Read The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Online
Authors: Craig R. Saunders,Craig Saunders
It
sounds an interesting tale. I would like to hear it.
Roskel settled into his chair
with a sigh.
'I
fled this city because of my indiscretion. I had no choice but to flee into the
Fresh Woods. By chance, I met a man, Tarn. I did not know then that he was the
king…'
And
so, for the rest of the afternoon, Roskel spun his tale. He did not need to
embellish. The Drayman listened silent. He was a good listener.
*
Darwell
huffed and puffed his way over the bridge into the merchant’s quarter. He
arrived, eventually, out of breath from the effort of heaving his bulk half way
across the city. At a merchant’s stall he stopped and shook hands with a man,
exchanged a few words which to a passerby would have seemed like mere
pleasantries, then resumed his walk. He reached the Fiddler’s Elbow and sat in
a quiet bar waiting for the right kind of clientele to enter.
He
was rewarded after a couple hours of easy drinking when his contact entered the
bar. The woman looked at him expectantly with raised eyebrows. He waved her
over.
'A
drink?'
'I’m
working tonight. I’ll settle for why you’d call me over in here. Nobody knows
who I am and I usually do my business elsewhere.'
'I’m
looking for a man. Shawford Crale. I’ll pay.'
She
looked at him. 'I’ve known him. Funny tastes. Visited there a week back.'
'Can
you direct me to his home?'
'I
can. For a silver piece.'
'A
silver!'
'Keep
your voice down. A silver or walk. You’re the one who’s lost, not me.'
Darwell
grumbled and pulled his money out of his purse. Roskel better be good for this,
he thought.
He
handed the money over, and the woman whispered directions to him as he finished
his ale. He watched her leave.
He
wondered what a whore was doing covering her neck with a scarf. Even in the
winter, a woman in her line of work knew better than to cover decent flesh.
Perhaps
she had a love bite, he thought with a smile. Wouldn’t be the first he’d seen
on the working girls in the city. Ulbridge men were certainly enthusiastic.
*
Darwell
unlocked the door and entered his own inn just before dusk. He now had the rosy
complexion that had gained the bar its name.
'You
owe me a silver piece,' he said as he sat down. 'And a tune tonight for the
crowd.'
'Oh,
no,' said Roskel. 'I’ll pay for the information, but I’m not playing in this heap.
Your clients are a bit free with their drinks, as I remember. The last bard I
saw in here ended up covered with beer and bleeding when a client threw the
glass as well as his beer.'
'I’m
short a bard and it’s the end of the week. There’ll be a few sots, true, but
most will be in high spirits. Do me a favour? You owe me, remember?'
The
Drayman touched Roskel’s arm and hummed.
Do
it.
Roskel shook his head. 'I’m not
good enough for a city.'
I
am.
The thief sighed. 'Alright, a
tune or two. But I finish early. I’m carrying a heavy load and I’d put it down
as soon as possible.'
'Done.'
Darwell
gave Roskel directions, and then fed them before opening his doors.
Slowly,
a rabble entered the bar. By dusk it was full and many of the patrons were in
their cups already.
Darwell
pushed Roskel toward the stage.
'Ladies
and Gentleman, tonight we have two bards from distant lands!'
The
rabble murmured their appreciation.
Roskel
took the stage reluctantly. The Drayman seemed unperturbed. He sat next to the
thief and with a smile, he began strumming the lute.
Roskel
knew the tune, though he didn’t know how the Drayman could know a Sturman
march, but he sang, just the same. He could just make out the Skald’s gentle
humming under the clapping of the crowd.
The
Drayman played beautifully, better than any man Roskel had ever heard. He felt
his spirits rising and he put more effort into his singing. To his ears, he
sounded tuneful and his voice full of rich, luxuriant tones.
The
crowd responded well to the tune, clapping and shouting for more. Roskel found
that he was enjoying himself and rose to take a bow, but the Skald kept
playing, switching to a lively shanty as if he knew what Roskel was capable of,
but was pushing him harder, pushing him for more.
Roskel
was singing again before he knew what he was doing, first one tune, then
straight into the next…after three tunes the crowd was on their feet and a few
had cleared a space where they were dancing, kicking their feet up high. Roskel
himself was tapping his foot with rhythms he didn’t know were in him. He sang
louder, hitting notes he didn’t know existed, and all the while the Skald
strummed his tune, following Roskel’s lead…or was he led by the Skald?
Evening
became full, and Roskel finished with a rousing rendition of the Groat’s Tale,
then collapsed back into his chair to wild applause. He turned and caught the
Drayman’s eyes. They twinkled with mirth and there was a beaming smile on his
face.
His
magic had transformed the room, and excitement and joy ran through each man and
woman present.
Roskel’s
heart pounded with ecstasy. The Skald was remarkable. Only he knew the man’s
humming was the reason for the amazing mood within the Blushing Drunk. He was
thankful for it though. Together the two men took a bow, then retired back to
the room they had been given. The crowd was reluctant to part, but they gained
their rooms where Roskel collapsed on the bed in a breathless heap.
'So
that is what your magic can achieve?' he said to the Drayman. The Drayman
indicated with a flap of rising hands that he could do more.
'But
I’m not sure a man’s heart could take more joy.'
The
Drayman nodded eagerly. He touched the thief’s hand and hummed.
A
man can take endless joy. But you must go. The man in my dreams was upon me
while I was open to the spirits. You must go tonight. A man comes. A bad man. I
will wait for you here.
'What bad man?'
The
Skald seemed to be concentrating. For this he did not have the words.
A
man who would be your king. A ‘Thane’.
Wense, thought Roskel instantly.
What trickery was that bastard up to? What was he doing here?
No
time to wonder. If he was caught with the crown all would be lost. It was too
heavy a burden, too great a responsibility, to risk holding on to it any
longer.
'Then
I leave. Wait for me. Hopefully we will head south for an easy winter in the
morning, with none the wiser.'
He
began to prepare himself. Once more he strapped on his blades, even if they
were just for show.
When
he stepped out the back door, the commons were still in commotion, but it
sounded like the revellers were happy with their lot.
He
set out on the dark streets. For the first time, frost was forming on the
cobbled roads. Winter had finally arrived.
He
pulled his cloak tighter, and set off for the outskirts, and the end of his
journey. It had been a wonderful, frightening journey. Excitement was all well
and good, but he could not wait to get to bed and be off in the morning to see
Redalane and at last, to head to the place he called home now once more.
*
Mist
flowed in from the lakes to the south. The air was moist and full of the smells
of the city. Sewage, mostly. It was a stench that Roskel had soon forgotten
when travelling the back roads of Sturma and sleeping out in the rough. It was
oddly comforting, the starkest reminder possible that he was back in a city,
cobbles beneath his feet and candlelit windows showing him the way. There were
other smells, other sensations, that drove the feeling home. On the mist a hint
of the river, a mixture of stagnation and minerals down from the mountains. The
air was different. Not pure, but filtered by middens and dark alleyways, decay
and despair in equal measures defining it from the country air. The cobbles
beneath his booted feet, uneven and treacherous on the unwary ankle.
Yet
there was more, always more. He would never be a man to find beauty in all of
nature’s works, but the hand of man that could be seen in every corner of a
city…well, that was something to be proud of. What marvels a man could achieve!
Not the grandeur of the sprawling mansions, or the tended gardens of a rich
merchant’s estates. It rested in the worn table made by a craftsman’s practised
hand, the rain being channelled along a gutter, the curve of a full goblet,
brimming with mead or ale or wine. The smell of roast venison or a perfumed
courtesan passing by on a secluded street.
There
was so much to find, so much to explore in any city. Ulbridge wasn’t the
finest, nor the basest, it was just city, as individual as any man, full of
dreams and tears.
Roskel
smiled to himself as he walked, relishing the stinking mist as it dampened his
hair. The air was chill but he was warm enough from the walk. It proved to be
long. It was refreshing.
He
brushed his hair from his eyes – it had grown long already. He heard footsteps
crossing a bridge – there was a subtle difference in the sound of the
footfalls. Hollow, echoing from the wooden bridge and amplified by the water,
which was slapping gently against the banks. How could a drunk ever fall to his
death in the river? Even in the fog you could tell where it was.
He
walked for an hour or more – he had lost track of time. It was perhaps an hour
after midnight, but he could not be sure. He hoped this Crale character knew he
was coming. He did not have the inclination or the patience this night for
lengthy explanations.
The
city changed around him. He had left the city proper behind, and was now
strolling past quiet, large mansions, all set back from the main road. Even in
the mist he could make out tended gardens, smell the faint carmillion blossoms,
their springtime glory just a memory.
The
night was almost pitch now, but the darkness did not bother the thief. His
night vision was better than most, and the lamplit streets of the city behind
lent the night an orange complexion, the mist glowing like a banked fire to his
practised eyes.
Even
in the grim alleyways of Naeth when the darkness seemed pitch there was always
a hint of distant light for the discerning eye to pick up. It was not like the
blackness of the country or the forest. It was always tainted.
He
stopped counting mansions when he reached fifteen. He stood before a set of
great wrought iron gates. A wide path led off into the distance, the mansion
hidden from view by the mist. He set his feet in motion.
The
walk along the path was long. This merchant must be doing fine business indeed
to own so much land.
Eventually
the thief heard the snickering of horses. He left the path and headed toward
the sound. Stables large enough to hold at least ten horses loomed in the
darkness. There was only one horse stabled, a black stallion with a glossy
cloak. He touched its flank and found it cold. The horse, for his part, just
looked on. Roskel moved around the stable and headed toward the house. He could
just make out a wide three-story mansion, painted white. In the misty darkness
it almost glowed, iridescent bone on a nighttime battlefield.
Now
why would you think of bone on a night like this? he wondered. It wasn’t a
helpful thought.
He
listened to his instincts. There was something odd about the mansion. He could
not define it, but it tickled his senses and he was used to listening to his
hunches. It had kept him alive while many a thief was buried in a deep dungeon
or shuffling alone in the poor quarter, handless and begging for scraps.
Get
in, get out. Just knock on the door. There were lights on in the house. Someone
was awake. Don’t dally.
He
walked slowly round to the front of the house, past shuttered windows showing
slanting firelight through the slats.
He
knocked and the sound echoed in the stillness of the night. He shuddered.
The
door opened and a stunningly beautiful woman answered the door.
His
caution was forgotten and his heart leapt in his throat.
'My
lady, I am undone…I find I am suddenly at a loss for words, and standing on
your doorstep like a fool.'
The
lady of the house smiled kindly. 'Then perhaps, good Sir, you might tell me
what brings you to my home on such an inhospitable night, then words might find
their own way hence.'
Roskel
tried to compose himself and stop staring. 'I hope I have the right of it…I am
looking for a man called Shawford Crale…if I do not have the right of it then I
will count the walk a happy mistake and leave this night all the richer.'
'Such
fine words. And why would you want my husband?'
Roskel
deflated slightly, but only slightly. He had been on the road for a long time
and beautiful women were few and far between for a man camping in the woods and
frequenting seedy roadside taverns.
'Sadly,
I have business with master Crale. If it is no trouble at such a late hour,
please could you let him know that Roskel Farinder seeks his assistance in a
matter of state…I hope he has had message of me.'
'That
he has. He has been expecting you for some months now. I hope the journey was
not too arduous.' She stepped aside and motioned for him to come in. 'You will
find him in the dining room. I’m sure we can prepare a fit repast for such an
important guest. Come in. Welcome.'
'You
have a lovely home, my lady.'
'Thank
you. Please, allow me to show you into the dining room.'
Roskel
was more than happy to follow her. He found his eyes drawn to places he had no
right looking at, but she swayed so seductively.
They
entered the dining room to find the master of the house seated in deep thought
at the end of a long table, large enough for a state banquet.
'Dear
husband, the guest we have been expecting. Lord Farinder.'
The
man looked up. He was striking in appearance, too. He was broad of shoulder and
exuded an air of hidden power. His hair was salt and pepper, but full and his
face was youthful enough. Perhaps a man of middle years, but he seemed hale –
more than hale – robust.
He
beamed as Roskel entered.
'My
Lord Farinder. It is a pleasure and an honour. I was informed that you would be
visiting me.'
'My
thanks, Master Crale. How is it that you are expecting me?'
'I
was visited by a past friend of yours in a dream…the King. May he find peace
beyond Madal’s Gates.'
Roskel
found himself weary, though and almost too tired to discuss such things.
'I
will not dally, Master Crale. I must return to my own world, but before I go I
have been instructed to pass a certain object into your care…'
'So
I am given to believe. But please, your journey must have been long. Will you
not take some wine and a bite to eat before you go? My cook is masterful. It
will be no trouble.'
Roskel
thought about it for just a moment, but not long. Suddenly he was aware of how
long it had been since he had eaten. Matters of import could wait, surely?
'In
truth, I am hungry.'
Shawford
Crale nodded and rang a bell which rested on the table.
Shortly,
an old man, bent almost double, came from a door Roskel had not noticed before,
and laid a place for the thief. He sat down at the master of the house’s
bidding, glad to rest his aching feet.
The
old man returned before he could speak to his host further and laid on a fine
meal for him, then filled a goblet with some thick red wine with a pungent
spiced aroma. The food smelled more than appetising. It smelled finer than any
he had ever eaten. The taste was no disappointment. Flavours exploded as he
ate. He found himself wolfing down each morsel. There were strong cheeses, dark
bread that was bitter but satisfyingly so, thin slices of some meat he could
not identify, but that too was delicious.
He
burped and covered his mouth with his hand.
'My
thanks. Please excuse my rudeness. I do not know what came over me. It is not
my custom to eat so heartily without a word to my host.'
'Think
nothing of it. Now, to the business of the evening, shall we? Do you have it?'
Roskel
nodded and picked his pack up from where it rested on the floor. He opened the
drawstrings and pulled out a wrapped package.
'It
is a dangerous undertaking, the safe keeping of such an artefact. Are you sure
you wish such a burden?'
'I
have the means to make it a safe undertaking. I am not without wiles of my own.
But what of you? It must have been a burden to carry it so far.'
'To
be honest, I forgot I had it for most of the journey. But here,' he said,
rising from his chair. 'I give it gladly. I would be rid of it and return to my
life. It has been a long road and I am happy for it to end.'
'Many
wish for journey’s end. Some find it comes too soon.'
Roskel
thought the words wise. He nodded, and placed the package on the table in front
of the man, who unwrapped it with deferential care.
The
Crown of Kings was suddenly revealed. It glinted magnificently in the red-gold
light of the fire in the hearth.
The
master of the house seemed transfixed by the sight. It was beautiful, thought
Roskel. He felt he should have looked at it more, but part of him knew that
even though it had passed to him it was never meant to be his. He was just the
caretaker, the steward of Sturma and the crown both.
'It
is remarkable. For such a simple piece it exudes power.' Shawford clapped his
hands. 'I will keep it well in the event that it is needed again.'
He
caught Roskel’s hand and drew him down to his level. 'Now the bargain is
complete. And you must be tired. So tired. Why don’t you rest now?'
Roskel
could not take his eyes from the powerful gaze. He did feel tired. Very tired.
He did not know if he could face the walk back.
'Well,
if you have a spare room. I hate to impose…'
'Nonsense.
Sleep and we will talk more in the morning. Ellisindre!' he called.
His
beautiful wife swept into the room and took Roskel’s hand. Roskel found the
familiarity strange, but he didn’t mind.
'I
will show you to your room.'
She
led him up a winding staircase to the upper floor. 'We must keep quiet. My
daughter sleeps down the hall. Here, this is your room.' She pushed open the
door and there was a grand double bed. It looked extremely comfortable.
She
left with a heart stopping smile.
Roskel
thought of her while he undressed, then he put his head on the pillow and
everything was forgotten as sleep claimed him.
*