Theft of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  His heartbeat doubled, and before he could turn, he felt the sharp edge of a blade at his throat. He froze, barely allowing himself to breathe.

  “You set us up to die.” The voice behind him took over. “You brokered the deal. You put us in that chapel so we would take the blame. I’m here to repay your kindness. If you have any last words, say them now, and say them quietly.”

  Wyatt was a good cardplayer. He knew bluffs and the man behind him was not bluffing. He was not there to scare, pressure, or manipulate him. He was not looking for information; he knew everything he wanted to know. It was in his voice, his tone, his words, the pace of his breath in Wyatt’s ear—he was there to kill him.

  “What’s going on, Wyatt?” a small voice called.

  Down the alley, a door opened and light spilled forth, outlining a young girl, whose shadow ran across the cobblestones and up the far wall. She was thin with shoulder-length hair and wore a nightgown that reached to her ankles, exposing bare feet.

  “Nothing, Allie—get back inside!” Wyatt shouted, his accent fully exposed.

  “Who are those men you’re talking to?” Allie took a step toward them. Her foot disturbed a puddle, which rippled. “They look angry.”

  “I won’t allow witnesses,” the voice behind Wyatt hissed.

  “Leave her alone,” Wyatt begged. “She wasn’t involved. I swear. It was just me.”

  “Involved in what?” Allie asked. “What’s going on?” She took another step.

  “Stay where you are, Allie! Don’t come any closer. Please, Allie, do as I say.” The girl stopped. “I did a bad thing once, Allie. You have to understand. I did it for us, for you, Elden, and me. Remember when I took that job a few winters back? When I went up north for a couple of days? I—I did the bad thing then. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t and I almost got some people killed. That’s how I got the money for the winter. Don’t hate me, Allie. I love you, honey. Please just get back inside.”

  “No!” she protested. “I can see the knife. They’re going to hurt you.”

  “If you don’t, they’ll kill us both!” Wyatt shouted harshly, too harshly. He had not wanted to do it, but he had to make her understand.

  Allie was crying now. She stood in the alley, in the shaft of lamplight, shaking.

  “Go inside, honey,” Wyatt told her, gathering himself and trying to calm his voice. “It will be all right. Don’t cry. Elden will watch over you. Let him know what happened. It will be all right.”

  She continued to sob.

  “Please, honey, you have to go inside now,” Wyatt pleaded. “It’s all you can do. It’s what I need you to do. Please.”

  “I—love—you, Da—ddy!”

  “I know, honey. I know. I love you too, and I’m so sorry.”

  Allie slowly stepped back into the doorway, the sliver of light diminishing until the door snapped shut, leaving the alley once more in darkness. Only the faint blue light from the cloud-shrouded moon filtered into the narrow corridor where the three men stood.

  “How old is she?” the voice behind him asked.

  “Leave her out of this. Just make it quick—can you give me that much?” Wyatt braced himself for what was to come. Seeing the child had broken him. He shook violently, his gloved hands in fists, his chest so tight it was difficult to swallow and hard to breathe. He felt the metal edge against his throat and waited for it to move, waited for it to drag.

  “Did you know it was a trap when you came to hire us?” the man with three swords asked.

  “What? No!”

  “Would you still have done it if you knew?”

  “I don’t know—I guess—yes. We needed the money.”

  “So, you’re not a baron?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “I was a ship’s captain.”

  “Was? What happened?”

  “Are you going to kill me anytime soon? Why all the questions?”

  “Each question you answer is another breath you take,” the voice from behind him spoke. It was the voice of death, emotionless, and empty. Hearing it made Wyatt’s stomach lurch as if he were looking over the edge of a high cliff. Not seeing his face, knowing that he held the blade that would kill him, made it feel like an execution. He thought of Allie, hoped she would be all right, then realized—she would see him. The thought struck with surprising clarity. She would rush out after it was over and find him on the street. She would wade through his blood.

  “What happened?” the executioner asked again, his voice instantly erasing all other thoughts.

  “I sold my ship.”

  “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Gambling debts?”

  “No.”

  “Why, then?”

  “What difference does it make? You’re going to kill me anyway. Just do it!”

  He had steadied himself. He was ready. He clenched his teeth, shut his eyes. Still, the killer delayed.

  “It makes a difference,” the executioner whispered in his ear, “because Allie is not your daughter.”

  The blade came away from Wyatt’s neck.

  Slowly, hesitantly, Wyatt turned to face the man holding the dagger. He had never seen him before. He was smaller than his partner, dressed in a black cloak with a hood that shaded his features, revealing only hints of a face—the tip of a sharp nose, highlight of a cheek, end of a chin.

  “How do you know that?”

  “She saw us in the dark. She saw my knife at your throat as we stood deep in shadow across the length of twenty yards.”

  Wyatt said nothing. He did not dare move or speak. He did not know what to think. Somehow, something had changed. The certainty of death rolled back a step, but its shadow lingered. He had no idea what was happening and was terrified of making a misstep.

  “You sold your ship to buy her, didn’t you?” the hooded man guessed. “But from whom, and why?”

  Wyatt stared at the face beneath the hood—a bleak landscape, a desert dry of compassion. Death was there, a mere breath away; an utterance remained all that separated eternity from salvation.

  The bigger man, the one with three swords, reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “A lot is riding on your answer. But you already knew that, didn’t you? Right now you’re trying to decide what to say, and of course, you’re trying to guess what we want to hear. Don’t. Go with the truth. At least that way, if you’re wrong, your death won’t have been because of a lie.”

  Wyatt nodded. He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and said, “I bought her from a man named Ambrose.”

  “Ambrose Moor?” the executioner asked.

  “Yes.”

  Wyatt waited but nothing happened. He opened his eyes. The dagger was gone and the three-sword man was smiling at him. “I don’t know how much that little girl cost, but it was the best money you ever spent.”

  “You aren’t going to kill me?”

  “Not today. You still owe us one hundred tenents, for the balance on that job,” the man in the hood told him coldly.

  “I—I don’t have it.”

  “Get it.”

  Light burst into the alley as the door to Wyatt’s loft flew open with a bang and Elden charged out. He held his mammoth two-headed axe high above his head as he strode toward them with a determined look.

  The man with three swords rapidly drew two of them.

  “Elden, no!” Wyatt shouted. “They’re not going to kill me! Just stop.”

  Elden paused, his axe held aloft, his eyes looking back and forth between them.

  “They’re letting me go,” Wyatt assured him, then turned to the two men. “You are, aren’t you?”

  The hooded man nodded. “Pay off that debt.”

  As the men walked away, Elden moved to Wyatt’s side and Allie ran out to hug him. The three returned to the loft and slipped inside the doorway. Elden took one last look around, then closed the door behind them.

  “Did you see the
size of that guy?” Hadrian asked Royce, still glancing over his shoulder as if the giant might try to sneak up on them. “I’ve never seen anyone that big. He had to be a good seven feet tall, and that neck, those shoulders, and that axe! It would take two of me just to lift it. Maybe he isn’t human; maybe he’s a giant, or a troll. Some people swear they exist. I’ve met a few who say they have seen them personally.”

  Royce looked at his friend and scowled.

  “Okay, so it’s mostly drunks in bars who say that, but that doesn’t mean it’s not possible. Ask Myron, he’ll back me up.”

  The two headed north toward the Langdon Bridge. It was quiet here. In the respectable hill district of Colnora, people were more inclined to sleep at night than to carouse in taverns. This was the home of merchant titans, affluent businessmen who owned houses grander than many of the palatial mansions of upper nobility.

  Colnora had started out as a meager rest stop at the intersection of the Wesbaden and Aquesta trade routes. Originally, a farmer named Hollenbeck and his wife had watered caravans there and granted room in their barn to the traders in return for news and goods. Hollenbeck had an eye for quality and always picked the best of the lot.

  Soon his farm became an inn and Hollenbeck added a store and a warehouse to sell what he acquired to passing travelers. The merchants deprived of first pick bought plots next to his farm and opened their own shops, taverns, and roadhouses. The farm became a village, then a city, but still, the caravans gave preference to Hollenbeck. Legend held that the reason was their fondness for his wife, a wonderful woman who, in addition to being uncommonly beautiful, sang and played the mandolin. It was said she baked the finest cobblers of peach, blueberry, and apple. Centuries later, when no one could accurately place the location of the original Hollenbeck farm, and few remembered there had ever been such a farmer, they continued to remember his wife—Colnora.

  Over the years the city flourished, until it became the largest urban center in Avryn. Shoppers found the latest style in clothes, the most exquisite jewelry, and the widest variety of exotic spices from hundreds of shops and marketplaces. In addition, the city was home to some of the best artisans and boasted the finest, most popular inns and taverns in the country. Entertainers had long congregated there, prompting Cosmos DeLur, the city’s wealthiest resident and patron of the arts, to construct the DeLur Theatre.

  Crossing the district, Royce and Hadrian halted abruptly in front of the theatre’s large white painted board. It depicted the silhouette of two men scaling the outside of a castle tower and read:

  THE CROWN CONSPIRACY

  HOW A YOUNG PRINCE AND TWO THIEVES SAVED A KINGDOM

  EVENING SHOWS DAILY

  Royce raised an eyebrow while Hadrian slipped the tip of his tongue along his front teeth. They glanced at each other, but neither said a word before continuing on their way.

  Leaving the hill district, they continued along Bridge Street as the land sloped downward toward the river. They passed rows of warehouses—mammoth buildings emblazoned with company brands like royal crests. Some were simply initials, usually the new businesses that had no sense of themselves. Others bore trademarks, like the boar’s head of the Bocant Company, an empire whose genesis had been pork, or the diamond symbol of DeLur Enterprises.

  “You realize he’ll never be able to pay us the hundred?” Hadrian asked.

  “I just didn’t want him to think he was getting off easy.”

  “You didn’t want him to think Royce Melborn went soft at the sight of a little girl’s tears.”

  “She wasn’t just any girl, and besides, he saved her from Ambrose Moor. For that alone he earned one life.”

  “That’s something that has always puzzled me. How is it Ambrose is still alive?”

  “I’ve been sidetracked, I suppose,” Royce said in his let’s not talk about it tone, and Hadrian dropped the subject.

  Of the city’s three main bridges, the Langdon was the most ornate. Made from cut stone, it was lined every few feet by large lampposts fashioned in the shapes of swans, which, when lit, gave the bridge a festive look. Now, however, with the lights out, the stone was wet and appeared oily and dangerous.

  “Well, at least we didn’t spend the last month looking for DeWitt for nothing,” Hadrian said sarcastically as they crossed the bridge. “I would have thought—”

  Royce stopped walking and abruptly raised his hand. Both men looked around and, without a word, drew their weapons as they moved back to back. Nothing seemed amiss. The only sound was the roar of the tumultuous waters that rushed and churned below them.

  “Impressive, Duster,” a man said, addressing Royce, as he stepped out from behind one of the bridge lampposts. His skin was pale, and his body so slender and bony that he swam in his loose britches and shirt. He looked like a corpse someone forgot to bury.

  Behind them, Hadrian noted three more men crawling onto the span. They all had similar appearances, thin and muscular, each in dark-colored clothes. They circled like wolves.

  “What tipped you off we were here?” the thin man asked.

  “I’m guessing it was your breath, but body odor really can’t be ruled out,” Hadrian replied with a grin while noting their positions, their movements, and the direction of their eyes.

  “Mind yer mouth, bub,” the tallest of the four threatened.

  “To what do we owe this visit, Price?” Royce asked.

  “Funny, I was about to ask you the same,” the thin man replied. “This is our city, after all, not yours—not anymore.”

  “Black Diamond?” Hadrian asked.

  Royce nodded.

  “And you would be Hadrian Blackwater,” Price noted. “I always thought you’d be bigger.”

  “And you’re a Black Diamond. I always thought there were more of you.”

  Price smiled, held his gaze long enough to suggest a threat, and returned his attention to Royce. “So what are you doing here, Duster?”

  “Just passing through.”

  “Really? No business?”

  “Nothing that would interest you.”

  “Well now, you see, that’s where you’re wrong.” Price stepped away from the swan lamppost and began slowly circling them as he talked. The wind blowing down the river whipped his loose shirt like a flag at mast. “The Black Diamond is interested in everything that happens in Colnora, most particularly when it involves you, Duster.”

  Hadrian leaned over and asked, “Why does he keep calling you Duster?”

  “That was my guild name,” Royce replied.

  “He was a Black Diamond?” asked the youngest-looking of the four. He had round, chubby cheeks blown red and blotchy and a narrow mouth wreathed by a thin mustache and goatee.

  “Oh yes, that’s right, Etcher, you’ve never heard of Duster before, have you? Etcher is new to the guild, only been with us, what—six months? Well, you see, not only was Duster a Diamond, he was an officer, bucket man, and one of the most notorious members in the guild’s history.”

  “Bucket man?” Hadrian asked.

  “Assassin,” Royce explained.

  “He’s a legend, this one is,” Price went on, pacing around the stone bridge, carefully avoiding the puddles. “Wonder boy of his day, he rose through the ranks so fast it unnerved people.”

  “Funny,” Royce said, “I only remember one.”

  “Well, when the First Officer of the guild is nervous, so is everyone else. You see, back then the Jewel had a man named Hoyte running the show. He was an ass to most of us—a good thief and administrator, but an ass just the same. Duster here had a lot of support from the lower ranks and Hoyte was concerned Duster might replace him. He began ordering Duster on the most dangerous jobs—jobs that went suspiciously bad. Still, Duster always escaped unscathed, making him even more a hero. Rumors began circulating we might have a traitor in the guild. Rather than being concerned, Hoyte saw this as an opportunity.”

  Price paused in his orator’s trek around the bridge and stopped i
n front of Royce. “You see, at that time there were three bucket men in the guild and all of them good friends. Jade, the guild’s only female assassin, was a beauty who—”

  “Is this going somewhere, Price?” Royce snapped.

  “Just giving Etcher a little background, Duster. You wouldn’t begrudge me the chance to educate my boys, would you?” Price smiled and returned to his casual pacing, slipping his thumbs into the loose waistline of his pants. “Where was I? Oh yes, Jade. It happened right over there.” He pointed back across the bridge. “That empty warehouse with the clover symbol on its side. That’s where Hoyte set them up, pitting one against the other. Then, like now, bucket men wore masks to prevent being marked.” Price paused and looked at Royce with feigned sympathy. “You had no idea who she was until it was over, did you, Duster? Or did you know and kill her anyway?”

  Royce said nothing but glared at Price with a dangerous look.

  “The last of the three bucket men was Cutter, who was understandably upset to learn Duster murdered Jade, since Cutter and Jade were lovers. The fact that his friend was responsible made it personal, and Hoyte was happy to let Cutter settle the score.

  “But Cutter didn’t want Duster dead. He wanted him to suffer and insisted on something more elaborate, more painful. The man is a strategic mastermind—our best heist planner—and arranged for Duster to be apprehended by the city guard. Cutter traded a few favors and, with some money, bought a trial that resulted in Duster going to Manzant Prison. The hole no one ever comes back from. Escape was thought to be impossible—only somehow Duster managed it. You know, we still don’t know how you got out.” He paused, giving Royce a chance to reply.

  Again, Royce remained silent.

  Price shrugged. “When Duster escaped, he returned to Colnora. First, the magistrate who presided over his trial was found dead in his bed. Then the false witnesses—all three on the same night—and finally the lawyer. Soon, one by one, members of the Black Diamond started disappearing. They turned up in the strangest places: the river, the city square, even the steeple of the church.

  “After losing more than a dozen members, the Jewel made a deal. He gave Hoyte to Duster, who forced him to confess publicly. Then Duster killed Hoyte and left his body in the Hill Square Fountain—it was pure artistry. It stopped the war, but the wounds were too deep to forgive. Duster left, only to reemerge years later working out of Crimson Hand territory up north. But you’re not a member, are you?”