by James Shade
“I am fine. Leave me.”
She was satisfied as he scurried from the room. It would do for now.
Larsetta made her way to the sitting room. Is it possible? Her blood vessel had been killed. She knew that was what happened, but the ramifications of it staggered her. She had no illusions that her kind was immortal, but they were damned resilient. And Gerlido was not the shadow of a Tainted he had created with his pets, Brale and Sukul. Larsetta converted him fully through the first ritual.
She shook her head. She had known the Black Fangs were under attack, but she had allowed it to play out. She thought she could bide her time until Gerlido was left with no choice but to ask for her help. Now, in his stubbornness he had destroyed himself.
Or he had been dealing with a larger threat than Larsetta believed.
Larsetta allowed the throbbing echo of her pain to dissipate and as it ended she felt an almost imperceptible boost of power. She eased forward, glancing down at the coffee table. Larsetta regretted leaving her Feral set in Dun Lercos. She had not realized how much the presence of the board and pieces helped her think. Now that one of her major pieces had been eliminated she needed to re-plan her strategy for Islar.
Seventy-Eight
Jaeron felt empty as he sat in the lowest rung seat, under the evaluating stares of the Islar Thieves Council. Though he had initiated the meeting, he found he cared little about the outcome. The vendetta was over. While he, along with his brother and sister, now legitimately had a bid to assume Gerlido’s second rung guild position, he no longer wanted it.
Their friends had helped them again through the aftermath of the fight with the Black Fangs. Matteo had worked with priests at the Cathedral to tend their wounds and bury their dead. That they had only lost Bolvar seemed a blessing. Avrilla and Chazd were recovering from their injuries, though his brother’s shoulder seemed to be fighting the acolytes medicines and prayers more than his sister’s wrist. Jaeron’s ribs were still wrapped, and he could breathe without wincing most of the time.
Coatie had arranged for the Thieves Council meeting, providing advice and reminding Jaeron of the obligations Henri’s Hands now had. Jaeron was sure it was good advice. He just could not follow it.
Grandmaster deSwan started the meeting and the murmurs between the other guild leaders stilled. He addressed Jaeron directly, asking him to stand.
“Jaeron deAlto,” the Guildmaster began. “You claimed a vendetta between Henri’s Hands guild and the Black Fangs guild. Has this been resolved?”
Jaeron had no illusions. Every person in this room already knew the answer to that question. But the guilds had formalities to follow. The question had to be answered.
“It is resolved, Grandmaster.”
“Are you prepared to make reparations, as necessary and as judged by this council?”
“I am, Grandmaster,” Jaeron said. He nearly slipped. He almost said ‘we.' Their convention of having more than one guild leader was unorthodox. Coatie had coached him to avoid the topic. He took a deep breath bearing the responding lance of pain. He already had one thing to bring up that he knew they would not like. Coatie had also coached him on it, telling him not to go through with it. But Jaeron believed he had no choice.
As to reparations, Jaeron had discussed it with Chazd, Avrilla, and Coatie. None of them could identify a single source of a claim against them. Even so, with the guild’s potential to start running smoothly, they had some income that could be diverted to cover any claims the Council judged against them. Coatie had arranged for the appropriate bribe to deSwan, which was the key element anyway.
The Grandmaster finally realized that Jaeron had not relinquished the floor.
“Is there something else?”
“Yes, Grandmaster. I would like to Pass the Blade.”
The Grandmaster arched his brows and then a sudden wave of whispers echoed through the room.
“After your sudden appearance and introduction just months ago. Your claim of challenge that has caused undue financial hardship on the Guild structure. You now want to give up leadership of your guild?
“Do you think this is a game? That you can use this organization for a private war and then just walk away?”
“No sir, that is not my intent. During the challenge, I found that I have some personal business that will take me away from Islar for a time. I felt it… unfair to keep my position while abroad. My guild will, of course, remain operational.
“In fact, I would like to have it passed to someone who is well versed in its operation as he worked for my benefactor, Guildmaster Ortelli. I propose that the Henri’s Hands be turned over to Coatie Shaels.”
The agitation and tension in the room dissipated with the mention of Shaels’ name. Most, if not all, the guild masters in Islar understood the man’s competence. Many wished they had someone like him to help run their own guilds.
deSwan was silent, thinking it over.
“That would be acceptable, Guildmaster deAlto. Will he accept the Blade?”
“I believe so, Grandmaster.”
On this point, Jaeron was not completely truthful. When Coatie had advised against leaving the guild in the hands of his brother and sister, he was really telling him that his guild may be torn apart when Jaeron abdicated. Jaeron was also convinced that Shaels did not want to run the guild.
The other reason not to name Avrilla or Chazd was because he still held out hope that he could convince them to go with him.
The Grandmaster nodded, but did not speak. It was done. If Coatie did not want the job, he would have to identify his successor, which would likely cause the dissolution of the guild and would undo the months of work the deAltos had achieved. It pained him, but he felt satisfaction that they had brought Teichmar’s justice to Henri’s killers.
No one would address Jaeron again at the meeting. He was no longer a Thief Guildmaster of Islar. He moved away from the table at the room center and took a seat.
~
Hidden in the deep shadows at the back of the room, Larsetta found herself both puzzled and intrigued by the young man walking out of the lamplight. She had come to the meeting under the pretense of a display of respect from a visiting guildmaster. Her real goal was to familiarize herself with the man who had demolished her minion’s organization.
She had hoped to find a new pawn for her growing Islar collection. This young deAlto certainly had potential. He was handsome, strong, and confident. Skilled with the sword if her evaluation of the final battle with Gerlido was correct. And though she suspected he had help, he seemed an astute tactician. But if he was leaving Islar, there was no need to expend energy on him.
Larsetta risked using her special sight to watch the youth move to his seat in the darkness against the back wall. She could not shake a strange feeling. There is something about this deAlto… The familiarity of his features bothered her, made her want to know more. Later, once things are underway. She looked hungrily at deSwan. She had to prioritize.
Seventy-Nine
Jaeron sat on the window box seat, feeling the summer breeze flow in around him. It was one of those rare days for the season when the wind came from the west, and not the harbor, where the stench of fish and tar overwhelmed the senses. Avrilla stood in the kitchen behind him, sipping at a mug of coffee, trying not to burn her lips. She looked feminine this morning, clothed in a blue maiden’s skirt, bodice, and white cotton blouse. Jaeron had nearly laughed out loud when she came downstairs and he saw a ribbon wound in her hair. A ribbon! Her arm was still in a sling, but Jaeron had noticed she was using it for simple tasks.
Chazd was seated at the table, helping himself to a second portion of the thick slab bacon which he was eating with sourdough bread and trellberry preserves. His shirt was tight over the multiple layers of bandaging and though his brother winced at the movement, it did not seem to be stopping him from digging into his meal.
Jaeron decided not to wait any longer. He said, “I am making preparations to fin
d out what happened to the priests.”
Avrilla put down her cup. “So, you really believe it?” she asked. “That the song we found is real? That there’s some secret gift from our birth parents out there?” She pointed out the window.
“I do. Nana Sarah meant for us to figure it out.”
“But we don’t really know if these priests exist! You’re basing this all on some old toys and a song! It’s… well, it’s crazy, Jaeron.”
“And you are talking about walking away from everything we’ve built here,” Chazd joined in. “Who will run the guild? It will fall apart!”
“Not right away, and I've asked Coatie to take the guildmaster position in the meantime,” Jaeron disagreed. “I think we can afford to be away for a month or so.”
“We?” Chazd asked. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not going anywhere.”
Jaeron gazed levelly at his brother. He tried to figure out Chazd’s motives for disagreement this time.
“Chazd, don’t you want to know what Nana wanted us to figure out? Aren’t you curious at all?”
Chazd sat the chair upright and got to his feet. When he spoke, he was uncharacteristically quiet.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s dead and gone. Nana Sarah, Liadee, Henri, Ardo. Sten and Bolvar. They are all dead. And so are their enemies. Our enemies.
“We have each other now. We have a good operation here. Henri’s Hands is attracting recruits. Mara’s orbs, Jaeron! We could run this city if we wanted to.”
“We’ll always have enemies, Chazd. Especially if we try to run this city.” Jaeron’s reply was just as quiet.
He slipped off the sill and walked to the small hutch to unroll a woolen blanket. There lay the assembled clues about their past – Sarah’s letter, the music box, the wooden toys and the lyrics Avrilla had scribed. Jaeron picked up his soldier, staring at the wooden face as if expecting to it to speak, revealing the answers to his questions.
“You are right. We have a good thing here. And I cannot expect you to go with me. I had hoped… I guess I didn’t even want to ask you.”
He turned around as Chazd blew a chest full of air out from between his teeth. Frustration knotting the muscles in his shoulders, the youngest deAlto crossed the kitchen, grabbed his new mandolin from the table, opened the kitchen door, and walked away not bothering to close it behind him.
“This is something I need to do, Avrilla. I want to know who I am.”
Avrilla said softly, “I know who you are. You are Jaeron deAlto, gentleman, thief Guildmaster, and Pevaran master swordsman, eldest son of Henri deAlto, and a caring, overly protective older brother. What more do you need to know?”
And with less noise than the wind stirring outside the window, the young woman also left the room.
~
The cry of sea birds drifted in from the harbor as the dawn light sparked them into activity. Soon, other sounds of morning in the city of Islar would begin too. He had not needed the familiar noises to wake him. He had been up most of the night, it seemed. He knew he had drifted in and out of sleep, but it did not feel that way.
Jaeron’s eyes were heavy. His throat was dry. His brain felt thick with a light headache that started at the crown of his head and flowed down toward his temples. He wondered why, after wrestling with his decision and all the planning, was he dreading getting out of bed and underway? Thoughts of putting it off for another day drifted into his mind, which only succeeded in making him angry. Finally, Jaeron’s frustration peaked and he threw himself out of bed.
The chill of an early cold snap had settled into the deAlto home and helped Jaeron move faster. He washed his face at the basin and dressed in the traveling clothes left out the night before, the one indulgence he had decided to spend money on in preparation for the trip. Clean woolen breeches and stockings, a thick flaxen shirt and wool traveling cloak. Sturdy new boots, which Jaeron had bought a week ago, wearing them a bit more each day so that they would be broken in for the day of the trip.
The kitchen was quiet when Jaeron entered. He stirred up the coals and added fuel to the stove, more than was necessary for his breakfast but it would provide a good cooking heat for his brother and sister when they woke up. He did not imagine that the gesture would be much appreciated, however. Though disappointed in their viewpoint, Jaeron was also a little relieved. What if he was wrong?
He fried two farm fresh eggs, eating them with the last of the bread they had sliced for dinner the night before. Jaeron felt warmed with the memories of the meal, glad that Chazd and Avrilla had agreed to have a last dinner together, just the three of them. Avrilla had surprised them by cooking a thick rabbit stew and Chazd had shown up with a bottle of wine from the Crooked Window’s reserve cellar. They avoided talking about the guild as much as they could and completely left out any mention of Jaeron’s trip. His siblings left soon after the meal, both claiming they had guild business to attend to. Jaeron suspected that they wanted to give him time to pack and not be reminded of his leaving. It was an abbreviated goodbye and Jaeron had not heard either of them come home last night.
He cleaned the kitchen, trying to keep the clatter to a minimum. No need to wake them now. Then Jaeron tied on his sword belt, pulled on his cloak and backpack, and headed out the door. He was leaving earlier than he had planned, but from this point it made no difference. He was heading north first, hoping to complete that first third of his journey before winter set in. Jaeron locked the door and made his way down the gravel road toward Church Street and out of the city.
Islar was well awake by the time Jaeron reached the Talica Bridge. The vendors and delivery carts were claiming the streets as the legal Islar markets prepared for a new day. Jaeron paused at the bridge, looking at the awesome monuments and wondering about the night months before.
Has it really been four months?
It seemed like ages since Henri had been killed. Jaeron had come to terms with his father’s death, else he would not be making this trip now to possibly discover something of his birth parents. Still, the sadness of loss came easily and he felt the beginnings of tears welling in his eyes.
Jaeron crossed the wide road, watching his footing on the worn cobblestones near the edge of the bridge. He proceeded a third of the way across the river’s span and stopped, leaning against the engraved stone wall. He looked eastward toward the harbor and South Claw Bay, just visible beyond Islar’s jumble of buildings that jutted into the final bend of the Targu Mares river. Jaeron whispered a brief prayer to Teichmar, asking for his blessing on the journey, his forgiveness for missing the morning’s service, and his care-taking for Henri in his father’s afterlife.
Eighty
The trip became easier for Jaeron once he had left the city proper. Beyond Islar’s looming gates, Jaeron felt like he had been released from prison once again. His first stop was at the Utay farm, to see if he could repay a man for his unknowing and unacknowledged hospitality. The farmer was understandably confused, but nonetheless grateful for the overpriced purchase of a horse, saddle, and reins. Jaeron saw that the gear had been well used, but from his meager knowledge of riding, it seemed functional and sturdy enough.
Once on horseback, Jaeron made good time through the farms north of the city. The acres of fields that he passed were being threshed in preparation for the oncoming autumn. A few farmers were working the remnants of the second harvest crops. These would mainly be used for canning, sealing away the last of the summer’s sweetness for a midwinter feast.
Ahead the tree line was beginning to appear, scattered across the lower Riordan Hills and demarcating a very real limit of safety for the traveling thief. But as his horse crested a small rise in the road, Jaeron saw that he might not be journeying alone. A small group was finishing packing up a campsite. They were wearing the light gray robes and hoods of Teichmar pilgrims.
Jaeron’s hopes dissipated. He had been in touch with the church over the past couple of days and knew of no pilgrimage north of the city. Which meant tha
t he would have no company on the road after all. Jaeron surmised that the pilgrims were probably on their way into the city to visit the Cathedral and other Holy sites of Islar.
More crestfallen than he expected, Jaeron decided to stop by the group and ask for a blessing anyway. Though he had not visited the church this morning or yesterday, this side stop – and perhaps a donation to their journey fund – would perhaps make up for it. He could not tell them the particulars of his mission, of course, but he hoped that through their eyes Teichmar would see something worthy of the Light of Justice.
He kicked his mount into a light canter. He wanted to reach the pilgrims before they started toward Islar, not wanting to rudely interrupt their travel or delay their arrival if they were trying to get to the midmorning service. As he approached, Jaeron was surprised to see that although the pilgrims had finished their preparations they did not seem to be going anywhere. Their horses were saddled, their mule packed, and their small campfire had been doused.
Three of the pilgrims stood near their animals, pouring over a sheaf of what looked to be papers or parchment. The remaining pair had wandered toward the nearby field and sat down on the stone fence. Even from this distance, Jaeron could see that the couple was indeed a couple, a man and a woman.
Perhaps they met on their pilgrimage or perhaps it was a young husband and wife taking the journey together. As he got closer he saw that the three by the horses were looking at a map, which confused Jaeron. He stopped his horse long enough to turn around and confirm it. Yes, he could easily see the city from here. The Northern Islar Road slowly wound its way to higher ground as it passed the farmlands behind him and away from the eastern seacoast. Even if ground fog obscured the city buildings, the towering structures of the Talica Bridge would be visible on all but the worst days.
Maybe they are not headed into the city after all. He loosed the bit and let his mount continue ahead again, coming to within greeting distance of the seated pilgrims first. Neither of them moved to come to him, so he turned his horse off the road and stopped to dismount.