by James Shade
Danine snorted in reply, her ponytail snapping in the air in reaction to the sudden movement.
“You followed Jaeron’s instructions…” Avrilla said more than she had intended, ignoring the sudden odd look from her brother.
“Ha!” Danine’s laugh exploded, and then she looked around seriously and quieted herself.
“You were worried I was going to kill someone.”
Avrilla nodded, then sensing that Danine had not seen the small movement she said, “Yes, I guess I was.”
“Just because I told you that killing is necessary, it doesn’t mean it’s always necessary,” Danine paused, patting her horse then continued. “I think that tonight we were lucky.”
“Truly,” Avrilla changed the subject aware of her brother’s discomfort. “Where did you learn to ride?”
Danine’s face tensed a bit, then relaxed as she shrugged off whatever thoughts had initially claimed her.
“I was raised with horses. My father bred them for our tribe. I rode nearly before I could walk, and probably rode more than walked any given day until… until the day we were enslaved and forced to walk to Islar.”
Even in the dim light, Avrilla could see her expression and she realized it was the first time that she had ever seen the other woman sad.
“I think that riding is one of my only good memories,” and so saying Danine spurred her horse forward, outpacing the wagon and draft animals and any further questions.
The more Avrilla interacted with the Hinterland woman, the less she understood about her. She expected a following conversation from Jaeron once Danine was out of earshot, but her brother remained quiet. She took a breath, enjoying the stillness outside of the steady clip-clop of the draft team and the peeps and buzzing noises of the low wetlands around her. She had a sudden notion that Chazd could not have kept silent.
The thought of her brother made her turn around to look for him. At first she could barely make him out, riding in the saddle behind Bolvar on one of the other captured horses. Then their company broke from under the trees as the wagon began a gradual climb back into farming country.
Jaeron drew the wagon to a halt and the guild moved into action once more. Avrilla hopped down from her seat and took a shovel from Sten. He handed another to Petra and a pickaxe to Danine. She motioned for them to follow.
Avrilla led the group to the ruins of a rock wall where they cleared a small space of ground and began to dig. They did not need a deep hole, but she knew that Jaeron wanted to make it difficult to recover the chest. The four thieves worked steadily until Avrilla heard the sound of the wagon rolling away. There goes Chazd.
Moments later, Jaeron and Bolvar appeared, carrying the heavy chest between them. With all of them working, the guild finished burying the chest in minutes. Jaeron untied the bundle that was slung over his back and began laying out a ground cloth and bedroll. Once that was done, he came over to inspect her work.
“Looks good,” he said. “You better get back to the city and make sure you are all seen early in the morning. We will regroup back at the cellar in two days.”
There were nods all around. If any of the Hands were uncomfortable with the instruction, they did not show it. Avrilla leaned in to give her brother a quick hug.
“Good night, Jaeron. Be careful out here.”
She led the group away. From here they had a half hour run to the city. The night was far from over.
~
The village of Peakinaw was the center of a small farming community surrounded by almost one-hundred and fifty acres of wheat and rye fields. The village was no more than sixteen buildings and a moderately sized graveyard that decorated the sloping hill behind the village church. Chazd maintained a slow pace as he walked the draft team down the road. Whether it was just fortune or clever planning on Jaeron’s part, Chazd did not know, but the team made little noise on the dirt and pebble track. He headed toward the smithy, an open-air building that was the furthest removed from the rest of the town on the village’s western edge.
He stopped the horses and looked around, still not seeing any movement. He had learned over the past weeks that farmers held to a different schedule than he had grown used to in the city. He was not sure how close he was to the time the early risers started their day. Chazd got down from the wagon and guided the horses to the water trough outside the blacksmith’s workshop. With any luck, they would stay there until someone found them in the morning.
Chazd turned away from the town and jogged north through the fields. Though they had a head start, he hoped to catch up with Avrilla and the rest of their guild on the coastline. Chazd kept a fast pace, alternating between a jog and a fast walk. He had to slow down when he cleared the edge of the fields and was under the cover of the forest. The footing was trickier and it was hard to see.
The woodland separated Peakinaw’s farming community from the stony beaches of South Claw Bay. It was a narrow strip and Chazd kept a good pace, but by the time he caught sight of Islar, Sira was settling behind the Guradilup mountains. Bright torches were burning in the city wall towers and along the battlements and a double guard manned the Southern Gate. Chazd considered making his way around the city and using the hidden climb to get back inside, but that would waste another hour. The sun would be rising by then.
Without a better idea, Chazd returned to the bay, moving away from Islar until he found an area of sandy dunes and tall grass. He crushed down a patch of grasses in a widening circle, bending the stalks over close to the ground. After a few circuits, they remained mostly flat giving him a place to spread his cloak. Chazd lay down and fell asleep.
The shrill cries of seagulls woke him just in time to enjoy a magnificent sunrise that broke over the peninsula of land on the other side of the lower bay. Chazd yawned and stretched and scratched at the inevitable sand fleas that had taken the opportunity to feast on him while he slept.
He stood, brushed himself off, and shook out his cloak. He still needed to get back into the city, but Chazd thought that might be easier now with the foot traffic from the farms now underway. He took a westerly course back toward the South Road rather than heading for Islar straight away. He moved through farmlands, staying at the edges of fields and avoiding horse farms and pastureland as much as he could.
Finally, he made for a thin, dirt track that wound between several farms and emerged on the main road to the city. Chazd was pleased to find his timing as lucky as ever. Two carts of vegetables were just passing, followed by a drove of swine being coaxed with the temptation of cabbage and thin switches. Chazd moved quickly to follow the carts, happy not to have to walk through pig shite all the way back to the city gates.
Forty-Eight
Ardo moved in a stuttered walk back across his small apartment and sat down in his chair. He looked again at the three deAltos and the chest that they had brought to his doorstep. When he agreed to help them, he had never imagined that they would bring him this kind of trouble. When Avrilla had asked him to fence something from their new guild’s first– no second– job, he imagined it would be something simple. The contents of a couple of cut purses, a bit of cheap jewelry from a second-story job, or goods from a mercantile break in.
But this. Tabbil shook his head. Hairless balls of Oundull! State silver from the treasury of Bormeer.
“How did you get that?” he asked.
Avrilla smiled, beginning to speak when her brother interrupted her.
“You’ll hear about the wagon heist soon enough, Uncle,” said Jaeron. “It’s late and we need to pay our guild.”
The boy hoisted a bar from the chest and lifted it toward him. “You’re a jeweler. Can you get us cash for this?”
Tabbil got back to his feet and took the bar from Jaeron’s hand. One pound. It felt heavier than it looked. The silver shone in the candlelight. The Bormeer stamp on the top of the bar was sharp with fresh angles and curves. He had the equipment to do what they asked. He could melt it, cut it down a grade. Start distrib
uting it to other smiths in the city. It would take some time.
Jaeron’s words hit him suddenly and he looked at the deAltos.
“You have to pay your guild?”
Chazd grinned at him, an alley cat discovering a discarded slab of tuna. Avrilla was smiling, too. Jaeron remained serious.
“Uncle, Avrilla explained our plan to you. We’ve been recruiting and you have helped us with equipment and supplies. We have debts to pay now, and frankly, we are completely broke. How much can you get us for this?”
Ardo considered again, his mind working through the costs and the normal fencing fees and black market escalations. No, this is family. Or as near as I am ever going to see. The standard price for a pound of silver was seventy-five dozecs. If I am careful…
“I can get you fifty-five dozecs per bar, but not all of it now.” Ardo paused, wondering how much cash he had stashed away around his home.
“I think I can manage two hundred dozecs now, if you don’t mind the smaller change.”
Jaeron nodded, but looked at Chazd. The youngest deAlto’s grin had not wavered.
“More than fair,” Chazd said and Ardo came to realize that the boy was familiar with the black market.
“Okay, Uncle. That sounds good. We will leave the chest with you, assuming you have a secure place to hide it?”
Ardo laughed.
“How long have I been at this, boy?”
Jaeron nodded at him again, but still did not smile. In fact, the lad became more serious.
“I have to ask, Uncle… have you made any progress on our other request? Do you know who murdered Father?”
Ardo sighed. He stood, shaking his head, and moved back around the kitchen to put the kettle back on the fire.
“I…” Ardo stopped himself, still wondering how much of a part he had played in the death of his best friend.
“I’ve started following some leads, Jaeron. But it’s all rumors and guesses at this point.”
“Well, tell us.”
“No,” he said, then seeing the heat start to color Jaeron’s face, Ardo continued. “Not yet, son. I may be chasing a wild goose, and you… well, you have more important things to do.”
“Uncle Ardo, just so you understand. There is nothing… nothing more important to us than finding our father’s killer. And once we establish a true guild, we are going to start making inquiries of our own.”
Ardo almost spilled the boiling water on his hands. He spun back around to the small table.
“No! You don’t want to do that, son. If Henri was right… If you were right, and it was another guild…”
Ardo struggled, trying to figure out how to explain it.
“Some of these guilds, these men, are very dangerous, Jaeron. You will need to be careful. And you will need someone to navigate in the guilds’ waters to make sure you are not getting in too deep. You can’t just go pissing in their ale!”
Ardo stopped himself and looked at Avrilla. “Sorry, girl.”
“Promise me that you will talk to me before you do anything… before you ask questions of the wrong people. I am as dedicated to finding out as you are.”
Jaeron frowned at him, but eventually nodded his agreement.
“All right, Uncle. But we have something else to show you.”
Jaeron turned to take a cloth sack from his sister and placed it on the table. As he did, Ardo noticed that for the first time tonight, Chazd had stopped smiling. The boy rolled his eyes, almost sighed, and reached for his teacup to hide the reaction.
“Have you ever seen these before?” Jaeron asked.
Ardo looked at the unusual objects arrayed on his kitchen table. They were three of the most beautiful wooden toys he had ever seen. He shook his head no. He did not recognize them.
“May I?” he asked, reaching for the jester.
Jaeron dipped his head.
Ardo picked up the figure, running his fingers over the polished wood. He brought it close to his eyes, wishing he had his jeweler’s glass. The stitching was even and strong. The material had vibrant color. The joints were exact and fitted seamlessly, giving Ardo the impression that there were metal mechanics beneath the wood.
“They are magnificent.”
Jaeron’s face fell, and Ardo became confused.
“What?”
“Nothing, Uncle. We… I was hoping that you knew what they were or where they came from. Why Father would have kept them from us all these years?”
Jaeron handed him a letter. Ardo concentrated as he read the lines. By Mara! He remembered the woman, Sarah, who had helped Ardo and Liadee take care of the children when they were young. He always had the impression she was a tough old woman, in mind and spirit. He also did not think that Sarah liked him very much. Or Henri either, for that matter.
But she loved these children. Of that, Ardo was sure. He told Jaeron so.
“We barely remember her, Uncle. What happened to her? Is she dead?”
Ardo shrugged, “I don’t know, Jaeron. She went a little odd after your… your mother died. Disappeared.”
Ardo cleared his throat, twisting his head to stretch out the sudden discomfort. He never liked dredging up the past. What was done, was done. Nothing good came of sifting sands long passed through the neck of the glass.
“How do you mean?” Jaeron pressed.
“She started traveling a lot. Disappeared for weeks at a time. Drove your father crazy. I asked Henri where she was going, but he said he didn’t know. I think he did, though. He just didn’t want to tell me.
“I got up the nerve to ask her once, if she was away visiting family. She got the strangest look at the question. Then she told me that you children were her family.”
Ardo stood and puttered in his kitchen once more.
“The trip durations got longer near the end. Then she never came back. I’d guess that was a year after this letter, but it’s hard to be sure. My memory isn’t so good about things like that.”
He handed the letter back to Jaeron, trying to ignore the frustration on the boy’s face. He did not know what else to tell him.
“Thank you, Uncle Ardo,” Avrilla broke into the conversation. “We thought there might be a connection between the toys and Father’s death. They were the last things he gave to us before… well, at the end.”
The girl seemed on the edge of tears, but she remained hard, demonstrating her strength to her brothers. Chazd fidgeted. Ardo looked at the wooden figures again. They were valuable, but finding a buyer would be a task. Anyone who could afford such extravagances for their children would not need to buy them from the black market. A collector, perhaps. Ardo admitted that he knew little about such commodities, other than to recognize quality work when he saw it.
“I don’t see why Henri would have died for these, Jaeron. Perhaps it was just guilt at the end there… having kept them from you for so long?”
Ardo could see his answers did not satisfy the eldest deAlto, but he let the matter drop. The group settled into a quiet, only Avrilla breaking the silence to comment on some aspect or other of Ardo’s kitchen. Once their tea was finished, Ardo went around the house, gathering up the money he promised them. Having been paid, Jaeron thanked him and ushered his siblings off into the night.
As Ardo cleaned up the pottery and silverware, his head swam. These children were jumping all around the pot! He worried for them, but he worried about Jaeron the most. Finding justice for his father’s death was not going to be enough. The boy was not going to be satisfied until he understood all the reasons behind Henri’s death. In Islar, Ardo knew, people sometimes died for no good reason. And sometimes for no reason at all. Would Jaeron be able to handle that?
Forty-Nine
Holger did not have time for diplomacy or for filtering through the lies he expected to hear from most of the names he obtained from the courthouse. For being a patricide and the son of a thief, Jaeron deAlto had an impressive list of friends. A ranking priest of the Church of Teichmar, once
considered for appointment as Cardinal, vouches for Jaeron as a devoted follower of the god of Justice. Lord deLespan, an operating partner of the Islar Silver Mine, claims that the three deAltos were working for him on the night that their adoptive father was killed. Preposterous. Perhaps the three orphans were blackmailers too.
But there was one name on the list where he could have some leverage. The so-called weapons master, Niles Yarvin, had been volunteered to the court as a character witness on behalf of deAlto’s sister, Avrilla. He had not been questioned, but stayed through the end of the hearing.
Holger recognized Yarvin’s name. A veteran of the Soanic Expansion crusades, he briefly held a hero’s status in Islar for his action in the Battle of Martine Hollow. The man’s popularity turned, however, when he publicly protested the enslavement and forcible relocation of the Hinterland tribes’ people. Holger also heard that Yarvin had built up a gambling debt and was having difficulty making his payments. Holger’s face broke into a jackal’s smile. Yarvin could be persuaded.
As to his reasons for being so outspoken for the Hinterlanders, deLocke believed the common rumor that the man had gone native during his military service, taking a local tribeswoman as wife or concubine. Since then, the lingering war with Rosunland had brought an end to the Hinterland invasions and the man settled down to open a small training academy. Holger found out that he taught various weapon techniques to classes of a half-dozen students. Most trained in preparation to join the Bormeeran Army or the Islar Guard, though a fair number ended up in the Islar Arena or were hired as private guards for the city's merchants or nobles. Perhaps Yarvin was trying to use his knowledge of his students to gain an edge with Arena wagers? I guess that isn’t going too well.
The training hall was located at the southern edge of the city, its crumbling frame only a block from the Islar wall. The location did not protect the building from the midday sun and Holger felt that heat on his back as he arrived at the hall’s front doors. Despite the slum-like environs of the neighborhood, the training hall doors were open when Holger walked inside.