Midnight Thief

by Livia Blackburne

  Kyra dug her knuckles into Flick’s shin and watched without pity as he yelped and jerked his leg away. She understood his point though. A thief’s main protection lay in avoiding detection, and fighting a guard would be admitting to failure. It only took a second to sound the alarm, and even if she escaped, the resulting lockdowns would make it impossible for her to return. Concepts like this seemed obvious to Kyra and Flick, but they somehow evaded James.

  Flick squatted next to her.

  “So what do they have you doing now?”

  “You know I can’t tell you the details.”

  He snorted. “Pardon me for sniffing after Guild secrets. Tell me generally what you do, then.”

  “I’ve not turned into a hardened killer if that’s what you’re wondering. I in’t even stealing these days.”

  “And they don’t mind?”

  “Most of them.”

  “Most?”

  Kyra kicked herself and affected her most nonchalant shrug. “It’s nothing. Just some of the men don’t think I can carry my weight.”

  “Really?” Flick looked genuinely surprised. “After they’ve seen what you can do?”

  She thought for a moment. “I guess they’ve not seen me work. I go to the Palace alone.”

  “The lads around here were skeptical when you first started joining me on jobs. But they shut up after a few times out with you.”

  “I’d forgotten that.” Kyra gathered the stones. “I need to go. I’m supposed to meet Rand.”

  She waved good-bye and slipped down the stairs, relieved that he hadn’t pressed her further. As understanding as he’d been today, she still didn’t want to give him any new reason to object.

  Brendel was sitting alone in the dining room, humming and scribbling on a parchment with one hand while tapping the table with the other.

  Kyra sidled up to him. “How goes your masterpiece, good talesinger?”

  “The meter’s wrong,” muttered Brendel.

  Kyra looked over his shoulder. “The part with the bees?”

  Brendel nodded, still scribbling. “Don’t ever be a talesinger, Kyra. You’ll end up as crazy as I.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” said Kyra. “How much of your tales are true, Brendel? Have you been to the Far Lands yourself?”

  “Of course they’re true. Would I lie to such a pretty face?” He punctuated his question with a wink.

  Kyra rolled her eyes. Brendel put his pen down and looked at her, his expression turning serious. “I really don’t know,” he said. “I’ve traveled many places and heard many tales. Some of them sound pretty far-fetched. But then…”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ve never been across the Aerins, but I talk to people. And you start noticing differences between the folk who believe the tales and those who don’t. Those who don’t, they’re folk like you’d meet every day, living their lives around Forge. The ones who believe the tales though, they’re the ones who’ve traveled farther. I’ve met a few Far Rangers myself, and they’ve told me some pretty spectacular things.”

  “Think they’re stretching?” Kyra asked.

  “Could be. Or maybe there’s really something out there, beyond the mountains. What do you think, Kyra?”

  Kyra shrugged. “If a griffin landed in front of me, I’d pay attention. But I’ve enough to think about than to go chasing after them. Though I wish a hive of bees would solve my problems.”

  Brendel laughed. “Don’t we all?” The talesinger waved her on her way.

  According to legend, Lady Evelyne won over the felbeast by bringing him fresh honey. The monster was so touched at her kindness that he didn’t kill her, instead taking her into the forest to live with him. Kyra amused herself for a while by imagining what the assassins would do if she showed up with a honeycomb. Somehow, she doubted it would be enough to win Bacchus’s friendship.

  In many ways, life had improved since she joined the Guild. She no longer worried about money; her lodging was paid off for the next few months, and she still had some extra. (In fact, Kyra was playing with the idea of renting an extra room at the Dog for Idalee and Lettie, since Lettie was still getting sick.) Also, Kyra was picking up useful skills. Though her fighting lessons with Rand were humiliating, Kyra had to admit that they would come in useful if anyone tried to push her around again.

  But joining the Assassins Guild had its disadvantages. As a thief working by herself, she had known the details of every job she undertook. Working with James, however, was like exploring a dark building with a single candle flame. Kyra didn’t know why she was drawing maps, or even what she would be doing the following week, much less what big job James eventually had for her.

  Then there were the other assassins. They were all men, hardened by their years in the Guild, and even the ones who weren’t overtly hostile looked down on her. As long as James made her work alone, Kyra didn’t see any way to earn their respect.

  Kyra wiped any sign of worry from her face as she arrived at the Guildhouse. As always, a few men were standing around the storeroom. Kyra walked by Bacchus, who was applying liquid from a vial to one of his daggers. Kyra shuddered when she realized it was probably poison.

  Rand had already set up some straw mats and was leaning against a stack of boxes, tossing a dagger in the air.

  “Am I late?” she asked, watching the light reflect off the spinning blade.

  Rand shook his head and motioned her closer. He handed her a sack heavy with coins.

  Kyra weighed the sack in her hand, puzzled. “Is this for next month?”

  “It in’t for you. This is for any folk who need it. Tell them it’s from the Guild.”

  “Really, anyone?” Was James trying to win favor within the city?

  “Can’t be your friends and can’t be yourself.”

  “Who exactly are my friends?”

  Rand grinned. “That’s for James to decide. I’d play it safe though.” He jerked his head toward a man in the corner. “Ho, Jason. Show the lass your arm.” Jason scowled, but pulled up his sleeve. Even from a distance, Kyra could see the angry burn scars across his arm. “That’s what happens if James catches you dipping into the handouts. Understand?”

  Kyra nodded. She would certainly have no trouble finding folk who needed the coin.

  Seemingly satisfied, Rand gestured toward the mat. Kyra put down her things and stepped on, feeling the rough strands through the bottom of her shoes. The mats were better than the stone floor, but they still weren’t a welcoming surface to fall on. As they stood facing each other, Rand grabbed a sheath from his belt and covered his dagger, tying it well with a leather thong so it wouldn’t slip off during the fight.

  “You got yours?”

  “Aye,” she said. At least with knives, they weren’t quite so unevenly matched. She reached for her ankle and released her knife from its bindings, slipping it out the leg of her trousers. It had a plain handle and a blade the length of her hand. By now, she was getting a sense for its reach in a fight.

  Rand attacked as soon as she stood up, coming at her with a downward thrust. She stepped sideways, backing lightly out of his reach. She was starting to get the hang of it. The secret was to stay away from him and keep moving. At close range, anyone in the Guild could overpower her with brute strength. But she was faster than most, and if she stayed alert, then she had a chance.

  “What are you, a dancer?” Rand said. “Pretty moves won’t do any good here.”

  Rand belonged to the “insult well and often” school of practice fighting. At first, it had made Kyra nervous, but it did make things more interesting. She smiled. “If I’m just a pretty dancer, come get me.”

  He rushed her again, this time with a more controlled attack. As Rand passed, she dropped to the ground and hooked her ankle around his knee. She didn’t move away in time, and he fell on top of her, pinning her knife arm with his side. For a moment she was stunned, but as he shifted to bring his own knife around, Kyra realized her legs were free. S
he kicked up and wrapped both ankles around his head and under his chin. The unexpected move snapped his head back and he loosened the pin on her arm. Twisting her wrist, she grabbed her dagger and passed the sheathed blade across his throat.

  A fair kill. Kyra whooped in triumph and flopped back down, grinning at the high ceiling as she caught her breath. It was clumsy, but she’d take it. Her elbow was raw from pressing against the mat, and she waited for Rand to get off her so she could inspect it.

  “What you think, Rand? Not bad for a thief girl.”

  “Pure luck. When you do that one out of every two times, then you can say something.” But there was amusement in his voice.

  “Most times you won’t have the luxury of resting after a fight.”

  At first she thought it was Rand speaking, but then her opponent climbed to his feet to reveal James watching from the side. This was the first time he’d seen her practice. Kyra jumped up, all cockiness draining away as she turned to face him.

  James locked gazes with Rand until the redhead cleared his throat and looked away. As Rand stepped off the mat, James removed his outer tunic, tossed it on a nearby box, and took his place. He reached a pale but well-muscled arm toward Rand, who tossed over his dagger. James caught it and beckoned Kyra toward him. She stood, frozen in place, wondering what he wanted and why he was there. James motioned again, more curtly. This time she obeyed.

  “Let’s see what you’ve learned,” he said, settling into an all-too-comfortable fighting stance. It wasn’t a request.

  Kyra tried to ignore the prickling up her spine as she raised her blade and they started to circle each other. She had never seen James fight before. He moved deliberately with no wasted motion, graceful yet dangerous, and his eyes never deviated from her face. There was no taunting or boasting. James just circled her with cold, unswerving focus. He said nothing, and his face gave no indication of his thoughts.

  A long time passed with no attack. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that activity around the warehouse had stopped. People were watching.

  James continued to circle her. Kyra wiped her sweaty hand on her trousers. Was he expecting her to make the first move? She felt slightly light-headed. Her breathing became quick and shallow, and she struggled to slow it down.

  Finally, she lunged at him, thrusting her blade toward his torso. He moved aside just enough to avoid the sheathed tip. She felt a stunning blow on the side of her face at the same time her legs swept out from under her. The ground came up hard. She lay there for a few moments, eyes closed, not wanting to see who was watching.

  “Keep mapping for now,” she heard James say. Painfully, she rolled onto her side, keeping her eyes on the ground as he walked away. A loud laugh sounded from the corner of the warehouse, and Kyra felt her face flush with shame. To her horror, she felt tears prickle behind her eyes. She forced them back by sheer will and looked toward the source of the laughter. It was Bacchus, slapping his thigh in amusement before following James out.

  E I G H T

  The sting of that fight stayed with her. It was days before she could look another Guild member in the eye, and more than a week before she could think about James without flushing in shame. To work off her frustration, Kyra trained harder than ever, practicing in every free moment and grabbing Rand for lessons whenever he was around.

  And it started to pay off. She became faster with a knife; the movements started feeling more natural. But she was also constantly sore and covered with bruises. Her olive skin camouflaged them to some extent, but she still had to dress strategically to hide her latest bumps. Kyra was doing her best to pull her sleeve over a blue spot on her wrist one afternoon as she helped Bella in the kitchen.

  In Bella’s world, knife work implied something completely different from Kyra’s lessons at the Guild. James and Rand might be formidable opponents, but no one could possibly match Bella’s skill with a cleaver. Kyra watched in fascination as the cook quartered and trimmed five newly slaughtered chickens with efficient speed, deftly transforming them into ingredients for the night’s stew.

  Bella glanced at Kyra as she dropped the last chicken quarter into the pot.

  “I appreciate your efforts to remove every last bit of peel, dear, but if you keep this up, we’ll have no turnips left.”

  Kyra shook her head in mock resignation. “I really think Idalee’s got more of a knack for this than I do.”

  They both looked at Idalee, who sat at the opposite side of the long kitchen table, very seriously chopping potatoes. Next to her, Lettie played with a lump of bread dough.

  “Mayhap you’re right,” mused Bella.

  Kyra pushed her stool back and lowered her voice. “You really think she’ll be helpful, Bella? I don’t want them making trouble.”

  “They won’t. Idalee’s smart and determined to work hard. Laman doesn’t mind hiring her as long as she does the work and Lettie stays quiet. Are you sure about covering the rest of her lodging?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She checked again to make sure Idalee wasn’t listening. “James pays me plenty.”

  “Here, let me do the rest.” Bella took the knife and rolled the remaining turnips away from Kyra. “You’ve taken a liking to them two, haven’t you? I don’t see you renting rooms for any of the other gutter mice.”

  Kyra shrugged, self-consciously tracing the grains on the table surface. “I don’t know,” she said. “Lettie’s so small. I was that small once.”

  “I really don’t know how you survived out there by yourself. Lettie had Idalee, at least.”

  “Don’t remember much. Just really wanted to survive, I guess.”

  “From what I could gather, you had a tough time. You were a suspicious little mouse when we met. The first few times I fed you, you watched Flick eat half the bowl before you dared swallow anything.”

  “Really?” Kyra couldn’t decide which was more amusing—that she’d suspected Bella of poisoning her food, or that she’d been willing to sacrifice Flick as her taster.

  “And then there were the nightmares,” said Bella.

  Those, she did remember. The nightmares had followed her off the streets into her early years at The Drunken Dog. Flashes of bright heat. A woman’s dark eyes. Teeth. She remembered Bella coming into her room when she woke up screaming, holding her and stroking her hair until she stopped. That gesture, more than anything, was what had finally broken through Kyra’s walls.

  “I don’t have them as often anymore,” said Kyra. And she was better at suppressing her screams when she woke. Kyra supposed she was too old these days to run to Bella, but a selfish part of her still missed Bella’s touch.

  “I’m glad to hear it. And you’ve done well for yourself. You rented your first room with your own earnings,” said Bella.

  “I stumbled on a flush trade.” Kyra gave the cook a wry smile. “I could train Idalee….”

  “Please don’t. I’ve given up on straightening you out, but I still hold out hope for these girls.”

  “I’m surprised you’re at The Drunken Dog, Bella.” Bella didn’t speak much of her past, but Kyra knew that she and Flick’s mother had been merchants’ daughters. Not nobility by any means, but not the type to be spending time with thieves and gutter rats.

  Bella spun a turnip against her carving knife, peeling off the skin in a long spiral. Kyra grabbed the longer shreddings from the table as they fell. “About fifteen years now, sixteen since my husband passed. And if you’d told me seventeen years ago that I’d end up at the Dog, I would never have believed it.” She put the knife down. “It was hard. You’re old enough to understand now. My husband was gone. Who knows what had befallen my son in his eagerness to chase griffins and mermaids? Not many places would take a woman in, and I was lucky that Laman knew and respected my husband. I needed work and a place to stay. I couldn’t afford to be choosy.”

  Kyra had a sudden vision of a younger Bella, clutching her bags at the door of the tavern, jaw clenched in determination as she
looked over the tavern’s rougher patrons. “I suppose it took some getting used to.”

  “It did.” Bella was looking off into the distance now.

  “Did it get better?”

  She looked thoughtfully at Kyra. “I got used to it. But what really made it better was finding Flick again. And meeting you.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, I’d given up on ever finding my sister. When she sent for me, and I found out she was dying…” Bella trailed off for a moment. “I see her in Flick sometimes. And the two of you gave me hope. Most of the patrons here are hard, jaded. The two of you still had some innocence about you, despite what you’d gone through.”

  Kyra gave Bella a crooked smile. “Innocence? Do you still think that?”

  “You two are more innocent than you think, and less innocent than I’d like.”

  It occurred to Kyra that with Bella’s son dead, she’d have no one to care for her when she grew old. The responsibility would fall to her and Flick. Kyra found that she liked the idea.

  “Well, Bella, if it makes you feel better, you don’t have to worry about Idalee following my footsteps. She doesn’t have the knack for it.”

  “Just as you don’t have the knack for preparing vegetables.” Bella eyed the pile of shreddings. “How did I do?”

  Kyra held up the longest shredding, about the length of her forearm. “Not bad, but not your best.” She fetched the scrap bucket and held it as Bella swept in the turnip peels.

  “Are you leaving?” said Bella. “I have some leftover roast from lunch.”

  Kyra obediently served herself some roast before excusing herself.

  She thought about Idalee and Lettie as she left the tavern. What was it that made them different from the others? If Kyra was honest with herself, it was Lettie who really tugged at her heart. While the other children evoked memories of Kyra’s adventures with Flick, tiny Lettie tapped at more painful times—the earliest years before Kyra was old enough to fit in with the other children. Those were a blur of cold nights and days without food, scavenging like an animal in Forge’s alleyways. She’d been different from the others. Younger, smaller, and darker, strange in the way she moved and hid in the shadows. The other children had given her a wide berth. They’d feared her, even though she was too small to pose a danger to anyone. Though things got better, Kyra never got rid of the nagging feeling that she had barely survived, that she owed her existence to a few strokes of luck. Did she help Lettie out of compassion or out of some selfish desire to rewrite those memories?