When he finally looked up, he found Devan seated at a table against the far wall, back near a curtained servants’ entrance. Nalan was by his side.
Allister, on the other hand, wore bright yellow. They had dressed him to stand out in a crowd.
“You looked good up there,” Nalan offered.
“Shut up, Nalan,” Allister moaned, dropping heavily into a chair beside him. He turned to Devan. “Did you see them?”
“Not them,” Devan replied. “Him.”
“Just one?”
“I know. It's weir—ahhoww!” As he spoke, a hand shot out from behind the curtain leading back to the service area, snagging Devan by the ear. It pulled him off his chair and back into the darkness.
Nalan gaped and looked over to Allister. Allister looked back and forth between the curtain and Nalan, not knowing what to say.
The hand appeared again, pulling back the curtain a few inches. “Get back here,” Tolem hissed at them from the other side. “Now, goddamn it.”
The pair pushed their way through and found Tolem had Devan pressed up against a wall, their faces inches apart. “Are you out of your tiny fucking mind? Which of your storybooks told you a sound burgling strategy starts with causing a ruckus and giving the guards a close look at your fucking face?”
Devan winced. He looked like he was trying to rub the blood back into his ear. “We were testing the floor mages.”
“The floor mages?”
“Yeah. The floor mages.” Devan had more than a touch of sass in his voice. “You see, Uncle Tolem, all casinos have practitioners working the gaming floor, looking for people trying to get a little extra magical assistance on their rolls.”
Tolem squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “Yes, Devan, I know how casinos work.”
“It took almost twenty minutes for a floor mage to get here, Instruc—” Nalan stopped short. “Tolem.” Allister smirked. It seemed Tolem's constant, thundering protests about not being called ‘Instructor’ in public had finally sunk in. Nalan continued, “Between the magic user shortage and the number of mages they need to keep The Palace flying...”
“...There's no one guarding the Gaming Hall against hand waving and dice tweaking,” Tolem said, nodding curtly up at the mezzanine. “Time was, the whole upper level would've been full of the spark-fingered bastards, watching the guests' every move. Now it's just a handful...and him.”
Devan, Allister, and Nalan all turned and peered out through the gap between the curtain and the wall. Above the Kiva tables, the arched walls of the mezzanine came to a point, like the prow of a ship pointing out over the room. And standing there at the edge, hands folded behind his back, was a pale, rigid-looking man in a black, custom-tailored suit, a simple gold medallion hanging from around his neck. If he was half as ancient as his eyes looked, his military physique was remarkably well-preserved.
“Right. And who's he?” Devan asked, his eyes fixed on the sight.
“He's Judgment,” Tolem whispered. “Thomme Faerathore is the Ceneron family's lieutenant. It's a shame we're not trying this when Ma and Pa Ceneron were running the show. You could catch a break with them sometimes. When they didn't feel lenient, you might find yourself hanging from a sixty gauge hook stabbed in your neck, but at least you had that margin for error. With Faerathore? People like your friend Allister have vanished from the face of the world for acting less suspicious. He's not as showy as the Cenerons. Not as interested in piking the heads out on the front lawn. But utterly goddamn ruthless when it comes to the security of The Palace.”
Allister swallowed hard and pulled at the neck of his tunic. But Devan was still watching the Lieutenant. “Really?” he said at last, scratching his chin. “I think I'll go say hello.”
Tolem threw the curtain shut. “You take one step toward that staircase and I'll wear your stomped-out skull like a shoe. The goal of this job is not to see the look on Thomme Faerathore’s face when he realizes you’re smarter than him. I promise you, the plan I pick will be plenty hard without you complicating it any further.”
Allister would never admit it to anyone, but he was relieved Tolem was there. On the journey, while Tolem tried to sleep, the five of them had stayed up all hours of the night trying to top one another by laying out more and more elaborate and outrageous schemes for how they might pull off the heist. Let's roll the place over and rob it while it's flying upside down! Let’s crash the thing into a mountain and pick the gold out of the rubble! Let's bribe the mages to teleport everyone off The Palace except us, and then we steal The Palace, too!
For Allister, Nalan, Zella, and Breigh, it was just fooling around. But Devan took every idea seriously. They spent hours each night picking apart even the most ridiculous plans. At first, Allister assumed it was just Devan’s way of passing the time on a long trip, but after a week on the road, he wasn’t so sure. He was beginning to wonder what Devan might’ve planned for them if Tolem hadn’t been along.
But if Allister was quietly on Tolem’s side, there was no question who Nalan supported. His brow was furrowed, his lips were pursed, and he was slowly inching forward, as if intending to (eventually) come to Devan’s rescue.
Tolem stuck a finger in his face. “You. You seem like you've got a decent brain in your head. Can you help your friend here find his? From here on, your job is to make sure Devan doesn't do anything stupid that will get all of us decapitated in front of a screaming crowd in the coliseum. Can you do that?”
Nalan narrowed his eyes at Tolem. Tolem cocked his head to one side, waiting for an answer. Nalan finally nodded.
Tolem shot his nephew one last sharp look. Devan lifted his eyebrows indignantly and watched him go, pushing his way back out through the curtain, disappearing into the crowd almost immediately.
Devan snorted quietly. “So…” Allister said, breaking the tense silence. “I guess that makes Nalan your boss now?” Nalan’s expression shifted abruptly from smoldering anger to sudden concern. Allister smiled and smacked Devan on the shoulder.
Devan turned to Nalan with a genial smirk. “I won't tell anyone if you won't,” he said.
At that, Nalan visibly relaxed. “Thanks,” he said. “Responsibility makes my neck itch.”
Zella
“You are all...Terrible!” Breigh shouted at the brawny, blood-spattered combatants in the pit below. There, two massive brawlers shuffled uncertainly around one another, swinging their blades without art or form. “Gods' mercy, swing from the shoulder! Do I need to come down there?”
“Are you seeing this?” she asked Zella, but Zella was busy watching the crowd. She whistled a quiet tune, low enough that only she could hear it. It was that jaunty little eight-note melody Tolem had taught them; it hadn't left her head since the six of them left The Collegium. She had decided it was her new theme song: the anthem of her new life. Even though she'd fought tooth and nail about leaving The Collegium with Tolem, the sight of The Tower disappearing below the horizon had improved her spirits immeasurably. The moment that happened was the first time she'd smiled at Devan in two days, and things had been better since. Not great. But better.
On the bench beside her, Breigh was watching the spectacle with her entire body, the ruffles of her elaborate gown flipping and flying as she shifted in her seat. “Gods,” she moaned. “This isn't a bloodsport. It's a slow-motion double suicide. It's...crippled Krist, man! That big veiny thing is called his neck! He keeps his blood in there! Try stabbing it!”
At last, one of the combatants rushed the other and they both went down, stabbing each other feebly until they both stopped moving. The crowd fell into an indifferent silence as the att
endants pushed out the cadaver cart to clear the field for the next fight. For her part, Breigh just sat there slack-jawed, gesturing at the field with both hands. “Gods above and below…” she muttered, shaking her head. “Fetch me a butter knife. I’ll be Grand Champion here inside of a week.”
Zella said without looking her way. “Hopefully The Palace’s guards are just as good with a sword. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. Do you get any sense of how well-trained they are here? They’re all equipped nicely, “but I get the feeling that —”
Breigh smacked her hard on the shoulder, nearly knocking her out of her seat.
“Kack, B!” Zella yelped, grabbing her arm. “What was that for?”
“Did that hurt?” Breigh asked, her eyes wide and inquisitive.
“Yes, it fucking hurt, you lunatic!”
“Would you like to talk about it?” Breigh said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Would you like to talk about something other than the job for once?”
Zella’s eyes narrowed, then her expression softened. Breigh smiled at that and scooted down the bench to sit close to her.
“Are you not enjoying this place at all?” Breigh snapped her fingers at a wine boy, then motioned for two cups. “There are fights every day...if you can call them that. There’s gambling and singing and...and wine…” She accepted her cup, and Zella accepted hers. “And the men? Krist and Kroham, girl, if they fought here as well as they fucked, this palace would’ve conquered the known worlds decades ago.”
Breigh leaned in close. “And the known worlds would’ve thanked them for it,” she clanked her wine cup against Zella’s, “and begged to get conquered again.”
Zella laughed, and as she did, it occurred to her how long it’d been since she’d laughed.
Breigh nodded her chin toward a pair of tall, dark-skinned princes across the way. Their shirts hung open, revealing stomach muscles hard as steel coils. A thin sheen of sweat covered their thick shoulders. “Now,” Breigh said. “Tell me you've sampled the local cuisine.”
Zella sipped at her wine. “I’ve been busy.” She thought for a moment, looking down into her cup. “And, weirdly, I haven’t felt the need to.”
Cocking an eyebrow, Breigh wiped the last of her wine off her chin with the sleeve of her gown. “I...don’t understand what that means.”
“I just...” Zella rolled her head back on her shoulders. “I sort of have a good thing going right now.”
Breigh’s face lit up with understanding. “You and Devan?” She paused. “Just you? And just Devan? Is that possible?”
The corner of Zella’s mouth curled up. “It has been. For a while now, anyway. Like, the last three months before we left The Tower maybe?”
The wine boy brought two more. Breigh took them both. “Will wonders never cease?” she asked. “And Devan? He’s agreed to this?”
“It’s not really something we agreed on. Or talked about, really. It’s just sort of something that’s...happened. It’s like we both realized we were good for each other and…” Zella trailed off with a shrug.
“Hm.” Breigh grimaced. She looked, for once, like she was thinking about what she was going to say before she said it. “In the War School, we put no stock in betrothals or unveilings. We take whom we please, and we please whom we take.” She put a huge arm around Zella’s shoulders and squeezed. “It’s simple. It’s joyous. But possession? We leave that for you lot in the skyward levels.”
“I don’t possess Devan,” Zella said.
“Indeed.”
“And he doesn’t possess me.”
Breigh squeezed her friend closer and kissed her on the cheek, laughing. “I’m sure he doesn’t think so.”
“But you think I do?” Zella pulled away from Breigh. It was no small feat. “Breigh, that’s not why I broke out of The Tower. I’m free—we’re all free—to be whoever we want, to be with whomever we want. And for right now, all I really want is to be with Devan.”
Breigh tossed an empty wine cup out over the crowd below her. “And if Devan wants to sample the local cuisine?”
Zella opened her mouth to answer, but before she could get a word out, the bench creaked under her unexpectedly. She turned to find a large, balding man in a simple brown robe sitting on the bench next to her.
“This is a private conversation,” Breigh barked at him. “We are two fine ladies of quality breeding.” Zella put a hand on her knee to quiet her. They had to find her a new cover identity.
“I see Tolem's philosophy on keeping a low profile has evolved somewhat in the last ten years,” the man sneered. “I heard your friend here bellowing from halfway around the concourse.”
“Samus?” Zella extended a hand. Samus glanced at it, looked at Zella with a raised eyebrow, then turned to stare down at the pit below. Zella sneered at the side of his head, and returned her hand to her lap.
“So, you're Tolem's children,” Samus said without looking at her. “How is Tolem, anyway? It's been a long time.”
“He's a huge asshole,” Zella said. “And I'm not convinced he isn't going to sell us all to a fleecewheat plantation.” Tolem had rubbed Zella the wrong way from the moment they first met that afternoon on the Summit. As they’d traveled together, his mask of genial civility began to crumble; lately it seemed like he spent more time yelling at them than not.
Samus smirked. “It's such a relief in my advancing years to know that some things really do never change. And what did he tell you about me?”
Zella shifted her weight to lean away from the portly little man. The wind had changed, and Samus seemed to be slathered in some kind of hideous, expensive-smelling perfume. “He told us you've been hiding out here since the last time you tried to game the place.” Zella put a finger to her chin. “How did he put it? ‘Like a tick in a fat kid’s ass.’”
“Ah, Tolem.” Samus rolled his eyes. “He robbed the world of a poet when he decided to become a thief.” He wiped the top of his bald head with both his hands. “It was two years ago. I had taken a job here six months before we were scheduled to take the place. My job was to open the loading gates from the inside. But in the weeks before the big night, our mage became increasingly...artful...with his personal finances.”
Zella nodded, not really understanding what Samus was getting at.
Samus smirked at the look on her face and explained more precisely: “Specifically, he started spending his part of the take before we'd actually stolen it. Playing fast and loose with his finances got him stabbed through the face, and it put us back in the market for a new spellsmith which, as you can imagine, aren’t terribly easy to come by. So I waited here, comfortable, warm, and clean.” He smiled, showcasing a mouth full of gold teeth, and gestured around him at the tall white spires that ringed the great arena. “As failed enterprises go, this one certainly could have turned out worse.”
Zella looked around with him and nodded her appreciation. “There are crummier places to spend a couple of years, I guess.”
A bemused expression played out on Samus’ face. “Indeed. Just ask our heavy, Torg. He spent the last two years shoveling shit in the pens beneath the coliseum here. Oh, he worked his way up to overseer, but there’s only so high you can rise in the Ceneron’s organization when you look like someone covered a bison with sex tattoos and taught it to walk on its hind legs.” Samus looked past Zella to Breigh. “You’ll be meeting Torg soon enough.”
Breigh just waved him off without looking his way. She’d grown bored waiting for the fat man to stop talking and went back to watching the fight. She shifted in her seat, as though she were trying to control her fighter of choice through her own body movements.
“Hopefully neither of you will have the displeasure of meeting Vertus.” Samus’s lip curled when he mentioned his name. “Vertus is our bankroll, but he’s more pustule now than man. The filthy shit has more ailments and maladies than Faerathore has corpses and more money than any three gods put together. He’s been squatting
in his dilapidated shack down below us in Ptolimar, hoarding his fortune, biding his time, and keeping what scab-pocked fingers he has left in any number of unseemly enterprises.”
Zella arched her eyebrows and nodded. I miss when we only worked with sexy people, she thought to herself.
Samus said nothing for a long moment, as he looked out across the way. “And now, finally, handsome prince Tolem has come back to emancipate us.” The smile drained slowly from his face. The rueful tone in his voice was impossible to miss.
Just as it occurred to Zella to take a look into Samus’ mind, she felt Breigh jump to her feet, nearly knocking Zella out of hers in the process. “Come on, you!” she bellowed, making everyone in their section flinch. “It's just a hand. It's not like you don't have another one!”
Zella looked back to Samus; his faraway expression had been replaced by his usual stony indifference. “Before your friend takes off her bustle and begins marking her territory,” he said, “I have a message for Tolem. I want you to take it to him.”
“Why don't you take it to him?” Zella asked.
“Because I'm telling you to do it,” Samus shot back. Zella ground her teeth together. Samus seemed to notice. “You don't take orders well.”
“That depends on who's giving them,” she said.
Samus smirked. “Mm. Between that and your obvious dislike for Tolem, I think you might actually survive this job, little one.”
Samus straightened his robe, tugging fabric from the rolls of fat underneath. “So,” he said at last. “The message. I want you to tell him I’ve found the last member of our little band. Her name is Phaedra, and here’s what you need to know about her…”
Nalan
Back at The Collegium, one of Nalan’s favorite ways to pass an afternoon between classes was to go up to the Summit and peek over the edge. On a clear day, he could see all the way to the bottom of The Tower where the dust devils—tiny whirlwinds of dirt and debris—swirled about. They fascinated him, and he could watch them for hours.
Proper Thieves Page 10