The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (4 page)

Chapter Seven

Roskel
Farinder cinched the saddle tighter. It had been too long since he had been
astride a horse. He thought he had the right of it. He checked the stirrups and
his saddlebags one last time, then with an optimistic leap was sat atop the
horse and with a further wriggle to seat himself, he reigned the dun mare in a
circle and headed toward the stable’s exit. The horse was called Minstrel. It
was an apt name, he thought. If he believed in omens, it was a good one. Then,
it could be just a coincidence.      'My lord Farinder!' came a cry from behind
him. 'My lord!'

            He
thought of ignoring the cry for a moment, but it could be important. Still,
what blasted fool had told a stable hand that he was departing this night?

            'Damn
it, boy, does everyone know what I’m about this night?' he said as a well-fed
youth ran breathlessly to his side.

            'Sorry,
my lord? Lord Rohir sent me down here to give you this…'

            He
held out a sealed scroll for Roskel to take. He took it, his curiosity getting
the better of him.

            'Well,
you can tell him you have done your duty with admirable perspicacity, young
man.'

            'Erm,
your will, my lord.'

            'Yes,
yes. Now, begone. And tell no one what you saw this night.'

            'What
did I see, lord?'

            'Good,
that’s the spirit,' Roskel said with a smile, and heeled his horse forward,
leaving the boy with a confused look upon his face.

            The
boy hastily bowed and stepped back from the horse.

            The
night was still. Around the Castle of Naeth the city lay quiet, curling around
the great castle like a dragon’s tail. He travelled the merchants’ quarter,
heading toward the north gate, where those guards served who were fit for duty
nowhere else. There had never been an incursion from the north. They were the
least travelled gates, and no guard on duty there was awake for more than an
hour at the time. It was a few hours before dawn. It was a fair bet that the
guards would be snoring soundly at their posts.

            The
horse’s shod hooves made the only sound on the cleaner streets of the city. The
merchant’s quarter was one of the quietest quarters of the city, the shops
being closed for the night. It was open to late night shoppers, but only the
kind that travelled the sewers and rooftops, only those that skulked in dark
alleyways and shadowed corners.

            Roskel
knew he had little to fear from footpads. He was favoured by the Lady. Besides,
as hard as she could make life for him, he could make it doubly so for her and
her kind, should he wish. He was under no illusions that the Stewards of the
Crown could stamp out her kind. And he had no wish to. He had a valuable ally
in the Queen of Thieves, even though they had only met once.

            He
came upon the north gate without incident, and passed uncontested by a sleeping
soldier. Such dereliction of duty irked him, but then he was not about the
business of a Steward this night. He was about the business of a fugitive.

            Should
he be found out, all his careful planning and attempts to hide his tracks would
be for naught. He knew that the Hierarchy employed magical means, he had seen
one of their spellcasters when they had first wrested the Castle of Naeth from
the old Thane and they were a force to be reckoned with. Brief that encounter
had been and brief as well, his fight with Rohir’s shapeshifting attacker.
While he did not know much of their magic, one thing was certain – it was
powerful and dangerous in the wrong hands.

            He
still wished he had some magic that would let him pass unseen to all eyes.

            Wishes
were for fools and beggars, though.

            He
set off widdershins around the city, travelling outside the walls. He was glad
for his coat, for already the northern air had turned chill. Further south the
weather would still be temperate. Soon, though, all too soon, he would be
racing the snows south. If he’d had a little more sense about him he would have
left on this journey in the summer, and wintered in comfort at Redalane’s home,
where he was welcome and safe. As it was he would be chased by winter on his
journey south and have his return barred to him by heavy snows across the
plains. Once, he had wintered in the Fresh Woods, with nothing but a knife and
his friend Tarn’s bow for hunting. He did not carry a bow now, and even if he
did he wouldn’t know how to shoot one.

            No,
never again would he be reduced to wearing animal skins and sleeping in holes
dug from heavy snowfall. Comfort was the byword on this trip. He would travel
by day, just as a troubadour would, rest up in inns and taverns along the road,
play if forced – he could carry a tune – and make it to Ulbridge in good time
to beat the winter. Then, a winter spent in the warm of some out of the way
inn, safe from discovery and the duties of office. Come the thaw he would make
his way back to Naeth.

            Perhaps,
on his journey, he could persuade a serving girl or two into a tumble.

            Roskel
lost himself in his thoughts for a time, lulled by the gentle bounce of the
mare beneath him, rolling along with the road. The keep and the great walls of
Naeth passed him by. He had become so inured to the grandeur of the city and
its size that he all but ignored it. It took an hour at a trot to reach the
southern markers that designated the end of the city and the beginning of Naeth
town, the edifice that had sprung up alongside the castle, its denizens feeding
and trading with the city but not wealthy enough to live within the encircling
walls where the city proper began.

            The
smell of the sea drifted on a breeze that was gradually rising along with
Carious, the earliest of Rythe’s twin suns. Its lazy twin, Dow, would be an
hour or so yet. They marked time for the dockers and farmers. Those early
risers would see Carious’ first light. Mostly people in the city didn’t rise
until Dow did. A beam of sunlight breached the horizon, coming up over the sea.
It wasn’t often that Roskel saw the dawn’s light. He was more of a Dow man
himself. Not that he usually saw Dow’s rising, either.

            He
let Minstrel, his horse, set the pace and settled in for a long ride. He would
lunch on the road and ride through until sunset. He didn’t like horses, but
there was a sense of freedom he had come to appreciate. The gentle rocking, the
distances one could travel, a turn of speed should you wish it. Even without a
horse, a man could travel the length of Sturma in a few months if he set a hard
pace. But a horse was a luxury and Roskel wasn’t fool enough to forget that.
There were many horse thieves about in Sturma’s heartland, and he would have to
be careful, a man on his own as he was. He was under no illusions. If someone
wanted to take his horse from him there was little he could do to stop them. He
was handy with a dagger, but a dagger against a bandit’s sword would do little
good. The sword he carried at his hip was more for show than anything else.
Hopefully in a tight situation a little bluster and a lot of acting would see
him through. If not, he always had feet to run…

            He
turned his mind away from the danger and settled once more into the rhythm of
the road. Even at the sedate trot that Minstrel seemed content to keep up he
noticed the city was far behind him. Another hour passed in slow contentment
and Dow rose. He was beginning to pass a few people on the road. It was too
early for merchants, but farmers with laden carts were making their way into
the city for market day, paupers were setting out for alms from the numerous
temples. The city guard did not allow the indigent paupers to sleep in the
city, but during the day all were welcome. Perhaps a little more so if they
were bringing money.

            It
was money, commerce and thievery, taxes and robbery, that kept the city
flowing. It fed the merchants' purses, the merchants' purses fed the city’s
coffers and the thieves covenant’s pouches, the city’s coffers fed the guards
who bought from the merchants…there was, Roskel realised, a beautiful
synchronicity in the way the city functioned. Even in the countryside there was
a circle of money, it all changed hands. He wondered if he tracked a gold piece
from the mint all the way from hand to each hand if he could find it once again
as it came back to the city. He wondered at a groat’s journey, if it had seen
as much life as he had. He imagined what wonders the gold secreted about his
person and his saddlebags had experienced in their lives. Had it graced
courtesan’s hands, a merchant’s, a paupers or a priests? What marvellous tales
a groat could tell. He made up a story in his head about a groat, and began
working on a song to sing for his supper should it come to that. A groat’s tale…something
bawdy would hit the mark. People liked a bawdy tale, and with his voice Roskel
was under no illusions as to being able to inspire passion with a skald’s song,
or love…perhaps fear…he knew a few ghostly tales that would serve on the road.

            He
realised he should have thought about his guise as a travelling bard before
setting out on the road. He could hold a tune and he knew the basic chords on
his lute. He’d been tutored for a few months before he’d finally decided to set
out on this fool’s quest. Nimble fingers helped in learning an instrument, but
his memory wasn’t the finest. He could remember snatches of famous tunes. He
could recite passages of bardic works, the story of Habard’s Pig, the
Jemandril’s Tail, Yellow Moon, some of the seedier songs he’d heard in the
docker’s taverns, the classic tale of Where the Soldier Roamed. Some doggerel
to pass the time. But could he make up a tune, or a song, or a story for weary
travellers and sots in their cups? A sober man liked a story, the drunk could do
little more than stamp his feet at a rousing tune.

            He
would have to gauge his market as it came.

            He
looked up from his reverie and saw that he had passed into the outskirts of the
southern town of Brantwise. He estimated it time for lunch. He pushed on, past
some well-kept farms and into the town’s heart. He ignored the town’s sole
tavern. It was too soon to stop at a tavern. There was always the chance, this
close to Naeth, that someone would recognise him. He wasn’t a famous face, but
he was a steward. People had an eye for the wealthy. And he was a wealthy man
in most people’s eyes, if not in reality. His wealth was that of the city, and
he wasn’t at liberty to spend it as he wished. It was an unspoken trust. He had
wages to pay even as he collected taxes. A fine position for a thief to be in--
surrounded by money and burdened by a sudden sense of responsibility.

            He
pushed on through the town with a few greetings from the friendlier of the
passersby, and onto the great south road. It was little more than a wide dirt
track, rutted from wagon’s wheels, but it served its purpose if only in keeping
him going in the right direction.

            He
ate lunch outside the town and fed Minstrel some grain after allowing her to
water from a nearby stream. Then, as the suns hit the centre of the sky,
mounted and headed for the south.

*

Chapter Eight

An
old man sat at the side of the road, an alms cup between his knees. He was
blind. Sightless orbs stared unceasingly at the road Roskel travelled. Roskel
pulled up before him.

            'My
lord. Welcome to Wraith’s Guard,' the old man greeted him.

            'A
strange name for a village, old father.'

            'Aye,
it is. As is its history. For a small consideration, I would be happy to tell
the tale, have you the time to spare.'

            Roskel
dismounted and hobbled the mare. He walked over to the man and sat next to him
with some relief. He was saddle sore from a day’s ride. He did not like to
think how sore he would be should he reach his final destination. At least he
would have the winter to ease his aching backside before he undertook the
return journey.

            'I’ll
listen to your tale. A silver in it for you, too, should it be worthy of
remembering.'

            'Oh,
it is worth remembering, my lord. A travelling minstrel, I take it.'

            Roskel
was taken aback. 'You are amazingly perceptive for a blind man.'

            'It
is no trick, really. The wind whistles across your lute and it plays a sweet
tune to my ears. Usually the sweetest sound I get to hear is a young woman’s
taunts. I long for the days when a young woman throws her barbs at me.
Something alluring about a young woman’s voice. Full of promise. Even if she
only stops to kick me…'

            'I’d
have thought you too old for such considerations.'

            'Get
to my age, my lord, and you’ll realise there’s beauty in a young woman even
when she’s full of spite and bile. You take your pleasures where you can get
them when you’re as old as me.'

            'Just
how old are you?'

            'Ninety-eight,
I reckon. Come spring, if I make it, by my count it will be ninety-nine. I’m
not too sure, though.'

            'How
long have you been blind?'

            'Ninety-eight
years, I reckon. Don’t remember being born, mind, so I might have seen my own
mother once…never after.'

            Roskel
was surprised. He didn’t think a man could live past seventy. There was
something fey about a man living so long. But he was polite, for the most part.
He didn’t challenge the man. To what end? He seemed sure enough for the both of
them. And then, Roskel imagined, if the old man was ninety-eight, it didn’t
seem right to argue with him. He was venerable. Not many men could say they
were venerable with a straight face.

            He
might have been a beggar, and blind, too, but there was a certain confidence about
the man, and a surety that Roskel wished he could feel on this long road he had
set out upon.

            'I’ve
some bread and cheese, if you’d be partial to a little sustenance. You
certainly look hungry.'

            'You
don’t eat so much when you get to my age, but I’ll take a little water if
you’ve a mind, my lord.'

            'I’m
not lord, old father. Just a travelling minstrel.'

            'As
you wish,' said the old man. There was a note of disbelief in his voice that
Roskel picked up, but to his credit the old man was sensible enough a beggar
not to disagree with a penny mark.

            Roskel
handed the old man a water skin. His hand found the skin with unerring
precision. He could make a pretty penny for the carnival with such skills,
thought the thief.

            'And
so to the story, my lord.'

            'I’m
on the lookout for a new tale or two.'

            'Tis
a fine tale.' The man took a sip of water and smacked his lips in appreciation.
'From the north,' he said with a smile. 'Straight from the mountains. The
finest I have tasted in a long time.' He put the skin down. 'Finer than the
water from around here. For that is dead water. Cursed, my lord, if you believe
in such things.'

            Roskel
smiled, nodded; sure that the old man would somehow
feel
him nodding,
just as he could sense a storyteller's opening gambit.

            'The
old ones, those who lived here before the race of man came from across the
ocean and settled these shores, the old ones had a different name for this
land. They called it ‘Sambra’. They built the monuments you see crumbling at
places of power. It was an old power. The power of land. Sturmen have lost the
using of such powers. Now, in these days, there are no wizards-- but the old
ones, they had magic at their fingertips. They had the power of the gods, or so
it would seem to us.

            'This
here village is built over the remnants of one such place. A relic of forgotten
ages past. You can see, if you’ve a mind to, the ridge that runs around the
village. The village rests in the centre. Take a look, my lord, if you’ve a
mind. You’ll see the occasional stone peering out from under the earth. Stone
like you’ll never see in a quarry for it does not come from this land. Black as
the darkest night, and unbreakable. Strike it with hammer and chisel hard
enough and you’ll break the hammer and chisel both, but not a dent will you
make in that stone. The people of the village use the stones that rise up for
hearths and fireplaces, for no heat will mark it. The people of this village
have grown wise. They will not dig for it, for one man had the folly to do so
and it proved his ruination.'

            Roskel
took a sip of his water. The suns were moving over the western horizon, but he
didn’t mind. He could see there was a tavern a ways down the road. He had time.
And, he had to admit to himself, the old man was a storyteller born. No doubt
past the age of ninety you’d heard a tale or two.

            'Remember,
the old people had power. They built on places of power. That power seeped into
their buildings. They left, for why nobody will ever know, but that power
remains. A man from the village determined to mine the stones. He thought to
build his house from the stone. He dug and carried for many years, until he had
enough stones to build a house. But the stone remembers.

            'He
built a fine house on the outskirts of town, and for a year and a day, the
villagers were in awe of his home. It was darker than the darkest night, but on
a moonlight night it shone with a silvery glow. Sometimes people said that they
heard it sighing, like a woman who’d lost a child or a man who’d lost his wife.
It sighed like disappointment and death, sadness and despair. The man, you see,
was going steadily mad.

            'He
began to shun his friends. He began to stay in his home. For days he would not
eat. Then he started to become thin…not from lack of food, but more like a shadow
drawn out.

            'The
man would only come out of his house at night. On a clear night the villagers
would see him, walking back and forth, back and forth, burning a furrow in the
ground around his home with his worried footsteps.

            'The
villagers tried to persuade him to leave the house. But he would not hear their
pleas. The house moaned in the night by now. On a windswept night the anguish
in the stones could be heard for up to a mile.

            'Then
one day, the man was there no longer. He was just not there. It was like he had
disappeared. But the villagers knew. He was not gone. He was in the stones.
They could hear the cries of his soul in the night, sometimes crying like the
bereaved. The man had gone the way of the old ones. The power had eaten him
alive, and there was nothing left but the sad, black house.

            'Listen
well tonight, should you stay at the Restless Spirit Tavern, for you will hear
his cries on the wind, should they be right. But don’t be tempted to leave the
tavern at night, for
his
restless spirit is in these stones. The stones
of power. And so the village stands, and the villagers remember.'

            Roskel
watched the old man as he finished his tale. The old man's face came alive,
telling his story, just as Roskel felt alive from hearing it.

            'What
happened to the house?'

            The
old man nodded, expecting the question...like a troubadour born, he'd led
Roskel to it.

            'The
house was torn down. Its stones were spread around the perimeter of the
village. The people guard against the return of the spirit, and the spirit in
the stones guard us. Never has a bandit crossed those stones. None with
darkness in their heart may pass the walls and leave alive. The spirit is our
guardian, and we are stewards of the stones…lest they eat another of the
unwary…'

            The
old man grinned.

            Roskel
smiled back. Even though the old man couldn’t see him he got the sense that he
knew he was pleased. It was a fine story. A good one for a tavern on a dark
winter’s night, should it come to that.

            'It
was a fine tale, old father, and I thank you for taking the time to tell it to
me. I hope my heart is pure. It certainly is a tale to give the evil traveller
pause.'

            'As
it should, my lord. But if you will not take my word as to its truth, just
listen to the stones tonight in your bed. Or, perhaps, you’ll like to believe
it was just a story.'

            'Perhaps,'
said Roskel, and for some reason the story chilled him, but not unpleasantly.
It was  a good tale, and he had nothing to fear.

            He
pressed a gold piece into the old man’s hand. 'For the tale and the time. It
was finely told, and one well worth remembering.'

            The
old man smiled up at Roskel as he remounted Minstrel.

            He
did not look back at the old man. For some reason he feared to look. He had
heard enough tales to know the folly of looking back when you met a stranger on
the road. The darkness was falling, it was past dusk, and in such an hour in
places of power it did not pay to look back.

            Just
in case the man wasn’t there.

            Roskel
paid for a room and stable for the night in the Restless Spirit Tavern, and lit
a candle against the dark. He laid down, his backside aching and his limbs
weary, glad for the rest, and listened to the wailing in the night.

            It
could have been the wind.

*