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

by Seth Skorkowsky

  Still holding the lens before him, Ahren approached the simple door. He moved the lens, and the door vanished. Ahren ran his fingers across the paneled wall but felt nothing. He looked through the loupe again, and the door reappeared. Now, he felt its raised lip but only if he could see the spot he touched; otherwise, it wasn’t there. Spying a small keyhole, he moved the key toward it, but the hole disappeared as he removed the lens from his eye. Ahren gazed through the loupe again, marking the hole’s location with his fingertip, then tried again. The spot felt smooth under his touch, but as the key touched it, it seemed to melt into the solid wood. Cautiously, Ahren turned the key. The lock clicked, and the door instantly appeared.

  Careful to keep the brass tools from banging, Ahren removed the stoker and shovel before moving the heavy iron stand out of the way. He opened the cabinet to find a stack of polished, flat, wooden boxes. A sparkling emerald necklace atop a white cushion rested inside the first box. He dropped the necklace into his pouch and opened the next to find an assortment of rings. Those joined the necklace. Licking his lips, he picked up the third flat box.

  A door behind him burst open. “Surrender!”

  Ahren whirled around. A bearded guard, his sword drawn, stood in the doorway silhouetted in yellow candlelight.

  The door to the neighboring room opened, and a tall man with a pointed goatee stepped through, clutching an elaborate, swept hilt rapier. “There is no escape, Black Raven.” He said the name as if the words themselves offended. “You're under arrest.”

  Boot steps shuffled in the hallway behind the guard. A dog growled.

  “Am I?” Ahren asked casually. His gaze darted to the guard then back to the well-dressed man with the rapier. He took a step away from the cabinet, closer to the iron stand. “And who may I ask has bested me?”

  “Sir Osgood Vankmir, knight and inspector.”

  “I see.”

  The guard in the doorway took a step closer, his rapier tip pointed at Ahren.

  “Tell me, Sir Osgood,” Ahren asked, trying to stall. “Did you—”

  Glass chinked, one of the small, vertical panes in the leaded window exploding inward. The guard screamed and dropped his sword. A thick crossbow bolt jutted from his shoulder, just below the collarbone.

  “No!” Sir Osgood blurted.

  Ahren hurled the polished box at the bounty hunter and grabbed iron rack behind him. Osgood parried the box with his large rapier hilt, sending jewels and gold chains flying.

  Charging the window, Ahren hurled the heavy stand. Glass shattered as the lead lattice folded around the rack like a net and fell out into the street below. Ahren ducked through the hole in the window and quickly skirted around the narrow ledge along the outer wall.

  “Stop him!”

  Quickly, Ahren scooted around a corner to the front of the building. He needed to find a way down. The steep roof of the entrance to the house jutted out a little ahead and below him. He hurried toward it. Shouts and barks came from inside.

  A shuttered window not two feet before him burst open. Ahren ripped his dagger free and plunged it into a long-haired guard as he leaned out. Screaming, the man fell back inside. Before the next could come, Ahren leapt. Tile shingles crunched as his hit the roof hard. A shard bit into his hand as he slid off the roof and landed in the street below. Rolling to his feet, Ahren raced away.

  #

  The door at the top of the stairs opened. Volker and Fritz ducked and stepped through into the secret basement under Whazzik’s shop. Bolts of fabric and boxes filled with pilfered goods cluttered the tiny room. The quellish fence had made good during the eel plague.

  “I was getting worried,” Ahren said, looking up from a rudimentary bed he’d fashioned atop a pair of long crates.

  “How’s your hand?” Fritz took a seat before a small table, its surface textured with layers of carved graffiti. Marking it during the long hours of hiding out in the cellar was a rite of passage for many of Lunnisburg’s thieves.

  Ahren displayed the red-stained bandage wrapping his palm. “Not bad. Bled a lot but nothing serious. Leather breeches probably spared me from the worst of it.” He nodded to Volker. “Thanks for saving me back there.”

  The bald man shrugged. “Just wish I’d had a shot on their fop leader before I had to get off the roof.”

  “Guards arrested Hertcher before we could get word to him,” Fritz said. “Probably getting flogged right now.”

  Ahren frowned. “Think he'll crack?”

  The crime boss shook his head. “Hertcher’s a lot of things but not an idiot. As long as he stays quiet, he’ll be taken care of. Until then, how’d you do in the baron’s?”

  “I got the Mayusian Stallions.” Ahren motioned to a pair of carefully wrapped bundles beside his bed. “But the Svencher jewels are the best damned fakes either Whazzik or I have ever seen.” He took his bag from a hook and spilled its contents across the table.

  Fritz scooped a sapphire ring and held it to the light. He rolled it over, the tiny facets refracting beams across his eye. He grunted. “Amazing.”

  “Evidently, Sir Vankmir didn’t take any chance of me making off with the baron’s treasure.”

  Volker sat up. “Osgood Vankmir? That’s who set us up?”

  Ahren nodded.

  Fritz stared at the bald man, his brows raised quizzically.

  “The Whemile Butcher, the Chervicks Bandits,” Volker said. “He caught them.”

  “He got the Butcher?” Ahren asked.

  “Yeah. Good riddance to that sick bastard too.”

  “What else do you know?” asked Fritz.

  The big brute shrugged. “He’s a dandy. Fancies himself a gentleman. He’s always at the most important parties and wearing the most fashionable clothes.”

  Fritz nodded as if to himself. “He shouldn’t be too difficult to get to. We’ll kill him. Cut his throat and send a message to anyone else who comes after us.”

  “We can send him an invitation to some event the remaining nobles are holding.” Volker strummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Maybe a party or dinner. He won’t refuse.”

  “No good,” Ahren said. “We can’t just kill him.”

  The bald man raised a brow. “Why not?”

  “If we kill him, he becomes a martyr. The brave and brilliant bounty hunter murdered by the Black Raven. It challenges others to do what the great catcher of Whemile Butcher couldn’t. No, we have to break him. Break his reputation. Send a message that anyone who comes after me will lose more than their life.”

  “So you wish to shame him?” Volker asked.

  “Exactly.” Ahren leaned forward. “He knew I was coming for the baron’s gems, so he replaced them. For his trap to work, he moved the guards to watch the jewels, thus removing them from the rest of the house. However, he never expected me to take the stallions. Had I known it was a trap—”

  “You would have plundered the rest of the house,” Volker interrupted.

  “Precisely. Just imagine how furious Baron Svencher will be when he learns that the man he entrusted with his magic key lost him the Mayusian Stallions.”

  A sinister edge gleamed in Volker’s eye.

  “Fine,” Fritz spat. “You two have your game. But the moment I say stop…” He held up a long finger.

  Ahren nodded. “Understood.”

  #

  Beads of sweat gathered across Osgood’s brow as he waited in the dark and stuffy room. He peered through a narrow slot in the curved wall before him, allowing near complete view of the neighboring room without being seen. Ulva Fidhent, a wealthy Lunnisburg merchant, had the spying room built to observe how guests behaved while she wasn’t present. Now, Osgood used it to watch a pair of jeweled broadswords hanging above the mantle. Through one of his more unsavory connections, he had word spread of a hefty sum a country noble was offering for the blades. The formidable stone house would discourage all but the boldest of thieves. It was only time before the Black Raven would come. The real swords l
ay wrapped and hidden inside the narrow table beside him.

  Two other guards patrolled the house; another four were hidden. The room offered enough light to see but still denied a clear shot from any accomplices hiding outside. He’d even hidden a crossbowman of his own on a neighboring roof, waiting for the Black Raven’s friend. Neither would escape him this time.

  Osgood leaned back into his padded chair and dabbed his forehead, cursing the humid summer night. He tucked the handkerchief away and removed a silk cloth from his sleeve. The scent of lily and spiced incense still lingered in the thin fabric. Its owner had become the single beacon of contentment he’d found since arriving in this cursed and disgusting city three weeks prior. He sniffed it deeply, remembering when he’d met her.

  A gray-eyed quellen had served him a glass of apricot liquor. Red dye painted the tiny whore’s cheeks and lips. Even the long, brown hair along the back of her large ears was pulled up tight and hung down her back over a mint-colored corset. Sipping his drink, he stood beside a polished table and listened to a young harpist. Her dark nipples peeked temptingly out from beneath a velvet dress.

  Double doors opened, and a slender man with a trimmed goatee and long, dark hair stepped through. Golden buttons traced down the front of his burgundy and cream doublet. A petite blonde gracefully followed him, her round breasts bare and her face concealed beneath a sea-green veil.

  “Sir Vankmir,” the man said with a bow. His accent hinted at southern Mordakland. “It is a pleasure. I am Karl Skerstein, owner of the Ruby House.”

  Osgood scanned the lavish surroundings, his gaze lingering on the veiled woman. “I had heard of your establishment and of your courtesans but was not expecting a personal invitation.” He held up a square, folded envelope between two fingers. “How did you come to know of me?”

  “It is my job to know.” Karl grinned. “With circumstances with the eels being as they are, most of my customers are away. When I learned the viscount’s home was again occupied, I hoped to welcome him back. But when I learned it was not him but yourself whose exploits I had already heard, I had no choice but to welcome you to our city and invite you to my home.”

  “I see.” His gaze met the courtesan’s. Unlike most women, she did not shy away. He felt her yearning smile with only her almond eyes.

  “The viscount is one of my best clients,” Karl said. “And if he has entrusted you to his very home, I feel it would insult him not to offer the same courtesy, Sir Vankmir.”

  The house-master led Osgood to a small room with polished, paneled walls. There, resting in a padded leather chair, similar to the one in Ulva Fidhent’s spying room, Osgood enjoyed fine liquors and cheese while Karl brought him a seemingly endless number of courtesans to choose from. Women of every shape and color vied for his approval. One sang, another read poetry, and one black-haired girl washed and massaged his feet. Some were sultry, others demure. Yet between each of the beauties, Osgood’s eyes returned to the veiled blond, Anya, dutifully serving them.

  “Tell me, Sir Vankmir,” Karl said, running a finger down his dark moustache. “Have you found what you want?”

  Osgood ate a small, white cube of cheese from the fingers of a copper-haired girl. “I believe I have.”

  “Wonderful.” He snapped his fingers, and the veiled courtesan behind him stepped around and refilled their glasses from a crimson decanter. “Which one?”

  “While your selection is every bit as wonderful as I’d heard, only one truly captivates me.” He eyed the mysterious beauty kneeling before them, filling his glass. “So I choose Anya.”

  “Anya?” Karl replied, the surprise in his voice barely masked.

  “If that is an option, Mister Skerstein?”

  The slender man had smiled. “Of course it is, Sir Vankmir. As I promised, I entrust you with whatever pleasures my house has to offer.”

  Osgood sniffed the veil again. Soon. Soon, you will be mine again. Holding the scent in as long as he could, he tucked the silk away and peered through the narrow viewing slit. “Where are you, you bastard?” he muttered.

  A commotion of shouts and running boot steps erupted somewhere in the house. Osgood squeezed his ivory rapier grip. He’s here.

  “Seal the doors!” someone shouted.

  The door to the room before him burst open, and a guard, clutching his sword, raced inside. “Sir Vankmir! Sir Vankmir!”

  “Yes?” Osgood shouted, leaping from his seat and out through the hidden door into the room. “Do you have him?”

  The guard scanned the chamber intently. “No. But he was here.”

  Osgood dug the pointed bottle from its padded pouch. Brown flecks of blood, from what he’d gathered when the Black Raven cut himself fleeing the baron’s, clung to the inner walls. Yet the color-swirled glass did nothing. “He hasn’t been here.”

  “No, Sir.” He shook his head. “The salon.”

  Osgood’s eyes narrowed. “If your panic over hearing something has alerted him or scared him off, I’ll have your head.”

  “You…you don’t understand, Sir,” he stammered. “Come.”

  Clenching his jaw, Osgood followed the young man. Running footsteps echoed through the halls as his men searched the house. Anger welled at their incompetence. Had they heard him and panicked, allowing Black Raven to escape? Or had the wind or a noisy cat spoiled his trap?

  The dark salon doors stood open, and yellow lamplight burned inside. Osgood followed the guard through and froze. Four empty frames hung on the walls, their canvases missing. A long gash sliced end to end across Fidhent’s portrait. Blue and pink hues emanated from the swirled glass vial still clutched in Osgood’s hand. Tremors of rage shivered through his body. Carefully, he put it away before his shaking hands might drop it.

  Taking a breath to compose himself, Osgood looked up to face the room again. The candlesticks were missing. A black feather rested inside the glass display that had once contained an amber figure of Saint Kistim. Obviously, he’s taken his time. Removed the paintings and returned the frames. Probably packed the holders to not make noise. Leave the dramatic feather. But why didn’t he come for the swords? Did he see or hear something that scared him away?

  “Sir.” A stocky, blond guard stared into a cabinet along the side wall.

  Osgood stepped beside him and peered inside. Fidhent’s collection of small, silver cups was missing. Inside, behind the locked brass bars, rested the fake jewels stolen from Baron Svencher’s. “The bastard knew the whole time.”

  #

  Gray smoke coiled up from the brazier, permeating the small chamber with spicy incense. Ahren relaxed in a red-cushioned chair. The small, quellish whore that had led him to the room had also poured him a glass of cherry liqueur. Sipping his drink, Ahren’s gaze wandered over the colored glassware, the brass candelabra shaped like a veiled ferryman, and an ivory-colored vase depicting a gull’s perspective over the canalled streets of Nadjancia. A carved bed dominated the neighboring room, visible through a narrow gap between crimson curtains.

  The velvet pulled aside. A slender blonde stepped through, her round breasts bare and face concealed beneath a sea-green veil. “Good morning, fine sir,” she said in a stilted Rhomanic accent. Gracefully, she seemed to glide to the brazier. She bent to add a nugget of incense, allowing Ahren to briefly appreciate the curves through her silk skirts. “And how may I help you? A poem? A massage?” She moved closer; her dark-eyed gaze moved up Ahren’s body as if savoring every inch. “Maybe wash your…”

  Their eyes met.

  “Ahren?” The foreign accent vanished.

  “Hello, Anya,” he said through a smile.

  “Your hair?”

  Ahren smoothed his trimmed goatee and moustache. “It was time for a change.”

  She giggled. “Blond?”

  “A very big change,” he added, rubbing his cut and bleached hair.

  Anya looked back toward the door. “Come.” She motioned to the adjoining bedroom, and Ahren followed her into t
he oval chamber. She closed the door behind her. “Osgood was furious about Missus Fidhent’s house.”

  “I’m sure he was.” Ahren took her delicate hand in his then kissed it. “You were brilliant.”

  Her eyes met his, her smile visible in them despite the veil. “It was the very least I could do for what you’ve done for me.”

  “No, it was spectacular.” He sipped his drink. “I trust Karl is treating you well.”

  “Yes. He’s teaching me Rhomanic so I can perfect the part of a Nadjancian courtesan.”

  “I’ve spent much time in the Veiled City. You play the part very well.”

  She shyly looked away. “Thank you.”

  Ahren took a glass from the table and filled it from a slender bottle. “Your work with Osgood was flawless. But he's not going to fall for it a second time. I need your help—again. This is much riskier, but I promise you a cut of the spoils.”

  She took the glass. “You don’t need to pay me for this, Ahren. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “Nonsense. You’re a partner in this.” He nodded to the drink in her hand.

  Hesitating, she slowly reached up and unhooked the green veil.

  “Your scars?” The deep crisscross scars across her left cheek had somehow faded, now nothing more than pale lines.

  Anya touched her cheek. “Karl knows an apothecary who makes a salve. They fade the more I use it, but it’s not permanent. I have to keep using it.” She gave a low snort. “So now I have to stay at the Ruby House, or I won’t get any more.”

  Ahren chuckled. “No, you just need to find an apothecary in need of some beautiful company. I know one. As long as you don’t mind quellens.”