“He wishes,” Maylene interrupted. “But no. My shoes are comfortable enough, thank you.”
“Don’t let the naysayers fool you. High quality footwear can be equally as comfortable as a favorite worn pair. If they’re finely made, that is.”
“I’ve no doubt. But the answer is still no.”
“If you insist.” Disappointed eyes salvaged an eager glimmer upon returning to Thorkell. “Tell me of your needs, friend.”
“Standard boots with an open end I can shove my feet into. I do have one peculiar request however. An oddity that’s become all the rage in several Prydinian provinces. It began in Tarelden, with aristocrats in Aerondell adopting it soon after. Though I’m certain a master cobbler such as yourself has heard of the trend. The sole features a small hidden compartment, appropriate for carrying folded missives, jewelry or thin blades.”
“Most curious.” He raised a brass stylus to his mouth and bit on its sharpened tip. “I haven’t heard of this style.”
“No? Noblemen love the concept. Imagine hiding a precious valuable where no thief can think of plundering it.” Thorkell paused and cast a wary regard. “You won’t have trouble producing an unfamiliar fashion, will you? Because I can go elsewhere if it’s beyond your capabilities.”
“Think no such thing. I can match any northern affectation. I only need you to tell me of its characteristics.”
“It’s rather basic in principle. The slot is accessed from the heel and can fold closed to be indiscernible. Owing to the nature of some valuables, the slot must be reinforced to prevent breakage. Otherwise the design is inherently useless, as you can imagine.”
He idly stabbed his stylus into a flattened lump of wax. “Soles will have to be an inch higher, I figure. No getting around that.”
“You’ll get no complaints from him,” Maylene affirmed. “He’s always thought he towers over folks in a metaphorical sense. Now he’ll finally get to do it literally, too. Truth be told, I think you’ve made his day.”
Thorkell shook his head in the manner of a long-suffering father. “The height will be fine. That’s naturally part of its charm. Allowing patricians to stand taller than they truly are. The fragile ego of society’s elite and such.”
The cobbler nodded in a knowing manner. “You wouldn’t happen to know if any materials are different from the norm, I suppose.”
“Afraid I don’t. I leave the details to your experienced care.”
He hummed to himself and sketched messy lines into a wax tablet that vaguely resembled a boot if Maylene squinted enough. “I anticipate a brace of nails running through the soles,” he declared. “This’ll require more time than usual. Are you hurried?”
“Depends on how long you need.”
“Perhaps a month.”
“There’s another five silver if you can reduce that wait to ten days,” Thorkell promised.
He pursed broad lips, presumably finding the offer difficult to refuse. “I have other customers awaiting orders…”
“Eight silver.”
“It isn’t a matter of money, sir. I’ve given assurances to fulfill their orders in a reasonable time. My reputation is paramount.”
“Ten silver.”
The cobbler inhaled through amber teeth, weighing the potential for wealth against conceivably disgruntled patrons. Maylene did not doubt which path he would take. Guaranteed riches always trumped discontent elsewhere. He could certainly appease unhappy clients, whereas this windfall would vanish forever if he rejected Thorkell’s offer. Gods she loved the fact that people everywhere were pleasingly uncomplicated. That fact alone made her life worthwhile.
“As you wish. I’ll make your order a priority to be completed in no more than ten days.”
“Excellent,” Thorkell declared. “I knew we could reach an understanding.”
“Then the only thing remaining to us is taking measurements. One moment, sir.”
Maylene watched the man vanish from sight into a back room. “That’s my cue. Sorry chum, but this has become dreadfully boring. I don’t even know why I agreed to join you on this chore. I’m content stuffing my little feet into supple moccasins and devoting thoughts to more important endeavors. I’ll be waiting outside when you finish.”
“Your loss.”
“I rather doubt that.” Maylene ambled through the entry and found an empty doorway to loiter within. Arms folded atop a begrimed jacket, she glowered at any strolling pedestrians who cast a glance in her direction.
She rolled her head to one side and massaged a cramping neck muscle. Damn she ached after that bloody training session. Maylene felt mounting frustration that she had allowed Cyriana to talk her into doing this. Leave the complicated cons to Thorkell; she slinked through windows and refrained from ever speaking to her victims. Life was less convoluted that way.
After an interminable wait, Thorkell finally emerged from the shop whistling. He found her hidey-hole and sauntered over wearing a stupid grin. “All finished,” he affirmed. “Feel free to cease your bellyaching whenever it suits you.”
“Comes natural when you’re around.” Maylene shoved off one wall painted a lurid shade of green. “If that cobbler enjoys jabbering to his customers, you might actually start a fictitious trend. All to hide your ludicrous requirements.”
“I am a fashion pioneer, it’s true.”
“You’re certain a large enough quantity can be wedged within your snazzy booties?”
“Not that you’re familiar with the concept, but that’s the benefit of cosmetics.” Thorkell dabbed his glowing forehead with a handkerchief. “You’d be amazed how much can be crammed into confined spaces.”
“You know, it’s absurd how many problems we can make go away by throwing money at it. You, me, Cyriana…all we do is shove coins at people who say no to us. And it always frigging works. What does that say about the state of our world?”
“That the cleverest folks like us find our niche and exploit it the fullest?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of how messed up it is. Though I suppose your observation has a measure of truth.” Maylene feigned holding a tankard and lifted it for a toast. “Here’s hoping the world never fixes itself.”
*
14 Nashrenir
One sentry garbed in studded leathers atop an unsullied cuirass admitted Almar through the yawning gate. Flanked by high stone walls, he traversed a modest courtyard and proceeded beneath a second entry where two unmoving sentinels stood watch. Almar was a familiar, though infrequent, visitor to Ironcleft prison. Many incarcerated inmates owed their residency to his guards, who have a history of spoiling misguided attempts at burgling Starwatch. He often joked the gaol was his own personal bank: Almar deposited a felon and Ironcleft ensured the culprit remained in place.
Waiting for his arrival was Ducaen Tuduras, a grizzled veteran born along the inhospitable northern shores of Prydin’s Domain. Almar extended his left hand and clasped Ducaen’s palm. A skirmish with violent ruffians many years past had rendered the man’s right hand a crippled and useless appendage. Ducaen continued to insist on having the hand wrapped in cloth bands, hiding the disfigurement from friends and strangers alike. Almar did not blame the man for his caution, since many chose to view any minor deformity as a curse or punishment from vindictive gods. The enlightenment found within Starwatch’s walls did not extend far into the world beyond. Almar had known galens bearing grievous wounds or birth defects who served with dignity and compassion, who might have otherwise suffered unjust shunning elsewhere.
All the more unfair that Ducaen earned his mutilation saving the lives of a young family accosted in the streets. No longer able to patrol avenues and passageways, he now served as warden in Ironcleft. Naturally this position brought him to the attention of Chaereas, who nurtured an unusual interest in acquiring bodies. Almar admired Ducaen for his cooperation and discretion, though each came with a price. In the preceding year he had proven more reliable than others holding less reputable
employment.
Ducaen beckoned Almar through a stone corridor to his chamber, beyond earshot of fellow gaolers and temporary holding cells. Torches flanked the austere, unsoiled hall and Ducaen returned salutes from guards until he reached the final doorway. Once inside, he invited Almar to claim a chair and crossed the office. “What brings you here tonight, Captain?”
“Same as before. We’ve had difficulties contracting with the cemetery and thought you may have an inmate needing disposal.”
“I reckon I may, except my mind has been elsewhere,” Ducaen responded. “We’re dealing with a right mystery tonight.”
“Anything I might fancy?”
“Imagine you will. Patrolling legionaries snagged some Shiylan kid attempting to pickpocket an aristocrat. A skilled lad no doubt, but his eyesight wasn’t so good today. Didn’t even glimpse the Draugans until they was on him.”
“Doesn’t sound strange. Petty crime must happen most days.”
“Aye, we get no shortage of thieves.” Ducaen settled into a worn chair behind his orderly desk and rested a wrapped hand on its surface. “Only trouble is this one happened to be carrying exemption papers on him.”
“A minor burglar?”
“Haven’t come across that one before, but it gets odder still. The documents are faked.”
“No surprise there. I imagine the kid wanted to whip up a replica so he could hide in the shadows at night.”
Ducaen answered with a mournful shake of his head. “Can’t be. These ones are masterful forgeries like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I didn’t spy anything that triggered a warning. Not one chap who’s had a peek can tell. And my guards have found all manner of questionable forgeries in their days. They know what to be on the lookout for.”
“Then how do you know they aren’t genuine?”
“Have to be fake. Once we learned the halfwit had papers we decided to investigate him. We still need to be careful arresting someone important enough to be given exemptions. Don’t want to upset any patricians.”
“Kid’s a Shiylan,” Almar declared. “How important can he be?”
“Might be surprised. Plenty foreigners living in Asdor have risen high, and more arrive every year. I’m proof enough in support of the notion.”
“What’d you find about this one?”
“Nothing. Or rather, there’s nothing to be found. Delinquent doesn’t exist. Which was the only way we figured out the documents weren’t real. There’s no one living in the city with his name. Certainly not on the exemption registries. We combed through ‘em.”
“How’d a street thief get his hands on flawless forgeries?”
“Question of the night.”
“Think there’s a forger selling papers?”
“Could be,” Ducaen admitted. “Don’t know what to do with the cutpurse I’ve got downstairs though. Other than see if we can’t find out where he got the exemption from.”
An unanticipated proposal took root amid Almar’s mind, spreading tendrils in all directions. Skirting burial decrees was altogether different from unlawful imprisonment and murder. Yet the information to be learned warranted possible repercussions. Almar decided to throw caution to the wind and pursue his ambitions, suspecting Chaereas might find satisfaction in the initiative. “Why not let me take him?”
Ducaen raised a bushy eyebrow and narrowed suspicious eyes. “Thought your only interest was in the stiff ones.”
“Can’t shy away from an opportunity. You said it yourself, the kid doesn’t exist. Misplace some paperwork and let him disappear with me. A clerical error no one will care to investigate. I’ll see what I can learn about this wayward forger and share any tidbits with you. Plus our client will be thrilled. Each one of us can benefit.”
“Easy enough to make this doable if I wanted. I’d be running some awful risks though. Losing a corpse is mighty different from someone who draws breath. Could be noticed.”
“Doubt anyone will care about some kid without a name.”
“Even so, think I may need more incentive to take this chance.”
“More than the usual enticement?” asked Almar.
“Maybe fifty percent more. To put my mind at ease and keep my conscience clear.”
“Advancing our understanding of the natural world isn’t enough for that meddlesome conscience?”
“Can’t help but notice you’ll learn more from a live one. Greater value comes with a larger price tag. Blacksmiths have been telling me such for years. Got to assume the same’s true for people. Maybe more so.”
“I won’t argue with you on that score.” Almar rubbed blonde hairs bristling from his jawbone, weighing the merits of splurging galen silver. He did not have Chaereas’ blessing to make such an arrangement, though felt confident the Headmaster could be swayed to acknowledge inherent benefits. The moping sulk Chaereas currently chose to wallow in was a temporary setback. Almar believed his thirst for truth would outweigh all hesitancy given time. Or once presented with an appealing test subject forgotten by society. “We have a deal, Ducaen. Fifty percent more it is. I can live with those terms.”
“Don’t think you’ll regret the decision.”
“I know I won’t. There’s no unpleasant situation this way either. You can forget the kid was even dragged in here.”
The warden reached across his desk and withdrew one vellum sheet from a stack. Pivoting in the chair, he opened a glass lantern and fed paper to hungry flames. Charred ash soon formed a halo encircling tallow wax. “Don’t rightly know who you’re talking about.”
“Must’ve been thinking about another street thief, I suppose.”
Ducaen stood and nudged his unblemished hand toward the entry. “Care to meet the little cutpurse?”
“I would, yes. Is he troublesome?”
“Sure was at first. Plenty bravado and indignation when we laid hands on him. Got the sense he thought highly of his own importance.”
“And now?”
“Cowers like a broken wretch. My boys and gals have ways of softening the new ones. Doesn’t take long, what with the practice they’ve had in years past.”
“Means I won’t have difficulties taking ownership of the lad.” Almar stepped into the corridor and rested one hand on the sword pommel at his waist. “You do good work here, Ducaen.”
Chapter 15
Loyalty and the desire for self-preservation are ever at war with one another. A pity that the choice is always an easy one.
Ierullo Baskarsis, The Fool’s Folly
183 Black Ruin, Year of Silent Tolls
Gentle light from the twin moons spread across a cloudless, onyx sky, reflecting against rippled window panes stretching down the avenue. Cyriana breathed pleasant air devoid of rancid odors. Arroyo might be a dull city lacking the thievery potential of others, but she appreciated the subtler smells. Grander cities came with an innate stench she could happily do without. The wider selection of alcohol was another matter altogether.
Zalla strolled alongside, her eyes lifted skyward at countless winking stars. “I never could do this at home. Wander the streets after nightfall, I mean.”
“Which home? Lashon Hara or when you lived in Soroth?”
“Both, come to think of it. Neither city was safe once the sun set. Not for a lone traveler, and especially not for a female.”
“The felons here are more timid from what I’ve seen. We might be the most brazen and dangerous ones.”
“Even if we aren’t, it’s nice walking with someone who could beat the pulp out of a hoodlum. And I don’t think the legionaries here are corrupt, which is a nice change.”
“Dealt with that often in the north, did you?” asked Cyriana.
“No one trusted the city watch in Lashon Hara. You could bribe them to ignore a mugging, and some wouldn’t even help victims unless coins were promised. They’re all dishonest, immoral bullies. Citizens looked to each other for help rather than those goons.”
“Say what you will about the Drauga
ns, but they enforce peace and order like no other culture. I might have reason to complain about their heavy-handed tactics on occasion, but at least I know legionaries will spring to my defense if I’m ever in need. As a general rule, Maylene and I never risk bribing Draugan soldiers.”
“Coming from someone who loves greasing palms, that’s a telling claim.”
“They’re immune to the temptation. I don’t know if the urge is hammered from them in training or if they’re paid too damned generously to be interested. Whatever the tactic, it’s effective.”
Zalla eyed a flowerbed decorating one shop’s windowsill. “Seven days until the Fete,” she said. “Are you nervous?”
“I might cultivate a composed mystique, but I’m not unflappable. I get scared sometimes too, right before a daring heist.”
“After all the things I’ve seen you do, I wouldn’t have thought fear was an emotion you felt.”
“It’s true. Same goes for Maylene and Thorkell, though they’ll deny the notion. I’d wager Baskaran represses quarrelsome nerves before he duels. Eloran might well be the one chump with so much arrogance it overrides the part of his brain that’s meant to feel anxiety.” Cyriana ran fingers through windswept red hair. “Takes a colossal fool to believe unease is a weakness. If I’m worried about all the elements that might turn horribly wrong at a moment’s notice, it means I’m thinking about ways to avoid them, too. The best crooks let concerns guide their choices.”
“I never would’ve guessed if you hadn’t told me. You must keep trepidation buried deep.”
“There are advantages to appearing self-assured. It inspires confidence in friends and dread in adversaries. I must be a dangerous woman if even the worst odds don’t perturb me. It’s all about the aura you exude.”
“I don’t think that’s one of my talents. I’m more like the shivering wreck.”
“Comes with its own advantages.” At the girl’s quizzical expression, Cyriana said, “Others will underestimate you. A useful tool, not appearing to be a threat. If you know how to exploit it.”
Starwatch Page 24