Mountain of Daggers (8 page)

He slipped inside, quietly closing the door behind him, and looked around at the small room. Faint light from a barred window glinted off the wood-paneled walls adorned with paintings and rich drapes. Several small chests rested in a far corner, a pair of bronze statues stood on either side of a second door, and in the center of the chamber, a silver and bronze box rested atop a short, marble pedestal.

Silver dragon heads, their mouths open in fearsome growls, adorned each side of the metal chest. Ahren ran his fingers across their ruby eyes and sharp arrow-like tongues. The face looking upward from the top of the flat lid moved under his touch. He slid it aside on an unseen hinge to reveal a narrow keyhole lined with gold.

Ahren had just removed the tools from his pouch when he heard soft footsteps coming closer. The lock to the room’s second door rattled. He slid the dragonhead cover back and ducked into a dark corner behind a curtain as the door creaked open. He held his breath, pressing himself against the wall.

The door closed and someone crossed the room to the metal box. Ahren braved a peek from behind the heavy velvet folds to see a man dressed in simple clothes of brown and gray carrying a slender hooded lantern. Setting it on the box, the stranger raised the hood and candlelight filled the room. He examined the box, quickly discovering the concealed hole, and carefully worked a pair of picks into the lock.

Ahren slid his hand to his dagger, grasping the leather-wrapped handle.

The lock’s soft click filled the silent room. The thief put his tools away, placed his lantern on the floor, and slowly lifted the lid. Drawing his blade, Ahren slid out from behind the curtain.

A quick series of pops rang from the box, followed by thuds from the chamber walls. Ahren looked down to see a narrow dart imbedded in the dark panel beside him.

The thief staggered back and pulled a similar dart from his stomach. A tremor ran though his body and with a hollow gasp, he collapsed into a fit of jerky convulsions. Ahren froze. Looking back at the small arrow, he saw thick fluid spattered around where it had hit.

The thief rolled on the floor, his arms and legs lashing out as if he were a tangled marionette, unable to control his own body. Only a hissing groan escaped his lips as a bloodstain spread across his veil, wetly clinging over his mouth and nose.

Ahren crossed the room. The thief’s eyes, red with hemorrhaged veins, looked on him with fear and pain. Ahren knelt down and thrust his dagger between the man’s ribs into his heart. Fear faded from his eyes, and his body grew limp.

Ahren wiped the blade and returned it to its sheath. The ornate lid of the metal chest still sat open. Cautiously, he peered inside and saw four small crossbows aimed out of the mouths of the silver dragon heads. A bowl lined in black velvet sat nestled between the weapons and a dark gem lay inside. He removed the stone and examined it. The round ruby was no bigger than a man’s eye. A black cloud swirled inside the stone like smoke. Ahren had never even imagined seeing a dubrald. Now, as he held it between his fingers, he felt entranced by its dark beauty. The inky wisps danced seductively within their crimson walls.

Mashkov had been right in denying Ahren the knowledge to unlock the gem’s power. Had he known it, Ahren questioned if he would be able to give it to someone else. Begrudgingly, he pried his eyes from the stone and slipped it securely in his pouch. Before closing the deadly chest, he removed a long black feather and placed it in the velvet bowl.

He stepped back to the door he had entered and put his ear to the narrow gap between it and the doorframe. Nothing. Quickly, he slipped from the room and crept down the hall, past the busts and statues, and stopped beside a large window.

He peered through the wavy glass and thick iron bars and saw the top of the outer wall running thirty feet along the courtyard’s edge, ending just below the eaves of the neighboring roof. The house guards paid little attention to the yard, making the wall an almost perfect roadway into the house. However, once making it to the house the locked bars made it an impregnable entrance. Ahren clicked the inside latch, and swung the window open.

As he suspected, no guards patrolled the courtyard. With a fluid motion, Ahren hopped over the windowsill and lowered himself onto the flat-topped wall. He hurried down the thick stones toward the adjoining rooftop when a shadow ahead caught his eye. Ahren slowed, momentarily searching for what had moved. A soft clatter from another rooftop drew his attention. A figure, clad in gray and brown, crouched low against the roof, his dark clothing perfectly matching the tile and stone. The dead thief hadn’t come alone, and the Children of the Rat were now lying in ambush.

Ahren crouched, grabbed the outside edge of the wall, and jumped down. His fingers held his weight. The distance to the streets below now halved, he let go, dropped onto the hard cobblestone, and ran.

Most of Nadjancia’s twisted, narrow streets were no more than alleys. At many places, Ahren could simultaneously press the flats of his hands against shop fronts on opposite sides. The tall buildings leaned over the streets, blocking out almost all light from above. Only sparse lamps, along the black stone buildings, cast dim illumination within the labyrinth’s walls.

Soft clacks of someone tapping roof tiles echoed down from above. More tapping on clay and wood shingles replied from up ahead. His rooftop pursuers knew where he was. Shadows flew across the tops of the narrow streets as men leapt from roof to roof. Ahren turned abruptly down the streets, hoping to confuse and lose his hunters. The alley stopped at a canal and he raced along the street beside it, hoping to find a bridge. The canals were too wide for the thieves to jump. He just needed to get off this block.

A wall blocked the street ahead, forcing Ahren to abandon the canal, and plunge deeper into the dark winding streets. Tapping came from ahead and to the left. He turned right and ran until he heard it ahead of him again. They were trying to herd him. Ignoring their warnings, Ahren kept straight.

The narrow canyon opened up into a small square. An ornate, stone well rested in its center. A dingy canal bordered the far side. Relief swept though Ahren’s tired muscles upon spotting a narrow bridge arching over the canal. Feet on shingles clamored up behind him as he raced to the bridge.

A caped figure stepped onto the bridge, his rapier aimed at Ahren. Stabbing eyes peered from the shadows beneath a leather-brimmed hat. The light gray veil, pulled tautly across his face, had been painted, giving him the appearance of a skull. It was Krisah, the ambitious gang leader. He moved back and forth across the bridge as a serpent, seeming to pivot off the unmoving needle-tip of his sword.

Ahren felt his pursuers’ eyes along his back. His gaze darted away from the swordsman long enough to see a dozen figures crouched along the roofs overlooking the square.

Krisah advanced slowly, his steps delicate as if it were a dance. Ahren’s obvious lack of sword gleamed like a victory in the man’s dark eyes.

Ahren took a step back holding his left hand up between him and his adversary. As Krisah neared the bridge’s edge, Ahren swung his hand far to the left, drawing his opponent’s eyes, as his right hand drew and hurled his dagger. The blade whipped through the quiet air and sunk into the man’s stomach.

Krisah’s sword clattered to the ground. Staggering back, he fell into the dark canal. The audience of thieves pounded their fists in silent fury. Ripping up the flat, square roof-tiles, they hurled them down at Ahren. The clay shingles exploded on the stones around him as he raced across the bridge and vanished into the streets beyond.

The shadowy streets, encased with black, stone buildings, turned and wove into a maddening maze. Ahren struggled to keep his bearings, but the steep walls of building fronts blocked any view of the city’s taller landmarks, and fast moving clouds blew across the heavens, shielding the stars.

The distant thuds of many feet racing on cobblestone echoed from behind. Ahren hurried faster, but kept on his toes, hoping the softer steps would not betray his location.

Many small alleys joined, forming a wide lane feeding into another square. He saw the Central Canal ahead. Forty yards across the canal’s slow waters, sat the Pleasure District and the safety of Mashkov’s brothel.

A row of boats, tied for the night, bobbed against the canal’s banks. Ahren raced to the pier’s end and leapt into one of the slender ferries. He yanked and unhitched the mooring line, then pushed the vessel free of the dock. With a sigh of relief, he slipped the oars into their locks and began rowing to the other side.

His reprieve was short-lived. As he reached halfway across the canal, three men in gray and brown climbed into one of the boats and continued after him. He rowed faster, but with two men manning the oars, his pursuers quickly shortened the gap between them.

Reaching the other side, Ahren steered the boat down one of the smaller canal streets. The men behind him drew closer. One of them stood on the bow and hurled a lasso. The rope splashed in the water beside him. The man coiled the line, readying for another throw. If he caught the docking cleat or lantern hook, Ahren knew he’d have to escape into the water. He wouldn’t be able to cut free. His only blade had been lost in the belly of their leader. Frantically, his eyes searched for the best place to climb ashore if he had to swim. Sheer building walls lined the banks. The stone statues above watched with emotionless eyes.

The other boat was within fifteen feet when the man readied for another throw. Ahren unlocked the boat oar, ready to defend himself. Just as the man reared back to throw, a soft shower of dust fell from above. He looked up and cried out, as a falling statue smashed into the men’s boat, ripping it in half. Water exploded in a column of splintered wood and flailing arms. The thieves screamed and howled as waves from the statue’s wake pulled them under.

Ahren looked up to where the statue had come, but saw no one along the dark rooftops. He was close to the brothel and Mashkov must have had runners out looking for him. It was the only explanation.

He guided the boat to the brothel steps and leapt out. He hurried past the doorman and through the lounges of veiled whores and clouds of incense. His heart still pounded in his ears as he ascended the stairs and stepped through the curtain to Mashkov’s chamber.

“I got it,” he announced.

Mashkov sat, leaning back on one of the cushioned chairs.

“I couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t had someone up on the roof…” Ahren froze. The glass handle of a stiletto jutted from the thin man’s throat. Wet blood coated his red clothes and dripped into pools on the floor.

A sharp sting stabbed into Ahren’s side, and his hands grabbed at a slender dart imbedded above his hip. He spun to see a figure in a wide hat step out from behind one of the heavy drapes.
Polnoch!
His vision blurred and his body became heavy. He reached in vain for a nearby table but collapsed to the floor.

Footsteps came from behind him, and Ahren felt his attacker rifle though his pouches and remove the night ruby. Polnoch rolled him onto his back, and slipped one of the signature glass stilettos into Ahren’s limp hand.

“You have the hands of a sailor,” said a familiar voice.

Ahren’s heart lurched. He looked into the fierce green eyes peering from behind Polnoch’s veil.

“Something for you to remember me by, lover.” She pulled her veil away, unmasking the delicate face he had known over the past nine nights. Long curls of auburn hair spilled down her shoulders as she removed her hat and leaned closer; her soft lips trembling against his. “I let you live knowing my face, Black Raven, because you will be the last to ever see it.” Her bittersweet perfume flooded his mind with fond memories, soothing his pounding heart. She kissed him, softly tugging his lip as she sat up.

She smiled seductively. “You’re welcome for my help in the canal.” She slipped the smoky gem into her mouth and vanished.

The Ferrymaster’s Toll

Ahren stepped through the golden velvet curtain into a small room. He no longer noticed the heavy clouds of incense since taking the brothel over a month before. Anna, a bare-breasted whore in a green veil, filled a glass chalice with vodka and handed it to the man sitting in one of the large padded chairs. A black-hilted sword leaned an arm’s reach beside him and a poorly concealed dagger bulged beneath his loosened doublet. Ahren nodded and the pale-skinned girl bowed then left the two men alone.

“I was to meet with Mashkov,” the man said, removing his brown veil. Deep scars pitted his narrow face.

Ahren took the chair opposite him. A long wooden case rested on the low table between them. Ever since Mashkov’s assassination weeks before, Ahren had assumed responsibility until the Tyenee could send a suitable replacement. “You must be Kirril.” He unclasped the veil from over his nose and mouth. “My name is Ahren. Mashkov had urgent business outside the city, and left me in charge of his affairs until his return.”

Kirril’s eyes narrowed. His fingers inched toward the hidden weapon. “Mashkov never said anything about leaving. My business is with him alone.”

“I understand.” Ahren sipped his drink. “I can assure you, however, that I am quite capable of handling
all
of his business while he is away.”

Kirril said nothing.

“If you’d prefer to wait until Mashkov returns, I understand. However, I couldn’t even tell you how long that will be.”

The thin man chewed his lip for several long seconds before speaking. “I cannot wait. Tell me, Ahren, Mashkov promised me the Black Raven for the job that I have. Do you know him?”

Ahren winced at the name. Mashkov’s penchant for saying things he shouldn’t had been his downfall. “I know him.”

Kirril’s shifting seemed to ease. His hand relaxed and slid away from the concealed blade. “Wonderful. Is it true he stole a dubrald from Baron Rusukny’s home?”

Ahren smiled, but said nothing.

Kirril chuckled. “I thought so. If he was able to do that, then Mashkov was right in saying he would be perfect for this.”

“And what exactly is your job, Kirril?”

Kirril downed his chalice in one gulp. “What do you know about the ferrymen’s guild?”

Ahren shrugged. “It’s the only guild not controlled by one of the Nadjancian noble houses. Anyone who has tried to work outside the guild or to control it has met with disastrous results.”

“Very good.” He poured himself another drink. “But how? How does the most powerful guild survive its independence when the houses command every other major guild in the city?”

Since coming to the Veiled City, Ahren had seen many of its customs and myths. But in a place where mystery and decadence reigned as virtues, only one name symbolized its horrors. “The Ferrymaster.”

A faint smile twisted on Kirril’s thin lips. “That's right. Have you seen him?”

Ahren shook his head.

“Live here long enough, and you’ll see the King of the Canals,” Kirril said. “Upset his ferrymen, and you’ll meet the drowned.”

Ahren swirled the clear liquor in the bottom of his glass. He’d heard of the ghostly guild master his first day in the city. The ferrymen who navigated their slender boats up and down the watery streets all owed him their allegiance. Ten percent of all they made, they dropped into the canal as their tithe. Anyone crossing the ferrymen, or their master, wouldn’t be able to ride the canals again. Otherwise, the bloated corpses of all who had drowned in the canals would exact the Ferrymaster’s revenge. If a customer was upset at his ferryman, the custom was to toss his pay into the water, to pay the master but not the servant. “Who was he?” Ahren asked.

“His name was Vooshkae. When Nadjancia was young, and the ferrymen disjoined, it was known that whoever controlled the canals controlled the city. Before the Grevenik and Rusukny’s war ran blood into the canals, two other houses feuded for control. The Deshirit and Glothrev Families vied for domination. Docks were burned, brawls erupted across the canals, and the city suffered. Any ferryman not under the protection from one of the houses was often found floating down the street. Vooshkae was a young man then, and when a member of the Glothrev Family asked whom he paid tribute, Vooshkae beat him with his oar. The Deshirits assumed that meant he swore allegiance to them, and when they sent a man to collect their cut, Vooshkae sent him back with a knife in his neck.”

“That must have upset them,” Ahren said.

Kirril gave a nervous laugh. “Vooshkae rallied the ferrymen together, saying that the power of the waterways belonged to those who worked them. He set a standard of pay for the workers and anyone who refused to pay it, found that no one would give them a ride. Eventually, the Gothrev and Deshirit Families sent assassins in order to regain control. But they all went missing. After that, no ferryman would take anyone associated with either house onto the canals. When they tried again, Vooshkae’s fury was merciless; any member of either family who entered the canals was drowned by the ferrymen. Men, women, young and old, he killed them all.

“To appease the Ferrymaster, the Deshirits and Gothrevs united and presented him with a jeweled oar cap, declaring him ‘King of the Canals.’ With his guard down, they sent one last assassin." Kirril leaned forward, his voice low. "The story goes that when the would-be killer tried, the bodies of his drowned predecessors rose from the water and dragged him screaming under the surface. After that, no one threatened Vooshkae’s authority.”

“It’s an interesting story, Kirril,” Ahren said, trying to hide the chill creeping up his spine. “But what does the Ferrymaster’s tale have to do with the Black Raven?”

The scarred man straightened and sipped his drink. “It was said that the jeweled oar cap was what made him king over the canals, even those who died in them. When Vooshkae died, the new guild master erected a tower on the Isle of Muritzka for him. He was buried with the oar cap. And every guild master since is entombed there as well. Whoever owns that cap controls the canals and the city. But only the reigning guild master has the key to Vooshkae’s tower.”

“And the Black Raven is to steal this key?”

Kirril’s eyes sparkled. “No.” He patted the long box. “My job was to get the key. But the Ferrymaster’s tower is filled with deadly traps. Black Raven’s is to steal the oar cap.”

Ahren’s eyes narrowed. He opened the wooden box to find a golden rapier inside. His mouth opened, trying to form the question on his lips, but Kirril answered it first.

“The guild master’s sword is the key.”

“How did you get it?”

“The Ferrymaster knows all that happens on his canals, but his domain doesn’t reach onto the land.” He gave a killer’s smile. “It’ll be a few days before the ferrymen realize their master is missing, but waiting for Mashkov to return isn’t an option. I promised Mashkov the key. He promised me a cut of his fortune. Ten percent, of ten percent of what every ferryman is paid, is enough for me.” He sipped his drink. “But if you don’t wish to honor Mashkov’s deal, I’m sure I can find another buyer. However, time is short. If word of the guild master’s death—”

Ahren snapped the wooden lid shut. Whether he liked the idea or not, control over the canals was something the Tyenee would want, and there was no time to hesitate. Until an agent was sent to take permanent control of the brothels and the city, Ahren had to make the decisions. “No. I am willing to honor his agreement.”

“So the Black Raven will fetch the oar cap?”

Ahren nodded. “I will pass the key to him, and he will bring us the Ferrymaster’s oar cap.”

“Wonderful,” Kirril beamed. He raised his glass. “To the new Kings of the Canal,” he toasted. “May fortune smile on us both.”

Ahren knocked back his drink. “Return in one week.”

Kirril refastened the veil across his face and stood. “I will see you then, Ahren. I wish luck to the Black Raven.” He bowed his head, slid his sword into its sheath, and left.

Ahren sat quiet for several seconds before pouring another drink.

“I don’t trust him,” Klanya said, stepping out from the curtain behind Kirril’s empty chair. The brown-haired whore sheathed her curved dagger. “He means to kill you, Black Raven. I’m sure of it.”

Ahren handed her the glass. “Thank you, Kalnya. I’ll be careful.”

#

A cool breeze coursed narrow valleys between buildings, sweeping away the canals’ putrid stink. Ahren guided his craft down the dark watery streets. Narrow boats lined the canals, moored for the night. Their wooden hulls softly banged against the stone walls like floating wind chimes. The yellow lantern hanging from his prow cast long shadows across an empty market as he floated past. Gray rats scurried across the flagstones as they raided the lingering scraps from the butchers’ tables.

Crossing the Central Canal, Ahren passed fat nobles and jeweled courtesans in silken veils enjoying the private gambling house courtyards overlooking the water. He steered through the Warehouse District near the Grevenik Docks as drunken sailors brawled over dice and threw away their coin on soured drinks and weary whores.

He paddled his small boat out from the floating city and into the calm harbor water. Once there he lowered the metal hood over the lantern and guided himself by the pale light cast from the half-moon above. Ahead, Muritzka’s sheer walls loomed out over the water. Dark silhouettes of towers and steep tomb roofs rose behind the imposing parapets. A pair of iron torches burned on either side of the portcullised entrance. Beneath them, two guards in blackened chain and dark veils stood silently, watching Ahren approach.

Ahren slowed his craft to a stop before the iron gate. Reaching inside a velvet bag, he lifted out a fistful of golden coins. Letting them fall from his fingers they clinked back into the pouch with musical rhythm. “I’ve come to pay my respects,” he said, cinching the bag closed and tossing it to the sentry’s feet.

The guards said nothing. With both hands, one turned the winch wheel beside him. Chains rattled and grated and the rusty gate rose. Water cascaded from the dark moss wrapped around the portcullis bars.

With a nod, Ahren guided his boat under the dripping gate and into an ornately engraved canal. Statues and obelisks lined the sides like silent guardians. Behind them, thousands of lavish mausoleums spread out across the manicured island like a miniature city.

The wide canal led straight to the island’s center, where it opened into a rectangular lagoon hidden beneath a latticed canopy of leafy vines. Far to the side, near the twenty-foot wall surrounding the island, an onion-domed tower loomed over the necropolis. Ahren moored his boat beside an empty funeral barge, grabbed his lantern, and stepped out into Nadjancia's greatcemetery.

Dark tiles paved the pathways between the stone monuments. Graven saints and gargoyles stared down at him with lifeless eyes as he passed. Ahren couldn’t shake the discomforting feeling from the many lifelike marble and bronze figures standing above the graves. With his lantern high, he wove through the maze of tombs until finally reaching the Ferrymaster’s tower.

Blue veins coursed through the gray marble covering the building. An intricate relief of ferrymen navigating the city’s bustling canals encircled the tower’s wide lower portion. A pointed archway in the monument’s side broke the artistic scene. The shallow alcove, adorned with mermaids and gold leaf, went in only four feet and ended at a green copper wall.

Running his fingers across the cold metal, Ahren searched for an opening. Unsuccessful in finding a hinge or keyhole, his examination spread out onto the alcove walls. The elaborate carvings created a seemingly endless number of places to conceal the keyhole. Raising his lantern, Ahren scanned the graven facade.

A carving of a large fish caught his attention. Its scaly body waved back and forth, as if frozen in a moment of swimming, and its round face swept upward, into the alcove. Its thick lips formed a dark hole.

Kneeling, Ahern peered into the fish’s mouth. The smooth opening was wide enough to slide a finger into. Two slender grooves ran down the left side. Ahren set his lantern down and drew the gold-hilted sword from his waist. A swirling design interlaced with tiny gemstones ran up the middle of the blade. An open flower, with three pearls capped the pommel.

Ahren had spent hours studying the ornate weapon, trying to understand its secret. While the keen blade was well crafted, its adornments and misbalanced weight made it a poor weapon. Kirril had called it a key, but nothing about it appeared useful as one.

Holding the handle tight, Ahren unscrewed the pommel. He pulled out a slender tube running up the handle length. The brass cylinder ended in a jagged ring of squared teeth. Two flat-topped bumps rose from one side of the otherwise smooth tube.

Lining the notches with the grooves, Ahren carefully inserted the key into the fish’s mouth. It slid in perfectly. In his many years of burgling, he had never seen a key or lock as this. He leaned in closer, trying to study how it worked. It appeared ready, but something about it still made him feel uneasy. Remembering Kirril’s warning of traps, Ahren leaned away.

Holding it with only his thumb and forefinger, he twisted the key to the right. The lock clicked and a nine-inch spike shot from the hollow key in the fish’s mouth. Ahren froze, staring at the needle-like blade. Had he not moved, it would have stabbed him.