by Sam Sykes
“For the moment. I think she’s our best bet.”
Dalaris shook her head. “But if you get hurt—”
“Don’t be stupid.” I reached down and squeezed her hand. “Only amateurs get hurt.”
She looked down at her hand, then up at me. And I knew the look in her eyes. I had seen it a thousand times in the eyes of those hopeful suitors, in those believers in redemption, in Chariel right before I disappeared …
She was looking at me like she looked at a flower growing out of a pile of manure. She was looking for light in a dark place, the possibility that there was more to me than just snide words and latent alcoholism. The possibility that someone, somewhere down the line, would be very happy with me.
Yeah, I had seen that look before.
Many times.
Right before their eyes went glassy.
But there was no need to ruin the mood right now, was there?
15
Knocking at the Back Door
Once they hear the word “thief,” everyone thinks of the same thing. You probably thought it, too, when you heard it.
A moonlit—or moonless, if you’re feeling dramatic—night, right? The clouds shift overhead, revealing a single figure, clad so head to toe in black leather that they might as well be a shadow— sexless, ageless, almost formless. There’s a single glint of silver as a grappling hook is drawn and thrown. And with all the speed and grace of a spider, they skitter up the wall to a rich man’s home—or I hear fortresses of evil tyrants are popular with the bards these days—and slide in like a ghost.
That about right?
I’ve heard them all. In Katapesh, it’s a slinky, black-clad stranger who breaks into a greedy merchant’s house. In Andoran, it’s a proud abolitionist spy infiltrating a prison to break free some slaves. But it’s more or less the same thing: black clothes, dark night, sneaky-sneaky, breaky-breaky, stealy-stealy.
Usually, I prefer the more subtle route: disguises, subterfuge, a heaping helping of lies. But sometimes, that’s just not feasible.
And, I thought to myself as I pulled up the grappling hook behind me, the classics are classics for a reason.
I leaned out from the windowsill, cast a glance down. It was a twenty-foot drop to Vishera’s courtyard. If the fall didn’t kill me, then the numerous guards in black-and-red livery would. To be honest, I was a little surprised I’d made it as far as I had. House Stelvan’s gardens were markedly slim on the statues, fountains, and artistic shrubberies that peppered the other nobles’ houses. Likely, that was to make it more difficult for would-be thieves—or, more likely, the Qadiran spies that Vishera apparently feared lurking in the night.
Which was ridiculous, of course. Qadirans were all about their sun goddess, Sarenrae. Norgorber would never send a cloudy, moonless night—the kind that would let someone slip across a heavily guarded courtyard, for example—to a Qadiran.
Fortunately, Norgorber has an understanding with Katapesh.
I slipped back into the window, eased it shut behind me and slid out of the frame. The light inside the manor was dim—only a few candelabras lit—but I couldn’t take the chance that someone would look up and see my shadow.
This high up, a fall into House Stelvan’s living room would kill me as surely as a fall in the courtyard. I’d just leave a much more elegant corpse.
The main hall to Stelvan’s manor was positively enormous. Dalaris’s could hold two couches and a table comfortably. But within this massive hall, it was like its own world. At the great doors were two flanking, severe-looking statues of ancient ancestors. Farther down was a dining table replete with twenty chairs on each side. Scattered about were sofas and tables and cushions and relaxing chairs as big as thrones. All of this sat under the watchful eyes of the omnipresent ancestral portraits of Yanmass—and Vishera’s ancestors looked particularly uptight.
Even so, I’d have called the whole thing, with its many crimsons and blacks and violets, beautiful.
I would have … if not for the guards.
They stood so still, I would have called them more pieces of furniture if it weren’t for the occasional shifting of stances they took. One by one, they stood at the various large windows and stared out, deliberately searching the night for anything the guards outside might have missed. They were clad in the same livery as the ones in the courtyard, and I could see swords at their hips and the glint of mail beneath their shirts.
Their eyes were locked on the windows—or, occasionally, on each other as they casually traded conversations. I smiled at my fortune. These were no eager young recruits who searched everywhere. Nor were they hardened veterans who could sense trouble in the air. No, I had been lucky enough to find the guards who were too old to care out of enthusiasm and too young to care out of loyalty.
I pulled a black hood up over my face and leaned forward. The rafters crisscrossing the house looked solid enough: old, but well made. Nonetheless, I crept out onto them slowly and with great, deliberate care. Like a cat, hands in front and feet back, I tested each beam before sliding onto it. I wasn’t worried about them giving way under me—I didn’t weigh that much, no matter how much I had been drinking lately. But a groan from an ancient timber or a squeak from a rusty connector would give even a lazy guard a reason to look up.
“Anything out there tonight?”
Fortunately, they didn’t seem too interested.
“Yeah, I saw an entire squadron of Qadirans marching through the street.” A slightly bored-sounding voice wafted up from below. “And behind them, Sarenrae herself was driving a chariot pulled by six naked angels, all of them singing—”
“You can just say ‘no, I didn’t see anything.’” The first voice sighed. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
I peered over the beam. This high up, the guards looked tiny. But Stelvan’s main hall was so vast it might as well have been an amphitheater. In the silence of the night, the echoes of their voices carried all the way up.
“Every night is the same routine,” the bored guard said. “Even a place this big doesn’t require this many guards to be awake all night. We don’t even know what we’re supposed to be looking for.”
“Whatever the mistress says you’re looking for,” the other guard replied. “You don’t want her to catch you slacking off.”
“She’d have to leave her study for that to happen. I hear she’s taking her meals in there now.”
“She controls the entire weapons trade of Yanmass. She has bigger concerns.”
“Still, a little leadership would go a long way to improving morale around here. If not the mistress, then perhaps her son could—”
The conversation was abbreviated by the sudden sound of an open palm slapping a cheek. The echo carried through the hall, drawing a glance from the rest of the guards. Looking down, I saw the second guard seize the other by his collar and draw him close. Their voices dropped to a low mutter and I could just barely make out what they were saying as I leaned over the beam and strained my ears.
“Don’t you ever speak of the master,” the second guard hissed. “The mistress pays you to watch, not speculate. Got it?”
The first guard nodded dumbly, then scurried off to his post as the other guard released him. I rubbed my own cheek in sympathy, remembering the sting of Vishera’s slap quite well.
In a way, it was kind of nice to know that it wasn’t personal. Apparently, anyone who mentioned her son was worthy of slapping.
And it was even nicer to know that the mistress was currently indisposed.
I glanced toward the end of the great hall. A massive staircase, wide enough to accommodate five men side by side, rose up from the marble floor to climb to the upper levels of the manor. A large balcony stretched left and right, doubtless leading into the upper halls.
I couldn’t help but be impressed; I knew a few fortress-commanders who would writhe in envy at the scope of Vishera’s manor.
I, myself, had a passing appreciation for t
he fact that her rafters stretched all the way to the staircase. I decided I would leave her a thank-you note.
Carefully, I crept across the rafters toward the end of the hall. Once I reached it, I spared a quick glance for any guards that might have been watching. Their eyes fixed on the windows, I hugged the beam and swung myself to its underside. I lowered myself to the balcony and rushed for the left hall.
I pressed myself close to the wall, slipped behind a pillar. I peered down the hall. White marble columns marched its length, flanking a dark crimson carpet. Elegant doors lined the walls, each one marked with gold filigree that glowed in the dim light of lamps hanging from the domed ceiling.
It looked almost like precisely what you’d expect to find in a rich woman’s house.
Of course, usually, you’d expect guards up here.
It made sense, right? The upper levels were where the jewels, artwork, and important stuff was kept, wasn’t it? Someone as paranoid as Vishera would doubtless want her most priceless shit watched over closely.
And yet, the halls were completely bereft of life. No guards. No sentries. Not even a servant was present.
There could be a few reasons for that, of course. Possibly Vishera preferred to front-load her protection, assuming no one would get past her guards downstairs. Or maybe she simply didn’t have enough money to staff the entire household.
Or perhaps a woman so paranoid as to suspect an imminent incursion of Qadirans hundreds of miles away would be paranoid enough to not even trust her own guards with her most priceless secrets.
I scratched my chin. That would seem to make sense, but no rich person ever left their treasure totally unguarded.
Which meant …
I glanced to the floor, narrowed my eyes, and searched until …
“Hello, beautiful.”
There. Six paces ahead. Stretched between the two nearest pillars. It was a thin little thing, barely thicker than a strand of spider’s silk and painted a shade of crimson that made it indistinguishable from the carpet. Any other idiot would have stumbled into it, for sure. And frankly, I probably would have, too, had I not taken the time to search.
But this wasn’t the first tripwire I’d ever seen.
I looked up to the walls, saw the arrow-slots neatly hidden just after the pillars. It was a good setup: some bumbling oaf comes in, trips the wire without even noticing, takes another two steps and finds himself skewered by six arrows before he knows what hit him.
Classic.
And expensive.
Here’s a piece of advice: the amount of money spent on a trap to keep someone from advancing is always guarding an object worth at least three times that amount.
Call it Shy’s Law.
And as this particular arrow-trap was worth at least six thousand, there must be some nice stuff down this hall.
I crept out, stepped gingerly over the tripwire, and kept my eyes open for traps. Good thing I was, as my trip down the hall yielded a pressure plate hidden under the carpet, a pendulum-blade hidden in the wall, and a bust of an old bald guy.
Granted, I didn’t know if that bust was one of those weird trapped busts where the guy shoots lightning out of his eyes if you walk in front of him or if Vishera just had an ugly relative she wanted to remember, but I ducked under it, all the same.
And as I went, I checked each door, pressing my ear to the wood and listening. The guards said that Vishera was in her study all the time. If I had to wager, I’d say that anyone paranoid who had anything worth hiding would keep it near them.
Or maybe I was looking forward to the opportunity to break in, sneak up on her, and choke her. Either way, once I heard a noise, that’d be my best bet.
And yet, all the doors I tried were dead silent. One after another, I didn’t hear a gods-damned sound. I was starting to suspect I’d have to crack them open and search them all, but then I reached the fourth door.
Ear to the wood. Breath held. Eyes closed. Concentrate.
Footsteps.
There we go.
I reached for the handle, paused. The door was held with a rather hefty-looking lock. It was gussied up with gold and silver, but it was still the kind of lock you’d use to guard either a lot of money or a guy you really, really wanted to kill later.
Still, nothing I couldn’t work with.
I pulled my picks out of my pocket, knelt down, and went to work. It took a bit of tweaking, poking and wiggling, but eventually I found a smile creeping on my face as I heard the sound that every rogue loves hearing.
Click.
Click is good.
Ka-chunk.
Ka-chunk, though? Ka-chunk is not good.
I heard wood sliding behind me. I heard a spring go off. I heard wind whistling.
And if I had been just a hair slower, I’d have been hearing three thick darts punching into my kidneys rather than the wood of the door. And even though I had fallen to the floor in time to avoid the trap, I couldn’t help but curse.
Vishera had to have heard that. She had to have known what that sound was, too. No more time to play it slow, then; I had to get in there and silence her before she could raise an alarm. I pulled Whisper out of his sheath, threw the door open, and swept into the room, searching for an old lady with a throat that needed cutting.
What I found, though, was a naked lady.
A huge naked lady.
She loomed before me, ten feet tall and reclined on a sofa adorned with a leopard’s pelt. Skin so pale it was almost translucent, the barest scrap of silk valiantly trying and failing to offer modesty to the curves of her body. Beneath a mane of raven hair and above the vaguest of come-hither smiles, a pair of brilliant blue eyes sparkled.
She was beautiful, to be sure.
Even if she was a painting.
And even if her breasts were so gigantic that they’d probably make the Inner Sea shift six miles east whenever she bent over.
The portrait hung on the far wall, dominating the spacious room. And as huge as it was, it’d be much easier to ignore if every other wall wasn’t caked in other canvases of various sizes, each of them sporting an echoing theme of “insanely endowed woman lying on dead animal.” It’s not like there was any furniture to speak of except a table, a wine bottle, and an easel with a woman awaiting the painting of the second massive breast to compliment the first.
I wasn’t quite sure where Vishera would be hiding incriminating evidence in this, er, “gallery.” But hey, good to know she had hobbies.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
I whirled at the voice, knife up and ready to stab. But the face that looked at me didn’t look particularly worried. Hell, he didn’t even seem to notice I had a knife as he came walking out of a nearby curtained doorway.
He was a sort of classically—or generically—handsome fellow. His tall and lean body was in a tunic way too loose and breeches way too tight, leaving way, way too little to the imagination. A velvet cap hung lazily over a mop of unruly black hair. His features were narrow and sharp, reminiscent of an axe head. But it was his eyes, dark and smoldering, that drew my attention.
Though apparently, the same could not be said of my eyes. The man seemed to look right past me as he walked up to the easel and gestured toward his incomplete newest portrait.
“This one, though,” he said, his voice a dark, sultry sort of sound, “this one will be my masterpiece. It’s almost intimidating. I am entering brave new territory. Note the leaves encroaching at the borders, stopping just shy of the beauty, as if to suggest that even nature could not improve upon her. And here, see? The babbling brook shyly creeps by, to suggest deference to her.”
I looked over the portrait, noticed the leaves and brook, and nodded.
“Right.” I scratched my chin. “So, uh, what do the colossal tits suggest?”
“Please.” He held a hand to his chest, turned away dramatically, apparently offended. “The beauty of the form is, perhaps, exaggerated, if only to accentuate the life-giving
power apparent in all women.”
“Yeah. Okay.” I nodded, squinted at him. “So, have you seen many women, or—”
“Droll.” He sneered down a rather long nose at me. “I trust you didn’t decide to grace me with your presence solely so you could misunderstand my work.” He glanced toward the door. “Of course, given the amount of trouble you had to go through to get here, I can’t actually imagine why you would have come.”
“Yeah, I meant to talk about that.” I swept over to the door, glanced out to make sure no one was coming before easing it shut. “Are all the rooms here hidden behind poisoned dart traps, or what?”
“Poisoned darts?” The man lofted a sculpted eyebrow. “Upon last inspection, it was still the pendulum of death. I suppose that explains the banging I heard two months ago.” He walked to the wine bottle, poured himself a glass. “Mother’s been doing some renovation, I suppose.”
“’Mother?’”
I turned to him, eyes wide, just as he turned to face me. And suddenly, I saw it: the narrow features, the harsh angles of his face, the way I kind of wanted to strangle him a little.
“Holy hell, you’re Vishera’s son.”
“Mm.” He took a long bow. “Lord Visheron Stelvan, at your service. Or at least, as much service as I can accomplish within the confines of my quarters.” He paused. “Since you didn’t know who I am, I take it you’re not here to see me.”
“Not really, no.”
“Pity. I thought it wasn’t my birthday. Mother usually sends me a new model once a year or so.” He ran his eyes up and down me and made a face that made the urge to strangle him grow stronger. “I don’t think she’d send me someone quite so boyish, though.”
“Well, sorry, friend.” I bit back my resentment and shrugged instead. “I was actually looking for, er…”
“Mother, I take it.” He swirled his wine and snorted. “Or something Mother took. Or someone Mother killed.”
“Actually, yeah. Does she do this sort of thing a lot?”
“One does not reach the lofty heights that Mother has without being a heady cocktail of ambition and ruthlessness, my dear. After all, how else would one explain locking one’s offspring up for his life?”