Chapter 448: The Kingfisher

The Silver Mare was the finest tavern in Reitzlake.The fact no fists, spit or bottles needed to be dodged said it all. 

Whereas sailors and traders might drunkenly wander into The Salty Mermaid by following the sounds of brawling, here within the well decorated walls of the noble district’s most exclusive watering hole, only clinking glass, low murmurs and feigned laughter could be heard.

In short, a place where Dorian the Kingfisher would never be found.

The establishment was beyond both his attire and his coin purse–as the door guards never failed to let him know when he passed by. 

But that was always fine by him. 

The more they envied him for his whistling, the less they noticed his hands reminding them of the dangers of pockets. 

An act of public service only the last member of the Thieves Guild could offer. 

After all, the more guards he traumatised, the harder it became for lousy rogues like himself to eke out a magnificent living with every luxury he desired. By his reckoning, he only needed to pickpocket a few thousand times more before he’d be forced to become a farmer like so many of his colleagues. 

He was looking forward to it. 

Retirement was a rare and precious gift for those in his profession. 

Once it arrived, he intended to make the most of it, with a barn that looked suspiciously like a countryside manor and guards who ensured people like him were never allowed to intrude–even if they somehow had an invitation.

Dorian swirled his glass of wine, all the while eyeing the private suite around him.

In truth, little of what he saw impressed him.

The Silver Mare was a far cry from the sewers, but not necessarily a better one. Despite common perception, the home of the Thieves Guild had been flush with the very finest furniture, ornaments and paintings. While most things were sold away, the very best were kept for themselves.

The Dancing Rat had insisted on it. 

In hindsight, it would have been better had the man focused his attention on more acid traps, false walls and fireball runes.

Perhaps then he’d be the one pretending to enjoy poor alcohol with a smile.

“... Exquisite,” said Dorian, his lips dabbing at the wine like a vampire to pure water. “The finest vintage I’ve ever known. May I know the name of it, my lord?”

Before him, Lord Roston Duvaine chuckled.

A nobleman who slurped his liquor like an ox. 

It was astonishing that he even managed to fit through the door. And that wasn’t accounting for his ego. When he’d bellowed for the serving girls to bring cheese and wine to his suite, he did it as though he’d booked the entire tavern.

They were still waiting for the cheese.

“Château de Riaré Hensoise,” answered Lord Roston, gesturing at a bottle he’d long emptied. “It’s exquisite, and also very difficult to come across. Even so, the proprietor procured it at my request. I expect this must be your first time experiencing actual wine of quality.”

“It certainly is,” replied Dorian, having sampled better dishwater. “The wine tastes like it’s been blessed by a sister. As you might imagine, nothing The Salty Mermaid serves is quite so refined.”

“That’s because The Salty Mermaid is no tavern. It is a well. And I offer my condolences to all who should find themselves at the bottom of it.”

Dorian raised his glass and smiled.

“Condolences received. That your steward knew to look for me in such a rotten place is impressive. You’ve quite the talented staff. Not many could have recognised me with my head buried in a keg.”

The nobleman looked pleased.

In truth, Dorian lamented how long it’d taken for the steward to find him. Every hour passed was another hour he was expected to drink, and as used to this charade as he was, even he preferred to conduct his negotiations while at least semi-coherent.

He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

He was the kingfisher, and the nobility were his fish … even if they themselves didn’t know that.

“You made yourself difficult to find, Kingfisher. But not quite difficult enough. It’s as you say, I’ve an excellent eye for who I hire. And for the Dancing Rat’s protégé, I believe I’ve the most fitting task.”

Dorian snorted.

It was a sound the lord likely never heard from anywhere but his own lips, but when it came to the idea that he was the Dancing Rat’s apprentice, it was the only appropriate response.

“I’m many things, my lord, most of them I dare not utter, but I’d never call myself that man’s protégé.”

“You should. Modesty is ill-fitting for one of your reputation.”

“I don’t say that out of modesty. Only truthfulness. I was there before the Dancing Rat, back when the Thieves Guild was more a … loose association than the organisation it became. I’d like to think we were peers of equal skill.”

“Oh? … Then how did it be that the Dancing Rat and not the Kingfisher became the head of the guild?”

Dorian shrugged.

It was all he could do. Perhaps at one point, the idea of becoming the head of the Thieves Guild had floated across his mind. But like everyone else, he had been conned into thinking that the Dancing Rat could blend into the darkness easier than the shadows.

In the end, he’d been stabbed like a fresh recruit. It was nothing short of embarrassing.

“Politics,” explained Dorian simply.

“Politics.” Lord Roston leaned back, his hands resting upon his stomach. “Ah, that word. How much I loathe it, now more than ever. There’s been quite an upheaval in the city, although I expect you must have heard.”

There was no need to nod.

Everyone had heard. Even the mice scuttling in the ceiling.

Both the Smugglers Guild and the Thieves Guild had sponsors in high places. The moment the Crown Prince decided to leave his bedchamber, he’d done so with less a hammer and more an anvil, crushing the nobility who’d thrown their lot in with either faction.

That Lord Roston had escaped meant he was either very well connected or completely insignificant.

Judging by the quality of the wine, Dorian would be keeping his hopes of a countryside manor in check for one more day.

“Suffice to say, my personal fortunes have changed–along with those of my rivals. Most of them are now sitting in a dungeon, leaving me the task of representing the interests of those loyal to Reitzlake.”

“Well, that includes me as well. I’ve nothing but fondness for this fine city.”

“Good. Because I intend to save the city. I require your expertise to see it done.”

Dorian smiled, neither needed to know nor cared to ask what the justification was. 

He was a master thief. And where his colleagues had scattered like pollen in the wind, he continued to ply his trade–so long as his price was met.

This was something far from assured.

“My success rate on all my commissioned work speaks for itself. Rest assured, there is no task I cannot complete … providing, of course, that I receive the necessary funds to see it through.”

Lord Roston smirked.

It was a far different response to the hard expressions he usually received before the haggling started.

“Your reward shall be comprehensive in both crowns and legacy. Should you succeed, you will not only have a hoard of gold to rival a dragon’s, but you will also have all the finest young talents flocking to a renewed Thieves Guild with you at its helm.”

Dorian frowned.

That was exactly the type of reward which suggested he’d be receiving a bag of copper crowns.

“I see … that is quite the declaration. My apologies, my lord, but am I still understanding that you wish for me to steal something?”

“You are. Except it is more than something. It is everything.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wish for you to steal a kingdom.”

Dorian had only confusion as he went over the words in his head.

“I can steal the crown of a king, but an entire kingdom is unlikely to fit in my bottomless pouch, even if the trolls guarantee such a thing is possible.”

“It isn’t the kingdom’s bricks I require, only its treasures. I require you to strip its greatest vault bare, leaving not a single coin behind.”

A stunned silence met the lord’s request.

Over the years, he’d been asked to steal all manner of things, from the sentimental to artifacts so rare that he would have made 20 times his asking price by selling it to the highest bidder.

Almost always, it was a matter between rival nobility.

But this went beyond that.

To steal directly from the kingdom was the highest possible crime short of actually murdering royalty. And as gifted as he was, Dorian had no wish to suffer the punishment of treason. Especially as there was utterly no hope of success.  

“I see … then I’m afraid I must decline.”

“Oh?” Lord Roston was relaxed. “And why would that be?”

“The Royal Treasury is impenetrable. It is located in the heart of Reitzlake Castle. Aside from the guards who patrol the castle, the vault itself is permanently guarded. There is no possibility of infiltration without contact.”

It was as simple as that.

A military fortress was not a nobleman’s residence. 

It was important enough that guards could be permanently stationed, quite literally, on top of what they needed to protect. There was no hope of subterfuge against such sheer numbers. 

Even so … all Lord Roston did was chuckle.

“Ah, you misunderstand me, Kingfisher. When I refer to the kingdom’s greatest vault, it isn’t the one in Reitzlake Castle. I refer to the personal vault of the Contzens found in the Royal Villa.”

“... You wish for me to steal from the Royal Villa?”

“No, I wish for you to steal everything from the Royal Villa. The treasury holds wealth, yes, but only what is collected in taxes. It ebbs and flows as the seasons. But the king’s vault–that is where the true wealth of the kingdom lies. Countless artifacts, treasures and relics hoarded over the centuries are there, gathering dust when rival nations would pay out of pocket to buy them.”

Dorian was wrong.

There was a tier above stealing from the kingdom and below assassinating royalty. And that was burgling their own personal vault.

“That … is most certainly treason, my lord,” he said frankly.

Lord Roston looked amused. 

“That isn’t treason, Kingfisher. It is loyalty. To Reitzlake. To the kingdom. It is performing our duty to defend this realm … from them.”

“Them?”

“Them. The Contzens. The plague come to claim us all.”

The nobleman began counting down with his stubbly fingers.

“Lady Lucina Tolent. Lord Damien Rimeaux. Lord Oliver Lepre. Duke Valence. Baroness Arisa Sandholt. The nobility are the pillars holding this kingdom afloat. And yet one by one, we are either being imprisoned or simply vanishing into thin air. The Contzens believe they are displaying their strength. All they are doing is forgetting who they rely upon for that strength. It is a mockery that threatens the very foundations of the kingdom. And as the realm’s foremost defenders, we cannot allow this woeful injustice to continue, Kingfisher … or should I say, Baron Dorian Harinloch?"

Dorian was stunned.

That was a title long stripped from his family. Few records existed which even showed House Harinloch as a footnote, such was the blackness of their history.

Lord Roston had done his research. And that meant crowns spent that he expected to be repaid.

“Yes, Baron Harinloch,” said the man with a satisfied expression. “The Contzens have taken much from all of us. But we needn’t suffer while grovelling for their pity.” 

“I’ve yet to grovel for anyone’s pity, my lord, except for the barmaids.”

“Then the barmaids will soon have reason to listen, for should it be known that the Contzens’ wealth was stolen from beneath their very noses, then their position will be lost as well. When that happens, well … I see no reason why you should merely have your former title restored.”

Dorian’s mind briefly blanked, such was the absurdity of the request.

“The Royal Villa is hardly better than Reitzlake Castle,” he said, the frankness of his tone a colder splash than any bucket of water could achieve. “It is teeming with knights.”

“It is teeming with knights known for their smiles, not their eyes. And unlike the Royal Treasury, the vault is being housed in an estate, not a castle. I can offer a full layout of the Royal Villa, as well as patrol schedules, guard rotations and servant timetables. You shall also have all the funds you require. There is no shortage of it. Just as there is no shortage of benefactors.” 

Lord Roston was filled with confidence as he leaned forwards.

“We are loyalists. Not to the Contzens, but to the kingdom. The royal family have disregarded us with flagrant impunity, but their strength wanes with the passing of every whisper. And never before has the chorus grown so loud. Would you care to listen, Kingfisher?” 

Dorian had a mind to shake his head. Preferably while leaving with the cheese they’d ordered.

Of all the shady tasks he’d ever been tasked to do, this went well beyond that. 

The punishment wouldn’t be the old sergeant scoffing at him as he sought sleep in the corner of his favourite guardhouse , but the covered face of whatever jailor was there to hear his last regrets.

That went for all of them.

Lord Roston had no right to feel so emboldened. To empty the Royal Villa was not just audacious, it was completely unprecedented. Anyone who succeeded would become infamous. 

No, more than that.

They’d become a legend throughout the continent, spoken of in every sewer, tavern and alley. 

… They’d also never lack for a free drink again.

Dorian the Kingfisher tapped at his wine glass.

“I’m willing to hear you out. I promise nothing else.”

Lord Roston Duvaine nodded. His lips twisted into a knowing smile.

And that was that.