Herin shrugged. ‘How trustworthy is anyone?’
‘Without the philosophy?’ requested Soren testily.
‘They want their share of the money, of course; that makes them motivated. If something went wrong, would they turn on us to save their skins? Most definitely.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Belwynn drily. ‘Who are they? What do they look like?’
‘That doesn’t matter. I’ve agreed to keep their identities secret; in case anything goes wrong.’
‘Secret!?’ fumed Belwynn, her voice threatening to climb louder than a conspiratorial whisper. ‘So we don’t know who’s on our side in there? Do you know?’ she demanded, turning to Clarin.
‘Sure, I’ve known them—’
Clarin stopped speaking, too late, when he saw his brother staring at him.
‘Do you?’ Belwynn demanded of Soren.
‘No, I don’t. Belwynn,’ he began, in his let’s be reasonable voice.
‘Belwynn what? Why does no-one think—’ she continued, only to be stopped by the arrival of a barmaid at the table with the food.
They sat in stony silence as their food and cutlery were laid out. A huge bowl of stew wafted its flavours temptingly while they waited.
‘Look.’ Herin restarted the conversation when they were alone again. ‘That’s the demand that’s been made, and I’m going to stick to it. Belwynn, your job is to keep everyone’s attention downstairs. Clarin will be near you at all times. Soren and I will go upstairs as soon as we get the chance. Keep in contact with each other through your—’ He waved a hand, unable to find the word.
Evil touch? Belwynn suggested, privately, to Soren.
It was Herin’s most ambitious plan yet, relying on a number of individuals to carry out a very dangerous but apparently lucrative robbery.
‘Who is this guy, anyway?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘Why are we stealing his money?’
‘Vincente the Fox, he’s known as,’ Herin explained, pausing as his brother began serving the stew, spooning it into the four bowls provided. ‘Trader, smuggler, racketeer, pirate, robber...the list goes on. This little town is controlled by him, but he has a network up and down Dalriya. A very powerful man, above the law in Cordence. He and a few men like him are the ones running the show in this land.’
Herin looked straight at Belwynn. ‘Don’t feel sorry for this guy. He’s intimidated and murdered his way to that gold over there.’
‘And slaved,’ said Clarin, dipping a huge hunk of bread into his stew. ‘I’ve heard he’s done that, too.’
‘Alright, I get the picture. When do we go?’
‘We eat,’ said Herin, ‘we make our preparations, then we go. Time to put your dress on. You did bring one, right?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, nodding at her pack.
Herin looked at her critically. ‘Did you bring some cosmetics? You look half-drowned.’
‘Oh, charming! You can shove this little adventure up your arse if you like, Herin.’
Herin and Belwynn stared across the table at each other. Belwynn turned to her brother, who seemed to find something so interesting about his food that he couldn’t look up.
‘This stew is great,’ said Clarin, wiping the last bits in the bowl up with another chunk of bread. ‘Anyone mind if I have seconds?’
Belwynn followed the others as they exited the Three Tuns and made their way through Vincente’s town.
The sun had almost conceded defeat for another day, and the fading light gave the streets a more menacing feel to them, empty of people and eerily quiet.
Herin led them at a fast pace, flitting from one street to the next, keen not to be seen. Belwynn soon lost track of their whereabouts and resigned herself to just keeping up with the others.
Herin led them to a dark, narrow alleyway, the kind of place you would think twice about walking down, even in the middle of the day. At the end of the alley Herin crouched down, and they joined him in the same position.
Belwynn took care to keep the hem of her dress from trailing on the ground.
The rain was getting heavier now, and Herin brushed a hand through his wet hair in an irritated gesture, though Belwynn knew him well enough to know that he loved all this cloak and dagger stuff. He pointed ahead and slightly to the left. The end of their alley intersected at a right angle with a much broader, main thoroughfare. Herin was gesturing at a big townhouse which dominated the area.
The front of the house was stone-built with giant wooden doors. It was tall with a flat roof and crenellations facing the street. The left hand side of the house had a second storey built on it. Half a dozen armed men stood outside, mostly trying to shelter from the rain in the lee provided by the house wall.
‘Always five or six at the front, at all times of day and night. At the back there are grounds that descend to a stream. Inside, more paid men and various retainers, friends and family, probably averaging thirty armed men at any one time altogether. Only other exit is the window that’s on the top floor. That’s how we’re getting out.’
Herin was really speaking to Soren. Belwynn and Clarin were the ones who got told what to do. Herin and Soren were the planners.
‘There’s no other buildings nearby or in town where he has people based?’ asked Soren.
‘No.’
‘Very well. Let’s do it.’
Belwynn’s insides churned as they approached the house. She had faith in Herin and Clarin, and most of all in Soren; but still she knew that what they were doing was very dangerous and could go horribly wrong.
The guards outside the house were huddled around a game of dice, but quickly stood when they saw them approaching. Both Herin and Clarin wore armour and carried long swords, sheathed in scabbards at their belts. The guards outnumbered them, but the two men were an intimidating sight, and Belwynn could see them touching their own weapons, checking they were near to hand should the need arise. Emboldened, they moved forward as a group, meeting them a few yards from the door of the house.
‘What business have you here?’ one of them demanded—a heavy-set man with an unruly beard that dominated his face so much that Belwynn couldn’t tell his age.
‘Evening,’ said Herin calmly, resting his dark eyes on the bearded guard. ‘We are come to Vincente’s town to introduce him to Lady Melyta, a singer from Magnia,’ he said, gesturing at Belwynn.
Belwynn did a small curtsy, while looking into the distance, as if making eye contact with men such as these was beneath her.
‘Hmm. It’s late for that, isn’t it? They’ve already had their dinner inside.’
‘We are somewhat late, yes. We have travelled from Magnia, our homeland, where Lady Melyta is known as the best minstrel in the land. She plays for all the lords there, and she is currently on her way to sing at King Glanna’s court, at his request. I think your lord would not want to turn her away,’ said Herin.
The guard with the beard looked them over suspiciously. He turned to one of his comrades, who shrugged.
‘Fulvio,’ he said, turning to one of the men, ‘go ask for Loris, will you?’
Fulvio nodded and walked back over to the door. He banged three times on the door with his fist.
The remaining guards stood with Belwynn and the others, staring at them in silence.
‘What are you, then?’ asked the guard with the beard. ‘Bodyguards or something?’
One of the big doors to the house opened, and Fulvio began speaking to someone in the doorway.
‘That’s right. It can be dangerous making long journeys these days.’
‘Indeed it can. Just the two of you?’
‘Only needs two of us,’ interjected Clarin flatly, and Belwynn could see the hint of fear in the men’s eyes at his sheer physical presence.
The bearded guard nodded.
‘No horses? Walk all the way from Magnia, did you?’
‘I’ll ask the questions now!’ came a voice from the doorway. ‘Over here!’
The guards relu
ctantly gave way, allowing Belwynn and the others to approach the door. A balding man with sharp features peered out at them, screwing his face up at the rain that threatened to wet him.
‘I’m Loris, the reeve of this town. A bard, I understand?’ he said, quickly and directly, addressing Belwynn.
‘The best in the business,’ she replied haughtily.
‘With two bodyguards,’ added Loris. He looked Herin and Clarin up and down, nodding to himself.
‘Your transport?’
‘We have taken accommodation at the Three Tuns,’ said Herin. ‘Our coach is there.’
‘And who’s this?’ Loris nodded in Soren’s direction.
‘This is Edward, the Lady Melyta’s brother. I’m sure you see the resemblance?’ replied Herin. ‘Unfortunately the gods decided to take away his sense when he was a small child. But the lady still meets her family obligations and takes him everywhere with her.’
Soren grinned and bobbed his head a few times.
Oh, very convincing, Belwynn said to him.
Soren ignored her.
‘I see,’ said Loris, ‘yes, very unfortunate.’
He didn’t make much of an effort to sound sympathetic. He looked them over one last time.
Belwynn could see his brain ticking over. As a group they were young, wealthy looking; unlikely to be difficult. Two soldiers, a woman, and her dependent brother didn’t amount to much of a threat, either. If Vincente could afford to have guards posted outside his house, he doubtless had many more armed men inside.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘come in.’
Loris backed away from the door and gestured them in.
They had made it into the house.
The door was shut closed and locked behind them; Belwynn just managed to catch a glimpse of the guards still standing outside, looking rather sorry for themselves.
They found themselves inside a porch area, all stone-built, where one guard was stationed on door duty. It seemed to Belwynn like a nicer job than being outside; he even had his own chair tucked away in the corner. Ahead, she could hear the noise of what sounded like a busy hall.
‘I will take you to meet Vincente,’ said Loris, leading them on through the porch door. They entered a passageway with four doors leading off it, two on each side, and a spiral stone staircase at the end which led upstairs. Belwynn tried to get her bearings. She could smell the kitchens from behind the first door on the left. Loris took them in the opposite direction; through the first door on the right, into the main hall.
It was busy, with more people inside than the inn where they had dined. A large fire burned in the centre of the room. Around it, in a rough square shape, were tables and benches, which may have been organised more neatly before the dinner but were now arranged in a disorderly fashion all over the place. Dinner was over, but drinking wasn’t, and the room smelt strongly of alcohol. Some guests were holding mugs of ale; others were drinking wine, with barrels liberally spread among the tables. There must have been at least fifty people in the room, a number of whom were armed men, but women and children were also present, as well as a few busy-looking servants. It was noisy, too, with men shouting at each other across the table or over to someone on the other end of the hall. If this was an ordinary night at Vincente’s house, thought Belwynn, he must be a wealthy man, ranking alongside the most powerful barons back in Magnia.
Once a few people had noticed their arrival, the hall quietened somewhat. Vincente’s guests studied Belwynn and the others.
‘Is that your new wife, Loris?’ a woman shouted out from one of the tables, to much amusement. Belwynn got a brief glimpse of her: jet black hair with leather clothing and a short sword attached to her belt. Belwynn gave a little smile at the joke, while taking a look at her potential audience. The faces were more interested than anything else, and certainly not hostile.
Loris scowled at the perpetrator, but carried on with his route, around the tables towards the dais at the far end of the hall. He held out a hand for them to wait and approached the dais alone.
There was only a very small table on the dais, where seven men had been quietly talking. Loris was talking to the one in the middle, presumably Vincente. He stood out in purple hose and a long purple jacket. He had grey hair, but a youthful face, and he was tall and lithe-looking.
His henchmen came in all shapes and sizes. At one end of the table was an absolute giant of a man, bigger even than Clarin, with oversized everything: head, hands, feet. At the other was a Krykker, the mountain race who had toughened, armour-like skin on their torsos. They rarely visited human lands, and Belwynn was surprised to see one in this place. The only Krykker she knew, back home in Magnia, was Rabigar the bladesmith. She knew him to be an exile, and wondered whether the same was true of this man. On Vincente’s right was an older man with wrinkled, yellow skin, smoking a pipe, while between him and the giant was a small, wiry young man with a thin wispy moustache who looked to Belwynn like he was not yet out of his teens.
What an odd bunch, she commented to Soren.
Maybe Vincente promotes on merit, rather than looks, he observed.
Vincente looked over to Belwynn and beckoned her over with a slight hand gesture. She approached the dais. Some of the men grinned at her, perhaps hoping that she would find the situation intimidating; but she wasn’t some country bumpkin to be impressed by a short dais with a merchant sitting on it, however wealthy he was.
‘I am told you are on your way to the court of my dear friend, Glanna,’ Vincente began, as if he were on first-name terms with the king of Cordence. Maybe he was. His voice was controlled and precise, but bore an unmistakeable Cordentine accent, stressing each and every vowel.
‘I am due there tomorrow, Lord Vincente,’ lied Belwynn easily. ‘I was advised that this was the most important stop on the way. Your house is beautiful,’ she added.
So easy, thought Belwynn, as Vincente visibly puffed up with self-importance, a smile playing on his face. He was no lord, but merchants are the same the world over, she thought: aspiring to be accepted into the ruling class. The idea that a royal guest should visit him first was enough to win him over and remove any doubts or uncomfortable questions from his mind; even if some of his colleagues, like the young man with the moustache, still looked suspicious.
‘Well, we would be delighted if you would sing for us, Lady...?’
‘Melyta.’
‘Of course. Such a beautiful name.’
The Krykker smirked at that comment behind Vincente’s back.
‘You would want to sing up here, as your stage?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then we will finish our business here and leave it for you. Loris will ensure you have anything else you need. And I insist that you stay the night here at my house, not at the inn. The accommodation there is reasonable, but isn’t to a high enough standard. Loris, you will make the arrangements?’
The Krykker’s smirk got even bigger. Meanwhile, Loris was nodding in agreement at his instructions.
Belwynn turned to the reeve. ‘Well, I would like a drink for my throat,’ she said demurely, coughing a little as the smoke from the pipe-smoker blew in her direction.
‘Antonio, you oaf!’ Vincente scolded the old man, slapping him on the arm several times. ‘You have no manners!’
‘A thousand apologies, Vincente.’
‘Why are you apologising to me?’ he demanded, raising his voice for the whole hall to hear.
‘I beg your pardon, my lady,’ said the old man, sounding quite contrite, his face drooping in apparent sorrow.
Everything alright? asked Soren, from his place to the side of the dais.
Yes. It’s going well, replied Belwynn.
Soren had seen it before, of course; many times. But it still filled him with pride.
When his sister sang, the world stood still.
Standing on the dais, alone, she commanded the attention of everyone in the hall. Soren looked around at the transfixed faces
which, moments ago, had been chatting and arguing, shouting and bragging; now they were deathly silent. Strong men, with their bulging muscles and weapons at their belts, now looked wide eyed and childlike. Their women had tears in their eyes. Their children, who had been driving them crazy moments ago with their constant foolery, sat cross-legged and angelic.
The plan was working. Soren turned to Herin, who was standing next to him.
‘Time to go?’ he asked.
Herin was pulled out of his own reverie and locked eyes with Soren.
‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Follow me.’
Soren turned to go.
‘Wait,’ hissed Herin from the side of his mouth, looking at the stage again.
‘What is it?’ murmured Soren after a few nervous seconds.
‘Nothing. I thought I saw one of Vincente’s thugs...looking straight at us. But he’s watching Belwynn now. Come on.’
They shuffled off, backing out to the door from which they had entered the hall earlier. The people around them barely noticed them passing as they focused on Belwynn’s performance. One or two moved out of the way for them, but didn’t divert their attention to notice who was leaving and where they were going.
We’re going, he said to Belwynn, in case she hadn’t noticed.
He gave her one last look, noting Clarin’s reassuring presence by the side of the dais, before exiting into the passageway.
It was empty, but they were aware that there was a guard in the porch area, and they moved quickly and quietly towards the spiral staircase at the other end of the passage. Soren followed Herin up the stairs to the top floor of Vincente’s house, where the treasure room was located.
Herin paused at the top to look around before emerging onto an upstairs passage, which ran directly above the downstairs one. When Soren joined him he had a quick look around for himself. The upper storey of the house was much smaller than the lower. There was nothing to his left, above the hall, except an exterior stone wall. There were three doors leading off to the right of the passage.
‘This way,’ whispered Herin, and they began creeping down the hall. ‘Vincente’s private quarters,’ he added, indicating the first door on the right.
The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set Page 2
