Oath of the Thief

by Zackery Arbela

  A small cookfire smouldered in the center. Kalen squatted before it, poking about the insides of an old brass kettle, frowning as steam tricked out from the spout. “Last of the tea,” he sighed out. “A few leaves and twigs.”

  “Drink beer. It costs less.” Fenn approached. “At least you have a roof over your head.”

  “Right...count my blessings, and so on.” Kalen shook Fenn’s had and led him towards the house. The men sitting in the shadows stood and fell in behind. They went into the door, entering a long room with a battler table in the center. Alyana sat there with several boys and girls, eating from bowls of gruel.

  Fenn recognized some of the faces from Galadorn. Far fewer than he remembered, ten at most, including the youngsters. “Are there any others?” he asked.

  Alayana shook her head, setting down her spoon. “Many stayed behind in Galadorn. We came here with thirty, give or take a few. Some fled, most others moved on. We have tried to keep Garlet’s dream alive,” she waved at the children, who looked on Fenn suspiciously, “helping those being preyed on.”

  “No shortage of men with foul appetites in this town,” Kalen rumbled, mussing the head of a boy at the table, a young lad barely past his sixth birthday, holding a spoon far to large for his hand.

  “But not like it was,” Alyana said.

  “The rest of us are ready to move on,” said one of the men from the yard. A haunted, defeated look was on his face. “What’s the point, I ask you? Garlet is dead, Galadorn is closed to us. We are barely scraping by in this city, and it’s about to go up in flames, the way things are going, as we will burn with it…” The other snodded at this, and even Kalen had a look of grim resignation in his eyes.

  Fenn reached into his coat and pulled out the money bag Oleybac gave him the day before, an advance on his wages. He tossed it on the table, the clink of coin resounding to all. “That should tide you over,” he said. “Enough to put some meat on those youngsters bones! They look like walking matchsticks.”

  Alyana reached for the bag, then hesitated. “What do you want in return? And don’t play at false charity, Fenn Aquila. Say what you want, and speak plain!”

  “For now, just wait,” Fenn answered. “I have business of my own in Kirondaal, and it’s the sort of work that will need extra hands at the end.”

  “What kind of work?” Kalen asked, curiously.

  “I’m looking for ghosts, men hiding in the shadows. They’re connected to bad business back in Galadorn, killing that have left the shady side on the edge of war. Might have tipped over by now, for all I know...they’re the reason I had to leave. I figure, why not return the favor? They are here, in Kirondaal, and so am I.”

  “What are they called?” Alyana asked. “Do you have a name?”

  Fenn hesitated a moment, not sure what ears might listening, how much he cold trust these fellows. Garlet was connected, who’s to say they weren’t as well…

  “The Shadowy Sun,” he said, taking the risk, watching their faces, their eyes, for any reaction, any sign of recognition.

  But only ignorance looked back. “Never heard of ‘em,” said Kalen. “Sound fearsome.”

  “They are.” Fenn rubbed the back of his head. “Garlet was connected to them, in some way. He told as much...right before he died.”

  Silence at that. Then Fenn pointed at the bag. “There’s more where that came from. Consider it a down payment.”

  “So,” Alyana reponded. “We’re working for you now.”

  “You have anything better on offer?”

  She shook her head. “We do not.” She took the money.

  “Any objections?” Kalen asked the others. Shakes of the head, none of them left to spoke up. “Fair enough, Fenn. We’re with you. What now?”

  “Kalen, you come with me. The rest of you, just hold tight. Keep doing what you are doing. Something is happening in three days, and I’ll reach out through Kalen.” He looked around. “Clear?”

  “Aye!”

  “Ya, boss!”

  He looked at Alyana, who nodded. “As you say,” she answered.

  “Is there a reason why the roof tiles change in color from one part of the city to another?” Fenn asked.

  “Couldn't tell you Maybe they like the effect?” Kalen shrugged. “Looks real pretty from a distance.”

  “Can't see anything up close though” Feen peered upward, looking at the white tiles that covered the top of every building in the Broom Ward. Up close they had more of a pale grey look, darked by exposure to the elements. A flock of pigeons flew over hear, suddenly scattering in all directions as an even more distant hawk flew past.

  The houses in this area were made of gray-brown brick, covered with whitewash that was left undecorated, giving them a shining effect in the summer sun that made one’s eyes ache after a while, though the locals didn't seem all that affected. The southern end of the Ward was given over to metalworkers of all kinds, as it was far away from the homes of the wealthy and thus would not affect them with the ever-present noise. Hammer blows on anvils, the hissing and shrieks of forges and foundries, the rattle and clatter of all sorts of metal, all everywhere along with the smell of charcoal being shoveled into the hungry flames. Before Kirondaal was known for its Arcanists, it was known for the skill of its smiths, who could make anything from a gold necklace delicate enough to grace the bodice of a fine lady without her noticing the weight, to steel plate strong enough to resist a cannonball. Everyday, wagons loaded down with ore from the hills and charcoal from the rumbled in, while lakeboats departed from the docks with the finished wares bound for points across the continent of Tyberia and beyond. Even offworld, if some stories were to be believed.

  They were approaching one large smithy now, a broad pair of buildings surrounded by a low wall. Smoke and heat rose up from one, while the other resounded with the sounds of metal being stuck by hammers. Handing from the front was a sign bearing the image of a snake curled about a blade, over a pair of crossed staves.

  “There it is,” Fenn said, reaching into his bag and pulling out the long knife. He held up the pommel, the makers mark matching the sign.

  “Something about that sign prick your interest?” Kalen asked.

  “I took this off a man who tried to kill me, in Galadorn. Some of his friends had a hand in other attempted murders. Ogeron the Brick among them.”

  “Someone tried to top off the Brick?” Kalen was impressed.

  “They tried. Didn’t quite finish the job, but it didn’t matter in the end, he was cut up pretty bad and left bedbound, and now his captains are at each others throats. The killers also made a run at Crekus Brin, but he got away.”

  “Bugger me backwards…” Kalen shook his head, wondering at the scope of such a plot. “And how do you figure into all this?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time. Someone had to take the blame, never mind that I had nothing to do with it. Which is why I am here, holding this dagger and asking questions. Whoever set those killers loose on Galadorn streets equipped them with blade of Kirondaal make, and at least one of those blades came from there.” He pointed at the smithy.

  “Seems a bit thin,” Kalen observed.

  “All I got. Watch my back.” And with that Fenn went into the smithy.

  A gaggle of apprentices were gathered in the force to the right, hard at work and hammering away at long blanks of iron on a line of anvils. Finished blades sat on wooden racks off to one side, some still hilt-less, others completed and ready for the market or delivery to their owners. Fenn paused by a rack for a moment, flicking a finger against a blade and hearing the clear ring of high quality steel.

  “What’s your business?” A man emerged from the other building, wiping his hands with a rag. He was short but built broadly, like a boulder that one day decided to grow legs and go for a stroll. His shoulders were large, as were the arms below them, built up from years of swinging a hammer. The patchy beard that clung to his chin barely had traces of whatever original color it might have
been, the rest turned to an iron gray long ago.

  Fenn turned to him. “Are you the master of this establishment?”

  “Aye.” The mastersmith took in Fenn’s somewhat ragged appearance, as well as that of Kalen. “No time for beggars, there is too much to be done. Be off with you!”

  “Do I look like a vagrant?” Fenn shot back,. Insulted. He’d never begged for anything in his life…

  “You do, truth be told,” Kalen muttered.

  “You’re not helping.” Fenn took out Oleyvac’s card and held it up, displaying the name, then the coat of arms. The mastersmith peered at it closely, then at Fenn, his eyes narrowing.

  “Beg your pardon,” he said. “So many new faces in the city these days, it’s hard to tell. Perric Tronac, Mastersmith of the First Grade. This,” he waved his hand around, “is my forge. Shall we go inside?”

  They went into the building which functioned a combination of office and workshop. On the ground floor a crew of workers were at work engraving a line of long blades. Upstairs was an office lined with shelves of thick ledgers. Tronac sat down at his desk with a sigh of relief. “So,” he said, looking at his guests (who remained standing.) “What brings you fine gentlemen to my humble smithy?

  “Captain Oleyvac seek a contract with local craftsmen such as yourself, for the supply and repair of weapons used by our men.” The lie fell easily from Fenn’s lips. “Swords are worn out, pikes need replacing and so on. Inquiries were made, and you name was mentioned.”

  Tronac raised an eyebrow, “Really? I thought Yossar Tavelin was contracted with Lord Mora to provide those services.”

  “Indeed he is,” Fenn said, quickly adjusting his story, Already remain light on your feet, didn't matter if you were running across a rooftop or lying through your teeth… “However, it is thought that favoring one mastersmith over all others would be a cause of resentment among your numbers as a whole...share the wealth and so on. And with the numbers of mercenaries in this city as they are, and more coming in by the way, it’s feared that Master Tavelin may not be able to meet the demand.”

  “Hmm…” Tronac leaned back in the chair. “Seems odd. Why wouldn’t Captain Oleybac come to me himself? Why send you two?”

  “Because there’s another part of this job, which has to remain secret.” Fenn took out the long knife and laid it on the desk.

  Tronac leaned forward and picked up the knife. “One of mine,” he said, turning it around critically. “Has my mark on it.”

  “Captain Oleyvac would be most grateful if you tell us who that blade was sold to.”

  Tronac laughed. “I’ve sold hundreds of these, maybe even thousands, over the years! I couldn't tell you where they went!”

  If it helps,” Fenn said, “that one was sold within the last year, probably as part of a large order that went to some men who fared on to Galadorn. Where they committed murder most foul.”

  Tronac set the knife down quickly. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “I just make the blades, what happens to them or where they end up…”

  “Of course. But nonetheless, it is your mark on that. That blade there,” Fenn leaned over and tapped with a finger, “was used to backstab a young man of upstanding character with a promising future. Who happened to be Captain Oleyvac’s nephew. He is most eager to see justice done, and so far you are the only lead we have. Help us in this, and the contract is yours. Do not, and you will have made an enemy.”

  Tronac grimaced. “Give me a moment.” He stood and went to a shelf, taking down a ledger and laying it on the desk. A minute passed as he went through the records, one page after another, long lines of figures and notations spread across the surface like crawling ants. Then he tapped his finger. “That blade, I remember it now,” he said. “Part of a set sold to a man from Galadorn last autumn. Name of...ah, here is is. His name was Garlet Braem.”

  “”Braem?” Kalen asked, eyes raised.

  “That’s what he said. Young fellow, as I recall. Paid...seventeen Galadornian aurins of gold and two silver galmarks for the lot.” Tronac tuned the book around and pointed at an entry, “There’s his mark, see for yourself.”

  And indeed, there it was, written in a near hand. Garlet Braem, Galadorn.

  Fenn looked up. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful. We’ll leave this here,...” he tapped the long knife,, “in case it helps you remember more.”

  “If I recall anything else, I will let you know.”

  “He didn't believe any of that foolishness,” Kalen said. They were back in the street, a short distance away from Tronac’s smithy, half-hidden in an alleyway and watching.

  “Of course not,” Fenn said with a grin. “Two men who look like they slept under a hedge come to your office and say....well, what I said. Would you believe it?”

  “Then why did he show us his books?”

  “To get us out there, I imagine.”

  Kalen shook his head. “I still don't get it. Why lie if he knew you were lying?”

  “Because sometimes you want to be caught out in a lie,” Fenn answered. “You learn more from how they react. For example, Tronac didn't call for help.. A dozen apprentices could have been there with single call to throw us into the street, but instead he stayed quiet and showed us the ledger.He knew what I am after, said just enough to make me leave. So now we wait.”

  “For what?”

  “For him to call for help.”

  Kalen frowned on this, then shrugged. “I still don’t get it,” he repeated. “But you do, so that enough for the moment.” After a pause, he asked, “Was Garlet who bought them blades?”

  “I wouldn't rule it out.”

  “He left Galadorn for a few weeks, last winter.” Kalen looked troubled. “Said he was headed to the south of Adelaan...there is a farm near Sanari we were using to hide a few girls we liberated from the Thorny Guard. But what if he came here instead…”

  Fenn shook his head. “He’s not in a position to tell us, one way or the other…” Then he looked at the smithy. “There he is.”

  “Who?” Kalen looked out. The door to the place opened, and one of the apprentices came out. Clutched in one hand was the long knife. He looked about, then hurried down the street.

  They followed him down the street, keeping a distance so he wouldn’t be suspicious., Yet the apprentice never looked back, clutching the knife to his chest and hurrying on, as if eager to be rid of his burden. He pressed on through the Broom Ward, headed north to the low wall separating it from the next area, where the roof tiles were orange and tall towers rise above the lesser buildings, the sides marked with wide crystal windows that reflected the light of the sun, giving them a shimmering effect. Great flickering flames twisted at the tops of the four tallest, each a different color - red, blue, green and purple.

  The apprentice went to the last of these, headed into a wide square surrounded it, in which men wearing scholarly robes milled about, taking a break from their studies and respite from the summer heat in the broad shadow cast by the tower. He walked around, circling the broad base of the tower, the cut across the square, headed to a large mansion set on the northern edge. Set above the door was a large purple crystal, carved in the shape of a tulip. The apprentice went to this door and knocked. A moment later it opened and a butler appeared, standing aside to let him in.

  Fenn and Kalen watched from across the square. “That’s interesting,” Fenn said. “Do you know whose house that it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Kalen answered. “That is the home of Miro Tamelan. He leads the School of the Tulip...hence that gaudy ornament above the door.”

  “Arcanists.” Fenn crossed his arms, lost in thought. “They are one of the schools that run this city.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hmm. Fenn thought on this. So....what do I know?

  Men working for the Shadowy Sun tried to assassinate Ogeron the Brick and Crekus Brin.

  They were armed with knives made b
y Mastersmith Tranoc.

  Miro Tamelan is involved, otherwise why would Tranoc send a message to him?

  But...is he connected to the Shadowy Sun? Why are they killing gangsters in Galadorn? And how are the Schools of Kirondaal involved?

  “Suns and Spirits,” Fenn muttered. “This only gets more confusing.”

  Chapter Ten

  A lot could happen in three days, particulary if a man kept his ears open and his feet busy.

  A walk through the Broom Ward ducking in and out of various taverns, taking in a cup of wine in the common rooms:

  “Getting worse, I tell you.”

  “No argument from me on that score.”

  “I mean, it’s been bad in the past, but Suns and Spirits! Those schoolmen are out to murder each other That fracas in Gesmor Square was just the latest. I've heard of students being stabbed in the back, having their throats slit when they bed down in a brothel...yesterday morning they found a man floating in the harbor, a porter working for the School of the Chrysanthemum. Had his throat cut from ear to ear. Now I’m hearing that half the staff working at their tower are staying home for fear of the same!”

  “One can only imagine how the Chrysanthemum’s will respond.”

  “You know, bad as it was in the old days, at least when the nobles whipped out their swords, they could only stab and slash. They couldn’t throw out fireballs from their hands and burn down half the city if they got it wrong…”

  An hour later, in a coffee house by the East Gate, where traders gathered to share news and swap lies:

  “Can’t last.” The merchant shook his head as he sipped from his cup. After a moment he picked up the pot and poured a second, sliding it over to Fenn. “Never seen it this bad. The problem is beyond the city walls now.”

  “Go on.” Fenn picked up the cup and took a sip, hiding his grimace. He had little love for coffee (a noxious brew introduced in Avexin, supposedly by traders from offworld, and since spread like a weed across the east of Tyberia. To his tongue it tasted like especially bitter shoe leather.)