by Eric Angers
“You see, a much better view,” he told her, gesturing to the open window and the view over the tops of the shops and homes straight to the ocean lapping at the piers.
Much to his surprise, Valrissa removed her shoes and approached the window, leaning outside. “I can think of a way to make it better,” she said, and pulled herself up and out the window, paying no mind to her silk dress. Vastian quickly followed her, having been on this and many other roofs before. She was navigating expertly along the clay tiled roof, climbing up the spires which marked the Elis house out as unique among Phelandir’s typical architecture.
“You’re crazy!” he exclaimed, following her up the spire, holding onto its tip as he looked out over the city but continued to keep an eye on her footing and her highly dangerous gown. She was good.
“Me? You just lead someone you don’t even know into a house that does not belong to you while the owner is not there. Just how did you know about that passageway?”
“Oh that, it was my family that recommended the architect that built this place,” he lied, “I don’t think that either of them even knows that passage exists. It’s a secret my family has kept for years.” And he thought for a minute before asking, “where did you learn to move like you do?”
“Years and years of ballet, not to mention being a tomboy for most of my life, to escape the ballet. My father always said I should do something ladylike” she said, staring out at the rooftops, then she turned her head to face him. “What about you? Do not think I have not noticed. Ballet, is it?”
“Well that’s a simple answer, really, I am Shade, expert thief and assassin!” he said, gesturing grandly with his arms before leaping to a second spire close to them.
To that, Valrissa began laughing uncontrollably, and in between breaths she said, “Hardly, you are not nearly that good, sir, and everyone knows thieves are not assassins.
A little insulted, he moved on. The move worked, after all; make her laugh so he did not have to explain how his reflexes were faster than everyone else’s, so much so that it almost seemed to him as if time slowed. Why his footfalls were dead silent, even when he was not trying. Instead, he could focus on her and that sanguinous hair, and those emerald eyes that shone in the moonlight. They stayed there for another hour at least, trading quips and getting to know one another. In Vastian’s case, anyway, he got to know her. But she was getting to know a ghost, someone who did not really exist. He used the truth where he could, but often enough, he had resorted to stories, something to make him seem normal, like everyone else if only a little more interesting. She bought into it, and before they parted that night she offered him a kiss and gave him permission to call on her.
Chapter XI.
Norgaard
Chunks of meat pie dripped into a clay plate as Norgaard devoured his lunch as swiftly as its size allowed. Which is to say, not swiftly at all. Aelgra was as generous with her patrons’ portions as she was with her own. She seemed to be on a solo mission to ensure her customers survived the winter. But the day was clear and warm for Asunder, the people were out and about enjoying themselves if they were lucky, working if not, but either way it was a pleasant day. He withdrew the scrap of parchment from a small pocket on his side, momentarily ignoring the meat pie.
The next item on the list was to take a jade figurine from a local armorsmith. It would be kept on a desk in one of his second floor rooms. This job was meant to take the thief longer, casing the area for a day or so and researching where the smith kept the item and why. Preparation be damned, Norgaard knew his stealth could get the job done in the middle of the day. The smith’s shop and home lay on the other end of town. He specialized in lightweight armors, using special tools and experimental alloys, that could be worn to great effect by scouts or anyone concerned with speed and mobility. Wrapped in thin strips of leather, it made for a much stronger, and silent, protective covering for thieves. The building itself was not special in any way other than in its plainness it gave no possibilities of surreptitious entry. There were no windows on the sides or rear. The shop’s only openings lay past his outdoor storefront. Long tables presented various metallic pieces for the public to browse and others hung on the beams supporting an overhang to keep it all dry. Beyond that, and the smith himself who was busying himself polishing a set of bracers, lay a single door to the showcases within. No one could infiltrate a single guarded entry in broad daylight and escape through the same entry with a stolen item. Except maybe Norgaard.
His training for the past two months had involved almost nothing but sneaking around the city during the day. Sometimes it was a measure of how well he could blend in as a regular person, and others it was how well he could traverse obstacles without being seen at all. He excelled at both. For some reason he was now drawn to shadows as they were drawn to him, as if that somehow aided him or hid him. It was not always a conscious decision, sometimes he just found himself there. But when he did find himself there, sometimes he felt invisible. Passersby would not so much as look in his direction, as if he were no more than a common beggar to be ignored lest he ask for alms. It was in the shadow of a neighboring building he found himself staring at the railing beneath the outdoor showcase’s overhang. No armor sat on the table there, too easy for someone walking by to snatch something and be gone. Perhaps a four foot high railing with a two foot wide table against it, then an open walkway to the door, just feet from the smith.
Muscles tensed, and in a silent explosion of energy, Norgaard sprung headlong over the railing, clearing the table, before somersaulting on the floorboards with nary a creak. He flowed like liquid back up to his feet and was nothing more than a whisper of wind as he passed over the threshold. Nothing in the main room concerned him, only the staircase in the far corner. Sneaking as swiftly as care would allow, he kept an open ear for others who could be inside. Hearing no signs of activity he continued as if a ghost through the halls of the home. Carefully he peaked through each door on the second floor until he saw the desk. The door was open and Norgaard was at the desk in a flash. He picked through the wooden drawers until he found it, a small jade carving. Escaping was a simple matter of creating a distraction, making a loud crash on the second floor, and rushing to a hidden corner while the shop owner passed him by. Norgaard strolled out the front door as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
Dusk had settled over the Northlands as Norgaard entered the old perfume shop. With a booted knock on the floor slats, a hatch was once again opened and he was led down into the basement. The clean cut Torsten started from a card game in one corner of the open area. He rose. “What are you doing back here, you’re not to show your face until you finish,” he snapped.
Norgaard’s lips cracked into a one sided smile. He simply removed the items and tossed them, one by one, to the men at the card table. Including the jailor’s keys. A design he had studied for so long, he was able to replicate them with a wax mold. His father’s craft did come in handy. Torsten looked incredulous, but the rest of the men seemed at least a little impressed. “No one’s finished in a single day before,” one of them commented. They were silenced with a look from Torsten. Obviously Norgaard’s handler was at least respected in this chapter of the guild.
“It was nothing, Tor,” Norgaard goaded. “When do I see Magnar?”
“You don’t. Come back tomorrow, we have one last job for you.”
There was always something else, whether it was the thieves guild or the old drunkard. How much proof could they possibly need that Norgaard was ready? He kicked at the dirt on the well-worn road back to the central market. Before he reached his destination, the North Star inn, he pinched enough coin to pay for a room and a hot meal. Within, he retreated to a side room where a bard was singing the song of Bryndis, one of the five companions who sought to end the invasion of the hordes. Norgaard busied himself with picking at loose splinters in the wood of the low table before him while he waited for a serving girl to bring him something to drink. He thought
about getting wine, but did not want to be anything like his old master who drank nothing but the stuff. Instead, when a pale, handsome, northwoman approached he said, “Ale,” and a tin full of the stuff slammed down in front of him, foam and ale alike sloshing over the sides. He looked up to protest but she was already gone. Sighing, he drank, and before he knew it he had drunk two. As the third was set down in front of him, this time with less of a mess, he noticed she set down another cup across from him. It seemed someone else was now seated there, the bard, all dressed in bright greens and yellows, adorned with silver trinkets and jewelry; and a single gold earring, just as sailing men often wore.
“Good songs,” Norgaard said, forgetting any of his usual charm. He wasn’t sure what had him so down, he had performed his tasks for the guild better than he might have hoped. There was just a feeling within him that gnawed at him, like he had made a mistake.
“My thanks, friend,” the bard said, smiling. “You look like you could use a willing ear and, well, I may not be willing, but there’s nowhere else to plant my rear!” The bard was chuckling at his own joke as he extended his hand to Norgaard.
“Norgaard,” he replied, shaking his hand.
“Pleasure to meet with you, Norgaard, my name is Grin, Grin the Bard, at your service,” Grin grinned, removing his hat with a flourish and replaced it as smoothly.
“You won’t get any more coin out of me, Grin, no need to perform,” Norgaard warned him.
“I’m not looking for your coin, lad, just your story. Have you a story?” The bard’s eyes drifted away, catching a serving girl a few tables away, he signaled her to bring them two more drinks.
Norgaard just laughed looking into his half drunk tin. “Let me ask you, Grin, why is it every story is about some brave adventurer, why is it never about normal folk bringing in the day’s catch?”
Grin’s grin faded and his eyes drew upward, the lines in his forehead deepening. He raised his mug to his lips, drank and replaced it, just in time for the serving girl to steal the empty mug away and set a fresh one in its place. “You see, Norgaard, every man starts out ordinary. All the greatest heroes were just men, and women mind you, who were doing their best. They get caught up in the avalanche of other ordinary men’s deeds and at the end of it, some are left whole and others are left broken. Those are the stories to tell, the ones that people pay attention to the most. Ordinary men in extraordinary events. Heroes, pfah! Don’t put those men on too high a pedestal, my friend, they’ll disappoint you, but try to think of them like anyone else trying to keep from getting buried in the avalanche.”
Norgaard emptied the mug in front of him and put it to the side, then began work on the next one. He was certainly ordinary like anyone else, only he was finding himself in some very different situations. Not worthy of any stories, of course, but he could see the sense Grin was speaking. “Have you met any heroes?”
Grin looked at Norgaard, eyes wide in surprise, “Lad, I’m talking to one now.” Norgaard’s mouth twisted as if to speak. “You’re the hero of your own tale, my boy. It’s up to you what kind of hero you want to be. The man I see before me, he stands for good, and is certainly worthy of song.”
Norgaard flushed and held his hands out in protest. “No, I don’t think so, Grin. And even so, I’m not ready to write an ending.”
“That’s the spirit!” Grin said, holding his mug up in salute. Norgaard clinked his mug against his, sloshing some of the contents onto the table, his own grin returning.
Chapter XII.
Vastian
Glass shards exploded outward from the wall where Vastian had thrown the nearly empty bottle of wine. The spot was crumbling now, damaged by what might have been dozens of bottles thrown there over the past few hours. Days. Maybe even years. The room stank of alcohol, dust, and not a little body odor. He was slumped in the wobbly old stool that Norgaard had made less wobbly. What right did he have? Vastian snorted and grabbed the offending wooden leg, shaking it until it loosened back up. The stool slouched down another inch, creaking under his weight. Another bottle found its way to his hand and he took a pull. He had thrown it all away! And for what?
Vastian could not even tell whether he meant Norgaard or himself anymore. He had thrown so much away himself. A different life, free of stealing, of killing, perhaps even free of his need for this shit. She had filled the emptiness, she had completed him and then he let her go.
The lady Synnove brushed her curled crimson locks over her right shoulder and stared incredulously at Vastian from her third story window. “Honestly, Vastian, haven’t you ever heard of a door?”
“Apologies my lady,” Vastian smiled, “I have heard of them but I simply don’t find them interesting.”
“I gave you permission to call on me like a gentleman, lord Klensbane. And gentleman use doors. They also wait for an occasion to escort the lady to.” She replied, moving to close the window.
Vastian moved swiftly, placing one finger on the window frame. “My lady,“ he said seriously, “I thought we could dispense with the games, leave the boring parties to the boring noblemen, and entertain ourselves in this fine city really getting to know one another. But, “he took his finger from the window, “if you prefer, I shall await the Wolfsman’s Ball at the end of the month.”
“No, you will take me somewhere now, Lord Klensbane,” and she was out the window in a flash, flowing dress trailing behind her as she bounded down the young maple and the side of the manor in an obviously well traversed path. Vastian followed, leaping from his perch and falling into a roll in the soft grass before coming up to his feet and offering her his arm.
She smiled and took it gladly, strolling out to the streets of Phelandir. It was warm that day inland in the city, barely a cloud in the sky. Vastian chose his path carefully through back streets and residential areas, not to run across any shops or anything to take her attention away.
He was making his way westward to the sea for a cool breeze when she asked, “My lord, are you taking me to the ocean?”
“Of course, I thought we could use a change of scenery.”
“Yes,” she said, “but you seem to be intent on the docks with all that rabble!” Her tone was exaggerated, even sarcastic.
He could not be sure if she was excited by the prospect or if she was making fun of him. Either way, it was a challenge.
The scents and sounds changed as they approached the docks. Men were yelling, bells were ringing with the waves, gulls filled the air which smelled of hot tar and dead fish. It was an incredibly romantic walk.
The shape and dress of the people they passed grew larger and less refined, grittier and certainly stinkier. Occasionally one would grin mischievously and nod on seeing the lady where she doesn’t belong only to quickly look away and turn another direction with nothing but a look from Vastian; possibly the flash of a knife helped as well.
They stopped at a spot along the coastline just off the docks where large rocks had been placed to prevent erosion and a wooden fence was installed to keep children off the rocks. Children paid it no mind.
Valrissa leaned on the fence and gazed out over the water, “Well, you have me here, Lord Klensbane, now what?”
Vastian ignored the question and took up next to her, instead looking back at the bustling activity on the docks themselves, workers going back and forth with crates and parcels onto a merchant’s barque. “I come here sometimes,” he said, “and watch them work, I don’t know why.”
She shifted to see what he was looking at, “because you don’t want to waste your life the way they do. So you watch and it reminds you it could be you, but it isn’t, so you live a little better.”
She was only partially right. He spent time at the docks watching hundreds of men working on mundane tasks to remind himself that lives are worthless and can be replaced with another. In his business it was merely about replacing them with a more desired result.
“I think you’re right. It makes one want to do something…
more.”
Valrissa pushed away from the fence and turned to the docks, walking away from him. “But I get the sense from you that you already have.”
He caught up with little effort, sliding in beside her. “I’ve been on an adventure or two,” he stalled. “I admit I am a bit of an artifact hunter.”
“Oh, how exciting!” she said, immediately feigning a yawn. “What about a little danger? There’s nothing at stake on those expeditions. I get so bored with all of this,” she said, gesturing at everything.
He could swear she was prompting him, trying to get him to tell her about his illegal activities. He would, but it would have endangered her. It had to just be his conscience though. She must be bored in this life of nobility. It’s so tame and sheltered. Phelandir was so stable, the nobility wanted for nothing. The lot of them were fat, dumb, and happy. But she was different, harder to impress. She, too, must be like him and need something extra to feel alive. His train of thought was interrupted when his friend and partner Jaerr shouted out “Vastian!” as he was approaching opposite them. “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” Jaerr said pointedly as he approached and the three slowed to a stop in front of a sailor’s watering hole called Moira’s Gills.
