by James Shade
“Jaeron?” Chazd suddenly remembered one thing about his brother’s faith. He nodded toward the fledgling beard. “Isn’t that breaking some sort of rule of Teichmar’s?”
Jaeron’s brow furrowed slightly and he turned away from Chazd with a sigh of annoyance. With that, Chazd had confirmed that there was one more aspect of their lives as thieves that was driving a wedge between the way Jaeron lived and what he professed to believe. It was not the first time Chazd felt relieved about his more carefree attitude toward the gods.
Chazd’s view was not unique amongst the citizens of Islar who lived in Ninth Ward. The ward housed most of the city’s poor. Beggars, thieves, and would-be thieves. Universally their attitude was that if you did not bother the gods with too many requests, then they would not interfere in your life either. And if that meant Chazd was going to lose out on a little luck, a few blessings, and a healthy fertility, so be it. He was not particularly interested in that last divine intervention anyway. Being more of a believer also meant that the gods and their priests were spending all their time trying to sway you one way or another, or worse they may decide that you had some sort of cause. Chazd figured that, at the moment, his family had enough problems.
Jaeron was sorting through his clothes and gear, pulling out the best attire he owned. The pants were heavy cotton, too warm for the current weather, and the shirt could use a good cleaning assuming that did not wear through the garment’s threadbare elbows. His brother’s head was cocked slightly and his gaze was well beyond the wall he was facing.
“What is it, Jaeron?”
“Have you given any thought to what Shaels said yesterday?”
“A little,” Chazd admitted.
“What do you think?”
Chazd was surprised. Jaeron rarely asked for his input. Of course, Chazd habitually gave it to Jaeron whether he asked or not.
“I don’t know…” he said. “I’m tempted to trust him, if only because he could have turned us in already.”
Chazd pointed at the wanted posters. “Or he could have sold us out to whoever killed father, assuming they are after us.”
Jaeron nodded his agreement. “I think so, too. Get dressed, Chazd – in your best. Then go find Avrilla. We’re going to keep an appointment with a guild master.”
Thirty-One
“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.
Holger nodded. His nights of indulging vices at the illegal gambling hall exposed him to all of the rumors surrounding Gerlido Krosch. He had never imagined that he would meet the man. Indeed, Holger believed it did not matter. A guildmaster was still just another thief. They may sometimes serve a purpose in the city, but they were still vermin. They could be killed like rats and would be replaced by an ever-abundant supply.
“I understand that you have a warrant for the arrest of Jaeron, Chazd, and Avrilla deAlto.”
Holger frowned. “That's guard business,” he said.
“Killing their own father. Setting fire to Valche's property. It wouldn't be right for them to get away with that,” Gerlido continued.
“Do you have a point?”
Gerlido smiled, which only made deLocke angrier. Damned parlor lords, drug vendors, and harlot merchants. Holger bristled at the man’s arrogance. He acts as if he owns the city.
“I would simply like to offer my services to the town guard. To help you find these murderers.”
“Right,” said Holger. “Don't trouble yourself. I can handle it.”
He turned from the cashier's table to make his way back into the main room. Two of Gerlido’s thugs stepped out, blocking his path.
“Get out of my way, dogs.”
The man on the left reached for his weapon, but a quick command from Gerlido stopped him.
“Be polite. The guardsman has a right to his opinion.”
deLocke heard the scuff of a chair against the flooring. Gerlido stood up behind him, but Holger did not bother to turn around.
“Hunt them down yourself, if you like, deLocke,” Gerlido said. “But make sure I get to talk to them.”
Holger’s anger shifted. It became a slippery, nauseous feeling that started in his throat and ended deep in his belly. It was the sort of feeling one got when he suddenly realizes that the dog he just cuffed outweighs him by a hundred pounds. And has rabies. Gerlido’s men had not moved and were watching him with some amusement.
“Or what?” he asked, but it did not ring with the confidence he was aiming for.
“deLocke,” Gerlido said, “I know a lot of people. They like me. Some of them like me so much, they will do what I ask.
“People like Captain Rusway, Sergeant deHaris, and Edmore Toolch, for example.”
DeLocke almost drew his weapon, but he saw the motion tracked by the two men facing him. Assuming he got his blade out in time, he would have no chance in the confined space of the small office. The two bouncers would keep him occupied while Gerlido waited for an opening. Holger would end up with a dagger in his back.
All three of the men Gerlido mentioned could make trouble for Holger. Rusway made the duty assignments and could keep Holger away from his favorite evening haunts. deHaris lived next door to his father-in-law and a report of his extramarital activities could have Holger fined, arrested, even excommunicated and exiled. Finally, Toolch provided Holger a regular supply of gindi, the exorbitantly priced, and highly illegal, snuff that allowed Holger to operate on nearly no sleep once he was over the drug’s initial heady effects.
deLocke nodded, defeated.
“We can be a great asset to you, Holger,” Gerlido said. “You'll see. Apply some more pressure on this. The deAltos need to be brought to justice.”
The enforcers moved out of the way and Holger realized he was being dismissed. He was starting to get annoyed with being dismissed. That thought churned in him as he made his way out of the office and back to the gambling hall.
~
Victor Ortelli appraised the young thieves from the moment they entered The Crooked Window. He knew them on sight, having taken an interest in Henri’s odd situation years before. Victor’s curiosity was raised when he heard that Henri and his wife, Liadee, had moved to Islar from the capital. He was not surprised by the move, figuring that the couple had fled the purge of thieves that followed in the wake of the Queen’s assassination. What surprised him was the fact that his acquaintance and one-time love had arrived in Islar with three orphans, two toddlers and an infant.
He watched the trio make their way across the room. A hint of a smile unconsciously graced his lips. They finally saw him and made their way to his table. He leaned back comfortably in his chair and made a dismissive gesture with his hands. Almost unnoticeably, his two burly bodyguards slipped away from their positions and into the far corner of the small pub.
“Good afternoon. And thank you for accepting my invitation to lunch,” he said. “By way of introduction, my name is Victor Ortelli. I am – no, was… was a longtime acquaintance of your father.”
The deAltos introduced themselves in turn, though not saying much more than their names. Ortelli wondered if they understood how much he already knew about them.
They accepted his invitation nonetheless, wary but curious. Ortelli had food served first, before any conversation. Each trencher provided one of The Crooked Window’s specials from the board. Two of the tavern's finest wines were also served, along with a pitcher of clean water to dilute them. Ortelli watched with satisfaction as their caution dissolved into exuberant enjoyment. It looked to be one of the finest meals that the three youths ever had.
As the meal wound toward its conclusion, the eldest deAlto took the initiative in speaking first.
“Thank you for your hospitality, sir,” he said. “But I don’t remember Father ever talking about you. Why did you want to see us?”
Ortelli felt pleased. The boy seemed intelligent, polite, and obviously trained in etiquette. His experiences with the church.
“No, I don’t suppose Henri
would have spoken much of me. I said we were acquaintances because our relationship was… complicated. Over the years, we have been friends, partners, rivals, and – once – nearly enemies.”
Before continuing, Ortelli waived over their server to clear the table and added a generous dozec tip to ensure some time without interruption. He offered the deAltos a pipefull. The finely cut tobacco smelled sweet and exotic. Chazd and Jaeron both declined. Victor found it curious, remembering that Henri had developed the habit. Then he was entertained to see the brothers nearly fall from their seats when Avrilla not only accepted, but puffed the pipe as if she had been born to it.
“There’s no reason to go into the details of my relationship with Henri. Please just accept that I owed him a debt. One that he did not want repaid. At least as he would have considered it payment.
“It was more a matter of honor, I suppose.”
He continued without waiting for their responses.
“As you can see, I am an old man. Well, older than Henri was, and getting more tired by the year. I have a knee injury that even monthly visits to the Healers of Mara cannot put fully at ease. I have no heir and only one fit candidate to take over my business. As it happens, he does not want the job.”
Ortelli gestured the Thieves’ sign for ‘up in smoke.’
“Thus is the fate of my guild. It’s going to fall apart. Or worse, it will be shredded and gobbled up by the rest of the guildmasters in this damn city. Not a fitting end for my life’s work.
“And that’s where you come in.”
“What do you mean?” Jaeron asked.
“Knowing Henri, my guess is that he had a plan for your little family. He was biding his time until you came of age and then he was going to start his own guild. Yes?”
The looks on the youths’ faces confirmed Ortelli’s suspicion. They did not answer and everyone at the table realized that there was no need.
Ortelli leaned in close across the table.
“I’m going to let you in on a little secret, and I want you to remember it. Despite the meetings and arrangements, the formal rules of the Guild council, the complex hierarchy, the code words and silly names we call ourselves, we are all just thieves. Gangs of miscreants who would rather take what we want than have to work for it.
“And we are all suffering under the same self-deception. We all work for the Grandmaster. Unless we stay small and unimportant. Henri was good at that.”
Ortelli paused, waiting for the reaction and was rewarded for his patience.
“There it is. That same determined defiance in your eyes. Just like Henri.
“He had the same arrogance. Like he was better than the rest us. He had a notion that he was using his skills for some higher purpose. Maybe in training the three of you, he did.”
Ortelli leaned back into the rough wooden bench, eyes taking in the mostly empty common room.
“I’d like to think that I had that spirit once.”
He pulled a small knife from his pocket and scraped at the ash and burnt resins inside the bowl of his pipe. Once they were sufficiently loosened, he poured the contents into the smoking tray at the end of the table. Then he thumped the bowl once, overturned, into the palm of his hand and blew the dust and remnant bits from the burned tobacco out into the air letting them drift to the pub’s aged wooden floor.
Ortelli appreciated the silent patience the deAltos demonstrated, but he realized he had been quiet for too long. The youngest one, Chazd, was beginning to twitch in his seat.
“I have an offer for you,” Ortelli said. “How would you like the first opportunity to earn a piece of my guild?
“I will outline my territory, provide the names of my informants and fences, and turn over the applicable documents for the whorehouse. Perform well and you may get some of my guild members to go with you. Though, of that last, it may not be many.”
“What’s the catch?” asked Chazd.
“To retire, one needs money. To pay off debts, real and imagined. To disappear. To make a new name and identity and live unconcerned. I have a number in mind. Ten thousand krovats.”
Chazd sat up straight in his seat. Avrilla put down the pipe she had been smoking and coughed a bit. Only the eldest, Jaeron, seemed nonplused. He looked back at Ortelli, serious consideration reflected in his eyes.
At last the boy spoke, “Perhaps we have just the thing. We’ll be in touch, Master Ortelli.”
Ortelli nodded.
“Work with Coatie Shaels. He has my full confidence in this matter and I have given him some latitude in helping you if necessary.
“Oh, you will have to do one other thing,” Ortelli added.
“What’s that?” asked Chazd. “As if coming up with a fortune was not enough?”
“You will have to clear your names. Islar Guildmasters are rumored to be criminals. Not actually hunted by the law.”
Ortelli pointedly looked down at his side where three wanted posters lay rolled in a messy coil.
~
Once Ortelli had stopped talking, he had nodded at them. To Chazd, it was a clear signal they were being sent away. The deAltos left the cool comfort of The Crooked Window and made their way back along Market Street. It was a hot and dusty track at midday. Vendors packed up their wares and pulled their carts toward home, either by hand or hitched to mules and other beasts of burden. The three siblings were trying to remain side-by-side, but Chazd found himself in the cart lane. He maneuvered to avoid stepping in various animal droppings, only partially succeeding. He noted that Jaeron seemed to have picked a path without any discernible feces, frustrating Chazd even further.
Finally he glared over at his brother, “Exactly what job can we pull with that kind of return?”
Thirty-Two
It came out forcefully, despite his best effort to keep his voice hushed.
“Later,” Jaeron said, then perhaps seeing Chazd’s heating temper he added, “As soon as we get back to the barn.
“I want to get input from you and Avrilla to put together the plan.”
His sister looked over at them, but refrained from comment. Chazd remained quiet and bided his time for the remainder of the walk out of town.
Once back in the hayloft at the Utay farm, Jaeron laid out his basic idea for a silver heist. He had obviously been thinking about it for a while.
“We use the contacts we have. Mainly I was thinking Karl and deLespan. We can hit one of the shipments headed out of the city. I’d prefer one destined for the capital. We have almost enough manpower. I am hoping that Shaels can help with that.
“Stealing a silver shipment may be more dangerous than other targets. We won’t just be stealing from the mining company, but the Bormeeran government, which makes the job treason as well as larceny. But it’s the single highest payback that I can think of with the resources we have.”
Chazd and Avrilla listened as Jaeron laid out the details. They pointed out a couple of flaws and provided a few improvements. By the end of the evening, Chazd was impressed and committed to Jaeron’s idea. But he realized that in the end, their success came down to cooperation from their newest guild members and the complicity of an unlikely source.
Finally, Chazd asked the question that had been bothering him as much as the issue of Ortelli’s retirement fund. “What about clearing our names, Jaeron? Unless we find who really killed father, how do we do that?”
Jaeron’s answer surprised him. But it upset Avrilla to the point that she left the loft, dropping down the ladder and slipping out into the night.
~
Jancis Rodin felt the shadow move onto his back and shoulder before it blocked the sunlight in which his hands worked. Polishing the mandolin was so much easier in the natural light and as the spring was waning, it was becoming less and less convenient to find a time when it was cool enough to work on the instrument in the common room of the Crooked Window. He began to turn around to vent his frustration when he felt the sharp point at his neck.
“Stay seated and be still,” a man said. His voice was gravelly and thick, even through his whisper. The breath behind it stank of onion and soured wine.
Rodin nodded once.
“Word is ya train the deAlto whelp – Chazd.”
Rodin nodded again. There was no use denying it. Most of the patrons of the Crooked Window knew both him and his student by name.
“I did,” he said.
“When do ya meet?”
Rodin returned to work on the vanilla wood, carefully working the glossy shine in small, circular motions.
“I don’t expect to meet with deAlto again. His training stopped when he could no longer pay for his lessons.”
“Mmmn hmn,” onion-breath seemed unconvinced.
The master bard considered plucking a few strings. He knew it would not be as effective as playing the instrument properly, but he could make the man believe him and go away. The proximity of the dagger was a problem. Not insurmountable, but a threat. The man might fight off the effects of the music long enough to stab him. Or he might be one of those just naturally resistant to his type of magic. Either way his days as an entertainer could be over.
Instead, Rodin decided that a different tactic was in order.
“You cast aspersions on my veracity?”
“Huh?”
“Are you saying that I’m lying?” Rodin could not keep the smile from his face. He hoped that from onion-breath’s position behind him, he could not see the smirk.
“Yeah, I think you’re lying.”
The dagger point pressed into him harder, but not enough to break his skin.
“I am as serious about money as I am sure you are, my friend. I don’t play for free. I especially do not teach for free.”
It was a partial truth. Rodin had decided years before that he was going to keep training the young deAlto as long as he was able and regardless of the father’s ability to pay him. Chazd’s natural talent for music aside, Rodin had recognized something about the boy that reminded him of his early training. He had the potential to become a master, perhaps better than Rodin himself.