Child of the Night Guild (Queen of Thieves Book 1)

by Andy Peloquin

  “Hmm.” The boy held it up to the light. “Proper gold, no doubt. The stone looks a bit cloudy, but it could be real. I’ll take it to a jeweler tomorrow. Maybe get a dozen imperials. No more than fifteen.”

  Ilanna’s jaw dropped. “Fifteen imperials?”

  Prynn nodded and grinned at her. “You are clearly a woman of discerning taste. Your haul is almost the same size as Denber’s!”

  The twins and Bert clapped her on the shoulder, and Denber nodded his approval. Ilanna glowed beneath the praise. She slipped onto the bench beside Denber and listened to the apprentices dividing the loot. They counted out six shares—one for each of them—then a seventh.

  “Who’s that for?”

  “Jarl.”

  “Jarl?”

  Denber nodded. “It’s the Hawk’s way. The Pathfinders keep the roofs safe for us. In return, they get an equal share of every haul we take.”

  The boys cheered at Jarl’s arrival. The big boy smiled and, with a grunt, joined them in celebration.

  As the festivities progressed, Ilanna’s excitement drained away, replaced by exhaustion. She’d trained hard all that day, and her evening’s activities had taken a toll. Now, she wanted nothing more than to sleep. Without a word, she slipped from the common room. She didn’t bother with the pile of sewing atop her bed; she shoved it to the floor and climbed under her blankets.

  Every muscle in her body ached, but she welcomed the sensation. I did my part. Tonight, she’d earned the right to call herself a Hawk.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  How long since I last had a moment to myself? Ilanna reclined against a steep rooftop, relishing the warmth of the tiles on her back. Denber had given her the day off. Months of training had taken a toll on her body and mind. After weeks of preparation for the Alamastri job and the excitement of the previous night, she welcomed the respite.

  The Black Spire loomed in the distance, thrust like an obsidian dagger into the belly of the sky. It called to her, enticing her to try and fail—as had all those before her.

  She climbed to her feet and waved farewell to the looming tower. Maybe someday. Today, I have somewhere to be.

  The bustle of the streets below lured her. She slithered down a drainpipe, leapt to a lower rooftop, shimmed across a narrow ledge, and hopped down a pile of crates. After weeks spent on unsteady rooftops, she had a new appreciation for solid ground.

  She ducked behind a pile of refuse, crouching in the shadows of a wagon. A band of heavy-set boys wearing red armbands tramped up the street. Heart thundering, she moved on only after the Bloodbears had disappeared. She kept to the busy avenues and thoroughfares. The muted brown of her Hawk clothes blended with the muddy streets of the Merchant District. Uncertain if she was in Fifth Claw territory, she preferred to stay out of sight.

  She brightened at the sight of the colorful awnings and stalls of Old Town Market. She hurried toward the busy marketplace, slipping through the throng of people, animals, and vehicles. Heavy-laden wagons and ornate carriages rumbled past, adding to the noise of commerce. Her eyes darted in search of Bloodbears and the Praamian Guard. She hadn’t forgotten the lessons learned during her time as a Fox.

  She clutched the silver coins Denber had given her. My share of last night’s haul. Two drakes, more than she’d held in a lifetime. All mine, for whatever I want. The question is: what do I want?

  Stopping to gawk at the gaudy items in a merchant’s stall, she ran her fingers over ivory-handled brushes, ornamental knives of brass and iron, wooden toys, and bolts of soft cloth. She didn’t bother watching for Foxes; her purse held nothing but a few ingots of rubbish metal, a trick Alun had taught her to distract light-fingers. She kept her small fortune in her hands where no Fox could snatch it.

  A pile of fabric caught her attention: bright crimson roses printed on a creamy background. A memory flashed through her mind.

  She sat before a small mirror. With slow, careful strokes, she brushed her dark hair, counting to fifty as Mama taught her. Pink ribbons lay on the dresser, ready to tie in her hair once she finished braiding. Viola studied her cheeks, rosy from a scrubbing in the burbling stream.

  She hadn’t dared hope for anything today—her eighth nameday. Papa had closed the chandlery months ago. What little money he didn’t drink away went to buying food. But the week before, to her surprise, Papa had promised to take her out. He’d even smiled for a moment. Then his eyes had turned sad and he’d spent the rest of the night at the table, bottle in hand.

  “Maybe he’ll be happy today. Or at least not as angry.”

  She ran her hands over her new dress. She’d spent months sewing it from scraps of fabric left over after preparing Mistress Irya’s curtains, always working in Papa’s absence. Better to do it behind his back than be scolded for wasting time sewing something for herself when she had work to do.

  He has to love the flowery pattern! It was Mama’s favorite.

  Finishing with the ribbons, Viola checked her reflection in the mirror one last time. Satisfied, she skipped down the creaking stairs and into the dining room. “I’m ready, Papa.”

  Papa sat clutching an empty bottle. Pulling his head from his hands, he studied her through bleary eyes. “Let’s be off, then.”

  Remembrance brought a stab of anger but, with it, a sense of longing. The cloth had belonged to Mama.

  She waved to the merchant. “How much for this?”

  “Five bits.” He studied her with a raised eyebrow.

  “Two.” She had a faint memory of her mother arguing with a wine merchant over the price of the bottle of wine her father emptied the moment they arrived home.

  “Three, and that’s my final offer!”

  With a grin, Ilanna passed the silver drake to the cloth merchant.

  The man’s eyes widened, but he handed back her change with a shrug. “Would you like it wrapped, little miss?”

  Ilanna nodded.

  He held up a finger. “One copper bit extra gets you a nice ribbon.”

  “No, thank you. Just the cloth.”

  The merchant handed her the bundle of cloth, tied tight with twine. “Apprentice smile on you this day.”

  With a nod, Ilanna pushed her way into the crowd, package clutched under her arm. She would keep the rest of her fortune for another time. With this cloth, she could make another dress. Something to wear when she grew tired of muted Hawk brown.

  She smiled at the sight of the familiar brick wall. Her heart raced. Maybe Ethen will be there.

  He wasn’t. Nothing stirred in the garden. The sweet scent of her violas filled the air, but Ilanna detected a hint of roses. Someone had dug a channel to the rose bush, and it had sprung to life. Two ruby red roses contrasted with the green leaves. A few tiny rosebuds threatened to bloom.

  She smiled. He’s behind this.

  Placing her package gently on dry ground, Ilanna brushed away debris and pulled weeds. She couldn’t help smiling. Judging by the tiny green shoots, Ethen had to have come in the last week or two.

  Weeding completed, Ilanna collected rocks and unwound the sling from her belt. The hours spent in the Perch had done little for her skills with the sling. She fumbled in her pouch for the handful of lead balls she’d had made. Though heavier, their uniform shape made them easier to launch. Still, she dropped more pellets than she hurled and none came close to striking their target. She gritted her teeth. I need to spend more time practicing.

  After a few more failed attempts, she stowed the sling. What now? She studied the sky. The sun hadn’t peaked. I don’t need to return to the Aerie for hours yet.

  Something drew her eyes to the house. Her house.

  The roof sagged and stone crumbled from the walls. A pall of gloom hung over the house. She’d never dared to enter. She had few happy memories, not after Mama had died. Now curiosity burned within her. Her feet moved of their own accord. Before she knew it, Ilanna had lifted the latch and pushed the door open.

  She recoiled beneath the assaul
t of a foul stench. Holding her breath, she poked her head into the house. Nothing moved.

  She stood inside.

  Everything was so familiar, yet so alien. She knew she should recognize the chair. Mama had spent hours sitting there, as had she. She knew the wooden stairs would creak if she climbed them. But, standing there, she felt as if she saw the place for the first time.

  Beyond the doorway stood the kitchen where she’d eaten countless meals. The horrible odor increased as she approached. Bottles of pewter and glass, leather wineskins, and shattered crockery littered the floor. Rodents turned to regard her for a moment before returning to their meal.

  She shuddered. The rats feasted on something that had once been human. Empty eye sockets stared at her. The nose and lips had been eaten away, revealing crooked stumps of teeth. White bone showed through flesh dried and wrinkled by decay or devoured by predators.

  Papa.

  He died as she remembered him living: sitting at the kitchen table, a jug of wine clasped in his hands.

  The memories washed over her in a sickening torrent.

  She hurried after Papa, trotting to match his long-legged pace. She waved to Master Umlai, who’d slipped Mama pork scraps when she had no coin. The butcher just turned his back and closed his shop door.

  She smiled at Mistress Harra, the metalsmith’s wife. Mistress Harra had carried Baby Rose when Mama needed to run errands. She had no smile for Viola, only tears running down her cheeks.

  She couldn’t understand why they turned away. They’d once been Mama’s friends—her friends, too, or so she’d thought. Now, they had only angry glares for Papa.

  She skipped alongside her father. “So, Papa, where are you taking me?”

  Papa kept his eyes locked on the street ahead. The bottle sloshed in time with his shuffling steps.

  “Are you taking me to see the gardens at The Sanctuary, Papa? The Bright Lady’s temple is always so beautiful this time of year and—”

  Papa whirled, his face red, his jaw clenched. “Be silent, Viola. You’ll see where we’re going soon enough.” The ceramic bottle in his hand creaked and his knuckles whitened.

  She snapped her mouth shut and trotted alongside Papa in silence. A lump formed in her throat and tears threatened.

  “I won’t cry,” she told herself, “not today.” Today was her special day. Nothing would ruin that. “Besides, he’s just trying to make it a surprise.”

  Colors and sounds swirled around her in an endless rhythm of chaos. Old Town Market. Vendors hawked their wares at the top of their lungs. Men, women, and children bustled through the square, pulling hand carts and groaning beneath the weight of heavy sacks. Oxen, horses, and donkeys rumbled past, pulling laden wagons and carts. Viola reached out to pet a passing horse, but snatched her hand away when Papa growled.

  She took a deep breath. Hundreds of smells—spices, animals, people, cooking food, exotic perfumes, and so much more—blended in a strange harmony that reminded Viola of Mama. Wrinkling her nose at the odor of animal droppings, she leapt over a fresh cow pat in the center of the muddy lane.

  She loved the bright colors most. Heavy sheets of canvas every color of the rainbow draped the shops and stalls of Old Town Market. Fabric merchants displayed vivid bolts of silk, wool, and linen. Carts piled high with multi-hued fruits and vegetables rumbled past. Here and there, people dressed in bright-colored clothing milled among the vendors and carters in their dull browns and greys.

  “Papa, can we walk through the market?” Maybe Papa would buy her a treat. After all, he’d promised her something special on her nameday.

  Instead, Papa tugged her away from the marketplace. Viola hoped he didn’t see her disappointment. It would only make Papa angry and spoil the day.

  “Where are we going, Papa?” She didn’t recognize her surroundings; Mama had never taken her this far.

  “You’ll see.”

  He turned down a side street, leading them farther from Old Town Market. The decrepit buildings bordering the road sent a shiver down Viola’s spine. Windows gaped like dark, empty mouths. Brick gave way to rotting wood; the houses looked like they would collapse atop her.

  She followed Papa through a twisting labyrinth of muddy alleys heaped high with refuse. She gasped as a man lurched from a makeshift shelter, reaching for Papa’s bottle. Papa snarled and pushed the filthy man away, hurling him to the ground. With a vicious curse, he shuffled on, not looking back to see if she followed.

  She hurried after him. She wanted to tell Papa the muddy streets would soil her new dress, but held her tongue. He wouldn’t care.

  She reached for his hand. “P-Papa? Where are we going? I’m scared.”

  Papa jerked his hand away. “Just keep walking, girl. We’re almost there.”

  She couldn’t stop the tear, but she brushed it away before Papa noticed. Gathering up the hem of her dress, she trotted after her father as best she could. Maybe his surprise lay beyond this horrible place. She had to believe it; why else would he bring her here?

  Papa turned onto a larger street, where the street sign read “Fishmonger’s Row”. She gagged and covered her nose, but the smell didn’t seem to bother Papa.

  She pulled on his sleeve. “Papa, I want to go home now. This place stinks.”

  Papa grunted. “That is where we are going.”

  He thrust his chin toward a large warehouse at the end of the lane. It looked like the others on the street: old, sagging, and a gust of wind away from collapse. Piles of debris lay strewn around the front of the building. A river of foul-smelling water washed across the street, turning the mud to slush.

  She shuddered. What are we doing there?

  Papa knocked on the faded, rotting wooden door. When no answer came, he pounded harder.

  A voice sounded from within. “I’m coming, I’m coming! No need to get your britches in a twist.”

  She gaped at the stooped figure that opened the door. Spots dotted the woman’s gnarled hands and her lank silver hair hung down past her waist in a wild tangle. She studied Papa through milky, weeping eyes. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve come to speak to Iltair.”

  The woman’s gaze fell on her. “A moment.”

  The door slammed and Viola jumped.

  “What’s happening? Why are we here?” She glanced at Papa, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Her heart thundered.

  When the door opened again, a huge man stepped out. Something about him reminded Viola of Grien, the man who’d hurt Papa. His clothing matched Grien’s—the same brown cloth with trim the crimson of Papa’s blood.

  “Girard.” His voice sounded like crunching gravel. “What do you want? Have what you owe, do you?”

  Papa shook his head. “But I have something else.” He shoved her forward. “She reaches her eighth year today.”

  Iltair crouched and studied her. The way he looked at her…it reminded her of Mama when choosing a cut of meat at Master Umlai’s butcher shop. “What’s your name, girl?”

  “V-Viola.” Why was this man talking to her? She clasped her hands to stop them trembling. She shrank back against Papa, but Papa pushed her forward again.

  “A pretty name.” Iltair squeezed her shoulders with calloused hands. “A bit runty, she is.”

  “You’ll see to that.” Papa’s face had turned white and his hands shook. “But with this, the debt is paid?”

  She choked back a cry. What? What’s happening? She didn’t like this place and she didn’t like this man who hurt her. I want to go home! She tried to turn back to Papa, but Iltair held her fast.

  “Aye. All is forgiven, Girard.”

  Papa nodded and turned to leave.

  “Papa?” She reached for her father, but Iltair’s grip on her shoulders stopped her. “Where are you going?”

  “Away.” Papa didn’t look back.

  “When will you be back?” Why are you leaving me?

  “I won’t.” He whirled, and Viola she shrank from the rage in his ey
es. “I can’t stand to see you any longer. It’s your fault she’s gone. I can’t live with that reminder. You look too much like her…” His voice cracked and he swallowed. “I-I can’t…bear it.”

  She didn’t understand. “Please, Papa, don’t leave me!” Tears streamed down her cheeks and her whole body shook. “I’ll be a good girl. I’ll work harder. I’ll—”

  Iltair squeezed her shoulder tighter. “Come, child. Now!”

  Papa turned away, his shoulders shaking, fists clenched. He limped down the stairs and up the street.

  “Papa!”

  A cork popped and Papa tipped the bottle to his lips. She threw herself down the stairs, but a huge arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her away. In vain, she kicked, screamed, and clawed at the man carrying her. The door clanged shut, cutting her off from daylight and plunging her into darkness. The sound echoed through the building with a ring of terrible finality. Papa wouldn’t come for her. He had abandoned her.

  A wave of nausea washed over her. Rushing from the house, she retched onto a patch of dry ground, well away from the garden. She knelt there, panting, her stomach lurching. The sight of the rats feasting on the corpse bothered her more than the realization that the body belonged to her father. She felt nothing for the husk of the man at the table. He’d sold her to the Night Guild. He didn’t deserve her pity.

  Without a backward glance, Ilanna gathered up her bundle and hurried over the garden wall. She would never return to that house again. It belonged to the rats and the ghost of her dead father, and they were welcome to it.

  She only wanted the garden.

  * * *

  Ilanna walked in a daze, the streets of Praamis a blur.

  The sight of the corpse had left her hollow, empty. She felt nothing but a numbness that turned her arms and legs to lead. How long had the corpse sat there, waiting to be discovered? Had he even realized he was dying or was he too drunk to care?

  Someone shouted at her. “Watch it, girl!”

  Ilanna mumbled an apology and stumbled on. Every step led her farther from what had once been her home. No longer. Now, she had only the Night Guild to call home.