“We think Finnet’s in trouble,” he said, turning back to the girl. “We’re trying to help him before the soldiers find him.”
“Soldiers?” she gasped, her voice lowering. “What happened?”
“A misunderstanding,” Volker replied. “Do you know where he is?”
She shrugged. “Haven’t seen him. Last visit was three nights ago.”
Volker sucked his lip. “Do you know where he might be?”
“No. He’s usually here every night after his shift.” Her gaze warmed, sliding up Volker and then to Ahren. “So you still want that love?”
“Next time,” Ahren palmed her two more silver.
Shaking her head, she snorted, took the coins, and left.
“That didn't help,” Volker grumbled. He swigged his drink, gulping it down.
Instinctively, Ahren reached for his beer but thought better of it. “No, but at least we know he’s hiding.”
“Or dead.”
Ahren gave frustrated sigh. “And that’s what troubles me.”
#
In all his time in Lunnisburg, Ahren had never entered any of its infamous towers. A warm gust whipped over the city, momentarily stirring the eternal smog and nearly taking Ahren’s hat as he enjoyed the view from Kaiser Adelino II. Leaning against the parapet, carved into the image of the stone ruler's crown, he gazed across to the snow-tipped peaks of the Kleshvet Mountains to the south. Below, rolling fields surrounding the city. Fresh spring crops, fertilized by the endless tons of ash from the Guardians’ beacons, painted the hills green. Lunnisburg ash was one of the city’s largest exports.
“So who’s the friend?” asked an oddly accented voice.
Ahren turned to see a massive soldier descending the narrow steps down the statue’s arm from the flaming torch above. Blond streaks tinged his thick beard. Like the other tower guards, his tabard was black instead of blue to hide the soot.
“He’s a friend,” Volker replied. “Rafer, this is Ahren.”
Ahren smiled to the towering Larstlander. As a sailor, he’d met many of the giant Northmen, but at seven feet, Rafer was the tallest he’d ever encountered. Lunnisburg frequently employed them to man the braziers because of their strength.
“It’s good to see you,” Rafer said, clasping Volker on the shoulder. “Been well?”
The bald man nodded. “Yeah, fine. You?”
“Busy.” The Northman picked up a rag from atop a wide stack of black peat blocks and wiped the ash from his sweat-streaked face.
“I’m sure you are.” Volker motioned to the row of bodies wrapped in unbleached fabric and laid out like cut wood. “Ahren here is missing a friend. We were wondering if you might have seen him.”
Rafer gave a toothy smile. “You know I can't look at the bodies, Volker. It’s against the Church law.”
“Oh I know.” Volker glanced over his shoulder. “But I know you. Don’t tell me you never sneak a peek, maybe check for any valuables the guards left on them.”
The Larstlander snorted. “Valuables? These are just the nameless scum they find in the city. They have nothing. The dead with valuables are burned at Saint Faiga. I get the trash.”
Volker held up a gold drein. “Some trash can bring profit.”
The towering guard’s icy pale eyes darted to Ahren then back to the coin. “What does your friend look like?”
“Plump,” Ahren answered. “Long, brown hair, shaved. He has a big mole over his right eye.”
Pursing his lips, Rafer drew a long breath. “How old?”
“Early twenties.”
“Yeah, I saw him.”
Dread-tinged excitement pulsed through Ahren’s veins. “When?”
“Cleaning patrol brought a couple bodies they found down in the undercity two day ago. Someone cut his throat.”
“How was he dressed?”
“He wasn’t. Whoever robbed him left him with nothing.” Rafer plucked the gold coin from Volker’s fingers. “Is that it?”
Ahren nodded.
“Thanks, my friend,” Volker said. “You should come by the bar sometime.”
“I will. May you pass safely through the mist.”
“And you as well.”
The two thieves made their way to the stairs and descended back down through the tower.
“Damn it,” Volker muttered, stepping out onto the street. “We’re running out of trails.”
Ahren sighed. “Maybe. But we know Finnet didn’t do it. They found his body the morning before.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“The guards are busy looking for a man they’ll never find. If the thief knows that, he might make a mistake. Meanwhile, I still have a few things I want answered.”
#
Smoke blanketed the dark sky above, reflecting the blood-red glow cast by the Guardians’ torches. Ahren lingered in the shadows of a tall building, hidden from the firelight, watching the guard atop the storehouse roof make his rounds. The soldier had followed the same pattern for an hour. After circling the rooftop once, he stopped beneath an overhang on the east side and sat, his mind apparently wandering to other things. It’d be fifteen minutes before he moved again.
After a quick scan of the streets, Ahren hurried across the open lane, hopped the low perimeter wall, and darted into the shadows beside the jutting wing. Taking a quick breath, he climbed onto a barred windowsill then hopped, catching the cold bars of the window above. With an acrobat’s grace, he pulled himself up then swung out, grabbed the eaves, and flipped up onto the roof.
His glove-leather shoes made no sound as he crossed the clay shingles. Ahren slid his fingers in the gaps between the old, mortared stones and climbed up the tower wall like a spider. He stopped just below the parapet’s edge and looked out to the neighboring rooftop. In the shadows, he could barely make out Volker’s shape huddled behind a jutting chimney. He held a bow at his side, arrow nocked. Volker motioned his head to the side, signaling it was safe.
Quietly, Ahren crawled over the side then slinked behind the guard, not five feet away, and ducked into the tight stairwell leading down. He followed the steep steps to the fourth floor. Pressing against the wall, he braved a quick peek. The hall lay empty.
Ahren cursed under his breath. Had he missed the patrol? If the guard had passed, it would be at least ten minutes before his return. He debated either waiting to see if he came, at the risk of losing more time, or stepping into the passage with no escape if a patrol did come. He waited.
Boots clomped up the stairway below. Ahren silently drew back up the steps, careful not to attract attention from the sentry above. The footsteps turned down the fourth floor passage. Several heartbeats later, Ahren descended past the landing.
After a few long minutes, the heavy boot steps marched back to the stairwell. Listening, Ahren held his breath. If the patrolling guard went up to the roof as he had been, Ahren could move. If the guard started down, Ahren needed to keep ahead of him remain out of sight. To his relief, the sentry went up to check his partner on the roof.
Quickly, Ahren darted up and into the hall. Black, metal doors lined either side of the passage. A single flickering torch hung on the wall ten feet inside. The city’s red light poured through a narrow window on the far side. He pressed himself into the small niche behind the doorway and waited until the patrolling guard clomped back down the steps.
Ahren crept down the hall, reading the brass numbers affixed above the iron doors. He stopped at vault 415 and removed the doeskin roll from his pouch. He unfurled his tools and selected a pair of sturdy picks. Keeping his ear toward the entrance, he deftly worked the simple lock. Once he felt it about to give, he draped a handful of his cloak over his hands and twisted the pick around. It gave a muffled click.
Pressing the thick cloth against the hinge to hide the squeak, he cracked the heavy door open. He squeezed inside the chamber. A pair of wooden chests filled the musty, cramped space. As promised, neither were locked. Quickly, Ahren opene
d them. With the faint light cast through the open window, he sifted through rolled documents, wrapped candlesticks, and other valuables Herr Kriegmon had left behind. Nothing. Undaunted, Ahren checked the chests for false bottoms, under the curved lids, and even the wall behind them to no avail. The mask wasn’t there.
If Kriegmon had double-crossed the Tyenee, he hadn’t used the same drop-off. Even the bag of gold intended for payment was exactly where it was supposed to be. Satisfied, Ahren slinked out of the tiny vault, locked it behind him, and left as quietly as he’d come.
#
“This is the last man who was on duty that night,” Captain Horngrieg said, leading Ahren up the tight stairwell. “Again, I’m not entirely comfortable with you interrogating my men without me.”
“It’s not an interrogation, Captain,” Ahren assured. “I’m merely asking them about that night and Finnet in particular. In my experience, the absence of their superior can make the men more comfortable in divulging certain information.”
“My men have nothing to hide.”
“I don’t believe them guilty. But there may be information they might not say in your presence. Once, I interviewed a guard who was present during a robbery. When alone, he confided that he had left his post for only a minute to relieve himself. A sensible thing that he was afraid to confess to his superiors. That information led to the culprit’s capture.”
The old captain grumbled something under his breath.
“Morning, sir.” A short guard stood straight as the two men stepped up onto the safehouse roof. His trimmed moustache held more gray than black.
“Corporal Yerri, this is Mister Chersel,” Horngrieg said, motioning to Ahren. “He is assisting with our incident and is trying to find Finnet. He has some questions he’d like to ask you.”
Unease crept into the soldier’s eyes. “I see, sir.”
“This won't take long, Captain. I can take it from here.”
Horngrieg snorted and gave a nod. Without a word, he headed back down the tower stairs.
Ahren looked the guard up boots to face and smiled. “I understand you were on duty the night of the theft.”
Yerri gave a short nod. “My shift ended before. Finnet was my relief.”
“I see. On the roof?” Ahren’s gaze wandered across the city.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Finnet appear different that night?”
“No, sir.”
Ahren ran his tongue across the back of his teeth. This wasn’t going anywhere. It was time to change tactics. “I understand Finnet had a blackened eye that evening.” He turned back to the corporal. “What did he say about it?”
The guard shied away under Ahren’s gaze. “Um, nothing.”
“Nothing? One of your men has a battered face and says nothing about it? Did you not ask?”
Yerri shook his head.
“I understand that Finnet isn't the most popular of men.”
Yerri huffed, blowing the sides of his gray moustache. “He's as loved as horse piss.”
Ahren smiled. “And why is that?”
The short man shifted. “He’s really annoying. If he’s not complaining about something, he’s droning on and on about nothing. It’s not that anyone dislikes him…he’s just…”
“Not likeable,” Ahren finished.
“Yeah.”
“But you still didn’t ask him about a blackened eye?”
Yerri seemed to shrink.
“Did you not see his face, Corporal?”
Yerri sighed. “No. It was dark and raining. I left immediately after he came up.”
“Then how did you know it was Finnet?”
“Because he wore that cursed hat of his,” the short man snapped. He took a breath. “It was over his face because of the rain.”
Ahren’s brow creased. “What hat?”
“This awful blue hat. He likes that it matched his uniform, but it looks like something…something a whore used as a chamber pot.”
“I see. So you two never spoke?”
“No.”
“Danke, Corporal.” Ahren turned.
“What are you going to tell the captain?” Yerri asked with a pleading crack to his voice.
Ahren looked over his shoulder. “There’s nothing to tell.”
#
The bell jingled as Ahren and Volker stepped into Whazzik’s shop.
The three-foot shop owner looked up from a worn logbook. “Hello, my friends.” He stabbed his writing quill into a narrow, copper cup atop his counter and slid the book aside. “How goes the hunt?”
Volker harrumphed. “It’s going.”
Whazzik scratched his bulbous nose. “Well, I think I might have something for you then.”
“What?” Ahren asked.
A knowing smile tugged at the shopkeeper’s lips. “Last night, I met a man in the market. Obviously a bit new to what we do. Dressed like a beggar and so nervous it was uncomfortable to even look at him. I nearly paid him no mind, but one of my associates sent him over to me. That only happens if it’s something especially big or unmovable.”
Tingles of excitement moved along Ahren’s skin. “Go on.”
“He said his name was Günter, an obvious lie. I asked what he was selling, and he showed me a handful of jewelry he had wrapped up in a rag. Very nice. One piece caught my attention, a gold and pearl pendant. A jeweler I sometimes work with had made that same pendant for the late Lady Nahtler, so I knew it was the thief you're looking for.”
Ahren’s eyes narrowed. “We never mentioned Lord Nahtler.”
Whazzik shot him a sardonic smile. “Who do you think I am? I’m not some idiot hocking stolen cutlery behind a stable. You mentioned a mask. Whispers on the street said Lord Nahtler’s vault was robbed. It doesn't take a genius.”
“My apologies,” Ahren conceded, holding his hand up.
“Just remember that.” His scornful expression faded. “As I was saying, I knew it was him, or at least involved. I expressed interest in the pendant, but he wouldn't even let me hold it. I offered that we could come back here, and I could see what else he had, but he got jittery and refused. Just ran off.”
“Where did he go?” Volker asked.
The quellen shrugged. “I had one of my boys follow him, but he went down into the undercity and lost him.”
“The undercity.” The bald man gave Ahren a knowing glance.
“This Günter,” Ahren asked. “What did he look like?”
“A little older,” Whazzik said, cocking his head. “Maybe mid-forties. Average height. Brown, shoulder-length hair but bald on top.”
A face formed in Ahren’s mind. “Did he have a green shirt?”
The quellen’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
Volker turned to Ahren, realization bloomed over his face. “The man in the bar. The one who was paying too much attention.”
Ahren nodded. “I thought he was interested in my clothes.” He looked back to the tiny shopkeeper. “Thanks, Whazzik.”
“You two just remember this,” he said as the two men hurried to the door. “I want first call on the jewels, especially that pendant.”
They jogged up the lane to the nearest undercity entrance. Boards stretched across the stairway, covered in tightly fit netting. Slimy, blue-gray coils, as thick as Ahren’s leg, filled a deep wheelbarrow. A burly guard, armed with a forked spear, stood beside it.
The soldier straightened as Ahren and Volker stopped before the blocked stairs. “This section is closed.”
“But it’s an emergency,” Volker pleaded. His fingers subtlety inched toward the thick-bladed knife at his waist.
He shook his head. “Quarantined.”
“Come on,” Ahren said to Volker. He turned and raced toward the next closest entrance. To his relief, he could hear the bald man's heavy footsteps clomping behind him. He slowed to a jog until his partner caught up.
The next entrance was unblocked. Drawing a deep breath, Ahren headed down into the foul-r
eeking streets below. With the light from the grates above, they made their way toward Dyson Row. Fire flickered ahead. They turned a block from the main road to find their path blocked by a crude gate and stretched netting. A blue-tabarded guard stood at the entrance beside a burning brazier.
The soldier leaned his spear toward them as they neared. “Halt.”
Ahren stopped. “We’re trying to get to the bar beneath Dyson Row.”
“It’s closed off,” the guard replied. “Kicked the rabble out this morning.”
Ahren swallowed his frustration. “I’m looking for my brother. Do you know where they might have gone?”
“Topside, probably. Same place you two should be going.”
Ahren held his hands out. “Maybe you saw him. Older, shoulder-length hair, bald on top?”
“I can’t help you,” the guard huffed. “He’s not here.”
Ahren sighed and looked to his friend.
Volker shook his head. “Let’s go.”
#
The stink of soured urine hit Ahren like a wall as he ducked into a cramped and dim tavern. Patrons huddled around tables clutching their clay tankards, their downcast faces lit by the flickering, yellow glow of smoky tallow candles. No one sang. No one laughed. An air of utter hopelessness permeated the unnamed bar in a way Ahren could only compare to the deepest, rankest prison in the world.
With Volker behind him, Ahren squeezed past the tables toward the back. His eyes probed the crowd, searching for a familiar face. For hours, he and his partner had scoured every tavern and hostel where the undercity refugees might go. Part of him secretly wondered if the despondence he felt was not from the tavern but himself.
A hollow-cheeked man stood behind the counter, carelessly cleaning a bowl with a greasy rag. His gaze moved across the room like a tyrant staring out across his domain. He set the dish aside and tossed the rag over his shoulder as Ahren stepped up. “What’ll it be?”
“I’m looking for a man.” Ahren held a silver sasik up between his fingers. “Brown hair down to his shoulders, bald on top. Forty, maybe fifty years old. My height. Last saw him in a green shirt. Have you seen him?”
The barkeep’s tongue slithered between his lips. He ran a hand across his sharp chin. “Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t.”
Sea of Quills (Tales of the Black Raven Book 2) Page 10
