Oath of the Thief

by Zackery Arbela

  “Is that Lukaas the Lucky?” someone asked.

  “Looks like him...hard to tell upside down.”

  It was indeed Lukaas the Lucky, a noted fixerman for the Crescent Lords, the kind of man who could would set up a lay, then bring in the talent to carry it out. Fenn worked for him once, in that hard first year after he came to Galadorn, when Lukaas was still and up-and-comer under the Brick…

  “Look at the sign! The son of a whore!”

  Fenn frowned and looked more closely, almost taking a step in for a moment before catching himself. Bad luck...befouling a shrine…

  Written on the sign were two words - CREKUS BRIN.

  “Bastard! This means war!”

  Fenn turned away as wild and angry speculation spread among the gathered skags.

  Most interesting, he thought silently, with a sense of dread gathering somewhere just below his chest.

  Chapter Three

  “Bad luck, killing a man in a shrine.” Fenn shook his head. It was evening now, and the place was filling up with the nights trade. He raised his voice to be heard over the noise. “I always wondered, what god was worshipped there. Do you know?”

  “Matter of fact, I do.” Red Eye rubbed the back of his head. “It was several, actually. There used to be an idol to Nisuua, the Lady of Coins.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “You’re not from Ruaad, so why would you? Some goddess from the southern parts of the Empire. Supposedly there is a temple to her in one of of the larger cities where men seeking her favor...how do I put this, interact directly with her priestesses before her altar. After which they are supposed to make a donation of coin or other appropriate gifts. Couldn’t get away with it here though, unless they set up in Keelarin. After that, it belonged to some saint...can’t remember the name. A year before you arrived the temple running it gave up, seeing as the locals weren’t interested in having their souls saved.”

  “Either way, it’s still bad luck. The gods - or the saints - remember men who show such disrespect.” Fenn looked around the tap room, noting the way men clustered together, ignoring the ladies of the evening strutting along the balcony above. Anger was in the air, barely suppressed, hostile eyes looking about and fixing on those who might be seen as enemies. Harald walking about, a club in one hand and eyes out for trouble, while Mari and the other serving wenches had knives prominently thrust through their aprons.

  “Suns and Spirits, half the men here are ready to murder the other half.” Fenn fought urge to check on his own weaponry.

  “It’ll pass, as it always does.” Red Eye seemed oddly calm. “Crescents and Docksiders killing each other. Might as well complain about the rain falling or dogs pissing in the street.”

  “Except there’s another player in this...or maybe that’s what someone wants us to think.” Fenn paused a moment. “I need a favor.”

  “Go on.”

  “Can you set up a meeting with Crekus Brin?”

  Red Eye stared at him for a moment. “Why?” he asked.

  “That’s my business.”

  “And mine, since you’re asking.”

  Fenn paused a moment, considering what lies he had to tell his oldest friend in Galadorn, a man who had helped him more times than could easily remember, more a brother than anything else, truth be told. Only the truth could not be told, else Red Eye turn on him. “If there is a war about to break out, and if Brin’s Boys are about to be in the thick of it...well, an enterprising young man like myself might find opportunities to profit.”

  “You’re going to place yourself under Brin’s flag?”

  “Perish the thought! I prefer my freedom. But I do get to wondering if he might be more agreeable to work with than the other mobs. After that last bit of business a few months back, I'm not exactly off Ogeron the Brick’s shit list...and I’d rather drink piss then take Docksider coin. So there aren't many other options at the moment.”

  Red Eye frowned. “You really are getting sloppy, Fenn, if you think that story is anything close to believable.”

  “Red, can you do it or not?”

  Red Eye glared at him with his red eye, his suspicions plain on his face. “All right,” he said. “Bu only because it's you asking. And on one condition - when this is done, you will tell me what this is really about. The truth, Fenn, and nothing else!”

  “I swear Red, you’ll have it.”

  Red continued to glare at him for a moment “I’ll make some inquiries,” he muttered as he turned away.

  Fenn felt a moment’s shame, tinged with embarrassment. Red was right, it was a miserable attempt at a falsehood. Suns and Spirits, maybe I am losing my edge.

  Sometimes a man’s feet took on a mind of their own. Such was the case on this day for Fenn, who found himself headed into Setorin, arriving at her house almost before realizing it.

  Setorin lay on the other side of the broad avenue known as Saints Way. Here the sagging buildings and dark alleyways of the Gardelaar were replaced with rows of small, well-kept houses and cobblestoned streets, home to generations of honest workmen and crafts folk, joined in recent decades by an influx of artists, poets and writers whose presence made the taverns of the district the most lively in the city. Young men (and the occasional women) whose work might one day be the glory of the world crowded into narrow garrets and small houses, eyes open for the nxt commission, the possibility of a patron. Young men on the make, eager to put their mark on the world...Galadorn was full of such these days in all walks of life. Fenn was no different from the eager young scribblers, dabbers and brush-wagglers, working their way their way up...except in his chosen line of work.

  The house was similar to others in their area...a small, two story structure with a garden in the back that Fenn knew from memory would be filled with flowers. The second floor room would have paint splatters on the floor, finished canvases stacked next to ones still being worked on. The air would smell of the various compounds and components from which artists made their pigments, along with the faintly bitter tang of garleaf oil which was used as a base. All to be expected in the studio of an up and coming artist, with the main difference being the resident here was female.

  But this day the doors were open. A team of burly men were going in and out, carrying heavy pieces of furniture that it took Fenn a moment to recognizes as pieces of a bed. Various memories came up from that sight, and Fenn let himself wallow in them for a moment before pushing them away with some effort.

  She was moving out. To be expected...after all a wife would not live separate from her husband after the wedding, at least not at first. He watched the workmen lift the heavy headboard of the bed into the back of a wagon. Then he turned away, walking back the way he came, but not back into the Gardelaar.

  Some time later he was a small plaza, some distance away, near the border of the district. A tavern was at one end, with long tables set up outside under the shadow of a broad canvas awning. Fenn sat on a bench, sipping from a clay cup of sour red wine. Late in the afternoon and patrons were trickling in, enjoying the late summer warmth. Most paid Fenn no mind, he was dressed simply and looked like just another laborer washing down the days dust. A useful skill, being invisible in the sight of others. He’d spent a good deal of time and thought figuring it out…

  Something slight tugged at his shirt, feather light. He sighed and struck out, lightening quick, he hand clamping down on a skinny wrist.

  “Close,” he said, looking down at the skinny, underfed lad standing behind him. “But not good enough. You’re on the work gang for the next year, Andi, shoveling horse shit under the whip.”

  “Might be shoveling it for pay,” Andi shot back. “Be better than taking your leavings, Fenn!” He yanked his hand free. “No harm in practicing...you won’t stab me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you hired me. I found the wench.”

  Fenn reached into a pocket and pull out a silver galmark. “Go on.”

  “Three stre
ets that way.” The boy pointed north. “Place with a red sign, with the mark of a needle and scissors. Had some words under it.” Like most of his ilk Andi could not read.

  “And she’s there?”

  “Saw her go it. She ain’t come out.” He held out his hand expectantly.

  Fenn dropped the coin into it. A moment later the boy was gone, on the dust kicked up by his bare feet marking his presence.

  Fenn finished the wine and stood, a sudden burst of nervousness filling him, then ruthlessly pushed aside. He crossed the plaza, heading north, spotting the sign soon enough. A dress shop...a small coach sat outside, the driver sitting up top, hat pulled low as he dozed.

  Fenn slipped into the alley to the left of the buildings. Old wooden crates were piled there, marked with faded guild stamps, opening to a small yard in the back were more boxes were stacked below an awning. The door to the back was open and he heard voices from inside.

  “I’m sure this is good enough. Suns and Spirits, more than enough, considering the price…”

  “My dear, your husband is one of the few men in this city who can truly say that money is no object. Remember, this is as much for our status as it is for his.”

  “Yes, you’re reminded me…” Movement inside, and then he saw her. Tall, curvy, her hourglass shape covered this day in a dress of disappointing modesty, particularly when it came to her magnificent bosom, her dark red hair coiled and braided behind her head. She glanced out the door and caught sight of him, their eyes connecting for a moment.

  “Let me think on it,” she said. “Now, would you give me some privacy?”

  “What for...ah, right. The dress. The measurements were correct.”

  “Yes, but always try before you buy, as father always said.”

  “If you father had more bits of wisdom beyond that, we wouldn't be in this predicament...very well. I’ll be in the front, talking with Orlda. Take your time.”

  A minute passed. This is a bad idea… Fenn looked around, then stepped through the back door.

  The room was filled with wooden mannequins, on which were dresses in various stages of completion. He gently fingered the fine quality cloth, the thief’s part of his mind calculating the profit that might be made from an armload of the stuff. Then, regretfully, he let go.

  A screen was set in the corner of the room. “I know what you’re thinking,” Joelie Castigar said from behind it. He heard the rustling of cloth. A moment later a length of something was flipped up to hand over the edge. “The one on the left...the blue one, that’s made from Heshani silk. Two aurins per hundred length, you might make a fine profit off of that.”

  “If I was a child and hungry I might take you up on that.” Stealing clothes was a low lay, done only by the young and desperate… “But not this day. It would not be…”

  “Gentlemanly?” She said the word with a laugh.

  “Polite.”

  More rustling, and another length of cloth went over the top. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not a good idea.”

  “I keep telling myself the same thing.”

  “Yet here you are.” A pause. “We had our fun, Fenn. There is no denying that.”

  “I won’t make the argument that we didn’t.”

  “But we were never a grand romance. I am...or at least was, a lady artist living on her own in Setorin. To take a rough fellow like you as a lover is almost expected. If I didn't have a scandalous past, people would say I was doing it wrong.”

  As far as Fenn knew, her family didn't know about him, though her father would have been naive not to suspect his daughter was up to something in the house he was paying for. That he did nothing about it showed he was either a broadminded fellow with remarkably indulgent views on morality...or a spineless fool. These were not mutually exclusive, and explained much with regards to his financial problems. “I take you your husband-to-be isn’t bothered by it.”

  “Narbo only cares that my family holds noble rank...low as it may be. Being an artist is merely a bonus...he can pose as a patron of culture for however many years he has left, which aren't many. He is a decent fellow, Fenn. He’s knows what his money is buying.”

  The fact that Joelie was referring to herself like a cow being sold disturbed Fenn more than a little. But before he could voice an opinion, she spoke again. “All things end in their own time, Fenn. You and I are no different. And you know I speak the truth.”

  She did. “I do. I never thought otherwise.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To say farewell, I suppose.” It was as good a reason as any.

  “Right then.” She stepped out from behind the screen, wearing a linen shift and nothing else, her red hair unbound and falling behind her back.

  She looked him in the eye and tugged at the bodice, letting the garment fall to the ground. “Let’s get on with it,” Joelie said briskly.

  A while later, Fenn was tucking his shirt into his trousers, while Joelie did up the bodice of her dress. She'd gathered her hair into a simple tail hanging down her back. The only sign of their recent exertions was a slight sheen of sweat across both their brows.

  “As farewells go,” she said, “that was enthusiastic.”

  “I aim to please,” Fenn said. “Perhaps we could do it again…”

  “We cannot meet again.” She cut him off firmly. “I will be married, and it would be in both our interests if you stayed far away. You are on a different path...”

  “Joelie?” A voice called out from another room. They heard footsteps. “I'm back. What do you think?”

  “It’s my mother. You need to go!” Joelie grabbed his arm and half-led, half dragged him towards the door.

  “Goodbye Fenn,” she said, pushing him out and closing it firmly.

  Fenn stood there for a moment, his mind and emotions and roiled jumble. He heard Joelie speaking her mother, heard both women laugh. With a sigh he turned and walked away.

  She was right. He should put her out of his mind and get on with his life. No reason to be melancholic. Yet a profound sadness clung about him all the way back to the Gardelaar.

  Chapter Four

  “Crekus Brin.” Kord said the name with distaste that he did not hide. “You are sure?”

  “I’m sure of what the note said. Whether or not he actually had anything to do with it…” Fenn shrugged.

  “So you’re suggesting there is another player in this game. Who seeks to cause trouble between the Crescent Lords, the Docksiders, and now it appears Brin and his boys?”

  “It’s the only possible explanation.” Fenn had sent the previous night ruminating on this, examining one solution after another. “Ogeron the Brick wanted this truce...too many of his jackfooters were being cut down in the street. There was no money coming in, the skags standing under his flag were getting restless, some saying he’s lost his edge. A few months of peace gives him time to refill the Crescent’s coffers and put down anyone who has doubts about his leadership and was dumb enough to say it out loud. The Docksiders for their part have control of the streets along the Keelarin Wall, but they need time to consolidate their hold on the ground they took. Maybe in a year or so they’ll be ready to bash at it again, but it does neither side any good to break the truce now.”

  “What about Brin? Where does dragging him into this figure?”

  “That I can’t make sense of. Brin and his boys might have an issue with the Docksiders getting strong enough to take a run at retaking Saint Barelin. But why strike at the Crescents? If anything, those two should be allies, the enemy of my enemy and all that. So that tells me someone else is stirring this pot, trying to set all three sides against each other.”

  Kord leaned back, hands behind his head. “Maybe one of the other gangs? Sarn the Goat and his lads have little love for the Crescents, and there’s no lack of ambition there.”

  “Sarn’s ambitious,” Fenn responded, “but not that ambitious. He has his hands full as it is, keeping hold of what he’s got.” />
  Kord nodded. Fenn has a strong sense the man already knew who was behind the attacks, that all these questions were just a clearing of the way before he finally gave up one of the many secrets hidden in his head. It was more than merely frustrating, as far as Fenn was concerned.

  “What do you know of the Shadowy Sun?” Kord asked.

  Fenn’s mind flashed back. Beware...the Shadowy Sun… The last words of a dying man. “I’ve heard the name,” Fenn said. “Nothing beyond that.”

  “That’s more than most people. They are ghosts, hidden in the...well, the shadows. A secret society, pulling at the strings of the world.”

  “A grand conspiracy.” Fenn forced a smile on his face. “Sounds like the ravings of a madman.”

  “That’s what everyone says,” Kord answered. “Phantoms of the mind, cooked up by those looking for something, anything, to blame for their bad luck and bad decisions. I thought that as well, once. But…”

  His voice trailed off for a moment, as if he was trying to find the words. “Forty years ago,” he then said, “Dorrus Incelidar overthrew the Republic of Notables, and became the first Prince of Galadorn. I was there, with his son Markus, who now rules us. That first year was chaos...three attempts on his life, and five on that of his son. Then came the Encanor Incident...a plot to poison the great aqueduct that brings in the fresh water for the city. Dorrus was the one responsible for building that aqueduct back in the days of the republic, and the popularity among the commons that it brought him laid the foundations for his ascension. To turn it into the instrument for mass slaughter would strike at the heart of his support. I caught the man responsible, and under...intense interrogation he confessed that it was agents of the Shadowy Sun who put him up to it, and that this wasn't the only plot they had in motion. Their designs, he claimed, went beyond Galadorn.