Twilight of Kerberos - [Shadowmage 01-03] - The Shadowmage Trilogy (Shadowmage; Night's Haunting; Legacy's Price) (38 page)

Original cover art by Greg Staples

CHAPTER ONE

T
HE CROSSBOW HAD
been specially modified for the purpose, and Grayling could easily appreciate its craftsmanship as she watched Ambrose hefting it into a firing position.

The brass plates along its length strengthened the weapon against the massive pull of its string. Along the top surface, a long tube of variable lenses ensured the weapon would strike whatever it was aimed at. It was these that Ambrose adjusted now, carefully making allowances for range, elevation, even the slight breeze that rolled in from the sea, nearly two miles to the west.

A wicked looking double-hook protruded from the end of the bolt, carefully fashioned to fly through the air with the least disturbance or deviation.

Just ahead of the firing lever, a metal eyepiece stood proud, and through this was threaded a silken rope, fixed to the trailing point of the bolt. The rest of the rope, thin and light but extremely strong, lay coiled at Ambrose’s feet as he balanced in the branches of the ash tree that overhung the walled garden. Its other end was tied to the trunk itself, in a slip knot that Grayling stood ready to adjust as soon as the bolt flew.

Grayling glanced over Ambrose’s shoulder.

“Guard turning around again, get ready.”

“Say when,” Ambrose whispered.

The guard strolled past the round pond at the garden’s centre, then disappeared into the small cherry orchard.

“Now!” Grayling hissed.

As soon as the bolt left the crossbow, Grayling saw it was flying true. The silk rope trailing behind it, the bolt sailed over the three storey mansion to arc over the roofline and out of sight.

Immediately, Grayling pulled hard on the slip knot while the uncoiling rope hissed through the crossbow’s eyepiece. For a few seconds there was play in the rope, then it snapped taut. The hooked bolt had found purchase. Grayling placed a foot on the trunk of the ash tree and pulled, making sure the rope would bear weight. Satisfied, she twisted the knot until it bit deep and the rope thrummed slightly as she brushed her fingers against it.

“Your turn,” said Ambrose, as he began to dismantle the crossbow, hiding components in pouches and belts.

Grayling was wreathed in a black silken bodysuit. Hugging every contour of her body precisely, there was no play or loose folds in the material, allowing her to move in absolute silence. Instinctively checking the short sword sheathed between her shoulders, the silk rope coiled around her waist and the small bundle at the small of her back, Grayling wrapped her legs around the rope and began to pull herself along its length towards the mansion’s roof.

She was suddenly grateful for the hours of training she had been forced to endure within the guildhouse. She remembered cursing Ambrose at the time, for he had merely been tinkering with his crossbow while she had been climbing up and down ropes for nearly a week in preparation for this job. Now, however, she sailed up the rope, hand-over-hand in easy, practised motions.

Catching sight of movement from the corner of her eye, she stopped suddenly. Grayling was very conscious that she swung just a few yards above ground whose guardians would as soon kill her as catch her. A lone dog had appeared from around the far end of an outbuilding, and it sniffed the air tentatively. A lean creature, she could see it was powerfully built, no doubt bred to hunt and bring down thieves.

As it loped across the lawn toward her, a suspicious growl building in its throat, Grayling reached behind her back and fumbled with her pack, drawing out a small pouch. With a single, swift motion, she flung it over the dog’s head, back toward the coach house. For a moment, the dog seemed confused, and it looked up at her quizzically. Then the scent of the pouch reached it and, with a hurried bark, it ran at full flight back to the coach house, head swinging from side to side as it searched for the pouch and its irresistible odours.

The activity caused the guard to emerge from the orchard. He looked across the lawns, hands on his hips, as if trying to gauge whether any investigation into the dog’s activities was worth his time. Evidently, he was paid well enough, as he started to march towards the disturbance.

As she continued her climb, Grayling smiled. The guard would likely find the pouch she had thrown, but he would then discover all dogs would take a special interest in him for the next few days, as the mixed oils and powders within the pouch transferred their scent to those that handled it very easily. It was an ingenious design, as it meant that only one dog had to make contact with the pouch for it to affect a whole pack, the scent rubbing off from one animal to another.

Within minutes, Grayling had crossed the lip of the roof and, gently, she lowered herself down from the rope, feet first. Tightly bound canvas pads woven into the feet of her bodysuit permitted her to drop down silently, yet gave enough grip on the sloping tiles to stop her sliding. Quickly glancing around to ensure there were no guards stationed on the roof itself, and that no one in the gardens below had spotted her ingress, Grayling realised she was now virtually invisible against the dark tiles of the roof. She stepped lightly to the top of the roofline, and held up a hand. The signal told Ambrose he could now cross, and that the second team could also proceed in their part of this mission.

Running a hand along the length of the rope as she walked back down the slope of the roof, she felt it twitch as Ambrose started his ascent. He lacked her agility but, at the same time, she was not entirely sure she could have made that shot with the crossbow – this was, after all, why they worked in teams.

Looking out across the gardens, she waited until she saw Ambrose was halfway towards the mansion before looking down at the bay window on the floor directly below. She uncoiled the shorter rope wound about her waist, and knotted one end above her hips. As Ambrose, puffing slightly with the effort of pulling his body up to the roof, dropped down beside her, she handed him the other end of the rope.

“Getting too old for jobs like this,” Ambrose muttered, as he sat down on the tiled roof and braced his legs against the guttering.

“Just don’t let go.” Grayling winked back, and then turned to scrabble down from the roof, head first.

Slowly lowered by Ambrose, she scaled the short distance without sound, inching towards the wide bay window. She looked into the dark interior, taking a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. As expected, the window looked into a wide corridor. She could see a portrait directly opposite her, looking down onto a wood panelled floor. At the foot of the bay itself, a wide upholstered chair was placed, perhaps to provide light to some rich noble looking to get away from the bustle of his household in the company of a good book.

Satisfied that no one prowled the corridor, Grayling crawled down a few feet further so she hung in front of the window’s locking mechanism. A cautious probing told her the mechanism was engaged – as she had expected it to be. The owner of the mansion was arrogant, but he was not stupid enough to spend gold on hired mercenaries, then leave a window unlocked.

Reaching for her pack again, she produced an instrument that looked like a small wooden cup, with a butterfly screw inserted into its base. Placing the open mouth of the cup firmly against the glass of the window, Grayling slowly twisted the screw. Inside the cup, gears engaged and diamond-edged blades ground against the glass, scoring a deeper cut with each rotation, the tiny scratching noise barely audible.

After a minute of grinding, Grayling removed the cup and slid it back into her pack. Before her was a perfectly round score mark in the glass. She tapped the bottom of the circle once. The glass tilted free and she swept it clear before it could fall inside.

Pleased with her work thus far, she reached into the hole and grasped the short lever built into the wooden frame. Testing it gently to begin with to ensure it would not grind or squeak, Grayling then pulled the lever to unlock the window.

Lowering herself to the window’s level, Grayling spun on her rope so she was upright, then crept inside the mansion, stepping on the chair as she entered. Glancing down the corridor, she saw multiple doors on either side. There was no sign of life. With a confident smile, she untied the rope, then gave it a slight tug to let Ambrose know she was in. Taking an easy breath, Grayling stepped down onto the panelled floor.

And immediately froze.

S
HIFTING HIS POSITION
on the tiled roof of the old Brotherhood chapel, Lucius Kane moved closer to the chimney stack to avoid being silhouetted against the huge blue sphere of Kerberos. Though it was the dead of night, the gas giant cast an eerie grey light across the city, enough to give thieves cover in the shadows, but not so much that they could be careless.

From his perch, Lucius could see the entire city laid before him like a mosaic of stone and lantern light. Behind him, Meridian Street ran down the hill from the fortified north gate through the heart of Turnitia. There, down the slope, the huge Vos Citadel stood, its five towers imposing themselves over the city, just as the Vos army had done some years before. Beyond, the docks were hidden from view below the cliffs that marked the western boundary of Turnitia. Lucius could hear the savage ocean, constantly pounding at the ancient monolithic defences that protected the harbour. It was a sound every citizen of Turnitia learned to tune out, though visitors often found themselves missing sleep for days on end before they adjusted.

Drawing his cloak tighter about himself, Lucius all but disappeared against the stone chimney stack as he resumed study of the building before him. The mansion and its surrounding gardens were large, but not as ostentatious as many others in the immediate area. The owner preferred to display his wealth and power in other ways.

Henri de Lille, a successful merchant from Pontaine, was well known to the thieves’ guild of Turnitia, as he had established an extensive network of business interests in the city while it remained free and neutral from the bickering between Pontaine and the Empire of Vos. When Vos entered the city during the last war, de Lille had had little to fear, for his own empire had been built on servicing the needs of Vos and Pontaine nobles who still wished to trade with one another. He was a broker in the main, and money flowed through his hands like water, maintaining tight control on the flow of goods between Andon and Malmkrug.

Not that any of this mattered to Lucius or any of his fellow thieves, of course. Politics was not their strength, and they shied away from murky entanglements. Their interest was in fleecing de Lille in as efficient a manner as possible.

This meant that, rather than target de Lille’s very well protected warehouses and stores of goods he transferred from one nation to another, they ran an extortion racket among the Pontaine man’s lieutenants and officers. Insurance, of a type. In return for regular – and not insubstantial – payments, the thieves’ guild guaranteed not only that none of their operatives would steal from de Lille’s property, but that they would also ensure no independent thieves made the attempt either.

On the whole, a merchant like de Lille was probably better off with an arrangement like this. The guild made sure it operated in a very low key fashion, and the losses paid to them were likely far less than if thieves had free range over his property, without factoring in the reputation a merchant can lose by having his warehouses constantly plundered. However, a man like de Lille never got to be as rich as he was without an over-developed sense of greed, and he had gradually grown tired of paying the thieves for, as he saw it, nothing.

That was when the hired mercenaries were brought in. Well-armed, they protected de Lille’s belongings like an iron wall, and were more than capable of seeing off any of the guild’s collectors. Revenue from de Lille dried up overnight, and that made certain members of the thieves’ guild anxious.

Including Lucius. The entire thieves’ guild ran on a franchise system where senior thieves would create missions and ongoing enterprises, and gain a permanent income from them (minus the guild’s own take, of course). They would effectively employ lower ranking thieves, and split their share in ever decreasing amounts. The longest serving thieves might have dozens of such operations, all providing a flow of cash, while younger members might only have part shares in one or two. Indeed, with so much of Turnitia sewn up by enterprising members of the guild, it was difficult for a young thief to create a brand new franchise, and as a result many were passed on from one thief to the next in the event of death or retirement.

De Lille had been Lucius’ franchise, passed on to him after the war between the original Night Hands thieves and the Guild of Coin and Enterprise. The war had shattered both guilds utterly and the new thieves’ guild was an amalgamation of members from both sides. When de Lille had employed his mercenaries and refused to pay the guild its rightful share, he had deprived Lucius, and many other thieves, of a lucrative income. More to the point, if word got out that de Lille was able to poke the thieves’ guild in the eye without retribution, then many other merchants might get the same idea.