“I’m not one of the ‘folks from the palace’ any longer, Hary.”
“You’d be paying a damn sight more for that ale if you were, lad,” Hary chuckled. “Keep your head down, eh?”
The tavern owner moved off to greet another customer in the noisy, crowded taproom, leaving Starros alone. He wasn’t given long to enjoy his solitude, however. A moment later, Luc North slipped into the seat opposite with a fresh tankard of his own.
“You’re going to be here a long while drowning your sorrows at the rate you’re drinking, Starros,” the forger remarked. “You’ve been nursing that damn tankard half the morning.”
“Are you watching me now?”
“Funny, but that’s what I thought Wrayan meant when he asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“I’ve been thinking about what Wrayan said, Luc.”
“What did he say?”
“About stealing from Mahkas.”
“Well, that’s a step in the right direction. Dacendaran will be pleased.”
“He said I should steal everything from him. He didn’t mean that literally, did he?”
The forger shrugged. “Not unless you think you can organise the removal of the entire contents of Krakandar Palace without anybody noticing.”
“Then what did he mean?”
“Take something that means everything to him, I suppose.”
Starros frowned. “I would have thought that was Leila.”
“Well, that’s not really an option any longer,” Luc remarked carelessly. “What else does he hold dear?”
“Krakandar,” Starros replied without hesitation.
The forger pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Then if you really want to avenge your lover and honour your god, Starros, that’s what you need to steal from Mahkas Damaran. Krakandar Province.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
Luc smiled. “I believe that’s where the whole ‘criminal mastermind’ talent comes in.”
“I’m not a criminal mastermind,” Starros pointed out.
“You’re going to have to be to pull this off, old son,” the forger warned with a grin. He rose to his feet and tossed a few copper rivets on the table for his ale. “I imagine it’ll keep you off the streets for a while, trying to figure it out, at any rate. Have you said goodbye to Wrayan?”
“He’s going today?”
“Any minute,” the forger said. “He’s out in the stables with Lady Kalan getting ready to leave.”
At that news, Starros abandoned his ale and hurried out the back of the tavern through the kitchens. It was raining outside, a gentle soaking rain so fine it was almost a mist. He found Wrayan and Kalan leading their mounts and a packhorse out of the stables into the yard. Kalan was dressed in a dark green riding habit and a long matching cloak, her long blonde hair braided tightly against her head. Wrayan wore a long, dark leather coat that reached almost to his ankles, split at the rear to allow him to ride.
“You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?” Starros asked as Kalan grabbed a handful of mane and placed her foot in the stirrup.
“Of course not,” she said, swinging up into the saddle. “I knew you’d come to see us off.”
“That’s why I sent Luc in to find you,” Wrayan added. “Will you be all right once we’re gone?”
Starros shrugged. “I’ll survive.”
“If you need anything, just ask Luc,” the thief told him. “Or Hary. And stay out of sight. You’re safe enough here in the Beggars’ Quarter while Xanda’s minding the shop, but you don’t know what Mahkas will do when he’s back on his feet.”
“I’ll be all right, Wrayan.”
“Are you sure, Starros?” Kalan asked, looking down at him with concern.
“Yes, Kalan, I’m sure. Now go save Hythria and stop worrying about me.”
“It’s not too late to change your mind and come with us,” Wrayan offered.
Starros shook his head. “I’d rather stay here. It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“I think I understand. Take care, my friend.” The two men shook hands. “And I mean it about keeping your head down. Mahkas won’t have forgotten you.”
“I’m not likely to forget about him, either.”
“Painful though it might be, you do know Leila’s death isn’t likely to have changed anything with Mahkas, don’t you? I’ve known men like him before. You’ve as much chance of a change in him as you have trying to change the past.”
“So don’t do anything foolish,” Kalan warned, as Wrayan climbed into the saddle.
“I’ll be careful,” Starros assured them both. “I promise.”
“Really careful?” Kalan asked.
“Yes. And you be careful, too,” he replied, stepping back to allow them to pass. “It’s a long way to Greenharbour and there’s more than just plague and the odd bandit out there to worry about.”
Kalan looked across at her travelling companion. “I have Wrayan to protect me.”
“But who’s going to protect Wrayan from you?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Wrayan agreed. “Now get out of this rain, Starros. We’ll be fine. Just take care and don’t let Luc depose me while I’m gone.”
Starros figured Wrayan was joking. Luc North was probably the most loyal deputy any head of the Thieves’ Guild had ever been blessed with. “I’ll watch him. Just like he’s watching me. On your orders, I believe.”
“A man in my position can never be too careful,” Wrayan replied. He tugged on the packhorse’s lead rope to get him moving. “Be careful, Starros.”
“You too, Wrayan,” he replied. “Bye, Kalan.”
Kalan looked down at him for a moment and then clucked at her horse to get her moving. Starros waited in the gentle rain until they’d turned down the lane behind the tavern and were out of sight, before heading back inside to the warmth of the Pickpocket’s Retreat, his ale and the problem of how he was going to steal Krakandar Province from under the nose of Mahkas Damaran.
CHAPTER 7
The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook was a fat, jolly little man who’d bought his position from Lecter Turon, King Hablet’s eminently corruptible seneschal. He’d moved to the border fortress with his four wives and seventeen children and set about making the place his own personal kingdom some three years ago. After a series of commanders interested only in making a quick profit and returning to Talabar to enjoy the fruits of their labours as soon as they could possibly manage it, Blaire Baraban was actually a pleasant change. Interested in securing not just the fortress, but much of the surrounding countryside, he extended his benevolent corruption to the entire region and looked like he was settling in for a nice long stay.
Chyler had dealt with him before, usually when he tried to extend his influence into those lawless areas of the mountains that were traditionally Chyler’s realm. The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook was a wily adversary, however, and after testing his limits in the early days of his reign, figured out just how far he could push Chyler before she reacted. Consequently, the mountains had been remarkably peaceful for the last three years and Baraban made a point of consulting Chyler before he did anything that might set her off, in the territory she considered her domain.
The man was, Chyler explained to Brak as they waited in his anteroom, as corrupt and self-serving as any previous incumbent in Westbrook, but at least he was honest about it. He didn’t pretend to have any honour and didn’t expect others to have it either. That made him much easier to deal with because you always knew exactly where you stood with him.
He greeted Chyler expansively as she and Brak were shown into his office, as if he was genuinely pleased to see her. After offering her a seat and gushing several insincere compliments about her health, beauty and good taste in fashion (she was dressed in men’s clothes under a bulky, shapeless sheepskin-lined coat) he turned his attention to Brak.
“And who is this, Madam Kantel? Your bodyguard?”
“S
omething like that,” Brak replied.
The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook smiled nervously and took a step back. Brak was a good foot taller than the tubby little man. He liked intimidating him.
“Well, then … that’s as it should be, I suppose.” He laughed warily, walking backwards until he had the bulk of his desk between himself and his visitors. “You know how dangerous the roads are … what with bandits, and all …”
“Why did you ask for this meeting, my lord?” Chyler asked impatiently, no more inclined to laugh at Baraban’s jokes than Brak was.
Fixing his attention on the bandit leader, the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook assumed a businesslike air. “I have a proposition for you, Madam Kantel. One that should go some way to compensating your … associates … for their loss of income since the border was closed.”
Chyler frowned. What Baraban euphemistically referred to as a loss of income meant near starvation for the families of her people, who relied on robbing merchants in the pass for their livelihood. “What sort of compensation?”
“I am talking gainful employment, madam. A chance for your people to earn an honest living for a change.”
“We’re quite happy with a dishonest living, Lord Baraban.”
“And who am I to deny any man … or woman … the chance to honour the God of Thieves, Madam Kantel, but given the lack of traffic in the pass at present, perhaps a temporary shift of allegiance to the God of War might be prudent?”
“The God of War?” Brak asked, instantly suspicious.
“There is someone I’d like you to meet,” Baraban said, picking up a small mallet resting in the cradle of a decorative brass gong. He tapped the gong twice. Before the metallic notes had faded, the office door opened and an aide stepped into the room.
“Ask General Regis to join us, would you?”
The aide saluted and closed the door again.
“Who is General Regis?” Chyler asked warily. Any high-ranking official made her wary, particularly military ones. Almost as wary as anybody from the Qorinipor Thieves’ Guild, who still hadn’t forgotten it was Chyler who had killed Danyon Caron some twelve years ago, right here in the great hall of Westbrook. Fortunately, the guild’s objection to Caron’s murder was more philosophical than actual. Once the identity of the thief’s real murderer had come to light (thanks to Wrayan Lightfinger’s perfectly understandable desire to save his own neck) and the reasons behind Chyler’s actions became widely known, the guild seemed to lose its enthusiasm for seeing their poor dead leader’s killer brought to justice. Danyon’s successor had done very nicely out of his promotion and there wasn’t a thief in the Qorinipor guild who didn’t know about their late leader’s predilection for youngsters. When all was said and done, the whole world was better off with him dead, so the guild, while officially denouncing Chyler Kantel as Danyon’s killer, had made no further attempt to seek vengeance for his murder. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t change their mind about it and Chyler lived with the worry that they might.
“Axelle Regis,” the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook explained. “He’s the man King Hablet has placed in charge of the Hythrun invasion.”
As Baraban was speaking, the door opened and a much younger man than Brak was expecting stepped into the office. He wasn’t that tall, with a slender build, dark hair and an aristocratic bearing. He wore the pretentious silver and white dress uniform of Hablet’s own Guard and appeared to be in his early thirties, which meant he was either exceptionally good or exceptionally well connected at court.
He eyed Brak and Chyler disdainfully. “These are the criminals you propose to employ?” he asked Baraban, without even acknowledging the presence of the Plenipotentiary’s guests.
“Ah, yes, my lord, this is Chyler Kantel and her associate, Master …” He looked at Brak blankly as it dawned on him he didn’t know his name.
“You can call me Brak.”
“This is Master Brak.”
“Lord Baraban has explained what I expect of you?” Regis asked the visitors.
“Lord Baraban has explained nothing,” Chyler replied. “And you can expect all you want, my lord, but you won’t be getting anything out of me or my people until I get some idea of what’s going on here.”
“I need more intelligence,” Lord Regis announced.
Brak couldn’t help himself. “Perhaps you’d be happier just learning to live with what you were born with, my lord.”
Regis may have had a lot of friends at court, but apparently he didn’t have much of a sense of humour. He glared at Brak. “If you’re not going to take this seriously …”
“You’ll do what, my lord?” Chyler asked, grinning broadly. She obviously thought Brak’s joke was funny. “Find another band of border bandits to do your dirty work for you?” She rose to her feet, unconcerned. “Fine by me. Come on, Brak, if we leave now we can be back at—”
“Now, now, Chyler, there’s no need to be hasty …” Baraban hurried to assure her. “Sit down, please, so we can talk about this, eh?”
With some reluctance, Chyler did as Baraban asked and resumed her seat. “What exactly are you offering?”
“Your people are familiar with the mountains,” Regis replied, clasping his hands behind his back, standing unconsciously “at ease.” Whoever this man was, Brak decided, he had a military background. “I’m led to believe you move quite freely across the border and have ways of doing so which don’t involve using the Widowmaker Pass.”
“You can forget it, my lord, if you want us to lead your army over the border without going past Winternest,” Chyler warned, crossing her legs as she leaned back in her seat. “One man can make it if he knows the terrain, two or three at the most. There’s a reason they built the road through here, you know.”
“But your people can move in and out of Hythria without being detected, yes?” Regis was quite adamant about that.
“Yes,” Chyler conceded.
“Then that is all I ask of you, Mistress Kantel,” he said. “I just want to use your people to find out what’s happening in Hythria.”
“They’re being wiped out by the plague,” Brak reminded the general. “That’s what’s happening in Hythria.”
“I’m more interested in their troop movements.”
“Assuming they have any troops left to move.”
Axelle Regis stared at Brak suspiciously. “You seem singularly unenthusiastic about this operation, Master Brak.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Brak more closely. “You’re not Fardohnyan, are you?”
“I was born in Medalon, actually, but that’s not really the point, is it? What you’re asking is no small favour. These people follow Dacendaran. You’re asking them to change their allegiance to Zegarnald and risk being hanged as spies if they’re caught in Hythria.”
“No victory worth having comes without cost,” Regis said.
“Which is all well and good when you’re paying with other people’s lives.”
“Enough, Brak,” Chyler warned, glancing up at him. “I think you’ve made your point.” She turned back to Axelle Regis. “What are you offering?”
“Your people will be paid the same as troops in the regular army and given the honorary rank of non-commissioned officers.”
Chyler shook her head emphatically. “Unacceptable! They’ll be given the honorary rank of captain and paid accordingly, or we’re not interested.”
“That’s preposterous!” Regis exclaimed. “You want me to accord your rabble the same rank as noblemen?”
“They’re going to be taking the greatest risks,” Brak pointed out. “Why shouldn’t they be paid accordingly?”
“But as officers?” The general was appalled. “That’s highway robbery!”
Brak smiled. “Did you miss the bit about us being thieves?”
Axelle Regis shook his head. “Absolutely not!”
“Then find your own intelligence.” Chyler shrugged, rising to her feet again. She turned and headed to the door with Brak close be
hind her.
“What if we paid them as officers?” Baraban suggested hurriedly. “But they retain the rank of say … sergeants?”
Chyler stopped and looked up at Brak, before shaking her head and declaring, “They have to be captains.”
“Why?” Regis asked impatiently.
“Because,” Brak explained, with a faintly patronising air, “if one of our people is coming across the border with urgent intelligence, he needs to be able to get through your lines and back to the command post to deliver it, or he might as well find himself a nice little tavern behind enemy lines in Hythria somewhere, settle down and stay put for the duration of the war. An officer can commandeer a horse. An officer can make things happen. A non-commissioned officer is just as likely to be left languishing on the front lines, his intelligence rapidly becoming useless, while some jumped-up nobleman’s son with more money than military training decides to take it upon himself to judge whether or not the information this rabble of ours is carrying is worth passing up the line.”
Regis glared at Brak and then, with a great deal of reluctance, he gave in. “I see you have some experience in this area, Master Brak.”
“I’m older than I look.”
“Can I assume, given the appropriate rank and remuneration, you’ll be volunteering your services?”
Brak glanced at Chyler before he agreed. She shrugged, apparently resigned to the inevitable. She knew the last thing he wanted was a war fought every inch of the way to Greenharbour. It would empower Zegarnald to an insufferable degree. If he spied for the Fardohnyans, maybe their victory would be a little swifter, a little cleaner. The fewer men who died fighting, the less the God of War could benefit from their deaths. “You can count me in, I suppose.”
“Madam Kantel?”
Chyler sighed. “I’ll speak to my men. How many do you want?”
“A dozen to start with. Maybe more if the Hythrun prove to be more organised than we anticipate.”
An organised opposition, Brak thought. That’s all we need.
Brak had no real interest in securing a victory for Hablet of Fardohnya, any more than he particularly cared if Lernen Wolfblade of Hythria was overthrown. He’d lived through dozens of monarchs in both countries. They had come in all varieties, good, bad, evil and benign. For a man who counted his age in centuries rather than years, this pending war was no better or worse than scores of others he’d seen fought.
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