He loosened a knife that he’d sunk into the top panel of his desk. With some crude sawing, he pried an emerald scale from the whelp. He laid the scale down, raised his hand over his head and plunged the knife into the dragon’s armor.
“Hells,” he grunted as a jolt of lightning stabbed into his hand and went through his fingers and wrists; the scale had repelled the knife like a stone wall. “I suppose there’s one silver lining in all of this,” he told the whelp. “If we cut down enough of you bastards, we’ll have some fancy fucking armor. If you don’t kill us all first.”
There was a knock at Maren’s door.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Seamstress Lilly,” a woman answered. “You sent for me, my lord.”
Maren stuffed the lifeless whelp back into the burlap sack it had come from, dropping it at his feet.
“Come in.” As the door opened, Maren noticed the dragon scale still sitting on his desk. He deftly swiped it and concealed it in a fist.
Consternation seemed to tug at Seamstress Lilly. She bit her lip and rubbed her fingers, anxiously awaiting the reason for her summons. Seamstresses weren’t often asked to make a jaunt to the keep for a meeting with a Council member. In her mind, nothing good could come out of this. She’d convinced herself that her team of seamstresses had ruined one of Maren O’Keefe’s outfits and now she was answering for the negligence.
“The door, please,” Maren said.
“I’m sorry,” Lilly said, shutting the door. Or rather, slamming it. Shaky hands have a tendency to overreact.
Maren smiled. “Would it ease your mind if I told you I summoned you because I greatly trust you and your team of seamstresses and that I have an important task for you?”
Lilly wasn’t sure how to answer that, so she didn’t.
“Understand,” Maren said, leaning forward to indicate the seriousness of the situation, “this is a very delicate matter. Everything I’m going to tell you stays between us. Yes?”
Seamstress Lilly nodded. “O-of course, my lord.”
“Well, us and your seamstresses. I need you to fashion for me four uniforms.”
“C-certainly, my lord. We will have them—”
“I’m not finished,” Maren interrupted. He tapped a small piece of paper sitting on his desk. “This is an illustration of the uniforms that you’ll make. Come closer; I want you to tell me if you notice anything familiar.”
Lilly wiped her moist hands on her long, flowing gown. She tiptoed up to the desk and peered at the drawing. She lifted her eyes to meet Maren’s, then swallowed. “Um. I’m not sure. Should I know?”
Maren smiled again, his teeth hidden behind his lips. It was better that way, he’d learned. At least when he wanted to convey warmth and affection. If he flashed a big grin, teeth and all, his deformed lip would nearly fall away from his mouth—it wasn’t a very pleasant sight.
“It’s not important,” Maren said. “I was only curious. But it’s imperative the uniforms you stitch look precisely like this one.”
Lilly nodded nervously.
“I want you to know,” Maren added, “I always reward attention to detail. But above all else, I reward discretion.” He pulled out a drawer and lifted a tiny pouch he had prepared earlier. “This is for you and your seamstresses. Sixteen gold coins to share amongst one another. Fashion these uniforms and remain quiet about it, and you will receive enough gold to go wherever you wish in Avestas and live however you desire.”
Seamstress Lilly’s nostrils flared. She opened her hand but was too scared to reach for the pouch. People like her didn’t receive rewards like this. They were expected to do their job without extra compensation.
“Take it,” Maren said. “This isn’t a ploy.”
Lilly reached for and gingerly grasped the pouch of coins, cupping it with two hands. “Thank you—thank you so much, my lord. No one has ever… well, thank you. I will have the uniforms for you as soon as possible.”
“By tonight, preferably.”
“Of course. Thank you again, my lord.”
Maren watched Lilly leave, clutching the pouch to her chest. Money, he’d learned long ago, buys mostly any favor you want. The problem, of course, lies in acquiring the money. But several years ago, Maren had come into possession—by way of thievery—of the key to Valios’s vault. That’s not something you can keep. But it is something you can duplicate, if you know and are on good terms with a skilled blacksmith, which Maren did and was.
Ever since then, it took only a nighttime journey to the vault with a few empty pouches in his pocket to prepare rewards for those who would do him favors. And a few gold coins, ten here and fifteen there, would go unnoticed by Chamberlain Ladenmol. He had taken more than usual last night, about two hundred fifty, separated into seven pouches: five for the seamstresses, one for Bemin, and one for a good friend.
The Chamberlain wouldn’t have time to notice. Maren would make sure of it.
Maren grabbed the fattest pouch and stuffed it in his coat pocket. He tossed the bagged whelp into a drawer, then closed and locked it. He doubted anyone was stupid enough to sleuth around in his quarters, but he couldn’t take any chances. Though he wondered how badly the whelp had smelled up his room—he’d gotten accustomed to the stench.
Maren ventured into the nakedness of Valios, beneath slate-gray skies and in the company of a cool wind. A heavy, uncomfortable gloom had settled over the kingdom in recent days, partially because of Lavery Opsillian’s disappearance, but also because autumn was giving way to winter. The nights were bitter and the mornings worse, and most afternoons you could see your breath.
The commerce district remained pregnant with carts and stalls, and the air crackled with booming voices of farmers and merchants eager to sell the remainder of their crops and wares before the snows and icefalls ground the city to a halt. But fewer buyers roamed the streets. Concern and worry of a long, harsh winter kept pockets tight.
Fires raged in open pits, fueled mostly by garbage and waste and surrounded by the homeless and poor. Maren remembered a time when Craigh Opsillian had outlawed unsanctioned fires, citing the rancid smell of filth and trash. That was a mistake. Instead of keeping to the outskirts and in alleys, beggars and vagabonds had crowded the sanctioned fires in the nicer parts of town, which had led to an uptick in violence. It wasn’t that people disliked the poor and downtrodden, but rather they preferred them to keep out of sight, out of mind.
Maren O’Keefe walked up a steep trail of uneven, broken cobbles that wound around itself into a pillar of earth. At the top lay the Valiosian perch, evidenced by the smell and squawking.
Cages were arranged in a boxlike formation, stacked fifteen high and twenty wide. Some were empty, but from inside of most peered out beady eyes of calm but intrigued ravens and crows. White bird shit dripped down the cages and stained the ground.
“Master O’Keefe!” roared a nutty old man whose beard contained either snow pellets or, more likely, hardened bird droppings. They say it takes a special person to do the job of a brood master; whoever they were, it appeared they were correct.
“Griffin,” Maren said, “how are you?”
“’Bout as good a mallard in a pondful of snails and fish eggs. And lemme tell ya, Master O’Keefe, that’s darned good.” He pounded his chest as he barfed a sickly cough. “Except for this damned sickness.”
Maren looked past the brood master and found a familiar face standing beside a redheaded girl. “I thought I might find you here, Tullus.”
Griffin snickered. “Oh, yes, sir. Young Tullus here has been at my apprentice’s side like the white side of an egg on yolk. Not that I mind. He helps out and Jules gets her work done.”
“I would expect no less from a steward of mine.”
The brood master tilted his head to the side, then pressed his finger into one nostril and blew snot out the other. “He cleans up the—” Griffin sneezed twice in succession, then coughed spastically. “Excuse me. What I was sayin’ is
Tullus cleans up all the droppings at the end of the night, even scrubs down the cages. Very hands-on, the boy.”
Tullus looked restless, eyes jumping from his bare feet up to Maren and then to Jules.
“Griffin,” Maren said, grasping the old man’s shoulder, “why don’t you have yourself a drink or three of warm cider and retire for the night? I’m sure Jules can handle herself; the day doesn’t seem especially busy.”
The brood master turned to Jules, stroking his dingy beard. “Well, I—she’s never had the perch to herself before. Lots of little—”
“I can do it, sir,” Jules said proudly. She stood, lifted her chin in a dignified manner—at least as dignified as one can with swaths of dried bird shit on one’s arms and legs.
Unsure, Griffin pursed his lips. “You’ve got to keep the logbook up. You get behind even one hour and you’ll be as messed up as a roof built with crooked nails. And the feedings, the waterings, the—”
“Sir,” Jules said, “I know. I’ve been your apprentice for five years. I’m ready for this.”
“Mm. I suppose so.” He sneezed and coughed a few times. “All right. We’ll see what you’re made of, missy.” He turned to Maren. “Warm cider would do me well right now, I think.” He sniffed a string of snot back into his nose.
Maren gave him a wink. “I’ve a letter to send, so she’ll have her chance to prove herself right away.”
Griffin stepped over to the arrangement of cages. He bent down and grabbed a worn leather satchel. He secured the straps over his shoulders and tapped on one of the cage doors. “Don’t forget, Prilly here ain’t to be seein’ action for a few more days.” He glanced at Maren. “She got into a scuffle somewhere between here and Crookdale. Got her head all scratched up, some bite marks on her face. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she flew over a blackbird’s nest. You ever see those little bastards in action? They’re fierce.”
Maren smiled. “I can’t say I have.”
“Ah, well. She’ll be just fine.” He coughed up some phlegm, which he deposited onto the cobbles in a chunky ball of spit. “Right, it’s about time for that cider.”
Once Griffin had ambled away out of earshot, Maren produced the pouch of gold coins from his pocket. “This,” he said, extending his hand toward Tullus, “is for you two. Go on, take it.”
Tullus hesitantly pinched the drawstring of the pouch between his thumb and forefinger. “What is this?”
“What’s it look like? There’s forty gold coins in there.”
“But why?”
“Because I always take care of my own. I want you to leave this kingdom. Both of you. At the crack of dawn, you take your asses to the head groom and buy a ride out of here. Go south, to the far edges of the shoreline. You’ll be safe there.”
Jules stole the pouch from Tullus. She peered inside. She seemed like a quiet, reserved girl whose silence came not from intimidation and fear but rather the need to digest all the bits and pieces of information laid before her.
“This is a lot of money,” she said.
“It’ll last you a long time. A lifetime, if you’re careful.”
She chewed at her cheek, thinking, calculating. “You said we’ll be safe in the South. We won’t be safe here?”
“Possibly,” Maren said. “Possibly not. There’s a storm approaching this kingdom, and where the lightning will strike I cannot say.”
Jules nodded once—a firm acknowledgment of the dire warning. “We’ll set off in the morning. Thank you, Lord O’Keefe.”
Tullus couldn’t say a word. He was wide-eyed with his mouth fixed in a permanent O.
“A favor before I leave,” Maren said. He reached into his pocket, took a sealed parchment and wagged it above his head. “Send this to Graesh Hold at once. Thank you.” He gave Tullus a shoulder pat and left the perch in search of the spymaster, Horace Dewn.
The sad, dreary clouds above Valios thinned out like watery soup. But the sun did not show. It was as if it had slept in or perhaps taken a long, well-deserved vacation. Still, even without sunlight and while walking headlong into a late autumn breeze, Maren felt warmth expand in his chest.
Satisfaction—that was the emotion that seized him. He didn’t feel it often, so he took a moment to enjoy it. To really, truly relish in it. He stopped off at That Hag O’ Mine, A pub for decent folk. That motto wasn’t enforced and, frankly, it’d long ago been forgotten. It was a trashy place mostly. A smoky, dimly lit asylum for those who wanted a cheap drink and cheaper conversation.
Maren walked in, sidestepped a floor plank sticking up, and flattened himself against the wall as a whale of a man stumbled out, liquid lunch dripping down his shirt. People here didn’t care if you were the master-at-arms. They probably didn’t care if the king himself walked in. They treated you like they’d treat a stranger on the street: with complete disregard and wariness.
Maren liked that. Well, sometimes. It took him back to the days when he’d enlisted as a lowly grunt of the Silver Swords, had to say his yes-sirs and offer salutations to the big and powerful above him. Simpler times then, fewer worries. The corollary to that is that when you’re fifty rungs below someone on the ladder of power, you’d better hope everyone above you is competent and able to make good decisions. Maren had soon discovered neither of those were true, and his quest to climb higher and higher upon the ladder began.
And here he was, arguably the most influential member of the Valiosian Council, inarguably the most powerful with the Silver Swords behind him, sitting in a dusty pub at a wobbly table having just ordered a drink called Cut Me Toes Off.
Funny story behind that drink. And if not funny, then certainly tragic. The concoction used to be called the Bevy, because it calls for a bevy of liquors. But one day an impish lady walked in, drank several bevies in a one-hour span and then loudly proclaimed she’d cut her toes off if someone gave her a gold coin. She received eight gold coins that day, along with sixteen silvers and eighty-three coppers. She also rather expired later that night, because cutting off your toes leads to immense blood loss, particularly when you’re sloshed.
Maren didn’t intend to drink several Cut Me Toes Off. Or was the plural Cut Me Toes Offs? He pondered this for a bit but forgot about it when the bar hand brought him a copper tankard so big the boy had to use both his hands to carry it. Maren flipped the bar hand a silver coin, nodded his thanks, and sipped the disgustingly potent drink.
Take it in, Maren, he told himself. Take it in. It scalded the back of his throat and made his entire face pucker up like a prune, but boy—boy, did it feel good.
He sat back, hands cupped around the tankard, and he thought. He thought about Tullus and the shock the steward had expressed when Maren had given him and Jules enough gold to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. Tullus might have been his servant and so he saw a different side to Maren than most, but he’d undoubtedly heard the rumors. The rumors that spoke of vulgarity and heinous acts.
Maren O’Keefe wasn’t a saint. A lot of times he wasn’t even a good person. But the stories that were spun about him—the alleged rapes, bribes-turned-murders, blackmailing, silent disappearances of those who opposed him—all lies and fairy tales and hit pieces orchestrated by his enemies.
Maybe he was blunt and offensive and downright mean at times. But he got the job done, and most importantly—most importantly—he took care of his own. He firmly believed that gesture would reward you in the end, in ways you could never imagine. Maybe Tullus and Jules would save his life twenty years down the road, all because he saved theirs. You never know, he always said.
Maren babied his drink. When he eventually finished it, day had turned into evening, and flurries fell from the sky. He returned to his chambers to get a few hours of shut-eye.
Soon after he settled in, a fist fell against his door.
It was Tullus.
“This came addressed to the Council,” he said, hurrying over to Maren’s desk and setting a letter before him. “And once again,
sir, thank you very much. For—well, you know. Thank you.” He scurried out of the room, closing the door behind him.
A lonesome candle flickered against the cream-colored letter. Maren ran his finger along the raised seal of dried yellow ink featuring a howling wolf. He sliced it open with a sharp fingernail, and the parchment unfolded into his lap.
It said this.
To the esteemed King’s Council of Valios,
Several days ago I received a proposition from the newly crowned king of Valios, Lord Lavery Opsillian, that would alter the current trade terms of our two empires. I am under the assumption the proposition was approved by his Council, given the young king’s age and inexperience.
It has also come to my attention that Lord Lavery Opsillian has been captured. I offer my deepest sympathies and pledge the Gravendeers’ full assistance in any way that the Council deems fit, obvious restraints notwithstanding.
I am happy to discuss a reworking of trade terms, but I prefer the negotiations to take place in person, not over stationery. I invite a member of the Council to Haeglin on the twenty-eighth day of this month. Please do respond immediately, as the days are busy and my schedule is ever shuffling.
Regards,
Raegon Gravendeer, Lord of the Gravendeer family, King of Haeglin, and Overseer of the Grateful Throne
“Raegon, my friend,” Maren said, licking his lips, “you’ve impeccable timing.” He folded up and pocketed the letter.
Everything was coming together quite nicely. Most everything, anyway. The dragon—that presented a problem. Maren unlocked the bottommost drawer and withdrew the stuffed-to-capacity bag. He emptied its contents, or rather content, out on his desk. The whelp’s green scales shimmered in the candlelight like an emerald sky filled with winking stars.
If you went around and asked anyone in Avestas if dragons still existed, you’d get a range of responses. Old ladies would likely smack you upside the head and scold you for wasting their time on such a stupid question, while grouchy men would roll their eyes and tell you to get out of their way. Some people might respond kindly to you, especially historians who’d tell tales of the last century dragons had been seen. The point is no one would say dragons were still around. Because it was widely known that they were not.
The Dragon Thief (Sorcery and Sin Book 1) Page 13