Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer

by James Shade

  Jaeron thought about that. When it came to his beliefs, he saw that he was transparent. Even with his brief interactions with Shaels, the man could see that he was trying to elevate a thieves’ guild to be something more noble. His personal courage and conviction could be viewed as a guild weakness. He would have to learn to better conceal his beliefs in the future.

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  Shaels searched Jaeron’s face for a moment and then dove in. He gave Jaeron the details of a guild complaint, the best way to contact the guildmaster, and suggestions for bargaining points. Jaeron made a few augmenting suggestions for changes to the plan, to most of which Coatie agreed.

  When they were finished, Jaeron escorted Coatie out and climbed the stairs to the second-floor bedroom. Despite the late hour, Chazd was not in bed, not home. Jaeron worried about his brother’s excursions and wished Chazd would let them know his whereabouts. Over the past weeks, they may have slipped the searches of both Islar Guards and Black Fangs, but that did not mean Chazd could not get himself in trouble and Jaeron would have no way to protect or help him.

  A second of indecision passed and then Jaeron got undressed and into bed. He was not going to wait up for his brother just to start an argument with him. He would invite Chazd to go with him tomorrow hoping that would maybe make him feel more included. Although he was exhausted, Jaeron still tossed on the bed awake for a full bell before finally succumbing to sleep.

  ~

  The way that Jotar Venghsat in the sauna reminded Chazd of a great, sweaty toad. The man was not large. He barely topped five foot two standing, coming up four inches shy of Chazd’s own medium frame. But seated on the wooden bench, his belly extended out like a great round pouch, pale and pock-marked. His chest supported two large man-breasts, not protruding but hanging down like thick flaps. His arms and legs were thin and gangly, seemingly composed more of bone and skin than muscle and fat.

  Even Jotar’s face had an amphibious nature. The guild leader’s lower eyelids sagged and exaggerated his already bulging eyes. His mouth was wide, and looked even wider because of his overly large upper lip and an expanse of skin between it and the bottom of his nose.

  He stared glumly at the deAltos as they crossed the sauna and sat down, carefully arranging their towels about them. He was silent, not even welcoming them to the luxuries his meeting place afforded.

  “Good afternoon, Guildmaster Vengh,” Jaeron said. “And thank you for granting us this meeting.”

  Jotar did not reply. His strange eyes just flicked back and forth between Jaeron and Chazd as if searching for the next meal.

  “Guildmaster, as guild leaders of Henri’s Hands, we are requesting that your guild, the Three Mill Legion, relinquish all protection services in the Ninth ward, from Garner Street to Walnut up to the tobacco warehouse.”

  Jotar laughed, “Now why would I ever do that?”

  Chazd shook his head and chuckled aloud. “I told you! You owe me five mizecs!”

  Jaeron made a quick cutting motion with his hand. Chazd quieted his outburst. His brother took a quick breath, and let it out more quickly than normal, unused to the thick heat entering his lungs.

  “Jotar,” Jaeron said, “you really have no choice. Our guild is taking over that portion of the ward, and you really don’t have the strength to fight us on it. Especially not with six of your best footpads in the dungeon awaiting sentencing. And you wouldn’t get it accomplished without serious cost.

  “You’ve moved out of favor with the Grandmaster, especially since that pearl heist got botched, and you are desperately trying to recover.”

  Chazd could see red blotchiness growing on the man’s face as his brother continued.

  “Plus,” Jaeron spoke more quickly, trying to get everything on the table before Jotar could recover. “We are going to do you a favor. Our guild is prepared to do a job for you.”

  “What job?” Jotar asked, his eyes squinting in the steam.

  Chazd smiled. He thought Jaeron was taking a chance playing the greed card this early in the discussion, but it seemed to have worked.

  “We understand that you have had some payment difficulty at Madame Usher’s and the courtesans have been being mistreated, mainly attributed to members of another guild.”

  Jotar’s eyes finally narrowed, giving Chazd and Jaeron a vicious look. “You hear a lot for a group of nursing pups!”

  He paused, almost waiting for an explanation, and then he seemed to deflate a little when he realized he was not going to get one.

  “What is your proposal?”

  “We have some issues of our own with the guild in question, and we suspect that despite their rung status, no one approves of their abuse of your girls. So, we’re going to punish the bastards that have hurt your courtesans and,” Jaeron paused to clarify his intent, “if there’s a little punishment overflow, so be it.

  “We’re willing to give you fifty percent of the money that comes out of this, as compensation for the release of your territory. You’ll get half of whatever remains of their assets, with the Grandmaster’s approval.”

  Jotar appeared to give the offer initial due thought, but Chazd guessed that the man had already made up his mind. He would not look either of the deAltos in the face.

  “You understand that the area is already contested?” Jotar asked.

  Jaeron nodded, “We already have a way to address that.”

  “You understand who you are going up against?”

  “We do. And if we fail, we can afford you some protection against backlash. You don’t lose anything.”

  Chazd was not sure about that, but his brother seemed to have a plan. Or Coatie Shaels does.

  “It doesn’t balance. You are… giving too much,” Jotar said suspiciously. “What am I missing?”

  “We want your full council support to be introduced and voted in as a second rung guild.”

  Jotar hesitated, but in the end agreed. He provided them the information on how and where to contact him regarding the next meeting of the Thieves’ Council. After the meeting, the two deAltos strolled home in the afternoon sun. The air was cooling and Chazd was glad to carry his cloak after being so thoroughly heated in the sauna.

  “Do you still think I owe you our bet?” Jaeron asked him, half seriously.

  Chazd threw his brother a wide smile. “No, no, I’ll pay you. Besides, it all came out the way you knew it would.”

  “Then why in the name of…,” Jaeron could not complete the curse. “Why did you push for the bet?”

  Chazd stopped walking and spun on his brother.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” he asked. “You need me to poke holes in your plans. If I don’t, you get so focused, you don’t either!

  “Look, I admire your confidence, Jaeron. But sometimes you let it blind you. And you tend to believe that everyone thinks things out the same way you do. That everyone is so logical, selfless, do-gooding! But people aren’t like that. Some of them think of themselves first. Some of them live moment to moment, running purely on emotion. And some of them are just plain crazy.

  “So, you keep doing what you’re doing. But you ought to make sure I keep doing what I’m doing, too.”

  Then Chazd turned back up the street and walked off, leaving Jaeron behind.

  Fifty-Nine

  Chazd stood in shocked silence after he answered the door. He was not sure what he expected, but he had not thought he would be seeing Master Rodin today.

  “Good morning, Chazd,” the music instructor smiled from the doorway.

  As congenial as always, the musician patiently waited for Chazd’s response. But Chazd did not know what to say.

  “May I come in?”

  Chazd nodded mutely and stepped out of the way, allowing Rodin to make his way through the small house’s entry hall and into the main sitting room. Chazd followed him, once again astonished at the outfit his teacher wore.

  Rodin’s breeches and doublet were turquoise silk with s
plit seam patterns revealing a dark blue cotton beneath. His shirt and hose were brilliant white and his shoes decorated with dark blue fenestrations to match. The entire ensemble was finished with polished pewter buttons and piping. The outfit cost a month’s salary of the average Islar working man, if Chazd’s estimations were close.

  As Chazd followed the musician into the sitting room, he saw that his instructor had a package bundled in brown oiled paper under his arm. Rodin pulled off his shoulder bag and set the package down on one of the thinly padded leather chairs.

  “Are your siblings here?”

  “Yes, sir,” Chazd said.

  He could not help frowning. He still had not sorted through all the thoughts and emotions concerning his instructor. Rodin had become a secondary father to Chazd, but ever since bringing him the various pieces of the music box and catching him with Bettra, Chazd had felt uneasy about the man.

  No, he was jealous of the man. Of his confidence, his easy smile, and his disarming good looks despite his obvious age. Of his musical talent, certainly. No matter how hard Chazd worked, Rodin was always ready to challenge him with something he felt he had no hope of mastering. And he did so easily.

  What is really bothering me, though? Chazd had a feeling that it had more to do with his brother’s request and the enthusiasm that Rodin was showing about providing his help with this mess.

  “Can you get them?”

  Chazd looked up, startled again. His focus had been solely on the wrapped package near the center of the room and he had not realized his teacher had been talking to him. He shook his head and looked back at Master Rodin’s smile.

  “Yes, sir.”

  By the time the three deAltos joined the older bard in the sitting room, the man had already unwrapped the package and was quietly folding the oiled paper into a neat bundle on his chair. He turned toward the trio and gave a shallow bow toward Jaeron.

  “Good morning. I apologize for calling upon you at this early hour.”

  Chazd turned to his brother and sister, “This is Master Rodin, my music teacher.

  “Rodin, this is my brother Jaeron deAlto and my sister, Avrilla.”

  Jaeron crossed the room in two strides and shook the man’s hand.

  “It is good to meet you, sir. Chazd speaks highly of you.”

  Rodin’s grin broadened. “Oh? I’m surprised the lad speaks of me at all!” Rodin said.

  Then he crossed the room and took Avrilla's hand, brushing it briefly to his 1ips and bowing formally.

  “M’lady Avrilla,” his voice was quiet. “Chazd did not say that his sister was such a vision of loveliness and charm.”

  Chazd shook his head, watching. Avrilla blushed, looking away from the man. Rodin turned around and raised his eyebrows at Jaeron. Chazd could tell that his brother was uncomfortable with the unexpected flattery of their sister.

  “Tis a difficult habit to break. Complements to pretty women help put coins in the purse,” he said.

  “But the complement was not said falsely, Jaeron deAlto. Your sister is beautiful, despite her effort to hide it.”

  The easy smile was gone and the older man was suddenly addressing Jaeron as the man of the household.

  “So, on to the reason for my visit.”

  With a grand gesture, Rodin indicated the contents of his package. All eyes turned to the box on the table. It was a simple, beautiful construction, made of walnut with hand-carved dovetail joints. A brass handle protruded from the side, bent in a strong ‘L’. A series of crescent holes were cut into the front of the box, fanned out in a decorative pattern, decreasing in size from the center to the box's sides.

  Chazd stayed in the wide doorway leaning gently against the left-hand frame. The box was the subject of the drawing he watched Rodin make nearly two weeks ago. He found that he was not happy to see it, despite his role in its creation. With a sudden certainty, Chazd did not want to hear the music that was sure to flow through those holes.

  On the other hand Jaeron had knelt by the table, his hand tentatively touching the glossy surface of the wood. Avrilla moved toward the table also, practically prancing from what Chazd could see, influenced by the bard's compliments.

  Rodin nodded and said, “Go ahead, Jaeron. Wind it.”

  Chazd watched as his brother moved his hand to rest on the polished brass. His movement tentative, almost as reverent as his visits to Teichmar’s altar. As if the music box would burn him. Further encouraged by Rodin, Jaeron began turning the delicate crank in a clockwise direction.

  Chazd listened to the locking gear click away in a rapid staccato that blended into a low mechanical hum. Despite his frustration with Jaeron's interest in this distraction, investigating the family history, Chazd could not help but feel a sense of pride. He had not assembled the device, nor drawn its plans, but he understood that Rodin had forced him to solve much of the crafting problems that were required to make this possible.

  Jaeron turned the crank only a few revolutions and then paused to look at Rodin.

  “A few more should do. It will play the melody fully through, I think. Finish the winding and then turn the key.”

  Jaeron followed the instructions, stepping away from the device when the first clear note sounded from the chamber. They listened quietly as the music began, the comb and cylinder producing a song that had not played in almost fifteen years. On the conclusion of the introductory bars, Rodin joined in with an accompaniment on his travelers harp.

  Chazd's musings had distracted him from noticing the changes that had come over the room. He recognized a low voice, melodious but rough, that had been singing along with the music.

  Of three holy men who took up the call,

  We sing o’ their trails to help save us all.

  Twere sent laden with faith, weapons, and wine,

  Silently waiting for tree-borne carved sign.

  A life they embraced, of exile and pain.

  In faraway lands and ne’er seen again.

  The truth bearers knew with patience they’d wait.

  ‘Til gift bearers come accepting their fate.

  So where, where are they now?

  Oh where are they, where are they now?

  The black clad brother went north through the pass.

  Yon wolf’s head mountain and cold, swampy grass.

  Friended the hunters and wild mares ridden,

  Plied the shaman for relics lain hidden.

  Traveled ‘mong barrows where watchtowers stand,

  Back ‘long river where ice merges with land.

  Before the white cliffs the sun never mars.

  A fool to find him in cave full of stars.

  So where, where are they now?

  Oh where are they, where are they now?

  Purple embroidered and arcane embraced,

  The second along enclosed south sea traced.

  Crossed surging waters, eight falls blocking war.

  To sand imprinted with giants of lore.

  Round step-sided hills of olive and vine,

  The sole comfort of bread and sweetened wine.

  Below spire’s shadow in stucco and tile,

  A mage expected, completing the trial.

  So where, where are they now?

  Oh where are they, where are they now?

  The rustic, wise third he took to the sea,

  To risk rocky straits and black piracy.

  Welcomed as brother on pink Elven shore

  Near city afloat and red hawks that soar.

  Secluded inland a library old,

  Where obelisk marks a basin of gold.

  The ringed monkeys howl and coral makes art.

  Nearing placid shoal the knight finds his start.

  So where, where are they now?

  Oh where are they, where are they now?

  Seek three priests divine who took up the call.

  They fled to the winds to help save us all.

  To preserve their faith in hiding they stayed.

&nb
sp; But honor demands new parts to be played.

  Seek them, go find them now.

  Oh where are they, where are they now?

  His brother sang, clearly voicing every word of every line. On the second stanza, Rodin joined in with background vocals and completed the song’s refrain in the round. Chazd noticed that though Rodin was performing, he was watching his brother, too. The music teacher had a strange look on his face, his eyes focused in concentration.

  When the song ended, Jaeron shook his head in frustration. He appeared confused, as if he had lost his train of thought. He rubbed his face with his hand and dropped down into a chair. Avrilla walked over behind him and put her hand on his shoulder.

  The last bit of the melody trailed off and stopped. Rodin stepped up and set a rolled scroll of parchment on the music box.

  “That's the sheet music for the work. It's derivative, but well executed. The original is an old work, probably created by Kelsea. The words you sang are new, written by the same master who crafted the cylinder, I would guess.”