Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (17 page)

T
hin, reddish-brown mud ran in rivulets between the cobblestones that comprised the road down into the silver mine. Run-offfrom the mornin
g’
s rain made the slope slippery and treacherous. Chazd was nimble, stepping from stone to stone, as he made his way down into the mine without a problem. Acrid fumes hung in the air at the base of the climb. They burned Chazd's nose, making him cough.

Chazd never liked the mine. Regardless of the money it brought in, it sucked the life out of the city. It consumed men and boys unfit or unwilling to enter military service. The flow of silver was good for a thief. However, the prolonged war with Rosunland had steadily deteriorated the city economy. Because the mine was a funding source for the war, its productivity was goaded further each year. In recent months it seemed that injuries and deaths amongst the workers were reaching the proportions of the losses suffered by the army. Worst of all, much of the silver was now directed to the war effort, for the most part bypassing Islar and the needs of its citizens. Thief or not.

Or so he had been told.
The truth was that Chazd did not know how much of that was fiction, but he believed it. Now, if Jaeron’s plan worked, they had the opportunity to change that. Though striking back at one of the institutions inflicting pain on the city was far from his mind. Chazd wanted the money and rewards promised by Ortelli.

Chazd reached the flat expanse that had been carved into the base of Mount Kertars. The area beyond the road was littered with tents, tarps, and ramshackle buildings that comprised the mine support center and the smelting operation. He looked around until he saw his friend.

So far, Karl’s health seemed to break even in his service here. The hard work and constant activity seemed to strengthen him, helping him to overcome some of his pre-existing conditions. But Chazd saw the deleterious effects of the mine on him, too. The ever-present cough he developed. Frequent headaches. The stripes of white across his fingernails from the constant exposure to arsenic.

I don’t want my friend to die in this place.
The thought surprised him, shook him. Chazd would be the first to admit that he normally put himself first. He did not think of it as selfishness, but a realistic view of the world. What most people did not see was that Chazd expanded that consideration to those close to him. His brother and sister. His father. And now it seemed to include Karl.

Chazd waved to get Karl’s attention, who waved him over in return. His friend stood in conversation with one of the mine’s foremen. Chazd saw Karl pointing at him several times as he approached. When he got within earshot, the foreman turned to face him.

“So, you're here to help Karl?” he asked Chazd.

Hiding his surprise, Chazd looked briefly at Karl and recognized the quick twitch on the active side of his friend’s face.

“Yes, sir,” Chazd said.

“All right. Well, you're not cleared, so you'll have to stay outside the packing building. Karl thinks that with your help he can load wagons.”

The foreman stared at Chazd and added with challenge, “You understand he's getting paid and you're not?”

The man did not like the arrangement, but he must have been told to oblige Karl’s request for help.

Chazd nodded and shrugged. “I owe him some labor.”

The foreman frowned at the pair of them and then shook his head.

“The wagons will load over there,” he pointed across the mine floor and walked away.

Chazd waited until he was some distance away before speaking. “So, they bought it, I guess?”

“Seems that way,” said Karl.

“Should we get to work?”

“Yeah. He'll be watching and I don't want to aggravate him any further.”

The two men walked to the loading area and waited for the first wagon. It did not take long. A draft team made its way slowly down the hill and the driver guided his wagon into position. The driver’s skill belied his youthful appearance and the wagon turned and backed into place on the first try. Chazd began a detailed list of features about the vehicle, the driver, and the beasts that pulled it.

The team was a pair of heavy draft horses. Not the large, agile, warhorses popularly raised by Islaran farmers. These were compact, rugged horses with shaggy coats.

The wagon was a closed box design with rear doors that swung open and could be locked with a heavy bar and padlock. There were no windows or fancy décor. Just a simple crest of Bormeer, still visible despite faded and peeling paint. Chazd imagined hundreds of such wagons were in use throughout the country, carrying anything from blankets and food to army payrolls, and, of course, precious metals to their destinations such as the capital city, Dun Lercos.

Chazd noted the height and width of the vehicle, the standard width of the wheel axles, the pads and handle locations for mounted guards.
Hmmn, guards.

A glance toward the top of the hill confirmed it. A squad of Bormeeran troops milled casually near the road. Most were mounted, but a few were on foot. Guards would be riding on the wagon as well as around it.

Then Chazd had no more time for further inspection. The doors to the packing house opened and a team of men emerged. They grunted as they pushed large carts, similar to wheelbarrows except with two front wheels, out into the open space behind the wagon. Each cart was loaded with four lock boxes, each the size of a small clothes trunk. Karl tugged at Chazd’s sleeve and led him to one of the carts while another pair of workers went to the other.

In pairs, they took turns lifting a lockbox out of the carts and carrying it to the wagon. A third pair of men, who were stationed inside the wagon, began arranging the boxes inside, filling the space from the front to the back.

The boxes were heavy. Chazd judged them to be just over one-hundred pounds each. The carts kept coming. Taken away when they were empty, they disappeared back into the foundry and new carts took their place. Four boxes per cart. Six carts per wagon. When Karl quietly told Chazd that the boxes held fifty stamped bars of silver, his mind quickly did the math.

His father struggled all of his life to make sure they survived. To feed them, clothe them, train them. Chazd could not remember a moment when Henri deAlto was awake and not actively working a job or a barter – legitimate or otherwise. In all those years, Chazd doubted that Henri had come close to earning the fortune beside which he was now standing.

They loaded two wagons that morning and then had a break. Chazd was fed with the rest of the workers. A solid meal, once per day was one of the perks of working at the mine. That simple fact was one of the reasons the Islar silver mine never ran short of labor. Too many people were desperate for food.

During the meal, Chazd enjoyed the easy, if somewhat crude, banter amongst the miners. A few times he or Karl would join in. Karl brought the entire table to an eruption of laughter with a bawdy joke that Chazd had heard before, but Karl told it well and it caused him to spit out his drink anyway.

After the lunch Chazd said his goodbyes, patted Karl on the shoulder, and waved to the grumpy foreman. He had all the information Jaeron would need. Other than the two most important facts, Chazd thought as he walked by the Bormeeran troops.

We don't know when they leave or where they are going.

Chazd smiled and waved as he passed. Some men were simply standing by as the drivers fed or brushed down their horses. Other were walking sharp patrols around the wagons. From the distance at the base of the mine, the troop looked standard army. Tough and regimented. Untouchable. But up close Chazd saw the truth. The Bormeeran force was made up of old men, young trainees, and a few recovering from injuries. Those who would be of little use on the war front. It gave him a little hope that Jaeron’s plan was not so absurd after all.

A
fter days of consideration, Ardo still had no idea of how to approach deGrame. ‘Buster’ was in his prime and toughened from his time on the Islar streets. Tabbil was not going to intimidate him into giving up the names to which he sold his information. Buying the name was an option, but depending on who the buyer was, Ardo might not be able to afford the cost.

I may not be able to afford it, no matter who he sold it to. Hells and Malfekke’s Eyes! I need more time.

But his nephew had gotten himself arrested and for all Tabbil knew, they may all be running out of time. He had had only one conversation with the deAltos since the day Avrilla contacted him. A few words as they met in the market, before the boys went back into hiding.

Ardo had not given them any specifics. He let them know he was tracing a few leads. There was not much value in raising their hopes. But Jaeron had done something before they parted ways. The boy had gripped him, firm and confident.

“Uncle Ardo,” he said. “Be careful. If they know you are looking for them, you could be joining our father.”

As if I needed to be shaken more than I already was.

Now Ardo stood twenty yards from the scrap stalls that lined the city block behind Cahill’s Butchery. The butcher shop proper was a warehouse sized building that ran the length of Spyglass Road from Fourth to Fifth Avenue at the edge of Dockside. The eastern end of the block involved a series of stalls where local farmers would deliver livestock. Cows, pigs, sheep, and the occasional deer or dog would be led into the tight-walled tunnels. There they awaited the swing of a hammer that would end their lives and begin the process that turned them into various cuts of meat that would feed the wealthier population of Islar.

The less desirable bits, the unwanted organ meat, and the remnants of the prior day if the weather was cold enough, were carted to the lower street behind the business. There a line of traders and hagglers made their living selling it to the less affluent. These peddlers got to keep a cut of their day’s income in return for reducing the waste product that would otherwise have to be dealt with.

Ardo knew that on most days, deGrame could be found at these stalls, calling out deals on muscle and blood. It was also where he bought and sold his streetwise information. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, but was stopped short by his name shouted from the stalls.

“Tinker Tabbil! What are you doing here so far from your curtains?”

DeGrame’s voice was low and melodic. The man was lean and muscled, and once could have been admired by Ardo but for a profusion of scars and tattoos. His face, by contrast, was unmarked but strange to look at. His nose, cheeks, and jawline were a cut of sharp angles and disproportions. The man was not ugly. But Ardo felt an unpleasantness at looking at him too long.

He had dark eyes, black hair, and a darker complexion that hinted at Rosunland ancestry. He was missing two of his front teeth, one above and one below, and he wore a moustache that dropped from the edges of his wide nose down the outside of his mouth to the break of his jawline. When he smiled, it had the effect of splitting his face into three vertical black lines.

Ardo bristled at the insults, but understood at once how the man could make a good living in this environment. DeGrame’s voice cut through the crowd and made people listen.

He could never do this. The muck under the stalls, the constant rinsing to keep the blood from drying on his hands, and the ever-present stench of death and feces from the butchery up the hill was too much for him.

“DeGrame,” he began, forcing the words out before he could swallow too much of the stink. “I was wondering if you’ve heard of any new work these days?”

“Nothing for an old man like you. Haven’t you heard? It’s bad for old men to come out of retirement. Unhealthy.”

He knows. Somehow deGrame knows about my friendship with Henri.

Ardo seized his reaction of surprise and turned it into a moment of desperation.

“Sometimes we don’t have a choice. I need the money more than deAlto did. What have you heard?”

DeGrame just laughed. “Sorry, tinker. You are going to have to fend for yourself. I have real customers now.”

Ardo slumped. Not willing to give deGrame the satisfaction of further humiliating him, Tabbil called out, “Your loss!” and then backed into the crowd. His position filled in with other buyers and allowed him to disappear.

Now it was a waiting game. Ardo knew that deGrame’s comment about other customers was not in reference to the aromatic crowd shuffling to buy cheap meat. It meant that he was in a guild or had made a special arrangement with one. The question was how long Ardo could wait to figure out which guild it was.

W
hile they waited for the resolution of Jaeron’s jail time, Avrilla had made a decision. In reality, Matteo had made the decision but had waited on Avrilla to approve it before taking action. The day after Matteo’s visit to the dungeons, he came out to the farmyard to speak with them. After assuring both deAltos that Jaeron was not being mistreated, he changed the topic of conversation.

“When Jaeron is released, he would probably appreciate a nicer place to stay.”

Avrilla looked around the barn loft, and though piled with their meager possessions, it had not changed much since the first night they had sneaked inside.

“We don’t have many options, Matteo.”

“What if you did?”

She shook her head. She did not understand.

“Hear him out, Avrilla,” Chazd said as he topped the ladder from the floor below.

“When Jaeron is acquitted, you will no longer be wanted. You do not have to continue to live in hiding.”

On Jaeron’s behalf, Avrilla felt obligated to disagree. “We may still be hunted… Father’s killers are still looking for us.”

“Might be looking for us,” said Chazd. “We don’t really know that. And I thought that part of this whole idea of Jaeron turning himself in was supposed to draw them out. If they even exist…”

Avrilla frowned at her younger brother. She did not like him disagreeing with Jaeron when their older brother was not there. She could see his point and privately agreed with some of his doubts. Or perhaps she was just tired of living in hiding. Plus, it was getting more and more difficult to convince the farmer that they belonged there.

“Matteo, even if you’re right, where can we go?” Avrilla knew the practicality of the situation. She waved her hand around the loft.

“We have nothing. And despite our innocence, can you imagine that anyone would rent us a place to stay thinking that we burned down the last one?”

Matteo smiled at her. “As a matter of fact, I can.”

~

A day later, she and Chazd were settled into a small, two-story apartment. There were only two bedrooms on the second floor, but Chazd assured her that Jaeron would not complain about bunking in with him. Each of the rooms was furnished with a pair of single beds, a small wardrobe with a pitcher and basin, and a large footlocker. Avrilla has been pleased to find the entire apartment was furnished with sturdy, if inexpensive, furniture.

Matteo had explained that the Cathedral maintained four of the townhouse apartments. Visiting clergy, traveling priests, and dignitaries from other cities and countries normally used them. But since the extended war with Rosunland had made overland travel difficult and the effective dissolution of the Bormeeran Navy had given many of the sea lanes to privateers and raiders, the apartments were less and less put to use.

As a temporary arrangement, Matteo and Father Nojel worked with the Cathedral’s accountant to allow the deAltos to stay in the apartment in exchange for taking over the cleaning and maintenance chores that were currently taxing the church’s budget. The place needed work, Avrilla admitted. She had spent the afternoon dusting and sweeping and then cleaning the few pots, pans, and other cookware that stocked the kitchen. Meanwhile, Chazd emptied the ashes and remnant wood from the kitchen oven. In the process, he discovered an active nest of mice. Between exterminating and dispensing of the vermin and then taking a scraper and wire brush to the rest of the oven, Chazd’s evening was consumed as well.

Tired and grimy, Avrilla put the newly sanitized stove and pots to use. She heated water for her pitcher and basin. She undressed, bathed thoroughly, and washed her hair, taking advantage of the soaps and scented oils that were left in the wardrobes for visiting priests.

Afterward, she sat quietly at the tiny table in the corner of her room, once again looking at the letter from Nana Sarah. She arranged across the table a candle lantern, a cleaning towel, inks, and quills. It was crowded, but workable. Avrilla stretched her wrists and hands, pulling back on her fingers in the preparatory exercises engrained upon her by Henri years ago.

Her interest was at first technical. The activity calmed her. Digging out the secrets hidden in a simple document. The quality of the paper told her about the wealth of the writer. The strokes and flow of the pen told her about the author’s gender and background. Had it been written by a professional scribe? Was it a dictation to a frustrated clerk? Did it reveal lovers’ secrets or the history of a property or once hidden bribes? The pieces to the puzzle were each something to examine and set aside. Something to take her mind off the fact that her brother was sitting in a cold dungeon cell.

She stretched and studied the handwriting.
Dearest children, I had hoped to give you this some time ago…
The script was formal Bormeeran and clear, though marked with an unconcealed shake or wiggle in the curves and lines indicative of an elderly hand. Avrilla turned the parchment over, checking the fold lines and the paper’s edges. It would be difficult to copy the document’s age, but she knew the process. She had just never done it without her father’s help. The materials were expensive and Henri rarely allowed them be used for practice. She noted also that there were no wax remnants on the document, nor tears or wear marks where wax would have pulled away the top layer of material.
It was not sealed then.

That would have meant hand delivery, or it was brought by satchel, or within an enveloping parchment. Or a dozen other things, Avrilla chided herself. Still, it was a formal letter, written by a woman with no obvious wealth, who had hired herself out as a nanny to a thief with three children and little money. Avrilla turned the parchment over again, tilting the sheet up to catch the highlights that would show in the glow of the candle.

There it was. A series of depressions amongst the raised ridges caused by the pressure of a quill from the other side. Avrilla scuffed her chair away from the table and went to the unused bed where lay the bundle Henri had given her brother. She moved aside the untied cord and slowly took the bundle apart. Each cloth she set aside, along with the three wooden toys. Another cloth layer from under the toys, and another.

Avrilla grinned. Between the last two layers of cloth lay another parchment, crumpled from the rough tying, but in one piece. This one had been folded in the Cross-Aurgeld style and across the setting corner was a thick piece of broken sealing wax. Despite years of study, Avrilla could not place the partial symbol on the seal, nor the reason for the loop of braided thread sealed against the parchment behind it. She turned the parchment over to read the addressing.

For: The Wards of Master Henri deAlto

18 Salasse Street

The street’s name brought back a nearly forgotten childhood. She knew that Salasse Street was a small side street on the western edge of the Ninth Ward. It was almost as far as one could get from Henri’s most recent apartment and still be in the ward. They had moved often enough that Avrilla had not remembered she had lived at that address until just now. She could not remember when they had left. She must have been very young.

Avrilla could picture a cozy main room, walls painted light brown and stenciled with ducks or geese. There had been a dinner celebration for the winter solstice. Henri had made a traditional fish stew and Nana Sarah had baked
faramel
biscuits, golden brown and glazed with dandelion honey. Henri had produced a small gift for each of the children and then fell asleep in his chair before finishing a last mug of mulled wine.

Nana put a shawl over Henri’s shoulders and then gathered the children for a story-song that they loved to hear. Avrilla could not recall the melody or even the lyrics, but fragments of it floated around in her head. There was a bit about three priests who parted to travel to outlying lands, never to see each other again. Avrilla remembered feeling sad for them, leaving their homes for such loneliness. She also remembered that Jaeron had a favorite part where he would sing along. She wondered how much of his interest in the Teichmar Priesthood stemmed from that simple bedtime routine.

Avrilla also remembered music playing which did not make sense. Henri did not have any instruments in the house until Chazd started taking lessons and to her recollection, Nana Sarah did not play. She shook her head in frustration. She had been four or five years old. How could she expect herself to recall details of such an old memory? Her eyes flicked over to Nana Sarah’s letter. She could not, but perhaps Jaeron could.

Avrilla smiled. Her second true smile since Jaeron turned himself in. She had something special to give her brother upon his release.