Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (5 page)

C
hazd climbed over the wooden fence and jogged down the alley. He hoped that Jaeron stuck with their plan and did not feel the overprotective need to check up on him. Unbidden, the same old comparisons with his older brother sprung to his mind.
He makes everything look easy.
He was angry with himself for the botched attempt at picking the lock on the trap door, his poor reaction time when the dogs attacked, and the fact that his sister had to come to his rescue. But most of all he was angry he had not followed his brother into the burning building.

His brother had picked up his skill with the sword as if he had been born with one in his hand. His sister was a sorceress. The only thing he had learned easily was how to play music and there was not much use for that tonight.
What use was any of it tonight?

Despite what Jaeron said, despite what he claimed their father had said, he needed to see it for himself. Chazd could not help himself. He just could not believe that Father was dead.

Stopping short of where the side street met Walnut, Chazd checked around the corner of the building. The blazing light from the fire was gone, though most of the gathered crowd was still outside. The town guards had arrived and were questioning the onlookers. He knew the Ninth Ward and its people. No one knew anything or saw anything. That was just the way it worked here.

Chazd recognized the lead guard but did not know his name. The man had a reputation for shirking his duties when the night got late, but at this moment, he seemed to be taking his job seriously. A fit of cursing emerged from the other direction. He pulled back further into the darkness. It was Tonas Valche, their landlord. Valche propelled his bulk directly to the guards and began an exchange that escalated into raised voices. Chazd was too far away to make out the details of what they were saying, but he could tell that the guards took the worst of it, their leader watching red-faced as Valche spun away and stomped back up the street in the direction from which he had come.

The youngest deAlto continued to watch as a second group of Islar guards arrived and stirred the fire brigade into better efficiency. The second floor of the building was extinguished now, but it was clear he was not getting an opportunity to slip inside the apartment.

Containing a cry of frustration, Chazd spun away from Walnut Street and forced himself to return to the alley. He had hoped to disprove his brother’s story. To find things not as bad as he imagined. He reached behind his back, expecting to take comfort in the familiar touch of wood and strings. But his lute was not there. It was with his father. The loss struck him after only a few paces.

Father, don’t be gone. You can’t be gone.

Chazd squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to wipe his face into his shoulder, swallowing the sudden sorrow that welled up within. How long had it been since working up the nerve to ask his father for that favor?

~

He had waited for a period of good humor, when he had done well enough that Henri grunted in satisfaction on his progress with his lock picks.

“More, Father?” he asked.

“Nay, Chazd. That’s ‘nough for tonight. Put up all your tools.”

“Father, Avrilla’s quite good at forgery, isn’t she?”

Henri grunted again, uncommitted. Chazd waited. His father had recognized the tactic at once, of course.

“But you also have her learning sewing, disguises?”

“Yes,” Henri said. “What are you gettin’ up to, son?”

“Well, you’ve said there are times when we need to blend in, be accepted. To have an advantage for our real work, right?”

Chazd watched his father’s face. Henri seemed trapped between laughing at the failing stealth of some fool-boy’s request and evaluating a deeper conversation out of the ordinary for his younger son.

“Some ways are better’n others, but a good thief should be prepared for anything.”

Chazd paused, glancing around the room. His eyes landed anywhere but on his father. Finally, he blurted out the question.

“What if I learned how to play music?”

Henri just looked at him, frowning slightly. Then he slapped his palms on the table and stood up.

“Get back t’putting away your picks and locks, boy. We’ve a long day tomorrow.”

Chazd had expected a fight. He had prepared an elaborate set of arguments and counterarguments. He felt a little disappointed that the request was not rejected so much as it had been ignored. Over the next couple of weeks, Chazd made sure to visit the Crooked Window as often as he could. He did not notice until afterward that he had not gotten in trouble for a single one of those visits. Instead, one evening as Chazd tried to sneak back into the deAlto apartment he found Henri waiting for him in the bedroom he shared with his brother. Jaeron was not there, but on Chazd’s bed was a brown-paper wrapped package.

Henri said, “You ’ave made quite the impression at the Crooked Window. Perhaps yer right about learning something more than lock picking. And sneaking in-and-out of windows.”

Chazd froze, perched sitting on his ankles on the window sill.

“Well, come in n’open it, boy.”

Chazd made his way to the bed slowly then tore open the wrapping to expose a second-hand lute along with a promissory note for lessons that he would be taking twice weekly with Master Jancis Rodin.

~

His fingers clenched, aching for the touch of the missing instrument. Chazd realized that it had been, and would forever be, the last time he had hugged his father. He turned to go, making it to a short fence at the alley’s edge. Then he doubled over and vomited. Before he even realized he was doing it, Chazd was mouthing the words, a nearly silent litany erupting through sobs of grief. A plea to the few gods to whom he gave credence to fix his broken world.

J
aeron approached the Talica Bridge from South Bay Road, downstream of the crossing. The road ran along the riverside in front of a stretch of densely packed two and three story homes. They were expensive houses, owned by business owners and ship captains and retired officers from the Bormeeran army and navy. It was wealth that Jaeron could scarcely imagine. Bitterly he wondered how well it protected those who lived there from arson and murder.

He felt weighed down with the two packages. The strange bundle from Henri and the oilskin-wrapped box from the Dockpad caves. He had done as he agreed with Chazd and Avrilla, but he made an additional trip. Jaeron felt remorse about it, after having told both his brother and sister to be careful to stick to the plan. But he had needed to pray.

Unsure if anyone was still looking for them, Jaeron felt he could not chance going to the Cathedral of Teichmar. Instead, he chose the small secondary temple dedicated to Teichmar in Northgate ward. The tiny church was the original church of Teichmar in Islar, in the days prior to the Proclamation of Forbiddance. It was mostly unused now, serving as a sometime retirement home for elderly clergy and a storage house for church records. Jaeron had never been there before, but the old priests kept the place tidy, and observed the written traditions. He could smell the recently burned incense in the air when he entered the chapel.

Jaeron felt as if he let his siblings down earlier. And in doing so he let Henri down as well. It was his duty as the eldest son to keep his family safe, to provide guidance and support, and he had been the one to break down in the alley. He was the one that needed help. Taking the time to pray to Teichmar restored a sense of duty, but it made him feel no better. He prayed that the Lord of Justice would not hold his faltering against him. He prayed for his brother and sister. But mostly he prayed for Henri, and whatever justice would be meted out to those who took his father’s life.

He wondered about his decision, whether Father would still be alive if he had entered the church. Again Jaeron found himself troubled trying to reconcile his faith with his family’s lifestyle and profession.

The first time Jaeron entered the Cathedral of Teichmar, he was only eight years old. Henri had not been very concerned with a theological education for his adoptees, but he practiced a few traditions from younger days. Unfortunately, his devotions of respect and mourning for his deceased wife, Liadee, were an outlawed practice of Oundull. With the aggressive sentences being handed down on so-called blasphemers, Henri had found a new way to pray for his departed. He made his annual trip to temple once a year, alone. But when the family’s nanny was no longer available, Henri had brought the children with him. While Avrilla played with her rag doll and Chazd slept curled on Henri’s lap, Jaeron looked around in amazement.

The cool interior, the glowing polish on the wood, the scent of incense, charcoal, and
lecouri
oil awed Jaeron and at the same time gave him serenity. If the physical attributes of the Cathedral had not firmly entranced him, the words and seemingly heartfelt kindness of Father Bruhan had made it complete.

It was at least a year later before Henri had explained to him why they went to church each year. Jaeron had continued going with Henri, then going on his own with increasing frequency. Jaeron’s belief in the Word of Teichmar had grown over the years, despite the obvious trench between those teachings and his family’s way of life. The teachings of Teichmar espoused justice and had no tolerance of theft or deceit. Yet, he saw that the struggling poor needed the interplay of the city’s thieves to sustain even a meager existence. The telltale evidence of city corruption was bad enough, but the ongoing war with Rosunland meant that necessities were often difficult to come by. Food, clothing, leather goods – depending on the needs of the men on the front - any of these things could be too expensive or in too short supply. The Thieves’ Guilds redistribution of goods seemed to balance those needs.

But tonight his prayers gave him little comfort, and Jaeron feared that justice had come for his father after all. When he left to make his way to the bridge, Jaeron felt as confused as ever.

The Talica Bridge held renown as the architectural achievement of Islar. In fact, the bridge structure was known amongst the kingdoms as one of the pinnacle monuments of the nation of Bormeer. The eight-hundred-foot span was crossed by a three arch bridge, where the central arch was supported by two pairs of three-hundred and fifty foot towers. The towers were shaped in distinct likenesses of a pleasant Bormeeran man and woman, their arms holding up the seal of Bormeer. Constructed of hardwood, concrete, and granite, each figure was dressed with white alabaster behind which was a complex network of plumbing that fed hundreds of oil lamps from a central reservoir at the top of each tower. The lamps were hidden in critical folds or behind thin veneers of the dense, semi-transparent stone illuminating the marvels from within. At night, the glow could be seen for miles around the city.

He paused in the last bit of shadow available, underneath the eaves of a brick two-story. Steps away, the bridge waited, bathed in the glow of the giant statues. Despite the prayers, Jaeron’s thoughts were dark. He could not see the peaceful and determined workers of Islar in the giant faces of stone, but a quartet of Bormeerans suffering in the fires of Malfekke.

G
erlido Krosch sat hunched over the high table in the corner of the smoky room. The tavern was almost empty. Only a couple of stragglers remained, drinking over their dice game until there were no
dozecs
remaining in their pockets to bet. They were all Black Fang guild members. Gerlid
o’
s arrangement with the pub owner effectively turned over the premises to the guild after normal closing hours.

The door to the street opened and Gerlido’s guild lieutenants, Brale and Sukul, stepped inside. They did not have to look for him. Gerlido always sat in the same place. They approached slowly. Sukul’s eyes were squinted and twitchy. Brale was sweating barely looked up from the floor. Gerlido could smell the mineral salt and residue of greasy food from across the room. He made an effort not to scowl. They were bringing him bad news about their assignment.

The men reached his table, Brale looming and a little lopsided on his feet as he tried not to interfere with the serving girl bringing drinks. Brale was a hulking figure of a man, with arms and torso out of proportion with his normally sized legs. He came from good stock, Gerlido often said. His thick neck and broad shoulders would have served his father well toiling in the farmer’s fields, had he not had the misfortune of killing their neighbor’s daughter. Gerlido never found out what happened, whether it was a premeditated murder or an accidental display of the brute’s temper. Truly, he did not care.

Brale made the mistake of trying to rob him after his escape into the bowels of the city. Gerlido taught him that there was more technique to fighting than devastating, lumbering punches. Once he recovered from his injuries, Brale refused to leave Gerlido’s side. Realizing he must either take him into the guild or kill him, Gerlido took the more advantageous approach. He paired the boy with Sukul as strong-arm support for the guild, and Brale seemed more than content taking orders from the only man to have ever beaten him in a fight.

Sukul’s was another story entirely. He had been with Gerlido since their early careers in Dun Lercos. The swarthy Pevaran was short and wiry. His ropy muscles pushed against the tight, midnight blue cotton he always wore. They had crossed paths working the capital city docks, rolling unsuspecting traders and travelers as they made their way from the riverfront to the local pubs. They had both gone for the same mark and ended up toe-to-toe in a grimy alley.

Gerlido was not yet working for Larsetta. He was a loner, avoiding the politics and the tribute associated with the city guilds. He understood the chances he was taking. That night he figured that he had run out of time and luck and into one of the city’s guildsmen. It was not until the following day that he learned that Sukul had believed the same thing.

Daggers already in hand, each man eyed the other. They stalked each other in a tight circle as the oblivious merchant continued on his way. As their footwork disturbed nothing but the oil-slick surfaces of the puddles in the filth-strewn alley, both men made evaluated their opponent and decided not to fight. Another choice and either of them could have ended up dead. Perhaps both of them could have been killed. They found out just days later the similarities in their fighting styles and abilities.
It would have been a close thing.

In many ways, that meeting had brought Gerlido to his present position. Through the years, Gerlido and Sukul stood poised for choices that could have gone either way: the guild they finally joined, Gerlido’s desire for becoming a rung lieutenant versus Sukul’s disinterest in the opportunity, and meeting Larsetta and becoming involved in her circle of assassins. Sukul stepped back each time, deciding to maintain their friendship rather than force a competition.
Which worked for a while. Until we came here and I became guild leader. My adoption of Brale has made Sukul more of a caretaker than a Guild lieutenant.

Well, I'll make it up to him.
Gerlido could not say that he missed being closer comrades. He had too much to do. Another year and the first rung guild position would be theirs. A year more and he would be the Grandmaster Thief of Islar. Then he could throw off Larsetta’s leash and make his own decisions about Islar's future. Then he would reward Sukul for his constancy.

Gerlido’s mouth twitched.
Which leaves the problem at hand.
In order to move that plan along, Gerlido had hoped to have the city's silver industry under his control. If the information he had purchased concerning a letter and jewelry proving an illicit affair between deLespan's son and Kadene Witaasen were true, he could accomplish this. He just had not expected interference from Henri deAlto.

“Spit it out, Sukul,” Gerlido snapped.

“Yes, sir,” Sukul nodded. “The old man is dead. Wasn’t our fault. He put up a fight. Started a fire that looked to take the whole apartment and we had to leave.”

“And the jewelry?” the guildmaster asked.

“He didn’t have it. Maybe we had the wrong information,” Sukul said.

“The information is correct. DeAlto’s whelps just hadn’t brought it home yet.”

Gerlido closed his eyes and analyzed the situation again. He could not believe that deAlto had tried to form his own guild. He had warned the man once before about poking his nose too far into the business of the thieves of Islar.

Gerlido’s guild, the Black Fangs, had just made second rung status in Islar when deAlto began using favors and bribes to solicit information about them. Gerlido was only a fortnight out from giving unsanctioned orders for the murder of a one-time associate. He did not need the additional attention. He had sent Henri a message of a very physical nature. He thought the man had listened when he disappeared into the cracks of the city.

Occasionally, the guildmaster would hear that “old man deAlto” was using one of his contacts, had been seen purchasing some specialized equipment, or that he had taken an odd job below the level of a guild’s notice. Gerlido brushed it off as deAlto’s need to feed and clothe the street orphans the man had been stupid enough to take in.

Apparently, the orphans were thieves-in-training. Rather than recruit guild members, deAlto had simply raised them as his children. The eldest was rumored to be a swordsman and the middle child, a girl, had some talent in forgery. He knew the least about the youngest, though he had personally observed him gambling and flirting with the wenches at the Crooked Window.

The economics of it made no sense to Gerlido. It was easier, faster, and cheaper to pull in trained, or half-trained, talent from the streets. Moreover, it did not involve the unpleasant emotional entanglements of family. Gerlido’s assessment was that deAlto had engaged in training these orphans in a manner similar to the way he had conducted his life. A carelessly planned and messily executed existence.
Though that existence is causing me some inconvenience at the moment.

The guildmaster felt a twinge of the dark rage inside him start to build and he willfully forced it back down. When he heard about the lost jewelry, Gerlido knew that he had an easy way to retrieve it. He maintained a spy in most of the other guilds, including some of the third rung guilds that showed promise. He simply contacted his agent in the Dockpads and asked him to pick up the package at his earliest opportunity. But the fool had given himself food poisoning last night eating raw oysters.
Oysters!
He willed himself to move on. He would determine a suitable punishment for that later.

As to his competition, it had been easy to determine where the job would go. The situation with the jewelry had been spilled to Ardo Tabbil, an old and ineffectual fence. He would take the opportunity to only one person, his trusted friend Henri.

Well, Henri is no longer a problem. The question is how much of a problem are deAlto’s children going to be?

“Find the children and retrieve the jewelry case,” Gerlido told his men. “Attract as little attention as possible.”

Gerlido hoped that even Brale would understand that meant no killing unless it was absolutely necessary.