Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (2 page)

J
aeron waited, anxious for Chazd’s return from checking both passages beyond the torchlight. He wasn’t the only one. Avrilla bounced on the balls of her feet and her hands feathered over the hilts of her blades. Jaeron recited the Litany of Brass under his breath, using the teachings to calm the anxiety.

Chazd reappeared from his second trip and motioned for his brother and sister to step in close. “I can’t be sure, but I think we want the one to the right. From the smell, I think the left way leads to wharf side. I’d place a
krovat
on that being the way they bring their goods in.

“The left cave is lit again, about a hundred fifty… maybe a hundred seventy-five paces along. It starts sloping upwards again and the stone changes. I don’t know for sure, but it feels right.

“I didn’t see anyone. Or any more dogs, thankfully.”

“Okay,” said Jaeron. “Good work, Chazd. Let’s move.”

Weapons drawn, the deAltos spread out.

In silence, they made their way past the second lit torch, Avrilla now in the lead. They soon found themselves in near total darkness. Jaeron inched along the left-hand wall, careful of his footing. Ahead, his sister stumbled, losing her footing where the ground transitioned from wet sand to bare, uneven rock. Swearing quietly, she stopped and fumbled at her pack.

In a moment, she had a lit candle in hand. She turned and handed it to Jaeron, glaring at the look he was giving her. “The light might be seen, but if we keep up like this, one of us is going to twist an ankle.”

Jaeron nodded, but sheathed his sword and shrouded the candle with his hand.

They had not gone far when his sister halted mid-stride. A background trickling of running water suddenly slowed to a drip and then stopped altogether. When a bleary-eyed smuggler stumbled out of the darkness, the source of the water noise was obvious. The man’s trousers were still gathered about his knees, and the waterspout still gripped in his hand.

Before Jaeron could draw his blade, Avrilla shouted, “Hold!”

He almost stopped breathing, nearly bowing to the compulsion. The power of her voice seemed almost visible in the clammy air. The Dockpad stopped and stared at her, his motions to lift his pants to hide his manhood and simultaneously draw his short sword both interrupted. Chazd moved by Jaeron with less hesitation. He stepped into a lunge and swung, bringing the butt of his crossbow hard into the side of the smuggler’s head. The man collapsed.

Again, Avrilla, Chazd, and Jaeron paused, waiting and listening for some reaction or response. All remained quiet.

Jaeron stepped in front of Avrilla. “What did you do?”

Avrilla glanced up at him, eyes wide. Scared. Jaeron realized how much anger had been in his voice. She looked down, searching the ground at her feet as if the answer to his question could be found in the damp sand.

“Avrilla, what was that?” Jaeron was fractionally calmer and much more quiet.

“I’m not really sure,” she said. “It happens sometimes. I can make people do things… little things. It just never happened that strongly before.”

“Sorcery,” Chazd whispered. “Huzzah!”

Chazd grinned. The same way he grinned when he pulled off a particularly good prank or on the rare occasion won a bet against his brother.

“It is most…” Jaeron said, and then stopped to take a breath. Lowering his voice back to a whisper, he began again. “It is most certainly not something to huzzah.”

He turned back to his sister.

“Sorcery? Is that what it is?”

She shrugged and nodded, “I think so, Jaeron. I never said anything, because I was afraid. But it appears I have it.”

She looked directly in Jaeron’s eyes.

“Please don’t hate me.”

“Mother Mara, protect us! Of course, I don’t hate you. I just…” Jaeron lost the words, and groped for something more. Finally, he dropped his hands back to his sides and shook his head.

With a thin smile he said, “Come, let’s finish this. We can discuss this further after we get home.”

His brother checked his bow for damage by the unconventional use of the weapon. The bolt had become dislodged, and Chazd put it back into position. He tried to hide it, but Jaeron saw Chazd’s hand brush Avrilla’s, his eyes asking her if she was okay. She bobbed her head, gesturing for him to lead on.

~

The cavern eventually widened into a larger chamber and the floor sloped away to the western side, gently at first and then more sharply. A pool of water collected there against the wall of the chamber. On the eastern side, a makeshift camp had been set up, though the cots were folded now and resting against the stone.

There were no other exits. Jaeron was about to suggest that they head back when Chazd walked over to the cots, checking behind and underneath them. When he passed in front of the water, Jaeron noticed a light behind his brother’s shadow. From the way Avrilla started in reaction, he realized she saw it too.

“Under the water?” his sister asked.

Jaeron shrugged. He stripped off his sword belt, boots, and gear then waded into the briny pool. The water was no more than five feet deep at the wall, but it undercut the stone. There was space there. Jaeron took a breath and went under. The cavern ceiling dipped to just below the water level. He followed along a short tunnel until it opened up again on the far side. Breaking the water’s surface as quietly as he could, Jaeron found that the water-filled tunnel led to a larger cavern, well lit by oil lamps.

The Dockpads had spent considerable time and resources improving this chamber. Only a small wedge of sloping sand broke the surface on this side. The remainder abutted a reverse incline wall of rock leading to a loft area above the pool. Here the smuggling guild had built a scaffolding of waterproofed wood. The structure comprised a flight of stairs and a platform at the water’s surface that enabled easy access to the raised portion of the cave. On the platform, Jaeron could see barrels, crates, tables, and shelves.

He took another deep breath for the return trip and ducked back under the water.

~

Jaeron emerged with barely a splash and an involuntary intake of breath, alerting his siblings that he had returned. Avrilla was keeping watch while Chazd was picking through the Dockpads bunk area. He walked out enough to be waist deep in the water and brushed the wet hair out of his eyes.

“Come on, I need some help in here. Strip your gear and then follow me.”

Avrilla frowned but she did as Jaeron asked. Chazd bent over to test the water, and gave him an unpleasant grimace and shiver. He smiled when he saw the smolder in Jaeron’s expression and followed Avrilla’s lead. Within moments, they were down to their pants, shirts, and a single metal weapon. Before they joined him in the water, Jaeron stopped them.

“We need a crowbar or anything else that would work as one.”

Chazd padded back to his pack and pulled out a small iron crowbar. He also fished out a thin flat rod normally used to wedge open windows. He tucked these into the small of his back underneath his belt and followed his sister into the dark pool.

“Just get a good breath and pull yourself along the ceiling. It’s not far,” Jaeron said.

He let Avrilla and Chazd go ahead of him. Neither were great swimmers, but he could not blame them for that. Neither had the benefit of the training he had received.

As he climbed the steps in the grotto, Jaeron noticed that the air was noticeably dryer in this chamber. The smell of fish and seawater was less intense, though his nose wrinkled at the acrid tang of the pitch used to seal the wood. He caught up with Chazd and Avrilla, moving carefully amongst three rough plank tables, sturdy but cheaply made. Along one wall of the room, wooden crate sides and lids were stacked next to a loose pile of fine straw. A messily folded stack of cotton sacks lay nearby.

One of the tables held a collection of tools – hammers, nails, a crowbar – and a partially constructed crate.

Chazd pulled the tools out of his pants, grinning ruefully. “I needed these, right?”

Jaeron ignored him. “
Takridde
,” he said, “We are looking for spiced tobacco.”

“Should be marked if the Dockpads haven’t re-crated everything yet,” said Chazd.

The deAltos split up, stepping around the boxes and supplies, careful not to disturb anything.

The Dockpads have been busy.
There were imports from most of the cities on the northern coast including Dun Lercos and, despite the war with their southern neighbor, Rygreg’s Falls, the capital of Rosunland. They had a lot to look through, and Jaeron was feeling antsy. They were running out of time.

“Here,” Avrilla said. “There are four or five crates from Grazra over here.”

Jaeron and Chazd moved to her. She leaned down, pressing her face to the wood. “The smell is right – this is it.”

The trio worked quickly, pulling the heavy wooden cartons off the stack and prying them open. The first two contained nothing except the thickly packed tobacco. By the time Chazd and Avrilla began their search of the third crate, Jaeron was working to reseal the first one. He used close tapping strokes with a hammer to set the top, trying to make as little noise as possible.

“Here we go!” Chazd said and held up a small box. “Just like Father said.”

Jaeron held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Chazd gave him the fine walnut case. He slipped the catch and peered inside. Against a velvet navy lining lay a delicate golden necklace set with sapphire stones next to a pair of matching earrings. Trapped against the box’s lid was a tri-folded parchment held closed with a wax seal. The wax had been pressed with a signet, a capital ‘L’ prefaced with the noble apostrophe overlaid across a soaring gull.

“How much are we getting for this job?” Chazd asked, smirking.

“Just wrap it in an oilskin and let’s get these boxes back where they were,” Jaeron said. “We need to get moving.”

Avrilla took the box from him. She closed and latched it and then wrapped it in the waterproof cloth they had brought for emergencies. Meanwhile, Chazd helped Jaeron work on sealing the other two crates and putting them back onto the stack that had existed prior to their entrance.

After checking one final time that they had disturbed as little as they possibly could, the deAltos made their way back down the stairs to the pool of water. One at a time, they entered the pool and swam back into the other tunnels, Chazd leading and Jaeron taking the rear position. Once there they used linens from the cots to dry off as best they could, got dressed, and re-equipped themselves.

Avrilla put the oilskin package into her pack and motioned to her brothers. “I don’t think we should go back the way we came. I know we may run into the Dockpads coming back from their ship delivery, but we left a mess behind with the
brek
hounds. It may be worth going out the other tunnel Chazd explored and making our way home from Dockside.”

Jaeron nodded at her. Chazd had no argument either, and Jaeron wondered briefly if he would have, had the suggestion come from him.

T
he prior evening, Jaeron had been helping Chazd clean up after dinner. He dried the dishes and put them away as Chazd washed. Behind them, Avrilla sat at the small writing desk in the main room of the cramped apartment. She practiced calligraphy under the scrutiny of their father, Henri, who perched on a tall stool overlooking her work.

Jaeron smiled watching his father’s head bounce along, following the motion of his daughter’s quill. To Jaeron’s untrained eye, Avrilla was nearly finished with the copy of an old property title. But when the clattering sounds from the kitchen died out, his father cleared his throat and put his hand on her shoulder to interrupt her.

“Children, come here please,” Henri said as he stood and made his way to the rough, walnut dining table.

Jaeron threw the dishtowel over the rack by the window and followed Chazd to where their father waited.

Henri deAlto was younger than his features made him out to be. His father was a squat looking man, even though he was only a few inches shy of six feet. His hair had turned prematurely gray. Jaeron could not remember it ever being another color. He had a craggy face, his folds and wrinkles seeming to overlay each other in an eagerness to reach his neck. These elderly looks served his father well. Henri often acted older, more feeble and less alert than he actually was. The façade granted a modicum of trust and respect for an elder that tended to relax the wary. Henri had taught them that lesson early – a trusted thief is a thief with coins in his pocket.

“I misspoke just now - you are no longer children. You no longer need to be cared for. The time has come for you to put your training to good use. To help me fulfill… help us fulfill a dream.”

Father’s hands flexed on the table and he looked down as if studying the grain patterns in the worn wood.

Jaeron sensed his father’s reservations and spoke up, “Father, just because we haven’t spoken of it does not mean that we do not want what you want.”

He looked at his sister and brother for confirmation and once he saw them nod, he continued. “You’ve spent years preparing us, training us. Trading favors and promises to keep us clothed and fed. Now you want us to profit from that effort.”

“Jaeron and I have had a wager on when this was coming for almost a year now. Tell us your plan.” Chazd added.

Henri smiled, exposing uneven and a few black teeth. “Good, good,” he said and shook his head up and down. Relief, pride, and a bit of joy spread over his face.

Jaeron felt a throb in his chest. It was not often his father let such emotion show.

“We have a job. Our first job,” Henri’s smile broadened.

“Aye, we’ve been ready for months. And I’ve had feelers out amongst the taverns and old contacts in the Guilds… all with no luck. ‘Til last week.

“Ye may have heard about the raid on
The Bridget
?”

Jaeron shook his head, but he saw Chazd’s excited nodding. Leave it to his brother to know such waterfront gossip.

Not really waiting for their responses, Henri continued, “Ruggio’s Dockpads hit the caravel on its return from the capital. They waited for the passengers to disembark, of course, and then took the entire hold. Textiles, raisins and figs, and crates of
takridde
.

“Nice job they did, too.”

Jaeron took that to mean they had not killed anyone nor was any of the Dockpads captured.

“What the Dockpads didn’t know is that hidden amongst the tobacco is a walnut jewelry case containing a necklace and a letter of some import to our client. We’re going to recover the box.”

Jaeron paid close attention as Henri laid out his plan. He knew a little about the Dockpads. Rumors were that Ruggio had run a smuggling operation coordinated with partner guilds in the port town of West Verscutney and Dun Lercos, the capital city of Bormeer. He kept their operations confined to the area of the Islar docks and a few mercantile ships of the independent trading houses. Ruggio also once had clientele amongst coastal pirates, but with his death at the hands of the Bormeeran Navy a few years ago, that aspect of the Dockpads operations had ended. The guild kept his name and continued on.

“Father, there’s only the four of us… won’t stealing from another guild have repercussions?”

Henri nodded, “Aye, it could. But the Dockpads are a third rung guild. No representation on the Council since Ruggio’s death. I don’t expect they will pursue a grievance.”

Before Jaeron could ask on it further, Henri continued, “And if the lack of rumors are anything to go by, the Dockpads ‘aven’t realized that they have the jewelry box. Ye only have to sneak in, find the walnut case amongst the tobacco, and sneak out. They won’t miss what they never knew they had.”

Something more was troubling his father, but Jaeron realized that he was not going to discuss it. He sat, quiet, while Henri went over the rest of the plan.

“If the Dockpads follow their usual methods after a raid, they’ll have stored the stolen goods in their hidden warehouse. They won’t try to move it through their fences for a couple of weeks.

“If the drink I bought were worth the price, the Dockpads are busy tomorrow night, loading stolen pewter into the smuggler’s hold of the
Feline Smile
, one o’ the merchant ships whose captain is on the Dockpads payroll. Their bolt hole should be lightly guarded.”

Jaeron and his siblings asked few questions. Their father provided the location of the Dockpads’ warehouse and a timetable to follow.

“How much are we making on this job?” Chazd asked.

“The client’s agreed to pay ten
krovats
for the return of the jewelry and letter,” Henri said. “But this is not about the money, son. It’s our entry! Our way of proving we have a place amongst the Guilds.”

Jaeron considered the price. Ten krovats was less than what the jewelry was likely to be worth. He suspected an established guild would have asked for more and he noted that his father did not tell them who the client was.