This story is copyright of Gary Allen and is reprinted in Gateway Monthly by kind permission of the author

In the end three steps was all it took to separate Mereke from certain freedom. Three more steps and he would have boarded the cutter and escaped a rich man. A mere handful of strides and a different soul behind his keen eyes, and the unassuming master thief might never have seen Raecha Il Marceau hiding on the dock. Well you might ask how different things might have turned out for us all if Mereke had indeed escaped.

* * *

“Stand, in the name of his Grace!” the Sergeant gasped after the fleeing figure who splashed on down the alley ahead of the city watch. Despite the distance and gloom Fedre was sure the fleet fugitive was in fact a woman. No matter, a murderer was a murderer, and the Sergeant hated this kind of chase. The graying watchman and his men were still some way distant when the hooded fugitive reached the wall at the street’s end and scaled it with apparent ease. Puffing and cursing, the watchmen sprinted after. ȁStand, curse you!” a red-faced Fedre bellowed. Straddled atop the wall, the fugitive turned, her silhouette providing confirmation she was indeed female. Without a word for the shouting watchmen she sprang past the wall.

It took several attempts, but Fedre and the other watchmen managed to clamber up the wall after their quarry. At the top the watchmen stopped gaping at what they found.

“Where by Balath’s great hairy balls did she go?” Pered asked between panted breaths. Purple and gasping, Fedre could only shake his head at the young watchman, for once the Sergeant was lost for words. More than thirty foot below flowed them flowed the great Ebrun River. Its inky and fast moving waters rushing through Cariestun on its way to the ocean. Any one foolish enough to try to jump into the Ebrun would find sharp boulders waiting at the wall’s base. In the darkness there was no sign of the fugitive, and no hint where she might have gone.

After frowning down at the empty rocks where their fugitive would have fallen, Fedre glanced between the confused faces of his men, “Did one of you hear a splash or anything to mark her fall?” When no one spoke, the Sergeant shook his head, “No more did I.” With a sigh Fedre turned to look back in the direction of Dol Maradine’s home and ghastly murder they had found. “ black business all told.”

* * *

The easy grace of Mereke’s deep bow spoke of much practice. With a flourish the scholar swept aside his cloak and kissed the back of the dowager’s hand. The aging noblewoman cackled with girlish delight, her thick Edrel makeup gathering in the crevices that sprang across her face.

All too aware of his effect upon the dowager, the handsome young man brushed back his mop of hair with an easy smile, “Dame Ulerre, you are as lovely as you are gracious.” Giggling some more, the noblewoman managed to gesture for her footman to attend to the scholar’s belongings.

“You’re a scoundrel, Master Mereke,” she squealed as she batted her overloaded lashes at the pleased young man. ȁI always thought you learned men were such stuffy bores, but I see that is not the case. Mayhap I will have to supervise your tuition of my niece personally, to ensure you do not teach Perionne more than just the histories.” The Dame shifted on her seat, leaning toward Mereke with a direct and inviting stare. Though the gesture was pathetic and the old woman’s obvious offer distasteful, it was glee rather than disgust the young man had to struggle to conceal.

The scholar bowed again, “If the young mistress is only a fraction as lovely as her aunt I will have to take care with my heart.” After a final kiss upon the eager dowager’s hand, Mereke turned without a glance for either his supposedly precious books or the scowling footman who was regarding him with a mixture of suspicion and awe.

Having escaped the disgusting spider’s presence, her overpowering perfume and hungry stares, Mereke strolled through the dowager Ulerre’s garden. Her home and belongs were indeed magnificent, if somewhat out of fashion, but that was not why he was here. True, young Dame Perionne Ulerre was reported to be a remarkable and untouched beauty, but such a conquest also was not the reason he had forced his way into the pathetic old woman’s home. Pausing for a moment beside a splashing fountain where finely sculpted marble nymphs frolicked in the spray, Mereke looked past the garden’s wall to the real reason he was here; the Maradine household. Armen Maradine was a mere Dol and little more than a functionary in the Ducal court. Yet in Armen’s jealousy guarded home was a family heirloom, a jewel known as The Eye of the Beholder. A collector Mereke knew in Fluereonne would pay a small fortune to possess the remarkable jewel, and would ask no questions about how it was obtained.

In recent years many thieves, some nearly as cunning as Mereke, had tried without success to rob the Maradine treasure. They had failed because they all had missed a simple truth of the arrogance of the Ileshian rich. In this part of Cariestun the homes of the wealthy and powerful were crammed together, and the watchmen of the city watch guarded them with disgusting vigilance. Ancient and rich homes stood side by side along the wide boulevards, inviting yet apparently impregnable. The gates and guards of the rich households were more than enough to keep the lower classes at bay, and to thwart the hapless thieves who hungered for Armen’s prize. Yet after decades of living under such protection the residents of this rich quarter had fooled themselves with the belief crime is a scourge they could lock out on the streets, not something which could infect the homes of their affluent neighbors. So while their front and back walls were high and spiked, with guards and dogs, the walls between properties were relatively unwatched and unprotected. Now that Mereke was ensconced within one of the plush homes, slipping over the wall into the Maradine household would be almost too easy. Already imagining the precious gemstone in his grasp, Mereke smiled to himself until he became aware the puffing and scowling footman had almost caught up with him.

“Let me help you, good sir,” the supposed scholar offered, catching the suspicious footman off guard. ȁI know the smooth running of Dame Ulerre’s household rests upon your broad shoulders, so let me spare you this unnecessary weight.” Smiling to himself when he saw how pleased the footman was by the praise and offer of help, Mereke allowed the preening old man to lead him to his quarters, all the while glancing back towards the Maradine household and the promise of a better life.

* * *

Years on the streets of Cariestun should have hardened Fedre’s heart to the worst its denizens could offer, but standing within the bleak home of the murdered nobleman the Sergeant felt a kind of baffled dismay. Surely life was hard enough already without the casual brutality and violence some residents of Cariestun seemed intent on inflicting upon their neighbors. Looking at the blood smeared walls of the Dol’s bedchamber, Fedre shook his head trying to imagine what a minor functionary could have done to warrant such an end. The beak-nosed nobleman and his plain wife were lying in gory repose in their bed, their ravaged and pallid bodies soaking the expensive blankets with blood. The scene spoke of a fury that could not be quenched, and the violence it recounted turned the Sergeant’s stomach. A cursory search had revealed nothing disturbed, other than a velvet case, open and upside down under the bloody bed. The discovery made Fedre suspect the murder was the result of a failed robbery, but there was something about the strange woman they had chased which caused the canny Sergeant to doubt.

“Perhaps the attacker wasn’t human,” a green-faced Pered croaked from the doorway, startling the Sergeant. Pleased of the interruption from his dark musings, Fedre glanced at the novice Watchman and shook his head. With some trepidation the Sergeant knelt beside the bed and the bloody tatters that had once been husband and wife. Swallowing against rising bile, Fedre lifted first the Dol and then the Daria’s hands, cracking the rigor to show his partner the scars which were on the wife’s palms and wrists, but not her husband’s.

Seeing the young watchman’s incomprehension, the Sergeant stood and wiped his hands clean, “It would be nice to think this the work of some monster, but we’re not that lucky.” Fedre waved around the room, “No sign of forced entry. There was purpose and thought behind the attack. Dol Maradine was killed in his sleep, his weaker wife has a few defensive wounds but not many. It seems our attacker wanted them dead quickly.” Left unspoken was the fact that the attacker had continued to slash and hack at the noble couple long after they were both dead. The Sergeant found himself wondering what kind of human could do this to another, and how the slip of a woman they had chased could have dealt this bloody death. Fedre became lost once more in his dismal thoughts, as he pondered for the umpteenth time why he stayed in the moral cesspool of Cariestun. Pered frowned between the bodies and the Sergeant, the thought that none of the circumstances discounted the possibility of an inhuman attack clear upon his ponderous face. Fedre stopped the watchman with a weary gesture, “The girl we chased was human enough.”

“Until she vanished into thin air,” the young man countered in a whisper, and for once the Sergeant found himself unable to say anything. Remembering what had brought him into the horrible room, Pered motioned outside, “A stranger… a man was seen running from the house.”

Fedre frowned, “We didn’t see him.”

“He wasn’t with the girl.”

It was no surprise to Fedre that interviewing the deadman’s neighbors revealed nothing useful. Someone called for the Watch, but of course no one risked their own precious hide by investigating what was happening to their long time neighbor. More surprisingly, the lord and lady’s servants heard nothing until the maid went to wake the murdered couple. During the bedlam that followed a stranger had been seen, but only the City Watch saw the mysterious woman leaving the Maradine household. Questioning the usual suspects proved equally useless. It wasn’t that the trail was cold, there simply was no trail, and Fedre had run out of ideas. Dawn was approaching and he was exhausted, but the troubled Ileshian watchman was frightened of the dreams waiting for him in his bed.

“Sergeant Olan?” a cultured voice asked from the door to the Sergeant’s office. The watchman glanced up and was surprised to find a titled attendant from the Ducal court at his door. It was unusual for such a man this far from the citadel, up and about at this early hour, and sullying himself by being in the Watch House. Despite his surprise, Fedre’s only answer for the nobleman was a weary nod. The Squire’s expression tightened with disapproval, either in reaction to the Sergeant’s lack of respect or because of his disheveled appearance, “You are instructed to attend the Marquis El Sarien at court,” the young man instructed with an arrogance typical of those accustomed to being obeyed without question. When the Sergeant made no move, the self-important junior noble scowled, “Immediately.”

Fedre snorted and returned to the useless reports spread before him, “I’m investigating a murder. Please inform the Marquis I will come to him as soon as I am able.” Under his untidy indifference the Sergeant was intrigued by this new turn. True Dol Maradine was noble, but this level of interest, and at this hour, was extraordinary enough to be suspicious.

Rather than being outraged by the Sergeant’s impertinence, the fop looked surprised, “You can read?”

“My father had many strange ideas… but the knowledge has proven useful,” Fedre replied, bemused by the nobleman’s shock. Few Ileshian nobles could do more than read their own names, and knowledge of letters was almost unheard of amongst common-born, except of course priests and scholars.

Recovering from his surprise with a sneer, the nobleman seemed to remember his task, “His lordship is well aware of your investigation, which is why he wishes to speak with you, despite the hour.” Fedre regarded the fop at his door through narrowed eyes, before brushing aside some of the reports and pocketing the empty case he had found in the dead man’s room.

* * *

The window opened with a grating groan, which seemed to hang in the still night air like a banshee. Trapped upon the window ledge high above Dol Maradine’s immaculate garden, Mereke froze. Dressed all in black, he had been all but invisible when climbing the wall and crossing the Dol’s terrace, but now that he was lent against the house’s bagged wall only the shadows and gloom would conceal him.

“What was that?” a gruff voice hissed from somewhere below, and out of the night another muffled voice answered. Unable to see the guards, Mereke was nevertheless painfully aware of what an inviting target he made clutched face first against the wall. Rather than waiting to see whether his lady luck was with him, Mereke pulled open the window which offered one last groan of protest before he swung inside. The moment he was inside the thief pulled the curtains shut after him so the light from within would not draw further attention. Crouched upon the dark timber floor, Mereke strained for further sounds of trouble. After a few tense moments he was convinced the guards were moving through the garden somewhere below the window, but were yet to spy the open window. After offering a hushed prayer to Meigry, Mereke padded along the landing and deeper into the Dol’s slumbering home.

* * *

Wrapped in his fading City Watch cloak and his dark mood, Fedre stomped after the nobleman, scowling all the while at the Squire’s back. A thick chilly mist lay over Cariestun, making everything unfamiliar and confused. At this hour there was the occasional cheery pool of light from a baker’s shop or one of the city’s chara houses, but other than a few hapless servants on errands and drunks lurching home, the cobbled streets were empty.

“Don’t dawdle, Sergeant,” the nobleman snapped as he started up the stairs that would take them into the richer quarter of the city where the Duke’s citadel stood. The Watchman snorted and ambled up the steps, concentrating more on warming his chapped hands than making any haste. Already at the top, the Squire turned and watched the scowling Sergeant’s ascent with an exasperated expression. The attendant took in Fedre’s disheveled appearance, red nose and bad temper, and sighed. ȁWhy the Maequis wishes to meet with you, I cannot guess.”

Delighted by the opportunity to take some revenge, the Sergeant shrugged and turned around, “We’re agreed then… so I’ll be getting to my bed.”

“That’s not what I meant!” the nobleman trilled, missing Fedre’s small smile of triumph when he resumed his ascent. Whatever enjoyment he took from torturing the self-important Squire, Fedre was in fact deep in troubled thought. Why had the Marquis summoned him at an hour when most men of his rank would still be abed? What interest did the powerful noble have in his investigation, and why did he want a meeting? Though the conviction was based on nothing more than gut instinct, Fedre was sure that somehow it had something to do with the empty case he carried in the pocket of his dirty cloak.

Other than the few sentries they passed, Fedre did not see a soul as they moved through the Duke’s sleeping citadel. Somewhere faraway, household servants were no doubt already laboring to ease their masters into the day, but this part of the ancient fortress was as still as a tomb. The spluttering torches spaced along the corridor could not lift the pervading gloom or Fedre’s growing disquiet. As he eyed the imported rugs and tapestries, Fedre’s mood darkened with his surrounds.

“A cheery part of his Grace’s home,” the Sergeant observed dryly, as much to break the oppressive silence as anything else.

The nobleman rolled his eyes, “This wing belongs to the Il Marceau family. We’re but two levels from his Grace’s personal quarters.” When Fedre did not react, the attendant explained with a sigh, “A singular honor for the Il Marceau.” A brief frown played across the Squire’s face before it was hidden behind courtly disdain, “The Marquis asked me to bring you to the Countess’ drawing room.”

* * *

Mereke bit back a curse of frustration as he closed the casket lid. After more than an hour of fruitless search there was still not one trace of the cursed jewel. It was getting light out, and soon the household would awake. Worse yet, the flow of the tide was turning against him. The Gull would wait only so long before pulling up anchor and leaving. While there would be other chances, other ships, Mereke knew this was his best hope of a clean escape. But time was running out. As it was, getting back across the wall was going to be a challenge, but he refused to leave without the Eye.

“Only one thing to do,” the thief sighed to himself as he peered to the other side of the landing and the door to Armen Maradine’s bedchamber. Mereke detested resorting to violence, hated the lack of subtlety, but he was out of options. He just hoped the Dol would be reasonable, and that he would not be forced to bloody his hands.

Expecting to be greeted by the rise and fall of sleeping breaths, Mereke found only silence when he eased into the Dol’s room. In the gloom the thief could just make out Dol Maradine and his wife upon their four-poster bed. Early sunlight was already peeking past the room’s heavy blinds, and Mereke knew he had to act. Palming the blade from the sheaf strapped to his forearm, Mereke took a step towards Armen when he spied the empty case lying upon the ground and realized he could smell blood. Every instinct screaming something was terrible wrong, the thief froze, which was when he heard a floorboard creak underfoot behind him.

* * *

With the blinds closed the room was almost in complete darkness, only the wavering light from the single candle and glowing embers of the fireplace lit the Countess’ drawing room. Fedre glanced around at what little he could see of the room, and was not disappointed. The Il Marceau had a reputation for their fine taste and wealth. You could not enter a tavern or spend any time at one of Cariestun’s markets without hearing of the Countess’ growing influence at court, or the fervor with which she had been advancing her ambitions. From the ornate silver dragon upon the mantle, to the Skirse rug and rosewood furniture, all spoke of an owner on the rise, a power to be reckoned with. What did surprise the Sergeant was the film of dust he noticed on the surfaces illuminated by the weak light. Furthermore the gossip amongst the commonfolk was that the Marquis and Countess were at odds, so why was Tobel El Sarien meeting him here?

“Thank you, Squire,” came a voice from the dark, resonating with weariness.

The noble attendant frowned in confusion before motioning to the Fedre, “Sergeant Olan of the City Watch. Would you -”

“You may go,” the disembodied voice instructed over the attendant. The Squire’s eyes narrowed, but he replied with a bow, leaving the Sergeant staring into the darkness from which the voice had come.

Fedre could not conceal his surprise when Marquis El Sarien shuffled into the firelight. By all accounts Tobel was supposed to be a bear of a man, who intimidated everyone he met. The drawn man standing before him, squinting in the weak light, looked neither well nor imposing. It did not escape the Sergeant’s keen eyes that the Marquis kept his face in the shadows.

“How does your investigation progress?” the sickly nobleman rasped.

Fedre shrugged, “At the moment there is no investigation. We’re trying to find some clues that would explain all of this.” The Sergeant ran a hand through his unkempt hair and struggled with his frustration and annoyance. He was tired, frustrated and sick to death of the nobility and their silly games.

“Is Countess Il Marceau a suspect?” Tobel asked.

His attention piqued, Fedre held the Marquis’ sunken eyes with a direct stare, “Should she be?” The nobleman started to answer, but instead was doubled over by a fit of coughing that was painful to hear. Finally he managed to glance up at the Sergeant and offer a teary nod. ȁWhy?” Fedre asked, unable to conceal his incredulous disbelief.

“She’s after the Eye of the Beholder.”

* * *

The wailing shriek hit Mereke before the first blow, the force of both reeling him backward. From the shadows behind the door sprang a dervish of pale flailing arms and flashing knife, knocking him off his feet. An icy pain slashed across the thief’s raised arm, and grunting with pain, he struggled with the ferocious assailant who jumped upon him. The lithe woman sat atop Mereke’s chest could be no more than five feet tall, but in her madness she held him pinned.

“Wait,” he wheezed. The woman’s twisted face thrust towards Mereke’s, her obvious beauty twisted with madness and rage. While he fought with her, a calm part of the thief’s mind noted the strange and out of place tattoos which traced from her hairline down one side of his face and neck. Somewhere voices were calling for the City Watch, and a bell was ringing.

* * *

Unconcerned by the Marquis' intense scrutiny, Fedre struggled with what he was being told. The Countess had attacked and murdered Dol Maradine and his wife, because of a robbery? The notion was so ridiculous it had to be a jest, but the drawn Marquis El Sarien was not smiling. Conscious that members of the Ducal Court had done worse than accuse their peers of murder to deal with an enemy, the Sergeant nevertheless found himself wondering, and thinking of the woman they had chased.

“And she would slay two respected members of Cariestun’s nobility for a jewel?” Fedre asked. Tobel answered with a simple nod, which was more persuasive than anything he could have said. ȁThis doesn’t make any sense.” Though he could not be sure in the gloom, the Sergeant was sure the Marquis’ answer was a smile.

At last the nobleman nodded in agreement, “Not to anyone sane. She needs the jewel for a spell. She’s been driven mad by the forces she’s been trifling with, and now she will let nothing get between her and what she wants.” Fedre shuddered, but he could simply not bring himself to believe what he was hearing. ȁYou don’t believe,” the Marquis admonished, but without any real reproach.

“Would you?” was the Sergeant’s helpless reply. The Marquis stepped into the light, revealing the ghastly secret he was struggling to conceal. Though life burned from his sunken eyes, it was evident his body was crumbling into decay. Pasty skin and sunken frame, lank hair and yellowing nails, all made Tobel appear like nothing other than a walking corpse.

“I have been forced to believe,” the Marquis pronounced, measuring the horror in the Sergeant’s eyes.

* * *

Mereke squirmed and struggled under the snarling woman. It was taking every ounce of his strength to stay her from plunging the knife she held into his face, and he was weakening.

“Enough’s enough,” he grunted. Twisting to one side, the thief released his hold on the woman’s arm and knife. Taken by surprise, she fell forward, and Mereke used her momentum to carry her forward, smashing the screaming woman head first into the wall.

The room seemed to be spinning, and Mereke stared without seeing, first at the bloody bodies upon the bed, and the groaning woman upon the ground. Dimly he became aware of shouts from the street. The thief was about to turn and flee when a glint of gold amongst the black folds of the prostrate woman’s clothes caught his eye. With a crow he scooped up the jewel and rushed out of the room.

* * *

“Turn Docklands upside down,” Fedre snapped, unable to hide the shake from his voice. Though a moment before he had been close to dropping with exhaustion, Pered eyed his white-faced superior in obvious surprise.

“What’s going on?” the Watchman asked, but rather than answer the Sergeant swept the reports from his desk and spread out in its place a map of the poor quarter of the Cariestun. Next he scanned the list of ships in dock due to depart that morning.

He turned to where the young Watchman stood gaping and snarled, “Don’t waste time, we’re looking for the man seen fleeing the Maradine household and the Countess Il Marceau.” While the confused Pered rushed to carry out his orders, the Sergeant muttered to himself. The Marquis was convinced that if the Countess had escaped with the jewel she would have finished her infernal curse and killed him. The fact Tobel still lived meant the mysterious other man had the jewel. Fedre was determined to arrest them both.

* * *

With a grin Mereke allowed himself to gloat for a moment over the large almond shaped jewel before he popped it into one of the pockets hidden up his sleeves. He opened the side door and stepped out into the morning, only to duck straight into a fragrant flowerbed. Standing upon the threshold of the open kitchen door, a maid flirted with one of the guards. The thief groaned when he realized there was no way he could reach the wall without being seen. Mereke was considering stepping back inside and trying another route when screams of alarm echoed through the house. It seemed the bodies of Dol Maradine and his wife had been discovered. When a large black raven flew from the Dol’s window, Mereke knew he was seeing the murderer escape. Though he crossed his fingers in warding against witchcraft, the thief knew he had precious little time for hysterics.

“Now that’s torn it,” Mereke sighed when many feet came pounding down the staircase after him.

* * *

“I won’t ask how you got this manifest,” Fedre observed, with a look of mock reproach for his assistant. Pered’s sheepish grin confirmed the worst, but the Sergeant was pleased to see the young Watchman was using his wits. Running his finger down the page of entries, Fedre muttered to himself, until he stopped at one entry. ȁIt’s this man traveling on his own to Fluereonne, or I’m greener than you are.” Ignoring Pered’s pout, Fedre strapped on his short sword. ȁMake sure our men have descriptions of the Countess. I want her alive to answer for her crimes.”

“If the thief will be there, why are we looking for Countess Il Marceau?” Pered frowned back.

The Sergeant’s face lit with a satisfied smile, “Oh. She’ll be there.”

* * *

Shouts and demands for answers echoed backward and forward through the Maradine household. When the guard outside the kitchen stepped inside to find out what was going on, Mereke seized his chance and sprang to his feet. Sprinting around the house, the thief ran straight for the front gate in plain sight of the guards, and with the single-minded determination of someone on some official task. When one of the Dol’s guards turned, the thief motioned him aside.

“I’m to fetch the Watch,” Mereke shouted. The surprised guard paused long enough for Mereke to run past and out onto the street. Aware the tide could not be far from turning, the thief sprinted toward the docks and his waiting salvation.

* * *

“She must be here, damn it,” Fedre hissed to Pered whose only reply was a helpless shrug. The young watchman eyed the Sergeant and wondered whether he dare ask what was going on. ȁShe was seen entering the docks. I want a man watching every boarding ship.”

* * *

Mereke released his held breath and did his best to hide his surprised relief. He had almost turned and fled when he saw the Regular checking everyone boarding the Gull. However, he was well aware of the uproar the murder of the Dol and his wife would cause. The thief knew he would never be able to sell the Eye in Cariestun, and he simply would not be able to evade capture if he stayed in the city. So the only option was one last gamble. So he had strode straight up to the soldier standing in front of the Gull’s gangplank. To Mereke’s profound surprise, the Regular had not even looked at him. On the pretence of one last glance at the city, Mereke looked back over his shoulder and saw the soldier was only pauing close attention to the women boarding the ship. It was then he caught a glimpse of a cloaked woman loitering at the end of the queue. Even before he saw the glimpse of her face he knew who she would be. The thief would have turned and hurried aboard the Gull, but her wild gaze met his own, and in that instant Mereke’s mind was no longer his own.

As he was descending into the abyss of the woman’s terrible eyes, Mereke’s last thought was how strange it was to find an Ileshian woman with a tattoo. Without any further hesitation the thief marched back up to the startled Regular.

“I murdered Dol Maradine,” Mereke pronounced in a wooden voice. Ducking past them, Raecha accepted the Eye, which Mereke was holding behind his back. Without a backward glance she strode aboard the Gull.