Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (25 page)

T
he buggered-all Temple Ward. What in the Basin of Malfekk
e’
s hells were they doing there?

DeLocke’s contacts had proved themselves worth his investment. From the few coins he dropped their way or the times he had turned his head, purposely not noticing the poorly hidden drug sale or the three
zecca
fellatio in the alley. Within a few hours, he had a life story on Karl Veiss without having to break any heads.

Seemingly gone straight from a disastrous foray into horse theft, Veiss worked a half dozen odd jobs all over the city. They included working at the mine, the fish market, with the dock laborers, and at the tannery. All but the silver mine work seemed connected to the underworld grafted to the arse of the city.

Holger mused, not for the first time, that a thorough investigation of Islar’s guilds and businesses could turn out all the underlying connections and put a dent in the city’s crime organizations.
A guard could make a name for himself, taking that all down.
He growled to himself, and then realized the work that would be involved. Not to mention the potential danger.

All for what? A lousy couple of dozecs a day?

Holger’s head hurt worse than ever, the hangover bearing in like a hot, dull knife cutting into the back of his brain. The one bit of news about Veiss that Holger found interesting was the amount of time he was spending near the Cathedral. Karl was not a church-going man, so what would he be doing there? Meeting with the deAltos, Holger was sure.
Especially the devout follower of Teichmar, Jaeron deAlto.

The Gate of Teichmar, as the main gate over Temple Row had come to be known, was close to the government ward. Too close for Holger to risk being spotted by other guardsmen. Avoiding the wide plaza of Teichmar’s holy road, Holger wound his way west through the Market Ward avoiding the main routes taken by city patrols.

Still in uniform, no one interfered with him. He stalked around the western end of the temple ward questioning citizens and street vendors. Finally, one confirmed his suspicions. A new family, two young men and a woman, had moved into the small residential area on the north side. By the time he found the tiny two-story house which he was sure was rented by the deAltos, it was after noon. Sweat darkened his leather chest armor, making the Islar insignia illegible. His feet felt like they were burning in his boots and his tunic clung to his skin. Holger made his way to the building’s front door. He drew his sword and used the pommel to knock on the thin paneled wood.

“Jaeron deAlto!”

He pounded again, denting the door in angry reaction to being ignored. Holger dimly heard gasps of surprise, the opening and shutting of a window from a neighboring building. He did not care. His uniform dissuaded interruption and Holger guessed that the neighbors would have heard about the deAltos’ arrests anyway. Most had the sense not to get caught between the city guard and known felons.

~

“Shh,” Avrilla hissed. Jaeron stopped short, realizing it had not been the first time she had tried to quiet him. The racket was suddenly obvious. They were a little more than a block from their home, but the voice and the words were clear.

“Jaeron deAlto! By order of the Islar Guard, come out of there!”

This was followed by a hard report of metal against wood, a splintering sound, and the breaking of glass. Avrilla looked at her brother.

“Guardsman Holger deLocke,” said Jaeron.

Avrilla asked, “What does he want now?”

They had started walking again, cautious and looking around for more of the Islar guards.

“That was our door,” Avrilla pointed out the dark gap that opened into their rented home.

Jaeron paused, wondering what to do next when deLocke appeared in the broken doorway. He took quick note of the rage on his face and the sword in the man’s hand.

“Avrilla,” he said. “Go for help – guards, the church, whatever you think will be the quickest.”

Then Jaeron drew his own blade. Holger’s mouth broke into an ugly smile as he stepped down off the building’s small portico. Jaeron was shifting his weight, his body settling into a combat stance, when he noticed his sister had paused. She was waiting for him.

“Go. This has gone beyond city law. We need witnesses – someone official.”

Avrilla began to speak, “But Ja –”

“Dammit! Go now - run!”

She followed his instructions and bolted back down the road toward the church.

~

By the time Jaeron could no longer hear his sister's footsteps, deLocke had crossed more than half the distance between Jaeron and his home. The man was intent ona fight. Jaeron breathed deep, relieved that his sister had followed his instructions and gone for help. He pulled the breath deep into his abdomen, then up into his chest, and finally in behind his upper sternum and throat. He let the breath out, sliding into warrio
r’
s defense.

Observe the details.
It was the key instruction he received from Master Eranka. DeLocke had the edge in the battle to come, in terms of equipment. His city watch uniform included a leather jerkin with chain mail half-sleeves and a thick leather skirt over padded breeches. The guardsman’s sword was a heavy battle blade, a standard issue similar in design to the ones being turned out in scores for the warfront. No match in quality to Jaeron’s blade, but made to dish out punishing strokes that could penetrate armor. Jaeron decided he had better make this a defensive fight and stall for time until reinforcements arrived. Then there was no more time. Holger charged.

DeAlto allowed Holger the first strike, moving into a graceful ‘sheet of rain’ parry, but found he was forced into a backward shift to avoid the end of the swing. DeLocke was heavier than Jaeron, and he was using that advantage to strengthen his blows. But he was not as fast.

DeLocke surprised him. He did not follow Jaeron’s parry with a lunge, but snapped into a double swing. Low arc left, reverse, and high arc right. Jaeron backed away further, using dragon’s wing parries and then attempted a feint to break the guardsman’s rhythm.

He was not fazed. He stepped into Jaeron’s strike and brutally hammered against deAlto’s blade. The maneuver pushed Jaeron off balance allowing deLocke to follow with an underhand snap aimed toward Jaeron’s groin. Jaeron spun backwards, struggling to keep his sword in play for a block. He landed in a half kneel on the cobblestones and felt the heat from a hit across his right leg.

“Blooded already, deAlto?” DeLocke mocked him and laughed through a panting breath.

Jaeron did not reply. Ignoring the brief flare of pain, he sprang to his feet and moved into third warrior. A standard defense was not going to work here. The man had seen real combat and was working toward a swift and brutal kill. As if confirming Jaeron’s thoughts, deLocke launched into a new sequence of attacks. Jaeron continued to defend, finding it hard to find a balance between form techniques and instinctual self-preservation.

The Pevaran combat style was derived from the training techniques of the Pevaran Royal Guard. It was developed to be an elegant combination of defense designed to turn an attacker’s strength back on himself and subtle attacks designed to obtain swift, clean kills. Jaeron realized his disadvantage. His focus during training had been on the forms and stances, finding peace in his mastery of the movements. Despite the moves being ingrained in muscle memory, he was struggling against using his full skills and knowledge to react to deLocke.

Seconds turned into a minute and Jaeron began to question if he was going to last until Avrilla’s return. But then, like a last tumbler falling into place, deLocke’s combat method revealed a pattern in the attack sequence. Jaeron realized he might have picked up on the pattern earlier, as it seemed that defending against the attacks was already easier.
No, it’s not easier. It is just predictable.

Jaeron’s sword rang from the blows of the other weapon and his hands were beginning to throb. He began a stalker’s circuit, rotating the fight to see if his sister was yet bringing help. Trying to guide the combat rather than react to it, Jaeron relaxed back into the three part breath designed to relax muscles and pull more oxygen from the air. The familiar pattern also worked to shift Jaeron’s mindset from overly conscious thought of the fight into a state of ‘being’ a combatant.
A state where form and function became reflexive.
Eranka’s words.

His body reacted before Jaeron really thought about what he was doing. There were three Pevaran solutions to a double-arc attack, and though Jaeron had not initially recognized it, he began the first solution he had been taught. DeLocke, frustrated with the continued defense grew reckless. His attack pattern became frenzied. Out of control.

Master Eranka would have been proud. From waterfall, Jaeron performed a right-handed vertical fire block and then spun into a reverse mountain, pulling his sword up and back. He realized what had happened a moment after the movement was complete and his sword had struck home.

From his half-turned posture, Jaeron could only see deLocke’s right side and could not tell the extent of the damage. But the sequence was designed to be lethal. He felt the pull of the man’s body as it slipped off the sword and fell away, completely out of his line of sight.

“Jaeron!”

Avrilla’s shout rescued him from having to look at what he had done and he turned to face down the road. His sister was running toward him, a quartet of guards now racing after her. Jaeron walked toward them, but stumbled diagonally toward the side of the street. He made it ten paces, and then he found himself bent over bracing himself with his bloody sword. He threw up his morning’s breakfast onto the cobblestone.

~

Avrilla broke into a full sprint when she saw her brother stumble into a crouch and plant his sword intothe road to break his fall. She had recognized the sudden spray of blood, but from that vantage, she was not sure the extent of either of the two me
n’
s injuries. Her initial sense of relief at seeing deLocke fall to the ground was quickly broken at her brothe
r’
s erratic movement.

Then she saw the vomiting and pulled back on her pace. This was it. It was the same lesson that Danine had forced upon her in the arena. Death was part of this world of thieves. In order to succeed, to survive, they were going to have to be willing to kill. But in Jaeron’s case, that lesson was a hard one.

Jaeron had a sense of respect for life that was contrary to their entire existence. It was more than the tenets of the religion he vested with such faith. It was a confrontation with his core belief system. From what Avrilla saw, the Priests of Teichmar were not above dispensing lethal justice if they had cause. Or a reason to claim cause. She held no illusions about the Church.

But, for whatever reason, Jaeron was beyond such considerations. His respect for life was an indelible part of him. His conscience, his soul. Avrilla shivered. She hoped that it did not destroy him.

She slowed to a walk, carefully approaching her brother. Jaeron was now seated at the roadside, breathing in shaking heaves, not allowing himself the luxury of sobs. She spared a glance toward deLocke, her fears confirmed. The wound angled up through the man’s chest. Plenty of blood. No sign of movement. As she knelt by Jaeron, she heard heavy crunching behind her. The familiar sound of militia boots on river stone.

“Jaeron?” she meant to speak softly, but her voice cracked.

She took a breath, cleared her throat, and tried again.

“Jaeron, are you okay?”

His shaking stopped and he straightened up, leaving his sword plunged into the roadside encircled in a pool of blood, tears, and vomit. When he turned around, Avrilla had to fight off the impulse to treat Jaeron’s leg. Her brother’s wound looked deep enough to warrant stitching. But he stood level and straight stoically bearing the pain. She saw a shadow move across hers and seemed to feel the presence of the guard behind her.

“Jaeron deAlto,” the voice said, low and neutral.

Avrilla spun around. “But deLocke attacked him! I came to –”

Jaeron cut her off, “Avrilla, it’s okay.” He held his hands forward, prepared for manacles.

The guard surprised them both. “You’re not under arrest, deAlto. Are you okay, sir?”

S
ukul sensed the man following them before he heard him. Before he smelled him. His new abilities continued to surprise him and again he wondered why Gerlido had waited so long to initiate their change. He glanced sidelong at Brale, stalking the street beside him. The huge man had not noticed, which confirmed Suku
l’
s suspicions. They had been affected differently.

He nudged Brale and pointed across the street. A trio of figures were stumbling into an alley, hands at their belts, drunk and looking for a place to piss. Brale grunted and moved with him, though rolling the drunks was not Sukul’s goal.

The next intersection was Flemming Street, a winding narrow that cut away from the markets and deep into Black Fang territory. Sukul took it slow, waving Brale off the drunks and directing him down the road. The big man growled at the interference and signaled with a simple hand motion.
Just one?
Sukul smiled and shook his head. His dimwitted friend did not know it yet, but he was going to get his chance to fight tonight.

Sukul slowed his pace to the corner, allowing the trio to move out of earshot and out of sight. Brale paused when Sukul turned onto Carver Avenue, giving him an opportunity to turn fully around.

Whoever was following them was good, once.
Guild training or military.
But he was rusty, making sloppy mistakes in his choice of shadows, his lagging distance, and in checking the noise he made. Sukul felt both disappointment and a sense of relief. He had hoped that he and his partner would have a challenge tonight, but he was also worried about getting in trouble with Gerlido. Their guildmaster’s warning had been more than clear. With Larsetta in town, the Black Fangs were under orders to stay clean. Guild approved jobs only.

Brale and Sukul reached the sharp western jog where Carver joined with the alley behind Third Street. Sukul nodded to Brale and shifted sideways against the buildings. He unsheathed his long blade quietly as Brale continued his lumber further up the street. Sukul pressed himself against the cold wood, comfortable in the shadows. He stared back the way from which they had come, allowing his enhanced senses to pinpoint their tail.

It was too easy. The man had stopped and was looking around, trying to be careful. The loss of one of his quarry confused him. Sukul felt his facial muscles twitching and an unpleasant sensation behind his eyes, like cold fat pushed around them and dripped over the top. He stopped fighting back against the reflexive nature of his condition and kept the enhancement to his sight in place.

Now, against the backdrop of cold stone and the drizzle of rain, their tail stood out. Warmth pumped through his torso and up his neck and scalp. He was breathing hard, exerting himself. He was older than Sukul expected, better dressed. He had started moving again, slower now, and was continuing up Carver, cautiously following the large target that Brale presented.

The man was fifty yards away when Sukul recognized him. It was the old fence, Tabbil. Sukul recalled he was rumored to be a friend of deAlto’s. Unsure up to that point, the revelation made Sukul’s decision easy. Gerlido had been very clear about one thing. He did not want the Black Fangs implicated in the apartment fire and deAlto’s death.

Sukul waited until Tabbil passed his hiding spot and allowed him to get ahead of him another dozen yards. Then he slipped out of the dark pathway and silently crossed the avenue to stalk their follower.

~

Ardo slowed down. He liked the way his surveillance was progressing less and less.
If I’d been smart, I would have turned around and went home when I lost the short one. Then again, had I been smart, I wouldn’t have followed them at all.

Once he had a name, he found it easy to get a location on the lumbering giant. He made up a simple excuse to find the man. Ardo said he wanted to buy Brale a meal in thanks for his winnings at the fight a few nights before. A flash of the silver he won mollified those that found Ardo’s request unusual. Only Ardo knew that most of the coin was destined for the deAltos’ guild.

Eventually a fellow fence confirmed that Brale could be found at deBenn’s boarding house. Ardo made the trip to the Temple Ward to drop off the coins. He found only Chazd at home in a taciturn mood. The boy did not even think to offer him a drink.

From the deAltos’, Ardo made his way back to Dockside and eventually arrived at the two-story boarding home on Longmoore. He bought dinner from a street hawker, spiced meat on a stick roasted over a charcoal grill. It was tasty, if a little too spicy for Ardo’s stomach. He would feel the heartburn later, he knew. Stewing over the heartburn was eminently more favorable than overthinking what animal the meat might once have been.

Traffic was heavy on Longmoore, being one of the principle roads to and from the docks. Ardo did not have to work too hard to look like he belonged in the area. Three hours passed and dusk approached, thinning the traffic. He was not sure what to do next.

He struck up a conversation with another street vendor, and considered buying another meal on the road when the big man emerged from the boarding house with a shorter, swarthier companion. Ardo then realized whom he had been tracking down. He had not known Brale’s name before his investigation, but he knew the shorter man. His name was Sukul. He was the lieutenant of the Black Fangs under the leadership of Gerlido Krosch. Which meant that Brale was Gerlido’s second lieutenant, confirming the rumor of new muscle infusing the Fang’s ranks.

Sukul and Brale did not become Gerlido’s lieutenants based on discretion and intelligence. They were muscle.
No, that is not quite right.
They were more dangerous than that. Had Gerlido other intentions for the Black Fangs, they had the potential to be a most effective assassination team. Now that he had seen Brale in action, Tabbil believed that no deadlier combination of fighting talent existed within the guilds. Unless one put stock in the rumors of the hired assassins of the Grand Master’s guild.

Whether anyone believed those rumors was inconsequential. They had prevented anyone from challenging the Grand Master of Islar in some twenty years. The dark thoughts shook Ardo’s resolve even further. He came to a halt under the eaves of a garden shop. Leaning against a large cask by the corner post of the short roof, he took the weight off his left knee.
What am I doing? It is time to go home.

Glancing up the alley, Ardo watched Brale continue his lumbering gait until his large form disappeared into the rainy mist. Then he turned and looked back down the winding alleyway, still trying to determine where Sukul had gone.

The gods knew he had never been good at this. That was why he had become a fence. Ardo weighed the pros and cons of moving on now, before his aching knee recovered, against the prospect of a warm blanket and a hot mug of red tea laced with whiskey. It was not much of a contest. Tabbil pushed himself to his feet and turned to head back to Flemming.

The form came out of the shadows so quickly Ardo barely registered its presence. It hit him hard, a punch to the stomach and a shoulder to the chest, driving him back into the barrel. The wooden cask fell backward with a crash and rolled out onto the street while Ardo bounced forward to land on his hands and knees.

“Say ‘hello’ to old man deAlto for us,” a voice rasped above him.
Sukul.

He tried following Sukul’s legs up from the feet planted before him. But his eyes had not reached the thief’s belt line when something struck him across the jaw. His head snapped sideways and his arms gave out, dropping him onto the muddy stone road.

His vision was blurred by mud, rain, and the hammer force of the blow to his head. He could still make out Sukul calmly making his way up the alley toward his friend. He heard a booming laughter, Brale’s voice echoing in the quiet. He smelled the mild fertilizer premixed with the earth that had spilled from the overturned shop barrel. Before he lost consciousness, Ardo felt a sharp pain growing in his guts.

~

His world was darkness, cold, and pain. Ardo pried open his eyes and found that the swelling around the right side of his face made opening that eye almost impossible. It was still night. Raining. He did not know how much time had passed, but Ardo realized with a resigned sigh that it had not been long enough for anyone to have found him lying in the muddy street.

Tabbil shifted to get his hands beneath him, trying to get up. In payment for the action, the burning in his midsection became a jagged jolt of pain so intense that he nearly passed out again. Ardo reached down to his belly, cautious and confirming the worst. Warm blood flowed slowly from a hole in his side. Sukul had killed him. His body just had not had the time to catch up to the fact yet.

Sukul was right. He had sent him to see his friend, Henri.

Henri.

“Ah, damn.”

Ardo had his confirmation. The Fangs had killed Henri, at least partially in response to deAlto taking the job to recover deLespan’s jewelry. Because he had made a mistake tonight, the deAltos may never know. He could lay here and die, or he could get up and do something about it. And then die.

Grimacing through a wave a pain, Tabbil forced himself to his knees. He unwrapped the long scarf he wore, ignoring the cold night air. He wrapped it around his middle and tied it off as tight as he dared. For a second he worried about the mud and filth, then nearly laughed. Sukul’s blade was always poisoned. Why worry about infection from a little pig shite when there were worse things coursing through his bloodstream?

Ardo stuffed his shirt against the wound and tested it. It would hold, for a while. He lurched to his feet and started a slow walk back down the alley. It was misery, but it seemed to Ardo that he made it back to Flemming in good time.

I could try for the physician on Market Square. Or the Cathedral.
Then he cursed himself. Even now, dying, he was still ready to be a coward. The Market was the wrong direction and if he could make it to the Cathedral, he could make it to the deAltos. And if he could not make it that far, then it would not matter anyway.

~

The morning light found Ardo Tabbil on the foot of the steps to deAltos’ front porch. Jaeron nearly tripped over him on his way to attend dawn services at the Cathedral.

“Jaeron...” Tabbil coughed another breath out and it seemed to steal a little bit more of his life.

The old fence considered his life as he looked into the young man’s eyes. He was glad he had made it this far. Thirty minutes before he had been two blocks away and was ready to give up. His hands gripped the fabric of his overcoat, holding it tightly against his side. But even the dark brown of the fabric now glistened wetly with a darker, redder color.

“Ardo,” Jaeron said. The boy grabbed at him and helped him to a seated position on the stoop. “What happened?”

Tabbil smiled and shook his head. Then a peal of pain rocked his body and turned the expression into a grimace.

“What usually happens when you turn an old fence into a spy.”

Jaeron began an attempt to move him inside the building. “We need to get you some help.”

Ardo shook his head. “No, boy. I’m done… Finished last night, I think. Just too stubborn. Gut wound. Poisoned…” He felt his body burning, trembling uncontrollably.

“Teichmar,” Jaeron said. “The priests are right – ”

“Might’ve worked, if I were a believer, son. But I spent my life worshiping the old gods, when I got ‘round to worshiping at all.”

Tabbil paused and drew in a deep breath through his nose. He closed his eyes as the pain ebbed slightly. Then he realized that was not a good sign. He had things to say before he died.

“Listen now, Jaeron. Listen.”

His voice was weak and he hoped he was speaking well enough to be heard.

“Twas the Black Fangs killed your father. I should have known, after that business between Henri and Gerlido. But needed... to confirm it, I guess.

“Almost sure it was the Fang lieutenants, Brale and Sukul.”

Jaeron’s face grew blurry, but Tabbil could tell he was nodding at him. But the boy kept pawing at him and looking around, still thinking that there was some way to keep him from dying.

“There’s more... Henri–” he coughed again and tasted a bit of blood and bile in his mouth. It was close to over.

“Henri was blacklisted. Tryin’ to find who killed your mother... Something Ortelli may know.”

Tabbil wondered why he was gripping his hands so hard. He opened them, and let his arms relax. He thought he heard someone calling his name, but it was so faint. Tabbil did not fight the overwhelming drowsiness. He was satisfied. He had told Jaeron everything.
Almost everything.

“Jaeron,” he whispered. “I’m sorry... should have been a better uncle... a better friend. Tell... tell Henri, I’m sorry.”