Berengar groaned. “Fine—but you owe me one.” He finished his breakfast and pushed away from the table.
Godfrey slapped him across the back. “That’s the spirit!”
The friar took hold of his walking stick, and together they left the Coin and Crown and made their way through the city. The pale sun was barely visible, and while the previous day’s warmth was all but forgotten, at least it wasn’t raining. A somber mood, perhaps on account of the bishop’s funeral, seemed to have taken hold of Dún Aulin.
“This had better not take long.” On top of his existing obligations, he still had to track down whoever was supplying the fairy dust.
Godfrey whistled cheerfully by way of response.
Eventually they came to a busy neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, where the delineations between classes were blurred. Travelers came and went by way of the neighboring Beggars’ Gate, which offered easy access to and from Dún Aulin. Godfrey led him to an almshouse in a secluded area, where priests and monks tended to the infirm.
It was quiet inside. Many beds were empty, and most of the patients appeared to be guards or soldiers suffering from some injury or other malady. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
Voices carried from below, and Godfrey lifted a candle from a bracket on the wall and started down a flight of stairs. They came to a dark room in the cellar where two rows of additional beds lined the walls on either side. Only one bed, at the end of the room, was occupied. A visitor with a candle sat at the patient’s bedside. The man’s features were cloaked in shadow, but as Berengar drew near, he recognized Jareth, the bard from the Coin and Crown.
His brow narrowed in anger. “You. What are you doing here?”
Jareth set his candle aside and studied him in the faint light. “Same as you, I suspect—to hear this man’s story.”
Before Jareth could move, Berengar grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Take others’ suffering and use your lies to turn it into gold? Not so brave without your adoring crowds, are you?” When Jareth tried to speak, Berengar tightened his grip around the bard’s throat. “Next time, you should take more care choosing whose stories you tell.” He eased his hold, and Jareth slumped against the wall, clutching his throat.
“And what lies am I supposed to have told?” To Berengar’s surprise, Jareth appeared neither frightened nor resentful. “I believe you misunderstood the point of my tale. You weren’t the monster of the story. You were only a mirror. I don’t believe in heroes and villains—only interesting people.” He nodded at the bed’s occupant. “And this man certainly has an interesting tale. I’ll leave you to it.” He started from the room.
“Wait.”
Jareth stopped short.
“I still have half a mind to give you a good thrashing, but as you’re so fond of talk, I’ll let you convince me otherwise if you can give me some straight answers. Since you seem to know everything that happens around this city, maybe you can tell me where the fairy dust is coming from.”
Jareth’s lips formed a thin smile. “I would ask your interest in this matter, but I have a feeling you wouldn’t tell me.” He held up two fingers. “Very well. There are two sources of fairy dust in the city from competing dealers. The first lives in a secure villa, protected by private guards. Elazar is his name. From what I understand, he has powerful friends. As for the second…little is known about him. Whoever he is, he understands the value of secrecy. Does that answer your question?” He turned to go.
“One more thing. King Lucien’s chief adviser—what do you know about him?”
“Curious. Your questions surprise me, Warden Berengar. It’s not often that happens.” Jareth studied him for a moment. “Valmont’s past remains a mystery, even to those in the church. He arrived in Dún Aulin ten years ago. Bishop McLoughlin had served as the king’s adviser since the boy-king’s infancy, but it did not take Valmont long to gain influence at court. When McLoughlin’s health deteriorated, Valmont took his place at Lucien’s side. Some suspect Valmont himself had a hand in the bishop’s death. Any of McLoughlin’s potential successors, however, would have motive to poison the old man.”
“You’re saying the bishop was murdered?”
Jareth laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. The church is full of separate factions vying for power. They just do a better job of hiding it than others. Not all monsters have scars. You would do well to remember that. Farewell, Warden Berengar. I suspect we will meet again.” With that, Jareth took his leave.
“That man is more than he appears. I would know.” Godfrey, the only surviving heir to Margolin’s former rival, Laird Cairrigan, had rejected his worldly title in favor of a life of service to others.
A low moan came from the bed. Its occupant, who had lapsed into unconsciousness during Berengar’s conversation with Jareth, bolted upright with a start. “Are you here to kill me?” Even in the darkness, it was clear he was young—hardly old enough to be a scout. Then again, Berengar had been drafted to fight goblins in the north at an even younger age.
Godfrey’s voice was kind. “No, son. We’re friends.”
Horst’s eyes darted about the room, as if seeking invisible threats. He held his sweat-drenched bedsheets in a tremulous grasp and shivered violently.
Godfrey picked up a washcloth at the bedside and applied it to the scout’s forehead. “There, there. You’re safe now.”
Horst’s voice was weak. “Nowhere is safe.”
Godfrey glanced at Berengar. “He’s delirious with fever.”
Horst moaned again and briefly convulsed before slumping back in bed, semiconscious. Berengar noticed numerous cuts and scratches on his skin, including some that appeared self-inflicted.
“The voices…make them stop…”
Tavish said he returned half-crazed. Berengar regretted leaving Morwen behind. She was a gifted healer. Perhaps she could have helped the frightened wretch before him. “What happened to you?”
When Horst ignored him and began murmuring unintelligible babble, Berengar looked to Godfrey for answers.
“He and his friends were stationed at Cobthach’s Hold near the border with Connacht, where the last of the wilds remain. They left the fort to track a band of goblins and never returned.”
Teelah. Berengar thought of the helmeted goblin he and Morwen had encountered in the Wrenwood. If the attacks were linked, there was a chance Horst could point him toward whoever paid the goblins to retrieve the thunder rune. “Did goblins kill your friends?”
“Monsters. Terrible monsters. They were everywhere.” Horst went quiet for a moment. “There were too many. I couldn’t save the others. The spiders got them. When I went back, I saw…I saw…”
“What did you see?”
At that, Horst became more himself. “Him. The man with the face of a monster. I watched as he tied my friend Arland to an altar and drove a dagger through his heart. Then he turned and looked right at me. I ran and didn’t stop running.”
“Who is this man? Were the goblins working for him?”
Horst’s eyes widened, and his hands shot out to clasp at Berengar’s cloak. “I know where they’re keeping him…the king…”
“What about the king?”
“Valmont…said to keep it secret…” He convulsed and again lost consciousness before he could elaborate.
Berengar stared at him, pondering those last cryptic words. What did he mean by that?
Godfrey was first to break the silence. “There you have it. Human sacrifice. Monsters, pestilence, disease—you can see why I thought of Alúine.”
“Aye.” Church bells tolled outside the almshouse. It was almost noon. The bishop’s funeral would begin soon. “I will think on what you’ve said.” Berengar left the almshouse behind and parted ways with Godfrey. He followed the main road farther into the city, where he scrawled a message for Azzy detailing what he’d learned about Elazar and paid a messenger to deliver it to the Thieves’ Quarter
.
Crowds of onlookers arriving early in hopes of catching the funeral procession slowed his progress through the city, and Berengar briefly regretted leaving his horse stabled. He returned to the grand square by way of Padraig’s Gate and headed in the opposite direction of the palace. The cathedral was impossible to miss even at a distance. It was easily the most impressive structure in the city. Even the splendor of the Rock of Cashel fell short of the cathedral’s grandeur. Unlike the palace’s austere courtyards, striking statues and beautiful fountains adorned the area around the cathedral.
Berengar pushed his way through the teeming masses gathered to watch McLoughlin laid to rest. Men, women, and children of all walks of life were tightly packed in such numbers they filled the square. I bet the Brotherhood’s pickpockets are here in full force. The multitudes rivaled those who came to watch King Mór’s funeral, signaling the church’s importance in daily life.
Berengar wrapped himself in a nondescript gray cloak, as Flaherty’s message instructed, and raised his hood to avoid attention. He slipped from the crowd and made his way around back.
“Identify yourself,” said a member of the holy guard.
Berengar lowered his hood. “I’m here to see Vicar Flaherty.”
The guard glowered at him, a reminder of the low regard in which he was held in religious circles. “This way.”
An armed escort led him inside. Berengar, not easily impressed, couldn’t help feeling awestruck at the sight of the cathedral’s interior. Ornate stained-glass windows depicted various stories from Fál’s history, including many centered around Padraig and his deeds. Frescoes covered the walls and ceilings, and the floors were made of marble and mosaic tiles. Breathtaking arches and pillars were everywhere, and the level of architectural skill on display was staggering.
Bells continued tolling outside as the funeral unfolded, and the cathedral’s quiet halls only added to the sense of enormity. Berengar followed the guards to the sanctuary, where the ceremony would be held the following day. An immense chandelier that hung from the ceiling cast a dazzling array of light across the vast chamber. Rows of uncomfortable-looking wooden pews spanned the length of the room and ended at the altar. The guards promptly withdrew and shut the doors, leaving him alone.
Footsteps echoed over the marble floor, and Vicar Flaherty approached.
Berengar looked over his shoulder. “Is all the secrecy really necessary?”
“It might have been avoided, but for your deeds at St. Brigid’s.”
Berengar bared his teeth. “Skinner Kane and his men tortured and killed dozens of innocents. He deserved worse.”
“There it is. That infamous temper.” Flaherty held up a hand before Berengar could speak. “I went through a great deal of trouble to arrange for your visit here today, and I would prefer to avoid an argument. Although I voted for it for appearances’ sake, I was against your excommunication. Not because of any fondness for you, mind you, but because of the political headache it has caused with Tara. Unfortunately, your actions forced Bishop McLoughlin’s hand.”
“What’s your point?” In retrospect, ignoring the right of sanctuary to cut down a defenseless man at a sacred altar wasn’t one of his best decisions, even if Kane did have it coming.
Flaherty stared hard at him. “You have a rather direct manner, Warden Berengar. Bishop McLoughlin—may the Lord rest his soul—is dead. His successor may see your actions differently.”
Berengar studied Flaherty carefully. “And you aim to be that successor.”
“At the moment, there are two candidates—Father Valmont and myself. Valmont cannot be made bishop. Since his arrival, he has quickly amassed power by twisting those around him with his words. If he did not murder Bishop McLoughlin himself, one of his pawns did. Look at what he has done to King Lucien. You saw what the boy has become. I fear for the realm if it is allowed to continue.”
“I fail to see what part I will play in all this.”
“I want your word you will stay out of Leinster when the ceremony is finished. Do this, and as bishop, I would see your excommunication lifted.” Flaherty’s stone face grew impassioned. “These are dark times. Much has changed, and there is more change yet to come. The peace is more fragile than you know. The people need a shepherd to guard against their worst instincts.”
Berengar scoffed. “Like you did in the purges? You lot stood by while the crowds slaughtered countless innocents. I haven’t forgotten.”
Flaherty’s voice quieted, and his expression betrayed remorse. “You’re right. It is our secret shame, one that can never be put right. I could tell you the fanatics among the Acolytes of the True Faith were responsible, but there are those among us who support their aims.” He turned away, approached the altar, and stared up at the cross. “The girl you travel with is a magician, is she not?”
Was that a threat? Berengar felt anger rise within him. “What of it?”
Flaherty turned back to him without a hint of malice. “I do not hate magicians and nonhumans, Warden Berengar. Nor do I believe all magic is evil. I grew up hearing the tales of Thane Ramsay. I know magicians are capable of good, but magic is simply too dangerous to be allowed to flourish. It is the church’s job to bring light into a dark world. Science and progress must replace the old ways, so the day will come when magic is no longer needed and forgotten altogether.”
The sentiment echoed Azzy’s words inside the ruins of the Institute, and Berengar remembered what became of the Oakseers’ Grotto. The world was changing. Azeroth’s war had broken something that could never be put back. Were it not for Morwen, he might have agreed with Flaherty about magic, but something about the priest’s words nonetheless left him with a melancholy feeling.
“I’ve no desire to remain here any longer than necessary. I’ve no love for Leinster, and it certainly has none for me. Now, if you don’t mind, I didn’t come here to discuss your ambitions.”
Flaherty appeared satisfied they had reached an accord. “We are in agreement. Let us discuss security measures for the ceremony.”
Outside, the bells fell silent. Berengar spent the following hours going over security details with the cathedral’s guards. Despite his protests, both the crown and the church insisted on permitting an audience inside the sanctuary in accordance with tradition. However, admittance to the cathedral would be strictly monitored and limited to those of title and rank. As previously agreed, the city watch would bolster security for the ceremony, and King Lucien’s elite guard would be on hand to protect the king.
Berengar left nothing to chance. He combed every inch of the cathedral looking for gaps in security and drilled the guards repeatedly to assure their preparedness. Evening approached by the time he was satisfied all the necessary precautions were in place. Flaherty excused himself to attend the conclave where the new bishop would be chosen, and Berengar departed as quietly as he arrived. It was almost time to meet Azzy. With the information he had gleaned from Jareth, they could do the job for Elias and Morwen would get her staff.
Morwen waited for him at the Coin and Crown.
“Hope you’re done sleeping. We’ve got work to do.” He whistled to Faolán and began the walk to the rendezvous point.
Morwen stifled a yawn and flushed, clearly embarrassed at having slept so late. Berengar filled her in on the day’s events, including his conversation with Jareth. Morwen listened with interest but remained unusually quiet. Berengar wondered if she was still sore over the cross words they’d exchanged the night before.
They reached their destination just before dark and waited for their companion to show.
“Ready to get started?” Azzy emerged from the shadows without making a sound.
Startled by her sudden appearance, Morwen jumped. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?” Azzy asked after she finished laughing.
Morwen’s gaze narrowed in her direction. “Sneak up on me.” As a magician, Morwen was uniquely aware of her surroundings. More often than
not, she was the one who could move about unseen.
Azzy flashed a mischievous grin. “I’m a thief, remember? I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I couldn’t come and go without being seen.”
Morwen remained skeptical.
Azzy turned to Berengar. “I received your message. According to my contacts, the fairy dust is stored in a warehouse by the docks.”
“And Elazar?” Raiding the warehouse was only the first step. It would only interrupt the distribution channel of fairy dust temporarily. To put the supplier out of business, they needed to put a stop to the production of the dust, which meant dealing with the source.
“He spends his days in a highly secure villa watched by private guards. I could manage breaking in easily enough, but getting him back out again…I have a much simpler plan in mind.”
“Go on.”
“Every week, Elazar and his guards leave the villa to drop off another load of fairy dust at the docks.” Azzy grinned. “We’re in luck. The delivery is tonight.”
“Good work. I hope you’re both well rested. We’ve a long night ahead.”
They settled on a plan and made their way to the docks under cover of dark. The area was mostly quiet, save for creaking shipping vessels on the water. Azzy held a finger to her lips, and they took cover behind a stack of crates. From the outside, the warehouse Azzy had discovered appeared abandoned. No lights came from within, and the building’s exterior was splintered and faded.
“Look.” Azzy pointed to the entrance, where two guards stood watch. Their attire suggested they were private guards or soldiers loaning themselves out as hirelings for supplemental income.
Azzy raised her hood, emerged from cover, and silently stole around to the other side to pick the back lock. When she finished, she returned to Berengar and Morwen with the guards none the wiser.
Then they waited. After a few hours, Berengar heard the rustling of wheels. Lanterns glowed in the distance, and a wagon approached the warehouse. The guards unlocked and opened the front entrance, and the wagon rolled inside, but not before Berengar caught a glimpse of a bearded man flanked by guards on either side.
The City of Thieves Page 12