Thief of Lives

by Barb Hendee

  "Leesil, I said no," Magiere repeated.

  In answer, Leesil simply dropped his pack on the chest. "Give me the purse."

  "I already gave you coins back on the ship."

  "I… I don't have any copper. Just give me the purse."

  Magiere hesitated. After everything she'd put up with in the last day and night, she had an insatiable urge to clout him upside the head, hangover or not. She pulled the coin pouch out and handed it over.

  "What's your name?" Leesil asked of the leader as he fished in the purse.

  "Vatz," the boy answered, and he hooked a thumb toward the freckled companion peering around his side. "This is Pint. And that'll be payment in advance."

  Leesil pulled his fingers from the pouch and reached out to the boy. One copper penny fell into Vatz's open palm.

  "That'll be a down payment," Leesil said, and with thumb and forefinger, he fanned out three more copper pennies like tiny cards. "The rest when services are complete. And I need guidance to a weaponsmith of a particular kind."

  Vatz eyed Leesil, but his attention kept slipping to the three coins.

  "Done," he said, tucking away his one penny, and he waved his crew forward.

  They descended upon the luggage with many an "Excuse me" and "Step aside, ma'am," and Magiere found herself caught between backing out of their way and swatting them aside like pestering flies. Before she could decide, two boys lowered their poles to either trunk side while their counterparts slipped leather straps through the trunk's end handles, synching the trunk between the poles. All four boys positioned themselves at the poles' ends, ready to lift and haul the moment the word was given.

  "So where to?" asked Vatz.

  "Wait—Leesil…" Magiere grabbed her companion by the arm, pulling him aside. "What are you doing? Why do you need a smith?"

  Leesil licked his lips and looked her straight in the eyes.

  "I can't help you with a couple of stilettos, or…"—he took a breath and lowered his voice—"any of the other gear I'm accustomed to."

  "Yes… your other gear," Magiere repeated quietly, but it wasn't the time or place for what she imagined would be a long tale best told in private. "Then we'll get you a sword, a short saber, or anything manageable."

  Leesil shook his head. "I don't have time to learn a sword, and it doesn't fit my ways. I've something planned I think will work, but I need a weapon maker who's skilled and fast. Hopefully one with apprentices or journeymen to work on it all at once."

  "We don't have that kind of money," Magiere insisted.

  "I don't need money." He handed her back the pouch, minus the copper to pay their porters.

  "Leesil—" Magiere began.

  "I've some things I can barter with," he rebuked. "It'll all be perfectly aboveboard."

  Magiere already imagined ways he might procure funding for the purchase, but she was too eager to get away from the throngs of people.

  "Get it done and catch up to me before… Where are we going?"

  Leesil turned about. "Vatz, we need an inn that's clean, cheap, out of the way, but fairly close to the castle grounds."

  The boy didn't hesitate. "Easy enough. The Burdock. My boys know the way."

  "And you're coming with me," Leesil added, then looked to Magiere. "I'll meet you in time, before we go to the council—promise." With that, he waved Vatz to follow and hurried off.

  Alone amid the milling dock crowds, Magiere felt exposed. Whatever Leesil needed to arm himself for the coming days wasn't anything she could try to deny him. Hopefully it wouldn't end with some outraged smith pounding on their door with the city guard in tow. There was little left to do but get to the inn and wait for him.

  The pier boys were ready but stood suppressing snickering laughter for some reason. She looked about for her own pack.

  Out ahead was Pint, or what she could see of him, her pack hoisted up like a bearer. As he teetered blindly back and forth under its bulk, his head had disappeared in the sagging mass that dropped down to his shoulders.

  "Give me that!" She snatched the pack off of him. "And get moving."

  Pint wobbled as his burden suddenly vanished, and spun completely around before his short legs righted themselves. He grinned, all fat cheeks and scrunching eyes, and scurried off to lead the way.

  "Four copper pennies," Magiere muttered, as she followed, "to be a nursemaid."

  Leesil harbored doubts whether what he had planned could be accomplished in an absurdly short time. As he stood in the smith's outer timber stall, with Vatz leaning impatiently against the entry, he peered through the archways to the work area of the smithy. What he saw gave him hope.

  Rear doors at the room's back were opened for light, but most illumination came from the glowing forges, casting the interior and its occupants in a sweltering glow. The place was big enough to house Miiska's own smithy in the forge room alone. A half dozen men and women worked forges and fire pits. Benches and tools and materials were spread everywhere, and the air was baked with the smell of metal and coal.

  Leesil turned toward the back stalls. Through a door, he saw several more people at a table polishing, sharpening, and finishing spear- and arrowheads, swords, and other armaments. Vatz had more than adequately filled his request for a particular kind of weapon maker. Leesil fished in his shirt and withdrew a folded parchment and an old scarf wrapped around an object the length of his forearm.

  Out of the workroom came a man who barely fit through the archway, a solid column of flesh with legs and arms like ship beams. Between smears of soot, sweat glistened across his skin. Even his long leather apron seemed to perspire.

  "Master Balgavi at your service," the man pronounced with a heavy, rolling voice as he wiped his hands on an over-smudged rag. "What can I do you for today?"

  "I have job for you, something unique, and I need it fast," Leesil said. "Can you handle it?"

  The smith shrugged. "If you make it worth putting aside other work, as I don't lose business just to do new business. If I put enough of my people on it, we can make most any steel weapon. In as little as a few weeks, you'll—"

  "No, not weeks," Leesil cut in. "Days."

  Balgavi's mouth slackened as his singed brows wrinkled, and for a moment Leesil wondered if he was about to be tossed into the street.

  "You haven't got that much coin," the smith growled.

  "I've got something worth that, and more," Leesil replied. "Can you do it?"

  "What's it you want?" Balgavi asked suspiciously. "It had best not be any nonsense."

  Leesil tucked the scarf bundle under his arm, and carefully unfolded the crinkled parchment sheet.

  In the woods outside of Miiska, he spent his time scribbling, rubbing out, and redrawing, until the image fit his vision. If it could actually be made, he had faith he could stand with Magiere against whatever they fought.

  Its forward end was shaped like a flattened spade, tapering smoothly from the point in arcs to both sides. At the base between those arcs was a crosswise handle to be gripped in the fist so the tip could be thrust with a punch. However, one side arc of blade did not stop at the handle. It continued in an extended, more gradual curve that would run along on the outside of the forearm, ending just beyond the elbow.

  "Hmm… intriguing, sure enough," the smith said, taking the parchment from Leesil to inspect it more closely. "And fortunately for you, not as complicated as I'd expected. The grip can be made by cutting an oval in the base of the head, making a handle to be wrapped like a hilt. Better than forging on a crosspiece, and it'll give some strength. And we've some similar curves of metal that could be adapted for this outside wing. That'll save some time."

  "I need two of them," Leesil corrected. "Mirrored. One for each hand."

  Balgavi sighed deeply. "You'd better have something well worth this."

  "And I'll need custom sheaths to fit that will hang from a belt, with lashings to strap above the knee and hold them to the thighs."

  At that, the smith
grunted. "Go to the scabbarder. Down the road, two blocks."

  "I don't have time," Leesil retorted. "And for what I'm paying, you can send one of your apprentices with the drawing, easy enough."

  The smith folded the parchment in his fist.

  "Let's see this oh-so-grand compensation you've been clucking about."

  As he unrolled the scarf, Leesil was careful to watch the smith's eyes. This was the moment he'd feared the most. The bulky giant was clearly intrigued, and both his irritation over the rushed work and his mild curiosity concerning the drawing meant he was likely able and willing to fulfill the request. If Leesil gambled correctly on the value of his barter, he'd know the moment the smith saw what was in the scarf.

  The scarf's folds parted, dropping around his hand, and in his palm lay the elven stiletto and the extra hilt.

  Balgavi's eyes blinked twice. Leesil tried not to smile.

  "Where'd you get this?" the smith asked quietly, as he reached out to touch the white metal.

  "An inheritance, of sorts," Leesil answered. "But now I need something more suitable."

  The smith hadn't taken his eyes or fingers off the stiletto. For that matter, Vatz now craned his neck to see, and for the first time, he lost his affected stony expression in awe.

  As Balgavi lifted the stiletto, it caught light from the forge room. Rose highlights shivered along its silver-white metal and sparked along its clean and perfect edge.

  "Done," the smith said simply. "But be warned ahead. This kind of hurried work… I won't stand behind it. You'll get the best that can be done in the time, and that's all."

  "Fair enough," Leesil agreed. "Either I or someone I send will check back to see how the work goes."

  With that, Balgavf nodded, took the spare handle as well, and walked back into the forge room, shouting to his people.

  Leesil headed out into the street, Vatz trotting by his side. The boy looked at him with irritation.

  "Forget it. You get paid when your work is done," Leesil said.

  "That's not what I'm thinking about," Vatz said with grumbling dissatisfaction.

  "Then what?"

  "I'm thinking I should have charged you more."

  Wynn disliked visiting the Bela council hall on the castle grounds, and she often wished Master Tilswith spoke the local language well enough to handle these meetings by himself. Now, the old domin sat beside her as she patiently waited to translate or supply any words he could not remember.

  Directly in front of her, seated behind a large, cherry-wood desk in his office chamber, Count Alexi Lanjov closed his eyes and rubbed his left temple in mild frustration. He wore a perfectly pressed white shirt, black tunic, and black breeches. Wynn and her master were dressed as always in their simple gray robes.

  "I understand point, Alexi," Domin Tilswith said, "but you admit old barracks not… suitable… our needs."

  Wynn noticed that the twinge pulsing in Lanjov's left temple became more acute as the domin went on in his broken speech, describing inadequate facilities for ancient scrolls, new volumes and books, and materials and instruments necessary for their work.

  Lanjov opened his eyes to look again at the two sages seated across from him.

  At the moment, it seemed the councilman had little time for the complaints of scholars, and Wynn had more understanding of his position than her master did. Lanjov spent half of his time handling the city's treasury funds at Bela's largest bank and the other half making decisions as chairman of the city council.

  He was a tall man, and though he was nearing fifty years of age, his square face was unlined and adorned by a straight, slightly large nose. His hair was steel gray, short, and neatly combed.

  "Your council invite us here," Domin Tilswith said, "start new branch our guild, serve city, kingdom, people. First on your continent, but you not…" He paused and, once again, Wynn leaned to whisper in his ear. "Value?" he said aloud with puzzlement, and Wynn nodded. "You not value us."

  Lanjov placed his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers, and rested his chin on them.

  "Domin," Lanjov said in audible frustration. "Tilswith— you know we do value your presence here. I understand the barracks are inadequate, but there is simply no place to move the guild at this time. The city is growing at an unfathomable rate, and there is no building or grounds currently not in use that is large enough for what you plan. We must wait until suitable open ground is allocated to build an entirely new structure."

  Wynn had to translate parts of the councilman's response, but when she had finished, Tilswith's green eyes glittered. Wynn almost smiled in relief, hoping this would be enough for her superior. Perhaps Lanjov truly would assist them.

  "Yes, yes," Tilswith said, "best solution! When?"

  Lanjov sighed. "I will see that the council takes the opportunity to address your concerns. But at the moment there are simply no funds available for a project of this size."

  Wynn glanced about the office, as did Tilswith, and she couldn't help a suspicious frown. Lanjov shifted uncomfortably.

  Deep blue tapestries trimmed in soft cream covered the walls. On one wall hung a portrait of Chesna, his daughter, and on the opposite a portrait of the king. The imported Suman rug was thick enough to sleep on, and a porcelain tea service, with matching pitcher and washbasin, rested on a cherrywood stand by the chamber's side door. Lanjov's inkwell and the tip of his crystal-handled quill were crafted in matching silver.

  "Yes," Tilswith said. "We see problem… with money."

  Wynn felt her previous hope fade as Lanjov's expression turned from polite frustration to one of dismissal.

  "I respect your presence here, and am personally glad of it," he said seriously, "but truly, Tilswith, we have more pressing matters. No—don't look at me as if I'm deaf. There are other matters… criminal matters which require the council's attention."

  These words the domin understood, and he paused in silence.

  "I sorry your daughter," Tilswith said. "She kind girl… in… innocent."

  Wynn, too, felt sympathy. Lanjov was a private man, and the recent murder of his daughter—on the front porch of their home, no less—weighed heavily upon him. She had heard little in detail, but the brief descriptions of the body were more than she cared to know.

  "I help if can," Tilswith added.

  Lanjov nodded stiffly. "Yes, I know you would. We are doing what we can to find her killer. The council has sent to Miiska for a dhampir." He then paused. "Do you know of such?"

  Both sages stared at him for a moment. Tilswith frowned in confusion and then leaned closer to Wynn, seeking an explanation.

  Wynn looked back to Lanjov. "What is a dhampir?"

  "A hunter of the dead—or the undead," he answered. "Yes, yes, I know it's distasteful and superstitious-sounding, but…" He stopped, clear discomfort rising in his eyes. "An unnatural creature murdered my daughter. I have no doubt of this, and the city needs an equally unusual agent to hunt it down."

  "But what is a dhampir?" Wynn repeated.

  Lanjov sighed again. "From what I've been told, legend has it that such a person is the offspring of a vampire and a mortal and, by nature, capable of exterminating these creatures."

  Wynn paused, uncertain of what she heard, and then translated. Domin Tilswith scoffed.

  "Child tales," he said. "We have like in stories call ar-dadesbarn."

  "You would say ‘dead's child,'" Wynn explained, "though it is the offspring of a revenant, not your vampires. How much did you pay this… dhampir?"

  "Tales of this person drifted along the coast," Lanjov said, ignoring the issue of payment. "It seems those stories are true to a point, as much as any rumor holds some grain of truth. She and her companion hunted down at least three undeads in Miiska. That she has killed at least three is verified by Miiska's town council." Lanjov shook his head slowly. "Undeads… the mere thought that such things are more than peasant superstitions…"

  Tilswith shook his head sympathetically and scoffed a
gain, but Wynn was curiously intrigued. A half-undead?

  Domin Tilswith appeared on the verge of returning to the issue of new guild quarters, when a knock sounded at the side door.

  "Come in," Lanjov called out, sounding rather eager.

  Crias Doviak, council secretary, put his head around the door.

  "She's arrived, sir," Doviak said. "The council is gathering in the main chamber now."

  Lanjov quickly rose. "Thank you. I will be in directly."

  Doviak nodded respectfully and left.

  "I apologize," Lanjov said to Tilswith, stepping briskly around the desk. "Duty calls me away."

  Tilswith sputtered, but Lanjov nearly lifted him out of the chair while shaking his hand in farewell. He placed a hand on Wynn's shoulder as well, propelling them toward the main chamber door.

  "We will continue addressing your concerns as soon as possible."

  Surprised by this sudden rush out of Lanjov's office, Wynn instinctively tried to plant her heels in the floor, but the councilman's large hand slipped down the center of her back with a quick shove. Before she could offer a polite good-bye, the door closed in their faces.

  "H'neaw hornunznu!" Tilswith spit back at the closed door.

  Wynn was relieved she did not have to translate such an utterance.

  Leesil slowed his step as they approached the council hall, overwhelmed by its sheer size. The lengthy, three-story building also served as the city's central courthouse and hall of justice. It was bound to be more than the back room of the Velvet Rose used by Miiska's own council—but this he hadn't expected. The entrance doors were wide enough to pass through with arms outstretched. When he stepped inside, Leesil felt an anxious spasm for every questionable act he'd ever committed in his entire life.

  Once inside the cathedral-like entryway, he, Magiere, and Chap waited as an interior guard sent a youthful attendant to fetch their escort, Crias Doviak, secretary of the council. The paned window arch above the doors spilled light across stone walls stained in soft green to complement a marble floor with veins the color of jade. Above them, raised into the domed ceiling, hung an iron chandelier with polished brass fittings that held at least two dozen oil-lamp receptacles in glass globes.