The Burning City (The Guildmaster Thief Book 2)

by Jake Kerr

  "Well, Guildmaster, we have to prepare for the possibility of being invaded. Now that we are in the open, it is possible that Larsen will change tack and put his effort on uniting Ness against the Thieves."

  "It's the Outlanders plan all over again, only we are the bad guys," Raef added.

  "We've always been the bad guys," Alard replied.

  "Okay, what do you think of this? Coode is handling the refugees. Dirk will handle guild defenses." Dirk was the Captain of the Guard. "And Alard, you will travel to the Lower Quarter to gather information and contact Vesper."

  "Sir, may I remind you that I am wanted and will be arrested at first sight?"

  "You are known for your appearance, your hood especially. You will wear a White suit of chainmail, with a coif that covers your skull. As a knight you won't stand out with your size."

  "I will not wear the white." Alard's voice was a growl and spoken with an intimidating forcefulness. Ralan looked at Alard in surprise. He had never had Alard outright refuse a command. He would gently lead Ralan to a better idea or he would explain why Ralan's command was mistaken, but he never had answered as he just did.

  "It is necessary. You cannot go as a Harvest Guildmember, as they are being removed. It would be too dangerous for you to pose as a Merchant or Craft guildmember while in the Lower Quarter. The danger of being recognized would be too high."

  "Come on, Alard. We all have to do difficult things some time in our life." Raef added.

  "How dare you make that comment to me, Raef." Alard frowned as he turned to Raef. He looked frightening. "How dare you. You know nothing of the difficult things and decisions I've had to make. Nothing!" Alard's words were all restrained fury. Turning to Ralan, his voice returned to a steely calm, which was frightening in its own way. "I will not and will never wear the white again." Alard lowered his head.

  "Your history with the Knight Guild is widely commented upon but no one appears to know the details."

  "It is a story I will share with you when the time is right."

  Ralan was going to reply that Alard always answered that way, but he saw little benefit saying so at the moment. Alard was in many ways the true leader of the guild. Ralan depended on him for major decisions and even keeping control of the many people who would reject Ralan outright. Beyond that, Ralan considered the old man as a friend.

  "I respect your decision," Ralan replied. "Would you wear the Brown?"

  "Of the guildless? No one would believe that," Alard replied.

  Ralan smiled. It wasn't often that he had a more subtle knowledge of guild politics than Alard. "No. Of the Ranger Guild. We will outfit you as a Ranger, and you can answer questions that you are on a mission for Quinto."

  "That is... brilliant," Alard replied, his tone moving from anger to appreciation. "Rangers are rarely seen, so no one would be surprised at not knowing me. With the chaos, it makes sense that Quinto would send someone to meet with the guildmasters to see what is going on, and the chainmail coif would hide my features." Alard smiled, and his face glowed. "Thank you, Guildmaster. I will wear the brown and appreciate your understanding."

  "So what will you do?" Raef asked.

  "I'll find Vesper, and see if the judgment of our Guildmaster to show him mercy has paid dividends."

  Ralan thought of all the things currently outside the control of the guild--the influx of Harvest Guild refugees, the decisions of the other guildmasters, the potential of an attack on the guild. That the one thing under their control was a traitorous Blade that merely days earlier was intent on killing Ralan did not bode well.

  14

  Magic

  Traville entered, and Maela sat up straight. She had asked numerous times over the previous few days about reuniting with Darla, but the attendants all said it wasn't up to them. She was certain that such a decision would be made only by a senior wizard, so she pressed for a meeting with Traville.

  "You look positively healthy, Maela!" Traville stated, a broad smile on his face and his voice full of warmth as he walked in. Maela stood up to meet him.

  "Thank you, Traville." Maela bowed to the lead wizard. "It is why I was hoping to talk to you. Would it be possible for me to share lodgings with Darla?" Cut right to the chase, Maela thought. Don't give him the opportunity to twist the conversation to something else.

  "No need to bow, Maela. Come, let us sit as friends." Traville waved his arm, and two chairs appeared out of thin air near the wall. Maela gasped. "Ah, you should not be so impressed. It is but a transport spell. Those--" Traville pointed to the chairs. "Are from my office. I merely moved them here. Movement and destruction spells are difficult but don't require high level mastery." Traville waved Maela again to a chair, walking over to the far one and sitting down.

  "What kind of spell requires mastery?" Maela said, not able to hide the awe in her voice as she sat.

  "Spells that change the shape and nature of things. For example, turning an iron lock into sand or raw stone into finished brick. But there is only one wizard alive who can do that today. There were more centuries ago, but the move through the mountain was as difficult on us as it was on you." Traville stared at Maela, and she knew it meant she was sitting with that one wizard capable of such magic.

  Maela realized that Traville had distracted her, so she repeated her question. "Can I join Darla?"

  "Of course, but first we will be moving you to your own home in the Woodlands. It is to the northeast and quite beautiful."

  A move to a new location did not quite sound like freedom. With nothing to lose, Maela pressed for more answers. "So we are to live there. Are we free to roam your beautiful city?"

  Traville was quiet and once again stared at Maela, as if if looking for the right words. Finally, he said, "No. You will be restricted there. We have a law about the Forbidden Tunnel. No one is to enter the tunnel ever. Breaking that law is punishable with life in prison."

  "But I didn't enter the tunnel!" Maela exclaimed as she realized that the wizards were going to keep her under house arrest for what seemed like the rest of her life.

  Holding up his hands, Traville replied, "We understand and that is why we chose this generous resolution. You entered the tunnel, so technically you are in violation. But you entered it from the other side, which was... unanticipated."

  Maela shook her head. "So Darla and I will live in this Woodlands. Will we have freedom to roam the woods or will we be confined to a home with a pleasant view of the trees to distract us." Bitterness dripped from Maela's voice.

  "The latter."

  "Why don't you banish us from the city and send us back into the tunnel."

  "Don't be foolish. By now you should know that the tunnel is closed for a reason. We cannot have our brothers and sisters once again cause us the grief they did so long ago. They have not earned that trust. They will never earn that trust." Traville stood, not looking quite as jovial as when he entered. "Tonight you will receive new clothing. Tomorrow you will depart in a closed carriage for the Woodlands. Please don't think of returning to your home city of Ness. It will never happen." Traville walked to the door, stopped, and turned back to Maela. "Goodbye, Maela. This is your new home." He took one more step and then paused again. "You should be grateful."

  As the door closed Maela knew that the next step would happen in their new prison far from the mountain and the center of this new city of Ness.

  Unlike their home city of Ness, the roads in this Ness were of packed dirt, so the trip in the carriage was smooth and pleasant, with no jarring cobblestones. Maela sat across from Darla in a small carriage that had little room for them both. There were no windows, and the wooden doors were locked from the outside.

  "If we had any doubts about whether we were prisoners or not, this dispels them," Darla noted as she once again pushed against the door. "This is a mobile prison."

  Maela took note of the doors, and the space within the carriage. She could see three vulnerabilities that would enable them to escape, although two
of them would require lengthy preparation to exploit. But Maela didn't bother following through on any of them--she knew that their best hope of a successful escape was from their new home. There they could assess timing and defenses and potentially escape with a lengthy lead before anyone would know they were missing. Escaping now would only lead to a quick re-capture.

  "You are quiet," Darla noted.

  "I don't like that they are listening to us," Maela nodded her head toward a slit at the front of the carriage over her shoulder. The driver and a guard was just outside. Darla nodded. The remainder of the journey was marked by the sounds outside the carriage--voices and shouts from roadside, the sound of horses, wagons, and carriages going by, the rustle of the wind, and the ever-present slight rumble of the wheels turning as they made their way through the city toward what they only knew as the Woodlands.

  "Whoa!" came from outside the slit, and the carriage prison slowed to a halt.

  Maela looked at Darla, who smiled and replied, "Five hours, more or less."

  "Someday you'll need to teach me how you do that," Maela replied, shaking her head.

  "It's instinct," Darla replied, pointing to her temple with a finger.

  A click preceded the door being yanked open, letting in a defused sunlight, still bright enough that Maela had to squint and shade her eyes. "Welcome to your new home," a shadow stated in a happy sing-song voice. A hand came into view, and Maela took it as it helped her out of the carriage.

  "Home is an interesting word for prison," Darla said as she followed Maela out.

  They were in a small clearing at the end of a lane. The lane snaked through trees and was lost at a turn in the distance. Looking around, Maela couldn't quite comprehend what she was seeing. The trees were everywhere, rising high into the sky, with dark brown bark of various shades combined with greens of similar variety.

  "Wow," Darla said.

  The trees were huge, rising fifty feet or more into the air with lush foliage obscuring the sky. The clearing was the only thing that let light in, but it was dim, filtered by leaves and shadows. Maela looked around, noticing a cottage about the size of a small house you would find in the Flats or the Lower Triangle. It was bathed in shadow but appeared homey enough. Beyond that there was nothing but trees and more trees.

  "This is your new home," a tall man standing near the front of the carriage said. He had his hand on the hilt of his sword and looked like he knew how to use it. Despite his appearance, his voice was kindly. He didn't wear red but clothes that were a combination of colors--brown, deep green, and blue. For someone used to the monochromatic guilds of Ness, it was striking looking and somewhat unsettling.

  "I don't see any walls or bars, at least," Darla replied spinning around as she took everything in.

  "You have a guard."

  "You?" Maela asked. She hadn't seen anything but the house and the carriage, with its driver and the man with his hand on his sword.

  "No. I will be leaving with the carriage. Your guard will only make himself known if you try to leave."

  "And how will he know that we are trying to leave?" Maela asked.

  "He'll know." The man pointed to the house. "The cabin has a well behind it with fresh water. There are supplies inside. You will find a bow with some arrows, as well, so that you may hunt for food." The man leapt onto a step and pulled himself up onto the carriage. "Do you have any questions?"

  "How long are we to stay here?" Darla asked.

  "Forever."

  "Where does the lane lead?" Maela pointed down where they came from.

  "If you follow it, death."

  "What if we escape?"

  The man frowned. "Don't make this a death sentence. Enjoy your time in the forest. It is the only time you have." The man looked at Darla and then Maela. "Anything else?"

  "Do you know what kind of people live on rat flesh and blood?" Darla asked.

  The man recoiled. "What kind of question is that? No. Of course not."

  "The kind who persevere."

  The man shook his head and patted the driver of the carriage on the shoulder. It made a wide circle and headed down the lane, the man with the sword watching them over his shoulder the whole time.

  When the carriage was out of earshot, Darla muttered under her breath, "And the kind who escape."

  15

  “Ready to Die?”

  Rogers was exhausted. He had wandered the length of the Lower Quarter, rallying whatever resistance he could while wearing the green of the Harvest Guild, then watching the movements of the Knights and Merchant guild guards while switching clothing and wearing the blue of the Merchant Guild. There had been sporadic fighting, but the Harvest Guild lacked leadership, and as guild members drew swords to defend their homes, they were easily defeated and imprisoned, which led to others being fearful of that fate.

  As the hours went by, more and more Harvest Guild members just followed where they were led. Rogers pushed himself to the last pocket of resistance--a remote neighborhood anchored by a cul de sac in one of the poorest parts of the Flats. Called the Pit, it sat near the Great Wall, halfway between the Knight Tower and the Craft Tower. It's remote location and unsavory reputation must have made it the final hurdle for clearing the Quarter.

  As he wandered the Lower Triangle in his Blue cloak, Rogers last piece of intelligence was finding a large group of Merchant guards and Knights preparing to march on the Pit. Rogers had stuck around to ask who was leading the efforts. "Merchants first. Knights to clean up," was the succinct and brutal answer.

  The vicinity of the Wall made Rogers nervous. All it would take would be White Guards with bows to decimate the defenders of the Pit. However the neighborhood itself was ideal for defense. The houses were extremely old and falling apart, but they were stone, making an attempt to burn the defenders out unlikely to be successful. The houses were also built very close together in a style that must have been popular in times gone by. Finally, the street was narrow, and the alleys were little more than footpaths, with no room for large groups of attackers to maneuver or hide.

  Standing at the end of the main thoroughfare into the Pit, Rogers nodded his head in appreciation. The final rose that Larsen wants to pluck has plenty of thorns.

  With a yank that practically pulled his arm from its socket, Rogers was pulled off his feet and tossed to the ground, the impact making him lose his breath. As he gasped for air, the point of a sword pressed against his chest. A giant of a man stood over him. "Green and yet free. I sense a spy."

  "Not. Spy." Rogers felt his breathing return to normal, but he couldn't even sit up with the sword pointed at his heart.

  "What do you do for the House?"

  Rogers knew that this was the man's way of asking what job he did for the Harvest Guild. "The inner orchards. I organize the delivery to the warehouses." It was a mid-level job for the guild that this man would hopefully not be familiar with and which would make sense for someone living in the Lower Quarter.

  The blade pulled back but was still pointed at Rogers as he sat up. "How did you escape the traitors?"

  "It wasn't difficult. They are expecting people to either fight or go along with them to the Old Quarter. Someone wandering into the Pit wasn't a priority." Rogers held up his hands. "I'm here to help."

  "Not many call it the Old Quarter. How do I know you're not a spy?" Damn my tongue, Rogers thought.

  "I can't bring myself to call it the Wretched Quarter with so many of our brothers and sisters being herded there like animals." The man nodded. Rogers had a better view of him, and it was clear that the man was a low level Harvest Guild guard. He leather armor was worn and faded, while his green tunic had holes and tears. "I'm Rogers."

  "Kenda. I guard at the warehouses." That makes sense, Rogers thought. He isn't expected to do anything more than just watch for thieves. The thought was a sad one. Kenda most likely hated Thieves, and yet they were currently his guild's only ally.

  "May I stand, Kenda?" The guard nodded. "I
am good with knives and would like to help. I am familiar with the Pit and knew it would be a strong place for our guild to take a stand."

  "That it is. I've lived here my whole life. There is a saying that only we share: The roots of Harvest House start in the Pit."

  "There is wisdom in those words." Rogers looked down the street. "So what can I do to help?" Nodding in the direction of the Lower Triangle, he added, "I saw Merchant Guards and Knights amassing. They will storm the neighborhood soon."

  "Knights and cowardly Merchants." Not waiting for a reply, Kenda continued, "It is as we expected. Ask for Graf. He is in charge. Look for the pig."

  Rogers didn't bother asking for clarification on the pig comment. He thanked Kenda and made his way down the lane. Narrow streets and alleys split left and right. The houses were all quiet, even along the main thoroughfare that Rogers followed.

  The road narrowed as he approached the cul de sac at the end, which was a half circle of townhouses. The houses were crumbling and there were entire parts that were bolstered with random pieces of other things, like wagon wheels and ceiling beams. The decay was tangible but so was the solidity. Anyone trying to clear this ancient part of the Lower Quarter would have to go house-by-house, entering through dangerous single doors.

  As he looked around, a few things stood out to Rogers. Everything was deathly quiet. No one was in the street; there were no doors opening and closing, no sounds of children playing, and no sounds of conversation. Yet, he knew the defenses were there--archers behind windows, probably unskilled archers with old and barely functioning bows, but archers none-the-less, and who knew what traps lay behind each door?

  The pig turned out to be an actual pig. Rogers thought that there would be an inn or tavern with a pig on a sign near the end of the lane, but, no, there on the left of the townhouses that lined the cul de sac was an actual pig, rooting around in the mud in front. Rogers walked to the front door, stepping past the pig who looked up at him with a quizzical look.