Asti had been on the receiving end of a few of Almer’s apothecarial nightmares, and he didn’t doubt that Pitter would be in for a horrible night.
With Pitter out of commission, and copies of his keys, they were all set to get into the offices of Colevar and Associates. After a month of planning, tonight was the night.
* * *
Verci Rynax’s fingers twitched while he watched Win Greenfield work. He wasn’t quite sure what Win was doing, but he understood just enough to be frustrated. He knew making things and taking them apart, and that included how locks worked. In his prime, he could jimmy or jam most locks in a few minutes, or find some way around them.
But he didn’t know locks and keys like Win did. The man had them in his very heart. And with the death of his wife and daughters in the Holver Alley fire, it was pretty much the only thing Win had in his heart. So Win worked in silence while Verci watched over his shoulder, trying in vain to figure out exactly what Win’s intentions were. It also didn’t help that Win’s hands were shaking, and his whole head was covered in nervous sweat.
“Is your plan to cut copies of the guard’s keys?” Verci asked after watching in a complete loss. Win didn’t seem to have cutting tools at all. He had rings and rings of keys, and the soft clay prints he had made of Mister Pitter’s keys in the brief moments Mila had allowed them to do it. Win looked like he was completely out of sorts, grabbing keys, looking at them, slamming them down on the table. Win didn’t speak, save muttering a few curses under his breath.
Verci wasn’t able to help Win, and he was just going to have to deal with that and wait.
This was the annoying thing about the way Asti liked to work. Asti loved milking out the watching, stalking and planning, being downright languorous in figuring out how to pull a job. But then when it came to do the job, then everything was in a rush, having to move like perfect gears.
And when the gears didn’t mesh quite right, it always seemed to be up to Verci to be the lubricant to make it all work.
Tonight was no exception. Asti had come up with a glorious gambit—Verci admitted Asti could be proud of the plan—to copy a guard’s keys to the Pomoraine Building and put that guard out of commission for the night. An excellent way to give them a window to break in, dig through their files, and find out exactly what they knew about who hired Mendel Tyne to burn down the alley.
Except Asti’s plan meant it all had to happen in one night, and they’d only have the keys in hand for a few moments.
Win was confident he could do what Asti needed, but Win wasn’t like Asti or Verci or the rest of the crew. At his center, Win was an honest tradesman. He used to work keys and locks legitimately, shop with a sign out front. He didn’t think in terms of the gig night. He thought about making copies of keys with all his tools, at a proper workbench, like the one they had at the safehouse.
The safehouse was back in North Seleth. Here, where Inemar butted up against East Maradaine, they only had a backroom flop over a pub called The Thundering. A pub with a stupid name, Verci thought—but it was the easiest place they could find a room to work in that Mila could run to from The Gentle Shepherd and back again in a matter of minutes. In the room over The Thundering, Win only had the equipment he could easily bring in with him without raising too many eyebrows from the proprietress.
Two men holed up in a back room, with a young girl occasionally running in and out, already raised that woman’s eyebrows quite a bit.
“I can’t cut new keys here, of course,” Win said. “But you don’t want a perfect key.”
“I think I would,” Verci said. “That would be rather useful.”
“Useful for getting into the places that a guard is allowed,” Win said. He looked at the imprints he made again, and pushed two away.
“What’s wrong with those?” Verci asked.
“Those two have nothing to do with the Pomoraine. One is for his apartment, and the other . . . some other personal need. Maybe a basement or building key for the apartment building. Point is, they’re a totally different style, less complicated. These are the Pomoraine locks.” He indicated the three imprints in front of him.
“More complicated?” Verci asked. That didn’t sound good.
“Gloriously so, but in similar ways. Which is part of the challenge here.” He pointed to two of them. “These are the important ones, at least for Mister Pitter’s job. They showed more wear when I saw them. But also, they’re only some minute variations to their cuts.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ah!” Win said. “It means—well, this is what I think, at least. Each of these keys probably only opens one lock. And they won’t open each other’s locks.”
“Yes, I understand the basic principles behind keys, Win,” Verci said.
“But the way they are designed, the similarities, makes me think there is a key that would open both locks. And maybe many others in the building.”
“A master key.”
“A master key,” Win repeated. “Now, the question is, which of my dummy keys can I file down to match them? And knowing what I know about these keys, can I make a master key for you to use? Especially one that would get you—”
“Into rooms Pitter isn’t allowed into,” Verci finished, seeing where Win was going with it.
“So where are we at?” Asti had come into the flop.
“Working on it,” Win said. He selected one of his dummy keys and started filing. “Going to be a bit.”
“A bit is fine,” Asti said. “We’re all white flags so far.”
“So Mila did the slip-back?”
“Clean as a fresh shave. And Pitter drank the concoction. I watched until he took down every drop and went off to work.”
“So what’s our window?”
“Almer says he’ll be stuck in the water closet for the night, starting in about an hour. The question is how much pride he has.”
“What does that have to do with it?” Win asked.
Verci understood. “The prouder he is, the longer it’ll take for him to admit that he’s sick and needs someone to cover his watch. So the gap in the watch stands until he gives in. What’s your gauge of that, brother?”
Asti screwed his face in thought. “I think it’ll take him at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half.”
“That leaves us less time than I’d like.”
“Anything short of ‘all night’ is less time than you’d like.”
“Yes,” Verci said. “I would love the whole night, without a single guard in the whole building. That won’t happen. Even with Pitter making a hole, there’ll still be at least four on duty, presuming we didn’t miss something in our watch.”
“I don’t think I did. Did you, brother?”
Verci knew Asti was just ribbing him, he didn’t really think he had been negligent in his scout. But he was trying to get Verci to agree to the plan he had originally had. The one Verci didn’t want to do.
“You’re still thinking we’re gonna have to top-and-bottom this, aren’t we?” Verci asked.
“I told you that ten days ago,” Asti said. “And every day since then.”
“I didn’t like it on any of those days, and I don’t like it now,” Verci said. “But you’re right. Time’s too short, and we don’t know what we’re looking for.”
“What does this mean?” Win asked.
Asti sighed. “A top-and-bottom—”
“I understand that, Asti,” Win snapped. “Someone goes in ground level, someone goes in on the roof. Really, the little codes between the two of you are not anywhere near as clever or impenetrable as you seem to think.”
Asti looked abashed. “Didn’t want to presume . . .”
“I meant,” Win continued, “what does this mean you’ll need from me? The plan involved me making a key set for Verci to take in from the ground floor
. Has that changed?”
Asti chuckled nervously. “Yeah, Win, that’s changed. Verci’s going in from the top, and I’m going in on the bottom. Problem is, I’m not much of a locksmith . . .”
Chapter 2
ASTI ADMITTED BRINGING WIN along on the run in the Colevar offices was less than ideal. Win was great with his hands, one of the best lockmen he had ever seen. Came with being a straight businessman. But Win was also ten years older than Asti and Verci, not an experienced fighter or strong runner. Asti had noticed his knee quivered a bit when he walked. It might go out on him in a sustained run. He had little business being in on a run that was hot with guards.
But Asti needed a lockman with him on the bottom side of the top-and-bottom. Mostly because he was terrible with locks. Verci, on the top side, was a strong enough lockman that, with the keys Win cut for him, he’d be able to work his way through. So it was Verci up top, Asti on bottom with Win.
Which meant if things turned left, Asti had to make pulling Win out his top priority.
The Pomoraine was a large building, so it had several soft points of entry. Main doors, of course, were locked at this hour. One guard was in place in the entryway. This was not Pitter’s position; it was going to stay manned all night. Any entry on the first floor was going to have to be mouse quiet and soft as slippers.
That was not Asti’s specialty. But if they were caught, putting the guard down quickly and quietly was.
The back alleys around the Pomoraine offered other options. There were service doors along the back and sides, but those were designed to only be opened from the inside. There was no latch, no pull, no lock. A prybar and some muscle could probably pop those doors, but not quietly.
The sun had set, and even though this part of the city had oil lamps all along the street and a cadre of efficient lamplighters, Asti found it easy to slip into a darkened alley with Win. It helped that they were both dressed as respectable tradesmen. In East Maradaine, people didn’t expect ruffians, and they didn’t look for them.
Working clothes were in Asti’s satchel, along with his weapons and Win’s keys and tools.
“So, the loading dock in the carriage hold,” Win said nervously. “That’s where we’re going?”
Asti would normally snap at the idle chatter while on a gig, but he knew this was far enough out of Win’s comfort that he forgave it silently.
They reached the gate of the carriage hold. This had no guard on duty, and from Asti’s scouting the past few nights, the guards only made periodic checks throughout the evening. No reason to waste much time on it: it was a heavy barn door with a large bolt lock. A person would have to be crazy to try to break in through there.
Which, fortunately, Asti Rynax was.
“Clever design,” Win said as he looked at the bolt lock. “Two separate keyholes, and I think they need to be turned together. If I just had to straight crack it, it would be an hour, or more. And that’s just to get at the bolting mechanism.”
“This is the part where you should say, ‘But, fortunately,’” Asti said as he changed into his dark slacks and coat.
“But, fortunately, we have the masters I built off of Mister Pitter’s keys,” Win said. He started inserting things into the keyholes. “And I’ll need your hands in a moment.”
“Let me know what I can do,” Asti said. He strapped on the belt of knives he wore for any gig. His father’s belt, his father’s knives. Damn good knives, sharp ones that kept their edge well. That was what he had left from the old man: a set of knives and a font of ill-gained wisdom on the thief trade.
“All right, hands on each key,” Win said. Asti grabbed them while Win pulled out a thin metal rod. He slid that into the crack of the barn doors. “On my mark, turn both together, toward each other.”
“That’s strange.”
“Some people think stranger locks are better locks,” Win said. “Most of the time, it’s just showing off. Now.”
Asti turned the keys, and Win brought up his rod sharply. There was a jarring snap, far louder than Asti would have liked, but the barn door gently swung out.
“Could have been worse,” Asti said while Win gathered up his tools. “Now we just have to get inside, and slip up five flights of stairs without any guards seeing us.”
They entered into the carriage hold. “Let’s shut this,” Win said. “If anyone comes checking they won’t see anything amiss. And it’s simple to open from the inside.”
“Great saints, Win,” Asti said as Win latched the door shut. “We’re going to make a disreputable man out of you.”
“Just as long as we get out easy,” Win said.
“No worries,” Asti said, despite the many worries he was having about that very subject. “Everyone is in place.”
* * *
“Everyone in place?” Verci asked Helene. She was now out of her washerwoman disguise, her dark black locks hanging over the purple coat and vest she favored for gigs. She was with him, setting up her shooting nest on the roof of the building across the street from the Pomoraine. This was not where Verci wanted to be this evening, but a top-and-bottom was how Asti said they had to play it, so it was what he had to do.
“Far as I can see,” she said, eyeing around on the scope of her crossbow. “I’ve got Kennith in his carriage a block away to the north, parked in front of a fancy pub. He’s got Pilsen with him, playing his Tipsy Passenger game. That man puts on a show anywhere.”
“Bit too much spectacle,” Verci said. “People are going to remember that.”
“They’ll pay attention to that,” Helene said. “And thus not look up at the sky to see you leaping over the street.”
“I’m a no-spectacle-at-all kind of thief,” Verci said.
“There’s a burned-down husk in Keller Cove that says differently,” Helene said with a smirk. “Mila’s eyes on the ground, right below us.”
“Is she selling flowers?” Verci said, looking down over the edge of the roof.
“Asti said that would be inconspicuous. Few actual beggars here, so she had to look like she belonged.”
“And Almer and Julien?”
“A block to the south.”
“The tea-and-fry shop with the walkway tables,” Verci said. “I see them. You’re set?”
“I’ve got eyes, I’ve got clean shots if I need them, and a hand mirror to check my face painting.”
“Helene.”
“Let me joke. I know the signals. We all know the signals. You’ll be fine.”
“All right,” he said. He dug into his pack and pulled out the device he’d need. It was a good thing he’d decided to bring it along. Probably because, deep down, he knew that Asti would change the plan and he would to have to do exactly what he was doing. He always packed for contingencies.
Asti knew that. Asti knew he’d be ready for this.
Sometimes he hated the way his brother thought.
“Here,” he said, handing the specialized crossbow to Helene. “Load that, and overcrank the crossbow four stops.”
“Overcrank of four? I didn’t think the Rainmaker could handle that.”
He just glared at her, and she nodded and understood. He had built her crossbow, he knew what it could handle. He also loved that she called it “the Rainmaker.” She always named her crossbows. He took out his own scope and checked the windows. No guard lamps visible on the sixth floor.
“Aim for the stone outcropping just over the third window from the left edge, second floor from the top.”
She struggled with the crank while he clipped a few other devices to his belt, tightened the straps on his pack, and put on the bandolier of darts he had inherited from his father. With that, he was ready to go.
“Damn,” Helene said, rubbing her shoulder. “What would happen if I shot a person with four overcranks?”
“Probably take their he
art out of their chest,” Verci said.
“Or hit someone five blocks away,” she said with a wicked grin.
“You think you could make that shot?”
“I think I’d like to try.”
“For now, line me up,” Verci said. He clipped a cord from his belt onto her bolt. “Take the shot.”
She rolled her eyes in the way she did when she flirted with him. Which, he had to admit, made his heart flutter just a little bit.
You’re a married man, Verci Rynax.
Without even looking through her scope, she took the shot. The bolt hit dead center where he told her to aim, embedding into the whitestone of the building.
“Nice,” he said, tugging on the cord. That sprung the release in the bolt, locking it in place.
“Now?”
He extended a long pole and spiked it into the floor of the roof. Once it was secure, he clipped the other end of the cord to it.
“Now hold that steady while I go.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You know I’m not Julie strong.”
“It’ll hold fine, just keep it steady.” He sighed, climbing over the edge of the roof. “It’s not like I’m that heavy.”
“So you say.”
He winked at her—she could stand a bit of heart flutter, herself—and leaped over the edge. Hanging from his belt, he let gravity take him down the line as he flew across the street to the window of the Pomoraine. He landed feet first on the windowsill, and grabbed onto the outcropping.
He glanced down to the street below. No sign from Mila. She was still down there, hawking flowers. So he must not have made any significant noise or spectacle.
Making sure his grip to the side of the building was solid, he looked back over to Helene. She had eyes on him. All good. He unlatched the release on his belt, so he wasn’t connected to the cord anymore. Handholds strong. Secure footing. Safe to retract the line.
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