Rules for Thieves

by Alexandra Ott

  He holds up a small, thin stick-looking thing. “This is the easiest pick to use,” he continues. “I can teach you the more advanced stuff some other time.”

  Now he holds up an L-shaped metal object, barely larger than the pick. “And this is your tension wrench. You’ll need both the wrench and the pick to open a lock. Here, make yourself useful and hold the candle.”

  He hands me a candle so I can see as he selects one of the locks, inserts the end of the wrench into the bottom of the keyhole, and demonstrates how the pick works, talking as he does so, explaining what he’s doing. “See,” he says, “you’re just applying pressure and lifting the pins up, one at a time, until . . .” There’s a series of soft clicks, then he uses the wrench to turn the lock, and the bolt slides away.

  Then he resets the lock and hands it to me. “Your turn.”

  He made it look way easier than it actually is. I try to mimic what he did, but I’m just jabbing uselessly at the inside of the lock and probably making it worse. Mead gives me instructions, then corrections, in an increasingly irritated voice, and I snap back at him with equal irritation.

  “God help me,” he says after I throw a lock in frustration. “It’s a lock, Rosco. You don’t have to stab it to death. Stabbing things is a lesson for another day. Now, look, it’s very simple—” He takes the lock from me and demonstrates again, more slowly this time. But no matter what he says, it isn’t simple. It requires tiny, delicate, precise motions with the pick. None of which I am good at.

  Eventually I get the stupid thing to click open, but that’s not good enough for Mead. He picks up the next lock, which is more complicated, and we start the whole process over again.

  It takes a very, very long time, and I still haven’t mastered lock picking to Mead’s satisfaction, but eventually I can open a few of the locks without much help. “Well,” he says, “you’ll have to do. Come on, we’ve gotta go.”

  Taking the tools with me, I follow Mead out of his room and down the maze of hallways. This time I’m pretty sure we’re back in the second set of quarters, where Beck lives, but I don’t have any idea how close his room is.

  “Here we are,” Mead whispers. “Now, like I said, the lock’s been magicked so I can’t touch it, but it should be fine for you.”

  “Should be?”

  “Well, yeah, but if you feel any burning or stinging you might want to, you know, finish picking the lock and then go see a healer. Anyway, this lock’s like the last one we practiced on, so it will open the same way.”

  I sigh and step in front of the door. I glance up at the nameplate. TADDEO JARVIN. And right below that, TREYA MEAD JARVIN. Below the names are more funny symbols.

  I look at Mead and gesture to the nameplate questioningly.

  “My sister,” he says flippantly. “And her extremely obnoxious husband who stole from me. Now hurry up before they get back.”

  I roll my eyes at him but don’t press the issue. Someone really might show up at any moment. I turn my attention back to the lock and say a quick prayer to Saint Ailara, just in case.

  For a second, my stomach clenches. It’s like I’m crossing some kind of invisible line, committing a crime that isn’t totally necessary for my survival, and it doesn’t feel right. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I try to wave the feeling away and reach for the door.

  Mead was right about the lock. It’s just like the last one I practiced with. I take a deep breath, apply tension to the lock with the wrench thing, and start poking at it with the pick, listening to Mead’s impatient foot tapping behind me the whole time.

  Slowly, slowly I lift the pins up, hearing a telltale little click each time. Just one left. I take another breath and slide the pick into place—

  “Almost done?” Mead calls, and I jump in surprise. The pick falls from my hand and clinks to the floor.

  “What’d you do that for?” I say, whirling to face him. “I almost had it, until you startled me.”

  “Er, Rosco,” Mead says.

  “And you’re making it hard to concentrate with all your tapping—”

  “Ros—”

  “If you’d just stop interrupting me—”

  “Rosco! The pick!”

  I turn back to the door to see what he’s pointing at. The pick has been slowly rolling across the stone floor . . . right toward the gap under the door.

  “Grab it!” Mead yells. “Before you lose it.”

  I drop to my knees and reach for the pick, grabbing it just as it rolls under the crack beneath the door. “Got it,” I say triumphantly. I turn back to the lock.

  “Wait,” Mead says. “If there are any extra spells against intruders on the door, that may have set them off.”

  I back away from the door, and we both stare at it. Waiting.

  Nothing happens.

  “I guess it’s okay,” I say. “Shouldn’t something have happened by now, if it’s magicked?”

  “Guess so,” Mead says. “I think you’re safe.”

  I approach the door again and pick up where I left off. Only one pin left to go . . .

  The lock clicks.

  “I got it!” I whisper, turning the lock and retracting the bolt.

  “Great.” Before I can react Mead rushes forward, flings the door open, and sweeps inside. “Stay there and warn me if anyone’s coming.”

  “But—” I start to protest that no one said anything about being a lookout, but he’s already disappeared into the darkness of the room.

  I wait outside for several minutes, peering anxiously down the hall, but no one comes. Maybe I should just leave. Maybe I can find the way back to Beck’s room by myself—

  Something rattles behind me, and I spin around. The entire doorframe is shaking, and the rattling is coming from furniture inside the door.

  “Mead?” I call hesitantly.

  The doorway is glowing. I blink, and it’s changed from brown to violent green in an instant.

  “Mead!”

  From somewhere inside the room, he curses. “Run!”

  A second later he flies out the door, knocking me into the wall. He doesn’t stop, racing down the hall and around the corner.

  And the doorway explodes.

  Chapter Nine

  The stone floor underneath my cheek is cool, but my back burns and my stomach aches like someone punched me in the gut. I open my eyes. The rock floor in front of me is streaked with black. Slowly, I sit up.

  The doorway itself didn’t explode, but green flames are still licking its edges. The wooden door is charred. I’ve never seen magical fire before, but it’s not hard to guess that this is it, since it’s green and all. The damage extends directly in front of the doorway, about where I was standing, and all the way across the hall to the opposite wall. It’s like a fireball appeared from nowhere and blew me off my feet.

  A bit of debris is scattered around that must’ve come from inside the room, but I can’t tell what it is. Some of it must’ve hit me in the stomach, though. It hurts. My head hurts too, but that’s probably from the part where I hit the floor.

  Somewhere, a door opens. I stumble to my feet and run from the scene, moving as fast as the ache in my stomach will allow.

  After turning the corner, I’m halfway down the hall when Mead jumps out of a doorway right in front of me. He’s holding a small silvery box in his hands.

  “You.” I spit the word at him. “You left me—”

  He looks unconcerned. “This is the Thieves Guild, Rosco. It’s every man for himself around here. Don’t like it, don’t join.”

  His flippancy is infuriating, especially since he knows I don’t have a choice about joining. “That could’ve killed me, and you just left me there, you coward—”

  “Calm down,” he interrupts. “I didn’t know that would happen, now did I? Jarvin must’ve added extra protection spells to the door, to shoot magic at anyone who breaks in. Your pick probably set it off when it rolled under the door. Course, it wasn’t a very good spel
l. Took it a couple of minutes to work. And it probably wouldn’t have killed you. Jarvin isn’t a good magician, just bluff and shiny lights.”

  “Well, his shiny lights hurt,” I mutter, but my anger ebbs a bit. He’s right about one thing: I need to get used to how things are around here. I feel betrayed, but I shouldn’t expect anything else from a thief. “And how do I know his magic isn’t some kind of death curse too? My last encounter with magic didn’t go so well.”

  “Trust me, he’s not powerful enough for anything like that. The other magic users don’t even consider him a real magician; that’s why he doesn’t live in their special quarters. Besides, look at it this way. Given your current condition, how could it possibly be worse?”

  My hand clenches into a fist, sending little stabs of pain up my cursed arm as if to punctuate his point. “I’m so glad the fact that I’m dying is funny to you.”

  I’ve never said the words out loud before—I’m dying—and even now it still doesn’t feel real.

  “We’re all dying,” Mead says. “Some of us are going about it more quickly than others, that’s all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.”

  “What was so important, anyway?” I say, looking at the tiny box in Mead’s hands.

  “None of your business.”

  I scowl. “I almost died for that thing, so tell me what it is.”

  “Fine.” Mead yanks the lid open just enough that I can see a ring glinting dully before he snaps it shut again. “That’s it. Now run along to Reigler. You can keep the tools as a thank you.” He turns and strides down the hall.

  “Um, Mead?” I call after him. “How do I get there?”

  “Just keep going straight down this hall. Second door to the end, on the right.”

  “You’re welcome,” I yell.

  Only a minute after I find Beck’s room, the door flies open, and Mead walks in again, this time without the package. “Wouldn’t want Reigler to think I ditched you,” he says by way of explanation, plopping back down on the couch.

  We sit in silence until Beck walks in, looking flushed and out of breath, swinging the door shut behind him.

  “You owe me one, Mead,” he says. “One of the cooks tried to kill me with a rolling pin.”

  Then he takes in the expressions on our faces, the guilty way we’re looking down at the floor. “What were you two talking about?”

  Mead and I exchange glances. At the same time, we both say, “Nothing.”

  Mead stands. “Well, it’s been fun, but it’s late, and Reigler needs his beauty sleep.”

  Beck scowls at him. “Go ahead. You won’t be missed.”

  Mead puts one hand over his heart. “You’ve wounded my sensitive ego,” he moans, opening the door.

  “You’ll get over it,” Beck says. “Close the door behind you.”

  I can’t make out Mead’s reply, but I get the gist.

  “Sorry about him,” Beck says with a grin. “He’s . . .”

  “He’s great, even if he is a little—” I bite my tongue. I was going to say “crazy,” but now that I know about Beck’s mother it seems like a poor choice of words. “Well, you know,” I finish awkwardly, unable to think of a word. “Untrustworthy” would be accurate, but I don’t really want to tell Beck about what happened.

  If he knows what I was about to say, his expression gives no indication of it. “Yeah. But he was right about needing sleep. I don’t know when the king will send us out on trial.” He produces a blanket from a dresser drawer and throws it to me. It’s worn, but still soft.

  “You can take the big bed,” he says, nodding toward the doorway to the second bedroom even as he moves across the room, putting out candles.

  I start to protest that I’ll take the small one, but he cuts me off. “I always sleep out here anyway,” he says. I know he’s not just trying to be chivalrous; the tangled heap of blankets on the smaller bed proves it’s been slept in more regularly.

  “All right.” I grab a candle and move toward the doorway. I look back over my shoulder. “Thanks, Beck.”

  “No problem, Allicat.” His back is to me, so I can’t see his face. “ ’Night.”

  “ ’Night.”

  Inside the room, I hold the candle up. The space is barely large enough for the bed. A dresser identical to the one outside is stuffed in a corner, but otherwise it’s empty. The clutter that filled the other room is totally absent here. The bed is made up neatly with sheets and a single pillow, but there’s a fine layer of dust over everything. No one’s been in here for a while. It’s not hard to guess why Beck still sleeps in the other room, in a bed that he’s outgrown. This was his mother’s room.

  I set the candle down on top of the dresser. It’s chilly, so I wrap the blanket tight around me and slide under the sheets. I’m so tired, but my mind’s racing too fast for sleep.

  Mostly I think about tomorrow. I have no idea how this trial thing works, or why everyone’s so worried that the king might not approve of Beck bringing me, or what his disapproval will mean for me, exactly, though Mead was pretty clear about what it will mean for Beck. . . .

  I have to push those thoughts away. I don’t know if I want to join, but I don’t have a choice.

  Instinctively, I look down at my arm. I can’t see the lines very well in the candlelight, but a few of them are halfway to my elbow. How many days do I have left? Eight, maybe? Will I even make it in time? How long will the trial take? What will happen if I don’t pass?

  What will happen if I do?

  Mead’s words come back to me. It’s our home.

  I’ve never had a place that felt like home. I get the general idea, but I don’t know what it’s like. I don’t remember enough about my life before the orphanage to know anything. The orphanage never felt like a home, not the way kids arrived one day and were gone the next, the way nobody noticed or cared about anything I did, except when I was getting into trouble. The only other places I’ve lived were with the Carrians and the Puceys when they adopted me. I thought they were real homes at first. I was deceived by their fancy houses and nice clothes. But it didn’t take long to realize I was wrong about that. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t be part of either family.

  I don’t know what this place has that makes Beck want to live here so badly, but I want it too.

  Maybe home is just the place where you’re wanted.

  Maybe the Guild can be that place for me.

  I take a long, deep breath, trying to relax so I can fall asleep.

  I whisper the words out loud, like saying it makes it real.

  “I’m going to join the Guild.”

  • • •

  The next morning, Beck wakes me up to get breakfast. The main hall isn’t as crowded as it was at dinner. The line is short, and before long I’m holding a bowl full of a mysteriously thick, pasty substance. Beck claims it’s oatmeal but he’s not fooling anyone. The only other option is some kind of mud-brown soup with unidentifiable substances floating in it, though, so I take my chances with the oatmeal.

  Beck makes his way over to a table where Mead is sitting with a few other young guys and Rosalia, the girl who yelled at Mead last night.

  As Beck and I sit down, everyone except Mead looks at me curiously.

  “Guys, this is Rosco,” Mead says, like he’s the one who brought me over to the table. “She’s joining the Guild.”

  I never actually told Mead I’m definitely joining, but he seems to take my silence for a confirmation. “Rosco, this is Peakes, Flint, and Bray. And you’ve already met Rosalia, Peakes’s sister.”

  I nod politely at Rosalia, but she barely seems to notice. She’s sitting as far away from Mead as possible and glaring at him, but Mead ignores her.

  The largest of them, a guy with big, bulging muscles, who I think is Bray, looks up at me. “Rosco?” he says, like he recognizes the name. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to a lawyer’s apprentice in Ruhia, would you?” He says it a little suspi
ciously.

  “A lawyer in Ruhia?” I laugh. “Not a chance.”

  “Where you from?” one of the other guys asks me.

  “Azeland.”

  “Really?” The scrawniest and youngest-looking of the bunch, who Mead called Peakes, looks excited. “I’ve never been there.”

  “You’ve never been anywhere,” Bray scoffs. “You haven’t even passed your trial yet.”

  The one across from Mead, who I think he called Flint, scrapes the bottom of his bowl clean, which makes my stomach churn in disgust. “Speaking of trials,” he says, “when do you find out about yours, Reigler?”

  “Today,” Beck says, swallowing a mouthful of the so-called oatmeal. “At lunch.”

  “Ailara be with you,” Peakes says politely.

  “Yeah,” Bray says with a snort, “ ’cause you’re gonna need it.”

  Mead elbows him. “Don’t be such a downer. You said your trial was easy, and so was mine. It’s no big deal.”

  “Yeah,” says Flint, “stop scaring the newbie.”

  I look up from my bowl of sludge. “I’m not scared.”

  Flint laughs. “That’s what they all say. You’re gonna fit in just fine here, Rosco.”

  “She’s funny, too,” Mead says, beaming like he’s a proud parent on my first day of school. I’d like to kick him under the table, but Beck’s sitting between us so I can’t reach. “Thanks to me, of course. I taught her everything I know.”

  I roll my eyes. “Which didn’t take long.”

  All the guys roar with laughter. As it dies down, Mead says, “And she catches on faster than Peakes.” The guys laugh again as Peakes turns scarlet.

  “Oh, lay off him,” Beck says, but he can’t stop grinning.

  “Yeah, he can’t help being a wimp.” Mead shoves a spoonful of paste into his mouth.

  “That’s enough,” Rosalia says sharply. I expect them to turn on her, but they actually quiet down. Why does Rosalia seem to have so much power over them? I should’ve asked Beck more questions about the Guild’s hierarchy and how it operates.