Volker removed his cloth cap, scratched his bald head, and gestured to Ahren. Ahren dropped another heavy brick into the bucket. A sickly pop echoed from the shopkeeper’s shoulders.
“Have mercy!” he squealed.
“Mercy?” Volker smiled. “I am. You’re lucky I’m the one asking the questions instead of my friend here. They call him the Black Raven. His methods of persuasion make mine look like fun.”
“Black Raven? Never… heard of him.” The little quellen slumped his head back in an attempt to see behind him, but Ahren side-stepped behind the support pillar.
“He’s new to the city. Big-time killer down in Rhomanny. He wanted to ask you the questions, but since you’re my friend and all, I managed to convince him otherwise.” Volker leaned close to Whazzik’s large ear and whispered, “But I’m afraid that if you won’t tell me what I need, he’ll have to ask you. And neither of us wants that, do we?”
Ahren rolled his eyes at the big man’s fantastic claims. He had never asked to do the interrogation. Torture made him queasy. He set another brick onto the already overloaded bucket and the shopkeeper cried out again.
“You can scream all you like,” Volker said. “No one can hear us down here.” He nodded up to the basement door. “Shop’s closed, and these walls are mighty thick. Even if someone came inside, they wouldn’t find this door. I remember you hiding me out down here when the guards were after me. Searched your place for half an hour before giving up, remember?”
Ahren watched the hulking thug taunt his prisoner the way a wolf might circle a deer caught in a steel trap. Volker was brilliant. He spoke several languages, could read maps, and knew more obscure history and trivia than anyone Ahren had ever met. Had he chosen another profession, he might have been a scholar or a priest, but neither could satisfy Volker’s true appetite for crime.
“I remember,” Whazzik said with a forced laugh. “We’ve had a lot of good times.”
“You’re a good man, Whazzik. I’m really going to hate losing you. Unless of course, you can think of who stole my merchandise. Only someone who knew what it was would have taken it, and everyone knows not to cross you. So who was it?”
Ahren dropped another block into the bucket, now threatening to overflow.
“The Gravins,” the shopkeeper screamed. “It had to…have been the Gravins.”
Volker shot a quick glace to Ahren as his brow rose. “Who?”
“Some new…group,” Whazzik groaned. “Just heard of them myself. Got…some hideout in the Harbor District.”
“Progress,” Volker said. “Tell me about them.”
“Don’t know much about them.” The quellen winced, futilely struggling with his bonds. “Just smalltime heists…and stuff. But word is…their leader, Dolch, has got the power of a demon. It had to be them, I swear it.”
“Demon, eh?” Volker sucked something out of his teeth. “Makes sense why they’d want the egg. A drake would make a good sacrifice…or pet.” He leaned back down and growled. “You better not be lying to me.”
Whazzik feverently shook his head. “No, no. All the…other gangs know me as a fence…and know Dolfus worked for me. They…wouldn’t risk it.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “It had to be them.”
“I believe you. But if you’re lying…” Volker slid a thick-bladed knife from his belt and ran the tip along the quellen’s shivering throat. “Good. Now I want you to find out as much about these Gravins as you can. I need to know where to find them and everything known about this Dolch. I’ll be back in three days, and if you don’t have anything, I’ll let Black Raven do the asking.”
“I’ll find out everything,” Whazzik said quickly.
“I knew I could trust you.” Volker sliced the rope binding the shopkeeper’s hands, sending him and the heavy bucket crashing to the dirt floor. “You’re a good friend, Whazzik.” He sheathed his knife and motioned to Ahren to leave.
They ascended the rickety stairs and crouched through the short, concealed door leading to the back of the shop. Passing the furniture and art cluttering the small store, they unlocked the door and stepped out onto the streets of Lunnisburg. A thin blanket of dark smog hung over the city despite the cool, sea breeze. Fresh smoke billowed from the Old Kaisers, the twenty-five statues forming the towers of the city’s outer wall. The twelve patron Saints of Lunnisburg formed the tower walls of the Kaiser’s citadel in the city’s heart. Each figure held a constantly burning basin in their right hand. The fires served as navigation points for nighttime sailors, lit the streets in a constant glow, and consumed any trash normally found in a port city. They also covered the city in a gritty haze.
“Seemed a little extreme,” Ahren said, closing the door behind them.
Volker snorted as he headed down the narrow street. “That little rat was screaming for mercy before we even added the first weight. Quellens do that because they’re small. Truth is they can handle much more pain than you or I.”
“Then why play along with it?”
“Because he’s my friend. He just needed some encouragement in order to speak. Quellens rarely share anything unless it’s to their advantage. So in lieu of gold, the best payment was his life.”
Ahren shook his head trying to grasp the unnecessary complexity of quellens. “So what are we going to do about this gang?”
The big man shrugged. “We’ll ask around about them, but probably won’t know much until Whazzik gets back with us. He has a nose for gossip and such. By this time tomorrow, half the thieves of the city will know the Black Raven’s name.”
“And that’s a good thing? There’s probably still a price on my head down in Rhomanny.”
“So? Rhomanny is far away, and Whazzik didn’t get a good look at you even if he was stupid enough to tell anyone what you look like. The important point is people know the name, and learn to fear it.”
“That doesn’t help with the Gravins,” Ahren insisted.
“We’ll report to Fritz what we know. He’ll tell us what he wants us to do about them. No gang of thieves can ever beat the Tyenee. Just because they might not know we are their masters does not excuse their sin. No matter what Fritz decides, these Gravins will learn who they really answer to.”
“So we’re to kill them?”
“With just you and me?” Volker asked with a smile. “I’m sure it would be a good fight, but a demon cult of thieves is probably best left for someone with more men; men we can afford to lose. No, I think Fritz will call for a Porvov Switch.”
“What’s that?”
“Saint Vishtin!” Volker exclaimed as he stopped and faced Ahren. “When Fritz told me we were getting a new member, I was excited. Even more so, when I heard you were a sailor and had traveled the world. I figured you’d be able to tell me all sorts of stories about places you’d been and things you’ve seen. And here you are, the Black Raven. You dazzled Kazimir into making you a member of the greatest cabal of smugglers and assassins in the world, and you don’t even know the roots of the Tyenee. We came from Rhomanny and you can’t even speak Rhomanic!” Volker’s disappointment in Ahren had been a regular conversation since his arrival three weeks ago.
“That’s why you’re teaching me,” Ahren reminded. “And the longer you delay in telling me what the Porvov Switch is, the longer you’ll be forced to associate with an ignorant.”
The bald man’s stern grimace softened into a smile. “Good point.” He turned and continued along the cobble street toward The Mermaid’s Tail. “Come along. The sooner we report, the sooner you’ll learn.”
#
Shadows slithered along the streets and looming shop fronts under the red glow from the colossal statues surrounding the city. Most reputable businesses had already closed for the evening, but customers still filled the lanes, their faces hidden beneath hooded cloaks and wide-brimmed hats. They clustered around dark stands and alleys in search of the taboo pleasures and artifacts only available in the nighttime markets of Lunnisburg.
A
hren kept his head low as he made his way through the city. The folds of his grey cloak hid the heavy rope slung over his shoulder. Ignoring the calls from whores and vendors, he followed Volker through a crowded bazaar and into a dark street away from the Old Kaisers’ watchful lights.
The steep engraved walls of Heiligstein Basilica loomed over Saint Faiga’s Square and towered over the surrounding buildings. A pair of guards in breast plates and armed with long halberds patrolled the front of the building. Their capes were white instead of rich blue, meaning they belonged to the church and not the city.
Ahren’s soft glove-leather shoes made no sound as he hugged the shadows along the neighboring buildings and passed the basilica. Two blocks further he stopped behind a smaller, and much less elaborate, domed church, and crouched between a short tree and the low wall surrounding a cemetery behind it.
A group of drunken sailors sauntered past, arguing about where they were. Ahren kept still, watching them from his hiding place. The men stopped beside a stone well and bickered for several long minutes before taking the road toward Kaiser Adelino II. A figure moved from the alley after they left, and raced toward Ahren. The clomping of its feet across the cobblestone echoed off the buildings.
“You’re loud,” Ahren whispered as Volker scurried into the bushes beside him.
“I never claimed to be the quiet one,” the bald man hissed. “Just get me up to the top of that dome and I’ll show you what I can do.”
Ahren held back his response. He leaned out, braving a peek around the bushes. The streets were empty on either side. A lighted house window looked down on the cemetery, but appeared vacant. He drew a breath, grabbed the edge of the stone wall, swung his legs onto the other side, and dropped to the ground. Keeping low, he hurried past gravestones and urns to the rear wall of the chapel and hid behind a pillar. He watched the lit window as Volker hopped the wall and crawled over to him, then pointed at his eyes and then to the window. Volker nodded and slipped behind the neighboring pillar to avoid being seen.
Briskly rubbing his hands together, Ahren let out a deep breath and jumped, grabbing the carved awning lip above him. The heavy rope pulled him slightly to the side, but he managed to scramble up onto the narrow, slate-shingled ledge above the rear door. The smooth tiles creaked underfoot as he slipped behind a statue in a dark alcove. He scanned the streets from the shadows, and watched a lone soldier in a blue tabard walk down the quiet lane talking to himself, apparently oblivious of his surroundings. Ahren waited for several heartbeats after the guard walked out of sight before emerging from his hiding place.
He climbed up and over the heavy statue, then pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge running the perimeter of the church. The cool sea breeze from the harbor pulled at his cloak, ruffling it to the side. With his face against the rough-hewn stone wall, Ahren sidestepped along the six-inch ledge to a round window. Thick stained glass filled the opening. Breaking it silently would be impossible. He glanced over his shoulder to the empty streets. A figure moved inside the open window across the street and Ahren froze. A young woman sat at a table beside the window, deeply engrossed in her needlepoint. Ahren sighed in relief, then grasped the ornate window frame and pulled himself up. He dug the toes of his soft shoes as far as he could onto the one-inch rim of molding and reached up to the ledge marking the next level of the building.
His outstretched fingers wrapped around the rough edge of the shelf and dug in. He gave a quick jump, allowing his fingers to grip a good hold before gravity caught him. Quickly he pulled himself up and then over a low wall onto the domed roof. Sweat beaded his brow, and he caught his breath for a few moments before peering back over the wall to make sure no one had witnessed him. The streets were still empty.
Ahren wrenched the coil off his shoulder and tied it at the base of a stone globe adorning the wall. After pulling the line taut, he dropped it down to where Volker waited forty feet below. The rope straightened and shuddered as the large man pulled himself up. Ahren stood watch, waiting for his companion to join him.
“That’ll wake you up,” Volker gasped after pulling himself onto the roof.
Ahren nodded, surveying the great triple-sided dome beside them. Three small statues stood along the lip tracing the opening at the dome’s summit. Hopefully they’d be strong enough to hold them.
Volker pulled up the dangling line so no passersby would notice it. Once finished he began untying the knot holding it in place.
“What are you doing?” Ahren hissed through gritted teeth. “We’ll need that to get down.”
“We’ll need it first to get inside the chapel.”
“That’s what your rope is for.”
The large man shook his head. “Mine’s for the escape.” He gave a sly smile. “Trust me.”
Ahren shrugged, not having a choice in the matter. Until he had proven himself, Volker was in charge. Fritz had made that unquestionably clear.
Volker handed the coiled rope to Ahren and nodded to the top of the dome. Ahren pulled it over his shoulder, checked again to see if anyone was looking, and climbed up the rough dome to the top.
Pigeons cooed and fluttered from just inside the dome, giving him a momentary panic as he reached the lip. He lay on his stomach and looked down through the three-foot opening. The dark chapel appeared empty. A shallow pool surrounded by inlaid stonework rested directly below.
Ahren gripped one of the carved figures standing watch over the entrance and tried to jostle it. It felt secure. Quickly, he tied the line around the statue’s base, and dropped the end into the cavernous church. Volker crawled up beside him and began fastening his own line as Ahern grabbed his rope and carefully lowered his legs through the yawning hole.
Plump grey pigeons fluttered from the rafters away from their invader. Ahren descended the line quickly, hand over hand; careful not to shake the rope too hard in case the granite anchor might not be as sturdy as he had thought. Volker’s black, slender rope dropped down beside him, and the birds once again stirred as the large man crawled down from the roof.
Upon reaching the bottom, Ahren stretched his foot out and stepped onto the outer lip of the hallowed pool that the priests used to catch rain, the holy water of Arieth, The True God. A white, lumpy skin of pigeon droppings and feathers covered the ‘purest of waters.’
Ahren dropped to the inlaid floor, careful not to disturb the priest sleeping in the room behind the eastern door. He hurried to an arched alcove. There, inside a box of beveled glass and under a massive copper lid, a withered green thumb rested on a gold- and jewel-encrusted plaque; the sacred thumb of Saint Theobold.
Volker crept up beside him and, without saying a word, grabbed the edges of the thick graven lid. Ahren took the other side and together they lifted the heavy covering. His trembling hands strained under the weight, forcing him to lean his back into it to keep from dropping it. Slowly, they lowered the cover, careful not to make any noise. The low scrape as it touched the floor echoed through the chamber, yet didn’t even disturb the cooing birds. Ahren let out a sigh, shaking the feeling back into his curled fingers.
The bald man smiled and winked at him before slipping out of the alcove toward the altar. Ahren took another breath, reached inside the box and removed the plaque from the dusty velvet pillow. The thick gold and large jewels gave the eight-inch wide tablet considerable heft. He opened the satchel at his waist and set it inside between two layers of folded cloth. Before refastening the flap, he removed a long, black raven’s feather and placed it on the empty green pillow. He smiled, imagining the priest’s face tomorrow morning. The soft rattling of a chain pulled Ahren’s attention back to the present. Volker stood before a great marble statue of Arieth, removing a golden triangle-shaped pendulum from his hands. The holy icon was worth a fortune, but the relic inside Ahren’s pouch was priceless. The church would do anything to retrieve it, likely forgetting about the triangle.
Volker tucked the treasure inside his satchel and gave the signal he was read
y. Ahren tightened the ties to his pouch, adjusted the strap digging into his shoulder, and hurried to the dangling ropes.
Despite his size, Volker hurried up the line with a spider’s grace. He had already untied and coiled his rope by the time Ahren reached the top. Ahren pulled his rope up and slung it back over his shoulder.
They scooted down the side of the high dome to the outer wall. Ahren made sure no one was watching as Volker tied his line to one of the spheres. A horse-drawn carriage rolled down the street toward them, forcing the thieves to hide in the shadows until it had passed. After the sound of hooves faded away, Volker motioned for Ahren to climb down.
Ahren took the round silk line and noticed Volker’s irregular-shaped knot holding it in place. The gnarled series of figure eights didn’t resemble any knot Ahren had ever seen. Making a note to show his mentor proper rope skills, he dropped the line down the other side and lowered himself to the cemetery below then hid behind one of the columns.
Volker zipped down the smooth rope and crouched beside the wall. Taking the end of the rope he tied a reverse version of the knot above. Once done, he pulled the rope taught and the coiled mass slid up the line to the top. He jerked the rope once more and it fell free of the wall. Ahren stared in bewildered shock.
“I spent two years with a traveling circus,” the bald man said, re-coiling the silk line. “One of their acrobats taught me this trick, but you have to use a special rope for it. Maybe one day I’ll teach it to you.” He threw the coil over his shoulder and pulled his wide cloak around to hide it. “Let’s go.”
They slipped out of the graveyard, and followed the alleys back to Fritz's tavern.
#
Alarm bells rang early the next morning. Church and city guards raided every known fence and burglar in the city. Some even ventured into the dark undercity, hassling and evicting many of the vagrants in their desperate search. Whispers of the stolen artifact quickly spread, as rumors do. A trio of armored soldiers burst into Whazzik’s shop and interrogated him for an hour after rifling through his merchandise. The six gold dreins Volker had given him ensured that they learned nothing but a mention that the Gravins might be involved.
Mountain of Daggers Page 3
