The Silver Thief

by Edward W. Robertson

  Gladdic was on the third floor. Dante paused at the second floor landing to listen, but the chambers beyond were silent and dark. He continued to the third story. Two candles flickered at the far side of the chamber, light and shadow battling for control of the walls. At his desk, back to the stairwell, Gladdic turned a page, reached for a quill, and jotted a note on the parchment beside him.

  Something rustled below, the sound so faint that, a second later, Dante wasn't sure it had been real. Gladdic showed no sign of having heard it.

  The man was as quick as a snake with both nether and ether. Dante would have to hit him before he knew the shadows were upon him. Inhaling through his nose, Dante called the nether in a rush so thick it threatened to blot out the air around him. The instant it was in his grasp, he launched it forward in two bursts: one aimed for Gladdic's head, the other for the center of his back.

  Both blows struck true. And both dissolved like a pinch of sand cast into a breaking wave.

  Dante yanked the nether from its holds in the crannies in the stone. Gladdic stood stiffly, spinning on his heel to face Dante. Dante launched another volley of black bolts at the priest. Gladdic didn't so much as raise his hand. He summoned no ether or nether in defense. As before, the assault vanished into his body, the shadows swirling into him as if he was drinking them.

  Acting on instinct, Dante drew on what little ether he could command. It coalesced into a pearly ball the size of a marble. He shaped it into a point and jabbed it toward Gladdic.

  The priest jerked backwards, twisting his shoulders. Rather than taking him in the throat, the ether struck him in the right collarbone. With this, all the color faded from him. Not that he went pale—rather, from head to toe, he turned pitch black. Including the glossy claws that now curled from his fingers.

  His eyes, though—these gleamed silver, twinkling with the coldness of the stars. Dante's blood ran even colder.

  4

  Raxa trudged up the stairs behind Gaits. He was always lively, but that night, he had an extra bounce in his step. Under normal circumstances, she would have resented this.

  But tonight was different. Tonight was payday.

  He emerged onto the rooftop. Six stories high, the top of the Marrigan—in a touch of irony, their den was still named after the blue-blood who'd built it—held a commanding view of Narashtovik. To the north, the bay glimmered under the stars. To the west and south, the city spread before them. And to the east, the spire of Ivars and the blunt body of the Sealed Citadel stood as monuments to history.

  Blackeyed Gaits strolled to the iron railing enclosing the rooftop. He leaned his forearms over it, smiling at the distant bay. The early summer night was already cooling, the breeze tousling his ear-length black hair.

  "Quite a view, isn't it?" he said.

  "Marvelous." The sea breeze was stirring less pleasant scents as well, but after so many years living in the slums, Raxa took them as a natural part of life. "Is this a ploy?"

  "For what?"

  "To put me in a good mood so you can negotiate me down."

  Gaits had a flair for the dramatic: as he swiveled his head to regard her, he ducked his chin, only to swing it up at the last moment. "You think I'd try to lowball you? For the Torc of Dalder?"

  "I think you'd try to lowball me for the soul of your own mother."

  "Yes, but in this case, I care about the torc." He turned back to the night, twisting one of his many rings. "We're not up here to soften your brain."

  "Then why?"

  "We'll get to that." With a movement so graceful it bordered on magic, he produced a leather bag, its bottom sagging with weight. "Payment in full. In exchange for one priceless torc."

  "Do you even understand what the word 'priceless' means?"

  "Don't get technical. If it has no price, then I owe you no money."

  Raxa grabbed the sack. She jogged it up and down, clinking the silver coins inside it. "Feels light. Do I need to bite it?"

  Gaits shrugged one shoulder. He was wearing a new shirt. Looked like silk. "Fedder died on the job. This wasn't some street rat with no family or people. He was a scion of Dallagor. Do you have any idea what it takes to cover up something like that?"

  "Shouldn't cost a thing. A foolish boy went missing. Happens all the time."

  "In our circles? Sure. But people like the Dallagors, they're going to call in trackers. Bounty hunters. It's in our best interests if they're fed certain crumbs. Led in certain directions. Doing that, without it coming back on us, gets expensive."

  After a moment, she pocketed the bag. "You said you had something else for me."

  Gaits wandered toward the east side of the roof, giving Raxa no choice but to follow. He folded his arms, holding his right elbow in his left hand as he regarded the towering silhouettes of the Sealed Citadel and the Cathedral of Ivars.

  "Those two structures hang above us like a pair of proud gods," he said. "Wherever you are in the city, they're watching over you."

  Raxa moved to the railing. "Can't be that powerful. Or else they wouldn't need those walls around them."

  "Indeed. Know what else? The Celeset has twelve gods, not two. I think there's room for far more deities in Narashtovik."

  "Let me know when you're done being abstract."

  He snorted. "Do I need to spell it out for you? This city's been resurrected. It's got money spilling from every pocket. Nobody's going to notice if we help ourselves. By the time they do start to figure out what's happening, we'll be rich enough to buy an army of our own." He gestured grandly to the dark buildings beneath them. "We're up here for perspective. To find the vision to restore the Order of the Alley to its former glory."

  "Very inspiring. Now what about the job?"

  "Can't you allow yourself one moment to dream?"

  "Every moment spent dreaming is one you could have spent working to make that dream real."

  Gaits sighed, but he was smirking. He pointed toward the Citadel. "Galand's gone. He's been gone for weeks. No one knows when he'll be back—or even if he's alive. I think it's high time we redistribute some of the Citadel's treasures."

  "To ourselves?"

  "That counts as redistribution."

  Raxa smiled. "What's the target?"

  "The Jerrelec Collection. Your standard baubles and jewelry, though more ancient than most. It's rumored there's even some gold in there."

  She couldn't help raising an eyebrow. She'd only seen gold twice in her life. "This is in the Sealed Citadel?"

  "Correct."

  "You know that's not just a name, right? Got an entrance for me?"

  "We have someone inside who'll be working with you."

  "And how do I get inside?"

  "This is the heart of the city's government," Gaits said. "It's home to priests. Monks. Soldiers. Staff. There are hundreds of people inside those walls. Now, you may never have been inside the Citadel, but you've passed by it, right? How big do you suppose its garden is?"

  "Not nearly enough for hundreds of people." She tipped back her head. "You want to sneak me in with their food delivery."

  He nodded, grinning toothily. "The wagons come every fortnight. Only this time, they'll be carrying an extra…" He looked her up and down. "130 pounds of human surprise."

  "What about extraction? I can't stay there two weeks until the next delivery."

  "These hundreds of people produce more than their share of garbage and waste, too. That cart goes out three days after the food comes in. And when it does, it'll be carrying an extra 130 pounds of human ex—"

  "Save it," Raxa said. "That's the best you've got? Cramming me into a mound of shit?"

  He did his one-shouldered shrug. "It's a little trash, that's all. Just pretend it's that apartment of yours and you'll feel right at home."

  She stared at him. "It's not about the trash. It's the risk. Three days inside?"

  "What would you prefer? That we load you into a trebuchet and fling you onto the roof of the keep?"

 
; "Sounds less likely to get me killed."

  "You're the best sneak we've got. I say you're up to the risks. If you've got a better idea, I'm all ears."

  "I don't."

  As she spoke the words, though, an idea came to her with spooky clarity. Goosebumps touched her arms. This was a habit of hers, if you could call it that—sometimes, when she expressed a firm belief, it was disproven in the next instant. By and large, she wasn't superstitious. People said all kinds of things about the gods, but the gods never said anything back. When it came to her jinx, though…there were times she was afraid to express her beliefs out of fear they'd be turned on their head as soon as she expressed them.

  "Hold up," she said. "I heard rumors that during the war, they were bringing people in and out of the Citadel—while it was under siege."

  "Those aren't rumors." Gaits motioned to the hill north of the Citadel. "You're talking about the tunnel from the carneterium."

  "The body locker?"

  "You got it. The place where they take the dead to be poked and prodded until they reveal what killed them."

  "Or the investigators find what they want to believe. These newcomers are strange."

  "That's probably why they built the tunnel—so no one can see what they're inflicting on the bodies." He clasped his left fist in his right hand, drumming his fingers over its back. "Won't work, though. The tunnel into the Citadel was closed as soon as the war ended. Unless you can muffle a sledgehammer, there's no way in."

  "Or so they want you to think. I'm going to see for myself."

  "Do not get made. If they catch you sniffing around, and the next day the crown jewels go missing, they may be able to add two with two."

  "I'm the only one you trust to get inside, right? So trust me to investigate my own route in."

  "This is about much more than you." He swung away from the railing, bringing his face within a foot of her own. His expression, normally wry, was now as hard as the slopes of the Wodun Mountains, his eyes as bright as their glaciers. "This is the first wave in a sea change for the Order. Do us proud, or step back and let someone else turn the tide."

  In other circumstances—down in the bar, say—she would have deflected his earnestness with a quip. "You know I can do this, Gaits. If you didn't, we wouldn't be here."

  "Yeah," he said. "I know."

  He finished with the details. She headed downstairs and straight toward the Strongbox. There, Trunk checked her for picks and prybars, his meaty hands deft through years of practice. Done, he stepped back with a nod. Inside the vault, she located her box and opened its door with the key around her neck, releasing the crisp smell of metal coinage and the musty smell of papers.

  It was rumored that some members of the Order kept enough in their box to keep them fed for a decade. Raxa had enough for two or three months. She put her payment for the torc inside, fishing out a few bits of silver and iron for walking around money, then locked the box and replaced it in the wall.

  Downstairs in the bar, she stopped to write a note, folding it into her pocket. She hit the streets, angling northeast toward the high hill facing the Citadel. Within blocks, the neighborhood toughed. The blades on her hip—a knife, and a longer weapon with pretensions of swordhood—dissuaded anything stronger than glances. It was early summer and there was still a bit of chill to the night's marine air.

  After a long walk, the buildings faded behind her, replaced by ragged grass grown high during the spring rains. A dirt trail led toward the base of the hill.

  It was easy to be accepted in places you had no business being. The first trick, which even the civilians knew, was to avoid notice. Act like you belonged there. Stride around like you owned the place. Absolutely no gawking or shifty eyes allowed.

  If you couldn't escape notice, you discouraged interruption. A man and a woman posing as a feuding couple could dissuade even armed guards from approaching. Under the right circumstances, applying makeup or lightly poisoning yourself to appear diseased could ensure nobody got close enough to ask you any questions.

  Lastly, if you failed to avoid notice or discourage interruption, you had to convince the man who'd marked you to disengage and move along. Easiest way to do that was to tell them the story of why you were there. Any story had to be plausible on its face, but the absolute best ones had something beyond that: details that would make anyone questioning you too uncomfortable to ask more. Hints of sex stuff shut down some people fast.

  Another way was to convince them you were there as part of a fun, harmless conspiracy—say a servant stopped you in the baron's halls and you told him you were an old friend there to surprise him. Did it work every time? Not even close. But it succeeded often enough that a good story could be a better defense than any sword.

  So she would walk into the carneterium like it was her second home. Traversing the halls, she'd unfold the note she'd written to herself and appear to be inspecting it. And if anyone stopped her to ask why she was there, she'd explain that her husband, who'd been unfaithful to her, had been killed in a duel. His body was here and she needed to see it—alone.

  Thieving could be a lot of work sometimes.

  She came to the cave set in the base of the hill. A lantern flickered weakly in the entrance. Damp air oozed from the cavern. It was heavy with incense, but that couldn't mask the smell of bloating flesh. Seeing no one, she picked up the lantern and walked into a tunnel.

  She'd only gone a few feet before the passage forked. The way ahead smelled foul. The fork, though, smelled more like your run of the mill cave. She took it.

  The stone walls were eerily smooth. The hallway descended, stretching on for hundreds of feet without any doors or side passages. Bit of grit on the floor, but nothing else of notice. As best as she could tell—and she was definitely fuzzy on this—she was heading south or southeast.

  The tunnel continued for what felt like a mile, then ended so suddenly she almost walked into the blank wall of dark basalt.

  She reached out and touched it. It was as perfectly smooth as the walls. She lifted the lantern. No gaps or seams where the wall met the ceiling. She felt it from top to bottom. All rock. Solid.

  She went back to Gaits and told him she had her way in.

  * * *

  With no need to coordinate around the Citadel's incoming wagon schedules, Raxa wasn't slated to hit the job for another four days. Even so, the morning after visiting the carneterium, she got up early and returned to the Marrigan. There, she removed nearly her entire payment for the torc from her locker and divided it equally into six small burlap pouches.

  Cash in her pocket and blades on her hips, she headed to the first home. Communal building on Flinders Street. Not a great neighborhood, but there were much worse. Including hers. Inside the building, she climbed the musty stairwell to the fourth floor, found the door with the two dogs' heads carved on it, and knocked.

  A woman answered, a little old to be a mother, but a little young to be a grandma. Seeing Raxa, her face crinkled with a smile. "Back so soon?"

  "I had a good month," Raxa said. "How was yours?"

  The woman—her name was Parrie—rolled her eyes. "Busy, no thanks to you."

  "I warned you."

  "You did. And I didn't listen."

  "If at any time you're not happy—"

  Parrie slashed her hand through the air. "None of that. I've never been happier. The busyness is the main reason why."

  Raxa smiled. "How's Avie?"

  "Running wild with a pack of others. She makes friends like a cobbler makes shoes."

  Raxa laughed. When she'd found Avie, the girl had been living alone, hiding in one of the abandoned ruins on the town's outskirts. So alone and wary of strangers that Raxa had had to coax her out by leaving almond pastries on a stone and retreating far enough that the girl felt safe to come out and get them. A year later, she had more friends than she had fingers and toes. A lot of that was Parrie's doing. The woman acted like a curmudgeon, but Raxa knew that, behind the blu
ster and the scowls, she was as soft as warm wax.

  "Be sure to buy her something nice. She's got a sweet tooth." Raxa handed over one of the smaller sacks.

  Parrie accepted it, blinking at its weight. "This is way too much."

  "Then save it for the tough times."

  "I never had this much growing up."

  "I don't know how long I'll be around," Raxa said. "Could be a year, could be twenty. Or anything in between. It's my job to make sure they'll be fine long after I'm gone."

  Parrie snorted. "I'll take your money, if that's what you want. But I've heard the stories about you. I've got a feeling you'll outlive us all."

  Raxa spent a few more minutes catching up, spending as much time asking about Parrie, who had recently been taken on as a clerk for a justice of the peace, as she did about Avie. After twenty minutes and a cup of tea, Raxa extricated herself and went on her way, walking downhill to the home near the bay where Georj Fenner lived with Ven.

  Georj answered the door with a grin. Before he could finish saying hello, Ven sped from the depths of the house, crashing into Raxa's legs and hugging her waist tight. She laughed and hugged him back.

  During the thirty minutes she spent catching up with them, sipping from a cool glass of wintrel-spiced tea, she forgot all about the scheme against the Citadel. But as soon as she hugged Ven goodbye and stepped outside, there it was, a stone block in the sky, a monument to itself, paired with the great spike of the Cathedral. Just as Gaits had said, everywhere she went, they followed.

  At her next visit, Mr. and Mrs. Kinnel were out, but Bina was there, along with the Kinnels' older daughter Yenna. Everything seemed fine. Next was Svin, who already looked an inch taller than the last time Raxa had seen him.

  Fifth on the list was Fedd and his foster father Herrick. They lived right outside the Pridegate in a two-room house standing on a time-worn foundation of black rock. The yard was littered with bits of wood and pieces of furniture salvaged from the thousands of homes that had been abandoned in the outskirts of Narashtovik prior to the coming of Dante Galand. Nearly every piece showed pale green mold or lichen, and was apparently so valueless it could be left out in the open without being stolen.