by Kevin Sands
The next thief was a girl with dusky skin. She was tiny, even shorter than the boy with the grin. Her dress made her look the part of a lady, all frills and lace, but her posture was pure child: curled into one corner of the couch, buckled shoes kicked off, feet tucked underneath. Her hair, a deep reddish-brown, was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing what should have been her face.
Except there was nothing there but a metal plate.
At first, I was sure I was seeing a mask—it had to be—and yet it wasn’t. There were no slits for eyes, no nose or mouth hole to breathe. The front of her head was simply a smooth, featureless curve of steel, polished well enough to reflect the lamplight. And all around the edge of the steel were rivets. The plate had been drilled into her skull.
The Old Man had trained me—at least outwardly—to take unusual things in stride. But I couldn’t help myself. I froze and stared.
What in Artha’s cursed name was this? How could the girl see? How could she breathe? It occurred to me that maybe she was a construct, like Lopsided the cat; not a person, an automaton, created by magic. But Lop was made of clay. This girl was flesh, and the way she moved, languid and lazy, was too natural to be anything but alive. She turned her head my way, and I was sure, despite the fact she had no eyes, that she could see me just fine.
Get a hold of yourself, boy, the Old Man said, and his chiding helped me get back some control. I nodded to the girl. She nodded back, and though I can’t quite explain how I knew this, I was certain she found my reaction funny.
I forced myself to look away, glancing toward the final girl sitting on my right. And there I saw—
I groaned. “Oh no.”
It was the girl from the Malley.
She was no longer wearing her dragon-patterned dress. She’d changed into a simpler frock of beige, trimmed with lace. I didn’t think this one came with a parachute.
“Well, this is awkward,” she said.
“Do you two know each other?” Mr. Solomon said, curious.
“We’ve met.” The girl smothered a smile. “Briefly.”
“She was on the airship,” I said, glaring at her as she gave me a look of wide-eyed innocence.
“Of course,” Mr. Solomon said. “In that case, introductions are in order. This is Meriel.”
The girl blew me a kiss.
“As for the others,” Mr. Solomon said, “we have . . .”
The girl in the mask. “Foxtail.”
The skeleton boy against the bookcase. “Gareth.”
The blond kid. “Lachlan.” The boy grinned at his name.
And finally, the boy with the scar under his eyes. “Oran of Sligach.”
Well, well. That was unexpected. Oran of Sligach was famous.
The word was, the boy had stolen a golden scepter from the emperor. According to the newspapers, he’d managed to creep into a secured vault and snatch the thing right from its hook. The others recognized his name, too, and were suitably impressed.
Mr. Solomon finished with me. “This is Callan. He was a disciple of the Architect.”
Now everyone turned their eyes my way. It had been many years before I realized it, but the Old Man—whom they called the Architect—was as notorious a thief as any.
“Artha’s furry backside,” Lachlan said. His accent, a melodic sort of brogue, marked him as from the poorest part of Carlow. “I’m in the presence of royalty, I am.”
Meriel rolled her eyes, but Oran nodded my way again, this time a mark of respect. I saw Gareth staring at me; he lowered his gaze quickly when I looked back. Only Foxtail didn’t seem to care. She curled up tighter and tucked her arms under her head as if she was going to sleep.
Mr. Solomon sat at the desk. The Lady in Red stood behind him. “Now that we’re all acquainted,” he said, “I can tell you more about the job.”
Oran spoke, his voice rough. One of his teeth was missing. “You said you had something for us first?”
“Ah. Yes.” Mr. Solomon motioned to the Lady, who removed six envelopes from a drawer inside the desk. She passed them around, placing one in front of each of us.
As usual, I watched everyone to see how they’d react before going for my own. Lachlan and Meriel looked inside right away, the boy grinning and using the wad of bills to fan himself. Gareth glanced at his, sitting on the coffee table, but he didn’t enter the circle to come get it. Foxtail ignored hers outright, still looking asleep, and with the mask covering her face, I wasn’t entirely certain she wasn’t. As for Oran, he drew the bills out and counted them silently, one by one. Twenty of them, a hundred crowns each. Two thousand total, as promised.
“If you’re satisfied . . . ?” Mr. Solomon said.
Oran nodded.
“Then let’s begin.” Mr. Solomon leaned back in his chair. “I want you to steal a jewel for me. This jewel is currently in the possession of a particularly talented Weaver. And I need it in my hands by the end of the week.”
“A Weaver?” Lachlan said. Apparently, the boy didn’t realize he was already in the home of one. “Shuna’s twitchy nose. That don’t sound easy.”
“It isn’t.”
“Like as to get ourselves turned into mice, we are.”
Mr. Solomon smiled thinly. “That’s not actually possible.”
“Says you. Not to be rude, mate, but them enchanting types can hold a grudge.”
Now the man looked genuinely amused. “Indeed. That’s why, if you succeed, I’m willing to pay you handsomely.”
“How handsomely?” Meriel said.
Mr. Solomon leaned forward. “I’ll give you two million crowns.”
CHAPTER 7
The room went still. Even Gareth looked up, blinking, as if waking from a dream.
Two . . . million? Impossible.
Lachlan was the first to break the silence. He laughed. “You’re having us on.”
Mr. Solomon nodded to the Lady in Red. She stepped into the circle and pulled on the tabletop in front of the sofa. It swung open, like the lid of a chest.
And we stared at the fortune inside.
Half the trunk was filled with bills. Not hundred-crown bills this time, but thousand. They were bound with bankers’ bands, stacked tightly in a brick the size of a carriage wheel. The other half of the trunk was mostly bars of gold and a handful of gemstones, some fixed in jewelry, some loose.
Lachlan squealed. “Whaaaat?” He went to his knees and grabbed bills off the stacks, riffling through them.
There was no trickery here: they were real. Two million crowns, just sitting in a trunk in this man’s study.
There are six of us, I thought. An equal share would be . . . three hundred and thirty-three thousand crowns. Each.
I found it hard to breathe. Daphna wanted fifty thousand to take away my scars. This was . . . more.
It wasn’t just enough to erase my past. This would build me a future. In my mind, I was back on the Malley again, and all I could see was blue, nothing but sky.
I pulled myself back down. A quick glance at the others showed they were doing similar calculations. Meriel’s skin was flushed. Gareth had shifted his gaze from the floor to the trunk. Lachlan couldn’t stop giggling as he rooted through the treasure. Even Foxtail had uncurled herself from the cushions, peering curiously at the baubles in the center of the room.
Only Oran looked troubled.
“Tell us more about this jewel,” he said.
“It’s had many names over the years,” Mr. Solomon said, “but most Weavers call it ‘the Eye.’ It looks like it’s made of amber, about half the size of your palm, and it’s shaped like a lens: curved on one side, almost flat on the other.”
“What does it do?”
“That’s not your concern.”
Mr. Solomon said it pleasantly enough, but his words made the room go a little cold. Reading
the change in temperature, Mr. Solomon spread his hands and smiled. “The Eye has a particular value to me, and very little to most others. It can’t harm you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I’d been watching Mr. Solomon carefully since I’d arrived. He’d always held eye contact as he spoke. But there, right at the end, he’d looked away.
Which made it almost certain he’d just lied.
“Why us?” Oran said.
“What do you mean?”
“This . . . team you’ve assembled. It’s a bunch of children.”
“Most of you are past the age of decision,” Mr. Solomon pointed out. “And, despite your youth, you all come with excellent reputations.”
“Still. There are plenty of thieves with good names. And a lot more experience. Why choose us?”
Mr. Solomon hesitated—and that was all I needed to guess the answer.
“He didn’t,” I said.
Everyone looked at me. I kept my eyes on Mr. Solomon. He stared back with a wry smile.
“Or rather,” I continued, “he didn’t choose us first. We’re not the only team he’s hired.”
Mr. Solomon gave a small nod. “You see? As Callan dem-onstrates: excellent reputations.”
“Wait a minute,” Meriel said. “If we’re not the first, how many other teams were there?”
Mr. Solomon paused, as if deciding whether to answer. When he did, the number was too high to be anything but the truth. “Five.”
The room erupted. “What?” Meriel said.
“Shuna’s sneezing snout,” Lachlan said. “That’s a blow to the ego.”
“What happened to the others?” Oran said.
Mr. Solomon shrugged. “They failed.”
I didn’t need to read his expression to know what that meant. But Oran saw even more.
“The Breakers,” he said suddenly.
Mr. Solomon looked at him calmly.
“That’s why the Stickmen went after them,” Oran said. “You kept hiring the Breakers to steal this Eye. That made someone angry enough to force the City Watch to raid them. There’s only one enchanter with the clout to call on the Stickmen—and the knowledge to ferret the Breakers from the underground.”
Oran stared back at Mr. Solomon. “It’s not just any Weaver you want us to rob,” he said. “You’re sending us after the High Weaver himself.”
CHAPTER 8
My blood went cold.
The High Weaver. Darragh VII.
The most dangerous man in the world, Daphna had once said.
She’d told me about him when we’d been lounging about in Grey’s shop, no chance of customers coming in. I’d been sitting on the counter, Daphna slouched against it, telling me tales of the Weavers. The Old Man had been there, too. He sat under one of the oil lamps, uncharacteristically silent, cleaning his pipe.
What’s so dangerous about the High Weaver? I’d asked.
He’s ruthless, Daphna said. He’s killed off more of his rivals than a boilersnake. Even the emperor is afraid of him. She was hard to faze, Daphna, but she shuddered. I think he experiments on people.
This was the man Mr. Solomon wanted us to rob? Ridiculous.
Lachlan looked back, wide-eyed. “I’m too young to die, mate.”
“No one needs to die,” Mr. Solomon assured us. “No one will even know you were the thieves. Pull the job, bring me the Eye, collect your prize. Then go.”
“Oh, is that all?” Oran said softly.
“Yes,” Mr. Solomon said, ignoring his sarcasm. “And now is the time to strike. Now more than ever.”
He’d said earlier that he needed us to steal the thing before the end of the week. Today was the 20th, week’s end was the 23rd. That gave us only three days to prepare.
“What’s so special about now?” I said.
“The last group I hired, one of the thieves made it out of the High Weaver’s palace. He told me they’d broken almost all the wards—the magical traps that protected Darragh's home. His house is essentially undefended.”
Oran frowned. “Why wouldn’t he put up new wards?”
“That’s not as easy as you think. Binding is an incredibly complicated process. First you need to collect enough life essence—and the stronger the enchantment, the more life you need. Then you need to bind it with the correct runes. This takes time, resources, preparation.”
I recalled the mind trap that protected Mr. Solomon’s dagger, and was sure he was telling the truth—about this, at least. It’d be no simple thing to infuse a rune in the glass like that.
“According to the thief who escaped,” Mr. Solomon said, “there’s only one ward left. It protects the Eye itself, deep underground, in a cavern in the High Weaver’s laboratory. And though the man was not able to get past it, he was the first to tell me why.”
He nodded, indicating us. “Bypassing this ward can only be done by a child.”
That sounded awfully strange. “Why?”
Mr. Solomon pursed his lips. “I’ll be honest with you: I don’t know. Every Weaver specializes in the kind of bindings they create. The High Weaver’s talent is in manipulating the cold, but he is also an expert in creating wards. I told you earlier, Callan, that modern-day Weavers have lost the art. Darragh is not like them. Whatever his failings as a man, he’s a skilled enchanter. My best guess is that he’s managed to create a barrier that allows passage only under certain conditions.”
“Like the age of the trespasser.”
“Most likely.”
This still seemed odd. “If the High Weaver’s so good at it,” Meriel said, “why not create a ward that only allows him through?”
“The nature of the enchantment determines the life you need to use. A barrier designed to allow only Darragh to pass would require his own life energy to power it. Such a binding might kill him.”
Gareth shifted against the wall, listening intently to what the man was saying about magic. Mr. Solomon continued. “Whatever Darragh’s reasons, my informant was clear. Only a child can approach the Eye. Therefore . . .” He spread his hands. “I’m hiring you.”
My mind was spinning with . . . well, everything. The task before us. The payout. The High Weaver. Magic.
And my future.
I could feel the Old Man in the back of my head. You already know what I think, he said.
Stay away from spellslingers, I said.
He nodded. Can’t trust them.
But this money . . . I said. One job, and it could give me everything I want.
How convenient.
I understood what he meant. Need, greed, and speed. This gaff had all three.
I just didn’t know what to do.
What does your gut say? the Old Man asked.
That Mr. Solomon is keeping a secret, I answered. There’s something he isn’t saying about the Eye, and the ward that protects it. Something that he thinks matters. I just don’t know what.
Maybe somebody else would. “Could we speak to the thief that made it out?” I said.
“No,” Mr. Solomon said.
“Why not?”
“Because the man has lost his mind.”
CHAPTER 9
We stared at Mr. Solomon in horror—except for Foxtail, who, curled on the couch again, didn’t seem to care. I thought of the dagger’s insidious mind trap and shuddered.
Lachlan looked dejected. “Artha’s pounding paws. I don’t want to lose my marbles.”
“This will not be a problem for you,” Mr. Solomon insisted. “The thief’s mind was broken by the final ward—the one you will be able to bypass. He’s now resting in Clarewell Sanatorium, where I have high hopes he’ll recover. Beyond that, he’s not a Weaver; there’s nothing more he can tell us.”
“You’re asking us to take a huge risk,” I said.
“Which is
why I’m offering an equally large reward.”
Gareth, who hadn’t yet said a word, finally spoke. His voice was a low baritone, barely more than a whisper, and he had a stammer. “H-how do we know you’ll pay?”
“I’ve prepared a binding,” Mr. Solomon said. “Upon signing it, our agreement will be impossible to break.”
Mr. Solomon took a parchment from his desk and held it out to Gareth. The boy regarded it for a moment, as if he didn’t want to leave the safety behind the globe. He stepped close enough only to take it.
“I don’t know what that is,” Meriel said, “but I’m not signing anything.”
“Your signature is not required,” Mr. Solomon said. “The binding is on me, and me alone.”
Gareth returned to the bookshelf and pored over the scroll in silence.
Meriel spoke again. “Just out of curiosity . . . what if I don’t want to work with anyone else? What if I were to bring you the Eye myself?”
“I strongly suggest you do not attempt that,” Mr. Solomon said. “Even with Darragh’s magical defenses down, the man is no fool. You will need the skills of a team.”
“But what if I did?”
He shook his head, resigned. “All I really want is the jewel. Whether it’s all six of you or only one, the two million goes to whoever brings me the Eye.”
Gareth handed the scroll back to Mr. Solomon.
“Is everything in order?” Mr. Solomon said.
Gareth nodded and returned to the shelf. Mr. Solomon offered for the rest of us to have a look at it and passed it along. Oran and Meriel studied it carefully, Oran going through it twice. Foxtail barely glanced at the paper. Lachlan didn’t look at all.
“Can’t read, mate,” he said cheerfully.
When it came to me, I pored over it as hard as Gareth had. I was expecting a scrawl of lawyer-speak, all gobbledegook and nonsense. But the agreement was remarkably simple. It said exactly what Mr. Solomon had promised: That once we’d brought him the artifact known commonly among Weavers as “the Eye,” he’d have to pay us two million crowns, and couldn’t take that money back under any circumstances. Even if we were dead.