Thief

by Jane Glatt

They’d be called upon to swear witness soon enough.

  “My Brothers.” Feiren Rowse’s deep voice brought silence to the low murmurs that had been echoing around the large room. “The Brotherhood of the Throne has at last been Called. The prophesy is in motion!”

  The room erupted in chaos - shouts and cheers echoing in the large cavern. Feiren slammed a palm onto the table and the crowd fell silent.

  “If we can have silence we will hear from those who are here to swear witness.” Feiren gestured to Kane and Andel. “My own nephew, Captain Kane Rowse of the Kingsguard, whose lineage in the Brotherhood can be traced back to the reign of Wolde, and Guard Andel, also of the Kingsguard, whose family has belonged to the Brotherhood since the reign of Marto. Kane if you would give us a full report? I ask you all to hold your questions until the end.”

  Kane stepped in front of the table and began his account, starting with the revelation that the High Bishop was collecting old steel. As he described the events he’d witnessed he looked out over the faces of those assembled, seeing the same mix of emotions he’d felt over the past few hours - surprise, fear, excitement, disbelief. He finished by recounting when the thief, Brenna, had spoken the Call, the old passage that had been handed down through the Brotherhood for generations, the words they had been waiting two millennia for. Kane stepped aside and Andel reported what he’d seen.

  “And where is this thief at present?” The scorn in Marcus Brunger’s voice was a counterpoint to the awed whisperings that had started once Andel’s report was complete. “Still in jail I assume. Are we to believe that the Brotherhood of the Throne has been waiting in secret for two thousand years to save a common thief? Where is the proof of her royal bloodline?”

  “My apologies, Guild Master Brunger.” Kane’s voice rang out in the cavern. “I fear I wasn’t clear enough in my testimony. She obviously is not a common thief or old steel would not react to her, nor would she know the Call. And what exactly would you expect of the one who raises the Call? Clearly someone of low birth or questionable background would be the most likely to need the Brotherhood. A rightful heir to the throne would have no need of us.”

  “I agree.” Feiren Rowse once again took center stage. “Whether or not the proof witnessed here satisfies every one of us, I am convinced, and the council agrees with me, that the prophesy is in motion. The reason for the Brotherhood’s existence has come and we must respond.” The rest of the council, three men and one woman all nodded their agreement.

  “I trust my nephew’s testimony completely,” Feiren said. “As well, I’ve been expecting that our time to act would be soon.” Feiren held his hand up once again to quiet the sounds of surprise that followed his statement. “We have on the throne a king who has been ill for a very long time. A king who is now heading into his middle years with no heir of his blood, and no inclination to marry and sire one. His advisors, with the exception of my nephew, seem to have no desire for the king to marry.”

  “Why would they, when he’s named the Duke of Comack’s son his heir?” The shout came from the back of the room.

  “Precisely,” continued Feiren. “Why would they? But Beldyn of Comack has but one of the four bloodlines. If he becomes king then Soule may be in peril. So the Call was not unexpected, at least by this council. We still need more information about this thief, Brenna Lightfingers. How is it she has the bloodlines of Wolde’s children running through her veins? We don’t know and truthfully, we may never know. But as the head of the council of the Brotherhood of the Throne I declare that the Call is true. We will send word to all chapters of the Brotherhood at once, as well as arrange for a full meet.”

  Kane and Andel were quickly surrounded by Brothers eager for more information about the Caller. Marcus Brunger and a few of the older men hung back and Uncle Feiren headed towards them. Kane turned to answer a question from Laclan Galloway. Uncle Feiren would be able to convince any doubters, Kane thought, because it was the prophecy - all members of the Brotherhood must embrace their destiny. He looked at Andel’s grinning face; of all the youngsters who dreamed of being the one to receive the call, it was they who had heard it.

  “I’m assuming we’ll be buying her bond?” Kane rubbed his tired eyes. He was seated across the desk from his uncle in Feiren’s study. The meet had finally ended and late though it was, Kane knew his duties were not yet finished for the day.

  The room they sat in was paneled in dark oak and on the walls, flickering in the firelight were some of the family’s most treasured heirlooms - a shield from the Kivvan wars, eight hundred years ago; a halberd that had belonged to the first Rowse to be Captain of the Kingsguard, over two hundred years old. But the most prized possessions were the old steel weapons. In addition to Kane’s own sword Feiren had an old steel sword from the time of Wolde, the first king. The wall held three knives and another sword from King Marto’s time, made just before the old ways and the old gods were swept away on the tide of the One-God. Worship of the One-God had been imported from Langemore along with King Marto’s wife. No king had followed the old gods since.

  Feiren Rowse was a large man just into his fiftieth year. The trim form kept firm by years of active duty in the Kingsguard had diminished only a little in the years since his retirement. He’d allowed his thick salt and pepper hair to grow slightly since his military days and it now reached just to the collar of his white cotton shirt.

  Beside Kane sat Dasid Addems, second-in-command of the guard, as well as a member of the council for the Brotherhood of the Throne. Dasid was a wiry man with closely-cropped sandy blond hair. At thirty-six more than half his life had been spent in the Kingsguard. Once he was named captain, Kane had inherited Dasid from his uncle and had been gratefully accepting his advice since.

  “I think we need to keep out of this,” Feiren said. “For the girl’s sake it’s best if neither the Rowses nor the Kingsguard show any particular interest in her.” Feiren took a sip of his wine before continuing. “But I feel responsible as it was I who commissioned the theft of the priest’s knife in the first place.”

  “And I who made the arrangements,” Kane said softly. “So I’ll make sure she gets out. I’ll contact Eryl, the thief I hired to acquire the knife.”

  “Good.” Feiren nodded to Kane. “Now we know the High Bishop is collecting old steel weapons. What we don’t know is why, or if he even realizes the significance of them.”

  “I don’t think I realized the significance of them either,” Kane said. “Is there anything in the histories that describes the effect the Caller has on old steel?” Kane could still feel his shock and surprise at seeing his sword shining under his and Brenna’s hands.

  “There might be,” Dasid said. “I remember reading something in one of the old texts, a reference to a light of some kind. At the time it seemed to have little relevance, but now...” he shrugged.

  “Yes, well, we’ll need to go back over some of those texts in light of recent events,” Feiren said. “In the meantime Kane must arrange to have our lass’s bond bought out.”

  Kane nodded at his uncle’s words. It meant a trip to Thieves Quarter. It was almost midnight so he expected the Quarter to be a hive of activity.

  A few minutes later with a couple of heavy purses tucked close to his skin, Kane left his uncle’s house by one of the secret passages. This one turned him out into the center of Kingsreach, well away from his uncle’s house and only a few blocks from Thieves Quarter.

  Kane entered the Crooked Dog, his hat pulled low on his head. He’d been here before dressed as Master Arlott. His finely made but well-worn shirt, vest, and breeches blended in well enough with the downtrodden patrons of the pub. When he scanned the room his eyes burned slightly in air made thick by a drafty fire and cheap tallow candles. One of the two customers looked up at him and then, seeing no threat, went back to staring at the tankard in front of him. Kane walked warily over to the barkeep and placed a copper on the stained wood.

  “I need to sp
eak to Eryl.” At the barkeep’s nod towards the back Kane slid the coin all the way across the bar, then headed to the door the barkeep had indicated. Two quick raps, then three long ones – the signal Kane had been told to use before – and the door opened a crack. A dark brown eye peered out at him.

  “I’m here to see Eryl about a delivery that’s been misplaced.”

  The door opened and a beefy man shifted his bulk just enough to allow Kane to squeeze past. The small room had a round table covered with wine jugs and empty glasses, a few hard wooden chairs pulled up to it. Eryl Fentin, self proclaimed Master Thief, sat at the table. Besides the man on the door, two more members of his gang, these two obviously the worse for wine, were also in the room. One man, head down on the table, his cheek dipped into a puddle of wine, snored softly. The other was stretched out on a bench along the back wall, an arm dangling limply onto the filthy floor. The door closed behind Kane and he settled his gaze on Eryl.

  “Master Arlott. Good eve to you,” Eryl said. “You were not expected.” Small-boned and fine-featured, the man addressing Kane had the dark hair and eyes of one from the Falladian plains.

  “And good eve to you, Eryl Fentin.” Kane sat down across from