Thief (Brotherhood of the Throne Book 1)

by Jane Glatt

  “That’s right,” Kane nodded. “The Brotherhood has lost the ability to forge old steel weapons. We think the secret was held by only one family but for some reason our records are unclear about which one. But in light of how old steel reacts to you there obviously is more we need to understand about it. Maybe you can help us with that?”

  “No. ” Brenna shook her head decisively. “You may think I’m some long lost descendant of kings, but I don’t believe it. And I work alone. It’s much safer that way.”

  “But the Brotherhood can keep you safe,” Kane said. It was hard to keep his growing panic and frustration from his voice. He had to get her somewhere where they could protect her. The Brotherhood couldn’t lose the Caller after waiting so long. He couldn’t lose the Caller. He’d taken an oath when he’d joined the Brotherhood and he had no intention of not honouring it.

  Brenna shook her head again. “Having the Brotherhood around will only make me a bigger target. I’ve spent far too much of my life trying to go unnoticed to be comfortable with that.” Kane started to speak but she held up her hand to stop him. “I know you think you’ve got good people, but it’s the difference between a predator and prey. The predator hides and watches and thinks they are completely invisible, but the smart prey, the prey that grows old, they know where the predator is, how long it’s been there, what its last meal was. Thieves Quarter is full of people who have been prey all their lives. If you put watchers on me someone will notice. Eventually someone will decide that knowing that the healer is being watched is worth something. And the information will be passed on and on, and sooner or later it will get to someone who will find it very interesting. Like your High Bishop, or Duke Thorold. I won’t help you put a bigger target on me. If I keep my head down and stay out of trouble this will all be forgotten in a few months. But not with the gods know how many Brothers watching me. So call off all your men and stay away from me.”

  “Well, that were better’n I expected,” Pater said. They were back outside at the older man’s fruit stand.

  “Really? In what way?” Kane was exhausted. On top of his lack of sleep, his discussion with Brenna had been tiring. If he’d thought about what it must have taken a woman to become a thief, and survive in the Quarter, he might have been better prepared. Of course she resented strangers coming in and trying to tell her what to do. He would too.

  “Well, she heard us out, for one.” The old man laughed. “Though for a bit there I didn’t think she would. Don’t be so hard on yerself, lad. We did what we went to do. We warned her about the danger she’s in, we let her know who was behind it, and we offered her more help. Just ‘cause she don’t want our help today don’t mean she won’t want it tomorrow. Besides, you don’t know her like I do. Brenna’s smart as they come. She’s real good at staying out of trouble.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Kane said. With the kind of trouble that was following her she could end up dead.

  Brenna peered out the window and watched Kane stride off down the street. Pater was back at his cart and when he looked up at her window, she let the curtain drop back into place. Slowly she paced her small room. She was angry - angry with Kane and Pater for trying to get her to give up her whole life and fall in with the Brotherhood - angry at the situation she found herself in - but most of all she was angry that Kane’s offer of safety tempted her.

  Last night, when she was followed from the library, she’d been afraid. Now that Kane had confirmed that the church was looking for her, she was even more afraid. She shuddered. She knew what the church of the One-God did with those they had grievances against.

  Last summer she’d seen the body of a woman who had disappeared after the church had come to question her. Brenna had been on a roof across from the church waiting for the occupants of a nearby house to settle for the night when the church doors had opened. Two men had been carrying something between them and a strong gust of wind had lifted the cloth cover. In the light from the street lamps Brenna had seen an arm, limp and pale and streaked with blood, or so she’d first thought. But as one of the men fought to pull the cloth back over the arm she’d realized in horror what she was actually looking at. It wasn’t a streak of blood - it was raw flesh where a strip of skin had been peeled away. When the men had deposited their burden in the bed of a waiting cart, a third man had come from the church, a bundle of cloth in his arms.

  “Burn this too,” she’d heard him say as he shoved the bundle into the cart. And at the top of the bundle was a scrap of material with a blue and yellow checked pattern. A perfect match for the scarf the missing woman was last seen wearing.

  Brenna paced her room. She’d just be extra careful. She couldn’t let her fear get the better of her. She stopped at her work table. She needed a distraction, needed to do something. She selected some herbs and quickly measured them into her mortar. She ground them into a powder then dug her hand into a jar and scooped out some beeswax. The familiar actions of mixing the salve for Mistress Dudding’s arthritis calmed her, and after a few moments Brenna felt her breathing slow and her shoulders relax. She would stay out of sight, even if it meant locking herself in her rooms for a few weeks. The church would not find her so there was no reason to accept Kane’s offer of protection. Besides she didn’t believe she was the prophesied one. How could she be? She was a healer and a common thief. And that suited her just fine.

  six

  Duke Thorold glared at the lad who had brought the message. Fridrick, his most learned scholar, had sent him with word that he’d not made any progress in his search to understand the ancient weapons Thorold had been collecting.

  The youngster was literally shaking, head down and afraid to look up at him.

  “Boy,” Thorold said. “Tell Master Fridrick that I will see him at once. And tell him I will accept no excuse for delay.” When the boy hesitated Thorold bellowed. “Go!” He watched in satisfaction as the boy hastily backed away, then turned and ran from the room. Fridrick should know better than to send a servant with his report. It was a mistake the scholar would regret, he’d see to that. A few minutes later Master Fridrick entered his study. Duke Thorold deliberately ignored him. Finally the scholar coughed slightly to make his presence known.

  “You wished to see me, my Lord?” The old scholar was wearing a long gray tunic with various smudges and ink stains. His hair was plastered to his head and pale scalp showed through as Fridrick stood before him, head bowed low.

  “Yes, I did.” Thorold said.

  Fridrick straightened but kept his eyes on the floor in front of him. Thorold smiled and gazed steadily at his scholar until the man swallowed nervously.

  “Do you know why I’ve called you here?” Thorold asked.

  “You wish to discuss any progress I’ve had on the ancient weapons?” Fridrick’s voice trembled slightly.

  “Correct. And I wish to hear it from you! Not some stuttering youngster.”

  “I’m sorry, my Lord. There was nothing new and I thought not to waste your time.” The scholar bowed low again.

  “I will decide what wastes my time, not you.”

  “Yes my Lord Duke. I assure you, I am doing all I can to uncover the secrets to the ancient weapons. Since we found that family history that referenced the Brotherhood of the Throne, I’ve had no luck finding any living relatives. It seems that the old man who died of the fever truly was the last of his line. None of the interviews with his neighbors has turned up anything of interest. As I indicated previously, the weapons that have been collected all seem to date from the time of King Wolde to about the time of King Marto.”

  “And you think that there is some significance to this?”

  “I must do more research, my Lord, but it seems that all these weapons were forged before the Church of the One-God was present in Soule.”

  Thorold nodded at the scholar. “Made for followers of the old gods, yes, that fits. Especially since a few of these weapons have been found in the hands of Aruntian witches.” And one of
the oldest weapons they’d found was the knife he himself had taken from a witch.

  “Exactly so, my Lord.”

  When Fridrick sighed with relief, Thorold smiled at him. “That was not so tedious, was it Master Fridrick?”

  “No my Lord Duke. I will not send a servant in my stead again.” Fridrick bowed to him and backed away.

  “Good.” Thorold waited until the scholar was almost to the door. “That boy you sent, who is he?”

  Fridrick looked up quickly. “He is my niece’s son, my Lord.”

  “As a reminder to you of your failure he is now my indentured servant,” Thorold said.

  Fridrick closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped.

  “I will, of course, allow him to serve you for as long as it pleases me.”

  Fridrick bowed his head. “And if I may ask, my Lord, what price is his bond? I must inform my niece.”

  “Can’t you guess my good scholar? The price of the lad’s bond is the solution to the puzzle of the ancient steel. Now, be off. I’m sure you are eager to get back to your tasks.”

  After the scholar shuffled from the room, Thorold looked at the cache of weapons on the wall behind his desk. These were among the oldest of the ancient weapons he’d been collecting. And then there was the first one he’d collected, the one hidden in his desk drawer. He opened the drawer and flicked the catch to release the false bottom. He idly traced a finger over the hilt of the knife that lay in the drawer. It was very old, and magic. He’d felt that magic himself, used against him. But the knife had killed its owner effectively enough in the end. He supposed he should thank the witch, in a way. It was her knife that had started him down this path.

  It was over six years ago. And though at first he’d simply wanted to find a weapon with magic that he could use, the discovery of that family history had changed his plans. If the old man’s sword hadn’t been of interest to him he’d never have bothered with the documents. But he needed to find out more about this Brotherhood and the significance of the ancient weapons - he had a feeling they were important. If possible, he would use them to cement his grip on the throne. With enough information, he could use this story to back his son Beldyn’s claim to the throne. But if the group still existed and got in his way, he would need to destroy them.

  Brenna rubbed the grit from her eyes. Brothers, but she’d slept poorly. It was early, at least for her, though she could hear the sounds of the Quarter’s morning commerce outside her window - carts making the first deliveries of the day, shopkeepers greeting each other, shutters banging open against the sides of buildings. Usually she slept straight through these sounds, but not today. She’d gone to bed unusually early last night and as a result had woken up early.

  Brenna had long been one of the night folk of Thieves’ Quarter, sleeping until well into the afternoon in order to be rested in the small hours of the night. Thieving was best done under cover of darkness, of course, and her busiest times as a healer were also during the evening hours. People left alone with their illnesses and thoughts seemed to worsen when the sun went down. But now she needed to stay close to home, and with no requests for her healing skills last night, she’d simply scrounged a cold supper and gone to bed early.

  She pulled on her cleanest breeches and shirt and quickly gathered up her dirty laundry. At least she could get her clothes washed early. She’d need to be careful, but really, who would expect her to be up and out at this hour?

  Brenna twisted the breeches to wring the last bit of moisture from them. She’d been lucky. She’d arrived at Tork’s laundry just as Mistress Tork had pulled open the shutters. As soon as the woman had settled into her sturdy chair by the front door, it seemed as if the whole Quarter had descended on them. But Brenna had been first inside and had been able to secure one of the big washbasins. Now she was in the process of wringing out her clothes before she took them back to her rooms to hang.

  Mistress Tork had lines strung up behind her shop for drying, but Brenna wasn’t going to chance using them. One time she’d hung her laundry and then left to pursue other chores. She’d returned to find that her clothing had been trampled into the ground and required another wash. What was still there, of course. Her best shirt had mysteriously disappeared. As in all things in Thieves’ Quarter, even the simple act of doing laundry had risks.

  Brenna flattened the breeches on top of the rest of her damp clothes and scooped them into her arms. She trudged past the lines of customers waiting to use the washbasins and squeezed between two stout women carrying heaps of bed linens. Brenna glanced up and looked directly into the brown eyes of a young woman. The young woman’s face paled and her eyes went glassy and lifeless. Startled, Brenna stopped.

  “Are you all right Mistress?” Impossibly blue lips formed the words.

  “I, uh …” Brenna groped for words as she tried to understand what was happening. Had a dead woman just spoken to her? But she’d been the picture of health just a moment ago.

  “Keep moving,” someone said and Brenna felt a push from behind. She blinked. Now the young woman’s face glowed with health.

  “Do I know you?” Brenna asked, terrified that the woman’s face would change again - that she’d be looking once more at a death mask, pale and lifeless.

  “No, I don’t believe so.” The reply was soft and hesitant.

  To Brenna’s surprise the woman dipped her head in a bow. Near her own age, her long brown hair was pulled back with a string. She lifted her head and looked at Brenna with worried eyes.

  “I’ve just arrived in town. I’m hoping to get the worst of my travels out of my clothing.”

  Brenna was shoved from behind and then she was past the young woman. She craned her neck and glimpsed her in the throng by the washtubs. What was going on? She knew what she’d seen. As a healer Brenna had seen her share of death and that’s what she’d seen on this woman’s face - death. But she’d never experienced this before. The girl was obviously healthy. Brenna shivered. So why had she seen her lifeless face?

  Confused and worried Brenna hurried back to her rooms. She hadn’t seen anything. She couldn’t have. She trudged up the stairs to her room and eased inside. There was nothing to see. The young woman was very much alive. What’s more, she looked to be in perfect health. Brenna hung two wet shirts on the pegs by the door. She wasn’t going to spend any more time thinking about it - right now she would finish hanging up her wet laundry.

  Brenna paced her room, frustrated that she was imprisoned in her own home. She’d always been proud of her rooms and happy to have them as a refuge from the Quarter. Not now, though.

  She peeked out the window. The streets were dark and the shop keepers had all packed up and gone home for the day. Now the residents who gave Thieves’ Quarter its name were starting to take to the streets. Pearl and Rosetta, a couple of whores from the Red Dragon strolled arm in arm in front of the brothel, advertising their wares. Brenna traded her healing skills for information they learned from their clients.

  Over by the wine seller’s shop one of Eryl’s young runners slipped into the alley, no doubt looking to lift a skin or two of wine and earn some respect from the older lads. She’d done much the same more than a few times.

  She stepped back from the window and dropped into the chair. It had seemed so easy when she’d told Kane and Pater to leave her alone, but after only a few days of inactivity she wanted to jump out of her own skin.

  Mistress Dudding had heard that word about Brenna’s scrape with the Kingsguard and the church had traveled quickly. Since no one in the Quarter wanted to chance a run-in with either one of those powers, her healer trade had dried up. She had to get out. She stood up and grabbed her cloak.

  An hour later, Brenna entered the kitchen of the Wheat Sheaf tavern. At least three people had trailed her when she left her rooms and it had taken some time and effort to lose them in the twisting back alleys and dead end streets of the Quarter. Her clothes were a little disheveled after climbing two fences and a
tree, but she’d lost the last man more than twenty minutes ago. They had to be Brotherhood - Kane Rowse knew where she lived and no doubt had assigned them to follow her for her protection. Well, she didn’t need their protection, hadn’t she told him that? She knew how to be careful, how to take care of herself.

  The Wheat Sheaf, the most respectable inn in the Quarter, was Eryl’s second headquarters. The Sheaf was where Eryl usually started his evenings. He met with prospective clients here before arranging for quieter, more private discussions later at the Crooked Dog. Brenna wanted to find out exactly what Eryl knew about the Captain of the Kingsguard.

  “Heya, Mistress Mundy.” Brenna lifted a hand in greeting.

  The gray-haired woman held the end of a thick wooden spoon and stirred a large pot of stew by the fire.

  “Rabbit or mutton today?” Brenna asked. The stew at the Sheaf was legendary in the Quarter. It came in two versions and everyone had their favourite.

  “Brenna, dear.” The large woman wiped her hands on her apron and enveloped Brenna in a huge hug. “I haven’t seen you for a while.” She lowered her voice. “I heard about you and the Guard. You’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Brenna said. “I need to stay out of sight as much as I can, though.” Brenna leaned over the pot and sniffed. “Mutton, yum.”

  “Ah, that’s why you came in the kitchen door,” Mistress Mundy said. “I was surprised to hear Eryl came through for you. Lucky for him he did. He’d not be welcome here otherwise. And I told him just that.”

  Brenna laughed. “I think Eryl surprised himself. I am short on coin just now though. Do you have any discreet customers looking for a healer?”