Thieves of Islar: Book One of The Heirs of Bormeer by James Shade Page A

his reputation. He did not want his visitors to feel comfortable.
    The second door to the office opened, providing a gentle hint of fresh, cooler air and then Tonas Valche entered the doorway blocking the flow. The man smelled of fish and onions overlaid with a musky perfume that Holger guessed was supposed to hide the acrid tang of body odor. Valche turned nearly sideways to fit through the door and deLocke suddenly realized why the man's desk was in the center of the room.
    “Have you arrested them?” Valche asked, not bothering with so much as a formal greeting to the city guardsman.
    Holger decided he could be as informal. “No one's been arrested yet,” he replied.
    “Why not?”
    “I'm still questioning witnesses. No charges have been pressed.”
    “You've at least interviewed the surviving deAltos?”
    “We cannot find them.”
    “Which should give you plenty of reason to arrest them! Would they go into hiding if they haven't done anything wrong?”
    This was, in fact, Holger's opinion on the matter, but he was not going to give Valche the satisfaction of agreeing with him.
    “It’s been three days, deLocke. I’m beginning to believe that my tax dozecs are being wasted. Do I need to get you some help?”
    “No, sir,” Holger choked out a reply.
    deLocke’s face could not help but betray his emotions toward the man. He resisted the impulse to lunge forward and squeeze the life out of Valche’s fat neck. It was probably fortunate that the slumlord never looked up from his paperwork to acknowledge his guest.
    Holger waited for a dismissal. However, as he watched Valche work, he realized that one was not coming. He snapped the briefest possible bow and flew from the office.

Nineteen
    T he new hay bales were tightly bound and clean, fresh and light brown. Avrilla did not particularly like the smell of hay, but she had become accustomed to it over the past few days. She looked around the barn loft. She and her brothers had been comfortable enough here for a couple of nights, but they needed to figure out what to do next. Avrilla was not sure, being so unfamiliar with her special abilities, but she felt like her hold over the farmer was not going to last forever.
    Her hands moved reflexively to her kukri when she heard the wood ladder creaking, but she relaxed when she recognized Chazd’s tousled mane of hair. Her brother finished his climb and sauntered over to their makeshift camp with a small sack slung over his shoulder. He put the sack on the hay bale and began handing out the food he had stolen or bartered for. A loaf of dark wheat bread, a half dozen sweet quince, a small ring of cheese. He also had a half-pitcher of milk provided by the cow downstairs. It was as much of a breakfast as they had been able to pull together since the morning after the fire.
    “We need a plan, Jaeron,” Chazd said as he cut the wax off the ring of bright orange cheddar.
    “We can’t stay here forever, hiding from farmer Baldy and his wife.”
    Chazd had given the patriarch of the farming family that name the first morning they were there. Her brother observed from the hayloft as the man did his chores. The man’s bald pate was slightly burned and reflected the morning sun. Avrilla made the mistake of remarking on it first, but Chazd had insisted that the farmer must buff and wax it each morning. Natural skin could not shine like that, he laughed. Jaeron had glared at him, but not for long. It was good. They had all needed a laugh, even a half-hearted one.
    “Eventually, Avrilla’s… explanations aren’t going to make sense. Plus, we are out of money. I used the last mizec this morning, though my haggling might have gone better if I had been there in the evening with my mandolin. And stealing meals three days in a row isn’t smart – Father taught us that.”
    Jaeron finished chewing his bite of quince and wiped a dribble of its juice from his chin.
    “I agree, Chazd,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it