by Beth Alvarez
He really didn’t like fish—at least, not in Orrad. The whiskered bottom-feeders they dragged out of the river tasted like mud.
Eventually, Niada returned. “Talk fast,” she whispered. “I’m still working.”
“I’ll have you get me a drink in a moment. I need ideas. Something big, something most people would think impossible.” The coins in his pocket clinked when he shifted to remove one.
“Liar,” she said. “You’ve already got a plan. I know you.”
He shrugged. “I have half a plan. I need a suggestion for the other half. Something that would cause a stir.”
“The opal in the queen’s crown.”
Tahl rolled his eyes. “I’m serious.”
“Then you’ll like the information I just got this morning.” Her eyes twinkled.
“Which is?”
“Ah-ah.” The girl held out a hand. “Mites first.”
Scowling, he pushed a single copper half-mite into her palm. Niada’s brow furrowed, but he pointed at the bar. “Drink,” he ordered.
When she returned with a mug of water, he smirked. A good thief never drank—at least, not outside the comfort of their own home. She sat and leaned close. “The Temple of Brant brought a collection of artifacts from the north. They’re to be used for something during the equinox service, I think, but until the equinox, they’ll be on display in the Queen’s Museum.”
“I like where this is going,” Tahl murmured over the rim of his cup.
She nodded. “They brought an artifact they’re calling the Seed of Brant.”
He slapped the table. “Done. That’s all I needed.”
“What’s my part?” she asked, eager.
“That was your part.” He passed her a second coin. “Now you just listen.”
“That’s not fair!” Niada protested. “You never let me help with anything!”
Tahl ticked a finger at her. “You are helping. You just helped. I can’t have you on this, this is mine. If I don’t do this one alone, it won’t mean anything, it won’t make any difference. Understand?”
The girl crossed her arms and slouched, pouting.
His shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’ll take you next time.”
A tiny spark of hope lit in her eyes. “Promise?”
With a little more flourish than necessary, he pressed a spread hand to his chest in a gesture of honesty. “Promise.”
“Okay.” She rose and collected his empty dishes. “But I’m going to hold you to that.”
Tahl stood and tucked his hands into his pockets to silence his stolen coins. He strolled outside and sucked in a deep lungful of night air.
“Seed of the Lifetree, huh,” he murmured to himself, gazing at the stars. He couldn’t have timed things better if he’d tried.
Chapter 4
The artist licked his lips and eyed the coins in Tahl’s palm. Sweat broke on the man’s brow. “The whole set?”
“That would make it easier to learn, wouldn’t it? Having all the colors handy?” The two pims in his hand glinted in the light when Tahl flexed his hand. Truthfully, the bright chalk pastels in the box between them weren’t worth half what he offered, given their apparent quality, but they would be more useful than wax. Chalk could be erased, which would spare his maps. It also wouldn’t melt when his rented room over the stable got hot, come summertime. He could have stolen the chalk ten times over while the man worked at his drawing, but the fellow was a skilled artist. Though no one yet recognized the artist when he worked near the river, Tahl doubted that would be the case forever. Building a rapport was wiser. Eventually, skilled artists moved within noble circles, and that made them useful friends.
“I—I suppose,” the artist said.
Tahl lowered his hand. “Is something wrong?” The pair of silver coins were probably close to what the man made in a week. His hesitation made no sense.
The man flashed him a nervous smile. “No. I mean, not exactly. I mean, just... just sentimentality. As an artist, your tools become an extension of yourself. You’ll understand once you gain experience.”
“Ah.” Tahl already understood. He felt the same way about his two favorite knives. “Could you tell me where you bought them, then? I can get some of my own.”
Relief washed over the artist’s face. “That, I can do.”
The directions he gave were clear and simple—another reason to befriend the man, Tahl decided as he walked. Connections were useful, but connections who could navigate within the maze-like museums and manors in the wealthiest parts of the city were priceless.
Near the boundary between the mercantile district and the gardens, Tahl found the little market stall with its stock of paints, chalks, and other artistic supplies. He intended to pay; Tahl had a soft spot for the arts, one he’d always attributed to his mother’s passion for painting. It was the merchant himself that changed his mind. The man wore silks finer than those Lord Eseri sported, and the prices on his materials were easily three times what they should have been. Business was business, but to flaunt such excess when most students of the arts struggled to feed themselves was tasteless.
Tahl lingered beside a pastry cart nearby until a larger group of pedestrians came into view. Timing was everything. He moved as they approached, allowed their passage to push him to the edge of the street. As they passed, he turned his head as if to watch them in curiosity. The merchant followed suit. A flick of Tahl’s fingers slid a small box of colored chalks off its stack and into his pocket. The merchant looked back as if to question what Tahl had seen, but Tahl never took his eyes off the group. Instead, he hurried after them, as if to join someone he’d recognized. The pedestrians never noticed him at their heels. They rounded a corner, Tahl with them, and then he broke away.
Boring. Uneventful. All in all, every time he stole something, Tahl was reminded of why he sought the guild.
Most thievery was beneath him. The brawls were interesting; they restored challenge. But pickpocketing and petty thievery had lost their risk and danger long ago. The big heists—now those were fun. He liked the jobs that kept him on his toes, that put beads of sweat on his brow and down his spine. The jobs that made his heart race and let fear grip his belly.
Those jobs, unfortunately, didn’t come often, and scarcity didn’t pay the bills. His attic room above the horse stalls wasn’t luxurious, but it certainly wasn’t free. The guild had resources. Lodgings. And tools much better than low-quality colored chalks, he was sure. The guild offered security—and less time spent to ensure subsistence meant more time he could spend on real jobs.
When Tahl reached home, he stopped at the foot of the ladder to his room. The hatch at the top of the ladder was open. A short cycle of possibilities ran through his head. With as good as he was at covering his tracks, there was no chance Bahar Eseri or any of his lackeys had stopped by. The noblewoman who let him rent the room sent her servants up now and then to ensure the space was clean; no concern, as he wasn’t foolish enough to leave anything incriminating where it could be found. Which meant the last possibility... well, it was the most likely. Tahl resigned himself to it on the way up.
A blade flashed toward the back of his head and his wrist snapped up with a knife of his own to deflect it. “Sloppy,” he said, deadpan.
Niada huffed. “I want to know your plan.”
He crawled up and shut the hatch. “You’ll hear about it in the morning. It’s happening tonight.”
“Tell me!” she insisted.
“So you can piggyback off my success and keep me from getting in?” Tahl shook his head.
Her face twisted into a pout. “I can help. I have information.”
The chalks rattled in their box as he pulled it from his pocket. Tahl turned it over, investigating, before he pushed the end of the box with both thumbs to slide it from its cover. The box itself was thin wood, but the cover was some sort of thick paper. He hadn’t seen its like before and he studied its texture with his fingertips. Imported, it seemed
; the fibers were like nothing he’d observed in the Westkings. International trade connections were an aspect of befriending an artist he hadn’t yet considered.
“I want in, too,” Niada said in a small voice.
“I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you.” Tahl took a piece of blue chalk and closed the box. “Is that the only reason you’re here?”
The girl shook her head. “There’s a rumor going around. I thought you ought to know. They say there’s something big coming, and it might draw unwanted attention to the guild. All guild members are to watch and interfere if they see anything going on outside of guild business.”
“Is that so?” He couldn’t help a wry smile. “Sounds like I’ve spooked the guildmaster.”
Niada rubbed her arms. “Promise you won’t do anything stupid, okay? I know you want this, but... Tahl, you’re the only one who takes me seriously. I don’t want anything to happen.”
“Thanks for the confidence.” Most of the attic was unfinished, but the corner that hosted his rough bed was insulated with blocks of straw. He shifted the straw aside to remove a long wooden box from behind it. It would have been easy to keep more behind the straw, but it would have been easy to find. All he kept there was the long, shallow box that held his maps.
“Promise,” she insisted. “I’m serious.”
“I promise,” he said as he unfurled the map onto his table. He circled the Queen’s Museum with chalk and scattered lines and symbols in the streets around it. Niada watched, anxious, but the notes would tell her nothing. Like most thieves, Tahl kept his own code. He’d never recorded a cipher for it. The translation existed only in his mind.
“So you’re really going after the Seed, huh?” She kept her voice low. Though the hatch was closed, their voices carried into the stable below.
His chalk stopped mid-stroke. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
Shrugging, she turned toward the hatch. “I didn’t think you’d go for it, since it was my suggestion.”
When she didn’t leave, he put his things aside and opened the hatch for her. “Nothing’s set in stone yet. Go.”
“Tahl—” she started.
“I’m changing clothes now,” he warned, sliding a hand underneath his shirt.
Alarmed and disgusted, Niada scurried down the ladder and slammed the hatch behind her.
That trick wouldn’t work forever. Someday, probably soon, she wouldn’t find boys disgusting. He dreaded what he’d have to do to protect her then. Tahl bolted the hatch and pulled his box of gear out from under the bed.
The first thing that went on was his small collection of knives. One on either arm and one on each leg. Though he had lightweight leather armor, he left it in the wide, shallow box and opted for his best gear instead. Leather was good for mobility, but it was noisy. He pulled his heist shirt on over his head.
That he had a dedicated heist shirt was amusing, to say the least, but it was the best piece of gear he could have asked for. Inky blue and lightweight, it was knitted from the finest wool. Its thousands of tiny stitches stretched and flexed to hold the fabric close against his skin without restricting movement. He slid a finger into the high-necked collar and ran it back and forth to help the cloth lay smooth up to his chin. It insulated, but breathed, which made it suitable for any weather. It had also cost him a small fortune and earned a number of suspicious looks from the woman he’d hired to make it. But no matter. It was worth every pim.
The matching pants sported pockets inside and out. He checked each pocket with care to ensure they were empty. Then he retrieved a box from under a loose floorboard and began to fill his pockets with tools.
Wire. String. Darts with wrapped tips. Lock picks and wrench. Vials of oil. A little box of fire inch-sticks imported from the Chain Islands of Raeldan. They were cheating, soaked in sulfur so they lit easy, but they were a useful crutch with his limited magic. Item after item vanished into his pockets and Tahl finished by strapping a dagger to each of his thighs. When he finished, he stretched and twisted to ensure nothing rattled or jingled. Then he pulled on his shoes.
Like his clothing, the shoes had been custom made. Dyed to match the rest of his outfit, they were the softest doeskin, both comfortable and stealthy. He wiggled his toes into place—the shoe’s big toe was split from the rest to grant more dexterity in climbing—and tugged the back up around his ankle and over the cuff of his pant leg. It fastened in the back with hidden metal hooks.
To his grief, his bag was dark brown instead of blue, but it would suffice. The last of his gear went into the bag and he slung it over his shoulder. Only then, after he was ready, did he notice the little basket of tavern food Niada had left by the back leg of the table.
Tahl lowered his bag back to the floor. All that preparation, and he’d forgotten the most important thing: making sure he had the strength for everything he had to do.
“I’ll definitely put in a good word for you,” he muttered as he pushed the map from the table and sat down to eat.
The sunset glowed red on the horizon when he licked his fingers clean and took his bag once more.
By daybreak, one way or another, his deeds would be on the lips of everyone in Orrad.
Chapter 5
Slow, deep breath filled Tahl’s lungs. His arms stretched overhead, fingertips toward the ceiling. Then he bent at the waist, back and arms straight as he sank down, down, until his hands splayed flat against the floor. He exhaled. Every stretch was necessary. He longed to be on the roofs, but the more time he spent on preparation, the less likely he was to get hurt.
Most of his body sported bruises, and he had his share of scars. The acrobatics were what injured him, more often than not. The city wasn’t made for vaulting rooftops, and when he misjudged, the landings were never kind. He couldn’t afford any missteps tonight.
Between stretches, he committed his maps to memory. He tried not to write things down, if he could help it; the few notes he kept in his room were kept scattered. Nothing made sense without the other pieces. It was the easiest way to ensure secrecy.
He laced his fingers together behind his back and extended his arms behind him. Pleasant warmth spread in his chest and back when the muscles pulled. When he touched the floor again, he felt no strain in his back or the backs of his knees.
It was time.
The horses in the stable below his room barely noticed his presence. They’d grown used to his coming and going, and with familiarity came disinterest. Tahl slipped out the stable door and scaled the stately house beside it.
The first time he set foot in Orrad, he’d noticed the city was built in a way that proclaimed they did not care about thieves. Affluent as his parents were, they would have been horrified to know he’d always been fascinated by the stalking shadows that ruled the night. He’d taken to practicing acrobatics long before he’d known the academy would reject him, forcing him to employ the skills he’d learned between the classes he’d failed.
He’d expected his parents to show pity. Instead, they’d scorned him for his failures. They’d both been successful mages. How could their only son lack any power at all?
The first few weeks had been hard, but Tahl was a fast learner, and he adapted. The roofs had felt foreign under his feet then. Now, he swore they were his true home. He sucked in a breath and, with a running start, vaulted from one roof to the next.
He knew how to land, how to slide, how to push his momentum into the next leap. He’d pushed too far, learned his limits, learned to prepare. Tonight, all his practice would come to fruition. The worst part was, everyone who saw him would think he’d failed.
Some distance from his home, he stopped and crouched on the darker side of a roof. He crept to its edge and peered into the streets below. Getting down was always harder than getting up, and the chances of being seen were greater. The moon was fuller than he liked, which meant the night was brighter, but he supposed it could be worse. Orrad was on the east side of the Westkings, which mea
nt the city never saw the sliver of the second moon that sat perpetually on the horizon in the far west. He’d never been there and probably never would, but he’d heard in Raeldan, the moon hung in the sky both night and day. Surviving the light of two moons—now that would be a challenge.
He probed each handhold before he took it. Though scaling down the wall was harder than climbing, he reached the ground fast and sprinted the short distance to his next climb. There were only a few wide breaks where it was impossible to cross the rooftops to continue through the city. When he dismounted again, it was just outside the garden district.
Not all the city’s nobles could afford to live within the garden walls. Others chose to live just outside as a matter of frugality. Tahl’s first mark of the night was beside the gate. He lingered in the shadows between houses and watched the guard station for a time. The location gave rise to interesting difficulties. Torchlight flickered outside the guard station, casting a warm glow across the front and north side of the house. The back of the building was visible from the walkway along the top of the garden wall. The only part of the place bathed in shadow was a narrow alley directly across from where Tahl stood. Naturally, with the tiny gap between the tall houses, that was the one part of the building that bore no windows. The back would have to be good enough.
Tahl lingered, stretching and bouncing soundlessly on his toes. He’d given himself as big a window of time as he could for each step of his plan, but that meant finding ways to stay warmed up. Eventually, the guard at the gate disappeared into the guard house for a change of shift, and Tahl darted across the street.
The moment he reached the narrow alley between houses, he climbed.
The varied stones at the corners of the walls were interesting, pleasing to the eye, and made his job easier—as did the next house over being only an arm’s reach away. He wedged his toes between the stones on the back corner of either house and propelled himself upward until he was halfway up the third floor. From his perch, he could lean his head back and see where windows dotted the back wall. Shutters guarded most, but two windows in the center of the third floor were left unshuttered. An oversight? Or a sign of occupancy?
