Midnight Thief

by Livia Blackburne

  James was in his study when she arrived at the Guildhouse. She dropped her parchment on his desk. “Trade route schedules for this month.”

  “Good.”

  She watched his eyes as he scanned the paper, trying to figure out what he used this information for. “I saw some other records tonight that might be useful. Recent payments for locksmiths.”

  James looked at her in surprise. “From the Minister’s command to change storehouse locks?”

  She nodded, pleased at his rare display of interest. “A list of buildings and locks. I can copy it tomorrow.”

  “Well done. This new Defense Minister is getting to be a headache.”

  Kyra took her leave. A few blocks from the Guild, a crowd clogged the road, and Kyra slowed to take in the scene. The people were gathered opposite a store, muttering discontentedly but softly. Apparently, they were afraid to anger the shieldmen who marched in and out, loading parcels onto a wagon. A middle-aged shopkeeper stood by the door. Anger and frustration were clearly etched in his face, but he made no move to stop them.

  Kyra worked her way into the crowd, ears open for gossip. She nudged a woman next to her. “What’s going on?”

  The woman glanced at her. “The herbalist couldn’t make his rent because the trade caravans lost their cargo last week. Caravans finally came this week, so the landlord’s taking his rent out of his wares.”

  “It in’t his fault the caravans were raided. How’s he supposed to meet his next month’s rent with nothing to sell?”

  The woman snorted. “Why don’t you explain that to Sir Knight?” She gestured toward a young knight who stood by the wagon overseeing the operation. The knight had dark hair, a high-bridged nose, and an aristocratic bearing. He was also surprisingly young, not much older than Kyra, and he said little as the soldiers carried out their duties. Kyra noticed that he avoided looking at the storekeeper. The coward nobleman couldn’t even face up to what he was doing. He’d go home tonight to the Palace and enjoy a hot meal while the storekeeper and his family scrounged their remaining coppers.

  Kyra was working her way closer when someone grabbed her elbow and she fell against a well-muscled chest. Kyra looked back, opening her mouth to protest, when she found herself face-to-face with James. She snapped her mouth shut, tongue suddenly dry. James’s expression clearly said to be quiet, and his eyes flickered meaningfully toward the soldiers. She turned back to the store, pretending that nothing had happened.

  “Don’t draw attention to yourself.” James’s voice was a breath on her ear, so soft even she could hardly hear it. “Wait, then follow.”

  The crowd shifted behind her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw James disappear into a nearby tavern. Kyra couldn’t guess his intentions, but following him seemed wiser than continuing to gawk at the spectacle. She counted a few more breaths before going after him.

  He was waiting in the entryway and acknowledged her with a quick nod, though he offered no response to her inquisitive glance. A large man, unsteady on his feet, laughed as they walked past. “Tastes running younger these days, James?” The look James shot him was pure ice. The drunk straightened and walked away. James took a seat facing the window and signaled for some ale.

  “You’re too timid,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  He jerked his head in the direction of the drunkard. “The way you react to fools like him. Like you’re fading into the wall.”

  Had he taken her here just to insult her? “I in’t rolling over and showing my belly. I know the type. It’s less trouble to ignore them.”

  “That’s the problem. You’re avoiding trouble from them, but they should be the ones afraid of you.”

  “Right. I’m sure Rand quaked in his boots when he bruised my shoulder last week.”

  “You’re getting better.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been watching.”

  The simplicity of his words—and the way he looked straight into her eyes as he answered—made her fall silent. The serving girl arrived with the ale. James flipped her a coin and looked out the window toward the crowd.

  “Why are we here?” asked Kyra.

  “It’s quieter here,” he said simply. Kyra drummed her fingers on her ale mug until he finally spoke again. “I see you’ve been watching the rent collection.”

  Kyra shook her head, indignation rising in her chest. “It’s not his fault the caravan didn’t make it in. Is his landlord so strapped for coin he can’t wait a few months?”

  “What will you do about it?”

  Kyra stopped and stared. “What?”

  “Will you let the landlord keep his rent, or return it to the shopkeeper?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because you’re one of few folk who can do anything about it.” When she continued to stare at him in confusion, James laid two fingers on her jaw and guided her gaze back toward the herbal shop. “Who’s emptying the shop?”

  She pulled back from his fingers. “Shieldmen.”

  “Just any shieldmen? What are they wearing? Who’s commanding them?”

  “They’re Red Shields. There’s a knight leading them.”

  “And what kind of nobleman can request the service of the Palace guards?”

  “He’d be high ranking. In with the Palace somehow.”

  “Not just that,” said James. “He’d have to live in the Palace. And where do you think they’re taking his wares?”

  Kyra’s mouth dropped open as she understood his meaning. She laid her palms on the table, staring at its surface as her mind raced. “There’s several storehouses in the outer compound. They’re too big and cluttered for me to flip through myself. I’d have to know which ones hold the herbs.”

  She paused, stymied for a moment. James watched patiently.

  “But there’d be records,” Kyra blurted, answering her own question. She suddenly remembered that there were others in the room and hastily lowered her voice. “They keep the inventory list somewhere. I could easily fetch it.”

  “Very good.”

  Kyra closed her eyes, mentally tallying the rooms she needed to search. James was right. She could do something about this, and the rush of power was exhilarating.

  “But once I find the herbs, I’ll need help raiding the storehouse. I can’t do it alone.”

  “We can help. Just find out where they are, and we’ll make it happen.”

  E L E V E N

  Over the next few days, Kyra worked harder than she’d ever worked before. She entered the Palace early and stayed dangerously late, going from chamber to chamber, digging through piles of records. The warehouse inventory wasn’t kept with the trade schedules, so Kyra broke into neighboring rooms. She was determined, and it paid off. One week later, Kyra dropped a stack of parchments on James’s desk.

  “The herbs are all kept together, in a building on the eastern side of the outer compound. It looks like the landlord in’t even using them.”

  James scanned the list. “There’s too many here for us to carry out without a wagon. We’ll have to decide which ones are the most valuable.”

  Kyra grinned. “Our landlord was also curious about the coin it’d fetch. He had the Palace herbalist price them, and I nipped that list too. Looks like he has a good stash of Far Ranger goods—the strange ones that the wallhuggers can’t get enough of. The dryad-raised flowers by themselves are worth a good quarter of all that was taken.”

  She stood back, arms folded, not bothering to hide how pleased she was with herself.

  “You’re enjoying this. Taking things back from the fatpurses,” said James.

  Kyra gave a quick nod, which James acknowledged with a slight smile.

  “I suspected you would,” said James. “You’ve got the skill, and you’ve got the drive. You could go far if you wanted. It doesn’t take long to rise in the Guild. I was fifteen when I joined.”

  James had never spoken about his past before, and Kyra
wondered how old he was. His face had no trace of boyish roundness, and his skin was smooth except for a slight crease at the corners of his eyes. He was older than she was, and probably older than Flick. But he was still in his prime. His quickness testified to that, the taut readiness obvious even as he sat at his desk. She thought back to their fight, remembering his intense gaze and fluid movements. How had he risen to power at such a young age? What did he have to do?

  “Why did you join?” she asked him.

  “Same reasons as most others. I wasn’t an orphan, but I might as well have been. Outside, you’re limited by your lineage, your family. In the Guild, if you do things right, you’ll go far. Use what you have to your advantage—your abilities, your speed. Some look down on you because they think a lass is too fragile to do what it takes. But even they won’t be able to deny your skill.”

  “Do you look down on me because I’m a lass?” she asked.

  “No.” He studied her a moment, his blue eyes pensive. “Not at all.” The last phrase was soft, as if he were talking to himself.

  Silence hung for a moment. And then James gestured toward the parchment. “Let me look at these, and we can plan the raid in a few days.”

  Rand was in the hallway as she left James’s study. He leaned against the wall, thumbs hooked in his belt.

  “Thought he’d given up on women after Thalia,” Rand said.

  Kyra only half heard him. “Hmmm?”

  Rand snorted and rounded the doorway into the storeroom.

  “Wait, Rand, what’d you say?”

  He let her follow him across the room before he finally turned around. “Curious, aren’t we?”

  She scowled. “I didn’t hear you. Who’s Thalia?”

  “Dancing lass at the Scorned Maiden. Red hair, hot and cold at the same time. She was something to see.” Rand winked, which annoyed Kyra even more. She never did understand the obsession with dancing girls. “She hated the wallhuggers something fierce too. Never seen a lass with that much fire in her.”

  “And she and James…”

  “Been six years, and he in’t returned to the Scorned Maiden.”

  Kyra stopped short, intrigued despite herself at the thought of James having a lover. He was usually so distant—at least he had been until recently. “What happened?”

  “His rival got to her, when they were fighting over the Guild.” Rand spat on the ground. “A coward and a rich man’s lapdog, that one. But it was hard to tell friends from enemies, with all the double-talk and secrets. James tried to wait it out—didn’t want to invite trouble—but they surprised us. We lost Thalia and barely escaped ourselves. That was the last time James ever gave anyone a chance to strike him first.” Rand looked at Kyra, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Not the tale you expected? There are safer men to pine over.”

  “I in’t pining over—”

  But Rand had already walked away, chuckling as he went. Kyra stared after him, tempted to follow, but decided against it. People always talked. The regulars at The Drunken Dog had speculated for years about Kyra and Flick, and now it looked like the Guild was talking about her with James. There was no point in letting it bother her. James was interesting as an assassin and a leader, and Kyra was curious about his past, but that was all. Though she could see why women might find him attractive. Had Thalia known that her life was in danger? Kyra wouldn’t be surprised if she had. There was something about James—his intensity of purpose and strength of personality—that could inspire a woman’s loyalty despite the cost. Kyra took one last glance toward his study before stepping outside.

  The city at midday was a welcome distraction, with markets bustling. Cooks wearing the uniforms of noble houses perused rare mushrooms and spices, while mothers with barefoot children haggled for eggs and flour. A young woman walked past Kyra with a basket of bread. The fresh smell made Kyra’s mouth water, and she turned her head to find the woman’s stall, thinking to bring a few loaves back for Bella and the girls. It still felt strange to be able to buy things without worrying about money. Strange, but good.

  Just then, a woman screamed in the distance. The terror in the sound cut straight to Kyra’s bones, and she snapped her head toward its source. For a moment, no one in the marketplace moved or spoke. Then a man’s voice carried over the crowd.

  “It’s a barbarian attack. Alert the Palace!”

  T W E L V E

  Summers in Forge were hot and dusty. Roads and stonework absorbed and reflected the sun, and passing crowds kicked up dirt, which in turn stuck to Tristam’s drenched tunic. Of course, the Council would decide that this was the perfect day to extend an aqueduct. So here he was, with his contingent of shieldmen, passing rocks in the midday heat.

  “Bet you wish you weren’t working under Sir Malikel just now,” said Martin as he hefted yet another cut stone to Tristam.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because if you were working under anyone else, you’d be supervising.”

  Tristam grunted and passed the rock to the next man in line. Martin was probably right, but in Malikel’s unit, knights and shieldmen worked side by side. “Nonsense.” Tristam mustered a grin that felt more like a grimace. “What greater honor can there be than to be roasted to a crisp and worked to the ground so that Forge’s noble citizens can have fresh water?”

  “I’d forgo that honor for a bath and a nap in the shade, myself.”

  “No more mention of shade, or I won’t last the afternoon.”

  Tristam wiped the sweat from his brow and surveyed the progress. Despite his complaining, he was actually grateful to be on such a simple assignment. There was something to be said about physical labor, when the task was straightforward and the reasons were clear. The same was not true of his other jobs. One in particular still lingered in his mind. Malikel had recently assigned him to the city’s northwest quadrant, and Tristam’s contingent had been called in for a rent collection. The herbalist had admitted to failing his rent when Tristam asked, and Tristam understood that Forge’s laws needed to be upheld. But days later, he still couldn’t forget the despair in the shopkeeper’s face as the Red Shields emptied his store, nor could he dismiss the simmering anger in the crowd that had gathered to watch.

  Martin’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “How goes the search for the barbarians?”

  Tristam gave Martin a sideways glance. “You’re just full of cheerful conversation today, aren’t you?”

  “That bad?”

  “We’ve not skirmished with them in three weeks.”

  Martin’s expression brightened. “So they’ve pulled back.”

  Tristam’s laugh must have been sharper than intended, because a few Red Shields looked at him in alarm. “If only. There have been the same number of attacks. They’re just getting better at avoiding patrols. They’ve changed their pattern of attack. It used to be mostly farms and the occasional caravan. Now it’s the other way around.”

  “That’s strange. What do you make of it?”

  He shook his head. “One week would be a coincidence. We have a large area to patrol, and relatively few soldiers. But three weeks in a row…there’s something going on.”

  “Kind of makes you wish we were out there instead of building an aqueduct, doesn’t it?”

  Tristam didn’t trust himself to respond. It had been one thing to give up the road patrols when he thought he’d be making a difference. But after all this time patrolling the forest, talking to villagers, and poring over attack reports, the Demon Riders were slipping even further away. It was maddening.

  Shouts sounded from down the road, and a messenger rode up yelling for someone from the Palace. A crowd of people surrounded him. Tristam heard something about a barbarian attack.

  “Make way.” He pushed through the crowd. The messenger’s eyes were wild with fear. “What’s this talk of an attack?”

  “In the city, sir.”

  “The city?” Was the man mistaken?

  The messenger force
d the words out between gulps of air. “The northern perimeter. I rode at the first sign of them.”

  It sank in that this was really happening. Tristam grabbed the messenger by the shoulders. “Carry your news to the Palace and muster reinforcements. Make sure they’re in mail or plate armor, and outfitted with as many spears as possible. Those wielding swords should use the point rather than the edge. You can’t slice through a cat’s fur, but you can part it.” He turned his gaze to the other soldiers. “Return to the Palace, outfit yourselves, and go immediately to the northern perimeter. Does anyone have a spear?” Tristam asked. One of his shieldmen volunteered his weapon. Tristam grabbed it, dismissed the crew, and ran for his horse. He didn’t have armor, but there was no time. The barbarians were getting bold if they were attacking the city perimeter. He needed to get a better look at them.

  He rode as quickly as he could down Forge’s crowded streets. The messenger hadn’t given him an exact location, but as Tristam reached the northern perimeter, he navigated simply by going against the current of people.

  As he rode closer, shapes resolved themselves out of the chaos. Tristam slowed, steeling himself against the nauseatingly familiar scene. People ran into each other in their panic. The injured already lay scattered in dirt—the lucky ones pulled to the gutters, the unlucky ones trampled. Three demon cats prowled the road in front of him. Two dug through a market stall, pawing their way through chunks of ham and fish. The third, and largest, was crouched over an unconscious Red Shield.

  Tristam leveled his spear and kicked Lady into a charge. The cat didn’t look up until it was too late. His spear pierced its chest with a crunch of bone. The impact traveled all the way up his shoulder. The beast screamed, and battle heat rushed through Tristam’s veins, only to turn to dread when his spear broke off with a loud crack. The demon cat staggered back with Tristam’s weapon embedded in its flesh as Tristam threw his broken spear shaft aside.