Vendors were quick to take advantage of this, hawking chapbooks and pamphlets nearby, their goods dangling from long poles slung over their shoulders. He paused by one for a moment, examining the wares. Tales of the lives of saints, religious tracts exhorting the reader to lead a moral life (however it was defined) seemed to be in the majority. Printed on the cover of these was a triaki - a three armed symbol, with bars across the middle of each arm, surrounded in turn by a perfect circle. Many temples across the city had a symbol like this, a legacy from the first founders of the city, who were supposedly refugees from another world fleeing religious oppression. He remembered seeing them in shrines to the saints in his birth city far to the north and another lifetime away But the version planted on the doors of these new temples, and on the books being sold, was different. A curious suspicion grew in his mind after a moments pondering, and he knew there was another game being played here, beyond the petty maneuverings of Galadorn’s underworld.
Not all books on sale were focused on the salvation of souls. Fenn spotted a pair of volumes detailing the more lurid cases recently on trial at the Water Court (always popular, though none would ever admit to reading such a thing) as well as a slender volume detailing the adventures of the Falcon Prince, a folk hero of the north who fought against the Emperor of Ruaad. Fenn remembered hearing such stories as a boy, sung in taverns and told around cookfires, and he handed the vendor a pair of pennies for the chapbook.
“Always a good read,” the vendor cackled, tapping a finger on the woodcut illustration stamped on the cover. A warrior standing on a hill with a winged helmet, hold a sword high while a women dressed like a princess knelt nearby, looking at her hero with an expression of awe. Fenn grinned and slipped it into a pocket for later.
He was being watched, that much as certain. Eyes followed him from windows and doors. Several men wearing the blue arm band stood in the doorway of a grog shop, giving him a hard look as he passed by, their arms crossed, one of them hitched his belt so the knife hanging from it was prominently displayed. We have our eyes on you, was the unspoken message.Yet no action was taken to stop him, Fenn continued on his way unchallenged. Word had gotten around, he had safe passage.
Then he was at the harborside. The smell of fish permeated everything - along the piers were racks on which strips were left to dry in the sun and wind, clouds of flies buzzing about, only occasionally disturbed by the boy keeping watching for hungry gulls. Warehouses and stores mingled with harborside taverns with colorful names...The Bronze Gull...the Perfumed Sheckleback...the Lady and the Ripped Net. The more elaborate the name, the more of a ruin the establishment was. He passed by a shack with the name the The Queen of the Western Spring Skies, which as far as he could tell held a single room inside with only a couple of gaffers nurshing their afternoon downers in relative peace and quiet.
By comparison the Leaping Fish was a sizable establishment, that took up nearly an entire block along the waterfront. A pair of wooden fish, one painted red the other blue, swung gently in the lake breeze above the door. The windowswere flng open and the sound of a viol being played drifted out faintly. Fenn went in through the front door and into a wide tap room half-full with men fresh off the lake, A young man stood in one corner, sawing away at the instrumen. All eyes looked up as he entered, taking his measure, some frowning at the unfamiliar face. Then they turned back to the drinks and conversation, leaving Fenn be as he went up the bar.
“I'm looking for Mikkel,” he said to the man tending to the bottles behind it.
The bartender looked over. “Who’s asking?”
“Fenn Aquila.”
The bartender said nothing for a moment, then blinked and turned away. “In the back,” he said, jering a thumb at a door off to the side.
“My thanks.” Fenn walked to the door. As he went the bartender thumped a fist against an open patch of wall, three hits, a pause, then another.
The door opened as he approached and two men with blue armbands men him. “Arms up.” one said.
Fenn stepped through and did as asked, saying nothing as they patted him down from head to foot, pulling a growing arsenal from various hiding places on his person. The daggers strapped to the inside of his forearms, the pistol tucked into the back of his belt, the second, smaller weapon tucked into his boot, the large dagger in the small of his back, the smaller blade tucked into his other boot…
“Expecting to fight a war?” one of the guards asked as the weapons were piled into a small box.
“Only if you don’t give them back,” Fenn replied.
Brin’s Boys didn't laugh at the weak joke. “We’ll be waiting outside,” one of them said. “You do anything unfriendly, and it’s dinner for the lake fish far as you’re concerned.”
“No fears in that regard,” Fenn said with what he hoped with a disarming grin. “I’m an excellent swimmer.”
The guards didn't laugh at that either. One of them opened another door at the far end of the hallway and indicated Fenn should go down it.
He entered another room, stuffy and warm, the only window firmly closed and blocked with a curtain. Smoke rose in faint wisps from a small brass pain, giving the room a faintly sweet scent. The only light came from a small brass sea lamp set on a table. Sitting beside it was a lean fellow wrapped in a blanket, his face hollow and thin from illness. In one hand he held a book, which he read silently, occasionally licking a finger before he turned a page.
Fenn stood there, unsure what to do or say The man looked over. He seemed to shiver for a moment, then with a sigh slipped a splinter of wood into the book to mark his place and closed it. “Forgive me for not standing,” he said in a surprising deep voice. “I have been ill for some months now. My physician recommends I refrain from unnecessary exertions. He also suggests that I avoid the consumption of strong drink...alas, some sacrifices will not be made, even in the cause of regaining one’s health. I am Crekus Brin. And you are Red Eye’s friend...what was your name again?”
“Fenn Aquila.”
“Aquila.” Brin repeated the name. There was a slight accent in his voice, that made it sound more like ag-willa. Fenn tried to place it...not like anything he'd heard of. A fact that only added to a growing suspicion.
“That is a northern name, if I am not mistaken. Oscanac in origin...House Aquila of Haeminder, that claimed descent from the legendary King of Osecel, in the days before the rise of Ruaad.”
“Yes, that’s...right.” Fenn was surprised that the sickling before him would have such knowledge of an obscure noble family from a city of Oscana.
“You don't have the look of a nobleman,” Brin observed. “Unless you are a prince in hiding?”
“I took the name as my own. There’s a story behind it, if you wish to hear it. I may be a prince among thieves, but my people are common as muck.”
“So much the better in my view. The most ancient roots tend to be the muddiest. Please sit, I certainly won't be standing.”
Fenn looked around and dragged a stool over, sitting down with a sigh. He waited a moment, while Brin drank down a small shot glass filled with a thick green liquor. The grimace on his face suggested the taste was anything other than pleasant. An extended spate of coughing followed, during which Fenn moved back slightly, in alarm at the amount of sputum coming out the fellow’s mouth.
“Are you all right?” he asked when Brin was done and caught his breath.
“No,” came the answer. “I’m dying.”
A long pause. Fenn tried to think of something to say. “That’s...well….”
“Spare yourself the effort of coming up with a platitude, Fenn Aquila. I’ve heard them all, and trust me when I tell you they do not improve. My liver is...well, the doctors have a long and complicated name for the condition, but the short version is that it is working less than it should with each. In time it will cease to work entirely and I will move on to the next stage of existence when a man must stand before the Final Judge of all to account for his actions i
n this life. You too will face that journey, I hope you have out se thought towards its preparation.”
Fenn shrugged. “I never think that far ahead.”
“A privilege of the young and foolish. You will learn.”
Another pause. Fenn shifted slightly, the stool was not comfortable and causing his thighs to fall asleep. “I have some questions for you.”
“Why else would you be here?” Brin smiled slightly. “You are going to ask about the killing in the Gardelaar, before the Red Cat.”
“And another before that, at a Docksider safehouse.”
“Neither happened at my order. Nor did I have anything do with the murder of those gentlemen in Keelarin two days ago,”
Fenn frowned. “What killing?”
“Ah, so there is something Kord Holdenor does not know? Or at least he did not trust you enough to tell you! The man has too great a love for secrecy...and yes, I know you work for him.”
“Am I supposed to be afraid?” Fenn asked, even as a knot of fear gripped his stomach.
“Considering what will happen to you should it become known, a certain amount of caution would be order. But you can relax, I won’t share your secret. For now at least. And again, this killing had nothing to do with us. I won’t deny that seeing Docksider scum dead in the streets is a cause for joy in Saint Barelin, but we only take steps to end them when they cross back. And Ogeron the Brick is nothing to me, his interests and mine do not cross except at the edges.”
Brin looked him in the eye. “So, there you have it. Questions answered. But that is not why you are here, is it? Why don’t you ask what’s really on your mind. Why are you really here, Fenn Aquila?”
Fenn was quiet. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Crekus Brin. I am fairly well known in this city.” Brin laughed at that. “Who do you think I am?”
Fenn leaned forward. “When I was a boy,” he said, “I once saw a man being whipped in the Heart Square of Haeminder, the city of my birth. He was a man of local birth, but at a young age he’d left the city, and I was told, this world of Eduri as well, which to me seemed impossible. He returned many years later, dressed in black robes and preaching in the streets, calling himself a servant of the true faith, a proclaimer of Orthodoxy in the name of the High Canon. He drew followers about himself, and they spent great sums feeding the poor and tending to their ailments.”
“Sounds like a true saint.”
“The Holy Reverances who ran the Civic Temple didn’t think so. They had him arrested and tried before the city. Misleading the faithful they claimed, though the reasoning behind it went right over my head...and most everyone else. What he had to say about the Prophets and the Godhead and all the rest wasn't the true version, at least in Haeminder. He was supposed to be burned alive, everyone was talking about it. But then word went around that the Grand Duke intervened, and the priest in question was no longer in the city, and no one was to discuss the matter again in public or face a large fine.”
“Interesting story What does have to do with me?”
You’re like that man. You’re from...well, from this world. But you left, and then came back.” After a pause, Fenn said, “You’re a missionary.”
“I can see why Kord forced you into his service, you are a sharp one.” Brin nodded. “I am part of the Order of Saint Vitek. We serve the High Canon of the Theocracy of Crannen. Do you know of it?”
Fenn nodded his head. “Only the name. When I was recruited into Lord Aquila’s regiment, they sent a scholar to teach me my letters. He told me that there are Nine Suns in this Universe, and more worlds and moon than a man can count circling around them, more than he could see if he lived ten thousand years. One of these Suns was called Inveril, and all the worlds around it were enslaved to an evil priest and his armies of deluded followers, who sought to kill the true believers who fled to this world a thousand years earlier to escape their persecutions and their lies, and the followers of the Godhead on this world had the right beliefs. To be honest, I wasn’t paying close attention, at that point it was less of a lesson and more of a rant. I thought the idea of there being countless words out there, beyond the sky, with people on them unbelievable. Then one day I saw a ship drop down the sky, and men from another world disembark. They had business with Lord Aquila. After that I believed it all.”
“Well, your old teacher was half right. All the worlds of Inverl swear allegiance to the High Canon, though to call them slaves is as far from the truth as one could get! And the wanderers and exiles who founded many of the cities dotting the east of this continent many centuries ago - including Galadorn, I might add - did leave those worlds over differences of religion, to put it mildly. They were heretics, who sought to pervert Archaelaea, and lead Archaerim down the path of damnation.”
“What is Archaelaea, and Archarim?”
“Suns and Spirits...you’re an Archaerim! As am I...and anyone who heeds the teachings of the Prophets Three, honors the saints and heeds holy scripture! On Sacred Crannen did they walk and preach, and there did the last of their number, Daven the Red, end his life in great battle against…” At which point Brn slumped moment, as if the spate of words had drained the strength from him. “Ah...I don't have the strength to give you a lifetime of religious instruction in five minutes, and I suspected you don’t have the time to hear it. So...you are correct, I am a missionary, sent by my Order to spread the Orthodox Faith on this world. I was born and raised i Sicela, so I am a native of this world, though I spent many years in a seminary very far away from here. The priest you mentioned earlier...he is know to me, though part of a different order, one whose methods are more, well, confrontational. My order uses a different approach, living among the people, helping them, and eventually teaching them. I certainly had no intention of starting a revolt against the criminals who were terrorizing this district, but when faced with evil, one can look away or drive it back. I chose the latter.”
Fenn frowned. “You wouldn’t be telling me this if it wasn't already known by those who matter.”
“Oh...Markus Incelidar knows who I am. He is a wise man, the Prince of Galadorn...He wants to make this city a center for offworld trade, and he knows my order can be useful. And we have helped him...more ships from the Empyrean have landed here in the last three years than in the last thirty. Galadorn grows rich, and House Incelidar grows ever more powerful. Ignoring my presence is a small price to pay for all that.”
Fenn nodded. “One question answered then.”
“Glad to be of service. What else is on your mind?”
Fenn looked him in the eye. “What do you know of the Shadowy Sun.”
“Ah...that lot.” A look of distaste flitted across his face. “Why do you ask about them?”
“These attacks...they may be involved, may be seeking to restart the war between the Crescents and the Docksiders, and drag you and yours into it as well.”
Brin frowned, and a flash of anger was in his eyes. “Kord thinks this?”
Fenn nodded.
“A warning. I must send him something in return, your master does nothing for free.” Brin scowled. “What I know counts as little more than rumor, though well sourced and as close to the truth as rumor every gets, mind you. Missionaries of my order, and various others as well, have been active in the Empire of Ruaad for two hundred years, without much success given the Emperors still persist in their heathen ways. All too often, men of my order found their efforts stymied by forces moving out of sight. Whispers in the ears of the powerful, followed in turn by unexplained deaths, a number of cruel massacres. In time we understood that there was an organized force behind this, a secret society, the Shadowy Sun. At first we thought it was in the service of the Emperors, a tool used when he wished to strike at his enemies in secret...then we learned they were responsible for the deaths of three Emperors in fifteen years, the last of which sparked a civil war in the Empire’s southern provinces, which the Shadowy Sun did its best to prolong. So its not mere powe
r they seek...no, they have another purpose. Where they go, chaos follows, yet it’s chaos for a purpose, created to guide events towards some final ending. What that may be I do not know.”
Another moment of silence. “That is all I know,” said Brin. “Now, I must ask you for something.”
“Go on.”
“I need to set up a meeting with Ogeron the Brick. I want you to broker it.”
Fenn grinned, barely stifling a laugh. “You come to me for that? Why not do it yourself? Surely you have contact with the Crescents?”
“At the moment they aren’t talking to us. That killing before the Red Cat has, according to my sources, caused something of a ruckus among the Crescent crews. Many are calling for blood, so Ogeron can’t look weak by speaking directly to me.”
“He won’t like me any better. I nearly killed him in his bath not to long ago.”
“Did you now? That must have been a sight!” Brin laughed. “But you are still breathing, without a price on your head. For a man like the Brick, that is a mark of respect. And you are respected, Fenn Aquila, master cracksman, a skag of fearsome reputation, whose left more than his share of bodies in the streets.”
“All in self-defence!”
“They always are. The point is, you are someone whose words will be heard.”
“You could reach out to Red Eye. He set up our meeting.”
“Why would I, when I have you sitting before more?” Brin spread his hands. “Do this for me, and I’ll owe you a favor. There aren’t many other men alive who can make this claim!”
Oath of the Thief Page 5
