She cut to the southeast, walking briskly. After a detour around the heavily patrolled Heirs' District, she traveled through four miles of sleepy row houses. She drew a few calls from drunken men, but it was the dead wrong time for her to engage. None of them followed her further than half a block.
In time, she came to the border of her neighborhood, affectionately referred to as the Dumps. She entered on Hallivan Street, cutting quickly to Loggidan, a stretch of dirt road fronted on both sides by longshoremen. Rough customers, but generally not the type to be trawling for trouble.
Someone whistled behind her, the noise shrieking through the night. Raxa neither slowed nor sped up. The whistle repeated. Footsteps. At least three pairs.
"Hey, girl!" Someone laughed raspily. "Hey, girl!"
No point trying to threaten them. Men like that never took you seriously. Not even when the moon gleamed on the blade of your knife. Most times, she'd have run—she knew the Dumps as well as anyone—but burdened by her pack, there was no way she could outpace them.
And there was no way she was dumping it, either.
A rock clattered behind her. She spun, walking backwards. Three silhouettes followed her.
"Walk off," she said. "You don't want this."
"Come closer and let's find out," the raspy man called.
"You keep following me and people will die."
"Oh, only if you try to get cute."
Raxa swore silently. She couldn't run. Couldn't escape through the shadows—they were done with her for the day. They were too close for her to hide. She was blocks away from her building. Even if she made it there before they caught up to—
A man emerged from the alley ahead of her. He was nearly as tall as a norren. A short blade hung from his side.
He gestured down the street. "These men bothering you?"
For a moment, relief shot through her veins. Throw him to the attackers and make a break for it. Then she saw the smile on his face.
"Get the fuck out of my way," she said.
The footsteps advanced behind her. The new man gaped. "Ugly language from such a pretty girl! I'm only here to help—"
She drew the sword. It felt as light as the bamboo chairs Gaits had imported from Gallador. Still smiling, the man drew his blade. It was much shorter than hers, the type of dagger favored by those who needed a weapon that was serious yet concealable, but he didn't seem concerned in the slightest about her reach advantage.
Probably because the other three men were now just twenty feet away. Raxa moved to the face of the nearest row house. The four men fanned out across from her. Everyone except the raspy-voiced man now bore a dagger. The tall man tapped his against his thigh.
"This doesn't have to hurt," the raspy man said. In the gloom of the street, she could make out nothing more than his eyes and teeth. "Put down that silly sword and turn around."
She pointed at them with her sword. "You four are friends?"
He laughed throatily. "The best of them. And friends share."
"If you're that close, then it's time to tell each other goodbye."
His cheek twitched. He drew his blade and stepped toward her. "Bad news. It does have to hurt."
She shrugged off her pack. It hit the ground with a jumbled, metallic clank. The man took another step forward, putting himself within range. Raxa slashed at him, the blade horizontal to the street. With fluid skill, the man pivoted on his heels, tucking back his hips as he extended the dagger to deflect the blow.
The bone sword clicked into his blade. Steel twinkled as it fell to the dirt. She barely felt the impact. Her sword carried straight into his side. Passed through ribs. Guts. He was still holding the hilt of the dagger and the two inches of steel that remained attached to it and he was looking down at this with the befuddlement Raxa associated with children understanding they've just broken their favorite toy.
The sword wasn't done. It kept passing through, as if she were swiping it through empty air. As if it hungered to cut as deeply as it could. It exited the other side of his body.
The tall man was stabbing at her overhand. She whipped her sword in a backhand. It cut through his forearm with a gritty click of bone. His hand and a sizable portion of his lower arm spun away. His elbow continued swinging forward, spraying her face with hot blood.
As the severed limb thumped to the street, the raspy man slid in half. His upper half struck the ground. He gawked as his lower half toppled beside him.
Everyone was screaming. The tall man clutched his stump. The two unwounded men turned and dashed away as fast as they could.
Raxa picked up her pack and ran.
* * *
"I have no words." Gaits stared down at the table. Jewels glittered like stars. And almost as numerous. "Correction: I have words. But compared to this, they're so cheap and mean I don't dare utter them for fear I'll tarnish your treasure."
"The sight of money always makes you so eloquent," Raxa said.
"How did you do this?"
"Same way I always do."
"How did you even get in? It's like you can walk through walls!"
She maintained a straight face. "Look like you belong, and you can go anywhere."
He rubbed his jaw, pacing around the table like a stalking cat. "We're rich. So rich. Did you pick up anything else?"
"What? A fortune isn't enough for you?"
"This is true. There probably wasn't anything left to steal."
She leaned back in her chair, letting out a long, quiet breath. "So when do we get paid?"
"Don't tell me you've spent the last score already."
"I just earned the Order enough money to buy a new building. Is it crazy to want to know when I get my cut?"
"The Jerrelec Collection is far too famous to sell here. We'll have to fence it in Dollendun. Maybe even Setteven. It'll take weeks. You let me know if you run short before then."
"Weeks, huh?"
He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Don't worry, I've got plenty of other ways to fill your time. Interested in another job?"
"Are you joking?"
A grin pooled across Gaits' face. "Not in the slightest."
In its way, his plan was even crazier than robbing the Sealed Citadel. Seven houses in seven nights. Some of the biggest names in the city. Gaits had already lined people up for four of the jobs. The other three? All Raxa's.
She had two days before the first. She badly wanted to get good and drunk, but that could wait until her personal work was done.
Back home, she collapsed into bed. As soon as she got up, she went downstairs for a cup of tea. Ready to face the world, she went back to her room, reached inside the chimney, and retrieved a long, cloth-covered bundle. She sat on the bed, laying the sheathed sword across her knees. The sapphire on the scabbard winked up at her.
She faced the same basic problem with the sword that the Order had in fencing the Jerrelec Collection: the scabbard was way too obtrusive. She'd never be able to wear it around town without someone recognizing it. Or at the very least, recognizing it was too expensive for the likes of her. Couldn't carry it around unsheathed, either. Its white length was even more recognizable than the scabbard. She could dye it, but she wasn't sure that would be enough. Besides, if she turned around too fast and the blade flung wide, she could chop someone in half.
She owned the sword, but she didn't dare use it. And what was the point of a magic sword if you couldn't use it?
But she did have money. The whole point of money was to solve problems. Could always bribe a smith to keep quiet, but the flaw in bribing someone was that you'd just proved they were dishonest.
What she needed was a copy. One she could make herself. She was no smith, but she had an idea.
She dropped by the Marrigan. Joldy was holding down the bar. Raxa asked and discovered that Vladd was out back. She found him hucking knives at a battered wood target.
"Vladd," she said. "How can I make a mold of a sword?"
He
turned, the tip of a throwing knife pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "Why'd you want to do that?"
"To duplicate it."
"You could pack it in clay easy enough. Make sure and oil the blade down good so's it won't stick. Dry the clay and fire it, then cast the sword. Don't think it'll be too pretty nor too strong, but if looks is all you care for, it'll match."
Raxa headed to the masons' district for the clay, brought it home, and followed Vladd's advice, including a generous slather of oil. She gave the mold time to harden, then withdrew the sword as gently as she could, somehow managing to extract it without slicing open the hardened clay.
She took the mold to a smith in the Sharps, paying extra to have it done that same day. Like Vladd had promised, the work was far from pretty, weird swirls and specks marring the dull metal. A flat tang extended from the blade's base. Benner, the smith, had added that without being asked.
Raxa pinched her upper lip. "Can you make me a scabbard for this?"
The smith sniffed. "I ain't even polished it yet."
"You don't have to worry about that. Just get me a scabbard. Nothing fancy. Got it?"
Benner gave her a long look, then shrugged. "It's your money."
"Make sure it's steel. The strongest you've got."
"For the scabbard?"
"Like you said, it's my money."
After seeing the color of her coin, he promised he'd have it ready in three days. Not in time for her first job, but that turned out to be a total cakewalk: the Faddegans, the target, were hosting a midsummer ball. All Raxa had to do was bribe her way past the staff—several of whom had been brought on for the occasion, and had no loyalty to the family—then slip upstairs, grab the collection, and dash out by way of the shadows. The whole thing took less than an hour.
The haul was pennies compared to what she'd nicked from the Citadel, but it was still going to make for some fat pockets. And she'd have her cut in days, not weeks.
Late the next morning, she wandered past the Pridegate. Herrick was out in his yard hammering scraps of lumber into something that might pass for furniture. Seeing her, he laid down his hammer and picked up his shirt to swab off the sweat.
"Raxa," he muttered. "Come to make sure I'm playing nice?"
She stared at him. "Are you?"
"I been working him hard." He tossed down his shirt. "But I ain't touched him. And the good news is he has been workin.'"
"Is he around?"
Herrick stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Footsteps padded from around the side of the house. Fedd was as shaggy-haired as ever, but the dark bruise around his eye had faded completely.
He grinned up at Raxa. "Whadja bring me?"
"My love. How's it going?"
The boy shrugged. Like his foster father, he was shirtless, and though he was filthy, it looked like the grime of honest labor.
"Okay," he said. "Dad's showing me how to build chairs and stuff. It's pretty neat."
At his use of the word "dad," Herrick abruptly turned away. He reached for his shirt again, dabbing his eyes and brows for several seconds. Raxa chatted with Fedd until Herrick cleared his throat and turned back around.
She winked at Herrick. "Keep up the good work."
From there, she returned to Benner, her smith in the Sharps. He was in the back banging away on something metal. She was afraid he was still going at her sheath, but when she called to him, he came out carrying a curved black scabbard.
"Leather wraps," he said warily. "When most people go metal, they want to show it off, but you made it sound like you wanted it as plain as Aunt Janne's thumb. But don't you worry. There's hard steel underneath."
She smiled and took the sheath. It felt solid. Weighty. Smelled like fresh steel and leather. Good things.
"You made the right call." She unhitched her belt and fed it through the two hoops attached to the scabbard. "This is perfect."
"There's just one problem."
Raxa kept her expression neutral. "What's that?"
"You ain't got any grip on your blade!" He laughed. "Want me to take care of that, too?"
She exhaled. "Appreciate it. But I've got something else in mind for that."
He brought her the copy of the sword. It inserted smoothly into the sheath, the tang sticking out like a fractured bone. She settled her accounts, including a tip that was generous, but not so far out there that he'd get suspicious. Heading home, she did her best not to run.
Inside her room, she bolted the door and went to the fireplace. A piece of her was certain the sword would be gone, but it was right where she'd left it. She pulled the copy from her new scabbard, removed the bone sword from its case, then eased it into the new sheath as gently as if she were lifting a man's purse or deflowering her true love.
The crossguard clicked into place. The fit was perfect. She drew the sword back out as carefully as she'd inserted it, then brought the scabbard to the window and inspected it. No sign of damage. She sheathed and unsheathed the sword a few times in a row. The scabbard held.
She was tempted to the roots of her being to carry the sword outside with her then and there. To never go without it again. Problem was, she ran with an entire tribe who made their living through light fingers and sharp eyes. Sooner or later, someone would notice.
Missions only, then. When she'd be alone and exposed. Besides, it wasn't just the risk of being seen by the wrong person that made carrying such a sword dangerous to the owner. With a weapon like that, you'd start to think you were invincible. The instant you began to believe you were beyond harm was the instant you signed your death warrant.
Her next job was Rolligen House. She took the sword, but the grab was even easier than Faddegan Manor.
"This is too easy," Gaits said on her return, standing over the loot like a man who'd bet everything on the turn of the dice and rolled kingsies. "Why weren't we doing this years ago?"
"You tell me," Raxa said. "How have the others been going?"
"Selly landed himself in the clink trying to take down the Jeddelics."
"I could have told you that would happen the second you told me it was Selly."
"Yes, well we can't give all the jobs to you. We have a guild to run here."
"So what's going to happen to him?"
Gaits tried on one of the sapphire rings she'd brought back. "Generally speaking, the process is that he'll be kicked around until the authorities' feet grow tired, after which he'll be dumped into a cell and largely forgotten until he dies, or they need room for a more recent criminal."
"We're not going to spring him?"
"That's not in the interests of the guild. If something went wrong in the attempt, it would implicate the entire Order of the Alley. You know this."
"Sure do," Raxa said. "But I figured we're so damn rich now that we could spend a little more to look after our people."
Gaits smiled crookedly. "Don't worry. I'm sure we'd do whatever it takes for you."
At her final job, they'd tripled their guards. Word was already getting around. Didn't matter. As long as rich people kept living in stone houses, she'd always be able to walk through their walls.
But they had a guard in the strongroom, too. Still in the shadows, Raxa stared at the silvery curve of his neck. All she'd have to do was become real for a split second. Jerk her sword through his neck. So far, though, they'd kept the latest string non-violent. Any murders, even of the help, could stir the heavy hand of the Citadel. She hit the bedrooms instead, grabbing whatever was obvious and getting out before her hold on the rope connecting her to the netherworld pulled her back into the open.
Word came down from on high. Except for ongoing jobs and maintaining territory, the entire Order was on furlough for the next few weeks. They'd just thrown eight stones directly into the hornet's nest. It was time to let the buzzing die down lest someone get stung.
Fine by Raxa. She'd done her job.
* * *
The soldiers were everywhere. Garbed in the b
lack of the Citadel, the White Tree of Barden blazing from their chests. They stood outside the manors. They marched through the Sharps. They came by the Marrigan, where they interviewed Gaits, Gaits' counterparts Anya and Ackley, and then—in a move that had the building gossiping for days—the soldiers went to see the bossman: Kerreven.
Word was they threatened to haul him bodily from the Marrigan. His response—again, according to rumor—was that if they wanted to search the building, they could do so. And if they didn't turn up any of the missing goods, he'd go on to search their bodies, one organ at a time, as he removed them from their bodies.
Time played on. The days got hotter. Raxa wanted to spend more time out, but she felt safer at home with her sword. Then, word from Gaits. He needed to see her at once.
Leaving her sword in the chimney, she walked swiftly toward the Marrigan. There, two bulky men escorted her upstairs to Gaits' offices. He was waiting outside.
"Raxa," he said, bowing his head. "What I'm about to show you is going to change your life. But I want you to make you a promise: you won't let it change you."
"Something wrong, Gaits? You talk like you're about to toss me out on my ear."
"Far from it," he said. "It's the Citadel heist. It's been fenced."
He swept the fabric from the table. Gems and metal shimmered in the candlelight. Necklaces. Rings. Stacks of coins. And—even looking right at them, she couldn't believe it—three bricks of silver the size of her forearm.
"Careful with those." Gaits grinned toothily. "They don't look so big, but they weigh half as much as you do."
She stared in something like awe. Forget like awe. She stared with the awe the gods must have felt when they'd forged the stars.
She gestured timidly, as if afraid that stirring the breeze would blow the gems and silver blocks away. "How much is this?"
"More than you could spend if you lived to be nine hundred."
"I don't know. I could get used to this."
The Silver Thief Page 11
