The Smoke Thieves Series, Book 1

by Sally Green

“Look, I’ll ask around. Someone must know something. But you do believe I didn’t take it, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I believe you,” growled Gravell. “But that bottle’s gone because of your antics, missy. Get me the name of the person who took it and I’ll think about forgiving you.” Gravell pointed his knife at Tash. “You’d better sort this out, or our partnership is off for good.”

  EDYON

  DORNAN, PITORIA

  EDYON RELAXED in the bath after Gravell left, dozing in the warm water that never seemed to cool. He felt not just clean but reinvigorated. His tooth was still a little sore, and definitely loose, but his body no longer ached. He could believe that was due to the warmth of the water, but his lumps and bruises had completely gone, and his skin was glowing and smooth as a newborn baby’s. Warm water alone can’t do that, he mused.

  Edyon dressed in his clean, dry clothes, wrapped the smoke bottle in a fresh towel, and then covered it with his leather jacket. Tucking that under his arm and checking that the purple glow from the smoke couldn’t be seen, he left the bathhouse. If the sheriff’s men caught him with demon smoke, he’d be in serious trouble. Demon smoke was illegal as well as expensive; possession of it alone would mean twenty lashes and a year’s hard labor.

  Edyon worried at his loose tooth as he walked. He’d told himself he’d never steal again. But stealing wasn’t a decision; it was a . . . a compulsion. The need to take the bottle, to possess it, had seized him as simply and as strongly as it always did. He couldn’t explain it any more than he could have explained his need to take a picture frame or a silver ship. And while his body felt good, his mind now followed the path it always did after he had stolen—a troubled one.

  Edyon liked the girl and didn’t want her to be blamed for his actions. He didn’t want to get caught by the sheriff’s men, and he particularly didn’t want to get caught by the huge monster of a man that was Gravell. It wouldn’t be long before Gravell worked out that the girl hadn’t taken the smoke, and therefore it wouldn’t be too long before Gravell would work out who was responsible for its disappearance.

  He knew he should get rid of it. He’d like to give the bottle to the girl. If he saw her now, he’d just hand it over, or perhaps drop it on the ground so she’d see it as she walked along . . . But she wasn’t here and he knew the idea was just a silly fantasy. He briefly played through another: the idea of selling the smoke to get the money to pay off Stone. The smoke had to be worth fifty kroners. But it was illegal goods and the buyers would be the worst sort of people to deal with. They’d probably know it was stolen from the giant Gravell. They’d sell him out for sure.

  And now Edyon’s other worries came to mind. He’d promised himself he would tell his mother about his stealing. But how could he? What would she think of him? He’d thought about showing her what Stone had done to him. Stone had ordered him beaten. That was not the way civilized men behaved, and pissing on people certainly wasn’t. Stone and his men were barbarians; his mother would understand that and sympathize. Except now he didn’t have any bruises, and how could he explain that? He wasn’t even sure himself how they had vanished, unless it was something to do with the demon smoke, and how could he explain that? “Yes, Mother, Stone’s men did beat me to a pulp, but I think this highly illegal bottle of demon smoke might have cured me. Oh, and by the way, I stole it.”

  No, he couldn’t face Erin now. He’d think of a way to tell her later. Besides, he had an appointment with March, a far more promising companion. Edyon was smelling and looking better than ever; he didn’t want to waste that. He deserved some pleasant company after the day he’d had. Tomorrow he’d deal with his mother and Stone.

  He needed to go to the Duck and find March, but first he’d have to stash the smoke somewhere safe. Not in his tent, where the servants or his mother would find it. Somewhere quiet . . . He headed toward the woods.

  The woods were silent, the noise from the fair not reaching into the trees. Edyon kept walking, past the place where he’d been beaten, and on to a stream, which he flopped down beside. He unwrapped the bottle and stared in fascination at the swirling smoke.

  Perhaps he should try some? It had been months since his last visit to a smoke den, and he could do with the relaxation. What was the point in having the risk of owning a whole bottle of smoke and none of the pleasure of inhaling it? He’d have one smoke, hide the bottle, and then go and see March. A perfect plan.

  He eased the cork off the bottle and let a wisp of smoke escape. It curled up through the trees, glowing purple, and vanished among the leaves. He let another wisp escape, but this time he leaned forward and sniffed it into his nose. It was hot and dry, and weaved its own way down his throat and into his lungs and then back into his mouth, where it seemed to swirl over his tongue and round the loose tooth and through the roof of his mouth, then it seeped warm and purple into his brain.

  Edyon laughed and the smoke burst out of his mouth in a purple cloud. He lay back and floated above the ground, as if he were smoke too, as the cloud floated up and away, glowing in the darkness below the canopy.

  The trees were beautiful. The leaves waved at him from above. He smiled at them and waved back. Everything was beautiful.

  MARCH

  DORNAN, PITORIA

  WHILE MARCH waited outside the bathhouse for Edyon to reappear, he had plenty of time to think. He’d been foolish earlier, bantering with the prince’s son, letting him compliment him about his eyes when he had a job to do. Next time March would remember his task. He had to talk to Edyon before he got to his mother and definitely before he got to Regan. He had to tell Edyon his story convincingly, and to do that the story had to be mainly true. By the time Edyon appeared, March knew what he had to say.

  The prince’s son emerged from the bathhouse, walking fast, with his jacket under his arm. March cut through a side street, hoping to come out ahead of him with a “surprised but delighted to see you” face on and persuade Edyon to go with him somewhere quiet. But Edyon didn’t appear in the road that led back to the fair. March ran back the way he’d come and just caught sight of Edyon heading out of town in the direction of the woods. Edyon seemed in less of a hurry now, and March followed at a distance. The woods might be a good place for them to talk quietly and unobserved. Deeper and deeper Edyon went, past the place where he’d been beaten and pissed on, past the place March had spent the night, and on to a stream where he stopped and sat on the ground and took out from his jacket a bottle that glowed purple.

  March had never seen anything like it. Edyon cradled the bottle and looked at it and then held it upside down and took out the cork. A wisp of purple smoke climbed through the trees; it didn’t disperse but remained strong and bright until it disappeared above the canopy. Edyon released more of the smoke, but this time he inhaled it, laughed, and then flopped back on the ground.

  For a long time, he didn’t move. Finally March stepped forward.

  “Edyon.”

  Edyon didn’t respond. He seemed to be sound asleep.

  “Well, at least you’re not with Regan,” March said. He sat down next to Edyon and stared at his face, so like that of his father, the prince, and yet different too. Softer somehow.

  Eventually, in the early evening, Edyon stirred, stretched, and sat up. He was smiling. Then he saw March and his smile widened.

  “Hello, my handsome foreign man. What a delightful surprise to see you here. Madame Eruth didn’t say anything about me waking up next to you. But perhaps she knew I would misinterpret her.”

  March felt flustered again. “You look better,” he managed.

  “Thank you. Though, as when you saw me last I was beaten up and covered in piss, I’m not sure “better’ quite conveys the level of improvement.”

  “You, er, smell better too.”

  Edyon laughed. “Hmm, I suspect compliments are not your strong point. But that’s fine. Do you know that your eyes lo
ok even more amazing in this twilight?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Taking compliments is a struggle too, it seems. I’m afraid you might have to get used to that this evening. I intend to drench you in them. How long have you been here?”

  “Since you arrived. I was watching out for you.”

  “Watching out for me? Now, that sounds promising.”

  March shifted awkwardly. He had to get the conversation onto the subject of Regan. He said, “I have to be honest with you. I’m concerned for your safety.”

  “Well, that’s rather wonderful of you, my new handsome foreign man. But you needn’t worry—Stone’s thugs won’t beat me up again. At least, not until the end of the week.”

  “I don’t mean them. I’m talking about someone much more dangerous.”

  Edyon gave a sour grin. “Don’t fret—I know about him.”

  “You do?” Had Edyon somehow got a message from Regan or his mother while he was in the bathhouse?

  “Of course. I figured he would work out it was me, though I thought it would take a little longer. But if he’s put the word out already, I’ll probably be dead by morning.”

  Edyon didn’t seem that concerned about being killed. In fact, he looked totally relaxed. He was clearly still suffering from the effects of whatever was in the bottle.

  “Well, he knows it’s you . . . you’re you. But he won’t tell anyone else: he’s here to kill you himself.”

  “Here?” Edyon looked around, slightly more alert now.

  “Here at the fair, I mean. That is why I’ve come, to warn you. But how did you know about him?”

  “I stole the smoke from him, so of course I know about him.”

  “Smoke?” March pointed at the bottle. “That?”

  “Yes, that.” Now Edyon looked confused. He squinted at March. “Are we talking about the same person? Big. Hairy. Demon hunter.”

  “No, Edyon.” This wasn’t going to plan at all. March shuffled closer to Edyon so he could speak more quietly. “There’s a man from Calidor: Lord Regan. He’s here at the fair and he’s here to kill you.”

  Edyon gave a sharp laugh. “Well, he’ll have to join the queue.”

  “This is serious, Edyon.”

  “Well, I see you’re serious.” Edyon flopped back on the ground and turned his head to March. “I don’t feel at all serious. This smoke is amazing. Much better than last time. My body’s been floating among the treetops and . . . how can I tell you? . . . My body feels happy. I mean every muscle and every bone is smiling. Does that make sense?”

  March shook his head. “First you’re covered in piss, now you’re drugged.” But what could you expect from the son of a prince?

  “I’m merely happy and relaxed, my friend. Very, very wonderfully relaxed.” Edyon put his hand on March’s knee. “And you are just as handsome as I remember. I do hope I’m looking better too. The betterest of betters. I feel incredibly better. My bruises have gone, and even my wobbly tooth seems to have stopped wobbling.”

  March looked down at Edyon’s hand on his knee. He needed to stop this, to tell his story. He did it the only way he knew how, by becoming the servant. He stood and bowed.

  “My name is March, sir. I’m here to bring you a message.”

  Edyon raised his head to look, then let it fall back, saying, “A message, hurrah!”

  “Sir. Edyon.” March kept his servant voice together. “This is serious. The message is secret, and to give it to you I need to be sure of your identity. Can I ask about your parents . . . ?”

  Edyon sat up again. “You are real, aren’t you, March? Absurd, handsome, foreign . . . but real? Not a smoke dream?”

  “Please, sir!”

  Edyon frowned but said, “You want to know about my parents? Well, my mother is a trader. Erin Foss. She buys things and sells them a short while later. Generally for a lot more than she buys them.”

  “She’s always done that? And you’ve always been with her?”

  “Since the womb. That answer applies to both your questions.”

  “And your father?”

  Even in his sleepy state, Edyon seemed to tense at the word.

  “It’s no secret that my mother was never married. She says she loved my father for a while, but he left. Since then she’s never found a man that meets her standards. I’m the man in her life now, though I sometimes think she’d prefer me to be an ivory-inlaid walnut chest of drawers. So, anyway, I have no father, at least none that’ll own up to it.” Edyon shrugged and added, “I assume he’s dead.”

  “Dead? Why?”

  “Because my mother said that he was noble and good. And anyone good and noble would not ignore his blood.”

  “That is what I believe too, but sometimes there are . . . circumstances, difficulties—”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the only acceptable difficulty is death. So that is what I choose to believe.”

  “So you don’t know your father’s identity?”

  “Look, March, I’ve answered your questions. Now tell me the message or change the subject to something more interesting.”

  “Your father is not dead, sir. He wants to meet you.”

  Edyon gave a short laugh, but he looked nervous. My father’s presence, he thought. “You haven’t been sent by Madame Eruth to torment me, have you?”

  “I’ve been sent by your father, sir.”

  Edyon looked March in the eye, and the gleam of hope that March saw there struck him dumb for a moment.

  Eventually Edyon said, “This is the strangest of days. And you really do have the most amazing eyes. Say that again.”

  “Your father is alive. I’ve been sent by him. He wants to see you, and I am to take you to him. If you wish to go.”

  Edyon blinked, the smoke fog seeming to clear from his brain. “You’re being serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” March said this as gently as he could, and was surprised how tender it sounded. And he began to tell his story.

  “I am a servant to the prince of Calidor, Prince Thelonius. I’ve been his servant for eight years, since I was a boy. I think perhaps because I was young he talked to me more as a boy than as a servant, and he still talks to me as he talks to no one else except his closest family.” March paused. “But recently I have been the only one he could talk to. You may have heard that his wife and two sons died not long ago?”

  Edyon didn’t say anything, so March pressed on, “As a prince, he must have an heir. The prince is under pressure from his ministers to marry again, to have more children, but he cannot face that. He loved his wife and children dearly. He doesn’t want another wife. But he does want another child . . . his long-lost, illegitimate son. You.”

  Edyon stared at March and then shook his head. “This has to be the smoke.”

  March carried on. “The prince asked me to find you. He trusts me like no other, because I’m only a servant, no threat to him. This information is important and dangerous. There are those in Calidor who would see you dead before they bow to you as the prince’s heir.”

  “I see death all around you,” murmured Edyon.

  March could see that Edyon’s breathing was fast and shallow.

  “You are very like the prince. Your hair, your stature, your skin color. You are like a younger version of him. Do you know nothing at all about your father?”

  “My mother told me that he was a nobleman from another country. They met at one of the fairs and were happy together for a few months one summer. Then he was called home. She realized she was pregnant after he left and didn’t tell my father about me until after I was born.” Edyon shook his head. “By then he was married to another woman. He wrote back to her only once, to send a gift for me.”

  That gold chain about your neck, thought March.

  “And your mother never indicated w
ho this nobleman was?”

  “Never. She said it didn’t matter, that I was hers.”

  “You are the prince’s too. That is the truth. I can see it just by looking at you.”

  Edyon laughed nervously and looked at his hands. “I’m shaking. I don’t think it’s the smoke.”

  “The prince wants you to come to Calidor.”

  “And what about my mother?”

  “The prince talked only of you.”

  Edyon ran his fingers through his hair. “Is he . . . what sort of man is he?”

  A lying traitor, were the words on March’s lips, but he swallowed them and said, “He’s respected by his people.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “He knows his duty. He left you alone because of his duty. But he also believed it was best for you to find your own life here in Pitoria. Now he is older, though, and he has lost all those he loved, he wants to meet you.”

  “And we should all do as he wants?”

  “He’s a prince.” March shrugged. “That is his way.”

  “And I’m the son of a prince, so you say. But why should I believe any of this? Why didn’t you tell me when we met before?”

  “I judged the time wasn’t right. It is momentous news and”—March extended his hands, palms open—“I didn’t think you should hear it while you were lying in a pool of piss.”

  “You know, that might actually have been more appropriate. My life is . . . a bit of a mess at the moment.”

  March’s face was serious again. “You have a new life to think of now. This is momentous news for you, sir, but not just for you: for all of Calidor. As I said, some in the prince’s court think he should remarry and have more children. Others see his sons’ deaths as an opportunity to take more power for themselves. Lord Regan is one of them. He has been a loyal friend to the prince, but on this matter, the matter of an illegitimate son being made heir, he is not happy. While the king remains without a son, Regan will have an opportunity to seize the throne. Lord Regan is here at the fair to prevent you going to Calidor.”