“Around he goes! Watch him run, watch him run!” There was a dissonant melody to the king’s slurred speech.
Like their comrades at the gates, the guards within the chamber remained expressionless. The room’s other occupants, however, looked on in revulsion. The jester tripped and landed on the stone floor, and the hounds were on him in an instant.
“Enough.” A figure approached the king from behind. He motioned to the guards, who forcibly removed the hounds from the room, and laid a hand on the throne. “The king has business to attend. His guests are waiting.”
Tavish spoke in a hushed tone. “That’s Father Valmont. He’s been King Lucien’s closest adviser since the bishop first took ill.”
Apart from Berengar, Valmont was the tallest man in the room. He wore black robes in the fashion of a priest, and his long white hair was neatly clasped behind his head.
King Lucien’s brow furrowed at the mention of guests. “What guests?”
The chamberlain nodded to a herald, who bowed low. “Tavish, of the city watch, and Esben Berengar, Warden of Fál.”
A devilish gleam crossed the king’s face, and he sat straight up in his seat. “Shall we make them dance?” He glanced at the members of his elite guard beside the throne. A steel helm concealed each guard’s face, and heavy armor protected their bodies. Each wielded a crossbow.
Valmont flashed an irritated expression at the king. “We shall not.”
The king sank back into his seat and folded his arms across his chest with a rueful look but remained silent.
Morwen observed with rapt attention. “Interesting.”
Wonder what she means by that. Berengar glanced around the room but failed to see any sign of the key Azzy mentioned. The thief remained quiet at his side.
The king’s thane beckoned to them. “Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.” In many kingdoms, the thane served as the monarch’s right hand. In Munster, for instance, the thane was second-in-command of the entire kingdom. In Leinster, the position was less significant due to the influence of the church. The thane gestured to a group of government officials and representatives of the church. “This is Vicar Flaherty, who served under Bishop McLoughlin. Vicar, I’m sure you know...”
Flaherty’s lips formed a thin line. “I assure you, Warden Berengar needs no introduction.”
“Ha!” The young king’s attention settled on Berengar, and there was something unbalanced about his manner. “Beware the bear, the witches’ words. Too true, in two, spells doom for you.” He threw back his head and roared with disquieting laughter.
The chamber fell silent at the mysterious pronouncement, and members of the king’s court exchanged puzzled glances. Azzy’s smile vanished, and she stared hard at Lucien and his adviser with an unflinching gaze. Any similarity to Morwen ended there; Berengar had never seen a look of such unrelenting hatred grace his companion’s face.
Valmont’s shadow fell over the throne. “The king has had too much wine. He will now be excused.”
Lucien started to protest, but Valmont’s brow narrowed in his direction, and the king hopped off the throne and scampered away, trailed by the elite guard.
“The witches’ words?” Morwen whispered to Berengar. “What did that mean?”
“Nothing. It was nonsense.” Even if that wasn’t strictly true, he had no intention of concerning Morwen with the details. He looked intently at the empty throne. How did he know about the witches’ words?
Despite Berengar’s general disregard for magic, he’d been forced to battle its practitioners on more than one occasion. The last time he was in Leinster, he slew the Hag of Móin Alúin, a cruel witch who had tormented the villagers of Alúin for years. With her last breath, the hag had cursed him to regain all that he had lost only to lose it again. And at Cashel, the witch Agatha—Morwen’s mother—predicted he would soon face betrayal and death. Of course, it was possible the words referenced Princess Ravenna’s attempt to seize the crown of Munster by murdering her father, but what if Agatha’s prediction was yet to come to pass? Berengar, who didn’t trust the witches or their words, had never shared what they told him with anyone. There was no way Lucien should have knowledge of it.
Valmont glanced their way and saw Azzy staring at him. He regarded her with interest from the throne. “You. You have a familiar look about you. Have we met before?”
Azzy’s lips formed a forced smile. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” Berengar noticed her hand inch toward her side, as if to grab one of the knives she’d discarded.
“Ahem.” The king’s thane cleared his throat to get the others’ attention. “Back to the matter at hand. We were discussing preparations for the ceremony.”
“Where’s the blade now?” Berengar asked.
“Hidden somewhere within the cathedral,” answered Flaherty. “Its exact location shall remain a closely guarded secret.”
“We also hide the blade when it is in our possession to ensure its safety,” the thane said. “It is only on public display during the ceremony, once every thirteen years.”
“And this time it’s the church handing it over to the crown.” Berengar glanced back at the throne, where Valmont lingered, observing at a distance.
The thane nodded. “Aye. In two days’ time, King Lucien will leave the palace and journey to the cathedral to receive the cursed blade from the new bishop. The exchange will take place at midnight. There will be hundreds of onlookers within and thousands crowded outside in hopes of catching a glimpse of the blade. As always, security is at an all-time high, but with a relic of such power, one can never be too careful. Before his departure, Warden Niall had several ideas to address gaps in our preparedness.”
“Good. We’ll start there. I want all the details. And I’ll want to see the cathedral for myself in advance of the ceremony.”
“There is the small matter of your excommunication,” Flaherty said. “I am sure I can persuade the others to permit such a visit, provided you are willing to arrive in secret.”
Berengar grunted by way of response. With the king’s departure, they adjourned to a neighboring chamber to continue discussions in private. The rest of the conversation followed the same course. All parties quibbled over their various interests, and Berengar’s involvement only complicated matters further. Getting everyone to agree on anything was nigh impossible. When it was over, Berengar, Morwen, and Azzy were promptly dismissed from the palace. For his part, he was as glad to go as they were to see him leave.
He turned his attention to Azzy once they were safely outside the gate. “You’ve got some explaining to do. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I didn’t see any key.”
Azzy held up a long black key tucked between her fingers. Berengar recognized its likeness. He’d seen it years earlier, the last time he was at the Institute.
Morwen’s brow furrowed in consternation. “You were with us the whole time. Where—how did you get that?”
Azzy grinned. “A good thief never reveals her secrets. Now I believe I’ve held up my end of the bargain. The sooner you show me to the secret door, the sooner we can both get what we want.”
Berengar clenched his teeth. There was still something about her that he didn’t trust. “Maybe I’ll just take it from you.”
Azzy laughed.“You’ll find I’m not so easy to catch.”
“She did help us with the Brotherhood,” Morwen reminded him.
Berengar shook his head. “Fine.”
“That’s the spirit.” Azzy tossed the key into the air, caught it, and returned it to her pocket. “Lead the way.”
The three set off north, headed for the Scholar’s District.
Morwen tugged on Berengar’s sleeve and lowered her voice. “Niall was right. All is not well with King Lucien. I fear it involves magic.”
“Go on.” Even if Morwen was correct, Lucien’s advisers would never allow a magician to examine the king.
“Did you notice the king’s red eyes and his
dilated pupil? Taken with his strange behavior and the magic I sensed coming from the throne, I suspect he’s become addicted to fairy dust. It would certainly explain the change in him. That’s not the only thing that concerns me.”
“What?”
“Something’s not right about his adviser, Father Valmont. I sensed great darkness in him—darkness and malice.”
“That’s obvious enough.”
Morwen raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“He doesn’t wear a crucifix. Odd for a priest. Besides, chief advisers are rarely good people. Something about power attracts the rotten among us like flies.” Still, given his apparent sway over the king, Valmont bore watching. Berengar’s gaze moved to Azzy, who walked ahead, just out of earshot. “What can you sense about her?”
Morwen bit her lip. “Almost nothing beneath the surface. I haven’t encountered anyone so difficult to read since Ravenna.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Thieves are practiced at concealing their true intentions. They wouldn’t be very good at the job otherwise.”
“Perhaps.” Morwen appeared unconvinced.
“I thought you liked her.”
“I like nearly everyone. That doesn’t mean I trust them.”
Berengar fought back a grin. “There’s hope for you yet.”
When they returned to the secluded alleyway they visited earlier that day, they again found themselves facing a dead-end.
“Time to see if that key of yours does the job.” Berengar wasn’t entirely sure if the key would work for Azzy, who wasn’t a magician.
Azzy looked around, searching for the door. “Where’s the entrance?”
Morwen hesitated, her hand on the clasp of her satchel. “Not a word of this to anyone. Got it?”
Azzy dragged a finger across her lips. “My lips are sealed.”
Morwen again used the rune of illusion to reveal the secret entrance. She claimed that she was not an exceptionally powerful magician—even with her staff—and her magic usually was of an ordinary variety. Berengar, having spent much of his life hearing of magic only in stories, was still amazed every time he saw such a feat. Morwen grimaced with discomfort when the rune burned her hand again, and she looked paler than she had before.
As the rune’s purple glow subsided, Berengar watched Azzy to ensure she didn’t make an attempt on the stone. One missing rune was enough. To his surprise, the thief seemed entirely unconcerned by Morwen’s use of magic. Instead, Azzy clapped her hands together with glee.
“Well done!” She produced the key with a flick of her wrist and raised it to the keyhole. “Let’s see what secrets lie within.” The door vanished, leaving a gaping hole in its place, along with a set of stairs leading down into darkness.
Berengar started down the stairs and motioned for the others to follow while Faolán remained above to keep watch.
When they reached the bottom, Morwen stumbled on the last step and leaned against the wall for support.
Berengar held out a hand to steady her. “You alright?”
“I’ll be fine.” An unlit torch waited below. Morwen wiped blood from her nose and again delved into her satchel to retrieve a quartz stone. “Solas.” The stone glowed with white light, sending a wave of illumination down a long underground corridor. Just as suddenly as it began, the light flickered and went out. Morwen scowled and returned the stone to her satchel. “I must have used more magic than I thought.”
“Don’t worry. I think I can bring this flame to life.” Azzy lifted the torch from the wall and scraped one of her knives along flint from her cloak to create a spark. She moved the torch to her lips and breathed on it, causing flames to burst into life.
Morwen’s eyes widened in astonishment. “How did you do that?”
Azzy winked at her. “Any thief worth her salt has to be ready to find her way in the dark.” She held the torch out to light their path through the corridor.
Morwen quickened her step and followed Azzy with renewed interest. “Reyna called you a journeywoman. What did she mean by that?”
“There are many different ranks within the Brotherhood. New recruits begin as novices or apprentices. They do as they’re told and get the scut work. Almost all their earnings go to the Brotherhood’s coffers. Adepts, or journeymen, have more independence. We can take on our own contracts—though the Brotherhood still takes a cut. Master thieves can largely do as they please, and those who wish can become ringleaders. And, of course, the thief king sits at the top.”
“Any idea where we can find him?” Berengar asked. If anyone knew the location of the thunder rune, it would be the Brotherhood’s leader—unless Reyna was telling the truth, and the theft was committed by someone with no intention of handing over the stone.
“No one knows who he is, and I wouldn’t tell you even if I did—as much for your safety as my own. The new thief king is exceptionally clever and cautious. He’s a dangerous man.”
“So am I.”
The thief’s appearance seemed to shift in the corridor’s shadows. Her angular features grew sharper and more pronounced, and her porcelain skin appeared darker under the flickering torchlight.
“What’s a black contract?” Morwen’s voice sounded stronger.
Azzy looked back at her over her shoulder. “Why do you ask?” Her tone was casual, but Berengar noticed she was no longer smiling.
Morwen shrugged. “It’s just a word I overheard. I was curious what it meant.”
Berengar knew exactly where she’d heard it. Niall had mentioned that someone in the Brotherhood of Thieves had taken on such a contract.
“A black contract is a contract for a job so dangerous, so risky, that it requires approval by the thief king himself. Anyone who agrees to a black contract without approval faces death—whether or not the contract is completed.”
Berengar wondered what kind of contract could pose such a threat that even the Brotherhood would refuse it.
The trio came to the end of the corridor. A wooden trapdoor loomed at the top of a ladder. When Morwen started toward the ladder, Azzy held a hand out to stop her.
“Wait.” Azzy removed one of her knives, bent low, and cut a tripwire that ran along the ground.
Morwen regarded the thief with awe. “How did you see that in the dark?”
“I have very good eyes.” The amusement in her voice was evident.
“That wasn’t there the last time I was here.” Maybe the Institute wasn’t as abandoned as he believed. Berengar climbed the ladder and put a hand on the trapdoor. “You two stay close.”
He emerged into darkness on the other side. Azzy passed him the torch, which revealed a spacious chamber in its fiery light. The candles and lanterns that once illuminated the room lay scattered or turned over, having long ago fallen dark. The last time Berengar came through the trapdoor, delirious from the Bewilderer’s Bite, he found himself face-to-face with two dozen frightened souls, all waiting for their end. Now the chamber lay quiet and forgotten.
Azzy helped Morwen from the trapdoor. “Be careful. There could be more traps.”
“So this is the Institute.” Even in the dim light, it was clear Morwen was disappointed.
“It was different once.” The room still smelled vaguely of sulfur, but everything else had changed. The strange instruments and unfamiliar relics he remembered had been smashed to pieces. The scrolls and tomes that once stacked the shelves lining the walls were gone. A few burnt fragments of parchment were all that remained. “Come on.”
He raised the torch and crossed into a long passage lined with pillars. Morwen and Azzy followed close behind, and together they wandered the Institute’s long-forgotten halls, searching for anything of value. They passed empty rooms that once contained alchemy laboratories and empty herbalists’ stores once full of every ingredient imaginable. There was little left behind. The mobs had done their work well.
Morwen’s disappointment quickly turned into a mix of wonder and sorrow as they reached the atrium and came t
o a series of staircases where the full extent of the Institute’s enormity became apparent. “How could they have done this? Why would anyone destroy something so beautiful?”
Azzy seemed to share Morwen’s regret. “’Tis human nature to hate and fear what’s not easily understood. There may come a day when all that is magical and special about this world is lost and forgotten.” She stopped suddenly and held a finger to her lips. “We’re not alone.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Morwen began, but Azzy had already slipped into the shadows.
Berengar groaned. “I knew we shouldn’t trust her.”
“Don’t move another muscle.” The voice came from a man holding a lantern that had been dark only moments ago. In his free hand, he wielded a crossbow, which he trained on Berengar. “Do you like it? I made it myself. Make another move toward your sword, and I’ll pull the trigger.”
“That’ll be the last mistake you ever make.” All the same, Berengar eased his hand off the blade’s hilt. “Who are you?”
“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind. You’re the intruders here.” The stranger was somewhere in his late forties. He wore a set of gray alchemist’s robes.
Suddenly, there was a knife to his throat, and Azzy’s face was illuminated in the lantern’s light. “I’d put that down if I were you.”
The man dropped the crossbow, which clattered to the floor.
“Now would be a good time to start talking.” Berengar nodded to Morwen, who retrieved the crossbow and aimed it at the stranger before Azzy lowered the dagger.
The man held up his hands in a show of surrender. “Elias is my name. I was an alchemist by trade before the purges. Now I’m the guardian of these halls. There are few who know of the secret entrance, and they have no keys. I made sure of it.”
“You live here?” Morwen looked astonished. “Why?”
“It was my home once. I had friends and a life here. You people took that from me.”
The City of Thieves Page 10
