Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (19 page)

L
arsetta slipped through the streets of Islar unobserved. Dressed in supple buckskin and heavy cotton, dyed midnight blue, she moved like a dancer. No light reflected from the reinforcing slats of metal in the armor, burnished dull and dyed black. Not a sound escaped the movement of the cloth or the placement of her feet.

She arrived at the manor home earlier than she intended and she waited patiently as the crescent form of the large moon, Theela, fell behind the higher buildings of the Highpoint Ward.

Larsetta’s black hair flowed around her and dissipated into a black smoke that clung to her form. It blurred the edges of Larsetta’s shape and melded with the shadows around her. She crossed the street, not caring if someone noticed the strange absence of light that kept her concealed.

She padded up the stairs onto the wide patio entry. She knelt at the door and stripped off a glove. As her fingertips brushed the door, a pulse of dark blood-red made contact between her ivory flesh and the stained oak. Larsetta pursed her lips, bathing in the aftermath of the pain in her fingers. She moved her hand further forward, pushing against the door. The latch sprang at her command. Then she was inside.

The oil lamps in the dining room to her right were lit and annoying. She moved to the doorway, her hair sweeping out before her. Tendrils of insubstantial blackness spread through the room and the lamps were extinguished almost as one.

She listened, empowering otherworldly senses. By the time she had reached the base of the grand staircase, she was honed in on four people. The quiet breath of three women and a subtle snore from a male. Beyond the air moving in and out of the lungs, Larsetta heard the delicate drums of their heartbeats. All was calm. There were no disturbing dreams this night.

She stretched her black-painted lips into a sly smile. She would have to see what she could do to fix that. She was being frivolous, she knew. Overusing her abilities and wasting energy. A small corner of her subconscious was scolding her, but she bribed it into submission with the promise of a kill.

She was feeling a little hungry.

~

Lord Neil Witaasen crossed his dining room, reaching out in the darkness to make sure he did not trip over any of his furniture.
In the name of Teichmar, what was wrong with Morgan?
Despite the lateness of the hour, Witaasen could not figure out why all the candles and lamps had been extinguished. His house steward would be explaining himself in the morning.

A dull red glow guided him to his fireplace and he felt along the shaped stone mantle. He knew there were wicks stored in one of the fancy woven boxes that his wife could not seem to stop buying. He found the box, but in his frustration dropped it as he tried fishing out one of the thin wax-coated tapers. The contents scattered across the tile floor. Witaasen ignored the mess and knelt in front of the hearth, pushing at the brass folding screen with his hand to get it out of the way. The metal was barely warm to the touch.
Mara’s loins! He nearly let the fire go out.

He stirred the embers with the poker until he felt enough heat to light the taper. As the end of the wick flared up, a soft, smooth voice spoke behind him.

“Good evening, Lord Neal.”

Startled, Witaasen dropped the taper into the coals. In the flash of wax driven flame, he stumbled back on his heels and then fell fully, landing on his buttocks.

“Surely you’re not surprised by my visit?” the silken voice continued.

Witaasen cursed and scrambled to his feet.

“Such language,” the visitor said. “And in the presence of a woman.”

The words were just louder than whispers, but to Witaasen they seemed to fill the room.

~

Larsetta watched, bemused, as the fumbling nobleman finally got his hands in place underneath him and pushed himself to his feet. She sat in one of the high-backed dining chairs, rocked back on its two hind legs. Her own legs were crossed, propped up on the table.

Witaasen peered into the room, but Larsetta made sure he could not see her. He could not see anything in the gloom beyond the area immediately around the fireplace.

“Who-?”

Larsetta cut him off, “Who do you think, Lord Neil? I would have thought the intent of my letter was quite clear.”

“Madame Larsetta. You have nerve coming here, breaking into my home. You had my answer. Now you had best be away before I summon the Guard.”

Larsetta stretched, rolling her shoulders and extending her neck. She almost laughed. Men were so cute when they were pretending to be brave.

“Neil. I don’t think you fully appreciate the impact of your decision. A fifth of the mine’s profits in exchange for the consulting services I could provide. It’s such a small thing… In comparison to the alternatives.

“I see you are still confused. Blind. Let me illuminate you.”

From behind Witaasen, the nearly dead embers burst forth a bright orange-red glow, filling the expansive room. It took a moment for Witaasen’s eyes to adjust. He put his hand to his brow and then froze. Larsetta almost giggled at the horror on his face.

Under the command of Larsetta’s imposing will, black smoky tendrils held Kadene Witaasen spread-eagle on the dining room wall. Her nightclothes were tattered, her brown hair disheveled, and welts were rising across her creamy skin. One wisp of smoke wrapped tight around her neck and mouth, preventing the woman from making a sound. Now visible to her husband, Kadene began to weep even as a deep flush infused her cheeks.

Larsetta pulled her stiletto boots off the table and let her chair rock back into a proper position. In a moment and without a sound, she was on her feet and against the wall with Witaasen’s wife. Purposely ignoring Lord Neil, she gazed up at the form next to her.

“Such an interesting family you have, Lord Neil,” she murmured.

Larsetta’s hand stroked Kadene’s bare belly. She nuzzled her cheek against the woman’s thigh.

“Your wife and I had quite the evening, Neil. And she seemed no stranger to my… less tender ministrations.”

Larsetta drew a nail down Kadene’s outer buttock, leaving a thin pink line of scratched skin. The woman flinched, arching her back. Larsetta dropped the smoky wraps around her face, allowing Kadene’s stifled moans to give evidence of a mix of discomfort and pleasure.

As entertaining as the situation was, Larsetta knew she had to return to business. In part, she admitted, because she could not trust herself not to take things too far. Her work on the Witaasen woman had aroused her, despite her feeding on the old servant and his wife just an hour ago. She was feeling dominant and sexual, predatory and powerful. She did not want Witaasen dead.

Lord Neil was recovering from his shock and had taken a step toward her. In a snap Larsetta replaced the veil across Kadene’s face and flew across the room. She held Witaasen with the tip of her finger behind and under his chin, letting the sharp pressure of her fingernail push into the flesh under his tongue.

“Your wife may be familiar with pain, but I wonder if your daughter is as accommodating? No, I get the sense she is untouched. Unblemished territory. I imagine you want to tend to your wife, so I will let you go now. But I expect to hear from you tomorrow.”

Larsetta leaned in close against Witaasen, her lips against his ear

“Send word to me at the Feldspar apartments. You need not come in person.”

She nipped the ear before pulling away, her teeth suddenly razors. Licking the small draw of blood over her teeth and gums, Larsetta tripped the man to the floor as he reacted to the pain. Before he had a chance to recover, she was out the door, into the street, and hidden beneath the moonlight.

T
he morning had begun with another argument with Chazd. This time, Jaeron felt that the disagreement was not one from which his brother would just walk away. Something told him that they needed to know more about the wooden toys. He brought it up at breakfast, but Chazd would not hear it.

Their gradually rising voices finally woke Avrilla and she came flying into the small kitchen to scold them both. Afterward, Jaeron could not be sure she had not put a little power into her voice to make them both feel more chagrin than normal, but decided that was just his imagination.

Once he cooled down, he agreed to postpone investigating the package from their childhood until after the completion of the silver robbery. They had ironed out the final details over the past few days and tonight they were going to inform the rest of their guild.

Jaeron splashed some water on his face and toweled himself dry. He was sweating. His heart thudded in his chest and his throat was tight. He knew they were all waiting for him, but it was still difficult to leave the bedroom.

Jaeron walked down the stone stairs into the musty basement. The room was crowded. Other than Matteo, the entire guild gathered around the rickety workbench near the center of the cellar, stained from years of canning and pickling. He ducked as he took the bottom step, making sure he did not bang his head on the low beam that crossed just at forehead level.

Over a dozen candles sputtered fitfully in light sconces around the room. Between the tiny flames and the number of people in the room, the warmth was just rising above what could be considered comfortable. Chazd and Avrilla had moved apart leaving an opening at the end of the table for his arrival.

He moved to take the place they made for him. Introductions had already been made, Jaeron guessed. The distinct lack of conversation was not a good sign. Too many unknowns. No trust, no direction.

Jaeron knew Karl, mostly from Chazd's stories about their troublemaking adventures. Avrilla had introduced him to Danine at his release party a few nights before. The three transfers from Ortelli's organization were a mystery to everyone. He knew only their names and a few facts about them from a quick meeting with Coatie the day before.

~

Three recruits.
Jaeron could not help but be disappointed in the number. Coatie had met Jaeron by the tavern door to give him the bad news before bringing him over to meet the new guild members. Ortelli's assistant softened the blow with initial sugarcoating. None of the whores had left the service of the house that Ortelli would be turning over and a few men had agreed to continue their position at the imports office. Both of Ortelli's fences had agreed to work with the new guild, though both had indicated they would no longer be exclusive.

As good a picture as he painted, Coatie could not alleviate Jaeron's main concern.
Will it be enough to take the silver wagon?
Three of Ortelli’s thieves had simply followed their guildmaster's lead into retirement. Four were committed as his personal guard and would continue on in his employ. These were the worst blows, since they were probably Ortelli’s best fighters. With three joining the deAltos, that meant about a dozen scattered to fend for themselves and were most likely petitioning to join other guilds.

Jaeron steeled his features. He intended to meet these recruits appearing strong.
No disappointment. No weakness.

They made their way across the empty common room of the Westbend tavern. Coatie made the introductions.

“Bolvar came from Dun Lercos with Ortelli. He’s a good hand in a fist fight and he knows the sewers and back alleys of Islar better than most. Over the years, I’ve seen him use all manner of weapons, if a few of them unconventional.”

Jaeron started to shake the man’s hand, but caught the slight brow twitch from Shaels. A show of respect for an equal was not required here. Jaeron settled at a brief nod of his head.

Bolvar was a thick, muscular man. By Jaeron's estimation, he was only a decade younger than his father or Ardo Tabbil. He had the darker features of southern Bormeer, though not the brown-black eyes and curly hair of the Rosunlanders. Bolvar smiled without humor, clearly evaluating Jaeron and finding him too young.

Coatie continued. “This is Petra. She's one of Islar's own. Dared to sneak into the Guildmaster's house and very nearly got away with it. Best second-story work we've seen in a long time.”

The girl was young. Younger than Chazd. In itself, that did not surprise Jaeron. Not considering his own upbringing. But he was surprised that Ortelli would use someone so young. The girl was lithe and petite. Moss gray clothing hung off her stringy frame. Her hair was straw. It was not just the color that gave Jaeron that impression, but the crooked haircut that left it shooting out in every direction with varying length. She cuts it herself, he thought, remembering the day when Chazd had done the same thing when they were boys.

Jaeron felt the sudden swell in his chest, a slight tightening of the throat, and tried not to react. The girl had a horrid scar across her cheek that ran back into her hairline and what remained of her ear. When Petra looked at him, she failed in her attempt to appear indifferent. She was looking for acceptance and a way to belong to something. To stay safe from whatever memory she had of the event that disfigured her. He forced himself to look back to her eyes and nodded at her. Jaeron imagined he saw a flash of gratitude there before she shut it down and went back to her act of apathy.

“This is Sten. He worked protection for us. Ortelli used him on a couple of cons as well. Sten’s got a good instinct for telling who is lying and who has more money than they say they do.”

Sten did not move from his position, sprawled across the length of his bench and leaning against the tavern wall. The man had the dark complexion of the Pevaran islands and kept their tradition of shaving his entire head, including his eyebrows. Jaeron judged Sten to be as tall as him, maybe a few inches taller. He was lean and strong. Jaeron wondered if he was also trained in the Pevaran style.

He did not get to muse any further, as Coatie had moved on to his own introduction. Jaeron caught the last couple of words and then realized that they expected him to say something to them.

“I don't have a lot to say to welcome you to the guild. You already know that we’re just getting started and there are no steady assignments yet. We’re planning the guild’s first major job. You are invited to the meeting to lay it out tomorrow night. Shaels will provide you directions. In the meantime stay out of trouble and keep your ear out for any discussion about us.”

It was weak. Jaeron knew it. They knew it. But he did not have anything else to give them yet. He nodded at Coatie and turned to walk away.

“What are we called?” the low baritone was Sten. Jaeron stopped and turned around at the question.

“Called?” Jaeron asked.

“What's the name of the guild? What are we called?”

What’s the name of the guild?
Jaeron had not given it any thought. None of them had. He supposed that Henri must have had some ideas for a name, but if so he never told them what they were.

He wanted to say ‘Henri’s Justice,’ but he knew that would not work out for the best. It was too clear a message to send to the rest of the guilds in the city.

“Tomorrow night. You’ll learn the name then.”

~

Jaeron had his work cut out for him. He took a breath and started with a smile. Avrilla told him he had a good smile.

“You are all here to do a job. To use your hard-earned skills to grab some coin. Perhaps make a place for yourself in this new guild. To prove yourself to someone. A mentor. A teacher.”

He could not add ‘a father.’
Take a breath and move on.

“Perhaps to prove that you can survive and prosper outside the entrenched structure of Islar's Guilds. Or maybe at the suggestion of a retiring guild master.

“Regardless, the job I am about to describe is going to require all of your talents. We will need to work together to make this happen. I will not tolerate any mistakes.

“We have a promise to keep. Guildmaster Ortelli has asked of us a favor, a show of respect and honor. And I will have us succeed. Welcome to Henri’s Hands.”

Avrilla had come up with the name over lunch. Jaeron had asked his siblings for their help, once he saw that Chazd was no longer angry with him. He told them of the idea he had the prior day and they agreed with his reasons not to use it.

Then Avrilla had come up with using ‘hands’ instead. She pointed out that could mean many things, including the hands of justice or the tools of the pickpocket. Jaeron agreed.
It sounded… right.

“Questions?”

Jaeron felt Chazd shift at his side, but his brother remained quiet.
Good.
This was not the time for his normal antics.

One of Ortelli's men, Sten, spoke up, “So you're the Guildmaster?”

Jaeron heard the subtle undertone of a challenge in the question.

“I am. So is Chazd. So is Avrilla. An order from any of us is an order from your Guildmaster. If you are not able to deal with that, you are free to leave now. No questions. No hard feelings.”

Sten shifted in place, then shrugged. The man was not fully convinced, but was not going to cause any trouble. At least not today. It was not as much as Jaeron had hoped for, but it would have to do. He leaned forward over the table and unrolled the sheaf of parchment. Chazd and Karl helped weigh down the corners of the roll with daggers and a lump of semi-translucent sealing wax left over from canning.

Jaeron pointed out features as he spoke. He had reviewed the plan with Avrilla, Chazd, and Coatie one final time, giving them a chance to poke holes in it. Tonight he was speaking to convince the rest of them. His intent was to instill them with confidence, not only in the merits of the plan, but also in his ability as a planner and a leader.

There were a couple questions, mainly concerning how they were going to know the time and location of the job. Jaeron could not tell them the full truth. There were aspects of the guild that he was keeping to himself, their relationship with Lord deLespan one of them. He simply explained that Avrilla was handling that aspect of the operation and they would all have that information soon.

When Jaeron finished each of them indicated their understanding of their individual responsibilities and they slowly filed up the stairs and out of the small apartment. Danine was the last to leave, hesitating at the base of the stairs as if she wanted to say something to him. At the last moment, she apparently changed her mind, said goodnight to his sister and left.

Jaeron followed her up the stairs and out the narrow hallway to the front door. As the arena gladiator disappeared he felt his siblings behind him. He pulled the door closed, turning to look at Chazd. His brother was grinning faintly.

“Well?”

Chazd held up his hand. “Don't ask me, Jaeron. I think you convinced them. I'm used to your speeches, but it felt like you were channeling a little of your friend, Matteo, in there tonight. An inspiring little sermon,” his brother laughed.

Jaeron stayed silent as Chazd continued up the stairs to the second-floor bedrooms. Even a compliment had to come in the form of some verbal jab.

Avrilla stopped before she also made her way up the steps. “He’s right about that, Jaeron. It felt like you were tapping into their... faith, I guess. You were great.”