For years, the faceless terror known as the Hand of Fate has been secretly manipulating the port city of Reyza for her shadowy ends. Those she favors rise in status while those who betray her are never heard from again. When the opportunity to elimi...
A zephyr carried the scent of the southern ocean over the darkened ramparts of Ca'd'Cel. Captain Varrus Sigolian inhaled the crisp air and surrendered to the urge that had seduced him since sunset. Clad in burnished maille, the head of security of House Ensther approached the low wall that surrounded the southeastern parapet with a casual swagger earned over many military campaigns. He peered down into the cloistered garden, scanning the shadows beyond the torchlight.
Varrus chuckled without mirth. He knew before looking that there would be no sign of the intruder.
Four of his men paced along the rows of winter roses and conical topiaries, their armored footsteps keeping time with Varrus' calm heart. As expected, the night was quiet.
Varrus eased his grip on the stone wall and let out a long breath. His future depended upon the skills of his mysterious partner.
Jars! What kind of name was that for a rogue? Varrus shook his head. The man's street name conjured images of pottery and spices, not burglary, but what did he know? In a city known as much for its thieves as its merchants, a man's most valuable asset was his reputation and Jars certainly had one.
Varrus had met Jars twice in the Silver Pig, a back-alley tavern in the Tangles where they'd discussed the particulars of the scheme. Jars had preferred the darkest corner of the barroom and remained hooded during their brief meetings. The rogue had refused libation and became ill-tempered with idle conversation. When Varrus pressed him for information or made suggestions, Jars threatened to call off the heist. The interactions left Varrus feeling vulnerable, but opportunities to acquire wealth the likes of which was locked away in Avaren Ensther's bedroom were as rare as finding a virtuous woman in a brothel. Varrus had little choice but to trust the coin he had spent investigating Jars' renown.
The captain rested his foot between two stone merlons. He wasn't worried about the consequences of discovery. Death was a risk he had accepted twenty years prior when he took the vows of a Calantian mercenary. The nervous twinge in Varrus' belly was fueled by the anticipation of living in the lap of luxury for the rest of his days.
Years of conflict and mayhem serving at the heels of savage warlords or arrogant nobles had made him forget the simple pleasures of country life. Varrus smiled, daydreaming of the estate he would buy when he returned home to Calantia. He imagined a verdant valley with neatly planted rows of lemon trees, birds flitting through the groves and the smell of citrus upon the evening breeze. How many nights had he lain awake in his tent on the eve of battle, dreaming of a lemon plantation in Lugace Valley? Too many.
Two guardsmen adorned with the blue and silver livery of Thromm approached the pensive captain. The shimmering scales of their armor clinked with their steps.
Varrus maintained his vigil on the cloister as the men neared. He sensed their questions before they asked. "There is nothing to see," said Varrus.
One of the men, a sergeant of some thirty seasons with a bristle of closely cropped gray hair, sidled up to his leader. "The hour grows late," the burly man observed as he peeked over the edge. "Do you think it has happened yet?"
All thoughts of lemons banished by the intrusion, Varrus' features twisted into a scowl. His sergeant was a born scrapper, a man with a brutal temperament, quick to throw fists. Cassio had the appearance of a badger given human form. "Care to go inside and see for yourself?"
Cassio aimed his uncocked crossbow at the garden below—curiosity was pointless, the die had been cast. "My apologies."
"Not necessary, old friend," Varrus said, turning his eyes from the black horizon to face Cassio, "you only give voice to what is in my mind as well."
The other guardsman, a young man of twenty summers with shoulder-length brown hair, lifted his eyes up towards the star-spangled sky. A long sigh slipped from his lips. Betrayal was proving to be a difficult meal to digest.
"Second thoughts, Brath?" asked Varrus.
"None, Uncle—I mean, sir!" replied Brath.
"Out with it." Varrus crossed his arms as he fixed his gaze on his nephew.
"It's just..." Brath's cheeks reddened. "Are you certain Avaren will not be harmed?"
Cassio's laugh was cut short when Varrus dug an elbow into his side. "For the last time, this Jars is a thief, not a murderer. Your sweetheart will sleep through everything and awaken untouched and intact with a few less baubles." Brath's cheeks flushed hot with the taunt as his uncle continued, "I am worried about you, Brath. Are you going soft? Are you weak-kneed over some split-tailed minx who is beyond your grasp? Will your resolve falter when the justiciar starts asking questions about the robbery?"
Brath bristled. "Uncle, you need not fear my resolve. It remains as firm as tempered steel."
"For our sake, I hope that is true." Varrus appraised the boy. Although a loyal soldier, his nephew was still wet behind the ears. "In a few hours, there will be chaos. We must all be sure of our tale. The Lord Justiciar's questioning will be relentless; a single missed detail can be our undoing. Never has the Vise of Reyza's home been robbed, let alone under the noses of his trusted guard. If we are to have silk scarves around our throats instead of nooses, our discipline must not falter."
Cassio said, "Varrus, we have been more diligent than tax collectors in lean times. The house guards march their rounds with a precision that would make a clocksmith envious. Aside from the palace, there is no better-guarded villa in Reyza. Even so, no household is impervious. I doubt that anyone will discover a gap in our timing or detect any deviation in our duties. Any investigation will determine that the Guard of Ca'd'Cel performed with exacting discipline."
Glancing over his shoulder, Varrus sniffed, "It is not outsiders or investigations that cause me concern, Cassio."
Brath's anger flared. "I assure you, Uncle, I will play my part. I shall do both you and our family proud."
"Of course, you shall, nephew," Varrus said, "but only if you do exactly as I have instructed. Say nothing save what we rehearsed, and we will return to Calantia rich men, never more to serve as watchdogs for these Northland pricks."
Cassio grinned. "Aye to that!"
"Now return to your rounds before someone notices. It would not do to make a mistake at this moment." Varrus offered his nephew a reassuring smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "Mark my words, we stick to our plan, and within the week we will be homeward bound with this stinking city behind us."
When his men resumed their rooftop patrol, Varrus returned his gaze to the garden's shadows. He knew better than to count sequins before they were in his pocket, but he found it impossible not to daydream. As he inhaled the salty night air, Varrus thought he smelled the scent of lemons.
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