Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (9 page)

A
rdo Tabbil’s body bore little resemblance to the thief he had once been. Just over the age of fifty, he had lost his stature prematurely, and years of peering over jeweler’s lenses had put a rounded hunch in his upper back making him look all the more short. His face was pockmarked and had a small scar across the bottom of his chin, but neither feature detracted too much from the overall pleasantness of his face. As for his muscle tone, twelve years of thieving-related inactivity had worn away Ardo’s strength and agility. Fortunately, the man had kept himself lean, other than a small paunch developed from a love of bread puddings and sweetmeats.

Ardo sat on his stool in its usual place next to his wagon of trinkets. The wagon was nestled into the back corner of dePenik’s Tines, where Ardo preferred to stay on days when the weather was too indecent to stand outside. Tabbil had also been known to say that the weather in Islar, and in most of Northern Bormeer, was pretty much always indecent. He knew that some of his customers joked that ‘old Ardo’ could be found outside only two days of the year - the finest day of spring and the last day of summer. And he did so only to naysay dePenik, who was known to complain through many of the shop’s hours that Ardo never went outside.

Tabbil and dePenik had a good working relationship. DePenik understood the less scrupulous business contacts that Tabbil held, though he would fence no stolen goods himself. He appreciated Tabbil’s steady stream of silver that allowed him to maintain a healthy pewter and jewelry business.

This afternoon Ardo was working on a glass bead bracelet when he noticed the woman standing next to the wagon. He thought it early for there to be patrons, but he quickly set aside his pliers, wire, and glass and leapt to his feet.

“Madam, how can I help you?”

The woman did not look like she could afford to buy much. The dress was tight on her, but it was impossible to tell if that was because of a naturally large Bormeeran frame, or the layers of scarf and other bits of cloth woven above and below the garment. She appeared to be a rag woman. But looks were often deceiving. Ardo knew that better than most. She sniffled and rubbed her face on her sleeve, and then moved around to the back of the wagon to look over the items hanging on the thin wooden rods.

She had moved so raggedly, that Ardo had assumed that she was either intoxicated or disabled in some way. It almost tricked him into missing the woman’s hand gesture as she placed it on the wagon’s surface. A thief’s sign.

He examined her more carefully then. Ardo saw that she was not really looking at the goods on his rack, but watching through the rack to assess what was happening in the rest of the pewter shop.

“Sit down, Tabbil. We have business.”

Ardo found himself back on his stool before he knew what had happened. The woman’s request reverberated in his head. He recognized something in her voice, but he could not place it. He felt foggy, like he was hung-over.

“What business?” he asked. “I don’t know you.”

“You knew me well enough to bounce me on your lap.”

My lap? What is this woman talking about?

“You are no harlot I’ve dallied with, woman. Speak your business plain, or leave. I have work to do.”

“Well, it’s good you don’t believe I’m a whore, Uncle Ardo,” she said, her voice changing then to one he knew well.

“Mara’s teats!” he cried out. “Avrilla? What are you doing here?”

“Shhh, Uncle, not so loud. I’m here to get answers. You arranged this job for Henri. Who hired you?”

Ardo felt pained. He looked down at his feet and shook his head slowly.

“Who, Ardo?” Avrilla pushed, whispering but forceful.

“I can’t tell you that, girl. It doesn’t matter now anyway.”

“So you know what happened to Henri?”

He nodded, “I heard. And I’m sorry, Avrilla.

“Look, you shouldn’t be here. And you shouldn’t be asking questions about this. Whatever it is, it got Henri killed and I don’t want the same happening to you and your brothers.”

Avrilla bent over the man and grabbed him by the ear. “We are going to finish this and you’re going to help us. Tell me about this job. Why would it have gotten him killed?”

Ardo had actually wondered that himself over the past couple of days. News of the fire traveled fast through the guild world. He heard about the fire and that Henri’s body had been found. Smoke and fire was the official cause of his death, but the truth about his terrible stab wounds was circulating through Islar’s alleys. Until just now, he had not been sure that Henri’s adopted children had survived, but he hoped they had gotten away.

Killing Henri for a ten-krovat job just did not make sense – it just was not worth that much. The job was a favor to Ardo. It was not something that could build notoriety amongst the Islar guilds. Henri wanted it as a starting point. Ardo knew that. From a simple beginning, Henri could probably piece together another couple of jobs to petition to join the guild rungs with a guild of his own.

Not any more.
Now he felt guiltier. Ardo berated himself. He should have looked for Avrilla and the boys when he heard about the fire.

“Tabbil, I’m not asking again.”

Ardo waved his hand at her, “No, no. It’s just…”

He took a deep breath and motioned for Avrilla to sit at the table next to him.

“I asked Henri to do this job as a favor. I wasn’t even going to take my normal one coin in twelve, but he insisted. I knew he’d been looking for an introductory job for a while. Something that your family could pull off by yourselves.

“A couple of weeks ago, a friend… well, that’s not right – he’s not a friend. But I like the man. He’s decent, which is saying a lot these days. Anyway, he came to me at Ivanava’s Rose and asked if I knew anyone that could help him. Help his employer, really. They were willing to pay and wanted it kept quiet.

“It was a simple thing, though. Nothing that anyone should have gotten killed over.”

Avrilla asked again, “Who was it, Ardo?”

“Lord deLespan.”

Ardo watched the girl purse her lips in thought. She recognized the name, but could not place it.

“Who-?” she began to ask.

“The silver mine,” Ardo said.

He nodded at her when he saw her eyes flare. He tentatively put his hand on hers. “Are you and the boys okay?”

Avrilla looked up at him, searching his wrinkled face, and he could tell she was forcing herself not to cry.

“We’re doing okay.” The girl took a breath and played with a glass bead on the cart. “Look, you need to let this be.”

“What do you mean?”

“We need to meet with deLespan and deliver him the case.”

“No, you can’t – I promised him that no one else would get involved. I can deliver the case.”

“Ardo, we can and we will. It’s not just the jewelry. My guess is that it’s the letter with it that has deLespan worried. You stay out of it now –– if you want to do something to help, find out who killed Henri. Who set that fire?”

“Avrilla, you can’t be serious. The three of you need to look out for yourselves– you don’t want to get involved like that. You don’t need to know…”

She cut him off, “We do need to know. We’re going to find out who killed Henri. And all the gods best stay out of our way when we do.”

Ardo yanked his hand back as if it had been scorched.

“I do not know how, girl, but I will try to find out. Just promise me that you and the boys will be careful,” Ardo turned to look at Avrilla and realized that he was alone.

Avrilla had already left, but for some reason he could not recollect when or how it had happened. Confused, he walked through the conversation again in his mind. But after the reverie, Ardo only remained with one thought.
Gods, they are mad!

K
arl Veis limped back from the crucible shed and slumped tiredly on the aged wooden bench. He looked out from under the dining fly at the dreary morning. It was nearing the end of the mid-morning break, but Chelsea brought him a steaming mug anyway. The aroma of spiced apple cider laced with rum reached him before he took the cup from her. She smiled at him, sweet and caring, but Karl knew her kindness was just that. Kindness.

Chelsea was the daughter of one of the partner owners of the Islar silver mines and he was the bastard son of a whore. Even had he not been so improperly birthed, Karl’s disfigurement was a deterrent to any relationship, let alone with a woman such as Chelsea Witaasen. As she walked back to the kitchen, Karl rubbed the left side of his face. He let his eyes take in the sway of her hips, the bounce in her hair, the swish of her white cotton dress that stayed clean even in this pit of a mine.

The sagging flesh that made up the left side of Karl’s face had no feeling. Sometimes Karl’s mind played tricks on him and he seemed to feel a tingling sensation along his cheek or jaw. He imagined the soft kiss of the wind on a chilly morning like today, or the cold drop of rain. Touching his skin confirmed the lie; there was no sensation there.

Karl was pragmatic about the accident that wrecked his body and his looks. He had made the foolish, youthful decision to sneak onto the Alinfont ranch, intent on stealing one of the prized warhorses. Karl had known nothing about handling horses or riding, but he understood the value of a Tavullion stallion. The warhorses were the core of the Bormeeran heavy cavalry and though the breed originated in the Tavullia Valley some miles upriver from Islar, the Alinfonts had become the most prominent breeder in Bormeer and had a lucrative contract with the government to provide the horses.

Karl’s impulsiveness and fear of being caught reacted badly with the warhorse’s aggressive temperament and the result had been nearly fatal. Master Ephraim Alinfont had found Karl in the morning, and though he understood the potential lost value of a stolen stud, he was not unsympathetic to the youth’s broken form lying in his stables.

The healer he had called upon did the best she could. Karl could not help but think his youthful disparages remarking on Lady Mara’s womanly parts played their role. He did not think ill of the goddess since the accident though. Spinal injuries were almost always fatal and he was still alive.

Karl ended up with a crippled gait because his left leg muscles did not always do what he wanted them to and he had a total lack of muscle activation and feeling on the left side of his face. Combined with the scarring cut he had received during the fall from the stallion, Karl understood his face was a nightmare. The nicest people, like Chelsea, were able to look at him, feel sorry for him, and offer what they could to help. But no one was going to fall in love with him.

Karl sighed and blew over the top of the clay mug before taking a sip. The apple cider and light rum mixture was sweet and thick. The heat and alcohol cleared the sinuses helping to stave off the illnesses attributed to working in such conditions. It took the chill off a morning of lugging crucibles in the light mist and air colder than normal for mid-spring. Around him, the mine was taking advantage of the cold snap. The diggers were working hard to keep warm and two full ovens had been loaded with crucibles already. The foreman would see one more loaded by lunch and then Karl could head to the wharf and his second job.

He sucked another gulp of the liquid across his teeth and then nearly spilled the rest of the mug down his shirt as a hand clapped him firmly on the back.

“Karl, my friend! How are you doing?” the voice crashed through his quiet thoughts, shattering them like the crucibles to get the silver within.

~

Chazd sprang over the table and landed on the bench next to his best friend. It was good to see Karl and the pleasant thrill of surprising him helped push away some of the dark mood that had consumed the past days.

“Chazd!” Karl said. “What in the name of Teichmar are you doing here at this hour?”

Chazd shrugged. His friend knew his habits and sleeping late was a favorite. But Chazd had not been sleeping much lately, so the early hour made no difference. Since the second morning at their hideout in the barn loft, Chazd had taken to slipping out early before Jaeron or Avrilla were awake. It gave him a chance to sneak into the city, which he knew would just make Jaeron angry.

He hated being outside Islar’s walls. The city’s alleyways and rooftops were Chazd’s playground, his refuge. He could not think at the barn, especially with his siblings continually checking on him. So, he would sneak away and come back with breakfast, which helped stave off questions about where he had been and what he had been doing.

This morning was different, though. Jaeron had asked them to find someone they could trust to form the core of their new guild. Chazd did not even need to make a decision. He just knew he was going to ask Karl. He had always known that they would work together someday.

“I needed to talk to you,” Chazd said.

Karl set down his mug and spread open his palms. With his left hand, he made a thief sign – your mouth is open. It was supposed to be used when partners on a job were telling each other to be quiet. But over the decades it had devolved into a general insult for ‘you talk too much’ as well as a more derogatory comment about anatomy.

Chazd smirked, but shook his head. “Listen, this is kind of important. I’m putting together a new guild.”

“You’re putting together?” Karl laughed.

“Okay – Jaeron and Avrilla and me.”

“I always figured that your father would have led that charge,” Karl said.

Chazd looked away and froze. He was not going to cry in front of Karl. By the gods, he was not.

“What?” Karl saw the change in mood.

“Karl, my father was killed a couple nights ago. You didn’t hear about the fire?”

Chazd heard his voice crack, just a bit at the end. The clamps squeezing on his throat betrayed him.

“Chazd, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder and closed his eyes. This was not the way it was supposed to be. He and Karl should be jumping into this new venture with eyes shining, mouths grinning, and a little jingle in their pockets ringing out for more.

“What fire? Chazd, what’s happened?”

The work bells rang out across the mine and Chazd saw the serving girl begin her clean-up tasks, gathering trenchers and cups from the morning break. Chazd turned to Karl, blinking away the dampness in his eyes. He briefly covered the events of the night Henri died and told him Jaeron’s plan. He did not finish until after the last of the workmen were gone from underneath the dining fly and the shift supervisor was on his way over toward them.

Karl had noticed the boss coming, too. He waved him off, pointing to his leg. Chazd could see that the man did not completely believe Karl’s excuse, but was letting him have a few more minutes despite it.

“So, are you in?” Chazd asked.

“I can’t really say no, can I?” Karl said. “But your family... well, are you sure I’ll be welcome?”

Chazd nodded. He had already given that some thought.

~

Considering their age difference and work ethic, one would never imagine that Chazd deAlto and Karl Veis would be friends. Certainly, the way they met would have challenged the possibility. Chazd worked through the arithmetic in his head. It had been almost five years since the near mishap that initiated their friendship.

Chazd recalled his youthful overconfidence. He had only recently expanded his roaming territory to include the Dockside Ward. The ward seemed to team with wealth in comparison to the Ninth Ward. Ships were loaded and unloaded with more merchandise than he ever imagined. Rich merchants and attendants arrived with their entourage, giving orders and being addressed with more respect than the city guards. Carts and wagons arrived with produce and other products from Islar’s surrounding farms. And livestock was herded through the streets and up narrow, walled planks into ship holds.

The third or fourth day of his excursions, Chazd saw his temptation. An untended carriage was parked outside The Crooked Window, a then unknown Dockside tavern where he would eventually spend so much time. The carriage was a formal affair, with high polished brass and meticulously varnished redwood. Velvet drapes hung in the windows, drawn open, allowing Chazd to confirm that there was no one sitting inside.

The carriage was harnessed to a pair of Ukindelan mares. Their shafts were fitted with holdbacks and the carriage wheels were blocked. Chazd learned later that Ukindelans were nervous and willful, but at the moment he was just marveling at their beauty. Their coats were pale gray and graduated to a dark ash near the nose and feet. Their hindquarters were dappled with white and ash spots and their mane and tail were ashen near their bodies, but darkened to midnight at the tips. Dressed in royal red velvet, blood red-dyed leather, and bright brass, they were a wonder for the twelve-year-old Chazd.

At the time Chazd wondered how Karl knew he was going to try to steal the carriage, but in hindsight it was obvious. He had developed better skills at keeping such things hidden since then. Looking around to make sure no one was paying attention, Chazd quick stepped across the road toward the carriage seats. He was about to climb in when he felt a hand grab him by the shoulder.

“You don’t want to do that,” a voice said. It had a strange slur, like the words were not being fully formed.

Chazd spun to begin his protest. He already had a story preparing in his mind. A tale of being the coachman’s lost son. He figured he could fast-talk the guard long enough to make a break for it and lose him in the Dockside traffic. He never got the chance to say anything. The sight of the man facing him silenced him.

“I tried stealing a horse once, and look what I got for the trouble,” the stranger said. Then he broke into a smile that was more unsettling to Chazd than his serious appearance. “C’mon, let me tell you about it.”

Chazd almost bolted, but his curiosity overcame the notion. They had spent the afternoon together, Karl telling the story of his disfigurement and other tales of the trouble he had gotten into. He also provided a guided tour of Dockside where Karl had spent most of his life. Over the next few weeks, they became fast friends. Chazd never regretted his decision to stay and listen.

~

“Karl, you do more odd jobs for more shady businesses in this city than anyone else I know. You know how the guilds work – something Father never really taught us. And I can convince them you’re trustworthy.”

“Okay,” Karl said. “I’m in.”