by Beth Alvarez
Tahl smirked. “And you haven’t called the guards yet, so I’d say it works.”
Grunting, Bahar straightened and twisted the ring back onto his finger. “I’ve grown curious. You’re looking for a guild. Why bother? If you’re as skilled as you think you are, why not work alone?”
“Do you work alone, Lord Eseri?” Tahl raised a brow. “You could, perhaps, manage all your imports by yourself. But that wouldn’t be effective, would it? You want to scale. You want to build efficiency. You want someone else to do the work that’s beneath your skill level and keep the best fruits of your labor for yourself. Do you think my business is any different?”
“No,” the noble said, easing himself into his chair and letting a thoughtful eye linger on the thief. “I suppose not.”
Tahl spread his hands. “There you go.”
For a time, neither spoke. Then Bahar leaned back in his chair, tapping a finger against the edge of his desk. “There’s one thing you failed to consider, though.”
Progress. Tahl hid his satisfaction and opted to raise a brow instead.
“The guild doesn’t accept outsiders.” A shadow of weariness crossed Bahar’s face and for a moment, he looked older than his silver-flecked hair suggested. “Imagine, letting a stranger into a group so carefully cultivated over a span of decades. Their safety depends on secrecy. A thief doesn’t seek them to be admitted to their ranks. They wait for the guild to approach them.”
“So you admit you’ve been discovered?” Tahl asked.
A harsh grin split the older man’s features. “I admit I know of the guild. Every businessman in Orrad does, but to speak of them is to risk bringing the wrath of Atoras down on your head. But, no. You have the wrong man.”
A single, fleeting moment of panic clawed at Tahl’s heart. He caught it and wrestled it into submission. No matter how skilled he was, the instinct of fight or flight was hard to defeat. “Impossible.”
“I applaud your confidence,” Bahar said, “but there’s nothing I can do for you. If you’re as skilled as you claim, hit the streets again. Make your work noticed. The guild will find you when they believe you’ll be an asset.”
Tahl lifted his chin. “A thief who makes himself easy to find is a thief who doesn’t live long.”
A dark chuckle escaped the nobleman. “Indeed.”
“Name your mark,” Tahl said. “Everything has a price.”
“My mark?” Bahar pressed his fingers to his chest, wrinkling the vermilion silk of his vest. Funny; Tahl could have sworn there had been an ink stain on the side of the man’s hand when he swiped the ring. “I told you, I’m not involved.”
“Then why haven’t you thrown me out or alerted the guards outside?”
“Because I know better than to cross the guild.” The older man shook his head, a shadow in his dark eyes. “They could ruin a man like me with a thought. As for throwing you out...” He leaned back in his chair and frowned. “I’ve told you what I know, and if I am to be honest, you’re young and I am not. I doubt I could lay hands on you. But you will leave of your own accord.”
Tahl half-listened, his thoughts still on the ink. Lord Eseri hadn’t had ink on his hands when he walked through the city; he must have paused to write something before he reached his office. A message to a courier at the door, perhaps. Tahl tucked away a mental note to exit through the front door—after he inspected the inkwells along the way.
“You’re right,” he agreed after a moment. “You’ve been helpful, even if you haven’t given me the answers I hoped for.” He couldn’t fault the noble for standing his ground and pushing to hide his identity. He’d just said it himself—a thief who was easy to find didn’t live long. Any number of people were after Bahar’s head. Until now, no one had found him. Tahl strode toward the door. “Of course... If you were part of the thieves guild, what would it take to impress you?”
Bahar sneered. “The world.”
Tahl gave a single nod. “Noted.” He slipped out of the office and stalked past the maid, whose mouth dropped open when she saw him. Her eyes followed him to the stairs and he stifled his amusement. Not a mark had been left behind to show how he got inside, but he didn’t doubt Bahar would force the woman to scour the place in search of some clue. He bounded down the stairs to the first floor and paused at a small secretary desk near the entryway. It was tidy, but clearly received use, its surface stained with old ink.
One by one, he unstoppered the three ink bottles that sat on the secretary and ran his fingers around their rims. One red, two black. Satisfied, he exited and turned south. By the time he passed the district gate, the smudge on his second finger was gone.
Tahl smirked.
Disappearing ink.
Orrad was not as comfortable as his home city of Ashor on the southern coast, but Tahl had grown used to it. He still preferred the salt air and sea winds, but the capital had its own charm. The air was ever cool and scented with pine, and the wide, cold river that flowed from the gray mountains reminded him of home.
Unsurprisingly, the bridge across the Ranton river was his favored refuge. He leaned his elbows against the stone balustrade and laced his fingers together. He’d washed his hands, but hints of red and black ink still stained his first and third fingers. He rubbed the pad of his clean middle finger against his knuckle.
Despite that single twinge of uncertainty in Lord Eseri’s office, Tahl’s confidence he was on the right track never wavered. Discovery of the disappearing ink had been an added frustration instead of a confidence boost. Bahar Eseri was the leader of the guild; there was no doubt about that. Tahl had spoken to any number of thieves in the city. By all accounts, the nobleman held the power to admit anyone he pleased. He should have been impressed instead of angry or dismissive. He hadn’t even offered a real answer for Tahl’s question of what it would take.
No matter. If he wished to give dismissive answers, he’d receive dismissive results. After all, Tahl mused as he pushed himself from the balustrade and made his way home, the world is easier to take from someone than they think.
To call his room modest was generous, but Tahl preferred his drafty attic space over the dank stone room he’d had at the academy. Orrad’s mages were supposed to be the most powerful in the Westkings, yet they couldn’t keep mildew from the corners of their stronghold. At least the attic was dry.
He unrolled a map across the rough table and drummed his fingers against its edges. Finding Bahar had been the hard part; he’d located the guild headquarters the first day he’d decided to look. Nestled comfortably within a high-traffic area on the fringes of the mercantile district, it had been circled in blue on his map for a month. Bahar’s home was a contrasting red. Tahl hadn’t liked the color; he found it too often associated with challenge. But he had only so many colors in the little box of mostly-used wax crayons he’d gotten from an artist who often set up on the south side of the bridge, where an outcropping of stone gave a good view of the docks. Yellow was too pale to show up on the dark paper. Tahl rubbed his fingertips together as he surveyed his box. Eventually, he took a nub of deep ochre wax. When he had the resources, he’d ask the artist for more colors.
In spite of his wealth—or perhaps because of it—Lord Eseri had never married. He had no children that anyone knew of, no lovers, and no immediate family alive. His life revolved around his business, both above and under the table.
“Going after his assets is too predictable,” Tahl muttered to himself as he searched the map and scoured his own thoughts for ideas. “Money is his world, but anyone can steal money.” His fingers rapped against the edge of the map and he worried his lower lip between his teeth.
One after another, he marked places of interest in ochre. Whatever the mark, it had to be someplace with high security, or his skill wouldn’t be noticed. There were museums, armories, auction houses. All of them likely to be involved in Bahar’s business. Enough to draw notice, sure, but enough to shake the man’s foundations? Tahl scrubbed a hand t
hrough his hair and then rubbed his eyes. All too obvious, none too damaging.
Maybe he was looking at this the wrong way. Maybe his focus was too immediate to the noble. Tahl’s fingertips dragged his lower eyelids down and he stared at a point near the center of the map, one he’d chosen not to mark.
That’s it. He dragged his ochre wax around the place. Threatening a man like Bahar did no good. Threatening the establishment he obeyed without realizing—now there was a solution.
Chapter 3
Sometimes the smoke tingled. It was the closest Tahl ever got to the sensation he imagined came with fire. He wiggled his fingers, twisting the plumes into spirals. The smoke did not have to form in the palms of his hands, but he’d grown adept at making shapes that way. He could weave anything; the shape of a bird, the outline of a man. The mages at the academy considered it a parlor trick, instead of real magecraft. He shaped a bat and cast it into the sky. Its wings beat as if it lived, until it dissipated into the clean night air. Whether or not they believed it was useful, he knew it was. For a thief, nothing helped more than a distraction.
One of many reasons thievery flourished in the academy, Tahl supposed. They were secretive, but they relied on their magic too much, using it to break locks or carve holes in glass. It worked well enough within the academy, but outside, their magic was what gave them away. Every mage could sense their power; when they worked their magic to break and enter, they exposed themselves to every other mage in the vicinity.
Tahl, on the other hand, held power so feeble that his presence—and even his most complicated, dense smokeworks—bore no more essence of fire than a lit candle or burning tobacco pipe. The academy mages had claimed he was too weak to train, unable to learn, and cast him out. But not, he thought with a smirk, before he found his new trade.
Under the cover of darkness, the rooftops made a better home than the streets. Thieves like him weren’t the only ones who prowled Orrad after dark. He’d watched a pair of roughs for the better part of an hour as they stalked around corners and between buildings. Anywhere they served alcohol, there were easy targets, and the pair had circled the inn Tahl perched on for a good amount of time.
There was a certain amount of predictability in the way those sort of muggers worked. They disguised themselves with a comrade and made conversation as they walked, moving in patterns that suggested they roamed between the taverns and inns in search of more drink. They rarely took a drop themselves, instead focused on tracking when patrons entered and predicting when they would leave.
The people they targeted bore patterns, too. They favored the working class over nobles; a less wealthy quarry, but less dangerous, too. Few who challenged nobles escaped the guard, which made Tahl’s interaction with Lord Eseri all the more interesting. The brutes also preyed on people of smaller stature, which worked endlessly in Tahl’s favor.
His marks rounded the corner and disappeared on the last round of their patrol, and Tahl slid from the inn’s roof to its yard. He always landed in the back; it was softer there, dirt instead of cobbles, and it gave him time to rehearse. A trough stood out back for horses and burden beasts, the water ice-cold. Scrubbing his face with it always added just the right amount of red to his complexion to make him look soused, and the wet dribbles down the front of his shirt from where the water ran off his chin never hurt. He untucked his shirt just so and unfastened a button on his trousers, then staggered toward the front of the inn with a hand on his belt.
Just as his feet reached the street, his marks rounded the corner on their return. Tahl pretended he didn’t see them, pausing at the corner to hitch his belt tighter.
“Oi,” one of the brutes called, his voice thick with feigned intoxication. “Necessary out back?”
Tahl sniffed loudly. “There’s a stable,” he slurred, “and that’s good enough.”
The man slapped his comrade’s chest and motioned toward the back as if to suggest they go.
“Just watch the mule,” Tahl said as they approached. “He’s not so mindful of his feet.”
They spun and surged toward him.
Predictable.
Tahl dropped to the ground and swept their feet out from under them with one leg. A flick of his hands slid his knives out from the sheaths strapped to his forearms and into his hands.
Groaning, one of the men rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself to his hands and knees. Tahl darted forward and caught him with a kick to the stomach, and he sprawled again.
Behind him, the other man clambered to his feet and roared in anger. But anger dulled his judgment and when Tahl spun on him, he lunged forward. Tahl’s arm shot forth, driving the heel of his palm into the brute’s nose. The man howled and staggered backwards and Tahl darted again, his knives ready. Instead of the man, he targeted the purse at his belt. Coins spilled to the ground with a bright jingle and bounced in every direction.
“Go!” the other thug choked as he struggled to his feet. He tried to run, but couldn’t do more than stagger. His partner stumbled after him, clutching his crushed nose and groaning in pain.
Tahl flicked a salute toward their backs and gathered their lost coins. It was a good haul; a month’s wages for most workers. Two copper pennies glinted in the light that spilled from the inn at his back. He considered them for a moment, then turned toward the inn’s door. As many bullies and robbers that lurked in the night, there were others, too—less fortunate and less skilled than him—who deserved a lucky break. He wiped his palm against his trousers and slipped inside.
The would-be muggers were right in their assessment of the inn’s inhabitants. Nearly two dozen men bowed over their drink, some so unsteady on their chairs that Tahl didn’t know how they’d survive getting to their feet. But, as with most places that served alcohol this near to the river gate, the room held only working class people. Putting his head down, Tahl let himself blend in as he crept to an empty space at the end of one table. He sat and pressed a silver coin to the tabletop with his thumb.
“Again?” a small, unimpressed voice asked beside him.
Tahl smirked at the girl as she thunked a wooden mug down in front of him. “A man’s gotta eat. Besides, they make it easy.”
“You’re barely a man,” the girl retorted.
“And you’re barely old enough to be serving tables, but here you are.” He spread his hands placatingly. “Food, Nia. Please. I’m hungry.”
She rolled her eyes, but pushed her way back to the kitchen.
Despite the enjoyment she derived from picking at him, Niada was one of few people in Orrad Tahl genuinely liked. Their shared profession was one reason for it, though the rest of their bond had come from her role as an informant. The girl worked as a barmaid in any and every establishment that would take her, though they were few and far between. With rowdy drunks abound, the role of barmaid wasn’t always the safest, and Niada was young—a handful of years younger than Tahl. Between her age and her small stature for her twelve years, few barkeeps were willing to take her on. Still, she managed to find work, and in some ways, her age worked to her benefit. Lips were loose after a few pints of ale, and no one paid mind to a little girl carrying tankards between tables.
“Here.” A wooden plate clattered to the table in front of him, spilling gravy. Niada looked down her nose at him and held out her hand.
Tahl pushed the silver coin across the table and left it. “There’s more for you, if you want to work for it.”
“Of the two of us, who works more?” She sat down at the other side of the table.
“Why work more when you can work smart? I’m the one with the full purse.” The riverside inns didn’t serve as good of food as those near the garden district, but Tahl was too hungry to care. He speared a half-dozen slices of spiced carrot with his fork and jammed them into his mouth.
Niada sniffed. “At least I have food whenever I want it.”
“Fair,” he muttered between bites. “I need information.”
“Which is w
hy you gave me a whole pim today, and not two half-mites for your meal.” She rolled the coin between her fingers.
“And if you want the two half-mites, you’ll help me out.” The carrots were overcooked. Tahl moved on to the fish and its oily gravy.
The girl motioned for him to continue.
He gulped down the near-flavorless food with a grimace. “I found him.”
Her dark brows climbed. “Today?”
Tahl nodded. “On my own, thank you very much.”
“You can’t get mad at me for that. It was a dumb idea to begin with.”
“Well, dumb or not, it happened. But he won’t let me in.” Deciding the carrots were preferable to the fish, he turned his plate.
She smirked. “Called it. You owe me another pim.”
“I never actually took that bet.” He paused to chew. Niada leaned forward over the table. That eager to hear the rest of the story, was she? He slowed down, forcing her to wait. The anticipation on her face morphed into frustration.
At last, he swallowed. “The gravy’s not saving that fish, by the way.”
“You don’t even like fish!”
“All the more reason for it to need saving.” Tahl wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He didn’t turn me in, which is how I know I scared him. Not enough to get him to let me in, but enough that he was worried what would happen if I spoke to the guards. But since he didn’t want to cooperate, I think it’s time to do more than scare him.”
Niada’s green eyes shone with delight. Her eyes were another kinship between them. With both of them dark-haired and green-eyed, Niada could have passed for his sister. Of course, as a northerner, her complexion was too pale. “What’s the plan?”
“Barmaid! Drink!” came a raucous voice from across the room.
The girl grimaced and thrust herself from her seat, but she held up a finger to ask Tahl to wait. He craned his neck to watch her work while he finished his meal, whether or not he liked it.