by Jaime Castle
“That’s your grand plan? Climb through an open window?”
“Master thievery doesn’t have to be complicated. I already led all his men on a wild horse chase through perilous woods.”
“By accident!”
“Was it?” He grinned. “Look, just wait here. Let me know if you see anyone coming.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Whitney was already sneaking toward the mansion. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
“Whit, wait!”
He heard her but didn’t respond.
Staying low, he treaded lightly through the garden and pressed his back up against the wall nearest the window. He leaned forward enough to get a look inside. The room was empty, as he’d hoped. He hiked up his robe—he couldn’t wait to wear clothes that didn’t feel like a dress—carefully threw his leg over the window sill, and pulled himself into the house.
The room was dimly lit, and the moons were already rising outside so very little light poured in through the open window. Whitney took note of his surroundings and began drawing a map in his mind. The last time he’d entered the mansion was through the front doors. It was clear he was now on the side of the house close to the backyard. To his left, a door was propped open, revealing a kitchen. To his right appeared to be a staircase descending into the servant’s quarters.
Commotion from the stairwell startled Whitney and he realized dinner time was fast approaching. The house cook would be making his way up soon. Whitney swore and hurried toward the kitchen. He’d only taken one step into the veritable maze of counters and cabinets when an adjoining door to the backyard opened. He ducked behind an island of counters.
Plan, abandon, improvise.
He took a deep, steadying breath.
“Your grounds are impressive for so humble a town,” Bridleton’s new father said as he stepped in.
“I’m glad you like it,” Darkings replied, right behind him. “And thank you for coming to meet with me so promptly. I do apologize for the confusion, Father.”
"It is no matter. Any man who would falsely claim the cloth of Iam does not deserve his grace.”
Whitney stayed low and peeked around the corner. They stood just outside the kitchen, too close for Whitney to make a move. Now that he was outside the church, the father had no problem revealing his perfectly-intact eyes.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Darkings said. “These are hard times, with the kingdom in such turmoil. You never know what sort of miscreant rabble will wander into town.”
“I am so sorry to hear about your daughter, Constable. I do hope these dregs will be brought to justice.”
“She will recover. And I assure you, justice shall be served in the name Iam.”
“Liam brought so much light into this world, we can only hope not to lose it. I see much suffering here in Bridleton, Constable. Together, I hope we can offer ease to some of these who have too many times seen their lands ravaged by war.”
Whitney heard footsteps on the stairs from the servant’s quarters at his back. At the same time, the heeled boots Darkings wore to make himself appear taller clacked onto the kitchen tile.
Shog in a barrel!
Whitney held his breath and listened as closely as he could to figure out which way around they were going through the kitchen. Slowly, he sidled around the cabinets on the opposite side.
“I believe we can do good things here, Father,” Darkings said. “Hopefully this little mess will be sorted out before morning. I wouldn’t—Ah, chef Tagred, there you are.”
The chef emerged from the stairs and now stood on the other side of the kitchen. Whitney was about to be caught between them.
“My Lord,” the chef said. “I was about to seek you out regarding your preference for supper.”
“Father, would you do me the honor of staying for dinner?” Darkings asked. “You must be starving after your journey. We can discuss our plans for the future of Bridleton.”
“It would be an honor, Lord Darkings.”
Whitney had nearly flipped sides of the kitchen with them as he edged along, but now they all stopped to talk.
“Don’t let Chef Tagred’s humble appearance fool you, Father. He makes the most delicious rabbit’s foot stew in all Pantego.”
Whitney hoped they would get on with it, but the chef went on to describe all the ingredients in his dish. Whitney’s mouth would have been watering if he weren’t so offended.
I didn’t get offered dinner…
He ignored his starving belly and tried to figure a way out quick. He scanned the room until he homed in on a hatch. He’d seen similar ones in castles and the homes of those who lived in the upper crust of society. The dumbwaiter, a system designed to make it so easy for a noble to receive his meal that he didn’t even have to get out of bed, was open and buried in the corner of the room. Whitney could climb the rope inside straight up to Darkings’s chambers, he hoped. All he needed to do was distract the men from their mind-numbing conversation for the second it would take to reach it.
He reached up backward and pawed the counter above until he found a small enough object to throw. A wine cork. He dabbed the wet end on his tongue just to get a sense of the vintage—he’d never met a villain without impeccable taste in wine. Poking his head up, he flung it at a plate propped up on a high shelf on the other side of the kitchen.
The soft cork plunked almost soundlessly off it. The plate wobbled a few times as if taunting Whitney, before it finally fell and shattered. The sound drew their attention, and Whitney took off for the dumbwaiter without looking back.
Within it, he found a board and a rope as expected. It was an incredibly tight fit, but Whitney hopped in. As he shut the hatch behind him, he checked to make sure nobody had seen him. Darkings, the priest, and the chef all stood around the broken plate.
“You’d think my servants are trying to kill me the way they arrange things!” Darkings barked.
“It’s no problem, my Lord,” the Father said.
“They don’t seem to understand that things cost autlas. Tagred, I want you to find the last person who so precariously tidied my kitchen.”
Whitney didn’t wait to hear the rest. Judging from what he’d seen from the constable, he’d just gotten whoever that was in a world of trouble.
That’s what happens when you stay in a place where you’ll never be anything.
He grabbed hold of the rope inside the dumbwaiter and began climbing. The tiniest sliver of light pierced the shaft just a few meters above. Whitney’s hands burned, and his robe kept getting caught beneath his feet. He slipped more than a couple times before finally reaching the second-floor hatch.
He pried it open just enough to see through. His view was limited, but he didn’t see anyone. He heard nothing either. The hatch slid open with a screech. Whitney cringed and waited to see if anyone came running. When they didn’t, he opened it fully and pulled himself through.
He was in the constable’s quarters which were as opulent as he’d hoped. A large bed—which was nearly as big as the whole priest’s cottage—sat in the middle of the room. Iron bars formed a canopy above it and plush silk sheets and pillows adorned its top. A finely crafted armoire made from mahogany stood erect against one wall, with a vanity cut from the same wood across from it.
There was enough wealth in this one room to feed Bridleton for a year, but Whitney knew he didn’t have time to take anything other than what he’d come for. There was no telling how quickly the constable’s men would give up the hunt.
A closet joined the bedroom. Whitney approached it with caution and a smile spread across his face when he saw what was inside. It was brimming with clothing. He could have his pick of the lot.
He didn’t bother being careful, yanking clothing down from the racks and out of drawers. Finally, he settled upon an exquisite silk doublet with gold trim, leggings just the same, and a wide, brown leather belt. It made even his masquerade outfit back in Yarrington see
m like rags.
Another voice stirred him. He pulled the closet door shut just in time to see two Panpingese servants enter the room. He left the door open a sliver to peek through.
“Another priest to impress already,” one said. “I can hardly remember their names.”
“‘Make sure everything’s spotless.’ Even though there'll be a new one next week.”
The servants laughed, spreading out, dusting and sweeping. One reordered the papers on top of the vanity, the other set the bed pillows straight. Before moving on, they snuck a sip from a bottle of wine on the constable’s nightstand. Lowering the bottle to the table, a servant headed straight for Whitney and the closet he’d just ransacked.
He’d hoped to be able to get out of this without any more fighting, not that these skinny servants were much a threat. Judging by the way they talked about Darkings, they probably hated him more than anyone. Yig, they’d probably invite him to steal more.
He sunk back into the racks of clothing and checked his footing.
“Ey, who left this open?” the servant called over from the dumbwaiter. The one in front of Whitney stopped mere seconds from opening the closet, then went over to his mate.
“Weren’t me,” he said.
“Mr. Darkings and his late-night snacks,” the other sniggered.
“You think he’s eating them priests?”
They shared another laugh, then slammed the hatch shut and continued out of the constable’s quarters, luckily forgetting about the closet.
Whitney released a mouthful of air. Once sure they were gone, he exited the closet and peered around the corner. An odd light entered through the window, drawing Whitney’s attention. He cautiously approached the window to find a tall flame rising from the garden and Sora jumping up and down waving her hands. Even from this distance, he could see blood glinting on her palm.
It was her warning. Someone was coming.
He spun a one-eighty, his head snapping side to side, surveying the room one last time. Something shimmering on the vanity caught his eye. A golden amulet was strung up in a small glass display. It was molded into the shape of an arrowhead, the surface etched with lettering in some unfamiliar language and the point dusted with diamond bits. A flawless gem cut to the same form was encrusted in its center, amber in color and practically glowing with beauty.
Without question, even considering the priceless art adorning the walls, this was the most valuable object in the whole room. Whitney had a knack for knowing such things. He tried to open the case, but it was locked. He examined it further, but there was no time to waste picking locks. Escape was just a window and trellis away, and Sora’s terrible form of warning meant trouble was incoming.
He grabbed a pewter goblet from beside the half-full wine bottle, raised it high, and brought it down swift upon the glass. A hairline crack appeared. He did it again. The crack grew.
“What’s that racket?”
Whitney recognized the one-eyed guard’s voice, back from the chase. He brought the goblet down a third time and the display shattered. He threw the goblet aside and snatched the amulet, allowing himself a moment to marvel at the craftsmanship, then shoved it into his pocket and ran for the window.
“Aye! Stop, ye!”
Whitney threw open the window before realizing how large Sora’s flame had grown. Wind blew hot embers inside. He ducked as they caught the curtains and began to burn bright and hot.
“Thief! Stop where ye’re at!”
Whitney retreated from the window and away from the guard. The flames overtook the room, drawing a clear line between him and his pursuer.
“Sorry, mate,” Whitney said. “It’s getting hot in here and I could do with some fresh air.”
The guard pressed against the flames but didn’t try to go through. Whitney found a door on the other side of the room leading to another short corridor. There were no windows and only one door on the opposite end, but it was locked. He shouldered it but nothing happened.
Whitney swore and devised a plan.
Grabbing the belt he’d stolen, he folded it back until the metal clasp broke free and only the pin remained. Throwing the leather aside, he leaned in and began work on the lock. It wasn’t difficult, just a simple pin-tumbler. He shimmied the makeshift lockpick, allowing it to slide up and down and after a series of clicks, the door popped open.
Whitney heard the guard behind him shouting to others and the crackling of flames escalated to a roar. He ran for a staircase at the end of the hall and took the steps three at a time. The door at the bottom opened easily, but the moment he burst through he realized where he was.
It was a hidden servant passage so that, Iam-forbid, Darkings didn’t have to see his help unless he wanted to. Whitney had emerged in the dining room. The table was only half-set. On the other side of the absurdly long table sat Darkings and the priest, with two guards flanking them in response to the bedlam.
“You!” Darkings muttered, incredulous. His features contorted like he’d just fallen into a Yarrington sewer.
Whitney flashed him a smile, then bolted the other way toward the grand hall. At least he knew where he was now. Guards flooded down from the second floor, smoke hot on their trails. The one-eyed bigot he’d encountered upstairs waited at the front door, two hands on his sword, sneering.
Whitney ran straight at him. Come at a fighter from the sides and most know what to do instinctively, but straight on forces them to think. The man swung, and Whitney hit the floor. Another thing about the rich: they always have their wooden floors polished and sanded, so he was able to slide right under the attack.
As he twisted back, the guard was able to stick out a hand and get two fingers on Whitney’s leg. He stumbled forward into the front door, which burst open. He tripped on the stairs and tumbled down.
“Get back here!” the one-eyed guard yelled.
He leaped down as Whitney rolled over, but just before he could bring his swords down, a pair of hooves sent him flying into the wall of the mansion.
“I guess they caught the horse!” Sora yelled.
She stuck her leg down from the top of the mount and helped him up onto the saddle. Whitney felt a blast of warm air from the blazing fire than now enveloped an entire side of the mansion.
“I said to warn me, not play Black Sandsman!” Whitney said.
“Improvise!” she replied.
He smirked. “Not bad for a knife-ear.”
A few more guards hurried down the stairs, but she swung the horse around fast. Its hindquarters sent them all bowling over one another. Constable Darkings appeared in the doorway. When he saw them on a horse his eyes went wide.
“I’ll find you and kill you!” he shouted.
“Consider yourself honored, Constable!” Whitney shouted. “You’ve been robbed by Whitney Fierstown, the greatest thief alive.” He was in the midst of performing an exaggerated bow of his head when the horse took off. The whole yard was in flames now, building a barrier around the property.
“What now?” Whitney asked.
“Hold on!” Sora shouted.
The horse jerked into a gallop, barreling toward the inferno.
“Sora, you’re not thinking—”
“Just hold on!”
She reached down and sliced her thumb on the base of her dagger, then raised it toward the flames. Whitney closed his eyes and let out a primal scream as she muttered under her breath. The heat was so intense he could feel he couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t burn. He snuck a peek and saw flames bending all around them, a tunnel of safety within a sea of fiery death.
The horse hurdled the constable’s wall and the heat dissipated. Whitney looked back, eyes tearing from the smoke. The constable’s mansion was now a glowing, orange beacon soaring over Bridleton. All he’d wanted was clothes, but it was tough for him to feel bad. Whatever Darkings had done to get so rich in so small a town, not a bit of it was good.
He whooped in excitement as he turned back to find Sora
regarding the burning mansion with a thousand-meter-stare.
“You didn’t mean for the fire to get that big, did you?” he asked.
He could see in her eyes that she considered denying it before settling on shaking her head.
“Don’t worry, he got what was coming. Daughters don’t betray kind fathers.”
Sora nodded, inhaled the crisp autumn air and released a laugh unlike any Whitney had ever heard from her as their mount tore across the plains. Half terrified, half thrilled, all the signs of a successful heist.
“We make a half-decent team, don’t we?” she said.
“Sloppy, but decent,” he said, smirking.
“You said you liked improvisation.”
“Sure, but let’s keep the fire to a low roar next time.”
“It’s hard to keep focus with you getting caught all the time!”
“I assure you, every time I get spotted it’s completely intentional.”
Sora sighed. “I can’t wait to see you looking all prim and proper in Darkings’s clothing.”
“Anything will be better than wearing this dress,” he chortled. “He really did have great taste. It’ll be a shame to ruin it all in the Webbed Woods.”
“So, you decided to go?” Sora asked.
“I don’t think I have much of a choice after that performance.”
“The great Whitney Fierstown, letting a woman boss him around?”
“Hey! I’m not like those guys. I love women—I mean… I don’t have a problem with—I uh.”
Sora gave him a playful nudge with her elbow. “Whatever, tough guy, That was some scream back there.”
“Warcry,” Whitney corrected, leaning forward.
He pointed to the smaller of Pantego’s two moons. “Well, if you’re intent on sitting up front, you might want to head that way. The Webbed Woods are south.”
For a woman who’d barely left Troborough, it was likely something she’d never had to worry about.
She grumbled something under her breath, then gave the horse a hard kick in the side. It turned so sharply Whitney was almost thrown off. His arm brushed against the amulet folded in with the stolen clothes as he clutched the saddle.