That meant the man might belong to one of the Radiancies. Families born to wealth and privilege. Just as Kila had been born to the exact opposite sixteen years prior.
Even now, she carried nearly everything she owned. A pocket she’d sewn inside her shirt of quilted rags held her last few copper plugs. Enough money to buy a pinch of bread and half a cup of watered-down beer. Fortunately, she never exactly bought food.
“What do ya s’pose is in the sack?” she asked.
Wen didn’t answer. He never did if he didn’t know.
They watched the man stagger, adjust the sack on his shoulder, then continue on his way.
“Go find out. You need the practice,” Wen said, jerking his head toward the man. He suppressed another cough, then spat behind him. A bit of mercus light caught his dark eyes, watery from his effort to keep quiet. And yet his teeth gleamed with a smile. He loved stalking a mark.
The whole “practice” thing was a joke. Kila had robbed scores of marks. The lordling’s purse would soon be in Kila’s hands. “Are you comin’, or . . .”
“You can handle him. He’s trezzed to the tips of his little toes.” Wen tried to say it smooth and easy, but Kila heard the false notes. The truth neither of them wanted to voice was that Wen simply couldn’t keep pace with her anymore. And with his cough, his presence would be more of a risk than a help.
She pressed her shoulder to his. “Give me Cayne, just in case.”
The lordling stopped a moment and looked around, as if he’d heard something. Kila and Wen instinctively held their breaths, even though it was impossible for the man to spot them up here. He swayed, switched the bag to the other shoulder, then ambled along.
“Cayne?” she said again.
Wen carried the blade. It had been Father’s. He’d never explained why he called the weapon ‘Cayne’. But he’d taught Kila and her brother the basics of using it, along with two other valuable skills: how to be very quiet and how to rob someone.
Wen didn’t bother answering her demand for the knife. He would never let her rob a man while armed. It was one thing to get caught stealing. Another entirely to get caught stealing while wearing a blade.
“Take the roofway to the Harridan Gate,” he said. “And no witnesses.”
He didn’t wait for her outraged gasp. She heard the light footfalls of his bare feet as he darted to the edge of the roof and launched himself into the night.
“Yer a Kil-damned fool, brother,” she said to the darkness. It was something Father had always said, affectionately, about Wen. Kila said it this time with a bit more heat. “Witnesses,” she whispered in indignation. In truth, she did sometimes get spotted at the worst moment, hand on a purse and just about to cut it loose. But she’d never been captured. Wen had a lot of nerve chastising her. For the longest time, he had been the one taking the biggest risks. Broad daylight purse grabs, necklace slices, saddlebag pilfers. But nobody seemed to see him. Kila knew lots of Cheapsgate thieves. None approached Wen’s skills with picking locks, picking pockets, or simply picking marks from crowds. Kila counted herself lucky to have learned from him.
But still . . . witnesses? The streets were empty at this hour. The bells had rung three just a while ago.
The lordling staggered down the street, his voice rising in song.
Kila stood and bounced on her toes for a moment. Her heart thumped faster in anticipation of the thrill to come. She gave her arms a shake to loosen up. Time to concentrate.
The roofway would use up the last of her copper plugs, but it would let her get into position before the drunken lordling got to the plaza. She’d make the take as he passed through the darkness of the Harridan Gate.
She took a last glance at the man stumbling along the cobblestones. He was not moving very quickly. She had plenty of time.
A dark shape emerged from an alley behind him and crept along the shadowed front of an inn. So, that’s who he’d heard before.
Kila cursed on a long exhale. The drunken man had attracted another thief, who even now stalked close to make the take. Man or woman, Kila couldn’t tell from this far away.
This would never do. Kila needed that purse. Wen needed more medicine. And the Warren-Master Parlo Odok would come asking for his rent soon.
The drunken man was entering a section better lit by the mercus lights. Kila gauged the thief would trail him a bit longer. He wouldn’t make the take in such a well-lit area. At least, she wouldn’t. She wondered if the sneak was anyone she knew. Whoever it was, she had to—what was the word—dissuade him. Father had used a lot of interesting words.
She decided dissuade was too polite a term. This called for a more direct course of action. She patted her leg, where Cayne should have been snugly secured, but wasn’t. No matter, she told herself. She didn’t need a weapon. She was a weapon.
Grinning, she sprinted toward the edge of the roof and jumped. Mist washed against her cheeks as she leapt across the alleyway. A four-pace jump. Nothing special.
Her tough bare feet impacted on the neighboring roof. Even as light as she was, the occupant below—a silversmith—had probably heard her. She dropped a copper into the toll-pail and continued on her way. The silversmith would send up a boy later to collect it.
The toll pails were based on the honor system, and plenty of folk abused it. But Kila was careful to scratch her mark on plugs so the smith would know she’d paid. Occasionally, a building owner would post a flickbow dead-shot to keep runners honest. If you didn’t pay, you just might find a bolt protruding from your neck.
Kila raced toward the stone wall of a taller building. Her toes planted on the vertical face. Here—then here—then here, she thrusted up until her fingers found the ledge. Abdomen, shoulders, and arms contracted, launching her up until her feet cleared the ledge. She landed in stride and kept running.
The tolls weren’t just for safe passage.
Her heart thumped with the thrill to come. A long jump. A quiet grunt and she was airborne again, her legs wheeling as she flew across the gap. The street passed far below, at the bottom of a chasm of darkness.
She was falling now, wind whipping her golden hair back in a long stream. The roof of the Yin Inn approached, faster and faster.
A burlap mat the size of an ox, and stuffed fat and tight with straw, absorbed her impact. She dropped into a roll, then popped to her feet.
That’s what the toll pails were for. Somebody had to keep the landing mats positioned and stuffed. Kila would use three more of them before her run was done.
A kick of wind rose, shoving her sideways. Not enough to trouble her. A storm was rolling in from the sea somewhere behind her. She caught a whiff of salt air and rotting fish. It smelled like home.
Another leap, arms outstretched. She caught a thick metal rod jutting straight out from the front of the Myton Theatre building. She let her momentum carry her in a complete circle, then shot feet-first to an overhang overlooking the street.
She went very still. The drunken lordling was a little way ahead. No sign of the thief following him.
She decided to try the mercus vision. She relaxed as much as she could, let her eyes go passive. When it worked—which was almost never—she could see things not otherwise visible. Namely, metal.
If the thief was carrying a blade, or even wearing a belt buckle, she might be able to spot him behind a corner. But the mercus vision did not come to her.
A slender figure emerged from the alley below her. The sudden movement startled her.
The figure did not seem to know she was there, so that was good. Definitely a boy, not much older than she was. His clothes were shabby, but far better than her homemade rags. His were the clothes of a merchant’s son.
The lad was thin, no doubt about that. His hair was black, chopped short. She did not recognize him.
That would make this easier.
She pulled her hair back from her face and knotted it atop her head. She didn’t want to give him the chance to grab a handful o
f it. Wen admonished her to cut it short, but she hated people thinking she was a boy.
She blew a stray lock out of her eye and waited. Once he’d slunk farther down the street, she dropped to the paving stones. She crept behind him, hand absently searching for Cayne. Not there, of course. She didn’t want to stab the lad. Not really. But men took her more seriously when she had the blade in her hand.
It amused her that her enemies were safer when she had a blade than when she didn’t. Because when she didn’t, they tended to fight. And that’s when things got bloody for them.
The lad didn’t hear her. And for good reason. His own sneaking skills were as bumble-footed as a sailor three days ashore and ten pints deep.
The thief stopped at a cross street and ducked into a little alcove. At least he was smart enough to stay out of the light when he had the chance. Not that the drunken lordling would have noticed. The man’s voice carried down the street. He was singing again. If he didn’t clam up, somebody would wake up and start shouting. Then there would be scads of eyes on the street. Kila did not want that, especially after Wen’s little jab about witnesses.
The lordling was also getting closer to the Harridan Gate. Kila needed to make the take there, else it would be very risky to try at all. There were more Watch patrols past Dunne Medow Plaza on the other side of the gate.
Time to take care of the lad.
She waited for him to emerge from the alcove, her body tense and relaxed at the same time. Just as Father had taught her. Ready to leap this way or that as the situation demanded.
The boy darted across the street at an angle. He was headed for another doorway alcove further along. Kila would have made the same dash if she were stupid enough to trail a mark on street level.
She sprinted after him. He didn’t hear her.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, jammed a leg in front of both of his. He went down and she followed, controlled and already twisting to land atop him.
His breath burst out in a pained gasp. “Kil-loving son of a Spinster!”
Kila wasn’t done. Her elbow jammed into the divot at the base of his throat while her legs twined with his, pinning them.
He struggled like a landed blubfish for half a moment, until she pressed her elbow harder. That move tended to silence a struggle quickly. A man could be twice her weight, and he’d stay still if she could get him in this position.
But this was a boy. . . . Just skin and bones, and not much of the former. And ugly! His face looked like a mummer’s mask of Kil.
“That’s my mark yer a’followin’, lad,” she said, making her voice raspy and low.
“You’re a girl!” His voice came out a duck’s quack from the pressure she had on his throat.
“An’ here I thought you were stupid,” she said. Nostrils flaring, she punched him the stomach. She dismounted as he gasped for air. That would do him for now.
“I’ll forgive ya stalkin’ my mark this time, laddie,” she said. “But never again after this night. I see ya in this section of Terriside, I’ll—”
An impact from behind took her down, face smacking the wet stone. Weight crushed her and something metal flashed in front of her eyes. A dagger.
“Get up, Fallo!” said the boy on top of her.
The lad she’d taken down was retching. With his thatch of black hair and a hideously evil face, he looked like a scream-clown ready to suck the soul of a newborn babe. “Jab her.”
Kila’s attacker hesitated. And he hadn’t trapped her legs.
A dagger could make up for many a deficiency in a brawl, but this lad’s level of incompetence was insulting. You always, always, always brace your opponent’s legs.
She whipped one leg to the side, using the momentum to roll. Her attacker yelped and fell off. He was younger than the ugly one. She gripped his wrist, jamming her thumb into the corded tendons until found the sweet spot. The boy gasped; the weapon clanked onto the stones. Her knee drove into his groin, and that was that.
She sprang up, taking the dagger with her.
Fallo had gotten to his feet, but he was holding his stomach and still trying to get his breath. The other boy had folded into a ball. A keening cry of agony rose from his throat.
Kila twirled the dagger. “I won’t warn ya lads again.”
She ran down the street, after her drunken mark. A minute later she was on the roofway, racing to get in position before he made the Harridan Gate.
Something pulled in her mind, a nagging thought. She realized what it was. Wen’s admonishment about witnesses. Surely those boys didn’t count. They had to be warned off.
It didn’t matter. She needed that purse. She would have it. And the sack.
Thief of Sparks: Mercus Vision
The drunken lordling was on the street behind Kila now.
She skidded to a stop at the corner of a first-floor overhang on the front of a boarding house. She hunkered low to keep her head below the level of the windows. They were all dark, so she hoped the occupants were all asleep.
Lungs heaving, she squatted in the shadows. The man wouldn’t see her here even if he knew to look. Her quilted shirt was more brown than black, but dark enough to keep her hidden. Same with her loose pants though the hems ended mid-calf, exposing the scraped and grimy lengths of her shins.
She checked the dagger, which she’d shoved through her belt. It was worth a silver skillet or two. She touched the edge, felt nicks all along it. Not well-kept.
She knew a man who would buy it. If she chose to sell it. Perhaps she could stash it somewhere. Wen wouldn’t need to know about it.
The mercus lights were fewer in this spot. Whoever had built the city—and nobody truly knew who that was—hadn’t thought to put a light post at the mouth of the Gate. It seemed like a lucky oversight to Kila, for the street narrowed here and took a hard right turn before splitting to the Harridan Gate.
The jump to the street was a bit daunting, even for Kila. But she’d dropped farther many times. Her heart raced now, more from anticipation of the grab than from fear of the drop.
She peeked over the edge of the overhang.
Cobblestone pavement glistened from the weak light of a few fish-oil lanterns in neighboring windows.
The mist had thickened. It was almost a fog now, a common occurrence close to the Divide, the enormous wall that separated the city into Starside and Moonside.
The drunken lordling was finally stumbling toward the Harridan Gate.
He was still singing. His wavering voice reverberated off the buildings. In his current state, he was having trouble staying on the notes of “She Stoops to Kiss Me”, an old bawdy song that Kila rather liked.
He stopped right at the turn toward the Harridan Gate, hand pressing against the stone side of the boarding house. He fumbled with his cloak a moment. A gurgling belch erupted from his lips.
The distinctive splashing sound of his urine stream striking the side of the building rose to Kila’s ears. She smirked and turned her eyes away. Another reason to be grateful for the darkness here.
Her heart fluttered with anticipation of the take. Her senses sharpened to a razor’s keenness. The smell of wet stone, rotten fish, chimney smoke, and the lordling’s piss swirled into a thick mélange. It wasn’t pleasant, but in her state the smell wasn’t repulsive either. It just was.
Kila was used to this sensation coming over her. The lanterns atop the Divide seemed to brighten; the mercus light penetrating through the Harridan Gate from the plaza beyond turned the street a brighter gray.
She felt the rough grain of the cedar shingles beneath her feet. The damp, the chill, the breeze, the lordling’s song, all buzzed in her awareness. A bat flitted somewhere behind her, its wings sizzling the air.
She called this odd brightening of the senses “the zing.” She’d felt it ever since she’d started lifting purses from strangers when she was seven years old. Wen never understood her description of it. He said it was natural for a thief to be alert when sne
aking about. But the zing was more than that. She didn’t know exactly what it was, but she liked it.
The time had come. As soon as the man continued on his way she’d follow him into the Harridan Gate, the short tunnel formed by two buildings with an adjoining section over the street. On the other side lay Dunne Medow Plaza.
She decided to try her vision trick again. It never seemed to work when she wanted it to, but it was worth a try. She wanted to know what was in the sack the man was carrying over one shoulder.
Going very still, she let out her breath. She imagined she was relaxing her eyes. Not losing focus, but just trying to see the world without naming anything she saw.
The zing intensified, filling her head with a slight buzz of dizziness. The vision trick had happened a few times before, usually when she was both very tired and afire with the zing.
Like now.
The drunk man had finished his business and was struggling to fasten his trousers with one hand. The other held the mysterious sack.
It was hard to relax, knowing she would be robbing him momentarily. Still, if she could get the trick to work, she’d find out if he had a blade concealed somewhere.
Another out-breath, a bit dizzier. Her heart seemed to go still. The dark world dimmed and brightened at the same time.
And then it happened.
First the steel poles of the mercus streetlight posts began to shine with a reddish glow of iron. Then the drain gutters on the building across the way came alight with a rusty-colored aura. They were of some copper alloy.
Window latches, door hinges, sewer grates. They all began to glow.
The mercus vision. That’s what she believed it was. Everything metal popped into her vision as a glowing shape.
As calmly as she could, she studied the drunken lordling. The buckle of his belt, the buttons on his coat, and his pouch of silver skillets shined out bright as a lantern.
The sack did not have metal in it.
The young man faded into the tunnel. Kila dropped twenty feet to the stone pavement. Her knees absorbed the impact, but they couldn’t prevent a wet slapping noise of her feet striking down.
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