “As soon as we get back to the barn.

“I want to get input from you and Avrilla to put together the plan.”

His sister looked over at them, but refrained from comment. Chazd remained quiet and bided his time for the remainder of the walk out of town.

Once back in the hayloft at the Utay farm, Jaeron laid out his basic idea for a silver heist. He had obviously been thinking about it for a while.

“We use the contacts we have. Mainly I was thinking Karl and deLespan. We can hit one of the shipments headed out of the city. I’d prefer one destined for the capital. We have almost enough manpower. I am hoping that Shaels can help with that.

“Stealing a silver shipment may be more dangerous than other targets. We won’t just be stealing from the mining company, but the Bormeeran government, which makes the job treason as well as larceny. But it’s the single highest payback that I can think of with the resources we have.”

Chazd and Avrilla listened as Jaeron laid out the details. They pointed out a couple of flaws and provided a few improvements. By the end of the evening, Chazd was impressed and committed to Jaeron’s idea. But he realized that in the end, their success came down to cooperation from their newest guild members and the complicity of an unlikely source.

Finally, Chazd asked the question that had been bothering him as much as the issue of Ortelli’s retirement fund. “What about clearing our names, Jaeron? Unless we find who really killed father, how do we do that?”

Jaeron’s answer surprised him. But it upset Avrilla to the point that she left the loft, dropping down the ladder and slipping out into the night.

~

Jancis Rodin felt the shadow move onto his back and shoulder before it blocked the sunlight in which his hands worked. Polishing the mandolin was so much easier in the natural light and as the spring was waning, it was becoming less and less convenient to find a time when it was cool enough to work on the instrument in the common room of the Crooked Window. He began to turn around to vent his frustration when he felt the sharp point at his neck.

“Stay seated and be still,” a man said. His voice was gravelly and thick, even through his whisper. The breath behind it stank of onion and soured wine.

Rodin nodded once.

“Word is ya train the deAlto whelp – Chazd.”

Rodin nodded again. There was no use denying it. Most of the patrons of the Crooked Window knew both him and his student by name.

“I did,” he said.

“When do ya meet?”

Rodin returned to work on the vanilla wood, carefully working the glossy shine in small, circular motions.

“I don’t expect to meet with deAlto again. His training stopped when he could no longer pay for his lessons.”

“Mmmn hmn,” onion-breath seemed unconvinced.

The master bard considered plucking a few strings. He knew it would not be as effective as playing the instrument properly, but he could make the man believe him and go away. The proximity of the dagger was a problem. Not insurmountable, but a threat. The man might fight off the effects of the music long enough to stab him. Or he might be one of those just naturally resistant to his type of magic. Either way his days as an entertainer could be over.

Instead, Rodin decided that a different tactic was in order.

“You cast aspersions on my veracity?”

“Huh?”

“Are you saying that I’m lying?” Rodin could not keep the smile from his face. He hoped that from onion-breath’s position behind him, he could not see the smirk.

“Yeah, I think you’re lying.”

The dagger point pressed into him harder, but not enough to break his skin.

“I am as serious about money as I am sure you are, my friend. I don’t play for free. I especially do not teach for free.”

It was a partial truth. Rodin had decided years before that he was going to keep training the young deAlto as long as he was able and regardless of the father’s ability to pay him. Chazd’s natural talent for music aside, Rodin had recognized something about the boy that reminded him of his early training. He had the potential to become a master, perhaps better than Rodin himself.

The man grunted and the force on the knifepoint eased a bit.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. We always met here.”

In that, Rodin did tell the truth. Chazd had not made a training session since the night of his father’s death. Once Rodin had heard about Henri, he had kept an ear open for news of the deAltos and the ongoing search conducted by the Islar Guard. So far his passive listening had not borne fruit.

“Well, you watch fer him. And if you see him, you make sure you tell me!”

Rodin fought the impulse, but could not resist.

“And how would I do that?”

“What?”

“I haven’t seen you. I don’t know your name. I suppose I could wander the city listening for a hoarse man with a proclivity for onions, but that seems likely to be unsuccessful. How would I tell you anything?”

The pressure on the knife returned.

“Wise ass,” the voice muttered, threatening.

Rodin realized that perhaps the man behind him was not as stupid as he assumed. He fought back his flinch when the dagger bit, feeling a small well of blood build and trickle down his neck.

“Send word to Sukul at deBenn’s boarding house on White. And watch your mouth, music man.”

The knife and the shadow went away. Rodin waited a moment before turning to watch the swarthy, bald man leave the tavern’s side door. He felt the strings of the mandolin bite into his fingers and brushed away a fleeting thought that he would have to clean the neck of the instrument again.

Rodin sighed. So far he had kept out of the politics of this city. Governmental or underworld. He had come to Islar convinced that he deserved a vacation away from the scheming, fact checking, the constant observation and obfuscation. He was even taking a break from one of the most enjoyable aspect of his career, the crafting of songs layered with double and triple meanings, designed to pass secrets to his brethren of Bards.

Now he had a choice to make. He liked Chazd deAlto. Had he the desire or inclination to take on an apprentice, the boy would be his first choice. He had kept himself at a distance from the deAlto boy’s troubles since the father’s death. He knew the boy would not accept any charity, so Rodin had thought to have him run errands and perform before him to warm up the crowds. That would not compensate for the value of the lessons he was giving, but it would give Chazd that impression.

Rodin had also decided to neither hinder nor help the deAltos escape from detection. He did not think that Chazd would be party to his father’s murder, but he did not know the boy’s siblings. What would be, would be.
Until now.

The brutish, abysmally odorous Sukul had presumed to threaten him. Jancis Perfineas Rodin, Master Bard of the Bormeeran Court. Rodin was used to being threatened. It came with his position. Usually such threats came from less obvious and more capable enemies. In addition, he did not like being told what to do. Rodin felt the room warm.

No, I disliked that quite a bit. It’s time to get involved.

~

Jaeron sat on the short milking stool staring out toward the city walls. His sword, cloth, and polish lay forgottenon his lap. He had risen early and watched their host guide his steer out to his fields, applying yoke and harness to begin the days plowing. While Chaz
d’
s reaction to the ma
n’
s labors had been to laugh, this morning Jaeron found himself in a state of admiration of the farmer. He wondered, were circumstance different, if he would enjoy the simple life the farmer led. The repetition of the days reminded him of his practice forms with the sword. There was a sense of clean strength and honest persistence to the man. He heard Master Erank
a’
s voice in his head.
Strive to improve the minute details, but keep the motion the same.

Jaeron finally realized that somebody was standing in the barn with him. The stool flew backward as he sprang to his feet. Then he lowered his sword in embarrassment when he recognized the familiar gray, blue, and white robes of the Priests of Teichmar.

“Matteo!”

“Sorry, Jaeron,” Matteo said, his face a cracked smile. “It looked like you were meditating and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Jaeron shook his head.

“No… no,” he said. “I was daydreaming, I guess.”

Matteo gave him a piercing stare.

“Not the best habit in your profession,” the priest said.

Then he laughed, and Jaeron could not help but smile in return. But just as quickly Jaeron understood there were implications to his friend's visit, just days after his visit to their Temple.

“What brings you out here?” he asked.

Matteo's face turned somber.

“I have bad news, Jaeron,” he said. “After your visit, I assigned an initiate to check on the fire. And your father.”

Jaeron's face clouded and Matteo held up his hand.

“I was careful. The initiate was only told that the Church had received word that one of our parishioners may have been hurt and he should check on their condition.”

“What did he find out?”

Jaeron prepared himself for bad news when he saw the way Matteo looked at him. His friend had an uncanny ability to meet someone's eyes in a deep, empathic way. It was both disturbing and comforting.

“The Guard has your father’s body. The lead investigator, a man named deLocke, is pushing his superiors to keep him beyond the Church’s claim period. They plan to bury the body among the unnamed.”

“A trap for us?”

“It looks that way,” Matteo admitted. “I’ve asked Archbishop Jenner to intercede on the claim. He is considering the request.”

“I don’t know - ”

“Jaeron,” Matteo cut him off. “It is not unprecedented. The church often does this for members with no family.”

“Henri has a family!” Jaeron felt a coarse anger growing in his belly.

“Jaeron, I know. And the Archbishop knows. But you are adopted and currently missing. No one knows whether you were all lost in the fire. And there are rumors now that you, your brother, and your sister were involved in Henri’s death.””

“They really think we killed our father?”

Matteo shrugged. “I think deLocke is looking for a quick way to close his case.”

Jaeron thought about it and realized there was another possibility. There was no shortage of corrupt guards on the payroll of Islar's Thieves’ Guilds. This deLocke could be working for whoever had their father killed.

Matteo let Jaeron mull it over for another minute.

“Jaeron, would you like him buried in the Teichmar Cemetery, or are there other arrangements?”

Jaeron shook his head. “We never talked about it. I doubt… no, there are no other arrangements. I think that will be fine.”

Jaeron hesitated before continuing. Matteo finally pulled a milking stool from the corner and sat, motioning for Jaeron to join him.

“Matteo, I need to clear my name. To find out who killed our father, I need to be free of these charges.”

He watched the wrinkles form across his friend’s forehead and a frown touch the corners of his mouth. When Matteo did not say anything, Jaeron plunged on.

“I’ve always thought that Father Nojel liked me…” He did not know how to continue.

“Jaeron, I did say that all you needed to do was ask. What do you need?”

Jaeron explained. Matteo nodded as he talked through it. When he was done, both men felt that the lie they were creating was closer to the truth than the charges the Islar guardsman was propagating. Jaeron could see that they both knew in their hearts that Teichmar was not abiding of any lie and an act of contrition would be forthcoming before they would be forgiven.

“Thank you, Matteo.”

Jaeron stood and hugged his friend as he got up to leave. Matteo laid his hands on Jaeron’s shoulders briefly and then began walking away. He paused in the morning sunlight, just outside the barn door.

“Be careful, my friend,” he said. “Teichmar watch over you.”

Jaeron stepped out into the sunshine and watched his friend make his way back to the main road. If the farmer or his family noticed him, they made no note of it. The morning was waning and soon Utay would return his animal to its stall in the barn. It was time to return to the loft. Jaeron had an errand for his sister.

A
vrilla felt uncomfortable in the luxury that surrounded her. Despite Lord deLespan’s welcome and courtesy, she could not help but feel that she did not belong here. She sat delicately on the edge of the oiled pine dining chair, trying to avoid putting much pressure on it. She had trouble believing anyone would spend money on a piece of furniture made with such thin and intricate spindles for legs and back support.

Despite her discomfort, Avrilla’s training took over and she found herself examining everything she looked at. The furniture, the tablecloth, the place settings, and crystal goblets. On first glance, she took in the proper placement and attention to etiquette in the deLespan home. Avrilla compared it to the instruction she received from Lady deChel and noted the differences. She wondered if they were due to deLespan’s servants or their family’s original customs in Dun Lercos.

Secondly, Avrilla found herself putting a market price on each item and likely value if it were to be fenced. She stopped herself from picking up a fork from the nearest place setting and giving it a more thorough inspection.

The longer deLespan remained absent, the more she felt trapped, as if this were some sort of test. Avrilla was considering how much longer to wait before returning to the entryway when deLespan appeared in the doorway. He crossed the room promptly, took her hand, and pressed it briefly to his lips in formal greeting.

Avrilla almost missed the opportunity, but deLespan’s brief pause brought back her focus. She stood and despite not having worn a dress, replied to the silent greeting in a formal curtsy.

Avrilla recognized surprise in the slight widening of the lord’s eyes, but he recovered quickly. Avrilla noted with some pleasure that he was smiling at the exchange. deLespan waited for her to sit back down and then did so himself.

He began the conversation. “Miss deAlto, what can I do for you?”

She saw no reason to flower the purpose of her visit, so Avrilla jumped right to it.

“Lord deLespan, we need two favors from you. We realize that this is sudden and we recognize your hesitation in a continued business relationship with us, but it is important.”

Avrilla paused, waiting for a reaction. But deLespan simply motioned for her to continue.

“You already know about our father’s death… The Islar Guard are looking for us. There are wanted posters… warrants…”

Avrilla stopped and closed her eyes, bringing her breath back under control. She cleared her throat twice to loosen the muscles that seemed to be clenched around her throat, making speech impossible.

“They think we killed our father.”

“I am sorry, Miss deAlto. I cannot imagine what you must be feeling. But I don’t understand how I can help. I don’t have that kind of influence over the Guard.”

“You can provide us an alibi.”

The mine proprietor’s eyes narrowed and Avrilla understood his concern. The entire point of having thieves recover the letter and jewelry was to keep the matter secret.

“We understand your reservation. But Jaeron does not think that you would have to explain what we recovered, or why. Simply that we were in your employ that night recovering something that had been stolen from
The Bridget
.

“It should be public knowledge that
The Bridget
was raided and your goods were on board.”

DeLespan looked thoughtful, as if he were considering the request. Avrilla pressed on.

“If it comes to the point where you are asked about the item, it might be best to say it was something of personal or religious nature, and you would like to keep the matter private. That explanation will have some backing from the Church – nothing for you to worry about.

“Could you do this?”

DeLespan sat still, weighing his options. Avrilla knew that Jaeron could be misjudging the man and the noble did not feel any guilt or complicity in what had happened to their family. There were reasons to hire thieves, after all, and distancing oneself from the fallout of underworld disagreements ranked high among them.

“I can… I will do this.”

Avrilla tried to interpret deLespan’s smile. It was confusing. The man’s face held kindness, but also sadness, and perhaps a touch of relief from a burden of guilt.
So, maybe Jaeron was right after all.

“You mentioned two favors?”

Avrilla nodded. The easier, though more emotional, request was done. The second one was going to be more difficult.

“We need some information from you.”

“What is it?”

“We need the silver mine shipment schedules and routes for the next month.”

“The silver…” deLespan was shocked. “Why?”

“You don’t want to know.”

The nobleman did not immediately react to that.

“I don’t see an advantage for me in that,” he finally responded.

Avrilla had hoped it would not come to this, but she had arrived prepared for their meeting. She and her brothers had argued about how much to trust the silver merchant. But they agreed on one point. They had only an inkling of appreciation for the power and affluence he could wield. None of them wanted Lord deLespan as their enemy.

Avrilla pulled several items from the pouch at her feet. A small roll of parchment, a jar of blue-black ink, a quill, a vial of dusting powder.

“Can you write something here?” she asked him. “Sign your name, perhaps?”

He obliged her, taking the quill from her and dipping it carefully into the ink jar. She could tell from his hand posture that he was more used to using an inkwell, but he managed without dripping anything on the linen table cloth. He signed his name quickly, in elegant flowing strokes, dusted the parchment, and blew it dry. When he set the parchment back down, Avrilla pulled it over in front of her. She did not trust herself to be as fastidious as deLespan so she pulled the tablecloth up and rolled it back across the table, clearing a space in which to work.

She dipped the quill into the ink and began her demonstration. She went more slowly than she needed to, but she wanted it to be perfect. She allowed her host to watch every move. When she was done, she also dusted and dried the parchment again and handed it back to deLespan. His eyebrows arched slightly.

“M’lord,” Avrilla said. “We could have made you cooperate with us. We have skills that you do not fully appreciate. I could have just as easily made a copy of your son’s letter, seal and all.”

Avrilla saw him begin to flinch in concern, so she hurried on.

“I didn’t, but I could have. We wanted to ask you for your help to allow us to build some trust with each other.

“We saved your son, your family, a lot of trouble.”

DeLespan was quiet for a minute, handling the parchment and turning it in his hands. Then he asked, “Why do you do this, Avrilla? You are attractive, obviously educated, and intelligent. You could be more than just a thief.”

Without realizing it was happening, Avrilla became furious with the man. She pushed back from the table. Leaping from the chair she retreated, nearly to the doorway.

“You don’t know me! Why? Who are you to ask me why?”

She did not even flinch at the sharp crack of the chair toppling to the polished tile floor. She waved her hands, sweeping in the lavishness of the formal dining chamber.

“Look at all this. Do you believe your hands are so clean? With men breaking their backs digging in your mine. Others choking, dying from the withering sickness from exposure to the fumes of your crucible furnaces?

“You partner with a man who beats freemen workers for the slightest questioning behavior? A man who treats his wife so poorly that she comes running into the arms of your son?

“Who in the hells are you to ask me about my life?”

By the end, Avrilla’s anger ebbed away and she stood shuddering in the doorway. As much as she tried, she could not prevent the sobbing that rocked her. She turned away from deLespan and leaned against the wall for support, trying to steady her breath. His servant, Jefford, came running into the room at the sounds, but the nobleman waived him away.

Avrilla did not realize that he had stood or moved until she felt deLespan’s hand on her arm. Strong but gentle, guiding her from just below the elbow. Then she felt the handkerchief wiping away her tears. Needing stability for just a moment, she folded into him, burying her face into his shoulder until the sobbing stopped.

Embarrassed, she stepped back.

DeLespan said, “I’m sorry. You are right. It’s not my place to ask. You protected my son, my house, and in the process lost a father.”

He walked around the table to his front window and drew back the draperies to look outside. “You come from the same city as I, yet it might as well be we come from different worlds.”

He turned back and looked at her, smiling. But it was a sad, serious smile. Calm and composing herself as best she was able, Avrilla looked him straight in the eyes.

“Your place or not, you asked why. It’s not for my brothers. They do not really need me. They could do this without my help.

“But I owe it to Henri, my… father. You are right that you do not understand my world. Right now, only the strength and protection of a recognized thieves’ guild will allow us to find our father’s killer. Right now there is nothing better for me to be than a thief.”

DeLespan tipped his head toward her in a respectful bow. He returned to the table and picked Avrilla’s chair back to its feet. He returned to his own chair, clearly in an invitation for Avrilla to sit back down.

“So, the silver deliveries?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That could be considered treason, you realize?”

Avrilla just looked at him.

“As I said before, we would like you to trust us. We will continue to do everything we can to keep your family, your reputation protected.

“Please think about how you could use our services in return.”

He nodded at her and called for his butler. He stood as the man arrived and instructed him to bring refreshments to his office.

As Jefford left the room, deLespan addressed her again. “Avrilla deAlto, if you would accompany me?”