The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 12

  Eventually, after a roundabout journey through twisting, dirty streets, they arrived at their refuge, or so Roskel hoped.

  A painted sign of a rotund man dressed fully in red peered down at them, ruddy cheeked with ale. Below was the name, The Blushing Drunk.

  The stables were out the back, as Roskel remembered. He motioned to the Skald with a slight inclination of his head and led on to the rear of the building. A stable girl was munching on a midday apple, juices running down her chin.

  'A silver a night, Sir.'

  'Don’t try it on with me, girl. Two copper was the price last time I was here.'

  'When was that? Forty years ago?'

  Roskel laughed. 'You’ve a cheek on you, girl.'

  'I’ve four. And it’s a silver for the horse. Rub down and grain included.'

  Roskel shook his head. Prices had gone up since he’d been here last. He wondered how people afforded such prices, but then it was safe here, at least. He didn’t want some pauper turning Minstrel into steaks.

  'Alright, you little thief. Here’s a silver for the night. I’ll see how long I’m staying in the morning.'

  'I’ll be here, Sir.'

  Roskel nodded.

  'Come on, Skald, let’s go and see what the day will bring. You know if you took your hair down, out of braids, your face would be hidden…it might make things easier.'

  The Drayman touched Roskel’s arm, anger on his face.

  You do not know what you ask. The braids are memories of justice given. To undo them would be to forget and thus dishonour the dead.

  'Fine. As you wish,' said the thief, shaking his arm free and pushing the door open, shaking his head. Some people just could not see sense.

  They headed through the back door to the commons. As Roskel remembered, it was a good haunt for a man on the run. Three exits and an easy jump down from any of the first floor rooms.

  He pushed open the door and the two men ducked their heads under the low lintel. The room was gloomy for the shutters were still closed.

  A large man slept soundly in a chair, his head on a scarred table. He snored softly. Roskel crept up to him.

  'Darwell Redd!' he whispered in his ear.

  The man fair leapt from his chair and his hand went to his dagger. Roskel held it out to him. It took a second but the innkeeper recognised Roskel eventually.

  'Roskel! You old rascal!'

  'Ahem, it’s not Roskel here, old friend. It’s...Sam...yes. Sam.'

  Darwell took this information in his stride.

  'Fair enough. Who’s your friend?'

  'This is a Skald, from distant lands. He’s a mute and I haven’t figured out his name yet. But he plays the lute like an angel.'

  Darwell took in his old friend’s appearance. Roskel’s moustache was longer than the last time he had been there, but Darwell never second guessed a man who wanted to stay out of jail. Roskel would still be recognised if someone got up close enough. There were no posters about anymore, though, so perhaps people had forgotten…even if the Thane hadn't.

  'You’re taking a chance coming back here.'

  'I have no choice. I’ve a job to do.'

  'Well, you’ve got heart, I’ll give you that. But you’re as stupid as ever. If the guard catches sight of you, it’s straight off to the dungeons.'

  Roskel stroked his moustache thoughtfully. 'So bygones aren’t bygones, then?'

  'No. Rumour says he won’t let her out of his sight anymore. You did that woman wrong, Roskel.'

  'Aye, that I did. There’s not a day goes by I don’t regret ever seeing her. But she was a fine woman.'

  'Still, it’s history. You’ll be wanting a room, I presume?'

  'And a mug of your swill.'

  'Finest ale in town. And you, friend?' he said, turning to the Drayman.

  The Skald nodded.

  Darwell left to get some mugs.

  'Let’s hope we get what we came for quickly. It doesn’t sit well with me, being here.'

  The Drayman frowned and inclined his head toward the receding back of the innkeeper.

  What’s he talking about?

  'Old stories, old loves. I was…indiscreet…with the Thane’s wife. He’s after my head.'

  The Drayman touched his shoulder and hummed.

  What’s a Thane?

  'Our leaders. Kind of a warlord, though there hasn’t been a war since the Reconciliation. Old news, my friend.'

  The contact broke and the Drayman took a seat at a table, his back to the wall so that he could see the whole of the bar, in case someone should come in.

  Darwell returned, carrying three mugs.

  'It’s been too long, Roskel. I’ve missed your stories. So, are you travelling as a bard now?'

  'That’s my guise. I’m not much good but I can make up a story if I need to. But I’m not here to tell tales.'

  'Too bad. I’d like to hear the tale of what you’ve been up since we last spoke.'

  'It’s a dangerous tale and outlandish. I’d tell you, for I’ve no doubt that you wouldn’t believe me. But it’s safer if you don’t know.'

  'It’s never bothered you before, putting me in danger.'

  'I’ve discovered I have a conscience since then.'

  'Funny thing, conscience. Can get a man in trouble if he’s not careful.'

  'I’ll be careful, friend. Now, as to why I’m here, I need to find a man…Shawford Crale…we have business.'

  'And none of mine. I’ve heard of him. No idea where he lives, mind. I could ask around. I’ve still a few contacts in the local Covenant. Someone will know.'

  'I’d appreciate it…have you heard much about him?'

  'Not much to tell. Just a wealthy merchant as far as I know.'

  'Nothing special about him then?'

  'No.'

  Roskel drained his mug slowly. 'Ask around then. How about a refill?'

  'You going to pay this time?'

  'Would I steal from you, old friend?'

  'Yes.'

  Roskel laughed and laid a gold piece on the table. 'For the room and the ale. Keep them coming. We’ve nothing to do but wait for the time being.'

  'Help yourself. I’ll head out for a while. I’d take you with me, but the man I’m going to see is shy, shall we say, and you’re apt to attract the wrong kind of attention.'

  'Don’t mind if we do,' said the thief.

  Roskel and the Drayman settled into a steady rhythm of drinking.

  The Drayman touched Roskel eventually and spoke in his mystical manner.

  What of this Shawford Crale?

  'I’m supposed to give an artefact to him for safe keeping. The man in your dreams wished it. It was his last wish. '

  This man. He was a powerful man?

  'He was the king,' said Roskel with a smile.

  You are a strange man. You have many stories.

  'Not so strange. I used to be a thief. Now I am a powerful man in this country. But I’m a wanted man in this city.'

  It sounds an interesting tale. I would like to hear it.

  Roskel settled into his chair with a sigh.

  'I fled this city because of my indiscretion. I had no choice but to flee into the Fresh Woods. By chance, I met a man, Tarn. I did not know then that he was the king…'

  And so, for the rest of the afternoon, Roskel spun his tale. He did not need to embellish. The Drayman listened silent. He was a good listener.

  *

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Darwell huffed and puffed his way over the bridge into the merchant’s quarter. He arrived, eventually, out of breath from the effort of heaving his bulk half way across the city. At a merchant’s stall he stopped and shook hands with a man, exchanged a few words which to a passerby would have seemed like mere pleasantries, then resumed his walk. He reached the Fiddler’s Elbow and sat in a quiet bar waiting for the right kind of clientele to enter.

  He was rewarded after a couple hours of easy drinking when his contact entered the bar. The woman looked
at him expectantly with raised eyebrows. He waved her over.

  'A drink?'

  'I’m working tonight. I’ll settle for why you’d call me over in here. Nobody knows who I am and I usually do my business elsewhere.'

  'I’m looking for a man. Shawford Crale. I’ll pay.'

  She looked at him. 'I’ve known him. Funny tastes. Visited there a week back.'

  'Can you direct me to his home?'

  'I can. For a silver piece.'

  'A silver!'

  'Keep your voice down. A silver or walk. You’re the one who’s lost, not me.'

  Darwell grumbled and pulled his money out of his purse. Roskel better be good for this, he thought.

  He handed the money over, and the woman whispered directions to him as he finished his ale. He watched her leave.

  He wondered what a whore was doing covering her neck with a scarf. Even in the winter, a woman in her line of work knew better than to cover decent flesh.

  Perhaps she had a love bite, he thought with a smile. Wouldn’t be the first he’d seen on the working girls in the city. Ulbridge men were certainly enthusiastic.

  *

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Darwell unlocked the door and entered his own inn just before dusk. He now had the rosy complexion that had gained the bar its name.

  'You owe me a silver piece,' he said as he sat down. 'And a tune tonight for the crowd.'

  'Oh, no,' said Roskel. 'I’ll pay for the information, but I’m not playing in this heap. Your clients are a bit free with their drinks, as I remember. The last bard I saw in here ended up covered with beer and bleeding when a client threw the glass as well as his beer.'

  'I’m short a bard and it’s the end of the week. There’ll be a few sots, true, but most will be in high spirits. Do me a favour? You owe me, remember?'

  The Drayman touched Roskel’s arm and hummed.

  Do it.

  Roskel shook his head. 'I’m not good enough for a city.'

  I am.

  The thief sighed. 'Alright, a tune or two. But I finish early. I’m carrying a heavy load and I’d put it down as soon as possible.'

  'Done.'

  Darwell gave Roskel directions, and then fed them before opening his doors.

  Slowly, a rabble entered the bar. By dusk it was full and many of the patrons were in their cups already.

  Darwell pushed Roskel toward the stage.

  'Ladies and Gentleman, tonight we have two bards from distant lands!'

  The rabble murmured their appreciation.

  Roskel took the stage reluctantly. The Drayman seemed unperturbed. He sat next to the thief and with a smile, he began strumming the lute.

  Roskel knew the tune, though he didn’t know how the Drayman could know a Sturman march, but he sang, just the same. He could just make out the Skald’s gentle humming under the clapping of the crowd.

  The Drayman played beautifully, better than any man Roskel had ever heard. He felt his spirits rising and he put more effort into his singing. To his ears, he sounded tuneful and his voice full of rich, luxuriant tones.

  The crowd responded well to the tune, clapping and shouting for more. Roskel found that he was enjoying himself and rose to take a bow, but the Skald kept playing, switching to a lively shanty as if he knew what Roskel was capable of, but was pushing him harder, pushing him for more.

  Roskel was singing again before he knew what he was doing, first one tune, then straight into the next…after three tunes the crowd was on their feet and a few had cleared a space where they were dancing, kicking their feet up high. Roskel himself was tapping his foot with rhythms he didn’t know were in him. He sang louder, hitting notes he didn’t know existed, and all the while the Skald strummed his tune, following Roskel’s lead…or was he led by the Skald?

  Evening became full, and Roskel finished with a rousing rendition of the Groat’s Tale, then collapsed back into his chair to wild applause. He turned and caught the Drayman’s eyes. They twinkled with mirth and there was a beaming smile on his face.

  His magic had transformed the room, and excitement and joy ran through each man and woman present.

  Roskel’s heart pounded with ecstasy. The Skald was remarkable. Only he knew the man’s humming was the reason for the amazing mood within the Blushing Drunk. He was thankful for it though. Together the two men took a bow, then retired back to the room they had been given. The crowd was reluctant to part, but they gained their rooms where Roskel collapsed on the bed in a breathless heap.

  'So that is what your magic can achieve?' he said to the Drayman. The Drayman indicated with a flap of rising hands that he could do more.

  'But I’m not sure a man’s heart could take more joy.'

  The Drayman nodded eagerly. He touched the thief’s hand and hummed.

  A man can take endless joy. But you must go. The man in my dreams was upon me while I was open to the spirits. You must go tonight. A man comes. A bad man. I will wait for you here.

  'What bad man?'

  The Skald seemed to be concentrating. For this he did not have the words.

  A man who would be your king. A ‘Thane’.

  Wense, thought Roskel instantly. What trickery was that bastard up to? What was he doing here?

  No time to wonder. If he was caught with the crown all would be lost. It was too heavy a burden, too great a responsibility, to risk holding on to it any longer.

  'Then I leave. Wait for me. Hopefully we will head south for an easy winter in the morning, with none the wiser.'

  He began to prepare himself. Once more he strapped on his blades, even if they were just for show.

  When he stepped out the back door, the commons were still in commotion, but it sounded like the revellers were happy with their lot.

  He set out on the dark streets. For the first time, frost was forming on the cobbled roads. Winter had finally arrived.

  He pulled his cloak tighter, and set off for the outskirts, and the end of his journey. It had been a wonderful, frightening journey. Excitement was all well and good, but he could not wait to get to bed and be off in the morning to see Redalane and at last, to head to the place he called home now once more.

  *

  Chapter Forty

  Mist flowed in from the lakes to the south. The air was moist and full of the smells of the city. Sewage, mostly. It was a stench that Roskel had soon forgotten when travelling the back roads of Sturma and sleeping out in the rough. It was oddly comforting, the starkest reminder possible that he was back in a city, cobbles beneath his feet and candlelit windows showing him the way. There were other smells, other sensations, that drove the feeling home. On the mist a hint of the river, a mixture of stagnation and minerals down from the mountains. The air was different. Not pure, but filtered by middens and dark alleyways, decay and despair in equal measures defining it from the country air. The cobbles beneath his booted feet, uneven and treacherous on the unwary ankle.

  Yet there was more, always more. He would never be a man to find beauty in all of nature’s works, but the hand of man that could be seen in every corner of a city…well, that was something to be proud of. What marvels a man could achieve! Not the grandeur of the sprawling mansions, or the tended gardens of a rich merchant’s estates. It rested in the worn table made by a craftsman’s practised hand, the rain being channelled along a gutter, the curve of a full goblet, brimming with mead or ale or wine. The smell of roast venison or a perfumed courtesan passing by on a secluded street.

  There was so much to find, so much to explore in any city. Ulbridge wasn’t the finest, nor the basest, it was just city, as individual as any man, full of dreams and tears.

  Roskel smiled to himself as he walked, relishing the stinking mist as it dampened his hair. The air was chill but he was warm enough from the walk. It proved to be long. It was refreshing.

  He brushed his hair from his eyes – it had grown long already. He heard footsteps crossing a bridge – there was a subtle difference in the sound of the
footfalls. Hollow, echoing from the wooden bridge and amplified by the water, which was slapping gently against the banks. How could a drunk ever fall to his death in the river? Even in the fog you could tell where it was.

  He walked for an hour or more – he had lost track of time. It was perhaps an hour after midnight, but he could not be sure. He hoped this Crale character knew he was coming. He did not have the inclination or the patience this night for lengthy explanations.

  The city changed around him. He had left the city proper behind, and was now strolling past quiet, large mansions, all set back from the main road. Even in the mist he could make out tended gardens, smell the faint carmillion blossoms, their springtime glory just a memory.

  The night was almost pitch now, but the darkness did not bother the thief. His night vision was better than most, and the lamplit streets of the city behind lent the night an orange complexion, the mist glowing like a banked fire to his practised eyes.

  Even in the grim alleyways of Naeth when the darkness seemed pitch there was always a hint of distant light for the discerning eye to pick up. It was not like the blackness of the country or the forest. It was always tainted.

  He stopped counting mansions when he reached fifteen. He stood before a set of great wrought iron gates. A wide path led off into the distance, the mansion hidden from view by the mist. He set his feet in motion.

  The walk along the path was long. This merchant must be doing fine business indeed to own so much land.

  Eventually the thief heard the snickering of horses. He left the path and headed toward the sound. Stables large enough to hold at least ten horses loomed in the darkness. There was only one horse stabled, a black stallion with a glossy cloak. He touched its flank and found it cold. The horse, for his part, just looked on. Roskel moved around the stable and headed toward the house. He could just make out a wide three-story mansion, painted white. In the misty darkness it almost glowed, iridescent bone on a nighttime battlefield.