Midnight Thief

by Livia Blackburne

  The Guildhouse was more crowded than usual, with about a dozen people gathered in the storeroom. James stood at the back, speaking with Bacchus and a few others. The rest of the men were scattered amongst the wares. Some were stacking boxes against a wall, while others were just standing and talking.

  “Rand,” she called. “Why’s everyone here?”

  He looked surprised to see her but sauntered over. “Job tonight. James needs the extra hands to raid an armory.”

  “An armory?”

  Rand shrugged. “That’s all he’s told us.” He joined a cluster of men as they erupted into laughter at some joke she couldn’t hear.

  Kyra had never seen the Guild mobilize such a large group before, but she doubted James would explain his plans to satisfy her curiosity. She glanced around the room one more time, looking for someone else she could ask, but aside from Rand, there wasn’t anyone she knew well enough to talk to. She moved on to James.

  “Why are you here?” he asked brusquely. His expression clearly signaled that she needed to say something or get out of his way.

  “Am I to keep mapping this week?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ve gone over everything twice.”

  “Go over it again.”

  A clear dismissal. James directed his attention back to the man he was talking to. Frustrated, Kyra turned toward the door.

  Someone plowed into her from behind, and she stumbled into the wall.

  “Sorry, miss,” Bacchus called with a grin. A few of the men looked in her direction and chuckled as Bacchus entered their circle.

  She usually ignored Bacchus’s jabs, but this time something snapped. Maybe because it was the first time Bacchus had physically touched her, or perhaps Kyra had just kept things bottled up for too long. She earned her keep in the Guild just as Bacchus did. If she ever left, it would be on her terms. She strode toward the group, furious, but stopped when she saw Bacchus’s face. He looked smug, delighted even, that she was reacting. She stopped. What was she going to do, yell at him? Attack him with James watching? She couldn’t fall into his trap. But she also couldn’t let this continue, not if she was going to stay in the Guild. She took a shaky breath, glanced once more at Bacchus, then spun around, heading straight back to James.

  “Take me tonight.”

  James stopped midsentence and stared at her.

  “Take me with you tonight, on the job.”

  She expected him to be angry at her interruption, but he gave her his full attention.

  “Why?”

  “If you’re cracking an armory, you can use me. I’m a thief, remember?”

  “You’re supposed to be mapping.”

  “I’ll make it up later this week.”

  “I won’t pay you extra for this.”

  Kyra fought to keep her voice steady. “That in’t a problem.”

  James studied her face, then gave a curt nod. She might have imagined it, but he even looked slightly pleased. “Fine. You can come, but don’t get in the way.”

  Kyra merged with the rest of the group as they followed James out the door. They moved as a silent unit through the chilly streets, and Kyra focused on the sound of their boots against the gravel. As the cold night air worked itself into her tunic, she found herself wondering what exactly she had volunteered for.

  A tall stone building became visible in the distance, and they stopped. A nervous man waited at a street corner. His eyes flitted briefly over the group of assassins as James approached him.

  “I tried the key,” said the man. “It didn’t work; they must have changed the locks.”

  There was a tense moment of silence. James’s mouth tightened. “The key doesn’t work?”

  The man reached into his pocket and took one out. “I tried it last week, and it was fine. I’m sure it was fine.” His voice was shaking. “There were rumors…a raid at the Palace…the new Minister of Defense cracking down….”

  Ignoring the man’s ramblings, James handed the key to Bacchus, who took it and disappeared down the street. A few minutes later, he came back, spat on the ground, and shook his head.

  “Tell me again,” James asked the man. “The key worked last week, but somehow it doesn’t work now?”

  “I swear I tried it,” said the man. “I can get the new one. It should only take a fortnight.”

  “We don’t have a fortnight,” said James. He turned away from the man in disgust as two assassins grabbed and held him.

  James pointed at Bacchus and two others. “Come with me.” As he turned, his gaze fell on Kyra. “You too.”

  Bacchus led the way, dashing from house to house. Kyra followed his trail, unsure whether to be pleased or terrified that James had included her. They stopped in the shadows across the street from the armory’s door. It was an old building, and judging from its architecture, had been repurposed from some more elegant function. Both the massive door and the walls were decorated with intricate carvings, and the building’s bell tower rose high above the surrounding houses.

  James turned to Kyra. “Pick the lock. Watch for guards—there’s two of them making rounds.”

  Kyra nodded, her heartbeat quickening as she scanned the road. No sign of the guards. She reached for her lock pick as she sprinted to the main door. Ears tuned for approaching footsteps, she inserted her lock pick and twisted the lock, but stopped. Something didn’t feel right. Her stomach clenched as she probed the tumblers. She’d heard of these locks before. The tumblers pointed in different directions. They couldn’t be picked. Kyra squeezed her eyes shut. This was not the time to fail.

  She retreated back to the group. “The lock can’t be picked,” she said.

  “You can’t pick the lock?” asked James.

  “Nobody can.”

  He had already turned away from her, a move that cut deeper than anything he could have said. “Get the guards.” The other assassins dashed toward the building and separated, melting into the shadows at different points. Then, silence. Long minutes passed until finally Kyra heard footsteps. A guard rounded the corner, scanning the road.

  It happened quickly. Suddenly, the guard was clutching at his throat, falling backward into Bacchus. The assassin kneed the small of his back, and the guard stopped struggling. As Bacchus dragged him back to James, Kyra saw that the man was still conscious, face twisted in pain. The guard’s eyes fell on Kyra and their eyes met. She stood, petrified by the pain and pleading in his eyes. Why was he looking at her? She was powerless here. He had to see that.

  Another assassin came back, dragging a second guard.

  “Search them,” said James. The assassins stripped the men of their clothing, inspecting pockets and lining.

  “Nothing,” said Bacchus.

  James jerked his head. Another assassin grabbed one of the guards and pinned his arms behind him. Bacchus walked to face him and looked to James for a cue. James nodded and Bacchus struck him across the face. His blow connected with a sickening thud. Kyra’s stomach churned and she looked away.

  “Where’s the key?” James’s voice was quiet.

  “We don’t have it.” Another blow, and a muffled groan. The guard sputtered. “Beat me all you want. We don’t have the key,” he said.

  Bacchus looked happy to oblige. Kyra shuddered and once again averted her gaze. She forced herself to look at the building, concentrating on the intricate carvings, following it up the side of the archway to a high window….

  “I can get us in,” she blurted.

  Her voice sounded loud in the darkness and she felt everyone look at her.

  “What?” said James.

  “The window. I can get to it and unlock the door from the inside.”

  “The windows are all shuttered and locked.”

  “Not the second-story windows. The high one, in the bell tower.” She heard a few incredulous murmurs, but as she looked closer at the building, she became more sure of herself. The window was actually a set of three tall and narrow slots that loo
ked wide enough to squeeze through. She didn’t see any bars or shutters, and the decorative stonework leading up to it gave plenty of footholds.

  “You sure?”

  “Give me a quarter hour.”

  All eyes shifted to James. “Do it,” he said.

  Kyra wiped her hands on her trousers as the others cleared away from her. The stonework didn’t begin at ground level, but there was a ledge above the first floor. Using a nearby barrel as a step, she jumped and caught the ledge, pulling herself over. She stood for a moment, belly to the wall, probing it with her fingers. The rock would support her weight. She took a breath and dug her fingers into two of the deeper carvings. One foot went up next, and then she pushed herself up as she reached for a higher handhold. Soon, she had worked out a rhythm and climbed steadily up the side of the building.

  Her spirits lifted as she climbed. This was what she could do, and do well. Kyra was aware of her audience and, after the day’s frustrations, couldn’t resist showing off a little. Her swings were higher than usual, and her final jump from the stonework to the window perhaps more dramatic than it needed to be. Finally, she hung from the window, her hands clinging to neighboring slots. With another breath, she pulled herself up and slipped an arm in. From there, it was a quick scramble to squeeze her head and torso through, and the rest of her body followed.

  The bell tower was strangely peaceful. There was a platform where the bell was supposed to be, and everything was covered with a thick layer of dust. From there it was easy to find the stairs back down, and it was indeed about a quarter hour after she started when Kyra turned the bolt and opened the front door. She caught different expressions as the men passed by. Some regarded her with appreciation. Rand stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. More than one looked at her with fear in their eyes, and she caught Alex making a sign to ward off evil spirits. Bacchus’s gaze still wasn’t friendly, but it didn’t hold his usual sneer.

  James was the last to enter. After he passed, Kyra let the door close. When she turned around, all the men except James had gathered below the atrium’s high archways. The head assassin stood next to her.

  He caught her eye. “You did well.”

  It was the first time since she joined the Guild that he’d praised her, and she found it surprisingly hard to hold his gaze. She looked away, taken aback at the flush rising in her cheeks and glad that the darkness kept it hidden. She was a professional, not some giddy farm girl.

  “It’s what I do.”

  They walked in silence to rejoin the group. Right before they reached the rest, Kyra remembered. “The guards. What happened to them?”

  “They’re being held outside. We’ll release them once we’re done.”

  She searched his eyes for as long as she dared. James looked back at her, gaze calm and steady.

  “Come see me tomorrow before you go into the Palace,” he said. “We can discuss your next step.”

  N I N E

  The beagle loped through the sparse underbrush, stirring up dust with her nose and ears as she zigzagged along an invisible trail. She’d tracked without fail this morning, but now her focus was wavering. Any rustle in the bushes became an excuse to slow down, any birdcall an invitation to look around.

  “Let’s take a break,” Tristam said. The dog talker, a young shieldman named Martin, whistled sharply. The hound made a tight turn and sat down, tongue lolling. Tristam leaned against a tree as the five shieldmen with him settled nearby.

  Martin poured some water for the beagle and scratched it behind the ears. “She’s bored with the scent,” he said. “And her left paw is sore. I don’t think we’ll get more work out of her today.”

  “How do you see all that?” Tristam asked.

  Martin shrugged. “Practice helps. But I’ve always been able to read them, and they’ve always been friendly to me.” As if to illustrate his point, the beagle pressed up to him and started licking his face. Martin fended off her efforts halfheartedly, turning his head so he could talk without getting kissed full on. “Even when I was knee high, the neighborhood dogs would come wagging their tails. My da too. Runs in the family, I guess.”

  “I had a friend who was like that, only with horses,” said Tristam. “They loved him—always coming to beg for treats or get rubbed down. He could pick up on their moods, and they always did what he asked.”

  “Sounds like a handy trick for a knight to have,” said Martin.

  “It served him well,” said Tristam. Though he wondered now if Jack’s gift had hurt him in the end. If Gray had not been so obedient, would the horse have taken Jack into the pen with the demon cat?

  “Here’s another set of tracks.” Another shieldman crouched near a cluster of trees and pointed at the dirt.

  It had been tracks and droppings the entire trip and nothing else. No sign of human habitation, no campsites. They’d followed the trail through the forest for two days, but the dogs just led them in circles.

  Tristam brushed a layer of dust from his forehead. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything. Let’s go back to Forge.”

  Relief washed across his companions’ faces, and Tristam couldn’t blame them. He walked ahead of the group, brooding as they began the long hike back. Malikel was a fair commander, but all the same, Tristam didn’t look forward to delivering news of yet another failed expedition.

  Working under Malikel had brought a blur of changes and new responsibilities. Most of Tristam’s days were spent in the Palace reviewing reports and poring over maps. And after Tristam was knighted, Malikel started sending him on scouting missions in the forest. He welcomed those chances to get out of the city, but it wasn’t easy leading a team of guards into the wilderness, especially since many were older than he was. Time after time they found nothing.

  You could be out on the road patrols right now, with nothing to worry about except where to set camp, said a spiteful voice in his head.

  “Is everything all right, Sir Tristam?” Tristam cleared the frustration from his face as Martin came up next to him. It was still new, this need to set an example and keep morale high. The days of riding with Jack, rolling their eyes and making cracks behind the commander’s back, were over.

  “Just call me Tristam. You know Malikel doesn’t place much stock in titles or ceremony.”

  Martin grinned. “I thought about that, Sir Tristam. The problem is, everybody else still does. If I get used to dropping the ‘sirs,’ I might forget with someone else. Then things would get unpleasant.”

  Tristam smiled despite himself. He liked Martin. The cheerful shieldman would have made a fine squire had he been higher-born. While the other Red Shields stayed aloof from their commander, Martin often spoke to Tristam. Either the young Red Shield was too young to have learned to keep a respectful distance from his superiors, or he was just too gregarious to help himself. Selfishly, Tristam couldn’t bring himself to discourage him.

  They picked their way through the forest, ducking under the occasional branch. “Do you believe the whispers, sir?” asked Martin.

  “What whispers?”

  “The villagers say the Demon Riders raise their cats like their own children, nursing them at their own breasts. They say that’s how the cats grow so big, and why the cats are so obedient to their masters.”

  “That sounds painful,” said Tristam with a grimace.

  Martin fought to keep a straight face. “Does indeed, sir.”

  “Well, they can keep that secret to themselves,” said Tristam. “I’d be happy just to find them.”

  “It’s like they disappear into thin air, in’t it?” said Martin.

  Tristam let out a breath, no longer bothering to hide his frustration. “This is our third trip out. We should have found something by now.”

  Week after week, new reports came in from traumatized farmers. Livestock slaughtered, villagers injured or killed. Adding more patrols hadn’t helped much. Oftentimes, soldiers only arrived after the barbarians had fled.
r />   “It doesn’t make sense,” said Tristam. “The tracks are here, and they’re fresh. But why don’t we ever find anything else? If only these trees could talk.” Tristam paused. “Martin, when are we reporting to Sir Malikel tomorrow?”

  “Midmorning.”

  He conjured the map of the forest in his mind, trying to determine how far they were from the city. “Lead the group back for me. I’ll stay a little longer.”

  Martin looked at him suspiciously. “You’re not planning to do anything unwise, are you?”

  “No, nothing foolhardy. I just have a hunch.”

  “If I may speak freely, Sir Tristam, you should at least tell us what you’re planning. Sir Malikel won’t be pleased with us if something happens.”

  “Fair enough. Maybe we’re going about it the wrong way, looking for them when we clearly know they come here often. We should stay here and wait for them to come to us.”

  Martin frowned. “May I have permission to accompany you, sir?”

  “I can’t ask you to do that, not without more thought. It’s too—”

  “Too dangerous? You’re starting to contradict yourself, sir.”

  Tristam chuckled. “It would be nice to have some help, but I can’t command it of you. This isn’t a Palace order; it’s just my crazy idea.”

  “It’s just a few more hours out here. How much trouble could we get in?”

  It seemed unlucky to respond. But the decision was made, and Tristam informed the others.

  His mood improved as he and Martin split up to find hiding places. The plan might not be a stroke of genius, but it felt good to be doing something different. A fallen log beside a boulder provided adequate cover, and Tristam settled behind it after brushing away his footprints. Despite the log’s musty smell, it was a comfortable hiding spot.