The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 3

'Your favour, lord. From time to time. I ask nothing more.'

  'Then tell me your news.'

  'The Lord Protector, Steward of Naeth and Sturma, prepares to leave the castle this night.'

  Wense leaned forward in his chair.

  'And how do you know this?'

  'That I am not at liberty to say. My lord.'

  'And do you know where he is headed?'

  'No, my lord. But I have enterprising friends…should you wish it?'

  'I do. Tomar!' he called.

  His secretary came through the state room door immediately.

  'Yes?'

  'Give this man a bag of gold, for his expenses. He is in my employ. Should he return have the guard allow him through. He may have urgent messages for me.'

  'As you wish.'

  Tomar indicated that the man should follow him. The man made to say something more, but the Thane waved a hand at him impatiently.

  'You have my favour. Now leave me. I have much to do. And so do you.'

  *

  Chapter Six

  Roskel kept his hood high as he walked the streets. He could have another find his provisions for him, but a man needed to pick his own clothes. Unless he was married, he thought. Married men seemed to forgo some of their freedoms. Thankfully, that was a curse he was not afflicted with.

  His heart raced as he walked the night streets, heading from one store to the next, his pack bulging as he left each store.

  To be free once again! True, he hated the road. But there were pickings to be had along the road and as much as he hated to admit it he longed for adventure-- like the old days when it had been just him and Tarn, hiding out in the forests to the south, living from day to day. There was freedom in living on the land. But why do it if you didn’t have to?

  He would be travelling as a troubadour. He had already picked his persona. He had his short blade buckled at his hip, which he had won in a game of chance. Stacked in his favour, of course.

  He had purchased a fine dagger, of much better heft than the ceremonial blade he had worn this past year. The ceremonial blade was ridiculous. He would have been murdered after a day on the road just for the jewels.

  Just one stop more to make.

  He headed down a side street, checking behind carefully as he slipped into the heavily shadowed alleyway. He had a sense that there was someone following him, but if they were they would not follow him where he was going.

  He ducked through a door concealed behind stacks of rubbish and knocked three times, then three more, then once. He waited patiently for a full minute while the men in the window of the house opposite observed him, his hood withdrawn now and his face turned to the scant light.

  Messages were, he knew, being passed by hand signal to the top floor of the building. He waited still, and then the door was pulled back and a dagger was at his throat. It was held by a one-eyed man with a lush beard and thinning hair.

  'Mark and dagger are well met in the Saint’s Row,' he said, careful of his bobbing Adam’s apple on the tip of the dagger.

  The one-eyed man smiled.

  'Evening, my Lord. Strange prowlers abroad in the city these days. Can’t be too careful.'

  Roskel stepped into the warmly lit house and closed the door behind him. He didn’t bother checking his back. If the men he’d come to visit couldn’t handle whatever was following him, it couldn’t be handled.

  'Evening, Yargreat. Friendly as ever. Same prowlers we had at the castle?'

  Roskel just assumed the Thieves’ Covenant was as well informed on the going on at the castle as he was, and he’d been there.

  'Shapeshifters, aye. Bad business. Can’t trust your own wife.'

  'I didn’t know you were married.'

  'Twenty years now. She still earns me a drinking wage, even if she’s not as…'

  'I don’t believe I wish to know.'

  'As you wish, my Lord.'

  'Something’s up, Yargreat. You’re not ordinarily so deferential.'

  'Money’s about to change hands, your highness. I get all polite when I’m paid.'

  'Is it ready?'

  'It is. Took the finest craftsmen we had the better part of three months. It wasn’t easy. Each man at the Cathedral had to remember the details and draw them from memory. But it’s as perfect as it could be without the real thing to work from.'

  'That’s not good enough, Yargreat. It needs to be better than perfect. It needs to fool those who know it best.'

  'Easy, my lord. It is close as it could be. The enchantment is impossible to recreate, but nobody ever approaches it.'

  'Let’s hope not. Well, then, let’s see the thing.'

  Yargreat went to an alcove in the wall and pushed in a couple of places. A box emerged on a shelf from a recess in the wall that had previously been hidden.

  'Clever.'

  'My own design.' The one-eyed man brought the box to a scarred table and laid it down deferentially.

  'Please.'

  'I’d rather you opened it.'

  'You don’t trust me? Even now? I’m hurt, my lord.'

  'A lot of money in that there box.'

  'Not worth as much as the good will of the lord Protector.'

  Roskel assessed the man. Perhaps he was as good as his word, but only Roskel knew of the crown, outside of the Thieves’ Covenant. Only the Queen of Thieves and a select few among those knew the truth, but it was still a risk…he could just as easily be killed as given the crown…

  But if you had to trust in someone when your back was to the wall, who better than a fellow thief?

  He might cut your throat for a bauble, but he was never stupid. No, Selana knew the stakes…

  He opened the box.

  The copy of the Crown of Kings glittered in golden glory. Its design was simple but it was untarnished. Just as the real thing had been. A single ruby stood in the centre, cut a hundred times. Even though the crown was just an expensive fake, it took Roskel’s breath away. The gold he had taken from the city’s coffers to pay for it was money well spent.

  He picked it up carefully, as if afraid his touch would sully it. He knew the only way he’d ever be able to wear the Crown of Kings would be if it were a fake. Just like his Stewardship was just a clever copy of kingship. It had the glitter, but at the end of the day it was still a falsehood. The real artefact would reside at the Cathedral on the Plains once more, until a true king returned...which would be precisely never, Roskel knew.

  'It is beautiful.'

  'It should be. Pure gold, true ruby. The workmanship alone is worth a month’s taxes for the country. You bought it cheap.'

  'I am undone, Yargreat. Please pass my regards, and my goodwill. I am in the lady’s debt.'

  'Don’t think she don’t know it.'

  'I wish I could see her.'

  'Once is enough for most. Trust me, if you value your sanity, you’ll keep her as a beautiful memory. She drives men mad if she’s of a mind…'

  'Ah, but for a night in her arms…'

  Yargreat shook his head. 'You’re a fool, my lord, for her touch is poison.'

  Roskel shook his head.

  'I know. But I’d die a happy man.'

  'Mayhap, my lord. You’ll die just as happy if you keep it in your pants.'

  Roskel laughed and clapped the one-eyed man on the back.

  'You’re a wiser man than me, Yargreat. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d stabbed myself in the foot, so to speak.'

  'So I’d heard, my lord.'

  Roskel put the crown in his pack, wrapped in oilcloth to keep the gold free of scratches. He laid a heavy sack of gold on the table.

  'The final payment. Plus a little extra for yourself.'

  'My lord’s kindness undoes me…'

  'Enough of the sarcasm, it’s getting old now.'

  'Fair enough. Just a final piece of advice, if you will?'

  'What is it?'

  'I guess you’ll be taking a journey…'

  Roskel’s eyes narrowed.
>
  'Settle down. It’s plain for a man with one eye left to see. Just mind who you talk to on the road. You can’t trust a man’s face no more. Not all the men you meet will be meet, if you catch my drift. The lady would have you return. If you’re in need on the road, seek out the Thieves’ Covenant. There’s aid to be had if you're in need, at no price. The word is out. Just thought you’d bear it in mind.'

  It warms to know I still have the lady’s goodwill.'

  'Just mind you don’t wear it out.'

  'Goodnight, Yargreat.'

  'My lord,' said the thief, and closed the door behind him.

  The lady stepped from the shadows as if she were made of the darkness itself.

  'Yargreat, really, you should not encourage him so.'

  He started and hung his head.

  'Didn’t mean nothing by it, my lady. Just, you know, building a bit of a legend.'

  Yargreat kept his eyes averted as the Queen of Thieves stroked his cheek with a razor sharp fingernail.

  'Don’t worry, Yargreat. You are important to me. And so is he. Pass the word. Have his back watched. He’s a fine looking man, but he has the sense of a headbreaker.'

  'Your will, lady,' Yargreat said, and risked looking up, but she was gone. He was only sure she had ever been there from the thin line of blood that he felt trickling down his cheek.

  *

  Chapter Seven

  Roskel Farinder cinched the saddle tighter. It had been too long since he had been astride a horse. He thought he had the right of it. He checked the stirrups and his saddlebags one last time, then with an optimistic leap was sat atop the horse and with a further wriggle to seat himself, he reigned the dun mare in a circle and headed toward the stable’s exit. The horse was called Minstrel. It was an apt name, he thought. If he believed in omens, it was a good one. Then, it could be just a coincidence. 'My lord Farinder!' came a cry from behind him. 'My lord!'

  He thought of ignoring the cry for a moment, but it could be important. Still, what blasted fool had told a stable hand that he was departing this night?

  'Damn it, boy, does everyone know what I’m about this night?' he said as a well-fed youth ran breathlessly to his side.

  'Sorry, my lord? Lord Rohir sent me down here to give you this…'

  He held out a sealed scroll for Roskel to take. He took it, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  'Well, you can tell him you have done your duty with admirable perspicacity, young man.'

  'Erm, your will, my lord.'

  'Yes, yes. Now, begone. And tell no one what you saw this night.'

  'What did I see, lord?'

  'Good, that’s the spirit,' Roskel said with a smile, and heeled his horse forward, leaving the boy with a confused look upon his face.

  The boy hastily bowed and stepped back from the horse.

  The night was still. Around the Castle of Naeth the city lay quiet, curling around the great castle like a dragon’s tail. He travelled the merchants’ quarter, heading toward the north gate, where those guards served who were fit for duty nowhere else. There had never been an incursion from the north. They were the least travelled gates, and no guard on duty there was awake for more than an hour at the time. It was a few hours before dawn. It was a fair bet that the guards would be snoring soundly at their posts.

  The horse’s shod hooves made the only sound on the cleaner streets of the city. The merchant’s quarter was one of the quietest quarters of the city, the shops being closed for the night. It was open to late night shoppers, but only the kind that travelled the sewers and rooftops, only those that skulked in dark alleyways and shadowed corners.

  Roskel knew he had little to fear from footpads. He was favoured by the Lady. Besides, as hard as she could make life for him, he could make it doubly so for her and her kind, should he wish. He was under no illusions that the Stewards of the Crown could stamp out her kind. And he had no wish to. He had a valuable ally in the Queen of Thieves, even though they had only met once.

  He came upon the north gate without incident, and passed uncontested by a sleeping soldier. Such dereliction of duty irked him, but then he was not about the business of a Steward this night. He was about the business of a fugitive.

  Should he be found out, all his careful planning and attempts to hide his tracks would be for naught. He knew that the Hierarchy employed magical means, he had seen one of their spellcasters when they had first wrested the Castle of Naeth from the old Thane and they were a force to be reckoned with. Brief that encounter had been and brief as well, his fight with Rohir’s shapeshifting attacker. While he did not know much of their magic, one thing was certain – it was powerful and dangerous in the wrong hands.

  He still wished he had some magic that would let him pass unseen to all eyes.

  Wishes were for fools and beggars, though.

  He set off widdershins around the city, travelling outside the walls. He was glad for his coat, for already the northern air had turned chill. Further south the weather would still be temperate. Soon, though, all too soon, he would be racing the snows south. If he’d had a little more sense about him he would have left on this journey in the summer, and wintered in comfort at Redalane’s home, where he was welcome and safe. As it was he would be chased by winter on his journey south and have his return barred to him by heavy snows across the plains. Once, he had wintered in the Fresh Woods, with nothing but a knife and his friend Tarn’s bow for hunting. He did not carry a bow now, and even if he did he wouldn’t know how to shoot one.

  No, never again would he be reduced to wearing animal skins and sleeping in holes dug from heavy snowfall. Comfort was the byword on this trip. He would travel by day, just as a troubadour would, rest up in inns and taverns along the road, play if forced – he could carry a tune – and make it to Ulbridge in good time to beat the winter. Then, a winter spent in the warm of some out of the way inn, safe from discovery and the duties of office. Come the thaw he would make his way back to Naeth.

  Perhaps, on his journey, he could persuade a serving girl or two into a tumble.

  Roskel lost himself in his thoughts for a time, lulled by the gentle bounce of the mare beneath him, rolling along with the road. The keep and the great walls of Naeth passed him by. He had become so inured to the grandeur of the city and its size that he all but ignored it. It took an hour at a trot to reach the southern markers that designated the end of the city and the beginning of Naeth town, the edifice that had sprung up alongside the castle, its denizens feeding and trading with the city but not wealthy enough to live within the encircling walls where the city proper began.

  The smell of the sea drifted on a breeze that was gradually rising along with Carious, the earliest of Rythe’s twin suns. Its lazy twin, Dow, would be an hour or so yet. They marked time for the dockers and farmers. Those early risers would see Carious’ first light. Mostly people in the city didn’t rise until Dow did. A beam of sunlight breached the horizon, coming up over the sea. It wasn’t often that Roskel saw the dawn’s light. He was more of a Dow man himself. Not that he usually saw Dow’s rising, either.

  He let Minstrel, his horse, set the pace and settled in for a long ride. He would lunch on the road and ride through until sunset. He didn’t like horses, but there was a sense of freedom he had come to appreciate. The gentle rocking, the distances one could travel, a turn of speed should you wish it. Even without a horse, a man could travel the length of Sturma in a few months if he set a hard pace. But a horse was a luxury and Roskel wasn’t fool enough to forget that. There were many horse thieves about in Sturma’s heartland, and he would have to be careful, a man on his own as he was. He was under no illusions. If someone wanted to take his horse from him there was little he could do to stop them. He was handy with a dagger, but a dagger against a bandit’s sword would do little good. The sword he carried at his hip was more for show than anything else. Hopefully in a tight situation a little bluster and a lot of acting would see him through. If not, he always had feet
to run…

  He turned his mind away from the danger and settled once more into the rhythm of the road. Even at the sedate trot that Minstrel seemed content to keep up he noticed the city was far behind him. Another hour passed in slow contentment and Dow rose. He was beginning to pass a few people on the road. It was too early for merchants, but farmers with laden carts were making their way into the city for market day, paupers were setting out for alms from the numerous temples. The city guard did not allow the indigent paupers to sleep in the city, but during the day all were welcome. Perhaps a little more so if they were bringing money.

  It was money, commerce and thievery, taxes and robbery, that kept the city flowing. It fed the merchants' purses, the merchants' purses fed the city’s coffers and the thieves covenant’s pouches, the city’s coffers fed the guards who bought from the merchants…there was, Roskel realised, a beautiful synchronicity in the way the city functioned. Even in the countryside there was a circle of money, it all changed hands. He wondered if he tracked a gold piece from the mint all the way from hand to each hand if he could find it once again as it came back to the city. He wondered at a groat’s journey, if it had seen as much life as he had. He imagined what wonders the gold secreted about his person and his saddlebags had experienced in their lives. Had it graced courtesan’s hands, a merchant’s, a paupers or a priests? What marvellous tales a groat could tell. He made up a story in his head about a groat, and began working on a song to sing for his supper should it come to that. A groat’s tale…something bawdy would hit the mark. People liked a bawdy tale, and with his voice Roskel was under no illusions as to being able to inspire passion with a skald’s song, or love…perhaps fear…he knew a few ghostly tales that would serve on the road.

  He realised he should have thought about his guise as a travelling bard before setting out on the road. He could hold a tune and he knew the basic chords on his lute. He’d been tutored for a few months before he’d finally decided to set out on this fool’s quest. Nimble fingers helped in learning an instrument, but his memory wasn’t the finest. He could remember snatches of famous tunes. He could recite passages of bardic works, the story of Habard’s Pig, the Jemandril’s Tail, Yellow Moon, some of the seedier songs he’d heard in the docker’s taverns, the classic tale of Where the Soldier Roamed. Some doggerel to pass the time. But could he make up a tune, or a song, or a story for weary travellers and sots in their cups? A sober man liked a story, the drunk could do little more than stamp his feet at a rousing tune.