Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (16 page)

J
aeron scratched at the uncomfortable presence of his beard. It had only been a couple of days, but he wondered if he would ever get used to the hair on his face, especially around his mouth. Unconsciously he pulled on his lip and nipped at a small curl of hair with his teeth. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped and sighed. He was tired of waiting for Shaels, but he knew he needed to talk to the man before going ahead with their plans.

The serving girl stopped at his table again. Jaeron gave up on delaying her and ordered the ploughman’s lunch. He was not hungry, or perhaps he was too anxious to feel like eating. Also, it would not help their financial situation, but it would keep the wench out of the way for a while and it would prevent an unpleasant discussion with the tavern keeper. Besides, Chazd would eat it. His brother could eat no matter the situation.

Shaels finally appeared at the foot of the stairs. Jaeron watched as he stopped by the open window and let the midday sun wash over his face. Shaels brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his eyes and then tugged his waistcoat into place.
Consciously or unconsciously?
Jaeron could not decide.

Similar to their prior meetings, Jaeron had trouble aligning the man’s physical presence with the fact that he was the right hand of one of the city’s most powerful criminal organizations. Shaels dressed, walked, moved, and spoke like an apprentice merchant.
Perhaps a wealthy journeyman.
The man did not appear dangerous. Outwardly, he presented nothing that appeared particularly cunning.

Which probably makes him even more so of both.
He reminded himself to be careful around Coatie Shaels, even if they were at least partially putting their lives in his hands.

Shaels went to the bar and spoke with the tavern owner. Jaeron saw their exchange was congenial, even humorous if the barkeep’s grin was any indication. The proprietor called something back to the kitchen that Jaeron did not understand and then Shaels came across the room to their table. He appeared in no particular hurry.

Coatie sat down across from the deAltos just as their food arrived.

The serving girl said, “Would you like something as well, Master Shaels?”

“I’ve already ordered, Cynthia. Thank you. And please, put this meal on my accounts.”

The girl accepted a silver
zecca
and slipped away before Jaeron had a chance to protest.

“Master Shaels, that was not necessary – ”

“Coatie.” Shaels cut him off.

“What?” Jaeron asked, confused.

“Just call me Coatie. There’s no need for formality between us.”

Coatie also nodded a silent greeting to Chazd, clearly including him in the invitation to address him on a first name basis.

“Okay?”

Jaeron could think of no reason to decline.

“Aye, that is okay. You are welcome to call me Jaeron, and my brother, Chazd.”

“All right, Jaeron. Now that is out of the way, what did you want to see me about?”

Jaeron glanced at Chazd, but his brother just shrugged and nodded. He took that to mean that Chazd had moved beyond any further arguments against the plan.

“We were advised to clear our names before further… discussions with Master Ortelli.” Jaeron kept his voice low, but Shaels did not flinch. Unfortunately, Jaeron could not tell whether or not that meant they were safe to speak freely.

“We have a plan that is… well, it may seem irregular. I am going to turn myself in.”

He waited for the man to react, but Shaels just waved Cynthia over who had paused out of direct earshot while on her way with his platter. She continued her approach and placed a small bowl of white broth stew and a pitcher in front of him. He nodded at her as she poured three ales and returned her smile with one of his own. Somehow it conveyed a clear message of gratitude. Jaeron was sure he could not have managed it.

Once the girl was acceptably far away again, Coatie turned his attention back to the deAltos.

“Well, it’s a plan. Perhaps a better one that your beard and mustache appear to be.” Coatie tilted his fork toward Jaeron’s face.

“Not that it doesn’t suit you. It looks good.” Coatie eyes slid out into the tavern room. “And Cynthia certainly seems to like it. But I don’t think it’s the disguise you were hoping for.”

Coatie took a bite of his stew and chewed it. He was looking at Jaeron, but Jaeron was sure he was not seeing him.

“It will be difficult to run a guild from a jail cell. Even harder from the end of a noose.”

“I think we have a way to avoid that, with the help of some friends. However, we could use some legal advice to make sure. Is that something you can help with?”

Shaels frowned, but nodded. He finished chewing a bite of rabbit, swallowed, and ran his tongue across his teeth.

“I think so, but let’s hear your plan.”

T
he Islar Regional Court building was an emotionally effective structure if one assumed its design intent was to promote as much fear as possible. It was one of the few governmental buildings that Islar erected since the establishment of the Bormeeran Council. The newly appointed city Governor had imported the stark brownstone and black granite from the Hummelston quarries for its construction. Almost a hundred feet wide, the stairs had a low rake to accommodate both the lack of any real hill in that part of the city and to make those approaching the court feel insignificant.

The stairway was enclosed on both sides with an eight-foot wall, attached to the sides of the courthouse at the top. The building was a three-story structure with square columns across the face, each supporting the third floor, which extended out over the lower two. Each floor from the top used more granite than sandstone, accentuating the imagery of dark solemnity.

Only the top floor had wide windows, presumably to light the offices of the judges, lawmakers, and other city officials who worked there. The lower floors had only tall, thin slits resembling balistraria. The main doors of the building were centrally located, tall and gaunt and made of a heavy, dark wood banded in black iron.

Avrilla shuddered a little as she and her brothers reached the bottom step. Chazd fidgeted next to her. She looked at him and saw he was sweating despite the cool morning breeze coming in from the Riordan Hills to the north. All three deAltos paused before continuing the ascent.

Chazd looked at his brother. “Are you still sure this is a good idea?”

Jaeron looked back at him and gave a little shrug.

“No, not really sure. But it’s the best we have right now.”

Avrilla came around Chazd and squeezed Jaeron in a tight hug. He squeezed back for a moment and then let go. He stepped up a rise and turned around to face them.

“You cannot do this with me. I know you want to, but it will be better to have you both on the outside.”

Avrilla shook her head. She had been worried that her brother was going to bring the subject up again. She did not want to hear it, but after her walk last night, she had come to accept the logic of it. Then she realized that Jaeron was doing this for Chazd’s benefit, not for her.

“Jaeron, they are looking for all three of us. It’s not like we’d be able to appear as character references at your trial.”

“If it comes to a trial,” he replied. “And I told you I’m not sacrificing myself for us. We’re in this together.

“We have this covered. Shaels may have his doubts, but I don’t. Even if I didn’t have faith in Teichmar ensuring his justice, I’m confident that the help you provide will make sure my arrest is no real hurdle.”

Chazd tried one more tack. “Unless they lose you in the donjon, right?”

“Go talk to Matteo. The Church can advance the hearing date and I’ll be out in a couple of weeks. Then we can go ahead with our plan for the guild.”

Avrilla knew that Jaeron was not sure of that assessment, but they had developed more inroads setting up contacts and references than she initially thought were possible. They had established a strong connection with the Church of Teichmar and Lord deLespan, a key nobleman of the city. If necessary they could also call on some of their teachers, Master Eranka, Master Rodin, or Lady deChel. But Jaeron and Shaels had both been against that. Jaeron’s argument was to keep the teachers safe from reprisal. Shaels was more practical in his assessment. If someone wanted to track the deAltos down, having their instructors appear in court would be akin to giving them a map.

Avrilla worried that they had no influence with the Islar City Guard though. She also feared that any significant delay in the resolution to Jaeron’s release would give whoever was hunting them an opportunity to strike.

“You have work to do while I’m in there,” he gestured toward the Islar dungeons. “Talk to Shaels and set up the silver job. We are going to be in the open soon enough and I’m still worried about Father’s warnings.”

That was the crux of Avrilla’s fear.
Is there a guild still looking for us?
And what she feared even more was whether or not such a guild would be able to get to her brother during his imprisonment.

~

Despite the hard bite of the iron shackles on his wrists and ankles, and the barefoot walk down the rough stone stairs, Jaeron could barely suppress a smile when
The Soul of Man
was recited from the Word of Teichmar.

The soul of man is blessed in wisdom, for in wisdom is set our path.

The soul of man is blessed in industry, for in toil we find strength and sustenance.

The soul of man is blessed in justice, for in righteousness we find equality and peace.

Greatest though, is justice. For the just man will find his soul at Teichmar’s welcoming hand.

Jaeron silently repeated the verse, finding comfort in the litany. He reflected on the passage, and others, as the days passed since his arrest.

After Jaeron had turned himself in, he had been processed and escorted to his cell with a steady efficiency. He stuck to the plan. He presented himself before the guard officer with his wanted poster in hand and pleaded ‘not guilty’ at his arraignment. Then he waited.

Thus far Jaeron’s time in his cell had been quiet and uneventful. He valued the time alone as a blessing. A time for prayer and planning. It did not stop him from worrying about Chazd and Avrilla. They were continuing toward the goal to steal the silver shipment, putting them in further danger from the mysterious guild and the town guard. But there was no way to change what was set in motion.

Jaeron was relieved that neither Avrilla nor Chazd were included in his arrest and what followed. Legally, they were both still wanted for the crime for which he was accused. If it seemed that they were not going to win his freedom, Jaeron was prepared to admit guilt and sole responsibility for Henri's death. At least his brother and sister would then be free to live their lives.

He also realized that their protection was not the only reason he had kept them away. He did not want them present while the guard, not quite impartial in his tone, read the charges against him. Fratricide. It was such an ugly word. Jaeron felt his anger rise again, despite it being days later.

He had held his tongue. He said little, other than telling the guards his name and saying he was turning himself in. “No, I don’t know where Avrilla or Chazd are.” “Yes, I understand the charges.” “No, I won’t sign a confession.”

Despite their dedication, Jaeron felt sure that neither of his siblings would have made it through the ordeal as stoically. Chazd’s anger would have exploded to the surface and his arguments and combativeness might have been unmanageable. His brother might have gotten hurt. For Avrilla, Jaeron could not imagine that she would have kept herself from weeping. The thought of bringing such harm to Henri and his memories of that night in the fire nearly made Jaeron cry.

No, it was best that he alone suffered through it. He would always protect his siblings from such experiences.

Jaeron’s most pressing worry during the past days had been anticipating an attack by the guild that killed his father. He could be trapped behind bars with one of his father’s killers, or someone that worked for them. But so far, he had been kept alone in a cell somewhere below ground level with no interaction with any other prisoners.

Jaeron had been permitted two visitors. Matteo was allowed to stand outside the bars for a single prayer session. They were quietly observed by a hall guard, who had shifted positions frequently and averted making eye contact with either of them. As Matteo was escorted away, Jaeron caught the flash of a hammer on a leather thong about the guard’s neck.

The other was Jaeron’s defense barrister. Shaels had obtained the services of a retired lawyer who had worked for the Cathedral of Teichmar, mostly dealing with excommunications and violations of the Proclamation of Forbiddance. A guard had escorted Jaeron to a meeting cell a level above where the barrister waited.

Fiens deMiraglia had every appearance of a frail, elderly man. Thin limbs, stooped shoulders, a fringe of white hair around a shiny bald head. He wore a pair of wire-framed spectacles that were in imminent danger of slipping off his nose. But Jaeron heard strength in the man’s voice. Years of retirement had not dulled his mind or weakened his knowledge of court procedures.

DeMiraglia talked Jaeron through the upcoming process and admitted that their success in getting Jaeron acquitted hung on several key factors.

“You have taken a risk on two things, son,” deMiraglia spoke frankly.

“The first is their evidence. Our mutual friend has a firm belief that the prosecution will be short on that. He has serious doubts about the intellect and thoroughness of the Islar Guardsman leading the investigation.”

DeMiraglia shrugged, which Jaeron took to mean that the barrister had seen that kind of sloppy work before.

“The second is the judge at your hearing. Despite rumors to the contrary, there are fair and unbiased judges in this city. Uncorrupted judges. If we get one of them for your hearing, we have an excellent outlook.

“However…” deMiraglia let the sentence hang as he rolled his palms toward Jaeron.

There it was. If someone arranged it such that the judge at the hearing was in Valche’s pocket, or on the payroll of those that killed his father, then his case would go to trial.

“And if we go to trial?” Jaeron asked.

DeMiraglia shook his head.

“The outlook is not as good. It will give them time. Time to find more evidence or invent it. Time to find your brother and sister.

“And a jury of your peers? We both understand your family’s employment… Even the most honest people of this city that realize Islar wouldn’t be livable without the black markets and other services that thieves… that you provide, that doesn’t mean they like it. And no one is going to admit it in a public courtroom.

“No, we don’t want this to go to trial.”

Fiens stood to leave and shook Jaeron’s hand, such as he could with him shackled to the table.

“I’ll see you in three days.”

Later, back in his cell, Jaeron tried to recover from his surprise at how quickly his hearing came. Three days. Nothing happened within the Islar government in three days. The trial log for major crimes, like murder, was long. He had expected that he would be in his cell for weeks, perhaps months.

The immediacy of the hearing caused Jaeron more concern. He did not know whether the speedy appointment was the work of his enemies or his siblings and their friends. All he could do was wait. And pray.