Zella folded her arms and looked over at Devan. They locked eyes for a moment before Devan looked back at Tolem. "Can we think about it?" he asked.
Tolem nodded. "You've got one day. If you're in, go to the white oak on the trail leading up to the mountains and—"
Nalan interjected: "You...you want us to break out of The Collegium?"
Tolem cocked an eyebrow at him. "If you can't do it, you're no use to me. When you show up—if you show up—whistle for me. Devan, you remember that song I taught you when you were a wee little shit?"
Devan whistled a catchy little eight-note tune.
"That's the one. Whistle that when you get to the white oak, and off we'll go." He shot a sharp look over at Zella. "I won't even charge you for the wagon ride."
Zella scowled at him but said nothing.
"You're ready for this," Tolem said, looking around from Zella to Allister to Breigh to Nalan to Devan. "But you should know something. This isn't going to be playing pranks on Instructor Winselle. You get caught, lock-in means you go to jail forever. If you're lucky. They're called consequences, kids. But you know what comes with those consequences?”
Tolem turned and looked directly into Zella’s eyes. “Freedom,” he said.
Zella watched the older man. As soon as he looked away, her eyes darted over to Allister—Allister, and all the futures he represented.
“If you're ready for it,” Tolem said at last, “I'll be waiting for you."
Moments later, the five of them filed out of Tolem's quarters. Each of them lost in their own thoughts, they said very little as they split up and made their ways back to their quarters.
The Palace. The words drifted through her head as she made her way down the hallway to her room. Then she thought them again, and let the idea really wash over her: The Palace. Her and Devan and the others robbing The Palace. Her skills against the best minds in six worlds, and the reward? Zella bit her lip.
It was then that Zella realized she’d walked past her door some time ago. Jolted from her reverie, she turned to backtrack and went to fish her key out of her pocket. As she did, her hand grazed her coin purse. Zella paused in her tracks. Did Tolem ever give Breigh her twenty golds back?
---
In his quarters, Devan of the Fields paced back and forth, flipping a gold coin to himself over and over again.
In her quarters, Breigh of Fold and Fael was sharpening her grandfather’s battle hatchet, hurtling it against the stone wall, grimacing when she couldn't get it to stick, and sharpening it again.
In his quarters, Allister of Targe's Rock was hanging by his fingertips from a chin-up bar, too lost in thought to attempt his evening ritual of failing to perform a chin-up.
In his quarters, Nalan of the Fen was sweating.
In her quarters, Zella of the Peak could feel them all. She wasn’t listening to their exact thoughts, but she could sense their tone and feel their anxiety.
There was a long silence, broken finally by Allister who said, simply,
Zella shook her head.
<...but fucking lunacy aside...I'm also thinking 'What is there to talk about?' How can any of you be taking this at all seriously?>
Devan finally chimed in.
Zella fumbled for answers.
Allister chimed in again:
Zella balled her hands into fists.
Zella could feel Breigh filling her lungs, preparing to roar. If that happened, this conversation was over. Fortunately, Devan chimed in.
The channel went quiet.
Neither one of them said anything for a long time.
The channel went quiet again. Zella sat on her bed and, agitated, bounced her leg.
Zella didn't like where Devan was going with this. Breigh chimed in with an enthusiastic
Devan said.
Devan paused for emphasis, then:
Mouth agape, Zella shook her head.
Allister rubbed the bridge of his nose.
<...Go on...>Zella said.
Again, silence fell over the channel. Zella ground her teeth together and contemplated shutting off the link in disgust. He was working her again. But there was a difference between knowing you’re being worked and keeping yourself from being worked.
Allister cleared his throat.
Zella took a deep breath through her nose.
Zella rolled her head back on her shoulders.
Zella shook her head again. Then:
The others agreed.
Allister corrected her. he announced. <'Adventure and romance in a world beyond their ken!'>
<'Deceit and deception under a foreign sky!'> Devan declared. <'Nefarious deeds!'>
<‘Brutal close-quarter combat!’> shouted Breigh.
<‘Disreputable innkeepers!’> Nalan offered.
The others furrowed their brows in quiet response.
The others laughed too. Even Zella. This was a good thing, she told herself firmly, and tried to make herself believe it.
Tolem
With nothing better to occupy his time, Tolem petted and rubbed his pony's neck. He watched the wastes, keeping his back to The Tower. It was just past eight bells when he heard a familiar eight-note tune, whistled in the dark.
He turned and greeted his new team with a broad smile.
"So here's what I figure," Devan said, his cane clicking on the path’s paving stones as he hobbled toward the wagon. "If we're going to do this thing, we're going to need to gather intelligence. See the place from the inside. Really get a good look at the way it works. Don't you think?"
Tolem nodded, considering it. "Ideally, sure. But it's going to be hard enough getting past security once. Breaking in twice, that's just tempting fate, lad."
"And what if we didn't break in?" Devan asked. "What if we just bought a ticket?"
Under Tolem's patient smile, there was sincere concern. Gods below, he mused, they're not that simple, are they? Do they even know how money works? "Well, Devan," he laughed indulgently, "if we had that kind of money, we wouldn't have to rob The Palace, now, would we?"
Devan laughed back, matching his uncle's patronizing tone. "Well, Tolem...what if we fenced this?" He held out a hand, palm up, over one shoulder. Behind him, Allister drew back his cloak and produced a familiar gold idol, suspended in a magic sling. He held it up, letting it hang over Devan's extended palm. Devan smiled. “For the record? Breaking into a place twice just means it’s way easier the second time.”
Tolem nodded his appreciation, then, breaking into a deep belly laugh, clutched Devan by the shoulders. "Krist and Kroham, boy. Your first week Walking the worlds is going to be one hell of a show."
Devan looked back over his shoulder at Zella and winked at her. She gave him a tight-lipped smile.
"Onward, then," Devan said.
Interlude
Three weeks later, Tolem, Devan, Zella, Nalan, Allister, and Breigh all arrived in Ptolimar, an ash-colored labor town at the headwaters of the Ptolimae River. There, The Palace hung low in the sky, a man-made storm cloud casting its twilight shadow across the village.
Buffeted about by the river winds, a swarm of airships dipped and darted around the immense craft. The ships carried tradesmen from throughout the valley; they labored day and night, affixing thin plates of pale green Aurium to the rough hull of the ship.
From below, The Palace resembled a great stone bowl, made up of hundreds of thousands of immense, hand-cut bricks. But as the six travelers crested the hill overlooking the town, they marveled at what they could see above the bowl's rim—the tall, thin, ivory spires, trimmed in jade and gemstones. The vast halls built to house the wonders of a dying world. The outer curve of the great coliseum, its towering archways etched with carvings of the great champions of old.
And they could see people milling about on the thoroughfares and boulevards, promontories, and observatories. Fine, wealthy, and beautiful people, dressed in gaudy greens and golds. People of influence from all across the known worlds, who had come here—here—to experience the finest things left in the known worlds.
As the group rode into Ptolimar, Devan stood up in the back of Tolem's oxcart, looked up to The Palace, and spread his arms wide.
“Mine,” he said.
Part II : To Plunder Paradise
Allister
“Twenty four,” announced the matron of the table, and Allister's thirty newest, closest friends lost their minds.
The scrawny youngster grabbed up a fistful of gold chits from the pile in front of him and flung them toward the ceiling, letting them rain down on the crowd around his Kiva table. Behind him, hands grabbed and shoulders shoved as his audience lunged to grab for the falling treasure. In the tumult, Allister was nearly lifted off his feet and shoved onto the table. Fortunately, the gold-tressed sisters who flanked him had taken an active interest in keeping his feet on the floor and the dice in his hands.
“Can you believe the luck on this one?” Bieli asked Kieli, holding firm to Allister’s left arm.
“I don’t think it is luck,” Kieli told Bieli, clutching tightly to Allister’s right arm. “I think he’s a wizard.”
Allister put on a show of being offended. “My dear ladies. You’ve clearly never met a wizard before. Wizards, as a rule, smell like my grandmother’s underthings after a warm day at sea.”
“A warlock, then,” Bieli laughed, pulling Allister close to her overburdened decolletage.
“Pff,” Allister said, waving her off. “Do I look like my love life involves hanging around behind orphanages with a bag of sweetplums?”
“A mage?” Kieli asked, pulling Allister back over to her side.
“Ah,” Allister clucked his tongue and faked a winsome look. “If only. Mages are known throughout the worlds as the most charming, most dashing, most well-endowed…”
Wide-eyed, the two sisters cupped their hands over their mouths.
“...magically speaking, of course, of all the practitioners of the Art. No, my dear, dear ladies, I’m afraid...” Allister reached behind Bieli’s ear and produced a 50-chit gold piece seemingly from out of thin air. “...that I’m no mage.” He handed it to Kieli and winked at her.
Through bedroom eyes, the two sisters looked at each other and seemed to agree on something without saying a word. Allister didn’t know what it was, but as his companions pressed their bodies even closer to his, he began to worry that he might literally die from anti
cipation.
“So!” he said. His voice betrayed him, coming out two full octaves higher than he’d meant it to. “Who’s up for one more ride?” The crowd bellowed its approval.
Allister knocked twice on the oak rail in front of him and the matron pushed seven dice over to his end of the table with a long, hooked stick. As he reached down to gather them up, he heard a familiar voice in his head:
Allister’s face fell. His shoulders drooped. His entire body felt like it had wilted.
“Six more,” he announced. And the room went quiet.
Then the murmuring began. Then the nervous laughter. Then the chanting: “Thir-teen. Thir-teen. Thir-teen.”
His audience grew by another ten people, another twenty. With her long stick, the matron pulled the massive pile of chits across the table to the totals circle, then pushed the rest of the dice over to Allister.
For a long moment, he held the dice in one hand. He turned to Bieli and pushed a lock of hair off her forehead. He turned to Kieli and pinched her cheek. Then, shaking his head, he closed his eyes, let out a deep breath, and threw.
The dice bounced off the back wall of the table and rolled to a stop. “No joy,” the matron announced.
The crowd groaned as one—its last official act as a gestalt entity—then split apart. Each member slipped separately into the crowd on the gaming hall floor and vanished, off to join new coteries and leech off other gamers' good fortunes. By the time Allister opened his eyes, even Bieli and Kieli were gone.
He bent down and leaned his forehead on the railing. Gods, how he wanted to watch someone burn to death just then.
Proper Thieves Page 9
