Rules for Thieves

by Alexandra Ott

  Beck frowns. “We don’t know. And we don’t have time to find out.”

  Olleen nods again. “In that case, I’ll just make you something generic. You won’t be able to pass as one of the servers in the ballroom, but you could pass as a stable boy or even a carriage driver, and Alli could be a maid. . . .” Her expression is distant as she looks at both of us, apparently imagining how we’ll look.

  “Whatever you can do,” Beck says. “But there’s one more thing.” He looks at my hand, which is still hidden in my pocket. Olleen follows his gaze, looking quizzical.

  “Alli needs something with long sleeves,” Beck says, “and gloves.”

  “I’ll do my best. But I’ll need some help.” Abruptly she strides toward the door. “I’ll need to call in all my seamstresses, and then we’ll take your measurements. . . . Alli, do you know how to sew?”

  “Um, yes,” I say, “but only for mending and little things.”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “We can find a use for you. Wait here while I round everyone up.”

  • • •

  Before I even know what’s happening I’m being poked, prodded, and jabbed by Olleen and three of her assistants. They stick me with pins, wrap measuring strips all around me, hold cloth against my skin, and shove all sorts of frilly fabric over my head. Just when I think there can’t possibly be another layer to this costume, they throw something else on. I’m doing the best I can to hold my temper, but it flares up under my skin, and I’m suffocating in all these folds until I’m about to burst. It doesn’t help that my poisoned arm is aching even worse, with extra little shooting pains from my fingertips to my elbow.

  One of the girls stabs me again with a sharp needle. “Could you please watch where you’re poking that thing?” I ask, my voice straining. It kills me to add the “please.” But I got the sense that Beck likes Olleen, so I’m trying to be on my very best behavior. It’s just so hard.

  “Almost done with the underskirts,” Olleen says briskly, like that’s supposed to make me feel better. It just means there’s still the outer layer to go. “Anik, bring me that red dress with the lace—no, not the brocade, the red silk—in the cabinet on your left. . . .”

  One of the girls, whose hair is elaborately coiled into a braid that reminds me of a snake, eyes me critically. “Will we have to cut the longer layers out?” She says it like the very idea of cutting the dress makes her want to cry.

  “How am I supposed to walk in this?” I say, looking down at the many layers of skirts ballooning out below me. “I can’t even see my feet.”

  “Oh, her shoes,” Olleen gasps. “I forgot the shoes. We’ll never find a pair small enough—”

  “Doesn’t anyone around here have small feet?” Snake Braid says.

  “Rosalia does,” says the girl who stabbed me with a needle.

  Another girl scoffs. “Rosalia doesn’t have any shoes decent enough.”

  “Um,” I say, “if no one can even see my feet, why don’t I just go barefoot?”

  Every girl in the room stares at me like I’ve just said Saint Zioni is the patron of spring and Saint Samyra is for fools. There’s a minute of total silence, then Needle Stabber says, “Maybe if we stuff something in the toe of the shoes, they’ll fit her?”

  “I’ve got some newspaper around here somewhere,” Olleen says in agreement.

  I sigh. “Now would probably be a bad time to mention I hate heels, right?”

  But then a girl carries over the red dress, and we all stare at it. Even I can’t come up with anything sarcastic to say. It’s beautiful, a deep red silk that shimmers even in the dim candlelight, with layers of fabric falling gracefully into folds at the bottom, and a trim of delicate white lace all around the edges. It’s the kind of thing the queen of Ruhia or duchess of Azeland would wear. But it’s not something Alli Rosco, the abandoned orphan-turned-thief, would ever be given.

  This time I don’t protest as Olleen and the girls help me into the dress. I’m afraid to move, as if it might burst into flames if I touch it. The delicate lace is smooth against my skin, and for a second I imagine it falling to pieces.

  After fiddling with the layers of fabric, Olleen and the girls step back and look at me.

  There’s another long silence, finally broken by Olleen. “Well,” she says. “Aren’t you something.”

  I look down, and the reason for all the layers of underskirts is revealed. The gown was made for someone larger than me, and would’ve swallowed me without all the extra skirts filling it out. As it is, I feel like all the fabrics are suffocating me, but at least the gown seems to fit, though it’s maybe a bit too long.

  “Shoes will help with that,” Olleen says, looking at the bottom of the gown. “They’ll give her the extra inch or two she needs.”

  Oh. That’s the reason for the shoes.

  Snake Braid squints up at me. “And her hair. It’ll need to be styled—”

  “And trimmed,” Needle Stabber adds. I glare at her.

  “Someone else can handle that tomorrow morning,” Olleen says firmly. “Right now we need to get her alterations done. Some of the underskirts don’t hang right—”

  “And the pleated skirt is bunched up a bit on the left,” someone adds.

  “Olleen, do you think some of the lace on the sleeves needs to be trimmed? They look too long otherwise.”

  “Do you think it’s laying across her shoulders right? Do we need to—”

  “—and maybe a bit off the very edge—”

  “—says there might be some more shoes in that cupboard, but I doubt they’ll fit—”

  I sigh and surrender myself to the torture, wondering why I ever agreed to this.

  • • •

  As it turns out, the fitting was the easy part. It’s followed by the alterations, which involve hours and hours of sewing by candlelight while Olleen’s assistants talk about other people in the Guild I’ve never heard of. And sewing is even more difficult when you have thick bandages wrapped around your hand and fingers and it hurts to even move your arm.

  What’s Beck doing right now, while I’m pricking myself in the finger for the hundredth time and ripping out incorrect stitches? Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as this. If only he were here to suffer with me. Not because I want to see him, or anything. Just because I think he should have to suffer through this too. Maybe this would be more entertaining if he were here. But it’s not like I need him around all the time. I can do things by myself.

  I stab the fabric with the needle a little harder than necessary.

  Finally, Olleen notices I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. “Go to bed, Alli. We’ll take it from here.”

  Some of the other girls glare at me as I leave. Judging from the amount of work left to do, they’ll be up all night sewing. I’d feel bad about it, except I’m still sore where they pricked me with pins.

  This time I manage to find my way back to the living quarters without help, but I’m not totally sure where Beck’s room is. I wander the halls, glancing at every door, struggling to read the nameplates. It takes me a while to read some of them, but I spot names I recognize along the way: Peakes, Bray, Flint. . . .

  Finally. Lianice Grimstead. The familiar door. It’s sure to be locked, but I’ve still got that lock pick and tension wrench in my pocket and I’d like to try it again. . . .

  It’s unlocked. Beck’s inside, sitting on his bed in the corner, sketching on a piece of paper.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He looks up. “Hey. You missed dinner, so I brought some back for you.” He gestures toward the table, where a plateful of food is sitting.

  As soon as he says it, my stomach rumbles. I didn’t even realize how hungry I was. “Thanks.”

  I sit on the couch and shovel food into my mouth. The taste’s still awful, but I’m getting better at ignoring it.

  “How’d it go?” Beck asks.

  I swallow. “Fine. Olleen seems nice.”

  He nods, his eyes still
on the paper in front of him.

  “It seemed like you know her really well,” I say hesitantly. I’ve tried not to pry into his life—I’d hate it if he did that to me—but I’m really curious. And I have a feeling he’ll tell me if I ask. Aside from the times when he lied to avoid telling me about the Guild, Beck’s been honest with me.

  He looks up. “Mead told you about my mother.” He doesn’t say it questioningly. How long has he known?

  No point in denying it now. “Yeah, a little.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t care if you know. I’m not ashamed of her.” He takes a breath. “Olleen really helped her. They were friends. And whenever I had to go on assignments, Olleen would look after her, make sure she was doing okay. . . . Nobody else would.”

  “Oh,” I say. “How did . . . how did she . . . ?”

  “There was a flu epidemic,” he says quietly. “Before, she would’ve healed herself, but by then she wasn’t able to heal anymore. Magically, I mean. The other healers did what they could when it got bad, but . . . sometimes there’s nothing they can do.”

  I nod. “I’m sorry.” When he doesn’t say anything, I ask, “How many healers does the Guild have?”

  “Right now? Three or four. It’s hard to find good ones to join the Guild. The ones that pass certification can make tons of money without the Guild, and the ones that don’t pass aren’t very good healers. Most of the ones we have are people who couldn’t afford the instruction and never got to take the test, but have been healing their whole lives anyway. Like my mother.”

  “So she came to the Guild ’cause she couldn’t get certified?”

  “Right.”

  “And . . . was your father a Guild member too? Did you know him?”

  Beck fiddles with the pen in his hand, picking at the quill’s feathers. “I don’t know who he was,” he says matter-of-factly. “All I know is . . . my mother’s last name was Grimstead. But everyone’s always called me Reigler. No one ever told me who he was, and I never asked.”

  It’s not hard to guess why. No one here is exactly the fatherly type.

  “Sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Beck smiles. “Yes you did. But I don’t mind. It’s not like it’s a secret.”

  Now would be the time to volunteer information about myself. To tell him about my brother. But it’s one thing to tell him that my mother abandoned me. How could I tell the full truth—that she abandoned only me, that I was the child she loved the least? No one needs to know that part. I wish I didn’t know it.

  I ignore the memories that are flashing through my head and change the subject. “So,” I say, “what are you scribbling over there? Battle plans?”

  “I’m trying to memorize the layout of the ballroom. The Guild has blueprints to almost every building in Ruhia, apparently, including the Dearborn barony, so Durban lent these to me. I’m trying to draw them. Helps me memorize them.”

  “Okay,” I say, “so what is the battle plan, at this point? And what else don’t I know, besides the fact that we suddenly have access to blueprints?”

  Beck launches into a long explanation of every detail and change I missed while in the sewing room. He passes me the blueprints to memorize while we discuss strategy, trying to figure out where we’ll be entering and how best to get the necklace. It’ll be impossible to get it from her in the middle of the ballroom without someone noticing, but I might be able to follow her to a better location, maybe a bathroom or something.

  After what feels like hours of planning, my eyelids droop. I fight to keep them open at first, but then my mind gives in too and I fall into sleep, Beck’s voice echoing in my ears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I wake to a papery crinkling sound. Something sharp digs into my thigh. I open my eyes, unfamiliar shapes blurring in front of me. I’m on Beck’s couch. I’ve rolled over onto one of the papers, a drawing of the ballroom we were scribbling on. I must have fallen asleep right here, without making it to the bed in the other room.

  Instinctively, I look down at my right arm. As usual, the curse has spread during the night. It’s more than halfway up my arm now, past my elbow. The lines on my hand have grown so thick that they bleed together; only hints of my tan skin peek through. Worse, my hand aches dully, and pain shoots up my arm whenever I move.

  I sit up. Mead’s lock pick is beneath me. Must’ve fallen out of my pocket when I rolled over last night. I stuff it back into place and look around for Beck. He’s not here. But there’s a bowl of food on the table in front of me, in addition to the dirty dinner dishes from last night. Did I sleep through breakfast?

  Oh well. I’m starving.

  I’ve nearly emptied the bowl when the door swings open and Beck walks in. “Good, you’re up.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” I say. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”

  “You needed to be well-rested for today,” he says, striding across the room. He’s full of energy, but dark circles sit under his eyes.

  “Why didn’t you sleep late, then?” I say.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he admits. “There’s a lot to do, anyway.”

  “Okay.” I jump up. “Tell me what needs to be done.”

  “I’ve got to go see Durban to make sure the forger’s finished our invitations. You need to go to training.”

  “Training?” I ask skeptically. “What kind of training?”

  “Just the basics,” he says, waving one hand dismissively. “Most people have time to do more training before their trials, but . . . well, you’ll have to make do. I’ve already arranged it for you. Just head to the training center that Mead showed you on the tour.”

  “Okay,” I say, but I hesitate. “Couldn’t you just show me whatever it is I need to know?”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Please, Allicat, could you do this one thing without arguing?”

  “Of course I could,” I huff. “If I wanted to.”

  He waits.

  “Fine,” I say, realizing I’ve been tricked. “I’ll go to this stupid training thing. But I expect to find lunch waiting for me when I get back.”

  “Sure, sure,” Beck says. Already his gaze is wandering to the piles of notes and blueprints spread out on the table, still planning things out in his head.

  I sigh and head for the door.

  • • •

  I enter the room and gasp.

  It’s the largest open space I’ve seen here, larger even than the entry hall. Where the Guild’s other rooms are like little caves, narrow and low, this one is a cavern. The ceiling arcs dozens of feet above, shrouded in shadow. And the room below it is so big that calling it a room seems like an understatement. It’s divided up into a bunch of different sections, and dozens of people are walking and running and leaping and doing who-knows-what else. To my immediate left, there’s a guy armed with some kind of shiny metal weapon that I think might be a mace. To my right, an arrow whizzes through the air and strikes a sandbag all the way across the room. Nearby, I recognize one of Olleen’s seamstresses from last night, who clearly has talents other than sewing—she’s hurling daggers at distant targets.

  “Rosco!” someone yells, and I turn. It’s Dryn, the girl from the ice sledding, running up to me. “There you are,” she says, in a tone that lets me know both that I’m late and that she disapproves.

  “Here I am,” I repeat. “Beck said I’m supposed to report for basic training?”

  “Right, he told me you were coming,” she says. “I’m one of the basic trainers here. I get all the newbies.”

  I take a second, more critical look at her. She’s slight but sharp, like her bones are both lighter and more pointed than other people’s. Her hair only reinforces this impression, cut short in a way that’s all edges. And there’s something very jagged about her smile. Still, I find it hard to imagine that these scary Guild guys, like the mace-wielding giant over there, take instruction from this tiny girl.

  I must look ske
ptical, because she grins and says, “I’m even tougher than I look.”

  “I believe you,” I say sincerely.

  She eyes my right hand. “What’s with the bandages?”

  “Um, I had a little accident while escaping an orphanage in Azeland. There was jumping from rooftops involved.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal. And it’s not technically a lie. “So, what exactly am I going to be learning?”

  She touches a finger to the corner of her lip and looks me up and down, considering. “Since we don’t have time for the full training,” she says, “let’s stick with the things that are absolutely necessary to your assignment, okay? I know you can’t tell me any details, but I’ll just ask you some very general questions and we’ll go from there.”

  “Okay,” I say, already feeling nervous. How much will we have to skip?

  Dryn must be asking the same question, because she says, “So is there anything you already know how to do? Any particular skills you’ve picked up?”

  I don’t know what she considers to be a skill. “Beck taught me how to pickpocket, and steal from markets,” I say, rather pathetically. “And Mead taught me how to pick locks.”

  Dryn doesn’t say anything, but her stony expression suggests that this is not good. “Is your task going to involve a lot of direct combat? Hand-to-hand fighting or boxing, swordplay, anything like that?”

  I am completely thrown off by this question. I thought the Guild was all about thievery, not combat. “I . . . don’t . . . think so?” I manage. “Is that normal?”

  Dryn ignores the question. “Any specialty weapons? Bows? Explosives?”

  “Explosives? You have those?”

  “Focus,” Dryn says, stern but not impatient. “If we don’t have to worry about any of that, then we’ll skip it for now. I would like you to have some basic fighting skills so you can defend yourself, but we’ll see if we can work it in later. Okay. Theft-wise, are we talking large object or small?”