by James Shade
“Well done, lad. What is your name?”
“Chazd deAlto,” he responded, despite never having used his surname at the inn before.
“Quick fingers. Quick mind. Let me know when you are ready for formal training, young master deAlto.”
Father had somehow arranged for that training. And now it was over.
~
Chazd had not spoken to Rodin since before his father was killed. What could he say to explain missing his lessons, to admit he had not been practicing? How can I tell him I lost my instrument in the fire?
He was two more steps down the hall when the voice stopped him. “Chazd deAlto?” the voice asked, rich and full and not at all sleepy.
Chazd turned back around. “Good morning, Master Rodin.”
The musician looked surprised, though his smile was pleasant as he stood in the doorway. He was dressed, but his cotton shirt was unlaced and untucked. His face was wet with some traces of shaving soap still evident on his neck and sideburns.
“We did not have a lesson this morning. I would have remembered.”
“No, sir. I… that is, my brother, sister, and I… have a problem.”
The bard waited, obviously expecting more of an explanation.
“We’d like you to identify some music for us. Something we found,” Chazd said, feeling a bit like a fool. He did not know how to explain it. Part of the problem was that he was not really interested in furthering Jaeron’s investigation. He could admit that the letter from their childhood nursemaid was strange, but it did not have anything to do with Father’s death.
“Is this about your father?”
He knows? “Not directly, but it’s… complicated,” Chazd admitted.
Rodin moved aside and opened the door further.
“Come in, Chazd. It sounds like we have things to discuss.”
Chazd went into the room, still amazed by its luxury. The room was the tavern’s best, though some of the furnishings were undoubtedly Rodin’s.
“Who was it, Rodin?” a female voice called from the second room.
The source of the question came around a three-part folding screen that stood near the dresser. A light tan veil of cloth accented the shape beneath. Chazd could not hide his shock at Bettra’s appearance. Her hair was down, some flowing down over her bosom. Her legs were bare and the shirt she wore barely covered her thighs as she spun to bolt back behind the room divider.
“Bettra?”
“Chazd?!” the girl shrieked.
Fifty-Three
“Ah, I take it you know each other,” Rodin said.
The musician read the emotion on the young man’s face. Surprise, certainly. But there was something else that he could not place. A touch of chagrined anger. Ah, jealousy.
Chazd nodded. “She introduced us,” he said pointing quickly to himself and his instructor.
“Bettra, lass. Do me a favor and fetch us breakfast, with something to drink,” he spoke as lightly as he was able. But he stepped forward to guide the young deAlto by the shoulder to a chair. He waited for the girl to pull on her dress and scurry out the door toward the bar downstairs. Rodin saw then that the girl knew of Chazd’s unspoken crush.
“I’m sorry, Chazd. I did not know that you had romantic intentions toward the girl. I would not have invited you in.”
Chazd looked up at him, shaking his head.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
Rodin thought otherwise, but let the matter drop.
“What can I do for you, son? Why are you here?”
Chazd shrugged the pack off of his shoulder and opened it, pulling out the music box cylinder and comb.
“My brother wants to know what this plays,” Chazd said.
Rodin reached tentatively for the cylinder. He recognized what it was immediately, but he had not seen its like in years. The artisanship was superb, made from steel and brass, polished before the pins were set. Before he let himself become lost in the device, he set it down and took the comb from Chazd, also giving it a brief appraisal. Two hundred teeth, at least.
He pulled the other chair in the room closer to his guest and sat down. “Do you mind if I ask where this came from?”
Chazd seemed disinterested as he answered, “We took it from an apartment where my father used to live.
“Where we used to live, I guess. It was the place where we first lived after he adopted us. I don’t really remember it.”
Over the years, Rodin had learned the rough story of the deAltos and wondered about the designs of an old thief taking on the adoption of three young orphans. But he did not understand how this music box fit in.
“Why did you take it?”
He did not have to assume that the three orphans had stolen it. Had it not been evident in Chazd’s tone, Rodin knew what the three were working on and what they intended to become.
“My brother, my sister…” Chazd said, “they think it has something to do with our past. Our parents – our birth parents. And something to do with Father’s death.”
Rodin nodded, understanding a bit more then. Chazd did not think of anyone as his father except for Henri, despite knowing he had been adopted. And perhaps more importantly, the lad was not interested in finding out the identity of his biological parents. This was something his older brother wanted, and Rodin knew better than most the schisms that could come between brothers.
~
A light knock sounded at the door and Bettra reappeared. She was still disheveled but less sexually enticing as she had been when Chazd first saw her. She carried a tray with a pair of wooden mugs, a matching pitcher, and a split loaf of dark bread spread with churned butter. She set the tray down between the men, smiled quickly at Rodin and looked at Chazd with concern. Chazd did not understand her look but felt grateful for it nonetheless.
“It was good to see you, Chazd,” she said and then as quickly as she entered she left the room, closing the door behind her.
When he turned back to his host, Rodin was pouring, filling both mugs with a light wine that smelled of apples and rose blossoms. He handed Chazd a mug and a slice of the bread.
“Well, I cannot tell you too much about this without hearing it. Why did you take the box apart?”
Chazd was chewing, thankful for having a distraction from thinking about Bettra. He swallowed forcefully, and drank a quick swig from the mug to wash it down.
“It was part of the fireplace mantle,” he admitted. “We didn’t have a choice.”
Rodin nodded, “I thought it might have been a piece of furniture. I just thought that the three of you would have been industrious enough to have taken the whole piece.
“I hadn’t expected a fireplace. Ingenious…”
Rodin was holding the cylinder again, rolling it in his hands. His eyes focused on the small pegs protruding from its surface.
“So, my young friend, how are we going to play this?”
Chazd looked up at Rodin, confused by the question. That was why he had come to the man. Why is he asking me?
The teacher said, “Think it through, Chazd. How do we hear this?”
Rodin picked up the comb and held it up to the cylinder. Chazd recognized the alteration in tone and attitude. Rodin was the teacher, he was the student, and he was being tested. He looked at the pieces in Rodin’s hands and thought about how the mechanism worked. He thought about taking the fireplace apart, walking through the disassembly in his mind. He tried to distinguish the pieces that were strictly due to the complexity of mounting the music box in the fireplace versus those that were essential to the music box’s operation.
Chazd spoke aloud, talking through the problem. “I have the spring motor, the ratchet… but not the lock and key. Though we don’t really need that. The main thing is holding the pieces in place and being able to turn the cylinder.”
Rodin nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“We can’t damp this piece –”
“The comb.”
�
�Okay, we can’t damp the comb too much. It needs to resonate, like a string. But that doesn’t necessarily mean we need a box. Just a housing.”
“There should have been a bedplate – a large piece that everything screwed into.”
Chazd shook his head. “It was too big. Really anchored to the mantel.”
“Could you sketch it?” Rodin asked.
Chazd shook his head. He knew one thing at which he was not adept and that was drawing. He still had trouble with some of his letters. Avrilla regularly teased him about his handwriting. But the few times he had tried his hand at drawing were such disasters that he never really tried again.
“Okay,” Rodin said.
The bard finished his mug and stood, crossed the room, and pulled some materials from his desk. He returned to the small table in front of Chazd and spread out a sheet of paper. He set his mug and pitcher on the roll to keep it flat on the table and began to sketch with a couple long sticks of triangular charcoal.
“Describe what you remember.”
Chazd watched, once again amazed with his teacher’s talents, as lines and arcs appeared on the sheet. The charcoals created forms, shadows and texture. Chazd could tell they were composed of different hardness or softness, that the pressure of Rodin’s fingers was not the only thing affecting the deepness or darkness on the drawing. Slowly a detailed picture formed.
Rodin occasionally asked Chazd questions as he worked, allowing him to make design decisions as he thought things through. The bard corrected him a few times, leading them to a better solution.
The wine grew warm. The older man took one break, standing and stretching. Rodin encouraged Chazd to do the same, in the same tone he had been using to encourage him to keep his posture and not hunch over the drawing as the master bard worked. He brought Chazd a mandolin and the two played together, Rodin leading in “The Salty Dog Carouses” which always made Chazd laugh. Chazd finally felt himself relax, the smile he gave Rodin felt comfortable. The pain he had been feeling since his father’s death seemed to be more distant.
By lunchtime, the sketch was complete. For the last half hour, his teacher had broken the near silence and the two men commented back and forth about the sizes and types of materials needed to build the contraption. Many of these comments ended up as small, neatly lettered notes along the side of the page. Finally, Rodin blew the last remnants of dust from the paper and brushed the final picture with a thin coating of a solution from a brown glass bottle.
With that task completed, Rodin closed the bottle and set the parchment aside to dry.
“Would you like some lunch?”
Chazd was not sure. The drawing, now that it was finished, meant he had to take another step along the road down which his brother was dragging him.
“What do I do with it?” He had no idea how to turn the drawing into a functional music box.
Rodin paused to heft the cylinder again and brought it up to the level of his eyes. He turned it in his hands, pleased in some way that Chazd could not figure out.
“I’ll take care of it, Chazd,” the older man answered. “I find this... entertaining. And I have some understanding of the straits you are in... your family is in...”
“What? How?”
“Ah, some men were here looking for you. They made the foolish assumption that they could intimidate me.”
“Who?” Chazd’s mind reeled. Could they be the men who killed his father?
Rodin’s look became concerned.
“Chazd, these were not men to be trifled with. Fortunately, neither am I.”
“But what if – ”
“I understand. It is possible – what you are thinking. I wondered the same thing myself. Though no one has pursued those questions since your brother’s incarceration and release.
“I have looked into it as I have had time, but I have not discovered much. It’s taking longer than I expected to… reacquaint myself with old associates.”
Chazd had no idea what Rodin was talking about. The bard was often cryptic, but never more so than when he referenced his past. He alluded to the fact that his position as a bard involved more than just playing the part of a traveling musician. Chazd never understood more. Not that I didn’t have other things to occupy my time.
Rodin evidently saw the confusion on his face.
“Don’t worry about it, Chazd. The men who were asking about you told me how I could get in touch with them. I see you are ready to leap off the pier, son. But how about we think it through first? Perhaps discuss it with your siblings?”
Chazd had to admit that Rodin’s advice made sense. His eagerness to rush off and confront potential enemies dissipated, but he decided to tell Jaeron and Avrilla the news as soon as possible.
“That’s it, lad. You’ll see the sense of it after a good meal. Come, lunch is on me!”
Fifty-Four
The buggered-all Temple Ward. What in the Basin of Malfekke’s hells were they doing there?
DeLocke’s contacts had proved themselves worth his investment. From the few coins he dropped their way or the times he had turned his head, purposely not noticing the poorly hidden drug sale or the three zecca fellatio in the alley. Within a few hours, he had a life story on Karl Veiss without having to break any heads.
Seemingly gone straight from a disastrous foray into horse theft, Veiss worked a half dozen odd jobs all over the city. They included working at the mine, the fish market, with the dock laborers, and at the tannery. All but the silver mine work seemed connected to the underworld grafted to the arse of the city.
Holger mused, not for the first time, that a thorough investigation of Islar’s guilds and businesses could turn out all the underlying connections and put a dent in the city’s crime organizations. A guard could make a name for himself, taking that all down. He growled to himself, and then realized the work that would be involved. Not to mention the potential danger.
All for what? A lousy couple of dozecs a day?
Holger’s head hurt worse than ever, the hangover bearing in like a hot, dull knife cutting into the back of his brain. The one bit of news about Veiss that Holger found interesting was the amount of time he was spending near the Cathedral. Karl was not a church-going man, so what would he be doing there? Meeting with the deAltos, Holger was sure. Especially the devout follower of Teichmar, Jaeron deAlto.
The Gate of Teichmar, as the main gate over Temple Row had come to be known, was close to the government ward. Too close for Holger to risk being spotted by other guardsmen. Avoiding the wide plaza of Teichmar’s holy road, Holger wound his way west through the Market Ward avoiding the main routes taken by city patrols.
Still in uniform, no one interfered with him. He stalked around the western end of the temple ward questioning citizens and street vendors. Finally, one confirmed his suspicions. A new family, two young men and a woman, had moved into the small residential area on the north side. By the time he found the tiny two-story house which he was sure was rented by the deAltos, it was after noon. Sweat darkened his leather chest armor, making the Islar insignia illegible. His feet felt like they were burning in his boots and his tunic clung to his skin. Holger made his way to the building’s front door. He drew his sword and used the pommel to knock on the thin paneled wood.
“Jaeron deAlto!”
He pounded again, denting the door in angry reaction to being ignored. Holger dimly heard gasps of surprise, the opening and shutting of a window from a neighboring building. He did not care. His uniform dissuaded interruption and Holger guessed that the neighbors would have heard about the deAltos’ arrests anyway. Most had the sense not to get caught between the city guard and known felons.
~
“Shh,” Avrilla hissed. Jaeron stopped short, realizing it had not been the first time she had tried to quiet him. The racket was suddenly obvious. They were a little more than a block from their home, but the voice and the words were clear.
“Jaeron deAlto! By order of the Islar Guard, co
me out of there!”
This was followed by a hard report of metal against wood, a splintering sound, and the breaking of glass. Avrilla looked at her brother.
“Guardsman Holger deLocke,” said Jaeron.
Avrilla asked, “What does he want now?”
They had started walking again, cautious and looking around for more of the Islar guards.
“That was our door,” Avrilla pointed out the dark gap that opened into their rented home.
Jaeron paused, wondering what to do next when deLocke appeared in the broken doorway. He took quick note of the rage on his face and the sword in the man’s hand.
“Avrilla,” he said. “Go for help – guards, the church, whatever you think will be the quickest.”
Then Jaeron drew his own blade. Holger’s mouth broke into an ugly smile as he stepped down off the building’s small portico. Jaeron was shifting his weight, his body settling into a combat stance, when he noticed his sister had paused. She was waiting for him.
“Go. This has gone beyond city law. We need witnesses – someone official.”
Avrilla began to speak, “But Ja –”
“Dammit! Go now - run!”
She followed his instructions and bolted back down the road toward the church.
~
By the time Jaeron could no longer hear his sister's footsteps, deLocke had crossed more than half the distance between Jaeron and his home. The man was intent ona fight. Jaeron breathed deep, relieved that his sister had followed his instructions and gone for help. He pulled the breath deep into his abdomen, then up into his chest, and finally in behind his upper sternum and throat. He let the breath out, sliding into warrior’s defense.
Observe the details. It was the key instruction he received from Master Eranka. DeLocke had the edge in the battle to come, in terms of equipment. His city watch uniform included a leather jerkin with chain mail half-sleeves and a thick leather skirt over padded breeches. The guardsman’s sword was a heavy battle blade, a standard issue similar in design to the ones being turned out in scores for the warfront. No match in quality to Jaeron’s blade, but made to dish out punishing strokes that could penetrate armor. Jaeron decided he had better make this a defensive fight and stall for time until reinforcements arrived. Then there was no more time. Holger charged.