Frostborn: The Master Thief (22 page)

“Yield,” croaked Imaria, swaying on her knees. She grabbed at a step of the dais to support herself.

“Magistria Imaria,” said Corbanic. “Do you recognize Calliande as a true Magistria of the Order?”

“Yes, yes,” said Imaria. “Yes. Just…just keep her away from me. Keep…keep her away from me, please.” She turned a pleading glance in Tarrabus’s direction, but the Dux’s face was cold, almost contemptuous. 

“Magistria Calliande,” said Corbanic. “Do you accept your opponent’s yield?”

Calliande blinked as if trying to remember him. 

“Yes,” she said at last, her voice a hoarse rasp. 

“Then I declare this matter settled,” said Corbanic. “By my authority as Comes of Coldinium, I declare that Ridmark Arban is free to leave the city. Furthermore, it has been established by Challenge that Calliande is indeed of the Magistri, and shall enjoy all the rights and privileges of a sister of that Order. Let no man harm them under pain of my displeasure.”

He looked at Tarrabus as he spoke. 

“You play a dangerous game, Corbanic,” said Tarrabus, his voice soft. “I am not a man to offend.”

“Nor am I,” said Corbanic. “I am the Comes of Coldinium by the writ of the High King, and I represent his authority.” 

“Uthanaric Pendragon,” said Tarrabus, “will not always be the High King, Corbanic. I suggest you think upon that.” 

“Tarrabus,” said Imaria, reaching for him. “Please.”

“You two,” said Tarrabus, pointing at his men. “See the Magistria to her quarters and ensure that she is comfortable.” 

He left without another word, his men following. Two of his knights helped Imaria to her feet and led the weeping Magistria from the hall. Morigna eyed Calliande, wondering just what she had done to Imaria. Yet Calliande only stood motionless, a slight twitch of exhaustion going through her frame every so often. 

“Magistria, I am sorry for this ordeal,” said Corbanic.

Calliande only nodded, still twitching. Had the duel done permanent harm to her?

“We should take the Magistria back to rest,” said Ridmark. Calliande’s head snapped in his direction, her blue eyes narrowed. “Once she has recovered, we will depart Coldinium.”

Corbanic nodded. “Thank you.”

“But be ready,” said Ridmark. “You may think me mad, I know. But the Frostborn are returning. Coldinium must be ready.”

“I do think you mad,” said Corbanic. “Yet even a madman may speak a true prophecy. The blue fire in the sky, the orcs of Kothluusk going on the warpath, Red Brothers in the streets of Coldinium…I am not wise enough to know what this heralds. But Coldinium shall ever be ready to serve its realm and High King, whatever storms may batter the realm.”

Ridmark bowed, and Corbanic and Cortin left with their men-at-arms, leaving them alone in the hall.

“Well,” said Caius. “That could have been worse.”

“Perhaps God answered your prayers,” said Morigna. 

The dwarven friar smiled. “Through the agency of Calliande, it seems.”

“And that must have been exhausting,” said Ridmark, touching Calliande’s arm. “Come. Let us return to the Crow’s Helm. You can rest, and…”

She snarled, wheeled, and slapped him across the face. 

“Do not touch me,” she hissed. “Do not ever touch me! You murderous coward! Get your filthy hand away from me!”

“Calliande?” said Ridmark.

She shoved him in the chest, and he stumbled back a step before he caught his balance. 

“I see you,” she spat, “for what you are. For what you really are, what you always have been. I saw you! Craven. Wretch. Murderer. Murderer!” She shoved him again. “You deserve that brand. You are a coward, I see that now. Why didn’t I see it before? You should have died for what you did.”

Ridmark said nothing, his face carved from stone. 

“Murderer,” whispered Calliande.

“Be silent,” said Morigna, surprised by her own anger, “you foolish woman.” The Challenge was no excuse. How dare Calliande throw Aelia’s death in his face like that! 

“Calliande,” said Caius. “What…”

“Murderer!” shrieked Calliande, slapping Ridmark again. He made no move to defend himself. “Murderer, murderer, murderer!” She hit him again, shoved him, and reached for his throat. It might have gone further, but Morigna grabbed her arms and yanked her back.

“Have you gone mad?” said Morigna. “What…”

She barely seemed to notice. “Damn you, Ridmark, damn you, damn…”

Calliande shuddered, her eyes rolling back in her head, and she went limp. Morigna almost lost her grip, but Caius caught her, and they supported the unconscious Magistria between them. 

Ridmark remained motionless, his cheek red beneath the scarred brand from Calliande’s blows.

“Ridmark,” said Caius. “We…”

“We should take her back to the inn,” said Ridmark. “Or find another, if the Crow’s Helm is uninhabitable.” His voice was calm as ever. Morigna marveled at that, even as she seethed at Calliande. “Once she has recovered, we will keep our word to the Comes and depart Coldinium.”

“Ridmark,” said Caius. “Those things she said. Undoubtedly she was out of her mind from the Challenge.”

“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. His blue eyes seemed colder than ever. Colder, and utterly lifeless. “But as the Comes said, sometimes in madness there is truth.”

Chapter 14 - Pursuit

The sun rose, and Jager slipped through the western gate of Coldinium as soon as the militia opened it for the day.

He had fled through the Outwall, stealing a ragged cloak to cover his clothes, and had concealed himself until dawn. The Outwall had been crawling with men-at-arms and knights, and Jager did not dare approach them. The Comes’s men would keep close watch over the Outwall. If they stopped him, they might search him. If they searched him, they might claim the empty soulstone and turn it over to the Comes. 

And if they did that, he would never see Mara again. 

That lump of white crystal was Mara’s salvation. Jager would die before he would give it up.

So he hid himself during the night and waited for the furor to calm. 

Come dawn, he joined the crowd at the western gate. There was always a crowd at the gates when the sun came up. The fishermen worked at night, and returned the city when the gates opened to sell their wares in the Forum of the River. Not even a raid from Mhorite orcs could stop that. Jager followed their carts through the gate, keeping his head down, a weary slump to his shoulders. After Mournacht’s attack, the guards were more diligent than usual, checking every cart and looking under every hood. But when they looked at Jager, they saw only a tired halfling in a ragged cloak, pack slung over his shoulders, no doubt on an errand for his masters.

They waved him through the gates without question. 

Jager kept his face slack, but felt the urge to smile. People saw what they expected to see.

The thought of what he expected to see at the domus of Tarrabus Carhaine stole his amusement. 

He came to one of the Forum’s taverns and went inside. Fishermen and bakers took their breakfast here, resting from their night’s work and discussing the news of the day. The word of Mournacht’s raid was upon every tongue, and Jager heard a dozen different accounts of what had happened, each more inaccurate than the last. He ignored the talk, purchased a cup of beer, some grilled fish and biscuits, and sat alone in the corner to eat. He was ravenous. A daring theft always gave him an appetite…and fighting for his life worked up a hunger.

Think. He had to think.

He had the soulstone. He need only go to Tarrabus’s domus and hand it over, and the Dux would free Mara. 

Or so Tarrabus had claimed.

But Jager was almost entirely certain that Tarrabus would kill him the minute he surrendered the soulstone.

He didn’t think the Dux would have killed Mara, not yet. Mara’s unique abilities made her a valuable tool, too valuable to kill. Perhaps Tarrabus would force her to kill for him, as she had once killed for the Red Family. If she refused, perhaps he would simply hand her back to the Red Family as a favor to the Matriarch. Jager had heard Ridmark tell Sir Cortin about the Red Family. Given how much Tarrabus hated Ridmark, it would not surprise Jager to learn that Tarrabus had hired Red Brothers to kill the Gray Knight. Mara’s life would buy many assassinations from the Red Family.

They wanted Mara dead for her betrayal…and Jager shuddered to think of what they would do to her if she fell into their grasp. The Matriarch did not suffer treachery.

But for now, at least, Mara was safe. Jager had no such illusions about himself. 

He had the soulstone. Tarrabus wanted it. There had to be some way to force the Dux to hand over Mara before giving him the crystal. Could Jager hide it? No, Tarrabus would simply torture the information out of him. Perhaps Jager could swap it with a decoy, or perhaps arrange a negotiation. A meeting in public, perhaps, might guarantee him a measure of security.

No, that was a worse idea. Tarrabus was one of the most powerful nobles in the realm, and Jager was a thief masquerading as a merchant. Tarrabus need only claim that Jager had stolen the stone from him, could have Jager arrested and killed, and there was nothing Jager could do to stop him. 

Who would believe Jager over Tarrabus?

He grimaced and rubbed his face, stubble rasping beneath his palms. God, but he needed a shave. He hated growing a beard. It always itched so damned much. 

But now, it helped distract him from the obvious. Namely, that Tarrabus would kill Jager the moment he got his hands on the empty soulstone. Furthermore, Jager was alone, had no allies, and if Mara was to be saved, he had to think of something extremely clever. 

And he could think of nothing.

Unless…

He gazed into his beer and shivered.

Unless he used the thing he had hidden in the catacombs.

Not that. Too dangerous. 

Mara had made him promise never to use it again. Few people knew of the Red Family of Cintarra, but of those who did, most knew that the Family worshipped Mhor. Fewer still knew of the mysterious Matriarch that had ruled the Family for generations. 

And only a very few knew the truth about the Matriarch. 

She had once been a noblewoman and a wizard of the dark elves, but as the urdmordar had conquered the dark elves, she had betrayed her kindred to the spider-demons and fled into hiding. Eventually, after humans came to this world, she had concealed herself in the growing city of Cintarra and founded the Red Family around her.

And Jager only knew that because he and Mara had dared to steal from her on the day they had fled from Cintarra. 

And the thing he had stolen from her waited in the catacombs, in the darkness below Coldinium. 

Oh, he was sure it was waiting for him. Mara had claimed it was just an object, but she had never touched it, thank God. Jager was certain it had a malevolent will of its own. Mara had made him promise never to use it again, and he had agreed without hesitation. 

But now Mara was a prisoner in the Iron Tower. Jager was her only hope of rescue, and Jager was alone with no allies or resources. He needed help.

And the weapon in the darkness below Coldinium had power.

Did he have any choice?

The thought of touching it again made his skin crawl.

Jager sat in silence and drank his beer, trying to make up his mind.

Or to summon up the courage for what he knew he had to do. 

###

“I knew it,” said Gavin, watching the crowd pass through Coldinium’s western gate. “I knew he would come here.” 

Kharlacht nodded. “Your strategy was sound.”

They had searched the Outwall with little success, until Gavin had realized that Jager would not remain there. The halfling had been alone and without any supplies. If he wanted to leave Coldinium, he would first have to venture into the city to obtain food. If he wanted to sell the soulstone to someone, he would not find a buyer within the Outwall. 

His next stop would almost certainly be the city itself.

And so Gavin watched the short figure in the ragged cloak walk through the gate, head bowed, Calliande’s pack slung over his shoulder.

“Let’s take him,” said Gavin.

“Wait,” said Kharlacht. “Let us follow him instead. If we confront him in front of the guards, they will intervene. The thief has a silver tongue. If he talks to the guards, he might turn them against us. Better to wait until we can get him alone.”

Gavin felt a chill. “Then we kill him?” A battle was one thing, but he did not want to kill a man in cold blood.

“Only if he refuses to return the soulstone,” said Kharlacht. “Or if he attacks us. I would prefer not to be arrested for murder.”

“Agreed,” said Gavin, and they followed the crowd into the gate.

The guards stopped and questioned Kharlacht. Kharlacht denied being a Mhorite (the fact that he spoke Latin helped), and the guards demanded that he renounce Mhor and recite the Lord’s Prayer, which Kharlacht did without hesitation. 

The guards waved them through and into the city.

Despite the urgency of their errand, Gavin found himself looking around in wonder. He thought the Outwall had been crowded, but the space within the walls made the Outwall look like a sleepy village. They had entered some sort of market square, filled with men and women selling every sort of merchandise Gavin could imagine. More shops lined the square, and he saw carts rolling back and forth, people going about their business and talking and haggling.

Half of the village of Aranaeus could have fit within the square.

“There,” said Kharlacht. “He went in there.”

The orcish warrior pointed at building with the look of a tavern. A large crowd of bakers and fishermen were having breakfast there. 

“What do we do now?” said Gavin. “Do we follow him?”

“No, not both of us,” said Kharlacht, considering. “I am rather noticeable.” Given that he stood seven feet tall, that was an understatement. “If he sees us, he will flee out the back. You, though…you will look like another man coming in for breakfast. Go inside, buy some food, and have a look around.”