Thief's Blade

by C. Greenwood

  Sitting in the darkness, I could do nothing but listen to the muffled sounds of strange voices, followed by heavy jangling sounds. I gathered we were exchanging our exhausted, hard-driven horses for a fresh team.

  Surreptitiously lifting a corner of the curtain, I peered outside. A pair of villagers, a large man and a boy, were leading away our spent horses. My vision was suddenly filled by one of our cloaked rescuers appearing in front of me. The upper half of his face was indistinct in the shadow of the three-cornered hat he wore pulled down low. But I knew by his thin lips and scarred chin that he was the same man who had spoken harshly to Cadvan earlier.

  He opened the curtain enough to thrust a dirty canvas sack through the window at me.

  “Take these clothes, boy,” he commanded shortly. “Both of you put them on.”

  He spoke more like my old contemptuous jailers than like one mindful of my high birth. But I was in no position to demand the respect I was due. Not now. I accepted the canvas sack without protest. I could do little else since he had already closed the curtain and disappeared.

  The sack was dirty and smelled like it had once held onions. Emptying its contents across the opposite seat, I found it held a tangle of old clothes. One suit of clothing was a pair of breeches, a stained tunic, and an oversized coat, all with many patches and holes. It looked and smelled like the costume of a peasant farm boy. The other, smaller set of clothes was much the same.

  I woke Ferran and explained to my confused brother that we were playing a game and it required running away and pretending to be farm boys for a while.

  “Is Father playing too?” he asked with a yawn.

  I had never told Ferran about what I saw out my cell window those several months back. He had no idea our father was dead but knew only that he had been moved to a separate cell from ours some time ago. Now was not the time for telling the truth. Not until we were safe and Ferran had recovered his strength.

  “Father’s not part of this game,” I said. “He has stayed behind but wants us to do our best to win for him.”

  Ferran accepted that with little curiosity. I could see he was still feverish and not much interested in his surroundings.

  While I helped him sit up and change his clothing, he asked for something to drink. I hated to tell him we had nothing. Would it do any good to poke my head out the window and demand water from our rescuers? Already I was beginning to think of them more as captors than helpers. As yet, they had showed little sign of caring for our comfort.

  But then I remembered the traveling pack Cadvan had sent with us. I opened it and found the thoughtful old man had supplied us with a skin of water and a little food. I didn’t know how he had managed to obtain these things, but I was grateful he did.

  Ferran and I were munching on dry biscuits when we felt the movement of our driver climbing aboard the carriage again. A few minutes later, we lurched forward and continued on our way.

  * * *

  At our next stop, Ferran and I were finally allowed out of the carriage to relieve ourselves and stretch our legs. Ferran’s condition hadn’t improved, but I persuaded him to walk around briefly in the fresh air.

  There was little danger from unfriendly eyes here. We were at an isolated farmhouse, where our rescuers appeared to have a prior arrangement with the inhabitants. I figured out this much from observing their behavior, for they still didn’t speak to me, other than telling me when to get in or out.

  Although it was late into the afternoon, the day was cold and overcast. Even as I reveled in the comparative freedom of the outdoors and stood in awe of the open fields of waving grass all around, I hoped the chill breeze wasn’t doing Ferran harm. He seemed to perk up a little and to grow more alert, so perhaps it was all right.

  After our brief rest, I thought we would be commanded to pile into the carriage again. But our gruff companions surprised me by parking the conveyance inside a barn, where the farmer concealed it with coverings. Was this it? Were we staying here then? It hardly seemed safe. We hadn’t left the province yet, and hadn’t Cadvan said we wouldn’t be out of the praetor’s reach until we crossed the border?

  My misgivings were quieted when the farmer saddled three healthy young horses. My companions began transferring our supplies onto these mounts. If I wondered why there were only three animals prepared for us, I soon understood when the man with the scarred chin lifted Ferran onto the smallest of the mounts and commanded me to climb up behind him.

  “Hold tight to the little one,” he advised me, pushing the reins into my hands.

  I didn’t need to be told. Even when he was well, Ferran had never been fond of riding. He was frightened of all horses, and this one was much larger than the gentle pony he used to ride across the castle grounds when we were younger.

  It wasn’t much easier for me. Before our imprisonment, I had grown just old enough that my father had presented me with a horse of my own so I could accompany him on hunts. But I hadn’t ridden in years now and was uncomfortable with this unfamiliar animal.

  I was distracted from my concern over the horse by overhearing a scrap of conversation between the man with the scarred chin and the heavyset farmer who had supplied the fresh mounts.

  “What’s the nearest town?” asked the scarred man.

  “Varnai is a little distance down the road. From there, it’s less than four day’s ride to the border, if you travel fast,” came the response.

  The scarred man scowled at the answer but nonetheless tossed a jingling pouch to the farmer. “Remember, you never saw us,” he said. “We didn’t pass this way.”

  He conferred briefly with his partner, the man who had thus far been our silent driver. I couldn’t hear what was said, but the other fellow, a tall red-bearded man, nodded his head and took off, riding out of the yard. Ferran and I followed after, with the scarred man taking up the rear. I wondered if he took that position to protect us or to ensure we didn’t run away. If it was the latter, he had nothing to worry about. Uneasy as I was with our mysterious rescuers, it was not as if Ferran and I had anyplace safer to go. For the moment, these strange men were our best chance at survival.

  As we set off at a gallop down the dirt path and I held tight to Ferran’s skinny body to keep him from falling out of the saddle, I tried not to imagine how closely our pursuers from the tower might be following.

  CHAPTER THREE

  My first glimpse of Varnai was of its ugly, crumbling outer walls looming in the distance. Gray slate roofs and smoking chimneys poked up on the other side of that barrier. In the gloom of the descending twilight, the sprawling town looked like a cold and uninviting place.

  I was nervous as we passed through the wide-open gates. Even in my disguise, I felt conspicuous, as if people could somehow tell by looking at me that I was the congrave’s firstborn. But I needn’t have worried. The milling peasants we rode past in the streets didn’t give a second glance to four strangers on horseback. There was no reason they should. It wasn’t as though I had ever been here before.

  All the same, I sensed tension from my companions. Maybe they feared word of our escape had reached the town or would arrive soon after us. Either way, the nameless, scarred man drew his mount alongside mine and took my horse’s reins, keeping Ferran and me close.

  “Keep your head down, and speak to no one, boys,” he muttered lowly.

  I had no reason to disobey.

  We stopped outside a two-level, half-timber building with a swinging sign out front that proclaimed it The Leaping Stag Inn. Here we dismounted and waited in the gathering gloom while the red-bearded man went inside. He came out again soon and said he had secured us a room. It was the first time yet I had heard him speak, and I noted his soft accent. I couldn’t guess what province he came from, but I was certain it wasn’t Camdon.

  While he led the horses away to the stables next door, the rest of us headed inside.

  It was a relief to step into the warmth of the indoors even if the noisy atmosphere was jar
ring. The lower level of the inn served as a tavern and was crowded with tables and lively patrons, some singing, some quarreling, all drinking. After my time in the tower, I was unused to such a press of bodies and quickly found it smothering. I could tell Ferran felt the same.

  Luckily, we didn’t have long to endure it, for the scarred man led us straight up a set of narrow stairs, to the quieter floor above. Here the sounds and smells from below still drifted up to us. So, thankfully, did the warmth.

  We found an empty room that was apparently the one assigned to us. The scarred man put Ferran, me, and our supplies inside.

  “Stay here. Bolt the door, and don’t step out of this room,” he told us.

  Without another word, he started to leave.

  “Wait,” I protested. “Cadvan said you would be able to get us medicine. My brother is sick.”

  In case he had failed to take in that obvious detail before, I pointed to Ferran, who was still on his feet and wavering weakly in the middle of the room.

  Our companion frowned, as if impatient. I noticed that when he was annoyed, the scar on his chin turned whiter than the rest of his face.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said briskly. But the way he said it left me with little hope he meant it.

  He slammed the door behind him and I heard the sounds of his heavy footsteps walking away.

  As he had instructed, I locked the door behind him, although I couldn’t imagine the rickety thing would withstand much of a beating if anyone truly wanted to get in. Certainly, soldiers from the tower would have no trouble breaking it down.

  Alone in the shadowed room, I looked around to see what kind of place we would be spending the night in. The space wasn’t much larger or cleaner than the prison cell we had left behind. There was a small stove, but it was unlit. Two narrow bed frames held thinly stuffed mattresses and stained blankets.

  I was too exhausted to care. I hadn’t had a real rest since Cadvan had awakened me in the tower the night before. It had been an eventful day. Keeping both Ferran and myself on the back of that horse for so many hours had left my body aching and drained the last of my strength.

  “I guess we had better choose a bed,” I told Ferran.

  But my little brother didn’t need to be told. He had already stumbled wearily to the nearest bed and collapsed. I pulled off his boots and drew the blanket over him.

  Then I removed my own coat and boots and lay down beside him to try to sleep. If only my racing mind would let me. There was a window across the room, and its filthy glass let in a few stray beams of moonlight. It was the same moonlight that had filtered through the slit window of my tower room the night before. Strange that I felt little freer now than I had the last time I slept beneath its cold glow.

  * * *

  I awoke with a start and sat up in bed. Heart pounding, I looked around and tried to figure out what had disturbed me. The surrounding room looked unfamiliar, and it took a minute to remember where I was. Ferran snored gently beside me. The bed on the opposite side of the room remained empty, meaning our gruff rescuers had not returned.

  It was still dark, so not much time could have passed since I had fallen asleep. But the noises drifting up from the tavern below were muted now. It must be late enough that most of the patrons had gone home.

  Was that what had awoken me? The faint noises from downstairs?

  I didn’t see what else it could be. All was still in our room. I lay back down and closed my eyes.

  Immediately it flashed before my closed eyelids again, a scene from the dream I had just escaped. I saw a wooden scaffold standing high off the ground, heard the deafening silence that followed a final drum roll. Early morning sunlight glinted off a swiftly falling blade.

  I had had this dream many times before. I knew exactly how it ended. Only this one was different. This time, when I glimpsed the face of the prisoner on the scaffold, it wasn’t my father’s. It was my own. And the method of execution shifted suddenly from an axe to a rope.

  My eyes flew open again, and I fixed them on the weblike cracks in the plaster ceiling above, willing those other sights out of my mind.

  Brief and troubled though my rest had been, I felt alert now. And I didn’t dare go back to sleep. Not with that haunting dream still waiting for me.

  I climbed out of bed, softly so as not to wake my brother, and took up my coat. Inside its pocket I found what I was looking for, the small leather-bound book I had snatched from the desk before fleeing my cell in the tower. Luckily, I had remembered to transfer the book from my old coat to my new one when switching costumes. I didn’t even know what our keepers had done with our original clothing.

  I carried the book to the window.

  There, beneath the silvery moonlight, I flipped open the cover and scanned the pages. Half of them were blank, the other half covered in the familiar scrawl of my own handwriting. This book was one of the few precious possessions remaining to me. It would have been of no value to anyone else. But the notes and poems I had scribbled inside had sustained me over the past two bitter years. Between these pages, I had written about my old home, the castle where I had been born, and the life I had lived there when my family was still whole. Anything I wished to keep and remember forever had gone into this book. I had filled it with my fears and inner sufferings. But it held my hopes and oldest, happiest memories as well.

  Holding the book in my hand reminded me of the horrors of my long imprisonment. Whatever was to come next, no matter how bad, could surely not be worse than what I had left behind. It also renewed my determination that, although it was necessary for Ferran and me to flee now, our father’s death and all that had been done to our family would not go unanswered. There would come a time when our enemy, the praetor of Camdon, would pay for what he had done to us.

  I returned the little book to my coat pocket. Then I looked out the window. Through the dirty smudges on the glass, I could see into the moonlit street below. It was empty. The town was asleep.

  Where then were my mysterious keepers? They wouldn’t have gone far, leaving Ferran and me alone. Or would they? Perhaps they had sensed danger and, fearing pursuers from the tower were close on our trail, had decided to abandon us?

  I crept to the door and slid the latch. Peering out into the shadowed hall, all I could make out was a faint glow of light filtering up through the floorboards from downstairs. I also felt the accompanying warmth coming from the big fireplace in the tavern below. It wasn’t as cold out here as in our closed-off little room.

  Stealthily I crept barefoot across the floor to the near stairs. The man with the scarred chin had told me not to leave our room. But I had to know whether he and his friend had gone, whether Ferran and I were really on our own. Carefully I descended the stairs, keeping to the edge of the steps where the boards were less likely to creak beneath my weight.

  At the bottom I stopped. From here I commanded a partial view of the room while remaining concealed in the shadows. I saw the bulky form of a bald man I assumed was the innkeeper busily wiping down tables. There were only two other men left in the tavern. These were my mysterious keepers, crouched over a table in the near corner. The red-bearded man was eating, the scarred one drinking.

  Relief flooded me on realizing they were still here. They hadn’t abandoned Ferran and me. But I didn’t immediately go back upstairs. The two men were talking, and bits of their conversation fell upon my ears. I kept still and listened.

  “Pursuit can’t be far behind,” the man with the scarred chin was saying. “We must be away at dawn and make hard for the border.”

  His companion argued, “The younger boy is sickly and cannot keep up this pace much longer.”

  The scarred man considered, gazing into the bottom of his tin mug, before appearing to come to a decision. “If he keeps slowing us down tomorrow, we’ll get rid of him. Bury him in a ditch somewhere. We’ll travel faster and stand a better chance of reaching the border without him.”

  “Do we dare?
Won’t the master be displeased?”

  “Not as long as we bring the other one alive. For his scheme, it matters not which of the congrave’s heirs are delivered into his hands. One young puppet will do as well as another.”

  “What do you think he wants with them anyway?” asked his companion.

  “Do I care?” The scarred man shrugged and took a long drink of ale. “The likes of you and me don’t get paid enough to meddle in politics.”

  Then he relented. “The way I see it, our master’s hatred for the praetor of Camdon is deep, making the praetor’s rivals the master’s friends.”

  “And the congrave was the praetor’s rival?” asked the bearded man.

  “Lower your voice,” his friend instructed. “In this province, it’s not wise to speak the congrave’s name, except in whispers. Jealousy of his popularity is what drove the praetor to destroy him. Eventually his young heirs would have followed their father to the grave.”

  He leaned forward and dropped his voice conspiratorially although there was no one but the innkeeper around to overhear. “Our master has intervened to give the boys sanctuary. When the time is ripe, I reckon he means to return one of them to his rightful place, where he can rival the praetor—a little gift from the master to his old enemy.”

  “Then the boy congrave will never be allowed to be anything more than the master’s creature,” suggested the red-bearded man.

  “So I would wager.”

  They were speaking so quietly I strained my ears and leaned forward to hear more. The step beneath me gave a sharp creak. My heart jumped into my throat as both men looked my way. I didn’t think they saw me in the shadows, but I couldn’t be sure.

  I crept quickly back up the stairs, expecting at any moment to hear them following me. But they didn’t come. They must have decided the sound was nothing.

  Back in the cold darkness of my room, I looked down on Ferran sleeping silently in our bed. His hair, damp with sweat, was plastered to his brow. Alarmed, I put a palm to his forehead and found he was burning up. Far from improving, his fever had worsened.