The City of Thieves

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Her brow arched in anger. “You don’t have to live with all that rage all the time.”

  “You’re wrong. Someone has to remember when others have forgotten. Someone has to avenge.”

  “What about making the world a better place?”

  Berengar stared at her. “Sometimes you sound just like Nora. I’ll leave that kind of talk to the two of you. Now come on.” He led her away from the tower.

  “So you saved them,” Morwen mused. “Was Jareth wrong about anything else?”

  “It’s true I was told to end the purges by any means necessary, but it didn’t come from Nora. He got that wrong too. Nora would never have given such an order. She’s too good—like you. When she learned what I did…I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged to show her he didn’t care. In truth, the High Queen’s opinion was one of the only ones that mattered to him. His actions during the riots had strained their relationship to the breaking point, and it had never really recovered. Berengar had simply accepted that it was his job to do the dirty work so that she could keep her hands clean.

  The pair kept to back roads and shadowed corners until they reached a secluded alleyway that ended in a wall.

  Morwen glanced around suspiciously. “There’s magic in this place.”

  “Aye. The inhabitants of the Institute used a secret passage underground to come and go. The entrance should be here somewhere. It was hidden by a spell of some sort.”

  “Do you remember the spell?”

  “Do I look like a magician to you?” He gestured to the wall. “Your domain, I believe.”

  Morwen cracked her knuckles and stepped up to the wall. “Stand back and watch.” She ran her hand along the wall and muttered a phrase under her breath. When nothing happened after a few moments, she frowned and tried again.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked after a few failed attempts. “Having trouble?”

  Morwen gritted her teeth and wiped a loose strand of hair away from her eyes. “They used a spell of greater concealment to hide the door. Illusion magic. It’s not as easy as it looks without the password.”

  She reached into her satchel and removed a purple rune similar to the one stolen by the thief. It was a rune of illusion, and Berengar had seen her use it to cast spells when it occupied a slot at the head of her staff. Morwen held the stone close to her lips and whispered to it, causing it to glow with purple light.

  “Should you do that without your staff?”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.” She looked around to make sure they were alone and held the stone toward the wall. Suddenly, the faint outline of a door materialized along the stone surface. Morwen turned back to him with a look of satisfaction, only to wince and drop the stone, which had slightly burned the skin around her hand. She hastily returned the stone to her satchel and massaged her hand. “Not to worry. Nothing a little healing ointment won’t fix.”

  A keyhole stared back at them from the door.

  “What’s your plan to deal with that?”

  Morwen glared at him. “You could have told me that was there.” She tried for almost half an hour to unlock the door before finally throwing her hands up in exasperation. “It’s no use. Whoever enchanted this lock had attained a level of mastery far beyond my capabilities. I’m a magician, not a thief.” She paused. “You don’t suppose…”

  He nodded. “It’s not long until noon. I think it’s time we had a chat with that fence you discovered.”

  Morwen cast a parting glance at the door. “Do you really think there’s a staff inside?”

  Berengar shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know what we’ll find inside. I wasn’t there long—just long enough to know the inhabitants were crafty enough to conceal what they wished. There might be something the rioters didn’t find.”

  Morwen wore a wistful expression. “Either way, I’d like to see what’s inside. To roam the halls where the great mages and magicians of old once walked.”

  Their path took them away from the older and more affluent parts of Dún Aulin to its poorer areas, where the discrepancy between the haves and the have-nots was readily apparent. Beggars pleaded for coins from passersby while unsavory-looking characters lurked about in the absence of the guards relocated elsewhere to provide added security for the impending ceremony. Priests and monks provided care to the sick and administered last rites to the dying in the plague-infested neighborhoods of the Warrens. Other men and women of the cloth distributed food to starving children in rags.

  Without warning, Faolán’s ears perked up in alarm, and she sprinted after a figure trailing behind them. Faolán tackled the man to the ground before he could flee.

  Berengar grabbed the man. “Who sent you? How long have you been following us?” When the man kept his mouth shut, Berengar shoved him into the wall. “Talk!”

  “Look.” Morwen pointed to the insignia of a blood-soaked sword hidden under his cloak. “He’s with the Acolytes.”

  “Get your hands off me, you filthy bastard,” the man told Morwen. “We know who you are, witch, and you will burn alongside the Bloody Red Bear.”

  “What did you say?” Berengar twisted the man’s hand to the breaking point and forced the man to his knees. “Apologize. Now.”

  “They’re just words,” Morwen said.

  The man sneered at them. “Do what you will, monster. My body is a temple. Others will follow. The grand marshal put a bounty on your heads. Your lives aren’t worth spit.”

  Berengar reached for his axe. “Funny you should say that. Neither is yours.”

  Morwen attempted to restrain him. “Berengar, stop. He can’t hurt us. There’s no need to kill him.”

  “Fine.” Berengar put his axe away. “Have it your way.” He tightened his grip on the man’s hand, drawing tears. “On second thought…” He pulled the man’s index and middle fingers apart until they broke. “Now you have something to remind you this ‘witch’ showed you mercy when you deserved none. Tell Winslow I’ll be waiting.” He left the man to cradle his mangled hand and returned to the path.

  “Was that necessary?” Morwen asked.

  “I should’ve killed him. If he was following us long enough, he might know we were poking around the Institute.”

  Morwen looked back over her shoulder. “Killing isn’t always the answer to every problem, you know. Besides, it’s too late to do anything about it now. He’s gone.”

  It took them another half hour to cross the Warrens. The neighborhoods in the bordering Muckbottom and East End Districts contained fewer slums but were no less disreputable. After stopping to ask for directions, Berengar and Morwen finally arrived at a relatively small marketplace in the shadows of an overhead bridge. The vendors, along with the proprietors of nearby stores, traded in unusual goods and services compared to the standard wares found elsewhere in the city.

  “Nessa’s close.” Morwen looked at him with certainty. “I can feel her.”

  Berengar ignored entreaties from ambitious merchants and scanned the area for a sign of their horses. “Find them, Faolán.”

  The wolfhound sniffed the area a moment before picking up a trail. With her nose held low to the ground, she followed the scent through the busy market while avoiding the shoppers and obstacles in her way. It wasn’t long until she came to a stop at a stand where a boy of no more than twelve addressed spectators from the top of a stack of crates.

  “You there,” he called to Morwen. “Come see my jewelry. A special discount for a beauty such as you.” With pale blond curls and freckled skin, he had the look of a Dane.

  Morwen approached. “Where’s your master? We’re looking for Edrick.”

  The boy bowed low and flashed a mischievous smile. “At your service, my lady. How may I be of service? Name whatever you like, and you shall have it.” He casually scratched the back of his neck. “Of course, it may take some time to procure what you need, and my services aren’t cheap, but there
are none who will serve you better than I.”

  “We’re looking for a pair of horses. I understand they came into your possession recently.”

  Edrick’s gaze wandered to the coin pouch hanging from Berengar’s belt, and he lowered his voice. “A pair of majestic beasts from Munster. Finer mounts you’ll not find.”

  “Is that so?” Morwen suppressed a laugh in a transparent effort to conceal her amusement.

  “Aye. Brian Boru himself did not have steeds of such quality. I imagine they are of fairy stock, though I suppose we will never know.” Edrick jumped down from the crates and motioned them over to a pen where their horses were tied.

  Morwen opened the door to the pen and ran a hand along Nessa’s neck. “There, there. I knew I’d find you.”

  “She likes you.” Edrick turned his focus to Berengar. “Thirty gold pieces each, I think—but only because you’re first-time customers.”

  Berengar put his hand on his sword. “How about we pay you in steel instead, you little whelp?”

  Morwen glared at him. “Berengar, he’s just a boy!”

  When Edrick heard Berengar’s name, his face whitened, and he inched backward. “Berengar, you say?” His eyes settled on Faolán with growing apprehension.

  “Warden Berengar to you.” Berengar took a step forward, leaving Edrick with no route of retreat. “These horses are ours. They were stolen from us.”

  Edrick held up his hands in a show of surrender. “This is all a misunderstanding. I’m merely a humble purveyor of…”

  Berengar took out his axe and smashed through one of the stacked crates, causing apples to spill out. “Save it. We know you’re a fence. Now fetch the rest of our belongings before I lose my temper. Try to run, and my hound will rip out your throat.”

  Edrick scrambled behind his booth to remove the possessions previously held in the horses’ saddlebags. “I assure you, I had no idea these horses belonged to the Bear Warden.” He flinched as Berengar took the bow from his hands and looked it over.

  “We’re not done here. The Brotherhood stole something far more valuable than these horses, and I want to know where it is.”

  “I’ve given you what you’ve asked for. There’s no need to cause a scene.” Edrick peered past Berengar’s shoulders at the other vendors, who had taken note of the disruption.

  Berengar didn’t bat an eye. “No one’s coming to help you. We both know the guards don’t come around here. They’re too busy looking the other way. Now, where’s the rune?”

  Edrick looked from Berengar to Morwen, confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking—”

  Berengar smashed another crate with his axe. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  “Please! I don’t know where it is!”

  When Berengar raised the axe, Morwen put herself between them. “He’s telling the truth.” She stared hard at Edrick with an unflinching gaze. “We’re looking for a magical relic called a thunder rune. It’s a white, translucent stone filled with energy. It’s very dangerous. Surely you must have heard something about an object so valuable.”

  Edrick hesitated. “The most valuable thefts rarely go to ordinary fences like me—especially if they’re magic. Those at the upper levels of the Brotherhood handle them themselves.”

  “True—and yet that’s not what I asked. I sense you’re hiding something from me, Edrick. The thief who stole our horses—where can we find them?”

  Edrick looked past her to Berengar, who loomed behind her, axe in hand. “Do what you want. I won’t tell. She’s my friend.” For a moment, he looked less like a worldly youth and more like a vulnerable young boy.

  Morwen smiled and put a hand on Edrick’s shoulder to reassure him. “We won’t hurt her. We just want to ask her a few questions, that’s all. I am Morwen of Cashel, and you have my word as a magician.”

  Edrick pulled away, and his expression hardened once more. “Are you mad? The Brotherhood has unfinished business with you both. You’ll never make it out of there alive.”

  Berengar pointed his axe at Edrick. “I’m not that easy to kill, boy. You’d do well to remember that.” He returned the weapon to its harness. “It might prove useful having you around. Tell us where to find your friend and we’ll let you be—for now.”

  Edrick looked to Morwen. “Are you sure about this? I don’t really care what happens to him, but you seem nice enough.” His brow narrowed. “Are you really a magician?”

  “I am. It’s very important we find the rune. A lot of people could get hurt.”

  The boy sighed. “Fine. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. Go to the Thieves’ Quarter and look for the Court of Sorrows near the statue of the Crooked Lord. Ask for Azzy.”

  Berengar stared down at him. “Good lad. I trust you’ll keep this conversation between us. If I find out you’ve tipped off the Brotherhood, you won’t be so lucky next time. Got it?”

  Edrick nodded to show that he understood.

  “Let’s go, Morwen.” Berengar whistled to Faolán and turned to leave.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Edrick called after them before kneeling down to pick up the apples from the smashed crate.

  “It seems we’re headed for a confrontation with the Brotherhood after all,” Morwen said as they made their way to the Thieves’ Quarter. “Better let me do the talking.”

  “You’re the one who tried to steal the coatl egg right from under Calum’s nose, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Aye, but it was you who took his hand.”

  Berengar grunted without argument. She has a point there.

  The Thieves’ Quarter was a bit of a misnomer, as the Brotherhood had no official headquarters—at least not one that was public knowledge. Instead, there were multiple factions spread across the city. Brotherhood affairs were notoriously secret, but Berengar knew the organization operated under a diffuse hierarchical structure. Each faction had its own leader, all of whom answered to whichever thief king or queen was in power at the moment.

  The Thieves’ Quarter was, in fact, a gateway of sorts between the older and newer portions of Dún Aulin. Its location allowed for easy and fast travel to most districts in the city, and its proximity to the river and a vast network of back alleys made it easy to evade guards in pursuit. Not that any guards ever came near the area. Over the years, the Thieves’ Quarter had become a favorite haunt of Brotherhood members of all ranks and factions in leisurely pursuits during the daylight hours.

  “Interesting place. You seem to know your way around.”

  “I’ve been here before.” The last time Berengar set foot in the Thieves’ Quarter had been under very different circumstances. Although their more recent actions in Cashel had made him a fair number of enemies, he was not without allies in the Brotherhood. Still, the riots were years ago. Much had changed since he led the desperate group fleeing the Institute to the Thieves’ Quarter to be smuggled out of Dún Aulin.

  Like most of the city’s districts, the Thieves’ Quarter boasted its own unique flavor. Even the boldest guards knew to stay well away. While residential homes were fewer than in other places, there was an abundance of taverns and alehouses and no shortage of amusement to be found. A single, worn-down church was mostly abandoned, save for the number of lost souls found buried in its sizable graveyard—a solemn reminder of the danger inherent in thievery.

  It was easy to spot the nervous-looking nobles there to discuss business or potential contracts with the Brotherhood. They hid their faces under cloaks and awkwardly shuffled along, keeping their heads down while roving bands of young pickpockets sized them up from the sidewalk. Berengar growled to frighten the pickpockets away. Almost all were orphans. The lucky ones—those who showed promise—might be initiated into the Brotherhood. The others would likely starve or meet their deaths at the end of a hangman’s noose. Justice was harsh in the City of Thieves, especially for those without means or connections.

  Berengar and Morwen came to the statue of the Crooked Lord and passed thro
ugh an open, unguarded gate to enter a secluded courtyard with no outlet. Men and women sat scattered at tables grouped around a fountain. A few threw darts at wanted posters nailed to the wall. Some conversed in hushed tones or played cards or dice while others kept to themselves at solitary tables. A wooden staircase led up the side of a tavern from which servers occasionally appeared to bring tankards and flagons to those outside.

  At the sight of Berengar and Morwen, much of the laughter ceased. Berengar ignored the stares and searched the area for Edrick’s contact.

  “I gather you two didn’t find your way here by accident.” A lone woman at a table with a ficheall board regarded them with a curious expression. “Looking for someone?”

  Berengar guessed she was somewhere shy of her twentieth birthday—probably only a few years older than Morwen. She wore nondescript clothes under a light cloak, which he suspected concealed a number of tools for thieving. In contrast to the other thieves, who often wore their hair short or bound, her luminous black hair fell freely to her waist. Thief or not, she was without a doubt one of the most beautiful women Berengar had ever seen. Still, there was something otherworldly about her appearance he couldn’t quite place.

  “Aye.” Morwen approached. “Do you know where we can find Azzy?”

  The young woman’s blue eyes seemed to glimmer with inner amusement. “That depends on who’s asking.”

  “We don’t have time for this.” Berengar struggled to keep his temper in check. “We didn’t come here to play games.”

  “A pity, for I’m quite fond of games. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a decent game of ficheall.” She gestured to those in the vicinity. “The others are much too boring to play.” Her face lit up with excitement, and she snapped her fingers. “I know! How about a match? Beat me, and I’ll tell you whatever you wish to know.”

  Morwen interrupted before Berengar could protest. “And if you win?”

  The young woman stroked her chin and seem to consider her reply. “Let’s say you’ll owe me a favor. Why don’t we make it interesting? Just one game, rather than the usual set.” She held out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”