“Ah, ah, ah," Whitney said, pulling the key out of the man's reach. “First, promise me you’ll make sure your son doesn’t skip town without paying me the rest of what he owes me.” He wasn’t out of the woods yet. A master thief knows that you never give up the grift until the grift is through.
“Anything!” Reese shouted.
“Keep it down in there!” came the distant voice of one of the guards.
“Anything,” the old man said in a desperate whisper.
Whitney handed over the key, and Reese wasted no time rushing to the door of the cage he’d called home for Iam knows how long. The door unlocked with a soft click. Reese looked back at Whitney. Whitney saw a new sense of life on the man’s face and almost regretted what he was about to do until the old man cackled.
“Thanks, Mr. Thief, but ain’t no way you’ll be collecting anything from me in there.”
Reese tossed the key out of the window of his cell, then threw open the door and scurried up the stairs toward the kitchen. He was so excited he panted like a dog in heat.
Whitney waited until the old wretch reached the exit. “Guards!” he shouted. “Oh, guards! The prisoner escaped!”
The guards peeked into the cells, expecting it was a lie. When they saw the sprung cell door, they scrambled for their gear.
“He went up those stairs, just there!” Whitney said.
All four guards rushed past him. When the sound of boots on stone faded, Whitney casually walked to his cell door, swung it open, and released a satisfied sigh, relieved he hadn’t trusted the man and opened his own cell in advance.
He only had a few minutes before they caught Reese and tossed him back into the dungeon for the rest of his miserable life. It was hard to pity a man so swift to ignore his debts—even if they were lies to begin with. Whitney imagined the old guard captain had a good reason for locking him up in the first place.
Closing his eyes, Whitney conjured up his memory of the castle from the last time he'd escaped. He was in the castle’s upper dungeons, but still on the first level—the only level with windows. He’d been dragged in from the left staircase, and the right staircase led to the kitchens.
He went left, away from where the guards chased Reese, pausing for just a moment in their station. Their desk was empty except a bit of parchment and a cup of what smelled like mead. Whitney threw back the remainder of the amber substance and swallowed hard. He coughed.
Not mead…something harder. Much harder.
He shook out his head and took the stairs. They were obviously not the only guards on duty in the royal keep of the largest kingdom this side of the Torrential Sea, so he had to be careful. The floor leveled out to a gracious hallway lined with crystal candelabras which led into the keep’s Great Hall.
He skulked down the hall at a brisk trot, careful to avoid any windows or openings. A tall arched door framed the far end of the passage, and beyond it, the exit from the keep and entrance to the West Tower.
He spotted two King’s Shieldsmen talking with a dwarf near a doorway. Whitney thought there’d be more of the King’s Shield around. It was all a bit too easy. The Shieldsmen spoke harshly to the little man, shoving him out of the way before taking several steps outside to make sure he didn’t try anything.
Whitney took off running, then slid for the far doorway just before the Shieldsmen turned again. He let the door quietly close and leaned flat against it, breathing heavily.
Once his heart settled, he regarded his clothing, dry now, but still stained with crusting mud and… other stuff. The neckline of his shirt sagged, and the bottoms of his pants were torn. There was no way he would fit in at a royal masquerade. He needed a new plan.
He trotted down the long loggia adorned with creeping vines. He stayed close to the wall and kept his eyes peeled for guards that never came.
A shouldered arch led into what he remembered should be the western courtyard. As Whitney crossed the threshold, he listened to music playing through a door across the way leading into the Great Hall—a fiddle. Of all the countless instruments he’d heard in his travels across the world, he hated the fiddle most of all. Above the distant music, he heard the gentle cascading of water.
He canvased the area for guards. Again, not a soul was in sight. From his new position, the soft sound of water now sounded more like the steady gurgling of a fountain. He crossed the greenway, and there he saw it—a gorgeous fountain and fresh water. It was carved in the form of a dragon, wings spread wide, eyes of brilliant crystal. In his last foray through the Glass Castle, the impressive statue surely hadn’t been there.
From its mouth, water spouted into a shallow pool. Whitney dipped down low and splashed his face, sucking in mouthfuls. After the food he’d endured in the dungeon, it provided a needed boost in energy.
For a brief moment, the music grew louder. He glanced up and saw none other than the Queen of Glass herself, still wearing her mask. She burst from of the Great Hall’s side entrance and stormed toward him. He ducked behind the fountain and covered his mouth.
The Queen’s heel got stuck in mud, and she cursed it before ripping her foot free and throwing down her mask. She crossed the greenway and sat at the edge of the fountain. Whitney thought he could hear her crying, but the rain had picked up again and made it difficult to hear.
He peaked around the fountain again. The Queen’s necklace alone was probably worth enough to buy a castle in the Dragon’s Tail. He knew he was in the castle for the King’s crown, but he couldn’t help himself.
Before he had the chance to further consider the heist, her head snapped around, and he ducked again. She gasped, then stood and ran in the other direction. At the same time, a King’s Shieldsman exited the Great Hall and sprinted after her.
With the rain picking up again, Whitney knew this was the perfect cover to get what he came for. He bent down, spread a bit of mud on his face, and tore off through the downpour. Now he invited the mud to further splash up and conceal his outfit’s many tears.
He spotted the Queen’s pair of glittering heels and a mask outside the Grand Hall. He thanked some good fortune most people would call Iam, and snagged up the mask, smearing mud on it as well to diminish its opulence. Frosted glass with gold trim was an excellent way to make him stand out, and a thief always fared better blending with the crowd.
He opened the door to the Great Hall, and the sound of joyful music amplified. Fiddles and drums, lutes and lyres. The nobles danced and ate, wine flowed freely. No one seemed the slightest bit aware that the Queen was outside in distress. Maybe they wouldn’t care. Men who frequented the kind of places Whitney did knew how people spoke about their “Savage, Whore Queen,” when they thought they weren’t heard.
Whitney had escaped the Glass Castle once or twice before, but one look around the Great Hall, decorated for a party, and Whitney finally understood why the kingdom bore its name. Everything sparkled. Small flames flickered in a dozen glass chandeliers, prisms of light dithering across the walls, ceiling, and floor. Twisting crystal columns reached up and met the glass spire above.
Few men without old names or old money had seen the magnificent spire from this angle, although it could be seen from nearly anywhere in the city, reflecting the light of the sun or moons, casting its glow over Yarrington. So close to the bay and there wasn’t even a need for a lighthouse. From this angle, however, its immensity made Whitney speechless—which was a rare occurrence.
Stained glass painted beautiful pictures onto the walls like tapestries telling the stories of great kings and their dedication to Iam. In the center of the room, King Liam sat in a glistening throne made of glass. Its legs sprawled out like translucent hands clutching the dais below. Atop his thinly-haired head was the prize—the Glass Crown.
For the first time in his life, Whitney wondered if he'd gone too far. Had he finally accepted a challenge even he couldn’t pull off? The King was an invalid, the rumors were true, but there were King’s Shieldsmen everywhere, including d
irectly behind and to the side of the King. Whitney held the mask up to his face just in time to see a Shieldsman approach, so young the man couldn’t even grow a proper beard yet. Not that Whitney could either.
"My Lord," the Shieldsman said. "You are quite disheveled."
"Quite observant of you," Whitney feigned a ridiculous eastern accent. "I was resting in the peace of the gardens when a quick and sudden downpour threatened to drown me where I lay. I miss the drought already.”
“You smell rather… ripe. We can get you some new clothing if you follow me, my Lord."
Whitney caught a whiff of himself. His face scrunched up. "Thank you, Sir…"
“Sir Rand Langley, my Lord.”
Whitney didn't squander the chance to further survey the hall as he followed the Shieldsman into an adjoining chamber. Rand spoke in a hushed voice to a young handmaiden inside. The girl blushed as he stroked her arm. Whitney pretended not to notice.
"Stay here," the guard said, returning his attention to Whitney. "Tessa here will bring you fresh clothes."
"Tell her to make it quick,” Whitney replied.
Impatience was a stable of nobility, so he had to play the part. He waited, tapping his foot as if to appear anxious though it was really just in time to the music.
"My Lord, your clothes?" the handmaiden said after a short while. It sounded like a question.
Whitney turned around to see her place a pile of clothing more exquisite than anything Whitney had ever worn on a chair in the corner of the room. She curtseyed before leaving him in privacy.
He peeled the wet, mud-and-shog-crusted clothes off his body. From the castle stables to the dungeon, and now the very castle itself, they’d seen more than most noble’s clothing did in a lifetime. The handmaiden had brought him cloth with which to dry himself as well, which he was thankful for. He dried off before slipping on the silk clothes. The young lady had thought of everything, even bringing him a new mask.
He now wore the white and pale blue colors of Iam and the Glass Kingdom. He regarded himself in the large looking glass and found himself simultaneously impressed and disgusted. He looked exactly the part of all those wretched gold-mongers he’d dedicated a lifetime toward robbing.
Just then, screams erupted from the Grand Hall. He threw open the door and found himself in the midst of chaos. Shieldsmen shoved their way through flocks of nobles, knocking over servers and their trays. It took Whitney a moment to realize what was going on but when his gaze fell upon the dais where the King slumped, he knew.
He fought through the frantic crowd. His plan to get close and distract the guards was no longer needed. Everyone was more than distracted.
He pushed forward lightly, but with enough force to make a path. As he neared the stage, he watched the whole of the King's Shield surrounding the King.
Three bells rang out. King Liam’s head hung slack to the side, his withering, gray hair twisting over a liver-spotted forehead and with the Glass Crown no longer atop it. Air rattled through his throat, a sound like a wheezing zhulong. One final breath and then Liam went silent.
The King's Shield raised their shields and blocked everyone else in the party from seeing, but Whitney was behind them, now just feet away from the raised platform. Heads bobbed frantically as guests tried to get a good view. That's when he saw it. Glimmering on the dance floor not five paces away—the Glass Crown. It must have fallen off the King's head and rolled. No one was even paying attention to it.
Whitney pushed again, closer and closer. He stopped just in front of the crown and stepped on its edge, turning it upright. He hooked his foot around it and slowly lifted his knee, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible before reaching down and grabbing hold of it. It was light as a feather, even with all the flawless gems embedded in the thin band. The image of Iam’s lidless eye bulged front and center, the pupil a diamond so large Whitney nearly lost his breath.
He took a deep breath to compose himself, shoved it under his shirt, and backed away.
Well, that was easy.
"Hey, you! Stop!" someone shouted from somewhere behind Whitney.
He cringed before glancing back. An older, scarier looking Shieldsman stalked toward him, drawing his sword from his scabbard. Just as Whitney prepared to run, he realized the knight wasn’t looking at him. He swept by, nearly bumping the priceless crown under Whitney’s shirt, then reached out and grabbed one of the Shesaitju emissaries by the collar and yanked him down from the dais.
"They don't need your help, and you don't need to be up there," the Shieldsman said, escorting the gray-skinned man from the throne.
Whitney didn’t wait around any longer. He fell in with the mob being forced from the Grand Hall and kept his head low until he was on the streets.
Whitney Fierstown had just stolen the Glass Crown from King Liam the Conqueror and gotten away with it.
VIII
THE THIEF
After days of travel, for the first time in his life, Whitney was relieved to see the town he’d grown up in. Troborough in all its boring glory loomed on the horizon as he stopped to drink. The water felt chilly as it went down, autumn in full swing. He tried not to think about how he and the rest of the town had used the Shellnak River to bathe and piss in daily.
The water tasted pure, and that’s all that mattered.
His horse whinnied behind him. It wasn’t his horse per se—he’d nipped it from an Old Yarrington stable in the chaos following the King’s death—but he’d ridden enough to know their various sounds. The old beast probably just wanted a sip of water, which it deserved after the long trek from Yarrington. After he’d fully sated his thirst, Whitney grabbed the reins, leading the horse to the river. It stepped in, the light brown hair darkening where the water lapped against its legs.
“That’s a good girl,” Whitney said, then looked the horse over. “I mean boy.” He laughed and excused the horse for not joining in.
“Not much farther,” he said, still talking to the horse as if it cared to listen. It was the kind of company he got used to in his line of work. Anyone he ever ran too close with either screwed him over on a job or vice versa. No honor amongst thieves.
After giving the horse a drink, he climbed up and gave a soft kick.
“Over there is where Sora lived with old man Wetzel all those years ago,” he said, almost absentmindedly. He pointed to a tiny, thatched hovel sitting along the river. She had been a friend—more than a friend, probably. But he was so young it was difficult to have called her anything else. That was all before he’d left home to pursue a life of thrills at the expense of others. Now, it seemed odd to even mention her home with such familiarity.
He slowed the horse to a trot without thinking and watched the home until it was out of sight. It looked completely abandoned, just as it had a few days ago, overgrown with weeds, and the windows blocked by clutter. He thought about her from time to time, though rarely, and he imagined she hadn't given him much thought either over the years. The day he left, he may as well have been dead to the people of Troborough, his own family included.
“Still nobody home.”
A pile of books falling away from the window stole the words from Whitney’s lips. There was movement within, then the gaunt face of old Wetzel appeared. He looked like a walking corpse, skeletal and pale. And somehow, he seemed grumpier than ever. His pale eyes fixated on Whitney as he went by, giving him goosebumps. The only thing he felt comfort in was that the rest of the shack was empty, and there was little space to hide.
“Sora really must have married and moved on at least,” he said, patting the horse. “Good for her. Can’t believe that old codger outlived the King though.”
He took a deep breath and looked around. He’d never noticed the pleasant beauty of the land surrounding Troborough. When he’d lived there, he hardly ever left the farm—milking cows, plowing fields, and feeding chickens. When he'd returned to spend a few nights drinking himself silly, he'd come in at nig
ht and spent most of his time with blurry vision. Hadn’t even left the Twilight Manor. They had beds and booze, what more did one need?
Now, in the light of day, he saw the rolling fields and the flowering meadow. The birds soaring above without care. It was so peaceful.
In the distance, a thatched roof rose up from the hills—Farmer Branson’s place. And next to that, the Julset twins and the Whelforks. He laughed out loud, remembering old Charles Whelfork and the way he waved his walking cane anytime he caught anyone on his property.
The horse let out a snort.
The town’s chapel appeared over the horizon, a two-story structure bearing a single steeple with the Eye of Iam carved in bronze now patinated. He remembered it being much larger, but after seeing the castle, and the mansions, and the cathedrals of Yarrington, the place looked like little more than a pointy hovel.
“Hey, Farmer Branson!” Whitney shouted and waved at a man toiling in his field. He glanced up, wiped his sweaty, furrowed brow, and went right back to work.
Whitney hadn’t expected anyone to remember who he was, not really. He scratched at his neck and heard the hairs against his fingernails. When he’d left, he couldn’t even grow stubble.
The horse plodded along past Wetzel’s little healer’s stand in town. Usually covered by potions and herbal concoctions, it stood empty save for some beads hanging from the canvas. It looked nearly abandoned, like the man’s shack. He probably was so old he couldn’t even leave his home. Whitney could remember many times as a child having to force down whatever remedy the old coot concocted while Sora told him to be a man.
Even though Wetzel still clung to life like a mad hermit, Whitney wondered how many others had passed on from his hometown? He already knew about his parent’s fates, and that plague surely couldn’t have been merciful. The fact he’d never get a chance to rub his many adventures in his father’s face was the saddest part though. He knew that was wrong, but it was true. His father made it clear enough before Whitney left that he was no longer worthy of the good Fierstown name, and his mother always took his father’s side no matter what. Now, there was precious little he could do apart from kicking some dirt over their graves.
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