The watchman had no reply.
“It would do you well to just leave these two men to us, my friend. Go on your way, and forget about all this.”
The watchman turned, once again, to converse with his fellows – and it appeared that they had soon reached an agreement amongst themselves. And so without another word exchanged with the raspy-voiced man they started off, turning the corner and returning back the way they had come. Within moments, the last suggestions of their lantern-light had completely gone.
Kozef swallowed hard, and he and his comrade turned then to face their pursuers; the dark-garbed men. The Polecats.
The man with the rasping voice looked upon them and, seeing that their potential allies had deserted them, gave a cruel smile. He was stern-faced and black-eyed individual of about thirty five years. He wore a dark grey tunic, and appeared to be armed up to the ears. About his person he carried several knives and daggers – there were long knives sheathed at his hip and under his arms, and he wore a belt strapped over his chest that held several small, narrow throwing daggers. His largest and most sinister-looking weapon hung from a sword-belt at his hip - a slender and graceful longsword. On his breast, not far from his collection of throwing daggers, there was affixed a small, silver-gilt pin – fashioned in the shape of a small bird perching on its nest.
“You ran from us, gentlemen, so we naturally assumed that you had something that we wanted,” the man said.
“What the bloody hell is a ‘Polecat’?” Cainen demanded.
“We are the Polecats, you see,” the man said. “The venerable thieves’ society of this fair city. And taking precious things is our enterprise. On this night, however, we are interested in only one precious thing: the Star of Caelummar.”
Cainen felt his hand clench, almost impulsively, on his purse. So it was Caelummar’s folly, after all.
“Do you have it?” the man asked, curt.
"And what if we do have this thing?” Kozef asked. “What would be your plan for us, Saigneur Knives?”
The man grinned at the epithet. “You may call me Jackdaw,” he said, tapping a finger on the little silver brooch on his breast. “And as I have just said: we are the Polecats, you see, and taking precious things is our enterprise.”
“Are you their head man?” Kozef asked.
“Oh, by the Holy Head, no!” Jackdaw exclaimed, laughing bitterly. “I am just a lieutenant in this particular army. Our leader, the orchestrator of all this, lingers at our headquarters. But I digress. Hand it over now, and no harm will come to you and we will allow you to go on your way.”
“Truly?” Kozef asked, his gaze mistrustful. “What of poor Pierron over there? He tried to go on his way, it seems, but you fellows made sure to plug him full of crossbow-bolts first.”
“Oh, unfortunate business, that,” Jackdaw said. “And completely unnecessary, moreover. We are thieves, you see, not butchers. It is our desire, first and foremost, to take what we want without bloodshed… But in our trade, shedding blood and a willingness to shed blood is often necessary.”
“Hand over the star,” he reiterated. “It is of no use to two dusty-booted vagabonds such as you. It would be best if you were to simply give it to us.”
“Furthermore...” – with this, Jackdaw looked to his men, and then back to Kozef and Cainen – “You have little choice in the matter. As I have said we’re not butchers, but sometimes we find that we must do a little bit of butchery. Hand it over or we’ll gut you both where you stand, and pick it out from what’s left of you.”
Kozef, his face grim and his moustaches drooping, reached into his pouch and carefully lifted out the lace-wrapped relic. He locked eyes with Cainen, and the two companions exchanged between themselves a look burdened with deliberation. The man was right: it seemed they had very little choice in the matter.
Cainen took the swaddled jewel from the big Kaszian’s hands and held it gently, as if it were a dove and his fingers the bars of its cage.
The Fennishman looked down upon the treasure for a moment, and seemed to contemplate it solemnly. He then looked over again to his companion, and arched his eyebrow at him ever so slightly.
Kozef wished he knew what that look meant.
Cainen stepped forward, placed the item on the ground carefully, and then backed away several paces.
After a moment, Jackdaw strode forward and collected the relic. He carried it back to his fellow thieves, partially unwrapping it and holding it out so all could look upon it. And for a time, they seemed to be captivated by its beauty – Kozef could see their awe-slackened mouths and their wide eyes, filled with wonder and gleaming with the brilliance of the star.
“Excellent,” Jackdaw said, addressing Kozef and Cainen but with his eyes fixed on the relic in his hands. “See, boys, handing it over was far easier that you might have thought.”
“But now I think it’s time we gave you your restitution,” he continued. He smiled a smile that was completely devoid of mirth. “Marksmen?”
On either side of Jackdaw at the front of the pack Kozef then noticed four thieves in particular – two to his left, and two to his right. These men stepped forward, and each of them wielded a crossbow. Not the big heavy things that one would see in pitched battles and castle sieges – but light, almost delicate instruments. Ones that might be concealed relatively easily amongst the folds of long cloaks.
Kozef noticed, with special dismay, that the weapons were already cocked and ready to fire.
“Take care of them for us,” Jackdaw spat.
With that order, the four marksmen levelled their crossbows and opened fire.
Kozef and Cainen, however, had already sprung into motion. With speed that astonished the assembled thieves, both men dropped into low, crouching positions – with Cainen behind and Kozef in front, throwing up his stout shield to defend the both of them.
The thin, nail-like crossbow bolts tore through the still night air and slammed straight into the Kaszian’s shield, sticking themselves firmly into the leather and wood.
He peered over the hammered iron rim of his shield, taking quick note of the thieves. The marksmen would need another thirty seconds at least to ready another round of those murderous quarrels – but the mercenaries knew what they had to do, and had no interest in allowing their opponents such a luxury.
With their weapons brandished Kozef and Cainen sprung forward in a sudden fury, striking and slashing. A shield-wallop from Kozef shattered one of the crossbowman’s weapons, and this was followed immediately by a devastating hammer strike – one that destroyed both the crossbow of another marksman and the hand that was attempting to cock it. Savage axe-strikes from Cainen wrung back and forth amongst the marksmen and their closest colleagues, splitting both crossbows and collarbones in two. The marksmen attempted to pull away, stumbling backwards from the explosive onslaught – but the close ranks of their fellow thieves behind them prevented an easy withdrawal.
Jackdaw proved swift and skilful enough to evade a fierce ascending sweep from Cainen’s axe, but not swift or skilful enough to keep his grip on the Star of Caelummar. The linen-wrapped relic tumbled down to the cobblestones with a clatter and rolled towards Cainen’s foot, and in his turbulence the short-statured axeman almost tripped on it.
The Fennishman, to his own surprise, then found himself taking a split-second to crouch down, snatch the item up and shove it hurriedly into his satchel. He found that he could not entirely say why he suddenly felt the need to take back something that had already caused himself and Kozef so much trouble, and that would more than likely cause so much more still – it had been base instincts, perhaps, from the days when he had been more in the habit of thievery.
“Kill them!” Jackdaw hollered, tearing his longsword out of its scabbard.
The foreign mercenaries pulled back then, just as the assembled band of thieves, brandishing their long daggers and bludgeons, were beginning to fan out. Some tried to skirt around, in an attempt to come at Kozef or
Cainen from the back or sides and outflank them but the mercenaries would have none of it, and would swat at any thief who dared to creep around too far.
But yet, the Kaszian and the Fennishman were severely outnumbered. Though they had managed to catch the thieves largely by surprise with their initial assault, the disorientation of their enemies had already cleared.
They had little hope of defeating all of the thieves, and Kozef knew that flight would be in order.
“Retreat I think, small man,” the Kaszian suggested, loud enough only for Cainen to hear.
“Right, then,” his comrade agreed. “On my word, we’ll make a dash for it. Follow me.”
Kozef nodded. “Understood.”
“Now!” Cainen hissed, much sooner than Kozef had anticipated. Gripping his axe tightly with both hands, the Fennishman suddenly turned and began to run. Kozef followed suit, slinging his shield onto his back.
The thieves reacted quickly. Kozef had only dashed half a dozen paces when he felt something hard strike him in his ankle, causing him to stumble and trip over. It had been one of their cudgels, thrown at his legs in a desperate attempt to impede his flight.
The Kaszian quickly climbed back up to his feet and turned about with his weapon leading the way, but the thieves were already upon him. A deft short sword blade turned the hammerhead aside, and quick, tough hands shot out to seize his wrists, his weapon and his shield.
Before he knew it, Kozef was firmly apprehended.
It seemed that Cainen’s flight, however, had been successful – the Fennishman was nowhere to be seen.
*
All of a sudden, Cainen found himself alone, separated from Kozef and the band of thieves.
He had fled – running as fast as his legs could take him and without looking back – for what seemed like only a moment. As his flight slowed to a jog, however, he realised that he had covered a considerable distance, and that his comrade had not been following him.
He took stock of his surroundings. The substantial filth in the streets and the shoddy stores, workshops and townhouses told him that he was once again back in the Donjon quarter. That street in particular was familiar – he had been there before, earlier in the evening. He continued forward for a few paces, and soon enough a dark and narrow alleyway opened to one side of him.
This was the place where he had relieved himself, and where his Leandra had slipped away from him with his coin and his treasure in tow.
The night was silent. He could hear no shouts drifting down the street on the still evening air. He could still be certain that the Polecats were after him. They did not seem the sorts to give up so easily, and Cainen knew that they would surely find him soon enough.
Despite the urgency of the situation, he allowed himself to stand quietly for a moment; to think and to breathe. He took out the star, too, and found that he could not help but to unwrap it and quickly look upon its brilliance once again.
By now it was extremely likely that Kozef had been overwhelmed and taken captive. There had been well over a dozen thieves, but yet only two of them. And that the Polecats, with their daggers quivering in their hands, would have surely been itching to put the Kaszian to death then and there, as they had hoped to do just moments before the fight had commenced.
But they would not do that, not now that Cainen had absconded with the Star of Caelummar. He had to hide it. The only thing that would safeguard the life of the Kaszian – and, indeed, Cainen’s own life – would be his knowledge of the star’s whereabouts.
He saw the fracture in the plaster where he had done his business almost an hour hence. The ground in that alley was mostly mud and packed earth – the thoroughfare was nowhere near large or important enough to warrant cobble or flagstone paving. Using his axe not unlike a shovel, he hurriedly began to dig around in the dirt. It was still damp from his piss, and came up quite easily. He scraped out a hole just large enough for the lace-swaddled relic and placed the item inside before covering it up with the dirt, which he proceeded to smoothen out with his hands and his axe-bit, using it as if it were a trowel. It was not a perfect hiding-place by any means, but considering the dire circumstances it would have to suffice.
Now was the time to be captured. Cainen could not allow himself to be apprehended anywhere near the hiding spot, as the thieves would certainly search the area thoroughly for any sign of the artefact – so he darted quickly and quietly from that alleyway and into another, making his way back towards the city’s affluent Arch quarter.
4 – Criminal Underworld
Cainen was half a dozen blocks away from the burial spot when the thieves finally apprehended him.
“There he is!”
It was a party of four Polecats: young men with pimple-scarred faces and faint moustaches on their upper lips. Perhaps junior members. They rushed over towards Cainen fiercely, but came to something of a skidding halt before him.
Instead of run or give fight, the Fennishman threw down his axe, dropped down to his knees and thrust his open hands out before him – partly as an exaggerated show of surrender, and partly to show that he was not currently in possession of the relic they sought.
“Here I am, good thieves,” Cainen said. “I relent, I relent!”
For the briefest of moments it seemed to Cainen that the thieves were unsure as to what to do with him. It certainly wasn’t every day that a man they were pursuing would throw himself down before them.
Eventually they pulled him up to his feet, plied him with curses and spittle, and shoved him this way and that. They took hold of his axe and roughly searched his clothes and satchel to ensure that he did not, in fact, possess the star.
“He doesn’t have the thing,” one of them sighed.
“Sure, I must have misplaced it somewhere,” Cainen said. “Silly me! I’d lose my left foot if it wasn’t fixed where it was.”
They gripped him tightly by the arms, and pulled him through the streets and alleys of the city, back towards the rest of the band of thieves – they were gathered in a crossroads in the heart of the Donjon quarter, not far from the Twisted Whisker.
“He doesn’t have the thing, Jackdaw,” one of the young thieves said as he shoved Cainen forward.
The thief captain frowned at the news. He glared at Cainen, inspecting him up and down as if some small clue as to the star’s whereabouts might present itself to his roving eyes.
He stepped closer to Cainen, whipping out one of the knives sheathed at his chest and placing the gleaming blade against Cainen’s throat. The steel felt bitterly cold against his skin.
“Where is it?” Jackdaw demanded, through gritted teeth.
“Where’s what?” Cainen asked in reply, his eyes wide and vacant.
A black fire surged up in the thief captain’s eyes, and Cainen felt the knife-blade press even harder against his throat. He opened his mouth to ask the question again – but Fitch, who had crept up beside his captain as if to closely appreciate Cainen’s discomfort – suddenly spoke up.
“We ought to take him back to the Hole, Jackdaw,” he said. “Millipede will sort him out real nicely.”
Jackdaw kept the blade firmly placed against the Fennishman’s throat as he pondered his choices - Cainen would not have been surprised at all if it was in fact breaking through the skin.
“So be it,” Jackdaw finally said, returning his knife to its sheath.
Fitch cackled as he looked on Cainen’s face. “Millipede is our best man at torture, you’ll see. He’s got a thousand ways to make a poor bastard suffer. He’ll wrench the truth from you just as he’ll pull your teeth out. You’d be amazed at it all if he weren’t excruciating you!”
Tough hands gripped Cainen tightly once again, and threw him, stumbling, into the centre of the band of thieves.
Kozef was there already, standing in their midst – and he was in a sorry state indeed.
“Welcome back, small man,” Kozef sighed.
They had stripped him all the way down – the bu
rly Kaszian was at that moment as naked as the day he was born, and his nose and cheeks were roseate, not just because they had knocked him around a little bit, but also from the embarrassment of it all. Cainen suspected that stripping might have been standard practice for this particular organisation when dealing with their captured enemies – deprive them of all their clothes, to both attack their dignity and to more easily find any valuables they may have kept hidden on their person, such as coins sewn into the fabric of a tunic or a golden ring hidden in the toe of a shoe.
That wasn’t all they had done to poor old Kozef, however – his neck and his wrists had been locked into place by a great solid frame of iron-bound wood, as with the stocks or the pillory. He had a similar device fixed about his ankles.
Cainen found it grimly humorous that a traditional punishment reserved for common thieves and swindlers was being put to use by an organisation comprised entirely of such folk.
He supposed he could expect to receive the same treatment as his comrade very soon.
“Strip this one too and fit him with some stocks,” Jackdaw growled, immediately confirming Cainen’s thoughts. “And be quick about it.”
Half a dozen thieves descended on the Fennishman all at once, pulling and tugging at his tunic, his undershirt, his hose, his shoes – until he didn’t have a single shred of clothing left. The two heavy stocks came soon after, clamping about his neck and wrists above and his ankles below.
“Back to the hole, then!” Jackdaw barked, once both of the vagabonds were naked and under full restraint.
The Hole. Cainen wondered about what it could be. Their headquarters? What sort of dank and noxious cesspit below the earth did these thieves call home?
He knew that in ancient days, when Auvand had been a leading city of the Old Empire, the city’s dead had often been interred deep in the earth, in extensive underground galleries and catacombs. These burial places would have lain outside the walls of the city back in those times, but in the intervening centuries the city had grown out in every direction, and now in some wards of the city people lived and worked directly above those ancient crypts and ossuaries. Perhaps the Polecats too made use of those subterranean chambers.
Crooked Streets Page 14