She watched him go, wondering what that had been about.
Then she turned her attention back to Kharlacht.
###
Jager climbed to the deck, keeping his face calm, no hint of his turmoil showing upon his expression.
No hint of his unceasing terror and dread.
He had thought the tales of the Gray Knight exaggerated, but he had been wrong. After seeing Ridmark challenge that hulking shaman outside of Vulmhosk, Jager had been impressed. And Jager hated the lords of Andomhaim. He had assumed that Ridmark Arban, the youngest son of the Dux of Taliand, would be another man like Tarrabus Carhaine or Paul Tallmane, cruel and brutal and arrogant.
Instead he had risked his life to save a den of thieves that would have gladly sold him to the Mhorites.
Despite himself, Jager found himself admiring the man.
A pity he was going to have to steal from him.
Chapter 7 - One Theft Too Many
Twenty-one days after it all began, twenty-one days after that day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Jager’s life fell apart and the nightmare began.
Or a new nightmare, at any rate. God knew he had lived through enough horrors.
It started with the ring.
He strolled through the Forum of the River in Coldinium, wearing his finest clothes, keeping an amused smile on his face. Most of the halflings in Coldinium were domestic servants or laborers in the houses of various merchants and traders. Consequently most of the humans and orcs and dwarves who lived in or visited Coldinium expected to see quiet, obedient halflings wearing the livery of their masters. Jager enjoyed flouting their expectations, enjoying wearing fine clothes and jewels and wandering about the city’s streets as if he owned them.
Merchants crowded the Forum, and farmers and ranchers from Durandis and Rhaluusk came to the Forum to sell their wares. Jager had lived in Coldinium for two years, ever since fleeing Cintarra and the Red Family with Mara, and he knew the Forum well by now.
Considering the amount he had stolen from the merchants, that knowledge had proven useful.
An undercurrent of tension went through the crowds. The omen of blue fire three weeks past had set everyone on edge. Men spoke of the end of the world, of orcs attacking the Northerland, of dark creatures stirring in the Wilderland. Jager didn’t care. Chaos did not frighten him. He had fled from Caerdracon, escaped the Red Family in Cintarra, and come to Coldinium. Chaos offered opportunities for the observant and the bold.
So Jager noticed at once when Tarrabus of the Carhainii, Dux of Caerdracon, arrived in his barge from Castra Carhaine.
He froze for a moment when he saw the ornate barge sitting at the docks, the blue banner with the black dragon of Caerdracon flying overhead. Knights and men-at-arms in the colors of the House of the Carhainii emerged from the barge, stern and splendid in their armor. Halfling servants unloaded the cargo, and for an awful moment Jager thought he saw Sir Paul Tallmane himself among the crowd. For an instant he remembered standing in the domus’s great hall, listening to his father make that false confession.
Jager mastered himself. He had come a long way from the Tallmanes’ benefice in Caerdracon. He had robbed some of the most powerful and wealthy lords in Andomhaim, had even stolen jewels from the High King’s citadel in Tarlion. He was not a child to quail before a mighty Dux, though he had not expected Tarrabus Carhaine to visit Coldinium.
And in chaos lay opportunity.
Jager ducked into the doorway of a shop overlooking the docks and watched the Dux of Caerdracon enter the city.
Tarrabus Carhaine was tall and strong, with close-cropped blond hair cut in the style of the Romans of Old Earth, his face clean-shaven. He wore a rich tunic and trousers, his boots gleaming, a sword hanging in a sheath of black leather at his belt. Unlike many of the lords of Andomhaim, he was not a Swordbearer, but he carried himself with calm arrogance, certain in his authority. A Magistria in a white robe followed him, a pretty young woman in her early twenties with olive-colored skin, curly black hair, and green eyes, her expression just as haughty as the Dux’s. Behind them walked a squire carrying a shield with the sigil of Caerdracon, the Dux’s signet ring hanging from a chain around in his neck.
And there, Jager saw his opportunity.
He ducked into the shop, which sold a variety of metal goods, and purchased a lantern from the surprised proprietor. Jager paid three times what the lantern was worth, but that was all right. He stepped back into the Forum as the Dux’s procession made its way into the city. The squire with the shield followed the Dux, as did a dozen more squires leading Tarrabus’s warhorses, each beast strong and splendid and well-trained.
And, likely, quite short-tempered. One did not breed warhorses for their placidity.
The Forum was crowded, and the Dux’s party forced its way through, their progress slow.
Jager tugged off his coat and draped it around the lantern. It put off a bright light, especially when hooded, and after a bit of work he focused the light into the eyes of the lead horse. The beast stamped its hooves in annoyance and snorted, tossing its head. A small army of squires descended upon the animal, and the Dux glanced back in annoyance. None of them noticed the lantern, and Jager adjusted his coat, throwing more light into the horse’s eyes.
Finally it proved too much for the beast, and the horse reared up with an enraged snort, its steel-shod hooves lashing at the air. The squire tried to calm the horse, only to lose his balance and fall. The panic spread to the other horses, and the whole procession came to an uneven stop. For a moment the Dux’s procession dissolved into chaos.
Jager had his chance.
He set down the lantern, pulled his coat back on, and darted into the crowds. Being shorter than humans and orcs and most dwarves had many disadvantages, but it did make it easier to move quickly. He slipped past the spectators, past the arguing merchants, and reached the edge of the terrified horses. The first squire had dropped his shield and was helping to calm the enraged warhorses. The Dux’s signet ring, a heavy thing of gold and sapphires, bounced from its cord.
In one smooth motion, Jager drew a knife, cut the cord, and pocketed the ring. He did it all in less than two heartbeats, and the squire, focused on the furious horse, did not notice. Jager’s father had been fond of saying that God had blessed the halfling kindred with great dexterity and nimble fingers so that they might serve their masters with greater diligence. Well, the lords of Andomhaim cared nothing for their halfling servants, and one look at the world proved that God had no interest in justice.
So Jager would use his talents and his skills to serve himself.
He strolled through the Forum, leaving the snarl of traffic behind, and headed home.
###
He gave the signet ring to Mara.
“I don’t think it will fit me,” she said with a smile.
To match his ostentatious clothing, Jager had purchased a fine house, what the lords of Andomhaim called a “domus”, and lived in luxury. He claimed to be a merchant making his living selling jewels from the mines of Durandis and furs from the forests of Rhaluusk, though in truth he had made his money by robbing nobles. But he could hardly proclaim that in public. So instead he claimed to be Dieter of Tarlion, successful halfling merchant, and amused himself by hiring human servants to look after his domus.
Though he made sure to treat them well. He was not Paul Tallmane.
“Nevertheless,” said Jager, “I would like you to have it.”
They stood alone in the bedroom, the door closed, the servants sent home for the night. Mara examined the ring, holding it up to the light. It looked huge in her small hand. But even though she was human (at least partially) she was barely five feet tall, slender and delicate, her green eyes wide and wondering as she considered emerald-studded ring. She wore a green dress to match her eyes, and her blond hair hung loose and ragged around her ears. She always kept her ears concealed, even in private. Jager’
s father had been a kindly, well-meaning fool.
Mara’s father had been something much worse.
“I can practically fit my thumb into it,” said Mara. She shook her head. “It’s so heavy. The Dux’s hand must hurt if he has to wear it all the time.”
“He doesn’t,” said Jager. “One of his squires carries it for him. He only uses it to seal official documents. Which was how I was able to make a present of it to you.”
She frowned. “Why did you steal it?”
“Because I thought it would look pretty on you,” said Jager. “Because the emeralds match your eyes.”
Mara laughed. “It’s much too big for me, you know. Stealing it was a big risk. Dux Tarrabus is a powerful man, and he is not merciful. Even the Matriarch of the Family would not cross him. If he knew you took his signet ring, he would kill you.”
Jager scowled. “Shall I return it and apologize? Trust in the benevolence of a noble, as my father did?”
“Of course not,” said Mara.
“And we stole from the Matriarch of the Red Family,” said Jager. “Yet we lived. Tarrabus Carhaine is hardly threatening after that.”
“But I would still like to know why you took it.”
He sighed, paced to the window, and stared at the dark street below.
“You know why,” said Jager. “Because I could. Because I hate him. Or at least men like him. He is the liege lord of Paul Tallmane. Why should I not steal from him? God knows that he deserves it.”
“Maybe he deserves death for what he has done,” said Mara. He heard rustling fabric. “Are you going to kill him?”
“No,” said Jager. “I am a thief, not a murderer.”
“Like me, you mean?” said Mara.
Jager sighed. “That is not what I meant and you know it. Besides, you are no longer an assassin. You left the Red Family of Mhor behind.” He looked over her shoulder at her, where she stood at the wardrobe, arranging some of the gowns within it. “And let us be honest, shall we? When we first met you had been hired to kill me.”
Mara grinned. “And you talked me out of it. Which I do not regret. Mostly.”
She turned her head, rummaging in the wardrobe. Her blond hair swung as she did, and he caught a glimpse of her left ear.
Or, more specifically, the delicate point of her left ear.
Despite his wealth, Jager was an outcast from the society of Andomhaim. He had secrets to keep, but nothing like Mara’s. If people learned who she really was, what she really was, the Swordbearers and the Magistri would kill her.
The dark elven prince of Nightmane Forest had long been an enemy of Andomhaim, and the Two Orders would not suffer his bastard half-breed daughter to live.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Jager. “Do let me know if you change your mind. I would at least like a sporting chance of escape before you slide a stiletto between my ribs.”
“Ha! I doubt that,” said Mara. “You’re stuck with me, Jager of Cintarra. Still, I think we should melt down the ring and sell the emeralds. It’s too dangerous to keep as a trophy.”
“You’re likely right,” said Jager. She usually was. Her levelheadedness often surprised him, and balanced out his boldness. Then again, she had been an assassin of the Red Family for years, and without careful planning, she would have died years ago.
“Still,” said Mara, “I think I should wear the ring at least once. What do you think?”
He turned, and saw that she was wore the ring on a cord around her neck.
And nothing else.
Save for the jade bracelet she wore around her left wrist, but she always wore that.
“I think,” he said, spreading his arms and walking to her, “that it looks lovely.”
She grinned, took his hand, and led him to the bed.
After, he lay in a doze, his body intertwined with hers, her head pillowed on his chest. His father would have been horrified to see what he had become, to know that his son was the notorious Master Thief of Cintarra. His hand tightened against Mara’s hip, and she murmured something and pressed closer to him.
His father had been a fool. Jager liked this life, liked stealing from the proud, corrupt lords of Andomhaim, and he loved Mara. He would continue this life as long as he could, he resolved.
It lasted another two heartbeats.
The door to the bedroom exploded open, ripping off its hinges. Jager sat up, scrambling for the weapons on his nightstand. Armored men-at-arms poured into the bedchamber, a dozen of them, swords glittering in their fists. Mara raised her hands, and darkness swirled around her, a gift of her dark elven blood that allowed her to disappear into the shadows. It gave her superhuman abilities of stealth and had made her a devilishly effective assassin despite her diminutive height.
A bolt of white fire blasted through the door and slammed Mara against the headboard. She screamed in agony, her eyes popping wide, and the shadows around her dissipated. Jager yelled and raised a dagger, but two of the men-at-arms seized his arms and hauled him to his feet. Two others did the same for Mara, who seemed stunned from the white fire, though it had not burned her.
Jager turned his head as an olive-skinned woman in a white robe stepped through the broken door, looking at everything with distaste. It was the Magistria he had seen this morning, the Magistria who had accompanied Tarrabus Carhaine into the city.
“Well,” said the woman, her Latin clear and formal. “Isn’t this just…charming?”
Jager decided to bluff. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? I am a merchant in good standing with the city curia and the Comes, and…”
“Spare me the tiresome lies,” said the Magistria. “I know exactly who you are, Master Thief of Cintarra. The Dux’s spies are most efficient.” She stepped closer, cupped his chin in her slender fingers, and tilted his head to the right and to the left. “It is well for you that money is beneath me. Otherwise there is quite a reward for your capture in Cintarra. And Tarlion. And here, too, I imagine.”
Jager spat in her face. The woman smiled and flicked the spittle away from her cheek. She was quite lovely, with clear green eyes, long black hair hanging in ringlets, skin smooth and lustrous. Yet there was a coldness in the green eyes that unnerved him. She looked angry, despite her smile. Angry at the world, perhaps.
And she was going to take that anger out on him.
She nodded to one of the men-at-arms, and a fist slammed into Jager’s jaw. The blow knocked him back, and the men-at-arms let him fall. They raised their boots and brought a rain of kicks onto his unprotected skin. Jager tried to crawl away, tried to shield himself, but he could not.
“Stop!” Mara’s shout was frantic. “Stop, you’ll kill him! Stop!”
The men-at-arms hauled Jager back to his feet, panting and bleeding, and the Magistria circled around the bed to stare at Mara.
“The dark elven half-breed,” said the Magistria. “And dressed up in the Dux’s ring, no less.” She ripped the signet ring from its cord. “Tell me, Jager. Do you always dress up your whores in stolen jewels? Or is this one special?”
“She is not a whore,” spat Jager, “and if you call her that again I will kill you.”
“I should like to see you accomplish that,” said the Magistria. “The Dux is indeed right that the realm needs to be brought to order. A halfling that does not know his place, and a dark elven monstrosity that should have been put to death the moment she set foot upon the High King’s lands.” She shook her head. “Take them both. Let us see if they offer impudence when they are in the torture chambers of the Iron Tower.”
Jager had heard things about the Iron Tower, the last outpost of the High King’s realm on the northwestern frontier of Andomhaim, and none of them were good. The Comes of Coldinium was a direct vassal of the High King, but the Dux of Caerdracon held the Iron Tower. The Constable of the Iron Tower was supposed to guard the realm’s northwestern border, but Tarrabus used the Tower as a dumping ground for his enemies.
Anyone who went into
the Iron Tower never came out again.
Jager struggled, but it was useless. The men-at-arms tied his wrists and ankles together, stuffed a gag into his mouth, and pulled a rough hood over his head.
The last thing he saw was Mara struggling against the men that held her, her screams echoing in his ears.
###
The days passed in a haze of pain and terror.
To judge from the rough boards beneath him, and the rocking motion he felt, he was on a boat. They left him helpless and bound on the deck until he lay in his own filth. From time to time someone lifted the hood and removed the gag to pour water down his throat. He screamed questions the first time, demanding to know what had happened to Mara, until a fist to the stomach silenced him. After that they pinched his nose shut and poured the water down his throat.
Then he felt himself carried, heard boots clicking against stone floors. Doors opened and closed, and locks rattled. The ropes were cut from his aching limbs, and heavy iron fetters clanged around his wrists and ankles, another around his neck.
Someone pulled the hood from his head, and Jager could see again.
He sat in a cell of ghostly white stone, the only illumination coming from a crimson crystal in the ceiling. The eerie light painted the walls the color of blood. Instruments of torture stood against the walls, saws and pliers and iron masks and spiked whips. The air stank of blood and rot, and Jager heard distant screams echoing through the hallway outside the door.
“Where am I?” he said, his voice a croak.
“The dungeons of the Iron Tower,” said one of the two men-at-arms who had carried him here. “The old dark elven dungeons beneath the Tower’s foundations.” The man grinned. “They say there are demons down here, demons that come out at night. Maybe they’ll come take you, little thief.”
“Where is Mara?” said Jager. “Where is she? Tell me, damn you!”
A kick drove him against the wall, his chains jangling.
“Last I saw her,” said the man-at-arms, “they were passing her around the barracks. Taking turns with her, one by one. You should hear her squeal!” He gave Jager a derisive look. “Suppose after sleeping with a halfling worm she’d want a real man.”
Frostborn: The Master Thief Page 9
