Calliande shuddered, her eyes rolling back in her head, and she went limp. Morigna almost lost her grip, but Caius caught her, and they supported the unconscious Magistria between them.
Ridmark remained motionless, his cheek red beneath the scarred brand from Calliande’s blows.
“Ridmark,” said Caius. “We…”
“We should take her back to the inn,” said Ridmark. “Or find another, if the Crow’s Helm is uninhabitable.” His voice was calm as ever. Morigna marveled at that, even as she seethed at Calliande. “Once she has recovered, we will keep our word to the Comes and depart Coldinium.”
“Ridmark,” said Caius. “Those things she said. Undoubtedly she was out of her mind from the Challenge.”
“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. His blue eyes seemed colder than ever. Colder, and utterly lifeless. “But as the Comes said, sometimes in madness there is truth.”
Chapter 14 - Pursuit
The sun rose, and Jager slipped through the western gate of Coldinium as soon as the militia opened it for the day.
He had fled through the Outwall, stealing a ragged cloak to cover his clothes, and had concealed himself until dawn. The Outwall had been crawling with men-at-arms and knights, and Jager did not dare approach them. The Comes’s men would keep close watch over the Outwall. If they stopped him, they might search him. If they searched him, they might claim the empty soulstone and turn it over to the Comes.
And if they did that, he would never see Mara again.
That lump of white crystal was Mara’s salvation. Jager would die before he would give it up.
So he hid himself during the night and waited for the furor to calm.
Come dawn, he joined the crowd at the western gate. There was always a crowd at the gates when the sun came up. The fishermen worked at night, and returned the city when the gates opened to sell their wares in the Forum of the River. Not even a raid from Mhorite orcs could stop that. Jager followed their carts through the gate, keeping his head down, a weary slump to his shoulders. After Mournacht’s attack, the guards were more diligent than usual, checking every cart and looking under every hood. But when they looked at Jager, they saw only a tired halfling in a ragged cloak, pack slung over his shoulders, no doubt on an errand for his masters.
They waved him through the gates without question.
Jager kept his face slack, but felt the urge to smile. People saw what they expected to see.
The thought of what he expected to see at the domus of Tarrabus Carhaine stole his amusement.
He came to one of the Forum’s taverns and went inside. Fishermen and bakers took their breakfast here, resting from their night’s work and discussing the news of the day. The word of Mournacht’s raid was upon every tongue, and Jager heard a dozen different accounts of what had happened, each more inaccurate than the last. He ignored the talk, purchased a cup of beer, some grilled fish and biscuits, and sat alone in the corner to eat. He was ravenous. A daring theft always gave him an appetite…and fighting for his life worked up a hunger.
Think. He had to think.
He had the soulstone. He need only go to Tarrabus’s domus and hand it over, and the Dux would free Mara.
Or so Tarrabus had claimed.
But Jager was almost entirely certain that Tarrabus would kill him the minute he surrendered the soulstone.
He didn’t think the Dux would have killed Mara, not yet. Mara’s unique abilities made her a valuable tool, too valuable to kill. Perhaps Tarrabus would force her to kill for him, as she had once killed for the Red Family. If she refused, perhaps he would simply hand her back to the Red Family as a favor to the Matriarch. Jager had heard Ridmark tell Sir Cortin about the Red Family. Given how much Tarrabus hated Ridmark, it would not surprise Jager to learn that Tarrabus had hired Red Brothers to kill the Gray Knight. Mara’s life would buy many assassinations from the Red Family.
They wanted Mara dead for her betrayal…and Jager shuddered to think of what they would do to her if she fell into their grasp. The Matriarch did not suffer treachery.
But for now, at least, Mara was safe. Jager had no such illusions about himself.
He had the soulstone. Tarrabus wanted it. There had to be some way to force the Dux to hand over Mara before giving him the crystal. Could Jager hide it? No, Tarrabus would simply torture the information out of him. Perhaps Jager could swap it with a decoy, or perhaps arrange a negotiation. A meeting in public, perhaps, might guarantee him a measure of security.
No, that was a worse idea. Tarrabus was one of the most powerful nobles in the realm, and Jager was a thief masquerading as a merchant. Tarrabus need only claim that Jager had stolen the stone from him, could have Jager arrested and killed, and there was nothing Jager could do to stop him.
Who would believe Jager over Tarrabus?
He grimaced and rubbed his face, stubble rasping beneath his palms. God, but he needed a shave. He hated growing a beard. It always itched so damned much.
But now, it helped distract him from the obvious. Namely, that Tarrabus would kill Jager the moment he got his hands on the empty soulstone. Furthermore, Jager was alone, had no allies, and if Mara was to be saved, he had to think of something extremely clever.
And he could think of nothing.
Unless…
He gazed into his beer and shivered.
Unless he used the thing he had hidden in the catacombs.
Not that. Too dangerous.
Mara had made him promise never to use it again. Few people knew of the Red Family of Cintarra, but of those who did, most knew that the Family worshipped Mhor. Fewer still knew of the mysterious Matriarch that had ruled the Family for generations.
And only a very few knew the truth about the Matriarch.
She had once been a noblewoman and a wizard of the dark elves, but as the urdmordar had conquered the dark elves, she had betrayed her kindred to the spider-demons and fled into hiding. Eventually, after humans came to this world, she had concealed herself in the growing city of Cintarra and founded the Red Family around her.
And Jager only knew that because he and Mara had dared to steal from her on the day they had fled from Cintarra.
And the thing he had stolen from her waited in the catacombs, in the darkness below Coldinium.
Oh, he was sure it was waiting for him. Mara had claimed it was just an object, but she had never touched it, thank God. Jager was certain it had a malevolent will of its own. Mara had made him promise never to use it again, and he had agreed without hesitation.
But now Mara was a prisoner in the Iron Tower. Jager was her only hope of rescue, and Jager was alone with no allies or resources. He needed help.
And the weapon in the darkness below Coldinium had power.
Did he have any choice?
The thought of touching it again made his skin crawl.
Jager sat in silence and drank his beer, trying to make up his mind.
Or to summon up the courage for what he knew he had to do.
###
“I knew it,” said Gavin, watching the crowd pass through Coldinium’s western gate. “I knew he would come here.”
Kharlacht nodded. “Your strategy was sound.”
They had searched the Outwall with little success, until Gavin had realized that Jager would not remain there. The halfling had been alone and without any supplies. If he wanted to leave Coldinium, he would first have to venture into the city to obtain food. If he wanted to sell the soulstone to someone, he would not find a buyer within the Outwall.
His next stop would almost certainly be the city itself.
And so Gavin watched the short figure in the ragged cloak walk through the gate, head bowed, Calliande’s pack slung over his shoulder.
“Let’s take him,” said Gavin.
“Wait,” said Kharlacht. “Let us follow him instead. If we confront him in front of the guards, they will intervene. The thief has a silver tongue. If he talks to the guards, he might turn them against us. Better to wa
it until we can get him alone.”
Gavin felt a chill. “Then we kill him?” A battle was one thing, but he did not want to kill a man in cold blood.
“Only if he refuses to return the soulstone,” said Kharlacht. “Or if he attacks us. I would prefer not to be arrested for murder.”
“Agreed,” said Gavin, and they followed the crowd into the gate.
The guards stopped and questioned Kharlacht. Kharlacht denied being a Mhorite (the fact that he spoke Latin helped), and the guards demanded that he renounce Mhor and recite the Lord’s Prayer, which Kharlacht did without hesitation.
The guards waved them through and into the city.
Despite the urgency of their errand, Gavin found himself looking around in wonder. He thought the Outwall had been crowded, but the space within the walls made the Outwall look like a sleepy village. They had entered some sort of market square, filled with men and women selling every sort of merchandise Gavin could imagine. More shops lined the square, and he saw carts rolling back and forth, people going about their business and talking and haggling.
Half of the village of Aranaeus could have fit within the square.
“There,” said Kharlacht. “He went in there.”
The orcish warrior pointed at building with the look of a tavern. A large crowd of bakers and fishermen were having breakfast there.
“What do we do now?” said Gavin. “Do we follow him?”
“No, not both of us,” said Kharlacht, considering. “I am rather noticeable.” Given that he stood seven feet tall, that was an understatement. “If he sees us, he will flee out the back. You, though…you will look like another man coming in for breakfast. Go inside, buy some food, and have a look around.”
Gavin nodded, pulled up the hood of his cloak, and walked into the tavern. He had visited the White Walls Inn from time to time in Aranaeus, but it had never been so crowded. Fishermen and bakers sat at the tables, talking and eating. They all ignored Gavin. He bought some beer and a few biscuits, sat at a bench, and glanced around the room.
He spotted Jager sitting alone in the corner, head bowed, his face grim. The halfling looked exhausted. Lost, even. As if he did not know what to do next. Certainly he did not look like a man come to celebrate a successful theft with beer and good cheer.
Gavin took a sip of the beer and grimaced. Come to think of it, he could not imagine drinking this beer to celebrate anything. He ate one of the biscuits, doing his best to keep an eye on Jager. Fortunately, Jager seemed locked in his dark thoughts, and did not look up from his beer even once.
Gavin spotted Calliande’s pack under the table, tucked between Jager’s boots. The halfling thief looked so distracted that Gavin thought he could stroll across the room, snatch the pack, and flee before Jager stopped him. But Jager would recognize him on sight, would realize that he had been followed. And if he ran, Gavin and Kharlacht would never find him again. Neither Kharlacht nor Gavin had visited Coldinium before, but Jager would know all the best hiding places, and Gavin and Kharlacht would have no way of finding him again.
They needed a plan. A good one.
Gavin walked back to the market square. Kharlacht stood near the door to the tavern, arms crossed over his chest. No one seemed inclined to trouble him.
“Well?” said Kharlacht.
“He’s just sitting there,” said Gavin. He handed one of the biscuits to Kharlacht, who started eating. “He’s either waiting for someone, or he’s trying to decide what to do next.”
“Fish oil,” grunted Kharlacht, finishing the biscuit. “Who makes biscuits with fish oil?” He shook his head. “We had best act now.” He turned his head, looking at the towers of the city’s castra to the north. “And if things go ill for the Gray Knight and the Magistria…this might be the only chance we have to keep the soulstone from falling into Shadowbearer’s hands.”
Gavin felt a chill. “You think Jager is working for Shadowbearer?”
“Perhaps. Or maybe he is one of the Enlightened of Incariel,” said Kharlacht. “I fear it does not matter. If he takes the soulstone, it will end up in the hands of Shadowbearer sooner or later. And if the Gray Knight and the Magistria are slain, we must take it upon ourselves to guard the soulstone.”
“So what are we going to do?” said Gavin.
Kharlacht considered. “Wait here a moment. If Jager comes out the front door, stop him.” He jogged into the alley and returned a moment later. “There is one entrance in the back. Go there and guard it. I will go through the front door. When Jager flees through the back, catch him.”
“What if he goes through the windows?” said Gavin.
“Then we shall have to improvise,” said Kharlacht. “If need be, I will attack him and claim that he owes me money from a gambling debt. If I can get us both arrested, he will be unable to present the soulstone to his masters.” He shook his head. “Every choice is a risk, but we must act now. Go.”
Gavin ran to the alley behind the tavern. The narrow alley stank of fish and mold, and a single door opened into the tavern’s kitchen.
He took a deep breath, set himself, and loosened his sword in its scabbard.
###
Jager saw no other way around it.
He had to go into the catacombs and retrieve the weapon.
Of course, that had its own set of risks.
Coldinium’s catacombs had been built to house the city’s dead in imitation of the catacombs of the Romans upon Old Earth. Yet a far older set of ruins rested beneath the catacombs. Long before Malahan Pendragon had ever set foot upon the soil of Andomhaim, a dwarven stronghold had been built below the soil, guarding an entrance to the tunnels of the Deeps. The stronghold had been overthrown by foes, but the tunnels remained, silent and empty and full of bones.
And traps. The dwarves had constructed legions of fiendish mechanical devices in the ruins, and they functioned to this day. The Comes forbade anyone from entering the old dwarven tunnels, but from time to time treasure seekers went into the ruins, seeking the lost wealth of the dwarves.
Few of them ever returned. The traps saw to that.
Or the Hunter.
But Jager had gone into the ruins and returned, leaving the weapon he had stolen from the Matriarch hidden behind the dwarven traps.
There was no other choice, not if he was to get Mara back alive.
He took a deep breath, looked up, and saw Kharlacht staring at him.
The big orc stood near the front door to the tavern, arms crossed over an armored chest the size of a barrel. A few of the patrons gave him sideways glances, but Kharlacht did nothing threatening. He merely stood motionless, scowling.
Right at Jager.
How the devil had Kharlacht found him? The Magistria’s magic, perhaps, or Morigna’s sorcery. They must have used their spells to follow him. He remembered Ridmark’s fury in battle, Kharlacht’s blue greatsword taking off the head of a Mhorite, and felt a terrible chill.
Jager had to get away from here, now. Most likely Ridmark and his companions would not chance violence upon the street. If they did, the militia would haul them off, and Dux Tarrabus could collect the soulstone at his leisure. Jager got his feet, abandoning the mediocre beer, scooped up the stolen knapsack, and headed for the kitchen door, watching to see what Kharlacht would do.
The orcish warrior did not move, but his black eyes followed Jager.
Jager walked through the common room and into the kitchen, ignoring the startled exclamations of the cooks. He went to the back door, and slipped into the alley.
A sword point hovered a few inches before his face.
The boy who had accompanied Ridmark and Calliande stood a few paces away. Gavin, that was his name. He held an orcish sword in both hands, his expression grim.
The blade did not waver.
###
Gavin stared at the halfling.
He expected an attack, expected more smooth words from Jager. He had not expected the halfling to look so terrified.
&nbs
p; Jager’s eyes darted back and forth.
“Give it back,” said Gavin.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jager.
There were the smooth words.
“Don’t bother,” said Gavin. “The soulstone. In the pack. Drop it on the ground now.” He pointed the sword, and Gavin flinched. “Or I’ll run you through.”
“You don’t understand,” said Jager, a tremor in his deep voice. “I have to take it. They’ll kill her if I don’t.”
“Who?” said Gavin.
“I have to take it!” said Jager, his voice rising.
“You can’t,” said Gavin, stepping closer. “Shadowbearer wants it, and if you take it, Shadowbearer will find and kill you.”
“A shadow what?” said Jager.
“He’ll use the stone to do something terrible,” said Gavin. “We can’t let him have it. He’ll kill thousands of people.”
“I don’t care about them,” said Jager. “I don’t care about any of them. All I care about is saving her. Don’t you understand?” His voice rose. “They’ll kill her if I don’t bring them the crystal.”
“Maybe we can help you,” said Gavin. Though given how Ridmark and Calliande had been taken by that enraged Magistria, they were not in a good position to offer help to anyone at the moment. “Put down the pack, now.”
“But I have…” started Jager.
“Put it down,” said Gavin. “Now.” He moved the point of the blade closer to Jager’s face. “Or I will use this.”
“You’re too young to kill a man,” said Jager.
“You were at the Crow’s Helm,” said Gavin, “and you saw me kill men there.”
Jager flinched and started to lower the pack, and then looked to the right, his amber eyes getting even wider.
“What the hell?” he whispered.
Gavin turned his head and saw Kharlacht come around the corner, his stride quickening when he saw Jager held at bay.
And, too late, Gavin saw the simple trick.
He turned back just as Jager’s shoulder slammed into his gut. The breath exploded from his lungs, and Gavin stumbled. Jager whirled and sprinted down the alley, his boots slapping against the ground. Kharlacht raced after him, reaching for his sword. Gavin caught his balance and dashed after Jager. The halfling was fast, but so was Gavin, and he had longer legs. Yet Jager still outpaced him. Another few steps and he would get to the square, and if he did, he would get away with the soulstone.
Frostborn: The Master Thief Page 18
