The Jewel of Turmish (5 page)

“Do you see your sister?” Hekkel asked from behind Cerril.

“Yes,” Cerril growled. “Now shut up before I have Two-Fingers bust your nose for you.” He said the last because he knew it would give Two-Fingers back some of bis self-respect and standing among the group.

“Just let me know when you need it done, Cerril,” Two-Fingers offered. “Ill smash the little bastard’s nose good
and proper.”

Cerril ignored them, seeking out Imareen at the back of Elkor’s Brazen Trumpet just across the broad cobblestone street leading down to the docks and shipyards. His sister, fathered by another sailor than the one who had fathered Cerril, stood limned in the shadow of the alley behind the tavern.

Imareen’s thin, straight figure rarely drew even the drunkest sailor’s eye, but she was one of the fastest serving wenches in the city. She’d inherited her lashing tongue from their mother, and her skill with verbal abuse was legendary. Cooks and merchants feared her, and the small bit of power given her by Elkor himself sometimes went to her head.

But Elkor didn’t increase her tenday draw at the tavern, and all the other serving wenches at the Brazen Trumpet got large tips. When Cerril had suggested that he and his band would reward her for pointing out potential robbery victims, Imareen had hesitated only momentarily. They’d been working together the last four months.

Imareen had let them know that a man—alone, deeply in his cups, and possessing at least a little in the way of gold or silver—was at one of the tables nearly an hour ago.

An hour, Cerril thought in quick anticipation, is more than enough time for a single drinker to get drunk.

Covering his excitement, Cerril whispered, “Stay here,” to the others, then stepped out of the alley and crossed the street.

A dwarven wagon driver rattled across the street from around the nearest corner before Cerril got halfway across. Cerril had to scramble to avoid being hit. The stench of the sweating horses filled his nose.

The dwarf didn’t mark his wagon with a lantern or a torch. That, plus the fact that the dwarf whipped the horses and cursed at them, led the young thief to believe the dwarf was about a bit of foul business as well.

The black markets throughout Alaghôn had increased since the Inner Sea War had taken place, and Cerril had occasionally managed to hire his group to hard-knuckled merchants as lookouts. The pay for the work they did was meager, but it also marked targets they considered and sometimes went back to rob.

Cerril’s heart beat rapidly with anticipation as he joined Imareen at the back of the tavern. There was nothing better than being a thief in Alagh6n. At least, not to his way of thinking.

“Hurry, you damned child,” Imareen chided.

That was their mother’s voice, Cerril knew. The tone and the words rankled him, but he managed to ignore them for the moment. He jogged to the back of the tavern and joined his sister.

The fragrant aroma of pipeweed clung to Imareen’s hair and clothing. Cerril enjoyed the smell, and when he had coins enough, he often indulged in the habit himself. Of course, if his mother found his small store of pipeweed she kept it for herself, chiding him for experimenting with such a vice—and she said all that with a plume of smoke wreathing her head.

Imareen emptied a slop bucket onto the alley. The splashing noise of the liquid striking the hardpan startled a cat rummaging through a pile of refuse behind the tavern. The feline leaped into the air and dashed up the sagging fence marking the alley’s end. Despite her authority with the cooks and the merchants, Elkor still expected her to empty out the privies.

The stench of the slop filled the alley, turning the still air thick and tickling Cerril’s nose into a sneeze.

“Listen to you,” Imareen groused. “Honking like a goose and making noise enough to wake the dead.”

Her foot remained in the back door so it wouldn’t close on her. The rumble of men’s voices and the ribald strain of dwarven drinking songs echoed out into the alley. Cerril doubted anyone inside the tavern could have heard him sneeze.

“Do you want to talk,” he asked, “or do you want to divvy whatever we find in some man’s pouch?”

Imareen didn’t even hesitate. “Diwy, and you’d better not short me. 111 know if you do.”

Cerril nodded. Both times he’d tried to make off with part of his sister’s cut, she had known. If she could have made merchants realize the power she had to know a he when she heard it, she could have made a large stipend. However, her unnatural skill seemed only to work with Cerril.

“Who’s the man?” he asked. “A stranger.”

He said, “Strangers are good.”

“I know, Cerril. I know what I’m doing.”

Cerril didn’t rise to the old argument that existed between them. Since she was four years older than he was, she’d always told him what to do and not to do, but she knew since he’d taken to making his way in the shadows that the balance between them had shifted. She just didn’t want to act like it had.

“Give me some measure of respect in this,” Imareen said.

“I do,” Cerril said.

He sorely wished that cuffing his sister would work as well as it did with the members of his gang, but Imareen would never stand for it. There was a good likelihood that she’d get up in the middle of the night to stick a knife between his ribs and tell their mother that Malar the Stalker, god of marauding beasts and bloodlust, had taken him in the night.

“He’s settling his business with Elkor now,” Imareen said. “Hell be out shortly.”

“Have you seen his purse?”

Avarice gleamed in Imareen’s muddy brown eyes. “It looks small, but it’s heavy.”

“Small isn’t good.” Still, Cerril couldn’t keep a faint smile from his hps.

“Heavy is good, and this man works to keep his purse well hidden.”

“Has anyone else noticed him?” Cerril asked.

“No. No one’s noticed him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just the same,” Cerril said, “keep an eye out. If it looks like someone’s following him, wave one of the tavern lanterns in the window.”

“I will.”

Cerril nodded. “Let’s have a look at him.”

Imareen opened the tavern door and stepped aside. She followed Cerril inside then led him through the small larder behind the Brazen Trumpet’s bar.

The tavern was small and ordinary. Besides the heavy,

scarred bar that ran the breadth of the building, odd-sized tables and unmatched chairs took up the floor space. Nets hanging from the ceiling held colored bottles in bright greens, blues, and dulled browns and rubies. All the liquor had been drained from the bottles, and they’d been refilled with water. Hundreds of seashells and smooth stones joined the bottles. The nets made for a colorful display. An ensorcelled shark hung above the fireplace. It was nearly as long as a tall man, and the lipless mouth was open in a fearful pose.

Men lounged in the chairs around the tables. Most of them were professional seamen, sprinkled with a few mercenaries. The two groups sat apart from each other. Maybe they’d sailed the same ship across the Sea of Fallen Stars, but each looked down their noses at the other.

“There,” Imareen whispered in Cerril’s ear.

Cerril studied the man at the bar. Elkor was trying to chat the man up, offering to rent him one of the rooms above the tavern for the night. The man simply shook his head.

He wasn’t a local. Cerril knew that from his clothing. While most Turmishan men wore square-cut beards and layered clothing against the humid heat that sweltered the Vilhon Reach, the victim Imareen had marked had a ragged appearance. His clothing was disreputable and he hadn’t shaved in days. The man’s emaciated form resembled a bag of bones shoved into a burlap bag. He was in his middle years, but his infirmity robbed him of any dregs of youth. Hollow-eyed and pale, he habitually raked his gaze over the tavern crowd.

“What has he been doing since he’s been here?” Cerril whispered to Imareen.

“Drinking,” his sister answered. “Drinking like a man possessed. And writing.”

“Writing?” Cerril pondered that. Writing was usually a merchant’s domain, keeping records of things sold and purchased, but writing was something mages also did. “Writing what?”

“I don’t know,” Imareen admitted. “I read about as well as you do.”

Cerril couldn’t read at all. Learning that skill had never proven important. He’d had a strong back, and now he had quick hands and an agile mind.

“He was writing in a book,” Imareen added.

Elkor fussed over the price he was exacting from the man.

Cerril raked the man with his gaze. He saw no book. “Where’s the book?”

“I don’t know.” Imareen glanced down at him. “Are you afraid?”

Cerril didn’t answer.

“People are always claiming to have stolen things from mages,” Imareen said. “Why, you could make a name for yourself with just one theft.”

“Those are stories,” Cerril insisted.

“All of them can’t be.”

Frowning, Cerril said, “Stealing from mages isn’t smart business. I don’t plan on living out the rest of my life as a toad. Or worse.”

“It might be an improvement.”

Cerril shot her a look. “If he is a mage and he questions me, I’ll tell him that you pointed him out.”

Imareen paled beneath her freckles. “I don’t think he’s a mage.”

“I hope not.”

The man settled his bill with Elkor, who looked after the man longingly. Evidently the tavern owner had gotten a good look at the heft of the man’s coin as well.

“He’s leaving,” Imareen said.

“I can see that.”

“Well, if you don’t hurry you might lose him.”

Cerril hesitated for just an instant.

“We don’t have anything to show for the night,” Imareen pointed out. “If we don’t get something, we could be starting a trend of bad luck.”

I know, Cerril thought.

Bad luck was a recognized force in a port city. Ships sailed with luck, and any ship branded with ill luck was quickly noticed and just as quickly abandoned by

merchants as well as sailors. Cerril believed in luck, always striving for the good and avoiding the bad.

The man walked through the Brazen Trumpet’s double doors and out onto the street.

Coming to a decision, Cerril started forward. “Remember about the lantern,” he whispered to his sister.

“I will. And don’t try to cheat me, Cerril.”

Turning, Cerril rushed back through the storeroom and out into the alley. He stayed within the tavern’s shadows, stepping out briefly at the corner so that Hekkel and Two-Fingers could see him. He pointed at the man walking up the sloped street leading away from the Brazen Trumpet.

Two-Fingers nodded.

Hekkel immediately stepped into the shadows on the other side of the street and took up the first leg of the pursuit.

Cerril remained on his side of the street. He and Hekkel were the two most skilled at following someone through the city in the shadows. He glanced back at the Brazen Trumpet but didn’t see Imareen put in an appearance at one of the windows. Carefully, his breath tight at the back of his throat and in his lungs, Cerril continued following the man.

Their prey seemed content to stay within Alaghôn’s dockyards. The man stopped occasionally to stare into the windows of a closed shop that caught his interest. His destination turned out to be Stonebottom’s Inn, one of the first structures ever built along the Turmish coastline. Back in those days, the port city had only been an avaricious gleam in a founding father’s eye.

Stonebottom’s was meager and small, cobbled together from ballast rocks brought over in merchant ships. A lit candle in a glass tube dangled from the sign, revealing the chipped and peeling paint that advertised the name. No candles burned in the two front windows that would have signified a vacancy. Stonebottom’s usually stayed full whenever ships were in port.

Knowing they had to take the man before he reached the inn, Cerril increased his pace. Hekkel’s shadow flitted along the other side of the street.

Two blocks before Stonebottom’s, Cerril signaled Hekkel.

Without hesitation, Hekkel ran out into the street. “Good sir! Good sir! Help me, please!”

The man stopped and turned, putting his back up against the budding beside him. His hand darted for his waist sash, and Cerril would have bet anything that he was carrying a blade there. At least the man hadn’t turned Hekkel into a toad.

“What do you want, boy?” the man demanded in a thin, worn voice.

“It’s my mother!” Hekkel cried, coming to a stop in front of the man. “She fell down! I can’t wake her!” The man remained quiet, his hand out of sight. “You’ve got to help me!” Hekkel pleaded. “I’m no healer.”

The man glanced warily around the dark street, but Stonebottom’s was located in one of the several old parts of the city. Little foot traffic ever went through that area so early. A few hours before cock’s crow, though, the seamen who rented rooms there would come stumbling through.

Cerril stayed within the shadow less than twenty feet away. He breathed shallowly. Thankfully the street was also devoid of lanterns and he remained hidden.

Hekkel was small for his size. Most people not used to children often thought he was a child of seven or eight years. At least, they did until they saw the hardness in his eyes. Still, the man almost hit Hekkel when the boy dropped to his knees and wrapped both arms around the man’s legs.

“Please!” Hekkel cried plaintively. “I think she’s dying!”

“Here now,” the man said. “Get up from there. You need to see someone who can do your mother some good. I’m just a traveler. I’ve no experience at healing. I’m a scribe.”

Carefully, Cerril reached for the window ledge of the cobbler’s shop beside him. Hundreds of years of masonry held Alaghôn together. Dozens of styles held sway in the city, and they created a rambling disorder to Alaghôn that provided any number of dead-end streets and orphaned

blocks. The mortar of the older buildings was also in a state of disrepair, often crumbling when jostled.

Cerril raked a finger between the stones that made up the window ledge. The mortar broke up easily and he slipped a stone as big as both his fists from the ledge. A half-dozen others were already missing. He threw himself at the man, running quickly.