Rules for Thieves

by Alexandra Ott

  I roll over, trying to close my eyes, only to hear footsteps in the other room. A second later Beck comes in, holding a lit candle. “Did you hear something?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “it started raining.” The raindrops beat a steady rhythm against the roof.

  “Not that.”

  I start to say “Probably the cat,” but the loudest bang I’ve ever heard shatters the silence like a cannon, and the front door of the shop falls to the floor.

  People in red uniforms stand in the doorway.

  I’m on my feet and running before I decide to move. I scramble after Beck, toward the back room. A deep voice yells at us, but I don’t waste time listening.

  Beck’s at the door with me on his heels. A blinding flash fills the room, and Beck leaps to the side. Something bright and magical-looking flies past him, grazing his arm, and explodes against the far corner. With a burst of heat, flames flare up, licking the walls.

  I just have time to see that Beck’s shirt is burned where he was grazed before he grabs my hand and yanks me forward. The protectors are right behind us as we dart across the room, out the door, and into the rain.

  I run harder than I’ve ever run, harder even than when I ran from the orphanage. The rain pounds against me, louder than everything except the rapid, panicked gasps of my own breath and the unsteady beat of my footsteps.

  The streets widen and turn to cobbles again as Beck leads me north, but we make so many turns I soon lose all sense of direction. I don’t know if the protectors are behind us. I don’t even know where we are, or if Beck knows where he’s going, or how they found us, or what we’re going to do now that everything is ruined, or what I’m going to do now that Beck is going to ditch me to save himself. I don’t know anything except how to run.

  Until I’m done. I can’t keep going. My footsteps falter as I wheeze out another breath.

  “Almost there.” Beck is still in front of me, still guiding me. I keep running.

  He makes an abrupt left turn, squeezing between two buildings. I follow, my arms scraping against the stone of the narrow passageway until we emerge on the other side. Suddenly, the skyline is filled with shadowy, rustling shapes. Trees.

  We run into the park. A low fence encircles it, but we vault over easily and keep going. Mud squelches under our feet as we cut across the sodden grass, darting for the cover of a cluster of trees.

  Only when we’re out of sight behind the trees does Beck stop.

  “I think we lost them,” he pants.

  “Right,” I gasp. At the moment I don’t really care, I just want to stop running. “Now what?”

  “Just give me a minute. Make sure they’re not still following us.”

  “Okay.” I turn around and gaze through the branches of the nearest tree, scanning the park. “I don’t see anyone. I don’t know if they made it this far—”

  I turn back to him, and a flash of blue catches my eye. I blink, and the flash is gone, just like that. I whirl in a circle, scanning the trees.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought I saw magic. I thought a protector was here.”

  Beck doesn’t answer at first. “Come on,” he says, “it’s around here somewhere.”

  “What—” My eyes lock onto Beck’s arm. “I thought you were hurt?”

  His sleeve is still burned, but beneath the burned sleeve is—nothing. His arm looks fine.

  “Nah, it just caught my sleeve.”

  He’s lying, but I don’t have time to argue. He’s already weaving through the trees.

  “Wait,” I say, trudging after him. My feet tangle in the underbrush. “Beck—”

  There’s a wooden door in the ground.

  Beck kneels down beside it, one hand digging in his pocket.

  “What is this?” This is too much. Too many weird things are happening. The protectors shouldn’t have been there and there shouldn’t have been blue light and Beck’s arm should be injured and there most definitely should not be doors in the ground.

  “It’s an old storage cellar,” Beck says. His hand emerges from his pocket, and something gold glimmers in his palm. I blink, but I’m not imagining it. I have no idea what he’s holding, but it must be valuable. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was solid gold.

  “Park maintenance used to store things in here,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to the fact that anything unusual is happening. From this angle, I can’t see exactly what he’s doing, but the hand holding the gold object is pressed against the wood, and with a thud the door drops open, revealing a yawning hole in the ground.

  Without a second of hesitation, Beck descends into the earth.

  Chapter Five

  After following Beck down a few rickety wooden steps, I find myself in a little earthen room. Somewhere there must have been a lantern and a match, and somehow Beck knows instantly where they are. In seconds there’s a flickering light to see by, and Beck lowers the cellar door closed above us.

  “Okay, now that we’re hidden,” I say, “you want to tell me what in Saint Ailara’s name is going on?”

  “Huh?” He looks genuinely confused, but it could be an act. “I don’t know how the protectors found us, if that’s what you mean, but I’m guessing someone saw you in the marketplace today and followed us to the shop.”

  “Not that.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “This.” I wave my hand to indicate the space around us. “What is this place, and how did we get in, and how did you even know it was here?”

  “I told you, old park cellar,” he says with an unconvincing shrug. “I just did some exploring and—”

  “And what’s with your arm?” I interrupt. “I swear it was injured back at the shop, and now it looks fine. How did that happen? I know I’m not seeing things, and there really was a magic blue light in the woods. . . .”

  He can’t meet my eyes anymore. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Do you really think I’m stupid? I know you’re lying. And I know you lied to me last night. About being from Hesmea.”

  In a second his face goes tight, sealing something off. “What makes you say that?”

  “I’m the one who suggested Hesmea, and you hesitated before you answered. You’re not a very good liar, you know.”

  “I’m not,” he agrees. “And I didn’t want to lie to you. But—I don’t know how to tell you the truth. And I don’t know if I should.”

  Even though I know he lied to me, it hurts to hear him admit it. I curse myself for being so stupid. For liking him too much.

  “I just asked you where you’re from. It’s not a complicated question.”

  “It is for me,” he says. “I’m sorry. But it’s not—it’s not my secret to tell.”

  “What’s so secret about where you live?” The anger surges up again, always hot and fast and uninvited, pulsing under my skin. I don’t even know why I’m angry.

  “I can’t, Alli, I can’t—”

  “What? You can’t trust me? Even though I trusted you?”

  I’m not being fair. We barely know each other, and we shouldn’t trust each other. But I don’t care. I trusted him anyway, despite everything, despite common sense, and he lied to me. Again.

  “I can’t.” There’s an edge in his voice, but it’s not anger.

  “I’ve had it with you.” I stand up. My hands shake, and I ball them into fists to hide it. “I don’t even know why I’m still here. I don’t know why I went with you in the first place.”

  I stomp over to the stairs. Beck doesn’t move. I shove open the cellar door, storm out, let it bang closed behind me. And I run.

  Trees leer out of the darkness like skeletons, limbs waving in the breeze. My feet skid and slip across the soggy ground, mud seeping into the cracks in my shoes.

  I’m halfway across the park before I remember I have nowhere else to go.

  But I won’t go back. I won’t.

  The nearby street is completely dark. There are little noises all
around me, animals scurrying. Probably rats.

  “Alli.” His voice is quiet.

  “Go away,” I say, but my voice catches and it comes out wrong. The rain is so cold. Why did I leave my jacket in the shop?

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I don’t turn around. “You keep saying that.”

  “It’s always true.”

  “Whatever.” But he did seem sincere. For some reason, I really want to trust him. I want him to give me a reason to trust him.

  “Please, Alli, come back inside. I’ll—” Abruptly his voice cuts off, sounding almost strangled.

  Now I turn around. “Beck?”

  He’s staring at me, and horror is all over his face. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

  “What? What are you staring at?”

  I follow his gaze, looking at my right side. A flickering light from his lantern is playing across my right hand. The black lines are barely visible in the lantern’s glow, but it’s clear that they’re deeper than they were before.

  Beck finally speaks, his voice a whisper. “What happened?”

  “Why?” I’m not easily scared by anything, but his reaction is sending chills up and down my spine. “Do you know what this is?”

  “You don’t?” He’s slowly regaining composure, but it’s too late—I’ve already seen the fear. “You really don’t know?”

  “Do enlighten me,” I say. “I have no idea what you’re even talking about.”

  “What happened?” he says again, ignoring me. “Did you . . . did a protector do that? Hit you with magic?”

  “Yeah. It was before I met you, right after I got out of the orphanage.”

  He mutters something, so fast I can’t catch it.

  “Why does it matter?”

  He pauses. “We need to talk about this inside,” he says quietly. “I think you need to sit down.”

  “Why should I go anywhere with you? How do I know you’re not making all this up?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me. And honestly, if that is what I think it is, you don’t have a choice. Please, come back inside and let me explain.”

  He might lie to me again, but I’m pretty good at spotting lies.

  I sigh. “This had better be good.”

  • • •

  Inside the cellar, we huddle against one wall, as if we’re more secluded that way. Beck holds my hand under the light, examining it. The dark lines wrap around my fingers, crisscross the back of my hand, and trail off just past my wrist. They run under my skin alongside the blue lines of my veins—but the dark lines are thicker than the veins now.

  “This is . . .” Beck seems to be unable to speak as he studies my hand. “This is not good.”

  The sight of the darkness crawling against my skin like an infection makes my stomach churn. “What is it? I thought it would just wear off, but it’s been—”

  “It’s been getting worse,” Beck finishes for me. He drops my hand and runs his own through his hair absently. “It’s called Xeroth’s Blood. It’s a kind of magic, but it doesn’t fade like an ordinary spell. It’s a curse.”

  “Xeroth’s Blood?” I repeat. I think I’ve heard of this before, or maybe just whispers of it. I don’t know what it means, but anything named after the patron of death can’t be good.

  “It’s like slow-acting poison. It starts at the source, where the magic touched you, and travels under the skin. It spreads everywhere, until . . .”

  “Until what?”

  “Until it reaches your heart,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “And then you die.”

  He’s joking. He can’t be serious.

  For a second I can’t breathe. “Wait a minute. And then you die? That doesn’t make any sense! If a protector wanted to kill me, why not use a quick death spell or something? Why have a slow-acting curse as a weapon?”

  “It’s a marker,” Beck explains. “Because it’s visible under the skin, protectors sometimes use it to mark someone they’re pursuing. They usually aim for the hands. The idea is that even if you escape, other citizens will see the mark and turn you in. Plus, you’ll eventually have to get medical help, and then you’ll be turned over to the authorities. If that protector had no proof of your guilt but suspected you of something, he wouldn’t want to kill you, but he’d mark you so you couldn’t escape for long.”

  Well, that explains why that protector was such a bad shot.

  “Wait, you said something about seeking medical help. So there’s a cure, right? Or a healer could . . . ?”

  “Um.” Beck picks at a thumbnail, not looking me in the eye. “That’s the other bad news. Healers can’t cure it. There’s only one way to get rid of Xeroth’s Blood.”

  “And that is?” I say, even though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

  “The Healing Springs.”

  My guess was right, but I wish it wasn’t. The Springs may contain the most powerful healing magic in the world, used to treat only the worst illnesses, but there’s no way I have enough money to get in. I don’t even have to know how much it costs to know I can’t afford it. Not to mention the fact that it’s all the way in Cerda, and I have no way of getting there.

  Now I’m as speechless as Beck. “That’s . . . that’s not good.” I try to stay casual, but my voice comes out in a squeak.

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “So, basically you’re telling me that unless I can come up with the money to go to the Healing Springs, I’m going to die?”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  “How much time to I have? Before the curse reaches my heart?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I’m not an expert. But I know someone who died from it after about ten days. And since you’ve already had it for a day . . .”

  “I’ve got, like, eight or nine days?” Even as I say it, the words don’t feel real. None of it’s really sinking in. “Unless . . . unless I could somehow sneak into the Springs and—”

  Beck shakes his head. “They’re heavily guarded, and enchanted. Believe me, you wouldn’t be the first to try it.”

  “Well thanks for your optimism,” I say sharply. “I guess I should just resign myself to dying and not even try, is that what you’re saying?”

  “No. I’m saying there’s another way. All you need to enter the Springs is ten thousand majas. And I know how you can get it.”

  I snort. “Oh, is that all? Just ten thousand? No problem, let me just check with the bank—”

  “Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”

  I glare at him. “Go ahead.”

  “You wanted to know where I’m from,” he says quietly.

  “Yeah, although suddenly it doesn’t seem so important. Funny how being told you’re going to die puts everything in perspective.”

  “Okay, here it goes.” Beck takes a deep breath.

  “Sometime today would be good.”

  “Patience, Allicat,” he says. “I don’t—I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “The beginning,” I suggest.

  “Okay, um, I’m not sure how to say this, but . . .” He won’t look at me. “I’m in the Thieves Guild.”

  I expected him to say a lot of things, especially after everything I’ve heard already tonight, but this wasn’t one of them. I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not.” He’s still not looking at me. “That’s how I knew about this cellar. The Guild’s been using it as a hideout for a long time.”

  The Thieves Guild. No way. It’s not possible. It’s even more ridiculous than the idea of my imminent death.

  “It’s not real. The Thieves Guild isn’t real, it’s . . . I thought it was only a legend. A myth.”

  Beck shakes his head. “It’s real. But some of the things you’ve heard probably aren’t true.”

  “Is it true that the Guild stole the signet ring from the king of Cerda? And the queen’s jewels? And aren’t you all magicians or spies or
something?”

  “I don’t know if those stories are true.” He still won’t look at me. “We don’t talk about what we steal, in case someone gets caught. And a lot of us have magic, or magic objects, but we’re not all magicians. And not all of us choose to live in the guildhall, but I do. It’s on Mount Arat, but not in Ruhia or Hesmea. It’s hidden.”

  Finally he looks up at me, staring like he’s trying to gauge my reaction. “I was born there. In the Guild. My mother was a healer who worked for the Guild. I have—I have a little bit of her healing magic. She left me a few enchanted objects, and I can heal cuts and bruises, but that’s about all. That’s how my arm is healed now. I used magic in the woods to treat the burn, and that was the blue light you saw. Anyway, I’ve lived in the Guild my whole life.”

  “Oh.” My voice comes out small. “Well, thanks for clearing that up.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But I didn’t know you, and I can’t just go around telling everyone I meet about it, you know?”

  “Stop apologizing already. I get it.”

  Thoughts swirl around in my head, and I can’t decide what to think about this. I don’t know what it means. The Guild exists. Beck’s in it. He has magic. I’m cursed and I’m going to die.

  I repeat these statements over and over like they’ll make more sense somehow, but the words don’t feel real.

  Beck’s look is pleading. I’m not sure what he’s asking of me.

  “I just always thought . . .” I pause, putting my thoughts into the right order. “I just always thought a Guild member would be, you know, dangerous.”

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “What makes you think I’m not dangerous?”

  I can’t tell if he’s offended or joking. I decide to take it as a joke and tease him back. “Just look at yourself. You’re a scrawny kid who needs a haircut. You’re not exactly tough looking.”

  “I’m not a kid,” he says. “I’ll be thirteen in seven days.”

  “Then you’re still a kid for seven days.”

  His teeth flash white in the dark as he smiles. “Maybe so, but you’re one for—wait, when’s your birthday, anyway?”

  “Dunno. The Sisters always celebrate it on the sixteenth of Zioni’s Month, because that’s when I arrived at the orphanage. I don’t know the real day.” Personally, I never thought the day I was abandoned was a day worth celebrating, but the Sisters never seemed to understand that point.