“Of course,” she murmured, voice raw and eyes burning. Hadrian had never referred to her as his best thief before, merely a good thief. A great thief even. A talented thief, nonetheless, and a host of other adjectives, but never the best. “Send word to me when you’re ready to proceed, and I’ll start on these jobs.”
They parted ways from the vault, each with their own tasks to perform. After all, if she wanted to lure the woman away from her abusive husband, she first had to make contact.
And put on some damned clothes.
USING AN INTERMEDIARY, Rosalia contacted the artisan’s wife while the woman visited the grocer for his supper. The simple note promised help if she desired freedom from married life.
By nightfall the next day, the deal had been struck, the woman sending one of her sons into the markets with her note of cooperation. That was how easily it was done.
Rosalia used little children for such tasks. Kids in Enimura often wandered unseen and unheard, ignored while traveling the markets on errands for their parents or while loitering near the shops. No one paid any mind to the street urchins or the vagabonds unless they stole.
With exception to a rare few, there were far better ways to make use of a child’s talents than to have them steal in the markets, and she compensated them well for those services. Over the years, she’d cultivated the perfect little gang to work beneath her, paying them in silver for tidbits of information and gossip seen while on the streets. A pair of little girls could play hopscotch or jump rope on a corner across from the merchant’s avenue and report gossip worth their weight in gold by evening.
Once night fell the next evening, and they came closer to enacting their plan, Rosalia met personally with the woman’s eldest son. He was a young man on the cusp of adulthood, nervous brown eyes darting left and right while he huddled in the shadows beneath a tailor’s red awning. He mopped his brow with one shirt sleeve and glanced around, petrified.
Wary of a setup, she passed him. His shoulders slumped in genuine disappointment. He hid again, his dread radiating through the air in palpable waves. No one else stood alongside the deserted side street.
When Rosalia appeared behind him but close enough to be in his peripheral vision, using nothing more than a bit of stealth, he nearly jumped out of his skin. She raised a finger to her lips. “Shh. It’s only me.”
His chest heaved for a few moments longer. “Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know who to expect. Mum said your letter wanted me here and alone.”
Her eyes took in his gaunt, ashen face, the sweat beading on his brow that had nothing to do with the weather—in fact, it was already cooling, a nice breeze whispering up and down the merchant lanes. A fading bruise stood out against his cheek.
“Good mother, your mum, to do what she must to keep you all safe.” Rosalia set a heavy sack of ducats into his hand. His eyes grew wide, and then his gaze darted up to her.
“This is all for us?”
“Your mother’s share, minus the cost of smuggling four bodies from the city. All has been arranged on her behalf as promised. Meet by the Golden Serpent at half past midnight. Tell her to be timely with the lot of you or she’ll miss the caravan. Understood?”
“I understand, ma’am. What of the elixir? Mum says you mentioned an elixir to put him out so he won’t see us leaving.”
Rosalia produced a small vial of translucent liquid. “It is flavorless and has no odor. Pour all of its contents into his evening brandy, otherwise you will risk capture. The complete thing.”
“Will it hurt him?”
She shook her head. “He’ll fall into a deep sleep and snooze until morning. All of Opal Park could go up in flames, and he’d be none the wiser.”
The boy squared his shoulders, looking a little less dead inside, and more like the man he’d have to be to help his mother and young siblings flee their father. “I can do it. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Good luck to all of you.”
She hurried away, heart a little lighter.
Being a thief wasn’t all bad after all.
2
AN AMAZING CATCH
EVERY RESPECTABLE THIEF in the business kept a day job. Hadrian and Lacherra ran a tavern at the beach, catering to thirsty sailors and dockworkers. Jabari shined shoes in the square. A couple of the older Pearls delivered packages through the city as messengers.
Despite her dearest love for thievery and stealing from the obnoxiously rich, Rosalia had another calling. In the evenings, she and her closest friend danced at the Smoke and Mirrors Theater in Enimura’s Gilded Quarter, where illusion, a hint of magic, and extreme amounts of bodily control created art for the masses three nights a week. Sometimes four, if the demand was great enough and the cast was willing.
Rosalia wrinkled her nose and batted Mira’s wrist. “This makeup itches.”
“This is the finest makeup imported from across the Divine Sea.”
“Still itches like you’ve smeared a handful of stinging nettles on my cheeks.”
Mira settled back, exasperation whistling an exaggerated sigh from her lips. “It does not. And even if it does, well, maybe you’ll keep on top of your belongings next time. When you don’t restock your personal supplies prior to an event, you’re left to the mercy of whatever I have on hand.”
“I was busy.”
“So was I. Hadrian had me crawling all over bloody rooftops and shit this week, but I still managed to respect my responsibilities in our other trade. We’re dancers primarily, remember? We dance.”
“It isn’t as if we make more money here—”
“For Arcadian’s sake, Rosalia. It isn’t about where we make the most money. It’s about personal duty. About your own reputation. About Frederico’s reputation. You won’t always be able to rely upon me to remember the things you neglect.”
A lead weight plummeted to the bottom of Rosalia’s stomach. “I’m sorry. I was being a brat, and you’re right.”
Mira swept the brush over the apples of Rosalia’s cheeks and blended rose gold blush toward her temples. “I know I’m right.”
“So what is this stuff anyway?”
“It’s clay harvested from the shores of Oceana and infused with pigment,” Mira explained. “It doesn’t budge, even if you sweat beneath those enormous spotlamps while surrounded by all of Anura’s pyromantics.”
There couldn’t be a more brilliant set designer than Anura. Somehow, the older woman turned sorcery into a thing of art, combining enchantments and technology to create masterful designs that brought their stage to life. The Smoke and Mirrors Theater wouldn’t have its reputation without her. Customers came as much to see the spectacles of magic as they did the dancers.
“Rosalia!” the stage manager called. “You’re set to go on stage in five.”
Mira shooed her. “I’m finished with you. Go.”
This was showtime, the best time of the night, and honest paying work that kept the suspicion off her lifestyle when she wasn’t on the stage. As a dancer, she was paid well, earning three to five golden ducats a week for her performances. Two ducats were enough to shelter, clothe, and feed a single woman in comfort, but with her earnings, she could afford the finer things in life—beautiful veils, silk dresses, hand-painted scarves, and other wonders. She kept herself adorned in paints and the flourishes of modern fashion and played the courtship game with the young suitors who tried to visit her after she’d left the dressing room.
At least she had participated in the courtship game. About six months earlier, one of their regular visitors had wanted to speak to her in person to make a marriage proposal. He’d waited until the other girls had emptied the dressing room before sneaking inside, and once there, he’d cornered her, demanding for her to accept the attention he’d supposedly been attempting to lavish upon her for weeks.
The confrontation ended with her hair comb embedded in his carotid artery.
She’d claimed to the city guard that it was an accident, just a blind,
terrified thrust. After that incident, Frederico had hired additional bodyguard staff to block overassertive admirers who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Because it was better than a dancer drawing attention to herself a second time.
Lacherra had taught her the quick and dirty method of jabbing vital organs, slashing major blood vessels, or gouging eyes. As part of the gang, they’d taught her to throw fire oil to create a diversion and conceal her exit with a handful of shade’s dust, but actual battle with a blade had never been her strong suit.
The crash of cymbals snatched Rosalia back to the present. The world beyond the dressing room had already devolved into chaos, and music thundered from the orchestra. There was a swell in the volume, a rise in the melodic masterpiece put together for their presentation.
Rosalia wasn’t meant to take the stage until the climax, when the ugly worm who wished to become a butterfly finally took flight after her transformation. Right now, the other worms were dancing beneath the swaying leaves and grass blades erected for the set design. The heroine writhed in despair, told she could never achieve her dream.
“I love this part,” Mira murmured from behind her.
“When the other worms are mocking her?”
“Yes. I love it because soon they’ll be proven wrong, and she’ll show them she truly is a butterfly after all.”
For her role in the show, Mira played the part of a godmother dragonfly, a compassionate but wise mentor to the heroine. As she darted forward and onto the stage, double pairs of wings glistened and left trails of silver sparkles on the air. She circled around the dancer playing the part of the ugly worm and took her hand.
When the worm laid herself down to sleep in her chrysalis, smoke and fog arose from the stage. The theater lights dimmed. It was time for the part of the show the audience always loved the most.
Rosalia hurried beneath the stage and waited until the performer who had played the part of the worm was lowered on a small platform moments later.
“Good luck,” Sulie whispered. She’d been painted green from head to toe for the role, decorated with ruby jewels and golden markings.
“Thank you.”
They exchanged places on the rising platform, and it carried Rosalia up toward the chrysalis. For her part of the performance, she wore folded butterfly wings attached to her back, mechanical marvels of orange, gold, and black that Frederico had commissioned from some shop in the city. She only had to release the semi-translucent cord binding them.
The music swelled, reaching a dramatic crescendo while viewers held their collective breath, clasped hands to their chests, and watched with eyes wide and anxious.
Magical wisps trailed through the air, the tiny creatures caught on the sand dunes by street urchins Frederico paid to hunt for them after nightfall. Once released, they floated toward the sky like airborne jellyfish, glowing in intermittent pulses of golden and blue light.
Rosalia rose from her crouch and emerged from the chrysalis. It unfurled like a blossoming lily, the pieces of it falling to the side. She stretched and twisted, she twirled and leapt, but her wings remained fastened in place. Flightless.
She threw herself into the dance and became one with the music until the triumphant chime signaled the moment of transformation.
One gesture of her arm above her head drew the cord taut. It snapped. The wings expanded behind her in their full, silken glory, lit by starlight sparkles of glitter and magic. She’d practiced with the things for weeks, enduring many sleepless nights for the sake of the theater.
She jumped and twirled, living and breathing the routine, knowing that, despite a dozen other women performing stunts nearby, she had become the star of the show. All eyes watched her.
Frederico stood nearby out of view of the audience, a proud grin on his handsome and age-weathered face. Beside him, an unfamiliar man watched—a brooding man with dark hair spilling over his shoulders like threads of onyx.
There was something burning in those green eyes of his that sent her heart into an unsteady rhythm. A flush spread throughout her body and tingled down each limb until it reached the tips of her fingers and toes.
Daring to pretend her mysterious spectator was the only member of her audience, Rosalia shimmied a dance of sensual promises and unspoken delights, floating from the stage toward the skyward lights with her arms outstretched and head tilted back. A spotlamp designed to mimic the golden sun bathed her in its radiance, and then the curtain fell.
Chest heaving, she waited until the loft from the enchanted wings lowered her to the ground again. It took two members of the crew to bring her down.
“Bloody things are so light,” Mira said as she unstrapped the harness. “Didn’t think you’d ever come down this time.”
Rosalia grinned. “I didn’t either. I was worried for a moment about what the hell I’d do if it carried me to the ceiling. As she shed the enchanted wings, she glanced to her left and saw the dark-haired man hadn’t moved from Frederico’s side, the two of them engaged in conversation now. Frederico laughed and clapped his companion on the shoulder. Then money was exchanged.
“That’s Xavier Bane,” Sulie whispered.
“Who?”
Sulie huffed a breath and placed both hands on her hips. “How could you live in this city without knowing the name of the wealthiest clockwork mechanic?”
“I don’t buy clockwork.”
A disgusted sound rattled in the other dancer’s throat. “Anyway, he’s rich as sin and just as hot. Look at him. I think he’s part elf, maybe. His ears are long.”
Rosalia snorted. “There’s three or four other races of magical being with tapered ears on this continent. And they’re not that long. Besides, that doesn’t sound like an elven name to me.” Leaning forward, she squinted for a better look at the handsome man. How rich could he be if he brought deliveries in person to his customers?
The girl shrugged. “Maybe he saudoniacized it. Plenty of elves do that once they reach our shores so they can fit in among our people. Take their Ilyrian names and make them fit Saudonia’s language to better blend into the kingdom. He built those wings, you know. They say some of the pieces in his store are worth as much as a thousand ducats.”
An obscene price for a piece of clockwork unless it landscaped the yard, cooked meals, and shoveled behind the horses after supper. With a thousand ducats, Rosalia could fill an armory with high-quality, elfsteel weapons, purchase the freedom of every slave in the city, and have enough gold remaining to commission a crown rivaling the king’s jewels.
Rosalia rolled her eyes. “They say a lot of things.”
“And he’s a sorcerer. He disenchants and restores glyphs in damaged magical devices.”
“Are you his promoter?” Rosalia demanded, exasperated.
Sulie pressed her lips together and cut her gaze away. “I’m only saying, he’s an amazing catch. And he was watching you.”
“Nonsense. Everyone was watching me.”
Mira grinned and joined in. “Everyone was watching the show, but he was studying you like you were a delicious morsel to devour.”
They lined up again for the final curtain call, and when it parted, a tremendous applause thundered over the theater. Rosalia bowed low to the ground and stole a glance offstage to the left.
Xavier Bane hadn’t moved from his spot next to Frederico. Although the two men were speaking, his gaze remained riveted so firmly upon Rosalia that there could be no doubt she was the subject of their conversation.
3
ROYAL SCHEMES
THE SPYMASTER MOPPED HIS BROW, withering under the stare of King Gregarus Varro XVIII. He alone stood within the immense throne room, all other servants dismissed save for the presence of the king’s personal bodyguard. That man, a huge hulking half-giant of a knight, stood nearby. Sir Henric was protector, executioner, and right hand all in one, a loyal dog in elfsteel maille with a battle axe forged by the dwarves of Undercity.
One word from King
Gregarus, and his metalclad pet would go into action, deadly weapon swinging, heads flying. The spymaster had seen it once, of course, when the king had declared all members of his deceased father’s cabinet to be traitors. Several of his lowest-ranking officers had been called in for a meeting and then summarily executed when they failed to bend knee to the then crown prince.
Swallowing down the nervous knot in his stomach, the spymaster bided his time, waited for his king’s response, and prayed he wasn’t next.
Caius was not a brave man, but he knew he only had a chance if he went for Sir Henric first. It’d have to be one hell of a spell to take the knight off his feet and incapacitate him before he hefted the axe.
“What you mean to tell me is that you’ve wasted both of our time by arriving to inform me of your failure? That you haven’t located the device I seek or any information regarding its whereabouts?”
Caius dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. “No, Your Royal Majesty, not at all. What I mean to say is that its current whereabouts remain unknown, but that we’ve acquired valuable information regarding its theft from the Royal Vault.”
King Gregarus stroked his chin. The displeasure and the menace in his eyes faded, dimming to an unimpressed gaze. “Speak on.”
Thank the gods.
“Multiple interrogations of your father’s remaining advisors and what allies we’ve discovered have revealed the item was smuggled from the castle years ago and placed in the care of an artisan.”
“An artisan,” King Gregarus repeated, tone droll. His gaze thinned. “There are a hundred artisans across the city. I gave you specific orders to uncover everything you could about my late father’s treachery, and you bring me only guesses and speculation, vague information.”
All That Glitters: a Fantasy Romance (Daughter of Fortune Book 1) Page 2
