Children of the Fox
Page 1
VIKING
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Kevin Sands
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Viking & colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com.
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Sands, Kevin, author.
Title: Children of the fox / Kevin Sands.
Description: New York : Viking, 2021. | Series: Thieves of shadow ; 1 | Summary: “Callan and four other young criminals are recruited to pull off a difficult heist from the city's most powerful sorcerer"—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021018686 (print) | LCCN 2021018687 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593327517 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593327524 (paperback) | ISBN 9780593327531 (epub)
Subjects: CYAC: Swindlers and swindling—Fiction. | Criminals—Fiction. | Stealing—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S26 Ch 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.S26 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021018686
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021018687
Cover art © 2021 by Brandon Dorman
Cover art design by Theresa Evangelista
Design by Lucia Baez, adapted for ebook by Michelle Quintero
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
pid_prh_5.8.0_c0_r0
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Eight Years Later
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Three Days Left
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Two Days Left
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
One Day Left
Chapter 21
The Gaff
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
The Pull
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For years afterward, all I remembered was the snake.
I heard its hiss first. The soft sssssss barely registered over my panting, the thumping of my heart. I ignored it, thinking the sound was blood rushing in my ears. Or maybe it was the Old Man, huddled next to me in the bedroom, both of us squeezed inside the long wicker basket, his own chest heaving, out of breath.
We’d sprinted a full mile before breaking into that house, looking for a place to hide. I was six years old at the time. I’d been with the Old Man for a month and a half, and though he’d begun to teach me his trade, I wasn’t any good at it yet. So we did a lot of running back then.
The air in the basket was cloying, scented with musk. I re-member thinking it was an odd smell for a clothes hamper. Too strong, too animal. I curled up in a ball, breathing into my sleeve, trying to fend off the reek and muffle my breath at the same time.
But the hissing in my ears wasn’t me. I realized that the moment the snake touched me.
It slithered over my foot. Startled, I jerked my leg, but the snake had already wrapped around my ankle. It wound its way up my calf, its hiss growing louder, more insistent.
sssssssssssssssssssssssss
I reached for the Old Man beside me. My left hand grasped his shirt. My right still clutched the enchanted coin we’d swindled from the spice merchant. Its edge dug into my fingers, the emperor’s face pressed against my palm. It glowed, that coin, shining through my skin, giving my flesh a faint halo of blue.
The Old Man said nothing. He peered through the gaps in the wicker, listening, as the front door banged open below.
Heavy boots clomped on the floorboards. Whoever owned this home was out, unable to protest as the Stickmen—the city guard—began tearing the place apart.
I barely listened. The snake climbed higher, up to my untucked shirt. It slithered inside, smooth scales slinking around my waist.
I couldn’t take it. I had to scream. I knew if I did, the Stickmen below would find us—and that would be so much worse. But I had to scream. I had to.
Suddenly, the Old Man leaned into me, his breath hot on my ear.
“Did you ever hear that story?” he whispered. “Fox and Bear and the Crystal Stream?”
Terror froze the scream on my lips. The Stickmen—they’ll hear you, I wanted to say, but my tongue wouldn’t move. My mouth was dry and bitter.
A bottle shattered downstairs, shards of glass plinking across the floorboards. One of the Stickmen cursed in a gravelly voice. “D’you think they’re hiding in the wine? Idiot.”
The snake coiled higher. It slid over my stomach, my sides, the scars that covered my back. My scars hurt—they always hurt—but as I listened to the crashing of the Stickmen below, my scars burned with the memory of how they’d got there.
And still the snake slithered upward.
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
“It’s a good story,” the Old Man whispered. “From long ago, when Fox and Be
ar were still friends. One day, Shuna the Fox, the patron Spirit of merchants—and thieves—and Artha the Bear, the patron Spirit of Spellweavers, were atop the Snowy Mountain—”
Be quiet, Old Man, I thought.
“—when the Bear said to her friend, ‘Let’s have a race. Fastest one down the mountain wins.’ ”
Be quiet.
“Shuna looked up at the Bear with a grin. ‘What will I win?’ she asked.”
The snake squeezed me as it climbed, sliding over the scars on my ribs.
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
“The Bear laughed,” the Old Man said, his words coming faster and faster. “ ‘The race is not yet run, Shuna. But if you’d like a wager, I have some honey. And I saw you picking strawberries yesterday. Whoever wins gets the lot.’ ”
What are you doing? Be quiet. Be quiet!
“Shuna decided this was a good bet. After all, though the Bear was big and strong, the Fox was agile, and she knew she was faster than her friend. No sooner had the Fox agreed—”
One of the Stickmen reached the steps. He’d run out of things to smash downstairs. Now he was coming up.
“—than the Bear leapt from her rock and into the crystal stream, flowing through the snow down the mountainside. Artha rumbled with delight as the river carried her away.”
The Stickman kicked the door open across the hall. He flipped the furniture, leaving no hiding place unsearched.
The snake reached my collarbone. It slid from my shirt, around my neck, over my ear.
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
“The Fox was dismayed,” the Old Man whispered. “ ‘Artha tricked me,’ she grumbled. She knew she couldn’t follow her friend into the water, because it was too cold and too fast, and the Fox was not as good a swimmer as the Bear. Still, she didn’t want to give up—”
CRASH
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
“—so she ran down the mountain, beside the stream. Down, down, down she went, so fast she didn’t look where she was going. And so the Fox didn’t spot the snake until it was too late.”
Boots thudded outside.
“Before Shuna could move, the snake grabbed the little Fox. It wrapped her tight, so tight she could barely breathe. The snake hissed at her, reared back, and opened its jaws, ready to swallow her whole.”
A second pair of boots came up the stairs. “You check this room yet?” the gravel-voiced Stickman said.
In the faint light shining through the weave of the wicker, I saw the snake hovering before my face. Its tongue flickered, the barest inch from my eye.
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
“The Fox knew,” the Old Man whispered, “the Bear was too far away to help her. And wrapped up as she was, she had no hope for a fight. So when the snake brought its head down and met Shuna eye to eye, the Fox spoke first.
“ ‘Please, friend,’ Shuna said. ‘Don’t hurt me.’
“And the snake said—”
The door to our room smashed open. I stared, terrified, past the shadow of the snake, through the wicker, at the squat-nosed Stickman who stomped inside.
The man wore the olive and gray of the Perith City Watch. In his hand was his truncheon, the iron-studded club that gave the Stickmen their name. His barker—a percussion pistol—hung from his belt. He began to topple the furniture, searching the room.
A cabinet crashed to the ground. Its glass front shattered, so close I felt the pressure thud my ears.
The rattling riled the snake. Wrapped around my neck, it squeezed. Its hiss pierced my ears, the world itself trembling with the sound.
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
I couldn’t decide which was the worse way to die: the snake’s venom or the Stickman’s club. In my terror, I thought only of the Old Man’s story. What Shuna the Fox, patron Spirit of merchants—and thieves—had said.
When I spoke, there was no sound, not even a whisper. Just what little breath could pass my lips as the snake throttled my neck.
Please, friend, I said. Don’t hurt me.
The snake hovered, bobbing back and forth, tongue flicking my skin.
ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
Beside me, the Old Man sat frozen. Through the basket, I watched Squat-Nose approach. He reached out—
—and his companion yanked him back.
“Are you addled?” Gravel-Voice said, shaking his comrade. “That’s a snakesroost. Can’t you hear inside?”
Squat-Nose froze. He listened, and in the silence, heard the angry hiss that filled my ears.
“The guv’nor said search everywhere,” the man said, embarrassed but defiant. “They could be hiding in there, they could.”
“If they are,” Gravel-Voice said, “they’re dead already. So’s unless you want to join ’em, let’s go.”
They left the room. They tossed the rest of the home for another minute before giving up and moving next door.
The instant the Stickmen were gone, the Old Man pushed the lid off the hamper. Now I could see the snake that held me. It was a coppery color, mottled rings all down its scales. I stared into round, black eyes.
Slowly, carefully, the Old Man held his hand out to the snake.
“That’s a good girl, come on, now,” he murmured.
The snake turned toward him. Its tongue flicked at his fingers. Then its body loosened its grip, slithering onto the Old Man’s arm.
It hissed at him but made no move to strike. The Old Man kept his eyes on the snake as he spoke quietly. “What are you waiting for, boy? An invitation to the ball?”
I scrambled from the hamper, tumbling to the floorboards, scampering away on all fours. I huddled in the corner, sobbing in panicked relief.
Carefully, the Old Man climbed out after me, then laid his arm on the bottom of the basket. The snake slithered off him, giving one final, angry ssssSSSSssss that made the Old Man back away, hands raised. Quickly, he slammed the lid on the basket, trapping the snake inside. Then he turned to me, calm as ever.
“Where’s the coin?” he said.
It took a second to remember what he was talking about. Wordlessly, I opened my hand.
The emperor’s visage glowed blue in my palm. At its edge, the coin was tinged red. My blood. I’d gripped the thing so tightly, it had cut my fingers.
The Old Man took it. He wiped off the blood with an overturned bedsheet, then held up the coin, peering at the enchantment.
He grinned. “Not bad, boy. Not bad at all.”
My words came out a stammer. “I th-thought we were dead.”
“Thinking don’t make it so, does it?”
I sat on the floor, my mind a jumble. The Stickmen should have found me. The snake should have bit me. I looked back at the basket, wondering.
Did Shuna protect me? Had my words made it to her ears? Had she answered my plea?
Was this magic?
Stupid, I know. Bindings—enchantments—don’t work that way. But I was only six and didn’t know any better. So I thought maybe it really was the blessing of the Fox. And that made me remembe
r that the Old Man hadn’t finished his tale.
“What happened?” I said, still trying to calm my heart. “In the rest of the story?”
“What story?”
“Fox and Bear. The snake. How does it end?”
“No idea.”
I blinked. “How can you not know the end of your own story?”
“Someone stole the last page out of the book.”
“Why would anyone steal a page of Fox and Bear?”
He flicked the coin into the air. It tumbled, end over end, then vanished into his palm.
“Beats me,” he said.
EIGHT YEARS LATER
CHAPTER 1
I hate princesses.
Well . . . that might be unfair. It’s not like I’ve met a lot of princesses, after all. Just the girl currently aiming her pout at me: Bronwyn of Coulgen. Heir to the Sable Scepter, Jewel of the East, and Absolute Pain in My Backside. So perhaps I exaggerated when I said I hate princesses. I only hated the one.
In this, I stood alone. Fair Bronwyn, with her dark brown curls, slate-gray eyes, and overly large inheritance, had dozens of young suitors—maybe hundreds, it’s hard to tell one fool from another—all of whom would gladly strangle each other for the chance to be part of her circle.
Luckily for Bronwyn, playing Let’s-You-and-Him-Fight was her favorite pastime. In the three months since I’d arrived in Coulgen, she’d tossed those curls nineteen times—I’d counted—and oh-so-innocently mentioned how one earl’s young son had besmirched the name of another, raising the blood of the boys chasing after her in feathered hats and coattails.
This led to insults, which led to challenges, which led to pistols at dawn (or dusk, if she just couldn’t wait). And all the while, the princess smiled her dazzling smile, while the light in her eyes brightened with the gun smoke and blood.
She was a cruel thing, Bronwyn. Yet I was the only one who saw it. Because, before he’d abandoned me, the Old Man had schooled me well.
Never watch the game, boy, he’d always said, in that self-important way of his. Watch the players. Watch and listen. And their secrets will be revealed.
So as I sat with Bronwyn in the greeting chambers of her palace, I watched. I listened. And behind her pout, her thoughts were plain as day. She’d brought me here to steal something from me. And she wasn’t going to let me go until she had it.