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  Talian Erith, Whispers Heard Tavernside

  281 Black Ruin, Year of the Shrouded Twilit

  21 Vallasir

  Cyriana unlocked an entryway and entered their barren chambers lugging a haversack. Baskaran followed close behind and tossed his bag onto scratched floorboards while Maylene shut the door.

  “Don’t get comfy, Baskaran,” announced Maylene. “Once another room becomes free you’ll be hightailing it into there.”

  “I suspected as much. I won’t bother to unpack then.”

  “Sorry for giving you the silent treatment on the riverboat,” Cyriana said. “We didn’t deem it wise to discuss business. You’ll soon learn that prying eyes and ears can be anywhere.”

  “Likely a prudent choice,” Baskaran replied. “Now that we’re here, who are we searching for in Ercora?”

  “Potentially more than one person, but for now an old friend named Thorkell Malthorsson.”

  “I presume he has some trait that makes his recruitment desirable?”

  “Thorkell’s the best damn false-facer we’ve ever met,” answered Maylene.

  “A false-facer happens to be what?”

  “Someone who can go anywhere and be anyone. Never a stranger, never a foreigner. They stand out if they wish, and vanish when they choose. They’re a valuable commodity, as you might imagine.”

  “Are we meeting with him somewhere?”

  “He has no idea we’re coming,” affirmed Cyriana. “I’ll have to sniff him out through mutual contacts while Maylene hunts down a less reputable profession.”

  “Pickpocket,” the other woman responded. “But don’t ever call them that. They’re a snobbish lot considering they spend each day poking fingers into strangers’ trousers and tunics. Sleight of hand is the term if you don’t want one to take offense. And though I begrudge the admission, they’re essential for a caper.” She deposited worthless iron pieces into a rawhide purse and tightened flimsy strings.

  “What might that be?” inquired Baskaran.

  “I’m going fishing.” Lifting a close-fitted jacket, Maylene nestled the pouch between her belt and hip. “To see if any are good enough to lift my bait.”

  “And if one yanks the purse without you knowing?”

  “Unlikely. But at least then we’d know there’s a master wandering about, so it wouldn’t be a wasted day. I can always attach string to my belt tomorrow.”

  “Cheery. Now what task am I performing while all this is taking place?”

  “Shadowing me,” Cyriana replied. “We’ve kept this a secret because we didn’t want to discourage you from signing on, but a substantial bounty is perched on my head. There’s a slight to medium chance someone will try stabbing me while we’re here. Your duty is to tail me and make sure that doesn’t happen. Stay far enough back to ensure any potential murderer doesn’t know you’re lurking. Remember, if I die you don’t get paid. Let that be your motivation. Or the satisfaction of a job well done. I’ll let you craft your own encouragement.”

  “You’re a rather curious woman, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  She shrugged and slipped a spare knife into one boot. “I’ve heard it all before.”

  “See you two in a few hours,” chimed Maylene. “I’ve a date with a crime-ridden plaza.”

  *

  Throngs packed narrow, convoluted avenues snaking through Ercora. Braying mules and oxen hauled carts over grooved cobbles as Cyriana slipped between the stifling congestion onto lesser trod pathways. She enjoyed an uneventful meandering trek through shaded passages until reaching The Hundred-Year Door alehouse. A casual glance over one shoulder confirmed Baskaran continued to follow, though in an altogether blatant fashion. With any luck he might learn a trick or two in the coming weeks.

  Cyriana shoved open an entry in desperate need of paint and ambled within, scowling at pungent coppersheaf smoke whirling below the rafters. Flickering orange glows dotted the establishment, clutched in customers’ hands as they inhaled bundled leaves. She paced between crowded tables, claimed an unoccupied stool tucked against the counter and eyed the portly proprietor.

  Wither wiped grease from a bulbous nose and glanced at Cyriana with disinterested eyes. “What’ll you have?”

  “Lothian rum.”

  One man perched on a neighboring seat belched and stood, leaving behind an empty bowl. Once no patrons were within hearing, Wither grinned and scrubbed the counter with a rag. “It’s a pleasant day when I see your face, lass. Hadn’t thought you’d vanish for so long.”

  “Didn’t have much choice, I’m afraid. But I’m here on business and hoped you’d heard some chatter.”

  “I always got a misshapen ear to the ground. What’d you come looking to find?”

  “That conniving rascal Thorkell. Last news to come my way suggested he’d be in the city.”

  “Might’ve heard whispers of late,” Wither admitted.

  “Figured you had. Please tell me these aren’t the vague, unhelpful kind you’re fond of disclosing.”

  “Can’t share what I ain’t heard, Cy. ‘Cept today you don’t got cause to be cranky. Thorkell’s found his way here. Don’t know whereabouts he’s staying, but he arrived few months back. Taken a keen interest in Bilks and Nalshin.”

  “The Eurote banking consortium?”

  “Aye. Have a location here on Silvermint Street. Thorkell makes visits on occasion. Chaps have also glimpsed him hobnobbing regular like with noble folks.”

  “I was afraid he’d be conning some imbecile with a bulging coin purse. That’s unfortunate.”

  “You thinking on hiring him for a venture, lass?”

  “I might. I’ll need to sweet talk him away from this game he’s playing first though.”

  “Your idea of sweet talk don’t do much to improve the moods of men.”

  “Works wonders for my own. Thanks for the tip, Wither. Here’s one for you.” She slid bronze coins across the counter with a silver tucked beneath.

  A reflected glint must have caught his eye when he collected the coins. “You’re in a charitable mood.”

  “You know me. I’m generous to a fault. Especially when it isn’t my coinage I’m tossing around.”

  Wither flicked a black clump from beneath one fingernail and nudged his head. “I ain’t wanting to cause more alarm for you, but there’s a Eurote fella perched near the door who don’t have enough sense to be sly. He’s taken a keen interest in you, lass.”

  “Nothing to concern yourself over. That conspicuous one is a friend. One I’ll need to have a word with regarding the notion of being circumspect. It’s when he isn’t tailing me that I might have cause for alarm.”

  “Calms my mind to know you’ve given a wee thought to guarding your lovely backside.”

  “These are strange days,” Cyriana replied. “One more inquiry before I leave. Eloran has made himself scarce and I mean to find the man. I admire his tendencies toward illegalities.”

  “Much as I love you sliding metal my way, I’ve got nothing for you. Haven’t heard a peep in weeks. Eloran is a ghost.”

  “Damn it. Useless ink scribbler. I’ll see what Thorkell knows when I track down that makeup-wearing fashion lover.”

  “You didn’t hear nothing from me, aye?”

  “Gods no. You and I never even talked. Same goes for you, friend.”

  “Might there be folks looking for a word with you?” queried Wither.

  “I’m attracting all the wrong attention these days. I can’t imagine they’d know to come here, but if they do…”

  “I’m no stranger to street toughs. Don’t waste thoughts worrying on me.”

  “I will anyways, friend.” Cyriana placed her palms on the counter to stand and sniffed the air. “What’s that glorious smell?”

  “Venison stew and fresh baked loaves.”

  “There’s no conceivable reason why a barkeep should be such a damn good cook.” Cyriana slapped more bronze down and beckoned to the kitchen. “Maybe I can afford
a meal before going. It’d be rude not to. Plus I wasn’t kidding about wanting Lothian rum.”

  *

  22 Vallasir

  Cyriana spied Baskaran purchasing roasted almonds from a street vendor farther along the avenue. He sauntered toward a colonnade, leaned against one marble pillar and unfolded his sack. Brown eyes cast a surreptitious glance in her direction while he popped an almond into his mouth. Baskaran was not blessed with commendable subtlety, but it should suffice. Any brute with a mind to spear Cyriana was unlikely to survey her surroundings with adequate caution and notice the hungry creep. A damn sight better than his virginal skulking one day earlier.

  The snack was a nice touch though. Of course he might only be eating from boredom, rather than to allay suspicion. Cyriana could not blame him after two afternoons spent gawking at a dull bank without glimpsing their elusive quarry. At this rate if Thorkell bothered to show, he would be saving her from tedium rather than furthering her heist.

  She felt a feeble bump against one hip and Cyriana glanced down to find a disheveled child had walked into her. The bungling juvenile tottered and blinked confusion from his face. After mumbling a soft apology, he continued onward. Cyriana lashed out with one hand, seized his scrawny wrist in a death grip and wrested the squirming lad closer. She stared into abruptly frightened eyes and plucked her coin purse from a grungy palm. “Scamper along, you dumb little delinquent,” she warned. “Else I take my frustration out on you.”

  Cyriana flung him aside and glowered while he retreated. Walloping into your target and feigning clumsiness was the least effective method for a cutpurse to employ. The neophyte thief would either starve or suffer a fatal beating if he did not soon learn the art of nimble fingers. With a grudging sigh, she directed her attention once more on the wearisome bank stakeout. Maddening or not, at least the failed pickpocket alleviated her boredom for a spell.

  She squinted as a man exited Bilks and Nalshin, adjusted his tricorne hat and descended marble stairs to the boulevard. Cyriana remembered snooping when he entered the edifice, though only now did she have a chance to closely inspect him. Gentle breezes ruffled the goose feather protruding from his crown above gold lace trimming. A mahogany cane topped with an obscured animal head patted against cobbles alongside vargholskin boots rising to his knees. Oil slicked his blonde beard to a ludicrous sheen according to a trend practiced by some foolish Prydinian men. A silk cravat dyed sapphire spilled from a tight-fitted embroidered black coat fastened with gold buttons.

  Cyriana watched him wander oblivious in her direction, greeting fellow nobles who likewise stared down their noses at the world and those living within it. She could not be certain this was Thorkell, despite his pompous mannerisms and stature matching the man she knew. Cyriana had seen no evidence to refute her perception that every noble in every country acted with pompous mannerisms. Shoving off the wall, she decided a close examination might be in order. If the man was not Thorkell, Cyriana could always liberate his purse or some other valuable.

  “Excuse me, good sir,” she hollered, crossing the avenue in respectful supplication. “I beg your pardon.”

  He whirled and Cyriana blessed her instinct. Though he did not betray the slightest hint of recognition, there was no mistaking those pale eyes. “Think nothing of it,” he responded. “Is there some token I might grant you this fine day?”

  “Nothing more than a word, if it pleases you.” She eyed a lone pedestrian stroll beyond earshot and grinned.

  “My dearest Cyriana,” Thorkell said, doffing his crimson hat and bowing at the waist. “What an enchanting surprise.”

  “You’re looking absurd today.”

  “And you’re boorish as usual, I see. I thought you’d be delighted, given that I’m dressed in the attire of your homeland.”

  “I’m not a rich socialite. I despised everyone who looked like you. Those were the people I wanted to ruin.”

  “A shame.” He gestured with a chamois glove ringed in ermine. “Please follow me deeper into this wretched alleyway. I have a reputation to maintain and cannot be seen conversing with one such as yourself. You’re not properly bred for the honor.”

  “I’m not even sure if I should be offended by that.” She scowled at bushy facial hair flecked in graying streaks. “You don’t make an attractive bearded man. Especially lathered in oil.”

  “Shows what you know. Local girls can’t get enough of my prickly, foreign charm.”

  “Ugh. I don’t need to hear about your sex life.”

  “Fine. I have little desire to make you jealous. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “A job opportunity I’m recruiting for.”

  “As you might have surmised by my ridiculous garb, I’m smack in the middle of an elaborate con. I’ve devoted substantial time to creating Einar Milard of Torendell, an eccentric investor and respected merchant.”

  “You named yourself after a duck?” questioned Cyriana.

  “That’s a mallard, you ignorant churl.”

  “Whatever. I don’t care for fowl unless they’re cooked on a plate and served with wine. But why’d you stick a frigging feather in your cap if you don’t want duck comparisons?”

  “As I said, I’m woefully eccentric. Good sir Milard takes everything to the extreme, particularly fashion.”

  “Should I be flattered you chose my own hometown for your make-believe chap? You were pining for me, weren’t you?”

  “Nothing more than coincidence, I assure you,” he affirmed, waving a dismissive hand. “Now then, shall I tell you to bugger off in a polite manner so I can return to my game?”

  “Nope. I’m afraid I’ll have to insist you put your machinations on hold and enroll in my heist.”

  “And why should I consider doing that?”

  “My job pays more.”

  “You haven’t the foggiest clue what I’m primed to net.”

  “Trust me on this. Mine’s more lucrative than anything we’ve attempted before. It’ll also be far riskier and way more fun.”

  “You can’t expect me to simply forfeit what I’ve fashioned because you make an ambiguous offer for something else.”

  “I know how you enjoy weaving your convoluted webs. Go spin another thread and tell the gullible simpleton you’re needed beyond the city on business. Conjure some gobbledygook crisis outside the country that requires Einar’s personal attention. Aren’t nobles always frazzled and whining about their enterprises? You’ll make it believable, I’m sure. The fact is I need you for this and it’s in your best interest to agree.”

  “Is it now?”

  “If you refuse I’ll have Maylene do what she does best. She’ll snoop around and learn who you’re pulling this con against. Then she’ll spoil all your fun. And we both know Maylene will enjoy doing it.”

  An inquisitive eyebrow laced with its own oil arched higher. “Assuming the word of an uncouth stranger is even believed.”

  “True enough. Her words might not be accepted. But even a seed of doubt can bloom. Your victim will start questioning every word you speak, every supposedly well-intentioned suggestion. All the while you’ll be left to wonder if this might be the day your careful plan is unraveled.”

  “You threaten to put the kibosh on my con, blackmail me into joining your company and still think I’ll give you my best effort?”

  “I know you will. I plan to compose a letter for your hapless victim and keep it with me. If I don’t think you’re giving me your best, I’ll have it delivered and wreck your game. Think of it as adequate motivation.”

  Cold eyes the shade of an icy lake stared at her until Thorkell laughed. “This is what I’ve always liked about you, Cyriana. You’re as unforgiving toward your friends as you are the people you don’t care for. Fine, I’ll play along to your tune. But I’ll need another day or two in order to delicately put my own interests on hold. Doesn’t matter what threats you make, I won’t rush this.”

  “We don’t plan on leaving the city before then anywa
ys.”

  “Ah, so the job isn’t in Ercora. That will certainly avoid complications related to my fake identity. Where might we be headed?”

  “Arroyo.”

  “Not sure what lies your benefactor crafted, but there’s nothing worth filching in Arroyo. Believe me, I’ve surveyed the city personally. I suppose a few minor Asdori nobles might have jewels, but the wealthiest and most influential live either here or in Asdor City. There’s nothing worth this elaborate scheme you’re throwing together. The only true landmark in the city is the galen tower…”

  Cyriana smirked while comprehension dawned on his features and he furrowed a brow laden in cosmetics.

  “You’re out of your mind, aren’t you?” he questioned. “You want to pull a heist in Starwatch?”

  “Why not?”

  “Dear me, where do I even begin? You’ve glimpsed their tower?”

  “I have.”

  “You know about their precautions and burly guards?”

  “More or less.”

  “All the would-be thieves now rotting in Draugan gaols?”

  “Caught wind of some rumors.”

  “And yet you still want to go through with this?”

  “I do.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Thorkell murmured. “I think you downplayed how much riskier and more fun it’d be than my own con. No unnecessary gambles?”

  “None. I told our paymaster I’d walk if the theft winded up too dicey. We’re in control.”

  “Then you’ll have my talents. Gods, we’ll be legends if we pull this off.”

  “I imagine we will be. Secret legends, if all goes well.”

  “Is Maylene about, prowling the back alleys?”

  “Trying to reel in a sleight of hand ever since Aelina went north.” Cyriana ruffled her greasy hair and glimpsed Baskaran nonchalantly munching on nuts near the alley mouth. “Did you know Voran is dead?”

  “Hadn’t heard. I don’t find myself unduly surprised by the news. Was it booze or a blade that did him in?”

  “Both actually.”

  “Then he died suffering through what he loved best. Have you found a replacement?”

  “The new fellow’s lurking in the shadows over there. A damn fine swordsman from Eurus. Don’t be irked, but he’s the one who killed Voran.”