Westkings Heist: The Complete Series

by Beth Alvarez

  More stones whistled through the air. Tahl reached for a crevice and jerked back his hand. A fist-sized rock smashed into the stone where his fingers would have been. Maybe aiming for the shadows had been a bad idea. If he’d been right in the light, the guards wouldn’t have been able to aim while staring past the blinding mage-light.

  Something popped against his side. Heat and pain radiated outward a split second later, driving the air from Tahl’s lungs. Blight it all! He gasped, lunging upward and seizing the edge of the roof. With the last of the strength in his arms, he dragged himself up and over the small guard wall and wheezed when he crashed onto the flat stone on the other side. Exhaustion hit him like a lead weight. He couldn’t afford to rest. Grunting, he rolled over and pushed himself up. The far south end of the roof hosted a service door. Cupping a hand over the welt on his side where the stone hit, he ran.

  Locked. Of course it was.

  He dropped to his knees and shrugged his bag forward, ignoring the burn in his shoulders. The guards would be up the same stairs and after him in a moment; he couldn’t spare the precious minutes needed to pick the lock. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around a crude metal shiv and slammed it into the keyhole. One hard wrench and the metal gave an unpleasant crack as the mechanism broke. The lock and handle both fell and Tahl stuck his hand in through the hole to check for a bar on the other side. Nothing.

  At least that much went right. The door creaked open and he darted inside. Pain pulsed in the soft tissue of his side. He hated to think what that bruise would look like in the morning, but he wasn’t bleeding, and the pain wasn’t so unbearable that he couldn’t keep moving. No internal damage, then. At least he hoped.

  The squared spiral staircase inside led to a narrow maintenance hall, exactly the sort of place Tahl didn’t want to be. Shouted orders and thundering footsteps already echoed inside the museum. He ran until light flickered at the end of the dark passage and sprawling shadows of armored men reached his eyes. He stretched out his arms to plant his palms flat against the walls. His feet followed, one after the other, and he shimmied upward until his back touched the ceiling. When he turned his head to hide his face, he became invisible.

  A mask, too, he added to his list. At least for my lower face. His job was getting expensive.

  A pair of guards in red livery marched up the hall and his stomach sank. Those weren’t normal guards—those were members of Emperor Atoras’s Elite. Here to placate the temple, no doubt. Tahl’s envisioned plan ticked up a few notches in difficulty. He was sure it could be worse, but at the moment, he wasn’t certain how.

  Neither of the men who passed beneath him carried a light. So who has the light, I wonder? Tahl waited for them to turn the first corner on the stairs before he dropped and sprinted to the end of the hall. With the luck he’d had tonight, it didn’t seem likely the lightbearer was just a member of the museum staff. The Elite always worked in pairs; it was safe to assume there were at least two more somewhere in the museum. Looking for him.

  Running hurt his side. He stopped at the doorway and braced himself against it as he caught his breath. Scaling the wall in the shadows instead of direct light had definitely been a mistake. Now he had to complete the job with a handicap, and he’d brought it upon his own stupid self. Maybe Lord Eseri had been right to scorn him.

  He shook his head hard, dislodging that idea before it could settle. No; he’d outpaced all the other thieves in the academy’s basement ages ago, and more than one of them had already been members of the guild. He was more than skilled enough. And Lord Eseri—he’d never pulled a heist in his life.

  Tahl swiped the back of his hand over his sweating brow and delved into the museum. He’d never seen a maze quite like the odd rooms and twisted halls that created the exhibits. During his time in the academy, he’d read about a labyrinth the mages said existed on a remote trade island in the center of the Lantaaran ocean. He doubted it existed, but if it did, it couldn’t be worse than this.

  After hours as it was, most of the rooms were dark. He couldn’t have asked for a greater blessing. Light through a doorway ahead warned him of a guard’s approach and he ducked behind a sculpture to avoid notice. The man hurried past without a glance, clearly on his way to join the Emperor’s Elite Tahl had just evaded. The moment the mage-light vanished into the next room, Tahl sprinted on.

  More sculptures rose as twisted shadows in the dark, monsters that seemed to chase him from room to room. Portraits by master painters lined narrow halls, their accusatory eyes enough to make his skin crawl. Museums were fine by daylight, he decided, but he wouldn’t be eager to return.

  Beside the doorway to another room, a small placard on a stand pointed the way to the temple artifacts, and green banners emblazoned with symbols of Brant beckoned him forth. Tahl followed, his heart thumping in his throat.

  Voices echoed in the museum’s halls, announcing the arrival of reinforcements. Tahl couldn’t go any faster, his breath ragged and his side aching so it was all he could do to stay on his feet. Then the temple’s exhibit spread before him, its priceless artifacts sheltered under the finest mage-made glass.

  Relief washed over him. Almost done. All that remained was to locate his chosen artifact among the displays.

  Tahl wove between sculptures of trees to reach the glass cases, scanning their contents as he walked. Most contained things he thought worthless—bits of stone and what looked like useless branches. Books lay scattered between them, open to carefully chosen pages. Pieces of textiles hung on delicate racks, pitiful compared to the grand tapestries on the walls. Right in the middle of it all, he saw the Seed.

  For a moment, he thought it a rock. It looked like one, shaped like the polished gemstone eggs that were utterly useless and decorated the mantels of far too many nobles. Yet it was different. Its gleaming surface shone, iridescent like a tiger’s eye stone, but undoubtedly wood. A slight ridge ran down the center of its edge—it wasn’t quite ovoid, but a bit wider than it was deep—and its tip bore a point with a distinctive split where the shell came together.

  “Brant’s shaking branches,” Tahl whispered to himself. “It really is a seed.” He swung his bag off his shoulder to dig inside. The case was sealed; he slit the rubbery material at its corners with a razor-thin knife. The substance hummed under his fingers, seething with magic he was only just able to detect. Life energy; protective wards meant to preserve whatever was sheltered inside. Ignoring it, he retrieved his lock picks from his bag. The latch on the case was small and simple, easy to undo. The threat of soul-blight was enough to keep most people away.

  A long shadow sprawled over him the moment the case came open. “Here! To me!” the guard roared as he tore his sword from its sheath.

  Tahl bit back a curse and jammed his picks back into his bag hard enough to tear one strap from his fingertips. Items spilled across the floor when the bag tipped and this time, he didn’t restrain his profanity. He spun and snatched the Seed from its cradle. “Catch!”

  The guard’s sword fell from his hand, his face stricken with fear as the Seed arced through the air.

  Tahl hiked his bag over his shoulder and bolted.

  A second guard stepped into the doorway. Tahl skidded to a stop and pirouetted back the other direction. He bounded over his lost belongings on his way to the other exit and stifled a shout when one of the Emperor’s Elite blocked his way.

  The Elite drew his sword so fast, Tahl almost didn’t have a chance to free his dagger. He almost crumpled under the weight of the blow, the forceful peal of metal against metal echoing through the whole museum. Tahl could fight, but not an Elite—not with a dagger. But the exit was on the other side, and he didn’t have a choice.

  He feinted forward and ducked the Elite’s arm. He had no chance of landing any blows, and any he might would do nothing to the mage-enhanced armor underneath the red livery.

  The Elite twisted after him and swept the ground with a leg. Tahl leaped a second too late. His toes cau
ght the Elite’s greaves and he stumbled before casting himself into a clumsy roll. He sprawled sideways, one leg hitting a tree statue hard enough to make him howl. Pain shot up his leg and into his hip when he found his feet. Then the Elite was on him again, his sword flashing overhead in a downward arc.

  Tahl reeled backwards, but not far enough. The sword caught his face, dragged across his cheek under his eye.

  Smoke exploded all around him, flooding the room, blotting out every trace of light. The Elite and the other two guards hacked and coughed, clutching their chests. They fell to the floor to gasp for breath as the smoke wafted upward.

  Second by long, precious second, the blue-gray smoke faded.

  The Elite lifted his head, but it was already too late.

  Tahl was gone.

  Chapter 7

  It had gone well.

  Tahl limped and gripped his side, but he couldn’t help grinning as he dragged himself over a roof’s peak and sat to regain his breath. He couldn’t rest long, but he was also sure he deserved it.

  The guards would congratulate themselves on deterring the thief. The Elite would receive a dressing-down when his superiors learned said thief had escaped. The Seed would be nestled back into its cradle, the preservation wards restored, and the Museum would crow over their right to display something so precious that someone dared break into the legendary Queen’s Museum to steal it.

  And the logbook—documenting a great number of Lord Eseri’s dirty deals—still lay on the museum floor.

  Tahl swiped a hand over his right cheek and grimaced. Blood coated his hand, cold and sticky. The cut burned something fierce, and his face and neck itched where the blood ran and crusted over. He’d planned to be caught, but not by the Elite. Escaping with just a slice across his face was extreme fortune, though it created new problems. He didn’t have to see it to know it would scar, and unusual scars were the mortal enemy of a thief who wanted to remain unnoticed. Brushing his sticky hand against his pants, he stood. Niada would know what to do. Disguises were one of her specialties.

  But that was a problem for later. He spared a few moments to stretch and prepare his muscles for another round of abuse. His body ached, but the night wasn’t over yet.

  He started a sprint—more subdued than before, less energetic, less graceful when he bounded from roof to roof. Every landing felt heavy, like the weight of his own weariness tried to pull him to the ground. He couldn’t let it. He couldn’t break. The hardest vault was still ahead.

  The rooftops carried him northwest, far from the museum and the search hounds that howled in the night. They wouldn’t find him; he didn’t fear their calls. The hounds the guard employed were half the reason he utilized the rooftops the way he did. The beasts couldn’t follow up the three-story buildings to pursue his scent and Orrad was too vast a city for them to pick it up once it was lost.

  Ahead, the garden district loomed, a broad and open circle of green in the midst of dreary roofs.

  One more, he told himself, his mental voice as taxed as the rest of him. One more mark, and then it’s done.

  With every ounce of strength left in him, he sped across the last roof overlooking the garden district’s walls and launched himself from the tiled edge. The moment his feet left the roof, he regretted the decision to jump. He sailed over the wall and landed hard in a thick patch of monkey grass, rolling twice before he came to a stop, flat on his back.

  A long, slow groan of pain escaped his throat. The gash in his face throbbed, as did the bruises in his back and side. He still hadn’t dared look at his side, but he didn’t have to see it to know it would hurt for weeks. The strength ebbed out of his limbs and for a long moment, he rested.

  If only he could linger. The garden district was only a safe place to catch his breath because they believed no one could enter without notice. With the guardhouses at the gates and the patrols that walked the walls at regular intervals, it was almost true. In the shadows, he blended into the grasses and regained his breath, but the rest of his mission still called.

  Aside from the patrols along the tops of the walls, guards rarely walked the rest of the district. Tahl staggered out from behind a house and limped his way across the plaza to the fountain in the center. He sat on the edge of its basin and dipped his hands in the water. It was ice cold, clean and refreshing. Exactly what he needed.

  He cupped water in both hands and scrubbed the blood from his face and neck. Pale petals clung to his skin, softly fragrant and oddly soothing. He washed his hands and wiped his face again before he allowed himself to look at the fountain.

  Water hardly trickled from the upper tiers. The anchored magic that sustained the water flow was frivolous, but still present, drawing upward despite the clog of petals that kept the water from moving through the fountain’s inner workings. Its power hummed at the edge of his senses. As did a hint of interference. Something out of place, something that didn’t belong. Something that kept the cycling magic from working the way it ought.

  Curious, Tahl pulled up his sleeve and leaned forward. He plunged his arm into the cold water, into the narrow mouth that led to the column where the water was meant to flow. The channel was clogged with twigs and petals, things far too small to stop the fountain on their own. Then his fingers met something else; something rough, cold, and hard. He searched out its shape, his brow furrowed. It stuck tight and he worked to wiggle it free. The second the obstruction came loose, petals and twigs sucked into the fountain and water spewed from its top. Tahl leaned back and opened his hand.

  Flat across his palm lay a large, rusted key.

  For a moment, all he did was stare. A key, jammed inside a fountain directly in front of the guildmaster’s house. It was so obvious it hurt.

  A laugh escaped him before Tahl could catch it, and his eyes swept up to the thirteenth house on the west side. Did Lord Eseri keep watch? Hover over his desk and stare out the windows, hoping to see whoever puzzled things out? He almost hoped so. The mental image of Lord Eseri’s face twisted with anger as it pressed against the glass was reward enough. Tahl slid the key into his pocket, instead of his bag, and turned north.

  All things considered, moving into the final leg of his mission from the garden district made things more difficult. Guards waited at the north gate. Undoubtedly, they patrolled where he was headed, too. But the lack of a guard presence actually inside the district made it a necessary respite. Tahl walked instead of running, drank the last of his water, and—most importantly—finally caught his breath. When the north gate came into view, he wasn’t rejuvenated, but he’d gained his second wind.

  Just beyond the district’s gate, a stately building just tall enough to tower over the nearby houses and businesses stood against the sky. Its white stone facade was impressive in the daytime, but menacing at night. It was no surprise Orrad’s most prestigious bank would be placed just outside the homes of its clientele. No surprise that the street beyond the gate teemed with guards, either. The whole city was guaranteed to be on high alert after his disappearance from the museum. Which meant that this, finally, would be a job worth calling a challenge.

  One last time, Tahl delved into the shadows. When the sun rose, they’d be a part of him forever. A legend, a legacy he could leave behind.

  He slipped behind the row of houses. One of the last houses bore a larger private garden with flowering bushes near the wall. He ducked into a cluster of bushes and tried to ignore the sickly sweet fragrance of its blooms. He knew the patrol patterns by heart. They were constant, dependable, and regular. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know the time—soon enough, a guard strode by. Tahl couldn’t see him from the foliage, but the cadence of his booted footsteps and the creak of his lightweight armor gave him away. The sound drifted west and then south, around the curve of the garden wall. Satisfied, Tahl emerged.

  The wall was not impressive—at least, not compared to the museum’s walls or the towering white building he pressed toward now. It still rose nearly twen
ty feet from the ground. The stones were smooth and tightly mortared, but there were still dips between them, and what little purchase they granted his fingertips was enough. He scrambled up the wall and over the low stone guardrail.

  Instead of vaulting over the side, he trekked south, leaving ample distance between himself and the guard ahead. Some short distance from the point where he’d mounted the wall, he stopped and pulled a rope from his bag. He’d seen another thief use a hook, once; some three-pronged, clawed monstrosity that created an anchor for a rope anywhere it caught. Someday, he’d have to get one of those. For now, he set his sights on a raised stone finial on the end of a balcony’s rail. It was a perfect crossing point, so long as the anchor on this side held.

  Without a claw to rely on, he twisted the rope into a loop and checked to ensure it would pull tight. He gave it a twirl, testing to make sure it didn’t slip tight too soon. Then he spun the rope overhead and tossed the looped end across the gap.

  Too low. It hit the balcony’s rail and fell. Undeterred, he adjusted the rope and tried again. This time, it snagged the finial and pulled taut.

  No time left. The next patrol would be by soon. He tugged the rope a little tighter and tied it to the wall’s rail in the most secure place he could find. Don’t break, he silently ordered as he slid over the rail and wrapped his limbs around the rope. It strained beneath his weight, but held.

  Hand over hand, he inched along the rope like a dark caterpillar, hanging precariously over the street below. Against the dark sky, he was all but invisible, and people moved beneath him without notice. He crawled onto the balcony and allowed himself a breath of relief. The knot on the rope was too tight to undo. He sawed through it with his favorite knife instead and the loose end fell to the street below. Not that he feared anyone would follow. Orrad’s roofs were his.