Frostborn: The Master Thief (11 page)

“A terrible ordeal,” said Jager. “I am sorry to hear it.”

“But if the tales talk about his bravery or his boldness,” said Calliande, “then, yes, they are true. You saw what he did at Vulmhosk. How many other men would volunteer to challenge an orcish shaman to a duel?”

“Very few, I imagine,” said Jager. “A Swordbearer, probably.” His eyes got harder. “But the nobles of Andomhaim are cruel and arrogant and eager for renown. I suspect a Swordbearer would have challenged Mournacht, and then gotten himself and all his men killed.”

“You seem to have a grudge against the nobles of Andomhaim,” said Calliande.

“And why should I not?” said Jager.

“Because most of the halflings of Andomhaim have sworn oaths of fealty to one noble house or another,” said Calliande. “They are glad to serve, and…”

“They are fools,” said Jager in his calm voice, “fools too blind and stupid to see that they toil for cruel idiots who care nothing for them, who are vessels of corruption under smiling masks, who...”

He stopped talking, blinked, and his smile returned. 

“Forgive me, Magistria,” he said. “I do tend to ramble on.” He made a show of stretching. “If you will excuse me, I will take some air. It gets a touch musty down here.” 

“Of course,” said Calliande. Jager offered a grand bow and climbed the ladder to the deck.

She watched him go, wondering what that had been about. 

Then she turned her attention back to Kharlacht. 

###

Jager climbed to the deck, keeping his face calm, no hint of his turmoil showing upon his expression.

No hint of his unceasing terror and dread.

He had thought the tales of the Gray Knight exaggerated, but he had been wrong. After seeing Ridmark challenge that hulking shaman outside of Vulmhosk, Jager had been impressed. And Jager hated the lords of Andomhaim. He had assumed that Ridmark Arban, the youngest son of the Dux of Taliand, would be another man like Tarrabus Carhaine or Paul Tallmane, cruel and brutal and arrogant. 

Instead he had risked his life to save a den of thieves that would have gladly sold him to the Mhorites.

Despite himself, Jager found himself admiring the man.

A pity he was going to have to steal from him.

Chapter 7 - One Theft Too Many

Twenty-one days after it all began, twenty-one days after that day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Jager’s life fell apart and the nightmare began.

Or a new nightmare, at any rate. God knew he had lived through enough horrors. 

It started with the ring.

He strolled through the Forum of the River in Coldinium, wearing his finest clothes, keeping an amused smile on his face. Most of the halflings in Coldinium were domestic servants or laborers in the houses of various merchants and traders. Consequently most of the humans and orcs and dwarves who lived in or visited Coldinium expected to see quiet, obedient halflings wearing the livery of their masters. Jager enjoyed flouting their expectations, enjoying wearing fine clothes and jewels and wandering about the city’s streets as if he owned them. 

Merchants crowded the Forum, and farmers and ranchers from Durandis and Rhaluusk came to the Forum to sell their wares. Jager had lived in Coldinium for two years, ever since fleeing Cintarra and the Red Family with Mara, and he knew the Forum well by now.

Considering the amount he had stolen from the merchants, that knowledge had proven useful. 

An undercurrent of tension went through the crowds. The omen of blue fire three weeks past had set everyone on edge. Men spoke of the end of the world, of orcs attacking the Northerland, of dark creatures stirring in the Wilderland. Jager didn’t care. Chaos did not frighten him. He had fled from Caerdracon, escaped the Red Family in Cintarra, and come to Coldinium. Chaos offered opportunities for the observant and the bold.

So Jager noticed at once when Tarrabus of the Carhainii, Dux of Caerdracon, arrived in his barge from Castra Carhaine. 

He froze for a moment when he saw the ornate barge sitting at the docks, the blue banner with the black dragon of Caerdracon flying overhead. Knights and men-at-arms in the colors of the House of the Carhainii emerged from the barge, stern and splendid in their armor. Halfling servants unloaded the cargo, and for an awful moment Jager thought he saw Sir Paul Tallmane himself among the crowd. For an instant he remembered standing in the domus’s great hall, listening to his father make that false confession.

Jager mastered himself. He had come a long way from the Tallmanes’ benefice in Caerdracon. He had robbed some of the most powerful and wealthy lords in Andomhaim, had even stolen jewels from the High King’s citadel in Tarlion. He was not a child to quail before a mighty Dux, though he had not expected Tarrabus Carhaine to visit Coldinium. 

And in chaos lay opportunity. 

Jager ducked into the doorway of a shop overlooking the docks and watched the Dux of Caerdracon enter the city. 

Tarrabus Carhaine was tall and strong, with close-cropped blond hair cut in the style of the Romans of Old Earth, his face clean-shaven. He wore a rich tunic and trousers, his boots gleaming, a sword hanging in a sheath of black leather at his belt. Unlike many of the lords of Andomhaim, he was not a Swordbearer, but he carried himself with calm arrogance, certain in his authority. A Magistria in a white robe followed him, a pretty young woman in her early twenties with olive-colored skin, curly black hair, and green eyes, her expression just as haughty as the Dux’s. Behind them walked a squire carrying a shield with the sigil of Caerdracon, the Dux’s signet ring hanging from a chain around in his neck.

And there, Jager saw his opportunity. 

He ducked into the shop, which sold a variety of metal goods, and purchased a lantern from the surprised proprietor. Jager paid three times what the lantern was worth, but that was all right. He stepped back into the Forum as the Dux’s procession made its way into the city. The squire with the shield followed the Dux, as did a dozen more squires leading Tarrabus’s warhorses, each beast strong and splendid and well-trained.

And, likely, quite short-tempered. One did not breed warhorses for their placidity. 

The Forum was crowded, and the Dux’s party forced its way through, their progress slow. 

Jager tugged off his coat and draped it around the lantern. It put off a bright light, especially when hooded, and after a bit of work he focused the light into the eyes of the lead horse. The beast stamped its hooves in annoyance and snorted, tossing its head. A small army of squires descended upon the animal, and the Dux glanced back in annoyance. None of them noticed the lantern, and Jager adjusted his coat, throwing more light into the horse’s eyes.

Finally it proved too much for the beast, and the horse reared up with an enraged snort, its steel-shod hooves lashing at the air. The squire tried to calm the horse, only to lose his balance and fall. The panic spread to the other horses, and the whole procession came to an uneven stop. For a moment the Dux’s procession dissolved into chaos.

Jager had his chance.

He set down the lantern, pulled his coat back on, and darted into the crowds. Being shorter than humans and orcs and most dwarves had many disadvantages, but it did make it easier to move quickly. He slipped past the spectators, past the arguing merchants, and reached the edge of the terrified horses. The first squire had dropped his shield and was helping to calm the enraged warhorses. The Dux’s signet ring, a heavy thing of gold and sapphires, bounced from its cord.

In one smooth motion, Jager drew a knife, cut the cord, and pocketed the ring. He did it all in less than two heartbeats, and the squire, focused on the furious horse, did not notice. Jager’s father had been fond of saying that God had blessed the halfling kindred with great dexterity and nimble fingers so that they might serve their masters with greater diligence. Well, the lords of Andomhaim cared nothing for their halfling servants, and one look at the world proved that God had no interest in justice. 

So Jager would use his talents and his skills to serve himself. 

He strolled through the Forum, leaving the snarl of traffic behind, and headed home. 

###

He gave the signet ring to Mara. 

“I don’t think it will fit me,” she said with a smile.

To match his ostentatious clothing, Jager had purchased a fine house, what the lords of Andomhaim called a “domus”, and lived in luxury. He claimed to be a merchant making his living selling jewels from the mines of Durandis and furs from the forests of Rhaluusk, though in truth he had made his money by robbing nobles. But he could hardly proclaim that in public. So instead he claimed to be Dieter of Tarlion, successful halfling merchant, and amused himself by hiring human servants to look after his domus. 

Though he made sure to treat them well. He was not Paul Tallmane.

“Nevertheless,” said Jager, “I would like you to have it.”

They stood alone in the bedroom, the door closed, the servants sent home for the night. Mara examined the ring, holding it up to the light. It looked huge in her small hand. But even though she was human (at least partially) she was barely five feet tall, slender and delicate, her green eyes wide and wondering as she considered emerald-studded ring. She wore a green dress to match her eyes, and her blond hair hung loose and ragged around her ears. She always kept her ears concealed, even in private. Jager’s father had been a kindly, well-meaning fool.

Mara’s father had been something much worse. 

“I can practically fit my thumb into it,” said Mara. She shook her head. “It’s so heavy. The Dux’s hand must hurt if he has to wear it all the time.” 

“He doesn’t,” said Jager. “One of his squires carries it for him. He only uses it to seal official documents. Which was how I was able to make a present of it to you.” 

She frowned. “Why did you steal it?”

“Because I thought it would look pretty on you,” said Jager. “Because the emeralds match your eyes.”

Mara laughed. “It’s much too big for me, you know. Stealing it was a big risk. Dux Tarrabus is a powerful man, and he is not merciful. Even the Matriarch of the Family would not cross him. If he knew you took his signet ring, he would kill you.”

Jager scowled. “Shall I return it and apologize? Trust in the benevolence of a noble, as my father did?”

“Of course not,” said Mara. 

“And we stole from the Matriarch of the Red Family,” said Jager. “Yet we lived. Tarrabus Carhaine is hardly threatening after that.”

“But I would still like to know why you took it.”  

He sighed, paced to the window, and stared at the dark street below. 

“You know why,” said Jager. “Because I could. Because I hate him. Or at least men like him. He is the liege lord of Paul Tallmane. Why should I not steal from him? God knows that he deserves it.” 

“Maybe he deserves death for what he has done,” said Mara. He heard rustling fabric. “Are you going to kill him?”

“No,” said Jager. “I am a thief, not a murderer.”

“Like me, you mean?” said Mara.

Jager sighed. “That is not what I meant and you know it. Besides, you are no longer an assassin. You left the Red Family of Mhor behind.” He looked over her shoulder at her, where she stood at the wardrobe, arranging some of the gowns within it. “And let us be honest, shall we? When we first met you had been hired to kill me.”

Mara grinned. “And you talked me out of it. Which I do not regret. Mostly.”

She turned her head, rummaging in the wardrobe. Her blond hair swung as she did, and he caught a glimpse of her left ear.

Or, more specifically, the delicate point of her left ear. 

Despite his wealth, Jager was an outcast from the society of Andomhaim. He had secrets to keep, but nothing like Mara’s. If people learned who she really was, what she really was, the Swordbearers and the Magistri would kill her. 

The dark elven prince of Nightmane Forest had long been an enemy of Andomhaim, and the Two Orders would not suffer his bastard half-breed daughter to live. 

“I am glad to hear it,” said Jager. “Do let me know if you change your mind. I would at least like a sporting chance of escape before you slide a stiletto between my ribs.”

“Ha! I doubt that,” said Mara. “You’re stuck with me, Jager of Cintarra. Still, I think we should melt down the ring and sell the emeralds. It’s too dangerous to keep as a trophy.”

“You’re likely right,” said Jager. She usually was. Her levelheadedness often surprised him, and balanced out his boldness. Then again, she had been an assassin of the Red Family for years, and without careful planning, she would have died years ago.

“Still,” said Mara, “I think I should wear the ring at least once. What do you think?”

He turned, and saw that she was wore the ring on a cord around her neck.

And nothing else. 

Save for the jade bracelet she wore around her left wrist, but she always wore that. 

“I think,” he said, spreading his arms and walking to her, “that it looks lovely.”

She grinned, took his hand, and led him to the bed. 

After, he lay in a doze, his body intertwined with hers, her head pillowed on his chest. His father would have been horrified to see what he had become, to know that his son was the notorious Master Thief of Cintarra. His hand tightened against Mara’s hip, and she murmured something and pressed closer to him. 

His father had been a fool. Jager liked this life, liked stealing from the proud, corrupt lords of Andomhaim, and he loved Mara. He would continue this life as long as he could, he resolved. 

It lasted another two heartbeats.

The door to the bedroom exploded open, ripping off its hinges. Jager sat up, scrambling for the weapons on his nightstand. Armored men-at-arms poured into the bedchamber, a dozen of them, swords glittering in their fists. Mara raised her hands, and darkness swirled around her, a gift of her dark elven blood that allowed her to disappear into the shadows. It gave her superhuman abilities of stealth and had made her a devilishly effective assassin despite her diminutive height.