Morwen grinned with self-assurance and shook the woman’s hand. “Deal.” She pulled Berengar aside. “Let me handle this. It’ll be easy. I almost feel sorry for her. She has no idea who she’s playing.”
“Have it your way.” Berengar had seen Morwen play enough times to know her confidence was justified.
Morwen plopped down across from the young woman and gathered her pieces. “Shall you toss the coin, or shall I?”
The thief held out a coin that had clearly been pickpocketed from Morwen’s coin pouch. “Allow me.”
Maybe you should have enchanted the pouch as well, Berengar thought, amused at Morwen’s consternation.
“Heads,” Morwen declared.
The young woman threw the coin up in the air, and it landed on tails. “Luck is on my side today, it seems. Fear not—’tis only a coin toss. I’ll be aggressor, if it’s all the same to you.”
Morwen shrugged. “You won the toss.” She arranged her pieces around the center of the board. Ficheall was played on a grid of seven by seven squares. It was the defender’s job to clear a path for their king to reach one of the grid’s edges, and the aggressor won by capturing the king beforehand. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I am Morwen of Cashel.”
Her opponent flashed a mischievous smile. “Azzy, at your service.” Morwen blinked in surprise, and the thief uttered a friendly laugh. “How did you find me?” She nodded at the board before Morwen could reply. “Your move.”
Morwen hesitated and put a hand on one of her pieces. “Edrick sent us.”
Azzy took a turn. “I imagined as much when I saw your horses. It’s not often a mark seeks me out to talk.” She inclined her head toward Berengar. “I’m guessing this one prefers to talk with his axe.”
Morwen moved another piece. “More than you know.”
“Is he alright? Edrick, I mean.” Azzy’s face was suddenly serious. “You didn’t hurt him, did you?”
Berengar noticed two knives holstered at her side—hinting she was much more dangerous than her cheerful disposition suggested.
Morwen shook her head vigorously and looked her opponent in the eye. “No.”
“Good. Ed is a cheeky little git sometimes, but he’s loyal.” Azzy sat back, any temporary animosity forgotten. “So, why seek me out? Would you like me to recover a family heirloom, or perhaps rob a quarrelsome neighbor?”
Morwen appeared to be off to a good start, and she began to visibly relax. “There is something you could help us with. There’s someplace we need to break into. It could be dangerous, but we’ll pay you for your trouble.”
“The job—is it soon? I have something else coming up that will require all my focus.”
“It is. We have other matters to attend to as well.”
“Before I agree, I’ll need to know the name of your companion.”
Morwen bit her lip. “Esben Berengar.”
“Truly?” Azzy looked entertained rather than intimidated. “Not that it wouldn’t be interesting, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I work hard to keep my head down, and I can’t afford that kind of attention at the moment.”
“That’s not the only reason we’re here. We want information. Something of great value was stolen from us, and we want to know where to find it.”
Azzy wagged a playful finger at them. “I can’t discuss that sort of thing with anyone outside the Brotherhood.”
Morwen advanced her king toward the grid’s outer edge and folded her arms across her chest in triumph. “Too bad. A deal’s a deal.”
Azzy rubbed her hands together with glee. “I agree.” With her next move, she captured Morwen’s king. “It appears I win.”
Morwen’s smile faltered. “I…I lost?”
Azzy kicked her boots onto the table. “You played exceptionally well. I haven’t had that much of a challenge in years.”
Morwen remained motionless, staring at the board in complete bafflement. “But how?”
Berengar was equally stunned. Morwen was a master ficheall player, but Azzy had strung her along with ease. He laid a hand on Morwen’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We’ll find someone else to help us with the Institute.”
Azzy’s eyes widened at the mention of the Institute. “What did you say?”
“Well, well. Look who it is.” The words came from a woman in a black cloak with severe scarring along her jawline. “The Bloody Red Bear and Munster’s court magician, all alone.” At the sound of her voice, the courtyard’s other occupants fell silent, and all merrymaking reached an abrupt end.
Faolán growled as a number of thieves rose from their seats to join the woman and her lieutenants, who moved to surround Berengar and Morwen. Many wore hoods or masks to conceal their faces.
“I always heard you were clever, Warden Berengar. Never thought you’d be fool enough to show your face here.”
“Someone in the Brotherhood stole a thunder rune from us. I want it back. I’ll pay double whatever you’re asking, if that’s what it takes.”
The woman appeared confused. “If there was such a theft, I would know of it. None in our ranks would dare take something so valuable for themselves without handing it over to leadership. But don’t worry, we’ll help ourselves to your gold soon enough.”
Her surprise seemed genuine. Berengar frowned. Whoever had stolen the rune was playing a dangerous game by keeping it for herself. “And you are?”
“Reyna, ringleader of the Whisperer Faction.”
“Listen—whatever you’ve heard, I’m not here for trouble. I’ve done business with the Brotherhood in the past. Velena can vouch for me. She helped me get the survivors of the Institute to safety, and in return I took care of a little problem rotting in the cells at Tara.”
“Her rival Diego, you mean. You murdered him before he could talk—right under the High Queen’s nose.”
“Aye. Velena owes me. She must be high in the Brotherhood’s leadership by now.”
“She was. She’s dead. There’s a new thief king in charge, and he does things differently.” The circle of thieves tightened around them. Berengar reached for his axe, and the thieves drew knives in unison. “We know about Cashel and what you did to Calum. Did you think we would let that pass?”
“What, was he a friend of yours or something?” Morwen asked.
The remark only served to anger Reyna further. “No. We were much closer than that.”
Morwen swore.
“You took his hand and his eyes.”
Morwen bit her lip. “Technically, we only took his hand. A sorceress took his eyes.”
Reyna advanced on them. “We’re thieves, not assassins, but in your case, I think we’ll make an exception.”
Tension mounted as Berengar and Morwen stared down a sea of sharpened knives. He raised his axe, ready to defend himself, but there were far too many thieves to fight at once.
“You can’t kill them.” The words came from Azzy, who had slipped out of her chair unnoticed and now stood between Berengar and Morwen and Reyna.
Reyna sneered. “Mind your business. This doesn’t concern a low-level journeywoman like you.”
Azzy didn’t flinch. Despite her short stature and wiry figure, she seemed totally unfazed by the threat. “I have to disagree. These two just hired me for a job.”
Reyna pointed her knife at Berengar. “You accepted a contract from him? Do you know who this man is? What he’s done?”
“It’s done. Coins have changed hands. Whatever quarrel you have with them, it will have to wait until the job’s done. Same goes for the other factions. If you disagree, you can take it up with the thief king.”
“I don’t need the hassle.” Reyna thrust her knives into their holsters. “This isn’t over, Warden Berengar. Once the contract is complete, you’re fair game.” She regarded Azzy with disdain. “As for you, your ringleader will be hearing about this.” With that, she marched off, leaving her subordinates to follow.
When they were alone, Azzy held out her hand expe
ctantly. “The contract’s not official until you pay me.”
“I don’t understand,” Morwen said.
“I’ve been trying to find my way inside the Institute for years. Just one of the magical relics inside would be worth its weight in gold.”
Berengar shook his head. “We’ll find another way. I don’t trust her.”
Azzy followed them from the courtyard. “I’m a thief. Of course you shouldn’t trust me. You need me, or else you wouldn’t be here. Tell me you know where to find the secret entrance. I’ve been searching for it for ages.”
Morwen stopped dead in her tracks. “How do you know about that?”
“I told you—I’ve been trying to get inside for years. Even if you know where to find the door, you won’t be able to get inside without one of the keys used to unlock it.”
“Do you have a key?” Berengar asked.
Azzy’s grin widened. “No—but I know where we can find one.”
Chapter Six
Bringing a thief into the king’s court wasn’t one of his better ideas. Then again, given the disdain Leinster’s nobility and the church hierarchy held for him, Berengar felt a perverse sense of satisfaction watching Azzy accompany them to the Sovereign’s Gate.
According to her, the key they were after was inside the palace. With all the added security for the Ceremony of the Cursed Blade, gaining access to such a place was a near-impossible task for even the most accomplished thief. Fortunately for Azzy, Berengar had an invitation.
A series of outer and inner walls and gates shielded the palace from the outside world. The imposing walls cast shadows across the land below. Sentries and guards patrolled the gates or observed from walls or towers. It was a highly effective defensive system—and probably the only reason why the royal family managed to survive the purges.
For someone faced with the task of thieving in one of the most closely guarded places in the city, Azzy was in considerably good spirits. She seemed to greet the prospect of danger with enthusiasm and excitement, humming and whistling as they walked.
Morwen listened with interest. “What’s that song? I don’t recognize it.” Despite Berengar’s reservations, she was becoming fast friends with their new acquaintance. Not that it was particularly surprising. The two were close in age, and like Morwen, Azzy possessed a cheerful disposition and a fondness for humor.
For a moment, Azzy’s blue eyes appeared to shimmer in the sunlight. “I doubt you would. ’Tis an old tune, long forgotten, of the founding of Dún Aulin. Aulin—or Ailinne, as it was once called—comes from the word ail, which means rock or stone. The sight of the palace walls brought it to mind.”
“How does it go?”
Azzy flashed a radiant smile and began to sing as they approached the gate.
“Three mighty men made essays of trenchings,
Burech, Fiach, and Aururas:
it is they who without flagging (clear fact!)
dug the rampart of Alend.
Burech cast from him straightway
across the rampart (no weakling he!)
a stone he cast from his spear-arm;
and that is the ail in Alend.”
Morwen applauded. “Bravo! You’re every bit as good as any of the performers at the Revels.”
Azzy gave a mock bow. “You are too kind, Lady Morwen.”
She was good. Even Faolán seemed under her spell. In another life, Azzy might have made a name for herself as a bard, and Berengar wondered what turn of fate had brought her to the Brotherhood of Thieves. “You sure this is the only place we can find a key? There are less dangerous places to steal from.”
Azzy’s smile widened. “That there are. The inhabitants of the Institute used multiple keys to enter the secret passageways, but most were lost after the purges. I spent a long time trying to track one down. Without knowing the location of the hidden door, attempting to retrieve the key from the palace wasn’t worth the risk until now.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing. This isn’t a joke. No funny business, either, or I’ll leave you to the guards.” Causing trouble in the king’s court was the last thing he wanted.
Azzy gave him a three-fingered salute. “Thief’s honor.” She didn’t seem fazed by his coarse manners. Nor did she shy away from his scars. Most women averted their eyes rather than look at his ruined face for any length of time. There were exceptions—Queen Nora, Ravenna, and Morwen—but they were few.
“Halt!” ordered a guard stationed outside the gate. “State your business here.” The man’s hand inched toward his sword at their approach.
“Put that away, you fool—unless you mean to bring the High Queen’s fury down on our heads.” The voice belonged to Tavish, the commander of the city watch. He had just arrived on horseback with a few of his lieutenants. “That’s a Warden of Fál you’re threatening, and the Bear Warden at that. He’s here at the king’s invitation.”
The guard removed his hand from the blade’s hilt. “Apologies, sir.”
Each of the guards remained stone-faced. The veterans among them would have remembered Berengar from the purges either as monster or savior. The others would’ve heard the stories. If any were alarmed or uneasy with his presence, they gave no hint of it, a sign they were well trained.
“Your caution is appreciated. That goes for the rest of you as well.” Tavish waited for the gate to open and nodded to Berengar and the others. “You three—with me.”
Berengar and his companions followed him through the entrance, and the gate closed behind them once more.
Tavish eyed Azzy from his mount. “I see you’ve picked up another companion, Warden Berengar. I thought you said you weren’t long for the city.”
“Trust me, I wish it were otherwise. Things changed.”
Tavish appeared unsurprised. “I heard of Warden Niall’s sudden departure. Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Nothing you need concern yourself with.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t mean to pry into wardens’ affairs. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is. Curiosity comes with the job, I suppose. Still, with the ceremony at hand, we need all the help we can get right now. Just between us, I’m glad you’re here—not that your presence hasn’t caused a fair amount of trouble already.”
I’m sure it has. Berengar didn’t even want to think about the arms Niall would have had to twist to arrange an invitation to the palace.
The green banners that waved from the ramparts depicted a crown at the foot of a cross—the sigil of Leinster’s king. Morwen regarded their surroundings with eagerness as they made their way from the outer courtyard. She’d been raised in the halls of one of Fál’s royal houses, and to Berengar’s knowledge, this was her first time setting foot in another. While the royal palace at Dún Aulin shared many similarities with the castle on the Rock of Cashel, the differences were readily apparent. The palace was far more overbearing and austere than the castle at Cashel. Munster was a kingdom of beauty and culture, and the halls of its royals were full of splendor. In contrast, the monarchs of Leinster prided themselves on their prudence and devotion to the Lord of Hosts.
“You’re lucky to gain an audience with the king,” Tavish remarked. “It’s a sign of the ceremony’s importance. He’s been acting rather odd lately, from what I hear.”
Niall said something similar. “What do you mean?”
Tavish shrugged. “Good King Lucien is quiet and reserved by nature, but lately he has shut himself away and refused to see anyone other than his chief adviser. I expect he’s simply at prayer, but there are rumors he suffers from a malady of some kind. Of all the times for the prince regent to take his leave of court…”
They passed through another fortified gate to a busy inner courtyard, where servants tended to the company’s horses, before starting up a steep stair that led to the palace. Tavish, Berengar, and the others surrendered their weapons outside the entrance—Azzy had left her knives behind to avoid drawing the wrong kind of attention—and were us
hered past the threshold.
A formally-dressed chamberlain met them at the head of an escort. “Welcome, honored guests. King Lucien and his advisers are already in discussions on the subject of the ceremony.” His nose wrinkled with thinly-veiled contempt when he spotted Berengar. “Do not come within twenty paces of the throne. Do not speak to the king unless spoken to. You are to address the king as ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Majesty.’”
Berengar fought back a sigh. He hated the tediousness of court. He had little use for the vanity of the noble classes or the games they played. At least when he faced an enemy on the battlefield, the conflict was honest. Perhaps it was his humble background, but he saw no reason why it should matter whether the royals of Leinster styled themselves “Majesty” or those of Munster used “Your Grace.” The ranks of the nobility varied among kingdoms. In Ulster, where Berengar was born, power was hereditary or seized at the point of a blade. Leinster, heavily influenced by the foreign kingdoms of Albion and Caledonia across the sea, boasted a variety of ranks and titles unused elsewhere in Fál.
Music emanated from the throne room, where three dogs yapped at a colorful court jester while a boy clapped loudly from the throne. One of the hounds successfully bit the jester’s backside, and a guard restrained the animals long enough for the jester to catch his breath.
The figure on the throne doubled over with high-pitched laughter and slapped the seat’s armrest. “More wine.” The jester stared at the snapping hounds with wide-eyed fear before scrambling to his feet and refilling the king’s goblet. Lucien lifted the goblet to his lips and drank deeply with satisfaction. “Again! Do it again!”
The guard released his hold on the hound, the jester took flight, and the king howled with glee as the dance began anew.
Berengar frowned. Everything he’d heard so far suggested King Lucien was pious, sober minded, and shy—anything but the impish creature occupying the throne. Lucien had an almost feral look about him. His skin was waxy and discolored, his hair messed and unruly, and his clothes were ill-fitting. Even his eyes didn’t set quite right. One was reddened and larger than the other, with a significantly dilated pupil.
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