by James Shade
“His son is his own man, is he not? If he is following in his father’s line of work to the benefit of our Guilds… my pardon, your Guilds, why should he be refused?”
As Ortelli spoke, Gerlido saw deSwan nodding in agreement. He stifled the grimace from showing on his face.
Did it matter? So the deAlto brats wanted to play a bigger game than their father did. Why does that get under my skin? It grated Gerlido, more than just an annoyance. He just could not figure out why.
“Ex-guildmaster Ortelli raises a valid question, Grandmaster. I withdraw my objection.”
Gerlido looked back at Jaeron deAlto. The boy was careful, watching him, his face unreadable. Why now? What does he want? He closed his eyes and felt the blood heat up around his cheekbones, under his eyes, and around his sinus cavities. He had to be so careful not to engage his senses too far allowing the physical changes to manifest in his features.
He took a deep breath through his nose and tried to read what he could from the scents in the room. Sweat, tobacco, cologne, body odor, leather, weapon oil, mud, fish, blood. He identified each odor and set it aside, trying to narrow in on deAlto alone. It was hard in this room, amongst this group of men. But there! He found him. Anger and just a hint of fear. Did the boy know?
Sixty-One
Chazd sat comfortably with his knees drawn up and his back pressed against the moss green siding of the waterfront building. His perch on the second-floor porch roof was inconspicuous and had been a favorite place to escape during the more turbulent years of his youth. The fact that those years were only a short time ago did not escape him. His opinion was that he had matured significantly since his last birthday. Somberly, he wondered how much more he had matured in just the past few weeks.
He looked out over the dark waters of the Bay of Islar, watching the ship sails turn orange, and then red as the sun set over the city behind him. He drew a deep breath, taking in the scent of sea, fish, and tar of the waterfront. He tasted the sea salt faintly on the back of his throat. He thought about the daydreams of his youth. Thoughts of sailing away on one of those ships to Pevar or Drastenbul or the lands of the Mar’lunessia. He wondered how many times he had wished to leave this stinking city. He had been tired of being poor. Tired of training and practicing for some future vision of his father’s.
He had escaped in so many ways. Sneaking away to drink with his friends. To gamble away the few mizecs he had hidden from his family or pinched during his visits to the market. To flirt and infrequently find further comfort in the kiss and caress of the latest girl of interest.
Now, he was fighting with his brother and sister to do exactly the opposite. Despite Jaeron’s attendance at the Thieves’ Council tonight, he knew his brother wanted to pursue this trail of crumbs left for them by some mad nursemaid, now long dead he supposed. Chazd was the one rallying to stay in the city. Jaeron had always believed that Teichmar had a hand in ensuring that he and his siblings were to be found and raised by Henri, and now he wanted to find out who they were before they were orphaned?
“Mara’s loins!”
Chazd did not care who his real parents were. Henri had been his father. A hard man, perhaps. Frugal. Disciplinary. But Chazd had no doubt that he had loved them, protected them. And made damn sure they could survive in a city corrupted by vice, a steadily declining source of essentials, and a political maze in terms of thieves and their rules. He had gotten them prepared and he had made them strong. He had most likely died because of it.
At least he believed that was the reason for Henri's murder. Sure as the Pit of Xrassex, Father was not killed over a couple of wooden toys and a forgotten bit of music hidden in an old apartment. How can Jaeron believe that?
By the hells, they had only found the cylinder by the thinnest of luck. Who else other than Avrilla would have found the address hidden within the package Henri left them? And who else would have remembered singing in front of the fireplace other than someone who had lived there?
Despite Rodin's interest in the music on that cylinder, Chazd could not connect it to Henri's death. At least not as obviously as the theft of the jewelry case from the Dockpads. And perhaps more importantly the letter enclosed with that jewelry. Yet the Dockpads were apparently clueless about the missing necklace, despite their wounded guard and dead dogs. They seemed to be passing the events of that night off as overzealous guard activity or they were more adept at deceit than Chazd gave them credit.
Chazd shivered. The sun was fully gone behind the Guradilup mountains and the city was cloaked in the darkness it seemed to so much enjoy. The air temperature by the water dropped, even though by all other indications spring was coming to a close.
The ‘tenth’ bells rang from the Cathedral tower. He stood carefully and stretched. He had been sitting too long in one position. Once he felt limber, he checked the positions of the moons and climbed back down the porches to the alley below. It was time to move. He had an appointment with another thief.
Chazd made it to Mills Road before the bells rang again and changed before climbing to the new rooftop. The outfit was taking some adjustment.
He had spent the past few days checking shops, leather crafts and armor stores, trying to piece together an outfit similar to that which he had seen on the road the night of the silver heist. What he ended up with was disappointing. Most of the colors were right, but the fit was poor. It was hard to run, harder to climb, and he did not yet know how well he could shoot while wearing it. Chazd also suspected that the assembled pieces were not as protective as that Pevaran’s had been.
At least his boots were comfortable. He had spent most of his coin on the new shoes and in that he relearned one of Henri’s lessons. If you need something to be right, you may as well spend the money on it.
From his perch on the steep roof, Chazd had a good view of Mills Road. Karl had heard that someone was running a job there tonight and Chazd was intent on catching them in the act. He had spent every night since Jaeron’s meeting like this, watching from hidden shadows, on the tops of roofs or in thick hedges. So far, he had come up empty.
A slim figure dropped from the roofline and onto a window sill across the street about a block away.
But not tonight.
Chazd checked the range. He shook his head. It was too far a distance. He was going to have to move while the other thief completed his break-in. He checked his footing and eased off the roof. It was always easier climbing up than getting back down.
By the time Chazd got into a better position, he was slick with sweat and winded. The new clothes were clinging in uncomfortable places. He should have consulted with Avrilla about his fabric choices. He pulled his crossbow from his shoulder and lowered the stirrup to his foot. He stretched the bowstring into the nut, set a bolt, and waited.
Chazd did not have to wait long. The second-floor window shutters opened and the man emerged, cautious and checking the building exterior. Balanced on the sill, he closed the window behind him, patting the bulging sack hung on his hips. Then he lowered himself into a crouch and maneuvered into a hanging position to drop to the small porch roof below. Chazd raised his crossbow and took aim. He took a breath and slowly released it. Time slowed and he fired.
As soon as he triggered the tickle lever, Chazd was on the move, not bothering to wait and see if the bolt struck where he expected. He had moments before an alarm was raised. The wailing scream from the thief on the ledge broke the street’s quiet. Chazd almost turned his ankle dropping to the ground. Then he raced across the street and vaulted to catch the edge of the rooftop, pulling himself up in a frenzy. He got to the other thief before he could cry out again and clamped his hand over his mouth.
“Scream again and I’ll let you hang here until the Guards come,” he hissed.
The man moaned.
Chazd gripped the quarrel with his free hand and pushed it sideways. The man’s eyes went wide.
“We have seconds. Do you want this out?”
He nodd
ed. Chazd released his face.
“Who sanctioned this? Which Guild?”
The thief paled further, shaking his head. Chazd twisted the bolt again.
“The Vassals. The Spoiled Vassals.”
In his peripheral vision, Chazd saw lights coming on. Candles or oil lanterns within the building and the neighboring one. He was out of time.
“Liar. The Vassals are retired. Who is it?” He pushed again and felt the wooden bolt shift against the bones in the man’s forearm.
“Grey Ravens. I’m with the Ravens,” he whimpered.
Chazd gripped the quarrel firmly and pulled, ripping it from the wooden siding and the arm all at once. Together they tumbled to the tiny roof below. Chazd immediately swung down to drop the rest of the way to the ground and then shot to the narrow walkway between the homes. He sprinted for blocks, ignoring the shouts and calls for help.
He finally stopped running to catch his breath. He bent over, chest heaving and nerves on edge. Chazd listened for sounds of pursuit. He heard none. He walked a few paces, checking the nearby street for activity, but it was quiet. In the guttering light of the street side lamp, Chazd finally saw he was still gripping the crossbow bolt and his hand was coated in blood.
He wretched on the pavestones. Muscles exhausted after the climbing, jumping, and running, Chazd felt like he was going to die. Without meaning to, Chazd dropped to his hands and knees. Each convulsion of his diaphragm wracked his weary body. In between the heaves, he was able to move a knee or an arm until his body was propped up against a building wall. When the episode finally passed, Chazd retrieved a cloth from his small supply pack and wiped his face, then his hand, then the quarrel.
“Fine,” he whispered. “Even if I throw up every night, it will be worth it.”
He did not have the time for involved investigation and guesswork. He was going to learn the extent of the Black Fang borders. For Father, any price.
~
“I think you are a little too trusting,” Coatie Shaels voice called down the basement stairs ahead of his arrival.
Jaeron exchanged a smile with Avrilla. Their adviser had been saying that ever since they had given him a key to the apartment several days before. Jaeron went back to making annotations on their city map, knowing his sister would greet their guest.
In the past week they had made remarkable progress on narrowing down the extents of the Black Fang territory and activities. They had found their main gambling hall, narrowed in on the locations they used for the illegal pit fights, and uncovered the identity of several of the Islar Guardsmen on their payroll. Chazd had even come through with laying out the northern and western borders of their area of control in the city along with a wealth of other information about other guild boundaries. Teichmar knows how he’s doing that.
But Jaeron was still frustrated. They still had not a clue as to where Gerlido made his home, where the Black Fangs had a headquarters, or where the guild obtained what seemed to be a constant supply of gindi.
Jaeron felt Coatie at his side, examining the map. He turned his head to look up at him.
“It’s good,” Shaels said. “Maybe too good.””
“How so?”
“Ortelli kept this kind of information in his head. He used to say that some things weren’t meant to be written down. It’s long been a rumor that Grandmaster deSwan has a map like this where he tracks all Guild activities. Ortelli joked that the Crimson Wolves put more than a few prospective Guildmasters in the ground for trying to get that map. I’m not completely sure he was joking.”
“Crimson Wolves?” Avrilla asked.
Coatie looked at her oddly.
“Surely you’ve heard of the Wolves?”
Jaeron shook his head. Avrilla looked as confused as he felt.
“So, the Wolves are a myth. An urban legend of why deSwan has control over the Guilds of Islar. They are supposedly a guild of assassins, trained in the Guradilup Mountains. They dress in gray, but like the feral wolves of those mountains, when they return from a hunt they are so drenched in the blood of their prey that they glisten with it. Crimson red.
“No one knows if it’s true. Supposedly no one alive has ever seen them. But the general understanding is that deSwan knows how to hire them and that’s why no Guild will ever challenge him. deSwan will be Grandmaster until his death or he decides to retire.”
Jaeron closed his eyes and shook his head. Another rumor. Another secret. As much as Henri had taught them and invested in their training, it seemed like it was never enough.
“deSwan?” Jaeron asked.
Coatie nodded. “He is not happy about it, Jaeron. Gerlido has the Fangs lined up for lead guild on the second rung now that the Vassals are retired. He brings in a lot of money.”
“So, what convinced him?”
“Ortelli. And the promise that Henri’s Hands will do as well.”
Jaeron turned fully around at that.
“Shaels… we can’t…” Jaeron stopped, thinking about what he really wanted to say.
“I’m not comfortable with the pit fights. But I won’t sell gindi. It violates a prime tenet of Teichmar.”
“It’s likely the most profitable segment of their business.”
Jaeron knew that. He shrugged.
“We’ll have to find a different way.”
“You’ll need to get bigger. Possibly too big. Jaeron, you won’t be able to match their income without it.”
Jaeron sighed. It was just one more obstacle in the way. But it did not matter. By the time he had to deal with that, Gerlido and the others responsible for his father’s death would be gone. And that is just too far away to really think about.
“deAlto-”
“Coatie, I hear you. I don’t want to make deSwan an enemy. I understand. But for now, my family needs to focus on Gerlido. We can think about how to make money after that. Can we start this fight?”
Coatie nodded. “Yes. By morning, all of the Guildmasters except for Gerlido will be notified to remain neutral. You can start.”
Jaeron pointed to the map. “Okay, so where do we begin?”
Coatie stood, hands on his hips studying the parchments.
“Well, you need to weaken his numbers. Hit the Fangs’ manpower and weaken their financials. I think you should start by paying off your debt to Vengh.”
Jaeron agreed, “We can do that.”
Sixty-Two
“Didn’t you hear the lady? You are no longer welcome here.”
Jaeron stepped out of the darkened foyer toward the entryway of the brothel. His sword was not drawn, but his hand rested lightly on the hilt. The four men at the threshold did not move but exchanged glances assessing what to do next.
The brothel had once been a governor’s manor, when Islar had much shorter stone walls and had not yet stretched across to the north side of the Targu Mares River. It was built in the deYelv style with thick columns supporting an arched roof over the porch. The columns repeated inside the spacious entryway and on into the entirety of the main floor.
“No one tells us what to do. Do you know who we work for?”
Jaeron did not, in fact, know whom they worked for. But the rumors Avrilla collected suggested that a group of Gerlido’s men would be showing up tonight. The reaction to their arrival from Sheila, this evening’s young greeting girl, confirmed his suspicions. At least one of these men was responsible for roughing up the women here.
“You should reconsider your current employment,” Jaeron said. He was smiling, but he had no doubt that his eyes betrayed equal humor.
“Four to one, boy,” said the older rogue on the left side of the group. He pulled a long, wavy-bladed knife from its sheath. “Better go on home before you end up dead.”
“Maybe he is home,” said the next man in the line, the one who spoke first.
He was younger, more eager to prove himself.
“That right, whoreson?” another goaded. “Nothin’ better t’do than try to keep mommy
from what she really needs.”
The comment offended Jaeron more than he expected. The disrespect bit deep. He had no knowledge of who his real mother might have been. He could very well be the son of a whore, abandoned to thieves, just as easily as the son of any other woman.
He pulled his sword out. The motion was smooth and deliberate as Jaeron entered water stance.
“Your funeral,” the older man said. “Dying alone for–”
“Except that he’s not alone,” Danine said. She slipped from behind the front column. “I should just watch him kill you fools, but that wasn’t our goal. And we want to get this over with.”
Jaeron could barely see the lean woman standing behind the small group. She was dressed in dark body-fitting leather, accented with gray dyed linen. She had painted her face, a swirling Hinterland tribal pattern that hid her features and tattoos. She held her weapons loosely in her hands, only the subtle twitches in her ax blade giving away her readiness for a fight.
The reaction from Gerlido’s men was professional. The pair in the back whirled to face the new opponent and the remaining men drew their weapons. Jaeron did not wait any longer. He attempted to disarm them first. He swept his blade up and right into sun’s salute and feinted with his left leg. The leader took the bait and began a counter. Jaeron’s swift slice to the right caught the man’s sword arm, opening it between the radius and ulna, nearly from elbow to wrist. The man dropped his short sword, clutching the wound with his other hand.
The left-side opponent lunged in, trying to take advantage of Jaeron’s apparent distraction. Jaeron dropped into a low side lunge and performed a reverse cross-cut that drove his foe into a weak block with his kris. Coming up from the low position, Jaeron leveraged the pressure of the two blades against each other to force the man to stumble backward into the thieves behind him.
For her part, Danine had not been idle. She had engaged the two men with her full arena training, not fighting with the same regard for life that Jaeron was showing. She brutally hammered at both men who were obviously unprepared for her skill or tactics. By the time Jaeron had forced his foe’s retreat, they were both suffering from at least three wounds each that would soon incapacitate them.