The City of Thieves

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  After Morwen casually covered her head with her hood, a light rain began almost on cue. Berengar raised his cloak’s bear-headed hood and quickened his pace. Mercifully, they didn’t have far to walk. The Coin and Crown, the most infamous alehouse in the city, was part of the Rookery, a popular off-color area at the intersection between the more affluent Hightower neighborhood and the tawdry Riverside District. The alehouse was one of the few places where those of all classes intermingled in pursuit of vice and other less-than-savory pursuits frowned upon by the church. It was said Prince Tristan spent more time at the Coin and Crown than in the palace. Even the bishop, with all his influence, had failed to shut it down under threat of a wide-scale revolt.

  The rain intensified as they cut through the Lord’s Crossing on their way to the Rookery. A number of fellow travelers sought refuge from the storm, though the streets remained relatively full despite the downpour. The sky grew darker with night’s approach, and torches glowed brightly in the distance, revealing the frame of a three-story building built over a waterway.

  “There it is,” Berengar said. “The Coin and Crown.”

  Morwen regarded the alehouse’s lofty heights with growing awe. “That’s the largest pub I’ve ever seen.”

  Lights emanated from no less than four dozen windows. Loud music and lively cheers carried through the walls. A sizable group surrounded the alehouse, and Berengar remembered it was the last night of the Revels. Given that people had come from far and wide to see the best performers in Fál and beyond gathered in one place, why had Niall chosen it for their meeting?

  Faolán slipped away to seek shelter from the storm, though Berengar knew she wouldn’t go far. He pushed his way through the crowd and made his way up the steps to the entrance. A feast for the senses greeted them inside. The hall was brightly lit and full of warmth. The aroma of hearty stews and freshly made breads blended with the scent of free-flowing ale and wine, stirring hunger and thirst simultaneously. Most notable were the varied sounds coming from every direction.

  Berengar ground his teeth together and stepped around a group of men and women dancing to a lively tune. There was barely enough room to maneuver. He hated large gatherings. A passing barmaid nearly spilled wine on his boots and shot him a brief look of apology before scurrying off to a table of disorderly patrons. Cheers sounded nearby, where a smaller crowd flocked around a pair playing ficheall, a strategy game played with pieces on a board with one player as the aggressor and the other as the defender. Morwen had taught him to play during their search for the Oakseers’ Grotto, and despite his initial inclinations, he found he enjoyed it, though she almost always won.

  Morwen lingered near the match before hurrying to catch up. “We’re staying here.”

  Berengar would sooner fight the bear that took his eye all over again. “You couldn’t pick a more auspicious place?”

  Morwen’s enthusiasm remained undaunted by his sarcasm. “There are bathhouses here, Berengar! Bathhouses! I don’t think I’ve had a decent bath since we left Cashel, and that was months ago.”

  “We’re here to track down those goblins and recover the rune. Don’t forget that.”

  She smiled innocently. “There’s no reason why we can’t do those things and be clean at the same time.”

  Berengar groaned. “Let’s see what’s so blasted important that Niall asked us here. Then we’ll decide where to stay.”

  At least the thief hadn’t stolen his gold, though the rune was far more valuable. He was surprised she had managed to locate and extract the rune from Morwen’s satchel with such ease. The last time he witnessed someone attempt to wield the rune, the idiot almost brought down a tower on top of his head. Even Imogen’s soldiers had displayed enough sense to keep the stone in a pouch.

  “Keep your eyes peeled. Niall could be anywhere.” He brushed past more strangers on his way to the bar, where he finally succeeded in getting one of the bartenders occupied with the never-ending line of patrons to take note. “I’ll have a pint.”

  The bartender placed a flagon brimming with mead before another patron and turned to Berengar. “That’ll be twelve coppers.”

  “Twelve?” Berengar raised an eyebrow and gave an irritated grunt.

  The bartender only shrugged. “Blame it on the new vice tax levied by the church. They can’t run us out of business, but they can still help themselves to our earnings.”

  Berengar swore under his breath and put down the coins. Twelve coppers for a pint. Where he came from, that amount could feed a family for weeks.

  As if sensing his hesitation, the bartender quickly made the money disappear. “They’ve tried to impose the tax before, but the prince regent has always vetoed the measure.” He filled the pint and handed it to Berengar. “For what it’s worth, this is the best in Leinster.”

  “It had better be.” Berengar leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m looking for someone. Maybe you’ve seen him?” He gave a brief description of Niall.

  “In a crowd like this? In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t had much time to pay attention to faces.” The bartender turned his attention to the next man in line before Berengar could ask any more questions.

  Morwen winked at him. “Looks like we’ll have to find him ourselves.”

  Scowling, Berengar took his tankard from the bar, wishing he was somewhere—anywhere—else. He’d rather fend off a hundred goblins than take part in the festivities. In contrast, Morwen appeared to thoroughly enjoy observing the many spectacles before her. There were cards and dice, feats of strength and brawling, and jesters and jugglers, to name only a few sources of amusement.

  The sounds died away farther inside the alehouse, where a troubadour performed on a stage. The audience watched with rapt attention from a vast auditorium that surrounded the stage on three sides. Every seat was full, and countless others observed from the hall. Unlike the rest of the alehouse, the auditorium and the balcony above were somberly lit, presumably to keep the focus on the performers. Morwen watched, transfixed by the troubadour’s viuola, a long, figure-eight shaped instrument with tuning pegs and five gut strings.

  As far as Berengar could tell, Niall wasn’t among those in the audience. His scowl deepened. Niall’s absence might mean trouble.

  Morwen seemed to sense his thoughts. “Relax. We probably just arrived first.”

  “It’s not like Niall to be late.” He took a drink from the pint and gulped it down. It wasn’t worth twelve coppers, but it was good. Nothing to do but wait. “It looks like you’ll get to see the Revels after all.”

  Morwen’s face filled with utter delight, and she rubbed her hands together in excitement. The troubadour finished his song to a generous helping of applause and offered a gracious bow before stepping off the stage. Some in the audience left for ale or conversation while others stomped and clapped their hands in anticipation of the next performance. Berengar lingered in the shadows at the back of the room and nursed his pint while listening to those nearby. A number discussed the death of King Mór and what Munster’s vacant throne might mean for the peace between the realms. The details were obscured by a new round of applause as the next performer took the stage.

  “That’s Roland of Gallive,” a woman in the crowd whispered to Morwen. “He’s one of Leinster’s greatest storytellers—and the only one who has a chance to beat Jareth for the quill, if you ask me.”

  Roland was a grizzled old man with a long white beard who used a walking stick for support. In his nondescript gray robes, he almost looked like a clergyman.

  Morwen leaned close so Berengar could hear her amid the noise. “I’ve heard of him. He was famous long before the Shadow Wars. It’s said he even met Thane Ramsay himself in the days of Áed. Can you imagine?”

  Roland held up his hands in a show of humility and waited for the audience to quiet before he opened his mouth. He spoke softly, with the ease of a practiced storyteller, and many had to strain to hear. The man reminded Berengar of a kindly old gra
ndfather imparting secret knowledge from a bygone age.

  “In the time when the elder gods were still worshiped throughout Fál, there once lived a great lord who possessed unimaginable wealth. Despite his abundant riches, the generous lord was beloved by all in the realm—all save the jealous king, enraged by any more prosperous than he. The king invited the lord, his family, and all his retainers to an extravagant feast, where his soldiers murdered them in cold blood.

  “Only the lord’s son—a boy of thirteen—escaped alive. Forced into hiding, he learned to steal to survive a life on the streets. He found he had a talent for it, and as he grew, his skills grew with him. He realized a network of conspirators could accomplish far more than one man alone and began employing the knowledge he’d gained from his boyhood tutors to forge the Brotherhood of Thieves. He was the first thief king.

  “The Brotherhood grew in strength and influence over the centuries, and its reach spread across all five kingdoms. At the height of their power, nothing could be sold or traded without the Brotherhood first receiving a cut. But the thief kings and queens of old grew arrogant. They wanted to rule. They began contracting assassins and employing mercenaries. This overreach provoked a backlash that nearly destroyed the entire Brotherhood. Those who remained returned to the shadows, where they thrived on growing corruption and indifference and waited for their time to come again.”

  Morwen listened, entranced, as Roland continued the story of the Brotherhood of Thieves. Bored, Berengar scanned the audience for a sign of Niall. What’s keeping him, blast it? Cheers filled the auditorium at the conclusion of Roland’s tale, and the old man bowed and basked in the crowd’s praise. A sudden hush came over the crowd until all that could be heard was a single man clapping.

  “What a tale! Perhaps not the most original story, but certainly well-told nonetheless.” The newcomer took the stage and aimed a wink at Roland, who glowered at him with the clear disdain of a rival. “Of course, if you ask me, the true thieves in this city are those pompous hypocrites in the church.” This statement was greeted by a chorus of cheers from the audience.

  “Jareth,” Morwen said. “It must be.”

  In sharp contrast to Roland, the newcomer appeared somewhere in his twenties or early thirties. He wore elegant, stylish clothes and a bright green cloak that seemed to shimmer in the dim lights. “How, then, am I to outshine such performances?” Although not exceptionally tall, he seemed to cast an outsized presence on the crowd. His hair was shaggy and unruly, and he spoke with vigor and ambition. “I could give you a song, but the church has ears everywhere, and young maidens have been known to lose their virtue at the sound of my voice. I could give you poetry, but good Lyra has already left you in tears with the Madness of the Fair Folk. What, then, shall it be?”

  Jareth stopped suddenly, and Berengar realized the bard was looking right at him with unmistakable recognition.

  Jareth’s eyes lit up, as if a new thought had occurred to him, and his mouth twisted into a grin. “A story, then. It’s one you should all know—at least in part. I give you a tale of blood, rage, and the birth of monsters—I give you the story of the purges.”

  At the mention of the purges, every soul in the room fell deathly still.

  “The years that followed Queen Nora’s ascension to the High Throne were uneasy. The Lord of Shadows had been defeated, yes, but had left his mark on the land. Petty jealousies and old rivalries remained between the realms, and nonhumans were hated and feared.

  “Five years into the High Queen’s reign, the druid leader Cathán came to Dún Aulin and asked King Percival to prohibit the persecution of nonhumans within the kingdom. The king refused, hoping to avoid stirring the unrest spreading through the realms.

  “In his youth, Cathán was a healer and philosopher, but shifting attitudes toward magic in the wake of the war radicalized him. Druids worship nature. Their magic is entwined with the land. Cathán saw an assault on magic as an affront to life itself—one that must be stopped at any cost. He wanted a return to the days of old, when kings and lords feared and respected the druids’ power.

  “Cathán gathered all the druids in Leinster under him and returned to Dún Aulin. In the midst of summer, he and his followers used their mastery over the elements to shut the heavens so no rains would come. He hoped the demonstration of power would force the king to reconsider his demands. Instead, the drought and famine turned the men and women of Dún Aulin against each other.

  “Fanatics stroked long-simmering resentments by blaming the trouble on magicians and nonhumans. Riots broke out in the streets and quickly escalated beyond the ability of the guards to control. The king recalled his army to the capital, but his forces were at war with the goblins and too far away to intervene in time. It wasn’t long before the purges spread to include anyone who followed the old ways. Eventually, the mob killed for no reason at all.

  “Chaos reigned. Nobles, peasants, saints, sinners—none were safe. Hundreds were slaughtered. Businesses were looted and destroyed. Smoke from fires raging across the city could be seen from miles away. Corpses filled the streets.”

  Jareth paused for a moment to let his words sink in. The silence from the audience continued, and it was clear to Berengar many in the crowd remembered the horrors of the riots all too well. Some had tears in their eyes, and others still were ashen-faced.

  “The uprising threatened the tenuous peace between realms that had existed since the war. Only five years into the High Queen’s reign, Leinster’s fall would signal to Fál’s enemies—both within and without—that her rule was vulnerable. In this dark hour, Nora sent a warden to quell the violence.” Again his eyes found Berengar. “Knowing full well what such a task might require, and to avoid sullying the reputation of the others, the queen entrusted the undertaking to Esben Berengar.”

  A few boos came from the audience at the mention of Berengar. Surprise registered on Morwen’s face, and her brow furrowed as Jareth went on.

  “Even in those days, the Bear Warden was known throughout Fál. Tales of his actions at Dún de Fulaingt and the Ford of Blood had spread across the land. Unlike the other wardens—beloved heroes all—Berengar was hated and feared. But Queen Nora knew that when heroes fail, sometimes it takes a monster.

  “It is said that Warden Berengar is a killer without conscience, but when he beheld the horrors at Dún Aulin, whatever shred remained of his humanity recoiled at what he saw. Even monsters can understand suffering, sometimes better than most. As he entered the city and encountered the legions of dead, he was overcome with rage.

  “Those of you familiar with the tale may doubt that one man could have suppressed riots in the city of thousands. It is not uncommon for those in my trade to embellish the truth for dramatic effect. That is not the case here. In truth, even I, with all my skill, cannot do the story justice.

  “Berengar tracked the druids to their lair, where Cathán mocked the Bear Warden to his face. How could one man stand against those who wielded the forces of nature itself? He scoffed at Warden Berengar’s scars and laughed at his ugliness, for Cathán was known for his striking appearance.

  “Alone, armed with only his axe, Warden Berengar slaughtered the druids one by one. Some even tried to surrender, but he struck them down until only Cathán was left. In the final battle, Warden Berengar crushed and mangled Cathán’s hands to prevent him from using his magic. Then he dragged Cathán to the fire and held the druid’s face into the flames. Cathán begged for death, but Warden Berengar refused. Cathán had wanted a return to the old ways, but instead he had brought about the violent deaths of the very magicians and nonhumans he had hoped to protect. So great was Warden Berengar’s wrath that he spared Cathán to force him to live with that knowledge and left him to the mercy of the mob.

  “With the druids dealt with, Warden Berengar turned his attention to the rioters. After taking command of the city guard, he met violence with violence and repaid blood for blood. He cut down any who stood in his way—incl
uding the fanatics who stirred up the trouble in the first place—and displayed the bodies for all to see. By the time the king’s soldiers finally entered the city, all was quiet. Order had been restored.

  “When Queen Nora learned what Warden Berengar had done in her name, she was furious. Some claim she even considered ordering his death but stayed her hand because it was better to have such a danger as a friend than an enemy. Whatever the case, that was the day when Warden Berengar became known as the High Queen’s Monster.”

  Unlike the boisterous applause that greeted previous performances, silence filled the auditorium when Jareth finished speaking. For a moment, no one said a word. The audience just sat there, stunned by what they had heard. Then one man leapt to his feet and cheered. Soon every man and woman in the auditorium was on their feet. Flowers flooded the stage as the thunderous standing ovation built to a roar, leaving little doubt at who had won the Golden Quill.

  Morwen, however, was no longer smiling. She stared at Berengar, horrified, and quickly stormed away. He sighed, cast a murderous glance at Jareth, and went after her.

  He followed her through the crowd and caught up to her near a lonely storeroom. “Morwen, wait.”

  She turned around, trembling. “It was you. You killed the druids.”

  Berengar’s voice was quiet. “Aye.” He was the reason why there were no druids guarding the Oakseers’ Grotto. There were none left.

  Morwen jabbed a finger at his chest. “I knew you were hiding something when you told me about the riots.” She shook her head. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

  “I can’t do that, Morwen.” He met her gaze and held it. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see the bodies. Cathán and the others had to answer for what they did.”

  “So you butchered them? Even the ones who tried to surrender?”

  He felt his temper rising. “And I’d do it again if I had to. They were too dangerous to be left alive.”