Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer (24 page)

The bruise on his face had progressed to a headache at his temples and the noise made his brain throb. He shouldered his way to the bar, yelling at the server for ale. He noticed the annoyed looks from patrons and proprietor, but no one said anything.

“Three
mizec
.”

DeLocke glanced at the bartender as he fished for the coins. One of the reasons he never frequented the Window was their policy on credit. The owner did not allow guardsmen to run a tab.

“Hold up!” deLocke grabbed the tender before he could move on to another customer.

“What do you need, sir?”

DeLocke increased the pressure in his grip and the barman showed both pain and a little fear.
Good.

“Chazd deAlto.”

“What about him?”

“You know him?”

The barman nodded. “He used to be here all the time.”

“Not lately?”

“No, sir.”

“Who did he meet with?”

The man swallowed, nervous. Holger noted a few patrons making room around them. A couple of them were muttering.

Holger yelled over his shoulder, “Do you want to interfere in guard business?” He turned his attention back to the barkeep. “Who did he meet with?”

“Mostly Master Rodin, another musician we hire. Sometimes to throw dice…” the man stammered.

Holger shook him. “A name! A local name!”

“DeVies. Karl deVies.”

Yes!
Holger released his grip and took up the pitcher. He gulped down the cool froth, letting the bitterness settle across the back of his tongue.
Gods, I didn’t know I was so thirsty.

He had a name now, a name he recognized. He had contacts who knew Karl.
It will be a simple matter to track him down.
DeLocke finished the ale and flung the pitcher behind the bar, smiling in satisfaction as the crockware shattered. Ignoring the stares and the approach of the Window’s owner, Holger shoved his way back to the door and outside. He could not wait to get far enough away from the place to leave the sound of laughter and music behind.
Thank Teichmar there are quieter places to drink.

C
hazd knocked softly on the door to the private room. He had never imagined disturbing his teacher outside of their scheduled meetings, let alone at this hour of the morning. He waited a minute and when there was no answer, he decided to go. Perhaps no one who saw him downstairs would recognize him and he would not have to explain why he was waking up the favored guest at the Crooked Window.

The worn floorboards of the hallway creaked as he moved away. He should have remembered. How well had he come to know this place over the past years.

~

The first time Chazd picked up a musical instrument he had been thirteen. Hormones and rebellion against authority provided the impetus to steal away from the deAlto apartment, leaving behind his lock picking practice and household chores. Henri had once tanned him with a belt strap for those evenings, but Chazd felt it had been a worthwhile trade.

The barmaids at the Crooked Window were not romantically interested in Chazd, despite their flirtation. Most were looking for suitable husbands – miners, shipmen. Adult men with jobs and futures, not thieves barely into their teens. There were no amorous advances toward Chazd. But, by the gods, he loved watching their curves and their smiles as they served food and drinks.

In addition to the attractive serving girls, the Crooked Window had entertainment. Storytellers, musicians, and dancers, having come by ship from ports within Bormeer and beyond. This made Chazd’s unapproved visits more enjoyable, but only slightly so.

That afternoon had been no different from the dozens of other visits Chazd had made to the tavern. He ducked in the door and looked for a window table. They were often the least used tables, being the furthest from the bar and the most likely to expose patrons to the smell of fish from the docks. Sometimes he needed to compete with a customer looking to smoke, and that day found him closer to the center of the room. Bettra stopped by with a wink and slipped him a portion of herb bread and his favorite pickled tomatoes. Then, a clear tone of a plucked string interrupted her usual banter. Bettra had literally stopped what she was doing, turned toward the musician, and sighed.

Chazd followed her eyes across the room and was surprised by what he saw. There, propped up on a bar stool next to the fireplace, was an older man dressed in flamboyant, colorful clothes. His hair was black, though flecked through with traces of white that became more apparent down his sideburns and into his combed, oiled beard. Chazd did not judge him particularly handsome, at least by how he understood the standard that seemed to attract the wenches of the Crooked Window.

The name and style of the instrument the man held was unknown to Chazd, though he learned later that it was a Pevaran mandolin. Chazd watched as the man’s fingers and hands danced across the wood, pulling a complex melody from the fretboard and strings. The golden and orange wood shone with an oil or polish and the man sang an accompanying tune, though the words were meaningless to him.

It was not the music alone that evoked such interest in Chazd. It was the reaction of the women, of everyone. Chazd pulled his eyes from the musician and scanned the room. Conversation had quieted, gambling had stopped, and the women were enraptured. The song’s introduction ended and the man burst into a rhythmic stanza, accompanied by further lyrics in the foreign language and a steady tapping on the instrument’s hollow body.

At that point, the tavern patrons joined in, clapping and dancing. Some, mainly men, returned to their prior activities. Chazd stayed the entire afternoon, watching and listening. Somewhere along the line, he realized that he was tapping his feet and singing or humming along. His fingers twitched in an attempt to mimic the man’s playing.

The man finished his afternoon performance and sauntered around the room to collect his tips and exchanged a quick word with Chazd’s barmaid. When Chazd realized the afternoon was gone, he left the few coins he had on the table and started gathering his belongings. Bettra appeared at his arm.

“Hold a minute, Chazd,” she said. “Master Rodin would like to speak with you.”

“Who?”

Bettra pointed to the musician who was observing their interchange.

Chazd ask, “Why?”

“I really don’t know.” She wished him luck and went back to her duties.

The crowd had mostly cleared around Rodin. He had returned to his seat and was cleaning his instrument with a soft, white cloth. More curious than he would have admitted, Chazd crossed the hard-packed floor of the Window’s common room.

Rodin stopped his cleaning and looked up through his eyebrows at Chazd. Abruptly the man stood, set his lute on a stand, and motioned for Chazd to sit down on the stool. Chazd hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and plopped himself down where the musician had just been.

“Not like that, boy!” Rodin snapped. “Sit up straight. One leg here. The other there.”

Finished with the quick scolding, Rodin stepped back frowning. He scrutinized Chazd, stroking his beard. His gaze shifted back and forth from Chazd to the instruments lined up against the wall. He seemed to settle on a choice between two mandolins. The first was a six-course oval instrument of spruce and maple. The instrument had minimal decoration but was finished with a high gloss. The second was a well-worn cherry and pear construction with eight single strings and a nearly heart-shaped belly.

He picked up the second mandolin and placed it in Chazd’s arms.

“You are right handed?”

Chazd nodded, about to answer, but the musician interrupted him.

“Place your left hand here,” Rodin said. “Grip firmly and press your finger pads into the strings. Keep your right arm active and use your thumb across the strings here.”

The lesson continued. Rodin's quick tongue kept Chazd engaged. For some reason, his typical rebellion against authority was curiously subdued. After an hour, Rodin abruptly ended the session. Chazd felt like he almost learned the song that Rodin hummed to him as he played.

“Well done, lad. What is your name?”

“Chazd deAlto,” he responded, despite never having used his surname at the inn before.

“Quick fingers. Quick mind. Let me know when you are ready for formal training, young master deAlto.”

Father had somehow arranged for that training. And now it was over.

~

Chazd had not spoken to Rodin since before his father was killed. What could he say to explain missing his lessons, to admit he had not been practicing?
How can I tell him I lost my instrument in the fire?

He was two more steps down the hall when the voice stopped him. “Chazd deAlto?” the voice asked, rich and full and not at all sleepy.

Chazd turned back around. “Good morning, Master Rodin.”

The musician looked surprised, though his smile was pleasant as he stood in the doorway. He was dressed, but his cotton shirt was unlaced and untucked. His face was wet with some traces of shaving soap still evident on his neck and sideburns.

“We did not have a lesson this morning. I would have remembered.”

“No, sir. I… that is, my brother, sister, and I… have a problem.”

The bard waited, obviously expecting more of an explanation.

“We’d like you to identify some music for us. Something we found,” Chazd said, feeling a bit like a fool. He did not know how to explain it. Part of the problem was that he was not really interested in furthering Jaeron’s investigation. He could admit that the letter from their childhood nursemaid was strange, but it did not have anything to do with Father’s death.

“Is this about your father?”

He knows?
“Not directly, but it’s… complicated,” Chazd admitted.

Rodin moved aside and opened the door further.

“Come in, Chazd. It sounds like we have things to discuss.”

Chazd went into the room, still amazed by its luxury. The room was the tavern’s best, though some of the furnishings were undoubtedly Rodin’s.

“Who was it, Rodin?” a female voice called from the second room.

The source of the question came around a three-part folding screen that stood near the dresser. A light tan veil of cloth accented the shape beneath. Chazd could not hide his shock at Bettra’s appearance. Her hair was down, some flowing down over her bosom. Her legs were bare and the shirt she wore barely covered her thighs as she spun to bolt back behind the room divider.

“Bettra?”

“Chazd?!” the girl shrieked.

“A
h, I take it you know each other,” Rodin said.

The musician read the emotion on the young man’s face. Surprise, certainly. But there was something else that he could not place. A touch of chagrined anger.
Ah, jealousy.

Chazd nodded. “She introduced us,” he said pointing quickly to himself and his instructor.

“Bettra, lass. Do me a favor and fetch us breakfast, with something to drink,” he spoke as lightly as he was able. But he stepped forward to guide the young deAlto by the shoulder to a chair. He waited for the girl to pull on her dress and scurry out the door toward the bar downstairs. Rodin saw then that the girl knew of Chazd’s unspoken crush.

“I’m sorry, Chazd. I did not know that you had romantic intentions toward the girl. I would not have invited you in.”

Chazd looked up at him, shaking his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

Rodin thought otherwise, but let the matter drop.

“What can I do for you, son? Why are you here?”

Chazd shrugged the pack off of his shoulder and opened it, pulling out the music box cylinder and comb.

“My brother wants to know what this plays,” Chazd said.

Rodin reached tentatively for the cylinder. He recognized what it was immediately, but he had not seen its like in years. The artisanship was superb, made from steel and brass, polished before the pins were set. Before he let himself become lost in the device, he set it down and took the comb from Chazd, also giving it a brief appraisal. Two hundred teeth, at least.

He pulled the other chair in the room closer to his guest and sat down. “Do you mind if I ask where this came from?”

Chazd seemed disinterested as he answered, “We took it from an apartment where my father used to live.

“Where we used to live, I guess. It was the place where we first lived after he adopted us. I don’t really remember it.”

Over the years, Rodin had learned the rough story of the deAltos and wondered about the designs of an old thief taking on the adoption of three young orphans. But he did not understand how this music box fit in.

“Why did you take it?”

He did not have to assume that the three orphans had stolen it. Had it not been evident in Chazd’s tone, Rodin knew what the three were working on and what they intended to become.

“My brother, my sister…” Chazd said, “they think it has something to do with our past. Our parents – our birth parents. And something to do with Father’s death.”

Rodin nodded, understanding a bit more then. Chazd did not think of anyone as his father except for Henri, despite knowing he had been adopted. And perhaps more importantly, the lad was not interested in finding out the identity of his biological parents. This was something his older brother wanted, and Rodin knew better than most the schisms that could come between brothers.

~

A light knock sounded at the door and Bettra reappeared. She was still disheveled but less sexually enticing as she had been when Chazd first saw her. She carried a tray with a pair of wooden mugs, a matching pitcher, and a split loaf of dark bread spread with churned butter. She set the tray down between the men, smiled quickly at Rodin and looked at Chazd with concern. Chazd did not understand her look but felt grateful for it nonetheless.

“It was good to see you, Chazd,” she said and then as quickly as she entered she left the room, closing the door behind her.

When he turned back to his host, Rodin was pouring, filling both mugs with a light wine that smelled of apples and rose blossoms. He handed Chazd a mug and a slice of the bread.

“Well, I cannot tell you too much about this without hearing it. Why did you take the box apart?”

Chazd was chewing, thankful for having a distraction from thinking about Bettra. He swallowed forcefully, and drank a quick swig from the mug to wash it down.

“It was part of the fireplace mantle,” he admitted. “We didn’t have a choice.”

Rodin nodded, “I thought it might have been a piece of furniture. I just thought that the three of you would have been industrious enough to have taken the whole piece.

“I hadn’t expected a fireplace. Ingenious…”

Rodin was holding the cylinder again, rolling it in his hands. His eyes focused on the small pegs protruding from its surface.

“So, my young friend, how are we going to play this?”

Chazd looked up at Rodin, confused by the question. That was why he had come to the man.
Why is he asking me?

The teacher said, “Think it through, Chazd. How do we hear this?”

Rodin picked up the comb and held it up to the cylinder. Chazd recognized the alteration in tone and attitude. Rodin was the teacher, he was the student, and he was being tested. He looked at the pieces in Rodin’s hands and thought about how the mechanism worked. He thought about taking the fireplace apart, walking through the disassembly in his mind. He tried to distinguish the pieces that were strictly due to the complexity of mounting the music box in the fireplace versus those that were essential to the music box’s operation.

Chazd spoke aloud, talking through the problem. “I have the spring motor, the ratchet… but not the lock and key. Though we don’t really need that. The main thing is holding the pieces in place and being able to turn the cylinder.”

Rodin nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“We can’t damp this piece –”

“The comb.”

“Okay, we can’t damp the comb too much. It needs to resonate, like a string. But that doesn’t necessarily mean we need a box. Just a housing.”

“There should have been a bedplate – a large piece that everything screwed into.”

Chazd shook his head. “It was too big. Really anchored to the mantel.”

“Could you sketch it?” Rodin asked.

Chazd shook his head. He knew one thing at which he was not adept and that was drawing. He still had trouble with some of his letters. Avrilla regularly teased him about his handwriting. But the few times he had tried his hand at drawing were such disasters that he never really tried again.

“Okay,” Rodin said.

The bard finished his mug and stood, crossed the room, and pulled some materials from his desk. He returned to the small table in front of Chazd and spread out a sheet of paper. He set his mug and pitcher on the roll to keep it flat on the table and began to sketch with a couple long sticks of triangular charcoal.

“Describe what you remember.”

Chazd watched, once again amazed with his teacher’s talents, as lines and arcs appeared on the sheet. The charcoals created forms, shadows and texture. Chazd could tell they were composed of different hardness or softness, that the pressure of Rodin’s fingers was not the only thing affecting the deepness or darkness on the drawing. Slowly a detailed picture formed.

Rodin occasionally asked Chazd questions as he worked, allowing him to make design decisions as he thought things through. The bard corrected him a few times, leading them to a better solution.

The wine grew warm. The older man took one break, standing and stretching. Rodin encouraged Chazd to do the same, in the same tone he had been using to encourage him to keep his posture and not hunch over the drawing as the master bard worked. He brought Chazd a mandolin and the two played together, Rodin leading in “The Salty Dog Carouses” which always made Chazd laugh. Chazd finally felt himself relax, the smile he gave Rodin felt comfortable. The pain he had been feeling since his father’s death seemed to be more distant.

By lunchtime, the sketch was complete. For the last half hour, his teacher had broken the near silence and the two men commented back and forth about the sizes and types of materials needed to build the contraption. Many of these comments ended up as small, neatly lettered notes along the side of the page. Finally, Rodin blew the last remnants of dust from the paper and brushed the final picture with a thin coating of a solution from a brown glass bottle.

With that task completed, Rodin closed the bottle and set the parchment aside to dry.

“Would you like some lunch?”

Chazd was not sure. The drawing, now that it was finished, meant he had to take another step along the road down which his brother was dragging him.

“What do I do with it?” He had no idea how to turn the drawing into a functional music box.

Rodin paused to heft the cylinder again and brought it up to the level of his eyes. He turned it in his hands, pleased in some way that Chazd could not figure out.

“I’ll take care of it, Chazd,” the older man answered. “I find this... entertaining. And I have some understanding of the straits you are in... your family is in...”

“What? How?”

“Ah, some men were here looking for you. They made the foolish assumption that they could intimidate me.”

“Who?” Chazd’s mind reeled. Could they be the men who killed his father?

Rodin’s look became concerned.

“Chazd, these were not men to be trifled with. Fortunately, neither am I.”

“But what if – ”

“I understand. It is possible – what you are thinking. I wondered the same thing myself. Though no one has pursued those questions since your brother’s incarceration and release.

“I have looked into it as I have had time, but I have not discovered much. It’s taking longer than I expected to… reacquaint myself with old associates.”

Chazd had no idea what Rodin was talking about. The bard was often cryptic, but never more so than when he referenced his past. He alluded to the fact that his position as a bard involved more than just playing the part of a traveling musician. Chazd never understood more.
Not that I didn’t have other things to occupy my time.

Rodin evidently saw the confusion on his face.

“Don’t worry about it, Chazd. The men who were asking about you told me how I could get in touch with them. I see you are ready to leap off the pier, son. But how about we think it through first? Perhaps discuss it with your siblings?”

Chazd had to admit that Rodin’s advice made sense. His eagerness to rush off and confront potential enemies dissipated, but he decided to tell Jaeron and Avrilla the news as soon as possible.

“That’s it, lad. You’ll see the sense of it after a good meal. Come, lunch is on me!”