by DB King
That had been on yesterday’s morning tide. Marcus had slipped through a narrow entrance between two nearby warehouses and found himself in a disused courtyard. In one corner, half-covered by a broken cart and a stack of moldering planks, was a heavy bronze circular cover. He levered it up with a plank of wood and slipped through, closing it carefully behind him. He found himself in the cool, echoing darkness of the Underway.
Half an hour’s walk through the winding corridors and massive, echoing hallways of the Underway had taken him to the Gutter Gang’s base. The sentry let him through without question, and Marcus found his own little chamber and went to sleep. He would want to be at his best for tonight’s work.
“Ah, at last,” Marcus smiled. The city guardsman’s legs had finally gotten stiff from standing at his post, and Marcus watched with satisfaction as the mail-clad man walked away from the gap in the wall. Not wasting an instant, Marcus slipped silently from his vantage point and landed on the muddy street again. Immediately, the thick fog swallowed him again.
It was a short sprint across open ground from here to the gate, and Marcus covered it in one swift dash. He pressed himself up against the gatepost, listening for the guard’s footsteps returning. Nothing.
Marcus took a deep, steadying breath and raised his hand. “Stealthy Tread,” he muttered, feeling the familiar warmth of the enacted spell washing over him.
Now, he had a few minutes during which the guard would have to stare right at him to notice him. The spells were short lived, but powerful. While the spell was active, it was likely that even if he looked directly at Marcus, the guard would mistake him for a shadow, or a cat, or at the least for someone who was meant to be there.
Two steps took him through the gate. Walk, don’t run. A glance to the left. The guard bent over a stone water-fountain, filling the metal cup that was chained to the wall beside it. Two more steps, and Marcus was back in the shadows. The tall stone building was taller than any down in the slum district, and it cast a thick shadow.
As the guard finished drinking and turned away from the well, Marcus slipped between the buildings, sticking close to the walls as he felt the Stealthy Tread spell wear steadily off. He was in.
Spell: Stealthy Tread Level 3
Level increase: 10%
Progress to next level: 80%
Diremage Xeron’s house was at the top of Merchants’ Town, set back from the main cluster of buildings. Marcus jogged along in the shadows, keeping a wary ear open for patrols. He was about halfway when he heard the first one. The tramp of their sandals and the clink of their mail shirts was unmistakable.
They’re coming round the corner, he thought. This was an inconvenient spot to run into a patrol—there were no lanes or alleyways nearby to hide in, not even a dark doorway to duck into.
Marcus glanced up. A stone lip stuck out from the side of the building next to him.
He didn’t hesitate. A deft spring took him halfway up. Pushing his foot off the wall got him the rest of the way. He caught the edge of the stone lip. With a soft grunt, he swung himself up and crouched on the narrow ledge, still as a statue.
As the men passed below him, he held his breath and took care not to stare at them. Sometimes, he knew, if you stared hard at a man, you could make him glance up and look at you. That would not do now. Marcus let his eyes drift out of focus and thought of the gray sea.
He let his breath out slowly once the guards were gone, then dropped down, back onto the cobbled street, and began to jog again.
Kraken City was built on one massive, cone-shaped hill, so you were always climbing. Only down in the slums and on the docks were the streets flat—everywhere else, you were either climbing or descending. Marcus made his way through Merchants’ Town, climbing all the way, until when he turned he could see the docklands off to his left.
A forest of masts bristled up, inky black against the moon-lit sea. On the wide-open flagged area around the docks, Marcus could see little lights moving back and forth and hear the distant voices of late-night revelers.
Kraken City never really sleeps, he thought with a smile. Inland, the thick fog made a gray blanket in the moonlight, hiding the slums from view. All around him, Merchants’ Town was silent as a graveyard.
Only a few minutes later, Marcus found himself nearing Diremage Xeron’s generous manse. It had a big garden for Kraken City. Even in the wealthier parts of Merchants’ Town, space was at a premium, so the walled acre of green space around Xeron’s home was a rare luxury. Marcus climbed the outside of a stone townhouse to get a better look, finding a convenient alcove about twelve feet up. He wedged himself in place.
At the thieves guild, they had taught him that skill at climbing was a thief’s best friend. Marcus had always found it to be so.
From his vantage point, he could see over Diremage Xeron’s ten-foot garden wall. He took his time, watching for movement in the grounds. Several Bloody Hand mercenaries patrolled the perimeter. Four—no, five. Big men, veterans armed with weighted nets and long barbed spears, with short swords at their belts. They wore linen britches and chainmail coats over hauberks of boiled leather. Their leather helms reflected blotches of moonlight.
Marcus watched for an hour as the moon crept slowly across the sky, until he was satisfied that the guards were not expecting trouble. They had a routine that they were not varying at all. Four moved back and forth along the outside of each wall, slowly, looking from left to right. Every fifth time a guard made it to the corner, he met his fellow guard and swapped with him. Back and forth, back and forth, back, and swap.
When they swapped, they exchanged a few words. That’s my opportunity, Marcus thought. He waited until the moon went behind a cloud, then he slipped to the ground and moved as silent as death toward the garden wall. Trees lined the approach, and he ducked down, lying flat in the shadow of one of the trees. The wall was only 20 feet away. His eyes followed the progress of the guard. Back, forth, back, forth, back, and...
“Stealthy Tread.”
As the guards met at the corner and exchanged a few words, their eyes were on each other, not on their watch. His spell active, Marcus dashed across the open space and flung himself over the wall. He dropped to the grass beyond and immediately dived into the shelter of the nearest shrub. The whole maneuver had taken him just seconds.
In the wake of his spell, the familiar status upgrade appeared in Marcus’s awareness. It was an unexplained feature of magic that spellcasters could track the progress of their spells to the next level. It floated, like an afterimage on his vision, showing him the level of his spell and the progress he had gained from its most recent use.
Spell: Stealthy Tread Level 3
Level increase: 10%
Progress to next level: 90%
“Now for the difficult part,” he said to himself, grinning fiercely in the dark. The house was ahead, a looming shape rising out of the trees and bushes of the grounds.
Moving from bush to tree to shrub, Marcus approached the house. The garden smelled strongly of exotic flowers in the dark. Xeron was known to import strange plants from overseas for his garden. Some said that it was just vanity, but other rumors said that the plants he imported had magical properties.
The house was a big structure, three stories of heavy sandstone, each stone block three feet long by two high. The whole thing towered up over the low trees. Marcus was pleased to see that no lights shone in any of the windows. It was the small hours of the morning now, and the moon had fallen low in the sky, making the black shadows long and thick across the ground.
He made it to the shrubs that carpeted the base of the wall, forming a thick hedge all around the structure. The moon shone down on the right side of the house, so Marcus moved off to the left where the shade was deepest.
Now to find a window... he thought. There would be a guard posted on the front door, no doubt about that, but Marcus needed no door to enter a building like this. The lower windows would be locked and bolted, and they w
ould probably have magical wards over them. Marcus could use his unlocking magic against such things, but the lower windows were likely to have the best locks and the most powerful spells. He could make an attempt, but a failure here might cause a noise, and that could cause an alarm. The upper windows, however, were likely to be less strongly guarded...
For a moment longer, Marcus considered trying his magic against one of the lower windows, but he decided against it when he saw a stout branch of ivy cladding the corner of the house. The ivy had fat red leaves and a stalk as thick as his forearm. He glanced up and found what he was looking for: a small window on the first floor, half-hidden by the ivy.
Perfect, he thought, and began to climb.
The ivy supported his weight, and it was so thick that he could have pressed himself into it and hidden completely if he’d needed to. He did not. The guards patrolling outside had their eyes turned outward, and nobody was patrolling the grounds.
When he reached the little window, he raised his hand and focused his attention, muttering the spell, “Ward Detect.”
Ward detected: minor guard.
Trap detected: none
He concentrated. As Marcus had suspected, Xeron’s ward spell was not a strong one, and it had not been renewed for a long time. Spells degraded over time, like rust on an iron lock, and a conscientious mage had to return to his spells regularly if he wanted them to remain effective.
Seems that Diremage Xeron has bigger things on his plate than checking on his upper window ward spells, Marcus thought as he concentrated on the minor guard spell.
“Charm and Disarm,” he whispered, then sighed with satisfaction as he felt the Diremage’s weak ward spell dissipate.
He slid his fingers along the bottom of the narrow window and found the catch. No need for a spell here. He lifted the window, the catch slipped back, but he caught it and let it gently down before it could make a noise.
And we’re in, he thought, with a smile.
Spell: Ward Detect
Level Increase: 5%
Progress to Next Level: 35%
Spell: Charm and Disarm Level 4
Level increase: 4%
Progress to Level 5: 50%
The window was narrow, only a foot and a half in height and three feet long. That was probably why the ward spell on it was so poor—nobody considered it a threat. But for someone with thieves guild training, every window was a threat.
When Marcus dropped into the little storeroom beyond, he stifled a sneeze as thick dust rose up from the bare boards.
Seems like nobody’s been in this room for a year, he thought, easing the window shut behind him. The risk was slight, but still it wouldn’t do for someone to glance up and see it open. A good thief takes no chances, and Marcus was very good.
He stood for a long minute, letting his eyes become accustomed to the dimness. When they did, he looked around. He was in a tiny lumber-room, stacked to the roof with junk: broken furniture, a harp without strings, piles of papers bound with tattered cord, chests that looked as if they had not been opened in a decade. In the corner, there was a long spear with a great hooked blade encrusted with gemstones. Marcus looked at that for a moment. That was strange—he’d never seen a weapon like that before. Restraining his interest and keeping focused on his objective, he moved to the wooden door.
“Ward Detect,” he said again.
Ward detected: none
Trap detected: none
Marcus smiled. Diremage Xeron doesn’t put wards on his inner doors, he thought. Sloppy.
He eased the door open a fraction of an inch at a time, so slowly that even if it had creaked nobody would have heard. The door let into a long, carpeted corridor, dark but for the moonlight that filtered in through a window at the far end of the corridor.
Marcus was not far from his goal now—he could feel it. Soon, he would be on his way back, his small pack bursting with magical dust and his fortune assured.
Don’t get cocky, he warned himself. He was good at this, and he knew it, but there was nothing worse than an arrogant thief.
He paused to give himself the kind of talking-to that every thief needed before executing their plan.
That’s the thing about a job like this, you can mess it up at any time. There’s always something to go wrong. First you get the dust you need to get out of the house undetected. Then you need to get out of the grounds past the guards, then through the Merchants’ Town, then over the Middle Watch and back through the slums to the Underway.
Every stage in that process was as important as any other. A successful robbery needed careful planning, patience, skill, an eye for opportunity, and a bit of luck, too.
There was a staircase at the end of the corridor. Marcus lay on his belly to approach it, peering down through the railing to the ground floor hall to see if anyone was there.
All clear, he thought after lying there for a moment. The only sound was the slow, majestic tick-tock, of a tall Doran grand-clock keeping the time in its beautifully carved, polished hardwood case.
Marcus squinted at the hands of the clock. He had two hours until first light.
Chapter 2
Marcus snuck down the steps on tiptoes, ears straining for any sound of people in the house.
Diremage Xeron will have guards in the house, I’m sure of it, he thought. Then again, maybe he’s just arrogant? Maybe he thinks no one would, or even could, get this far? So far at least there was no sign of anyone in the house but Marcus. The Diremage himself no doubt slept in a grand chamber on the first floor, the servants sleeping on the top floor.
Marcus had spied the kitchens when he was watching the guards from outside—a big, modern extension built from clean white stone. A boy would be sleeping there to keep an eye on the fires, for sure, and maybe even a couple bakers attending to an early batch of bread. Well, I’ll be going nowhere near there tonight. I’m here for one thing and one thing only.
Big, airy, comfortable sitting rooms flanked the ground-floor hallway, the grand-clock’s tick-tock permeating the entire space. Behind the stairway that he’d just come down, Marcus found an entrance to a corridor.
He was just about to peer round the edge of the corridor entrance when a sudden noise made him freeze.
Thump, thump, thump. The noise came from the sitting room on the left. Then a huff, as if someone—no, something—had taken a breath. Then most chilling of all, a low growl.
A dog.
Marcus didn’t hesitate. A good thief was prepared for any eventuality, and dogs were no exception. Usually, the dogs he had to worry about were the guard dogs outside, if there were any. This was more likely to be some old house dog. Sure enough, when Marcus slipped up to the sitting room door and glanced in, he found a big, jowly mastiff, long-legged and heavy, with a huge head and small, intelligent eyes.
The dog sniffed twice, then began to growl low in its throat again, eyeing Marcus suspiciously. Perhaps not such a friendly pet after all, then. A bark right now would be disastrous.
Marcus reached into his back pocket and pulled out a bit of black sausage, then crouched, holding the meat out to the dog. The growling stopped and became a high-pitched whine as the dog caught the scent of the meat. He tipped his head to one side and began to salivate, and his tail began to wag slowly.
The big dog heaved himself to his feet and lumbered over to Marcus, tail wagging. He took the sausage from Marcus’s hand then turned and walked purposefully back to his bed in the corner of the room to devour his prize.
That was easy, Marcus thought, stifling the urge to laugh. The sausages were treated with a sleeping draught, not enough to do the animals any harm, but enough to silence a guard dog for an hour or so at least.
Now for the prize. He glanced around the well-furnished sitting room. Cut crystal goblets sat on a little table, fine wines filled a glass case in one corner, and expensive statues were arranged on a glass table by the window. Not to mention the gold plate in the room. It would have satisfied
any normal thief to grab an armful of gold plate and leave, but not Marcus. Marcus was here for the prize, the magic dust. Only that was both valuable enough, and small enough, to suit his purpose. His leather knapsack could be filled with gold and jewels, but it would not be near as valuable as the same pack filled with magic dust.
He was about to head out when something caught his eye. It was a framed portrait of a man, hanging above a low glass case. Two steps took Marcus over to it. He gazed at the portrait for a moment.
Soft moonlight shone through the window from the garden and danced on the gilded frame. The picture was of a heavy-set man in his prime, staring thoughtfully out at the viewer. He had long hair, slicked back over his high brow, and a cold, merciless expression on his chiseled face. One gloved hand was raised as if in preparation for casting a spell, in the other a magical staff trailed smoke.
“Hello, Xeron,” Marcus muttered. There could be no doubt that it was a portrait of the Diremage he was looking at. All the weapons of the vampire hunter were there. Marcus had only seen the Diremage once, and that had been from a distance, but the strong, arrogant face was unmistakable.
Marcus looked down at the glass case below the portrait. In it, laid out on a thick padding of red velvet, was the very staff that was in the picture. And beside it, three grim relics were laid—skulls, human at first glance. Marcus leaned in closer. Not human skulls—vampire skulls. The sharp canines gleamed, diamond hard in the moonlight. The cheeks were higher, and the eyes wider apart than in a human. And on the brows, branded with a hot iron, was the seven-pointed star of the vampire hunters, burned there to keep any residual magic that might cling to the skulls at bay.
Back at the corridor entrance, Marcus peered around again. Doors led off the corridor on either side, but at the far end, he saw his goal—a heavy wooden door with a bolt and an iron padlock. A man dosed in a chair beside it. And not just any man: he wore the mail and hauberk of the Bloody Hand.
