Guardian of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  Light Devices glowed at the iron street gate, which was unguarded, and at the wall where the heavy front doors were a dark blotch against the lighter pinkish-tan stones. No one stood at those doors, either. She’d concluded Abakian counted on the sheer impregnability of the wall to discourage casual attempts at breaking in. She loved that kind of arrogance in a mark.

  High above, lights like moving stars floated past as the guards walked back and forth along their paths atop the wall. She’d watched them for two nights and seen the same thing both times: they kept irregular patterns, sometimes pausing for minutes at a time, presumably to chat about women or gambling or whatever it was guards found interesting. Nothing she could take advantage of. The first night, it had been discouraging. The second night, she’d stopped wishing for what couldn’t be and made a plan.

  She circled wide around the Residence, wishing the wall at the end of the alley weren’t there. The alley would have been perfect for her plan. Instead, she crept along the front of the row of tall houses, sneaking from doorway to doorway until she crouched as near as she could get to the iron fence running along the side of the Residence. It was fifteen feet from where she lurked and radiated cold even at that distance. She tugged her cap more firmly over her head, snugged her gloves close to her fingers, and waited. This was the second most dangerous part of this job, getting to the wall without being seen. Which was why she’d arranged for a little help.

  Time passed. Willow watched the guards pass, two of them on this side, and wondered what the Abakians were so afraid of that they needed so much security. Their paths had them meeting in the middle, pausing for the inevitable conversation, then separating to walk back to opposite corners. That left her an opening, but not enough of one. She liked lax guards, but sometimes they just made trouble.

  She flexed one foot, which had started to cramp. More of the tiny birds swept overhead and disappeared past the roof of her shelter. This had to work. She didn’t know what time it was, but her distraction certainly did. If Rafferty arrived late, or worse, had been early…

  She heard singing, far in the distance. It was a powerful, melodious voice, and the notes echoed off the houses on the next street over, making the words unintelligible. Willow knew the tune, though. It was a popular Tremontanan folk song about a young man and his walking staff, heavy with innuendo and a hundred verses. It was so unexpected she almost laughed. Rafferty had assured her he’d keep the guards’ attention on him, but hadn’t said how.

  The singer was coming closer, and Willow tensed, ready to run, watching the guards. There. One guard reached his corner at the rear of the wall and stayed there, looking down. Willow couldn’t see Rafferty, but she could hear him clearly and knew he’d stopped outside the fence. Another racket arose, this one of a metal stick banging against the bars of the fence. Willow grinned. The second guard left his path to join his fellow at the back corner, and Willow sprinted for the fence.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Gravel crunched underfoot as she ran, feeling every sharp-edged pebble through her soft soles. Time for pain later. She grabbed hold of the icy crossbar at the top of the fence, barely able to reach it in a leap, and used her momentum to pull herself up and over. Her shirt snagged and tore, and she cursed under her breath. Landing lightly, she rose from a crouch and ran again, wincing at how loud her footsteps were. Was the gravel another security measure on the Abakians’ part? Probably not, but it was serving them well tonight, or would be if anyone were paying attention.

  She didn’t bother avoiding the desert plants dotting the ground, and they sent up spicy fragrances wherever she trod. The ruckus was wild music to her ears, her feet crunched the gravel underneath, her breath came in quick pants, drawing in the damp, cool air, and then she was in the shelter of the doorway arch. It wasn’t much more than a few inches of stone protruding from the wall, but it would have to be enough. She rattled the latch gently, just to be sure—she’d once managed to lock an unlocked door she’d thought was locked—then whipped out her picks and went to work. The lock was older and bigger than her practice locks, big enough she could almost fit her pinky inside, and the slim picks gave alarmingly as she worked the tumblers. Already her plan was going south. She closed her eyes and watched the icy tumblers shift, too slowly.

  The banging sound had become rhythmic as Rafferty started using the fence as a percussion instrument. Shouts joined the melody, drifting down from above. The guards sounded as frustrated as she’d hoped, and she grinned despite the tension gripping her neck and shoulders. She owed Rafferty again. Not that she was in a position to grant favors other than perhaps the use of the Serjian Residence bathhouse. He’d only be there a few more minutes, and this lock was taking forever to pick, she was wasting her distraction—

  With a squeal that set Willow’s teeth on edge, the tumblers ground into a new position. Willow jammed her picks into her waistband and eased the door open.

  Barrels and crates surrounded the door, piled neatly to head-height. Willow put a hand on one of them, and it shifted: empty. These were waiting to be collected by merchants and wine vendors in exchange for full ones. Willow slid through the narrow gap between door and frame and crouched behind a stack of crates. The smell of old wine and rotten food almost overwhelmed her, and she breathed shallowly through her mouth to avoid the worst of the stink.

  She moved a few inches to the right, hoping for a better view of the Residence and the door she knew would be there. The ells and blocky wings of the Residence looked tacked on to the main building, exactly as if some giant child had constructed it out of whatever blocks were handy. In the center, rising high above the rest, was a golden dome that gleamed in the lamplight. By day it would be blindingly brilliant and probably unspeakably gaudy, but it had an immense dignity by night. That dome was her goal.

  She could see the guards on the opposite wall more clearly. The wall-walk was open on the inside, and steps led down the wall. They weren’t more than stones protruding from the sheer face, but the guard descending them trotted down them as if they were the broadest of ballroom stairs. Willow watched him for a few moments before she realized he was coming her way.

  She cursed, and wormed her way deeper into the pile of barrels and crates, praying it was enough concealment, praying the guard would be too focused on his annoyance with Rafferty to pay much attention to his surroundings. She hadn’t considered that the guards might take a more direct approach to her diversion if it continued too long. If the guard realized the door was unlocked…and he would certainly lock it on his way back in…she’d counted on that door being open if she had to leave in a hurry, and this meant recalculating everything. She made herself breathe more quietly. No panic. First, avoid being seen. Worry about the rest later.

  She crouched in her stinking hole and listened to heavy booted footsteps approach. The man was grumbling in Eskandelic, and she heard keys clink over the sound of the footsteps. She caught a glimpse of dark hair, then the key was in the lock—she clenched her fists so tightly they ached. More muttering, and the key turned again. The door opened, then shut again with a loud, frustrated bang. Willow stood and ran for the Residence.

  Picks in hand, she made a straight dash, counting on all the guards’ attention to still be on Rafferty. The stone of the courtyard sent little jolts through her soles to her knees as she ran, praying to remain unseen. The guard at the door hadn’t done anything to indicate he realized it had been open, so maybe her luck was holding.

  The side door was nearly black against the light stone of the Residence. Willow grabbed the latch, grateful for the gloves that shielded her against its icy numbness, then breathed out in relief when she discovered the door was unlocked. She was inside in moments, panting with exertion and excitement.

  The hallway beyond was black, not illuminated by candle or Device. Willow leaned against the door to catch her breath and let her senses build up a picture for her. Three doors to the right, five to the left. Iron lacework cages for the la
nterns that were currently unlit. A lot of copper and iron somewhere to the right; that had to be the kitchen. Above, silver blobs of candlesticks at the very limit of her range. The hall smelled faintly of roasted pork and spicy chickpea paste. Willow blinked, and saw dim light at the end of the hall. Using the door latches and hinges to keep herself oriented, she moved toward it.

  The light grew brighter and more yellow the farther she went, until she came to a T-junction where a hall branched off from hers to the left. Golden lamplight burned just a few steps away, illuminating the stone-paved hall and a couple of doors beyond. Willow looked back down the continuation of the dark hall. You didn’t leave lights burning in places that weren’t used. She quietly made her way down the new hall.

  The first door she came to, its iron hinges black with long use, was locked. She didn’t bother opening it. The mess of metal beyond told her it was a storeroom. She shook off the pleasantly drunk sensation it gave her and moved on. Her shadow came and went beside her as she passed the lamps, a partner in crime, though a silent and useless one. Rufus had often suggested she partner with someone, but she’d always hated the thought. Her shadow was the closest she’d ever come to a companion.

  The next storeroom was also locked. She regretted, as she usually did at this point in a theft, that there wasn’t some way to make a clock you could carry with you. Maybe that was a Device Kerish could invent. Or maybe some clever Deviser already had, and no one knew about it because it lacked artistic unity. Willow pushed those thoughts aside. Stay focused. Move quickly but efficiently. Stop daydreaming.

  Ahead, she saw another door, identical to the others, and next to it, a staircase leading up. Willow ran to its base and up a few stone steps, listening. She heard nothing but her own breathing and the slight scratching noise, so faint, of her shoes on the steps. More light came from above, silvery rather than golden, and steady, not flickering. Probably Devices. She crept up the stairs, one hand trailing along the cold stone of the wall.

  A silver-white Device light in a cage of polished steel that to Willow’s senses intensified the light illuminated the landing, where the stairs doubled back on themselves. At the top was another landing, this one tiny, next to a blank wall, and a double door sheathed in brass that made her feel like sneezing from the tingling. She pushed the door open an inch or two, then stopped as it made a high-pitched skree, loud enough to shatter the stillness, though probably not as loud as it seemed to Willow’s keyed-up nerves. She left it for the moment and moved to explore the hall leading away from it.

  More doors, very little metal—there were the candlesticks to the right, a big empty nothing space studded with icy nails to the left. She checked that room despite what Alondra had said about the harem chamber being at the top of the house. It really was empty, some kind of reception room or ballroom. For the first time she wondered if Eskandelics had dances the way Tremontanan nobles did. Something to ask Janida when she returned to the Serjian Residence.

  The hall ended in a stairway leading up, this one of wood. Willow tiptoed up a few steps, which didn’t creak, then paused. This didn’t feel right. She was almost directly over the kitchen, so the dining room had to be nearby, but what else would be above the kitchen? Apartments, that’s what, with easy access for servants bringing breakfast or midnight snacks.

  She retreated down the hall to the brass doors and stood, bracing herself against the tingling. She should have thought to bring oil, and she cursed herself for her carelessness. There was no help for it. She leaned against one door and slowly, so slowly, pushed it open. The doors went skree again, but a thinner, higher sound Willow could barely hear. She slipped through the narrow crack, her teeth buzzing with proximity to the doors, and took a few quick steps away.

  Two silver-white Device lanterns faintly illuminated the room, which smelled of roses from narrow vases flanking a pair of wide, ornately carved doors. This had to be the entry Alondra had described. The tall, narrow room rose two stories to a mosaic ceiling depicting something Willow couldn’t make out in the dimness. Tiles covered the walls in an abstract design, shades of gray in the lamplight, and benches of white marble here and there stood in contrast to them. Willow moved forward to stand at the center of the room and looked up. A pair of spiraling staircases, wrought iron painted white, ascended to the next floor, and several doors led to rooms with little metal in them.

  Willow cast about to orient herself by her memorized map. She’d come up the servants’ stairs—no wonder they came out at such a tiny landing, the Abakians wouldn’t think servants needed much space—and there was a second stairway leading down to the first floor a few yards away. Then there were the iron staircases, which had her shivering already, and the front doors, and the smaller doors leading to the salons Alondra had seen, plus the doors she’d noted but not entered. Willow tried one of them. It led to a long, narrow room with floor cushions stacked high in piles near the door and one of those fat-bellied musical instruments propped on a stand at the far end. Music room. She shut the door.

  It was possible one of those smaller doors led to stairs going up, but what was the point when you had two beautiful staircases available right in the open? Willow swallowed hard and tried to calm the beating of her heart. Why hadn’t Alondra said they were made of iron? Because to her it didn’t matter, she thought, and before she could dither any longer, she made herself take the first step.

  Sweet heaven, it was cold. She wanted to run, but even her soft, slow steps caused the treads to let out a quiet, musical tone, hollow as if she were striking them with a mallet. It’s all in your head, it’s not real, you’re not freezing. Her hands were shaking, her feet were practically numb, and despite herself she moved faster, desperate to escape. She flung herself off the last step and crouched, shivering, as far from the staircase as she could get.

  When the shivering subsided, she examined her surroundings. This was little more than a landing that overlooked the entry hall. The light from the Devices burning below didn’t reach this high, and there was only one light, a steel lantern cage hanging from a stand that didn’t do much more than brighten the dimness. Windows cut into the dome of the ceiling would illuminate the room far better during the daytime, but now they only showed the black, cloud-covered sky that was a thief’s best friend.

  She turned her attention to the three doors on the opposite wall. Each was mahogany, with brass hinges and wooden doorknobs, and as far as Willow could tell, they were identical. There were no other openings off this room, or gallery, or whatever it was.

  Willow crossed the tiled wooden floor, grateful for its silence, and examined each door. She couldn’t sense any metal beyond the hinges, could perceive nothing that might tell her what was beyond each door. The air was still and warm, warmer than it had been on the first floor, and surrounded her like a gentle caress, relaxing her. She shook the feeling off. Relaxed was deadly.

  This floor was where the apartments were, and at least one of these doors, possibly more, opened on the Abakian living quarters. If she was lucky, one of them would lead to stairs. If she was unlucky, and those stairs were in the heart of the living quarters…

  She tiptoed to the door farthest to the left and took out Kerish’s Device, twisted it, and held it up to the door. People used it all day long, in and out, so how would that show itself on the door? Time was sliding away from her. She moved to the next door. Identical.

  In the distance, she heard footsteps.

  She twisted the light off and dropped it into her shirt. The doors were identical as far as her eyes and her magic were concerned. She stripped off her left glove and felt the knob of the leftmost door. It was smooth from hundreds of hands, slightly grainy where the lacquer had worn off.

  The footsteps grew louder. Closer. She ran to the next door. Smooth, but less grainy—or was that her imagination? She tried the third door, then ran back to the first. Both of them felt more worn than the middle. The footsteps were nearly to the entry hall. Breathing out a des
perate prayer, she turned the middle doorknob and pushed the door open.

  Chapter Twenty

  Once again she was in darkness, but this time there was no metal to guide her, only the tingling sensation of the brass hinges at her back. The warm, damp air clung to her like a shroud. She reached out with her bare hand and felt around her, but found nothing. For a moment, she was transported back to her cell and had to force herself not to panic. She reached into her shirt and pulled out the light Device, twisted it, and wanted to laugh at how much the dim pink glow reassured her.

  The walls of this little room were tiled with tesserae the size and shape of her thumbnail, tracing out blooming flowers and angular lines. It was too bad she couldn’t see it in full light, because what she was able to make out was beautiful. Ahead, stairs ascended beyond the range of her light. Their treads were tiled as well, with extraordinary blossoms and vines that Willow was almost afraid to step on. They were slippery underfoot, and Willow had to move slowly despite the inner voice that was shrieking at her to hurry.

  The stairs ended at a wooden door, plain by comparison to the walls. This one was locked. Willow set to work opening it. Moments slid past as the tumblers shifted, not fast enough. The scratching sound of the picks was driving her mad, and if she weren’t so damned slow she’d be done already. She concentrated on her fingers, on her sense of the lock’s inner workings, and made herself breathe slowly, regularly. She wasn’t slow, and rushing this would only get her caught.

  Click.

  She pushed the door open and turned on the light Device again. Sofas, floor pillows, richly colored carpets and a modular table—this had to be the harem’s meeting chamber. It smelled of cedar and sandalwood, but sourly, as if the woods were old and used up. She pinched her nose briefly against the smell. Silver cages spaced evenly along the walls of the hemispherical room contained light Devices Willow didn’t dare turn on. She closed the door behind her and scanned the room again. What she needed was a desk, or a cabinet, something that might contain paperwork.