Fortune's Fools Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-FourDid You Enjoy This Book?

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Fortune’s Fool

  by

  Paul Tomlinson 

  Copyright © 2017 by Paul Tomlinson

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted, in whole or in part, or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in the context of a book review.

  Fortune's Fool is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, to actual organisations, or to actual events, is purely coincidental.

  First published June 2017

  Publisher: Paul Tomlinson

  Cover image and design © 2017 by Paul Tomlinson

  www.paultomlinson.org

   

   

   

   

  For Ricky, then and now

  Chapter One

  Anton Leyander crouched on the red-tiled roof and listened. Beneath him, the house was dark and quiet. But it was not empty: he had looked in through a downstairs window and seen a thickset man sitting at the bottom of the stairs, a sword resting across his knees. The man had not seen him and, with luck, had not heard him climb up to the roof.

  The sky was clear and the moon bright enough to light a thief’s way. A light breeze blew in off the sea. Anton tied a rope around the chimney and tested it was secure. He lowered it gently over the side of the building. Supple leather boots made no sound on the tiles as he walked to the edge of the roof. Gripping the rope tightly, he lowered himself carefully over the edge. When he was level with the top storey window, he wrapped his left arm around the rope, so he could hang with his right arm free. He peered through the leaded windowpanes: there was no light and no movement inside the room.

  The fat man would be absent for most of the evening, Anton knew; he always dined out. The house had been rented for only a short stay, and the brawny house-guard was the only staff the fat man kept.

  Anton drew a slim dagger from its sheath on his belt. He forced it between the frames of the windows. With gentle sawing motions, he moved the blade upwards until it met the resistance of the catch inside. He eased the handle of the dagger downwards, so the blade pivoted up: he felt it dislodge the catch. Anton pushed the window inwards and listened. The house remained silent. He placed his feet on the window-ledge and waited for the feeling to return to his numbed left arm. Then he disappeared inside.

  Half the room was in deep shadow. The walls were roughly plastered, and the skewed lattice of shadows from the window meant they seemed to lean ay odd angles. It had been unseasonably warm of late – more like high summer than spring – and the air in the room was stale and heavy with the smell of something – mice perhaps. Anton lowered his feet carefully to the floor, not wanting the creaking of boards to give him away.

  A wedge of moonlight showed half of a large old bed made of dark heavy oak. A small table beside it held an oil lamp and a lumpy clay figure – possibly a sea goddess. Beside the fireplace was a stout chest of drawers made from the same dark oak. Beyond that, the room was in darkness.

  Anton looked down to see where the varnished floorboards were nailed to the joists. On tip-toe, he stepped forward, placing his feet only where he saw evidence of nail heads.

  “Hello, how are you today?” a voice asked loudly.

  Anton’s heart hiccupped, and for a moment he couldn’t draw breath. He peered into the shadows, trying to locate the speaker. The slim dagger was still gripped in his hand, but he knew it would be little use against the house-guard’s heavy sword.

  Two small eyes gleamed in the darkness – below them was a beak.

  “Hello, how are you today?” the parrot asked again.

  “I’m very well, how are you?” Anton whispered.

  “Just splendid! Cawk!”

  Anton listened. There was no sound from downstairs. No creak on the stair. Perhaps the bird chattered to itself all the time.

  “Cawk!” it said.

  “Didn’t anyone teach you to whisper?”

  “Who’s a clever little fellow?”

  “You are. Now keep quiet.”

  Anton crossed the room to where a large wooden chest had been pushed up against the wall, close to the T-shaped perch where the parrot sat. On top of the chest sat a smaller box that looked to be made entirely of iron. He sheathed the dagger and drew a set of metal tools from a pouch on his belt. Kneeling, he leaned forward and poked one of the tools into the keyhole in the front of the metal box. He probed carefully, trying to detect the type of mechanism that lay within.

  “You’re a very naughty boy!” the parrot said loudly.

  His concentration broken, Anton glared up at the bird. “Don’t you know any songs?” he asked.

  “Sing me a song. Cawk!”

  Anton sighed. He selected another tool and leaned towards the metal box. He hummed softly, hoping it might distract the parrot.

  “Wawk! It’s a cat wailing!”

  Anton stood and reached for the parrot. He wrapped his hand around the bird’s head, clamping its beak shut, and lifted it from the perch. It flapped its wings, but co
uld not free itself. Anton tip-toed across the room, opened the window, and cast the bird out. He expected it to fly away to freedom: instead, it dropped like a stone, giving out only a plaintive ‘awk.’ Anton closed the window.

  He listened. Still no sound from downstairs. He hurried back to the metal box, and set to work on the lock again. There was a dull click, and the top of the box popped up. Anton opened the lid fully and looked inside. There were several drawstring purses, all heavy with coins. He tucked two of these into the front of his shirt, then dug deeper into the box, seeking the object he had come for. But there were only more purses, and some bundles of parchment. Nothing that felt like a jewelled statuette.

  With some difficulty, Anton lifted the heavy box and set it to one side. The oak chest beneath it wasn’t locked, and the lid lifted easily. He rummaged through the contents, finding only boots and clothing, and other items packed for the fat man’s imminent departure by ship. He lowered the lid of the chest and looked around him. Where else might the statuette be hidden?

  A tapping sound behind him caught Anton’s attention. The parrot was sitting outside on the windowsill, tapping the glass with its beak. Ignoring it, Anton returned to his search. He went over to the chest of drawers, and slid open the bottom drawer. It was empty and smelled of camphor. He opened the next drawer up, and then the next, leaving each drawer open as he did, minimising the risk of noise. All the drawers were empty. He went to the fire place and reached up into the chimney, to where a secret shelf was sometimes placed. There was no shelf there.

  The parrot tapped on the glass again, wanting to be let back in. Anton didn’t even spare it a look. He knelt to look under the bed. Then slid his hands under the covers and under the pillows. Nothing. He glanced at the oil lamp, wondering if he should risk lighting it in hope of uncovering the statuette’s hiding place more easily. And then his eyes fell on the crude red clay figure beside the lamp. He reached for it, smiling.

  “Stop! Thief!” The parrot’s squawk was a big sound to come from such a small throat.

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs. Anton wished he’d wrung the parrot’s neck. He threw open the window, dislodging the bird and sending it plummeting towards the street again.

  “You bastard!” the parrot squawked as it fell.

  The house-guard burst through the bedroom door, sword at the ready. His eyes swept around the room, taking in the empty perch and the plundered chests, and then he leapt towards the open window. Outside, the thief’s rope was still swinging. Clamping the blade of the sword between his teeth, the guard reached out, grabbed the rope, and climbed upwards.

  Hearing the clattering of the house-guard’s boots on the roof, Anton stepped from his hiding place behind the door. He quickly made his way down the stairs, and out through the front door.

  Gaining the street, Anton paused and looked up.

  “You’re a very naughty boy!”

  Up on the roof, the house-guard was trying to fend off the attacking parrot with his sword.

  Clutching the stolen clay figure and purses, Anton made his way down the street, back towards his own lodgings.

  A hooded figure stepped out of the shadows of an alley, watching Anton walk away.

  *

  Anton had always intended to keep any purses he found in the fat man’s house. But the fate of the jewelled statuette had been undecided. Over breakfast he resolved to hand the clay figure over to someone who was, if not it’s true owner, more deserving of it than the fat man.

  When he presented it to her, the woman broke open the clay covering to reveal the statuette’s true beauty, and then she kissed Anton on the cheek. That had been his only payment. But perhaps his selfless act led the fates to reward Anton in their own fashion.

  Walking along one of the narrow streets that led away from the marketplace, Anton suddenly found his way blocked by a uniformed guardsman. When Anton tried to go around him, the man blocked his way again, placing a hand on Anton’s chest.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to accompany me to the Guard House,” he said.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “I can bind your wrists, if that’s what you like,” the guardsman said, a smile on his lips.

  “I have no desire to find myself under another man’s control,” Anton said.

  The young guardsman shrugged. “I am but a lowly soldier,” he said, indicating the lack of insignia on his tunic sleeve. “I am yours to command.” His short-cropped hair was blond, so light it looked almost white. The same pale hair grew thickly on his forearms, and there was a hint of it at the open throat of his tunic. He was no taller than Anton, but his chest and shoulders were broader. His eyes held more than a hint of mischief.

  “You are on duty?” Anton asked, looking him up and down.

  “Not at this moment.”

  “Then why the uniform?” Anton asked.

  “You would sooner I wore something else?” He grinned. It had been that same grin that had first captured Anton’s attention.

  “I would sooner you wore nothing at all,” Anton said.

  “Very good, sir.” The guardsman saluted smartly, then began unfastening the front of his tunic.

  “Varian!” Anton seized his hand to prevent further unbuttoning.

  “You want me to stop?”

  “Yes. No. Not here,” Anton said.

  “Then I’m afraid you will have to accompany me to the Guard House.” Varian said, mock serious.

  “You promised to show me the town,” Anton said.

  “I shall, and much more besides.” Varian waggled his blond eyebrows.

  Sangreston was the last major town on the eastern coast of Thurlambria. North of it lay the great forest, and beyond that were mountains, where only a handful of settlements clung to the rocks. The town had grown up around the castle, which sat on a stubby peninsula.

  When he’d first arrived, Anton had found Sangreston buzzing with news of a dragon having been sighted in the far north. But as the weeks had passed, with no news beyond the fact that the beast had been slain, conversation turned to other things. Anton had decided against sharing his own first-hand experiences with the dragon: it would have drawn too much attention. And that was rarely a good thing for a thief.

  Sharing a bed with a member of the King’s Guard was also inadvisable, but sometimes the wise decision isn’t the best one. On the first evening, they shared a few jugs of wine, and Anton told Varian about his adventures with the slayer of dragons. If the young guardsman was curious about what adventures Anton planned in Sangreston, he had chosen not to ask.

  “Have you been inside the walls before?” Varian asked.

  “Not of this castle,” Anton said.

  The castle dominated the town. It was a scarred, square structure with massive circular towers at each corner, and a curtain wall containing a courtyard. The moat around it was dry now, and a permanent stone bridge stood where there had once been a defensive drawbridge. Anton stared up at the grey stone walls. Only up close did their scale become apparent.

  The huge, iron-studded gates opened each morning at dawn, and a pair of uniformed Guards with pikes stood on either side until they closed at dusk. Anton eyed the guards warily as he and Anton passed through the gate. When they were inside, one of Varian’s colleagues waved a greeting, but beyond that they were ignored. Anton assumed his escort’s uniform mean no one would challenge them.

  “I did not expect it to be so busy,” Anton said, looking around the castle yard.

  “Before noon it is hectic,” Varian said, “afternoons are quieter.”

  For every red and black uniform, there seemed to be a half-dozen ordinary folk. People, animals, and produce moved about the courtyard much as they did in the town beyond. Stables had been built close to the wall on the left, and there was a parade ground on the right. Near this was a fountain surrounded by a low wall, and dotted about were trees and bushes, growing where stones had been removed to reveal the earth. Facing them was the main c
astle building.

  “I’d sneak you in and show you the nob’s quarters, but his lordship’s at home, so we’d better not risk it,” Varian said, nodding towards the castle’s main door.

  Sangreston was too far north to come under the direct protection of the capital, so a company of the King’s Guard were permanently stationed at the castle. They were under the command of Lord Eòghan, who also acted as town governor and magistrate. He was the region’s wealthiest landowner and, apart from his wife Lady Julianne, the only nobility for miles around.

  “Where do you live?” Anton asked.

  “Not in there,” Varian said, meaning the castle. He turned back towards the gate they had come through. “Up there.”

  The Guard House was a later addition to the structure. Thin square towers had been built on either side of the main gate, and a large, boxy gatehouse spanned the gap between them.

  “Come on, I’ll show you.” Varian set off towards a door at the bottom of one of the towers: he stopped when he realised Anton wasn’t following. The blond guardsman turned and grinned. “Afraid I’ll lock you up and not let you out?”

  “I heard there’s a dungeon under there – and a torture chamber.” Anton shuddered.

  “There is – but we’re not allowed to play in it,” Varian said. “We’re going up, not down.” He glanced up towards the top of the Guard House tower. “Not afraid of heights, are you?” He turned and set off again.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Anton followed him. 

  They took a bottle of dark rum up onto the flat roof of the tower. It was a warm, clear day, and the view was incredible.

  “This used to be a watchtower,” Varian said. “They used to watch for enemy ships approaching.”

  They took turns sipping from the bottle, and Varian pointed out the landmarks. Anton tried to orient himself, using the marketplace as a starting place, but soon gave up trying to locate inn where he was lodging. He could see the old town, protected by a wall, and where buildings had – over time – spread outside the wall, inland and around the natural harbour. From his seagull’s viewpoint, Sangreston was laid out like a thick letter J.

  The harbour was busy with fishing boats and vessels bringing people and goods up from the south, or from the faraway continent that lay east across the ocean. They shared lewd tales they had heard about sailors as they watched a ship leave the harbour. And after that they didn’t say much at all, because their lips were otherwise engaged.