by Luke Webster
“About the keys,” inquired Dead.
“Yeah, there’s only one set I know of, Gary has them. Not a bad sort him, bit of a grump when he’s rushed. Should be here now actually.”
“I think we’ve already ran into him,” Dead considered, struggling to recall a memory.
Antony looked at Dead with a tilt of his head.
“Who’s we? Someone else lurking about out there with you?”
Dead turned to Ghost for help.
“Make something up,” Ghost whispered.
“Just me and my imaginary friend,” Dead declared, facing the prisoner again. Ghost placed one transparent hand over his face and dropped his head. Antony stared at Dead for a moment.
“You really are from the asylum, aren’t you?” he decided, ending the silence.
Dead didn’t respond, shrugging off the question. Ghost was not so calm.
“Your imaginary friend?” Ghost blurted. “Now you’ve convinced him that you are insane. Do you think he’s really going to want to help you now?”
Dead ignored the spirit and looked at the cage. It was heavy set but old, forged in brittle iron. Unprepared to crawl back down the body chute to pick up the keys Dead grasped the door at a wide angle and wrenched back. It shuddered but stayed firm.
“Do you think that’s going to work?” both Antony and Ghost were asking.
Again he heaved, maintaining force until there was a screeching noise as the bolt slowly bent. With one more jerk the whole lock was ripped from the iron frame with a piercing snap.
“I’m impressed,” stated Antony. Dead wasn’t a massive man but he had the strength of one.
“Strong but stupid,” commented Ghost.
“I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas.”
“Oh, I have, but what’s the point in sharing them with someone who wouldn’t listen,” Ghost replied.
“How about you talk to yourself in a minute mate?” Antony interrupted
“You sure you know the way outta here?”
“Trust me,” he allayed. “Any thief worth his weight in spit knows the ins and outs of old Ironwood. Hell, not more than a few doors down will we find a nice hidden mancover that will lead into the sewers. From there we’ll be able to get into Poor Man’s Quarter. Just get me out of here and I’ll show you.”
“If he’s such a great thief then why’s he locked up?” asked Ghost. Dead didn’t relay the question, striding to the little man and taking the shackles in both hands. The iron ring was a large cuff bolted down with an iron peg. Compared to the door it pulled apart with ease.
“I think I’ll call you Ox,” Antony announced, standing on stiff legs.
“It’s appropriate,” decided Ghost.
“About this imaginary friend of yours. Do you think you can keep him quiet until we’re out of this mess?” the old thief asked.
“Gladly.”
“Are you kidding me,” Ghost nearly shouted. “If it wasn’t for my guidance you’d probably still be trying to work out how to use the door handle in that autopsy room.”
“You heard the man, be quiet,” Dead said, large teeth flashing in his sardonic grin.
Ghost sulked.
Ghost thought they were travelling more down than up. Antony had ripped up a latrine and slipped down the slimy passage, landing in a half-washed out pool of shit. The toilet opened out into a cramped tunnel with a steady flow of water trickling by, tall enough for a person to crawl through. Dead followed the trail, dragging his body behind the old man who kept a brisk pace, at odds with his aging appearance. Ghost came last.
“This is nice,” Ghost choked, his complaint going unnoticed.
“We’ve got to follow the water, it should lead us into one of the old tunnels.” Antony’s voice trembled from the cold water splashing around his hands, knees and shins as he crawled along. The tunnel was rough hewn and at times restricted passage to a belly crawl. Together the trio carried on through pitch darkness. The sound of blasting water grew louder as they progressed, turning into a near deafening crescendo of constant pressure.
Antony shouted over his shoulder, to stop. “We’ve come to a major tunnel,” his voice carried over the din. “It must be pouring rain up top. We need to wait for the water to flush through and hope it stops raining. These tunnels become unusable during storms, anyone caught in them will be smashed to pieces.”
They lay sodden and cold, waiting for silence in the tunnel.
6
Heavy footsteps passed through the mansion hall, passing over polished marble floors. The sound was uneven, as if the feet had forgotten how to walk a straight line. A slight pause ended in a tremendous belch, the watchman returning to his patrol of the upper hallways. From the shadows peered a figure, invisible to most eyes and unthreatened by a drunken guard. Locke remained motionless, waiting for the drunk to pass.
Autumn saw many of the rich denizens of Ironwood leave the city in favour of estates nestled in the warmer climate of the plains. Many home watchmen, forced into rigid conduct for months due to their employer’s presence, found themselves free of that stern authority and became lax in their duties. The guard of the merchantman Ingobold Grayson were one such example and presented an easy target for a thief with the right contacts.
However drunk a guard might be, they could still prove dangerous if they knew a thief was present. So it was that Locke waited until the footsteps receded, feeling comfortable enough to continue his job. Stepping out from the darkness he slunk along, minding places to hide if he were caught out. Servants would often move with the rest of the household to continue duties through the autumn and winter months but it was not uncommon that one or two would remain to preserve the house. Even at the late hour a servant returning from a nightly jaunt with a mistress or drinking session could spell the end of a job.
Locke avoided confrontation wherever possible. As one of the eldest and most experienced thieves in Ironwood he had learnt the best craft was to give no impression of an intruder. While some thieves preferred violence to stealth they tended to have short careers and found themselves permanent residents of Ritcave Prison or swinging on a rope. It had been many years since Locke had injured someone on a job, though he always carried a dagger in case there was no alternative.
No surprises came and Locke found himself at the end of a well-adorned hallway facing a large set of oak doors twice his size. They were gilded with a carved mural depicting the gods decay into Oblivion. The image depicted the three father gods of stone being dragged into the cosmos, pulling down lesser gods with them. It was a story that many preachers of El-Manati would retell in the streets to all that would listen. Despite the religious theme Locke doubted that Grayson was a pious man. Most likely he had bought the giant doors for their grandeur.
Locke had been hired to steal a particular piece of fine art from the merchant’s house. From the information he had received, the twin doors were Grayson’s grand entrance into his personal museum. Locke listened at the door, noting two guards in a conversation on the other side, discussing interrogation tactics. The men should have been guarding both sides of the door and Locke doubted they would spend all night chatting. He needed an alternative route.
Locke checked a side door that opened to a guest room, positioned close to the museum to show off Grayson’s wealth. The room was unlit, though rich adornings twinkled under twilight and thick carpet muffled any footstep. There was a balcony door fastened by a simple key lock. The thief took out a set of lockpicks and slid them into the hole, a gentle hand pressing the tools. With a satisfying ‘click’ Locke set the tumblers into position and stepped outside.
A rain soaked night had made the slate balcony treacherous. Although there was no adjoining terrace from the museum, Locke had scouted three tall windows at the far end of the museum. He scaled up the outside wall using the wear of the grout from the large stone blocks as finger holds. It was a method of climbing that he had perfected through years of thievery and as a resul
t his fingers were hardened claws. Even with experience it was not a feat he enjoyed in the wet and with a sigh he pulled himself onto the roof tiling. At close to a hundred feet from the hard cobblestones below, Locke made the precarious journey across the mansion’s slanted roof, keeping close to the gutter in order to minimize any silhouette he might give.
From his vantage point Locke could see much of the Trader’s Loop. Lights speckled in the windows of rich homes, many of which he had seen the inside of. For all his success as a thief, Locke was a victim of his own excess. Ironwood’s winters were long with little work to occupy a man. Locke had developed a taste for gambling. Through the course of his career he had earned enough to settle down three times over in comfort. Yet the demon always raised its head, the urge to gamble a living being for him. He tore his eyes away from the far off lights with a sigh of regret. With a deep breath Locke refocused his attention to the job.
The guttering curved around in a slow arc as it met the end of the mansion. At the centre Locke leaned over and checked his position. He was correct in judgement, three windows marked the centre of the mansion. With measured grace, Locke lowered himself over the iron guttering and hung by one hand, the other searching for a finger hold in the stonework below. When he felt comfortable that his hand would not slip he reached out with the other and steadied himself. There was a sill set below the windows to stand on. The glass was divided into two sections, each designed to slide up and down. It was held by a simple lock that the thief disabled by sliding a thin blade between the panes.
The museum was laid out in a circular fashion, two large stone partitions acting as an inner circle. Various art hung from the walls, worth a coin in the right hands, but Locke would not bother with them tonight. On a pedestal was a fine jeweled tiara… his bounty. Rumour decreed the piece was a lost heirloom of the Faen dynasty, given to one princess or another as a bridal gift and passed down through generations. The Faens had been destroyed by the Reid’s line and all markings of their dynasty were either destroyed or stolen. This particular piece was not so much valued for its political worth as for its pristine condition, surviving over four centuries.
At the far end of the museum Locke could hear an occasional grumble from a lone guard, his companion having left to watch the other side of the same door. The floor was polished marble and made sneaking a simple affair. Locke was dripping water though and if the guard walked a patrol he would notice the damp trail. The museum itself was unlit, expensive light settings too costly to run without an audience, creating dark space to hide in.
The tiara was locked via a chain to the podium. Using his picks, Locke tried to work out the setting of the tumblers on the complicated lock. It was slow work, each tumbler would reset if its neighbour faltered and the clicking noise was setting Locke on edge. Although he crouched so that a casual glance would not notice him, an alert guard would know where to look if they suspected an intruder. The final tumbler fell into place and the lock opened. With a slow hand Locke removed the tiara and placed it in his side pouch, replacing it with a cheap forgery. Retracing his steps, Locke passed back out the window.
The rain beat heavier, falling at an angle to douse the wall. He shut the window and reset the latch with a strong magnet before weighing up his options. It was a long way down and a hard climb. Although he carried rope he was loathe to rely on it. In his younger days he had made longer climbs and although he still had some vigour, he knew the rain was the true challenge. It was a gamble. If he used rope he would not be able to retrieve it, leaving a sign of his presence. Let less skilled and professional thieves give away their presence, he told himself. The reason he took the lucrative jobs was due to his reputation as the best thief in Ironwood. He lurched over the window rest and set down the treacherous descent, his fingers gritting against the worn wall.
He panted hard, resting in a thick bush for several moments before regaining his composure. The dismal night meant few patrols. The garden of Ingobold Grayson was a moderate affair. Very little grew in the barren soil of Ironwood. Gardens were an expensive luxury as the heavy dirt had to be rafted up the river Milkweed, before passing through the mountains. Gardens were the property of the rich.
With a heave Locke dragged his tired, wet body from the bushes and left the estate. It was illegal to be on the streets in Trader’s Loop after dark without permit. Rather than risking the watch’s attention Locke chose safer passages running under the sector. The lowest levels of the city were the sewers, large tunnels that ran through the city, sending their waste out into the Milkweed. It was also the most dangerous level, susceptible to flooding in autumn. Higher levels offered several convenient tunnels for those who knew the paths and Locke was able to traverse the district through a series of rough passages and open areas that had resisted the crush of the city.
With less than an hour before dawn Locke reached Poor Man’s Quarter, treading on home soil. He trotted a winding route, one last cautionary step lest he should be followed, before reaching the slim alleyway that his front door opened onto. Checking one final time that he was alone, Locke entered his apartment, ready to spend a few hours of day napping before an appointment with his fence.
7
The regent kissed his daughter, the slender child forming a smile as they met in the dining room. Two fires at either end served to thaw out the morning chill, a sweet smell of cooking deer fat wafting in from the kitchens. The morning table of Greenstone Keep was a place of meeting for many, filled not only with the regent’s direct family and cousins, but also some nobles and wealthy merchants.
“I didn’t think you would be joining us today,” Haylee confided. “A quick morning in council?” Her father smiled with the eyes of a man who does not wish to burden his brood with the ills of the world.
“A quick morning,” he admitted, scanning the dining faces. “Where’s Damian and Ammba?”
Haylee turned, as if only realizing their absence.
“Ammba’s off chasing boys, I think,” she huffed.
“And Damian?”
“Ahh… I don’t know,” she stuttered, a terrible liar. Her father gave the look, an unsaid accusation drilling her down.
“Really?”
She gulped, hoping not to look obvious. “He might be up in the ruins again,” she admitted. “Don’t tell him I told you.”
Her father was not happy. Damian was adventurous but disobedient, too often seeking out troubles. “How were your lessons?” Ivan asked, changing subjects in the vain hope that his temper could be saved this morning. He spoke as he seated himself at the head of the table, his daughter on the left.
“Good… we’re still learning about trade partners.”
“An important subject… but what does Master Goldstring think about these recent battles in the north?”
“He hasn’t mentioned them… maybe he doesn’t think they are important.”
Ivan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, he expected that the Master would have capitalized on the situation to explain the economics of Ironwood’s trade route, using an up-down model of step suppliers and how they could be disrupted by war. The routes were sorted into a type of chain, each link a ferrying point ruled by a different noble house, susceptible to disturbance. It was inefficient but established, created to handle shifts in terrain and provide wealth to the aristocracy through a burdensome tax system. If one point was destroyed the whole system broke down.
“Interesting,” he added, considering the option of having the teacher replaced.
Ammba strolled into the hall as they talked over their meal of smoked deer, creamed mushroom soup and root vegetables.
“I didn’t think you would make it,” Ivan said, indicating for her to sit to his right.
“I wasn’t hungry before,” she shrugged. “I am now.”
“We were discussing your brother, have you seen him?”
“Him? Not for a while. He’s hiding from you,” she was blunt and honest. Haylee passed a scowl across the ta
ble at her sister, the eldest sister too tied up in her own issues to care about her siblings’ games.
“Me? Why?” Ivan asked with wide palms.
“Why else? He was playing in the tower again with that urchin boy.”
“What urchin boy?” her father asked with a bemused face.
“She’s talking about Freddy,” Haylee interrupted, keeping her eyes pinned to Ammba.
Her father nodded.
“Let us not derogate our foreign peers in public, Ammba,” Ivan admonished.
“Dero-what?”
“He means, don’t put down others of a similar standing,” interrupted Goldstring. He had entered unannounced and approached with his standard leering grin.
“Master Goldstring,” Ivan announced, rising to shake hands. “We were not long discussing your lessons.”
“Hence why I am here.”
“Is there a problem?”
“It’s Damian I’m afraid. I am in your employ to educate the young boy, a task I will fail at if he does not show up to his lessons.”
The regent’s eyes narrowed. “I was not aware that he had been absent.”
“Alas, for some time now he has been shirking his books. I would have seen you sooner had I realised his persistence.”
There was a long silence as the regent bore his gaze down on the smaller man. “You did not think this important,” Ivan spoke through his teeth.
“I… Of course, but you are a busy man… and I…” the phrase was cut short with the cross of a backhand, slapping the aged man to the floor. Daughters, cousins, guards and servants watched as the stumpy man quivered before the regent, a pleading hand begging for clemency.
“Goldstring, I have no more use of your service. Remove yourself,” Ivan spat the words. A whimper peeped through the hall as the ex-educator considered a plea. The dark stare that pinned him down forfeited the idea. Eyes watched as the disgraced teacher was marched from the hall, a bowed head symbolic of his fall from hierarchy.