The Smoke Thieves Series, Book 1

  Edyon felt a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. The nearest caravan belonged to Stone, another trader, a rival of Edyon’s mother. Like all traveling merchants, Stone journeyed between towns in a highly decorated personal caravan: luxurious, comfortable, with plenty of cushions and silk. But the valuable merchandise—artwork, precious rugs, and ornaments—was kept in these larger, heavier transport caravans. And these caravans were always guarded. In fact, all the caravans, from the simple kitchen transports to the luxury personal ones, were guarded, because at the fairs there were always people willing to take an opportunity to steal food, a cooking pot, or a precious casket.

  Edyon knew this because, in his time, he’d stolen all those things.

  Stone’s was a typical transport caravan, wooden and plain, with sides that could fold down for large items to be put on or taken off. At the rear was a small wooden door, which was locked at all times to ensure the contents were secure. Except the door to Stone’s caravan wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even shut properly. Edyon could almost see inside. He could see inside, but only a sliver of the dark red carpet rich with silk and wool and luxuriously soft—the fabric of far lands.

  You must make a choice. And thievery is not always the wrong one . . .

  To leave an open caravan unguarded was a dismissible offense. But perhaps there was a guard inside. Edyon’s brow furrowed. He ought to check. He strolled forward to the caravan, peered in to see if there was someone inside—there was no one—and before he could think about it he’d stepped up through the door, pulling it closed behind him.

  As easy as that.

  It was warm and gloomy inside the caravan. The roof was slatted, with canvas drawn tightly across the wooden beams, so that the glow of sunlight threw barred shadows across everything. The noises of the fair were muffled, like sounds from another world, and Edyon took a few moments to enjoy being there, surrounded by possibilities. Then he began looking. He was never sure what he was looking for, but he would know it when he saw it.

  Edyon was methodical, swift, and careful in his search. He’d been brought up around these objects, able to unwrap and rewrap a statue in no time. He could tell the value with little more than a glance, but he wasn’t interested in that. The right thing would speak to him when he held it, and then it would be impossible for him to put it back. It would be something he needed, something he had to take, though the need never lasted and after a few days it would lose its charm; once it was his, he no longer wanted it, was even disgusted by it, and by himself. He always got rid of the things he stole: gave some away, dropped others in alleys or woods. He’d only ever sold two things that he’d stolen, which had made him feel sick and guilty, and though he’d given the money to a beggar it hadn’t made him feel better. Once he even put a picture back in the home he’d stolen it from, though it had made him shake with fear at the thought of being caught. Strange, as he was never afraid when he was stealing, but always buzzing, as now. But, even so, he wasn’t sure he stole for the thrill of it; it was just something he had to do. Some men were drinkers, others womanizers; he was a thief.

  Edyon worked his way through the caravan, opening and closing boxes, unwrapping and rewrapping objects, and had got over halfway round before he found it.

  A tiny silver ship.

  It sat on his hand as if about to set to sea. The sail was a fine silver sheet, and the cargo hatch opened to reveal . . . well, nothing, but perhaps it was intended to hold coins or—yes!—a small candle: the sides of the ship and the stern were dotted with tiny portholes through which the light would make a pattern. It was fine work but worth little, a silly ornament, yet Edyon was instantly in love with it. He kissed the prow of the boat and whispered, “You’re mine.”

  “And you, matey, are mine.”

  Edyon turned to find a burly guard behind him and another, burlier guard looking through the doorway.

  Edyon froze. The ship floated on the palm of his hand, its prow pointing to the door and the guards blocking it. Trying to run seemed like a bad option, but there weren’t many good ones.

  “Neither of you gentlemen are foreign, are you?”

  “You what?”

  “That’s a relief.” Edyon needed an excuse quickly and found himself saying, “I’m looking for Stone. I thought I saw him come in.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “We’re acquaintances, Stone and me.”

  “And what’s that in your hand then?”

  Edyon’s eyes widened innocently. “This? Oh, this delightful trinket had fallen out of its packaging. I was just putting it back. It’s quite charming. From Abask, I’d expect, judging from the workmanship. Probably fifty years old.”

  “Double bollocks.”

  “You think it’s older? Or perhaps from Savaant?” Edyon scrutinized the ship closely. “You may be right.” He stepped forward and handed it to the first guard, saying, “Well, as Stone isn’t here, I should be on my way.”

  The guard grabbed a fistful of Edyon’s jacket, crushing the silver ship painfully against his chest. “You need to come to see Mister Stone. Now.” And he threw him out of the caravan.

  Edyon landed on the grass face-first, mud in his mouth.

  “Get up.”

  The order was unnecessary, as the second guard was already pulling him to his feet. People were staring as Edyon was dragged past them; one boy pointed and laughed. Edyon gained momentum in his legs and managed to make them walk. He spat out the mud and was relieved to find his jaw wasn’t broken.

  They arrived at Stone’s tent, and Edyon was told to wipe his boots before going inside. While he felt that in this instance thievery had been the wrong choice, and he was perhaps not on the path to riches, being asked to wipe his boots felt not at all like the sort of thing that would come before pain, suffering, and death, so he was more than happy to cooperate. He’d hardly finished when he was shoved into the tent and pushed down onto his knees, from where he looked up as beseechingly as possible.

  Stone, the pudgy-faced ass, was sitting on one of a pair of very fine mahogany and velvet folding chairs.

  Edyon knew silence was often more powerful than speech.

  The silver ship, bent out of shape from being shoved against Edyon’s chest, was in Stone’s sausage-like fingers.

  “Edyon, Edyon, Edyon.”

  Still best not to speak. Wait to hear the accusation.

  “What will your mother think of this?”

  “This?”

  “Stealing . . . again.”

  “Stealing? No. I think your men have misled you. This is a silly misunderstanding. I thought I saw someone entering your caravan. The door was open, there were no guards around—a gross dereliction of duty—and I followed, in order to investigate. There was no one there, but I happened to notice that charming silver ornament had fallen from its wrapping.”

  Stone sighed heavily. “Please don’t, Edyon. It’s embarrassing.”

  “I’m not sure I’m with you.”

  “As I said before, what will your mother make of it?”

  “She’ll understand I was only trying to help.”

  “Help yourself to my property, you mean?” Stone frowned. “Lying on top of stealing, Edyon. It’s not good.”

  “Your door was open. Your guards were gone. Anyone could have entered that caravan. Fortunately it was only me, Edyon, who picked up the ship to save it from being crushed.”

  Stone put the silver ornament on the table beside him. It fell over.

  “The reason it is crushed is because I have suffered rough treatment from your guards. My face. My jaw. The ship too. All without cause.”

  “Today, a silver boat. Last month, a gold ring. The month before, a picture frame, and before that an Illastian prayer rug. All items missing from my inventory. They were all you, weren’t they, Edyon?”

  “No! Absolutely not.” br />
  Though, in honesty, Edyon wasn’t totally sure. He couldn’t remember ever taking a picture frame, admittedly there was the gold ring, but as for a prayer rug, not recently, though perhaps . . .

  “The next man you try to steal from won’t be so kind and forgiving as me, Edyon.”

  Forgiving? Edyon’s head came up, half-smiling, half-hoping.

  Stone gave another heavy sigh. “I will not tell your mother. You know I am fond of Erin. Genuinely fond.”

  Edyon nodded and waited.

  “I will not tell her, because that is what you will do. Tell your mother that you have been stealing from me. That is your punishment.”

  Edyon couldn’t believe he’d got off that lightly. There was clearly going to be a catch.

  “Well, of course I’ll tell her what happened today.”

  “Oh—and, Edyon, you had better also tell her that the cost of the missing items is fifty kroners. I have not added interest and I use a conservative estimate for what I could have got for the gold ring. You will have her pay me the money by the end of the fair, or I will do to you again, only worse, what is about to happen to you.”

  “What?”

  Stone nodded to the guards. “No permanent damage. This time.”

  “Stone!”

  “Take him.”

  Edyon turned, rose, and then ducked as the guard swung at him with some sort of wooden mallet, so close that Edyon felt the weapon whistle past his cheek. He scrambled toward Stone, thinking to use his table as a shield. But it was too late: the guards were on him, and although he cowered back to protect himself, all this achieved was ensuring the mallet struck his jaw and not his eye.

  He tasted blood and was vaguely aware of the guards hauling him up, and then he saw the field of caravans, and then they were in the trees and the ground was coming up to meet him again. Then he felt a boot in his balls and he doubled up. The men laughed.

  Edyon spat out blood. Was it better to curse them or be quiet? It didn’t matter—he couldn’t form words, though his balls were screaming for him. He took a kick in his back and then another in his stomach, and on his arm and shoulder.

  Edyon waited for another, but it didn’t come.

  He could hear that the men were still there, but at least they’d stopped the kicking. He had a loose tooth and blood in his mouth again, but it wasn’t too bad. His balls were still intact. If they’d just leave him here, he’d be all right.

  “Oi, mate. We’ve got something for you.”

  Edyon looked up. The men had opened their trouser flaps and laughed as they pissed on him.

  MARCH

  DORNAN, PITORIA

  MARCH FOLLOWED the prince’s bastard from the fortune-teller’s tent to a field where rows of plain wooden caravans were lined up. The young man climbed into the back of a caravan, and March was considering going closer to investigate when two large men beat him to it. They emerged from behind the caravan, went inside, pulled the young man out, and threw him to the ground, then dragged him off to a tent so close to his mother’s that March ended up standing twenty paces from Holywell, who came over.

  “We’ll need to act soon,” Holywell said. “Regan is with the mother.”

  “She’s called Erin. The son’s name is Edyon.”

  “Well, with Regan visiting, I think we both know what Daddy’s name is. And right now Regan is in there telling her that he wants to take her son back to see Thelonius.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We talk to Edyon and tell him our version of events before Regan gets him to believe his.”

  “And what is our version of events?”

  “That it’s we who have been sent by Prince Thelonius to find his long-lost son. That we will take him back to his father for a joyous reunion in Calidor. And that he should come with us right now.”

  “And we take him where?”

  “North, by land, to Brigant.”

  “Not exactly the direct route to Calidor.”

  “No. But we can tell him we have a ship in Rossarb. Once there, we’ll have to make him our prisoner, but the farther we get on the journey before having to tie him up, the easier it will be for us all.”

  “We might convince Edyon, but what about his mother? What if Regan was here with Thelonius eighteen years ago? If she knows him, she’ll believe him, not us.”

  “That’s why we need to keep Edyon away from his mother, and away from Regan. That’s your job, March. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” March said, though he wasn’t sure how.

  “And we need to remove Regan from the game, and get hold of the prince’s ring. If we have that, Edyon will believe we’re sent by the prince. Oh, fuck.” Holywell nodded toward the tents. Edyon was being dragged away by the two guards. “They’d better not kill him or no on will be getting anything,” Holywell muttered. “Follow them. I’ll watch for Regan.”

  The guards took Edyon into the woods just beyond the tents, and March followed as casually as he could. It seemed unlikely they were going to hurt him too badly, as they made no attempts to hide the fact they were taking him, but once they were alone they let go of Edyon and he collapsed like a sack of grain. Then they started to kick him.

  March wondered if he should step in, but the kicking wasn’t that bad and March wasn’t inclined to rescue a prince’s son. So he watched as the men cursed Edyon, calling him a thief, a bastard thief, in fact, and Edyon responded by curling up in a ball, which seemed to irritate them. March couldn’t help but smile as the guards laughed, then unhitched their front flaps and pissed on him. When they were finished, they turned and ambled back to the fair.

  March waited until the guards were out of sight and checked no one else was around, but the woods were deserted. Then he walked over. Edyon didn’t move. There was some blood on his jacket along with a lot of piss. His face was dirty with mud, but March was struck by how similar Edyon was to his father: the same light brown wavy hair, the same mouth, and the jaw that same strong jaw. Their build was similar, though Edyon was not heavy with muscle—in fact, he seemed to have no muscle at all—but he was tall, with long legs, and hands like the prince’s, with long, slim fingers.

  Edyon groaned.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re alive!” March tried to sound relieved.

  Edyon continued to groan as he moved his hands from his groin to his jaw. Blood dribbled from his mouth. His eyes fluttered open—the same pale brown eyes as his father.

  Finally Edyon stopped groaning and began to sit up, and March caught a glimpse of a thick gold chain round his neck through a rip in his shirt.

  “Here, drink,” said March, holding out his water bottle, at the same instant realizing that he was once again serving water to a prince. He shuddered and took a sip himself before offering it again to Edyon, who drank, spat, and then said, “Thanks.”

  “Did they rob you?” March asked.

  Edyon looked blank.

  “Your attackers,” March repeated. “Did they rob you?”

  “No,” Edyon replied, but he still patted his jacket, presumably for his purse, and also the middle of his chest. March suppressed a smile; whatever was hanging at the end of the gold chain was precious to Edyon. He made a mental note to tell Holywell.

  “So, if they weren’t after your money, can I ask—and I apologize, I don’t speak your language so well—why did they beat you up and piss on you?”

  “It’s an old Pitorian custom.”

  March smiled.

  “You’re from Calidor?” Edyon asked, speaking in Calidorian.

  “What makes you think that?” March replied, also in Calidorian, which was so much easier.

  “Your accent.” Edyon looked at March properly now, and his eyes widened. “A new man enters your life,” he murmured, almost too quietly to be heard. “A foreign man. Handsome.”

&
nbsp; “What?” Had Edyon just called him handsome?

  “The words of my fortune-teller,” said Edyon. “She didn’t mention amazing eyes, though.”

  It was always the eyes. “I’m from Abask. It’s a small region between Calidor and Brigant.”

  “I know,” Edyon said. “They make good carpets and fine silverwork.”

  “Used to,” March corrected.

  “Of course. The war.” Edyon paused for a moment and March braced himself for an insensitive question, but then Edyon asked, “Are you here to trade in carpets and fine silverwork?” His eyes twinkled with a spark of mischief.

  March shook his head. “I’m here to travel and to learn.”

  Edyon tried to smile, but winced and felt his jaw again. “Excellent pursuits. I’m a student myself. What have you learned so far?”

  “That Pitoria is a pleasant enough country.”

  “If you’re not being kicked almost to death.”

  March couldn’t help smiling. “You’re not anywhere near death.”

  “You’ve seen people closer to death than this?” Edyon indicated his filthy body.

  “Yes, but they’ve not smelled any worse, even when they were dead.”

  Edyon chuckled and held his gaze until March swallowed and looked away. Edyon got to his feet unsteadily.

  “That we can agree on, my friend. Right now, I’m going to the bathhouse, but if you meet me for a drink afterward, when I’m smelling of rose blossom, I can repay you for your water and you can tell me your name.”

  March realized that in the joking he’d forgotten about the plan to keep Edyon away from Regan. If he was going to the bathhouse now, that was probably safe, but if he went home after that there was a chance Regan might be waiting. Better to keep him out drinking. He hesitated and then said, “Yes, that would be good. My name’s March.”

  “Edyon,” Edyon said, and then he bowed. He added, “Bowing is what we do in Pitoria on meeting a gentleman. What’s the custom in Abask?”