The Silver Thief

by Edward W. Robertson

  "Then after we kill Gladdic, let's not forget to rob him."

  They returned to the inn, where all had been quiet in their absence. Naran's other crewman arrived within half an hour. Dante was glad for his haste. It had been a long day of travel. Although he wished to spend as little time in Bressel as possible—he'd now been away from Narashtovik for more than two months—at that moment, what he most needed was sleep. Before going to bed, he used needles of nether to kill two moths flapping around the candles, then set the bodies next to his bed.

  He woke early, disturbed by the stirrings of the sailors as they headed downstairs to eat breakfast and start running down leads on the shaden. After a meal of bacon and hash, Dante got to work, too.

  The city was enormous, even larger than Setteven, the Gaskan capital. Under other circumstances, finding one man within its sprawl would have been a daunting assignment. Gladdic, however, was an ordon, a highly-ranked priest of Taim with public responsibilities. On top of that, Dante already knew two of the places the man often spent time: a small temple grounds in the middle of the city, and the Chenney, the giant prison tower where Dante and Blays had been held captive during their last visit to Bressel.

  Back in the privacy of their room, Dante called to the shadows, pulling them from the crevices in the planks of the floor. He sent them into the corpses of the two moths he'd slain the night before. The small, brittle bodies soaked up the nether like rain-hungry sand.

  The moths' wings stirred. They lifted, beating clumsily.

  Across the room, Naran raised an eyebrow. "What's this? Remorse for killing them?"

  "I'm putting them to work," Dante said. "They'll be able to see into places I can't."

  The captain, normally stoic, watched in wonder as the two bugs swirled across the room. "Are they…alive?"

  "Reanimated. As soon as my connection to them is severed, they'll be as dead as before."

  "That's remarkable."

  "That's one word for it," Blays said. "Another might be 'a crime against man and gods.'"

  "That's six words." Dante sent the moths winging to the window. "Anyway, it's only a crime if it doesn't work."

  The two insects passed through the half-opened shutters and ascended into the sky. Dante sat on his bed and sent his vision into the moths. Early morning light glimmered on the wide river running down the middle of the city. The panorama below—houses, temples, shops, stables, spires—was so dizzying Dante had to cling to the bed for support.

  He sent one moth west across the river and the other to circle the city. He could have located the Chenney by description alone. It was one of the largest buildings on the west side, a brute block of stone eighty feet high, many of its windows blocked by iron bars. Dante stationed the west-bound moth above the double doors of the front entrance where it had a view of the street.

  Finding the temple took considerably longer. This was a small central building on a grounds of raked pebbles and manicured plants. Compared to the offices of other priests of Gladdic's stature, such a simple edifice was almost but not quite an ostentatious display of humility. An iron gate enwrapped the grounds. Dante posted the second moth on its highest spike.

  Then, he waited.

  Soldiers in blue uniforms came and went from the Chenney. Sometimes they bore miserable-looking men and women, blasphemers and scofflaws bound for the cells, their faces cut and bruised. At the temple, monks strolled between the hedges, chatting or admiring the small slice of nature within the city.

  Morning turned to afternoon. Afternoon drew on, sweltering and lazy. As the sun came to its rest on the horizon, Dante withdrew his sight from the moths, rubbing his aching temples.

  "I haven't seen him all day." He stood, legs stiff and sore. "I need a break."

  Blays reclined on his bed, spinning a small knife between his fingers. "We're in no rush, are we?"

  "He didn't gather all those shaden to decorate his beach house. He has plans for them. I'd rather not give him time to fulfill them."

  "You're assuming he was in charge of gathering the shells. Those orders might be coming from above."

  "In any event, he could have gone anywhere while we were in the islands," Dante said. "We might have to expand our search soon."

  He gave himself a few minutes to stretch his legs, then returned his sight to the moths'. After nightfall, there was very little traffic at either the temple or the Chenney. Dante watched listlessly.

  As midnight neared, Naran returned from the streets. He had a bounce in his step. "Have you found Gladdic?"

  "Nothing all day," Dante said. "Don't tell me you did."

  "I did not. But I do have a lead on the shaden."

  Dante pulled his attention from the moths. "Where are they being held?"

  "I said I had a lead, not the answer. I'm friendly with a woman named Frey, quartermaster on the Hound's Tooth. She informed me that a Mallish vessel called the Sunfinder arrived from the Plagued Islands earlier this morning."

  "Can you put eyes on it?" Blays said.

  "It's being watched as we speak."

  "See if you can learn its schedule," Dante said. "If it heads upriver, or to another port, it could take us straight to the shaden."

  With the prison and the temple both so quiet, he grabbed a few hours of sleep. The next morning was more of the same. After two fruitless hours of Dante spying through the moths' eyes, Blays popped to his feet.

  "I'm not doing us any good in here." Blays planted his hands on the small of his back and stretched his spine. "I'm going to take a peek around the streets."

  "What if you're caught?"

  "Then those who catch me will regret having shown up to work today." He glanced yearningly at the bundle of sticks concealing their swords, then exited into the hall.

  As the hours wore on, Dante found himself drowsing off. The room was stuffy and hot. He opened the windows wide and stood beside them, out of sight of the noisy street.

  Blays came back shortly after the four o'clock bells of the Odeleon. Sweat sheened his face. "I found Gladdic."

  Dante heaved himself to his feet. "How'd you do that?"

  "By possessing functional eyes and ears. He was riding in a carriage surrounded by dour men ringing bells and yelling to draw crowds. They were leading a wagon full of prisoners. Word on the street is that Gladdic intends to execute them."

  "Executions? When?"

  "By the look of things? Any minute."

  Dante went for his shoes. "If the crowd wants an execution, then we'd better go give them one."

  2

  Bells rang around the carriage. A wagon rumbled behind it. Criers exhorted the crowds at the sides of the street, the members of which replied with a hailstorm of questions. Hooves clacked on the cobbles. It added up to a racket so tremendous that the man sitting beside Gladdic on the carriage bench had his palms clamped to his ears, scowling. Gladdic soaked up each and every note. Only the untrained ear heard cacophony.

  The trained ear heard the most beautiful music known to the gods: that of heresy being corrected.

  The carriage took its time coming to the Plaza of the Hour. Gladdic didn't mind; the vehicle's roof kept off the sun, while the walls were open to allow a breeze. In time, they rolled around a corner and into the square. Four hundred people were there already, jockeying for portions of the shade cast by the three-story buildings overlooking the cobbled grounds. Vendors scurried into the square hauling hand-drawn carts laden with pastries and smoked fish.

  Followed by the wagon, the carriage came to the stage, a chest-high wooden platform at the north end of the square. The stage was often used for plays, fiddling, foolery, and other entertainments and diversions. Hence it was no mystery that it also shared its space with public punishments.

  The vehicle rocked to a stop. A footman set a small staircase beside the carriage and backed away, bowing low. Gladdic stood and descended.

  Rowen approached from the stoop of the temple at the corner of the square. His gray robes were
unable to disguise his unseemly bulk. Golden bracelets jangled on his wrists. The three blue stripes on his collar announced him as an ordon. Officially, that was Gladdic's rank as well.

  Like a barge towed upstream against the current, Rowen drifted beside Gladdic and smiled at the prisoners as a farmer might regard a crop of swollen melons. "Where from?"

  "Where do you think?"

  "Collen again?"

  Gladdic nodded once. "In Collen, heretics grow better than any plant. As if there's a flaw in the soil itself."

  Rowen dabbed his perspiring brow with a crisp white cloth. "Why persist in open worship of Arawn? They know exactly what will come of it."

  "These people weren't arrested for worshipping Arawn. They're here for worshipping Carvahal."

  "Carvahal? But our people worship Carvahal. He's a member of the Celeset!"

  Blue-shirted guards arrived, unlatching the wagon's gate. The chained prisoners plodded down the ramp and into the plaza. Eight men and four women. Twelve total, aligning with the twelve houses of the Celeset. Its significance would be lost on no one.

  "Don't be troubled, Rowen," Gladdic said. "I have no intention of persecuting those who bend their knee to Carvahal, Lia, Simm, or whoever they so choose."

  "Then why do so in Collen? Won't that only spark further unrest?"

  "If it exposes further heresy, then so be it. Here in Bressel—indeed, across Mallon—all acknowledge that Father Taim stands first and foremost in the Celeset. The other gods have their role, and may speak more loudly to you than the Father, if that is how your ear is attuned. But there is no questioning who stands at the head of the heavens."

  Rowen grunted. "Except in Collen."

  Gladdic nodded, ignoring Rowen's obvious commentary about Collen in favor of watching the prisoners being led to the stage. Gladdic never tired of the sight. They knew what was coming, yet they were all so docile. It was as though, in the end, they admitted their guilt. And wished to be relieved of it.

  "Correct," Gladdic replied once the guilty had disappeared behind the platform. "If one understands Arawn's place, then there is no danger in worshipping Carvahal. But if one venerates Arawn, as the Colleners do, then one's vision of Carvahal will be warped as well. For Carvahal is Arawn's brother, yes? And while he stole the fire of the gods and delivered it to humanity, this wasn't a good act. It led to the corruption of our souls. The defiling of ether with nether. I fear that, in Collen, they fail to understand this. Until such a time as they do, those who worship Carvahal must be corrected."

  Rowen frowned. "Does the Eldor know of this?"

  "Does he know of it?" Gladdic glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting the Eldor any moment. "Why, it was his idea."

  For the day's event, a scaffold had been built across the stage. From it dangled twelve nooses. Guards brought up twelve stools, placing one beneath each noose. The crowds ventured away from the shelter of the buildings and their awnings, braving the summer sun for a better view.

  Heavy footsteps trundled up the steps of the stage. A shaved head rose into view, supported by a broad-shouldered body wearing the gray robes of Taim—and the red trim of Gashen. Seeing the haldac, the crowd murmured.

  The large man was followed by a much shorter male. The haldac directed the heretic to the stool on the far left of the stage. The man climbed it. The haldac secured the noose around the offender's neck. The executioner left the stage and returned with a young woman, securing her in the noose beside the first heretic.

  The haldac repeated this process until all twelve stools were filled. This took several minutes and was not particularly exciting. That, however, was the message: justice was implacable. It played out without haste because it was inevitable. Watching the haldac lead the guilty to their places one by one, it was hard not to imagine yourself being led up to the stage, placed atop a stool, and fitted for the rope.

  When all were in place, Gladdic straightened, ensuring that his robes, collars, and sleeves were tidy and straight. Guards maintained an open path through the middle of the crowd. Gladdic nodded to Rowen and walked along this path toward the stage. The crowd smelled overwhelmingly of sweat, along with the perfumes of jasmine and florine they used in an attempt to mask the odor.

  He was sweating as well, but he never minded that. Sweat was the body purging itself of ill humors. Its role was the same he played for the city.

  A small platform stood across from the stage. Some preferred to take the stage itself, the better to speak directly to the crowd, but Gladdic felt it was necessary to create space between the condemned and he who passed judgment. He took the platform, eyes moving from one prisoner to the next.

  "As mortals, our existence relies on the order of the heavens." Gladdic gave a short pause between each sentence. Enough time for them to begin to absorb his words, but not enough time to dissect them. "Disorder above rains chaos on those below. Hence, the violation of celestial order is a threat to all those who are capable of death."

  Again, he gazed at each of the condemned in turn. Only three were angry or prideful enough to meet his eyes.

  "But perhaps that is the goal?" Gladdic took a step toward the edge of the small platform, turning his back on the heretics and facing the crowds. "These people worship death. Arawn. I have, in my investigations, heard some go so far as to say that it is their duty to kill their fellow men. Because that reunites them with Arawn all the faster."

  The jeers of the masses obliged him to pause again. Bits of fetid cucumber flew toward the stage.

  Gladdic turned back to the condemned, stiffening his spine. "Regardless of their goals, it is our goal—our sacred charge—to oppose them. To stop them from breaking the heavens and the earth along with it. When so much hangs in the balance, if we show mercy, we only hurt ourselves."

  He pointed across the dozen noosed men and women. "They who stand before you are heretics. Threats to the order of the skies and our lives on earth. For this, there is only one fate."

  He fell silent. The haldac thumped back up to the stage. This time, he carried a long red crook. He walked to the far left side of the platform, hooked his staff around the leg of the small man's stool, and yanked. The man dropped a foot. Not nearly far enough to snap his neck. The crowd bayed, hands lifted above their heads.

  The hanged man swung in a slow circle, legs kicking. The haldac moved onto the young woman. He hooked her stool and removed it from beneath her feet.

  He turned off each prisoner with the same patient inevitability he'd displayed in leading them to the stage. By the time he saw to the twelfth heretic, the first had quit moving. The hanged man was quite likely still alive, however. Gladdic had seen a man hang for thirty minutes, get cut down and tossed in a pile with the other corpses, only to gasp for breath and sit upright. The peasants had thought it a miracle. Faced with the possibility of a hostile mob, the attending priest had had no choice but to agree that Taim himself had pardoned the criminal, and thus so must the city.

  Since then, Gladdic ensured that, in any hangings he oversaw, the offenders would be left to swing for no less than sixty minutes.

  "These ones were lucky," he mused, projecting his voice. He held up his palm, lightly cupped, elbow bent as he gestured across the row of heretics. Each one of their faces had gone red and purple, the eyes bulging grotesquely. Those on the right end of the stage continued to kick and jerk. "There is great pain in strangulation. Yet compared to some deaths, it's a mercy."

  From his robes, he produced an oversized book and held it aloft. Its binding was black. Its front cover bore an image of a white tree.

  "The Cycle of Arawn," he said, turning in a circle, book held aloft for all to see. "The words with which they poison your souls, turning you away from the face of the truth. Some poisons are so vile there is only one way to be rid of them."

  He drew the ether from the air around him and the sky above. Shards of light glinted on his upstretched hand. The shards grew brighter and brighter until flames leaped from the pages
of the book. Smoke billowed away, pages crackling, yet Gladdic didn't drop the book. Instead, he summoned more ether to the base of the book, letting it absorb and disperse the heat of the fire.

  Ash swirled around his head. "From this day forward, just as this book burns, so will all who follow its lies!"

  His eyes shifted across the field of sweating faces. He prayed for a riot. An uprising. Anything that would allow him to crack down on the city as he had done in the Collen Basin. Some of the crowd looked leery or fearful of his announcement, but none appeared angry or outraged. He shouldn't have hanged the latest apostates. He should have burned them. Should have—

  He went still. Someone was…watching him. In fact, many were—some members of the audience had returned their attention to the swaying bodies, but others continued to observe him for further pronouncements—but this person was watching him with something more than physical eyes. Gladdic reached into the ether, feeling for any signs of its use. Nothing. He withdrew.

  With terrible caution, fearful of being caught even though it would also be heresy on the part of the observer, he extended his focus into the nether.

  Nothing there, either. No secret awareness or hidden spies.

  Yet he had learned to trust his instincts. They had been honed by years of use, allowing him to look into a man's eyes and see the innocence there—or the treachery. As opposed to the instincts, the mind couldn't be trusted. It was too eager to explain things to itself in the manner it wished to hear them. In this case, his mind wished to tell him that his feeling was no more than paranoia, or a false expression of his senses, like when lights dazzled the eyes from within.

  The soul, however, had finer instruments of detection. And rather than yearning to delude itself, it hungered always for truth.

  He cast down the smoking remnants of the Cycle, tattered pages fluttering. The book struck the ground with a thud.

  "Remember what you've seen today," he said. "And remember it again if ever you hear their lies."