Mountain of Daggers (2 page)

The old man looked down at the gold brooch, missing its central stone. He leaned back in his chair. “Where did you get this?” he asked, holding up the medallion.

“In Lichthafen, when I was young. An old gypsy woman was selling trinkets and jewelry in the square.”

The old man’s eyes squinted with suspicion. “You bought it off a gypsy?”

Ahren swallowed. “She was blind in one eye, so I palmed the medallion from her blanket on her blind side. Somehow she saw me, and grabbed my hand before I could get away. She was fast, and her grip strong. I was terrified. But she didn’t call the guards. She turned, opened my hand and put hers inside it. Then she just let go and told me to keep it. She said the medallion would save my life next time I was caught. I’ve worn it ever since.”

The old man’s lips turned into a slight grin. “Have you been caught since, before tonight?”

“No.”

“Well, the witch was right. If it weren’t for this trinket, you’d be a dead man right now.” The old man smiled. “I am Kazimir. Tell me, Ahren, do you know what this medallion is?”

For years, Ahren had studied and run his fingers over the jagged image of a mountain made of upturned dagger blades stamped onto the bronze disk. It symbolized power, of that he was sure. But its exact meaning was lost to him.

He shook his head.

“This is the mark of the Tyenee. A secret cabal of thieves and smugglers. Unlike any guild or local gang, the Tyenee influence stretches across the nations. Their existence is almost unknown, but their power knows no limitation.” Kazimir looked back at the bronze medallion. “This was the badge of one of their leaders. A lieutenant wore this.” He flipped it over and pointed to a small glyph scratched on its back. “This was the badge of Grigori. He ran a district of docks and warehouses in Lichthafen. He disappeared almost fifteen years ago.”

Ahren leaned forward and looked at the medallion as if it were for the first time. “How do you know this?”

Kazimir pulled a gold chain from under his shirt, revealing a silver pendant. Ahren recognized the symbol instantly. It was almost identical to his own medallion; however, the delicate lines of Kazimir’s looked to have been cast rather than stamped.

“He was my cousin,” Kazimir said, returning the pendant beneath his silk shirt. “We joined the Tyenee when we were young men. We moved quickly through the ranks, and within a few years he was sent to Mordakland to maintain our interests. Five years later, he vanished.”

“And you were sent to Ralkosty?”

The old man nodded. “I have been in this city for twenty years. Nothing happens here without my knowledge or consent.”

Ahren couldn’t help but let his eyes wander. Scraps of boot leather and metal tools littered the table. Shoes of every size and style covered the unsanded shelves. The pungent smell of leather and stale dust permeated the small room.

“I am a cobbler,” Kazimir said calmly. “Every man, no matter how rich, needs shoes. And mine are some of the finest in Rhomanny. Would you prefer I sit in one of the giant houses like the baron; inside my city, yet high above it, away from the day to day life?” He shook his head. “Too visible. Too disassociated from my streets. Too much opportunity for some young upstart to try to take over. No, I rule the city the way I want it, and will live in it to keep it that way.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Ahren asked. “You don’t even know me.”

Kazimir smiled. He poured two glasses of vodka from a bottle near the edge of the table. “Because you can’t tell anyone. Ivan and Motya cannot understand us. They only know the symbol is important. With no one to go to, and no ability to communicate, you will be killed on sight if you leave this house, and the only reason I do not have Ivan cut your throat right now is because I believe your story and I believe I may have use for you.” He set one of the glasses in front of Ahren, and then downed his own.

Tingles of fear danced up the back of Ahren’s neck. For a moment, he had forgotten how precarious his situation was. “I…I only want out of the city. Nothing more.”

“I understand that. But taking you outside the walls will require payment, and I think you have the skills to pay that debt. Besides, by the way you limped in here, I imagine it will be several days before you can walk. I will have someone come and look at your injuries. In the meantime, I will find a suitable job for you to repay your debt, and make you more appropriate shoes.” He motioned to the glass Ahren hadn’t even touched. “Now drink.”

#

The foul smells and dingy streets were a quenching relief to Ahren. The woos of prostitutes and wailing songs of drunks had never been so welcome. Not even the long journeys aboard ship had been confining like the past four weeks trapped in a small room above the shop.

He had spent his days listening to customers chattering away in their unknown language. Nights were most often the same. However, visitors instead came in through the back door to the workroom, their hushed voices sometimes escalating into arguments. By listening to their tone and applying his minimal vocabulary, he learned more Rhomanic over the first week than he had after years of sailing into foreign ports.

Impressed with the speed Ahren adapted, Kazimir cut a small hole in the floor for him to watch and study the customers’ mannerisms. After his ankle and cut healed enough for him to come downstairs, he spent a few quiet nights with his host. Often the conversations were short, interrupted by an errant visitor, forcing him back upstairs into hiding to watch through the tiny spy hole.

Ahren adjusted his wide-brimmed hat as he approached a pair of soldiers. They seemed more interested in beating a beggar child than they were in him. But there was no need for risk. His hair short and his newly-grown beard trimmed, Ahren doubted anyone but the baron would recognize him.

The cobblestone streets widened as Ahren entered the noble district. The painted homes and shops grew larger, and further apart. No loud taverns cluttered the lanes. No beggars lurked in the alleyways.

He stopped in an alley a block from the baron’s house. From there he surveyed the high stone wall surrounding the property, its only entrance being the black iron gate. He noted the thick vines intertwined over the rough stone as his mind wandered back to two nights before in the workroom.

“I have something for you,” Kazimir had said. The old man put down his thick needle and handed him a roll of paper. Ahren opened it to see a poster of a man, similar to himself. The words above and below the picture were unknown to him.

Kazimir poured some drinks. “They call you, Chernyy Voron. The Black Raven."

Ahren's brow rose.

The old man grinned. "A bit theatrical, I agree. It conveys the image of the dark thief flying from the window, escaping into the night. It's a good name. Trust me, there's much worse."

Ahren merely shrugged.

"That’s a small fortune on your head. The baron will spend almost as much as he made on that sapphire to have you killed.” He set a glass in front of Ahren and handed another to Ivan.

“Even more reason for me to leave the city as soon as possible,” Ahren said, setting aside the poster.

“Ah.” The old man smiled. “That is exactly what this meeting is about. Before you leave, I will require you to do a simple job. Something well suited for the Black Raven.”

Ahren scratched his scruffy beard. “What is it?”

Kazimir’s dark eyes twinkled. “I need you to break into Baron Krevnyet’s house.”

Ahren snorted. He couldn’t believe the perversity in making him return to the house of his enemy. The one place he would most likely be caught. “Why?”

“Don’t look so grim,” the old man chided. “Vengeance.”

#

The guard inside the gate was bored or distracted, not noticing Ahren study the front lawn through the thick bars as he passed slowly along the street. The windows of the house looked dark, except for the lower east side where the servants lived. The west side of the grounds appeared the least guarded.

Ahren circled the property, keeping to the shadows of the alleys, and made his way to the western side. Patiently, he waited for a group of loud, young noblemen to pass before he crept to the wall and quickly pulled himself up the latticework of vines and jutting rocks.

He took a brief moment to peer over its edge.

#

“Do you enjoy cards?” Kazimir asked.

Ahren nodded, finishing his drink. “Yeah, a little.”

The old man poured more of the clear liquor into Ahren’s glass. “Are you any good?”

“A little,” he replied, wondering where this was leading.

Kazimir chuckled. “Your friend the baron isn’t. In fact, he’s terrible at cards, but loves them nonetheless.”

Ahren studied the cobbler’s face. It told him nothing. “So?”

“A colleague of mine, a man by the name of Paook, owns a gambling house in Kossintry, many miles from here. The baron, it seems, has run up quite the debt. Over five thousand bishkas.”

Ahren momentarily lost his breath. He couldn’t imagine such a fortune. Losing it was beyond comprehension.

“Even a man such as the baron can’t pay that lightly. The law looks down on gambling halls, but detests debtors even more. So he came up with the best solution to solve his problem.”

“Theft?” Ahren asked, thinking of the sapphire he had stolen.

Kazimir shook his head. “Marriage.”

#

The grounds looked clear. With one fluid motion, Ahren swung himself over the wall and dropped onto a soft flowerbed.

Staying low, he kept to the rows of rosebushes, following them to the edge of the house. The muted gray of his cloak blended with the stone and he skirted the wall to the rear of the house. During his short stay as a guest, he had noticed the doors to the lounge were held only with a small latch and usually unlocked. Unless the baron’s paranoia of him returning was as great as he had made it appear, the rear doors would be Ahren’s best way inside.

Ducking behind a stone vase near the door, he surveyed the scene. No guards patrolled the rear property. No lights shone in the lounge. The glow of candlelight peeked through the shutters of the third window to the left, and in the room above him.

Ahren scooted up to the doors. The baron had not installed a new lock. With a grin, he removed a flat roll of leather from his pouch; another gift from Kazimir. Ahren lifted the soft doeskin flap of the roll to see his picks and tools. Selecting a parchment-thin blade, he inserted it between the doors. Careful, so as not to make any noise, he slipped it upward. He felt it catch the door latch and lifted it harmlessly away.

He returned the blade to the toolkit and softly cracked open the door. Its fine, oiled hinges didn’t betray his silent entrance. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him, and froze.

An older man, likely a servant, lay on a couch with a young maid, their half-naked bodies glistening with sweat. He snored softly beneath her as she snuggled against his bare chest.

Holding his breath, Ahren crept across the polished wood floors, swinging a wide circle around the lovers, to the door across the room.

The girl moaned.

Flinching, Ahren turned his head to see her brush a lock of blonde hair from her cheek and roll her head to face the other way. Ahren eased out a sigh and darted through the door before the couple could notice him.

Quickly, he made his way through the halls, his glove-leather shoes muffling every step. He dashed up the marble staircase to the second floor, stopping only to make sure the upstairs hall was empty. His palms began to sweat as he retraced his steps down the hall. Had he only known the baron’s intent, he could have left through the front door that night a free man, instead of walking into that dark room.

He hesitated as he came to the fourth door on his left: the baron’s room. He fought the yearning to sneak inside and kill the cad in his bed. Kazimir didn’t want that; what the cobbler had in mind was worse than anything Ahren could do.

He continued down the hall to the fifth and last door on the left. Gently, he twisted the handle. Locked. He mouthed a curse and removed the tools from his side. Under the dim moonlight cast through the hall’s window, Ahren chose his tools and slipped them into the keyhole. Chewing his lip, he blindly fumbled inside the lock. Each scrape and clink of the wire picks boomed in his ears. Even knowing only a mouse could hear him at work, the fear of the baron bursting through his door, sword in hand, danced in the back of his mind.

Ahren drew a sharp breath as felt the lock gave way. Carefully, he twisted the picks around and the click of the bolt thundered softly down the empty hall. He didn’t hesitate. He returned his tools to their pouch and slipped through the door.

A sliver of moonlight cut its way through a gap in the velvet curtains, giving only a hint to the dark room’s layout. He pulled them aside and opened the shutters, bathing the study in pale, blue luminescence.

Ahren opened the desk, sifting through piles of paper and empty ink bottles. He checked the drawers for false bottoms, and even felt along the underside and back of the desk. Nothing.

Opening a cabinet, he scoured through cups and trophies to no avail. He looked inside the ottoman, the drawers along a small table, and even behind the tapestries. Still nothing.