“Sounds perfectly reasonable,” Maynard admitted.
“But if I immediately noticed the statue of Queen Etheldreda, chances are it was one of the first things he noticed as well. Then, having found the tunnels, he only needed to wait one more Solstice for you to show the way through them. I do have to admit, even a master thief would have trouble threading their way through such a maze without help. Anyway, early this morning he was already hiding down below. And since the tunnels are so dark, your lantern led him straight to the Orb’s location. He must have hidden in a side passage while you retrieved it.”
Maynard sank into his chair with an exasperated blank stare. Felix’s eyes welled up with tears.
“I noticed the Orb’s niche had another deep alcove opposite it. Even a fool could hide in its shadows. After you fetched the Orb this morning, he ducked in there and stayed put. When you brought it back after the ceremony, he watched you to see exactly how to open the antechamber. Then when you left, he went and stole the Orb for himself.”
“There’s still one thing you haven’t explained,” Maynard said. “We took a complete accounting of everyone in the Sanctellum before the ceremony. And you seem certain that it couldn’t have been an outsider. So who was this thief?”
Dagorat rolled his shoulders. “I have to admit, that part of the puzzle isn’t completely solved. But I think I know how it was done.”
“How?” Maynard asked.
He eyed Felix.
The monk returned the gaze. “I had nothing to do with this.”
“I know,” Dagorat replied. “Tell me, Brother, can you see every face as you mark off the monks’ names?”
“No, some just tell me their names as they come in.”
“Let me guess, their cowls are up and their heads are bowed?”
Felix froze with his mouth open. Then he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, no.”
“Don’t torture yourself. You were fooled by a master.” Dagorat shuffled his feet and addressed Maynard. “Whoever did this had to spy on you for at least one Solstice before today, to trace you to the reading room. Over the following months, he found and explored the tunnels, and this morning he waited for you to show him the location of the antechamber. So this bloke plotted and schemed like a master. Yet, to leave the books and scrolls in disarray is a fool’s error. I can’t understand it.”
Liberon entered the room at that moment with a tray of drinks and food. He walked over to Cyril and presented the tarts. Predictably, Cyril shoved one in his mouth whole. After he swallowed, he said, “As fine as the fare at the Sword and Anvil. My favorite place to dine.”
“You weren’t supposed to discover the robbery until the Winter Solstice. Therefore…” Dagorat paused and grabbed Cyril by the shoulders. “How could I have been so blind? Today is the Solstice. There are no caravans entering or leaving the city.”
“Yes, of course!” Cyril sprang to his feet. “The caravans start again the day after tomorrow.”
“The Orb is still in Mentiria,” they said in unison.
CHAPTER 6
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF LIBERON
CYRIL AND MAYNARD DEBATED ABOUT where to search for the Orb, but Dagorat did not add anything. He leaned back and pondered what lay ahead. Earlier this morning, his Mage-Sense had warned him of something dire on the horizon. If they failed to find the Orb in the city, then Easterly would be the next logical place to go, since it bordered Golgent territory. He shuddered. The land and people who formed him, his true home, had become a dangerous place for him since his exile. Certain death awaited Dagorat there, if anyone recognized him. Something dire, indeed.
Maynard’s comment about the damage he had done to his homeland nagged at his mind. Perhaps this mission was a chance to make amends by saving Easterly from the Golgent. He might even save the lives of family and friends in the process – or his efforts might cost their lives instead. His innards clenched. No. Better to find the Orb while still in the city. The Thieves’ Guild was the obvious place to start. But he would be too easily recognized there, and Cyril’s local fame made the mage difficult to disguise.
He focused on Liberon, and caught the tail end of the conversation.
“…so send Felix and Liberon to the caravan master to buy passage for two. We need to be prepared in case we cannot locate the Orb before it can leave the city,” Cyril said.
“No.” Everyone’s attention trained on Dagorat, his sudden entry into the conversation sparking puzzled expressions. “Send Felix alone and arrange passage for three.” He locked eyes with the abbot. “Do you have any spare clothes? Black is best.”
“What do spare clothes have to do with the caravan?” Maynard asked.
“We have enough of our own and plenty of time to pack,” Cyril said.
“This isn’t about the caravan.” Dagorat pivoted to Liberon. “Go get changed.”
The young monk bent his head to examine his robes with a mystified face.
“Change into whatever spare clothes Maynard gives you.” Dagorat focused back on Cyril and Maynard. “We’ll need someone to go into the Thieves’ Guild tonight. And that someone is Liberon.”
The room erupted into shouts of protest. “Never!” “Too dangerous!” “Are you mad?” With his hands buried deep in his pockets, Liberon anxiously shifted his gaze from face to face.
Dagorat let it die down and proceeded to explain. “Cyril and I are both too easily recognized. Liberon’s young and fit. Out of all of us, he’s best suited for this task. Which also means that if we’re not successful at the Thieves’ Guild tonight, then he’s coming along with us all the way to Easterly.”
Cyril scowled, but offered a reluctant jerk of his chin. “I understand.”
At a loss for words, Maynard opened and closed his mouth several times, resembling a fish. “Y…you could not possibly agree to this…this.”
“Easterly will be dangerous enough for Dagorat and me,” Cyril said. “If this investigation is to have a public face there, then it most certainly cannot be either of us. We need a third companion.”
Maynard crossed and unfolded his arms. After rubbing the back of his neck, he released a heavy breath and closed his eyes.
Felix wrung his hands, then approached Liberon and patted his shoulder. “Be careful.” He pointed a finger at Dagorat. “You take good care of him. He’s like the son I never had.”
“We’ll do all that can be done,” Cyril said.
Maynard sank down into his chair and tapped his finger on the desk. The lines on his forehead deepened, aging him ten years.
Dagorat experienced a stab of remorse for putting the poor man through this. The abbot obviously cared for his fellow monks. They were a family of sorts, bound to each other by camaraderie and brotherly love. A pang of envy hit Dagorat in the chest. He’d had no sense of belonging since leaving his own family all those years ago. His friendship with Cyril could be as close as he would ever get to such an experience ever again.
“Nobody has asked me how I feel about all this,” Liberon said. He stared at the floor and shuffled his feet.
Maynard stood up and approached the young monk. “I’m so sorry, Brother, but you are the logical choice. I can’t leave for such a long period of time, and Brother Felix is an elderly librarian, not an adventurer. You are young and have the energy for such a task.”
A half-grin formed and quickly vanished from Liberon’s face. He swallowed hard. “I’m not pleased, but I’ll do it, in keeping with my vow of obedience.”
The abbot smirked. “I said the same thing to my superior when he told me I was being sent here.” Felix snorted, and even Liberon managed a weak chuckle.
Hairs on the back of Dagorat’s neck tingled, accompanied by a soft hum in his ears. Mage-Sense, as faint as before but still noticeable. Wondering if Roderick lurked nearby again, he peered through the window to the stall where the odd monk had labored earlier. There he stood, still toiling away. And like before, Roderick kept sneaking furtive glances toward M
aynard’s study, and then quickly twisting away. Damn that man! But Dagorat remained quiet. The others had calmed down and he didn’t want to start more drama.
“Everything should turn out for the best. The One is watching over us,” Maynard said in a comforting tone. He placed a hand on Felix’s shoulder.
Dagorat squinted at Roderick. “Are you sure no one else knows about the Orb?” he asked Maynard.
“Yes, I’m quite sure,” the abbot responded. He stared down his nose at Felix and Liberon. “Well? Have either of you told anyone?”
“No,” they said in unison.
Cyril spoke up. “Very good, then. Now, there’s work to be done. Abbot, with your permission?” Maynard gestured his acceptance with a wave of his hand, and the mage moved to the center of the room. “Brother Felix, go book passage for three on the next caravan. Brother Liberon, go and get changed.”
“Black is best if you want to fit in at the Thieves’ Guild,” Dagorat reminded him.
Maynard pointed upwards. “You’ll find some spare clothes in the large trunk at the foot of my bed. Put your robes back on over the rogue outfit. You can’t be seen in the monastery in street clothes.”
“We’ll meet you out front when you’re done,” Dagorat said.
Felix and Liberon left together in a measured walk. Maynard escorted Cyril and Dagorat to the front courtyard, where they waited near the yew tree. “Why do you suspect there are others who know?” Maynard bluntly asked Dagorat.
“I don’t like the way Roderick kept spying on us. Too intense for mere curiosity.”
“Don’t think anything of it. I told you he was rather odd at times.”
Dagorat squinted and tried to put it out of his mind. “We’ll need a place for Liberon to take off his robes.”
“The best place is over there, to the side of the main doors,” Maynard said.
A side door creaked open; Liberon stepped out and joined them near the tree. His robes bulged and he moved with a stiff gait.
Dagorat studied him thoughtfully. “Your name won’t do at all, by the way. You’ll need a rogue’s name.”
“We’ll come up with something suitable,” Cyril said.
“No, we won’t. I will. He needs a rogue’s name, not something like an item from a tavern menu. I can see it now. Lock your doors and guard your daughters because The Black Pudding is coming to town.”
Everyone but Cyril chuckled. The mage crossed his arms. “I can think of other things besides food.”
Liberon interjected, “Perhaps I should come up with my own name.”
“‘Nobnoggin’ has already been taken,” Dagorat said with a grin.
This time it was Liberon who refused to laugh. “What about Scorpion?”
“That’s a good change,” Dagorat replied. “A good change. Over to the main doors, Scorpion, and get those robes off. Let’s see if you’ll make a convincing rogue.”
Liberon pulled the robe over his head. Underneath, all his clothes were black, except for a white shirt under the jerkin. Dagorat checked the collar; it lacked the coin slots rogues used to hide their money. He needed to do a little sewing later.
The monk pulled on a pair of fingerless gloves, which added an excellent touch. He tugged at his leggings and adjusted the thick black leather codpiece. “I still don’t feel like a rogue.”
“You shall before this day is over, young Liberon,” Cyril said before facing the abbot. “We’ll let you know if anything important happens.”
***
They took their leave of Brother Maynard and the peaceful seclusion of Farmstead Abbey to make their way back through the crowded streets. Liberon gawked at everything, impressed with the sheer number of inebriated people. A stranger grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into the mouth of an alley, near a great pile of barrels. He shoved a sloshing mug into his hand. “Have an ale, young rascal!”
“Thank you.” Liberon took the mug absently and stared around the crowd. A number of people lounged among the casks, talking and laughing uproariously. All of them wore identical festive red hats, embroidered with a golden goblet. They cheered at him. “Drink! Drink! Drink!”
He brought the ale to his mouth and took a sip. “Mmm. An interesting brew.”
The people made rude noises, and the stranger grinned. “Drink it down all at once,” he said. Liberon screwed up his face and chugged.
“Drink! Drink! Drink!” the crowd chanted. He polished it off and handed the empty mug back to the stranger. Cheering erupted from all around.
“Have another.” The stranger opened the spigot on a nearby keg, refilled the mug, and passed it back to him.
“Your generosity is commendable, stranger.”
“Barlibourne’s me name. And I ain’t so generous.” He pointed with his thumb to a woman sitting on a barrel behind him. “She saw ya coming and took a fancy to ya.”
Liberon dared a quick peek at her. She wiggled her fingers and blew a kiss toward him. He gasped, and felt his mouth dry up.
“Drink! Drink! Drink!”
Sounded like a good idea.
***
“After a few lessons, you’ll be ready for tonight,” Dagorat said. When he received no response, he looked over his shoulder. “Wait! We lost Liberon.” He grabbed Cyril. They stretched their necks, scanning through the crowd. Dagorat moved off the street and up a staircase. He pointed. “Back there. Next to the tavern we passed.” He jumped back down, and he and Cyril jostled their way through the tide of humanity. As they neared Liberon, they overheard a distinctive chant: “Drink! Drink! Drink!”
They came to a halt and glared at Liberon. He stopped drinking mid-gulp and put down his mug. His cheeks flushed with shame, and the people nearby hissed their dislike. One woman pushed her breasts together, stuck out her tongue, and blew a raspberry at them. Cyril shook his head disdainfully. “I see your new friends have a rather sophisticated manner of expressing themselves.”
“Amity is a virtue,” Liberon said. “You pass judgment too quickly and too harshly.” He hiccupped and brought a hand up to cover his mouth.
Oh, great. A drunk monk. “We have more important things to do.” Dagorat grabbed Liberon and hauled him in between Cyril and himself.
“Hey! Where ya goin’ with our friend?” Barlibourne asked, blocking the mouth of the alley. He offered Dagorat a mug of ale. “Have a drink before ya take him away.”
“Drink! Drink! Drink!”
Dagorat sighed, then raised the mug and emptied it in two seconds flat.
Barlibourne laughed and patted him on the back. “Some o’ the fastest guzzling I ever did see.” He started stomping one foot in a rhythm. “Ready, everyone!”
The crowd pounded their fists and stomped their feet, keeping time with Barlibourne. They sang, “Goblet guzzlers! Goblet guzzlers! One of us! One of us!” Barlibourne presented Dagorat with a goblet-embroidered cap matching the group’s.
Dagorat bowed to Barlibourne. “Thank you so much. Now we really do need to get going. We’ll be back later.” The crowd cheered, and Barlibourne stood aside to let them leave. Liberon spun around and happily waved good-bye, which sparked another roar from their new friends.
“Should we go to the Sword and Anvil?” Dagorat said. “We can’t go straight to the Guild. Liberon needs some time to prepare. Not to mention time to sober up.”
Cyril beamed ear to ear. “I’d never disagree with that suggestion.”
They picked their way through the crowds without further incident and arrived at the tavern. But there was no reprieve inside; patrons filled the place with activity and noise. The entire staff must have been working today to handle the throng. Cyril and Rindell waved to each other, and the innkeeper held up one finger as if to say he would have a table ready soon.
Liberon’s eyes gleamed as the people of Mentiria ate, drank and celebrated, as if he watched a grand spectacle at the Royal Theater. Guess he’s been behind those walls for far too long, Dagorat thought.
“I hope the
re’s a trivy in this pavern?” Liberon said. “I mean a privy in – ”
Dagorat pointed to the back of the room. “It’s back over there.” The monk wobbled off toward the privy. “By the way, what’s a scorpion?” Dagorat asked Cyril.
“An arachnid native to the Red Desert. They say its poison is potent enough to kill a man.” As Cyril spoke, his gaze wandered elsewhere. At first, Dagorat thought he was watching for Rindell to call them to a table. But when he followed his friend’s line of sight, he discovered the object of Cyril’s attention. Of course.
“A-ha! I knew it.”
Startled, Cyril knitted his eyebrows. “Knew what?”
“The real reason why you come here so often. Lilly.”
Cyril’s face reddened. “Yes, well, be quiet about it. Especially in front of Liberon.”
Dagorat stared at his friend. He’d only meant to poke some fun. Sure, Cyril was especially partial to Lilly’s eggs, but that alone shouldn’t embarrass him. Unless…no. Was Lilly knocking on the door to Cyril’s heart?
Before he could pursue the matter further, Rindell signaled to them and pointed to a recently vacated table. Liberon trod carefully, trying to thread his way back; they waved and captured his attention. They all sat and read the menu board on the wall. “Got anything special in mind?” Dagorat asked Cyril. “Can we start off with an Easterlain Rabbit?”
“Sounds good to me. Lilly makes a fine Rabbit,” Cyril answered.
“What’s an Easterlain Rabbit?” Liberon asked.
“Cheese melted with milk, dark beer, and seasonings.”
“It’s a cheese drink?”
“No, you dip small cubes of toast into it.”
“I think I’ll enjoy it.” Liberon paused, squinting at the menu board. “But what are all those other things?”
Cyril tilted his head. “You’ve never heard of a cottage pie? Silberian eggs? Or roast beef with Yelkshire pudding?”
“I know what a roast beef is, and I’ve had eggs,” Liberon said.
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