Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer

by James Shade

  Her brothers crept in ahead of her. Jaeron opened the shielding on his lantern, partially illuminating the hallway. Coming from the rear of the building, they made their way to the main room. Avrilla could not help but feel that it seemed like a small place. In her vague memories, the place had been much bigger. Jaeron waited near the center of the room, apparently relaxed, but his hand rested on his sword hilt. Chazd disappeared up the staircase, presumably to confirm the absence of occupants.

  She looked at her brother and he nodded toward the far wall with a slight tilt of his head. No, not the wall, she realized. The fireplace. Involuntarily she sucked in her breath, then winced at the sound. There was a fragment of clarity there. Sitting in Nana Sarah’s lap while the woman combed my hair by firelight. She hummed a song while music played.

  She approached the fireplace and ran her fingers over the worn wooden mantelpiece. Despite the age and obvious usage, the carvings and scrollwork were still beautiful. In her distraction, Avrilla had not noticed that Chazd had returned.

  “We’re all clear,” Chazd whispered. “No one home.”

  Avrilla jumped a little at the sound of his voice. Jaeron handed the small lantern to his brother and joined Avrilla at the fireplace. He was resting both hands on the mantle as well.

  “I didn’t remember these,” he said. Jaeron traced his fingers over the likenesses of three robed figures walking out of a city gate. “I’m surprised that this hasn’t been defaced.”

  “What?” Avrilla asked, moving to get a better look at what Jaeron was pointing out.

  “These priests… I think they are of the Undeified.”

  Avrilla looked at the mantle closer, not able to see the distinction.

  “I guess it’s not really noticeable if you haven’t studied in the cathedral archives.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder, “Jaeron, let’s focus on what we’re doing here.”

  He nodded, but she could tell he was not listening to her. Jaeron’s fingers ran over the mantelpiece, but his eyes were elsewhere, on some memory he had of their time here, but he did not speak of it.

  Then he suddenly motioned to their brother. “Chazd, there’s a keyhole here. Can you open this?”

  Chazd came over and handed the lamp to Jaeron. “I’ll take a look.”

  Avrilla heard the dissatisfaction in his voice. Chazd still did not want to be here. She wished the two men could see the situation from the same point of view this time. Jaeron was steadfast in his belief that the wooden toys and the letter from their nursemaid held the reason behind why their father had been killed. Chazd was just as certain that their history did not matter, but they needed to look to the future to avenge their family’s loss.

  Chazd confirmed her thoughts. “Jaeron, I really don’t get it. Now you think this fireplace is important?”

  “I’m not sure, Chazd. I actually think… something else now.”

  Avrilla noticed that Jaeron was not reacting to Chazd’s retort.

  “What?” she asked.

  “What if Nana was trying to give us something from our parents? Our birth parents.”

  Chazd choked, “Jaeron, are you crazy?”

  For herself, Avrilla was not convinced either way. The timing of the attack on Henri and their theft under the docks that night was certainly suspect. But nothing about the job seemed worth killing for, even if it meant some measure of embarrassment for Lord deLespan. This city is hard. Life was cheaper than she was brought up to believe. Danine had taught her that with their experience in the arena.

  The possibility that the three wooden toys had come from their birth parents had never crossed her mind. The idea was outlandish. But it could explain why Father had kept them hidden and why Nana Sarah had never stopped taking care of them.

  Avrilla frowned. No, that’s not possible. We can’t have the same parents.

  “It’s not a keyhole,” Chazd interrupted her thoughts. “It’s some kind of gear or a spring winding. Like a clock.”

  Her brother fidgeted at the panel with his obscure tools. “I think I can wind it if you want.”

  Chazd was intrigued in spite of himself. Avrilla could hear it in his voice. It was one of the things that she loved about Chazd. The boy loved a puzzle.

  Jaeron answered him, “Go ahead, Chazd. But let’s not take much longer.”

  As if in agreement, the ever-present Cathedral bells chimed over the city. The ceremonies at the church were nearing their conclusion. Avrilla played with the leather loops holding her kukri. She wanted to be long gone before the residents came home. She rubbed her temples and told herself to relax. She did not want to be all tensed up if they had to fight or run.

  “Mara’s orbs,” Chazd muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” Avrilla asked.

  “Well, either I broke it, or it was broken before we got here.” Chazd shrugged and stood up. “Can we go now?”

  Jaeron shook his head, “No. There’s something here… I just can’t remember.”

  Avrilla closed her eyes, trying to remember the room. The sights, the smells, the sounds. The music.

  “Chazd,” she asked, “can you open the mantle up?”

  “What?”

  “If it’s broken, maybe you can fix it.”

  “Avrilla, I know my way around locks and stuff. But I’m no watchmaker. Besides, there's nothing here to fix.”

  Chazd pointed at the wall above the mantle. Other than a few knick-knacks, the area was bare.

  “No, there's something…” Jaeron said. “Break open the mantle, Chazd. I want to check it out.”

  Chazd shrugged. “Okay, but this isn't going to be quiet.”

  Avrilla moved to the front window, checking the street. She glanced back toward Chazd as he set his satchel on the floor and took out a hammer and pry bar. He set the hooks on the mantle seam and took a few tentative taps to drive in the wedges. The wood squeaked in protest.

  “Here we go,” Chazd murmured.

  The next swing had force behind it and the seam cracked open along half the length of the mantelpiece. The paint on the wood gave way with a loud pop and Avrilla heard a light clink of metal on metal. Then Chazd pushed up on the bar applying leveraged force on the front block. It moved, but did not give way.

  “Need some help here, Jaeron,” Chazd grunted through clenched teeth.

  Her older brother moved in next to Chazd and they pushed on the bar together. The board groaned and then broke away causing the two boys to jump back. A small brace tumbled out of the open space that was behind the board followed by a couple of small pieces of metal.

  Jaeron brought the lantern closer to examine the hollow.

  “What is it?” Avrilla hissed. She checked up and down the street once more and then left the window, crossing the room to stand at the mantle with her brothers. Her curiosity piqued, she wanted to see what they found.

  Chazd ran his fingers across the gears and solid metal bar inside the mantel. Avrilla watched as he touched the long metal cylinder, wiping years of dust and ash from the golden bronze surface. As the grime came away, Chazd’s fingers revealed a pattern of densely packed, tiny metal studs protruding from the cylinder’s surface. She was about to ask the question again.

  “It’s a music box,” Chazd said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “He’s sure,” said Jaeron. “I knew it was here. I just forgot what it was.”

  “Hey!” a soft call came from the hallway. “I think they’re coming home.”

  “Let’s go,” Avrilla said, now very glad they had asked Karl to keep watch outside.

  “Wait,” Jaeron said. “I want this stuff.”

  “What?!” Chazd demanded.

  “Take all the pieces. I want the music box.”

  “What for?”

  “Look, we don’t have time to argue - just help me.”

  Avrilla was not sure what her brother was thinking, but she knew that helping him was the quickest route to leave. She went to the mantel and sta
rted pulling at the pieces that would move. Chazd grumbled, but did not say anything else as he worked on the screws that held the rest of the mechanism in place.

  The three deAltos worked for another minute. Then Karl appeared in the doorway.

  “We’ve got to go. Now!” he whispered.

  Avrilla helped put the rest of the metal parts in Jaeron’s bag.

  “Hoods up,” Jaeron said and he moved past Karl and down the hall.

  They made it to the front door to meet the apartment’s tenants. The middle-aged couple started in surprise as their door flung open to meet them. Jaeron shouldered the man, knocking him to the street. Avrilla followed his lead and spun the woman to the ground, guiding her to her buttocks rather than a more injurious landing. Then the four thieves broke into a run, hoping to lose themselves in the neighborhood alleys.

  Cries of “Thieves!” receded behind her. Avrilla felt guilty about the rough treatment they gave the couple, but took comfort that neither of them had been hurt. Still, she hoped Jaeron found the innards of the mantle worth the trouble.

  ~

  His potential leads on Jaeron and Avrilla exhausted, Holger had no choice but to see if he could find them through the youngest deAlto, Chazd. Their lawyer had not brought anyone to court to crow about his virtues. Holger had something else to go on that he had nearly forgotten. At least two of the neighborhood witnesses had commented on Chazd’s frequent visits to the Crooked Window.

  He felt certain he could bend a few arms there into talking. His hand moved to the growing lump on the side of his face. He wanted a drink or two to take the sting out of the blow he received. When he was done with the deAltos, he would do something about Yarvin, too. The bastard was quick, Holger admitted. The man was nowhere in sight when he reached the open door.

  Ignoring the cathedral bells telling him he had missed the Holy Day observance, Holger headed to the Dockside tavern. The Window was packed when he arrived. A blend of raucous conversation, calls for food and drink, and the play of a lively lute accompanied by clapping hands and stamping feet spilled through the room and out the Window’s doorway to meet him. Holger growled.

  The bruise on his face had progressed to a headache at his temples and the noise made his brain throb. He shouldered his way to the bar, yelling at the server for ale. He noticed the annoyed looks from patrons and proprietor, but no one said anything.

  “Three mizec.”

  DeLocke glanced at the bartender as he fished for the coins. One of the reasons he never frequented the Window was their policy on credit. The owner did not allow guardsmen to run a tab.

  “Hold up!” deLocke grabbed the tender before he could move on to another customer.

  “What do you need, sir?”

  DeLocke increased the pressure in his grip and the barman showed both pain and a little fear. Good.

  “Chazd deAlto.”

  “What about him?”

  “You know him?”

  The barman nodded. “He used to be here all the time.”

  “Not lately?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who did he meet with?”

  The man swallowed, nervous. Holger noted a few patrons making room around them. A couple of them were muttering.

  Holger yelled over his shoulder, “Do you want to interfere in guard business?” He turned his attention back to the barkeep. “Who did he meet with?”

  “Mostly Master Rodin, another musician we hire. Sometimes to throw dice…” the man stammered.

  Holger shook him. “A name! A local name!”

  “DeVies. Karl deVies.”

  Yes! Holger released his grip and took up the pitcher. He gulped down the cool froth, letting the bitterness settle across the back of his tongue. Gods, I didn’t know I was so thirsty.

  He had a name now, a name he recognized. He had contacts who knew Karl. It will be a simple matter to track him down. DeLocke finished the ale and flung the pitcher behind the bar, smiling in satisfaction as the crockware shattered. Ignoring the stares and the approach of the Window’s owner, Holger shoved his way back to the door and outside. He could not wait to get far enough away from the place to leave the sound of laughter and music behind. Thank Teichmar there are quieter places to drink.

  Fifty-Two

  Chazd knocked softly on the door to the private room. He had never imagined disturbing his teacher outside of their scheduled meetings, let alone at this hour of the morning. He waited a minute and when there was no answer, he decided to go. Perhaps no one who saw him downstairs would recognize him and he would not have to explain why he was waking up the favored guest at the Crooked Window.

  The worn floorboards of the hallway creaked as he moved away. He should have remembered. How well had he come to know this place over the past years.

  ~

  The first time Chazd picked up a musical instrument he had been thirteen. Hormones and rebellion against authority provided the impetus to steal away from the deAlto apartment, leaving behind his lock picking practice and household chores. Henri had once tanned him with a belt strap for those evenings, but Chazd felt it had been a worthwhile trade.

  The barmaids at the Crooked Window were not romantically interested in Chazd, despite their flirtation. Most were looking for suitable husbands – miners, shipmen. Adult men with jobs and futures, not thieves barely into their teens. There were no amorous advances toward Chazd. But, by the gods, he loved watching their curves and their smiles as they served food and drinks.

  In addition to the attractive serving girls, the Crooked Window had entertainment. Storytellers, musicians, and dancers, having come by ship from ports within Bormeer and beyond. This made Chazd’s unapproved visits more enjoyable, but only slightly so.

  That afternoon had been no different from the dozens of other visits Chazd had made to the tavern. He ducked in the door and looked for a window table. They were often the least used tables, being the furthest from the bar and the most likely to expose patrons to the smell of fish from the docks. Sometimes he needed to compete with a customer looking to smoke, and that day found him closer to the center of the room. Bettra stopped by with a wink and slipped him a portion of herb bread and his favorite pickled tomatoes. Then, a clear tone of a plucked string interrupted her usual banter. Bettra had literally stopped what she was doing, turned toward the musician, and sighed.

  Chazd followed her eyes across the room and was surprised by what he saw. There, propped up on a bar stool next to the fireplace, was an older man dressed in flamboyant, colorful clothes. His hair was black, though flecked through with traces of white that became more apparent down his sideburns and into his combed, oiled beard. Chazd did not judge him particularly handsome, at least by how he understood the standard that seemed to attract the wenches of the Crooked Window.

  The name and style of the instrument the man held was unknown to Chazd, though he learned later that it was a Pevaran mandolin. Chazd watched as the man’s fingers and hands danced across the wood, pulling a complex melody from the fretboard and strings. The golden and orange wood shone with an oil or polish and the man sang an accompanying tune, though the words were meaningless to him.

  It was not the music alone that evoked such interest in Chazd. It was the reaction of the women, of everyone. Chazd pulled his eyes from the musician and scanned the room. Conversation had quieted, gambling had stopped, and the women were enraptured. The song’s introduction ended and the man burst into a rhythmic stanza, accompanied by further lyrics in the foreign language and a steady tapping on the instrument’s hollow body.

  At that point, the tavern patrons joined in, clapping and dancing. Some, mainly men, returned to their prior activities. Chazd stayed the entire afternoon, watching and listening. Somewhere along the line, he realized that he was tapping his feet and singing or humming along. His fingers twitched in an attempt to mimic the man’s playing.

  The man finished his afternoon performance and sauntered around the room to collect his tips and exch
anged a quick word with Chazd’s barmaid. When Chazd realized the afternoon was gone, he left the few coins he had on the table and started gathering his belongings. Bettra appeared at his arm.

  “Hold a minute, Chazd,” she said. “Master Rodin would like to speak with you.”

  “Who?”

  Bettra pointed to the musician who was observing their interchange.

  Chazd ask, “Why?”

  “I really don’t know.” She wished him luck and went back to her duties.

  The crowd had mostly cleared around Rodin. He had returned to his seat and was cleaning his instrument with a soft, white cloth. More curious than he would have admitted, Chazd crossed the hard-packed floor of the Window’s common room.

  Rodin stopped his cleaning and looked up through his eyebrows at Chazd. Abruptly the man stood, set his lute on a stand, and motioned for Chazd to sit down on the stool. Chazd hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and plopped himself down where the musician had just been.

  “Not like that, boy!” Rodin snapped. “Sit up straight. One leg here. The other there.”

  Finished with the quick scolding, Rodin stepped back frowning. He scrutinized Chazd, stroking his beard. His gaze shifted back and forth from Chazd to the instruments lined up against the wall. He seemed to settle on a choice between two mandolins. The first was a six-course oval instrument of spruce and maple. The instrument had minimal decoration but was finished with a high gloss. The second was a well-worn cherry and pear construction with eight single strings and a nearly heart-shaped belly.

  He picked up the second mandolin and placed it in Chazd’s arms.

  “You are right handed?”

  Chazd nodded, about to answer, but the musician interrupted him.

  “Place your left hand here,” Rodin said. “Grip firmly and press your finger pads into the strings. Keep your right arm active and use your thumb across the strings here.”

  The lesson continued. Rodin's quick tongue kept Chazd engaged. For some reason, his typical rebellion against authority was curiously subdued. After an hour, Rodin abruptly ended the session. Chazd felt like he almost learned the song that Rodin hummed to him as he played.