Chương 31: Chapter 30 – The Family Business

Bracken padded across the moonlit street towards the dockside warehouse. Passage blundered after him, stealthy as a cart horse. They approached from the south, keeping to the unlit streets. This far north, especially in the streets around the docks where valuable cargo flowed, light was always plentiful. Gas lamps and the occasional Implement hung from rain gutters and streetlamps, maintained by the merchant guild.

The area was still known to be violent, soaked in rum and blood that spilled across the stones each night. The security of the district had nothing to do with protecting workers and everything to do with protecting the cargo in the warehouses that lined the wharves. Bracken pressed his back to the brick wall and waited. Passage did the same, though the gesture seemed pointless when he did it. There was no hiding the giant.

"You should wait on the street. I won't be long," Bracken whispered without looking at his friend. He hadn't been able to meet his eyes since they'd stepped from Tallow's office. There were no words profound enough for the apology he owed his friends. He could only atone for the trouble he'd pulled them into with his actions. That started with paying off Tallow, and he could do that by himself.

"No," said Passage. He didn't elaborate. He hadn't said much of anything, really, since agreeing to Tallow's deal. But that's how he always got when he was truly angry, spending all his energy on wrestling with his temper, sheltering everyone else from himself. The others had stayed behind, huddling together in a building Tallow's men had shown them to. An abandoned canal house, not so different from the one they'd robbed a few nights before. It was theirs; they'd been told. A new home and base of operations.

The first gift among many, so long as they behaved. True to his word, Tallow hadn't gilded his threats or dressed them in showmanship. A man like Tallow did not wield violence like a decorative sabre. It was a butcher's cleaver, mundane and functional. He knew their names, and more importantly, the names of their loved ones. They were set free unharmed with the simple knowledge that if they ran, it wasn't their own throats they needed to worry about Tallow cutting. Bracken scowled into the night.

There would be arguments to come, he was sure. His friends were a loyal bunch. They'd do anything for one another, given the chance. He didn't plan on giving them a chance. Passage probably knew it, which is why he'd insisted on following. Darting across another narrow street, Bracken led the way towards the Silver Chalice's primary warehouse. The one where his father kept his office. It was a large building, around a hundred and fifty feet long, fifty wide, and two-stories tall with a basement below.

All manner of goods passed through it, ranging from the essential to the exotic but mostly grain, wine, and cloth. Soon, that trade would extend to the magical. They needed to find the details of exactly when, which of the company's four ships would carry that precious cargo, and how best they could steal the goods. The plan sounded simple when he listed it out like that to himself. Work out the logistics. Find the weak point. Intercept and escape. But he'd thought robbing Pike's Implement sounded simple as well.

Most things do, he supposed, if you're arrogant and simple yourself. He sucked down a shallow breath, his lungs having felt a quarter their usual size since the moment they'd been ambushed. The tightness in his chest gave no impression it would be leaving in a hurry. The pair of them crept alongside the warehouse, headed towards one of the personnel entrances. Massive rolling doors would guard the front, yawning wide to take in cargo, but they would be closed at this hour and too well-lit besides.

Bracken paused alongside the door, the wood painted red and emblazoned with the company's name and mark. He crouched low and peered through the glass window. Lights were on within. Implements hung from the rafters, safer than gas or oil lamps with so much wealth stored in one place. As Bracken watched and waited, Passage hunched down beside him, he counted to a thousand.

Sure enough, a handful of guards patrolled within, at least two of them passing by the door, moving through stacks of sheeted cargo on their rounds. For once, Bracken regretted not paying more attention to his father's business. Perhaps if he had, he would be better prepared now that he meant to rob it. He closed his eyes a moment and rested his forehead against the glass, wondering how many of the heroes he'd grown up listening to stories about had ever spent time moonlighting as thieves. Not many, he'd wager.

Cautiously, he tried the door. Locked, of course, and no way of breaking the glass without making a sound. If only he could work Tallow's silencing trick. Bracken took a step back and examined the building anew. Windows adorned the sides, every ten feet or so. Two rows of them, the lower set were narrow, meant to let in light to the ground floor during the day. The upper set were larger; grids of glass lined with bars. Those would not open and were much too high. The lower set were scarcely any better.

"What's the plan?" Passage asked. Bracken winced, wondering when his friend would wise up and stop trusting him to lead them. Plans were something people with wisdom and experience could come up with. Bracken had little of either, he'd realised. But he kept that to himself. Self-pity would help them none, and while he may not have plans, he did have ideas.

"Up there," he pointed at one of the lower windows tilted open. It was far too high for him to reach alone. Even Passage would've stood no chance at all. For once, Bracken was grateful for his meagre size and lithe build.

"You'll need to lift me."

"How am I meant to get in after?" Passage asked, brow furrowed because he already knew the answer.

"You're not. Keep watch while I do the sneaking. In and out, remember. We just won't fuck it up this time." Bracken tried to smile but the expression felt fragile and forced, the wound too fresh to laugh at. Passage just grunted, neither of them in the mood to argue.

"Don't fall," he ordered, moving to stand beneath the window and clasping his hands in a stirrup for Bracken to step on. Bracken nodded and began the climb. He braced himself on Passage's shoulders and stepped into his clasped hands. Passage lifted him easily. He braced his hands at chest height, his back against the wall, and Bracken reached for the window. He wasn't even close to high enough. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

"I'm too short," Bracken whispered down, hands scratching against the brickwork. The grout was thick and strong, no easy gaps between the bricks for him to get a grip on.

"Hold on," said Passage, voice just slightly strained. Bracken braced one foot on Passage's shoulder as his friend pulled apart his hands, supporting one of Bracken's feet on a single palm before mirroring the grip with the other. Wide-eyed and wobbling, Bracken tried not to picture falling backwards and cracking his skull as Passage groaned quietly with the effort of extending his arms overhead. With the added height, Bracken could just reach the lip of the windowsill.

He wasted no time in grabbing hold and pulling himself up, tossing a leg over the top and lying flat on his belly to fit through the narrow gap. Passage sagged against the wall below, looking up after him. Bracken gave him a shaking thumbs up and turned his attention to the interior. Shortsighted or just optimistic, he'd hoped there'd be an easier way down on the other side of the wall. What awaited was a ten-foot drop to a stone floor. He doubted he could fall that far quietly, let alone safely.

Bracken looked around at window-level and considered his options. Liar or not, he missed the arrogant whisper in his head that usually told him he could do things this stupid. Maybe maturity was just an exercise in learning your limitations. If so, he was feeling more mature. The rafters that ran throughout the ground floor were at least two feet thick. Wooden beams that formed a grid between the many supports bracing the second story. The closest was two feet left of the window and half a foot higher.

Bracken wavered. It would be easier to just ask his father about the shipment. He could lie. Feign interest. Act the responsible son. But that would be suspicious enough in itself, doubly so when the shipment was robbed. No, he couldn't risk being connected to the theft. Whatever the goods actually were, if they were bound for the Wardens then stealing them would catch the Magister's attention. That sort of thing got people hanged.

Biting his lip, Bracken shuffled the rest of the way through the gap, grazing past the slanted windowpane. He lowered himself until he hung along the inside wall by his fingertips and wished again for a Stain of Aerwyn. Maybe Torvin was right, maybe he should've just let the others try to force a Stain upon him the natural way.

Forcing himself to breathe, trying to ignore the burning in his fingers and the sweating of his palms, Bracken shuffled along towards the edge of the window, as close to the beam as he could reach. It was close, a little further than arm length away. He didn't let himself hesitate long or think too hard about what would happen if he missed. He braced his feet against the wall, pulled himself high until his chin was level with his hands, prayed to Sael for mercy and jumped. Or threw himself, more like.

He couldn't help but gasp, a small high-pitched yelp of fear before his palms slapped against the wood and he grabbed hold with all his strength. His arms slammed heavily against the beam and the edge dug painfully into his wrist, but Bracken did not fall. He climbed atop the beam and took in the warehouse proper. He was still among the shadows, the lights fewer around the edges. Crawling forward a little to peek around the nearest beam, he got a better vantage.

Three guards sat around a table in the centre of the space. They played a game of cards, relaxed and talking quietly. All larger than him by far, all armed, and all with the rough look of professionals who traded in violence. None of them were the guards Bracken had seen patrolling, so he upped his count to five. He wondered if any of them would recognise him as a Mercer before the others could finish beating him to death if he were caught. Better not to find out.

Bracken closed his eyes and held still, breathing through his nose until his arms and legs stopped shaking. No turning back now, he just needed to get to the office on the second floor. He was halfway along the warehouse's length, perhaps sixty feet shy of the staircase that would take him up. Stay quiet, don't fall, don't be seen. Couldn't be simpler. That last part echoed in his head, thoughts mocking.

He crept along; arms stretched out at his sides and avoided the beams from which the lights hung as best he could. The warehouse was new, the wood strong, and the guards relaxed. Bracken made no sound as he moved. He did not fall. The guards did not look up. At one point he paused, a guard passing beneath him through the stacks, but the man had his eyes on the ground and his mind elsewhere, his patrol perfunctory at best.

Bracken held still, strangled his whimpers and his doubts up there in the dark, and waited for the man to pass him by. When they were gone, he continued, all the way to the back of the warehouse. Perhaps Sael had at last heard his prayers. Stacked tall along one aisle, crates covered with tarps reached almost to the rafters. Bracken shuffled around a beam, crept as close as he could get, then lowered himself down. He let himself fall, crouching low atop the boxes. The tarp muffled most of the sound.

His stomach floated down after him a moment later. Slowly, ears straining to listen for the guards, he climbed down to ground level and made for the stairs. It was when he reached the top and found the lights on that something first seemed amiss. The upper story was mostly given over to storage, just the same as the one below. Bracken paused atop the stairs. In the distance, somewhere closer to the front of the warehouse, there was the murmur of conversation.

Two voices, both low, both male, but too quiet to make out properly. More guards, maybe? Had his father increased security ahead of bringing in the Wardens' goods? Or was Bracken just a bad son and inattentive student of mercantilism? Probably both, he thought. In too deep to back out, he made for the office. The door was not far from the stairs. Aside from the times his father had made him haul cargo – an exercise in being unwanted and underfoot – Bracken had spent most of his time at the warehouse in that office.

There the ledgers and maps were kept, along with manifests and invoices. If there was information about the incoming goods, it would be in that room. The door was blessedly unlocked as Bracken crept within. He closed it shut behind him, heavy wood blocking out the voices beyond. A light hung from the ceiling, the Implement dimmed low but not extinguished. Bracken was grateful for it. It spared him stumbling blindly in the dark or risking attention turning it on himself.

He headed for his father's desk by the window. A deal as important as this would be at the forefront of his mind. He'd want to know every detail of the manifest and of the vessel's journey. Trading in Stained goods was not a market entered easily or lightly. Even on the fringes of the Empire, trade in that sort of power was tightly controlled by the guilds and the government. A worm of guilt wriggled through Bracken's gut, an unwelcome question of how much this theft would truly cost his father.

But it was already too late for regrets, and better to be a disappointment than a dead man. Bracken was in the middle of rifling through the desk drawer when the door to the office opened. He hadn't even heard the footfalls as they approached. The perils of wealth and modern engineering.

"Bracken?" Lio asked, confusion, not anger in his voice. Not yet at least. Bracken turned slowly to face the door. There his eldest brother stood, and his father close behind. The two stepped into the room. Garron closed the door behind them. No anger on his face either, just disdain and resignation. The office was large by any standard, but with the two of them there, the room felt suddenly small and Bracken smaller still. He forced himself to smile and searched for one more lie.