Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (13 page)

A
rdo ducked under the low wooden sill and leaned his back against the damp, plaster wall. The rain continued to fall. It was one of those light Islaran rains that seemed to sponge out of the air and appear suddenly on your clothes and skin as if summoned. Combined with the cold front coming out of the northwest, it was making for a miserable night for the old fence.

“Mauren take you and the pickle you’re in, Ardo,” he whispered to himself. He damned the three deAlto brats and threw a few silent curses at Henri, too. Then he immediately regretted the thought. The deAltos were not to blame for their predicament. Though he was acting against his better judgment, Tabbil suspected he could determine who had killed his old friend, and more importantly, why.

He felt it. Not as a certainty, but more as a stack of persistent hunches. Ardo had a feeling that the theft of the necklace was not directly the reason why Henri deAlto had been killed. It was possible that Lord deLespan’s son had not been as discrete in his affair as he thought he had been. Though Ardo had a keen ear for rumors and had not heard of it until his quiet conversation with Jefford. Which made Ardo think he had been the target of purposeful eavesdropping.

It was that last hunch that caused the fence some guilt. It was very possible that his own voice precipitated Henri’s death. Now he needed to do what he could to make sure it did not also cause the deaths of Henri’s adopted children. He ignored the nagging inner voice that recommended that he just go to the deAltos and tell them his suspicions.

You don’t know if you owe them an explanation. Just find out if your fears have some meat.

Not a table within the Ivanava’s Rose was empty. The evening servers had been hard pressed to keep pace with the food and drink orders. Named after the last Queen’s great-grandmother, the Rose was the finest place to dine in Islar. Even with the end of the matriarchy and a passage of a hundred years, the Queen who died in childbirth was still honored on her birthday and the anniversary of her death. The Islar tavern lived up to her name, ensuring every meal and drink served was a testament to the beloved monarch.

Ardo Tabbil went in for a drink and observed the chaos for a full bell and then wandered outside to watch the tavern from the relative quiet across Gaoler Avenue. His position allowed him to observe not the main door and comings and goings of the inn's patrons, but the rear entrance. That was where deliveries came and went and where the kitchen staff stepped out to take a cool break away from the wood fire ovens. More importantly, it was how the wait staff left their shifts to go home for the night.

Ardo squinted as the first two waiters appeared in silhouette. The young men closed the door and made their way down the stairs. Ardo increased the pressure on his squint, changing his focus enough to compensate for his steadily failing vision. The men stood too close to each other. Then they looked around to see if anyone was watching, leaned in close, and kissed goodnight before walking away in different directions.

Ardo shook his head. He understood both the precaution and the emotion behind the exchange. If the City Guard or members of the Church had seen the kiss, the boys would be facing imprisonment and worse. It was one of his own secrets that Henri had kept and which Tabbil had always known his friend would never betray. He had given up those dalliances decades ago and lived quietly alone. The heartbreak of continual solitude had diminished and now, only on rare occasion, did Ardo feel the sorrow of knowing he would never be truly happy.

This night was not going to be one of those occasions. He pushed the welling feelings roughly aside and re-evaluated his hiding place. Then he refocused on the Rose.

Another quarter hour passed, marked by the distant chime of the bells atop the Teichmar Cathedral. Ardo sighed.
An hour of waiting with nothing to show for it.
The dinner crowd was thinning. Perhaps his suspicions were unfounded.

Then a triangle of light shone at the tavern's rear door and another waiter appeared. This one closed the door slowly, quietly. He was leaving his duties and trying not to draw attention to himself. Rather than making his way to the alley or street, the server moved into the shadows toward the other side of the restaurant.

Tabbil squinted again, barely able to follow the boy’s movements. He lost him in the darkness. Carefully pulling himself to his feet, Ardo stood and worked the kinks out of his muscles. He silently cursed his age and his sedentary lifestyle and then crept across the street. It was possible that the boy was just relieving himself. Perhaps preferring the open air than the stifling smell that suffused most of Islar's outhouses.
But then why be sneaky about it?
Ardo moved from shadow to shadow, avoiding even the dim, reddish patches of light coming from the tavern’s curtained windows.

Ardo froze at the sound of scraping wood and the dull thump that followed. He ducked into a low squat and shifted forward toward the noise. Close as he was now, Tabbil's eyesight was not as much of a hindrance. Ardo smiled when he saw the wooden panel leaning against the stone foundation.

The hole next to the panel led to the crawlspace underneath the tavern. Most of the buildings in Islar had similar construction. When an owner or builder could not afford a basement, they built on a raised foundation that saved their floors from potential damage caused by seasonal flooding.

In his younger days, Ardo may have followed the boy into the hole, but he was not sure he could fit into the crawlspace. Being honest with himself, Ardo also thought that it might be dangerous. Mentally he pictured the entryway and compared its position with his recollection of the Rose’s floor plan. Theoretically it was possible that the tunnel could lead anywhere in the building, but the closest rooms were the private dining areas on the tavern's north side.

Right where I dined with Jefford.
Ardo waited patiently and prepared for his ambush. When he heard the muffled scrape of cloth and dirt, he pulled out his long knife and stooped into the shadow on the other side of the crawlspace cover. It was not a great hiding spot, but he need not have bothered. The waiter shuffled backward out of the hole, feet emerging, then buttocks, followed by torso and shoulders.

Before the lad's head emerged, Ardo grabbed him by the back of his collar and showed the knife under his throat.

“Not a sound, boy.” he whispered.

The waiter stifled a scream and then froze, shaking.

“Who is buying your information?”

“What? No one…” the boy's voice cracked, building into a higher-pitched shriek.

“Do you want to die?”

The boy's head shook violently and Ardo moved the knife away. The fool nearly cut his own throat.

“Quietly, then. Who are you selling these overheard conversations to?”

“deGrame. 'Buster' deGrame.”

Tabbil nodded. 'Buster' was known amongst fences and thieves as a gossip monger. He bought, sold, and traded city secrets, trying to vie for favor amongst the top rung Guilds. Word was he currently favored the two guilds that were competing for the top of the second rung, the Spoiled Vassals and the Black Fangs.

“Crawl back to your listening hole. Count to twenty, and then crawl back out. You can count, can't you?”

“Yes,” the boy blubbered.

“Good. You show up early and I'll gut you.”

Ardo released his grip and used the knife to jab the waiter in the buttock. Enough to draw blood, but not seriously hurt the boy. The youth wailed as he scrambled forward, knocking his head on the underside of the building’s floor.

Ardo laughed as he moved away from the Ivanava’s Rose, breaking into a slow jog. The commotion would attract attention. Perhaps, as a result, the tavern’s owner would learn to take the precautions necessary to keep his private rooms truly private.

J
aeron cinched the knot on his cloth belt tight around his waist and adjusted his scabbard into its proper position on his left hip. He paused in the doorway to the training room, closed his eyes, and began regulating his breathing. It was hard to rein in his emotions and tie down all the distractions. The past week had been difficult and he regretted all of the trips he and his siblings had taken back into the city. Yesterda
y’
s visit by one of Ortell
i’
s guild members had cemented that. This morning he thought about restricting all of them from coming back, but he could not ask Avrilla and Chazd to do something he was unwilling to do. He needed to attend his training class.

He managed to purge his thoughts. It took longer than he had expected. Finally, Jaeron pushed open the canvas curtain and stepped into the room.

Swordmaster Eranka sat cross-legged on the floor on the left side of the room, waiting in serene patience. The room was as it always was. The hardwood floor covered with a layer of fine gray sand. Sunlight streamed in from eight slanted windows cut artfully in the gently sloped roof. Like the rest of the sword master’s home, they were simple, functionally angled to catch the best of the morning light.

Jaeron took his place at the center of the room. He bowed formally to his teacher and assumed the Peasant stance, subservient and ready. With his head bowed, Jaeron could not see his teacher rise, but he heard the soft rustle of the man’s clothes. The sword master stepped forward, barely within Jaeron’s field of view.

“First cycle,” the old man’s voice was commanding and comforting in its familiarity. At least there was one remnant of Jaeron’s life from before his father’s death that brought him a sense of happiness.

“Winter’s gale.”

Both men drew their swords and the day’s practice began.

~

The first time he had been brought to the sword master’s home, Jaeron was only seven years old. It was midsummer. In the heat of the day, Jaeron wore loose britches, worn sandals, and a thin, open-seamed shirt. Henri had knocked sharply on the door of a low-roofed stucco building at the end of Haven Street in Dockside.

The sight of that door filled Jaeron with a fearful uncertainty. The wood was stained a dark crimson color and carved with a complex weave of twisting cubes and foreign runes. Henri's knock was answered in a few moments and Jaeron breathed a sigh of relief when the door was obscured by the shadows inside the home.

An old man had slowly opened the door. He wore his wrinkled, dark skin and simple peasant robes with a humility that reminded Jaeron of the traveling monks of Teichmar. Jaeron assumed he was the servant of the house. His features were rough and shriveled. Jaeron realized with a start that his skin tone was not due to long hours of exposure to the sun and wind.
He is a Pevaran!
The foreigners were rare in Islar, despite the city’s status as a major shipping port.

He had not understood it at that age, but Bormeer’s relationship with its southern neighbor, Pevar, was strained and becoming more frayed as Bormeer pushed further hostilities with the kingdom of Rosunland. The war was staggering into its sixth year and Pevaran ships no longer made the journey to the northernmost trading city.

“I have brought my son for training with the sword,” Henri said.

The man did not answer, but looked down at Jaeron with his pale blue eyes. The man took measure of Jaeron, assessing his height, his weight, his hair. When the man reached out for Jaeron’s face, he backed away. Henri grabbed him by the back of his neck and held him still. The Pevaran grasped his chin and used a thumb to peel back his lips, scrutinizing Jaeron’s teeth and gums.
Like I’m a mule!
Then the servant let him go and turned back to face Henri.

“He is too old,” the man said.

Jaeron winced as Henri’s grip tightened. His father realized where his hand was and loosened his hold, moving it to Jaeron’s shoulder. The Pevaran calmly stepped back into the shadows beyond the doorway and began to close the door. Henri’s other hand shot forward to block the door, striking it with enough force to slam it back against the interior wall.

“We had a deal,” Henri said.

His father was angry, using a tone reserved for hard negotiations with Islar’s underworld. Jaeron did not hear it often.

The Pevaran shrugged, but Jaeron noticed something in the old man’s face. His features, weathered as they were, still seemed calm and serene. But his eyes were not. When he first emerged, the old man’s irises appeared soothing, like pools of fresh goat's milk. Now, they flared. Even in the half darkness of the doorway, Jason could see threads of darker blue-grey, storm clouds that gave warning to a potential danger that lay behind them.

“Teichmar preserve,” Jaeron swore accidently. “You’re the Swordmaster!”

Both adults stopped to look at him. Henri’s grip relaxed. The old man, however, stepped out across his threshold again and put a softer hand on Jaeron’s other shoulder. He bent over to look Jaeron in the eyes and concentrated, as if to decipher something that Jaeron himself did not know.

Without a look at his father the Pevaran said, “I will honor our bargain, deAlto.”

~

Now ten years later, Jaeron still came to that same house. Twice weekly for practice and once to do chores.
Every week until last week.

He faltered through the finish of the Fourth Cycle, unable to follow the sword master’s movements. Jaeron suddenly realized that the man no longer had to train him. With Henri gone, whatever arrangement they had was no longer an obligation.

Jaeron shook the thought off, carefully sheathed his sword, and tried to sink back into the meditative state designed to clear his mind of all thoughts except those of Blade and Spirit. He found it almost unmanageable. Without his focus, Jaeron knew that sparring with Swordmaster Eranka would be impossible. Sweat streaming down from his hairline, Jaeron relaxed the muscles in his face, one area at a time. The furrow on his brow smoothed, he again took a deep breath that would re-initiate his meditation process.

“Jaeron,” his teacher interrupted. “That is okay. We are finished.”

Jaeron’s eyes snapped open.

“Sir, I can explain. I’m sorry I missed last week’s lesson. I didn’t think of it until just now… that we need another arrangement. I can pay you whatever my father had.” He did not know how he would find the money, but Jaeron was earnest in the promise.

The old man shook his head, once slowly.

“I was truly sorry to hear of your loss, Jaeron. Despite all else, Henri deAlto was a good father. But that is not why your lessons are complete.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“I cannot teach you more.”

“Why?” Jaeron asked, more confused.

“You are not ready,” Eranka said.

“I will practice harder then,” Jaeron said. “Sir!”

He added the honorific, embarrassed by his sudden lapse of respect and protocol.

“Jaeron, please sit.”

Eranka waited for him. Jaeron knelt and sat back on his heels, assuming the normal position for lectures on combat theory and strategy. Jaeron was surprised when the Swordmaster returned to his mat at the front of the training room and sat down to face him as equals. His teacher normally circled the room, pacing quickly and marking his points in the light sand covering the floor.

Jaeron was confused but remained quiet, waiting for the Swordmaster to begin instruction.

“It has been an honor to teach you, Jaeron deAlto. It is customary in Pevaran tradition for the teacher to make a final meal for the graduating student. Would you be available this evening?”

Jaeron did not, could not answer at first. His training could not be complete. He had seen Master Eranka do so much more.

“Master,” Jaeron said deliberately. “You have not taught me the Fifth Cycle?”

Jaeron watched an emotion flicker across the older man’s face. In less than a second, it was replaced with the normal, stoic calm, as if it never occurred.

“Master?” Jaeron began to ask again, but the Swordmaster raised his hand to quiet his student.

“Jaeron, I cannot teach you the Fifth Cycle because you are not ready to learn. We have spoken of this before.”

Jaeron thought about the statement. He remembered a number of discussions about Jaeron’s commitment to the practice, to the sword. His focus and beliefs. And he knew that there was something that his teacher expected that he was not fulfilling.

“I don’t understand,” he finally admitted. “You’ve said I was one of your most committed students. I train hard. I listen. I practice, daily.

“Can’t you tell me what I am missing?”

Eranka frowned. In all their years as student and teacher, Jaeron had never observed Master Eranka pause to figure out the answer to a question. He almost missed recognizing the situation for what it was. The Swordmaster closed his eyes and spent a few minutes contemplating. Finally he seemed to come to a decision.

“Jaeron, what is the First Cycle?”

“It is the Grounding. It is the basis for all that comes after. It teaches the beginning of all four paths,” Jaeron answered, slowly at first, but then building momentum.

They had been through all this theory years ago and returned to it regularly. But this time, his instructor had asked the question differently. Not that his words were different, but there was expectancy behind the words. A query within the query.

“All true. But what is it? In terms of the paths - the source of the stream, the mountain letting go of stone, the heat on tinder, the drawing of breath preparing for releasing it back into the air?”

Jaeron considered as the Swordmaster spoke and he made the obvious connection.

“It is the beginning. Birth.”

The old man nodded.

“What is the Second Cycle?”

Jaeron blinked. He framed the question around the new understanding.

“It is gathering power, speed, position. It is growth?”

“Yes. Growth. Childhood. What is the Third Cycle?”

“It is establishing position, defining the field, and your place in it,” Jaeron paused for just a moment. Then more confident, he offered, “Adulthood?”

Master Eranka nodded again.

“And what is the Fourth Cycle?”

Jaeron shook his head. The forms that made up the Fourth cycle accomplished the same thing as those of the Third cycle. The focus was performing the same function, but against multiple opponents. He said as much to his teacher.

The old man grinned, and Jaeron thought the look strange on his face. It was as if the familiar wrinkles all disappeared to be replaced by an entirely new set.

“Perhaps the allusion is stretched a bit, but you are attempting to be in multiple places at once, yes?”

Jaeron nodded.

“We think of this in terms of parenting. Procreation.” The Pevaran shrugged, as if it did not matter. “And what is the Fifth Cycle?”

Other than knowing it was the final cycle of the set, Jaeron did not know the answer. Not from his training. He had not been taught a single move from the Fifth Cycle. They had not discussed any of the theory or purpose for it. But the progression was obvious.

“It’s the end… it’s death, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Jaeron waited for further explanation, but none was forthcoming. He saw it in his master’s expression. Jaeron needed to understand this on his own.

Finally Eranka spoke again, “Would you be available for dinner this evening?”

Jaeron considered the ramifications of the question. His training was over. The one aspect of his life that he believed to be immutable was ending.

“You are not supposed to help your students understand this, are you, Master?”

Eranka shook his head.

“Then... why? Why even give me a hint?”

“You are not Pevaran. The fact that your understanding is hampered by an inferior culture is not your fault.”

They were familiar words. Jaeron had heard them weekly since beginning his training.
Is there another answer?
It was not because the Swordmaster was unable to teach him the Fifth Cycle. Of that much, Jaeron was sure. Which meant that Jaeron himself was the problem. He was not ready to learn about it.

No, not learn about it!

He thought of his reaction to Henri's death. Disbelief. And a thirst for justice. Justice, but not vengeance. Jaeron could learn about death, but he was unable to accept it. His belief in Teichmar made him value life so much that he could not see death as part of the cycle. He could not accept his own death or the killing of another.

Jaeron took a breath and seeing his comprehension reflected in the sword master’s eyes, he rejected the invitation.

“No, master. For many reasons, I cannot come tonight. But mainly I will not come to dinner for the chance that I may come to be better prepared to learn more at some time in the future.”

Eranka seemed satisfied with the answer, though perhaps saddened by it. He rose and turned away from Jaeron to face the front of the training room, bowed and knelt. It signaled that the training session was over and Jaeron should go.