“I've had worse,” he grinned. “But you're probably right about the chests.”
They started hiking along the shore, looking for a path up the cliffs that Conn could manage. He had no doubt she could scale them at any point. She nudged his good arm.
“Thank you for your help,” she said. “I couldn't have managed alone.”
“Thank you for that throw. I didn't like the idea of having my tongue cut out.”
“I’m sure the news would have broken hearts across the continent,” she smirked.
“It’s what I tell myself, anyway.”
“What do you plan to do now. Your half of this job will give you the money to travel most anywhere.” She looked into his eyes, waiting for the answer.
“That depends,” he answered with his most charming smile. “What's our next job, partner?”
The Slumbering Crystal
TRILISEAN DRIFTED THROUGH the marketplace crowd, as invisible as an attractive woman could be.
Stealth was not always slow, deliberate and cautious. Stealth was not being noticed.
The secret was to sense the currents of the crowd. Like the sea or the air, a crowd had mass and inertia and momentum, a flow as predictable to one trained in such things as the tides are to a ship's pilot. She moved with the crowd, adjusting her pace to its mood. Decisive, rapid, purposeful movement in a throng which browsed aimlessly would stick out.
She projected indifference. Moving casually from stall to packed stall, glancing over the gaudy heaps of bright silks, the delicate vials of scented oils, and the glittering offerings of the jewelry stalls. The right amount of interest was vital. Too much and the merchants would perk up like wolves scenting prey, too little and people would wonder why she were here. She needed to be simple background.
Most thieves knew that it was difficult to steal from merchants. Merchants are good at reading the intent of customers, and are very aware of their wares. What the best thieves knew, she thought with pride, was that it was difficult to steal near merchants. The mark must not notice, but neither could an observer, and no good merchant would fail to observe his clientele.
She had chosen her quarry with care. A fat, middle aged man, dressed in expensive and fashionable silks and ruffles of a courtier with a strikingly beautiful – and far younger – woman on his arm. The man should be shopping in a market nearer to the wealthy side of town. He surely would be if the woman were his wife. The couple was a perfect target, Trilisean felt. Both would be distracted, she by the gifts being lavished upon her, and he by the youth and vibrance of his companion.
Trilisean also knew that the best way to catch prey was not to follow, but to be where the prey were headed. Observing the general direction of their progress, she guessed they were headed for one of the better jewelry stalls. She set a meandering course towards it.
She arrived just as the woman pointed out an expensive necklace. The man dug in his purse as he haggled with the merchant. Just a bit. Out of habit, Trilisean felt. He was clearly a man who felt he should haggle, but didn't want to appear stingy to his new partner. She smiled to herself as she saw the fat man struggle to play both the generous and adoring lover and the tough, savvy customer to two audiences in the same place. He must be a courtier, she thought.
The woman smiled at her escort as he accepted the jewelry from the seller. With an expression of carefully practiced innocence, she brushed back her blonde ringlets, opened her collar and tilted her chin up to him, the easier for him to fasten the piece around her neck. Coincidentally, the pose accentuated the swell of her young, pert breasts, and gave him an excellent vantage.
Trilisean was almost as grateful as the middle aged lover. Her prey's hands trembled with nervous energy as he draped the necklace over the soft white skin and struggled to fasten the clasp with chubby fingers. He had to lean close and put his arms around her to work behind her neck. Trilisean noted his breathing accelerate.
She leaned toward the counter, brushing lightly against the wealthy man, gave a covetous glance at the necklace to stroke the ego of his companion, and examined a cheap amulet, lifting it with her left hand. The merchant, who, like all good merchants, seemed to have nerve endings connected to every piece of his stock, diverted a fraction of attention to the piece Trilisean turned over, examining it with the lip-biting concentration of one whose aspirations outreach her funds, and is all too conscious of the fact.
The stage set, all the pieces in play where she wanted, she made her move. The courtier hadn't noticed the brush of her hip against him, which both served as a final test of his awareness and pushed open the lips of his purse. Her slender, dextrous right hand slid into the purse, seizing coins, sorting them for value by touch long honed for the purpose, and drew them forth, clutching them separately between her fingers to keep them from jingling. She then put the hand, much less subtly, into her own pouch.
“How much is this?” she asked the merchant, dropping three gold crowns and a heavy, five mark silver coin into her purse.
“Ah, your eyes are not only beautiful, but are sharp for quality,” he replied. “Four marks. I should charge more, but seeing its beauty near yours is compensation enough for an old man.”
She gave him her best crestfallen look and started to put it down.
“Wait. I could let it go for three and sixpence,” he wheedled. “It's of the finest Redanyan craftsmanship. Pure silver from Thyta.”
Trilisean smiled to herself. The piece was at least half tin, made within a mile of where they stood. The forger had even gotten the Redanyan characters wrong. It should sell for a single silver mark, and that to the husband of an illiterate washerwoman, trying to buy forgiveness for a late drunken evening.
“It's so beautiful,” she lied, “but I just started a job here in the city. I can't spend more than two marks.” Let him rob you, she thought, just not much.
The merchant gave an elaborate pantomime of inner struggle, during which the happy couple departed, the woman's head on the fat man's shoulder. With luck, he'd be too distracted to count his money any time soon. Eventually, the merchant, in an act of what he made sound like financial suicide for the simple pleasure of looking upon her, settled for two mark sixpence.
Trilisean counted out the money, selecting one silver mark and painstakingly counting out eighteen pennies as though each were a drop of her blood. She accepted the amulet on its leather thong with childlike delight and skipped off.
Sixty five marks for the outlay of two and a half, she thought. Not a bad haul. She looked at the cheap amulet. It was pretty, if misspelled, and the metal was nice and shiny.
She slipped the cord over her head. The piece wasn't worth the effort of selling, but she decided to keep it as a trophy of the hunt.
* * *
Conn retreated a half step and parried the nobleman's sword thrust.
The younger man advanced quickly but not recklessly, following with a quick cut at Conn's head. The Aeransman fell back, parried and riposted with a thrust, but the noble deflected his blade and continued forward. Conn was impressed, the young man controlled his enthusiasm well and stayed focused. He kept his guard tight, and he varied his thrusts with short, rapid cuts with the tip of the weapon. The mercenary continued to concentrate on his defense and fell back, one step at a time, hoping for a mistake.
He spotted his chance as the young man overextended a lunge, then cocked his wrist back just a bit too far for a cut. Conn snapped his point forward.
The blunted tip of the practice blade cracked against the bony edge of the young man's wrist. He cried out and dropped his own blunted weapon as his hand spasmed in pain.
“Better, lad. Better.” Conn stepped forward and shook the man's good hand. “Just watch your guard. Keep your point toward your enemy and the quillons will protect your hand.” In truth the wrist was hard to hit and not very vital, so would be less of a target in battle, but that was the best way to reinforce the need to keep the guard tight. A few painful bruises taught be
tter than hours of lecture. “Get cleaned up. We'll work with the long blades again next week.”
The young man saluted and left.
“How's his highness coming along?” asked Conn's young apprentice.
“Slowly but surely,” Conn answered. Of humble birth himself, he ignored the young man's derision of the customer. So long as it was out of earshot of paying customers, Conn was all for taking jabs at the nobility.
“What do you want to work on tonight?”
“Shortsword and shield?” asked Ioresh, hopefully.
“What the bloody hell for? That's only good for soldierin'. No money in that. Learn the long blades, you can get good coin off the nobs to teach their bairns how to duel.”
“You're teaching Bevar to be a soldier.”
Conn sighed. He motioned the young man to a table. He fetched two mugs, then filled them from the barrel in the corner.
“I've told you. I'm teaching him to be an officer. His family can buy him a commission.”
“I can enlist.”
“That you can. But that would be stupid.”
“You did.”
Conn took a deep drink. “Your point being?”
“Well– “
“Look. Here's the facts. If young Bevar becomes an officer, he gets a good shirt of mail and a decent blade from his dad. He has a whole rank of men between him and the enemy. He's got a horse to get away on, and he gets a share of plunder. A real share. If he wins a few battles, he may get a title and lands out of it. If he gets wounded and loses an arm or leg or eye, he'll return with loot and glory for his family, and be given some estate to oversee for his sacrifice. You join, being just another warm body, you get the scrapings of the barrel for gear, you get to march in the rain, sleep in the mud, stand sentry in the cold. You get to be the front line in a quilted gambeson stopping Jarving pikes. Your pay is low, your share of plunder lower. If you get crippled, you get to starve on the street, beggin' for spare farthings. Best you can hope for is to retire and, since you'll have no other skills to speak of, earn your bread instructing spoiled nobles and fat merchants with delusions how to fight duels. I'm offerin' you that now.”
The young man seemed unconvinced. He sullenly sipped at his beer. Conn saw the look in his eyes, the certainty he could win glory if given the chance.
“Look, lad, a dozen years in the Free Companies, and this,” he swept his free hand to indicate the room with its whitewashed walls, scuffed wooden floor, racks of weapons, masks and sweat stained padded jackets. “This is my Barony,” he finished with an ironic smirk.
* * *
Trilisean bought a pastry and ate it in the shade of an alley, watching the passing crowd. She felt pleased with her haul, but restless. Sixty five marks was a good day’s work. It would keep her fed and dry for a month, but jobs were scarce again. Picking pockets was high in risk and low in reward. She longed for another contract job.
She noticed a tall, thin man moving quickly through the crowd. She recognized him as Vaigh, a small time break and entry man. His clothes were tattered and disheveled, his eyes darted furtively, and he clutched his satchel closer to his body than seemed necessary.
All of which indicated to a job completed. He was clearly on his way to meet with a client and deliver his goods.
Trilisean was intrigued. He must have contacts she did not, and that was state of affairs that simply could not be allowed to stand. She watched him proceed past her, and when she was confident he hadn't spotted her, she began to follow.
Holding the remains of her pastry in her teeth, she sprang to a low windowsill on one side of the alley, kicked off to the other side, then finding two toeholds through her soft boots, pushed off again to catch the edge of the opposite roof and swing up.
She sat for a moment, watching Vaigh's progress and munching her pastry. Years of poverty had ingrained in her an almost unconscious inability to throw away good food.
She decided to follow via rooftop for several reasons. First, she was too short to have any hope of keeping sight of her quarry through the crowd. Second, she had learned that, in Laimrig at least, people didn't look up. People looked down to avoid treading on broken cobbles or offal or the insensate forms of the downtrodden. They looked furtively from side to side, avoiding the eyes of their fellows while scanning for threats. They bent with the weariness of their bleak struggle for existence. Mostly, they avoided any view of the Sollych.
Whatever the reason, she used the fact to her advantage. It was easy, if one were light of foot and of frame, to travel by rooftop across the city. Wide streets or tall buildings could be problems, but wide streets were few in this neighborhood, and most buildings were three hunched stories, not daring to strive higher.
She also had the luxury of not having to struggle through obstacles or crowds, as did Vaigh. She could keep pace and still have time to speculate on his destination. A growing suspicion as to where that might be was confirmed when he entered the shop of Fayl, known widely as a pawnbroker and narrowly as a fence.
She paused for a moment, a small frown creasing her forehead. This same fence had told her there were no contract jobs at the moment. Unless Vaigh had decided to spontaneously steal a large, bulky, difficult to conceal and likely easy to recognize object, it would seem that Fayl had lied to her. The fact that he wasn't honest with her bothered Trilisean only a little. She didn't expect honesty in her profession. The fact that she missed it bothered her a great deal.
She dropped lightly into an abandoned alley. She brushed herself off, straightened her cloak and walked around to the front of the shop. She waited for a moment then glided in behind another customer. She drifted among the shelves in the shadows near the back of the store while the other customers browsed. Vaigh stood impatiently near the counter, waiting for a chance to speak to Fayl alone.
Eventually, the other patrons drifted out. Trilisean melted into a rack of cloaks hanging in a shadowed corner. Vaigh waited until the door closed. He swept the room with a trained eye. Trilisean held her breath, closed her eyes and willed his gaze to slide off her. The darkness which had so long been her ally did not fail her.
Fayl eased his bulk out from behind the counter and locked the door of the shop. He walked back, rubbing his meaty palms, “What'd you find, boy?”
Vaigh lifted his satchel onto the counter, emptying out several large gold objects. Trilisean stifled a gasp as Fayl lifted a heavy candlestick, ornately engraved and studded with precious stones.
“Nice,” said Fayl, turning his attention to a candlestick. “There a lot of this around?”
“Aye,” muttered Vaigh. “How much for the lot?”
“Well, it's all good, pure metal, pricy stones, nobody like to come lookin' for it. Fifty crowns.”
“Bollocks. It's worth a hundred and you know it.”
“It's not a style that's much in demand, friend. Plus, not many people are interested in this price range. I may have to break ‘em up, melt down some of the stuff. I've got costs, y'know. I’ll give you seventy”
“Eighty five.”
“Seventy five or try to fence ‘em yourself.”
“Done.”
Fayl began to count out coins as Vaigh scowled. “Can't believe I'm the one they call a thief.”
I can't believe you call yourself one either, thought Trilisean.
“Supply and demand, my boy,” the fence replied serenely. “Market forces. No point fightin' it. A client of mine was wondering about a crystal. Round. About the size of fist. No chance you saw anything like that?”
“Didn't hang around long,” Vaigh mumbled, eyes downcast. “Wasn't safe.”
“No chance you'd want to make a return trip? There could be a few marks up front.”
Vaigh looked him straight in the eye and spoke more clearly and calmly than at any time before. “Not a fucking chance.”
“There's a lot of money in it.”
“Not for my weight in gold or your weight in submissive dancing girls.” He sc
ooped up the seventy five crowns and dumped them in his pouch. “Treasure's nothing unless you live to spend it.”
Fayl unlocked the door and let the thief go. He shut the door behind Vaigh's departing back and sighed.
“You robbed him, you know.”
Fayl spun around with a speed that belied his corpulent frame.
Trilisean sat cross-legged on the counter, critically examining a chalice. “This is worth a hundred crowns for the jewels alone. And you wouldn't deal this way unless you had a buyer lined up already.”
“A man has to make a profit,” said Fayl defensively, walking over and snatching the chalice from her. “You're not going to lecture me on business practices, are you?”
“Actually, I'm just hurt that you gave this tip to a two farthing smash-and-grab amateur, instead of an artist. A name or two springs to mind.”
“Not at all. It just didn't seem your style.”
“And he works cheaper.”
“And he does work cheaper,” the fence agreed. “Look, it shouldn't have taken your talents. A client came to me with an old map. Said it was to a ruined temple deep in the forest. Three or four days south of here. Said there was supposed to be a few old relics down there that he'd pay a pretty penny for.”
“A pretty crown for, it seems.”
“Semantics. Anyway, it seemed more of a hump through the woods and some crowbar work. More Vaigh's style really.”
“So, tell me more about this map.”
Fayl fixed her with a stare. “Have you ever even be outside the walls of Laimrig?”
“My past isn't at issue,” she replied flatly. “But I do know someone who's traveled a bit.”
* * *
Conn parried a thrust with a downward sweep of his blade, then circled to Ioresh's right. The young man slashed with his short sword, but Conn blocked with his own sword and punched his shield into his student's ribs. The young man collapsed, gasping.
“Right, lad,” he said, extending a hand to pull Ioresh to his feet. “That's today's lesson. You keep thinking of the sword as a weapon and the shield as defense. Don't shackle your thinking. Block with whatever is convenient. Attack with whatever will surprise your enemy. The only rule of combat is that there are no rules.”
Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1) Page 4
