Read The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Online
Authors: Craig R. Saunders,Craig Saunders
Rohir
sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. The grubby thief, Filcher, looked down
at him with an uncertain smile.
'Don’t
cry out for the guard, my lord. I have a secret message. People see me coming
and going too often, they’ll know something’s up.'
Rohir,
Lord Steward, took his hand away from his sword which rested beside his bed.
'Brindle’s
horns lad, how did you get in here?'
'I’m
a sneaky bastard, my lord.'
'Humph.
Filcher, wasn’t it?'
'That’s
it.'
'Well,
tell me what you’ve got to tell me, and then get the hell out of my bedroom.'
The
young thief smiled warmly. 'Yes, my lord. I’m not given to the details, but the
lady told me to tell you the thief has finished the first part of his quest. No
problems, she says.'
'How
does she know?'
'The
lady knows much, my lord Rohir, and I’m not privy to how. Best not to ask
questions, if you’ll take advice,' he said with a grin.
'I’ll
not take advice from a bloody street urchin. Give her my thanks. And get the
hell out of my bedroom. If you come in here again I’ll have your ears, friend
of the lady or not. Understand?'
'I’m
not deaf.'
'Then
make sure you don’t become so.'
The
lad nodded, rose, and stepped over the window sill to drop down.
'Bloody
fool! You’ll fall!'
The
boy dropped. Rohir jumped up and tried to catch him.
When
he looked down, the thief was no longer there.
'That’s
a proper thief,' he grumbled to himself as he laid back on the bed and tried to
relax once more. But he was awake, now. Wide awake.
'Not
like Roskel, prancing around like a dandy. Proper thief.'
He
got up, and spent the rest of the night trying to work out how the thief had
got in and out. He kept walking over to the window and glancing down, trying to
figure out where the boy had gone and how he’d disappeared so suddenly, but it
remained a mystery.
In
the morning he passed the good news to Durmont and Wexel in private, then they
sat in council with the Thane of Carmille, trying to figure out a way to drive
cattle safely through Mardon to the hills for summer grazing without Drayman
raiders taking half the stock.
Gods,
Rohir thought to himself, I bet that boy has more excitement in one night’s
work than I have in a month.
*
A
messenger rode hard and drew reign at the gates to Ulbridge mansion. His haste
was for nought, though, as the guard held him there until the Thane himself
arrived to see what the commotion was.
The
messenger was grubby and tired, but he did not get a meal that day.
'What
is your message?' asked the Thane shortly.
The
messenger handed over the sealed scroll. He was tired and had changed horses
six times to beat his lord to this town, but his work was not finished yet. He
had to ride back up the great north road and take a reply before his lord made
it this far south.
The
Thane cracked the seal and read the message silently.
'Wait
there. I will send message back with you.'
The
messenger waited patiently, desperate for a bath and a hot meal but knowing he
would get none until journey’s end.
When
the Thane returned, the messenger found that the wax was still warm.
'See
that he gets this. Here, a gold piece for a meal along the ride. But mind you
don’t dally.'
'My
lord,' said the messenger, and heeled his horse around, then sped out of the gates.
So,
mused the Thane, as he walked slowly along the corridors of his
home...so...could Wense pull it off?
If
anyone could...
If
the Thane of Kar could truly do as he said, then his banner would be raised and
none would stand against him. Finally the abomination that was the stewards,
swarthy bandits the lot of them, would be executed and order would be restored. And
that bastard Roskel among them.
He hoped he was doing the right thing, but a man had
to take chances.
He
sent his housecarl to prepare the estate for guests for the winter. Then, in
the spring, a new order would rise and things would be as they should once
more.
*
Roskel
and the outcast Drayman arrived in Ulbridge tired but optimistic. Roskel was so
close to the end of his journey he could almost feel his soft warm bed in
Redalane's castle, passing out the winter...
He
could see the flickering fire in his room, a soft maid in his arms…
Then,
back to Naeth, and a life of service to the country.
He
sighed at the thought.
But
he was a long way from the place he had come to think of as home. Ulbridge was
a far cry from Naeth.
The
city sprawled east-west, spanning the Uller-- a medium-sized muddy brown swathe
that cut through the heart of the city. The outlying areas were shabby, but
bustling with small holders selling their wares on every corner, hawkers
selling goods that people needed, rather than in the city proper where they
sold things people wanted. This was where the poorer folks struggled to
survive, eking out an existence from nothing. The farmers in the surrounding
countryside had wares to offer, and in a good year could always make enough to
live on. The bargemen and river fishers provided food also, at a price people
could afford but not so low a price to put themselves out of pocket. But the
poor, the paupers and the beggars, the whores and the cutpurses, they lived on
what they could scrape and scrounge from their already destitute neighbours. If
they could have entered the merchant’s areas and the area surrounding the
Thane’s mansion, pickings would have been better. Unfortunately, there were
heavy patrols in those areas. The Thane of Ulbridge was not a man to take
chances. Once he had left a treasure unguarded and since he had been extremely
careful.
It
wasn’t a bad place to live, as Roskel remembered. Just devoid of excitement.
There was a sad air about the place, as if all joy had fled from the citizens.
Roskel
dismounted as he entered the narrow streets and led Minstrel toward the poor
quarter where they would be staying. He could afford to pay for better, but he
could not afford the scrutiny in the city centre. Better safe than sorry, he
reasoned, and guards almost outweighed citizens as you got closer to the
massive mansion that the Thane called his home. The Thane was a man to bear a
grudge.
Just
because Roskel had once been overly friendly with his lonely wife...
But
then, life was unfair, and you played that game, you took your chances. Still,
at the time, it wasn't as though Roskel had known the woman was wife to the
Thane of Ulbridge.
Roskel
smiled a little at the memory, then shook himself free of his reverie. He
needed to concentrate on the city, not on its women.
Trade
with other cities and towns of the southlands was brisk in Ulbridge, and people
bustled about their business as he neared the market, with his head still
partly in the clouds. A few stares were turned his way, but strangers were
common to any city and he stood out no more than the rest.
Sadly,
he thought, looking to one side, I travel with a beacon for distrust. His
companion wore Roskel’s hooded cloak to hide his features in shadow. With his
broad shoulders and belted long sword, though, he cut an imposing figure. His
dark beard could still be seen, although thankfully his black eyes were hidden
from view. There was little Roskel could do about that. He would just tell
people that his companion was a mute from the distant sea port of Pulhuth. Most
people would never even have heard of Pulhuth, and the chances of anyone
knowing that its people looked just the same as the average Sturman was remote.
He was thankful that the Drayman could not speak, even though the thought was
uncharitable. It would have been difficult to explain a foreign language. There
were no foreign languages in Sturma for there were no foreigners and everyone,
from Thaxamalan’s Saw to the Spar, spoke the King’s Tongue.
He
had explained where they were going to the Drayman, who he had come to think of
as a Skald, a legendary society of warrior bards who had run a network
throughout the land in the old King’s time, more than fifty years ago. They
were just a legend, though the name stuck in Roskel’s mind. The Drayman had
told him he could play all instruments. He explained in his strange way with
mind-contact and his tuneful humming that he instinctively understood all
music.
It
might be a talent that would come in useful. The Skald could play and accompany
Roskel’s singing, for while the thief’s singing voice was fair, his playing was
almost childish and in a city, he would soon be revealed as a fraud. He could
not afford such attention. Especially not when the end of his quest was in
sight, an end to this skulking about the country pretending to be someone he
was not.
Eventually,
after a roundabout journey through twisting, dirty streets, they arrived at
their refuge, or so Roskel hoped.
A
painted sign of a rotund man dressed fully in red peered down at them, ruddy
cheeked with ale. Below was the name, The Blushing Drunk.
The
stables were out the back, as Roskel remembered. He motioned to the Skald with
a slight inclination of his head and led on to the rear of the building. A
stable girl was munching on a midday apple, juices running down her chin.
'A
silver a night, Sir.'
'Don’t
try it on with me, girl. Two copper was the price last time I was here.'
'When
was that? Forty years ago?'
Roskel
laughed. 'You’ve a cheek on you, girl.'
'I’ve
four. And it’s a silver for the horse. Rub down and grain included.'
Roskel
shook his head. Prices had gone up since he’d been here last. He wondered how
people afforded such prices, but then it was safe here, at least. He didn’t
want some pauper turning Minstrel into steaks.
'Alright,
you little thief. Here’s a silver for the night. I’ll see how long I’m staying
in the morning.'
'I’ll
be here, Sir.'
Roskel
nodded.
'Come
on, Skald, let’s go and see what the day will bring. You know if you took your
hair down, out of braids, your face would be hidden…it might make things
easier.'
The
Drayman touched Roskel’s arm, anger on his face.
You
do not know what you ask. The braids are memories of justice given. To undo
them would be to forget and thus dishonour the dead.
'Fine.
As you wish,' said the thief, shaking his arm free and pushing the door open,
shaking his head. Some people just could not see sense.
They
headed through the back door to the commons. As Roskel remembered, it was a
good haunt for a man on the run. Three exits and an easy jump down from any of
the first floor rooms.
He
pushed open the door and the two men ducked their heads under the low lintel.
The room was gloomy for the shutters were still closed.
A
large man slept soundly in a chair, his head on a scarred table. He snored
softly. Roskel crept up to him.
'Darwell
Redd!' he whispered in his ear.
The
man fair leapt from his chair and his hand went to his dagger. Roskel held it
out to him. It took a second but the innkeeper recognised Roskel eventually.
'Roskel!
You old rascal!'
'Ahem,
it’s not Roskel here, old friend. It’s...Sam...yes. Sam.'
Darwell
took this information in his stride.
'Fair
enough. Who’s your friend?'
'This
is a Skald, from distant lands. He’s a mute and I haven’t figured out his name
yet. But he plays the lute like an angel.'
Darwell
took in his old friend’s appearance. Roskel’s moustache was longer than the
last time he had been there, but Darwell never second guessed a man who wanted
to stay out of jail. Roskel would still be recognised if someone got up close
enough. There were no posters about anymore, though, so perhaps people had
forgotten…even if the Thane hadn't.
'You’re
taking a chance coming back here.'
'I
have no choice. I’ve a job to do.'
'Well,
you’ve got heart, I’ll give you that. But you’re as stupid as ever. If the
guard catches sight of you, it’s straight off to the dungeons.'
Roskel
stroked his moustache thoughtfully. 'So bygones aren’t bygones, then?'
'No.
Rumour says he won’t let her out of his sight anymore. You did that woman
wrong, Roskel.'
'Aye,
that I did. There’s not a day goes by I don’t regret ever seeing her. But she
was a fine woman.'
'Still,
it’s history. You’ll be wanting a room, I presume?'
'And
a mug of your swill.'
'Finest
ale in town. And you, friend?' he said, turning to the Drayman.
The
Skald nodded.
Darwell
left to get some mugs.
'Let’s
hope we get what we came for quickly. It doesn’t sit well with me, being here.'
The
Drayman frowned and inclined his head toward the receding back of the
innkeeper.
What’s
he talking about?
'Old
stories, old loves. I was…indiscreet…with the Thane’s wife. He’s after my
head.'
The
Drayman touched his shoulder and hummed.
What’s
a Thane?
'Our
leaders. Kind of a warlord, though there hasn’t been a war since the
Reconciliation. Old news, my friend.'
The
contact broke and the Drayman took a seat at a table, his back to the wall so
that he could see the whole of the bar, in case someone should come in.
Darwell
returned, carrying three mugs.
'It’s
been too long, Roskel. I’ve missed your stories. So, are you travelling as a
bard now?'
'That’s
my guise. I’m not much good but I can make up a story if I need to. But I’m not
here to tell tales.'
'Too
bad. I’d like to hear the tale of what you’ve been up since we last spoke.'
'It’s
a dangerous tale and outlandish. I’d tell you, for I’ve no doubt that you
wouldn’t believe me. But it’s safer if you don’t know.'
'It’s
never bothered you before, putting me in danger.'
'I’ve
discovered I have a conscience since then.'
'Funny
thing, conscience. Can get a man in trouble if he’s not careful.'
'I’ll
be careful, friend. Now, as to why I’m here, I need to find a man…Shawford
Crale…we have business.'
'And
none of mine. I’ve heard of him. No idea where he lives, mind. I could ask
around. I’ve still a few contacts in the local Covenant. Someone will know.'
'I’d
appreciate it…have you heard much about him?'
'Not
much to tell. Just a wealthy merchant as far as I know.'
'Nothing
special about him then?'
'No.'
Roskel
drained his mug slowly. 'Ask around then. How about a refill?'
'You
going to pay this time?'
'Would
I steal from you, old friend?'
'Yes.'
Roskel
laughed and laid a gold piece on the table. 'For the room and the ale. Keep
them coming. We’ve nothing to do but wait for the time being.'
'Help
yourself. I’ll head out for a while. I’d take you with me, but the man I’m
going to see is shy, shall we say, and you’re apt to attract the wrong kind of
attention.'
'Don’t
mind if we do,' said the thief.
Roskel
and the Drayman settled into a steady rhythm of drinking.
The
Drayman touched Roskel eventually and spoke in his mystical manner.
What
of this Shawford Crale?
'I’m supposed to give an artefact
to him for safe keeping. The man in your dreams wished it. It was his last
wish. '
This
man. He was a powerful man?
'He was the king,' said Roskel
with a smile.
You
are a strange man. You have many stories.
'Not so strange. I used to be a
thief. Now I am a powerful man in this country. But I’m a wanted man in this
city.'