'The Hidden Libraries' is available on several e-book platforms and in online bookshops. (Amazon UK link here)
Prologue
All across the Empire, people tell stories about the Wraith.
They recount his many escapades: the cunning thefts, the amazing escapes, the stirring adventures. He has become a symbol, the very archetype of the lone hero fighting for justice against impossible odds. Even in these days, when the dark shadows that threatened the past are no more, it seems that people need to hear such stories – and especially in the North, where the shadows were deepest.
It may be that his anonymity is the chief reason for his legendary status. His true identity has long been swathed in obscurity, as no doubt befits a Wraith. But for that very reason, it is becoming fashionable in some circles to deny that such a person ever really existed. He is, some say, no more than folklore, his supposed deeds put together from different sources and scaled up with imagination.
So I think it right and fit to now reveal his true identity, and tell the real story. Or to let him tell it, for the words I have here set down are largely his own. It is, I think you will agree, no less remarkable than any of the tales that have accrued to him.
As I write, there is on my desk a ring. It appears unremarkable: large, but rather cheap looking, the metal chipped and tarnished, the big green stone some inexpensive crystal. But this ring holds a secret, and behind the secret is a truth, and the truth is the man who was the Wraith.
Anatarna an’Darsio
The School House,
Tynman,
Irraldo Province,
Eskarin Empire.
Chapter 1: Neowbron
In the town jail of Neowbron, the walls of the first cell are made up of two hundred and forty three stone blocks.
I’m quite certain of that number. I counted them, not once, but several times. I counted them in rows from left to right, in columns from top to bottom, and – by way of giving myself a challenge – in diagonal lines from bottom left to top right. I included all half-blocks and smaller fractions, and after some internal debate, counted the lintel of the small barred window as one block, though it is larger than all the others.
It wasn't a very exciting hobby, but it was a useful distraction from my current situation and future prospects. I really needed that distraction.
The cell was furnished with a wooden bench, that served as both seat and bed. I spent my time sitting or lying on it, staring at the wall and counting blocks whilst the light from the window sufficed. There was no other light, and nowhere else to sit. I might have moved round the cell and varied my view more, but there was a shackle round my wrist and an iron chain connecting it to the wall. These restricted my freedom – such as it was – considerably. Past experience had taught me to be respectful of the shackle. Rough iron will quickly rub skin raw if you move too much – and once that happens, there’s no healing of it whilst the iron remains fixed. And there was no removing it without a hammer and chisel.
Even with care, the weight of chain and shackle quickly left my arm bruised and aching. I cradled it gently in my lap, sat on the bench and counted stone blocks.
My situation in the cell was only temporary. That was not a consolation.
I estimated that it would take a fast riding messenger two days to reach Baron Crombard’s estate at Sonor Breck. Then perhaps a day for the news to be received and acted on. Or even longer, if the Baron was not at home. That was possible. He travelled widely and often. I had made a study of his movements, and if I was fortunate it might take some while for the message to reach him.
And then perhaps two days for his guardsmen to reach Neowbron. Another two for them to haul me back to Sonor Breck.
No point in dwelling on what would happen then. What the Baron would have them do to me. What secrets I would give up.
So I counted the blocks once more, this time diagonally from top left to bottom right. I had at least five days to count them. I was fairly sure of that.
So it was an unpleasant shock when, sometime during the third day, the cell door was flung open.
I had been planning for this moment, bracing myself for it. Promising myself that, no matter what, I would retain my self-control. Not give them the satisfaction of seeing my fear. But it was too soon. Taken by surprise, I jumped up in a surge of panic, dragging the iron painfully against my wrist.
Instead of grim-faced guardsmen in Crombard livery, however, one of the jailers entered. A thin, shifty looking man, who had welcomed me on my arrival and shown me to my room. He smiled spitefully as he saw my reaction.
“Worried are you, then, eh? Shouldn’t wonder if you are, being as what the Baron’ll be planning for you, eh?” He gave me a long look, perhaps hoping for more of a response, but I’d managed to get a grip of myself and merely stared back at him, expressionless.
He shrugged. “No need to wet yoursel’ though. Baron ain’t here yet, eh? But he’s comin’. Be here soon enough for you, eh? Meanwhiles, you’ve got a visitor.”
The jailer stepped aside from the doorway. The figure that followed him in was hard to make out, especially back-lit by torches in the passageway beyond. In that first glimpse all I saw was a long, swirling cloak of some dark colour, and a dark, broad-brimmed hat that obscured the man’s face.
“Dingy in here,” he said, glancing round. “Bring us a lantern, please.” An educated voice. No trace of the strong northern accent. We stood, staring at each other, as the jailer disappeared. I still couldn’t see much under the shadows of his hat, but it was clear that he was no taller than me, perhaps a touch shorter, even. Probably of the Second Order, then. Which might be hopeful, or not.
I knew that what he saw wasn’t impressive. The Neowbron guards had dragged me from my bed and off to the cells without even the courtesy of letting me get dressed, so I was standing there in my plain linen night-shirt. Which was now dirty, torn in several places and stained with my blood. Without any sartorial finery to bring out the best in me, I appeared as a fairly nondescript young man. Average height, average build, dark haired, and much in need of a wash and a shave.
I mustered as much dignity as I could, looked the visitor in his shadowed eyes, and demanded:
“Who the hell are you?”
He winced slightly at my language. “You can call me Ommet.” Only the most common name in the Northern Provinces.
The jailer returned, with a lantern which he hung from a hook in the wall. “There you are sir. You want anything else I’m just down the corridor, eh?”
Ommet (if that was his name) slipped a coin into the jailers hand, which had been hovering in front of him, expectantly half-open. As he did so, his own hand came into view. Light sparkled briefly on a large gemstone set into a gold ring – an expensive item if real. “For your trouble. And here.” Another coin followed the first. “Make sure that we’re not disturbed. And that our conversation is private. I can see that you’re a trustworthy fellow …” (I barely held back a laugh) “… but I’m not so sure about some of your companions. If you see to it that no one extends an ear this way, there’ll be another of these for you.”
“You can be sure of it, sir!” The jailer, his face alight with avarice, backed out of the cell, and pulled the door shut behind him.
My turn to wince. Although with the shackle on me the open door had been no real prospect of freedom, its closing was an unpleasant reminder of my situation.
The visitor seemed less bothered by it. He continued to study me by the augmented light. Under the hat, I could see very little more of him, but felt my own exposure increased.
“That’s ‘good silver gone to a bad cause’ as they say round here,” I told him. “He’ll be back down to listen at the door before you can get another sentence out.”
“Perhaps.” Ommet took off his hat, to reveal a squarish, ruddy skinned face surmounted by vivid shock of red-orange hair that glowed like flames in the lantern-light. Regular features, not exactly handsome, but pleasant enough. What stood out was his eyes: a bright blue, startling in contrast to the hair, and now twinkling with humour as he continued. “But I took the precaution of making the same offer to the other jailers.”
“That might work.” I agreed. “Unless they get together to listen and then share the silver.”
He shook his head, smiling gently. “They don’t seem to be the sharing sort. I think we’ll have our privacy, for a while at least.”
I conceded his point with a nod. My first thought had been that this Ommet was some wealthy dilettante, with plenty of money and time on his hands, satisfying an idle curiosity by meeting with a condemned man. But his ring bothered me, by virtue of it being the only one. Fashion dictated that the wealthy should demonstrate their status with an abundance of fine jewellery. A ring, singular, seemed out of place. My well tuned instincts told me that there was more to Ommet than met the eye.
The best way to find out what that might be would be to let him talk. My wrist was hurting worse than ever, thanks to the way I had pulled against the shackle. I sat back down to rest it, and looked expectantly at my visitor.
“Apparently, your name is Dowder.” A statement, not a question.
I nodded warily. “That’s right. Arton Dowder at your service, Mr. Ommet. Not that I’m in much position to do you any service at the moment!”
“So I see.” He glanced round at the cell. “Still, you may be able to help me more than you think. And perhaps I might be able to help you.”
I couldn’t hide the surge of hope – and indeed, there was no need to. It was a perfectly natural reaction for someone in my position, though I didn’t put much trust in it
“Could you, sir? I am much in need of some help at present!”
“Then perhaps we could start with your real name?”
I tried on an expression of puzzled bemusement. “I assure you, sir, I am truly Arton Dowder. A pedlar, and an honest man, who finds himself in this position by sheer ill-chance!”
Ommet gave me a wry glance. “Ill chance indeed, to be selling a piece of jewellery stolen from Baron Crombard within this past month.”
I cursed inwardly. So it had been that jeweller who betrayed me! I suspected as much, but no one had troubled to tell me anything.
“Stolen jewellery?” I affected an expression of horror. “Is that what I’m accused of? Handling stolen goods? I promise you, Mr. Ommet, I have nothing in my pack that I did not come by in the course of honest trade – and I have the papers to prove it! If something was stolen, I know nothing of it.”
Ommet sighed. “The papers are worthless. The item you tried to sell – a diamond broach, was it not, in the shape of a butterfly? – is identified as having been stolen from Sonor Breck on the eighth of this month. According to your bill of sale, you brought it at the Winter Fair in Delwater six months ago. An obvious forgery.”
I was speechless for a moment, and Ommet continued. “Of course, you would date it that far back, so that there could be no connection in anyone’s mind with the theft. But I fear you underestimated the Baron.”
“What do you mean?” I said. Whispered. My throat had become painfully dry.
Ommet walked over to the window and stared up at the little patch of sky that constituted the view. “There have been a surprising number of such thefts over the past few years. All over the north, nobles have been deprived of some of their most valuable treasures. Jewellery, mostly. All these thefts carried out with such remarkable skill that no clue was left. Indeed, in some cases it was not even known that the items were stolen until months after the theft had taken place.”
“I’ve heard the stories.” I muttered. “But I have nothing to do with any of this.”
“Of course you’ve heard.” Ommet agreed, ignoring my protestation of innocence. “Who has not? These thefts have become the talk of the North – why, news of them has gone as far south as the capital itself. And to many people, this thief is something of a hero.”
“Just a common criminal.”
“Not so common! To have such a run of success is remarkable. All the more so since those targeted are always of the First Order. Which is why our thief is so celebrated amongst the Second Order. Who does not enjoy seeing the proud nobles discomfited, the arrogant rulers inconvenienced?”
Ommet had turned and was watching me carefully as he said this. I shrugged. “I stay clear of such things. I must deal with First and Second Order alike, and have no truck with disloyalty or seditious talk.”
“Very wise. The penalties for such things can be harsh. And yet – many of the Second Order, whilst decrying this thief in public, will cheer him on in private whispers! He has even gained a popular name: ‘The Wraith’!”
“I’ve heard it mentioned.”
“So, of course, has Baron Crombard. And he set in place plans to catch this elusive Wraith, should the man ever have the temerity to ply his trade at Sonor Breck.”
“What plans were those?” I asked, in a tone of idle curiosity.
Ommet shook his head slowly. His steady gaze, and the twinkle in his eyes, suggested that he saw right through my feigned indifference. “You should not underestimate the First Order,” he said quietly. “They live long, and lay deep plans, being ready to wait years for their fruition. Long before the Wraith came his way, the Baron was prepared for him. He created two lists. One contained a complete description, with drawings, of every item of jewellery and every piece of artwork in his possession. Many copies were made. The other list had details of every jeweller, goldsmith, or art dealer – honest, crooked, or shaded between the two – in the Northern Provinces.”
He paused, but I said nothing. I could see all too clearly the outlines of the trap I had been caught in.
“When the theft was discovered, the list of stolen items was at once distributed to all those on the second list. Along with instructions to inform the authorities should any of these items be offered for sale. And with warnings of the penalties for any who failed to do so. Very severe penalties.”
Ommet walked over to the bench and sat down next to me. “Perhaps you are angry with that jeweller who gave your name to the Magistrate? Do you consider yourself betrayed? Yet what could he do? By merely showing him that broach you had put the man and his entire family in mortal danger. As soon as he recognised it from the description he had been given, he had to act to save himself.”
“He could have destroyed it.” I muttered. “Melted the gold, taken out the jewels.”
“And what if it turned out that you were, in fact, working for the Baron? That possibility was warned of, in the instructions sent out. Would you have taken the risk?”
There was a long silence, whilst I cursed inwardly. The sad irony was that I hadn’t planned to try and sell any of the Sonor Breck treasures myself. I had certain contacts who took care of such things. But matters had gone awry. Finding myself short of funds I had sold the broach to tide me over. Not dreaming of the trap that had been laid. As Ommet had said, I had underestimated the Baron, and that was a fatal mistake.
I glanced over at my visitor, who was picking idly at a loose thread on his hat. “It doesn’t prove I’m the Wraith. I might have come by the broach in some other way. Found on an anonymous corpse, perhaps?”
It sounded impossibly lame, even to me, and Ommet ignored it entirely.
“A messenger arrived from Sonor Breck just a few hours past. Apparently the Baron is on his way here in person. Expected to arrive tomorrow, around noon.”
I felt slightly sick.
“The Baron will have you put to the torture forthwith.” Ommet continued dispassionately. “He will want to know, first of all, where the rest of the things you stole from him are. And how you disposed of the other items stolen over the years. Then he will want to know of any accomplices you might have. And so on. He will be in no hurry. You know his reputation; he will enjoy your screams.”
“Enough!” I snapped. “I don’t need to hear this.”
Ommet ignored me. “In due course, when the Baron is satisfied that you have told all you know, perhaps he will allow you a trial. Just a short one, where you confess to everything. The execution will probably take longer.”
To my embarrassment, I was shaking. It was a struggle to keep from voiding my bowels. I am no coward, but to sit chained and helpless whilst this horrific future was laid out for me was all but unendurable.
“Damn you!” I snarled. “Why are you doing this? Does it amuse you to tell me these things? You sick bastard!”
Ommet looked pained. “Not at all. I tell you this only so that you fully understand your position. You must realise that you are already tried and condemned – you have no hope, no hope at all, and your future will be just as I have described – unless you are absolutely honest with me!”
I clutched at that straw. “Are you saying that you can do something? You can get me out of here?”
“Are you the Wraith?” Ommet looked directly at me. “We’ll set aside the matter of your true name, just tell me if you are indeed he.”
“And if I am? Why would you risk the Baron’s fury to help a thief?’
He smiled. “I have need of your talents. I want you to help me steal something.”
(The Hidden Libraries is out now on most e-book platforms and as a paperback from some online bookshops.)
All across the Empire, people tell stories about the Wraith.
They recount his many escapades: the cunning thefts, the amazing escapes, the stirring adventures. He has become a symbol, the very archetype of the lone hero fighting for justice against impossible odds. Even in these days, when the dark shadows that threatened the past are no more, it seems that people need to hear such stories – and especially in the North, where the shadows were deepest.
It may be that his anonymity is the chief reason for his legendary status. His true identity has long been swathed in obscurity, as no doubt befits a Wraith. But for that very reason, it is becoming fashionable in some circles to deny that such a person ever really existed. He is, some say, no more than folklore, his supposed deeds put together from different sources and scaled up with imagination.
So I think it right and fit to now reveal his true identity, and tell the real story. Or to let him tell it, for the words I have here set down are largely his own. It is, I think you will agree, no less remarkable than any of the tales that have accrued to him.
As I write, there is on my desk a ring. It appears unremarkable: large, but rather cheap looking, the metal chipped and tarnished, the big green stone some inexpensive crystal. But this ring holds a secret, and behind the secret is a truth, and the truth is the man who was the Wraith.
Anatarna an’Darsio
The School House,
Tynman,
Irraldo Province,
Eskarin Empire.
Chapter 1: Neowbron
In the town jail of Neowbron, the walls of the first cell are made up of two hundred and forty three stone blocks.
I’m quite certain of that number. I counted them, not once, but several times. I counted them in rows from left to right, in columns from top to bottom, and – by way of giving myself a challenge – in diagonal lines from bottom left to top right. I included all half-blocks and smaller fractions, and after some internal debate, counted the lintel of the small barred window as one block, though it is larger than all the others.
It wasn't a very exciting hobby, but it was a useful distraction from my current situation and future prospects. I really needed that distraction.
The cell was furnished with a wooden bench, that served as both seat and bed. I spent my time sitting or lying on it, staring at the wall and counting blocks whilst the light from the window sufficed. There was no other light, and nowhere else to sit. I might have moved round the cell and varied my view more, but there was a shackle round my wrist and an iron chain connecting it to the wall. These restricted my freedom – such as it was – considerably. Past experience had taught me to be respectful of the shackle. Rough iron will quickly rub skin raw if you move too much – and once that happens, there’s no healing of it whilst the iron remains fixed. And there was no removing it without a hammer and chisel.
Even with care, the weight of chain and shackle quickly left my arm bruised and aching. I cradled it gently in my lap, sat on the bench and counted stone blocks.
My situation in the cell was only temporary. That was not a consolation.
I estimated that it would take a fast riding messenger two days to reach Baron Crombard’s estate at Sonor Breck. Then perhaps a day for the news to be received and acted on. Or even longer, if the Baron was not at home. That was possible. He travelled widely and often. I had made a study of his movements, and if I was fortunate it might take some while for the message to reach him.
And then perhaps two days for his guardsmen to reach Neowbron. Another two for them to haul me back to Sonor Breck.
No point in dwelling on what would happen then. What the Baron would have them do to me. What secrets I would give up.
So I counted the blocks once more, this time diagonally from top left to bottom right. I had at least five days to count them. I was fairly sure of that.
So it was an unpleasant shock when, sometime during the third day, the cell door was flung open.
I had been planning for this moment, bracing myself for it. Promising myself that, no matter what, I would retain my self-control. Not give them the satisfaction of seeing my fear. But it was too soon. Taken by surprise, I jumped up in a surge of panic, dragging the iron painfully against my wrist.
Instead of grim-faced guardsmen in Crombard livery, however, one of the jailers entered. A thin, shifty looking man, who had welcomed me on my arrival and shown me to my room. He smiled spitefully as he saw my reaction.
“Worried are you, then, eh? Shouldn’t wonder if you are, being as what the Baron’ll be planning for you, eh?” He gave me a long look, perhaps hoping for more of a response, but I’d managed to get a grip of myself and merely stared back at him, expressionless.
He shrugged. “No need to wet yoursel’ though. Baron ain’t here yet, eh? But he’s comin’. Be here soon enough for you, eh? Meanwhiles, you’ve got a visitor.”
The jailer stepped aside from the doorway. The figure that followed him in was hard to make out, especially back-lit by torches in the passageway beyond. In that first glimpse all I saw was a long, swirling cloak of some dark colour, and a dark, broad-brimmed hat that obscured the man’s face.
“Dingy in here,” he said, glancing round. “Bring us a lantern, please.” An educated voice. No trace of the strong northern accent. We stood, staring at each other, as the jailer disappeared. I still couldn’t see much under the shadows of his hat, but it was clear that he was no taller than me, perhaps a touch shorter, even. Probably of the Second Order, then. Which might be hopeful, or not.
I knew that what he saw wasn’t impressive. The Neowbron guards had dragged me from my bed and off to the cells without even the courtesy of letting me get dressed, so I was standing there in my plain linen night-shirt. Which was now dirty, torn in several places and stained with my blood. Without any sartorial finery to bring out the best in me, I appeared as a fairly nondescript young man. Average height, average build, dark haired, and much in need of a wash and a shave.
I mustered as much dignity as I could, looked the visitor in his shadowed eyes, and demanded:
“Who the hell are you?”
He winced slightly at my language. “You can call me Ommet.” Only the most common name in the Northern Provinces.
The jailer returned, with a lantern which he hung from a hook in the wall. “There you are sir. You want anything else I’m just down the corridor, eh?”
Ommet (if that was his name) slipped a coin into the jailers hand, which had been hovering in front of him, expectantly half-open. As he did so, his own hand came into view. Light sparkled briefly on a large gemstone set into a gold ring – an expensive item if real. “For your trouble. And here.” Another coin followed the first. “Make sure that we’re not disturbed. And that our conversation is private. I can see that you’re a trustworthy fellow …” (I barely held back a laugh) “… but I’m not so sure about some of your companions. If you see to it that no one extends an ear this way, there’ll be another of these for you.”
“You can be sure of it, sir!” The jailer, his face alight with avarice, backed out of the cell, and pulled the door shut behind him.
My turn to wince. Although with the shackle on me the open door had been no real prospect of freedom, its closing was an unpleasant reminder of my situation.
The visitor seemed less bothered by it. He continued to study me by the augmented light. Under the hat, I could see very little more of him, but felt my own exposure increased.
“That’s ‘good silver gone to a bad cause’ as they say round here,” I told him. “He’ll be back down to listen at the door before you can get another sentence out.”
“Perhaps.” Ommet took off his hat, to reveal a squarish, ruddy skinned face surmounted by vivid shock of red-orange hair that glowed like flames in the lantern-light. Regular features, not exactly handsome, but pleasant enough. What stood out was his eyes: a bright blue, startling in contrast to the hair, and now twinkling with humour as he continued. “But I took the precaution of making the same offer to the other jailers.”
“That might work.” I agreed. “Unless they get together to listen and then share the silver.”
He shook his head, smiling gently. “They don’t seem to be the sharing sort. I think we’ll have our privacy, for a while at least.”
I conceded his point with a nod. My first thought had been that this Ommet was some wealthy dilettante, with plenty of money and time on his hands, satisfying an idle curiosity by meeting with a condemned man. But his ring bothered me, by virtue of it being the only one. Fashion dictated that the wealthy should demonstrate their status with an abundance of fine jewellery. A ring, singular, seemed out of place. My well tuned instincts told me that there was more to Ommet than met the eye.
The best way to find out what that might be would be to let him talk. My wrist was hurting worse than ever, thanks to the way I had pulled against the shackle. I sat back down to rest it, and looked expectantly at my visitor.
“Apparently, your name is Dowder.” A statement, not a question.
I nodded warily. “That’s right. Arton Dowder at your service, Mr. Ommet. Not that I’m in much position to do you any service at the moment!”
“So I see.” He glanced round at the cell. “Still, you may be able to help me more than you think. And perhaps I might be able to help you.”
I couldn’t hide the surge of hope – and indeed, there was no need to. It was a perfectly natural reaction for someone in my position, though I didn’t put much trust in it
“Could you, sir? I am much in need of some help at present!”
“Then perhaps we could start with your real name?”
I tried on an expression of puzzled bemusement. “I assure you, sir, I am truly Arton Dowder. A pedlar, and an honest man, who finds himself in this position by sheer ill-chance!”
Ommet gave me a wry glance. “Ill chance indeed, to be selling a piece of jewellery stolen from Baron Crombard within this past month.”
I cursed inwardly. So it had been that jeweller who betrayed me! I suspected as much, but no one had troubled to tell me anything.
“Stolen jewellery?” I affected an expression of horror. “Is that what I’m accused of? Handling stolen goods? I promise you, Mr. Ommet, I have nothing in my pack that I did not come by in the course of honest trade – and I have the papers to prove it! If something was stolen, I know nothing of it.”
Ommet sighed. “The papers are worthless. The item you tried to sell – a diamond broach, was it not, in the shape of a butterfly? – is identified as having been stolen from Sonor Breck on the eighth of this month. According to your bill of sale, you brought it at the Winter Fair in Delwater six months ago. An obvious forgery.”
I was speechless for a moment, and Ommet continued. “Of course, you would date it that far back, so that there could be no connection in anyone’s mind with the theft. But I fear you underestimated the Baron.”
“What do you mean?” I said. Whispered. My throat had become painfully dry.
Ommet walked over to the window and stared up at the little patch of sky that constituted the view. “There have been a surprising number of such thefts over the past few years. All over the north, nobles have been deprived of some of their most valuable treasures. Jewellery, mostly. All these thefts carried out with such remarkable skill that no clue was left. Indeed, in some cases it was not even known that the items were stolen until months after the theft had taken place.”
“I’ve heard the stories.” I muttered. “But I have nothing to do with any of this.”
“Of course you’ve heard.” Ommet agreed, ignoring my protestation of innocence. “Who has not? These thefts have become the talk of the North – why, news of them has gone as far south as the capital itself. And to many people, this thief is something of a hero.”
“Just a common criminal.”
“Not so common! To have such a run of success is remarkable. All the more so since those targeted are always of the First Order. Which is why our thief is so celebrated amongst the Second Order. Who does not enjoy seeing the proud nobles discomfited, the arrogant rulers inconvenienced?”
Ommet had turned and was watching me carefully as he said this. I shrugged. “I stay clear of such things. I must deal with First and Second Order alike, and have no truck with disloyalty or seditious talk.”
“Very wise. The penalties for such things can be harsh. And yet – many of the Second Order, whilst decrying this thief in public, will cheer him on in private whispers! He has even gained a popular name: ‘The Wraith’!”
“I’ve heard it mentioned.”
“So, of course, has Baron Crombard. And he set in place plans to catch this elusive Wraith, should the man ever have the temerity to ply his trade at Sonor Breck.”
“What plans were those?” I asked, in a tone of idle curiosity.
Ommet shook his head slowly. His steady gaze, and the twinkle in his eyes, suggested that he saw right through my feigned indifference. “You should not underestimate the First Order,” he said quietly. “They live long, and lay deep plans, being ready to wait years for their fruition. Long before the Wraith came his way, the Baron was prepared for him. He created two lists. One contained a complete description, with drawings, of every item of jewellery and every piece of artwork in his possession. Many copies were made. The other list had details of every jeweller, goldsmith, or art dealer – honest, crooked, or shaded between the two – in the Northern Provinces.”
He paused, but I said nothing. I could see all too clearly the outlines of the trap I had been caught in.
“When the theft was discovered, the list of stolen items was at once distributed to all those on the second list. Along with instructions to inform the authorities should any of these items be offered for sale. And with warnings of the penalties for any who failed to do so. Very severe penalties.”
Ommet walked over to the bench and sat down next to me. “Perhaps you are angry with that jeweller who gave your name to the Magistrate? Do you consider yourself betrayed? Yet what could he do? By merely showing him that broach you had put the man and his entire family in mortal danger. As soon as he recognised it from the description he had been given, he had to act to save himself.”
“He could have destroyed it.” I muttered. “Melted the gold, taken out the jewels.”
“And what if it turned out that you were, in fact, working for the Baron? That possibility was warned of, in the instructions sent out. Would you have taken the risk?”
There was a long silence, whilst I cursed inwardly. The sad irony was that I hadn’t planned to try and sell any of the Sonor Breck treasures myself. I had certain contacts who took care of such things. But matters had gone awry. Finding myself short of funds I had sold the broach to tide me over. Not dreaming of the trap that had been laid. As Ommet had said, I had underestimated the Baron, and that was a fatal mistake.
I glanced over at my visitor, who was picking idly at a loose thread on his hat. “It doesn’t prove I’m the Wraith. I might have come by the broach in some other way. Found on an anonymous corpse, perhaps?”
It sounded impossibly lame, even to me, and Ommet ignored it entirely.
“A messenger arrived from Sonor Breck just a few hours past. Apparently the Baron is on his way here in person. Expected to arrive tomorrow, around noon.”
I felt slightly sick.
“The Baron will have you put to the torture forthwith.” Ommet continued dispassionately. “He will want to know, first of all, where the rest of the things you stole from him are. And how you disposed of the other items stolen over the years. Then he will want to know of any accomplices you might have. And so on. He will be in no hurry. You know his reputation; he will enjoy your screams.”
“Enough!” I snapped. “I don’t need to hear this.”
Ommet ignored me. “In due course, when the Baron is satisfied that you have told all you know, perhaps he will allow you a trial. Just a short one, where you confess to everything. The execution will probably take longer.”
To my embarrassment, I was shaking. It was a struggle to keep from voiding my bowels. I am no coward, but to sit chained and helpless whilst this horrific future was laid out for me was all but unendurable.
“Damn you!” I snarled. “Why are you doing this? Does it amuse you to tell me these things? You sick bastard!”
Ommet looked pained. “Not at all. I tell you this only so that you fully understand your position. You must realise that you are already tried and condemned – you have no hope, no hope at all, and your future will be just as I have described – unless you are absolutely honest with me!”
I clutched at that straw. “Are you saying that you can do something? You can get me out of here?”
“Are you the Wraith?” Ommet looked directly at me. “We’ll set aside the matter of your true name, just tell me if you are indeed he.”
“And if I am? Why would you risk the Baron’s fury to help a thief?’
He smiled. “I have need of your talents. I want you to help me steal something.”
(The Hidden Libraries is out now on most e-book platforms and as a paperback from some online bookshops.)