Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer

by James Shade

  “The deAltos! Malfekke bugger their souls!”

  “How?” Sukul asked. “That’s a reach, don’t you think?”

  “They’ve been getting help. That’s how! DeLespan I get. They had him by the balls with that letter. The church, I don’t understand why. The Jaeron whelp must have infiltrated them years ago.

  “But the one I didn’t see was Ortelli. He retires so that he’s no longer bound by the Guild rules. He convinces deSwan the deAltos have a justifiable quarrel with us. And then guides them while he sits back and waits.”

  “Ortelli?”

  Gerlido paced.

  “He didn’t want to take us on himself. So he gets the deAltos to act as his… his Hands! Malfekke’s spiky prick.”

  Gerlido closed his eyes, distilling his thoughts.

  “What do we do?”

  “We strike back. Hit them and make them suffer. Tonight.”

  Sukul and Brale exchanged looks. Finally Sukul braved his question.

  “Who? Where? We’ve been looking for the deAltos for months. We don’t know where anyone is.”

  “No, that’s not true, Sukul.”

  Gerlido grinned, but his Tainted features converted it into a sneer. It was there all along. Gerlido knew a way to hurt the deAltos and draw them out of hiding. He did not have to know where Jaeron deAlto lived. He knew where he prayed.

  Seventy-One

  Matteo strolled the Cathedral grounds without stole and outer robe. It was the first cool evening in over a week and he enjoyed the feel of the breeze coming from the direction of the harbor. It was late, nearing eleven bells and most of his brethren were already in chambers for the night.

  He wandered the crushed marble path through the rose gardens. Even in the twilight, when the manicured bushes and their blooms appeared in no more than shades of black and gray, the garden was beautiful. Peaceful.

  Matteo thought about the offer he had made his friend the previous night. He had never delved into the secrets of the Cathedral’s arcane library, but before Father Bruhan retired, he had hinted at some of the powers of the Priests of Teichmar. Of the secrets buried in the catacombs. Matteo could not lie to Jaeron. He had told him he was frightened of attempting to remove this spell, but he was committed to it if it meant helping his friend.

  Matteo was not surprised when Jaeron said he had to think about it. Spell or not, that reaction was typical of Jaeron. He weighed his decisions out, taking the time to evaluate all sides before choosing a path.

  The path… Matteo saw the first sign of damage to the garden. A pair of bushes had been ripped out to their roots. A trail of similar damage led through the garden all the way to the west side of the church. Dark spatters of mud marred the pristine gravel pathway.

  No. It isn't mud. It was too liquid, too thin.

  He knelt and touched the dark pool. It was wet, but sticky. Cold. He lifted his fingers to his face and smelled a tinge of copper. Blood.

  Moving on instinct Matteo charged across the newly torn path toward the main section of the cathedral. Now that he was looking for it, he saw a half dozen other streaks of blood along the way.

  Teichmar preserve. The transept door was broken open, hinges torn from the inside. The daily lanterns were still lit but most of the candles had burned out. No one had completed the after dinner meditations and rituals.

  Dripping wax pooled on the shelves and spilled down onto the woolen prayer rugs. Matteo turned, scanning the pews and the back of the church. It was darker back there, except for a small unwavering flame. Matteo crossed the altar space and ran down the central aisle.

  Matteo felt ill. He closed his eyes briefly, the whisper of his god’s name on his lips. Father Nojel's body lay next to a sputtering lantern. His hammer lay next to him and a pool of blood spread out in a large, irregular oval around his body.

  For a second the horror of what he was seeing stopped him. Then Matteo flew to the body, kneeling in the cold blood. As soon as he got that close, Matteo realized there was nothing he could do. The damage to the man’s body was gruesome. Long jagged tears and obvious bites had torn into him, muscle and bone. And at the end something had feasted on his soft parts as organ remnants and other viscera lay across Nojel's robes where they had been pulled from his corpse. His mentor, his dear old friend, was gone.

  The old Priest of Teichmar had not gone quietly. Evidence of a brutal battle surrounded the area. Blood splatter was flung as far as the rear wall mural. Marble tiles were shattered. The rear pew was cracked. The holy man’s hammer was covered in gore and bits of fur.

  Matteo realized he was praying, that he had been praying since turning the corner of the aisle. Soft words tumbled from his lips, recitations of the Law of the Just and the Prayer for the Lost. Dimly, slowly, Matteo decided that there was nothing to do here. He bent over the old man and kissed his forehead. He said goodbye. Then he brushed Nojel's eyes closed with the tips of his fingers, picked up the priest’s warhammer, and stood.

  Matteo walked toward the processional doors at the rear of the Cathedral hall, using his robes to clean his teacher's warhammer. He was pushing the doors open when he noticed the mark. A scrawl of dark blood marred the stained glass windows of both doors. Two horizontal strokes represented the rough sneer of half an upper lip and the long descending swipe was obviously a sharp fang.

  Matteo's righteous fury rose before he could rein it in. The blame for the sacrilege. The loss of a devout holy man and friend. It all focused on Jaeron and the deAltos’ feud with the Black Fangs. The hammer was in his hands. Matteo raised the weapon to smash the double doors off their hinges when moonlight flowed in through the glass.

  “Teichmar, forgive me,” Matteo whispered.

  This was not Jaeron’s fault. It was Gerlido’s. Now Matteo had no doubt that Gerlido knew about Jaeron’s connection to the church. Did he know of his close friendship with Jaeron? Was that why they struck at Matteo's mentor?

  Matteo almost decided not to tell them. His friend did not need to feel the guilt of any more deaths. He could keep the Church out of this fight, reporting a break-in and robbery, which his arrival interrupted. He just had not been in time to save Father Nojel.

  But the lie soured on his tongue as soon as he thought the words. He knew he would never be able to speak them. The Church was involved in this fight. It had been before Jaeron came to speak with him weeks ago. Teichmar had become involved the day Henri deAlto brought his young son into the church to pray for his dead wife, the boy’s adopted mother.

  ~

  Jaeron opened his eyes wide, trying to get them to adapt to the darkness of his bedroom as fast as possible. By the time the second set of knocks rapped against the door downstairs, he was almost dressed. Jaeron padded barefoot down the steps, Pevaran blade in hand.

  He paused at the bottom of the staircase, hearing the creak of a door behind him. Avrilla and Chazd were both in the hallway. None of them was sleeping deeply. This war with the Black Fangs was escalating. They felt the threat of violence all the time.

  Jaeron proceeded to the base of the stairs and the knocking came again. Front door. Jaeron signaled silently to his siblings ‘check the other rooms and the back exit.’ Then he made his way down the hall to the front of the building. He eyed the door, not for the first time perturbed with the lack of good window placement.

  He listened closely to the third set of knocks, discerning the qualities of the sound. Urgency. But quiet. Loud enough to rouse the occupants, but not enough to wake the neighbors. The Black Fangs would not show such courtesies.

  Assumption. It could still be a trap.

  Jaeron let out a half breath and held it. His right hand raising his sword into an attack position, he unlocked the door with his left hand and opened it. Then he took a half step back into the darkness of the hall.

  “Who is it?”

  “Jaeron?” Matteo’s voice whispered.

  Jaeron put his sword down and came forward, opening the door fully.

  “
Matteo? What are you doing here?”

  His friend came through the door and gripped him. He was out of breath and pale in the lamplight from the street.

  “I’m… this couldn’t wait ‘til morning.”

  Jaeron pulled the priest into the hall and shut the door.

  “Avrilla, Chazd,” he called into the apartment. “It’s okay.”

  Even in the semi-darkness Jaeron could not help but notice the heavy weapon in his friends hand, the blood on his clothes.

  “What–”

  Matteo cut him off. “There’s been an attack. At the church.” The priest swayed to the wall and leaned against it, then took care to lower the warhammer to the wooden floor. “Father Nojel has been killed.”

  Jaeron struggled to absorb what Matteo said. A dozen thoughts fired, each trying to gain dominance. For Matteo, the loss of Father Nojel was akin to his own loss of Henri. He was Matteo’s mentor, his spiritual advisor. Jaeron’s heart hammered. Nojel was one his heroes, a symbol of his faith. The man did not just read the holy texts, his voice spoke the Word of Teichmar. His death was sacrilege.

  Avrilla appeared with a candle lamp. One of her kukris hung from its thong on her wrist. He was sure the other was at her waist.

  “Jaeron?”

  “Come on,” Jaeron set down his sword and guided his friend down the hall. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

  As he passed Avrilla, he mouthed a word to her silently and she nodded. She and Chazd would check the area outside and then return. They sat at the small table and Jaeron finally got a good look at his friend. Matteo was still wearing his evening robes, but both the cloth and his hands were crusted with blood. His skin was pale and he was shivering. Shock.

  He looked down the hallway where the two weapons stood opposite each other.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Matteo shook his head.

  “Black Fangs?”

  His friend nodded.

  Jaeron’s heart sank. This was his fault. Gerlido found out about his relationship with the church. In retrospect, he supposed that was not that hard. He had never made his belief a secret. Now the Fangs were striking back at his weak point.

  Looking back across the table, he saw the redness and dampness around his friend’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Matteo.”

  “Don’t,” Matteo said. “This is not your fault, Jaeron. I committed the church to help your cause… a personal mission for justice.

  “But this is bigger than that, now. This guild… no, I won’t use that term. It denigrates the craftsmen and businessmen that use the term correctly. These animals have the audacity to think they can strike against the Cathedral, the Holy Temple of Teichmar without repercussions?”

  Matteo was suddenly back on his feet. “It needs to end, Jaeron. Whatever it takes, whatever you need. It needs to end.”

  The effort staggered the priest and he stumbled back into Avrilla as she entered the room. Jaeron watched his sister guide Matteo back into his chair and nodded to her when she went to the stove to prepare coffee. Jaeron had never seen Matteo angry. He had seen him vexed, suffused with holy passion, and frustrated. But this face was a mask of cold rage. A face that made his friend unrecognizable.

  Seventy-Two

  Hours later Matteo was sitting at the small table with Jaeron again. Avrilla put together a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and fried fish and sat quietly with them. They said a prayer for the fallen priest and then picked at the food, mainly for her benefit, she thought.

  Avrilla had brought him a washbasin and pitcher of water. The priest had cleaned up and changed into a set of spare clothes borrowed from Jaeron’s meager closet. Chazd had produced a small clay bottle of malt whiskey. Neither Jaeron nor Matteo usually drank hard liquor, but both finished the small glasses Chazd poured without comment.

  As the daylight filtering through the kitchen window crossed to the tabletop, Jaeron started in his chair.

  “No bells,” Matteo said. “They have found him.” His voice was calm, detached. “I’ll need to get back soon.”

  “Not too soon,” a voice from the hall commented.

  Avrilla turned to see Coatie Shaels standing in the hall outside the kitchen. He looked tired. Grim.

  “Chazd came to get me,” he said in response to her unasked question.

  He came over to the table and sat down with them.

  “You going to eat that?”

  He slid Jaeron’s plate in front of him and dug into the cold food.

  “I seem to be missing more breakfasts lately.”

  If Coatie noticed the lack of reaction to the droll humor, he gave no sign. He ate Jaeron’s breakfast and then sat back in his chair.

  “So, Gerlido’s anger got the better of him. Striking on Church grounds was a bad decision, even if the Church isn’t going to be allowed to strike back.”

  Coatie looked at Matteo directly as he spoke and Avrilla saw the anger rise up in both Matteo and her brother.

  “How do you intend to stop it?” Matteo asked.

  Coatie shook his head. “You don’t understand. Right now, your brothers at the Cathedral are reporting the incident to the City Guard. One of the Guard Captains on the Grandmaster’s payroll will show up soon, if he’s not there already. Someone will make sure that any sight of Black Fang involvement will disappear.”

  Coatie paused, considering, and then asked, “I take it there was some sign?”

  Matteo nodded. “Yes… there was a mark – on the door.”

  Matteo went on to describe the symbol he saw written in blood.

  Coatie frowned. “That obvious?... Stupid.

  “Anyway, it will be washed away and ignored. The Guard will investigate. Weeks, months, whatever it takes to assure the good people of Islar and the majority of the Cathedral brethren that the government has done all it can to find the murderer. In the meantime, money will change hands. The High Bishop will be given enough to fund another statue of Teichmar, or a monastery, or feed and clothe the Islar orphans for a year.

  “Blame will be assigned to members of Undeified faith. A subversive group or cult. They might even find someone to put to trial and hang. The question of Guild involvement won’t ever come up.”

  Avrilla saw the simple logic in it, and she was scared at the implications. Until now she saw the Guilds operating on the periphery of Islar society. She finally comprehended just how deeply the Thieves of Islar were ingrained in the city’s operation. Matteo was not so easily convinced.

  “The Church will want proof. The High Bishop won’t be so easily bribed. And there’s a witness to the Black Fang involvement!” Matteo stood up, looming over the Guild advisor.

  Coatie was unperturbed. He poured himself a half-glass of the whiskey Chazd had left out and took a sip.

  “Eh. Too early,” he said. Looking hopefully at Avrilla, he asked, “Coffee?”

  Avrilla stared at him, feeling her brother also tensing to rise from his seat.

  Coatie turned to Jaeron and said, “Think, deAlto. And tell him.”

  Jaeron froze, gazing across the table. Avrilla could see the concentration on his face, and the sudden despair.

  “The Grandmaster’s Guard Captain. He’ll try to discredit you. Your relationship with me would come up. A man previously wanted for patricide and found innocent mostly due to testimony by the deceased Father Nojel.

  “You disappeared immediately after the attack,” Jaeron continued and his gaze strayed back to the hallway. “And you attempted to steal his warhammer, a holy relic. You could become the suspect they need, the scapegoat.”

  Avrilla felt sick. She watched Coatie nodding as Jaeron spoke, the words slowly coming out pushing Matteo back into his chair. She needed a drink herself and finished off Coatie’s glass. It helped rinse away the increasingly bitter taste in her mouth.

  “What else?” Coatie prodded him.

  Avrilla understood Coatie’s approach. Matteo might not have listened to the analysis coming from Shaels,
a relative stranger. However, coming from Jaeron, a fellow believer and Matteo’s best friend, the words sunk in. Now he wanted to drive in the final nail.

  Avrilla waited, but Jaeron did not say anything.

  “What else, Jaeron?” Matteo asked.

  Jaeron’s eyes dropped to the table. Coatie pushed the whiskey across the table toward him, but Jaeron shook his head. Avrilla could see the silent prayer on her brother’s lips. Jaeron needed strength for this, but it was the strength of faith. Not from a bottle.

  “They’ll kill you, Matt. If you persisted, got the Bishop to believe you… they’d just kill you.”

  “They might find that I’m hard to kill.”

  Jaeron nodded, and Avrilla heard the conviction in the priest’s voice. She knew that Matteo had trained with the Temple Defenders, a warrior sect of Teichmar. He had stopped that training over a year ago, but he was probably still a capable fighter. Jaeron mentioned once that the split was due to a difference in philosophies, but Avrilla was not sure what that meant.

  “Matteo,” Jaeron said. “They won’t come for a fight.”

  “No,” Coatie interrupted. “They will poison your food. Hide a needle in your Book of Justice. Maybe just have an old, widowed parishioner cut your throat during private prayer.

  “It won’t really matter how they accomplish it. You will still be dead.”

  Silence stretched through the kitchen until the discomfort was unbearable. Avrilla cleared her throat.

  “What are our options, Coatie?” she asked.

  “That depends. How do you want it to end?”

  “What do you mean,” Jaeron asked.

  “How much of a threat do you want to be within the Guilds?”

  Jaeron now rose to his feet, slamming the chair to the floor behind him. “Shaels, I don’t care about the thrice-damned Guilds or what they think of me! This isn’t a competition to ingratiate myself to the Grandmaster.

  “This is about my father. Maybe my mother. Ardo Tabbil and Father Nojel. I want Gerlido’s head!”