Theft of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  One of the few buildings still burning a candle was in the Artisan Quarter. It had originally been a haberdashery, but the previous owner, Lester Furl, had died in the battle the month before. Some said the plumed hat he had worn that day had caught the attention of an axe. Since then, the wooden sign of the ornate cavalier hat had still hung above the door, but no hats were for sale in the window. Even late into the night, the light was always on; however, no one was ever seen entering or exiting the shop. A small man in a simple robe greeted those nosy enough to knock. Behind him, visitors saw a room filled with the dried, hairless skins of animals. Most soaked in tubs or were stretched out on frames. There were pumice stones, needles and thread, and folded sheets of vellum piled neatly along the walls. The room also contained three desks with upright tops over which large sheets of parchment lay with carefully written text. Bottles of ink rested on shelves and in open drawers. The man was always polite, and when asked what he sold in his shop, he would reply, “Nothing.” He simply wrote books. Because few people could read, most inquiries ended there.

  The fact was there were very few books in the shop.

  Myron Lanaklin sat alone in the store. He had written half a page of Grigoles Treatise on Imperial Common Law and then just stopped. The room was cold and silent. He stood up, walked to the shop window, and looked out at the dark, snowy street. In a city with more people than he had seen before in his lifetime, he felt utterly alone. A month had passed, but he had finished only half of his first book. He found himself spending most of his time just sitting. In the silence, he imagined he could hear the sound of his brothers speaking the evening vespers.

  He avoided sleep because of the nightmares. They had started the third night he slept in the shop and were terrible. Visions of flames and sounds of pleading coming from his own mouth as the voices of his family died in the inferno. Every night they died again, and every day he awoke on the cold floor of the tiny room in a world more silent and isolated than the abbey had ever been. He missed his home and the mornings he spent with Renian.

  Alric made good on his promise. The new King of Melengar provided him the shop rent-free and all the materials needed for making his books. Never was there a mention of cost. Myron should have been happy, but he felt more lost each day. Although he had more food than ever before, and no abbot to restrict his diet, he ate little. His appetite dwindled along with his desire to write.

  When he had first arrived at the shop, he had felt obligated to replace the books, but as the days slipped by, he sat alone and confused. How could he replace the books? They were not missing. No shelf lay bare; no library stood wanting. What would he do if he ever completed the project? What would he do with the books? What would become of them? What would become of him? They had no home, and neither did he.

  Myron sat down on the wooden floor in the corner, pulling his legs to his chest, and rested his head against the wall. “Why did I have to be the one who lived?” he muttered to the empty room. “Why did I have to be left behind? Why is it I’m cursed with an indelible memory, so that I can recall every face, every scream, every cry?”

  As usual, Myron wept. There was no one to see, so he let the tears run unchecked down his cheeks. He cried there on the floor in the flickering candlelight and soon fell asleep.

  The knock on the door startled him and he stood up. He could not have been asleep long; the candle still burned. Myron moved to the door and, opening it a crack, peered out. On the stoop outside, two men in heavy winter cloaks stood waiting.

  “Myron? Are you going to let us in or leave us to freeze?”

  “Hadrian? Royce!” Myron exclaimed as he threw open the door. He embraced Hadrian immediately and then turned to Royce and paused, deciding a handshake would suit him better.

  “So it’s been a while,” Hadrian said, kicking the snow off his boots. “How many books have you finished?”

  Myron looked sheepish. “I’ve had a little trouble adjusting but I’ll get them done. Isn’t this place wonderful?” he said, trying to sound sincere. “It was very generous of His Majesty to provide all this for me. I’ve enough vellum to last years, and ink? Well, don’t get me started. As Finiless wrote, ‘More could not be gotten though the world be emptied to the breath of time.’ ”

  “So you like it here?” Hadrian asked.

  “Oh, I love it, yes. I really couldn’t ask for anything more.” The two thieves exchanged looks, the meaning of which Myron could not discern. “Can I get either of you something—tea, perhaps? The king is very good to me. I even have honey to sweeten it.”

  “Tea would be nice,” Royce said.

  Myron moved to the counter to fetch a pot. “So what are you two doing out so late?” he asked, then laughed at himself. “Oh, never mind, I guess this isn’t late for you. I suppose you work nights.”

  “Something like that,” Hadrian said. “We just got back from a trip to Chadwick. We are heading back to The Rose and Thorn but wanted to stop by here on the way and deliver the news.”

  “News? What kind of news?”

  “Well, I thought it might be good news, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why’s that?” the monk asked, pouring water into the pot.

  “Well, it would mean leaving here.”

  “It would?” Myron turned suddenly, spilling the water.

  “Well, yes, but I suppose if you’re really attached to this place, we could—”

  “To go where?” Myron asked anxiously, setting down the pitcher, forgetting the tea.

  “Well,” Hadrian began, “Alric offered us whatever we wanted as payment for saving his sister, but seeing as how Arista saved our life first, it didn’t seem right asking for money, or land, or anything personal like that. We got to thinking just how much was lost when the Winds Abbey was destroyed. Not just the books, mind you, but the safe haven for those lost in the wilderness. So we asked the king to rebuild the abbey just like it was.”

  “Are—are you serious?” Myron stammered. “And did he say yes?”

  “To be honest, he sounded relieved,” Royce said. “I think he felt as if there was a dagger dangling over his head for a month. I suppose he was afraid we’d ask for something ridiculous like his firstborn or the crown jewels.”

  “We might have, if we hadn’t already stolen them.” Hadrian chuckled, and Myron was not sure if he was joking or not.

  “But if you really like this place …” Hadrian said, whirling his finger in the air. “I suppose we—”

  “No! No—I mean, I think you are right. The abbey should be rebuilt for the sake of the kingdom.”

  “Glad you feel that way, because we need you to help the builders design it. I’m assuming you could draw a few floor plans and maybe some sketches?”

  “Certainly, down to the finest detail.”

  Hadrian chuckled. “I bet you can. I can see you’re going to drive the royal architect to drink.”

  “Who will be the abbot? Has Alric contacted the Dibben Monastery already?”

  “He sent out a messenger this morning as one of his first acts as king. You’re going to have a few guest monks trickling in over the winter, and this spring all of you’ll have a great deal of work to do.”

  Myron was grinning widely.

  “About that tea?” Royce inquired.

  “Oh yes, sorry.” He returned to pouring water into the pot. Stopping once more, he turned back to the thieves, and his grin faded.

  “I would so much love to return to my home and see it rise again. But …” Myron paused.

  “What is it?”

  “Won’t the Imperialists simply come back? If they hear the abbey is there again—I don’t think I could …”

  “Relax, Myron,” Hadrian said. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “But how can you be sure?”

  “Trust me, the Imperialists won’t advocate another foray into Melengar,” Royce assured the monk. The smile on the thief’s face made Myron think of a cat, and he was happy not to
be a mouse.

  In the hours before dawn, the Lower Quarter was quiet. Dampened by the snow, the only sound came from the muffled hoof falls of mounts as they moved slowly up the alley to The Rose and Thorn.

  “Do you need any of the money?” Royce asked Hadrian.

  “I have enough. Deposit the rest with Gwen. What does that come to now?”

  “Well, we’re in pretty good shape. We have our share of the fifteen gold tenents for returning Alenda’s letters, and the twenty from Ballentyne for stealing them in the first place, plus DeWitt’s one hundred, and Alric’s one hundred. You know, one day we’re going to have to find DeWitt—and thank him for that job.” Royce grinned.

  “Do you think it was fair asking for the money along with the abbey?” Hadrian asked. “I have to admit the guy was starting to grow on me, and I hate to think we took advantage of him.”

  “The hundred was for going into Gutaria with him,” Royce reminded him. “The abbey was for saving his sister. We didn’t ask for anything Alric didn’t agree to in advance. And he did say anything, so we could easily have asked for land and noble rank.”

  “Why didn’t we?”

  “Oh? So you would like to be the count Blackwater, would you?”

  “It might have been nice,” Hadrian said, sitting up straighter in his saddle. “And you could be the infamous marquis Melborn.”

  “Why infamous?”

  “Would you prefer notorious? Nefarious, perhaps?”

  “What’s wrong with beloved?”

  Neither could hold a straight face at the thought.

  “Come to think of it, we failed to bill the good king for saving him from Trumbul. Do you think—”

  “It’s too late, Royce,” Hadrian told him.

  Royce sighed, disappointed. “So, I think he wasn’t too put out, all things considered. Besides, we are thieves, remember? Anyway, the bottom line is, we won’t be starving this winter.”

  “Yes, we’ve been good little squirrels, haven’t we?” Hadrian said.

  “Maybe this spring we can start that fishing enterprise you wanted.”

  “I thought you wanted the winery.”

  Royce shrugged.

  “Well, you keep thinking. I’m going to go wake up Emerald and let her know I’m back. It’s too cold to sleep alone tonight.”

  Royce passed the tavern and dismounted at Medford House. For some time, he stood, just staring at the top window, while his feet grew colder and colder in the snow.

  “You are going to come up, aren’t you?” Gwen asked from the doorway. She was still dressed and as pretty as ever. “Isn’t it awfully cold out there?”

  Royce smiled at her. “You waited up.”

  “You said you’d be coming back tonight.”

  Royce pulled his saddlebag off his horse and carried it up the steps. “I have another deposit to make.”

  “Is that why you were standing in the snow for so long? You were trying to decide whether or not to trust me with your money?”

  Her words stung him. “No!”

  “Then why were you standing there so long?”

  Royce hesitated. “Would you prefer me if I were a fisherman, or perhaps a winemaker?”

  “No,” she said. “I prefer you as you are.”

  Royce took her hand. “Wouldn’t you be better off with a nice farmer or rich merchant? Someone you can raise children with, someone you can grow old with, someone who will stay at home and not leave you alone and wondering.”

  She kissed him.

  “What was that for?”

  “I’m a prostitute, Royce. There aren’t many men who consider themselves unworthy of me. I love you as you are and always will no matter what path you choose. If I did have the power to change anything, it would be to convince you of that.”

  He put his arms around her, and she pulled him close. “I missed you,” she whispered.

  Archibald Ballentyne woke with a start.

  He had fallen asleep in the Gray Tower of Ballentyne Castle. The fire had burned out, and the room was growing cold. It was also dark, but the dim glow of the faint orange embers in the hearth gave a little light. There was an odd and unpleasant odor in the air, and he felt the weight of something large and round on his lap. He could not make it out in the darkness. It seemed like a melon wrapped in linen. He stood up and set the object in his chair. He moved aside the brass screen and, taking two logs from the stack nearby, placed them on top of the hot coals. He prodded the embers with a poker, blew on them, and coaxed the fire back to life. As he did, the room filled with light once more.

  He set the poker back to its stand, replaced the screen, and dusted his hands off. As he turned around, he looked at the chair he had been sleeping in and immediately pinwheeled backward in horror.

  There on his seat was the head of the former archduke of Melengar. The cloth, which was covering it, had partially fallen away, revealing a large portion of what had once been Braga’s face. The eyes were rolled back, leaving white and milky orbs in their sockets. The yellowed skin, stretched and leathery, was shriveled. A host of some kind of worms moved in the gaping mouth, slithering in a heaving mass, which made it almost appear as if Braga’s tongue was trying to speak.

  Archibald’s stomach twisted in knots. Too frightened to scream, he looked around the room for intruders. As he did, he saw writing on the wall. Painted in what appeared to be blood, in letters a foot tall, were the words:

  NEVER INTERFERE WITH MELENGAR AGAIN

  BY ORDER OF THE KING

  … AND US

  BOOK II

  AVEMPARTHA

  CHAPTER 1

  COLNORA

  As the man stepped out of the shadows, Wyatt Deminthal knew this would be the worst, and possibly the last, day of his life. Dressed in raw wool and rough leather, the man was vaguely familiar, a face seen briefly by candlelight over two years earlier, a face Wyatt had hoped he would never see again. The man carried three swords, each one battered and dull, the grips sweat-stained and frayed. Taller than Wyatt by nearly a foot, with broader shoulders and powerful hands, he stood with his weight distributed across the balls of his feet. He locked his eyes on Wyatt the way cats stare at mice.

  “Baron Delano DeWitt of Dagastan?” It was not a question but an accusation.

  Wyatt felt his heart shudder. Even after he recognized the face, a part of him—the optimist that had somehow managed to survive after all these dreadful years—still hoped the man was only after his money. But with the sound of those words, that hope died.

  “Sorry, you must be mistaken,” he replied to the man blocking his path, trying his best to sound friendly, carefree—guiltless. He even tried to mask his Calian accent to further the charade.

  “No, I’m not,” the man insisted as he crossed the width of the alley, moving closer, eating up the comforting space between them. His hands remained in full view, which was more worrisome than if they had rested on the pommels of his swords. Even though Wyatt wore a fine cutlass, the man had no fear of him.

  “Well, as it happens, my name is Wyatt Deminthal. I think, therefore, that you must be mistaken.”

  Wyatt was pleased he had managed to say all this without stammering. With great effort, he concentrated on relaxing his body, letting his shoulders droop, resting his weight on one heel. He even forced a pleasant smile and glanced around casually as an innocent man might.

  They faced each other in the narrow, cluttered alley only a few yards from where Wyatt rented a loft. It was dark. A lantern hung a few feet behind him, mounted on the side of the feed store. He could see its flickering glow, the light glistening in puddles the rain had left on the cobblestone. Behind him, he could still hear the music of the Gray Mouse Tavern, muffled and tinny. Voices echoed in the distance, laughter, shouts, arguments; the clatter of a dropped pot followed the cry of an unseen cat. Somewhere a carriage rolled along, its wooden wheels clacking on wet stone. It was late. The only people on the streets were drunken men, whores, and those with bu
siness best done in the dark.

  The man took another step closer. Wyatt did not like the look in his eyes. They held a hard edge, a serious sense of resolve, but it was the hint of regret he detected that jarred Wyatt the most.

  “You’re the one who hired me and my friend to steal a sword from Essendon Castle.”

  “I’m sorry. I really have no idea what you are talking about. I don’t even know where this Essendon place is. You must have me confused with some other fellow. It’s probably the hat.” Wyatt took off his wide-brimmed cavalier and showed it to the man. “See, it’s a common hat in that anyone can buy one, but uncommon at the same time, as few people wear them these days. You most likely saw someone in a similar hat and just assumed it was me. An understandable mistake. No hard feelings, I can assure you.”

  Wyatt placed his hat back on, tilting it slightly down in front and cocking it a bit to one side. In addition to the hat, he wore an expensive black and red silk doublet and a short flashy cape; however, the lack of any velvet trimming, combined with his worn boots, betrayed his station. The single gold ring piercing his left ear revealed even more; it was his one concession, a memento to the life he had left behind.

  “When we got to the chapel, the king was on the floor. Dead.”

  “I can see this is not a happy story,” Wyatt said, tugging on the fingers of his fine red gloves—a habit he had when nervous.

  “Guards were waiting. They dragged us to the dungeons. We were nearly executed.”

  “I’m sorry you were ill used, but as I said, I’m not DeWitt. I’ve never heard of him. I’ll be certain to mention you should our paths ever cross. Who shall I say is looking?”

  “Riyria.”

  Behind Wyatt, the feed store light winked out and a voice whispered in his ear, “It’s elvish for two.”