The Unseen Hand

Ch 2: Jarle of Shadows

Venedi, Seventh of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel

Jarle skirted the counter at the back of the tavern and headed upstairs to his room on the fourth floor. Once inside, he barred the door and opened the travel trunk at the foot of his bed. A jumble of clothes hid a secret compartment containing the unsavory parts of his life.

He removed his calfskin pants and boots and threw them in the chest. He then lifted the false bottom to reveal the tools of his trade. Eight daggers lay atop a suit of leather armor fitted with dozens of pockets. Dyed black with crushed graveborer husks, the leather was well oiled and supple. Next to the armor, rested a pair of knee-high boots with padded soles to maximize stealth and a bandolier with a myriad of vials along its length.

Jarle lay his gear on the bed and took inventory of the items in his pockets: Copper wire, hand-tooled hacksaws, hooks, files, lockpicks, snips, limewood strips, rolled tar paper, a waterproof case of flint and tinder, caltrops, emberstems, and a few hundred sequins worth of gemstones.

Pleased all was in its proper place, he slipped on boothose, followed by the breeches. He squatted and stretched, then slowly adjusted his calf and thigh laces until the pants fit comfortably. He tucked his black silk shirt into his waistband, then donned his boots. The cuirass, pauldrons, and arm harnesses required the most adjustment. For a while, he lunged, twisted and crouched until every piece felt right.

Jarle buckled his weapon belt. He slid two throwing dirks into each vambrace and a dagger in each boot. Lastly, he grabbed his bandolier, slung it over one shoulder and secured it to his chest. A sense of relief washed over him as he ran his fingers over the corked bottles. In all the years stealing for the Mistress of Rats, nothing brought him closer to the grave than a sip of poisoned wine. By the grace of the gods, he survived and vowed never to be unprepared again. Over time he learned all he could about dangerous substances, their symptoms, and their cures. The obsession had cost him a fortune.

At the open window, Jarle drew his dagger and pointed to a distant villa nestled in the shadow of a shrine. Shutting one eye, he focused on his mark. The villa's dilapidated coral stucco facade appeared unremarkable—a deception by design. Ca'd'Cel was the home of Tan'os Ensther, a Thrommish fortune-seeker who had risen to Vise and was second in command to Jarle Rigo Iarris, sovereign of Reyza. Robbing the Northman would either kill him or make him rich. The time to change his life had come.

Sheathing the blade, Jarle climbed out the window and dropped down to the roof of an adjacent laundry house. His feet scarcely made a sound as he crossed the building and vaulted over an alley to land on a crumbling belvedere. He clambered up the brickwork and pulled himself to the portico of a burnt-out villa.

Clouds driven by a chilly autumn breeze rolled overhead. Moving with the shifting shadows, Jarle sidestepped the dark patches of collapsed masonry, then jumped down on a warehouse. The city and its sounds became a blur as he ran along the rooftops of the web of alleys known as the Tangles. Past Old Gate, he threaded into the heart of the merchant quarter.

Upon reaching the dome of a Venestrae shrine, Jarle paused to survey the estate. Ca'd'Cel occupied a rectangular parcel between two cobbled streets. A moss-covered wall twice as high as a man encircled the secluded garden. On either side of the villa grew two ancient elms whose gnarled branches extended over the street. On the manor's roof, two guards armored in maille paced back and forth on the parapets while a crossbowman eyed the alley below. In the cloistered yard, the glint of steel suggested the presence of at least four men.

Jarle tied his shoulder-length hair at the base of his neck with a leather cord. He smoothed stray strands behind his ears before slipping on a black hood that concealed most of his face. He uncoiled a length of rope he had stashed on the rooftop days ago and bound it to a marble finial. Working quickly, he pulled a small figure eight from his pocket and attached it to the cord. He tossed the line behind the rear of the temple and rappelled down into a walled patio. He unhooked the metal descender and cast the rope over the shrine's ivy-covered ramada. By the time anyone discovered his tracks, he would be long gone.