by Ulff Lehmann
He decided to check how aware she was of her surroundings. The canal’s current was not as strong as the Dunth, yet there was enough gurgling and splashing to mask a lot of sound. A stone, tossed into the waters with sufficient force, was enough of an irregularity to register to even a casual listener.
Jesgar’s hands searched the ground for an adequate rock, decided to lob it eastward along the sentinel’s way, stood, and threw. The pebble hit the stream with a good plop, and Jesgar crouched to keep out of sight while observing the warrior.
She barely turned her head! Her lantern still swinging back and forth, the woman continued on her way.
Her gait was too upright for her to be drunk, he decided. Lord Kildanor was right, and any reservations he’d had vanished when Jesgar understood what sort of influence this night’s actions might have on his and everyone else’s life. If he didn’t do as the Chosen asked, a right bastard would make his bid for power. There really was no other choice. He scuttled back onto Trade Road and crossed Old Bridge, then headed west toward the slums and the big warehouses.
Glancing back at his pursuers, Jesgar sprinted for the dark alley. At the last possible moment his left hand shot out and gripped one of the slender, but strong trees lining the main street. Using his own momentum, he swung around, continuing his sprint along the dark road.
“Idiots,” he huffed, trying to gain greater lead on the two men who pounded into the side road to follow him.
Cursing and shouting, the pair skidded to a halt and looked to the left and right, trying to catch sight of him again. “There,” wheezed one, pointing. They continued the chase. In a matter of moments, he was lost in the shadows, and the pursuers halted.
“Damn,” panted the taller of the two. “That one’s fast.”
Peering into the darkness, the second man mumbled, “You should have paid more attention. Now we gotta move all the bloody contraband.”
“Boss ain’t gonna like this.”
“You damn right… he ain’t gonna like this at all.”
The two looked at each other, shrugged, and turned around.
Hidden in the shadow of a large building, Jesgar smiled. What he had seen, heard, and taken would be enough, especially since he’d seen Lord Jathain in the warehouse. He waited until the two smugglers had gone back into the alley leading onto Dunth Street, then he hurried on. He had an appointment to keep at the dungeons.
Dunthiochagh was quiet, but the Hand knew he was not the only one who went about business other than the usual. The two smugglers were not the only people, apart from himself, who stalked the night. He knew he was walking the razor’s edge; if Kildanor knew he was the Hand, someone of the Thieves’ Guild might know as well. So far nothing had ever happened, but one could never be too sure. If the Guild knew of him, he’d be a target to be taken down, and right now he could not afford any trouble.
According to Lord Kildanor’s instructions he had made sure he would be seen when Lord Jathain had glanced his way. Now there were not only Guild members to watch for, but also whatever goons Jathain might send out to intercept him. It had only been a moment, nothing to identify him properly, just as he’d been told to do, but still. If the Baron’s cousin knew his face, he’d also know who his brother was. Making sure Bennath and Maire were safe would have to come before his supposed entry into the Palace.
The Guild had enough reason to take him out as it was; he hadn’t learned thieving from anybody affiliated with it, had never even bothered to tell the masters about his night work. Then again, he never even cared about stealing jewels, money and the like. It was the exhilaration of breaking into another person’s house. He loved the thrill.
Looking about, Jesgar tried to get his bearings. The warehouse stood near the West Gate slums, just off of Dunth Street. It would be easiest to head for the river and go toward the Trade Road due east. From there it was just a quick walk north across Old Bridge and then into the Palace, but was this wise? By now Lord Jathain should have people looking for him. The Chosen had made it perfectly clear that until he was in the dungeon he was on his own.
Best to take the long way around, he decided. Sure, Old Bridge played host to booths and stalls, even some ramshackle storage buildings, but the hodgepodge of structures provided ample cover for anyone trying to stay out of sight. It was best to cross the Dunth at New Bridge, take the shortcut across Miller’s Strip, and then cross the old canal close to the Palace. The bridges leading onto Shadowpeak Street were wide enough for grain carts and were unobstructed.
Jesgar looked up. The moon already was in decline, but there’d still be enough time to get back. Dunthiochagh wasn’t that big after all. Most tradesmen would still be asleep, with only the bakers heating their ovens, and the occasional smith firing up the forges. His brother usually was up well before dawn to prepare for the day. The thought of his family reminded Jesgar to make sure they were safe. The slightly longer way through the merchant district it was. He knew that he couldn’t actually contact Ben and Maire, but to see all was well would ease his mind a little.
He quickened his pace and wound his way down an alley running parallel to Dunth Street. If he remembered correctly, this way, with its wattle and daub buildings leaning together across the cart-wide lane, would lead into Halmond. From there it would be easy to get to his home.
A short while later Jesgar halted and peered around the bend, glancing up and down Trade Road. Garinad’s Metal Works was at the end of Halmond Street due east, a few hundred yards away from his current position. The passage was clear and he made his way across slowly, assuming the pose of a man too into his cups to avoid being heard. Before now the muddy lanes had muffled his footfall, but this changed at Trade Road. Everything east of here, including the big street that split the city in two, was laid with paving stones, courtesy of the merchants and petty nobles who adamantly refused to tread in mud. Also, here in the well-to-do quarter, construction of the houses changed. Whereas most of the city consisted of timber and waddle and daub buildings, the dwellings here were either a combination of quarry stone and timber frame, or entirely constructed of stone. Jesgar was at home here. He’d entered most of the buildings here at one time or another, but he knew that if he failed now, he would never see this place again.
Soon he reached the smithy, nestled against an arm of the new canal. There was already light in the kitchen, but he resisted the urge to peek through the window. Instead he tried to discern if Lord Jathain already had people in place. A few nooks and crannies and little paths that led between the houses into gardens or to the canal offered good shelter against searching eyes, and as far as Jesgar could tell they were empty.
The door of his home opened, and out came Maire carrying a lantern in one hand and a jug of water in the other. She headed for the workshop, and soon Jesgar heard her working the bellows. He remembered an argument she’d had with his brother when she’d insisted on working side by side with him in the smithy so she could take over the business should Ben fall ill. After she had won the fight, husband and wife had alternated firing the forge every morning and sharing the workload of each day. By now Maire, despite her still-slender figure, was as corded and muscled as Ben and could work most items almost as well as her husband.
The light in the kitchen went out, and when Jesgar caught a glimpse of his brother heading for the workshop, he mouthed a silent good-bye and was off again, heading up Hill’s Road. With luck he’d see them again soon. Lord Kildanor’s plan might still fail. Yet it was worth the risk.
The moon had almost vanished, soon vendors would open their booths, craftspeople would begin to lay out their goods, and any chance to get into the Palace would be gone. The Hand doubled back onto Dunth Street, crossed the bridge onto Miller’s Strip, and was well down Shadowpeak when the first sliver of dawn appeared in the east. At dawn the Palace had its change of guards; now it was a race.
Part of him reveled in the exhilaration; another part dreaded the consequences of discovery by the wrong
people. Jesgar rushed to the spot he’d discovered earlier and made his way across the moat as quickly as he could. His boots were wet and his feet cold, but he stood securely on the small outcrop of stone that was part of the curtain-wall’s foundation. Despite his frozen feet it was up the wall, his fingers, and toes searching for and finding purchase in the cracks of splintered mortar. How could anyone leave the wall in this condition, he wondered. Then again, Lord Kildanor had voiced his suspicions, albeit vaguely, and with Jathain’s presence at the smuggler’s warehouse the disrepair of the fortification was understandable.
Now he was on the battlement, hunching between the merlons. A quick glance across, then to the left and right. He sprinted for the ladder some guard had, to Jesgar’s amazement, left to connect the inner with the outer bailey. Just as the Chosen had told him. He climbed and hid once again in the deep shadow of the battlement. Up here the sentinels were more numerous, but still too few and too sleepy after a supposedly long night to cover properly every possible angle. Again, the Chosen’s professed suspicions came to mind.
After an approaching guard passed the spot he was hiding in, Jesgar darted across the walkway and down the stairs. At the bottom of the steps he lurked in the deep shadows of the wall, dreading the ring of the gong that signaled dawn. The change of guards was bound to lead to even more lack of attention.
He waited until a barrack’s door opened and a score of warriors emerged. They headed for the kitchen. Did they postpone the changing of the watch until after breakfast? Indeed, the men and women waited patiently for a scullion to bring them a steaming kettle. Jesgar was flummoxed. There was rumor that Chanastardh was preparing for war. He wasn’t quite sure where Chanastardh was, but if that kingdom intended to invade Danastaer shouldn’t the warriors be more alert? No wonder the Chosen was so upset!
Some warleaders emerged from the keep, leaving the gate open for those they were to replace. Now was his chance! Keeping to the shadows, Jesgar hurried to the corner that connected curtain-wall with the main building, and from there to the gate. A quick survey of his surroundings, no one bothered to check the entrance, the guards were probably off to grab breakfast as well. Inside was only empty darkness. He rushed in, and, keeping to his right, headed for the corridor leading to the chamber in which Kildanor was supposed to wait for him.
On his way he had to hide behind tapestries in the shadows of alcoves, while servants rushed to and fro on their errands. Once he even had to dodge a patrol of Swords, but aside from this too close encounter, he saw no guardsmen. Last night he would have thought the lack of sentinels strange, would have expected more of a challenge breaking into the Palace. Now, as Jesgar remembered Lord Kildanor’s anger and worry, he felt this anxiety also influencing him. He knew too little of courtly matters and machinations to come to any conclusion, but something was amiss.
At the next intersection he turned left and crept along a deserted corridor. Here was supposed to be the door that the Baron’s friend had mentioned. Ah, there it was. Out of habit the Hand checked the hinges and found them well oiled. He pushed down the handle and against the wood.
As predicted, it was locked.
Now he had to wait for the right moment: the dawn gong strike, the agreed signal. Jesgar waited, hidden in the shadows of a nearby suit of armor.
A pair of warriors walked down the corridor, their steps definitely not as sleepy as their counterparts outside on the walls. They came his way, the Hand realized. In a matter of heartbeats, the pair stopped in front of Jathain’s door. One of them, a woman with short-cropped hair and a mean streak to her face, checked the handle, found it locked and turned to her companion.
“Seems he’s too cautious. Why should that thief try to get in here?” she asked.
The other warrior shrugged. “With all that’s going on, can you blame him? If the Guild knows who their secret sponsor is they might try to blackmail him.”
The Guild was in on this as well? Jesgar forced himself not to breathe too deeply. He sent a quick prayer to whatever god might hear, wishing for luck the pair might not discover him. Far too much was at stake.
It was bitter irony when, as the two guards walked off, the gong struck the coming of dawn. There was no time left! He had to open the door now, or all of this would be an exercise in futility. He slithered toward the door, inserted a slender wire into the lock, and began to probe. No matter what happened now, he was committed to the Baron’s cause.
CHAPTER 8
“And you’re certain you can trust this man?” Cumaill Duasonh, Baron of Higher Cherkont and Boughaighr, looked up from his desk and frowned at Kildanor.
Duasonh always wore this stern, searching look when things did not go his way. Kildanor had seen it a lot these past few days. Somehow, someone had managed to infiltrate the Baron’s Palace. So far, the thief had eluded capture, but if this trap worked the man he suspected would be forced to show his hand. “If he shows up at the appointed time, yes.”
“It’s far too risky, I won’t hear of it!” Duasonh slammed his hands on the table, thus ending the discussion in his usual, direct manner.
Kildanor was tempted to correct his former student, but held back. One couldn’t order a fifty-year-old man around as if he still was a young lad. “Lesganagh grant me patience,” he sent a quick prayer to the god whose orders he had followed for almost a century now. He was a Chosen.
Sometimes he regretted volunteering. He hated seeing friends like Duasonh grow old while he remained as young as he had been during The Choosing.
“You can't be sure it’s not him, Cumaill.”
“Jathain is my cousin, and he has been my advisor for almost as long as you,” Duasonh said. With a sigh he leaned back and closed his eyes. “Think of something. I hope my faith in him isn’t misplaced.”
A knock on the door prevented Kildanor from replying.
“Yes? What is it?” the Baron shouted, annoyed.
The study door opened and one of the scouts Duasonh had sent out almost a week ago entered. The man approached on muddy boots; his other attire was as dirty. In other palaces this sort of behavior would have seemed rude, but not in Dunthiochagh. Cumaill Duasonh was an unusual noble, and etiquette mattered little to him, especially when it came to one of his own warriors. His friend’s behavior made Kildanor proud.
The scout halted next to the Chosen, bowed, and handed the Baron a scroll.
“What’s this?” Duasonh took the parchment, frowning at the mud-covered man. “This couldn’t wait?”
“No, sir. Found this in the saddlebags on some mare close to the Old Elven Road.”
Kildanor arched a brow. “Horse? What of the rider?”
“Poor chap. His horse was prancing along some mud hole, as if trying to get to something. I went in and found him. Had his throat slit and then was thrown into that stinking hole. Whoever dumped him there had no clue about such things. If a chap is dead and not moving, well, he won’t sink much.”
“Did he bear any coat of arms? Anything?” Duasonh frowned at the waxed shut scroll. “There is no seal imprinted here.”
“No, sir, but judging by his clothes, whoever attacked him removed any trace of where the lad came from.”
“Tracks?” Kildanor asked.
“Aye. Seems that the lad had been making his camp near where they dumped him. Also found splashes of blood and a covered-up campfire. Seems like his horse had not been bound to anything and when the robber came the mare bolted.”
“Were the tracks covered up?” Duasonh shot Kildanor a warning glance.
“Aye, sir. But any chap with two eyes in his head would’ve found them. Really sloppy work.”
The Baron nodded and scratched his scalp. “Thanks. Dismissed.”
“By your leave,” the scout said and bowed. He hurried out, closing the door behind him.
“Curious,” Kildanor muttered and stepped closer to look at the scroll.
The Baron broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and began to read. He kep
t the letter tilted back to catch more of the candle’s light. After all, it was well past midnight.
Unable to read the parchment from his position, the Chosen walked over to the imposing bookshelf on the room’s far wall. He had read those books, all of them. In some cases, he had even known the author. A few of the books had been gifts to Duasonh’s family well before the Heir War. Well before the destruction of Gathran, Dargh and Janagast. The three realms he had known so well.
How futile it seemed to remember the past glory of kingdoms and people long gone. He remembered visiting Dunthiochagh as a boy, how awed he had been by the imposing walls and the sights and sounds so alien to his young mind that his father had told him to close his mouth lest a bird would nest in it.
Back then the world had seemed so large and bright. Now, after more than a century, after seeing all his family grow old and die, a big part of him resented having pledged his life to Lesganagh, having volunteered for The Choosing. He had talked about this with Orkeanas, First of the Chosen. Like himself, Orkeanas was of the original twenty-four that had sacrificed their mortality to serve Lesganagh, Lord of Sun and War. Like Orkeanas, he would never know what it meant to die of old age.
Kildanor smiled as his fingers traced the spine of an old folio. “History of the Elves of Gathran,” a book few Houses of Knowledge owned. As with everything else concerning the Heir War, the true reason for the disappearance of the elves was unknown to man. Many scholars of recent times were convinced that with the elves, magic had also vanished. Some even claimed that mankind had driven them off.
They were wrong.
Was it any use to tell people that they erred? It hadn’t helped when the church of Eanaigh had declared the faith of Lesganagh heretic, supposedly because the priests had summoned demons to fight demons during the Demon War. Opposing the destruction of the temples had only resulted in more bloodshed. Thus, the Chosen and others of Lesganagh’s faithful had kept quiet. There had been enough killing already.
