Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer

by James Shade

  Jaeron had asked Shaels first, but the guild lieutenant admitted that neither he nor Ortelli could provide an invitation. However, they had a short list of individuals who they knew had been invited in the past. One name on that list was Master Jancis Rodin.

  Avrilla waited until dusk before going out under the disguise of the old street woman. She made her way through the Temple Ward to Dockside and into the Window’s main room. Rodin was playing, which meant she was not able to talk to him straight away. She stayed in character, ordered a thimble of the cheapest liquor, and nursed it until Rodin’s break.

  The musician was surrounded as he maneuvered to a table and it took some effort for Avrilla to push through the crowd to get close to him. He sighed and rolled his eyes when she forced herself into the seat across the table.

  “Dear lady, I must have a few moments of privacy before returning to the stage. I-”

  Rodin’s eyes widened just a fraction in recognition as he took his first good look at her face.

  “Ingomel’s beard.”

  Avrilla smiled and ducked her head. People were still close and it would not do for anyone to know that she and Rodin knew each other.

  “Is there someplace we can talk?”

  “I do have to play another set.”

  Avrilla wished she could stay and listen to the man another hour, but she shook her head.

  “This can’t wait.”

  Rodin sucked his tooth and squinted with one eye. But he bobbed his head and moved off his seat.

  “Come with me.”

  Avrilla followed the bard back through the crowd, appreciating his ability to deflect his admirers. He was so courteous and complimentary. They each went away feeling like they had been given a gift. She could never be so charismatic.

  They went upstairs and along a side hall when Avrilla realized that they were probably going to his room. She stopped in the hallway, considering the propriety of the situation. Then she laughed. In her clothes and make-up, no one knew who she was.

  Rodin turned at her giggle, raising an eyebrow. She shook her head at him, motioning for him to continue. Avrilla explained her outburst when they were inside the room, making Rodin smirk.

  “Well, I am pleased that you feel comfortable enough to share that with me.”

  “I do. I’m not sure why. It’s not just your relationship with Chazd, or your words with Jaeron. There’s something… a feeling like we’ve known each other before. As impossible as that is.”

  Rodin gave her a curious look but did not comment on her statement either way.

  “What can I do for you, Miss deAlto?”

  “We understand that you have been invited to the Equine Council Ball in years past. Were you invited this year?”

  Rodin’s brow furrowed.

  “I am. I hadn’t been invited in a couple of years, but I have been rebuilding contacts in Islar. That earned me an invitation. Why?”

  Avrilla was not sure how much to tell the man. After what he had done for them with the music box, she thought that demonstrated his trustworthiness. But she did not want to put him in any danger.

  “May I see the invitation?”

  Rodin’s curious frown transformed into a sly smile.

  “You and your brothers are planning to attend?”

  “We will have someone attend. I don’t think we know who yet.”

  “I could attend for you.”

  Avrilla considered, but shook her head. “No, you’re too… visible for what we need. And you are connected to Chazd. That might not be good. We’ve started a vendetta with the other guild. From what we can gather, they are involved in the event.”

  “So, you’re going to need a forgery invitation made?”

  Avrilla smiled, “I’m going to do it.”

  “You… Miss deAlto, you continue to surprise me.”

  Rodin stood and went to his desk. He shuffled through several documents and brought one over to her.

  “This should be what you need.”

  Avrilla unrolled the parchment. It was new and crisp. The script had been inked with a wide, flat quill in black ink. There was an embossing at the wax seal and a historiated initial on the first paragraph. She recognized it as a woodcut stamp. It would be time-consuming, but she could copy the document.

  “May I borrow this? A day, no more. I promise.”

  Rodin waived his hand at her. “Keep it. I was not planning to attend… unless you have need of me?”

  “I will ask Jaeron, but I don’t think so.”

  Avrilla rose and curtsied to Rodin as he stood with her.

  “Thank you, Master Rodin. We are again in your debt.”

  Sixty-Seven

  Gerlido stood, uncomfortable and silent, as the tailor at his feet made his last fitting adjustments to his clothing. The visit from Larsetta the previous morning had done nothing to calm him. Now the woman was personally checking on the Black Fang operations. She had dared come to his home to tell him she knew he was lying about the gambling hall.

  Why in the hells didn’t I just kill her? He wanted to. He felt a rush of anger, the outrage, return. She had stood there watching him, goading him into a fury. And then laughed at him, at his impotence.

  Between Larsetta’s plans for Islar and her toying with him and the annoyance of the deAltos growing into a credible threat, he was finding it very difficult to stay focused on the evening. At least his visit to Jotar had been profitable. The man had folded faster than Gerlido expected. In fact, Gerlido thought, it might be time to incorporate Vengh’s guild into my own and retire that fool permanently.

  Sukul’s attack plan had been perfect. Gerlido’s only regret was that they had not found any of the deAltos amongst the dead.

  He needed to set aside all distractions tonight. His arrangement for Mennat was the most important aspect of the Black Fang operation. Rosunland got horses, Gerlido got gindi, and Mennat got to continue his war. The money came from the taxpayers, the Army’s cavalry fund, and the addicts of Islar. Everyone imagined that he won. But like so many things of complexity, it was delicate. Gerlido had to ensure everything was perfect tonight.

  He stretched and flexed his muscles, shifting his body underneath the new clothes. The movement elicited a ‘tsk’ from the tailor. Gerlido reached down and grabbed the man by the throat, then slowly lifted him to look into his eyes.

  “I am the customer. I am in charge. If you make such noises again, I will have you taken to the cellar and flogged. Am I understood?”

  The man tried to bob his head in agreement, but found it impossible. His entire body, frail and bony, jangled in response.

  Gerlido dropped him. “Finish this. I have a ball to attend.”

  ~

  The evening of the Equine Council ball arrived fast. Despite the planning, acquiring materials, and forging the invitation, Avrilla still felt unprepared. She and her brothers had discussed the options with Coatie so many times, and in spite of Jaeron’s misgivings, the best choice for attendees had always come out the same. Avrilla would attend the ball with Karl.

  Avrilla had the knowledge of proper dress and decorum. She also learned from the trade housemistress some simple, but effective, ways to blend in unnoticed. Lady deChel had taught Avrilla how to use wigs, makeup, changes of clothes. How to use a different walk, tone of voice, gesture, or phrase. She could become someone else.

  Karl knew the horse trade. During his court-enforced apprenticeship to the Alinfont ranch, he learned about not only the care and breeding of horses, but the language of the equine business. In addition, Avrilla felt that with a couple of props, new formalwear, and a small adjustment to his demeanor, he could blend into a role easier than Chazd.

  She knew it had wounded Jaeron to be so excluded. Except for Jaeron, they all agreed that he was too identifiable. Even if no one else at the ball knew him, Gerlido would recognize him on sight.

  Avrilla did not feel like herself. Which was a good thing, she supposed. She had borrowed the dress and
shoes from Lady deChel and spent guild funds on the remaining finery. Between the makeup and hair extensions, her face was subtly changed and now framed with hundreds of golden curls, not to mention the towering pile of hair and ribbon that adorned her head.

  Mentally, she had prepared herself for the changes, putting herself into the role. For the most part she had become Julia deStrebor, but she was embarrassed by the changes in her bosom. Her dress pushed her breasts together and up, displaying them over the top of her blouse and bodice. Her embarrassment at the arena had been worse, but her brothers were not there to have seen that state of undress. This time both Jaeron and Chazd came in to check on her after she changed, evaluating her disguise. Based on their reaction, Avrilla doubted she needed rouge to color her cheeks. She expected that they were already quite red.

  A glance across the room at Karl’s face confirmed her fear that her brothers had given him a hard time about being her date for the evening. Karl’s face was just as red as her face felt. As Avrilla took in the rest of Karl, she was impressed and flushed a bit at her sudden admiration. Despite his physical impairments, Karl looked good. Lady deChel had spent the day with him, fitting him with a tailored suit, a dark brown damask surcoat, and breeches. The golden thread weave in the brocade complemented the honey colored tunic and leggings. Karl’s ensemble matched Avrilla’s dress, a saffron gown, printed with a fine, dark brown ivy pattern, and trimmed with an auburn brocade.

  Lady deChel guided Avrilla over to stand next to Karl. She walked around them, ignoring the deAlto brothers, inspecting her work. Her hands were alive as she circled, brushing away a bit of lint here, pressing a seam into place there. Finally, she stepped back and gave a nod of approval.

  “I think you are ready, Miss deAlto.”

  “Lady deStrebor tonight,” Avrilla said. She was beaming. She could not help it. “Lady deChel, I don’t know how we will repay you for this. My thanks.”

  “Child, it’s nothing.”

  Jaeron crossed the room and took the seamstress’ hands.

  “No, Lady deChel,” he said. “You cannot understand the value of this favor. If we succeed tonight, it will be your doing. Not ours.”

  Avrilla watched her teacher blush. Her brother truly did not understand the gifts he had.

  Jaeron turned to her and Karl, serious and worried again. “I don’t have to tell you to be careful. I still wish I-”

  “Jaeron, no. There’s no more to discuss. We will be careful and we will come back tonight with something we can use.”

  Her brother nodded and escorted them to the street where Chazd had a hired coach waiting for them. The trip to the Twin Owl Theater was physically comfortable, if socially awkward for Avrilla. She imagined that it was the same for Karl, who seemed content to sit quietly in the hired carriage and gaze out the window at the streets moving past. They did not have to talk about their plans for the night, having hashed them out with her brothers the night before. They knew they were taking a risk with Karl. His disabilities were noticeable enough that he might be recognized by one of Gerlido’s men. But in his tailored clothes, a clean-shaven face and powdered wig, the patch covering his disfigured eye, it was difficult for Avrilla to see Chazd’s friend beneath the disguise.

  He even carried himself differently. Pulling his limp into a slower, more structured gait, Karl struck an admirable, if not quite handsome, presence. Avrilla wondered at the man, trying to understand the life he led. A much harder one than even the deAltos had. For all his pain and misery, Karl still seemed to have a positive outlook and Avrilla was suddenly glad for his strange friendship with her younger brother, despite their age difference.

  Sixty-Eight

  Karl felt keenly aware of his anxiety when the carriage finally arrived at the Twin Owls. He forced a deep breath once before pulling himself out to the street and then came around the vehicle to offer Avrilla his arm. Never in his years had Karl believed he would be taking a woman to a grand ball. Let alone a woman of Avrilla’s simple beauty. He would never say this to Chazd, of course, but his sister was heavenly.

  His skin shivered as Avrilla took his arm and they turned to walk up the theater stairs. Karl could barely compensate for the onslaught of all the sensations he was experiencing. Emotionally, Karl felt besieged - fear, excitement, shame, pride. Physically, he had to deal with the pain in his leg and hip, the awkwardness of the cane, and the prickly discomfort of the dress clothes.

  Karl focused on moving forward up the stairs, one of the more difficult challenges to his impairment. He stubbornly refused to use Avrilla as support, despite her trying to give him that aid. He forced a tight smile on his face and endured it all, right to the main landing outside the theater doors.

  He dropped the smile and put on an expression he hoped was serious and aloof when he passed the invitation documents to the doorman. The man’s review of the scroll was perfunctory and he stepped inside to announce them.

  “Lord and Lady Karl deStrebor.”

  A second man opened the second of the paired doors and they both snapped into an erect stance that was not quite a military salute. The men stared at each other rather than the newly announced guests.

  Karl led Avrilla inside and took a moment to survey the room. Their arrival fell between two clutches of other guests, one group getting its bearings just feet in front of them. On the right-hand side of the hall, a dozen round tables were arrayed with food. On the left, an ensemble of musicians was playing a light concerto. The center of the room had been cleared, even the ornate rugs moved aside, to reveal a gleaming floor of tiled marble. Karl’s stomach lurched. No one was dancing yet, but the invitation was clear.

  He knew he had taken too much time when Avrilla nudged him. She motioned toward the food tables. She walked barely a half-step behind him to his left, perfect in her part as a dutiful wife. When they reached the tables, she made him a small plate before serving herself. As he nibbled a strip of roast duck, another couple approached.

  “Good evening, sir. William Cherwok, and this is my associate, Fria.”

  Karl swallowed nervously, leaned his cane against the table, and extended his hand in greeting. He felt a sudden sweat at his neck and armpits. It was time to play his role as Lord deStrebor and Karl found that he could not speak.

  ~

  Avrilla saw the sudden change in Karl as his confidence faded. She swept around Karl’s other side, her arm at his back.

  “M’lord Cherwok,” Avrilla said with the small bow reserved for equals. “My husband seems to be having some trouble with the duck. I can imagine why. It is a bit dry. I am Lady Julia deStrebor, and this is Lord Karl deStrebor.”

  Karl cleared his throat. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “Lord deStrebor? I don’t recognize the name. Are you from Islar?”

  “No, sir. We’ve come from Wenton, east of the Targumares.”

  “I don’t know it,” the man frowned. “That sounds like quite the journey.”

  “And dangerous,” Avrilla said. “Army patrols and inspections all along the way. But Karl insisted we come. He is most intent on finding new studs for our mares.”

  “Ah, another breeder then?” Cherwok became animated.

  Karl nodded, “Yes, sir. Thirty foals a season. But we’ve been having too many mares of late and I need new stock.”

  Avrilla saw that the conversation had reached a solid footing and turned her attention to Fria. With the pretense of complimenting each other’s dress, she pulled the girl aside. She knew that not all the women present were the well-to-do socialites they pretended to be. She recognized Fria from their recently acquired Paisley House, one of the hired escorts for men who should know better. Potentially good news for us.

  “Are you enjoying your evening, Fria?”

  The girl nodded but was startled by the sudden familiarity. “Yes, m’lady.”

  Avrilla stepped closer and whispered in her ear. “How many others from the house are here tonight?”

  “The h
ouse?”

  “Fria, it’s me. Avrilla.”

  “Malfekke’s prick!” the girl almost shouted.

  Avrilla hissed at her to keep her voice down. “Are there many of you?”

  Fria nodded. “Four of us. No, five. I almost forgot Cristel is here, too.”

  “You were all hired by Gerlido Krosch?”

  “All except Cristel. Her’s was a private engagement.”

  “We think Krosch is involved in something important tonight, possibly not so public. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Oh,” the girl’s face brightened. “Yes, Cristel said she was told she had to entertain herself for a bit. Her gentlemen had a meeting with Krosch.”

  “Are they meeting now?”

  The girl nodded her head toward a curtained side room off the main ballroom.

  “They just went in there.”

  “Who all is in there?”

  “Lord Alinfont, Gerlido Krosch, Selnius deBraut, and a Captain from the Bormeeran army.”

  “Guards?”

  “Just the ones outside.”

  Avrilla kept their heads close as she spoke and noticed with pride that she was smiling and animated as if they were just two women participating in party gossip. She took a champagne flute from the platter offered as a waiter went by. He paused near them, but Avrilla immediately focused on another man who was dancing close by. The feigned disinterest worked and the waiter moved on. She used the distraction to signal Karl and direct him toward the curtain.

  “Who is Selnius deBraut?” she asked Fria.

  “Oh, he’s that handsome tax official. The one who came with Cristel.”

  Avrilla nodded and began scanning the room for the other girl hired from their whorehouse. Cristel was a prime example of why Avrilla was so uncomfortable with that aspect of their new business. The girl had been brought up on the streets and was broken both mentally and physically. Barely seventeen years old, she could pass for being in her mid-twenties if enough care were taken with makeup and she used a little gindi as a stimulant to put some life behind her eyes.

  Cristel’s initial attitude, when the deAltos took over the Paisley House, was petulant and combative. As far as Avrilla could tell, she was waiting for Ortelli’s retirement when she could rebel against the current madam and break out on her own. She had years of pent up anger and resentment, which she used to take out on the poor deviants who came to the whorehouse looking for more abusive entertainments.