by James Shade
The hall was a large open space with a dirt floor, marked with divots, deep footprints, sweat and blood from the morning students. The walls were plain. Simple white plaster covering stone and mortar. Wooden racks stood along the back of the room with weapons on the racks grouped according to their size, style, and weight.
At the opposite end of the room a short platform had been erected, just a step up from the dirt. On the wooden planks sat a small desk and chair next to a long table holding clay pitchers, basins, and first aid materials. The smells of the room, stale sweat and muscle liniments, brought back old memories.
Holger had been in a field hospital only once. He had taken a laceration across the arm and chest during a morning skirmish on the Rosunland border. They were not near a town or village and supplies were meager. The troop surgeon had given him a couple of swallows of the vile liquid the Rosunlanders called tsipouro. The liquor was strong, but too sweet for Holger’s taste, and ran thick even in the summer heat.
The man yelled at him in his delirium and pressed a leather strap into his mouth. Then the surgeon stitched him back together with no regard for his pain. The ointment applied to the wounds afterward was even worse, a stinking poultice that burned like fire. Holger was convinced he would have killed the man had he not been strapped to his cot. He could not stand that scent ever since that day. The medicine smell in this room was not the same, but similar enough to make Holger grimace.
Where in the hells was Yarvin?
Holger looked around the otherwise empty room and wondered if he could have done this. Made different choices and settled down with his own business. Unfortunately, he had no idea what those choices had been. The thoughts made him tired and he walked over to the desk and sat down. He did not have a lot of patience, but he had plenty of time to fume.
~
The weight of new coins slapped gently at Jaeron’s hip. The soft comfort of a new flaxen shirt settled against his chest. The Pevaran blade at his side was sharpened and freshly oiled. His shoes and belt were new. He was clean and well fed. In short, Jaeron deAlto no longer looked or felt the part of an orphan just a step away from Islar’s destitute.
However, Jaeron was not content. He stalked Salasse Street in purposeful strides searching for the boy with the gomjom ball. He took no joy in the bright day or in the sound of children’s laughter. He had finally convinced Chazd to agree to look into the old address Avrilla discovered. No, he amended his thoughts. He had convinced Avrilla. Then Chazd finally relented, perhaps realizing that Jaeron was never going to give up on the subject.
He could not let it go. While all reason told him that there was little chance that the expensive toys and strange letter from their nanny had anything to do with Henri’s murder, he also knew what he saw in Henri’s eyes that night. Beyond the fear, the pain, and the reflection of the flames. Beyond the tears induced by smoke and the knowledge he was never going to see his adopted son again. Beyond the gratitude at the chance to say ‘goodbye,’ Henri had expressed something else. Jaeron had seen something there about the importance of the package that the dying man could not explain, did not have time to explain.
Which meant that Jaeron needed to get back inside that townhouse.
There! Jaeron finally spotted the curly red hair running behind the houses on the next block. He took off after him, chasing the sounds of feet on pavestone and the dull ‘thunk’ of a gomjom ball being kicked.
The short chase emerged into a weedy yard, semi-enclosed by small two and three story buildings. Two groups of kids were running and shouting in a scrum, trying to maneuver the ball across the field. Jaeron paused at the edge of the play area, waiting for the current score attempt to play out. He watched the ball break free and spin across the yard, two of the kids pounding after it. The first one to reach it, a skinny, shirtless boy of ten, swept his leg back and connected with the ball in a solid kick. The other runner had moved out ahead of his opponent and blocked the soaring shot with his chest.
It was a good play, but the boy paid the price for it. The ball had knocked him to his back and he lay, panting and wheezing, trying to catch his breath. He was barely able to get to all fours when his teammates were all over him, with thumping fists and cheers. The celebration did not last long, and in moments, both teams had started back toward the center of the court to begin another round.
Jaeron took the opportunity to call out to the red-haired boy before he got into formation. The kid looked and came running over, calling to his friends to play on without him. Jaeron could see the excitement in his eyes, the flush from the game, and the eagerness to earn another mizec.
“Nice play,” Jaeron smiled. “You need to watch their left flank, though.”
Jaeron pointed out a heftier boy, with tan pants and a blue shirt. “He’s faster than he looks, and he can put some weight behind a kick.”
The boy looked at the field, watching his team struggle to keep their field position a man short. He turned back to Jaeron with a wicked grin.
“He’s got piss for aim. Nearly broke a window yesterday. So, you have my copper?”
Right back to business. Jaeron could respect that.
“Come with me. I want to make sure we’re talking about the right houses.”
The boy shrugged and followed Jaeron back to the street and up to the corner that connected with Salasse. He gave a brief review of the tenants of each home. Jaeron only half listened to the descriptions of the houses in which he had no interest. An older couple waiting for word on their son from the warfront. A widow who worked for a nearby cobbler during the day and the Ivanava’s Rose in the evenings. A grocer with a wife and three boys and another child on the way. Then the boy began his description of Jaeron’s old address.
“Master Harisham and his wife have lived there since I was born. He works for the city. Mom says Lady Harisham volunteers at the church orphanage. They are at the Cathedral a lot. I don’t think they’re looking to rent or sell the place.”
He let the boy continue on, but his mind was racing. If the Harishams were as pious as the boy made out, they would be attending the observance of the Covenant of the Bond of Devotion. Not to attend was a grave sin.
Jaeron felt a weight settle on his spirit. Were these choices never going to end? Until just this moment, Jaeron had no doubt he was going to attend the Covenant observance. Now he was not, and the realization ruined the happiness that had grown watching the simple game of gomjom. He pressed two mizecs into the boy’s hand and walked away.
He did not know how he was going to explain it to Matteo, but here was an opportunity to get inside that house. He could not let it pass.
Fifty
Niles Yarvin felt slow today. The morning's training session had taken the life out of him. He did not like when someone was injured under his instruction. The boy would be okay, he knew, but the knee injury would take a couple of weeks to heal. The real problem was that the boy’s parents might take him out of school, along with his brother.
He sighed. Fewer students, less money. He wondered, not for the first time, if he might not be suited for another line of work. His training hall was slowly dwindling away his life savings.
He also wondered why he had not found a better place to store the rake. It was his habit to store things where they belonged. Today’s walk to and from the tool shed seemed long. Niles crossed the yard behind the building and entered the rear door to his training hall. He began in the close corner, as he always did, and began raking the sand into a pattern of lines.
He had taken half a dozen strokes before he realized he was not alone.
“Was wondering when you would notice,” the man's voice was gruff.
“Can I help you, sir?” Yarvin asked.
The man was a member of the Islar City Guard. Yarvin recognized him as a patrol leader by his badge of office.
“I have some questions about one of your students,” the man said.
One of his students was in trouble. Niles was d
isappointed, but not surprised. It had happened often enough over the years.
He shrugged, “I'll tell you what I can. Who is it? Jaco?”
The guardsman stood and slowly approached him.
“No. DeAlto. Avrilla deAlto.”
“Avrilla... What trouble is she in?”
“I am asking the questions. You just need to answer them.”
Niles did not know what to say, but he suddenly felt a state of battle awareness. The guardsman approached in such a manner as to try to corner him in the hall, keeping him out of reach of any of his weapon racks. Was it accidental or had he done it on purpose?
“Where is Avrilla deAlto?”
“I don't know,” Niles answered.
“I don’t mean now, fool. Where does she live?”
Yarvin could read the signs in the Islar guardsman. Personal rage and a callousness that Yarvin had seen before in men driven to desperation. He thought about his last meeting with the deAlto girl, days before he heard about her brother’s arrest.
~
Niles had been pleased to see Avrilla deAlto walk back into his training hall. She had been missing for almost two weeks, since just after the death of her father. When she had come inquiring about the Hinterlander, Danine, Niles was afraid she was also going to join the gladiators at the arena. Rather than taking off her shoes and preparing for class, the girl had come over to his desk.
“Master Yarvin.”
“Good morning, Avrilla.”
“I have to collect my gear,” she said. “I don't think I’ll be coming back for training.”
He did not answer right away. Niles guessed that her father had still been paying for her training and now that he was gone, she could not afford to come anymore. He was going to miss her as a student. She had potential, if she could just let go a little of her self-restraint.
“We could work something out, Avrilla. There are plenty of chores that need to be done here.”
“It's not just payment, sir,” she said. “It’s hard to explain.”
“The fire?”
“We lost everything.”
Niles had heard the story before. He had no illusions about the deAltos. Avrilla was not training to be a guardsman. Her choice, really her father's choice, of kukri as weapons was a choice of convenience. The weapons he bought for her were antiques. The blades were forged in Dun Lercos, but the handles had been replaced here in Islar. She was going to work for one of the guilds.
“Get your gear,” he told her.
It did not take her long to gather everything and stow it all in a small canvas bag. She brought him the wooden and leather practice blades, explaining that she would not need them. He refused to take them and gave her the same gift he presented to each of his graduating students. A whetstone, a box set of sharpening files, and a small vial of polishing powder.
“Gods be with you, Avrilla.”
Then Niles watched, depressed, as she left the training hall.
~
Yarvin stalled for time, trying to work out what to do. “The deAlto girl has not been here in weeks, sir. Her family had some misfortune and she was no longer able to afford her training.”
As he spoke, Niles recognized the guard. It was the lead investigator for the prosecution during elder deAlto’s hearing. So, if he couldn’t pin the murder on the oldest boy, he was going after Avrilla instead.
“Look, Yarvin, we both know what trouble you’re in. And helping this girl isn’t going to make that any better. Where does she live?”
“I don’t know. I don’t get that kind of information from my students. They pay. They train. It keeps it simple.”
Yarvin continued to back away from the man’s approach. DeLocke’s hand dropped to the pommel of his sword. He weighed his disadvantages, still not ready to believe he may have to fight an armed and armored City Guardsman.
DeLocke’s weapon was the standard short sword and he wore the padded livery of Islar over chain and leather, reinforced across the chest with intertwined iron rings. He was armored below the waist, as well, with a heavy leather skirt that covered his knees. In contrast, Yarvin wore a simple fighter’s tunic over woolen breeches. No protection whatsoever. Prevented from getting near the weapon racks, he was armed with a rake. He could use it as an improvised staff, but the rake end would be unwieldy and it would only hold up to one or two strikes of that short sword.
The assessment took seconds. Time enough for the guardsman to unsheathe his blade.
“How much do you owe the guilds, Yarvin?”
“What?” Niles nearly stammered. What in the hells is this man talking about?
“We don’t have to do this,” deLocke continued. “I can make your debts go away. And you don’t have to die resisting arrest.”
The attack came faster than Yarvin expected, but he was able to manage an awkward block with his rake. He heard the wood split, but for now the implement held together. Yarvin wheeled back and left, keeping the rake a threat to his opponent. DeLocke tried to follow the movement, keeping himself between the weapons trainer and the racks of more dangerous arms.
In that moment, Yarvin saw something about the guardsman that he failed to take into account in his initial assessment. DeLocke was wearing heavy guard boots, iron shod and reinforced. They were ideal for the long hours on the Islar streets, kicking in doors, and an occasional need to cross hazards such as broken glass or caltrops. They were not an advantage, however, in the soft sand of Yarvin’s training hall. Yarvin, on the other hand, was barefoot and trained daily in the soft material.
DeLocke’s weight shifted as he stepped and Yarvin saw the sluggish movement. He could not run in this sand. He had to plod around in an ungainly lope. Yarvin had gained some space, and no longer backed against the wall he skittered a few yards to the side. DeLocke tried to keep up, but could not move fast enough. Yarvin was able to complete a wide half circle to his right.
He could see a sheen of sweat breaking out across deLocke’s forehead. Yarvin feinted with a couple of stabs. DeLocke countered with strong swings of his sword. He knew as well as Yarvin did that he would gain a critical advantage if he could disable Yarvin’s weapon. But Niles was quick, withdrawing the rake before deLocke got close.
The exertion was taking its toll. Yarvin was surprised at the guardsman’s condition. He was sweating profusely now, taking ragged, gasping breaths. Yarvin could smell the alcohol exuding from the man’s pores.
DeLocke was no longer grinning. His look was still savage, angry beyond all reason. He stopped, panting and shaking, and leveled his blade toward Yarvin’s face.
“Put down the rake and come with me, Niles Yarvin. You are –”
Yarvin saw his opportunity and took it. The guard was trying to rest. Yarvin moved forward on the balls of his feet, swinging the handle end of the rake under and around the menacing sword. He felt the satisfying vibration in the wood as the handle connected with the side of deLocke’s face.
The blow sent the guardsman sprawling into the sand. Yarvin dropped the rake and sprinted to the far door of the training hall. He was blocks away before he took a chance to look back and see no one behind him.
Fifty-One
Avrilla felt a momentary twinge of jealousy as she watched Chazd work the apartment door’s lock. His focus seemed so pure. His hands were so steady. Then she considered the warmth in her throat and her own focused thought when she used her magic. To each their own soup. Her father’s words echoed in her thoughts.
That they were there at all was still a mystery to her. When Jaeron had told them of his plan to break in during the Teichmar holy time, she could not believe it. Avrilla could not recall the last time Jaeron had missed a holy day. Chazd, of course, had been incredulous and more than a little obnoxious.
“Jaeron,” he said. “Will you get off this already? We have to find Father’s killers and you want to play with toys! Are you really that dense, or are you that much a coward?”
Avrilla had never seen J
aeron come so close to hitting his brother. They had had the normal tumbles brothers do when they were little. Though neither of them had fought with the other since Henri enrolled them in serious training, Chazd words finally pushed Jaeron too far. He grabbed his brother’s shirt in two clenched fists and bull rushed him into the tiny gap of wall space between the kitchen fireplace and the apartment’s rear door.
“You weren’t there, Chazd! You didn’t see him die! If Father’s final wishes for us are of no importance to you, then we are done. Take your share of the silver and get out!”
Avrilla almost intervened. But Jaeron just dropped Chazd and left, waving his hand at her as she went to follow him. The door slammed in place and she heard Chazd settle into one of the creaky kitchen chairs. When she turned around, he was wiping his face to hide his tears and failing.
Chazd looked at her, “Did he ever think that maybe they were just a way for Father to say ‘goodbye’?”
Since the incident, Chazd had not said another word. He listened to Jaeron’s plan and agreed to ask Karl to come with them as a lookout. Avrilla could feel the pressure between them, different than their usual disagreements. She just did not know what to do about it.
Avrilla felt the nervous charge run along her neck and down her arms when the door opened. She had been here before, but so long ago. The triggered memory of familiarity conflicted with the heightened awareness born of excitement and fear. The forbidden pleasure in that moment of housebreaking.
Chazd held the sweep to keep the noise as low as possible. As a precaution, he had sprayed a mist of fine oil on the hinges through the gap between the door and the jamb. To his credit, the door did not make a sound. It was a flawless break-in.
Avrilla trusted that Jaeron and Karl had been diligent about watching the apartment for occupancy. The neighborhood had become more affluent since Henri had moved his family out of the building. More wealth meant more Guard patrols and faster responses. She tried to rely on the years of training and preparation they all had, but Avrilla could not dispel her heightened concern about being caught so soon after Jaeron’s release from prison.