The gold face glistened under the Old Kaiser’s torchlight as Ahren pulled it out. Cut gems and intricate etching decorated the elaborate mask. Satisfied, he returned it to the bag and hoisted it over his shoulder.
Ahren looked again on Mikkel’s broken body. He pulled a long raven feather from his pouch tucked it in the dead man’s tabard. The jilted servant had succeeded in vengeance. Lord Nahtler had lost his treasure by his hand, and now, the fires of Saint Faiga, who cremated all of Lunnisburg’s fallen soldiers, would set free from the city.
The Noble Hunter
A DEEP BELL TONE RESONATED through the city, signifying another lost soul being put to rest. So far, it had tolled nearly two dozen times in the early morning. Pungent, black clouds belched from Kaiser Adelino II’s stone torch. Bodies of the city’s poor fed the flames while the twenty-four other statues circling the city issued little more than a trickle of smoke if any at all. At the city’s heart, the torch of Saint Faiga consumed the city’s wealthy and honored dead. Though its flames were noticeably lower than Adelino II’s, they still burned high above those of the other eleven towering statues of Lunnisburg’s cherished saints. The massive figures and their constant fires were legendary among sailors and merchants. It was said that when the last of the Guardians’ torches expired, the city would fall. In the chaos of the city’s plague, six had burned out in the night. Now, black-clad workers scrambled to reignite them.
Osgood followed the near-empty streets through the waking city, his brass-tipped cane tapping on the cobblestones. A tall, skinny man with almost white-blond hair pushed a two-wheeled cart down the lane. Thick coils of eels, their skins still slick with slime and blood, threatened to spill over its sides. Having never seen dyzen eels before, Osgood stopped to watch the cart pass, his gaze affixed to a severed head on the top of the mound. Its wide mouth hung open, exposing long teeth. Two rows of the white needles evenly ran down its purple tongue.
It was obvious why the citizens had adopted the fashion of leather and padded leggings and why most of the city’s wealthy fled for the duration of the eels’ nesting every fourteen years. Osgood turned and continued on.
Ahead, a four-story tower, crowned with flapping blue flags, rose from an island in the street. He followed a path cutting through the low perimeter wall and up to the iron-bound door. He raised his cane and gave the door three solid raps with its silver knob.
A blackened slot screeched open. Dark eyes peered out. “State your business.”
“I am Sir Osgood Vankmir, inspector, bounty hunter, and personal friend of Viscount Hunstik. I wish to speak with a Captain Horngrieg concerning a villain called the Black Raven.” He tapped the metal cane tip sharply on the flagstones.
The guard’s brows furrowed in a look of almost amused confusion. Not the impression Osgood had intended. “Wait here, Sir Osgood.” The iron snapped shut.
#
“I suspect he’s either fled the city as the eel plague worsened or met some unfortunate fate,” Captain Horngrieg said as he and a torch-bearing soldier led Osgood through the storehouse. Square, iron doors lined both sides of the narrow passage.
“Probably by the Raven’s hands,” Osgood said casually. “What did you say the man’s name was? Chersel?”
“Yes, Sir. Adolfus Chersel. He visited us twice shortly after the theft. Questioned my men, then nothing. Haven’t heard from him in over a month.”
“The Black Raven is a dangerous man. Arieth only knows how many wives he’s widowed.”
The torch-bearer stopped beside one of the vaults. Its thick, black door stood partially open.
Horngrieg turned. “This is it. Lord Nahtler’s cell.” The sour reek of wine tinged the old captain’s breath.
Osgood squeezed past and peered into the tiny stone room. A brass-banded chest rested against the far wall. Its iron lock lay discarded before it. He ducked and stepped inside. His back to the door, he carefully removed a small bottle from a wool-lined pouch at his side. The twisted glass formed a sharp point, giving the vial the appearance of a small spearhead. Within the swirls of multi-colored glass rested a dark, coiled hair. Cradling it in his hands, he shielded it from the little light in the room.
Nothing.
Adjusting his body more against the opening, Osgood tried to cut off as much of the torchlight behind him as he could. Still, nothing happened. It had to be him. I know it.
“Would you please close the door behind me, Captain?”
“But it’ll be too dark—”
“Humor me, Captain. Please.”
After several silent seconds, the heavy, iron door squeaked shut, punching off the light and sealing Sir Osgood in complete darkness. He stared down at his hands but saw only blackness. It had been over a month since the robbery, and the look of the cheap locks and inept security could mean the Black Raven hadn’t needed much time to leave an impression. Or worse, maybe his sample was losing potency faster than expected. No. He pushed it from his thoughts.
Pinching the small vial at the top, Osgood held it out before him, exposing as much of it to the room as possible. A soft, bluish glow kindled in the darkness before him. The point brightened as veins of faint light spread through the glass. Success!
Composing himself, he rewrapped the precious vial in cloth and returned it to its padded pouch. Once it was secure, he banged on the metal door behind him. “I’m done here, Captain.”
Osgood stepped out immediately as the door screeched open. “It was Raven, all right. Thank you, Captain.” He headed toward the stairs, his strides determined. “Lord Nahtler was correct in summoning me to the city. Viscount Hunstik has asked me to stay as a guest in his home while he is away, and I will remain in Lunnisburg as long as the Black Raven is here. I ask that you keep my visit secret. No need to warn him of my presence. But feel free to contact me if you have anything else or if this bounty hunter, Adolfus Chersel, resurfaces.”
“Of course, Sir,” Horngrieg said, struggling to keep pace. “How do you intend to catch him?”
“Such details are best left secret, Captain. But I can assure you, I will inform my employer of your loyal cooperation.”
#
The buzz of a hurdy-gurdy played beneath quick beats of a small drum as Ahren and Volker entered the Mermaid’s Tail. A minstrel quartet played on a wide stage before a tiny audience, most of which consisted of the tavern’s wait staff, prostitutes, Riener the doorman—who only glanced over when they stepped inside—and Fritz, the owner. The Mermaid’s Tail headquartered the city’s Performers Guild to which every minstrel and entertainer in Lunnisburg paid homage. Old instruments adorned the painted walls, many of which hadn’t been touched in years.
Fritz’s gaze turned to Ahren then motioned up to the empty third-floor balcony. Without a word, Ahren nodded, winked at Clarimonde, a fair-haired wench who seemed to always know when Ahren was in, then headed up to the third floor. A light rattle, then mouse-like scratches came from inside the small box held under his arm. Gulping his discomfort, Ahren removed it from beneath his cloak and turned it over in his hand. Its silver latch was securely closed.
“What is it?” Volker asked.
“It moved.”
The bald man snorted. “It’s your imagination.”
“No, it’s not. By Arieth’s beard, I swear I felt it move.” Ahren scanned the third floor as they reached the landing. As he’d guessed, it was empty. He set the little chest on the first table he came to, happy to be rid of it, and took a chair.
“Then if you’re not imagining it,” Volker said, setting his crossbow down on the table, “you’re playing games with me.” He lowered his large frame into a wooden seat and stared at Ahren, his brow cocked.
Ahren leaned back. “Fine then, don’t believe me.” He noticed that despite his partner’s apparent skepticism, Volker’s weapon was pointed directly at the carved box, its trigger only inches from his strumming fingers.
A minute later, Fritz walked up the stairs, carrying a trio of wood
en tankards. “Looks like you boys had a more productive evening than we’ve had.” He set the drinks down and sat.
Ahren nodded and sipped the watered beer. The weeks of eel plague meant shipments of goods to Lunnisburg had all but ceased. Now, even Fritz had been forced to dilute his drinks until the invasion ended. “Streets are almost empty, including soldiers. Not sure which will run out first: things to steal or people to buy them.”
The barkeep smiled and ran a hand across his black-bristled cheek. “There’s always a buyer, Ahren. Have no doubt.” His eyes moved to the carved black box, inlaid in silver and pearl. “Damtol will be happy to finally get this little trinket. Volker and I had the chance to get it three months ago, but the little stoon wouldn’t have it. He insisted it be you, and who am I to argue with a sorcerer? Especially one that outranks me.” Fritz slid the chest closer and opened the latch.
Ahren sat up. “I wouldn't do that. It was moving.”
The crime boss’ brow rose. He looked to Ahren then Volker then snorted. “If it were dangerous, the quellen would have said something.” He opened the lid.
Ahren’s hand moved to the dagger at his side. Volker grabbed his crossbow, stood, and stepped back in one motion.
A withered and blackened hand rested inside the box. An etched, silver ring covered most of the middle finger.
Fritz studied it briefly. “Wizards,” he grumbled, shutting the chest. He stared up to Volker, still aiming his weapon at the box. “Sit down!”
The bald man bit his lip then lowered his crossbow. He returned to his seat, his accusing eyes locked on Ahren.
“I swear it moved,” Ahren mouthed. Volker didn’t seem convinced.
“The eels should be gone in another month. Once everything’s back to normal, Ahren can head west to New Barkam and give it to the quellen himself.” Fritz swigged his tankard. “Until then, I got an interesting job for us.”
“What is it?” Ahren asked, eager to change the subject.
“The Svencher family jewels.”
Volker sucked a breath but said nothing. The baron’s collection of jewelry was a well-known and highly coveted treasure. Countless thieves and would-be burglars had plotted for them, but none had ever succeeded.
Fritz smiled. Gold glinted at the corners. “Like most of the city’s nobles, Baron Svencher nobly fled when the eels began nesting. Anyone would have assumed he either paid to have them stored in a vault, possibly in the citadel, or would have taken them with him. But he left them at home.”
“Sounds unlike the good baron,” Ahren said. “Has he gone senile?”
The barkeep shook his head. “Evidently, he considers them safer than if under the Kaiser’s mattress. He has them locked safely away, and the only way to open the lock is with this key.” He extended a gold key between two fingers.
Ahren leaned closer. “Well made but hardly unpickable.”
“True. But the only way to find where it goes is with this.” Fritz flipped the key around to show a crystal disk affixed to the handle.
“Interesting.” Ahren took the key and examined it. “So the keyhole is hidden?” He peered through the convex lens.
“The keyhole and the door it opens.” Fritz gulped back his drink and set it down with a thunk. “Explains why no one ever found his treasure.”
Ahren handed the key to Volker. “So how did we get it?”
“Hertcher.”
“And how did he get it?” Volker asked.
Fritz shrugged. “Wouldn’t say. He’s working middleman. Sounds like someone got their fingers on the baron’s key and needs it used before he gets back.”
“So if he has the key, why come to us?” Ahren sipped his drink. “There’s a hundred idiots that would do it for a smaller cut.”
“First, because that weasel knows there’s no chance of getting away with a score that big without me finding out and demanding a taste, and second, because the job still requires a true burglar. The baron left several guards to protect his home from looters. So Hertcher needs someone to get in, get up to the third floor where this door is hidden, and get out with the jewels without anyone knowing. He said it’ll be a few days before the buyer can collect, and he can’t afford anyone knowing of the theft until then.” Fritz gave a wide grin. “So he needs the Black Raven.”
Ahren nodded. “How long do we have?”
“Hertcher’s eager to get it, and there’s no reason to wait. I told him two days.” He plucked the key from Volker’s thick fingers and offered it to Ahren. “You’ll need this.”
#
Faint stars peeked through the smoky haze left by the Old Kaiser’s dimmed torches. Seven of the city’s thirty-seven statues had already burnt out since nightfall. One more and Volker would win his nightly wager.
Ahren made his way down the empty lane. His main complaint against the Guarded City had always been the number of people on the streets at all times, the result of Lunnisburg’s artificial daylight. Dozens of times, he’d wished the lights would go out, if only for a minute, so no one might see him at work. Now, with actual darkness blanketing the streets, Ahren regretted ever uttering such prayers. Litter and filth speckled the once clean cobblestones. The small army of workers who tirelessly swept them, feeding the refuse to the Old Kaisers’ torches, had either fled or been attacked by eels.
A quartet of blue-clad soldiers with a pair of armored dogs turned up the street ahead, hunting for eels. Instinctively, Ahren ducked into a narrow alley before the men could spot him. At once, he second-thought his decision. Ankle-high windows lined the tight valley. A perfect place for an eel to strike, dragging him down to the dark depths to feed to its brood. Gritting his teeth, Ahren hurried down the passage. He wove past grimy rain barrels and refuse, praying that if one did strike, his leather boots or bundhosen might stop the monster’s teeth.
He sighed, emerging on the street beyond, and then continued on, staying as far as possible from dark niches and sewer drains in which eels might wait. A block later, he circled back to where he’d dodged the patrol and came to a high stone wall. The polished, white blocks gleamed in the faint light, seemingly immune to the dark soot that stained every other building. Casually, he glanced back, making sure no one was around, then headed up the stepped alley beside it. A crude drawing of a comically endowed man coupling with what Ahren could only assume was a mule marred the expensive wall. He stopped at an arched servant’s door. Layers of graffiti coated the thick wood. The timbers were too well-fit to see between, and there was no keyhole on the outside. But as with most expensive architecture, vanity had made its own entrance. Ahren rubbed his fingers briskly then hopped up, catching the half-inch lip of carved doorframe. Pulling himself up, he hooked the toe of his glove-leather boot onto the ledge then carefully stood straight, curling his fingers over the top of the imposing wall and climbed up.
A sweet aroma greeted him as he peered down into Baron Svencher’s famous gardens. Flowers from across Delakurn filled the small courtyard in manicured beds, hanging pots, and twisting up exotic tree trunks. Peering through the foliage and shaped bushes, Ahren spied a pair of armed men sitting at a table behind one of the many glass doors. The guards appeared captivated by their card game and what appeared to be their master’s wine. A large, rust-colored dog lay at their feet, gnawing a scrap of leather. With luck, the two remaining guards, which Ahren knew were also inside, would be equally distracted.
Quietly, he crawled along the wall to where it met the imposing home. Ahren looked back to be sure no one might see him from the street or an open window then stood and climbed the vine-coated wall to a small balcony. He stepped over wrought-iron rail and knelt, removing a leather bundle of tools from his belt. Selecting a thin blade, Ahren worked it between the doors until he found the latch then hooked the clasp open and unlocked it.
Cracking the right door open, he listened to the dark room before going further. The dog downstairs barked. Ahren scooped up his tools and squeezed inside as the door to the garden ben
eath him opened. Closing the balcony door behind him, he blew a relieved breath and scanned his surroundings. Shadowy, chin-high blocks ran the length of the narrow room.
Careful not to bump into anything, Ahren inspected the half-dozen caged display cases. A pair of porcelain horse figurines stood inside the fourth case. Small opals stared from beneath a bristling white electrum mane. Removing his picks, Ahren unlocked the brass-barred case and carefully removed the trinkets, wrapping them in felt before gently setting them in his satchel. A Mercińan noble had offered an obscene sum for the figures. Grinning, Ahren removed a black quill from his pouch and placed it in the case before relocking it. Now with the first job complete, Ahren was ready to find the baron’s hidden treasure.
He pressed his ear to the carved doorframe and listened. Silence. Slowly, he inched it open then slipped out into the hall and quietly made his way to the stairs. Heavy shadows veiled the third floor, lit only from a small, round window above the stairwell. A hint of smoke, like from a freshly extinguished candle, tinged the air. Ahren crouched low and listened, his fingers moving to the dagger at his belt. He heard nothing but faint voices of the guards drinking downstairs. Ahren sniffed again, but the smell was gone. His grip on the leather-wrapped handle loosened. With a sigh, he pulled a cord at his neck, removing the baron’s key from under his shirt. Unsure how to operate the device, he held the lens over one eye, then the other, scanning the hall for the hidden door. He saw nothing different.
He crept down the short passage and stopped before a brass-knobbed door. The nobleman’s study occupied the western face, and Ahren considered it the most likely place for the jewels to be hidden. Ahren peered through the keyhole, saw nothing, then deftly picked the simple lock and went inside.
Orange light from two of the Old Kaiser’s torches peeked through the gaped curtains, creating V-shaped illuminated lines across the inlaid floor. Closing the door behind him, Ahren crept to the window and pulled the heavy curtains aside, allowing more light from beyond the leaded glass panes. Ahren turned back to the room and held the crystal lens over his eye. He saw nothing unusual. He moved his head to scan the room when a narrow door beside the fireplace seemed to vanish. Ahren looked back. The door was again there, behind a wrought-iron stoker and spade stand. Holding the loupe still, he blinked one eye then the other. The simple door disappeared when he closed the eye behind the lens. A smile formed on his lips. There you are.
Sea of Quills (Tales of the Black Raven Book 2) Page 12