Rules for Thieves

by Alexandra Ott

  “This way,” Mead says. Beck and I follow him as he sets off briskly down a hallway.

  “Here’re the kitchens,” Mead says, gesturing to a wide set of doors on my left. “Otherwise known as my favorite place in the Guild. The cooks are especially fond of me.”

  From behind me, Beck snorts.

  “And to the right is the laundry,” Mead continues, ignoring Beck. “Everybody does their own clothes, or pays someone else to do it for them, so you’d best learn where it is now.”

  I try to take his advice and memorize where we are, but the black rock walls of the hallways and the bare wooden doors all look the same to me. There’s no time to ask, though. Mead’s already moved on.

  The hallway branches into two corridors. “The main living quarters are that way,” Mead says, pointing to the left fork. He then takes the right. “Down this way are the offices for some of the officials—you’ve already met the steward. There’re also some others who manage little stuff—housing arrangements, food delivery and preparation, transportation, all that. The steward oversees most everything, but he delegates the grunge work to others.”

  We pass all the closed office doors without stopping. The hall forks again, this time into three passages.

  “We can’t go to the left,” Mead says. “That’s where the vaults are—the place where all the Guild’s wealth is stored. It’s magicked and guarded, so nobody can get in ’less the king lets ’em. Supply rooms are down there too. The supply clerk’ll take you to get a year’s worth of supplies once you join, and every year after that you’ll get to go again. And this here’s the magicians’ wing. Magicians like their quarters separate from everybody else, so they can practice their secret spells or potions or whatever. It’s magicked too, of course, so we can’t go there.”

  Mead turns down the last hall, the one farthest to our right, and, to my disbelief, the hall immediately branches off in different directions. How big is this place?

  “This’ll take you back to the dining hall,” Mead explains, “and the healing quarters and training room are off that way.”

  “Training room?” I ask, remembering what Beck said before about needing training before a trial.

  “Yeah, everybody in the Guild needs to have the same basic skills, so everybody gets trained. Don’t worry, you’ll see more than enough of that room before you’re done. And here’s the second set of living quarters. The first set is only one person to a room, but these are bigger, designed for two or three, sometimes four. I lived down here with my father and sister till I passed my trial and got a room of my own on the other side. Reigler here still lives in this hall till he passes his trial. This is his room.”

  We stop in front of one of the doors. A plain wooden nameplate hangs on it, carved with a single name, and below it, a symbol. Thanks to my poor reading skills, it takes me a second to make out what it says: LIANICE GRIMSTEAD.

  Beck unlocks the door and ushers us inside. It’s so dark I can’t see anything, but then somebody lights a match, fumbles with something, lights a candle. Now I can see Beck, holding the candle. He sets it down and tosses another candle to Mead. After a minute, they’ve lit enough that we can see a bit better.

  The room is cramped. A small bed, clearly designed for a child, is shoved into one corner. The opposite corner has some kind of stove-looking contraption that I saw in both the dining hall and Durban’s office, probably for putting out heat.

  Against one wall is a small sofa, which Mead now reclines on, and in the center of the room is a table cluttered with papers, stubs of candles, dirty dishes, and God-knows-what-else. The walls are studded with little brackets holding candles, and more candles sit atop a dresser. Right beside the dresser is another tiny doorway, and I can just make out the shape of a larger bed tucked inside the space beyond. In the far corner is yet another doorway, which leads to the bathroom. I ask Beck how they can possibly have plumbing in hidden caves in the middle of a mountain, and he says some magicians spelled it so it actually works.

  “So, Rosco, whaddya think?” Mead says, propping his feet up on the table.

  I look at Beck, who’s been awfully quiet during the tour. In the shadowy room, I can’t make out his expression. “About what?”

  “The Guild, of course,” Mead says impatiently. “Think you’ll join?”

  “I dunno,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. Beck’s avoided mentioning my near-death condition to anyone, so I figure it should be kept secret. “I was promised food, but if tonight’s meal is any indication, I think I’ll risk starvation.”

  Mead barks out a laugh. “I forgot, you orphans practically get five-star meals compared to us.”

  “How is it that everyone knows I’m from an orphanage?” I say in exasperation.

  “Well, just look at your shoes,” Mead says, nodding at my feet. “Even street rats wouldn’t be caught dead in those rags. No offense.”

  “Right,” I say. “But was this, like, an average meal here, or just a fluke? Because that seriously might be a deal breaker.”

  “No, the food’s always bad,” Mead says, “but don’t let that be the deciding factor. Just think, you can go out into the streets and dodge protectors every day, or you can stay here, with the reliability of our terrible meals served fresh daily in the dining hall, not to mention you’d have me to keep you company.”

  “In that case, I think I’ll take my chances with the protectors.”

  Beck laughs, and Mead grins. “Just as well,” he says. “Everyone knows I’m the comedian around here, and you might give me some competition.”

  I laugh. “Oh, there’s no competition. You’d need more than half a brain to compete with my wit.”

  “She’s got you there, Mead,” Beck says. “There’s a reason they say Saint Samyra cursed you.”

  Mead pretends to be offended. “That’s ridiculous,” he says. “Though, now that you mention it, she’s been a bit miffed at me ever since I helped myself to a few jamars from her church.”

  I have to admit, I’m impressed. “You stole from Saint Samyra’s Church?”

  “Not her high church,” Mead says flippantly. “That’s in Astia, and who wants to go there? It was just some little church named after her in Ruhia. She’s got a few dozen of them down there.”

  I’m about to reply, when Mead’s gaze falls on my right hand, and his eyes widen. A black streak is curling out from the edges of the bandage I’ve been using to hide it. Mead looks at Beck.

  “We didn’t want anyone to know she’s marked,” Beck says softly. “They might think she’s just going to take the money and run.”

  Mead nods. “How are you going to hide it from Kerick? He won’t even give her a trial if he sees it.”

  “She’ll just have to keep her hands in her pockets.”

  “When were you planning on telling me any of this?” I hiss at him.

  “Sorry,” Beck says. “I figured you had enough to worry about.”

  Mead starts to say something, but suddenly the door flies open and a high voice shrieks, “Koby Mead!”

  Chapter Eight

  I jump a little, but nobody else does. I’m starting to wonder if Beck and Mead have some kind of master-thief superpowers. They don’t even look surprised.

  “Yes, Rosalia?” Mead drawls, not moving from the sofa.

  A tall girl, probably older than Mead, enters the room. She’s pretty, with long dark hair and soft features, but her eyes flash with anger. “How dare you,” she says. “How dare you—”

  “I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Mead says without looking at her, “but there’re an awful lot of shocking things I’d dare to do.”

  The girl glances over at Beck and me. “Reigler,” she says, nodding at him.

  “Rosalia,” Beck responds.

  Her eyes flick dismissively over me before she turns her attention back to Mead, who hasn’t moved from his sprawling position on Beck’s sofa.

  “How many times do I have to
tell you to stop involving my brother in your hair-brained, foolish, idiotic schemes?”

  “That’s the third time tonight my intelligence has been insulted,” Mead observes to no one in particular. “Just out of curiosity, which scheme are you referring to?”

  Rosalia continues like she hasn’t heard him. “The cooks are in an uproar, the whole kitchen nearly burned down, the cook’s cat’s running around with a singed tail, and my brother is the one who got caught with the firecrackers in his pocket—”

  “Oh, that foolish scheme,” Mead says. “Well, Peakes does have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s no wonder he was caught, really—”

  Rosalia lets out another shriek, picks up the nearest object—a candle stub—and hurls it at Mead’s head. It narrowly misses, landing on the sofa.

  “Fix it,” she says, “or I’ll tell the steward.” Then, with an overly dramatic huff, she storms out as quickly as she stormed in.

  There’s a second of silence. Then Mead sighs, real slow, and stands. “Guess I’d better go see to Peakes—”

  “Wait,” Beck says, moving toward the door. “I doubt the cooks will be very happy to see you. You’ll just make it worse.”

  Mead seems to consider this for a second, then nods slowly. “Perhaps.”

  “I’ll go smooth things over,” Beck says. “You stay here and try not to get into any more trouble while I’m gone. And look after Rosco.”

  “I do not need looking after,” I say, but he’s already gone.

  “Well, that was exciting.” Mead settles back down on the couch. “Close the door, will you? Don’t want anyone else to find me in here.”

  “Why don’t you get up and do it?” I say, but I go ahead and pull the door closed anyway. It swings shut, and the wooden nameplate thunks against it. Which reminds me.

  “Who’s Lianice Grimstead?” I ask.

  Mead looks surprised. “She was Beck’s mother. This room was issued to her, that’s why her name’s on the door.”

  “Oh.”

  Mead hesitates for a second. The humor has vanished from his face. “Did Beck tell you anything about her?”

  “Not much. Just that she died two years ago.”

  Again, Mead is hesitant. He leans forward, staring down at the floor. “I’m only telling you this,” he says, “because if you hang with Beck long enough you’ll hear rumors about it, and Beck might not want to explain.” He takes a breath. “His mom was sick for a long time before she died. But it was the mental kind of sick.”

  He stops, waiting for my reaction. When I don’t say anything, he keeps going. “Most of the time she seemed okay,” he continues. “And she was a great healer, nobody could deny that. Not to mention that she was one of the smartest people here. But sometimes she’d see things that weren’t there. She’d mutter things to herself like she was having a conversation. And then sometimes she had these sort of breakdowns, where she’d start screaming in the middle of the dining hall or the healing room and nobody’d be sure what set it off.”

  Mead looks down at the floor, tracing circles on it with one foot. I still don’t say anything, so he keeps going. “There at the end, some people in the Guild were downright scared of her. Thought she’d been cursed. She wasn’t allowed to heal anymore, and the steward almost threw her and Beck out of the Guild. But Beck went to the king and begged him to let them stay, promised he’d go on assignments even though he was too young, swore he’d earn his keep. The king let him stay, probably because he knew Beck’s a good thief. Or maybe because he knew Beck and his mom were being treated unfairly. Anyway, Beck’s been trying to keep that promise ever since, even though some people in the Guild don’t like him. Think he might be cursed too.”

  “Why’s the Guild so important to him?” I say. “If people are cruel, and if he has to work so hard, why would he stay?”

  “Partly because he knows how hard it would be to survive without the Guild.” His foot circles a little faster. “But also because . . . well, it’s different when you’re born here. You can’t understand. Beck and I, we’ve spent our whole lives here. Everyone and everything we know comes from here. We’ve been outside plenty of times, we’ve been taught what we need to know to survive . . . but it’s different. The Guild is a lot of things, but it’s also our home, the only place we know, the only place our families have been. And once you join, it’s hard to leave.”

  “I need to join,” I say. “But I just . . . I don’t know if I want to.”

  Mead looks up. “It’s a big decision,” he says. “And not everyone can survive here. But you can.”

  “How do you know? You just met me.”

  He meets my eyes for the first time. “I don’t know you, but I know Beck. And to tell you the truth, Beck’s scared to death about his trial. Being in the Guild is all he wants. He knows there’s a good chance the king will be hard on him, since he did Beck a favor by letting him stay this long. And he knows bringing you here is risky, because the king might not approve. But despite all that, he brought you here anyway. What does that say about you?”

  “Nothing. I’m just an orphan from Azeland. I ran into Beck on the street, that’s all, and he offered to help.”

  Mead doesn’t argue the point, but he doesn’t look convinced. “I just thought you should know what he’s risking for you.”

  “So you think I should leave? And not let him take the risk?”

  “I never said that.” He looks down at the cluttered table. “I think you must be pretty important to him, if he’d rather risk failing his trial than leave you in Azeland. He’s always had a kindhearted streak, but this is extreme even for him.”

  “That’s ridiculous. In fact, when he told me about the Guild, he practically tried to convince me not to come.”

  “But he did tell you about it,” he says quietly. “Just think about it, that’s all I’m saying.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, and I watch the flickering flame of the candle on the table. I try to imagine what it would’ve been like living here, in this room, with a mother. What it would be like to know that you’ll have three meals tomorrow, to have the stability of this room, of this place. The certainty of it. And the uncertainty of his mother's health. And how empty it would feel after she was gone.

  But better than not having had a mother at all.

  Mead stands abruptly. “So, Rosco, let’s kill some time while we wait for Reigler.”

  “Beck will probably be back soon—”

  He waves one hand dismissively. “You’ll have plenty of time. This’ll only take a minute.”

  “What will?” I say, but Mead’s already out the door. Reluctantly, I follow.

  Mead leads me down one of the passageways, moving so fast that I don’t have time to read the labels on the doors to try and figure out where we are.

  “Since you’re staying,” Mead says, not even glancing over his shoulder to see if I’m following, “you’ll want to learn a few useful skills.”

  I stop. “What’s in it for you?”

  Mead spins around theatrically, wearing a pained expression. “What makes you think I’d ask for anything in return? Maybe I’m just a compassionate person, helping the poor and the downtrodden—”

  “Do you really think I’m stupid?”

  Mead grins, dropping the pretense. “Okay, okay. So, I really need to retrieve something of mine from one of these rooms. I’ll teach you how to pick the lock, and if you’ll just open the door for me, I’ll do the rest. And in exchange, you learn how to pick locks from a master.”

  “Why not just pick the lock yourself?”

  “There are enchantments on the inner doors of the Guild to prevent people from picking the locks, but they only work on Guild members. You’re not one,” Mead says with a grin. “And no one else needs to learn how to pick locks. It’s a win-win situation.”

  “Except for whoever it is you’re stealing from. And don’t tell me that’s not what you’re doing. I’m not as bra
inless as you are.”

  “It’s not stealing, really,” he says, “ ’cause it was mine to begin with, and it was stolen from me. I’m just stealing it back. Anyway, you’re at the Thieves Guild, Rosco, so you’d best get used to it.”

  Fair point. I don’t want to make an enemy of whoever it is Mead’s stealing from, but I don’t want to make an enemy of Mead, either. Hopefully no one will know it was me.

  So why do I feel unsure about this?

  “All right. Show me what to do.”

  “First we must practice,” Mead protests. “Lock picking is an artistic skill that takes years to properly master.”

  “I haven’t got years.”

  “True, but you’ve got me for a teacher, which counts for something. I’ll give you the crash course.”

  Mead turns around and keeps walking, forcing me to run after him or risk being lost in these tunnels forever.

  We finally stop outside a door that looks identical to all the others, but with the name Koby Mead on the nameplate. Mead unlocks the door and ushers me inside with a dramatic flourish.

  Again we go through the process of lighting candles in the darkened room, and I’m starting to think there’s got to be a way to carve windows or something because I seriously don’t have time for this candle thing every day. Once everything’s lit, I see the room is much like Beck’s, except even messier, with clothes and stuff scattered all over. The basic furniture is the same—bed, sofa, table, heating unit thingy, dresser, and another bathroom with magic plumbing. Mead doesn’t have a second bedroom, though.

  I sit on the sofa. Meanwhile Mead rummages under the bed, pulling out some kind of box. In one quick movement he flips the box over the bed, and dozens of metal things fall out with a clatter. They’re locks.

  “Okay, Rosco, these are the basics.” Mead shoves a bunch of objects off the table and sits down on it, right across from me. “Locks aren’t difficult to open, really. They’re all pretty much the same. There are little pins inside that keep the lock closed. Picking a lock just means forcing the pins out of position so that it can open, the way a key does. Now, I personally prefer to use more sophisticated tools when possible, but I’m going to keep things simple for you, so we’ll go the basic pick-and-wrench method instead.”