Mountain of Daggers (14 page)

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.

Stopping at a butcher’s shop before it closed, Ahren traded his boot knife for two pounds of fresh goat’s meat; an arrangement the tired butcher had been eager to accept. Ahren dropped the cloth-wrapped ball of meat in his satchel and headed toward the Nobles’ District.

The tightly packed buildings grew further apart, allowing soft wind and crisp moonlight to pour across the cobbled streets. A knot tightened in his gut as Ahren passed the large, rich homes, many of which hid behind smooth stone walls and arched gates. Soldiers in black and golden tabards patrolled the quiet streets.

Ahren stopped beneath a slender flowering tree and stared across the lane. A blockish house sat alone behind a five-foot wall capped with a spiked wrought iron fence. Light peeked from behind its barred windows and four-story tower rising slightly above the building’s flat roof. It appeared exactly as it had ten years ago; the night Tretan died.

Scarcely a day passed that Ahren had not thought of his old friend. Growing up in the foul city streets had made them closer than any real brothers could ever be. Tretan had the ability to make anyone like him. Between his smooth allure and Ahren’s nimble quickness, they were the best pickpockets Griggs had ever seen.

But Tretan wanted to be more than an Alley Cat. To gain respect, he challenged the then Master of Thieves to a duel. When Tretan saw the Grysiem Tigress on the list, he ignored everything else. They’d always heard the rumors and tales that the Count was a demon-worshiper and murderer of children, but Tretan wasn’t afraid. Ahren came along as a lookout while his friend broke into the house. From atop the wall, he’d watched Tretan sneak into the near-impregnable mansion. He remembered the shouts and commotion from inside. He remembered Tretan’s terrified face as he raced back across the yard, cradling a wooden box, and Count Resuom’s marsh tiger chasing him down. He could still hear the screams.

A dark coach rumbled up the street and stopped before the oaken gate. A cloaked figure in a wide hat stepped from the carriage and clacked a brass knocker on the door. It creaked open and the man slipped inside. Ahren spied a hooded man on the dark lawn before the gate door closed. The count was entertaining company. At least the tigers would be in their pen.

After the coach drove away, Ahren darted across the street and circled the wall into a shallow alley. Peeking over the stone top, the small grounds appeared empty. Short hedges lined the simple yard. Wide steps rose to the house’s main door. The sturdy bars across the windows left the rear servants’ door the only other entrance. An old twisted oak tree grew up beside the house, casting shade over half the property. Near the rear of the house, a pair of marsh tigers impatiently paced back and forth in an iron cage.

Removing the bloody bundle from his bag Ahren unstoppered the vial of lopiune and poured it into the meat. Still watching the grounds, he massaged the drug into the cold flesh through the cloth, careful not to let it touch his hands. A single draught of the potent philter could render a man unconscious for hours. Ahren hoped he had enough.

Once sure no one could see him, he climbed the wall and over the spiked fence. Keeping to the shadows, he crept closer to the tigers’ cage. A low growl resonated as the huge cats watched him with hungry green eyes. Ahren studied the cage door as he neared. A flat metal arm arched from the iron door to the house, allowing the Count to open it from inside. Crouching several feet outside the bars, Ahren tore the chunk of meat in two and tossed them into opposite ends of the cage. With quick snarls, the beasts gobbled them up.

Staying low, Ahren circled back to the lone tree and climbed the thick trunk. Pulling himself onto a sturdy branch, he crawled up and onto a second floor balcony. He knelt behind the stone railing and quickly picked the lock. Carefully, he creaked the double-door open and peeked inside. A massive stuffed bear stood in the corner, its mouth open in a fearsome growl. He slipped through and shut the door behind him.

Ahren crept across the thick rug to the door across the room and listened. Distant voices murmured on the other side. He peered through the keyhole to see an empty hallway. Holding his breath, he cracked open the door.

His chest tightened in panic to see a face staring back at him. A huge, ornately framed mirror hung along the back of the hall. Letting out a sigh, Ahren searched the reflection of the hall behind him. The passage continued another twenty feet before stopping at a carved door. A wooden railing ran the length of the right side, broken only by a stairway leading up and another down to a large open chamber. The soft chanting of multiple male voices rose from the room below as their upcast shadows danced upon the dark-paneled walls through a gray haze of incense.