Starwatch

by Ian Blackport

  Cyriana pivoted on her heels, casting a nervous gaze toward the doorway. “Time’s dwindling.”

  “Then shut up and leave me to it,” Aelina hissed.

  Stifling a grumble signifying displeasure, Cyriana instead gritted her teeth and waited. Relief washed over her flushed skin when Aelina shut the case, slipped it within her satchel and wiped waxy residue from the key onto dark trousers.

  “Finished?” questioned Cyriana.

  “I sure hope we are.”

  “Then it’s time to beat a hasty retreat.”

  While Aelina delicately returned the key to its rightful drawer, poking iron until a precise angle was achieved, Cyriana crossed the room and grasped a brass handle. She tugged the door open, feeling a measure of relief tingling within her chest to be finished. Hardren’s lone guard should be circling the manor’s perimeter for several minutes more, granting them enough time to slip through a window before vanishing into the night. Instead he stood beyond the threshold in a hallway illumined by gentle lamplight, his expression of befuddled surprise presumably matching her own. Scarcely an arm’s length divided muscled sentry from unprepared thief.

  Cyriana’s heart exerted a valiant effort to leap through her throat. “Bugger.”

  Hands clutched her doublet in a wad of jumbled leather and shoved with staggering strength, pitching Cyriana backward into a flailing roll. She scrambled onto shaky knees, barely deflecting a boot striking for her head. Harsh footfalls sounded and Aelina hurtled into the guard, thrusting him against one wall. An elbow cracked into her forehead as he braced against bricks encircling the fireplace and slapped a palm onto his sword grip. Cyriana lunged for the man, clasping her hands around one wrist and prying stiff fingers from black leather.

  She ducked low beneath a wild fist and brought her own upward into his pelvis. A satisfying gasp wheezed through his lips, prompting Cyriana to deliver yet another blow somewhat anatomically lower. The desired result was achieved, and while he mewled a shrill tune Cyriana hefted a chair in both hands and cracked it against his skull. Wooden fragments gathered in a haphazard pile atop his spread-eagled figure.

  Cyriana whirled at the sound of a choked grunt and glimpsed Aelina clobber a hapless manservant in his glass jaw. The blow spun him on wobbling legs, head lolling aslant and saliva oozing from his slack mouth. He whacked into an armrest and toppled unmoving onto tiles.

  “Noise must have drawn him to investigate,” Cyriana remarked. She sauntered nearer and eyed the prone servant as a spasm seized one leg. “Don’t rightly know how you managed to subdue that one while I dealt with the lightweight.”

  Aelina touched tentative fingertips to a forehead swathed in cloth. “I think my damned head is bleeding.”

  “We’ll get you patched lickety-split once we’re in the clear.”

  “Our scheme seems to have encountered a hiccup,” she conceded. “I seem to recall a desire to not be seen.”

  “A rather crucial priority, yes. Fortunate for us both I’m a problem solver.”

  “Do tell.”

  “You wanted forty rather than thirty.” Cyriana pointed a gloved forefinger at the fireplace. “There’s your extra ten percent perched atop the mantelpiece. Or on the desk if you’d prefer.”

  “An overt burglary to deflect suspicions and muddle our purpose?”

  “Seems appropriate. Don’t feel the need to be circumspect either. Grab whatever you can carry. The more authentic our theft, the less they’ll ask pointed questions regarding our intentions. But don’t unlock any drawers. We can leave those untouched.”

  Aelina unfastened the buttons on her jacket and withdrew a folded rucksack. In answer to Cyriana’s bemused expression she offered a halfhearted shrug. “I had a feeling.”

  Cyriana sighed and massaged tender knuckles while Aelina stuffed curios and a gold-plated letter opener into her bag. A ceremonial knife collection went in last.

  Aelina hitched a leather strap over her shoulder and nudged one thumb at the window. “Shall we make this one our entry and exit?”

  “Works for me. Be sure to smash a windowpane, too. We don’t want to look like professionals.” Cyriana lifted one hand and shoved a flowery vase off its narrow table to shatter into glossy shards. “Bet that was pricey.”

  Chapter 4

  Cyriana swallowed ale from a pewter tankard and eyed her quarry across a murky tavern. Dorvan occupied a table by his lonesome, staring into a dwindling mug with borderline despondency like any other drunkard might. Barring one crucial difference, of course. Courtesy of Aelina and her unnaturally swift hands, Dorvan’s mug was laced with Fevered Dream.

  A slow acting soporific, it was nigh tasteless when mixed with alcohol. The brew also induced panic and disorientation in unwitting victims, its most desirable traits in Cyriana’s opinion. No apothecary or physician recommended patients suffer through its noted ill effects for the benefit of sleep. Fevered Dream was only common among unscrupulous criminal elements, owing to the unpleasant truth that possession alone was a criminal offense in the Draugan Empire.

  Aelina slipped into an empty chair neighboring Cyriana and smiled.

  “I hope you managed to spike his booze,” Cyriana said, “given your stupid grin. And the fact he’s almost finished.”

  “These nimble fingers aren’t only for plucking valuables, I’ll have you know. They can slip a little something in occasionally, too.”

  “Then he’ll be on the verge of insanity soon enough. Are the twins where I want them?”

  “And looking like creepy simulacrum scarecrows,” replied Aelina. “Have you by chance noticed that each final chore you ask me to perform seems to always be anything but?”

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to bellyache. You made out like a bandit a couple nights ago.”

  “True enough. Try not to be insulted by this, but you do have the key we forged, yes?”

  “Of course I do. I’m not incompetent, thank you.”

  “Only wanted to be certain. It’d be a shame if you slipped into Destiran’s manor only to realize you’d forgotten the key I worked hard to acquire. A shame because then you wouldn’t be able to pay me more, that is.” Chair legs squealed beneath Aelina as she straightened. “I’ll be outside waiting.”

  Cyriana waited for her to leave before patting her jacket, confirming the key waited within. Embarrassing would not even begin to describe the result had she committed that mistake. She returned her attention to Dorvan and felt blessed the wait was not a long one. He rubbed his face with one palm, almost spilling from the chair. Her delightful concoction seemed to be creeping over him. A clumsy swipe sent his mug clanging onto floorboards and Dorvan stumbled upright, clutching at furnishings for support. Nervous eyes flicked with an erratic craze as fear spread across his features.

  Patrons swore while Dorvan wove a drunken path to the door, whacking into seated customers and upsetting drinks. Cyriana stood, brushed her jerkin and pursued at a casual distance, relieved no one sought to help the man. Apathy was a dependable emotion these days. She arrived outside in time to glimpse Aelina feign coincidence, knocking into Dorvan. The man’s frightened mind reacted in a paranoid stupor and he pitched toward refuge afforded by an adjacent alley. Cyriana eyed the vacated stretch of road and followed closely on his heels while Aelina remained behind to discourage others from entering. A private audience was needed.

  The man thrashed amid soggy crates, his labored breaths evident even to Cyriana. She wandered nearer, not bothering to muffle her footsteps in the hopes of inciting further panic.

  “Feeling a little under the weather, friend?”

  Dorvan staggered against one wall and thrust out a palm. “Get away from me.”

  “No, I think I’ll come closer.”

  “Help me.” He blinked groggy eyes and stared downward at one wavering hand. “I’ve been p-p-poisoned.”

  “You were indeed. By me, in point of fact. I’m not ashamed to admit my tactics. Though you’ll be happy to hear it isn’
t fatal. Only deliciously convenient.”

  “Who…w-who are you?”

  “Who I am doesn’t matter. I’m more interested in you. Or rather, your peculiar associates.”

  Dorvan lurched away, halting when he glimpsed Ralir and Salir silhouetted in twilight’s fading colors at the pathway’s opposing end. Despite possessing a lucid mind not dulled by drugs, she had to admit the pair looked unnaturally spooky in ruddy light. Eyes streaked in red whirled toward Cyriana and he toppled onto his knees. “What do you w-want with me?”

  “Nothing nefarious. Provided you’re cooperative.”

  She reached his side, placed one hand on a pounding chest and shoved, knocking Dorvan onto his back without resistance. Kneeling alongside, Cyriana hooked one forefinger around a chain beyond his doublet. “Ah, here’s what my heart desires.”

  Dazed eyes regarded her with budding alarm. Even his confused mind grasped disagreeable implications as she yanked the necklace free and offered a wicked smirk.

  Cyriana slapped aside feeble hands pawing at her theft and leaned back into a crouch. “Don’t bother. You’re in no position to resist.”

  “Y-you…miserable…”

  Cyriana grasped a quivering chin in one hand and snapped his fumbling mouth shut. “Be careful what word you choose to describe me. In a few moments you’ll fall asleep and be at my mercy. And I’m not above punishing an insensate prick for unkind language.”

  “They’ll…kill you.”

  “They can try.” Cyriana stuffed the key and trailing chain into one pocket. “I’m a professional survivor.”

  Dorvan’s tenuous grasp on consciousness ended with a pathetic whimper and he quieted. Saliva slicked his flushed chin, collecting into a glossy puddle on dirty stone beneath.

  She patted his greasy cheek under fluttering eyelids. “Nighty night, slug.” Cyriana turned as Aelina sidled closer. “Meet me at the Wayward Crook alone after sunrise tomorrow.”

  “See you then. Try not to die in the meantime.”

  “I’ll give it my best effort.”

  Aelina departed while the uncanny twins approached, depositing rope onto damp cobblestones. Crouching astride Dorvan, they bound wilting limbs and gagged his drooling mouth.

  “Dump him out of sight,” instructed Cyriana. “Then move into place. We go in an hour.”

  *

  Cyriana slung blackened rope over one shoulder and leaned against a fourth story balustrade decorated with swirling vines. She inhaled a pungent aroma, scowling at dangling hemp that would hopefully not stain her jacket. Soaked in pitch and dried under the sun, Aelina assured her the rope was invisible against a night sky from beneath.

  Cinian and Darelia Caelius owned an exquisite estate. With their masters sailing downriver for a fictitious meeting, scant servants and guards remained on duty. Unlike Destiran’s manor waiting across the street, slipping inside proved effortless.

  She shrugged her cord onto the balcony and crouched, knotting one end to a rail. Cyriana looped the line twice around and tied two half hitches on top of a clove hitch before yanking it taut. Gods bless cocky sailors for bragging about their craft while transporting passengers. She owed all her knotting expertise to those foul-mouthed swine.

  Collecting a stubby quarrel, Cyriana wrapped her rope’s opposite end around the shaft and completed a slipped constrictor hitch. She cinched loosely to be certain Carin might still be able to release it, though tight enough for her purposes. With all knots finished, she pulled gloves over her fingers and waited. Moonlight piercing scattered clouds soon revealed a shadowy figure laboring opposite the avenue atop Destiran’s roof. The scrawny form halted and offered a fleeting wave in her direction. With Carin in position she only needed to await a raucous distraction from the twins.

  Cyriana hefted her crossbow, locked whipcord bowstring in place and stood, bracing the stock against one shoulder. Rattling wheels soon echoed in the night, signalling Cyriana to act. Sighting with one squinted eye, she loosed the quarrel across a darkened expanse. The shaft hurtled against masonry, punching a shallow hole into stone and clattering onto the rooftop. Carin scooped the quarrel with one hand and struggled to slacken rope from fractured wood.

  Startled shouts drew her attention to streets beneath, where one runaway carriage plunged downhill atop cobblestones following a helpful shove from the twins. House guards dived aside as the driverless stagecoach smashed into Destiran’s front gate, snarling gold-plated metal into twisted wreckage. Sentries staggered upright, retrieved flung pikes and circled the ruined brougham.

  Cyriana hitched a satchel over one shoulder and shifted focus toward the opposing roof as Carin righted himself and waved once again. No more time for introspection. She grasped a carabiner hanging from her studded belt and snapped it into place around tarred cord. Aelina could claim whatever she wanted. Cyriana was reckless, not an idiot. She swung one leg over the balustrade and lowered herself beneath inky rope. Grasping the line in either hand, she looped her ankles above and pulled.

  Sallow light spilled from lanterns held by additional guards exiting Destiran’s manor to investigate an unknown disturbance. Muffled voices drifted into Cyriana’s ears from below, drowned by her hoarse breaths. Muscles quivered through each grinding yard and she blinked away sweat dribbling into her eyes, feeling the carabiner holding ever more of her weight. Mercifully reaching the target estate, she slapped exhausted hands on marble.

  Cyriana hauled herself over a parapet meant to mimic grander citadels, landing on the tiled roof atop shaking legs. She detached her carabiner and hunkered alongside Carin. “Nice work, kid. Now clamber down the mansion and don’t be seen.”

  “Good luck in there.”

  He jogged to an opposing side and scrambled over the ledge, disappearing with scant noise. Cyriana removed a hood from the bag and tugged restrictive fabric over her head. She gazed downward past the parapet, beyond groomed lawn to a trashed gate. Milling guards continued to examine the carriage while one lugged a wheel from between warped latticework. Cyriana slipped over, clutched a hanging rope secured by Carin and braced her legs against jutting bricks. Cramps threatened to unnerve her resolve, yet she banished the pangs to a distant corner of her consciousness. Threading the rope through her fingers, she abseiled down the estate toward a looming third floor balcony.

  When boots touched glazed tiles, Cyriana tossed the line aside and approached shutters locked with a lone latch. Never underrate the arrogance inherent in a conceited mind. She had witnessed the same in Hardren’s home. Destiran felt himself untouchable in the heart of his unscrupulous empire and Cyriana wished to disabuse him of the notion. She withdrew a slender tool liberated from a friend and wedged it between panels, charming the latch in several tense minutes. Shutters slid inward and Cyriana slinked through into gloom.

  Carpeted flooring led down a darkened corridor to one staircase. She emerged on the second floor without incident, hugging one wall bathed in shadows until creaking floors made her pause. Cyriana crouched beside one decorative column supporting a vase and held her breath, waiting for a servant to mosey past. Alone once again, she prowled deserted hallways toward an office nestled in the northwest corner. No light shone beneath the entry that she could see, though she still pressed an ear against smooth wood to confirm silence.

  Cyriana touched one hand to the doorknob and smirked when it twisted. The gods were uncharacteristically kind tonight. Or perhaps Destiran’s unparalleled vanity had insulted an immortal now yearning for revenge. She was fine with some god using her as an instrument of vengeance.

  One middle-aged man wielding a broom glanced toward the door when he heard her intrusion, his pockmarked face twisting in frightened surprise. It turned out the gods were not so kind on this evening in the end. The servant was in the midst of plucking something from between stiff bristles, yet was otherwise silent. Cyriana leaped at the man, whacked aside his broom and snapped one hand over a mouth fumbling for words. His wriggling body fought to claw free, blowing
hot air against her palm until she shook him with gusto.

  “Don’t speak and you’ll—”

  The bastard clamped down on her fingers in panic, chewing past thin fabric and splitting tender skin. Cyriana yelped through clenched teeth and hurled the man onto a clean floor. Looming over him, she wrapped a forearm around his throat from behind and tensed her muscles. Weakened hands slapped at her face, slipping away as his body wilted in Cyriana’s arms.

  She placed the servant on tiles, hearing faint breaths wheeze from his mouth, and ripped her glove free. Dark trickles slid between two fingers from a jagged bite. Cyriana tore a thin fabric strip and looped the cloth over moist, aching digits. Traversing the deviant’s office, she discovered a stout safe tucked beyond one desk. Crafted by the finest artificer in Asdor via special request, Destiran’s vault was purported to be impenetrable. Cyriana did not doubt the rumors were true, and thankfully had no intention of testing gossip. She opened her haversack and retrieved a stolen key, inserting metal into one aperture and turning left three times.

  Cyriana withdrew the instrument, set it aside and lifted a vial of grease. She smeared one finger in lard and coated the keyhole, using a slender pick to force lubricant inside. Next she slid the second implement into its greased keyhole, this time rotating twice rightward. Some stubborn resistance slowed the process, and she briefly feared iron had jammed within, yet the turn resumed at a satisfactory speed.

  A silent prayer to Aelina in thanks for an exemplary job seemed appropriate, since filing a key required time she likely did not have. Shaving too closely also left the copied key unable to function at all, and Cyriana worried she did not have the necessary experience to straddle that line. She ignored a third opening in the vault, nothing more than a dummy to fool potential thieves into believing a final key existed. Mechanisms released as she finished the insertion, the faint clicks music to her ears.