Starwatch Page 7

  Once Maylene shut the basement entry, Baskaran removed the lantern’s covering and guided their way down a groaning staircase. Jackets, trousers and dresses lined the chamber. Elaborate hats and jeweled bodices decorated one wall, while necklaces and bracelets spilled from open boxes crafted to mimic silver.

  Desin lovingly ran a finger over looped earrings ornamented with matching ruby gems. “They’re not likely to miss a few pieces.”

  “They’re all fake, you idiot,” snarled Thorkell. “Do you not understand where we are?”

  “Shut up the both of you.” Cyriana tugged on Baskaran and directed the glowing lantern ahead. “Where’s the armor?”

  “Behind that rack of toga fabric.”

  She approached and smiled to see six full suits waiting to be burgled. “How kind the costumers chose not to disassemble each set. It would’ve been brutal trying to piece together all these segmented plates.”

  “Accessories are over here,” Thorkell announced. “Tunics, belts, cloaks and a scabbarded gladius for each daring thief. Oh, and there are also some manacles for prisoners; grab those, too.”

  Baskaran settled the lantern atop a table and unsheathed one sword, inspecting its edge in the dim glow. “Am I able to fight with this?”

  “It’s armory forged iron. No cheap tin knockoffs in this troupe. Their braggart owner made sure I knew that fact. But the edges are dulled to prevent injuries during performances.”

  “Meaning I can parry but not wound?”

  “In a nutshell, yeah. Might cause cramping if you smack their muscles hard enough.”

  Baskaran slid his sword into its scabbard and looked to Cyriana. “You’d better hope our plan proceeds without a hitch.”

  “No more effort is necessary from me then. I always have that hope in these situations.” Cyriana turned and searched for Desin in the gloom. “Lug the sacks on over.”

  The Shiylan dumped cloth on bare floor and prodded a rectangular shield featuring stylized numerals wrapped with grape vines. “We taking these, too?”

  “No, leave them be,” responded Thorkell. “The painted unit insignia belongs to a legion still stationed north in Almaya. We’d fool morons, but no one else.”

  “Plenty city patrols do without shields anyways,” Cyriana remarked. “We won’t raise suspicions not having them.”

  Desin held a sack open while Maylene jammed belts and crumpled tunics within. A faint scuffing noise tugged Cyriana’s ear and she cocked her head.

  “Wait, be quiet,” she said. “Thought I heard something.”

  Careless feet thumped against stairs and a feminine giggle echoed. Cyriana signaled for Maylene to traverse the chamber before waving a frantic hand at Baskaran to cover the lantern. Darkness reclaimed the basement until orange glimmers descended the steps and two figures appeared bathed in candlelight. One whispered something and the other snorted a laugh. The male placed his chamberstick atop one table and wrapped an arm around his companion’s waist, tugging her closer.

  Cyriana withdrew a dagger and padded nearer, touching an edge to the man’s bare throat while stuffing a hand against his mouth. She grimaced to be handling lips soggy with saliva, though felt thankful she had not chosen to stand in front given his excitement.

  The panicking female squealed in alarm and inhaled a sharp breath to shriek. Unwilling to take chances and ever meticulous, Maylene hammered a fist into her forehead and threw the petite girl onto cold floor. “Noise gets you killed, sweet thing,” she warned. “And then it gets him killed, too.”

  “If there ever was a time for silence,” Cyriana said, “this is it.”

  Maylene stooped and grasped the girl’s forearm, hauling her onto uncertain feet.

  Cyriana leaned close enough to whisper in her prisoner’s ear. “I’m removing my hand from your mouth. If you scream I’ll make certain this knife slips and opens your throat. The choice is yours.”

  She withdrew her palm and his rigid body remained frozen in blessed silence. “Clever lad. Time to walk with me.”

  Cyriana guided him at knife’s edge while Maylene shoved the girl in their wake. Detainees were dumped in an unceremonious fashion onto granite and Cyriana faced the others. “Gentlemen, please fetch some rope and rags.”

  Baskaran uncovered the lantern while Desin and Thorkell found spools of woven hemp. Neither actor resisted while hands and legs were bound with their backs touching. A flickering flame reflected against perspiration drenching their flushed faces. Thorkell concluded a final knot and stepped away.

  Cyriana strode closer and crouched beside the terrified couple. “Because you love birds blundered down here for a sweaty tumble, I find myself in a dilemma. I’d imagine you can make an educated guess what that is.”

  “There’s nothing worth stealing,” pleaded the male. “We only have costumes. I swear none of the jewelry is real. And our money isn’t even kept here.”

  “I’m well aware of your inventory. We haven’t come to loot your silver.”

  “Are you going to hurt us?” the girl asked.

  “We don’t intend to harm anyone tonight.” Cyriana eyed blood trickling down her forehead and wetting trimmed eyebrows. “More than we already have.” She glanced at Maylene and snapped her fingers. “Get a damned cloth for the kid and clean her face. The rest of you package what we came for.”

  Maylene yanked a handkerchief from Thorkell’s pocket before he could object and gingerly dabbed dark liquid. Faint rattles sounded while the men trundled armor off racks. Hanging costumes obscured their objective from the bound prisoners, who seemed more concerned with Cyriana and the dagger she gripped.

  “As I was saying, I’m smack in a predicament with you two. We didn’t intend to be seen, but now that we have I need to decide on the best course. Killing you would certainly hinder the chances you’ll reveal details, but there are troublesome moral implications. Believe me when I tell you that isn’t ideal. Instead, I’m going show a kindness and let you live. In return I expect full cooperation. Deviate from my instructions and the promised kindness goes away. Do you think that’s a fair deal?”

  “Yes,” squeaked the girl. “We’ll do what you want.”

  “That’s the response I desired. We’re going to finish collecting what we came for and then gag your mouths to prevent undue shouting. After that we’re leaving and you two will stay right here through the night. Sleep or stay awake, I don’t give a damn. But keep your mouths shut. If you choose to scream and wake your fellow actors then you force me into an awkward dilemma. I find myself angry whenever someone forces me to do anything. All I need from you is one night spent in silence. Can you muster the patience for that?”

  Each thespian nodded without delay, their widened eyes staring at Cyriana.

  “A good answer for your own sake. If our careful plan is foiled because you couldn’t stew for a few hours we will make it a priority to hunt you down. Think about whatever mummer god you pray to, because I swear to that immortal you’ll die if you spoil our scheme. On the other hand, once we leave you’ll never see us again. Provided you both stay mute. Come morning one of your acting chums will find and untie you. It’s not such a bad way to spend the night, if it means you get to live. We could even truss you up facing one another so your junk is touching.” She helpfully lifted her hands and entwined the fingers. “You might still get some joy from tonight. No? Sorry, did all this talk about murder sour the mood?”

  Cyriana patted the man on his thigh and stood upright. “Time for gagging.”

  Maylene handed her fabric and Cyriana looped it around the man’s mouth. Softened mewling drifted from the female while Maylene did likewise. Thorkell soon appeared carrying a misshapen sack and nodded to signal their task was finished.

  Motioning for her comrades to leave, Cyriana fetched the lovers’ chamberstick and positioned it on the floor near the tethered couple. “I suspect you’d prefer to spend your time with some candlelight rather than in blackness. Let this generosity offer one final mo
tivation for staying quiet.”

  She departed alongside the others and ascended wooden steps. Once outside, Maylene closed the entryway without noise and they retraced steps down a cobble pathway.

  “You’ve a frightening air about you,” Baskaran uttered. “Would you have gone through with your threat?”

  “Nah, I was bluffing. Nothing but scare tactics. I’ve killed precious few in my day, and no one deserves to die because they were in the mood for a rough screw. Believe me, I don’t derive any pleasure from ending lives. I’d wager you’ve taken more lives at the behest of offended highbrows.”

  Cyriana halted beneath the wall and faced her fellow conspirators. “Goes without saying, but our agenda’s been moved up. We’re springing Eloran tonight.”

  “Don’t see much of a choice,” said Maylene.

  Thorkell cast a glance at the Asdori woman. “Someone might consider apologizing for questioning my choice to rehearse the Draugan role earlier today.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Typical,” Thorkell murmured. “Though there is a heretofore unanticipated benefit to all this.”

  “Oh?”

  “By awakening him now rather than soon after sunset, our torturing noble will be less cognizant. I’m more likely to convince him what he sees is the real thing.”

  “At least that’s a somewhat reassuring trade off, I suppose,” Cyriana said.

  Thorkell faced Desin and cocked a brow. “Do you know Hangman Round?”

  “The courtyard behind Milinor’s Roost? Yeah.”

  “Guide the others to it. It isn’t far from Lord Talivin’s estate. I’ll meet you there once I’ve finished my makeup.”

  “Let’s get all this crap over the wall and split up,” instructed Cyriana. “Since none of us can con our way past a trusting barmaid, we’ll keep the armor in our sacks and dress later. Thorkell, don’t keep us waiting.”

  *

  Cyriana fastened the sword belt to her waist and donned a helm sprouting black and white plumes. “Damn, I feel untouchable. No wonder all legionaries have a strut in their step.”

  “Am I the only one who thinks it’ll be enjoyable as hell to stroll the avenues like this?” inquired Maylene.

  Baskaran unsheathed his gladius and grinned like a fool. “No, you aren’t.”

  Cyriana heard faint rustling and spied Thorkell wandering across the vacated courtyard. She whispered his name and he jogged nearer through lamplight spilling into the connecting passage. Had he consciously masked his telltale walk, Cyriana might not have even recognized the man.

  Scarring crisscrossed a face with darkened complexion as though he spent too many days beneath the blistering southern sun. Habitually fastidious hair spilled in tangles and looked to have a strained relationship with combs. A strange thought, since Thorkell confessed to carrying one in his pocket at all times for grooming emergencies. Unabashed as ever, he stripped to his loincloth, gave a suggestive wink to Maylene and wiggled into a pristine white tunic and dark trousers.

  Baskaran and Desin helped put his armor on while Maylene fetched the final cloak. Thorkell tightened vambraces on both forearms and draped crimson fabric over his shoulders. Once he finished lacing leather boots beneath iron greaves, Maylene smacked the officer’s helmet against his chest.

  “Change of plans,” said Cyriana. “Desin, find a comfy spot and perch here with our clothes.”

  “I can’t get drunk tonight?”

  “You weren’t going to anyways, remember? But feel free to use Thorkell’s effects for an arse pillow. Now then, time to leave this little nook. Company march.”

  Thorkell wore an irate scowl with practiced grace and halted a hairsbreadth from her face. “You presume to give orders here, soldier?”

  “Crap, the moment’s ruined. Our false-facer is in character.”

  “You’re addressing First Archos Telinvar Malren.”

  “Couldn’t have made yourself only an archos, huh?” Cyriana questioned. “You had to command an entire cohort.”

  Thorkell waggled a finger at the scarlet and black plumes adorning his helm. “A single red feather means archos; red and black together means first archos. Since this is what I’m wearing, I have no choice in the rank. A fortunate thing at least somebody here is clever enough to know the difference.”

  “Ah, so for the first time this isn’t you being cocky?”

  Thorkell vanished once more, replaced by an aggravating officer speaking in a harsh accent native to the Empire’s western provinces. “One more word out of your foul mouth that isn’t, ‘Yes, sir’ and I’ll have you digging latrine trenches until the day snow falls in Asdor.”

  “Don’t legionaries here shit in cushy barracks?” inquired Maylene. “And snow falls practically year round in the Halinsa Mountains.”

  “Silence!”

  “Fine.” Cyriana lifted a hand and beckoned to the roadway. “Lead on, oh wise First Archos.”

  “The legions beat sarcasm from uppity recruits like you. I’ll devise an apt punishment once we’re through with Lord Talivin. I promise you that.”

  “And I’ll make you pay for your own seafood.”

  Thorkell glowered and snapped his cloak, treading at a brisk pace toward empty roadways. Cyriana felt flickering disappointment no wandering locals crossed their path. Decked out as legionaries and feeling sacrosanct, yet the façade wavered with no one to cower at the sight. Her first taste wielding feared authority, albeit entirely imaginary, and not a soul to oppress. After kidnapping and gagging two unlucky actors to acquire armor, the notion saddened Cyriana.

  She held pace alongside Maylene with Thorkell in the lead, his billowing cloak brushing against her thighs amid long strides. As promised, the distance separating Hangman Round from the sadistic aristocrat was slight. A grand estate awaited within walled grounds illuminated by ample lamplight. No thief could slink through the darkness here, for there was none to be found.

  Two guards adorned in quilted tabards and chain mail stood watch outside a gate plated with gold. Dull light glimmered atop iron pikes held in gauntleted hands, their garments emblazoned with three acorns in a diagonal row. The underwhelming crest for House Talivin, Cyriana presumed.

  Thorkell strode over smoothed flagstones without slowing. One bored man leaning against his pike jerked straighter and smacked an elbow into his companion. Cyriana relished the uncertainty and meek expressions on the house guards as their eyes focused on approaching legionaries. She reconsidered her earlier regrets; this might indeed prove entertaining. Both men recovered and puffed their chests with reasonable swiftness, desperate to seem tough opposite Draugan troops.

  Unwilling to wait for hired lackeys to offer greeting, the contemptuous Thorkell spoke first. “I require a word with Lord Maynard Talivin.”

  “His lordship is in bed asleep,” answered one man.

  “I know damned well where he is at this hour. Go wake him.”

  The other guard scratched his throat through a dark beard. “Lord Talivin will be displeased if he’s bothered.”

  “Ponder carefully before answering my question. Am I a solicitor begging for patronage or a representative of your shithole country’s ruling government?”

  “A representative—”

  “You’re damn straight I am.” Thorkell leaned close until Cyriana wagered his breath washed over the recalcitrant guard’s face. “Now prance into his abode and bring him to me. Or I’ll convey my displeasure to Justiciar Falani, who happens to be a personal friend to Praefectus Sithel, that Lord Talivin is obstructing an Imperial investigation and harboring suspect allegiances.”

  “No!” he choked, reeling as though struck. “That is, what I mean to say is his lordship is happy to cooperate in any way he can. Ain’t a man in Ercora more staunch supporting the Empire. A loyal servant, is Lord Talivin.”

  “Aye, loyal,” echoed the other. “Justiciar Falani knows it, she does.”

  “If I find that to be the case,” mused Thorkell, “I co
uld likewise pass along compliments regarding your lord’s accommodating behavior.”

  The beardless sentinel whacked his compatriot and jabbed a thumb toward the estate. “You heard the First Archos. Go and wake his lordship so he can show how cooperative he is.”

  “You’d best pray your master is sufficiently swift,” Thorkell warned, watching the man depart. “Being made to wait puts me in a sour mood.”

  Cyriana cleared her throat to silence a budding chortle in response to the false-facer’s thoroughly unnecessary threat. Thorkell appeared to be enjoying his role to its fullest, amused at his constant efforts to make lowly guards squirm. Slick beads budded on the solitary sentry’s face as time crept past in silence and Thorkell refused to withdraw his stare.

  Finally a figure emerged from the manor wearing simple clothing and trailed by the chastised house guard. Shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, he seemed unable to muster a shred of dignity. Talivin by contrast wore an irritated frown with such practiced ease Cyriana wondered if it was perhaps his regular expression.

  The haughty patrician eyed feathers decorating Thorkell’s helm and some ire melted from his face, though an imperious sneer remained. Cyriana permitted herself a moment to fantasize wiping it off his face with a harsh backhand.

  “Let no one say I’m an unfaithful subject,” Talivin declared. “But what reason could you conjure that justifies waking me?”

  “I have come here to collect something from you,” responded Thorkell.

  “Oh? Pray tell, what might I possibly have in my possession that warrants parading onto my grounds in the dead of night? Can this not wait until a reasonable hour?”

  “Eloran Restul from Mellenere.”

  To his credit Talivin did not betray the slightest hint of surprise or guilt. “That cretin my disrespectful nephew hired to forge papers excluding me from inheriting? I never saw the bastard before he fled from Ercora and I haven’t an inkling why you’ve come here tonight.”

  “The Draugan justiciar is aware you’re holding him beneath your estate in blatant contravention of Imperial law. Though a wanted criminal, he is a Mellenerian citizen and therefore a subject of the Empire. He is entitled to a verdict decided in a court of law, not a farcical one decreed by an affronted noble.”