The City of Thieves Read online

  The whole affair ended disastrously. Imogen proved as bloodthirsty as her uncle in her own right. Word of Berengar’s deeds at St. Brigid’s resulted in his excommunication from the church, and only the timely arrival of King Mór’s summons had saved him from having to return to Tara to face the High Queen’s wrath.

  “In the end we prevailed, though the cost was dear.” Godfrey bowed his head.

  “Aye.” Berengar stared off, and for a moment the only sound in the refectory was the pitter-patter of rain outside the monastery.

  Godfrey raised his goblet. “To Rose and Evander.”

  “To Rose.” The pair clinked goblets, and Berengar took a swig of ale. “Any news of Saroise?”

  “I believe she was headed north.”

  “And Lady Imogen?”

  “The last I heard, Imogen had cleared the trees around Móin Alúin and drained the swamp. The land is changing, Berengar. New roads and settlements sprout up all the time. Now I believe you owe me a story. What brings the Bear Warden back to Leinster?”

  Berengar downed another mouthful. “Not much of a story. Some of Imogen’s soldiers massacred the hobgoblins near Alúine and stole the thunder rune I gave them. Morwen and I are looking for the person who hired them.”

  “And you tracked them here?” Godfrey scratched his beard. “They’d be fools to come within ten miles of Dún Aulin. There are monster hunters everywhere, and most folk would gladly string up anyone with even the slightest whiff of magic.”

  Morwen watched Godfrey with interest. “What about you?”

  The friar laughed. “My dear child, I believe everyone has magic of a sort. It simply takes different forms.”

  “Very wise.” Morwen leaned closer to Berengar. “I like him.”

  “Still, if it’s goblins you’re looking for, you might ask Tavish, the head of the city watch. Perhaps his scouts have seen something. The Brotherhood is also said to be a good source of information—provided it’s not about one of their contracts and you’re willing to pay.”

  Berengar exchanged a glance with Morwen. “We’ve run afoul of the Brotherhood before. I prefer to avoid them if possible.”

  “Understood. You could always try a bard. That lot seem to know everything that happens around here—puts most innkeepers to shame, I’d say. The Revels have drawn a fair number to the city.”

  Morwen’s brow arched. “The Revels?”

  “An annual celebration of the arts. Men and women come from across Fál to see the greatest poets, musicians, and bards compete for the golden quill. The contest lasts the whole month. Don’t know why they bothered holding it this year, though. Jareth has won the competition three years straight.”

  Morwen looked to Berengar, intrigued.

  “Don’t get too excited. We don’t have time to waste listening to a bunch of storytellers. We have a job to do.” Berengar had a particular dislike of bards, who wove truth and lies together to suit their stories. More often than not, the truth was bad enough as it was.

  He resumed eating and spent the remainder of the meal in silence while Morwen peppered Godfrey with questions about himself and the monastery. It amused Berengar to see someone else subjected to the weight of her curiosity for a change, but the priest took each question in stride.

  “We can resupply when the rains pass,” Berengar told Morwen when he finished his meal. “We’ll spend the night here and set out in the morning.” It was early, but he wanted to be sharp and well-rested when they entered the city. In the meantime, they could ask around Kilcullen and see if anyone had heard of the goblins.

  Godfrey refilled Berengar’s goblet and returned to his seat. “You would do well to leave early. The guards are inspecting everyone entering the city, and it can take hours to get through the lines.”

  “Why so much traffic?” Berengar accepted the goblet. “Is it on account of the Revels or the bishop’s death?”

  Godfrey’s brow furrowed, and he looked from Berengar to Morwen with increasing incredulity. “You mean you don’t know?”

  Berengar frowned. “Know what?”

  “The people are coming for the Ceremony of the Cursed Blade. It’s been thirteen years. In four days’ time, the most dangerous relic in Fál will be on display.”

  Chapter Three

  “The cursed blade,” Morwen muttered. “What strange turn of fate has led us here.”

  Torchlight flickered across the refectory’s stone walls. Thunder reverberated outside the monastery, causing Faolán to stir at Berengar’s feet.

  The sword used by Azeroth in his conquest of Fál. It was a famous weapon, even to Berengar, whose knowledge of most things magical in nature was limited at best. “What’s so important about a broken blade?”

  Morwen appeared taken aback by the idea he would even entertain such a question. “Even broken, it’s no ordinary blade. The sword is one of four treasures forged by the Tuatha dé Dannan.”

  Godfrey shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The four lost treasures—magical objects of great power scattered across Fál. I thought they were a myth.”

  “The sword is no myth.” A chill settled over the chamber, and Morwen shivered and held her hands out to the hearth for warmth. “The fairies called it the Cliamh Solais—the Bright Sword. According to legend, no man could stand before it. Much blood was spilled over the blade, and wars were waged for possession of it.

  “Centuries ago, the sword passed to King Lorc of Leinster, who saw the endless cycle of destruction that followed the blade and attempted to bring peace by other means. Lorc signed a treaty with the fairies that ushered in a time of peace between races unheard of before or since. Every thirteen years, the blade changed hands between Lorc and the fairy queen. It was said the two had fallen in love, and neither would use the sword against the other.

  “The practice continued long after the king’s death, and for centuries the blade went unused—even in times of great need. As the old ways died out and relations between humans and fairies deteriorated, the ceremony continued with the church taking the fairies’ place. Still the blade went unused.”

  Berengar stared into the flames. “Until Azeroth.”

  “Aye. The Lord of Shadows took the blade for himself and corrupted it with dark sorcery. Even without the blade, he was already the most feared sorcerer in Fál. With it in hand…” She shuddered.

  “I know. I was there.” Berengar had first encountered Nora of Connacht during the Shadow Wars, when the queen raised him up and gave him purpose. Nora was made High Queen after the war, and much to everyone’s surprise—including his—she named him as one of her wardens.

  “Queen Nora defeated Azeroth, and the blade was broken in the final battle,” Morwen finished. “Nora returned one of the two shards to Leinster, and the kingdom resumed the ceremony.”

  “And the other shard?”

  Morwen shrugged. “No one knows what happened to it. I suspect Nora hid it to prevent the two shards from being reunited, though only powerful magic could accomplish such a task.”

  Godfrey drained his goblet and set it aside. “For the last thirteen years, the cursed blade has been under the church’s care for safekeeping. It is one of the most closely guarded objects in Fál on account of its power. Even the Brotherhood of Thieves wouldn’t dare lay a hand on it. In four days, the blade will change hands again and be presented to young King Lucien.”

  Berengar wasn’t sure how much of the story he believed. It was often difficult to disentangle truth from exaggeration where legends were concerned. Based on Godfrey’s expression, the friar shared his skepticism. Still, he could see why the ceremony would interest the masses. With the old ways on the decline, such a powerful relic was a link to a long-forgotten past.

  “An interesting story, but we have more important matters to deal with at the moment.” Thanking Godfrey for his hospitality, Berengar pushed away from the table and gestured for Morwen to follow. While the crowds drawn by the ceremony and the Revels would no doubt complicate ef
forts to locate the goblins and their mysterious employer, the cursed blade was no concern of theirs.

  Friar Godfrey remained behind when they set out early the following morning. Although the storm had passed, the sky remained bleak and overcast. Despite the early hour, heavy traffic again blocked their path to the city. Berengar doubted most would-be spectators would ever get close enough to see the cursed blade for themselves. Many probably came to take part in other events and attractions surrounding the ceremony, or to take advantage of the influx of trade and commerce.

  Berengar found himself growing more restless the closer they got to the city. Many years had passed since he last laid eyes on Dún Aulin, but the things he’d witnessed during the riots were forever seared into his mind. He still remembered the scene that greeted his approach. Fattened crows circled overhead. Bodies hung everywhere—from gallows, trees, and the walls themselves—as a warning to any who dared draw near. The waters of the Liffey were red with blood and teemed with bloated corpses. The memories stirred a familiar surge of anger, which earned him a reproachful look from Morwen.

  “We’re close now. You don’t want to lose your temper in front of the guards.”

  “I’ve told you not to go poking around in my head.”

  “I’m not. You give off anger like a fire gives off heat. Anyone with a hint of magic could sense it.”

  “Next!” bellowed one of the guards, and Berengar and Morwen inched closer to the city’s North Gate.

  “How dare you?” A few spots ahead in line, a noble in his early thirties berated another traveler as others looked on. “You’ve gotten mud all over my new clothes.” The noble was tall and well-groomed, and his fine clothes were spotted with mud.

  The other man, a portly farmer in shabby clothes, bowed low and stammered a string of apologies. “Pardons, good sir. Please forgive me.” From the look of things, the farmer’s wagon had splashed over a puddle and sprayed the noble’s carriage with mud. His face reddening by the moment, the farmer hastily reached for his coin pouch. “I don’t have much, but I’d gladly pay what I can to have them cleaned.”

  The noble’s lips curled into a thin sneer. “These clothes were tailored specifically for the Revels. They’re ruined now, and on the final night of the event.”

  “Please, sir, I meant no offense.”

  “Your very presence offends me.” The noble turned to his companions and retainers, as if to belabor some previously discussed point. “I find it offensive that I am made to wait in line with peasants. I am Baron McCullagh, son of Uriens. I think perhaps we should teach this man a lesson about careless manners.” One of McCullagh’s retainers gave the farmer a shove, causing the man to land in the puddle on his backside. McCullagh’s companions laughed heartily.

  The farmer scrambled to find his footing. “Mercy, please! I’m only here to beg the church to bless my little Sophie, sick with St. Anthony’s Fire. She’s just a girl.”

  “I don’t think he’s learned his lesson yet.” McCullagh nodded at his retainers, who advanced toward the farmer.

  “Is there a problem?” Berengar all but growled. The retainers stopped in their tracks.

  McCullagh glared at him. “Stay out of this affair. This isn’t your business.”

  “I’m making it my business.”

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” McCullagh demanded. “I’m—”

  “I heard you the first time. I just don’t care.” He’d killed princes and lords. He certainly wasn’t afraid of some lesser noble. Berengar punched McCullagh in the face. He smirked at the sight of blood gushing from McCullagh’s broken nose. “Looks like you have something new to wear to the Revels.”

  “Don’t just stand there!” McCullagh shouted at his retainers. “Do something.”

  The retainers exchanged nervous glances and chose to keep their distance.

  “Guards!” someone exclaimed, and Berengar saw men in green cloaks approaching through the crowd.

  “Now you’ve done it.” Morwen shot him a dark look before helping the farmer to his feet. “I told you so.”

  Berengar shrugged. “I don’t like bullies.”

  Morwen delved into her satchel and handed the farmer a sealed vial containing a turquoise liquid. “Give this to your daughter when the fits take her. It should help with the convulsions. The disease is caused by a fungus that grows on grains. You should deep plow your fields. Take your yield and submerge it in a brine solution—the healthy grains will sink. In the meantime, keep your daughter away from rye.”

  The farmer bowed low in a show of gratitude. “Many thanks, friends. May the Lord of Hosts bless you and keep you.”

  “You there!” said one of a trio of guards. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Berengar grunted noncommittally. “He slipped.”

  The guard looked from Berengar to McCullagh. “Do you take me for a fool?” He waved a hand dismissively. “Get out of here, the lot of you.”

  “Wait.” Another noticed the potion in the farmer’s hand, and his gaze fell on Morwen’s satchel. “Turn out your things. That’s an order.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Berengar saw Morwen tense as he reached into his cloak, but to her visible relief he produced a coin pouch rather than a weapon. “My friend and I have come a long way to pay our respects to the bishop. We’d be very appreciative if you let us inside the gates.” He offered a handful of silver coins to the guard. “That enough to cover it?”

  The guard eyed the silver with a greedy expression. “For one of us, maybe.”

  Berengar handed each of the guard’s companions the same measure of silver, and the guards motioned them through the lines.

  Once they were through the gate, Berengar held up three gold coins. “This is so you never saw us. Understand?”

  The guard took the coins and handed two to his companions. “Look, friends, at all these coins that have fallen into our pockets by accident. The Lord smiles upon us.” He waved Berengar along. “Many blessings, stranger.”

  “You handled that surprisingly well,” Morwen remarked as they entered the city.

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I don’t solve all my problems with violence.”

  Morwen grinned. “Just most of them.”

  Berengar led his horse down a cobblestone road toward the dense web of packed buildings. The last time he passed through the gates of Dún Aulin, the streets were abandoned. Mobs had reduced whole neighborhoods to ruin and ash, and the smell of smoke and death hung in the air. In contrast, the city he saw before him was vibrant and full of life. Homes and businesses had been rebuilt, and aside from a visibly increased presence on the part of the city guards, there was little evidence of the riots.

  Dún Aulin consisted of a large number of districts, each with its own distinct character. The city streets were paved and well-maintained, except in poorer neighborhoods. There was a new sight to see everywhere he looked. Vendors and merchants of every stripe imaginable peddled their wares in businesses or vending stalls. Musicians and entertainers performed on street corners.

  “Hear me!” a man in sackcloth proclaimed to a crowd of onlookers. “King Mór of Munster is dead at the hand of an assassin’s poison!”

  Although some appeared to have heard the news already, others greeted it with alarm.

  “King Mór welcomed monsters and cavorted with witches. He even kept a magician as a member of his court. Is it any wonder he invited divine judgment upon himself?”

  Morwen stared with clenched teeth at the street preacher, and her hands balled into fists at the insult to her father. “If I hadn’t vowed to use my magic only for good, I’d show him some divine judgment…”

  The preacher continued. “Give thanks for the wisdom of good King Lucien, young though he may be. Let us pray our prince regent repents of his sins and follows his nephew’s example.”

  Although the five kings and queens of Fál—the Rí Ruirech—were sworn to Nora, each was largely left to rule his or her own realm as
they saw fit. Beneath these overkings were the Rí Tuaithe, underkings who wore iron crowns. Lucien, like the monarchs of Ulster, Meath, Connacht, and Munster, wore a silver crown. Only the High Queen wore a crown of gold.

  Leinster’s current monarch was Lucien, a boy-king of twelve who had not yet come of age. He was said to be a devout follower of the Lord of Hosts, though Berengar had no idea if the stories were true or wishful thinking on the part of Leinster’s populace. In contrast, Prince Tristan, who ruled as regent, was anything but pious. Tristan was an open drinker, gambler, and womanizer who preferred merriment to governance. Despite his many vices, the people loved him, much to the consternation of the church—which also had a hand in governing the realm.

  “Let’s go, Morwen. We have better things to do.”

  Her mood improved as the street preacher’s voice receded behind them. “Why is it called the City of Thieves? There’s so much more here than the Brotherhood.”

  “Thieves take many forms. Dún Aulin is the most corrupt city in the five kingdoms. Much of the city watch is in the Brotherhood’s pocket. The Church of Fál levies heavy fines and taxes on the populace in addition to those imposed by the crown.”

  “So much for piety.”

  “Aye. There are plenty of true believers, but there are also those who pay homage to faith with their lips while their actions say otherwise.” On the surface, Dún Aulin was a shining example of holiness to the rest of Fál, but there was a shady underground operating just beneath the surface.

  The multitudes grew the farther they advanced into the city, and while the roads were a good deal wider than those in Kilcullen, the influx of travelers resulted in congested lanes. Berengar blended into the crowd and kept his head down to avoid drawing unwanted attention. Fortunately, despite his size and scars, most passersby appeared too preoccupied to take note of him.

  “Stay close to me. We need to stick together while we’re here. I don’t want you wandering off.”

  Morwen, apparently still cross over the remarks about her father, sounded vaguely irritated by the warning. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. In case you’ve forgotten, I was Munster’s court magician long before you came along. In fact, I could probably handle this whole affair without your help.”