Twilight of Kerberos - [Shadowmage 01-03] - The Shadowmage Trilogy (Shadowmage; Night's Haunting; Legacy's Price) (45 page)

“Of course, Councillor, you are quite right. We must all pay our share to maintain this fine city. You certainly have my full support.”

“That is good to hear, Master Perner. And I am sure we will be seeing you at the service tomorrow morning at the Cathedral. You and your entire family.”

“Tomorrow morning? I am afraid that will be quite impossible, Councillor. I have deliveries to take in and customers to–”

“It was not a request,” the councillor cut in. “The priesthood of the Final Faith have some important messages to tell you. I am sure you would not want to miss them.
Ever.
I am telling everyone in this quarter the same thing.”

Reinhardt frowned, but he took the councillor’s meaningful look on board. He cleared his throat.

“Of course, Councillor. Our spiritual health is just as important as the maintenance of the city’s economy.”

“I am glad you agree. As I said, decent people like yourself are what this city needs. You work for the betterment of Turnitia, and you will find yourself prospering in ways you cannot yet imagine.”

The councillor stood and bade him good day before leaving. Reinhardt watched him depart, a worried expression on his face. He always knew the city would pay a price in accepting Vos, but for the first time he began to wonder just who they were all making a deal with.

H
ARKER REACHED DOWN
to feel the mule’s leg, pretending to locate a sprain. His eyes, however, were roving up and down the street, searching for any sign of a patrol of Vos guards. He had timed the patrols, of course, and was reasonably sure that his thieves would be undisturbed for at least a half hour, but it always paid to be prepared.

The rest of his team was inside the warehouse and, every few minutes, they trotted out with boxes, sacks and crates. It was a straightforward theft, a relatively easy job here, in the merchants’ district. Rows and rows of warehouses supported Turnitia’s economy, with goods coming in every day by both sea and road. The city had not lost its reputation for independent trading, even with Vos now in control, and it was still discreetly a hub for merchants of no political affiliation who wished to trade across the divide between Vos and Pontaine.

The thieves’ guild monitored the district daily, and Harker specialised in low-cost commodities from warehouse break-ins. Though individual hauls generated smaller profits, they were largely risk free and he could run several in the course of one profitable afternoon, whereas other thieves might spend a week planning one job for a precious prize guarded by mercenaries, soldiers and traps.

A loud rattle arrested his attention, and he saw another cart pull out of a side street, laden with boxes destined for the port, or perhaps just another warehouse. The labourer leading the mules looked tired and bored, but nodded at Harker as he passed.

Harker inclined his own head in greeting; just two low paid labourers sharing the common bond of their work. He returned to his mule’s leg, keeping the labourer in his peripheral vision, but the man and his goods kept on plodding wearily down the street. Harker’s own cart was about half full, and he tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for his thieves to return with more ill-gotten gains. One more trip after that, and they should be done, he reckoned.

Looking back up the street, he noticed the labourer had stopped opposite one of the many alleyways that ran between the warehouses. He squinted to get a better look, then realised with alarm that the labourer was gesturing towards him. Seconds later, a squad of six Vos guardsmen shot out of the alley, and started running toward him. They did not shout after him or demand his surrender, but their spears were levelled with clear intent.

“Fire!” he shouted into the open door of the warehouse, the pre-arranged warning he had agreed with his team. Bad experiences in the past had taught him that shouting “Guards!” when being pursued was a very, very bad idea.

Trusting his team to make their own escape, he slapped the rump of his mule and dragged it forward into an uneasy trot, hoping it might outrun heavily armoured men. Another squad of guards appeared from an alleyway ahead and he cursed as they spotted him, drawing their weapons.

Hauling his mule around, the animal rumbling its protest at his mistreatment, he headed for the side street the labourer had appeared from.

He skidded to a halt, the mule bucking its head in confusion. In front of him, a third squad waited, spears lowered to receive him, forming a prickly barrier. Behind, the first two squads appeared, the soldiers manhandling Terri, one of his team.

“Excellent work, men,” said one of the Vos soldiers
–
a sergeant, Harker saw from the golden insignia woven into the chest of his red uniform. “Are the secondary squads in place?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, they’ll catch the rest of the scum.” He cast a disgusted look at Harker. “Someone arrest that man. I want to get at least one more lot before shift’s end.”

L
EANING AGAINST THE
wall of the alley, Sebastian fumed as he watched what was happening in the Square of True Believers. He knew
exactly
what Vos was doing but, as yet, he could not see a way around it.

The square was filled with street traders, entertainers and, of course, believers seeking to make their prayers known to the priesthood of the Final Faith in the new Cathedral. They all stayed away from the western side of the square, however. That had been reserved for the beggars.

Even now, they watched the beggars with a strange mixture of contempt and pity. Massive wagons had been brought into the square, and there was polite applause from onlookers as Vos guardsmen began throwing bundles from the wagons into the outstretched hands of the beggars. More soldiers were on the ground, ready to break up any fights in the desperate crowd clamouring for alms, but there was a strange sense of order in place. The beggars had been promised that there was more than enough for everyone and, looking at the size of the wagons, it was easy to believe, despite the many hundreds of needy people that had gathered.

The bundles were ripped apart, and cries of delight rang across the square, as the poorest citizens of the city discovered that the benevolent Empire of Vos had gifted them not just bread, but fruit, new clothes, a skin of wine, and even a small pouch of silver. These cries fuelled more applause as the richer citizens saw their taxes at work, bathing in their own charity.

Sebastian knew better. Those were his people that had been herded into the square, members of the beggars’ guild, all of them.

Someone in the Vos-led government had been very, very clever. He had to give them that. Any other official might have just tried to bribe the beggars with bread, believing them to be poor and hungry. That had been tried before and, predictably, it had not worked. Beggars had still lined the streets after weeks of donations.

What had not been understood before was that the beggars of Turnitia were not necessarily poor and starving – certainly not if they had been part of the beggars’ guild for any length of time. The guild turned destitution into a profession, and Sebastian’s people were very good at what they did. Beggars feigned diseases and injury, turning their deceptive plight into pity from those who were supposedly better off. It was ironic that many of the beggars that received handouts were actually wealthier than many of the labourers and craftsmen who gave freely. But then again, that was the whole point of begging.

Under Sebastian, the beggars’ guild had developed so that every beggar in the city belonged, and all benefited from its membership. Plots were allotted and rotated so that each beggar had a good opportunity for charity and no one region of the city was buried under hordes of begging cripples.

More than that, Sebastian had turned the natural tendency of so-called decent people to ignore beggars into a virtue. The beggars’ guild had become the eyes and ears of the city, and their recent alliance with the thieves’ guild had borne fruit for both.

Someone within the Vos military had finally caught on, however. For the entire morning, Sebastian had watched helplessly as his people were rounded up by Vos soldiers and piled into wagons. He had first thought they were being taken to the Citadel or perhaps even deported from the city, as part of some Vos scheme to clean up the streets. Their true aim was far more insidious, and Sebastian pounded the wall with an angry fist as he sought, without hope, for a response that would save his guild.

The wagons of beggars had been driven to the Square of True Believers. More soldiers ensured no one was able to leave, much to the chagrin of those who felt they had been picked up like sacks of wheat and then dumped in the square. However, when more wagons arrived, the beggars stopped complaining.

By providing more than just food and drink, the Vos government was buying their loyalty. Better clothes immediately made them look like anything but beggars. Cold, hard silver meant there was little to be gained by begging anyway. After all, why squat in the gutter with hand outstretched to passers-by if Vos was going to give you money for doing nothing? True, some of the more successful beggars would not be taken in, being too wealthy to be turned so easily. However, they were few in number and were certainly not the heart and soul of the guild.

A young girl of no more than fifteen summers came from the depths of the alley to stand next to Sebastian. Wearing an elegant gown, the girl looked more like the daughter of a rich aristocrat than the beggar she was. She had been forced to change from her normal, grubby attire in order to avoid being picked up by the guards with the rest of the beggars. Linking an arm through Sebastian’s, she too watched what was happening to the beggars.

“Grennar,” Sebastian acknowledged.

“What are we going to do?”

He looked down at the ground. “Go to the thieves. Tell them that, from today, my guild no longer exists.”

CHAPTER SIX

T
HE ELEGANT WOOD-PANELLED
walls of the guildhouse’s council chamber used to give Lucius a measure of confidence in his chosen career. With the wisest and most experienced thieves seated around the long table that dominated the room, the atmosphere was one of business and considered opportunity, not petty larceny and common crime. Theirs was a true profession, taken every bit as seriously as that of the merchants of the city who planned the continuance of their wealth for years into the future.

The comfort was not there today, and everyone fidgeted around the table as they waited for the guildmistress. The Council had shrunk in size since the thieves’ war, and the empty chairs around the long table now felt like an ominous sign.

Opposite Lucius sat Ambrose and Nate. The former had been Lucius’ own mentor when he first joined the guild, and Lucius had come to trust the veteran thief completely. Nate, on the other hand, could have been considered a rival. Nate was the youngest thief on the guild’s Council and was known to be ambitious, yet Lucius had leapfrogged right over him to adopt a very senior position among the thieves. Some said Nate was merely biding his time to avenge himself, but Lucius had found him to be more or less dependable, though the young man could argue with the best of them during the meetings.

There was an empty seat next to Lucius, as his place was at Elaine’s left hand. On her right was Wendric who, officially, at least, was her lieutenant and second in command of the guild. Lucius’ presence made that position a little less clear, and many thieves in the lower ranks assumed that he had usurped Wendric as well.

What they did not know was that the void left by the death of the previous guildmaster had been resolved neatly between Lucius and Elaine, one night while on a mission to finish the thieves’ war. Lucius did not want the responsibility of ownership of the guild, but he did want a position on the Council. Elaine, on the other hand, very much wanted to become leader of the guild. By allowing Wendric to retain his position as lieutenant, both he and Elaine had worked to dissipate the suspicions that had grown over Lucius’ magical talents. Most thieves had been set against allowing wizards into the guild, believing them portents of bad luck, but Elaine and Wendric, helped by Lucius’ own actions, had convinced most that having a Shadowmage could only benefit them all.

Lucius’ attention was brought back to the meeting by Nate hammering his fist on the table as he stood, leaning forwards.

“Launch a rescue bid or retreat, those are the only choices,” he said, his ire aimed squarely at Wendric. “I won’t leave our people in the Citadel to rot, but if that is the choice of this Council, then we have no option but to shut down our operations. We no longer have the manpower to operate effectively.”

Ambrose laid a hand on Nate’s arm, indicating that the younger man should sit down.

“In principle, I agree with you, Nate – we all do,” said Ambrose. “In practice, we have to be smart.”

“We are in danger of losing control of all operations,” Wendric pointed out.

“True,” said Ambrose. “But we are not losing them to a rival guild. The merchants and wealthy citizens will still be out there in the days and weeks to come. My point is we need not act hastily.”