Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (7 page)

H
er restless sleep shattered with the crowing of the rooster in the farmyard outside. Avrilla pulled in a full breath and stretched the stiffness out of her back. When her eyes opened, she took in the rough, dark timbers above her. Dusty streams of sunlight cut through the wide slats of the barn wall and the cracks in the shutters of the hayloft window.

A barn. The barn.
The grogginess dissipated and Avrilla was filled with the sorrow she had postponed the prior night. She rolled to her side and the sobs engulfed her. Furious with her weakness, she rubbed her fists into her face, pulling the tears away as quickly as they formed.

“Avrilla.”

Malfekke’s fire!
Avrilla cursed to herself. She had not meant to wake her brothers.

She forced the tears down and rolled to a sitting position. She felt the puffiness in her face, but ignored it as she faced Jaeron.

“It’s all right, Avrilla,” he said from the corner of the loft.

“No, it isn’t.” She could not afford to be weak. Women that survived in Islar’s underworld had to be stronger than the men that ruled there.

“Jaeron,” said Chazd. Avrilla could hear his fight to keep his voice from cracking. “What happened last night?”

Too soon, she thought, looking at her older brother. He is not ready to tell us.

Jaeron stood slowly, stretching and brushing the hay from his clothes. Then he walked to the window and opened the shutters. Just a crack, but enough to let the morning sunlight spill onto his face. She watched him close his eyes and slowly draw in a deep, shuddering breath. After a pause, he released it. Avrilla realized what he was doing. It was the silent meditation that preceded Jaeron’s sword practice.

Avrilla expected Chazd to lose his patience any moment, and then Jaeron turned around and began speaking. His voice was low and calm and warm. He looked at her and Chazd often as he spoke, but it seemed that he was seeing something else. He walked them through his experience at the fire from the point when he took the water buckets to when he landed near the street after coming out the second-floor window.

Jaeron was not a storyteller. He did not embellish or frame his speech to make it exciting. His recounting was concise and factual. It was the description of a tactician. Avrilla also could not help but admire Jaeron’s stoic control of his emotions. She felt a wave of jealousy and anger wash through her when he spoke of Henri’s body and she again broke into tears. They coursed wet and warm, relentless down her cheeks.

“That’s it,” Jaeron said. Finished, his shoulders slumped, and Avrilla saw he was fighting tears of his own.

Avrilla got up, preparing to go comfort him, but Chazd interrupted.

“What did Father give you?” he asked.

Jaeron shook his head. He moved back through the loft and knelt down where they had dumped their gathered gear before they went to sleep. He pulled the wrapped package from his sack and set it on the hay bale they were using as a table. Avrilla joined him and heard Chazd come over behind them.

Seeing the package closer in brighter light, Avrilla recognized a worn sheaf of folded parchment roughly stuffed under a string tied around a bundle of cloth. Jaeron pulled it free and handed it to her.

“It’s a letter,” he said. “I was going to read it last night, but…… I don’t know. I just couldn’t. I guess it’s Father’s last words for us.”

Avrilla’s hands trembled as she unfolded the parchment sheaf. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve once, briefly. Swearing she was not going to cry in front of her brothers anymore, she tried to ignore the rust brown crust adhering to the outer flap and right side of the document.

The letter was addressed to Jaeron, Chazd, and Avrilla. It was written in a fine, flowing script. She did not recognize the handwriting, but she knew their father did not write it. Even when he was practicing with her on forgery skills, Henri had trouble with female penmanship. This text was scribed by a woman, and was written quickly and with purpose.

~

Dearest children,

I had hoped to give you this some time ago, but Henri would not allow it. He would prefer that the past remain the past and some truths not come to light. Perhaps he is the smarter of us – I cannot say. In any case, he has agreed to give you these tokens from your childhood and this letter when he believes you ready for it.

As I am getting on in age, I hold no hope that I will be there to help explain things further to you. There were many times I thought about just taking you away, but I realized that Henri and Liadee had come to love you in their own way. Especially Henri. This makes the decisions I have made for you harder to bear than I would have expected. For despite his failings, his occupation, and choice of wife, Henri is a good man. And though I have cause, I may not speak ill of Liadee. She risked everything to protect you and I believe her life was forfeit because of that act.

I have to trust that someday you will grow into the bright and courageous young adults of whom, I am sure, your birth parents would be proud. Henri has other plans for you, of course. Lady Mara bless him, but he has a good heart for a thief. I expect that he will put your canny minds and agile limbs to some larceny or other. Most nights, I cannot help but pray to the gods that he doesn’t get you killed. I have lived a life that meant service to all, from noble birth to wretched poverty, and I must admit that Henri and his people have treated me more fairly than did some more noble born, and many who ought to have known better.

I like to think, that despite your humble surroundings, you will each find a full life, beginning with stories and songs from the hearth. I hope that you remember your Nana and think of me kindly.

Take care of each other, my dears. For you are all we have.

With much love and respect,

Nana Sarah

A
s Avrilla finished reading, Jaeron felt flooded with warm memories that he could not believe he had forgotten. His sister had tears in her eyes and her mouth was open, bottom lip quivering. Chaz
d’
s breathing was uneven and the widening of his eyes displayed confusion.

“I remember Nana,” Avrilla said, her hands shaking as she put the parchment down.

“It’s been a long time… Avvie,” Jaeron said. “She used to call you Avvie.”

“And you were Jae,” Avrilla said. “Unless you were in trouble.”

“I think I remember you being in trouble more often than I,” Jaeron said.

“I don’t understand,” Chazd finally broke in. “Who was Nana Sarah? What in the hells is this about?”

Jaeron was not surprised that Chazd did not remember the woman who helped Henri take care of three toddlers. Jaeron knew he had been between three and four years old when Henri and Liadee had adopted them. Nana Sarah had lived with them for a couple of years after Liadee died, and then visited regularly until her visits suddenly stopped. Jaeron tried to recall the last time he had seen her and was shocked when he calculated that had been almost a decade ago.

Jaeron took a deep breath, “Nana Sarah helped take care of us when we were really young, Chazd. She was practically our mother for a long time…”

It was a hard thing for Jaeron to think or talk about his mother. Liadee had spent a lot of time away from the little family, but Jaeron felt a special connection to her. And despite Henri’s absolute refusal to discuss it, Jaeron always suspected that something tragic had happened to her. On the other hand, he knew that Avrilla had not really developed any closeness to Liadee. She never believed Henri’s explanation that his wife had died and always thought that she had simply taken off with another man or run away with some stolen prize that she did not want to share with Henri.

“Nana Sarah stopped staying with us just after Mother died,” Jaeron said, ignoring the pointed stare from Avrilla. “Then when we moved, she visited nearly every week. That went on for a while, a year or so. And then just stopped. I guess I thought she must have passed on, too.

“I just don’t remember anything like this,” he pointed to the letter.

Chazd asked “What about the package?”

Avrilla nodded and reached for the string-tied bundle. She slid her knife from its sheath and cleanly cut off the knots. Then she carefully unrolled the coarse packing fabric. Inside the bundle were three wooden toys.

The first was a warrior or knight of some kind, dressed in heavy mail and armed with sword and shield. The second toy was a wizard or arcane scholar, complete with pointed hat and crystal-tipped staff. And the third was a jester, with comic face and harp in hand. All three were made of cherry and black ash, hand carved and decorated with the clever use of stains. The pieces were further enriched with inlaid silver and bits of silk for clothing accents. All three were multi-jointed to enable positioning into various poses. Each toy was inscribed with a name on the base of its right foot. The knight, Jaeron. The wizard, Avrilla. And the jester for Chazd.

Jaeron did not know what to think. A glance at his siblings confirmed they were each questioning along the same line – why would their father hide these treasures from them when they could have enjoyed them as children? Better yet, why had he not sold them? Teichmar only knew how many times they had practically had to beg for food when Henri had spent most of his earnings on training and equipment. Why would Henri have thought these toys so important that he would have used his dying moments to try to make sure that they got them?

“Why save these?” Chazd asked aloud.

Jaeron shrugged, “These were pretty expensive, but they couldn’t have been the most valuable possessions we had.”

Avrilla shook her head in agreement. “No, we had more expensive tools. And I know how much I spent on parchment and inks.”

“The craftsmanship is remarkable, though,” said Jaeron. “And look here – there’s a symbol or a set of initials on the back. I don’t recognize it.”

Chazd looked for, and found, the same mark on his jester. He rubbed his finger across it and then dropped the toy onto the packing cloth that it came in. He stretched his arms and back and sighed heavily, dropping himself into the pile of hay on which he had decided to spend the night.

“So, we sell them and we can stop sleeping in a barn. What’s next?”

“Father didn’t give us these for the money!” Jaeron whirled on his brother. “And what do you mean, what’s next?”

“Well, I don’t know about the letter or the toys, but one thing’s pretty clear. We’ve got to find the scum-eaters that murdered Father, and kill them.”

~

Avrilla was taken aback by the force in her brother’s voice and scared by the determined, venomous look on his face. Chazd was rarely so blunt. He was usually the most jovial of the three.

Jaeron began to answer, “It’s not that simple, Chazd –”

“The bloody Hells of Malfekke it isn’t!” Chazd shouted. “Don’t you dare argue about this, Jaeron! You know that’s what we need to do. You know it’s what Father would have wanted!”

“Shhh…” Avrilla cautioned. “We aren’t exactly guests here, remember.”

Jaeron set his soldier down and paced the loft. Avrilla recognized the habit. Her brother was trying to calm himself rather than laying into Chazd. No one said anything for several moments.

Finally, Jaeron stopped his pacing and returned to sit down across from his brother.

“Father told me another guild was responsible for his death. He said they found out about the necklace job, and that we should sell it and hide.

“That’s why I don’t think it’s that simple. If Father was right and another guild is involved - especially if it is a ‘rung’ guild – we are out of our depth, Chazd. We know what Father was trying to do. Form a guild from scratch, and I’m not sure he petitioned for permission.

“Father told me to forget the guild, to move on and forget his plans.”

“He is… was trying to protect us?” said Avrilla.

Jaeron nodded, but not convincingly. “Maybe he was trying to make sure we weren’t living our lives trying to fulfill his life’s ambition. Maybe he wanted us to find Sarah and see what this letter meant.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Chazd said, “It really doesn’t matter though – if it was a guild sanctioned killing, we need to build a guild of our own to protect ourselves. And find out who did this to him.”

The quiet statement surprised Avrilla and from Jaeron’s reaction, it had surprised him too. Chazd was not throwing out a provocation. He was simply speaking from the heart and he sounded uncharacteristically thoughtful.

Jaeron fixated on his clasped hands, focusing on his knuckles as he rolled his fingers across each other.
He’s planning. Chazd, let him finish and don’t interrupt again.

“All right, not considering that aspect, is this what we want to do?” Jaeron looked at them. His eyes seemed different to her, as if for the first time he was not looking at them as a younger brother and sister, but something else. Before either answered, he added, “Chazd, you have your music. I’ve never said it, but you are good. Excellent, really. You could make a better life for yourself than wherever thieving may lead.

“And Avrilla…” Jaeron looked down at the floor, flushing a bit and clearly uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. “You could think about courtship, a husband. Children.”

The conservation stopped awkwardly. Avrilla felt the heat rise up her neck, her cheeks blushing. She did not know how to respond. Since becoming a woman and the indelicate conversation with Henri several years ago about her monthly cycle and the dangers of pregnancy, both of her brothers did their best to pretend that Avrilla was not a girl.

“I...” she spoke into the morning quiet. “I'm hungry. Anyone else feel like breakfast?”

She rose quickly and climbed down the wooden ladder to the barn below. Neither Jaeron nor Chazd had stopped her, which was just as well. She was as far from hungry as she could get. She moved under the loft toward the rear of the barn, barely disturbing the animals as she went.

The space under the loft was dedicated to the farmer’s tools. The man was fastidious. Each implement hung in place on well-made wooden hangers. She let her fingers run over the shovel and spades, feeling the smooth slickness of the worn wood. At the left side, the rear door to the barn stood partly open. The door was horizontally split, each half hung with a separate pair of hinges. The lower half was latched, but Avrilla pushed the upper half the rest of the way open to look out over the field and hills toward the sea.

Children.
Not more than two years ago Avrilla would have giddily entertained the thought. When she first began working for Lady deChel, she had become enamored with the dress fabrics, the colors, the laces, and the patterns. She still did not grasp the complexity of designing clothes, but she was able to sew together anything from the formal robes of Teichmar Initiates to a simple peasant's blouse. But the gowns were her favorite. Even as she would go through the painstaking process of sewing in the stiff whalebone ribbing into the gown’s hoops or the tight bustier, she imagined herself at fancy balls, tending to the affairs of a lord’s house, caring for children.

Since then, the realities of surviving in a world of thieves, and taking care of her brothers and father, had overwhelmed those pubescent fantasies. Avrilla thought she had given up the prospect of children of her own. She had even left the sadness of it behind. Jaeron's awkward words rocked her.

Uncertainty. It was not a feeling she dealt with well. She was comfortable with the expectations for her future being set.
Even Father's death has not really changed that.
The loss had shocked her, of course. She tried to sort out the anger, the fear, and the frustration. But she was not ready to believe that it changed the basic precepts of their existence. They would continue to steal, barter, fight, do whatever it took to survive in Islar. And perhaps they could find justice for their father.

She felt the tension creep up her neck and the cold tears once again on her cheeks.
Who would want her?
She was an orphan with no prospects and no dowry. She could imagine no one less desirable except perhaps one of the city’s whores.

She wiped her face angrily into her elbow, sensing the salty remnants of sweat and tears in the cloth. She looked down at herself. She was thin and flat-chested, sprinkled with sun-sparked freckles over her chest and arms. She bore obvious scars on her hands, arms, legs. Even her hips were not pleasingly wide, and once brought the remark from Lady deChel that she was not built for childbearing. Ink stained her fingers and dirt crusted under her nails.

No!
She shook her head in disgust. Her fantasies were best left in the past. She had no need to be pretty.

“Who’s there?” a voice quavered from the front of the barn.

Avrilla put her hands on her kukris and stepped back into the shadows. She needed to be capable, observant, and if necessary, deadly. There was nothing else.