Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (20 page)

A
rdo sat, uncomfortable and wet, against the brick chimney of the smokehouse. It had taken days to find an observation point with a clear view of the scraps market that would not be easily spotted in return. If he had half of his niec
e’
s talent for blending into a crowd, he would not have had to climb up here.

But his age, his size, and old joint pains were all too evident. Plus his age betrayed him in another, unobvious but ultimately more effective way. Tabbil had been at this game a long time. Nearly every underworld figure in Islar knew him. He was a failure, a cautionary tale told to many getting started in the Thieves’ world. “Don’t do that. You don’t want to end up like Ardo Tabbil.”

He coughed and pushed his back against the bricks, using the physical discomfort to push away the troubling thoughts. He was not a failure. Yes, he had gone semi-legitimate. He had learned a craft. He never intended to become a master jeweler. But his business had helped him through lean times and he lived as well as he had ever hoped he was going to.

“Bah!” he said quietly.

He peered through the misty rain that was keeping away the bulk of the buyers from the scrap tables. It was the third day of keeping watch on ‘Buster’ deGrame, not knowing if it was going to lead anywhere. Buster could be meeting with his guild contacts somewhere else. For all Tabbil knew, he may have already met them during one of the breaks Ardo had taken for meals or to relieve himself.

Or when I dozed off yesterday.

The cold wetness finally penetrated the last layer of Ardo’s wraps and clothes. He felt the dampness on his chest, shoulders, and buttocks grow into a full sogginess.

“Mara’s great orbs,” he muttered. “I am going to end up sick.”

He could barely make out deGrame in the distance. He could really only tell who he was by his position at the end of the stalls and the man’s body language. Between the mist, the fully overcast gray skies, and the failing of Ardo’s eyes, he would be lucky to recognize anyone that made contact with Buster today.

Then a giant of a man made his way through the thin crowd of buyers. Ardo jolted forward, struggling to get a better view. He wiped the water from his face and squinted hard to focus. It was not just the man’s size that Ardo recognized, but there was something about his proportions. It was as if he had been put together at the waist from two dissimilar bodies.

The man approached deGrame directly and they spoke for less than a minute. Then deGrame took off his apron, grabbed his coin box, and said something to the vendor next door.

They are leaving!
Ardo scrambled, trying to get to his feet on the wet shingles and nearly slipped off the roof. He knelt, catching his breath. Despite the numbness in his fingers, he began a slow crawl across the length of the roof to the ledge between the buildings. There he could make his way back to the ground.

Slow. You are too damned slow.

DeGrame and his hulking friend would be gone before Ardo made it to the ground. He was determined not to let that be the case. He started the descent, ledge to window to the skirt roof above the side door. While he climbed, he thought about the man with deGrame.

He knew that shape, but he could not place it. He thought about where such men tended to congregate. The docks, the arena, the mine. But he could not come up with a name or face to match.

When he dropped to the ground, Ardo’s knee almost gave way. He knew he was moving too fast. He could not manage a sprint, but he broke into a shuffling, limping run out to the alley behind Spyglass Road. He looked left and right, but saw no sign of the pair of men.

“Teichmar’s balls!” he swore and struck his fist against the wooden siding of the smokehouse.

“Dammit!”

Tabbil inspected his torn knuckles and put his fist to his mouth to nurse the bloody skin.
What were you thinking, old man? You’re no boxer – you could have hurt yourself…

Boxing. That was where Ardo had seen him. It must have been a year ago, but he had met a client at an illegal fight club run in Dockside. The brute had competed there. Ardo was sure of it.

J
aeron made his way down Salasse, past the narrow-fronted houses stacked like stairs on the sloped street. It was his third trip in as many days. The neighborhood looked to be one of the very few in Islar that had improved in the past few years. The streets were cleaner than he remembered. There were fewer children playing outside, but the ones he saw were better dressed than he had ever been. Windows were curtained. A few houses brightened the street with fresh coats of paint.

He had not seen anyone enter or exit house number eighteen or any activity outside. Smoke from the rooftop confirmed an active fireplace or stove within. The property was not vacant.

Jaeron wrestled with the competing priorities. The guild did not have the time or the resources to lose focus on the silver shipment right now. Paying off Ortelli was their priority. But he could not shake the feeling that he needed to get inside that room and see that fireplace again. Between the wooden toys and his fragmented memory of that song, there was something here. An answer of some kind.

A
gomjom
ball sailed into the street and bounced up on the pavestone walkway a few yards away. A boy of about eight, loose flaxen clothes and dark, fiery hair, came running out to follow it. Jaeron looked up. The sky was still gray and a light mist was falling as it had been all morning. The boy must really enjoy the game.

He took a couple of steps and stooped over to pick up the ball. He rolled it over, looking at the dried-on blood, mud, and myriad scuff marks. The rough leather and tight stitching no longer felt familiar in his hands.

“Heya!”

Jaeron grinned at the boy’s greeting. He tossed the ball from hand to hand, watching the youth’s eyes follow the movement.

“Nice ball,” he said. “Good weight. You play guard or striker?”

The boy frowned, “We’re not playin’ a match. Jus’ kicking the ball around some… Can we have it back, sir?”

Jaeron saw the evaluation behind the boy’s eyes, taking in his manner of dress, the sword at his waist. He was not sure of Jaeron’s station or he might have been more rude.

“Sure,” Jaeron said, starting to toss the ball back. He stopped before the ball left his hand.

“You live nearby?”

“Next street over,” the boy frowned more.

“What do you know about the people that live in these houses?” Jaeron pointed at four homes across the street, the second of which was where he once lived.

The boy did not answer. He looked a little wary and Jaeron got the impression that he was considering bolting.

“Listen, my family and I have been thinking about moving here and I was wondering if any of those places are for rent? I have tried to come by when someone was home, but I keep missing them.

“Here’s a
mizec
. If you can keep your eyes open the next few days… maybe get an idea of the Cathedral bells when someone is home, I’ll give you a second one of those.”

The boy’s eyes grew round at the sight of the coin. He nodded his head, the vigorous shake throwing his unruly, red hair to and fro.

“Great,” Jaeron said tossing him the coin and then the ball. “I’ll be by in a few days. Maybe I’ll kick the ball around with you.”

The youth looked skeptical at that, but Jaeron gave him an easy grin. The boy nodded and then jogged back across the street to disappear down a narrow strip of dirt between the buildings. Jaeron fingered his last coins through the thin skin of his money pouch. Even with Matteo’s generosity and Chazd’s deft fingers, they were going to be hungry before the silver job was over. They could not afford the
mizec
that Jaeron just gave away, let alone a second in a few days.

No matter. It’s done. Teichmar will provide.

With that silent prayer, Jaeron took a deep breath and headed back toward the Church Ward. As he walked, he began steeling himself for the next argument with his brother.

~

Holger was at once both smugly satisfied and mad with self-loathing about his failure to stay sober the previous night. Over the past few days, deLocke had been badgered and made the butt of too many jokes about shoddy guardsmanship. The deAlto hearing and subsequent internal investigation put deLocke in line for abuse from his peers, derision from his wif
e’
s family, and possibly on the list for retaliation from the Black Fangs. Finally tired of dodging questions and trying to remain above reproach, Holger stopped his evening patrol mid-shift, strode into the Mean Goat, and began ordering rounds until his credit ran out.

Now, through pain-lanced eyes, Holger saw Deputy Cregg standing with two other guardsmen preventing entry to his office. The man was trying to stammer out a repetition of the decree that had caused Holger to explode at him.

“What?!”

“Due to the outcome of the deAlto trial and pending an investigation into the methods and evidence gathered by this office, by order of Guard Captain Rusway, you are hereby barred from the premises and temporarily relieved –”

“Of duty! I heard you. I just cannot believe that a sniveling worm like you had the nerve to say it… Malfekke bugger your mother!”

Holger spun away from his former subordinate before he really lost his temper and struck the man. He did not even have his nap this morning, but had come directly to his office to write a requisition to cover last night’s gambling losses. Now faced with what he considered a lack of solidarity from his own guard contingent, he wondered if perhaps he should not have made a deal with Gerlido’s thieves after all. It sounded like typical guild politics and duplicity, but it also sounded like they had some axe to grind with the deAltos.

“Thrice-cursed deAltos!” he swore again as he tromped up the thick stone stairs and out the oaken archway. “Relieved of duty…… I’ll show them relieved of duty.”

Holger considered his options as he made his way out of the Guardsman Hall. It would take some time for word of his status to circulate through the city. In the meantime, he might create an opportunity to take care of the deAltos personally. If he could make it to the courthouse in time, he could request a list of character witnesses the deAltos had used. One of them had to know where the deAltos were holed up.

T
he fog seemed to pour off South Claw Bay and pool around the feet and legs of everyone, Ardo included. It grew thicker as he made his way deeper into Dockside. He was not going all the way to the harbor front, where the traffic would still be moderate at this hour. No, he was looking for the grimier side of the seaside ward, an area nearly abandoned in the spiraling death knell of the bustling trade center Islar once had been.

Few decent citizens made their way into these alleys where few of the streets’ oil lanterns were maintained and rubbish covered the ground. A ragged progression of torches led him to his destination. The building was tall and thin, covered in weathered clapboard. It’s original color unrecognizable, it appeared a mixture of encrusted black and peeling gray. A stench from within, or so close as to make no difference, overwhelmed the pervading smell of ocean brine and yesterday’s fish. Ardo could not recognize all of its scents, but of particular note he made out alcohol laced sweat, blood, and piss.

A lanky man in a concealing cloak leaned against the front doors, which were boarded up with materials strikingly newer than the building itself. He looked up casually at Ardo’s approach, given away by the distinctive crunch of crushed oyster shells that made up the roads and alleys in the area.

The man did not speak to Tabbil. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the side of the building. Ardo nodded, but the figure did not respond. Ardo was not sure he even saw the gesture, having returned his concentration to his shoes.

Ardo made his way to the side of the structure. A rickety staircase climbed and doubled back up the wall to a third-floor entry. A couple of boards were nailed crosswise in place, blocking the way. Even in the dim light, Ardo could recognize missing step planks and rotted beams. An ascent here would be foolhardy.

The entrance Ardo was looking for was the single door under the first stair landing. He had to watch his footing down a half flight of crumbling, stone stairs to reach it. The door was heavy, and stuck in place. It took Ardo several tries to pull it open.

The hall inside was well lit with glass lanterns and led to another stairway that descended further into a cellar. From the entry, Ardo could hear the yells and cheers of the patron crowd. He made his way into the chaos.

The building’s cellar had been converted into a square assembly of bleachers surrounding a square pit. A few narrow corridors gave access to a walkway around the outside of the pit and the outside of the stands. A pair of ladders dropped into the central pit from opposite corners of the hall, providing access for the fighters that competed there.

Ardo squeezed down one of the corridors and climbed up into a stand. He tried to sit close to a group already established, without being conspicuous. The hall was bright with torches and between the light fixtures and the tobacco users around him, a thick layer of smoke clung to the ceiling. He studied the room, looking for familiar faces, but did not see anyone he recognized. There were no servers, wenches or otherwise. Only a half dozen books holding fistfuls of colored ribbons that were used to denote bet amounts for the fighters in the pit below. Four enforcers patrolled the arena, dressed in hardened leather armor and carrying long hafted clubs studded with wrought iron pyramid-headed nails.

A sudden roar of the crowd took Tabbil aback and he nearly fell back off his seat. The patrons near him all jumped to their feet. Ardo had not been paying attention to the fighters. Neither of them was the man from the scrap vendors.

Ardo got to his feet, joining in with the cheers of the gamblers close by. He had no wager ribbons, but no one seemed to notice. One of the almost naked contestants paced the pit floor, bloody hands raised in celebration. The pit surgeon tended the other, the care seemed primarily comprised of dousing with cold water and prying open the man’s eyes.

After the fight, wagers were paid out, and the gamblers took the time to drink, smoke, or partake of other vices they brought with them. Ardo recognized the acrid tang of
gindi
from someone close by. People left, but more arrived, and the stands filled to capacity for the start of the next fight.

A barker made his way down into the pit center, calling for the crowd to quiet down.

“The final contest tonight is one we have seen coming for several weeks. These two men are battle born and more than ready for the match!

“In the red corner, the Hinterlander, Olik of the Snow Wolf tribe! Olik has the distinction of winning the fastest match this season.

“In the white corner we have Islar’s own Brale the Mighty! Brale has held the longest running ring championship and has more knockouts than any fighter to enter these halls.”

During the barker’s introductions, both fighters climbed down the ladders in their respective corners. Ardo recognized Brale immediately. The disproportion of the man seemed even more pronounced in the simple loincloth that he wore. His entire upper body was beefy and thick. It looked like a heavy burden more than muscle. Even as Brale stretched his neck and shoulders, Ardo could not see much definition.

His opponent, however, was tall and lean and exuded strength. His muscles rippled under the distinctive yellowish skin tone of the northern people. Olik was shaved, seemingly everywhere except his eyebrows. Upon reaching the pit floor, he dropped into a low stretch, leaning his body far out over an outstretched leg. Ardo was amazed that a human body could get into such a position.

Ardo placed a wager when the book approached him. It would have been out of place not to do so. Still, he nearly balked at the minimum bet for the fight as he handed over the zecca. He thanked Mara he had thought to raid his emergency fund for a few extra coins before leaving home.

White ribbon in hand, Ardo sat down to watch the fight.

As soon as the bell rang, Brale took the initiative with a running charge diagonally across the pit. Ardo was surprised by the man’s speed, but Olik was not. The Hinterlander seemed unconcerned by the roaring bulk converging on him. At the last second, he sidestepped and spun to the right, ending up behind his opponent.

Before Brale could recover, Olik struck him twice on the back of his lower ribs. Olik's movements were fast, savage, and once he made contact he bounded back away from Brale’s mass. The blows knocked Brale forward into the wooden walls of the pit. He turned around with a grimace. The brute demonstrated an unexpected cunning. He did not repeat another charging attack. Rather Brale moved in slowly, his footwork matching Olik’s with as much grace as he could manage. Olik maneuvered, trying not to get pinned in a corner, and slipped forward to deliver a double jab toward Brale’s midsection. The larger man defeated the second strike with a downward sweep of his left arm and followed the block with a right hook.

Olik deflected the punch away from his face, but it still caught him in the back of the head. The blow knocked the northerner sideways. Though he spun to keep facing Brale, the backward stagger bounced him off the pit wall.

Olik moved side to side in his confined space, lightly springing from foot to foot in a motion that was a blend of shift and jump. Brale swung, first left then right, with sweeping haymakers which were both dodged. Then Olik, out of rhythm, sprang forward and upward, launching a hammer fist technique that rained down a series of blows. Shoulder, forehead, shoulder. Brale reeled from the triple attack. His right arm drooped, limp at his side except for a slight twitching. Blood seeped from his nose.

Ardo began to think he had put his money on the wrong contestant.

Brale wiped the blood from his face, trying to regain his bearings. Olik used the distraction to arc around the large man and establish his position near the center of the pit. Brale spun too, glaring and teeth bared. The man looked feral.

Olik smiled at the display of raw anger and moved in with a quick series of jabs and punches focused on Brale’s sides and belly. Not all of the strikes connected, but those that did echoed with a flabby, wet thud that made Ardo wince.

When Olik slid into a side stance, Ardo braced himself for the end of the fight. The Hinterlander feinted with a left back fist and then closed with a haymaker. In an impossible reversal, Brale blocked Olik’s arm. He trapped it against his massive chest with an up-and-over sweep. He used the lock to leverage pressure on Olik’s shoulder opening up his defenses. The brute swung three times with his other hand, straight punches to Olik’s chest that crashed in like the kick of a mule. Ardo heard the distinctive sound of ribs cracking and Olik collapsed to the ground.

He was on his feet cheering when a cold realization brought Ardo back to his seat.
Great Mara!
He was planning to trail this monster to see if he had been involved in Henri’s death. His mind flashed through a number of ways that Brale could destroy him, all of them painful and more than a few gruesome. Fear had such a hold on him that he barely registered the book taking his ribbon and pressing the winnings into his hands.

By the time Ardo roused himself, the crowd had packed the stairway out and there was nowhere to go. The surgeon and an attendant were gingerly lifting Olik from the pit. Brale was gone. Tabbil breathed an involuntary sigh of relief, and then closed his eyes immediately regretting it.

I’m sorry Henri. If that’s the way you went out, I am so sorry.

He could not follow the man tonight in any case. But Ardo now had a name and that was more than enough.