Sea of Quills (Tales of the Black Raven Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  “Good.” He dropped two coins into the shopkeep’s tiny hand. “Let us know if you hear anything.”

  “If it’s out there, I’ll find it,” Whazzik said as the two men turned to leave. “And watch out for eels.”

  The bell tinkled as Volker shut the door behind them. “Where to next?”

  “Talk to the other fences and that crooked guard of yours, Hans.” He eyed the darkening sky. The red glow of the Old Kaisers’ torches seemed to swell as sunlight fled. The Nightless City had begun its second dawn. “I’ll check the nighttime markets and pick up a couple things. Tomorrow, I want to get a look at this storehouse.”

  #

  The morning bustle seemed slightly less chaotic than the last time Ahren had visited the city. Still, carts loaded with goods and supply wagons rumbled down the cobbled streets. Shop owners swept the fine ash and dust layer off their doorsteps as shuttered windows opened and bright canopies raised. The aroma of fresh bread wafted from a bakery, summoning an impatient line outside the door. Breathing in the energy of the waking city, he made his way down the lane.

  Turning, he headed toward the outer walls. There, under the light of Kaiser Odrim IX, he spied an imposing four-story tower isolated from the rest of the tightly-spaced buildings. Newer mortar, not as soot-stained as the rest of the structure, sealed the first-floor windows. Bright blue banners fluttered along the top in the morning breeze. Casually, he circled the storehouse. A two-story wing jutted from the rear side. Black, iron bars covered its windows. Fritz had been right; the fortification appeared impregnable, but Ahren had triumphed over far worse before.

  Adjusting the suede and green brocade doublet he’d purchased the night before, Ahren marched past the two-foot-high perimeter wall up and knocked on the oaken door.

  An iron slot in the door rasped aside to reveal a man’s face. “What’s your business?”

  “I am Adolfus Chersel. I come to speak with your captain.”

  The man’s veiny eyes squinted, peering at Ahren up and down. “What do you want to speak with him about?”

  “Business,” Ahren said with a pretentious smile. “I’m a bounty hunter in search of a notorious burglar and wish to discuss a rumored theft in this storehouse.”

  The guard’s face fell still, his eyes momentarily widening. “Wait here.” The iron slot snapped shut.

  Ahren drew a long breath. His hand fell casually on the rapier hilt at his belt. He wondered how anyone ever got entirely used to wearing a sword.

  The scrape of a moving bar came from the door, and it opened. A scruffy guard with the Lunnisburg crest painted on his blue tabard stood before him. He motioned Ahren inside.

  With a nod, he followed the guard down a hall and up wooden stairs to the second floor. The soldier stopped at an iron-bound door, knocked once, then opened it. They entered a cramped office. A light wood case covered in dozens of narrow locking drawers dominated the left wall. On the right, a map of Lunnisburg hung above a small table. An older man with a neatly trimmed, gray moustache and a tabard of embroidered azure sat behind a polished desk. Its size made Ahren partially wonder how it could have even been moved into the room or if the walls had been merely constructed around it.

  The man’s dark eyes studied Ahren for several heartbeats before speaking. “I am Captain Horngrieg. I understand you have some information.”

  “I may,” Ahren said with a sight bow. “My name is Adolfus Chersel, a bounty hunter who’s spent the better part of two years tracking an elusive thief referred to as the Black Raven.” He removed a folded parchment and handed it to the seated captain. “Rumors of a wealthy heist brought me here yesterday morning, but it appears I may have been too late.”

  Horngrieg opened the worn pages and held out two reward posters, one from Lichthafen and another from Frobinsky in distant Rhomanny. Both bore the image of a dark-haired man with long hair and short beard. The poster’s bad likenesses, in addition to Ahren’s freshly cut and shaven appearance, made him unrecognizable from the artists’ renditions—at least he hoped.

  “My first question,” the captain began slowly, “is why do you believe there was a theft here?”

  Ahren smiled. “My business requires that I know what others do not. It requires keen observance and, oftentimes, a loose purse. The fervor in which the outgoing ships were searched suggested that was something in particular they were looking for. A few silver later in a dockside bar led me here.”

  Horngrieg’s brow rose, his cheeks flushing.

  “Now, there’s nothing to worry about, Captain,” Ahren said, raising a finger. “No one man betrayed their orders. My profession is to find order among what many might consider the imperceptible and then to systematically eliminate possibilities until only truth remains. In fact, your response to my tale only verifies my suspicions that there was in fact a theft from this storehouse.”

  A faint smile tugged at the captain’s thin lips. “I see.” He folded the parchments and handed them back. “However, I know enough about the Black Raven to assure you that he is not responsible. Yes, there has been a theft, but no raven feathers were left behind.”

  “I might have assumed as much. The feathers are not only used as a signature but also as misdirection. In my study of him, I have found that mysterious and baffling crimes usually proceed the appearance of black quills by as much as a month. At that time, once word has spread and the bounty hunters have begun circling, he moves to a new location and enjoys an anonymous crime-spree while his pursuers are occupied elsewhere. I can assure you, Captain, there will be feathers. Just not yet.”

  Captain Horngrieg sucked his lip. The suspicion in his eyes dimmed. He motioned to the seat opposite him. “Have a seat, Mister Chersel. I’d like to hear more of your thoughts.”

  Ahren took the wooden seat before him. The old cushion felt as hard as a barrel lid.

  “You say you arrived yesterday.” The captain gave a curt nod to the escorting guard, who quietly left, closing the door behind him. “What ship, may I ask?”

  “The Mädchen, from Caldin,” Ahren replied. He’d already paid a few silver for Captain Derstom and his crew to corroborate the story. Not that he needed to bribe them, but money and friendship bought more loyalty than friendship alone. “The Black Raven had already performed several heists by the time I’d arrived. But I followed my instincts that he’d either already moved or would be coming to Lunnisburg soon.”

  “Well, our thief will soon be caught,” the captain said, pouring a pair of drinks from an open schnapps bottle. “One of our guards is missing. He was last seen that night.”

  Ahren took the glass. “I see. So it was a guard?”

  Horngrieg nodded and knocked the drink back.

  “Did he have access to the vault’s key?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did he get inside?”

  The captain set his empty glass down on the desk with a hard thud. “He must have picked the lock.”

  “My apologies, Captain Horngrieg, but picking a lock is far more than blindly fiddling some wires in a keyhole. A complicated lock, as I’m sure you have here, would require immense skill and specific tools. In fact, lock picking always signals whether the culprit is a mere thief or a professional burglar.” He sipped the strong pear liquor. “And if your missing guard is a professional burglar, have there been other robberies? It seems odd he’d have nightly access to all the city’s riches and give himself away so easily.”

  His gaze distant, the officer ran his fingers down his gray moustache and listened.

  This was it. Ahren leaned in. “Now, it could be that I’m wrong; Arieth knows I have been before. But while I’m here, might I at least inspect the lock and the scene? With my expertise, maybe I could detect something that could help find the culprit.”

  Captain Horngrieg remained silent; his face said nothing.

  Ahren finished his drink. “If nothing else, it may help prove the Black Raven is not responsible and that I’ve wasted both my time
and silver,” he said idly, setting his glass back down.

  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Horngrieg said. “I trust your absolute discretion on this.”

  “I promise it.”

  #

  Squinting in the torchlight, Ahren studied the square, iron door still standing ajar. As he’d suspected, the large and decorative lock was little more than show. Still, proper tools and rudimentary experience would be needed to open it. He gazed into the dusty cell, not much larger than a pair of stacked coffins. A brass-bound chest rested against the rear wall. Ducking, Ahren stepped inside and opened it. Empty. He picked the blackened padlock lying on the floor before it. In its time, the heavy and etched iron shackle would have been quite formidable, but the almost ancient lock could be now be opened with no more than a smith's blank key and a file.

  “As I thought,” Ahren said, placing the lock back on the floor. “The thief either had access to the keys or was very skilled.”

  “Only Lord Nahtler has the key to the cell,” Captain Horngrieg said from the hall outside. “The chest and lock are his.”

  “I’m certain the good Lord Nahtler did not rob himself.” Ahren ran his fingers across the stone walls. The storehouse had served many uses in its long history. First a foundry, then a barracks, a prison, and finally its current form. He wondered if it, like many of Lunnisburg’s older buildings, had access below.

  “Tell me, Captain,” Ahren asked as he stepped back into the narrow hall. “This guard, Finnet, how did he leave without anyone seeing Lord Nahtler’s property in his arms?”

  “Ah.” Horngrieg’s gaze momentarily downcast. “No one saw him leave. He was absent for the shift-change at midnight. That’s when we found this.” He gestured to the open vault door.

  “Did he act differently that night?”

  “I was in my office that night,” he said, a defensive hint in his voice. “But I can let you speak with the other guards.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Ahren said with a small bow. “That would be most helpful.”

  #

  Volker leaned against a stone well in Otto Square, watching fat pigeons shuffle along the shoulders of a bronze statue standing before Hegenstein Convent.

  “Considering a life of piety?” Ahren asked as he approached.

  The bald man harrumphed. “I’ve watched starving beggars freeze to death in this very spot, staring up at those big gems laying just out of their grasp. More money than they could imagine in a hundred lifetimes. Cruel, really.”

  Ahren looked up at the impressive statue of a hooded man, one hand extended, the other gripping the sword at his waist. A pair of glistening rubies stared out from the figure’s sockets. “I’m sure Saint Hegenstein sees it too with those pretty eyes of his.”

  Volker chuckled. “So? Learn anything?”

  “Some.” He glanced back to a vendor hocking goat-hide leggings to a group of passing men. No one paid him any attention. “A guard named Finnet is the suspect. He vanished the night of the robbery. Plump; long, brown hair; shaven; mole over his right eye. No known debts or ill family.”

  “Affording passage away from the city is motivation enough.”

  Ahren nodded. “Safehouse locks are worthless. Wouldn’t take much to open them. Finnet’s post was on the roof. It was raining, so no patrols went up to see when he left. Not all the guards were there, so I’ll talk to the rest tomorrow. How about you?”

  The large thief stood and started out of the square. “Hans said he didn’t see anything unusual. Not that it means much; he was probably drunk.”

  “On duty?” Ahren hurried to keep up with Volker’s long strides.

  “All the guards there are pretty much the worst the city has to offer. Old, fat, drunks, not a brain among them.”

  “The captain didn’t seem dim.”

  “No.” Volker shrugged. “But he’s lazy, which is just as bad. However, Hans did say Finnet favors a particular whore.”

  “That might be useful.”

  “Yeah. Now, let’s hope her brothel is still in operation.”

  Ahren turned to the bald thief. “How do you mean?”

  Volker gave a toothy smile. “It’s in the undercity.”

  #

  The stink of filth and mildew wafted up the stone steps leading down from the street. Squinting in the dim light, Ahren made out the passage before him. He had briefly visited Lunnisburg’s unusual subterranean realm once before. Below, cobble streets traced the same paths as the ones above. The roots of buildings lined the underground city, complete with doors and windows. Some were mortared shut and now basements. Others were open as cheap hostels, shops, whore houses, or just home to vagrants. Many had no relation or access to the building that might rise as much as four floors above the surface. It was dark, wet, and home to scum so low that even Arieth had forgotten them.

  With Volker in the lead, they followed the narrow walkway along the wall. Slimy water and detritus filled the trough-shaped street beside them. Light peered through the iron drain grates above. Raised stepping-stones stretched between the street corners, allowing them to cross without stepping into the foul muck on its slow current toward the docks and then out into the bay. In the alleys beside them, dark figures moved, shuffling into the shadows before Ahren’s eyes could catch them. The city guards almost never patrolled the undercity without reason, leaving the realm in almost complete lawlessness. Visits from outsiders frequently ended with a cut throat.

  Ahren side-stepped a broken bottle. “So does this stretch under the entire city?”

  “Most of it. Mainly the north side toward the ocean. Huge fire burned the city down a long time ago. Killed hundreds.” Volker kicked at a rat scurrying down the walkway toward them. It scuttled behind one of the thick arches supporting the streets above and wormed through a tiny hole into a vacant shop. “Back then, there was a huge problem with drainage. The tides would wash the sewage back into the streets. So when they rebuilt, they decided to first make everything out of stone. Second, they built it up higher. Took nearly a hundred years, so this was originally the street and eventually they paved the ones above.”

  “But there are a few wooden buildings,” Ahren said.

  “Not many, and those are all new. Always foreign built. Locals know better. They’ll pay whatever bribes to lower their cost by building with wood and thatch then lose it all when a good wind blows embers from the Old Kaisers’ torches.”

  Echoes of fiddle music and voices drifted from ahead. They turned onto a main street running beneath Dyson Row above to see yellow light spilling from open windows and doors along the avenue. Ahren’s senses heightened as they moved down the lane, now swelling with foot traffic of ragged beggars. He felt their hungry eyes slither across his clean clothes, hesitating at the rapier swinging at his side. Silently, he cursed his partner for not urging him to change clothes before they came down. As normal, the massive brute seemed not to care if he stood out.

  Volker turned and ducked through a low door and into a smoky tavern. Grimy men encircled slap-dash tables, playing dice and backgammon with mismatched pieces.

  “And what do you fancy gentlemen want?” a brown-toothed woman asked as the two men sat.

  “Two beers,” Volker said, clinking a few copper coins onto the stained and scarred table. The meager pay wouldn’t buy a drink at the cheapest sailor dive. Nevertheless, the wench scooped the coins with the speed of a striking viper and shuffled away.

  Ahren scanned the room. “There’s a lot more people here than I expected.”

  “Soldiers chased us out of our homes,” rasped a pock-marked man at the neighboring table. “Sealed it off with no care for us. Drove us here!” He banged his fist into the table and swigged his drink, spilling some down his whiskered chin and onto an already mottled shirt.

  Returning, the barmaid set a pair of chipped steins onto the table. “Interest you men in a bit of a hump?”

  Volker nodded. “Is Anya here?”

  “Aw, honey, yo
u don't want that waif,” she cooed, leaning over.

  Eying the wench’s flabby breasts threatening to spill free from her ill-fitted bodice, Volker licked his lips. “Maybe once I’m done. But first, I want to see Anya.”

  Ahren hid his revulsion by swigging his beer. The tang of salt permeated the watered drink. Scrunching his face, he opened his eyes in time to see the barmaid briskly turn, head to the back of the bar, and vanish behind a worm-eaten curtain.

  “I don’t think she liked my refusal.” Volker raised his drink and took a healthy gulp. To Ahren’s amazement, the bald man didn’t even wince.

  After several minutes, a young woman pushed through the curtain. Her dark red dress looked to have been nice at one time but now hung as little more than rags. Thick locks of dirty blond hair flowed down her shoulders, partially obscuring the left side of her face. Beneath it, Ahren could still see the deep, crisscrossed scars running from her mouth to ear and jaw to eye, marring an otherwise beautiful face.

  She reached a delicate hand toward Volker. “You want some love?”

  “Not quite.” He gestured to a stool.

  She lowered onto the seat. “Then what do you want?”

  “We’re looking for Finnet. Where is he?”

  Her unhidden eye narrowed in suspicion. “Who are you?”

  Ahren removed a pair of silver sasiks from his purse and slid them to her.

  Quickly, she scooped the coins and looked around. “You shouldn’t be flashing that kind of chink,” she whispered. “Not here.”

  “Where is he?” Ahren asked.

  “Why are you looking for him?”

  “Were friends of Finnet’s.”

  Anya laughed. “Friends? With your nice clothes and pretty sword? Just the type that old Finnet spends his time with.”

  Again, Ahren wished he’d dressed appropriately for this trip. His eyes caught a man watching him again. Long, stringy hair circled the top of his bald head, brushing the shoulders of a tattered, green shirt. His gaze fixated on the sword at Ahren’s belt.

  “Can I help you?” Ahren slid a hand to the rapier handle.

  The man met Ahren’s piercing stare then turned away.