Thief of the Night Guild

by Andy Peloquin

  Darreth looked up. “I’m trying,” he said simply. “No one in House Scorpion can crack it either. I’ve done everything I can think of to—”

  “Ilanna!”

  She whirled at the sound of Allon’s voice. The Hound rushed toward her. “I think I have something.” He bent over the table, red-faced and panting, and stabbed a finger at the blueprints. “The codes. They’re Illusionist Cleric script!”

  Darreth’s eyes went wide. “What?”

  Allon gave an emphatic nod. “Heard stories…Duke Phonnis—”

  “Easy, Allon.” Ilanna poured him a cup of watered wine. “Catch your breath.”

  Allon gulped down the drink and wiped his mouth. When his frantic breathing slowed, he spoke in an excited voice. “I was attending one of Lord Beritane’s luncheons—in disguise, of course—and I got a few of the younger lords talking about Lord Auslan.” He shook his head. “It’s amazing how much the nobles of The Gardens hate those Old Praamians.”

  “Allon!” Ilanna snapped her fingers. “The stories?”

  The Hound nodded. “So Count Chatham and Lord Dorris start going on about how ridiculous Lord Auslan was to entomb his wife in gold, and that foolish underground room of his. And Lord Dorris starts going on about how Lord Auslan could have bought a whole team of gladiators with the money he spent hiring the Illusionist Clerics to design an impossible lock for him.”

  Ilanna’s mind raced. More than once, she’d fought back nausea after staring at the mind-boggling patterns on the Temple of Prosperity’s façade. The Illusionist was the god of coin, success, and madness; his clerics’ reputation for insanity was rivaled only by their understanding of the human mind and their ingenuity in designing intricate puzzles, trick boxes, and toys. It made sense that Duke Phonnis would bring in the Illusionist Clerics to create an impossible lock for his impenetrable vault door.

  She turned to Darreth. “It has to be, right?”

  The Scorpion’s brow furrowed as he stared down at the indecipherable markings. “Can’t say for sure. I’ve never seen Illusionist Cleric script.”

  “Do you know anyone who has?”

  Darreth scratched his chin.

  A memory of Reckoner Tyren, the priest she’d abducted from the Coin Counter’s Temple, flashed through Ilanna’s mind. Perhaps she could do the same with an Illusionist Cleric. She discarded the idea immediately. She had no desire to leave more corpses in her wake.

  “Come on, people! Think.” Ilanna pounded her fists on the table. “Surely one of us knows someone who’s had experience with an Illusionist Cleric.”

  Allon gave her a blank look, and Jarl shrugged his huge shoulders.

  She returned her gaze to the Scorpion. “Darreth?”

  Darreth winced. “I have an idea. But you’re not going to like it.”

  “Spit it out, man! I’ll do it, no matter what it costs.”

  The Scorpion grimaced. “We need to pay a visit to Master Velvet.”

  * * *

  ILANNA STIFLED A shudder as she stared across the table at Master Velvet. Even now, fifteen years later, memories of the time spent in the Menagerie set her hands trembling. She clenched her fists and forced herself to meet his gaze.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t little Seven.” Master Velvet gave her a leering grin—the same toothless expression that still woke her screaming in the night. “I hear it’s Ilanna now.”

  Ilanna swallowed. “That’s correct.” Her jaw creaked with the effort of holding back the acid surging to her throat.

  Master Velvet leaned back in his chair. “Kind of you to visit your old master after all these years.” He rubbed a grimy hand over his stubbled cheek. “Though something tells me you’re not here to share a glass of agor.” He didn’t offer her a cup, but emptied the foul-smelling liquor down his throat and belched.

  Ilanna’s eyes dropped to his namesake vest. Was it just her imagination, or had the number of bloodstains multiplied? Her fingers twitched toward her bracer as her eyes sought the pulsing vein in his throat. It would be so easy to slice the bastard from crotch to gullet. It would be no less than he deserved for the torment he’d inflicted upon her—that he inflicted upon every new batch of tyros delivered into his care.

  “What brings the great Journeyman Ilanna to my door?” Master Velvet picked at his nose, flicked away his findings.

  “This.” She slid a piece of parchment across the table.

  Master Velvet’s eyebrows shot up as he studied it. “Now that’s something I haven’t seen in an age and a half.” He settled a pair of cracked spectacles onto his red, pitted nose. “The script of the Illusionist himself.”

  Excitement warred with Ilanna’s revulsion. “You can read it?” No one knew what brought Master Velvet to the Guild, but it was whispered he once served in the Temple of Prosperity. The fact that he understood the Illusionist Cleric script proved the rumors true.

  Master Velvet nodded. “Some.”

  “Can you tell me what they mean?”

  Master Velvet stroked his scruffy cheeks, winced as a scab on his nose bled. “It’ll take me time, but I think I can manage.” He reached into a drawer and drew out a tabacc pipe. He spoke without looking away from stuffing the bowl. “But, as fond as I am of my former tyros, I’m not the sort to—” He cursed as the clay bowl broke off the pipe stem, fell, and shattered.

  “Will this provide sufficient motivation?” Ilanna produced Lord Ralston’s pipe.

  Greed sparkled in Master Velvet’s eyes, stretched his face into a wide grin. “Oh yes, indeed. That should do nicely.” As he took the pipe, his hand brushed against hers. He let the contact linger.

  Ilanna snatched her hand back. “How long will it take?”

  Master Velvet raised the pipe to his lips with a sigh. “For this, you’ll have the translation in the morning.”

  Ilanna didn’t bid Master Velvet farewell, didn’t even look back as she strode from the room. She had to get away from him and the chilling memories of her past before she added his blood to the stains on his vest.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “GAH!” ILANNA’S THROWING dagger thunked into a wooden beam, followed by two more. She wished she had one of Master Velvet’s straw dummies to chop into pieces. Or the man himself.

  “That bad?”

  Ilanna whirled. Allon stood at the entrance to the work room, a worried expression on his face.

  “Worse!” She stalked over to the beam and tugged her daggers free. “Yet another bloody cold night spent studying Lord Auslan’s mansion and nothing to show for it.” She pointed to the map of the estate he’d drawn. “The walls are maintained and guarded too well. The only section of the grounds we’d have any hope of slipping into unnoticed is the northeastern side.”

  The Hound grimaced. “By the Field of Mercy.” He shut the door behind him.

  Ilanna nodded. “There are a few crumbling sections of wall that we could slip over. If only we could reach it.”

  “Crossing forty paces of quicksand.”

  “Exactly. Now, let’s say we somehow manage to do what has never been done and get across the field. There’s still one small problem.”

  “Watcher’s Square.”

  “Between the Praamian Guards and the steady stream of traffic in and out of the Palace, we’d be spotted before we took three steps.” She buried another throwing dagger into the beam. “We’re better off trying to fly into the mansion.”

  “You’re not wrong there.”

  Ilanna gritted her teeth. “I take it you’ve got more good news for me?”

  Allon’s expression turned grim. “I found a way to exit the sewers into Lord Auslan’s property.”

  She sensed a “but” in his voice. “Don’t tell me: the Duke’s men have sealed it.”

  Allon nodded. “Welded the damned thing shut. No way we’re getting through there without some serious effort.” He stroked his chin, his mouth pulling into a tight line. “Problem is, if we try to go at the grate, we’re going to ra
ise some serious ruckus. If we were talking Praamian Guards, there might be a chance. But no Arbitor’s going to miss the sound of a hacksaw.”

  “Damn it!” Ilanna’s fists clenched and relaxed. She’d known this job would be difficult, but it had begun to look impossible. How could they succeed if they couldn’t even get into the same estate as the vault? Then there was the little matter of getting through a door made of Odarian steel—according to Master Lorilain, an impossible task given their time frame. Unless, of course, they stole from the Secret Keepers, an act commensurate to committing suicide in the most painful manner possible.

  “It gets worse.”

  Ilanna quirked an eyebrow. “Let me guess: the Apprentice himself has descended from the heavens to punish me.”

  Allon gave a mirthless chuckle. “Perhaps not that bad, but not much better. I ran into Jarl down in the sewers and he asked me to pass on a message. He says he needs more Grubbers. They’ve hit bedrock. It means they’re getting close to the river—where the mansion is. But if he doesn’t have more hands, they’re not going to make it through.”

  Ilanna gave a curt wave. “He can hire all of House Grubber if it gets the job done in time.” If he didn’t, they’d have no escape route, no way to get the immense golden sarcophagus out of the vault.

  “He also said he needs to know where he’s digging. Something about being sure what part of the house to aim for.”

  Ilanna rolled her shoulders. “I should get that information any day now.” The last three visits to her dead drop had found it empty. She’d have to try again tonight.

  A knock sounded at the door. Allon glanced at her and, at her nod, opened it.

  “Message from Master Velvet for Journeyman Ilanna.” An apprentice in the white-trimmed robes of a Hound entered.

  Ilanna leapt across the room and snatched the envelope from his hand. She ripped it open, spilling sheets of parchment over the table, and bent to study the contents. Excitement swelled in her chest.

  “Yes!” She beckoned Allon over. “Take a look at this.”

  Allon slid in beside her, his shoulders rubbing up against her. His eyes went wide as he scanned the writing. “Incredible!”

  Ilanna glanced up as a cough sounded behind them.

  The Hound apprentice held out a hand. “Master Velvet said you’d cover the fee.”

  Using the distraction as an excuse to avoid Allon’s contact, Ilanna flipped a half-drake at the boy. “Shut the door behind you.” She didn’t wait to hear the click of the latch before returning her attention to the parchment. “Bloody hell, that’s complex!”

  Master Velvet’s deplorable handwriting proved difficult to read, and the Illusionist Clerics words made little more sense than their script. The translation spoke of twenty-four interlocking rings, one for each of the noble Houses in Old Praamis. The first page had a plethora of details on the mechanisms for connecting the rings to the lock’s various cylinders and springs.

  She looked up at Allon’s breathy exclamation. “What do you think?”

  Allon shook his head. Bewilderment etched deep lines in his face. “I’m willing to say I understand even less than you do.”

  Ilanna nodded. She’d spent a year of her apprenticeship studying under the best locksmiths in Praamis. The Illusionist Clerics’ design left her head spinning. “I think we need to take this to Master Quorin, see if he can build it.”

  Master Quorin counted among the merchants and artisans beholden to the Night Guild. The locksmith had borrowed from the Guild to repay gambling debts. When he inevitably defaulted on his loan, Master Hawk had convinced House Bloodbear to let the locksmith work off what he owed. The Guild called on Master Quorin infrequently, but he never turned them down. If anyone could recreate the lock, he could.

  “I’ll take it to him.” Allon held out a hand. “I’ll be heading back into the sewers to see if I can find another way in and to deliver the message to Jarl. I just had to stop by the Guild for a pair of galoshes and workman’s clothing.” He wrinkled his nose at the green-and-brown splotches on his clothes. “I’d almost forgotten how filthy it is down there.”

  Ilanna gave him two sheets of paper. “Tell him I’ll be stopping by tomorrow night to see his progress. Double his usual fees if he has good news.” She half-drew a throwing dagger from her bracer. “He won’t like what happens if he gives me more bad news.”

  Allon snorted. “Always the charmer, Ilanna.” He moved toward her.

  “Oh, hell no!” Ilanna poked a hand into his chest. “As long as you smell like that, you’re staying far away.”

  “Fair enough. But when I’m clean…”

  Ilanna quirked an eyebrow. “You’re going to need a lot of baths to get rid of that stink.”

  Allon groaned. “Don’t I know it? Until later, little Hawk.” With a wink, he left the room.

  Ilanna let out a slow breath and the tension in her gut relaxed. His interest in her had increased since they started working together. He always sought excuses to be near, to touch her. She’d have to do something about him. She needed to sever their personal relationship without angering him. She still needed his help to finish the Duke’s job.

  Let’s just hope Master Velvet found more information than just the lock. The envelope had contained three sheets of parchment. Two provided detailed information on the locking mechanism. So what’s this other one about?

  She recognized a few of the words on the parchment: acid, steel, Odaron, and Lord Auslan. But the majority made no sense to her. Phrases like “Derelana’s Lance” and “Kharna’s Breath” couldn’t refer to the gods themselves, could they? The rest looked like the sort of chemical names Ethen had once spouted at her—names she had no way to recognize.

  I need to get this to Darreth and see if he recognizes anything. She’d have to pay a visit to the warehouse before she checked her dead drop.

  “Ilanna? You in here?” The door swung open, and Errik poked his head in. “Oh, good. I think I’ve found the solution to our Lord Auslan problem.”

  Ilanna snorted. “Which one? Every day brings some new impossibility.”

  “The man himself.”

  Ilanna leaned forward. “I’m intrigued.”

  “The Labethian Tournament.” Errik gave her a meaningful look.

  Every twenty years, Praamis held the Labethian Tournament in honor of King Labeth. Legends held that Labeth had led an army that defeated the demons who held the ancient city of Praamis during the War of Gods. Though his soldiers died by the thousands, Labeth had been the first to set foot upon the wall, the first to wet his blade with demonic blood. When the demons threw his men off the parapets, he had battled alone for an hour. At the battle’s end, he had slain more than a thousand demons, or so the stories said. Of the hundred thousand men that joined battle with him, only ninety-nine remained to crown him the first King of Praamis.

  The Labethian Tournament paid homage to the nobility and honor of Labeth by pitting gladiators in combat to the death. People came from as far as the distant Hrandari Plains, bringing their most skilled warriors and ferocious beasts to compete for the honor of being crowned Labeth’s Scion and taking the Royal prize of two hundred thousand imperials. Champions around Einan battled in arenas and beast pits to be one of the sixty-four contestants selected to enter the tournament. Only one left the arena alive.

  Visitors from every corner of the world flocked to Praamis for the Labethian Tournament, and even the Labethian Arena’s ten thousand seats failed to contain the throngs jostling to see the battles. Trade in and out of the city ground to a halt during the week-long celebrations prior to the tournament. The Foxes and Grubbers had already begun sharpening their finger-knives in anticipation.

  “You think Lord Auslan will be attending the tournament?”

  Errik nodded. “From what I hear, he’s an avid fan of the games. Rumor has it—”

  Another knock sounded, and another Hound apprentice entered. “From Master Gold.”

  “Thank you
.” Ilanna handed him a coin, opened the folded parchment, and read aloud. “Lord Auslan’s great-grandfather was Dannis Hundred-Lives.” She looked up at Errik, her brow furrowing. “That mean anything to you?”

  The Serpent gave her an eager nod. “It’s what I was trying to tell you! Dannis Hundred-Lives was the only Praamian to win the Labethian Tournament in the last two thousand years. The King at the time—Sagede, I think—rewarded him with a patent of nobility. His victory in the Tournament won him the heart and hand of Hildur, Lady of House Auslan.”

  Ilanna’s eyes went wide. “Lord Auslan’s great-grandfather was a gladiator?”

  “Yes. And every Lord of House Auslan has attended the tournament ever since.”

  “If that’s true…” Excitement set Ilanna’s heart pounding. Lord Auslan—and likely most of the Arbitors protecting him—would be at the Labethian Arena in just under four weeks. The estate’s guard would be depleted, the mansion vulnerable. “It’s the perfect opportunity!”

  Errik nodded. “It is.” His face scrunched up. “But do we have enough time?”

  The question cast a bucket of cold water on the fire of Ilanna’s elation. Too many things hung in the air. She had to find a way to crack the Illusionist Clerics’ lock and get into the vault. She needed Master Lorilain to figure out how to break through the steel room, Allon to find a way into the Auslan estate unnoticed, and Jarl to complete the escape route in time. If even one failed, her plan wouldn’t work.

  But what choice did she have? She couldn’t complete the job with all of Lord Auslan’s guards on the property. She had to take advantage of the tournament if she was to get her hands on the one thing she needed to be free of the Guild. That meant she had to have everything ready in time.

  She met Errik’s eyes. “We’re going to do it, no matter what happens.” She couldn’t fail, not so close. She would do whatever she must to succeed.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ILANNA FLEW ACROSS the rooftops of Praamis, elation lending wings to her feet, the packet from the dead drop nestled in her breast pocket. The contents filled in some of the blanks in her plan. A number of critical elements of the plan remained in their beginning stages, but she had enough to give her crew directions. It’s all coming together!