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.
Jarle crossed several courtyards behind a lane of closed shops. The closest building from Ca'd'Cel was a wine shop whose walled parcel contained a vine-choked pergola. He scrambled over a stack of barrels to reach the second-floor balcony. From there, he balanced on the railing, grabbed hold of the gutter downpipe, and pulled himself to the roof.
Crouched against the shop's chimney, he stared at the boughs that towered above his head. The highest limbs of the elm appeared too frail to bear the weight of a child, let alone a man. Many nights he had sat in the same spot wondering about the risks and the riches.
Months before announcing her betrothal to the Jarle of Reyza, Tan'os dangled his daughter like a bit of juicy meat on a hook. Tales of the Thrommish princess' beauty reached far. In hopes of gaining favor, Chaian chieftains sent caravans laden with sheep, Seh'nahiel lords the rarest jewels. A near endless procession of starry-eyed merchants and nobles flocked to the Vise's villa never suspecting her hand had already been promised. Dejected suitors soon found themselves in the dens of courtesans or bawdy taverns, drinking and wagging their tongues.
The stories they told of their experiences in the Ensther household grew more exaggerated with every inebriated retelling. By the time the gossip reached Jarle's ears, every barmaid and housewife in Reyza vowed Avaren was a watery abomination with fish tails for legs. The sea witch, they claimed, ensorcelled every man who laid eyes on her.
Jarle emerged from his hiding place and crawled to the edge of the roof. Every muscle and sinew tensed as Jarle eased himself over the branches and let go. His stomach dropped as the bough dipped beneath his weight sending a shower of yellow leaves spiraling in the breeze. One slow handhold after another, he crept toward Avaren's balcony on the second floor. He was nearly to the veranda when heavy footsteps resounded from the flagstones below. Directly beneath him, two mercenaries paused for conversation.
"I wish I were that spineless Jarle Rigo right about now," said one guard as he stuffed a smoking pipe.
"Don't invite such misery on yourself, Daber," scoffed the other. "At least you know in which hole to put your cock! All the finery in the world wouldn't be worth the buggery."
"The king will learn soon enough once he weds a proper woman."
The men chuckled as the one named Daber struck an emberstem and lit the pipe. A rich, woodsy smell filled the air as the soldier spoke again, "I wager the betrothal caused a beef between Rigo and that ass-licking Dessian cunt he carries on with!"
"No doubt! No one likes the Northman, but they like the Dessian even less." He puffed before continuing, "The shark-eyed prick is bad news."
"Aye, he is. The Vise can't stand the sight of him, but he doesn't much like anyone who goes against his will, least of all his daughter."
"Say what you want, but Ensther pays us better than the miserly lot of this city. As for Avaren"—the guard crossed himself—"Cel redeem my soul, I would risk being turned into a lizard for one night between her scaly legs!"
After some hushed laughter, the guards resumed their rounds. The maille clinked in time with their steps as they split up, each moving toward a corner of the garden.
Jarle seized the opportunity and landed on the balcony. He stooped to one side of the glass doors and studied the room. Upon finding no trip wires, sigils, flasks, or anything which might be a trap, he dug into his pockets and retrieved the case which held his lockpicks. After brief prodding, the lock clicked open, and the door swung.
Jarle entered the moonlit room and closed the door behind him.
Avaren's bedchamber displayed the trappings of coddled femininity. Carved beams painted in pastel hues arched to a vaulted, gold-leafed ceiling. From the center of the dome hung an exquisite chandelier whose blown-glass arms held shades in the shapes of lilies. Against the left wall, stood a wooden bed ample enough for four. In front of the footboard rose an armoire. Deeper in the gloom, a painted room divider partially concealed a vanity.
As Jarle moved into the room, his eyes fell on the pale young woman on the bed. Avaren lay on her back with an arm carelessly tossed over her head and another over the curve of her belly. Long, lustrous hair the color of starlight framed the beautiful lines of her shoulders. Dark summits crowned the pearly, firm hills of her breasts, and her hips flowed out from a slim waist. The smoothness of her skin was unbroken, save for a dainty gold chain around her hipbones.
Irilio often proclaimed that love was a dirty trick played on men to ensure the continuation of the species, but as he stared at her, indifference fell from him like a loose garment. Finally, he understood the passion that inflamed her admirers. He imagined what it would be like to suckle the hollow of her shoulder; lick her neck; kiss her lovely mouth.
The longer he gazed at her nakedness, the more intoxicated he became. The air, suddenly suffused with a delightful sweetness, threatened to strip him of control. Blood rushed to his loins with the force of the waves that pounded Reyza's jetties. His entire body thrummed with a fierce, almost uncontrollable desire to plunder her; to break her open roughly and ride her until his heart gave out.
Bel be damned! He was not risking life and limb to gawk at nubile flesh! He was there for different booty.
Jarle turned away from the sleeping girl and walked across the room. Behind the painted triptych he spied a giant bathtub carved with reliefs of nymphs and tritons. Next to the tub stood a console stocked with folded towels, sponges and toiletries. Vials containing bath oils, perfumes, salts and sweet-smelling herbs vied for attention. Though faint, he smelled shadowhazel from the moors, chinthistle from Terranakis, cottonbush ground with cinnamon and cloves, rare rainflower from the steppes of A'diel, and a medley of other delights. In the hands of an astute fence, the fragrances could fetch a fortune.
Constructed of black wood and inlaid with onyx, the vanity shone like a polished jewel. Upon the table's marble top lay a silver-handled brush and two jeweled combs. Jarle slipped the trinkets into his pocket before testing the drawers. The first held various jars of colored powder, soft circular pads, and small cosmetic brushes. The second and third were locked.
Jarle tinkered with the locked drawer. He nudged the tiny tumblers with a pick until, with a resounding click, the drawer slid open. A choker with gems resembling burning coals and a fire opal necklace with matching earrings rested on a velvet cushion. He pocketed the jewels and began to work on the last drawer. Beads of sweat broke on his forehead as the tumblers mocked his best set of lockpicks and years of expertise.
Jarle cursed under his breath. Short of smashing the thing and waking the entire house, the only alternative was locating the key. Unexpectedly, the realization struck him. Avaren slept naked, save for one piece of jewelry which remained well-hidden during her waking hours—a belly chain.
Jarle approached the bed. In the scant light, the delicate fetter glimmered upon the gentle swell of Avaren's belly. Pressed against her side, he noticed a small heart-shaped key.
From a pocket, he withdrew a pair of snips. The blades cut the chain with ease, but before he could swipe the key Avaren shifted. The girl turned to her side, offering a full view of her exposed buttocks.
Rooted to her bedside, like a youth catching his first glimpse of cunny, Jarle felt the tingle of magic upon his tongue. An eternity passed before his fingers clutched the key.
Gods have mercy! He was losing his mind.
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