by Brian Farrey
I glanced at them, and it’s a good thing our backs were to the guard because they each wore a self-satisfied smirk. Ma pointed to the star in the center. “I made this right before Nanni came to live with us. That’s why there are only four people. An insurance policy your Da and I cooked up just over a year ago.”
“Insurance policy?” I asked.
Da nodded. “This is the year, Jaxter. The Big Job.”
The Big Job. Ever since I was little, Ma and Da had been planning the most ambitious heist of their joint careers. They talked about it all the time, but I didn’t think they’d ever get to it in my lifetime. But now they were going ahead with it: a raid on Ullin Lek’s vaults.
Ullin Lek was the wealthiest man in Vengekeep, and possibly the entire Province. To my parents, he represented the highest prize imaginable. The vaults beneath his house were legendary, said to be loaded with barrels filled with silvernibs, precious gems of immeasurable value, and rare works of art that rivaled the High Laird’s own collection. They’d spent years following Lek, learning everything they could that would help them with the break-in. Now it seemed they were ready.
“There’s no telling what we’ll face once we get into the vaults,” Ma said.
Da nodded. “Lek can afford much more powerful magical protections than simple yellstop charms. Our chance of getting caught is a mite higher than usual.”
“So we needed a contingency plan, something that would keep the Castellan from sending us to prison … or worse … if we fail.”
I got the idea. “So you wove a fake tapestry, predicting doom and gloom for Vengekeep, and swapped it out for the real one. And if you get caught, they can’t touch the ‘saviors of Vengekeep.’” I could hardly contain a smile. “Brilliant!”
Ma had folded her arms across her chest to keep from laughing. “Can’t take all the credit. It was your da who dreamed up the Fire Men. Flying creatures were mine, though. Wanted to keep it plenty scary.” She took a step back, giving the tapestry an admiring look. “You know, it didn’t net us a single copperbit, but I’d have to say that this was our finest con ever.”
Later, on our way out, we all joined arms and bowed respectfully to the Castellan and the scholars.
“Please know,” Ma said, as seriously as she could muster, “that Vengekeep can rely on the Grimjinxes to stare down any disasters that may befall the city in the coming year.”
The five of us made it only ten steps from the front door of the hall before we couldn’t hold it in anymore. We laughed all the way home.
3
Apprentice Day
“There is no punishment harsh enough for the crime of stupidity.”
—Baloras Grimjinx, architect of the First Aviard Nestvault Pillage
To say that the people of Vengekeep immediately embraced the idea that my family was destined to save them from unimaginable catastrophes would be like saying the Castellan didn’t almost swallow his tongue when he signed the order granting us immunity from prosecution.
In other words, it would be a complete lie.
Everyone in the family was used to drawing suspicious stares wherever we went in town. Now, those stares seemed even more incredulous … but decidedly less hostile. No one—from Tresdin Nahr, the town-state treasurer, to Chodrin Benrick, the cobbler’s snooty son—wanted to believe the Grimjinx clan was destined to save Vengekeep.
We could hardly believe how well the con had worked. We had a year. A whole year to plunder without fear of charges, search warrants, or grumpy magistrates. If we planned it right, the whole family could retire by the next Festival.
Retiring at age twelve. Let’s see the cobbler’s son try that.
As was tradition, Apprentice Day came to Vengekeep exactly two weeks after the Unveiling. Merchants and business owners set up tables around the edge of Cloudburn Park in the north of town. Anyone who’d turned twelve since the last Apprentice Day was required to go from table to table and apply for an apprenticeship at any number of mind-numbing jobs. Blacksmith. Carpenter. Seamstress. Sure, they were fine for the people doing the jobs, but when you come from a long line of thieves—where excitement is mandatory—it could lead to death by boredom.
Luckily, I’d been apprenticed to my parents since I was old enough to hold a lockpick. Officially, of course, if anyone asked, I was an apprentice at our family’s phydollotry shop, a small business Ma and Da kept in the west of town. The shop was a cover. That is, it was how we gave the appearance of making money in a more … traditional way. At times, it seemed silly to maintain because everyone knew what we really did. But all good thieves have a strong cover and as long as my parents could claim I was their apprentice, the town-state council wouldn’t bother us.
While everyone else my age stood in line, I lay out under the mokka tree at the park’s center, smiling discreetly at the would-be apprentices not so far away. Aubrin was digging small holes nearby, her nimble pickpocket’s fingers snatching at stickworms that she and Da could use for bait when they went fishing. Da had given me a Class 1 Armbruster lock to practice picking. He was nothing if not optimistic. So I sat, back to the tree’s trunk, with the lock in my lap and my picks laid out neatly on the ground next to me.
Twok! I looked around as an acorn bounced off the top of my head. When I went back to picking the lock, another acorn followed. Twok! Aubrin giggled. I peered up through the thick branches and leaves of the mokka tree and caught a glimpse of bare feet dangling from near the very top.
“I don’t think the mokka tree needs any apprentices this year,” I called up. “You might be better off checking with Captain Aronas. He could use someone with a good throwing arm. His guards couldn’t hit the perimeter wall around Vengekeep.”
The leaves shook, and suddenly a girl swung into view. She hung upside down, her legs wrapped around a thick branch. Her long hair dangled like amber-colored icicles from the top of her head. She shot me a wicked grin.
“Aren’t you twelve?” she asked. “I’m pretty sure you’re required to go over to those tables and beg someone for a job.”
“I’ve got a note from my ma,” I said, holding up an imaginary piece of paper. “It says, ‘Please excuse Jaxter from all stupidity and wastes of time.’”
The girl snorted. “Well, you’re not excused from watching stupidity, are you? You get a much better view up here. Come on!” She patted the branch next to her.
I’m pretty sure I heard my sister guffaw at the suggestion that I climb the tree. “Pipe down, Jinxface,” I said. But I couldn’t blame her. I looked up the mokka tree’s trunk. We had a long, unpleasant history, this tree and I. A history that involved me vowing to get over my clumsiness by climbing to the top and the tree having other ideas. Ideas that saw me falling to the ground, still as clumsy as ever.
“Thanks,” I said with a friendly wave. “I can see fine from here.”
The girl folded her arms. “If I have to come down there, I’m only going to drag you up here by your collar.”
I squinted up at her. Something told me she’d have no problem following through on her threat. So I handed my lockpicks to Aubrin, dug my fingers into the bark, and hoisted myself up to the first branch. No triumph. That was the farthest I’d ever gotten. I looked down at Aubrin, who gave me the thumbs-up. Swallowing, I found new footing and started clawing my way to the next higher branch, just beyond my grasp.
I teetered forward, then back, and it ended as these things do: me on my back in the dirt at the base of the tree. Aubrin sighed, having witnessed my past failures with the evil tree. Once I had air in my lungs again, I called up, “Is the offer to drag me up by my collar still on the table?”
The girl laughed. “Stay there,” she said, releasing her legs and catching the next branch in a free fall. She continued this the rest of the way down until she landed at my side and offered a hand. She hauled me to my feet with a single, strong yank and I made a note never to make her angry.
I brushed dust off my rear while stealing glance
s at her. She was about my age, wearing large breeches and a billowing shirt that fell off her shoulders. Her smirk was more confident than cocky.
“So why are you so important that you don’t have to stand in line?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the merchants and their tables.
I shrugged. “Don’t need to. I’m apprenticed to my parents at the family phydollotry shop.”
“Phydollotry?” she asked. “What’s that?”
Truth be told, there was no such thing as “phydollotry.” It was a silly name Da made up when he and Ma moved to Vengekeep years ago. If a customer walked in and asked what phydollotry was, Da would stroke his chin and say in a mysterious voice, “It’s easier to experience than explain.” Then he’d immediately begin taking a series of measurements: the width of the customer’s head, the distance from their armpit to their hip, the exact height of each tooth. It could take hours. If that wasn’t enough to scare the person away, Da would open a large cabinet filled with the rustiest, sharpest tools you’d ever seen and carefully select the nastiest looking one, all the while eyeing the customer and grinning.
That’s usually when they ran for the door.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “How are your lessons with the widow Bellatin going?”
She blinked. “What?”
Aubrin nudged me and clicked her tongue. Okay, I admit I was showing off. But the girl had hit me with an acorn. Twice. I owed her. “It’s a good thing your uncle isn’t short of cash,” I continued. “The widow charges a heap. I wouldn’t worry, though. Your uncle will wise up once you’ve been living with him longer.”
The girl’s eyes widened in a mix of anger and surprise. “You don’t know me. How could you possibly know that I’m taking lessons with the widow Bellatin? Or that I’m living with my uncle! Have you been spying on me?”
She looked ready to hit me, so I grinned. “No. I … notice things. I’m good at it.”
Well, I’m great at it.
She crossed her arms. “Like?”
I sighed. “Your clothes are too big. Whoever bought them guessed at your size. Wouldn’t be your parents. More like a close relative; an uncle or an aunt. But an aunt wouldn’t buy you something that looks like you’re about to go into the Kaladark crystal mines, so it’s an uncle. The material is sturdy, which tells me he knows children need strong clothes, so he’s got a child. A son. Or he never would have dressed you in that. It’s unlikely he would buy you clothes if you were just visiting, so that says you’ve just moved here.”
Before she could say another word, I brushed the hair from her shoulder. “You’ve got a faint tan line along your neck. You’ve been out in the sun, wearing a high-collared dress. When you stand, you favor your right leg because your left foot is killing you. Now, what is it that requires wearing a high-collared dress under the hot sun that would make your left foot hurt? Dancing lessons with the widow Bellatin, who believes that all ladies should be able to dance properly under the most extreme conditions. She’s famous for forcing her students to dance the Aviard two-step outdoors in the coldest winter and hottest summer. And since most of the Aviard two-step is performed by hopping on the left foot …”
She continued to glare at me for a moment or two. Then her face broke into a smile and finally she laughed. “That … was … amazing! Go on, then, what else do you know about me?”
Well, as long as she asked … “You’re not in line to be an apprentice. All girls in Vengekeep are required to take an apprenticeship … unless they’re training to be a lady. Between the high-collared dress and the widow’s pricey lessons, it’s clear your uncle makes a lot of money. That narrows his identity down to a handful of people in Vengekeep. The wealthy businessmen in town wouldn’t want a daughter—or niece—to be a lady. They’d want her to continue the family business.”
“So maybe,” she interrupted, “like you, I already have a family apprenticeship.”
“Except,” I replied, “you’ve already admitted to studying with the widow Bellatin, which no apprentice does. Since you’re not from a business family, you must be related to someone who works for the government of Vengekeep. Which can only mean you’re the niece of Masteron Strom, the Keeper of the Catacombs. He’s the only widowed councilman with a son.”
The girl shook her head in disbelief and extended her hand.
“Callie Strom,” she introduced herself.
“Jaxter Grimjinx,” I said, shaking her hand. My sister stood and cleared her throat. “And this is Aubrin.”
Callie looked at me and winked. “I’m sure the young lady can speak for herself.”
Aubrin and I traded glances. “Aubrin … doesn’t say much,” I said. The truth was that Aubrin hadn’t said a single word in all her ten years. No one knew why. Ma and Da pretended not to mind, saying that she’d have plenty to say when the time was right. But I knew they secretly worried.
Callie bit her lip. “Oh. Sorry.” Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Wait … Grimjinx? As in the Grimjinxes who are destined to save us all from catastrophe?”
I shrugged. “Well, I don’t want to brag, but …”
Then her eyes narrowed and she said more softly, “And the Grimjinxes whose thievery leaves a trail of victims in their wake?”
“No, no,” I corrected. “Not ‘victims.’ We call them ‘marks.’ More dignified. For someone new to town, you know a lot about us.”
Callie scoffed. “Oh, please. I’m from Ankhart village, all the way in Jarron Province. The Grimjinx name is known everywhere. In fact, since you became saviors, this is the only place I’ve ever heard anyone use the name respectfully.”
I beamed. “Thank you! You’ll be a fine lady someday.”
She groaned and looked away. “Don’t even joke about that. Uncle wants me to be a lady so I can marry the High Laird’s son.”
“But the High Laird doesn’t have a son,” I countered. “He’s not even married.”
“He will one day,” she said, “and Uncle insists I be ready.”
“Well, what would you be if you had a choice?”
Callie turned, her face lit with excitement. “I would be something that didn’t require wearing dresses or learning to play the oxina or dancing the Aviard two-step. I’d be something that made my heart race, something that kept life interesting, something like” —she stopped and looked down at the Armbruster lock I’d left on the ground—“a thief.”
I actually heard this a lot. People imagined the life of a thief was carefree and easy. They loved the idea of danger and intrigue. They didn’t understand it was hard work. Especially when, you know, being clumsy comes far more naturally.
She put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me in close.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Callie said thoughtfully. “You teach me how to pick that lock”—she jerked her thumb at the Armbruster on the ground—“and I’ll teach you how to climb that tree.”
I looked up its long, intimidating trunk. “Without falling?”
“Without falling.”
Given that my own thieving skills weren’t exactly top of the range, it didn’t seem like a fair trade. But as my great-uncle Archonias Grimjinx says, “A fair trade is fair only for the fair.” And besides, my family’s reputation generally kept me from having many friends. This was the first time it was working for me. How could I say no?
“Deal.” We shook hands and I laughed. “What will the widow think?”
Callie hunched over and spoke in an uncanny impersonation of the widow Bellatin. “A lady must possess a wide array of skills.”
I chortled. “I don’t think she had theft in mind.”
“Well, then, we just won’t tell her.”
A shadow fell between us.
“Oya.”
I recognized the gruff voice. Turning, I found a familiar boy leaning against the mokka tree. He was my age but nearly a head taller. His sleeveless tunic revealed well-muscled arms. His dark hair, the same shade as mokka tree bark, was so short he almost
looked bald. He stared right at me, his face hard.
Aubrin scowled, but I smiled warmly. “Oya, Maloch. Long time, no see.”
I offered my hand, and his face went from hard to downright hateful.
“Callie,” I said, “this is Maloch Oxter. He’s a sort of … well, friend isn’t the right word anymore, is it, Mal?”
“You’re Keeper Strom’s niece, right?” Maloch ignored me and spoke to Callie. “You wanna be careful hanging around him.” He shot a look at me. “His whole family are just stinking cutpurses.”
I flinched involuntarily. Cutpurse was like a curse word in our house, even worse than zoc. To us, cutpurses were petty thieves who preyed on anyone, including the weak and the poor. Call the Grimjinxes what you wanted, but we did none of that.
I let the slur go, swallowing to keep my smile in place. Maloch had grown a bit since we’d last seen each other. I had no doubt he could pound me into paste.
“You know, Maloch, I’d love to catch up, but—”
I tried to move around him, but he stood in my path.
“I just became Captain Aronas’s apprentice. I’ll be joining the stateguard. You and your family better watch yourselves.”
“In case you hadn’t heard,” Callie said, hands on her hips, “Jaxter’s family is destined to save Vengekeep. I don’t think your name was on that tapestry.”
Maloch sneered at me. “I bet you think that means you and your family can get away with whatever you want. Well, not a chance. I’ll personally be watching you.” Then he leaned in until I could smell sour tarok sauce on his breath. “Well, I’ll be watching your family. Watching you would be a mistake. They’re the thieves. Not you.”
I felt my face flush as I swallowed.
“Tell me,” Maloch said, eyeing me head to toe, “just what the zoc do they need you for?” He glanced down at the pouches hanging from my belt and gave a single laugh. “Oh, that’s right. You play with your little plants and roots and saps. Trying to make up for the fact that you’re basically an embarrassment to them. Too clumsy to be a thief … so what good are you?”