Ahren held up two of the dreins from his purse. “How about these?”
The boys’ eyes widened as they eyed the gold.
“Who do you want dead?” one asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing so brutal.” Ahren gestured to the open shop. “Does that store sell rings?”
“Yeah.”
“I want you all to go in there, and grab everything you can.” He tossed one of the coins into the boy’s hand. “Meet me in Kammhar Park in twenty minutes and I’ll pay you the rest.”
The grubby teens nodded eagerly.
“Don’t get caught. Now go”
Laughing to themselves, the boys got up and hurried to the boutique. Ahren turned back to the locksmith’s. A slender keyhole adorned the padlock’s side face. He removed his leather roll of picks and selected a pair of slender wires when a commotion erupted from the store.
“Halt! Halt!” someone shouted. Glass broke followed by furious cries. The boys charged out into the street, their arms full. Knocking people aside, they raced the other direction toward the park.
“Stop them. Someone stop them!”
Quickly, Ahren slid the picks into the keyhole and worked them around. Picking a lock on the side of an open street was suicide. Hopefully the diversion would work.
“They’re getting away!”
“They went that way,” a woman cried.
Ahren stuck one of the picks between his lips and selected a different one. He worked it into the keyhole until he found the tumbler latch inside. With a twist of the wrist, he wound it around the central post until the lock’s curved iron shackle bar popped out. Removing the bar from the door, he dropped it and the lock body into his pouch. He slipped a black quill through the door latch and walked the other way down the street.
Hetstier’s unmarred lock would fetch him ten points. Better still, they were points Katze wouldn’t be able to duplicate. There was only one.
He checked the list again for his next job: the small azure vase from Widow Dinstet’s window. Her late husband had been a well-known captain when Ahren had lived in the city before. It was an easy five points. Holding the heavy satchels against him so they wouldn’t bounce, Ahren hurried across the city.
A pair of Church Knights in white tabards marched down the lane toward him. The bells of Vathristern Cathedral still tolled not six blocks away. Fighting the urge to run, he remained calm, and casually strolled past them. He let out a sigh as they continued on, not giving him a moment’s glance.
Shops and taverns gave way to packed narrow homes. Ahren followed for several blocks before stopping in front of a white and brown house. The simple dwelling was no more than fifteen feet wide, but rose four stories high. A tiny blue vase, holding a single tulip, rested in the top window above. Smoke trickled from the chimney, and lights on the first and third floors verified its occupancy. Getting in would be difficult. Scanning the sloped rooftop, only inches away from its neighbor, Ahren knew what he needed to do.
He circled the block trying to find a stairway or other means to reach the roofs but found none. Following the road, he came to an alley three streets further with an outside entrance to the top floor.
The worn steps creaked as he followed them to the top, then climbed up onto the landing rail. Stretching, he grabbed the overhanging eaves and pulled himself up.
Salt wind from the harbor greeted him as he crawled up onto the wood-shingled roof; a refreshing change from the city’s foul stagnant air. The tightly packed buildings were much closer at the top than on the streets. Their overhanging roofs hindered almost any air flow below. Rising to his feet, Ahren looked out across a wide sea of rooftops and smoking chimneys illuminated by the pale moonlight. Blocks away, he could see the towers along the city walls as silhouetted guards patrolled the parapets. Staying low so no one might see him, Ahren headed back toward Widow Dinstet’s home.
It was said a man could travel the length of the city without ever touching the ground. Ahren had never tried it, but had on several occasions traveled the shingle highway to enter upper windows or escape the city guards. Other thieves swore by the tunnel roads within Lichthafen’s vast sewers, but the dark and dangerous maze-work never appealed to him. Many of the daring souls who entered the tunnels never returned.
Following the easiest path between buildings, Ahren circled around the block before finally nearing the widow’s house. Careful not to slip on loose shingles, he hopped onto one of the adjoining rooftops then froze.
Katze stood on the roof before him, her dark cloak blowing in the breeze. Smiling, she held up the vase in her hand.
Bitterly, he nodded back.
A shadow moved on the rooftop beside her. Marten stepped out from behind a chimney clutching a thick-bladed knife. Another man rose from behind a peaked rooftop holding a cudgel. Katze whistled and the two men charged toward him.
Spinning around, Ahren retreated in the other direction. Katze might have agreed not to kill him, but her thugs had made no promise. He raced down a steep rooftop and leaped across to the neighboring building.
Footsteps pounded wooden shingles behind him, racing to catch up. The heavy satchels jostled into Ahren’s hips as he ran. He jumped down onto a lower roof and hurried along the slender peak stretching to the neighboring block. A wide canyon opened before him, dropping four stories to the street below. He glanced back, finding his two pursuers not fifty feet behind him. Ahren took a breath, and leaped across.
A loose shingle slipped under his foot, nearly toppling him over the side. Lunging forward, Ahren rolled onto the slanted roof and raced to the other side. Finding no windows or access to the street, he pulled himself up onto a decrepit apartment building. Scanning the roof’s edge, he spied a dilapidated balcony. He ran to it and dropped. Gray boards cracked loudly and sagged under his feet.
“What in Saint Vishtin’s name—” a wide-eyed man shouted, stumbling back against the railing.
Ahren shot down the steep stairs two at a time to an alley below. Looking back, he spied the men on the roof above. He turned and raced along the narrow lane.
A maze-work of cluttered and cramped alleyways opened before him. Taking one, he followed it around a corner until coming to a dead end. With nowhere to hide, he doubled back and followed another one. The men’s shouting echoed behind him.
“Where is he?”
“Check down there!”
Panting, Ahren turned a corner only to find an eight-foot wall blocking his way to the street beyond. He jumped as a gravelly voice rose from the shadows beside him.
“Spare a coin?” A white-haired beggar extended his hand, his mouth filled with blackened teeth. Two more sallow and ragged men huddled beside him next to a broken barrel.
“This way,” he heard Marten shout.
Ahren reached into his pouch and removed two gold dreins. The beggars all sat up, their eyes fixated on the coins.
“There are two men following me,” Ahren said. “Make sure they don’t leave this alley.”
The men fervently nodded and Ahren dropped a single gold into the beggar’s filthy hand. “You’ll get the other one once you’ve won it.” He turned and jogged to the brick wall blocking the passage.
“There you are, Ahren.” Marten stepped into the alleyway behind him; his face beaded with sweat. “I thought we might have lost you.” His accomplice moved up beside him, still clutching his wooden club.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Marten drew his bone-handled knife. “So give me the bags and we’ll call it even, for an old friend’s sake.”
Ahren said nothing.
A half-smile curled on Marten’s weaselish face. “Very well.” Holding the blade out front, he and his thug stepped into the alley. “I didn’t want to hurt you. Not after what happened to Tretan. But business is—”
A broken brick smashed into Marten’s arm as the three beggars leaped like hungry wolves. One jumped onto the other man’s back, striking him again and again with boney fists. Screaming, the two men staggered
back fighting off their sudden attackers. Turning, Ahren grabbed onto the rough-mortared wall and clambered up. Before dropping over the side, he tossed the second coin back into the alley.
Leaving the shouts and cries behind him, he trotted down the street and pulled the list from his pouch. He had eighteen points. Katze had at least ten that he knew of. She probably had twice that, if not more. He scanned the page, searching for the more valuable items, the most difficult. He bypassed the highest, wondering if it had graced every Thieves’ Duel list in the past decade, or if Griggs just put it there as a sick joke. He stopped just below it. Artisan’s Row lay only a few blocks away; a short jog for fifteen points. Returning the list to his satchel, he hurried toward Flagref’s Anvil.
The nighttime street grew busier as he neared the market area. Soldiers in chain shirts and private guards in hardened leather vests patrolled the rich shops lining the avenue. Gold and sparkling jewelry glistened from behind iron-barred windows. Turning down a wide lane Ahren passed white marble statues and the colorful pottery shops along Artisans’ Row. Ahead, a rhythmic ring echoed from a wide two-story shop. An armored guard dressed in a gleaming breastplate etched in spiraling designs stood beside the door. The hand at his belt rested beside a white inlaid sword grip accented with bronze.
He gave a stiff nod as Ahren entered. Waves of warmth flooded the stone building from the massive forge resting behind a half-wall in the back. A soot-faced man worked a huge suspended bellows beside the fire while another in a leather apron struck a glowing red wedge of iron on the anvil. Sparks rained to the floor with every pound from his hammer. Hanging lanterns filled the shop, casting everything in an orange light. Blades of every variety jutted lengthwise from the tiered rows of racks along the shop’s walls. Helms and breastplates dressed crude wooden dummies lined like a formation of soldiers behind the sweeping counter almost encircling the room. Decorative hinges, spurs, and other merchandise filled the cases and shelves displayed on the countertop.
“Welcome,” said a man behind the counter. “Can I help you?” His thick moustache traced down to his stubbled chin. A second employee worked with another customer looking at door knockers.
“Ah,” Ahren said, feigning interest in a pair of blackened gauntlets trimmed with brass. “I am looking for a good knife. Something small but functional with a keen edge.”
The man smiled, but not before his eyes scanned Ahren’s simple clothes and disheveled hair. He removed a short hooked blade from the rack. “This will cut ropes and whatever you need.”
Ahren took the simple blade and inspected it. The smooth wooden grip and black hand guard held no ornamentation but a small insignia of a star and anvil. “This is fine,” he said brushing his finger lightly across the sharp blade. “But I’m thinking of something a little larger. More impressive, if you get my mind.” He gestured to one of the ivory-handled daggers along the display. “Like that.”
The man returned the knife to the rack and fetched Ahren the thin-bladed dagger. “This is a fine piece. But a bit more costly.”
Ahren flipped the blade over in his hand. A graven whale decorated the white grip. “Very nice,” he said checking the balance. “I like the weight, but do you have any with a thicker handle?”
The man’s tongue ran along the back his teeth. “It depends,” he sighed, “on how much you’re willing to pay. Any smith will sell you a knife, but Flagref’s blades are the finest.”
Ahren shrugged and laid the dagger on the counter between them. “A captain in Lunnisburg showed me his once.” He set a gold coin on the counter. “He said they were all works of art.” Ahren stacked a second coin on top of it. “That was seven years ago.” He stacked a third coin. “When I received my commission four years later, I vowed I too would wear one of your blades. And I know what it’ll cost me.” He added four more coins.
Apprehension melted from the man’s face. “I see. My name is Ivo. Please, let me show you our other pieces.” He turned, leaving the knife on the table, and fetched two more blades.
Ahren slid the coins back into his purse.
“This is one of Flagref’s favorites.” Ivo offered an etched dagger with a bronze fox head pommel.
Ahren examined the well-balanced blade. “This is nice. Do you have any with a different design?” He laid it on the table beside the ivory dagger.
“Of course.” He handed a curved knife with silver accents and a ship’s image carved into the handle. “This is a design most sailors prefer.”
“Beautiful. How much is this one?”
“That blade is five dreins.”
Ahren nodded, clutching the knife in his hand while miming simple moves. “A good price. What else do you have?”
Ivo brought more blades for Ahren’s inspection. Many were returned to the racks once rejected, but several more lay across the table. Despite the constraints, Ahren took his time. He’d always coveted Flagref’s fine blades. It was said the bones of any trying to steal one burned in the blacksmiths great forge.
“This is the most magnificent I’ve ever held,” Ahren said, holding a gold and pearl encrusted dagger. “I fear to ask how much.”
Ivo smiled. “Fifty dreins.”
“And worth every bit. This is the blade of a Kaiser.” With a reverent gesture, he offered the dagger back. “Someday I hope to hold that again. Thank you for entertaining me with that.” He pointed to a bronze and leather-wrapped handle sticking up from one of the racks. “May I see that one?”
“Of course.” Returning the rich dagger to its prominent display, Ivo stretched to reach the blade Ahren had requested. After a casual glance to be sure no one was watching, Ahren slid the fox-headed dagger from the table and slipped it into his satchel.
“Here you are,” Ivo said, returning with the dagger. “Practical, yet demanding attention.”
“I will agree,” Ahren said, taking the blade. “A man wearing this says he knows how to use it.” He twirled it around in his fingers. “Excellent balance. I like it. How much?”
“Fifteen dreins.”
Ahren examined it closely. “Fifteen?” He licked his lips. “I have but twelve with me. Would you take that?”
“Master Flagref does not haggle his blades. Negotiation means they are not worth what he asks.”
Ahren sighed. “Then it is worth fifteen. Tomorrow I will receive payment for my goods. Can you hold it until then?”
Ivo nodded. “Of course, Captain…”
“Jreksteir,” he replied, offering his hand.
“Then I will see you tomorrow night, Captain.”
“I look forward to it. Thanks for your help.” He bowed then left the shop.
Slipping through the small crowd wandering the shops, Ahren secured the dagger in his pouch so the sharp blade wouldn’t puncture the side. He ducked down a dim alley and reached for the list in his satchel when a shadow moved behind him. Ahren wheeled around to dodge a blurring blade. Staggering back, a hard fist smashed into his mouth.
“Found you,” Marten growled. Smeared blood coated his cheek beneath a purple, swollen eye. Thrusting the knife, he lunged.
Ahren sidestepped and drew one of the daggers at his waist just in time to parry another attack. Marten circled to the right, pushing Ahren against the alley wall. He stabbed his dagger again, but Ahren spun out of the way and grabbed the man’s wrist. Marten’s elbow flew back and drove into Ahren’s stomach. Bringing his blade up, Ahren slashed the man’s forearm. Screaming in pain, Marten slammed his body back, knocking Ahren over a stack of empty chicken cages, and sending them both crashing to the ground.
Glass crunched inside Ahren’s satchel and cold wine spilled everywhere. Flipping around, Marten leaped to his feet. He kicked Ahren’s hand with a hard boot, sending the dagger skittering away.
“Give me the items,” Marten spat, pointing his blade at Ahren’s face.
With an angry sigh, Ahren reached for the soaking satchel. His fingers lingered near the sheathed dagger still at his waist.
“Don’t try it.”
Begrudgingly, Ahren removed the dripping bag and held it up.
Marten snatched it with his bloodied hand. “Now the other one.”
Ahren slid off his other satchel. As Marten reached for it, Ahren swept his leg, knocking the man to the ground. Drawing the knife hidden in his boot, Ahren scrambled to his feet.
“What’s going on?” a voice shouted. A city guard stood silhouetted in the alley entrance. Metal rasped as he drew his sword. “Stop where you are.” A second one stepped up behind him.
Ahren moved toward the wine-soaked satchel still in Marten’s hand, but the two guards charged into the alleyway.
“Halt!”
Turning, Ahren fled down the passage with Marten close behind. The guards’ chain shirts chinked as they gave chase. Marten darted down the first narrow alley and one of the guards followed him. Veering onto an empty side street, Ahren raced faster and slid behind a closed fruit stand before the pursuing guard reached the lane. Clomping bootsteps hurried past, and Ahren let out a deep breath.
Still crouched in his hiding place, he returned the boot knife to its sheath and opened the remaining satchel. The silver lock and Flagref’s dagger were still inside. His picks and small lopiune vial were all that remained of his gear. Marten had the candlestick, the broken wine bottle, seven remaining gold coins, and most importantly, the list.
His head slumped into the brick shop front behind him. Winning now was near impossible. The items he could still recall from the list wouldn’t even match what Katze already had. All but one. One hundred points would ensure her failure. He only wished there was another way. He sighed, then slid Flagref’s dagger into his empty belt sheath and hurried away.
Mritlek the Jeweler had been Lichthafen’s greatest. Lords, Kaisers, and even the Hierophant were among his clientele. Known for its unparalleled beauty and craftsmanship, his jewelry was the most coveted in all of Delakurn. The Grysiem Tigress was his final masterpiece. While the rest of his magnificent creations rested safely locked in treasure rooms, the Tigress resided in the house of Count Resuom; the man Ahren considered the evilest man in the world.
Mountain of Daggers Page 13
