Grevail stuffed the few good pieces of jewelry Tessyn separated from the junk into his pocket. “I won’t be long.”

Raela sat on her bunk, wrapped inside a blanket—bright red hair spilling from the top like a bouquet. “Please be careful. If what those watchmen said was true, they’ll be looking for you.”

“I will,” Grevail said, offering what he hoped was a confident smile. “You just be ready to finish that story tonight.”

“I bet Coaquin finds the Shimmerbeast in the forest and kills it,” Adellus said, rolling to the edge of his bunk.

Raela grinned. “You would.”

Tessyn frowned from where she knelt by the fire-pit, shuffling coals with a stick. “I won’t wait around till we starve to death. I’ll see what I can get tonight.” When her words were received with admonishing silence, she met their eyes in a show of defiance. “We can’t stay in here forever.”

“Stay away from Stappey, Tessyn. It isn’t worth it,” Grevail said, and after a moment’s thought added, “Xylen too.”

Tessyn set her jaw and fixed him with a steely gaze. “I’m no child. I won’t bother with either of them, but I can’t just sit here.” She resumed poking the fire with more force than she had a moment ago. A thin trail of opaque white smoke sped toward a hole in the ceiling from her efforts. Grevail watched it dance and twirl on the ascent. If only he could be like that. You can’t catch smoke.

With a sigh, he turned toward the door. “I’ll be back.” Stepping into the narrow path outside, he set off toward Hightown in the west of the city where Gaston lived. The streets were alive at dusk here in Lowtown, and people wandered the curling, muddy trails between shacks. He kept an eye out for the watch, something he couldn’t remember doing before in Lowtown, even on the worst days. He decided to take the Merchant Row route. The watch would be less likely to spot him there, and even if they did, it would be much easier to get away.

The slanted shacks and serpentine dirt streets soon gave way to the wide and industrious roads of Merchant Row in the south of the city. Traders and vendors lined the streets, like they always did, filling the air with their advertisements. Although many merchants shuttered their shops in the evening, some would stay late into the night, hoping to catch sailors coming up or down the river.

A man with a red feather in his broad cap lured potential customers with extravagant gestures, like the mating dances of birds in the swamp. “Swamp roots! Every flavor, every color, every scent!” He threw back his dark shoulder-length hair and bellowed even louder. “A million uses, but just one low price! Capo, didenudra, jisalma, appotine! I have it all! For cooking, for health, for the bedroom! For the misses or the mistress!”

Further along, a gruff man with a large beard waved a fur at Grevail from atop a wagon with a spade emblazoned on the side. “Findin’ furs like these ain’t easy young’n! Give it a feel, you’ll swear it was silk!” The man hopped down and came to walk alongside him. The strong odor of stale sweat invaded Grevail’s nostrils. The man chuckled and held the fur under Grevail’s chin. “A young lady would love it! A hat? Maybe a scarf? Winter is always near.”

Beaver fur, and low quality. Grevail could see bald spots. He ignored the man, who eventually spun away with a frustrated grumble.

A red headed woman surrounded by cages filled with flapping birds called out in a piercing drone. “Birds from Faischeir! A seething warbler from the remote Ubesouda! They make wonderful pets!” She knelt beside a cage that contained a huge green bird with a curved black beak. “Don’t you, Pitri?”

“I do! Yes I do! Yes I do!” the bird squawked. The woman turned to give Grevail a wink and a knowing smile. He had never talked to a bird before, but she wouldn’t be smiling at his empty purse, and he’d rather not draw the ire of a merchant who might call for the watch.

On Merchant Row or in The Scales is where he and his gang made their money. The watch didn’t patrol The Scales much, nor would they jump out of their chairs at the tavern to investigate a supposed crime in Merchant Row, but for the rich in Hightown it was a different story. They’d cut off a hand in Hightown.

With the watch on his mind, Grevail dug into his pocket and retrieved the knit wool cap. He pulled it over his head and tugged it down to cover the merit in his ear. It was one thing to display the thumb sized green opal pierced into the top arch of his earlobe here, but quite another in Hightown.

He passed a Spiritkeep and wade through the warm yellow light spilling from the round windows of the circular, tower-like building. He imagined the Thavak inside, counting the day’s take, just like Grevail did. Coin for beseechings to the Paragons, or as Grevail saw it, wishes for things that would never come. Most people in Lowtown didn’t even wear manifests, symbols of the Paragons thought to bring good fortune. But I’m the thief! He scowled at the building, ignoring the jewelry in his pocket that clinked with every step.

After a short while, the modest shops of merchants turned into the stone buildings of Hightown. Carriages rumbled along well-paved avenues, accompanied by the clack of hooves. The people here wore clothes worth more than everything Grevail owned. Not many roamed the streets on the verge of night, and fewer still who would stick out to a watchman like Grevail would. He slunk from shadow to shadow, hoping he was as unremarkable as a shadow might be. With a pocketful of jewelry and a merit in his ear, the watch in Hightown would throw him in jail without another thought. Fortunately, Gaston’s house wasn’t far.

It soon rose ahead like a palace at the corner of an intersection, and to Grevail, it really was a palace. Street lamps cast early pale shadows on the two story white facade. The balcony where Gaston sometimes greeted him was empty. Grevail made his way into the narrow alley behind the house. He’d never been through the front door—Gaston claimed it was blocked by his ‘pieces’. Grevail unlatched the fence gate and strode up to the door, knocking three times in quick succession. A muffled clatter emanated from inside, as if Gaston were moving things about.

The door opened and Gaston Chavanne poked his balding head into the hastening night. Dark black eyes searched the dusk before centering on Grevail. A broad smile broke over his face. “Grevail…I was hoping to see you. Come in...come in.”

Grevail entered and Gaston closed the door behind him. A musty odor permeated the dim and crowded hallway where they stood. A sword and shield hung on the backside of the door, beside a stone statue of a heavyset woman in a bizarre dress. A stuffed cat with a ghastly expression on its face was mounted on the wall above the statue. Grevail grimaced. “I see you’ve been collecting more…things…Gaston.”

Gaston nodded, a spark of excitement lighting his eyes at the mention of his collection. “Oh, of course, Grevail. Selling quite a few too!” His stomach bulged between flaps of a beige silk robe and a gold chain snaked across the thick hair on his chest. He sported more rings than he had fingers and his right wrist was clad in a large, garish bracelet. “Do you have something for me?” Without waiting for confirmation, Gaston shuffled down the hallway, waving Grevail after him. “Come, let’s have a drink and take a look.”

Grevail followed, gawking at the things in Gaston’s house. It reminded him of the Conveyor museum near the palace, except the museum was well-kept and orderly. Paintings lined this part of the hallway, so much that he couldn’t see the walls. One picture was of a man on a bright green field of grass, a dog at his side. Another, a tall blond woman holding some kind of fish that was twice as long as she was and thin as a snake. Surely that doesn’t exist, Grevail thought. Near the end of the hallway hung a portrait of a small woman in a rowboat. A cap sat on her head and a long coat covered her body from head to toe. She held a stick in the water, as if to check depth or navigate shallows and a lantern hung from the bow of her craft.

“Kaselle?” Grevail asked.

Gaston had entered a room dominated by a massive table in the center, cluttered with even more things. A lone but very bright candle flickered behind him as he turned to regard Grevail, raising an eyebrow.

Grevail gestured at the painting.

“Oh, yes! I’m no Sacar of course, I’ve never adhered to the Accord as much as the Thava would like, but I’ve taken a liking to her. The only Paragon I’ve ever really enjoyed.” Gaston pulled at one of the necklaces around his neck, dangling the pendant in the air. It was a silver boat oar with a line of small white opals down the center—a manifest of Kaselle. “I admit it is odd that I would take the Paragon of the sea as my favorite when I live so far from it, but her depictions fetch better prices than others, except perhaps Caesian. I heard an Urucan general paid his own weight in gold for a sculpture of Caesian once. You know how they love war, the Urucan.” He inclined his head at the painting. “I doubt I’ll get as much for that, but fine art none-the-less. Painted by Rutteo Zaneta.”

“Ahhh…” Grevail said and put a finger to his lips. “He was Andradan?”

Gaston waddled to the table with a chuckle. “Claichuri…Grevail. I didn’t know you had an interest in art.”

Grevail smirked and came to stand beside a chair on which several books had been piled. “I don’t, only humoring you.” He did like Gaston, but the man’s purse strings might find themselves more easily loosed if he was in a good mood, and talking about the things scattered around his house was always sure to bring a smile to his face.

Gaston waved at the books as he sat. “Just set those on the floor.” He removed the cork of a bottle with a pop and retrieved a small glass from somewhere in the things piled on the table. “Someone with a talent like yours could make a fine living in art…if you knew what to look for.”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Grevail placed the books on the floor and sat, then leaned across the table to take the glass Gaston proffered. “You could tell me what to look for.”

Gaston smiled as he tilted the bottle above another glass. “I’ll keep an ear out.” He pressed the cork back in and set the bottle aside before raising his drink.

Grevail raised his in turn.

“Till ash,” Gaston intoned.

Grevail craned his head back and tipped the liquor into his mouth. A slow burn ran down his throat and into his gut, then radiated throughout his body. It had a sweet, smoky taste, like toasted honey. He coughed and wiped at his watering eyes. “Whew! What was that?”

Gaston lit his pipe with the aid of the nearby candle and puffed at it. “Tonderan spirits. The fellow I bought it from said they use honey from high up in the Elders. I’ve heard the bees up there grow as big as a man’s hand.” Gaston looked into his empty glass with a thoughtful frown. “It must be a terribly frightful thing to see a swarm of them.”

“Strong stuff,” Grevail said, clearing his throat. He reached into his pocket and grabbed the jewelry. “I don’t have much, but I know you are always in the market for metals and stones. I’m hoping you can give me something for it.” He handed Gaston the necklaces, rings, and other trinkets.

Upon sight of the jewelry, Gaston’s smile vanished and he drew down in a serious, businesslike expression. He materialized a magnifying glass from somewhere and hunched over the pieces, analyzing each of them. Muttering, he spun them in his hands, shooting glances at Grevail, and when finished, set the magnifying glass aside to regard him over clasped hands. “I’ll give you three gold for the lot.”

“Andradan gold?”

Gaston spread his hands with a gentle roll of his eyes. “Eudan ess. What do you expect, Grevail? This isn’t a horde of exotics you’ve brought me. A few tarnished rings that have seen better days and some cheap necklaces, most of it is plated anyway,” he finished in an admonishing tone. “Three is very generous.”

Grevail unclenched his jaw and relaxed the fist he wanted to slam on the table. He released a long sigh. Three ess wouldn’t last long, and they were already on unsteady ground. “Alright…I’ll take it then.”

Gaston studied Grevail, poking at the pile of jewelry with a finger. “We’re friends, Grevail. I’ll help you when I can, you know that. All you have to do is ask.” He produced a purse from under the table, clinking with coin, and untied the strings. After digging out three ess, he offered them across the table.

Grevail stared past the ess in Gaston’s palm to the purse cupped in his hand. He shook his head. He’d made enough enemies for favors he never repaid. It never solved anything anyway. They always ended up back where they started. One day they’d find his corpse, bent and tortured from old age, face down in the mud of Lowtown. His pockets empty as always and without a soul to bury the body. Trapped, he thought, like a mudrat. He scooped the coins from Gaston’s hand and tucked them away. “Thanks for your help Gaston. I know I’ve only got here, but I should get back. I’ll have something better next time.” He moved to stand.

“Hold on.” Gaston halted him with a hand. “Maybe…I think I have a job for you.” The round man considered Grevail, or perhaps what he’d just said, but then with a shake of his head waved Grevail to sit. “Hear me out.” The candle beside Gaston beamed over the shaky towers of his collection surrounding the table.

“What is it?” Grevail asked, sinking into the chair.

Gaston puffed at his pipe a moment before realizing it had went out. “This won’t be easy, it could very well be as dangerous as it gets.” He jabbed the pipe stem at Grevail. “First, you must promise me you won’t say a word to anyone else in Lowtown.”

Grevail frowned. “Gaston, you know I don’t go around flapping my lips, especially with what we talk about.”

“I know…I know,” Gaston said, bobbing his head as if reassuring himself. “You’ve heard about Aeson by now, haven’t you?” Grevail nodded and he continued. “He’ll be putting feet to the fire, that is certain, so for the time being we must be careful.”

Grevail grunted in agreement. He thought about telling Gaston what the watchmen said, but it wouldn’t do him any good. The watch wouldn’t be knocking on the doors of folk in Hightown. “So what is the job? Art? I don’t know much about it but I’ll take anything right now.”

Gaston lit his pipe again, a smile bending his lips around the stem. “I thought you might say that. Fine art is nice enough, but even more rare…even more valuable…are Emberfolk artifacts.”

Grevail knit his brow. “I know, I’ve brought a few to you over the years.”

“And you were paid well for them, as I’m sure you remember, but I’ve got word on something big…much bigger than the few keepsakes some Breaker has hidden away under the floorboards. A burial has been found in Astranid’s marsh…just a few days east of here.”

“A burial, Gaston? Emberfolk? I can sneak into a house. I can slip a purse from the belt of a shopkeep, but that is something else altogether. You know the Thava guard those tombs. The Conveyors are probably searching it right now too.”

Gaston drew on his pipe with a shake of his head. “Not yet,” he said in a strained voice, then expelled a thick cloud over their heads, “but they’ve been sent for. Thavan guards are there…but only a handful of Keepers for such a remote place and on short notice. This isn’t your run of the mill tomb, Grevail. This is something special.”

Grevail wet his lips. He didn’t know anything about these tombs, and he certainly didn’t know much about the Emberfolk. There were many Breakers in Lowtown, people who worshiped the Emberfolk, and in doing so drew the ire of the Thava. That was reason enough for him to keep clear of such things—the watch were enough trouble for him. Breakers usually ended up in a Thavan prison sooner or later for being Cythraul, people who had broken the Accord, like Grevail’s parents. That’s if the Thava didn’t put them on the pyre first. Gaston was watching him, judging his reaction. What other choice do I have? “How do you know that? Do you know if anything is in it?”

“I have someone close who keeps me informed on these things,” Gaston said in a prideful tone. “He’s sure they’ve hit a big one, a tomb ornate enough to flatter a Tayori merchant.” Gaston’s voice adopted an edge of surety. “Bury my spirit if there isn’t anything in it.”

“What do you want me to do? The weight of it, Gaston. This could be a death sentence. You can’t even tell me there is something to find in there? A life in Lowtown is better than death on the pyre.”

Gaston’s features softened. “I know you want out of there…you and your friends. Why did you bring this to me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow and gesturing at the pile of jewelry. “I know it isn’t because you thought it was valuable. You need the money, and now that Aeson is at the helm, you really need it.”

The walls seemed closer than they were moments ago. Sweat slicked Grevail’s palms and his heartbeat quickened. He tucked a hand into his pocket, running the three ess through his fingers. A week of food, maybe two if they were lucky. What would they do after that with the watch on the hunt?

“One big heist could see to it.” Gaston pointed at Grevail’s ear. “Unless a miracle happens, you won’t get anywhere in this town with that. You could make a fortune for just a few pieces out of there. I know buyers, Grevail. Nobles and lords, the kind of people who have coin to throw away. I’ve seen Emberfolk relics go for thousands of ess…sold a few myself too.”

Grevail rubbed the merit in his ear. The green stone bought him passage into Lowtown, but was also why he’d never find his way out. A piece of the ear for passage here. Grevail remembered the second half too. Repeat what you hear, we’ll take more than an ear.

Gaston rested his elbows on the table, searching Grevail with a compassionate gaze. “I wouldn’t offer if I thought you weren’t capable or I didn’t trust you. I know it’s outside your usual fare. I have risk in this too…if you get caught and give my name…” Grevail began to interject and Gaston raised his hands, “under duress of course.”

“Not even then,” Grevail said. Lowtowners didn’t talk to the watch.

Gaston barked a laugh. “Alright, not even then…but think about it, only a few Keepers out there…bored to death by themselves in the wilderness. Would it be any different than sneaking around The Scales and swiping a few shiny pieces from under some shopkeep’s nose? Even easier I’d say…and much less chance to have it traced back to you. If you want a way out of the mud, this is it. A thousand ess for you and your friends.” Gaston leaned back in his chair and watched Grevail with pursed lips. “I’ll give you fifty just for taking a look—but don’t think you can trick me. You’ll have to bring something back that tells me you’ve been there.”

Grevail raised an eyebrow at Gaston. How heavy was a thousand coins? It would weigh half as much as he did, if not more. They could buy a house with thick walls and a roof that did not leak. They could buy fine clothes and all the food they could eat. Grevail pictured himself dressed like he was from Hightown. Dell would drink Maedra’s dry. Raela could have a library to rival the Conveyors museum and Tessyn an armory of knives. Even fifty ess might give them enough to escape Lowtown and Aeson. “I can’t make any decisions without telling the others.” Gaston raised a wary hand but Grevail knew what he was about to say. “I’ll have to tell them, Gaston, I can’t do this alone.”

“I know you don’t keep anything from your friends. I only ask that you remind them to keep this quiet. Not a word to anyone else.”

Grevail nodded and stood, a sudden rush of excitement coursing through him. “I best be on my way then. I’ll return to let you know what we decide.”

Gaston stood with him. “No need for that. With things the way they are, it’s best if we keep contact to a minimum.” Reaching over the table, he handed Grevail a folded slip of paper. “These are the instructions I was given on how to reach it. A few days down the Kinarkand. Don’t let that fall into the wrong hands, Grevail. There isn’t a family of Breakers from here to Matara who wouldn’t kill for it, not to mention what the Thava would do to you if they found it. If you go, you must move quickly.”

Grevail grabbed the paper and unfolded it to study the crudely drawn map and instructions. “A lake?”

Gaston shrugged. “Apparently…they drained it while mining ore nearby, then ran to tell a Thavan first thing. More lakes like that in the marsh than there are stars in the sky, and they happened upon one with a treasure hiding beneath it. Makes me wonder what else might be out there.” He chuckled, rubbing at his jowls. “I wish I could have seen their faces when they saw what was at the bottom”

Grevail shoved the note into his pocket. A burial at the bottom of a lake? What am I doing? “Are you sure we’ll even be able to get inside?”

“My informant is certain,” Gaston said with a confident nod. “Some of the workers poked a head through the door. The water…somehow it didn’t get inside.” Gaston’s eyes drifted toward the ceiling, as if contemplating how that could be, but his attention returned to Grevail, and remembering he was about to depart, waved him toward the door.

Gaston ushered him to the exit, and after another round of farewells along with more nervous warnings, Grevail left. Once again in the street, the quiet of night now stretched over Eudan. Tiny Nila floated in the cloudless sky above, her eerie yellow light casting a haze over the city.

Grevail thought about what Gaston said as he returned to Lowtown. He didn’t know much about the Emberfolk, nobody but Breakers or Conveyors did, though he did know people would pay for that kind of thing. If only they could be sure there was something inside. He went over the conversation he might have with his friends on the way home. Try as he might, he couldn’t make it sound like a good idea.

***********************************************************************************

Gaston listened at his door for the click of the gate that told him the young man was on his way. It was not that he didn’t trust Grevail, he did, but the stresses of a life in Lowtown could lead people to undesirable things. As Lowtown went, Grevail and his little gang were tame creatures.

Gaston returned down the hallway, filled with the most prized items in his collection and sat at the table. He’d spent a great deal of time considering who would be right for this job, but in truth, there was little choice. Dionyth had been jailed again and might face the gallows this time. Heric had disappeared—of his own will or another’s Gaston never found out. Then there was Coibea, but he didn’t trust her nearly enough for this type of work. If it weren’t for the urgency needed he might have waited, but the Conveyors would arrive by then. It was possible the Conveyor scribes were there already, but Gaston was confident Grevail would survive. He may be a mudrat, but he wasn’t stupid.

Also, there was the matter of the Stricken. Perhaps he should have said something, if Grevail would have even believed. It was likely little more than fool’s tales, as it usually was, but it could scare the young man and his friends off the job altogether. There were always rumors of course, whispered in a tavern corner by a friend of a friend whose uncle had seen one. Stricken hadn’t ventured out from the remote wilderness of Voxetta in hundreds of years, except for a few lone cases, which were swept up in short order by the Purifiers. Most people thought them to be children’s tales, but lately, there’d been dozens of sightings, all in the past few days and all in the marsh near this tomb.

He exhaled and grabbed the bottle to pour himself another drink. Since the news of Aeson he was sure Grevail would jump at the opportunity. Lowtown would be a rat’s nest on fire soon—the whole lot scrambling to get out before Amphid set the watch loose. It would be bad for business, though his Lowtown contacts rarely ever brought him anything worth more than a handful of ess. To be honest, he wasn’t sure why Amphid hadn’t acted before now.

He put everything else from his mind. If what he’d been told about this tomb were true, they wouldn’t have much more than gold to worry about. Now, he just had to hope that Grevail was not killed in the process or even worse, captured. His advantage had already been squandered and others wouldn’t be far behind.