Oath of the Thief

by Zackery Arbela

  OATH OF THE THIEF

  Book Three of the Legend of Fenn Aquila

  Zackery Arbela

  Copyright 2019 Zackery Arbela

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  Gaebrel's Gamble

  Details are at the end of this book.

  Copyright 2018 Zackery Arbela

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  “This is an odd place to meet.”

  “Do you object?”

  “Only to the smell.”

  “Ah....right. Sorry about that, the downstairs is a butcher’s shop, and in this heat...well, buckets of entrails, and so on. I'm sure you understand.”

  “Actually, I don’t. Why here? Why not someplace where the air is fresh, and we could discuss this business over a cup of wine?”

  “Places like that have people who look on. And this is supposed to be a secret matter, yes?”

  “Oh, very well...Suns and Spirits, that is ripe! Does your butcher wait for his damn meat to grow legs and walk out?”

  “Problem with the carters in this district...greedy bastards every one of them. Some sort of dispute between the firms contracted to haul away the rubbish. Anyway...enough of that! What have you to say regarding our particular business?”

  “The men will arrive by lakeboat tomorrow. A handful are...friends of ours, the rest hired knives we can drop once the deed is done.”

  “Armed and equipped?”

  “Of course! Courtesy of the smith our mutual friend recommended. He does quality work...and charges accordingly.”

  “You and I both know money is no object for us.”

  “Old habits die hard, my friend. Where I come from a stray silver mark found in a ditch was a gift from heaven.” A pause, then a hand reached into a pocket and handed over a folded paper. “Here are the names.”

  Another hand took it, a pair of eyes scanning what was written. “Wait. Why add this one to the list?”

  “Certain facts have come to our attention regarding his background. Suffice it to say, he is not who he appears to be. His removal from the board will simplify the game.”

  “You do realize that his death will cause no end of ruckus among his followers, who are many and motivated?”

  “They’ll calm down soon enough. There are any number of men in his organization who could fill his shoes soon enough. If we play this right, it will be someone friendly to us.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “You seem troubled. Don’t tell me you’re developing a sense of guilt?”

  “Perish the thought! But it would be a lie if I said I liked this. Still...if it has to be done…”

  “It does.”

  “...Then he is a dead man.” The paper disappeared. “Do we meet again after it’s done?”

  “No. Too many eyes are on me at the moment. It took a week’s planning to set this meeting up...another reason why I chose this place, the smell will keep away most who are curious. But if you and I are seen together by those who know could put the pieces together…”

  “All kinds of questions would be raised, I see your point. Very well, I’ll contact you by the usual means.” A smile appeared for a moment. “In a few days, Galadorns underworld will be ours to control!”

  “And once we have the underworld, everything above it will fall in short order.”

  Late summer in Galadorn. The heat was at its worst in these last few weeks of the season, each breath bringing in the heat of a furnace...or given the humidity, a badly cleaned sauna. Sweat, perfume, blood, rotting food and the excrement of countless horses and men, adding a stink to the air that more than anything marked the season in the minds of the citizenry (at least those not wealthy enough to escape the worst of the heat for estates in the country.)

  On this warm day, barely an hour past noon Fenn Aquila stood on a street in Seven Coins, taking shelter from the sun and heat in the shadow of a shrine. The few locals out and about would have seen a lean young man in a once white shirt turned a pale brown by dust and sweat, a brown coat and dark gray trousers stuffed into a pair of battered boots. His brown hair was in need of a trim and curled about his shoulders. The small knife tucked into his belt would cause no comments, since every man woman and child on the street held much the same, used for everything from cutting their midday meals to cutting the flesh of those whose meals, midday and otherwise, depended on taking the property of others.

  Consequently, the city watch wouldn’t pay any mind to those who went about their business moderately armed, never mind the laws forbidding arms being carried within the city walls. On the other hand, the heavy fighting dagger strapped to the inside of his left arm beneath the shirt sleeve, not to mention the pistol tucked into the small of his back, with another pair of blades stuffed into both his boots...well, if those were known to the pair of brownspikes (as city watchmen were unaffectionately known by those walking the shady side) idling by the winesink across the street, things would become complicated.

  Occasionally one of the watchmen would glance across the street, on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. His eyes flicked at Fenn for a moment, taking note of the small brass medallion with the image of a man standing next to a bull hanging about his neck and the apple in his head. A leatherworker from the Guild of Saint Maar, out for lunch, a sight so ordinary as to be invisible. If pressed, Gaebrel could even give the Guild’s secret countersigns to show the truth of his falsehood (not that much of a secret, as they could be had from any apprentice leatherworker in a tavern for the price of a cheap bottle of wine.)

  But the brownspikes paid him no mind, focused on the cups in their hands. One of the pair seemed to be sweet on a woman working in the wine shop, and they flirted shamelessly until an irritated voice from within summoned her back to work.

  The watchmen finished their drinks and continued on their way. The older one looked at Fenn again with a frown, then cursed as he nearly stepped in a pile of horse manure. “Bugger all!,” Fenn heard him say. “Right there in the open...this city is falling to bits…”

  The brownspikes moved on. Fenn took a bite from his apple and continued to wait. A mute later wagon wheels clattered on the cobblestones. A cart rolled down the street, pulled by a single old horse whose ribs showed through its underfed frame. The man holding the reins hauled it to a stop, while two others dropped down from the back holding a pair of shovels. They were both filthy from head to toe, and others on the street gave them a wide berth as they went about their work, scooping up the piles of dung and flinging them onto a growing pile in the back of the wagons.

  The shovel man got back onto the cart, the drivers flicking the reins and urging the tired, grumbling horse forward. Fenn watched them go for a moment, then tossed the apple core aside and went after him.

  An agent of the Prince. Suns and Spirits…

  After Fenn bent the k
nee and sid the words, there were any number of ideas in his head about what it all meant. An agent of the Prince of Galadorn...rooftop chases in the moonlight, duels in the Campesal under the bright noontime sun. Schemes and plots and acts of derring-do of the sort that tavernside storytellers and the peddlers of chapbooks were always going on about. More than anything else, it meant a life of honor, a way up from the gutter, to his mind the only positive thing about the whole rotten mess. Serve the prince, be loyal, and where you began in life won’t be where you end… Such was the unwritten, unspoken promise, implicit in all such contracts.

  Trailing a dung cart on its daily rounds was not what he had in mind...

  “Horse shit.” Fenn looked the Moralist in the eye. “You’re sending me after horse shit. And not as a metaphor, mind you.”

  The Moralist met his gaze with sad contempt. “There are no small assignments,” he said piously, “only small men unwilling to do what is required of them.”

  “Yes...but you want me to trail after horse shit.”

  The Moralist sighed, a most tiresome habit of his that increasingly set Fenn’s teeth on edge. “You bent the knee to our lord. You swore to serve and obey, and since he is not here to give the orders in person, I am here in his place. Do not make yourself a liar in the eyes of Heaven and your fellow men. The Godhead frowns on those whose word is worthless, to them the gates of paradise are closed, while those of hell are wide open.”

  “And they call me the Complainer.” The other man sitting at the table glared at Fenn sourly. He and the Moralist were something of a double act, always together, at least when Fenn was around. They had names, but Fenn never bothered to learn them. “”Tis a sign, is it not? The quality of the men in Galadorn these days...fine steel turned to rusty crap. Can't hear an order without having to be persuaded to obey In my day, mind you, a man did what he was told!”

  The Complainer leaned back in his chair. “Tell me Fenn Aquila...how does that pistol in your belt work?”

  “Is this the start to some long and complicated joke? Because I don’t have much appreciation for wit these days….”

  “Gunpowder makes your gun work,” said the Moralist wearily. “That is allows you to pull the trigger of your weapon with the expectation that it will mean something. Now, to make gunpowder, you need three things...sulfur, charcoal and saltpetre. Galadorn is fortunate in that the towns in the south of Adelaan have rich sulfur deposits in their hills, and gladly provide it to the Prince as part of their tribute. Charcoal is easy enough to get, so long as you have trees around and a willingness to burn them. But saltpeter...that is another matter. The only natural source that we know of are certain caves deep within the Empire of Ruaad, who are certainly not going to sell to us at a reasonable cost. So we must manufacture it ourselves, and for this copious amounts of dung, both human and animal, are needed.”

  “Which is why the Prince in his wisdom decreed that the contents of every chamberpot and shit pit in the city are to be considered his property upon...er, arrival,” said the Complainer. “And the leaving’s of every dog, pig, goat and horse left to befoul the cobblestones of our fair city. A merchant of the Gold Quarter has been contracted to provide the wagons and and shovel men to clear such offal from our streets and transport it to the nitrary. Only in the last few weeks, deliveries have gone missing.”

  Fenn couldn’t keep the smile on his face. “People are stealing horseshit?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Why, for the love of Heaven?”

  “That is for you to discover.”

  Following the cart was itself no great task. The use of his eyes were hardly necessary, one could trace its passage by the smell alone. Fenn ambled along behind the dung men as they made their rounds through Seven Coins. Per the Moralist, the merchant contracted by the Prince to haul away the night soil was investigated and cleared of any wrongdoing, suggesting the problem lay further down the ranks. From his eyepoint, Fenn figured that worthy fellow still held some measure of responsibility. Like any civic contract, it was tailor-made for graft. A certain amount was given out by the Treasury, from which the costs of wagons, men and other equipment were deducted, with the monies left after to kept as profit. So there was every incentive to do the absolute bare minimum and cut costs to the bone. It showed in the rickety way the wagons weave through the street, the glum looks and desultory way the men went about their labors, leaving much offal behind as they went about their duties.

  Eventually, when the wagon was so full as to be on the verge of collapse, the driver picked up the pace a bit and turned north, headed towards the great avenue known as Saints Way. If things went as they were supposed to, the wagon would turn westwards, exiting the city via the West Gate and pass through the growing suburbs on the other side of the walls for the countryside beyond. A few bumpy hours later, it would reach an isolated area downwind from the city, where the city nitrary was established, right next to the pits and workshops operated by the tanners, dye makers and other craftsmen whose business created horrendous stenches as a by product.

  But instead, when they reached Saints Way, the wagon crossed it instead of turning westward, continuing north into the Gardelaar.

  Ah, Fenn thought to himself. Now it’s interesting.

  The Gardelaar. The name was notorious, both within Galadorn and far beyond the city walls. Denizens of distant cities, peasants bound to farms where they had been born and in all likelihood would die would hear the name and nod. Ah, the Gadelaar. A terrible place indeed.

  It was the oldest part of the city, or so claimed scholars of history where religious exiles and dissidents founded the city that would a thousand years later be the Jewel of Tyberia. Here had been their first crude houses, their gardens and the pens for their livestock, the burial chambers where their dead were interred. Even to this day, householders in the area, digging down in their cellars, might find an ancient brass bracelet or rusty iron knife from those mythical days.

  But time passed on, and as the city expanded its best and brightest migrated to other, newer districts, where the streets were laid out with some measure of foresight, set on higher ground that didn't have the tendency to flood after heavy rain. And so the Gardelaar came to another purpose - as a catch basin for the lowest of the low, haunt for thieves, killers and those unwelcome anywhere else in the city. A dumping ground for the poor and desperate. The great stronghold for the underworld, where gangs battled each other for control of muddy street corners, while behind its crumbing houses and boarded windows every sort of vile conspiracy and unspeakable act had its moment.

  For Fenn, it was home, and had been since he arrived in this city six years ago, broken and bloody, a soldier fleeing his former comrades, a refugee from a war that was always meant to be lost. Like many immigrants to the growing city, he’d prospered after a fashion. But he’d never left the Gardelaar. It remained his home and place of business, where one could remained attuned to the constant churn of the shady side, the dark conflict among the underclass, always happening just below the sight of their supposed betters.

  The carter rolled down a narrow street, the driver keeping a wary eye out, while the shovelers in the back held their tools defensive, as if expecting an ambush at any moment. Fenn could understand their nervousness - even the most desperate bellringer might think twice before trying to steal a load of dung, but the coins in the pockets of the men hauling it might be worth a moments insult to their nostrils.

  Fenn off the medallion and pulled out his pistol, thrusting down the front of his belt where all eyes might see it. Eyes watched from the shadows and through the cracks of windows, taking note of his passage. They knew him as an unaffiliated cracksman - a burglar who struck by night - and a thief of some note. Rumor had it that he’d killed more than his share of men, which did his best not to dispel. Hungry predatory eyes watched him pass, but did nothing else.

  Besides, it was too hot for a mugging.

  He hung back, following the wagon by sound
and the tracks it left through the ever-present grime that covered streets. The air here was always fetid, and the dung cart added to the general reek He stepped around several piles of filth fallen off the back, and heard voices speaking up ahead, coming from around a corner. A sneaking suspicion entered his mind, and he ducked left down a narrow alley, stepping over piles of garbage and kicked aside a crate as he reached the other end.

  The wagon was in the street beyond, some distance down, parked before an old stone house whose walls were stained nearly black by years of rain, mud and worse. The driver was on the street, knocking his hand rapidly on the door.

  “Hey!” A voice snapped at Fenn from behind. He looked over and saw what at first glance appeared to be a pile of rags shift about, a thin, weathered hand pulled back a battered hat to show a dirty face. “Was you that kicked me box? That ain’t right…”

  “Shut up!” Fenn snapped.

  “That was me box! Who do you think you are…”

  Fenn shifted slightly, showing the pistol, his hand on the grip.

  “Still don’t give you the right to kick a man’s box,” the beggar burbled. Fen caught the reek of cheap spirits on his breath. He sighed and fetched out a silver galmark. “Shut it,” he said again, tossing to the man.

  The beggar took the coin and bit down on his, then nodded. Fenn glared at his for a moment, then looked back on the street. The door to the house was open, and a pair of men were coming out, carrying a body by the hands and legs. Fenn noted the Crescent marks tattooed on the corpses arms and cheeks...a jackfooter for the Crescent Lords, while painted on the wall of the house was the symbol of an anchor and a fish, the mark of the Docksiders. The two gangs scrapping for control of the Gardelaar...only now there was yet another truce on, which meant that the dead body being hauled out was not sanctioned by anyone in authority.

  “Give us a moment,” said the driver, as the shovelers dropped off the back and pulled piles of dung from the back of the wagon onto the street, creating a hollow in the middle of the much larger pile.