Chapter 11: Riches

The small, dusty square just inside the Gate of Dates was bustling with activity. For the traders arriving from all over the Compact, this was the first stop amid civilization after days upon days spent traversing the treacherous wilds. To the south, the Burn, with its endless dunes of golden sand, stretched toward the horizon. But here, inside the southern gate of Jai Karal, men and camels, weary from their journeys, could rest and replenish their thirst.

And women, Larean reminded himself. Let’s never forget the women.

Especially not that woman, he thought, his gaze drifting toward her with all the subtlety of someone who definitely wasn’t watching.

Larean sighed to himself. If only he hadn’t been on the run…

“Focus!” Patter whispered at him. For some bizarre reason, the beggar sounded almost annoyed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Larean responded absentmindedly. “Don’t throw a fit. It’s just a little innocent fun.”

“You have to keep a close eye on her father,” Patter reminded him. “He’s the target. Not her.”

At least not yet, Larean thought with a smile, winking at himself in his mind’s eye.

“You watch him,” he said to his friend beside him. The beggar was sitting on a small, dirty blanket, his legs crossed. In front of him sat a shallow bowl, made from red clay, hardened by the relentless heat from the desert sun rather than from the potter's kiln.

“I can’t!” Patter exclaimed, a little too loudly. “I’m supposed to be blind, remember?”

Uh, that was right. Best not respond to that. And perhaps he really should try to keep a closer eye on the old trader who had just returned from Jai Ger.

For the past two weeks, ever since his strategic withdrawal from that unfortunate encounter with the Count’s guillotine, he had been hiding out in the poorer and more downtrodden parts of the city. These districts, which none of his more well-off acquaintances would ever visit, and where no one would recognize his face—despite how memorable it was—had become his home away from home. At first, he had found the experience harrowing. How could he not? He was just a man. Without his soft down bed, surely no one could expect him to be comfortable!

But as the days accumulated, the traumatic experiences of his first nights on the run had given way to surprising new friendships. In an encounter that had reminded him that even being arrested and stripped of all his belongings hadn’t been entirely without a silver lining, he had met Masura, the pickpocket. Later that same day, Patter the Beggar had entered his life when the little lame man had collided with Larean while running for his life from a group of soldiers chasing him.

The trader they were surveilling was dealing in antiquities. He had his small shop set up two quarters further into the city, in the basement of a small clay house along a side street, shaded from the harsh sun by the higher buildings surrounding it. There, he displayed an assortment of rare items—bronze knives from the early, pre-Compact Nimean tribes, ceramic urns from the first permanent settlers of the east, and silver rings, made for the noblemen of the southern Burn.

Larean had precious little experience with knives or urns, but he knew his jewelry. Interestingly, all the rings on display had been made for the family members of the Illuman clan, all of whom had been buried in the same tomb more than four centuries ago, after a blood feud with the Ramara had gone overboard.

He was willing to bet his life the other items were also from a desert tomb, long lost to the unforgiving sandstorms of the Burn.

Actually, Larean thought, maybe he wasn’t ready to bet his life on that. After all, he was quite fond of living, and was more than a little eager to keep doing so. But no matter where the old trader was getting his wares, they were valuable, and he was not likely to involve the city guard if he were to somehow accidentally lose his goods.

* * *

Later that night, the three of them silently sneaked along starlit streets toward the antiquities bazaar. Masura had brought her camel, so they’d have somewhere to stash their haul as they made their escape. Now it stood in the street just outside the building, tied to a tall wooden pole on the corner.

There had been some discussion about who would stand guard and who would help Larean liberate the stock from the shop, with Patter unhappily decrying the indignity of the division of work. Just because he was so good at playing blind, he had said, didn’t mean he couldn’t actually see. But in the end, Masura ended up watching the comings and goings of the night guard from a corner across the street, while Larean and Patter carefully picked the lock on the door and entered the dark, silent basement of the shop.

Their first minor setback came once inside, when the two men realized that sorting out valuable silver rings from worthless bronze items in an unlit underground basement in the middle of the dark desert night came with certain, shall we say, difficulties. Having to feel their way around the shop instead of using their eyes made the whole process much slower, and the risk of accidentally bumping into a vase on a table or a sword hanging from a weapons rack was just a tiny bit higher.

Well, Larean thought with a dry smile, at least it doesn’t matter now that Patter is supposedly blind.

Then, after the echoes of the third clay pot or ceramic vase—it wasn’t easy to tell the difference in the dark—they had broken dissipated into the night, their work was rudely interrupted by a pleasant voice from the stairway leading up to the trader’s home above his shop.

“Gods help me!” it cried nervously from the gloom. “Are you here to rob us?”

Shadows and light started to dance on the walls as the trader’s daughter descended the stairs carrying a lantern and entered the room where Larean and Patter stood.

Quickly placing both his hands, and the not insubstantial amount of jewels they held, behind his back, Larean bowed courteously to the beautiful girl.

“No, ma’am, gods forbid the thought!” he decried, the accusation rolling off his back like water off a duck. Or sand off a… well, no birds in the desert, really.

“Not at all,” he said, doing his best to explain the situation given the circumstances.

“No, we saw a suspicious woman standing across the street”—he nodded toward where Masura was lurking outside—“and feared someone might be about to rob you. We just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“Oh, thank you!” the girl said, now visibly more relaxed. “That’s so considerate of you. I’m Remeya.”

She paused for a moment. “Haven’t I seen you before? Inside the Gate of Dates? You look very familiar.”

“Hello, Remeya,” he greeted her, turning up the charm a bit. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you. Yes, my friend and I live not far from here. I’ve seen you in the square many times, but sadly, we’ve never spoken before. I’m Larean.”

Somehow, he forgot to introduce Patter to her.

“Well, I’m so glad we finally have the chance, then!” Remeya replied, smiling disarmingly at him.

“But what should we do with the jewelry here?” she continued, now with concern in her voice. “What if the thieves come back? Are we safe? Maybe we should move them somewhere else for a while. Hide them, so they won’t find them.”

Indeed we should, Larean thought with a dark smile he quickly hid, careful not to let the trader’s daughter see it.

“That’s a very good idea, Remaya. I think that might be for the best,” he said out loud after a moment’s pause, acting his best to make it seem like he had carefully considered the situation before answering.

“My camel is tied outside. Let’s collect the most important items from your father’s shop and pack them in the saddlebags. I’ll meet you tomorrow and return your items then.”

“I’ll help you pack them,” she said to him. “The thieves might come back any moment. Where will we meet?”

Larean pretended to think for a second. “On the square just inside the Gate of Dates. Where we had our connection earlier today.”

“Where we had…?” she replied, momentarily confused. Then she smiled at him.

“Oh, I understand. That’s perfect.”

A few minutes later, the two thieves, with the help of their victim’s daughter, had loaded a half year’s worth of income into the saddlebags of his escape animal. Remeya carefully tied the loot bags closed to make sure all her father’s wares stayed secure.

In the dimly lit street, Larean could hear her suddenly draw her breath.

“What is it?” he asked.

Distress was evident in her voice. “I forgot,” she said. “There’s a special chest. We keep it in a cupboard in the corner, next to the stairs. Can you fetch it for me?”

Ah, a special chest, Larean thought. They had one of those, too. He’d be delighted to help her with that one, of course.

“It’s on the topmost shelf of the cabinet, and it’s quite heavy,” Remeya explained. “Don’t let it slip when you take it down, or you might end up damaging it. It’s old and very valuable.”

After thinking for a brief second, she continued, “You probably should take Patter with you. Less risk you’ll drop it if both of you work together.”

The beggar followed Larean back into the shop. Silently, they moved a chair next to the cabinet to make it easier for them to reach the top shelf. The special chest was indeed there, right where Remeya had told them it would be.

Though it was, perhaps, just a tad bit smaller than she had indicated. He lifted it down from the shelf, not bothering to ask Patter for help.

Upstairs, a bell rang loudly, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps running down the stairs.

Glancing at the special chest, Larean could now see the line going from it, through a hole in the wall, and up to the second floor, where it had been connected to the shopkeeper’s alarm system.

Foolish girl, he thought. How could she have forgotten to tell him the chest was trapped?

But his irritation quickly subsided. She was so very beautiful, after all. He really couldn’t be angry with her.

“Stay where you are, thieves!” the trader, clad in his nightshirt and cap, barked at them from the top of the stairs.

Seconds later, he came into view, wielding a long, curved sword, which he proceeded to place, very inconveniently, on Larean’s throat, as the two entrepreneurs slowly backed toward the wall behind them.

Carefully, Larean raised his hands in surrender, still hoping to disarm the situation. He couldn’t believe how quickly things had gone from luxury and riches to highly inconvenient misunderstandings. Misunderstandings, and quite possibly death.

“Sir,” he said, trying his best not to speak too loudly, or he might end up with an involuntary shave from the blade still resting on his neck. “We were just helping your daughter.”

He nodded to his left, silently begging the large man to go out into the street and have a talk with her. They’d lose their loot, but if she explained the situation to her father, he was sure they’d at least get away with their lives.

“I don’t have a daughter,” the trader swore. “What are you talking about?”

Outside, Larean could hear the sound of the camel’s hooves as Masura and Remeya rode it down the street, quickly disappearing into the night.

Uh-oh.

“Do your thing,” Patter whispered, his voice almost wheezing.

“What?”

“Do your thing. You know, your… thing.”

The beggar tilted his head to indicate Larean’s hands.

Ah. The thing. But Larean wasn’t sure that would be such a good idea.

The first time he had called fire from the Deepwell, up there at the guillotine, he had burned his ropes and been set free. But the second time he tried, when he had wanted to show Patter what he could do, things had not gone so well. Instead of lighting the fire under their cooking pot that evening, the robe of one of the bystanders had burst into flame.

Fortunately, a quick redefinition of what he had intended to do allowed him to save face that time. But here, with his life depending on it? Tonight, there was more at stake than his face.

Then again, fire magic was probably better than the alternative. Decapitation, whether by sword or guillotine, would probably be quite harmful to his face, too.

In his mind, Larean focused once again on that imaginary fabric he had seen before, drawing it into a funnel reaching from the heavens to his hands. Now that he knew how to do it, it wasn’t that difficult, really. He could feel the magic flowing down into him, filling him with all the energy he would need to conjure a flame.

No, the difficult thing was to make sure the funnel really ended where he wanted it to. His intention was to cast fire from his hands, like he had heard Fire Breathers do in the old stories. With that goal in mind, he tried to draw the magic into his palms, allowing it to heat the air until it began to burn.

Nothing happened.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He did feel the air getting a little warm around him, but that was it. There was no spectacular display of power bursting from the hands of Larean Onyx the Magnificent.

He sighed. “Sorry,” he whispered to Patter.

“Try again,” Patter replied. The trader looked at the exchange with confusion, seemingly wondering what they were on about.

He might as well, Larean thought. They weren’t dead yet. Focusing on the Deepwell once more, he called on the magic, but this time he was too distracted. The funnel in his mind snapped and bounced, its end jumping from the air around his hands to the papers on the trader’s desk, to the garbage can in the corner, and onto the books on the shelf.

And each time it bounced, something caught fire. Around them, the papers, the garbage, and the books all went up in flames.

“Go!” he shouted to Patter, as they escaped the sudden inferno. Running down the street, he knew the guards would arrive within moments. It was quite clear to him that the era of hiding from the law among the downtrodden in the city was now at an end.

It was finally time for Larean Onyx to leave Jai Karal for good.

Author's Note

Thank you for reading Echoes of Fallen Gods!

This novel is 43 chapters long, with new installments posted twice each week. Perhaps you’d be interested in reading some of my other stories while you wait for the next update?

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