Chapter 3 The Trap
Blossomstide 1924
Hunor shoved the warped shutters closed and twisted the clasp, the roaring wind opposing his actions. Despite being only open for a minute they were dripping with rainwater and had soaked the unfortunate drunk who lay slumbering on the table by the window. His mangy hound had skulked under the table for shelter and sat snuffling in a light sleep.
Hunor returned to his usual seat in the corner of the Black Lamb Tavern. The poor weather had reduced the usual market day crowd to a dozen sodden men who now sat close to the roaring fire in the back recesses. The musty pub had the smell of wet dog about it and he anticipated a tirade of grumbling from Jem when he arrived. Hunor had slung his own cloak on a peg near the fire, the steam rising from its fibres. He glanced around the inn’s common room, searching for Lelen, the barmaid whose blushes at his nightly flirtations provided much of his entertainment these days. The place was sadly devoid of any female charm.
Hunor leaned back in his seat, taking a gulp of ale from his pewter tankard. Habit meant he chose tables with panoramic views of whatever inn he drank in, preferably with the added advantage of some shadows and privacy. This particular one was one of his favourites and he fondly recalled hatching many a heist with Jem, and latterly Emelia on this spot.
He shifted to get comfortable on the chair. His sword was slung in its baldric on the rear of the chair. Hunor’s mood was elated despite the soaking weather; he’d wangled a great price on the document with Grisk, the go-between for whichever councillor wanted its contents so much. It had commanded enough Azaguntan gold groats to wipe the slate clean with Igred, pay Jem and Emelia handsomely and leave him some left over to send back to Thetoria, via the usual covert channels in Artoria. Not that Jem ever seemed bothered about the gold, providing he was kept in books and cogs for his clocks. But it was the principle: there was little honour amongst thieves but there was loyalty between friends. Well within reason—he had planned the whole thing so it was only fair that his cut was slightly more equal, and one had to take into account the poor quality of Azaguntan coin compared to purer mainland gold.
Hunor sipped his ale thoughtfully. His gut was still full of the mutton pie that Olthik Slanteye had fed him an hour ago. If the truth be told he was sick of bloody sheep and pastry, but only a fool, no only a fool who had sustained a particularly nasty head injury whilst gargling mercury, would dare to taste fish dishes from the river Dun. The dish was likely to come back to life and attempt to eat you. He had a hankering for the hake and monkfish from the wild seas near Kir. Perhaps a quick excursion back to that shipwreck of a town this summer, just to keep out of the way if Hegris Grach started hunting for the arsonist that had cost him half a villa.
It had been in Kir that this whole escapade with Emelia had begun. That night they met her in Coonor his every instinct had said to leave her be. Yet in the years before and after that day he had only seen Jem so insistent once, and that was in his decision for them to leave their old gang.
They’d spent the first winter as a trio together in Kâlastan, conning merchants while the weather improved enough to sail across the Sea Of Mists and upstream to Bulia. There had been a few times there that he’d considered she’d be worth more sold off to one of the carpet traders. After all she possessed an instantly amiable persona and one of the most distinctive faces he’d ever seen. All of which weren’t characteristics favourable to a thief, although an asset if you were trying to flog a gigantic rug to a reticent Pyrian.
Jem’s fascination with her had put pay to that notion, and in truth he had himself come to care for the girl. Her eagerness to learn was akin to a newborn puppy and she assimilated every new experience with zeal. Emelia hungered for every nuance of life and took it all on board with an unnerving intensity. He had taught her his sword craft and a pang of jealousy had risen in him when she took to it so immediately that within two years she was far more skilled than he had been at her age when Master Hü-Jen had instructed him in the traditional Shorvorian style. She had been an apt pupil when it had come to thievery also, her slim fingers deftly opening all the locks he had made in his workshop.
Hunor looked up from his ale as a group of hooded strangers entered the inn, the water running in rivulets down their travelling cloaks. There were four of them, two of whom were bulky in appearance, perhaps armoured under the large concealing cloaks. They spoke quietly and went to the long bar to order drinks. Still no decent company for a game of Kirit’s eye; he could feel the craving in his gut, like an itch he could not scratch.
Where were Jem and Emelia? Hunor sipped from his ale and glanced at the door. He was excited about the loot and felt the need to tell them about it, to garner some praise for his canny profit. Jem would probably be nonplussed about the cash. Hunor had a vibe of him of late that he was gearing up for another crisis of conscience.
In his best estimate Jem had them about bi-annually. The last occasion had been after a trip with Emelia, then perhaps seventeen, to Port Multir in Goldoria to steal a set of jewelled eggs from one of the port’s many churches. Goldoria was always a touchy place for Jem. If you added the dark trauma of his past in the country to the fatal risks of getting caught performing magic it inevitably set the Wild-mage moaning about life in general.
Hunor recalled Emelia being quite perturbed that there were more noble goals than the acquisition of wealth. After all, it had been his primary teaching for the preceding two years. Jem had started hankering after embarking on an altruistic quest or some such nonsense. Hunor saw Emelia’s young eyes light up with the idea of knights, giants and ogres. Naturally there was little choice but to quash all further discussion with a subtle reminder that it was Jem who had made them leave that life behind six years before. He felt a little grim doing it, any mention of her remaining unspoken but implicit, but it was for the best. After all he and Jem were a team and foraging for goblin gold was high risk both in terms of his general health and the low profit margin. Let the knights of the world take on noble quests; that was how they got their thrills. He owed the world no debt, well with the exception of two or three moneylenders in Azagunta still waiting to settle.
Jem and me, we are a team, he considered, but what of Emelia, our apprentice? Last night she’d shone; she’d pulled off the job when it all started going britches up and had shown a perfect distillation of his and Jem’s tutorage. But could he see them as a trio: burgling, robbing and scamming? An apprentice could never really be a contemporary. His affection for her, despite her beauty and charm, was like that of an older brother. Was that it? Was she a surrogate sister for him, in the absence of his own? That was not a healthy dynamic in the heat of battle or the crisis of a heist gone awry. He’d asked himself this a number of times of late: would he put his neck on the line for her? Jem, he’d bail him out no question, but Emelia? Was she all that much to him? Of that he was still uncertain, and last night when the robbery began to go wrong he had been concerned the decision was about to be thrust upon him.
He rubbed his head, the ale was starting to seep through into his common sense and that wasn’t so advisable before Jem arrived. Too much ruminating—that was his problem. Maybe it was time to cut Emelia loose and let her make her own way. It would be difficult but perhaps it would be for the best.
“You look pensive, Hunor,” a voice commented.
Hunor’s head was instantly clear as he looked up at one of the strangers who now stood before him. He was slim, perhaps about forty years old, with a scruffy blond ponytail. He had left his cloak at the bar and wore a voluminous white shirt, brown leather belt and brown woollen trousers. The style was Thetorian but his complexion and pale eyes spoke more of Aquatonian origins. Hunor tried to place his face and was dismayed that, despite its odd familiarity, he could not remember where he had seen him before. A long wooden pipe jutted at a jaunty angle from his mouth. A thick curl of pipe smoke weaved like a serpent around his head.
Hunor shrugged, noting that the stranger was unarmed.
“The muddy climes of Azagunta are a place to be pensive about, my friend. I see as a stranger in this place you seem to have mistaken me for someone else. Perhaps I may take the liberty of directing you to another inn where such a man may be found?”
Unperturbed the stranger pulled a stool to the table and sat, dragging on his pipe. The rich scent permeated the air around the pair. It smelt of warmer lands, its odour like a mulled wine or a hot bath at the end of a long weary day. Feldorian tobacco from the Nimgor peninsula, Hunor guessed, but intermingled with pipe weed from the stormy Scattered Isles. An odd mix, he thought, perhaps similar to the man who smoked it.
“I’ve had the misfortune of being too long on this filthy island to be so easily diverted, Hunor,” he said. Hunor’s eyes flicked across the inn; the man’s companions were loitering near the bar, still hooded.
The blond stranger’s face contorted in a strange spasm, the muscles in his neck taut. He twitched then resumed the conversation as if nothing had occurred.
“In fact I’ve travelled a hundred leagues from Port Kir to have this chat, Hunor, so yes, I’m fairly sure it’s you. You are a fair thief, perhaps bolstered by the arrogance of youth and a strong belief in the ability of your companion Jem. Of late you’ve commenced the tutorage of a young girl who you no doubt hope will keep you comfortable in your retirement. Shall we dally around further or get to business?”
Hunor sipped his ale and met the man’s stare; he had a manic quality in his eyes. The thief sensed both a repressed danger and air of power about him. His nerves were beginning to jangle a little; it was time to stall in the hope that help was on its way.
“Then you’ve got me at a disadvantage, mate, as I’ve not the foggiest who you are. Perhaps you’re in town for the ‘Annual creepy mad man pipe-smoking’ jamboree? Or is it the ‘collect debts that have been paid off several years ago in The Barnacle’ away day? If it was your sister I got into trouble then my heartfelt apologies; I was always a sucker for arm pit hair and pipes.”
The stranger grimaced once more, this tic lasting a good ten seconds. It held a certain fascination to watch, as if one was inwardly betting as to whether he would come out of it or stay with a contorted expression forever.
“Your wit is wasted in this place! Perhaps a career in the music halls of Kokis would have been a wiser option for you,” the stranger said. “I do forget my manners, I’m afraid. I have had more names over the years than days of the week but today I am Thintor, though my friends refer to me as Lemon-bite. I was asked to convey regards from Scarseye in Kir.”
Hunor’s mind raced. Was Scarseye a Guildmaster in Port Kir now? But even if that were the case, what did the Kirian guild want with him?
“Scarseye? You know, Lemon-bite, I’ve never had the chance to really get to know the guy, let alone owe him cash. What would he want of me? Last time I was in Kir it was when Linkon was running the West Avenue Boys.”
“I know, Hunor, I saw you then. Did you hear what had happened to Linkon? Crazy story, my friend, just crazy.
“Scarseye had had his warped eye on the Guildmaster spot for a few years and truth be told was warming up to stage a coup. Then in spring time of ‘twenty one’ these two assassins pop up to try and take Linkon down. Now here’s the irony. He sticks two quarrels in the first and a hatchet in the skull of the second... then drops dead. No poison. No wounds. Not even some dark death spell. His big fat heart had packed in, probably with all those cakes that rotted his teeth to little yellow pegs. Isn’t that a cracker?”
Lemon-bite guffawed, his eyes rolling in the manner of a rabid dog. Hunor cracked a smile at the tale. He was gauging the distance to the window he had shuttered earlier; with a quick sword slash he could be there and through it before the three at the bar could move.
“Anyway we couldn’t find who’d sent them. The Silent Knife denied it flatly, decrying them as rank amateurs from overseas. They looked Artorian to me—you know, that sandy brown hair and earthy features. Well the one with a head left did anyway.”
Hunor very slowly eased his legs from under the table.
“That’s sad stuff, mate, sad stuff. I imagine it must be the Black Brotherhood wandering off their patch. Pardon my apparent hardness when I ask what in Ingor’s nipple clamps this has to do with me?”
“No need to apologise, my cutpurse chum. When Linkon snuffed it all his dirty little secrets went with him and unfortunately one of them is of great interest to the three companions I have with me. So Scarseye sent me here with them—so as to get them out of his hair and, in truth, to save his scrawny neck.”
Hunor’s mouth was dry now; his arm eased towards his sword.
“With due respect to your cabbage faced crime lord, he has no sway down here in Bulia. I’m tight with Igred in the Northridge and…”
“My new friends aren’t ones to be diverted by gangsters, Hunor,” Lemon-bite said. “You’re in deep crappola to be honest.”
Hunor’s eyes met Lemon-bite’s and the two stared at each other for what may have been an age. Over the blond man’s shoulder Hunor caught sight of Jem entering the inn followed by a dishevelled looking Emelia, running to catch his attention. The three hooded figures by the bar turned and Hunor saw the trap sprung.
“Jem, it’s a trap!” Hunor yelled, his hand lunging for his sword.
Lemon-bite’s hands darted forward and he uttered arcane words as Hunor’s sword slid from its scabbard. The table shot backwards into Hunor’s abdomen with the force of a charging horse and sent him crashing into the wall behind.
Jem and Emelia jumped forward as Hunor yelled in pain, Emelia drawing her sword in a flash. The hooded figures were upon them in a heartbeat. The shortest figure thrust a twisted hand outward and shouted an incantation. Wind whipped his wet cloak around him, as if the shutters had flown open once more, then a sizzling bolt of lightning hissed from his fingers and into Jem.
The shower of sparks lifted Jem off his feet. He slid across the inn floor and smashed into the table where the dog cowered in fear. A stench of burnt flesh permeated the air. Emelia roared in fury and leapt into attack, her glittering sword slashing at the hooded mage.
The clatter of steel sang out in the confines of the inn as the second hooded figure parried the blow. Pulling back the hood the combatant stepped to protect the mage. Emelia gasped as she saw that her foe was a tall stern faced woman with grey hair tied in a bun. Her cloak fell back to display plate armour; she wielded a longsword adeptly.
Emelia attacked in a blur, her sword darting like an extension of her arm. The woman’s step had inferred her next move and Emelia reacted, reversing her slash at the woman’s exposed neck. Her opponent had feinted, however, and parried the slash then twisted her blade to try and disarm Emelia. The young thief grimaced as her wrist seared with pain but held on to her weapon. She felt the stinging dampness of her side wound under her tunic.
The third figure was moving to outflank her or perhaps to finish Jem. Emelia swung several sword slashes at her foe then pointed her left hand at the third man. A surge of magical energy slammed into him, sending his armoured form flailing against the hooded mage.
The distraction had dropped her guard and her opponent moved swiftly and professionally. Emelia saw the sword flash towards her and parried with her own weapon, but was unprepared as the woman’s mailed fist smashed into her jaw. An explosion of pain erupted in her vision and she reeled back, desperately trying to concentrate. Her sight returned with a roar of thumping blood as the woman pressed her advantage. Emelia parried two then three blows, backing into the bar. A sword slashed at her arm and she whirled away, aiming a low attack to the abdomen of her foe. Her blow skimmed off the woman’s sword and cut into the cloth and the armour, carving a furrow in the plate mail.
But the slash had left her open and the woman brought the pommel of her sword up into Emelia’s chin. The impact was savage and Emelia bit her tongue, tasting fresh blood as she overbalanced. Her sword clattered to the w
ooden floor and as she lunged to retrieve it the woman struck her on the side of her head with the flat of her blade.
A hood of blackness descended over Emelia, as brief as a thought or perhaps as long as an eternity. Her hearing came back an instant before her vision but soon enough to tell her all was lost. She lay flat on her back with the tip of a sword pressed to her neck. She could see a floppy Jem to her right, being hoisted to his feet by the muscular warrior she had struck with the magical bolt. He was also grey-haired and stern, his loosened cloak revealing a silvery suit of plate armour.
Hunor was pinned to the wall like a butterfly, his face contorted in pain and turning purple with the effort of breathing. His assailant was smoking a long pipe as he rambled on to his captive. The other mage slowly lowered his hood and a chill came through Emelia as she saw his face.
It was Ekra-Hurr, the Air-mage from Coonor.