Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (35 page)

Chazd’s friend bobbed his head vigorously and climbed out of the carriage and into the driver’s seat where Avrilla joined him.

“I’m sorry about that, Karl.”

The man did not say anything, but after the carriage had traveled a couple of streets, he responded.

“No apology necessary, Avrilla. I think you just saved my life. What do we do next?”

“We send Cristel home to bed, and then I think I will have a long discussion with our other passenger.”

“Sounds good to me.”

T
he sun was not yet shining through the window slats when Gerlido was awakened by a pounding on his door.

“Gerlido!”

The guildmaster rolled out of bed into a low combat position. Without needing to look, he retrieved a knife from his bed and a set of heavy iron knuckles from his dresser. He made his way down the short hall in pitch blackness while the pounding continued.

“Gerlido!”

The call came again and this time he recognized the voice.
Sukul. What in the name of Malfekke is he doing here at this hour?

The guildmaster threw the three bolts and pulled open the door. He dragged Sukul across the threshold and slapped the door back closed.

“What is it?”

“You’ve got to get out of here. The Guard will be coming soon, if they aren’t already on the way.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know the details, but last night after the ball, deBraut turned himself in to the Islar Guard and confessed the entire arrangement. Lord Alinfont has already been arrested. Our Cavalry associate is already on the move with his men, but I imagine it won’t take the Guard long to contact someone in the Bormeeran Army about him. Your arrest has been ordered.”

Gerlido’s eyes twitched. DeBraut.
Thrice-damned accountant!

“Why did deBraut go to the Guard?”

“No one I’ve talked to knows. But we found Landon dead this morning. Stabbed in the back.”

Not the Guard, then.
They would not kill a man that way. Most of them, he amended.

Larsetta?
It would be a tactic she would use. Gerlido began to think it was time to finally confront her.

“Sukul, get someone in the prison to talk to deBraut. I want to know what happened to him last night. Then silence him.”

He turned, staring at the comforts of his room. “You were right to come get me. I can’t stay here. Meet me back at the gambling hall. And bring Brale.”

Without acknowledgment, Sukul turned and was gone. Gerlido allowed his Tainted nature to fully transform him. He punched two holes in the plaster walls and tore apart his sitting room chair before he pulled himself back. He packed a sack with his personal items, grabbed his weapons, and fled Northgate back toward Dockside.

~

Two hours later, Sukul and Brale entered the shell of the Black Fang gambling hall.

“Well?” Gerlido demanded. He hated waiting and hated hiding even more. Until he understood what was going on, he knew he could not take action.

“One of our guards got to him. DeBraut admitted it was a woman that convinced him to go to the Guards.”

It was Larsetta!
He wanted to strangle her. He could picture squeezing her neck, watching her eyes bulge.

“He was with one of the whores from the Paisley house when the woman approached them. Landon intervened and then a man showed up. DeBraut said they were at the ball–”

“What?”

“He said they were from the ball.”

“And this woman from the ball convinced him to turn himself in?”

Sukul nodded. “That’s what the prison guard said.”

“It’s not Larsetta.”

“Sir?”

Gerlido waived his lieutenant away. He needed to think.
A couple from the ball?
The brothel on Paisley had been Ortelli’s. Gerlido slammed his hands down onto what remained of a dice table.

“The deAltos! Malfekke bugger their souls!”

“How?” Sukul asked. “That’s a reach, don’t you think?”

“They’ve been getting help. That’s how! DeLespan I get. They had him by the balls with that letter. The church, I don’t understand why. The Jaeron whelp must have infiltrated them years ago.

“But the one I didn’t see was Ortelli. He retires so that he’s no longer bound by the Guild rules. He convinces deSwan the deAltos have a justifiable quarrel with us. And then guides them while he sits back and waits.”

“Ortelli?”

Gerlido paced.

“He didn’t want to take us on himself. So he gets the deAltos to act as his… his Hands! Malfekke’s spiky prick.”

Gerlido closed his eyes, distilling his thoughts.

“What do we do?”

“We strike back. Hit them and make them suffer. Tonight.”

Sukul and Brale exchanged looks. Finally Sukul braved his question.

“Who? Where? We’ve been looking for the deAltos for months. We don’t know where anyone is.”

“No, that’s not true, Sukul.”

Gerlido grinned, but his Tainted features converted it into a sneer.
It was there all along.
Gerlido knew a way to hurt the deAltos and draw them out of hiding. He did not have to know where Jaeron deAlto lived. He knew where he prayed.

M
atteo strolled the Cathedral grounds without stole and outer robe. It was the first cool evening in over a week and he enjoyed the feel of the breeze coming from the direction of the harbor. It was late, nearing eleven bells and most of his brethren were already in chambers for the night.

He wandered the crushed marble path through the rose gardens. Even in the twilight, when the manicured bushes and their blooms appeared in no more than shades of black and gray, the garden was beautiful. Peaceful.

Matteo thought about the offer he had made his friend the previous night. He had never delved into the secrets of the Cathedral’s arcane library, but before Father Bruhan retired, he had hinted at some of the powers of the Priests of Teichmar. Of the secrets buried in the catacombs. Matteo could not lie to Jaeron. He had told him he was frightened of attempting to remove this spell, but he was committed to it if it meant helping his friend.

Matteo was not surprised when Jaeron said he had to think about it. Spell or not, that reaction was typical of Jaeron. He weighed his decisions out, taking the time to evaluate all sides before choosing a path.

The path…
Matteo saw the first sign of damage to the garden. A pair of bushes had been ripped out to their roots. A trail of similar damage led through the garden all the way to the west side of the church. Dark spatters of mud marred the pristine gravel pathway.

No. It isn't mud.
It was too liquid, too thin.

He knelt and touched the dark pool. It was wet, but sticky. Cold. He lifted his fingers to his face and smelled a tinge of copper.
Blood.

Moving on instinct Matteo charged across the newly torn path toward the main section of the cathedral. Now that he was looking for it, he saw a half dozen other streaks of blood along the way.

Teichmar preserve.
The transept door was broken open, hinges torn from the inside. The daily lanterns were still lit but most of the candles had burned out. No one had completed the after dinner meditations and rituals.

Dripping wax pooled on the shelves and spilled down onto the woolen prayer rugs. Matteo turned, scanning the pews and the back of the church. It was darker back there, except for a small unwavering flame. Matteo crossed the altar space and ran down the central aisle.

Matteo felt ill. He closed his eyes briefly, the whisper of his god’s name on his lips. Father Nojel's body lay next to a sputtering lantern. His hammer lay next to him and a pool of blood spread out in a large, irregular oval around his body.

For a second the horror of what he was seeing stopped him. Then Matteo flew to the body, kneeling in the cold blood. As soon as he got that close, Matteo realized there was nothing he could do. The damage to the man’s body was gruesome. Long jagged tears and obvious bites had torn into him, muscle and bone. And at the end something had feasted on his soft parts as organ remnants and other viscera lay across Nojel's robes where they had been pulled from his corpse. His mentor, his dear old friend, was gone.

The old Priest of Teichmar had not gone quietly. Evidence of a brutal battle surrounded the area. Blood splatter was flung as far as the rear wall mural. Marble tiles were shattered. The rear pew was cracked. The holy man’s hammer was covered in gore and bits of fur.

Matteo realized he was praying, that he had been praying since turning the corner of the aisle. Soft words tumbled from his lips, recitations of the Law of the Just and the Prayer for the Lost. Dimly, slowly, Matteo decided that there was nothing to do here. He bent over the old man and kissed his forehead. He said goodbye. Then he brushed Nojel's eyes closed with the tips of his fingers, picked up the priest’s warhammer, and stood.

Matteo walked toward the processional doors at the rear of the Cathedral hall, using his robes to clean his teacher's warhammer. He was pushing the doors open when he noticed the mark. A scrawl of dark blood marred the stained glass windows of both doors. Two horizontal strokes represented the rough sneer of half an upper lip and the long descending swipe was obviously a sharp fang.

Matteo's righteous fury rose before he could rein it in. The blame for the sacrilege. The loss of a devout holy man and friend. It all focused on Jaeron and the deAltos’ feud with the Black Fangs. The hammer was in his hands. Matteo raised the weapon to smash the double doors off their hinges when moonlight flowed in through the glass.

“Teichmar, forgive me,” Matteo whispered.

This was not Jaeron’s fault. It was Gerlido’s. Now Matteo had no doubt that Gerlido knew about Jaeron’s connection to the church.
Did he know of his close friendship with Jaeron? Was that why they struck at Matteo's mentor?

Matteo almost decided not to tell them. His friend did not need to feel the guilt of any more deaths. He could keep the Church out of this fight, reporting a break-in and robbery, which his arrival interrupted. He just had not been in time to save Father Nojel.

But the lie soured on his tongue as soon as he thought the words. He knew he would never be able to speak them. The Church was involved in this fight. It had been before Jaeron came to speak with him weeks ago. Teichmar had become involved the day Henri deAlto brought his young son into the church to pray for his dead wife, the boy’s adopted mother.

~

Jaeron opened his eyes wide, trying to get them to adapt to the darkness of his bedroom as fast as possible. By the time the second set of knocks rapped against the door downstairs, he was almost dressed. Jaeron padded barefoot down the steps, Pevaran blade in hand.

He paused at the bottom of the staircase, hearing the creak of a door behind him. Avrilla and Chazd were both in the hallway. None of them was sleeping deeply. This war with the Black Fangs was escalating. They felt the threat of violence all the time.

Jaeron proceeded to the base of the stairs and the knocking came again.
Front door.
Jaeron signaled silently to his siblings ‘check the other rooms and the back exit.’ Then he made his way down the hall to the front of the building. He eyed the door, not for the first time perturbed with the lack of good window placement.

He listened closely to the third set of knocks, discerning the qualities of the sound. Urgency. But quiet. Loud enough to rouse the occupants, but not enough to wake the neighbors. The Black Fangs would not show such courtesies.

Assumption.
It could still be a trap.

Jaeron let out a half breath and held it. His right hand raising his sword into an attack position, he unlocked the door with his left hand and opened it. Then he took a half step back into the darkness of the hall.

“Who is it?”

“Jaeron?” Matteo’s voice whispered.

Jaeron put his sword down and came forward, opening the door fully.

“Matteo? What are you doing here?”

His friend came through the door and gripped him. He was out of breath and pale in the lamplight from the street.

“I’m… this couldn’t wait ‘til morning.”

Jaeron pulled the priest into the hall and shut the door.

“Avrilla, Chazd,” he called into the apartment. “It’s okay.”

Even in the semi-darkness Jaeron could not help but notice the heavy weapon in his friends hand, the blood on his clothes.

“What–”

Matteo cut him off. “There’s been an attack. At the church.” The priest swayed to the wall and leaned against it, then took care to lower the warhammer to the wooden floor. “Father Nojel has been killed.”

Jaeron struggled to absorb what Matteo said. A dozen thoughts fired, each trying to gain dominance. For Matteo, the loss of Father Nojel was akin to his own loss of Henri. He was Matteo’s mentor, his spiritual advisor. Jaeron’s heart hammered. Nojel was one his heroes, a symbol of his faith. The man did not just read the holy texts, his voice spoke the Word of Teichmar. His death was sacrilege.

Avrilla appeared with a candle lamp. One of her kukris hung from its thong on her wrist. He was sure the other was at her waist.

“Jaeron?”

“Come on,” Jaeron set down his sword and guided his friend down the hall. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

As he passed Avrilla, he mouthed a word to her silently and she nodded. She and Chazd would check the area outside and then return. They sat at the small table and Jaeron finally got a good look at his friend. Matteo was still wearing his evening robes, but both the cloth and his hands were crusted with blood. His skin was pale and he was shivering.
Shock.

He looked down the hallway where the two weapons stood opposite each other.

“Are you hurt?”

Matteo shook his head.

“Black Fangs?”

His friend nodded.

Jaeron’s heart sank. This was his fault. Gerlido found out about his relationship with the church. In retrospect, he supposed that was not that hard. He had never made his belief a secret. Now the Fangs were striking back at his weak point.

Looking back across the table, he saw the redness and dampness around his friend’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Matteo.”

“Don’t,” Matteo said. “This is not your fault, Jaeron. I committed the church to help your cause… a personal mission for justice.

“But this is bigger than that, now. This guild… no, I won’t use that term. It denigrates the craftsmen and businessmen that use the term correctly. These animals have the audacity to think they can strike against the Cathedral, the Holy Temple of Teichmar without repercussions?”

Matteo was suddenly back on his feet. “It needs to end, Jaeron. Whatever it takes, whatever you need. It needs to end.”

The effort staggered the priest and he stumbled back into Avrilla as she entered the room. Jaeron watched his sister guide Matteo back into his chair and nodded to her when she went to the stove to prepare coffee. Jaeron had never seen Matteo angry. He had seen him vexed, suffused with holy passion, and frustrated. But this face was a mask of cold rage. A face that made his friend unrecognizable.