Aryll felt a flush of anger that blended with her fright. The bastards were actually joking and acting carefree.
“Mention it again and I’ll cut you.” The Asdori woman snapped impatient fingers toward the crate. “Gather our resources. I’m antsy and more than a little put off by my climb.”
In response Fendrel leaned into the crate while Blaer disappeared from sight to peruse endless rows. The unfriendly woman folded arms sheathed in supple leather vambraces and leaned on a shelf. Recollection tugged at Aryll’s foggy memory, insisting she had encountered this stranger before.
“I know you,” she asserted. “I saw you earlier on Starwatch grounds.”
“Funny how our paths continue to cross.”
“Kar…Kala….” Aryll struggled to bring the name onto her tongue. “Kalyna.”
“Sharp memory.”
“You were supposed to work as a guard.”
“An irritating ruse I’m happy to be finished with. You might not agree with me, but it’s dreadfully boring in your moldy institution. I’d be stark raving mad if I lived here.”
“Who are you?” Aryll questioned. “I mean really, since you obviously aren’t a guard.”
“No one of consequence to you,” she retorted.
Fendrel straightened and tossed a tome to the woman. Smirking like a child, she skewered the codex with her knife and tore through its thick cover. Kalyna yanked a leather pouch free and tossed the book aside as Blaer arrived carrying statuary. The younger woman lifted a bust of Empress Theodora and smashed it into pale slivers against black marble. Reaching amid stone shards, she grabbed a narrow implement and handed it to Kalyna.
Fendrel must have noticed her horrified expression, because he smiled and kicked a fragment to skitter across the floor. “Don’t worry, Aryll. That bust didn’t actually date from the empress’ lifetime. Nothing more than a clever fake designed for smuggling. We don’t casually destroy priceless artifacts. It would defeat the entire purpose.”
Aryll watched Blaer select particular artifacts from the crate, each holding a certain item within. Frayed parchment and shorn leather fluttered to collect on marble, decorated with ink no eyes would ever read again. The realization stirred a twinge of sadness within her.
She glanced at the Asdori woman and imbued her voice with all the strength she could muster, doing little more than hiding a tremble. “What do you want with me?”
Kalyna crouched and cupped Aryll’s chin between thumb and forefinger. “I thought it was obvious. We’re burgling Starwatch. And you’re going to help make that possible.”
*
Cyriana swallowed complimentary wine from a tall crystal, swirling the pleasant liquid within her mouth. She had no clue what vintage the glass held, aside from the fact it possessed a rich berry taste. Far more exquisite than the cheap wine she normally drank. The server mentioned some vineyard as if she was meant to understand its meaning, though the young man might have spoken another language for all she knew. Not that it mattered. Despite what aristocratic dandies claimed in their snide, nasally speech, one did not need to understand wine or cultivate a refined palate to enjoy the stuff. Especially booze offered for free.
“This is lavish,” she purred.
Baskaran crammed a Shodii style potato dumpling filled with minced mackerel and seaweed into his mouth. Garlic butter dribbled down his chin until he wiped it with one hand. “Starwatch likely expends a fortune throwing the festival each year.”
“All that shiny gold from benefactors with more money than sense needs to go somewhere. I almost admire Thorkell and his overly convoluted confidence games. Gives him a reason to rub elbows at fancy shindigs like this. The man must guzzle pints of swanky wine and gobble enough caviar to populate a lake with sturgeon.”
“I don’t believe one guzzles wine.”
“Shut it, you fancy duelist. Weren’t you drinking rose water the day we met?”
“I can’t help it if my services are highly valued. There’s no need to be jealous.”
“Of you? Whatever.” Cyriana stared at the traitorously empty glass in her hand before turning her attention farther afield. “You see where that girl with the Prydinian food wandered off to? I didn’t get me one of the blonde logs and I have a hankering.”
“I don’t know what that is, but your homeland’s cuisine never fails to make me queasy.”
“Can’t imagine why. It’s raw venison pounded flat and stuffed with goat cheese and sheep entrails chutney. The best ones have a dollop of suet smeared overtop. They’re delicious.”
“And up come my dumplings,” he groaned.
She surveyed the surrounding territory for platters stacked with food yet glimpsed none. Parting revelers lured Cyriana’s attention away from her nagging stomach until she noticed the Headmaster walking toward a basalt dais. “Never mind. Chaereas is preparing to deliver his address. I’ll hunt down the appetizers later.”
The honcho galen climbed stairs onto the Orator’s Rostrum, where highfaluting academics had once preached to their beard-twirling, philosopher fellows. Cyriana did not care about its revered history, but wagered the podium would fetch a colossal sum if she could somehow drag it away. Her thoughts frequently drifted to surmising the worth of various objects within reach. A shame most were too heavy to be viable targets.
Chaereas lifted arms swathed in robes to quiet conversation, waiting until silent gazes regarded only him. Cyriana heard bells tolling from belfries erected along the harbor, marking one hour since sunset. On any given night the curfew would commence in another two hours, though all regulations were lifted during the festival. Apparently some particularly excitable visitors, not wanting to forego a ludicrous abundance of free food and drink, even chose to remain until sunrise. Dawn officially signaled the festival’s conclusion, yet sensible attendees instead participated in a symbolic ritual at midnight prior to departing for the comforts of home.
Cyriana anticipated her schemes might spoil the aspirations and pleasures of those celebrating this year. Even though her name would never be mentioned, barring an unmitigated disaster of course, she swelled with pride at the idea her grand caper might forever live on in infamy. The unknown thief who waltzed into the impenetrable galen academy and stole a priceless artifact amidst a religious festival. Damn, that had an appealing ring to it. She only hoped those who whispered about her exploits did not attribute the heist to a man.
Chaereas waited in gentle silence, staring out into the gathered crowd. “Friends and neighbors, I bid you a warm welcome to Starwatch on this sacred night. We are honored to once again host the citizens of Arroyo and lands beyond. We offer our heartfelt prayers to Adonas on the summer solstice, thanking him for granting life to all creation. While we mourn the sun’s passing each night, we take comfort knowing he will return to us come the dawn. Though darkness is his eternal enemy, Adonas will never succumb to it. Neither will we allow ourselves to be engulfed in shadow or sorrow. Adonas’ timeless confrontation to overcome the gloom threatening to engulf us mirrors our own struggles and difficulties. And like him we too shall surmount all that assails us, seeking to break our spirit. That is the vital lesson to be learned from the Eclipsing Radiance Fete. We cannot be undone by the dark.”
“Golly,” Cyriana muttered. “He isn’t theatrical at all.”
Baskaran stuck a finger swathed with butter into his mouth. “I’d wager the poorest folks here take comfort in his words of encouragement. It reminds them that even the wealthiest citizens have demons to face little different from their own.”
“If only that were true.”
“Enjoy the entertainment we have on display,” Chaereas continued, “and partake in delicacies from nations across the breadth of Encrin. All is given free of charge and I want to know each attendee received his or her fill. Do not be shy on this night. As ever, our order is here to serve you.” Chaereas opened his mouth in a smile that seemed entirely forced while scattered applause rippled from onlookers. “We give tha
nks to Adonas and pray for his continued magnanimity today and forevermore. Please raise your glasses in supplication. To the coming of dawn.”
Cyriana hoisted her empty crystal in a lukewarm salute to avoid the suspicion of standing apart from others. “Pretty speech,” she admitted. “I wonder if he blathers the same words year after year to all these fawning partygoers.”
“It’d certainly take less effort.”
Settling her glass on a passing tray, she clapped both palms together and faced her companion. “Time to begin a scuffle.”
Baskaran ran one hand over his shaven jaw and gazed at uncountable faces spread amid Starwatch grounds. “Do I start poking folks in the ribcage until one confronts me and demands satisfaction?”
“No, our best bet is a noble named Lord Jaxon Torne,” Cyriana explained. “He’s a local, so his involvement in a duel should attract more notice than a visitor from beyond Arroyo.”
“Excellent. What do we know about him on a personal level?”
“A proficient duelist in bygone years. Recent enough that it won’t look like you’re bullying an elderly man long retired from the sport. He has the talent to prolong your bout, but he’s weak enough not to be a genuine threat against you. Unless you choose to do something stupid.”
“Why do you even presume I would? I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“You’ve seen the folks I associate with. Warning against idiocy is part of my routine.”
“Sensible given the circumstances, I suppose.” Baskaran sipped mulled wine from a glass flute with his usual unnerving calm.
“Want to know his lordship’s most appealing feature? He’s belligerent and easily offended. Gossipmongers claim he challenged one hapless manservant to a duel for daring to serve him the wrong vintage of wine at dinner. Jaxon only retracted it after his wife interceded on the frightened boy’s behalf. By all accounts he was willing to kill the servant in his own dining chamber over an affronted palate.”
“Where might we find Lord Torne this evening?”
“Don’t ask me. This whole sideshow should’ve been Zalla’s job. What use do I have for remembering faces? I’ll need to figure out a clever way to locate him on my own.”
“You are aware how many guests are here tonight, yes?”
Cyriana waved away his misgivings with one hand. “The man’s a noble. I’m sure he’ll have a servile entourage in tow. Should separate him from riffraff like us. You forget locating wealthy targets is my specialty.”
“By all means, demonstrate your skill. I’ll observe from a distance.”
“Watch and learn.” Cyriana noted one man attired in clothing tailored with an eye for excess. A blue rose served as a boutonniere in one jacket pocket while a matching cravat spilled from his throat. She sauntered closer and snatched a tart dusted in sugar off one serving tray during her approach.
“Excuse me, kind sir. Forgive the intrusion, but I have business with Lord Jaxon Torne. I wondered if perhaps you’re familiar with him and know where I might find his lordship this evening.”
Creases deepened across a forehead that seemed to favor frowning above all other expressions. One lip tugged upward to reveal gritted teeth beyond. “Perform your own chores, you low bred wastrel.”
Cyriana squashed her pastry within one clenched fist and glowered at the arsehole’s departing backside. Baskaran chose that moment to sidle over wearing an infuriating look of serenity.
“Problems?”
“You might say that,” she responded. “Can you also duel that bastard wearing the maroon frock coat? It’d only take a moment.”
“If I dueled every person you offended, I’d never earn a respite.”
“Shut up. I’m frigging charming. They’re the problem. Those highborn peacocks with their stupid faces.”
“He would have divulged the information to Zalla.”
Cyriana sighed and ruffled bangs dyed black with the hand not smeared in sugar and jelly. “I’m going to ignore that quip. Since you’re just standing there, go fetch me a napkin when you get the chance. And a replacement pastry.”
“Want me to find Lord Torne while I’m at it? Might save us some time.”
She glared for a moment before licking crushed dessert from her palm.
*
Maylene halted her modest entourage amid a murky alcove, spying the third floor library entrance. One guard stood on either side of ornate double doors, their posture rigid and unwavering. She faced the young captive and lowered her voice to the barest hush.
“I only take lives when I need to,” Maylene warned. “Don’t give me a reason.”
Aryll offered a timid nod and stayed silent, proving to be a wise girl after all.
“Good. Because any guard you alert needs to be killed. You don’t want that on your conscience.”
Thorkell and Zalla each held a lantern shuttered by cloth hoods, no longer imbuing the hallway with light. Maylene signaled for Thorkell to remain and glided forward in deerskin moccasins. She hugged one wall decorated with murals indiscernible in the darkened corridor, creeping ever closer to the flanking sentries. Quilted tabards rested atop studded gambesons and each wore a longsword strapped to the left hip. Not daunting armor by any stretch, though far better protection than the light clothing she wore.
Maylene withdrew a stunted bamboo blowpipe from the haversack looped around her shoulder. Shorter than was typically preferred, the customized version sacrificed range for easy concealment. It meant a need to skulk unusually close, though the requirement never troubled her. She opened the lid on a river cane woven quiver attached to her belt and withdrew one dart fletched using spear thistle. Taking care not to touch its tip, Maylene inserted her projectile inside the narrow tube and raised one end to her mouth.
She wrapped moist lips around the blowpipe, aimed along its shaft and exhaled a sharp breath. The needle flew on a straight trajectory and pierced the female’s neck above her stiffened collar. She slapped one hand against the dart, blinking uncertain eyes while wobbling with all the grace of a drunkard. A pleasing state Maylene was admittedly acquainted with, though this guard would find the experience less winsome.
Her companion looked on with an expression bordering between confusion and concern. “What is it?” he questioned.
“I…I feel…”
Her slurring speech quieted and the woman crumpled in a heap, silent except for shallow breaths wheezing from her gaping mouth. The male guard noticed a dart skitter across the floor and whirled to face Maylene’s shadowy niche as she loosed another projectile. A padded sleeve whipped higher and shielded his face against the airborne needle. He crunched a fallen dart beneath one boot and tore his blade free of its scabbard.
“Shit,” Maylene hissed. She scrambled upright and tugged on a weighted pouch dangling from her belt as the guard launched a furious assault.
Maylene lunged under his scything sword and rolled into a crouch, pivoting to face her advancing foe. Iron screamed for her skull while she danced aside and loosened leather ties binding the sack. A pungent aroma wafted from the small opening.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” he roared.
Maylene hammered her foot into the guard’s stomach, pitching him into an unbalanced lurch. While he struggled to recover she stepped forward and hurtled the pouch full into his face. Slackened bands opened, unleashing a rust hued cloud that adhered to the man’s skin. A longsword clattered onto tiles and he clawed feverishly at his flesh, hacking through a swirling haze. Maylene calmly withdrew, covered her own mouth with a sleeve and watched the man topple backward with a final rasp.
“Not today,” she groaned. Maylene turned and waved the others forward from their hidden recess.
“Gods,” Thorkell murmured, removing the hood on his lantern. “What was in the darts?”
“Tetrodotoxin.”
“And perhaps in a language I know?”
“Venom from the liver of a blowfish,” responded Aryll in almost a whisper. “Or certain newt and
octopus species.”
Maylene eyed her with a certain measure of respect. “Smart girl. In this case from a white swellfish, a species that lives south of Shodo Hai.”
“I’ve always liked reading about marine creatures.” Aryll glanced at the immobile woman and narrowed her eyes toward Maylene. “Tetrodotoxin is lethal in high doses.”
“Which is precisely why I used a low concentration.”
Thorkell eyed pale red powder sparkling on the other unconscious guard’s face. “Is it safe to go near that dust? The stuff won’t put me to sleep, will it?”
“Only if it contacts the skin on your face,” Maylene elucidated. “Extra residue floating in the air won’t harm you. So I’d advise not rubbing your face against his. Same goes for you, Blaer.”
Thorkell walked closer and halted with a raised brow. “Speaking strictly from curiosity, what are these puffy particulates?”
“Dried spores cultivated from the red-tailed mushroom. The crushed flakes make a charming soporific.”
Zalla stopped near the female guard, squinted inquisitive eyes and bent down. “Um, this might sound crazy, but she’s looking right at me.”
“Of course she is,” answered Maylene. “She isn’t unconscious. The blowfish toxin causes muscle paralysis for several hours. The other chap is having a peaceful sleep though.”
“She can hear what we’re saying?”
“Every last word. I bet she’s a fuming fireball on the inside. Aren’t you, ma’am?”
“Your knowledge of poisons is somewhat alarming,” Thorkell muttered. “I’m beginning to believe I should be more terrified of you.”
“Best way to pillage a house is to make all its occupants comatose. You really should have assumed I know my toxins.”
“Thank you for not choosing to poison me in my sleep.”
“I had a pressing urge, but you-know-who wouldn’t allow it. She’s a spoilsport. Too bad really, since I had this poultice I’m eager to try. Makes a person hairless in no time.”
Maylene wandered toward a grand doorway carved from heartwood and varnished to a rich umber hue. Silver latticework framed the library entry and glowed beneath sallow torchlight.
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