The Burglar of Sliceharbor Read online

  The Burglar

  of Sliceharbor

  Jason A. Holt

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, locations, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  This ebook is provided DRM-free for your convenience. The author reserves all rights to copy and distribute this file.

  Edgewhen® is a registered trademark of Jason A. Holt.

  Copyright © 2015 by Jason A. Holt.

  Cover illustration copyright © 2015 by Kristina Gehrmann – www.kristinagehrmann.com.

  Cover Design by James – GoOnWrite.com.

  Map illustration and interior design by the author.

  Published by the author.

  JasonAHolt.com

  epub ISBN: 978-0-9860717-6-8

  print ISBN: 978-0-9860717-7-5

  Edgewhen® Adventures:

  The Dragonslayer of Edgewhen

  The Artificer of Dupho

  The Klindrel Invasion

  The Burglar of Sliceharbor

  The Bladesman of Darcliff

  Welcome to Edgewhen!

  Contents

  2 Yellowmonth

  MAP: Sliceharbor

  3 Yellowmonth

  4 Yellowmonth

  5 Yellowmonth

  6 Yellowmonth

  7 Yellowmonth

  8 Yellowmonth

  9 Yellowmonth

  10 Yellowmonth

  Judgments

  Other Edgewhen Adventures

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  2 Yellowmonth

  Summer 1670

  In the port of Sliceharbor, all the buildings are thatched with palm fronds. Local thatching techniques can be divided into two schools: the orange and the blue. And because this is Sliceharbor, where oranges and blues have been living together for hundreds of years, many of the orange-skinned thatchers subscribe to the blue school, and many of the blue-skinned thatchers subscribe to the orange. The people under the roofs don’t much notice, as long as the thatch keeps the rain out.

  But Bendoko the Crane noticed. He spent a lot of time on rooftops. Not only could he tell the difference between the orange school and the blue, he could also spot the dozen-or-so variations within each school. On this sticky summer night, he was lying on a roof thatched in the style he called “whole-stalk batten-weave”. He did not know what professional thatchers called it, because he was not a thatcher. Bendoko the Crane was a burglar.

  It was a good night for burglary. The silver moon shining through the misty clouds gave Bendoko enough light to see the stalks he was unweaving. Of course, anyone looking at the roof could see Bendoko, but no one ever looked at roofs, especially not on hot summer nights when every sane person in Sliceharbor was either at home sweating through a stupefying sleep or relaxing in one of the city’s many bathing pools. The rain had passed, the mosquitoes were out, and no one would be taking an evening stroll in the Palace District.

  Bendoko carefully undid the thatcher’s work and set aside the cluster of palm fronds. They smelled of fresh rain and roof mold. A tiny gecko near Bendoko’s hand began gobbling up the ants that scurried out of the disturbed thatch.

  Everybody’s got to eat, Bendoko thought.

  He lashed his climbing line to the exposed ridge pole and peered inside the hole he had made.

  Inside was a second roof, made of wood, sloping leeward – a hurricane roof. Good. He was pretty sure the rest of the palace had only a single roof. The hurricane roof indicated he was indeed above the palace’s library wing. The library needed the extra protection. Irreplaceable documents could be destroyed if the roof leaked.

  The space between the two roofs was big enough to crawl into, but too small to stand up in. And it was dark.

  Well, I’ve got to eat, too, Bendoko decided. He slipped off his straw sandals, brushed the mosquitoes off his arms and legs, and crawled inside.

  The boards of the hurricane roof were tarred and caulked, like the deck of a ship. Bendoko had a tiny saw on his tool belt, but he hoped to find a hatch. There should be one, somewhere. The librarians would need a way to access the cramped space if the attic fauna became too stinky or belligerent. A few spiders and lizards were to be expected – even encouraged – but you wouldn’t want pack rats to set up shop above the largest scroll collection in Sliceharbor.

  Bendoko felt his way along the sloping boards, brushing his bald head against the poles that supported the framework for the thatching above. The small patch of silver moonlight did little to illuminate the space under the thatch. He hoped he wouldn’t find any snakes.

  He didn’t. But he didn’t find any hatch either.

  Mendu, I hope you haven’t set me up, he thought.

  Bendoko knew he was an easy target. He worked alone – no partners-in-crime, no bosses to pay taxes to. In other words, no protection. If he were imprisoned, he would not be missed.

  And Mendu was a criminal. He helped merchants smuggle goods into Sliceharbor without paying the port tariffs. That made him a bad person, like Bendoko. One of the drawbacks of Bendoko’s profession was that he did not get to deal with good people. Good people, by definition, never needed anything stolen.

  As Bendoko groped in the darkness, searching for the elusive hatch, he told himself, That’s what you get for taking a job you didn’t scout yourself.

  But Mendu had seemed to have all the answers. Mendu had a map. He knew the library was unguarded. He had offered one hundred imperials, fifty up front.

  Bendoko wondered if he should have asked for more. The up-front money had been enough to buy off his sister’s landlord for another year, but was fifty imperials enough to guarantee that Mendu wasn’t setting him up? It was probably spare change to a guy like Mendu. Then again, what would Mendu get out of the deal? Who would pay fifty imperials to get rid of Bendoko the Crane? There were cheaper options.

  Bendoko’s toe bumped against the corner of something. The hatch! Right where he had thought it would be – almost.

  So Mendu wasn’t setting him up. Of course not. No, Mendu just had a job that needed to be done.

  The hatch had been tar-sealed to keep the hurricane roof water-tight. The seal was no problem. Bendoko took his putty knife from his tool belt and slipped it into the tar. The night had not yet cooled off – nights never really did cool off in Yellowmonth – and the tar was sticky soft.

  When Bendoko had the hatch loose, he took a moment to recall Mendu’s map. He guessed he was breaking in about here. The scroll should be over there. Right?

  Yeah. That was probably right. Bendoko opened the hatch.

  The air inside smelled crisp and clean, nothing like the stinky tar or the musty thatch. Bendoko poked his head through and took a deep breath.

  It was as dark inside the library as it was in the attic. But that was good, right? It meant no one else was in the library. So no one would ask him why he was crawling in through the ceiling.

  Bendoko tugged his climbing line to be certain it was still secured. Then he lowered himself into the room. His feet touched the filmy cotton gauze that Sliceharbor residents hang from their ceilings to catch stray insects. Bendoko parted the gauze with expert toes.

  His torso was only partway through the gauze when his feet landed on a flat surface – probably the top of a scroll hutch. Mendu had told him to expect the hutches everywhere.

  Bendoko let go of his line and crouched down so that his bald head was below the gauze. It was time for light.

  A sprinkle of quicklight powder atop a candle. A quick flick of the flint striker. The spark hit the powder and the flame sparkled to life. Bendoko shut his eyes against the brightness – too late: the image was bur
ned into his vision – and when he opened his eyes, the room was lit by the clean glow of a beeswax candle.

  Well, actually, the candle didn’t light the entire room. The room was huge. Bendoko was indeed atop a scroll hutch. A short distance away was another scroll hutch. And lurking in the shadows were still more hutches, as far as the light would reach. The room had looked much neater on Mendu’s map.

  Bendoko climbed down to the stone floor. This was easy because the scroll hutch consisted of many rows of cubby holes. Each cubby hole held a wooden cylinder. Inside each cylinder, wax-sealed against the damp and the mold, was a scroll. All Bendoko had to do was find the right one … among hundreds and hundreds of scrolls.

  Ancient religious texts, accounting records from the Imperial days, historical documents of famous legal judgments – every scroll Bendoko passed was worth a few imperials to somebody. But he wasn’t tempted to scoop up any extras. How would he find a buyer? And how could he sell anything without having the theft point back at him? No, Mendu was the man to handle problems like that. Mendu had contacts; that was his job. And it must pay pretty good if he was offering a hundred imperials, fifty up front.

  Bendoko arrived at a hutch in a corner. This was it. Or at least, this could be it, if he remembered the map right – if Mendu had drawn the map right. How good was the inside man, anyway?

  Bendoko held the candle flame up to the cubby holes, looking for the scroll case marked by a golden sun.

  “It is not here.”

  Bendoko jumped. The candle flew from his fingers and extinguished itself before it even hit the floor.

  From no more than ten feet away, the voice said, “The item you seek has been moved.”

  Bendoko’s heart was pounding in his chest. He wanted to run, but without any light, he would just run into a scroll hutch.

  Damn you, Mendu!

  Bendoko edged away from the voice, trying to be quiet, but his breaths came in noisy, panicked gasps.

  “If you would care to relight your candle, I could direct you to the current location,” the voice offered.

  He was male – and probably blue, because he sounded like he was the same height as Bendoko. If he’d been orange, his voice would have come from two or three feet higher.

  His accent was strange – not just the fancy words he used, but also the way he said them. He wasn’t from Sliceharbor. Maybe he was attached to one of the senators who were staying in the palace.

  And he wasn’t threatening. Bendoko realized he had just made contact with Mendu’s inside man.

  “Wait a moment,” Bendoko muttered, shuffling his feet along the floor, searching for the candle. He found it, warm and soft, against the base of the scroll hutch.

  Bendoko picked up the candle with his toes and passed it to his hand. He took the flint striker from his tool belt and began flicking sparks. The bright flashes in the darkness were too brief to illuminate the inside man, although they were more than adequate to reveal Bendoko’s position.

  The candle wasn’t lighting. Bendoko took the time to straighten the wick, and then he remembered to use the quicklight powder. This time, the candle sparkled to life. Bendoko held it out toward the stranger, but he was gone.

  “This way,” called the voice.

  Bendoko followed. It wasn’t a setup. It couldn’t be. Too complicated. Simpler just to call in the palace guards. Mendu said the Republican Navy guarded this place. An intriguing thought. Bendoko the Crane had stolen many things from the good citizens of Sliceharbor, but this was his first crime against the entire Lunaslip Republic.

  “In here,” said the voice, and his hand thumped twice against wood – a cabinet, Bendoko saw, as he came around the corner. By the time he reached the cabinet, the inside man had retreated to the shadows.

  Bendoko studied the cabinet doors: polished mahogany, with a stylized magnolia carved into each knob; no other ornamentation except for a brass plate with a keyhole in the middle.

  Bendoko tried the doors. “The cabinet’s locked,” he said.

  “Is that a problem?” the inside man asked.

  “No,” said Bendoko. “No, it will just take a little more time.”

  Bendoko didn’t like being watched while he worked, but he didn’t think the inside man was offering him a choice. He looked around for a good place to set his candle and discovered that he was standing next to a desk with a lampstand that was just the right height. He set the candle on the lampstand and then felt around his tool belt for his lockpicks. This looked like a job for picks 5 and 7.

  The lock was well-made, but not particularly tricky. Bendoko raised the catch, slid back the locking bar, and pulled the doors open. Behind the doors was a small hutch of cubby holes – most of them empty. Of the few scroll cases inside, only the one marked with a golden sun caught the light.

  Bendoko removed the wooden cylinder. It was light – hollow, but not empty.

  He flashed the golden sun in the direction of the man in the shadows. “This it?” he asked.

  “That is it,” the inside man affirmed.

  Bendoko wondered who wanted it. But it was none of his business.

  “Should I give it to you?” he asked.

  “No, no,” the voice said gently. “Continue with the original plan.”

  Bendoko shrugged. Meeting the inside man hadn’t been part of the plan – or maybe it had. Mendu couldn’t be expected to tell him everything. Bendoko dropped the scroll case into the shopping bag on his back and pulled the drawstring.

  Before putting away his picks, he locked up the cabinet. It was always best to hide the theft if possible. People didn’t come looking for things they didn’t know were missing.

  “I’m going out the way I came in,” he said to the darkness. “Do you need help getting out?”

  “I shall be fine,” the inside man assured him.

  “All right then.” Bendoko could have added, “Nice meeting you,” but it hadn’t been – and anyway, he didn’t think the inside man wanted to be met.

  Bendoko made his way back through the labyrinth and up through the ceiling.

  * * *

  No one saw Bendoko weave the thatch back into place. No one saw him creep away through the palace gardens. On that hot Yellowmonth night, the soldiers of the Urban Cohort had orders to patrol Sliceharbor’s more troubled neighborhoods.

  Tisha was patrolling the Canal Road. When she had joined the Urban Cohort, the Canal Road had been an assignment for rookies to keep them out of trouble. The neighborhood was upper middle class: single-family houses, prosperous shops boarded up for the night, private pool houses catering to moderately well-off clientele. Crime was rare, and the people on the Canal Road had not been prone to disturbing the peace.

  But war and politics had changed things. Now, even a nice neighborhood could be the scene of a low-class brawl.

  Tisha heard raised voices ahead. She looked up at Gusty, her orange partner.

  Gusty sighed heavily, which meant he had heard the shouting, too. They quickened their pace.

  Tisha and Gusty had just reached the corner of a high privacy fence when a man came flying over it. He was a blue, wearing nothing but a wet loincloth. He landed awkwardly on the sandstone-paved street and emitted a pained whimper.

  Tisha ran to his side. He seemed to be conscious, but he was in no hurry to get up.

  She looked to Gusty. He was peering over the fence.

  The fence was a pine-pole palisade, designed to screen the private pool on the other side from public view. It was over nine feet high, so that even oranges couldn’t see over it – unless they did as Gusty was doing. He had put his club along the top of the fence and then chinned himself up. His feet dangled a foot or so above the ground.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Urban Cohort!”

  The voices on the other side grew louder and angrier. Gusty turned to Tisha and gave her a pleading look.

  Tisha hurried over to give Gusty a boost. He was nine feet tall, but he was lighter than he looke
d. Just very heavy, not incredibly heavy. It was a good thing he only needed a little bit of help.

  Gusty’s iron knee-covers and cane shin-guards clattered against the fence. Then he had his legs over, and he dropped to the other side with a solid thump.

  Tisha took another glance at the man in the street. Only an orange could have thrown him over that fence, so Gusty wasn’t alone in there. But blues always outnumbered oranges in this part of town, especially in the pools. Tisha left the man in the street and ran for the pool house door.

  “Urban Cohort!” she told the doorkeeper, although her rapier, her sword-breaker club, her combat knife, her cane skirt, her cane-plated bodice, and her copper-finned helmet made it abundantly clear that she was not just here for a swim.

  The doorkeeper backed out of her way. She raced down the passageway to the pool.

  The pool house was fancier than the one Tisha usually swam in. The passageway – arching high above to accommodate orange patrons – was decorated with a seascape mural. The floor was ceramic tiled. Even the smoke pots – a necessity for driving away mosquitoes, especially this time of year – smelled nice here.

  But the patrons were behaving like Lowtowners.

  A crowd of a dozen or so blues – men and women – encircled two oranges – both men – standing by the wooden fence. Gusty stood in front of the oranges, holding the heavy short paddle that served as his club. Only a few of the patrons remained in the pool. They looked at Tisha worriedly, hoping she could do something before someone else got hurt.

  Gusty had the blues at bay. They had numbers, but he was bigger and he had a club. Also, he represented the law. Blues prided themselves on their respect for the law.

  Tisha knew one of the orange men had thrown the blue man over the fence, but neither looked inclined to assault anyone now. They looked worried. Tisha realized they were looking for a way out.

  “All right, it’s closing time,” Tisha said. “Everyone not involved in the fight can go get dressed.”