Oath of the Thief

by Zackery Arbela

  “So I started investigating, using the resources of House Incelidar. It a while...years in truth. A hundred words, whispered in a thousand shadows, and perhaps ten of them came anywhere close to the truth. But what they revealed was terrifying. Consider all that has happened over the four decades...in Kirondaal, the ruling oligarchy is overthrown by the Arcanists schools, and now they are on the verge of war with their vassal towns in Seren. In Oscana, a coalition of princes and free cities fights against the Emperor of Ruaad - the war you fought in as boy - and now those same Princes and cities are at each other’s throats. In the Empire itself, five Emperors have been assassinated in less than twenty years, and the southern provinces are on the verge of breaking away entirely. Everywhere, the ruling order is challenged, and what replaces it is chaos. When I looked into all these things, there were rumors of men behind the scenes, whispering into the ears of those in power, then vanishing when it all fell apart. None of this is coincidence, a single mind is shaping it according to a plan.”

  “The Shadowy Sun,” Fenn said, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder. “And you think Crekus Brin’s part of it.”

  “I don't think anything. I only have my suspicions. But Brin came out of nowhere. No one in Saint Barelin heard of the man before he arrived five years ago, no one on Galadorn has any recollection before that. And there is no trace of him in any of the other cities of Adelaan, or beyond. It’s as if he descended from the sky...and the result of his actions is the shady side of Galadorn in complete turmoil. If things go badly, it will spill into the city as a whole.”

  “But Brin hasn't disappeared,” Fenn pointed out. “All these other tumults you mention...in all of them the ones you say orchestrated it, the Shadowy Sun, vanish once their work is done. Brin is still here.”

  “Which is why I haven’t arranged his death. At last not yet.” Kord smiled mirthlessly. “So, you’ve asked Red Eye to set up a meeting between you two.”

  “He wasn't happy about it. He thinks I'm holding out on him.”

  “You are holding out on him...if he knew the truth, you’d be face down in the lake within the hour. When will it happen?”

  Fenn shrugged. “I don’t know. He’ll get back to me.”

  “I want a full report after it happens. Leave nothing out. And also, tread carefully with Brin, until we know where he stands. The last thing anyone needs is more trouble along the docks.”

  A boy was waiting for Fenn in the street. “You be Fenn?” the child asked. He looked barely a day past his eleventh year, while his eyes were those of a man decades older who had seen far too much.

  “Who’s asking?” Fenn responded.

  The boy thrust a scrap of paper at him. “Red Eye sends this.”

  Fenn took the note, glancing at the scrawl and recognizing it as Red’s nearly illegible scribble. He looked at the boy, who waited expectantly, holding up a hand.

  “You one of Andi’s boys?” he asked, handing over a copper coin.

  “Used to be,” came the reply. “But Andi turned his back. Went straight.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He just took a job with the dung carts. You’ll see him working a shovel down in the Gold Quarter.”

  “Honest coin for an honest day’s work.”

  “Shameful.” The boy shook his head. “No way for a man to live.”

  “Depends on the man.”

  The boy scarpered off, leaving Fenn to wonder for a moment at the continued degeneracy of the world and the way it manifested among the youth of this day. “Some things never change,” he muttered

  Kord and his men had safe houses all over the city- this particular one was in the Campelor. A few streets away he could see the big houses owned by the courtesans that catered to the nobles and merchant princes alike, women renowned for their wit and beauty, upon whom men spent fortunes merely for the privilege of appearing briefly in their company where the rest of the city could see. Visits to Galadorn always went to that area first, in hopes of gazing upon, if only for a moment, the faces of women whose beauty was said to rival that of angels or goddesses.

  Fenn for his part was content to head the other way. He’d had experience with the company of a courtesan (something other skags would scoff at, if ever found the strength to tell the story.) It did not end well. And he was still paying the price.

  He went past. The district became more downscale the closer he got to the Gardelaar, until he crossed the street that marked the boundary. Rumor had it that some among the great and good of the city wanted to build a wall around the Garelaar, openly speaking of quarantining it from the rest of Galadorn, as one might separate lepers from the healthy. The question at the moment was over who would be responsible for paying for it.

  He saw the men following him as wen across the street, coming out from another alleyway and falling behind. He sighted and continued on, headed down a narrow alleyway. Two of them,..brown trousers and stained linen shirts...one of them wore a coat despite the heat.

  Must be new, he thought to himself. Most club-and-cosh men who worked the Gardelaar knew the faces to avoid, and Fenn’s was at the top, or near enough, of that particular list. They trailed behind him, eyes fixed on their quarry, like cats stalking a mouse. Fenns fingers twitched as he reached for the pistol tucked into the back of his belt, then stopped. They moment they saw the shooting iron those fellows would rush, and they’d be on him before he could cock the hammer and take aim.

  Another strategy then. He continued to walk, as if he had had no idea other men were behind....then suddenly cut to the right, ducking down an even narrower passage between two crumbling buildings. He heard shouts behind him...didn’t make out the words, he leapt over a pile of rotting filth, then turned left down another street, then right again down another alley. Right, left, left...then right again, heading into the maze that was the Gardelaar.No way they would follow him, he knew this place like the back of his hand..

  Except he heard their voices again, clsin in behind him. He bit back and curse, his right hand slipping into his left sleeve to pull out the dagger strapped there. Fenn turned around a corner and skidded to a halt, barely an inch away from skerwring himself on a pointed blade thrust at hm.

  The man before him was dressed the same as the others, and held a knife long enough to be considered a shortsword. Fenn skipped back, then stopped as his pursuers appraed, breathing heavily and flushed in the heat. They all had clubs in their hands, dark, hardened wood that could crack a skull like an egg in a single blow.

  “Drop the blade,” said the swordsman in accented voice. He stepped forward, raising the sword slightly, the pointed arimed a Fenns throat.

  Fenn nodded, lowered the dagger...then quick as lightning reached his left hand under his right sleeve to draw its twin. He skipped back as the swordsman cursed and advanced, then halting as Fenn held one a dagger at his throat, while holding out the other at his comrades.

  “You first,” Fenn said, looking at the swordsmen, then at his friends.

  They held back, eyes fixed on the blades, uncertain and hesitant. Fenn grinned...they knew coming at him would have a cost in blood. “You fellows know whose bell you’re about to ring?” he asked. “You must new in town! Here’s a bit of wisdom…there’s skags you can hit, and skags you can’t! I’m a skag you can’t touch. I have friends and they’ll mark you for death! Don’t matter if you take my coin, there’s not a place in Galadorn you can spend it without a knife in your back! That’s what happens when you touch Fenn Aquila...”

  “We know that name,” said the swordsman, cutting him off.. “This is the one we want! Kill him now!”

  The swordsman followed up his words with a sta. Fenn stepped back, the blade missing his belly by a few inches. He jerked his elbow back, clipping the man across the face then shoving him back hard.

  He closed in, stabbing with the dagger in his left hand. The blade scraped off the man’s coat, and Fenn grappled him instead, the two men stumbling back. The would-b
e killer shoved Fenn against the wall, knocking the breath out of him even as his friends closed in, clubs raised high. He shoved Fenn against the wall again...then cursed as Fenn stabbed him in the side, the blade sinking in halfway.

  The swordsman whipped back his head, bashing Fenn on the forehead. Fenn saw stars and stumbled away, even as the swordsman staggered, dropping the sword and clutching at the wound with a wailed curse. The other two rushed past him, one raising a club bringing it down at Fenn’s head. At the last moment Fenn jerked aside and flinches as the club bounced off the wall, sending chips of broken brick flying.

  Fenn lashed out blindly with the dagger, felt the edge cut on something, followed a moment later by a roar of pain and a clattering on the cobbles. The first thug fell back, clutching his arm as blood welled up. A red stain colored the cutting edge of the knife

  The other thug hesitated at moment, looking at his wounded comrades. Long enough for Fenn to reached behind his back with his right hand and pull out the pistol.

  “Gun” the shug shouted, followed by something in a foreign tongue. The other two took to their heels, hobbled their way around the corner, while the club man followed behind, ducking his head down as Fenn raised the pistol and thumbed back the hammer.

  He took aim, but his was still dizzy from the head blow, and by the time he had a shot at the last of the thugs, the man disappeared around a corner.

  “Bugger all.” Fenn uncocked the pistol and lead back against the wall, shaking his head and waiting for the stars in his eyes to fade. He blinked a few times, then with a groan pushed himself a way, raising the gun in case the men came back. After a moment’s wait he slipped it back into belt, then touched the swelling on his forehead.

  “Damn it all…” That would leave a mark. He wiped the remaining dagger clean and slipped it back into the scabbard under his right forearm. The other dagger was gone, stuck in the side of that last would-be bellringer. They were a matched set, he’d picked them up only a month back…

  “Bastards!” Fenn shouted. He turned away, took a step, then halted. That long knife was on the ground. Too long to fit under his forearm, but still…

  He picked it up and flicked his finger against the blade, his ears catching the ring of high-quality steel. A long blade with a polished wooden handle and brass pommel, the long triangular blade sharp.

  Spoils of battle… He kept hold of the blade and continued on his way.

  Chapter Five

  Sundown. The Leaping Fish on the docks. Ask for Mikkel.

  Fenn looked at the note again, before crumpling it in his hand and letting it fall into the gutter. An hour before sundown, and he was approaching Hog Lane, a narrow street running east and west. At first glance it looked unremarkable, a line of cobblestones half-hidden in the shadows as the day wound down. A man pushing a wheelbarrow shuffled forwards, his reedy voice calling out to the world. “Clams and cockles...cockles and clams…”

  Fenn reached the street, and came to a halt. Unremarkable to those not in the know, but for a man like him a barrier hard as any border between kingdoms. One one side was the Gardelaar, on the other dockside district of Saint Barelin, and it was by general agreement and consensus a Bad Idea for a man from the former to cross into the latter unless he was invited and expected. Fenn looked to his left, where a pair of burly dockworkers stood by a doorway, talking to one another and occasionally looking out across the road. One of them had a blue rag tied around a bulging upper arm. One of Brins Boys.

  Fenn took a breath, exhaled slowly and stepped onto the road. He was armed - that was to be expected - but held his hands out. The men watched him cross, giving him a hard stare. Then they looked away, the one with the armband waving him on.

  Interesting… He was expected. Word had gotten out. Fenn exhaled slowly and swiftly crossed the street, stepped around the vendor with his wheelbarrow, the shellfish inside clicking softly in their brine tub. Depending on how things went, Fenn might buy a handful on his way back...assuming he was still among the living.

  There were three harborside districts in Galadorn. Sanjenar Docks, where the war galleys of the fleet were berthed, ready to strike out should Galadorn’s interests on the great lake-sea Balendaas was ever threatened. Steelwater, whose piers were thronged day and night with lakeboats carrying all manner of cargoes and passengers. Its warehouses were filled to bursting with exotic goods from across the world and beyond...and guarded by private armies of guards hired by the merchant princes who owned them and empowered by Princely decree to kill on the spot any thief who tried to pilfer, plunder otherwise steal even the smallest peck of grain or scrap of silk.

  To the west was Saint Barelin. Greater in size than the other two districts, and yet mired in poverty. It’s moldering piers and wharves were more likely to have fishing boats tied up than cargo haulers. The fact that it was bordered by the Gardelaar to the south weakened its appeal to shippers and merchants, not to mention the carters that would have to detour around it to get their goods to market, only adding to its expense.

  Yet Saint Barelin’s troubles did not merely end with the presence of an unpleasant neighbors. Honest sailors and merchants disdained it as a port of entry, but smugglers and other waterborne villains were more than willing to fill the gap. Vicious gangs once ruled the waterfront, attacking ships at anchor in the night, scavenging along the shoreline, and bringing in contraband by the light of the moon. Dead bodies floating in on the tide were a common sight...the ordinary folk paid the price, as the gangs were more than happy to supplement their income by extorting the dockside folk of what little wealth they had. The city at large didn’t much care, the Watch was earning a fortune in bribes, and appeals to the Prince never got past the Palace gates.

  Then a man appeared once day, preaching in tavern rooms and street corners, at growing gatherings of angry men in abandoned warehouses and desolate piers. His name was Crekus Brin, and his message was a simple one. The city did not care about them, they could only look to the Godhead for salvation. And the Godhead would help those who helped themselves...if they were to free their families from the criminals that plagued them, it be by their own hands and no one else.

  This did not go unnoticed by the gangs, and more than once they tried to silence him. Every attempt failed, and his legend only grew. It was claimed that an assassin shot him in the chest, only for the ball to strike a small prayer book he always kept in a breast pocket. An hour later, leaving his would-be killer as a bleeding pile in the streets, he spoke to a gathering of several hundred men, waving the book over his head. “Heaven stands by the righteous!” he bellowed. “Who among you has the courage to do what needs to be done?”

  They didn’t, at least not that night. But the mood in the streets was dire. All it took was one final push...which came a month later, when a botched robbery led to the death of a father and his two-year old daughter The funeral at a dockside temple quickly turned in into a riot, with Brin calling yet again for the men of Saint Barelin to take up arms against their tormentors. And this time they listened.

  Fenn had only been in Galadorn a few months when all this took place. He heard the stories, filtering through the city streets like smoke on the wind….gangs of vigilantes forming at street corners, their arms wrapped in blue bands and Crekus Brins name on their lips. At his signal they swept through the district, going through every pot shop, wine sink and joy house frequented by the gangs, killing their members on sight, as well as anyone associated with their business or profited from it in any meaningful way. Those who got away found themselves hunted through the streets, shot at from windows and rooftops and pelted with anything that could be thrown.

  It was later claimed that, far from a spontaneous uprising of honest citizens pushed too far, the Night of Blood and Water (as it was later called) was planned for months, that the vigilantes went about their business with lists of names marked for death. That the Watch, which had grown fat from the bribes of the smugglers, was conspicuously absent that day. An
d that the Prefect of the Walls (that official responsible for the maintenance of law and order within the city) assembled two of Galadorns regiments upon hearing of the uprising, but waited two whole days before sending them in to restore order.

  Galadorn was a city built on rumors. How it actually happened was irrelevant in the end. Three hundred men died, the harborside gangs slaughtered where they stood. The survivors fled into the Gardelaar, where they quickly combined their numbers into a new gang, the Docksiders. Unable to return across Hog Lane on pain of death, they pitched themselves into desperate warfare against the Crescent Lords.

  Brins Boys were the power now in Saint Barelin. Contrary to what most expected, they hadn’t degenerated into criminality on their own, and remained what they were, a local militia whose focus was the safety of their streets. Tis did not extend to the upholding of the Princes laws - smuggling continued in Saint Barelin, as it had before. But the new operators that replaced the old gangs learned from the mistakes of their predecessors and kept a low profile. As for Crekus Brin, he was still there, but rarely appeared in public these days. Yet his authority remained unquestioned, more respected than the districts actual governor. Curious minds speculated why he remained in power, for Markus Incelidar, Prince of Galadorn, would not tolerate any rival for power, great or small. Fenn figured there was some sort of arrangement in place. What it might be, he could only begin to speculate.

  Past Hog Lane the district changed character, divided between several wide streets running east to west, with smaller lanes branching off north to south and wider access roads that led directly to the docks. He could see them now, looking northward, the masts of the fishing fleet bobbing at anchor (they’d just returned with a fresh catch, which even now was making its way to the city markets) and beyond that the pale blue of Balendaas. Small houses held the families of the longshoremen and fisherfolk, their children running about the streets and alleys. Small temples could be seen on every street corner, or so it seemed to Fenn’s eyes. Occasionally he'd pass one and hear the sound of chanting and the smell of incense...some new sect that had come to the city and planted roots here. But more often than not the pews would be filled with children and parents alike, holding slates in their hands as bearded fellows in dark robes instructed them in their letters, using sacred scripture as a teaching aid.