“Now, what was it you did before joining the Guard? I don’t recall being told. Perhaps I’ve forgotten.”
“I was a dockhand, my lord,” said Posle. And then, unwisely, he decided to add to his story: “Sixteen years on the docks.”
“Sixteen years? That’s a long time. Your hands don’t look like they’ve done sixteen years on the docks. Yes, you’ve calluses enough, Posle, but a dockhand has hands made of leather. Smashed fingers, scars, rope burns. What do you have to say, man? Speak up.”
“I, er, well, my lord, um. . .”
“A little rat told me you worked for the Thieves Guild. No, don’t deny it, man. The question is, do you still belong to the Guild? If you do, then we have a problem. Divided loyalties is what I’d call it. On the other hand, if you don’t work for the Guild anymore, how am I supposed to believe that?”
It was surprisingly simple from there. Posle turned as white as a lady’s handkerchief. His mouth opened and closed without making a sound. When he was able to speak, his words came out in an incoherent, gabbling rush.
“It weren’t my idea, my lord! Honest! They made me do it. Said if I didn’t, they’d break my woman’s legs. Just wanted to keep an eye on the Guard. Interested in what you were up to. Oh please, my lord! No harm done in it, no harm! I won’t tell ‘em anything. There’s nothing to be told. Just marching around and drilling.”
Posle attempted to smile, but he only managed to look sick.
“A thief and a spy. Well, Bordeall, what’ll we do?”
“Hang him, my lord,” rumbled the older man. “There’s nothing like a good hanging to put the iron in a man’s spine. It’ll do our lads good to see.”
“Mercy!” bawled Posle, falling to his knees. Tears sprang from his eyes. “No! No! Have mercy, my lord!”
“Shall I go see about a rope, my lord?”
“Mercy!” shrieked Posle.
“Yes, Bordeall. Thick hemp. I don’t want it breaking like last time.”
“No! Please don’t kill me!”
“Very good, my lord.” And Bordeall strode from the room.
Owain regarded the little man groveling on the floor. A spy. He wondered what his father would have done if he had found himself in such a situation. His father had been a more decisive man in certain ways. More impatient. The older Gawinn probably would have drawn his sword and killed the man on the spot. Oh well. Such things were frowned on these days. The regent would be outraged, and the nobility would twitter like pea-brained hens behind their scented handkerchiefs and their manicured hands. Not that he cared what they thought.
“Posle.”
The man was wailing so loudly that he did not hear Owain.
“Posle! Stop that. Get a hold of yourself, man. Maybe I won’t have you killed. At least, not today.”
Posle left off his wailing and looked up. He scrubbed at his nose.
“My lord?” he quavered.
“I have a job that needs doing. It needs just the right man to lead it, and I think you’re the man.”
“Anything, my lord. Anything!”
Of course, once Owain had explained what it was that he wanted, Posle wailed just as loudly as he had before. If the Guard wasn’t going to execute him, then the Thieves Guild would surely murder him someday. A knife in the back in a crowded inn. Bludgeoned to death in an alley. Strangled and dumped in the bay for the sharks. But he quieted down once Owain pointed out that the Guard would hang him if he didn’t comply and, if he did comply, that the Guild might not necessarily find out. If they did, well, Tormay was a big country. Posle could pack up his woman and go hide in a quiet corner of one of the duchies.
“What would I do there?” said Posle. “Er, my lord,” he added, as an afterthought.
“Raise cabbages. Steal cabbages. That sort of thing. Whatever it is that thieves do in the country. You’ll figure it out. Now, Posle, tell me. Where does the Guild keep all its gold? Where are we going to do our stealing?”
“Well, er, the Silentman’s got the gold, I suppose. He’s the one we work for. The thing is, my lord, no one knows who he is or where he lives. No one.” Posle looked relieved at this thought.
“Obviously, the gold ends up in his coffers,” said Owain. “But surely it starts somewhere else, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose you’re right, my lord.” Posle scratched his head. “We gathers it up, each one who works for the Guild, an’ then it gets scooped in dribs an’ drabs by the accountant, an’ then I guess he somehow gets it to the Silentman.”
“Ah,” said Owain, nodding. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
After some discussion between Bordeall, Posle, and Owain, they decided to visit the accountant that same night. Bordeall’s plan was to march up, surround the building, and then pull it to pieces, stone by stone, until they had found every last gold piece there was to be found. Posle’s opinion was that they should spend several weeks spying— he blushed when he said the word—on the accountant’s house in order to learn his habits, who visited him, whether there were guards, and anything else of interest. Owain’s view, and decision, was that they should go that night.
“Six men,” he said. “Tonight. An hour after midnight. Six men in ordinary clothing and masks. It can’t be known that the Guard is thieving. I wouldn’t mind a war with the Silentman, but now isn’t the time. We don’t want him to know who the culprit is.”
“And what about weapons?” said Bordeall. “Knives?”
Owain shook his head. “No need to shed blood. Cudgels will be fine.”
“Cudgels!” Bordeall spat in disgust on the ground.
“Both of you will go, of course. Bordeall, you’re good with wards, aren’t you? Get Hoon too. He has ears sharper than a cat, and if there’s any need of finding a hidden panel or whatever sort of nonsense these thieves use to hide their gold, he’ll find it. And we should have another strong arm or two for cracking skulls.”
Owain threw open the armory door and stuck his head outside.
“Lucan!” he bellowed. “Get over here!”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Who’s loafing about right now?”
“Young Bridd, of course,” said Lucan, pleased to be able to point this out. “He’s always loafing and I think—”
“Tell him he’s needed for a special job tonight. Vital for the Guard. And find Hoon and—hmm.”
“How about old Varden?” suggested Bordeall. “He’s meaner and quicker than an alley cat. Stronger than any of the lads, despite his gray hair. Knows how to keep his mouth shut too.”
“Just the man. Find Hoon and old Varden. Tell ‘em the same. They’re all to be on duty here at the tower, midnight sharp. Tell ‘em to keep their mouths shut, and that goes for you too.”
“Very well, my lord.” Lucan stalked away, the stiffness of his back radiating displeasure at the thought of Arodilac Bridd being able to help with anything that was vital to the Guard. And why wasn’t it he, lieutenant Lucan, who was being appointed for the job? Whatever the job was.
“Who’s the sixth?” said Bordeall.
“Me. Don’t scowl like an old woman, Bordeall. I wouldn’t miss this for all the gold in the regent’s treasury. I’ve always wanted to do something about the Guild. Posle, you look ill. Perhaps you ate something rotten for lunch. Be sure and have a nap before we go. I can’t have you falling asleep on the job.”
“Of course, my lord,” said Posle weakly.
To Owain’s satisfaction, the fog drifted in off the sea that evening. It flowed through the streets, creeping up on the barrow carts, the children playing in the gutters, the old men puffing at their pipes on street corners, and the women hurrying along with their bags and bundles. They all bobbed along on the fog, drifting on its gray tide to whatever ports they called home. Doors and windows disappeared beneath its mist. The fog lapped up under eaves. Soon there were only chimney stacks and roof peaks visible above its gray blanket, rising up into the darkening sky like a strange forest of stone, slate
, and brick. Everywhere, there was the sound of water: of dripping and trickling and pattering as it fell from eaves, gurgled down gutters, and sluiced out of downspouts. Somewhere overhead, hidden and unseen, the moon and its attendant stars shone down.
Owain paused at the bedroom door and looked back. The room was too dark to see much, but the curve of Sibb’s hip beneath the blankets and the spill of her hair on the pillow were visible. Or perhaps he simply felt them as warmth in his mind. She sighed in her sleep. He closed the door softly.
The hallway creaked under his feet in all the old, familiar places. Outside the bedroom door of the girls, something stirred in the shadows. The dog. He had bought the dog, a wolfhound, on Sibb’s urging after Loy’s death. The dog was young and had months to go before it would reach its full size, but it was already fiercely loyal to the children, most of all Fen. It tolerated him and Sibb with poorly disguised animosity and was the terror of the servants. The children, after much heated discussion, during which the boys had been defeated by the impassioned logic of the girls (which had involved a bribe of cake), had named the dog Honey. Never, in Owain’s estimation, had a name been so inappropriate. Honey curled its lip as he passed by, eyes unblinking. Saliva gleamed on a fang. A growl trembled in its throat. Owain tiptoed past the dog and down the stairs.
It was cold outside. He settled his cloak around his shoulders and set out. It took him a half hour of brisk walking before he reached the barracks. Bordeall’s tall form loomed out of the fog. Behind him, Posle fidgeted unhappily. Hoon leaned against the wall, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. He nodded at Owain, grinning, but did not say anything. Old Varden appeared out of the fog like a ghost, yawning and grumpy, but clutching in his bony hands a cudgel that looked suspiciously more like a stone block laced onto a wood grip as opposed to its more humble and purely wooden cousin. Owain sighed and decided not to look any closer.
“Where’s Arodilac?” he said.
“Right here, my lord,” said a voice.
Owain turned around. Arodilac stood behind him.
“Masks,” rumbled Bordeall.
He held out a fistful of what looked like lengths of dark cloth. On inspection, the lengths of cloth proved to be old and immensely stretchy socks with holes for eyes and mouths that Bordeall’s wife had cut in them.
“A sock?” said Arodilac in disbelief. “Is this a sock?”
“That’ll do,” said Owain. He glanced at Bordeall. “I trust these are sufficiently clean.”
“They’re clean. My woman’s a stickler for scrubbing and scouring. You set foot over her threshold with dirty ears and she’ll wash them for you.”
“First time ah worn socks this year, cap’n,” said Varden. “It jest don’t feel right. Tain’t winter yet.”
They set off into the fog. Thick as it was, it grew thicker as they went, until Owain could barely see the form of Hoon slouching along in front of him. Beyond the little tracker, Posle was somewhere up ahead in the mist.
“Don’t lose sight of him,” said Owain quietly. “I don’t want a last-minute change of heart.”
“No worries.” Hoon turned and grinned lopsidedly at him.
They turned down an alley. Water dripped from the eaves overhead. The stones underfoot were slimy with mud, and the air stank of rotting garbage. Owain fingered the club tucked away under his cloak—it was just a length of oak split for the fire (a toy in comparison to Varden’s monstrosity)—and considered the regent. He didn’t doubt for a minute that the regent would hear of the night’s work. Owain wasn’t sure how Botrell managed it, but he maintained an effective network of eyes and ears about the city. Sooner or later, the regent always found out. It didn’t matter if it was a dispute over market stalls in the Fishgate or a scullery girl gone missing from a manor in Highneck Rise. He always found out. The question was, would he also find out the Guard’s role in the robbery?
“We’re here, m’lord,” said Posle. The thief looked at him nervously. Sweat trickled down his forehead. “Jest past the end of the alley now. The house with two chimneys.”
Dimly, through the fog, Owain saw a narrow house built of the gray stone so common to Hearne. The house huddled between its neighbors on either side. The roofs drooped together to join in an ugly hodgepodge of mismatched slate.
“All right,” said Owain, turning back to the others. “I want two of you up on the roof. In through the dormer window. Hoon?”
“Easy enough,” said Hoon.
“Are wards a trouble for you?”
“Nah. Me old gram did some ward weaving. She spelled plenty of ‘em. I know the tricks.”
“Good.” Owain nodded. “Take Arodilac with you. How much time do you think you’ll need to make the roof?”
Hoon shrugged. “Ain’t much different’n climbing a tree, these old houses. All knobby stone. We’ll try, mebbe four, five houses down an’ then come back over the roofs. Twenty minutes, if young Bridd here don’t fall an’ break his neck.”
“I won’t fall!” said Arodilac.
“And remember,” said Owain, his eyes narrowing. “Anyone inside, I want them out cold. No noise. Don’t forget your masks.”
Hoon chuckled and nodded. Arodilac sighed. The two walked away into the fog.
Owain settled down on his haunches against the alley wall and tucked his cloak around him. “Twenty minutes. With luck, the fog’ll break enough for us to see them on the roof, and then we’ll go in. Varden, I’ll want you to slip around the back. If there’s a door, anyone coming out, tap ‘em on the head. If there’s no backdoor, then just keep an eye on the front.”
“All right, cap’n. Tap on the head it is.” Varden permitted himself a sour smile.
From time to time, the moon peeked down on them as a breeze blew the fog into wisps. The moonlight threaded through in quick gleams and glances, idling on a chimney pot, gliding across the stone steps leading up to a door just across the way, water trickling down from a gutter in ribbons that fluttered in and out of the pale light in silver and dark and again sudden silver before ending in a splash on the darkness and stone below.
“The lads are on the roof,” said Bordeall.
And so they were. Two dim shapes crouched next to the dormer gable. Owain thought he saw one of them wave down them. He was not sure. The breeze died away and the fog was thickening again.
“Off we go,” said Owain.
The socks fit surprisingly well and, after a moment of holding his breath, he was relieved to discover they did not smell at all. Varden nodded at them and then ambled off down the street. They followed in his wake. By the time they reached the house, he had already vanished. Bordeall paused on the steps and cocked his head to one side as if listening. The door handle was a massive, rusty knob of iron. He touched the handle with one fingertip, hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.
“There’s a ward there, sure enough,” he said to Owain. “Doesn’t feel like much. It’s a bad weave. Poorly done, or old and getting rotten.”
“And?”
“We’ll give it a go.”
But the ward was not badly done. Nor was it old and rotten.
It blew out toward them in a silent, invisible wave of heat. Owain could not breathe. Eyes shut tightly, he felt himself knocked back off the steps. He could smell scorched clothing. His cloak was on fire. He reached out one hand, flailing, to grasp at anything that might break his fall, caught at the iron railing alongside the steps and immediately snatched his hand away. The railing burned with heat. And then he tripped and sprawled on the cobblestones at the foot of the steps. Bordeall landed on him with a painful whoosh of pent-up breath. He heard Posle whimpering off to one side.
“Sorry,” rumbled Bordeall.
They huddled under a downspout the next house over until their clothes were no longer smoldering. Owain gave his lieutenant a sour look.
“What were you saying about that ward?”
Bordeall had the grace to look embarrassed.
“Guess I misheard t
he blasted thing.”
“Must be a good ward,” Owain said, “if it can pass itself off as poorly woven.”
“Only the best, m’lord,” said Posle. “The Guild wouldn’t spare coin on such as that.”
“Aye, but now we’ve no choice other than to go in fast. If anyone’s inside, they’re sure to be alerted now.”
Bordeall nodded. “Leave it to me. It won’t be pretty, but it’ll work.”
He doused himself under the downspout stream one more time and then, dripping wet and with a fold of cloak wrapped over his nose and mouth, he charged up the steps. The door shattered with a crash. Owain rushed up the steps after him, hauling along a reluctant Posle. Bordeall sprawled on the wreckage of the door in a small entrance hall. Flames licked at the man’s cloak, and the smell of charred wood filled the air. The two other men fell to their knees and beat out the flames. Bordeall groaned and opened one eye.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he said. “My wife’s going to have my neck.”
“Watch out!” yelped Posle.
A sword hissed viciously through the air. Owain flung himself back against the wall. He felt the blade rip through his cloak. He kicked out hard, connecting with someone’s leg. The man cursed. Someone shouted in alarm further back in the house. Owain threw his cudgel at the man. He staggered back, dropping his sword, and then Bordeall surged to his feet and slammed his fist into the man’s face.
“Thank you, Posle,” said Owain.
“Ain’t nothing, m’lord,” said Posle.
The house was a dark, cramped sort of place, with narrow passages and doors that let into several rooms that looked uncared for: a dirty scullery piled with crockery and garbage, a room filled with what looked and smelled like sacks of dried fish, and several others in various states of disarray. They only spared these a hasty glance, for it seemed that no one was on the ground floor.
“Quickly now,” said Owain.
They rushed up the stairs and found themselves standing in a hallway. Arodilac grinned at them from the other end of the hall. A figure lay slumped at his feet.
“Pull that sock down,” said Owain.
The Wicked Day Page 6
