Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (23 page)

N
iles Yarvin felt slow today. The morning's training session had taken the life out of him. He did not like when someone was injured under his instruction. The boy would be okay, he knew, but the knee injury would take a couple of weeks to heal. The real problem was that the bo
y’
s parents might take him out of school, along with his brother.

He sighed.
Fewer students, less money.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he might not be suited for another line of work. His training hall was slowly dwindling away his life savings.

He also wondered why he had not found a better place to store the rake. It was his habit to store things where they belonged. Today’s walk to and from the tool shed seemed long. Niles crossed the yard behind the building and entered the rear door to his training hall. He began in the close corner, as he always did, and began raking the sand into a pattern of lines.

He had taken half a dozen strokes before he realized he was not alone.

“Was wondering when you would notice,” the man's voice was gruff.

“Can I help you, sir?” Yarvin asked.

The man was a member of the Islar City Guard. Yarvin recognized him as a patrol leader by his badge of office.

“I have some questions about one of your students,” the man said.

One of his students was in trouble. Niles was disappointed, but not surprised. It had happened often enough over the years.

He shrugged, “I'll tell you what I can. Who is it? Jaco?”

The guardsman stood and slowly approached him.

“No. DeAlto. Avrilla deAlto.”

“Avrilla... What trouble is she in?”

“I am asking the questions. You just need to answer them.”

Niles did not know what to say, but he suddenly felt a state of battle awareness. The guardsman approached in such a manner as to try to corner him in the hall, keeping him out of reach of any of his weapon racks.
Was it accidental or had he done it on purpose?

“Where is Avrilla deAlto?”

“I don't know,” Niles answered.

“I don’t mean now, fool. Where does she live?”

Yarvin could read the signs in the Islar guardsman. Personal rage and a callousness that Yarvin had seen before in men driven to desperation. He thought about his last meeting with the deAlto girl, days before he heard about her brother’s arrest.

~

Niles had been pleased to see Avrilla deAlto walk back into his training hall. She had been missing for almost two weeks, since just after the death of her father. When she had come inquiring about the Hinterlander, Danine, Niles was afraid she was also going to join the gladiators at the arena. Rather than taking off her shoes and preparing for class, the girl had come over to his desk.

“Master Yarvin.”

“Good morning, Avrilla.”

“I have to collect my gear,” she said. “I don't think I’ll be coming back for training.”

He did not answer right away. Niles guessed that her father had still been paying for her training and now that he was gone, she could not afford to come anymore. He was going to miss her as a student. She had potential, if she could just let go a little of her self-restraint.

“We could work something out, Avrilla. There are plenty of chores that need to be done here.”

“It's not just payment, sir,” she said. “It’s hard to explain.”

“The fire?”

“We lost everything.”

Niles had heard the story before. He had no illusions about the deAltos. Avrilla was not training to be a guardsman. Her choice, really her father's choice, of kukri as weapons was a choice of convenience. The weapons he bought for her were antiques. The blades were forged in Dun Lercos, but the handles had been replaced here in Islar. She was going to work for one of the guilds.

“Get your gear,” he told her.

It did not take her long to gather everything and stow it all in a small canvas bag. She brought him the wooden and leather practice blades, explaining that she would not need them. He refused to take them and gave her the same gift he presented to each of his graduating students. A whetstone, a box set of sharpening files, and a small vial of polishing powder.

“Gods be with you, Avrilla.”

Then Niles watched, depressed, as she left the training hall.

~

Yarvin stalled for time, trying to work out what to do. “The deAlto girl has not been here in weeks, sir. Her family had some misfortune and she was no longer able to afford her training.”

As he spoke, Niles recognized the guard. It was the lead investigator for the prosecution during elder deAlto’s hearing. So, if he couldn’t pin the murder on the oldest boy, he was going after Avrilla instead.

“Look, Yarvin, we both know what trouble you’re in. And helping this girl isn’t going to make that any better. Where does she live?”

“I don’t know. I don’t get that kind of information from my students. They pay. They train. It keeps it simple.”

Yarvin continued to back away from the man’s approach. DeLocke’s hand dropped to the pommel of his sword. He weighed his disadvantages, still not ready to believe he may have to fight an armed and armored City Guardsman.

DeLocke’s weapon was the standard short sword and he wore the padded livery of Islar over chain and leather, reinforced across the chest with intertwined iron rings. He was armored below the waist, as well, with a heavy leather skirt that covered his knees. In contrast, Yarvin wore a simple fighter’s tunic over woolen breeches. No protection whatsoever. Prevented from getting near the weapon racks, he was armed with a rake. He could use it as an improvised staff, but the rake end would be unwieldy and it would only hold up to one or two strikes of that short sword.

The assessment took seconds. Time enough for the guardsman to unsheathe his blade.

“How much do you owe the guilds, Yarvin?”

“What?” Niles nearly stammered.
What in the hells is this man talking about?

“We don’t have to do this,” deLocke continued. “I can make your debts go away. And you don’t have to die resisting arrest.”

The attack came faster than Yarvin expected, but he was able to manage an awkward block with his rake. He heard the wood split, but for now the implement held together. Yarvin wheeled back and left, keeping the rake a threat to his opponent. DeLocke tried to follow the movement, keeping himself between the weapons trainer and the racks of more dangerous arms.

In that moment, Yarvin saw something about the guardsman that he failed to take into account in his initial assessment. DeLocke was wearing heavy guard boots, iron shod and reinforced. They were ideal for the long hours on the Islar streets, kicking in doors, and an occasional need to cross hazards such as broken glass or caltrops. They were not an advantage, however, in the soft sand of Yarvin’s training hall. Yarvin, on the other hand, was barefoot and trained daily in the soft material.

DeLocke’s weight shifted as he stepped and Yarvin saw the sluggish movement. He could not run in this sand. He had to plod around in an ungainly lope. Yarvin had gained some space, and no longer backed against the wall he skittered a few yards to the side. DeLocke tried to keep up, but could not move fast enough. Yarvin was able to complete a wide half circle to his right.

He could see a sheen of sweat breaking out across deLocke’s forehead. Yarvin feinted with a couple of stabs. DeLocke countered with strong swings of his sword. He knew as well as Yarvin did that he would gain a critical advantage if he could disable Yarvin’s weapon. But Niles was quick, withdrawing the rake before deLocke got close.

The exertion was taking its toll. Yarvin was surprised at the guardsman’s condition. He was sweating profusely now, taking ragged, gasping breaths. Yarvin could smell the alcohol exuding from the man’s pores.

DeLocke was no longer grinning. His look was still savage, angry beyond all reason. He stopped, panting and shaking, and leveled his blade toward Yarvin’s face.

“Put down the rake and come with me, Niles Yarvin. You are –”

Yarvin saw his opportunity and took it. The guard was trying to rest. Yarvin moved forward on the balls of his feet, swinging the handle end of the rake under and around the menacing sword. He felt the satisfying vibration in the wood as the handle connected with the side of deLocke’s face.

The blow sent the guardsman sprawling into the sand. Yarvin dropped the rake and sprinted to the far door of the training hall. He was blocks away before he took a chance to look back and see no one behind him.

A
vrilla felt a momentary twinge of jealousy as she watched Chazd work the apartment door’s lock. His focus seemed so pure. His hands were so steady. Then she considered the warmth in her throat and her own focused thought when she used her magic.
To each their own soup.
Her father’s words echoed in her thoughts.

That they were there at all was still a mystery to her. When Jaeron had told them of his plan to break in during the Teichmar holy time, she could not believe it. Avrilla could not recall the last time Jaeron had missed a holy day. Chazd, of course, had been incredulous and more than a little obnoxious.

“Jaeron,” he said. “Will you get off this already? We have to find Father’s killers and you want to play with toys! Are you really that dense, or are you that much a coward?”

Avrilla had never seen Jaeron come so close to hitting his brother. They had had the normal tumbles brothers do when they were little. Though neither of them had fought with the other since Henri enrolled them in serious training, Chazd words finally pushed Jaeron too far. He grabbed his brother’s shirt in two clenched fists and bull rushed him into the tiny gap of wall space between the kitchen fireplace and the apartment’s rear door.

“You weren’t there, Chazd! You didn’t see him die! If Father’s final wishes for us are of no importance to you, then we are done. Take your share of the silver and get out!”

Avrilla almost intervened. But Jaeron just dropped Chazd and left, waving his hand at her as she went to follow him. The door slammed in place and she heard Chazd settle into one of the creaky kitchen chairs. When she turned around, he was wiping his face to hide his tears and failing.

Chazd looked at her, “Did he ever think that maybe they were just a way for Father to say ‘goodbye’?”

Since the incident, Chazd had not said another word. He listened to Jaeron’s plan and agreed to ask Karl to come with them as a lookout. Avrilla could feel the pressure between them, different than their usual disagreements. She just did not know what to do about it.

Avrilla felt the nervous charge run along her neck and down her arms when the door opened. She had been here before, but so long ago. The triggered memory of familiarity conflicted with the heightened awareness born of excitement and fear. The forbidden pleasure in that moment of housebreaking.

Chazd held the sweep to keep the noise as low as possible. As a precaution, he had sprayed a mist of fine oil on the hinges through the gap between the door and the jamb. To his credit, the door did not make a sound. It was a flawless break-in.

Avrilla trusted that Jaeron and Karl had been diligent about watching the apartment for occupancy. The neighborhood had become more affluent since Henri had moved his family out of the building. More wealth meant more Guard patrols and faster responses. She tried to rely on the years of training and preparation they all had, but Avrilla could not dispel her heightened concern about being caught so soon after Jaeron’s release from prison.

Her brothers crept in ahead of her. Jaeron opened the shielding on his lantern, partially illuminating the hallway. Coming from the rear of the building, they made their way to the main room. Avrilla could not help but feel that it seemed like a small place. In her vague memories, the place had been much bigger. Jaeron waited near the center of the room, apparently relaxed, but his hand rested on his sword hilt. Chazd disappeared up the staircase, presumably to confirm the absence of occupants.

She looked at her brother and he nodded toward the far wall with a slight tilt of his head. No, not the wall, she realized.
The fireplace.
Involuntarily she sucked in her breath, then winced at the sound. There was a fragment of clarity there.
Sitting in Nana Sarah’s lap while the woman combed my hair by firelight. She hummed a song while music played.

She approached the fireplace and ran her fingers over the worn wooden mantelpiece. Despite the age and obvious usage, the carvings and scrollwork were still beautiful. In her distraction, Avrilla had not noticed that Chazd had returned.

“We’re all clear,” Chazd whispered. “No one home.”

Avrilla jumped a little at the sound of his voice. Jaeron handed the small lantern to his brother and joined Avrilla at the fireplace. He was resting both hands on the mantle as well.

“I didn’t remember these,” he said. Jaeron traced his fingers over the likenesses of three robed figures walking out of a city gate. “I’m surprised that this hasn’t been defaced.”

“What?” Avrilla asked, moving to get a better look at what Jaeron was pointing out.

“These priests… I think they are of the Undeified.”

Avrilla looked at the mantle closer, not able to see the distinction.

“I guess it’s not really noticeable if you haven’t studied in the cathedral archives.”

She put her hand on his shoulder, “Jaeron, let’s focus on what we’re doing here.”

He nodded, but she could tell he was not listening to her. Jaeron’s fingers ran over the mantelpiece, but his eyes were elsewhere, on some memory he had of their time here, but he did not speak of it.

Then he suddenly motioned to their brother. “Chazd, there’s a keyhole here. Can you open this?”

Chazd came over and handed the lamp to Jaeron. “I’ll take a look.”

Avrilla heard the dissatisfaction in his voice. Chazd still did not want to be here. She wished the two men could see the situation from the same point of view this time. Jaeron was steadfast in his belief that the wooden toys and the letter from their nursemaid held the reason behind why their father had been killed. Chazd was just as certain that their history did not matter, but they needed to look to the future to avenge their family’s loss.

Chazd confirmed her thoughts. “Jaeron, I really don’t get it. Now you think this fireplace is important?”

“I’m not sure, Chazd. I actually think… something else now.”

Avrilla noticed that Jaeron was not reacting to Chazd’s retort.

“What?” she asked.

“What if Nana was trying to give us something from our parents? Our birth parents.”

Chazd choked, “Jaeron, are you crazy?”

For herself, Avrilla was not convinced either way. The timing of the attack on Henri and their theft under the docks that night was certainly suspect. But nothing about the job seemed worth killing for, even if it meant some measure of embarrassment for Lord deLespan.
This city is hard.
Life was cheaper than she was brought up to believe. Danine had taught her that with their experience in the arena.

The possibility that the three wooden toys had come from their birth parents had never crossed her mind. The idea was outlandish.
But it could explain why Father had kept them hidden and why Nana Sarah had never stopped taking care of them.

Avrilla frowned.
No, that’s not possible. We can’t have the same parents.

“It’s not a keyhole,” Chazd interrupted her thoughts. “It’s some kind of gear or a spring winding. Like a clock.”

Her brother fidgeted at the panel with his obscure tools. “I think I can wind it if you want.”

Chazd was intrigued in spite of himself. Avrilla could hear it in his voice. It was one of the things that she loved about Chazd. The boy loved a puzzle.

Jaeron answered him, “Go ahead, Chazd. But let’s not take much longer.”

As if in agreement, the ever-present Cathedral bells chimed over the city. The ceremonies at the church were nearing their conclusion. Avrilla played with the leather loops holding her kukri. She wanted to be long gone before the residents came home. She rubbed her temples and told herself to relax. She did not want to be all tensed up if they had to fight or run.

“Mara’s orbs,” Chazd muttered.

“What’s wrong?” Avrilla asked.

“Well, either I broke it, or it was broken before we got here.” Chazd shrugged and stood up. “Can we go now?”

Jaeron shook his head, “No. There’s something here… I just can’t remember.”

Avrilla closed her eyes, trying to remember the room. The sights, the smells, the sounds. The music.

“Chazd,” she asked, “can you open the mantle up?”

“What?”

“If it’s broken, maybe you can fix it.”

“Avrilla, I know my way around locks and stuff. But I’m no watchmaker. Besides, there's nothing here to fix.”

Chazd pointed at the wall above the mantle. Other than a few knick-knacks, the area was bare.

“No, there's something…” Jaeron said. “Break open the mantle, Chazd. I want to check it out.”

Chazd shrugged. “Okay, but this isn't going to be quiet.”

Avrilla moved to the front window, checking the street. She glanced back toward Chazd as he set his satchel on the floor and took out a hammer and pry bar. He set the hooks on the mantle seam and took a few tentative taps to drive in the wedges. The wood squeaked in protest.

“Here we go,” Chazd murmured.

The next swing had force behind it and the seam cracked open along half the length of the mantelpiece. The paint on the wood gave way with a loud
pop
and Avrilla heard a light clink of metal on metal. Then Chazd pushed up on the bar applying leveraged force on the front block. It moved, but did not give way.

“Need some help here, Jaeron,” Chazd grunted through clenched teeth.

Her older brother moved in next to Chazd and they pushed on the bar together. The board groaned and then broke away causing the two boys to jump back. A small brace tumbled out of the open space that was behind the board followed by a couple of small pieces of metal.

Jaeron brought the lantern closer to examine the hollow.

“What is it?” Avrilla hissed. She checked up and down the street once more and then left the window, crossing the room to stand at the mantle with her brothers. Her curiosity piqued, she wanted to see what they found.

Chazd ran his fingers across the gears and solid metal bar inside the mantel. Avrilla watched as he touched the long metal cylinder, wiping years of dust and ash from the golden bronze surface. As the grime came away, Chazd’s fingers revealed a pattern of densely packed, tiny metal studs protruding from the cylinder’s surface. She was about to ask the question again.

“It’s a music box,” Chazd said.

“Are you sure?”

“He’s sure,” said Jaeron. “I knew it was here. I just forgot what it was.”

“Hey!” a soft call came from the hallway. “I think they’re coming home.”

“Let’s go,” Avrilla said, now very glad they had asked Karl to keep watch outside.

“Wait,” Jaeron said. “I want this stuff.”

“What?!” Chazd demanded.

“Take all the pieces. I want the music box.”

“What for?”

“Look, we don’t have time to argue - just help me.”

Avrilla was not sure what her brother was thinking, but she knew that helping him was the quickest route to leave. She went to the mantel and started pulling at the pieces that would move. Chazd grumbled, but did not say anything else as he worked on the screws that held the rest of the mechanism in place.

The three deAltos worked for another minute. Then Karl appeared in the doorway.

“We’ve got to go. Now!” he whispered.

Avrilla helped put the rest of the metal parts in Jaeron’s bag.

“Hoods up,” Jaeron said and he moved past Karl and down the hall.

They made it to the front door to meet the apartment’s tenants. The middle-aged couple started in surprise as their door flung open to meet them. Jaeron shouldered the man, knocking him to the street. Avrilla followed his lead and spun the woman to the ground, guiding her to her buttocks rather than a more injurious landing. Then the four thieves broke into a run, hoping to lose themselves in the neighborhood alleys.

Cries of “Thieves!” receded behind her. Avrilla felt guilty about the rough treatment they gave the couple, but took comfort that neither of them had been hurt. Still, she hoped Jaeron found the innards of the mantle worth the trouble.

~

His potential leads on Jaeron and Avrilla exhausted, Holger had no choice but to see if he could find them through the youngest deAlto, Chazd. Their lawyer had not brought anyone to court to crow about his virtues. Holger had something else to go on that he had nearly forgotten. At least two of the neighborhood witnesses had commented on Chaz
d’
s frequent visits to the Crooked Window.

He felt certain he could bend a few arms there into talking. His hand moved to the growing lump on the side of his face. He wanted a drink or two to take the sting out of the blow he received. When he was done with the deAltos, he would do something about Yarvin, too. The bastard was quick, Holger admitted. The man was nowhere in sight when he reached the open door.

Ignoring the cathedral bells telling him he had missed the Holy Day observance, Holger headed to the Dockside tavern. The Window was packed when he arrived. A blend of raucous conversation, calls for food and drink, and the play of a lively lute accompanied by clapping hands and stamping feet spilled through the room and out the Window’s doorway to meet him. Holger growled.