The Smoke Thieves Series, Book 1

by Sally Green

  “Pain, suffering, and death.”

  March nodded gravely. “Death is his aim.”

  “And what’s yours?”

  “I have been instructed to guide you safely and secretly to your father.”

  “And if I don’t want to go?”

  “Then I will have failed, and I must tell the prince. But Regan is here. Even if you somehow avoid him, others who are against the prince’s plans will come. Once your identity is known, and it will be known soon enough, then your life can never be the same again.”

  “So you’re saying I have no choice but to come with you?”

  “You have choices. If you choose to let me guide you to the prince, we should leave this place soon. Tonight. Regan was at the fair this morning, and he was watching your tent.”

  “Our tent? What about my mother? Is she safe?”

  “She’s safe. She is no threat to the Calidorian lords. It’s you who are in danger. Your mother will be safer if you leave.”

  “I need to speak to her. To tell her what is happening.”

  “It’s not safe to go to your tent now. Regan may still be watching it.”

  Edyon bit his lip. “How do I know this isn’t some joke? You’ve given me no proof.”

  “My partner, Holywell, has the proof. And I think it marries up with that chain round your neck.”

  Edyon put his hand to his chest. “What partner? I didn’t know you had a partner.”

  “He’s watching Regan. Listen, I have an idea. I’ll go to Holywell, and see if it’s possible to get you to your mother. But you must wait here until I return.” March had no intention of letting Edyon see his mother, but it was clear that the young man needed proof—which meant March needed the gold ring Regan was carrying. With that he was sure he could convince Edyon to go with him. “Will you do that? Please, sir, it’s for your own safety.”

  Edyon looked uncertain. “I don’t know what to do. I’m still not sure this isn’t some strange effect of the smoke.”

  “This is all real, sir. Your safety is my responsibility. The prince has charged me to look after you.”

  Still Edyon looked uncertain. So much of what Madame Eruth said seems to be true. . . . “I’ll wait here for you. But I need to see my mother and your proof before I decide what to do.”

  “Thank you, sir,” March said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  March walked back toward the tents. It was almost done. Edyon wanted to believe him, March could see that. It would only take one final thing to convince him, but it was the hardest thing of all, Thelonius’s ring. And there was only one way to get it: Lord Regan would have to die.

  TASH

  DORNAN, PITORIA

  TASH WALKED thoughtfully back to the bathhouse. Someone there had to know something about the stolen smoke, though of course it would be a delicate matter asking about it. She made a mental list of who could have taken the bottle:

  One: the boys who carried the water.

  This seemed unlikely, as they had been busy chasing her, but possibly one of them could have snatched the bottle at some point.

  Two: another person who worked at the bathhouse.

  Three: a customer.

  There were two customers she had seen—the young man with the bruises and the gold chain in the first compartment, and a thin old man with a sunken chest and gray hair in the third compartment. But the big question was who would dare take it? Tash was sure the employees at the bathhouse knew Gravell wasn’t a man to cross, so that left the two customers. She went straight to the boys to ask them if they knew who the other customers were.

  The older boy, his face a mass of spots, laughed at her question. “The old man . . . didn’t you recognize him without his gown? He’s the mayor. Why do you want to know anyway?”

  Tash cringed. She wondered how much the mayor had heard or understood of her conversation with Gravell about the smoke. He could have called the sheriff’s men. Hopefully he was deaf . . .

  “What about the other man? The young one. He had a gold necklace.”

  The spotty boy grinned. “Sure, we know his name. We’ll tell you for ten kopeks.”

  “Each,” the other boy added.

  Tash handed over the coins, saying, “If I find you’ve lied to me, I’ll be back for my money.”

  The boys didn’t seem at all intimidated. “He’s called Edyon. His mother trades in furniture.”

  Tash left the bathhouse and went to the fine arts end of the fair. She rarely came to this part, the posh end. The people here were wealthy, well dressed, and old. Tash felt very out of place. It was quieter too. The tents were beautiful, but there were a lot of guards; each of the large tents seemed to have one or two. She asked one if he knew someone called Edyon whose mother dealt in furniture. The man shrugged. “Ask at the food stall over there. Ged knows everyone.”

  And, indeed, Ged did know an Edyon.

  “About eighteen?” Tash asked.

  “Yep, that’s the one I’m thinking of. He’s the son of Erin Foss. She deals in fine furniture, or, as she puts it, “the finest and most exclusive of all furniture.’”

  “Which is her tent?”

  “The finest and most exclusive of all tents, of course. The red and gold.”

  Tash found the place easily. It was huge, with a large main section and two small circular tents attached at the back. The big area was where business was carried out; the two smaller ones would be the sleeping and private quarters. There was a guard at the front and no sign of Edyon.

  Tash frowned. She could wait for Edyon, but what could she do when he arrived? She was almost certain he was the thief, but to get the smoke back she’d need more muscle . . .

  * * *

  Back at the inn, Gravell was seated where she’d left him, though now he had a woman next to him. Tash sat opposite them as Gravell turned to face her, saying, “Ah, my young assistant returns. No doubt to tell me she’s found the thief and got my goods back?”

  Gravell’s voice was slurred. The woman leaned over and kissed his ear.

  “How much have you had to drink?” Tash asked.

  “Not enough.” And Gravell drank heavily from his tankard.

  “I’ve found the thief. Well, I’ve not found him exactly, but I’ve found out who he is and where he lives.”

  Gravell listened as Tash described her detective work. “Edyon’s young—quick and agile enough to take it. He must have heard our conversation and guessed you had some . . . goods.”

  “And intends to sell it or use it himself, the villain,” Gravell said. “So, you’re certain it’s him?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Good. I’m in the mood for some action. Been sitting down all afternoon.” He rose, swayed, then sat down again. “Not sure how much I’ve had to drink.”

  And then he fell forward in a faint, his face squished on the table.

  The woman sighed and looked at Tash. “He owes me a kroner.”

  “He owes me more,” Tash responded.

  She picked up the tankard and took a sip of the beer for herself, staring levelly at the woman. Tash had seen plenty of women getting money out of Gravell over the years. All the work he did and risks he took, and then he frittered his money away on these women. Tash didn’t understand it at all.

  The woman didn’t go, and so Tash said, “Can I help you with something?”

  “My kroner.”

  “Ask Gravell when he wakes up. That’ll probably be around breakfast time, knowing him.”

  The woman started to pat Gravell’s jacket, searching for his purse. Gravell didn’t move. He was like a mountain with his head resting on the table, his jacket stretched tight over the muscles of his back.

  Tash said, “If you take anything of his, I’ll slice your hand off with my skinning knife.”

  Tash�
��s knife was in her pack in their room and she had no intention of chopping anyone’s hand off with it, but it was gratifying to see the woman jerk her hands back. She was twice Tash’s weight and a lot taller.

  “Probably don’t have the money anyway,” the woman muttered. “You and him are the same—barely civilized.” She slipped out of the seat and left.

  Tash took another sip of the beer and pulled a face; it was warm and flat and not very good. She tipped the rest over Gravell’s head, hoping it might wake him, but he didn’t even stir.

  AMBROSE

  NORWEND, NORTHERN BRIGANT

  AMBROSE TRIED to dissuade his brother from coming with him, but Tarquin was immovable.

  “It’s only as far as the border. I want to see you safely out of the kingdom, little brother. Consider it my duty as a loyal subject of the king,” he added with a grin.

  They left the house the way Ambrose had arrived. Tarquin took horses from the field, and brought food and money. Once they were riding, Tarquin questioned him about Fielding.

  Tarquin listened carefully to Ambrose’s story, but he, like Ambrose, couldn’t make sense of it.

  “The king’s army does recruit some boys.”

  “Yes, but only as squires to the older knights. This was a whole unit of boys; no men at all. In fact, it was at least two units, more than three hundred boys, all in training. They seemed to think I was part of a test set by their commanding officer.”

  “Good job they didn’t know who you really were.”

  Ambrose winced. “I think they’ll work that out easily enough. I had to leave my horse. The saddle has my unit and initials on it.”

  “Well, soon you’ll be over the border and it won’t matter. Did you find anything that might explain why Anne went there?”

  “Nothing I could make sense of. But they did say something about an invasion.”

  “Of Calidor? Another war!”

  “That’s what the king has always wanted.”

  “But to send boys into battle is desperate. They’re no match for trained men.”

  “They managed to capture me. And I know this sounds strange, but one of them threw his sword fifty paces to hit me squarely on the head as I rode away. Another threw a spear twice the distance I can. They’re strong and fast.”

  Ambrose tried to remember the other things the boys had said, something about the blue unit having lost and not having something that they’d get after the invasion. He went over it all with Tarquin, but it still made no sense.

  The narrow road was quiet, apart from a few ramshackle carts coming back from Pitoria, having traded goods over the border, but the grass to each side was worn and there were signs that many horses had passed that way, traveling north. The brothers slept by the road the first night and next morning were surprised to see the road ahead blocked by a slow-moving stream of soldiers, perhaps five hundred of them, some on horseback and some on foot.

  “What are they doing here?” Ambrose asked.

  “Could be training,” Tarquin said. “But those things are organized months in advance, and I’ve not heard of anything. Perhaps a jousting tournament at Tallerford?”

  “No, this is no tourney. The numbers are too large.”

  Ambrose could see the pennants of the king’s men and the southern lords—Wender, Thornlee. However none of the royal pennants were visible, indicating that the king and prince were not themselves there.

  “Wherever they’re going, we can’t pass them. We’re too recognizable,” Ambrose concluded.

  There was no option but to travel behind at a distance. That night the troops stopped and camped by the road but didn’t break camp the next morning.

  “What are they waiting for?” muttered Tarquin after they had been hanging around most of the morning, waiting for the men to move off.

  Ambrose looked back the way they had come and cursed. On the horizon, more banners fluttered. “They’re waiting for them.”

  “Into the woods, quick!” Tarquin said, urging his horse off the road. They barely had time to take cover before the first of the soldiers from the south marched into view.

  “That’s Lord Gunnar’s color . . . and behind them the Earl of Karrane.”

  Tarquin frowned. “Your boy soldiers talked about an invasion. But did they actually mention Calidor? Because this looks a lot like an army, and it’s heading toward Pitoria.”

  “But we can’t be invading Pitoria. Catherine’s on her way there now to marry the prince.” Ambrose looked at Tarquin, hoping for reassurance but getting none. And everything he knew seemed to be pointing to this impossible idea. “The boy soldiers knew of an invasion. Do you think Anne knew too? Is this all linked to what she found out?”

  “You’re making assumptions again, Ambrose. We don’t know what she knew. We don’t know if this is an invasion.”

  “I know Father should have heard of any tournament or army maneuvers. He’s not been told, so I can’t think why else this army is here.” Ambrose’s voice was rising.

  “They can’t be invading Pitoria. That would be madness. And, anyway, I know little about war stratagems, but invading a remote, poor northern part of a country, leagues from the seat of power, doesn’t seem the right way to go about it, even to me.”

  “Nor me.” Ambrose continued: “But something important is happening. I’ve got to find out what . . . If we could see what orders the commanders have been given, then we’d know for certain.”

  “Ambrose, no . . . that’s impossible.”

  “Difficult, but not impossible. I can go into their camp tonight and see what I can find.”

  “What? That’s the craziest idea I’ve ever heard. You’re a wanted man, and that is a military camp. You won’t make it past the first perimeter defense.”

  “I have to find out, Tarquin. There’s something strange going on, and I’m sure it’s related to Anne’s death somehow.”

  Tarquin let out a long breath. “Then I’ll go in and ask the commanding officers what they are doing.”

  “Ask them? That’s a worse idea than mine! They won’t tell you a thing.”

  “We’re still on Father’s land. I have a right to know,” said Tarquin hotly.

  “Do you really think they’ll tell you? No. You mustn’t be involved. I’m already a condemned traitor. I’ve nothing to lose. The plans will be with the most senior of the lords, Lord Thornlee. I’ll get into the camp wearing my Royal Guard uniform without trouble, then I just need to get into Thornlee’s tent.”

  Tarquin shook his head and sighed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’ll need a diversion.”

  Ambrose smiled. “And you can provide one?”

  “Will a fire by the horses be good enough?”

  “If the panicked horses get loose in the camp, I think that would be reasonably disruptive.”

  “I’ll need to be in the uniform of the Thornlee men,” said Tarquin.

  “For that we need to borrow a man’s clothes. Is it too much to hope that some of them are washing in the river?”

  Tarquin grinned. “Let’s see.”

  It almost felt like a child’s game stealing the clothes. The day was already hot and there were about twenty men in the river, washing and swimming. Ambrose stripped off, entered the water downstream from the men, then swam up to the nearest pile of clothes in the Thornlee colors of red and green. He picked them up and walked to the bushes where Tarquin was waiting with Ambrose’s own clothes.

  Tarquin put on the Thornlee trews and tunic. The trews were a little short in the leg but good enough with boots on. He pulled his hair up and into the hat while Ambrose smudged some mud on his face.

  “Not bad,” Ambrose said. “I don’t think I’d recognize you.”

  Ambrose put on his Royal Guard uniform. That ought to be enough to get him access to the camp. He just had to h
ope that no one recognized him as a wanted man.

  Ambrose watched as Tarquin skirted the Thornlee camp to the horses. The king’s men, Wender’s, and Thornlee’s were all in distinct sections. Ambrose hung well back in the trees. Soon he saw smoke rising from the far side of the camp, and then there were shouts and the sound of the first horse running. Ambrose grinned. The panicked horses were stampeding into the camp of the king’s men—a double embarrassment for Thornlee. As the noise spread, Lord Thornlee himself emerged from his pavilion and stalked off to investigate.

  As confidently as he could, Ambrose marched forward, past the rows of tents and men hurrying to fight the fire Tarquin had started. Ambrose got a few stares, but no one challenged him. He strode on toward Lord Thornlee’s tent, guarded by a single soldier.

  Ambrose went up to him and said, “I need to see Lord Thornlee.”

  “He’s just left, sir.”

  Ambrose sighed. “I’ll wait.” And he walked past the guard into the tent.

  “But . . . You can’t wait in here, sir.”

  “Well, I’m not going to hang around outside. His horses have run amok in the camp. Get Thornlee now.”

  “But he’s just left to sort it out, sir.”

  “Then get him back, you idiot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the flustered guard left, Ambrose moved quickly round the table in the center of the tent. A pile of letters lay on the polished wood. Ambrose flicked through them until he found one with the royal seal.

  “Who did this man say he was?” barked a voice from just beyond the side of the tent.

  Thornlee!

  Tucking the letter into his belt, Ambrose drew his dagger, cut a slit in the back of the tent, and stepped out. His heart hammered as he forced himself to walk calmly toward the trees, expecting with every step someone to shout “stop.” But no one did, and as soon as he was under the cover of the trees he broke into a run, not stopping until he had reached the meeting point he had arranged with Tarquin.

  “Success?” asked his brother.