Darkness Rising 1 - Chained

Chapter 10: 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.