Redemption of Thieves (Book 4) (3 page)

“Materializing?” Hadrian stepped in.

“It’s a magical method of travel used by the Skeltai raiders and their shaman,” I explained hastily. “No one knows how they do it. Go on, Dradac.”

“Our man followed instructions,” he continued. “He held back and observed long enough to see the scout circle the settlement several times before pulling his disappearing trick again.”

“You think they’re marking the place in advance of a raid?” I asked. “You’re probably right. It fits their usual pattern. I’ll pass the word to the Praetor and he’ll have his men stationed there to stave off an attack before it comes.”

“Not so fast. I want to discuss an idea with you. That’s why I came directly instead of sending the messenger. I believe the Skeltai mean to attack this very night. Ada tells us tonight is a special occasion for her people—the final rites of Sagara Nouri.”

I bolted upright at mention of the pagan holiday. “I’m listening.”

“Good. We decided the purpose of the raids was to appease their gods by gathering sacrificial victims for their festival, right?” So, it occurs to me tonight being the bloodiest night of their rituals, Beaver Creek is likely to be their greatest massacre.”

“Not if we act quickly,” I said. “With the Praetor’s men surrounding the settlement, we may prevent the attack and drive the Skeltai back. It’s worked before.”

“But this is my idea… What if the Fists weren’t to show up so speedily? What if they held back and waited for the Skeltai raiders to make the first move? I know we’ve tried trapping them before—”

“You’re rotting right it’s been tried before,” I cut him off. “More than once, too. But the enemy always discovers our presence too soon and they disappear before we can close in.”

“Only because we were impatient,” he argued. “But this time, let’s hold back our Fists until the raiders have engaged with the villagers. They’ll be unable to extricate themselves and flee as we come charging in.”

“Meanwhile villagers will be slaughtered for some minutes while we’re too far away to do them any good,” I pointed out.

But he wouldn’t be swayed. “Balance their deaths against the number of lives that may be saved by this plan. Rather than counter one attack after another, wouldn’t you rather stop the Skeltai permanently?”

“I don’t see how that’s going to happen.”

“Just listen. What if we got close enough through the method of surprise to arrive while the raider’s magic portal is still open? We could send our men through the portal after their retreating army and trace them back to their home ground.”

“You want to strand a handful of men deep in enemy territory with an overwhelming number of enemies and no possible means of return?”

He rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t suggest a handful. Make it a large enough party to do some damage. Let us show them we’re capable of striking back. Maybe it’ll put a little fear into them if we prove we aren’t going to remain helpless victims. I can’t swear this would put a stop to their raids, but if we show an ounce of their own cunning, they might learn to respect us as a force to be reckoned with.”

I frowned. “There may be something to the idea. At any rate, I’ll certainly bring it up to the Praetor. All decisions are up to him. But I wouldn’t count on anything coming of it, if I were you. It’s a suicide mission. It might make a statement to the enemy, but the fact remains no one entering that portal is likely ever to set eyes on home again. Even if our people miraculously won their battle with the Skeltai on the other side of the portal—and that’s assuming the savages don’t have superior numbers on hand to replace their warriors as they fall—there’s still days or weeks of travel ahead of any survivors. We have no way of knowing the distance between wherever the portal lets out and the borders of the province. It’d be rough to cover enemy territory on foot, even for someone who knows his way through the Dark Forest. And I’m not sure such a guide is to be found. Certainly not in the little time we have.”

“Ada could do it,” he suggested. “And of course I’d go too.”

“No,” I said sharply. “I’ve lost too many friends lately. I can count the number of loved ones remaining to me on the fingers of one hand and have digits left over. No one is going through that portal unless it’s the Praetor’s Fists. He can throw away as many of his soldiers as he wishes, but I won’t let him waste my people on this. Anyway, Ada hasn’t been on the other side of the border since she was a child. I think she overestimates her ability to lead a band of men, many of them likely injured, back home again.”

He frowned. “I think you’re
under
estimating Ada. She’s not one to accept failure and I’d be there to prop her up. She’d get us home one way or another.”

“Enough. I’ve already said no and I don’t mean to change my mind.” I rose and snatched up my bow from its place on the wall. “Now I’ve got a message to deliver up at the keep. Our time grows short.”

He walked me to the door. “Will you be accompanying the Fists?”

“Not likely. You know Rideon doesn’t permit my presence in Dimmingwood.” I couldn’t hide the trace of bitterness in my voice.

He nodded but there was a distant look in his eyes. I wondered what he was planning.

* * *

At the keep I was shown into a dark-paneled room I had never seen before and instructed to await the Praetor’s convenience. Fully aware a guard was posted outside the door, it never occurred to me to do anything else, although the idea of passing interminable minutes in this stuffy little room while I carried such vital information was frustrating.

I controlled my impatience by studying my surroundings. It was a crowded but carefully organized room, dominated by a large elderwood desk at the center and a high-backed chair. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, most of them filled with leather-bound books or stacks of scrolls. I was surprised to recognize one object displayed on the shelves. My knife. It was the very one I had so recently used in my attack on the Praetor, although the blade was now polished to a sheen and bore no remaining trace of blood or poison.

I scowled. It was in keeping with the arrogant nature of my enemy to keep and display like a prize the weapon of his would-be assassin.

I continued to scan the shelves. There were a few foreign instruments I didn’t recognize arranged among the books, such as a large, revolving ball on a stand with multi-colored patches and markings covering the surface. Small writing was scrawled across the ball and, peering closer to make it out, I realized I was looking at a map of the provinces and surrounding areas stretched over a globe. I’d never seen anything like it before.

I turned my attention from the objects on the shelves to the tidy arrangement on the desktop. An inkpot, blotter, and quill stood on the right side where the hand would naturally fall and stacked next to these were a few clean sheets of parchment. At the other side of the desk was spread a clumsy heap of scrolls and in the center stood a candle stand holding a cold stub of wax, mostly melted away.

As I circled around behind the desk, I couldn’t help thinking what a perfect opportunity this was. Almost too perfect. Could the Praetor have some ulterior motive for leaving me alone in this room? Something he wanted me to find? I dismissed the thought as a ridiculous one. Why should the man
want
me to riffle through his desk? For another moment I held back, studying the silver-knobbed drawers longingly, then I cast a cautious glance over my shoulder and gave in to temptation. I had vowed to obey the Praetor, it was true, but I was fairly certain he’d never specifically commanded me not to snoop through his things.

I ducked behind the desk and slid open the upper drawer on the right-hand side. Nothing. Some extra sheets of parchment, more stoppered pots of ink, and a slender book. I picked it up and flipped through the pages, but it contained nothing of interest. A shower of pressed flower petals and leaves slipped from between the pages as I turned them and I replaced the sprigs with some amusement before putting the book back into the drawer. I wouldn’t have thought the Praetor the sort for collecting sentimental mementos.

The second drawer held a thick sheaf of papers. I only had time to scan a handful but they all seemed to be ancient notes on the history of the Skeltai race and the use of magic in the provinces in the days before the land became settled and most of my Skeltai ancestors driven out. That was surprising since the Praetor was so adamantly opposed to magickers. Why should he study a people and a practice he hated?

I spent little time on the next drawer as it only contained more dried plants, this time chopped into bits or preserved whole in jars. As I glanced over them, I noticed a stoppered bottle filled with a reddish liquid resembling dried blood. Another vial, half-empty, contained some blackish substance I didn’t want to guess the origins of. A peculiar smell of decay emitted from this collection and I moved on quickly. It was in the bottom left drawer that I eventually made a discovery in the form of a delicate, silver-worked box. There was a pretty little lock on the lid, but I would be a poor thief indeed if I didn’t carry a lock-pick and know how to use it. I took care not to damage the lid or the lock, and in moments, I had the box open. Its contents gazed up at me.

A feeling of unreality settled over me, for looking up at me was a familiar face, miniaturized in a framed portrait small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. Before I knew what I was doing, I was holding the miniature. I almost didn’t know my own Da. Indeed, I wouldn’t have known him if his face hadn’t been fresh in my mind after my recent dream. He was young here, perhaps no more than twenty, and more finely dressed than I had ever seen him. There was a wistful look around his eyes and a solemn cast to his clean features. It must have required a skilled artist to capture him so perfectly. The kind of portraitist a farmer of dubious origins should never have been able to afford. Who had commissioned this likeness, and more importantly, how had it fallen into the Praetor’s hands? Was it part of some plan to control me? Had he been researching my family history?

I scrambled to make sense of this finding. I couldn’t reconcile my memories of my gruff father with his weathered face and work calloused hands to the image of this cultured looking youth with his smooth chin and courtier-style clothing.

Suddenly, I heard a door creaking open and I scrambled out from behind the desk, whipping the miniature portrait behind my back. It was only the guard who’d been posted outside the door, peering in to see what mischief I might be up to. I shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. I must have appeared more innocent than I felt, because after a cursory glance around the room, the man pulled his head back out and the door was closed again.

I realized then I had better use more care. It might just as easily have been the Praetor coming in to catch me with his portrait—no,
my Da’s
portrait in my hands. I reluctantly returned the miniature to the box. I hated to do that as I had hated nothing before or since vowing obeisance to the Praetor, but I had little choice. Even with the pained and confused emotions the sight of the portrait awakened within me, I still had enough mental clarity left to know I couldn’t afford for the Praetor to know I had found it.

I hastily re-latched the box, replacing it in the bottom drawer. I checked to be certain everything else I had touched was back in its proper place and then abandoned the desk and pulled up a high-backed chair in the corner to await whatever happened next.

Time seemed to drag by, but as there were no windows in the room through which to judge the changing shadows, I had no way of knowing if I had truly been waiting for hours or if it were my own guilt and sense of urgency that made it seem so. I fell again to looking round the room. My eyes were drawn to the only untidy aspect of the place and the heap of scrolls I had vaguely noticed before spread out on the desk. They were disarranged and jumbled, looking as though they had been searched through with clumsy haste by the room’s last occupant before being shoved aside. One, I noted had tumbled to the floor and been left to lie at the foot of the desk. Automatically, I stretched from my chair and bent to retrieve the fallen scroll. As I set it on the edge of the desk, my eyes fell upon another scroll, unrolled and held open by a heavy rock weight.

Curious, I bent over it and tried to make out the cramped writing scrawled across the page. There were words I was unfamiliar with, but it seemed to be some sort of recipe, a detailed list of herbal ingredients and the proper ways to mix them. What was it the Praetor found so fascinating in plants and dried, dead things? I found a second sheet behind the first, and on it were drawn detailed sketches of various plants with descriptions underneath. I paused as I recognized one of the herbs from Javen’s lessons. I had never heard the fancy name titled beneath the sketch, but we knew it as Horse Clover. It had no healing properties I was aware of beyond offering a questionable relief for sour stomach. For some reason, however, the five-petal flower held my attention. Now I thought of it, I was fairly sure that had been Horse Clover petals I found pressed in the book inside the Praetor’s desk.

What was it Javen had told me about Horse Clover? Some superstitious folk would never touch the plant, not even for medicinal purposes, because a certain dark influence was associated with it. It was said in the days when sorcery was common and magic used openly among the people, in that “evil” time before the Praetor had purged our part of the Province of this magical pestilence, that such plants as Horse Clover, Black Fern, and Bitterweed were used commonly among practicers of magic as components for the casting of spells. Most folk, of course lumped magickers into the one general category as I had before Hadrian had taught me of mages and naturals. A natural, I knew, would have no need of spells or their components.

I frowned at the implications of my find. Could the Praetor be studying the arts of magery or was there some other purpose for these lists and sketches? Perhaps a simple interest in botany? Certainly I had always found the study of plants and herbs interesting under Javen’s tutelage. But it seemed too much of a coincidence that I should find these things in the Praetor’s keeping in addition to all the other causes he had given me for suspicion.