by James Shade
“It’s close, right? You're better at this than I am, but they’re close?”
Chazd chewed his lip. He picked up one of the toys and examined it. Finally, he nodded.
"Aye, Jaeron. It would be close. We’d probably get more money for the toys once we found a buyer. Assuming we could prove they weren’t stolen, but family gifts. A collector would pay more.
“But what about the letter?”
Avrilla understood at once that Chazd meant the letter pressed into the lid of the jewelry box, not the one from Nana Sarah. She looked at the folded parchment and wax seal. She was convinced that the letter was the real purpose behind the grab from the Dockpads, but had so far resisted cracking the seal to read its contents.
Jaeron ignored him, cleaned his knife, and put it back in its sheath. “As far as creating a guild, I don’t know what plans Father had. But if we are going to find out who killed him, then my feeling is that we cut as many old ties as we can. We should assume that someone betrayed him. I don’t know whether it was because of the Dockpad job or the wooden toys, but we need to figure that out. With that in mind, who do you think we can continue relations with?”
There was silence, other than Chazd’s munching on a quince. Avrilla sat down, leaning forward to help herself to another wedge of cheese.
“So, we’re going to do this?” she spoke quietly. “We’re going to build a guild?”
“It’s what we’ve been trained to do,” Chazd said.
“That doesn’t mean we should,” she said.
“It’s what Father wanted,” Chazd added.
That put a pause in the conversation.
Jaeron spoke, “Not at the end. And that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t, either.”
It was a twist on the argument that they had been having for days, but Jaeron’s comment still caught Avrilla off guard.
Chazd challenged his brother, “Are you changing your mind?”
Jaeron, for once, ignored the heat in his brother’s tone and replied calmly. “No, Chazd,” Jaeron said, “I’m simply saying that, in itself, Father wanting or not wanting us to form a guild does not mean we should do it.
“This isn’t a game. This business is dangerous. If anything, Father’s death should tell us that. We will start this venture with enemies whom we do not even know. We have to understand that.”
“So, you’re afraid!” Chazd yelled back. His brother’s calm seemed to goad him more than the normal argument would have.
“Teichmar’s Hammer, Chazd!” Jaeron finally yelled back. “Of course I’m afraid. And you should be too!”
He turned and strode across the loft to look out the window onto the Islar skyline.
“But it doesn’t mean I don’t mean to,” he said. Jaeron’s voice had dropped so low that Avrilla barely heard him. “Either way, whatever you two decide. I mean to do it.”
“Then why?”
“I’m not really sure, Avrilla,” he said. “All our lives, we’ve been at the edge of that world. Thieves have been our friends, our teachers, our family. And most of my exposure to the other side of life – the supposedly honest side – has been ugly and unforgiving.
“This city is broken. Without the guilds it would probably collapse under the weight of the war. Half the government is corrupt and I am beginning to think that the other half doesn’t care. Most people we know trust thieves more than they trust the city guard.
“I don’t know why, but I just don’t think it should be this way.”
Chazd teased his brother, shaking his head “So, you don’t want to get rich?”
Jaeron did not take the bait this time. He looked over his shoulder to where Chazd lay back in the hay with his head leaning against the wall.
He just asked, “Do you know many rich thieves, Chazd?”
“Nah, I guess not,” her brother conceded. “But I don’t have any illusions about making Islar a better place to live. I just want to get the bastards that killed Father.”
Jaeron sighed. “So, back to my question. Who do we need?”
Avrilla responded first. “I still have a lot to learn from Lady deChel and I want to continue that training. She seems out of the picture of any guild operation, since I worked for her to pay my way. It’s possible father had some other arrangement with her, but I don’t believe she knew about the Dockpad’s job.”
She paused before continuing, pursing her lips.
“I think we need to stick with Uncle… Ardo Tabbil. I think we know he was the source of this jewelry job, but I can’t believe he’d have been involved in any kind of violence against Father. Maybe I am misjudging him, but in my mind he was… is family.”
Jaeron nodded, “That sounds reasonable, assuming you can keep a low profile in your work for deChel. And I agree with your thoughts about Ardo. Chazd?”
“I guess I’m with both of you on Uncle Ardo,” he said, shaking his head doubtfully. “Something doesn’t make sense there, though. Both Father and Ardo keep pretty mum about any jobs they have. And Ardo is a fence for a lot of low-end jewelry lifts.”
Avrilla watched her brother. He was struggling to maintain himself and she guessed that he was having trouble thinking about Henri’s death.
“Anyone else, Chazd?” Jaeron prompted, giving his younger brother a way out.
“Yes. I want to keep training with Master Rodin. He’s outside of the Guild structure, too. And I’ve just started to… well, learn to play the harp.”
Avrilla sensed for some reason that embarrassed Chazd. She was glad when Jaeron ignored it.
Chazd continued, “You see the problem there, though. This morning’s breakfast kind of proves it.”
“What’s that, Chazd?” Avrilla asked.
“Well, if we break off all of our contacts… Father’s contacts, we’re going to lose most of our barter system. And face it, we have no money.”
Avrilla had already come to the same conclusion. And it had nothing to do with the choice of breakfast. Jaeron apparently thought the same way.
“You’re right, Chazd. We need to generate some coin. Which is part of the reason I want to finish the jewelry job. Avrilla, do you think you can get Uncle Ardo to reveal the name of the client?”
She nodded.
“Can you do it without…”
She saw her brother trying to figure out a way not to mention her special abilities.
“I’ll figure out a way, Jaeron. And I won’t draw attention to myself.”
“Good. That should give us some initial funds and may give us a lead on father’s killers.”
Jaeron continued, “The last thing to address is people. If we really want an information based guild, we need informants. We need guild members – preferably ones that are not already associated with existing guilds.
“Can you each recruit one person? Someone you trust?”
Chazd shrugged, “Sure, shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Chazd. I am serious. Someone you can really trust.”
Her brother’s smile melted away. “Jaeron, I hear you, okay? I know what’s at stake here.”
Jaeron looked at her. Avrilla looked back at him and slowly nodded. She could tell that Jaeron saw the doubt that was bubbling through her. She was not sure she could find someone, but she would try.
Twenty
Ardo Tabbil’s body bore little resemblance to the thief he had once been. Just over the age of fifty, he had lost his stature prematurely, and years of peering over jeweler’s lenses had put a rounded hunch in his upper back making him look all the more short. His face was pockmarked and had a small scar across the bottom of his chin, but neither feature detracted too much from the overall pleasantness of his face. As for his muscle tone, twelve years of thieving-related inactivity had worn away Ardo’s strength and agility. Fortunately, the man had kept himself lean, other than a small paunch developed from a love of bread puddings and sweetmeats.
Ardo sat on his stool in its usual place next to his wagon of trinkets. The wagon was
nestled into the back corner of dePenik’s Tines, where Ardo preferred to stay on days when the weather was too indecent to stand outside. Tabbil had also been known to say that the weather in Islar, and in most of Northern Bormeer, was pretty much always indecent. He knew that some of his customers joked that ‘old Ardo’ could be found outside only two days of the year - the finest day of spring and the last day of summer. And he did so only to naysay dePenik, who was known to complain through many of the shop’s hours that Ardo never went outside.
Tabbil and dePenik had a good working relationship. DePenik understood the less scrupulous business contacts that Tabbil held, though he would fence no stolen goods himself. He appreciated Tabbil’s steady stream of silver that allowed him to maintain a healthy pewter and jewelry business.
This afternoon Ardo was working on a glass bead bracelet when he noticed the woman standing next to the wagon. He thought it early for there to be patrons, but he quickly set aside his pliers, wire, and glass and leapt to his feet.
“Madam, how can I help you?”
The woman did not look like she could afford to buy much. The dress was tight on her, but it was impossible to tell if that was because of a naturally large Bormeeran frame, or the layers of scarf and other bits of cloth woven above and below the garment. She appeared to be a rag woman. But looks were often deceiving. Ardo knew that better than most. She sniffled and rubbed her face on her sleeve, and then moved around to the back of the wagon to look over the items hanging on the thin wooden rods.
She had moved so raggedly, that Ardo had assumed that she was either intoxicated or disabled in some way. It almost tricked him into missing the woman’s hand gesture as she placed it on the wagon’s surface. A thief’s sign.
He examined her more carefully then. Ardo saw that she was not really looking at the goods on his rack, but watching through the rack to assess what was happening in the rest of the pewter shop.
“Sit down, Tabbil. We have business.”
Ardo found himself back on his stool before he knew what had happened. The woman’s request reverberated in his head. He recognized something in her voice, but he could not place it. He felt foggy, like he was hung-over.
“What business?” he asked. “I don’t know you.”
“You knew me well enough to bounce me on your lap.”
My lap? What is this woman talking about?
“You are no harlot I’ve dallied with, woman. Speak your business plain, or leave. I have work to do.”
“Well, it’s good you don’t believe I’m a whore, Uncle Ardo,” she said, her voice changing then to one he knew well.
“Mara’s teats!” he cried out. “Avrilla? What are you doing here?”
“Shhh, Uncle, not so loud. I’m here to get answers. You arranged this job for Henri. Who hired you?”
Ardo felt pained. He looked down at his feet and shook his head slowly.
“Who, Ardo?” Avrilla pushed, whispering but forceful.
“I can’t tell you that, girl. It doesn’t matter now anyway.”
“So you know what happened to Henri?”
He nodded, “I heard. And I’m sorry, Avrilla.
“Look, you shouldn’t be here. And you shouldn’t be asking questions about this. Whatever it is, it got Henri killed and I don’t want the same happening to you and your brothers.”
Avrilla bent over the man and grabbed him by the ear. “We are going to finish this and you’re going to help us. Tell me about this job. Why would it have gotten him killed?”
Ardo had actually wondered that himself over the past couple of days. News of the fire traveled fast through the guild world. He heard about the fire and that Henri’s body had been found. Smoke and fire was the official cause of his death, but the truth about his terrible stab wounds was circulating through Islar’s alleys. Until just now, he had not been sure that Henri’s adopted children had survived, but he hoped they had gotten away.
Killing Henri for a ten-krovat job just did not make sense – it just was not worth that much. The job was a favor to Ardo. It was not something that could build notoriety amongst the Islar guilds. Henri wanted it as a starting point. Ardo knew that. From a simple beginning, Henri could probably piece together another couple of jobs to petition to join the guild rungs with a guild of his own.
Not any more. Now he felt guiltier. Ardo berated himself. He should have looked for Avrilla and the boys when he heard about the fire.
“Tabbil, I’m not asking again.”
Ardo waved his hand at her, “No, no. It’s just…”
He took a deep breath and motioned for Avrilla to sit at the table next to him.
“I asked Henri to do this job as a favor. I wasn’t even going to take my normal one coin in twelve, but he insisted. I knew he’d been looking for an introductory job for a while. Something that your family could pull off by yourselves.
“A couple of weeks ago, a friend… well, that’s not right – he’s not a friend. But I like the man. He’s decent, which is saying a lot these days. Anyway, he came to me at Ivanava’s Rose and asked if I knew anyone that could help him. Help his employer, really. They were willing to pay and wanted it kept quiet.
“It was a simple thing, though. Nothing that anyone should have gotten killed over.”
Avrilla asked again, “Who was it, Ardo?”
“Lord deLespan.”
Ardo watched the girl purse her lips in thought. She recognized the name, but could not place it.
“Who-?” she began to ask.
“The silver mine,” Ardo said.
He nodded at her when he saw her eyes flare. He tentatively put his hand on hers. “Are you and the boys okay?”
Avrilla looked up at him, searching his wrinkled face, and he could tell she was forcing herself not to cry.
“We’re doing okay.” The girl took a breath and played with a glass bead on the cart. “Look, you need to let this be.”
“What do you mean?”
“We need to meet with deLespan and deliver him the case.”
“No, you can’t – I promised him that no one else would get involved. I can deliver the case.”
“Ardo, we can and we will. It’s not just the jewelry. My guess is that it’s the letter with it that has deLespan worried. You stay out of it now –– if you want to do something to help, find out who killed Henri. Who set that fire?”
“Avrilla, you can’t be serious. The three of you need to look out for yourselves– you don’t want to get involved like that. You don’t need to know…”
She cut him off, “We do need to know. We’re going to find out who killed Henri. And all the gods best stay out of our way when we do.”
Ardo yanked his hand back as if it had been scorched.
“I do not know how, girl, but I will try to find out. Just promise me that you and the boys will be careful,” Ardo turned to look at Avrilla and realized that he was alone.
Avrilla had already left, but for some reason he could not recollect when or how it had happened. Confused, he walked through the conversation again in his mind. But after the reverie, Ardo only remained with one thought. Gods, they are mad!
Twenty-One
Karl Veis limped back from the crucible shed and slumped tiredly on the aged wooden bench. He looked out from under the dining fly at the dreary morning. It was nearing the end of the mid-morning break, but Chelsea brought him a steaming mug anyway. The aroma of spiced apple cider laced with rum reached him before he took the cup from her. She smiled at him, sweet and caring, but Karl knew her kindness was just that. Kindness.
Chelsea was the daughter of one of the partner owners of the Islar silver mines and he was the bastard son of a whore. Even had he not been so improperly birthed, Karl’s disfigurement was a deterrent to any relationship, let alone with a woman such as Chelsea Witaasen. As she walked back to the kitchen, Karl rubbed the left side of his face. He let his eyes take in the sway of her hips, the bounce in her hair, the swish of her white cotton dr
ess that stayed clean even in this pit of a mine.
The sagging flesh that made up the left side of Karl’s face had no feeling. Sometimes Karl’s mind played tricks on him and he seemed to feel a tingling sensation along his cheek or jaw. He imagined the soft kiss of the wind on a chilly morning like today, or the cold drop of rain. Touching his skin confirmed the lie; there was no sensation there.
Karl was pragmatic about the accident that wrecked his body and his looks. He had made the foolish, youthful decision to sneak onto the Alinfont ranch, intent on stealing one of the prized warhorses. Karl had known nothing about handling horses or riding, but he understood the value of a Tavullion stallion. The warhorses were the core of the Bormeeran heavy cavalry and though the breed originated in the Tavullia Valley some miles upriver from Islar, the Alinfonts had become the most prominent breeder in Bormeer and had a lucrative contract with the government to provide the horses.
Karl’s impulsiveness and fear of being caught reacted badly with the warhorse’s aggressive temperament and the result had been nearly fatal. Master Ephraim Alinfont had found Karl in the morning, and though he understood the potential lost value of a stolen stud, he was not unsympathetic to the youth’s broken form lying in his stables.
The healer he had called upon did the best she could. Karl could not help but think his youthful disparages remarking on Lady Mara’s womanly parts played their role. He did not think ill of the goddess since the accident though. Spinal injuries were almost always fatal and he was still alive.
Karl ended up with a crippled gait because his left leg muscles did not always do what he wanted them to and he had a total lack of muscle activation and feeling on the left side of his face. Combined with the scarring cut he had received during the fall from the stallion, Karl understood his face was a nightmare. The nicest people, like Chelsea, were able to look at him, feel sorry for him, and offer what they could to help. But no one was going to fall in love with him.
Karl sighed and blew over the top of the clay mug before taking a sip. The apple cider and light rum mixture was sweet and thick. The heat and alcohol cleared the sinuses helping to stave off the illnesses attributed to working in such conditions. It took the chill off a morning of lugging crucibles in the light mist and air colder than normal for mid-spring. Around him, the mine was taking advantage of the cold snap. The diggers were working hard to keep warm and two full ovens had been loaded with crucibles already. The foreman would see one more loaded by lunch and then Karl could head to the wharf and his second job.