Read The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Online
Authors: Craig Saunders
The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One (34 page)
Dusk
came earlier now that it was autumn. Carious faded before the afternoon was
out, Dow chased it to bed. A soft rain fell, obscuring the paths and streets,
covering them in a molten shadow.
Roskel
found himself alone on the streets, evening’s lambent light fading swiftly.
Within moments the last of the suns’ light was gone, only to be supplanted by
the glow from windows high above the street, where the residents of the city
moved come nightfall.
The
thief had money in his pocket, which was unusual for him. He was more
accustomed to hiding jewels there. The only thing stolen this night would be
candlelight, and time permitting, a young maiden’s virtue. No man could work
all night, and without larceny to fuel the blood the way a warm woman would do.
It
would be all too easy, thought Roskel, to lose himself in the city. But he had
tasks appointed, and finding the thieves’ covenant would take all his wiles.
But should he stumble upon a virtuous lass during the course of the evening, he
felt he would be remiss should he refuse the opportunity. After all, the ladies
of Haven had been his last taste of flesh, and that experience had been far too
earthy for his liking.
He
wore merchant’s clothing, which would not be out of place in most quarters of
the city. He cut a fine figure, he thought. Perhaps he would have stretched as
far as dashing. A man with much to be proud of (he still liked to think it was
the handsome face a lady saw first, not the cut of his cloth) he preened as he
walked, allowing himself a satisfied strut.
By
the time he made it to the first tavern of the evening, he’d convinced himself
that several women flushed with his passing. He was satisfied that his time on
the run hadn’t dampened the ladies’ ardour for him.
He
set such pursuits to one side, for the time, and made serious enquiries, as a
man of means this time, rather than a talented thief.
In
the first bar he asked rather disingenuously where he could sell a fine ring,
inlaid with some kind of red gem, the hook laid with further bait, a thin cover
story that he had inherited it from his uncle, but that his aunt would want the
ring for herself. He told a tale of woe quite perfectly, fabricating a persona
for the woman, painting her as an unloved harridan, but a woman of means who
sent a troupe of head breakers after him, intent on recovering the heirloom.
A
fine story, thought Roskel. Even so, he had no takers, although one man
whistled, looking at the ring (a ring which Roskel had carried for many a year,
made of poorly cast Moridium, a cheap metal alloy which glittered like gold,
and some cut crystal. It was worth roughly one gold piece, for the workmanship
of the folly alone. Roskel always kept five of them secreted in his purse, and
from time to time he sold to gullible men in pubs for a decent mark up, always
accompanied by a well-laid sob story).
‘That’s
a pretty piece, to be sure. I could take it for you, find you a good price.’
‘I
would rather deal direct, my good man,’ said Roskel, carefully.
‘I’m
no bandit,’ said the man with a thin veneer of a smile.
Roskel
was a good judge of character. He was used to running scams and selling goods
under the noses of guards. He could sense the threat in the conversation.
‘Bandits
are thieves, too, but slightly less imaginative, squire,’ he said. ‘Now if
you’ll excuse me,’ he said with as genuine a smile as he could muster, and
left.
Outside
he waited for a minute in the darkness of a convenient alleyway. As the man
passed, as Roskel knew he would, he thumped him without ceremony on the back of
his head with a handy length of wood. It wouldn’t do at all to be dogged by
this greedy fellow while he was searching for his target.
He
was no fighter, a fact of which he was all too painfully aware. As a
consequence of his somewhat effeminately weak arms, he had taught himself early
on to swing moderately heavy objects in the comfort of dark places. You can’t
hit what you can’t see, and no man had eyes in the back of his head. Perhaps
Tarn was an exception to that rule, but Roskel wouldn’t have dreamed of
knocking out his friend. Not any more, anyway.
Knocked
insensible, and the threat passed, Roskel dragged the man into the alleyway and
went about his business, secure in the comfort of knowing he wouldn’t have to
be looking over his shoulders all night.
He
spent his time afterward usefully, trawling the bars and taverns on the seedier
side of town. He spun various versions of his tale in countless taverns, bars
and flophouses, but thieves in the city proved elusive. He visited the Cusp of
Hren, wandered to the port side where he purchased a flagon of ale and some
interesting titbits of information at the Dockers, took a short break at
Magret’s Baths (where he was relieved of his tension by a very friendly young
woman for a few coin, and counted his night a success on at least one front).
Despite
his adventures outside the first bar, and finding that he was still a lover of
some import (if only in his own eyes – Roskel could not be faulted for
believing in his own prowess) he was no closer to the Thieves’ Covenant.
The
Thieves’ Covenant was a contract of a sort. It was not, however, written on
parchment, or vellum, or even carved in stone. It was a covenant remembered,
and broken only in death. It had enforcers, too, should any thief forget its
import. It would not be easy, but then Roskel was inured to hardship.
The
thief took a short break from his work and found solace in his third flagon at
the Speckled Hare. It was not an entirely wasted evening, but, he sensed, he
would get no further. There was always the following night.
At
the last, feeling the faint nausea that accompanied a night of solitary excess,
he sauntered into Well’s Footman. To get in he needed his finery. He was glad
of his new shirt, trousers and boots. But while the tavern was a haunt for
nobles who wished to experience the reality of the city, outside of their
cloistered lives, they still had in attendance numerous bodyguards. He had no
luck chatting to anyone there.
Not
a rumour to be had, he made his way back to the merchant’s quarter. He looked
every inch the gentleman in his cups as he swaggered to the Wayward Inn. It
rained on him, a thin drizzle that seeped to the skin, but he did not feel the
cold.
Alone,
dressed like a man of means, and in Naeth as the night drew to a close, was
inviting a dagger between the ribs. Thankfully, he made it back to the inn
unscathed, his purse intact, if the price of a few ales lighter.
He
had none of the excitement of the early evening, and not one hint of thievery
in all the taverns he visited.
He
knocked on Tarn’s door just a few hours before sunrise.
He
found his friend wide awake.
‘Come
in, shut the door.’
Swaying
gently as he walked into the room, he counted Wexel, Brendall, Kurin and Tarn
present.
‘I’ve
had a beggar’s luck tonight,’ he told them.
‘Looks
like it,’ said Wexel gruffly. ‘You smell like a drunk, too.’
‘All
for colour, friend. Just to blend, you understand.’
‘It
doesn’t matter,’ said Tarn, sighing. ‘We have had some degree of success. How successful,
remains to be seen. Rean and Silvan have earlier this evening returned with
heartening news. We are to meet someone tomorrow, a man named Garenhill, at the
Bearded Dragon, on Huckle Street, after sundown.’
‘A
fine time for larceny, I might be inclined to believe.’
‘We
must take this seriously, Roskel. Rean and Silvan got some sense of the man,
and said he seemed honest enough. After the usual dance, they told him their
benefactor would be interested in arranging some business with the thieves of
this city. We will no doubt be in considerable danger. Garenhill will be
recognisable by his red cloak, and his wide moustache.’
‘A
fetching look.’
‘You
will be coming with me, Roskel,’ Tarn told him.
The
thief put his head in his hands to hide the fact that his face felt suddenly
drained of colour. ‘I thought you might say that.’
‘Not
to worry,’ said Brendall. ‘You’ll be well protected. There’s no way either of
you are walking in blind. Men will be outside, watching your backs, and some of
us will come in with you, to watch for treachery inside.’
‘I
don’t know, Tarn. It sounds like a trap to me,’ said Roskel.
‘And
to me. But we have no choice. Time is running on regardless of our wishes. If
we do not find assistance soon, I fear we will never get inside in time for the
Council of Ten. We must take the risk, but we will make it as narrow as we
can.’
‘And
I will be coming, too,’ added Kurin.
A
look of surprise passed Tarn’s face, but he said nothing.
‘Just
the three of us, then, into the dragon’s den. A fine start to a tale.’
‘Or
an end,’ said Brendall, seriously.
*
The
day passed swiftly, and for Tarn, almost as if in a dream. For so long he had
fought for his life, fleeing when the time was right, fighting only when he was
left no choice. Now the end was in sight. He might have been putting the wolf
among the sheep to feel so optimistic, but it felt as though he was nearing the
end of his journey. There was some indefinable sense of rightness about the
evening’s meeting-- that all would go well, that the Thieves’ Covenant would
ensure his safety. No man would murder him tonight. They would see the sense in
what he proposed, he would meet the true council of Naeth, its cutthroats and
cutpurses, its beggars and thieves, conmen and head breakers, and they would
see that under a just king they would prosper, that their rules would be
respected. He would even pardon those that helped him on his way. And he could
prove his claims. The crown would grease more palms than gold.
There
was honour among thieves, Tarn knew. He had seen it in the bandit’s camp. It
was a writ, signed in blood, by all men of the night. Assassins, he mused, were
outside that law, and held themselves to their own twisted honour. But he was
no assassin.
He
was king.
Stupidly,
perhaps, Tarn fell into a bout of wishful thinking that left him sick at heart
and destroyed all his good humour. He imagined a kingdom with Rena as his
queen, ruling side by side over a just nation, free from the ever present
threat of civil war, free from oppression, and poverty. But half way through
his dream, an old man’s face intruded into the picture, his head massive, a
louring visage out of his nightmares. The Thane of Naeth. Suddenly,
he found himself longing to plunge his sword through the man’s evil eyes, with
all the force he could bring to bear, and skewer him against the throne he so
coveted.
Shaking,
he turned his attention to his remaining men. The rest had already left with
dusk, to take up prearranged positions around the tavern. Only Brendall,
Roskel, Kurin and Wexel remained. Urng and Erin were within the bar already,
drinking carefully and slowly. Hopefully they would seem merely men in their
cups. Rean and Silvan would take up positions on rooftops, clambering between
alleyways, using the nearness of the walls as though scaling a cliff. They
would not be outlined in the dark.
The
rest of his men would patrol the streets, looking out for other watchers. If
this man, Garenhill, was truly in contact with the thieves’ council, he would
be protected. It could just as easily be a trap, and Tarn wanted to be prepared.
He had thought of everything he could, and when he ran dry of ideas, Brendall,
or Wexel, and even Kurin filled the gaps. The men wandered the area around the
Bearded Dragon, the streets and alleys of the docks, and the jetties
themselves, where they were able. They spent the rest of the day discussing and
sharing what they discovered. Even in the daylight, the docks were full of
danger. At night, it was sordid, and damp with well-travelled brine, but there
was no avoiding their fate. They would take the risk.
Tarn
knew they were playing with fire. He just hoped when he met the thieves that
they would see sense.
But
there had been enough talking. It was time. There was nothing left to do now,
but enter the Dragon’s lair.
*
Cardon,
Thane of Carmille, a small thanedom to the west of Naeth, which butted up
against two mighty neighbours, the Culthorn mountains and Hurth’s region, sat
despondent in his stately rooms. The room was well appointed, and his servants
had quarters adjacent to his. He knew the other Thanes would be afforded
similar accommodation. He wasn’t unhappy with his quarters, but the location.
For twenty years now he had allied himself with his neighbours, Orvane Wense,
Thane of Kar, an evil man, and Fanador, the Thane of Mardon, who thought
nothing of stepping over decency as though it were a dirty puddle, a man who
would stoop to any means to further his desire, which was to be as wealthy as
possible.
Together,
the four northern Thanes were the most powerful men on Sturma. The six southern
Thanes could not stand against their might, but for many years now Cardon
wished his circumstances had been different. All his resources went on the
defence of the border, and with too few men to guard the expanse he had been
reduced to relying upon the Thane of Naeth’s men. His neighbour’s army was
formidable. He alone had enough men to man the forts at the northern passes. It
should have been Cardon’s responsibility, but he was wise enough to know pride
would have been his downfall. Even though there had not been an incursion from
the Draymar for near to forty years, he was old enough to remember what the
days had been like before the forts were built and manned. They would remain
for many years. Eventually, supposed Cardon, they would be made of stone, and
Carmille would become entirely the vassal of Naeth. He had no choice but to
ally himself to Hurth’s cause.
But
the south remained proud. They had fought bravely during the War of
Reconciliation, when Cardon had been but a boy, and they were still proud. It
was like the southerners were of a different country. That gulf had widened
since the death of the last king of Sturma.
Cardon
also knew that if the Thane of Naeth ever took the crown, as was his obvious desire,
it would be a dark reign for Sturmen, wherever they lived. He could imagine the
country being plunged once more into civil war. The south may live under
Hurth’s rule already, reluctant to throw of the yoke for fear of dire
consequences, but should he become a king they would surely fight.
Perhaps,
when the southern Thanes joined them, they could find some common ground. Maybe
war could be avoided. But he held out little hope. And so, hemmed in by an
inescapable position, stuck between the wish for peace and the necessity of
Hurth’s soldiers on his doorstep, he was an unhappy man.
In
two days time, the last of the southern Thanes would be present. The Thane of
Spar, with the furthest to travel, was due soon. Then they would see where the
old kingdom of Sturma lay, and its fate, which lay in the hands of ten men,
each of them guilty of hubris in their own way.
He
wished there was still a king. A king would be able to hold the kingdom
together, before it degenerated from a once great nation into warring
thanedoms. Should that happen Cardon would be on the winning side, all the
while wishing he had been born to a lower station, so that he would not have to
oversee the destruction of all he once held dear, back so many years ago when
he still had the ideals and hopes of a highborn youth.
Sadness
overwhelmed him. The finery of the room was lost on him. He only wished to
return home. The Council of Ten, he was sure, would be the beginning of the
end.
*