Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Forty Five: Debts

"I feel sick."

Arlen grimaced at the chair behind Lord Eril's desk. It was cushioned with cloth of gold, and the frame was set with countless precious gems. This was the state room; the head of house had a less ostentatious office for very private matters down the corridor, but the kind of thing Arlen was looking for was probably here if it was anywhere. Silas, who had been picking through a cupboard like he was scared the contents would explode, whipped round with a hunted look at the sound of Arlen's voice.

"People starve every day," Arlen muttered. "And this prat is having a tea break on that monstrosity. It's not even tasteful. He might as well go round the slums and spit on people."

"Then laugh about it," Silas muttered. He moved onto another cabinet.

Arlen hadn't wanted to bring Silas, but the boy was invaluable for this particular task; as the baron Ethred's favourite acolyte, he had spent a lot of time in the house temple, and knew his way around like the back of his hand. He knew how long Eril would spend at the festival and how much he would drink, just in case they were caught short and had to hide. Inebriated people took a lot less time to fall asleep and provide an escape window. According to Silas, Eril had a habit of getting thoroughly wasted.

If all else failed, Usk was outside, armed to the teeth with firecrackers.

With another noise of disgust, Arlen dismissed the desk, making sure to arrange the papers on it the way he'd found them. He could hear noise from the festival from there, despite the thick stone walls of the temple. He wished he was out in it, wreaking havoc and stealing from the rich in the short time they weren't holed away in their heavily-secured estates. The previous year, he and Jesper had had a competition to see how many beer glasses they could steal from inns while the staff were run off their feet. Arlen had won at twenty-three tankards and two barrels of mead from one inn before someone had noticed they had any missing. They had then proceeded to get smashed on stolen alcohol in the garden of some minor lordling's townhouse, leaving all the tankards and the mess for the owners to explain.

Instead he was digging through the office of a man with more money than sense, trying to find something to kill him with.

"What about this?"

Silas backed out from one of the cupboards, which was so deep he had clambered inside to reach the back. He was clutching a large glass bottle and looked faintly repulsed.

"Oh-ho," Arlen scoffed, and couldn't keep from laughing. "The pious head of House Orthan, storing the liquor of sin within his own temple. My, my."

Demonfire was a heavily distilled spirit made from fruit that only grew in the scrub forests outside the city. It was as potent as liquor came while still being remotely drinkable, though Arlen had known a man who died trying to finish a bottle of it in one sitting.

It was only made by Nict priests, cost a small fortune, and was banned in the Reach. The Devils dealt in it, and the house kept it so secret they were never connected, which meant Eril had either been buying it from Marick or was investing in production. Both would land him in prison. If Marick hadn't been so clear that Eril was to die, Arlen might have just laid a trail to the contraband for Harkenn's soldiers to find.

It didn't mean he couldn't scare the man a little first.

"That's perfect," he said, taking the bottle. It was still almost full. "Good job finding that one."

He realised his mistake when Silas lit up like the Night Fire. He scrambled to cover it up, but the damage had been done. He could feel it.

"Let's get out of here," he said brusquely.