It’s a lock! Allister realized all at once. The tabernacles in the cashier’s cages didn’t teleport the gold here; they teleported it somewhere else. This locked chute was just how they got it out of the real vault, into a cart, and down to the counting room.
The mechanism was incorporeal—the guards had been standing in the middle of it without even knowing it was there. Allister reached out to touch one of the dials; his hand passed right through it as well. The lock wasn't going to let him touch it, let alone try to open it.
Nothing’s ever easy, said the voice in his head, sounding surprisingly sympathetic for once. Sighing, Allister ran a hand over his scalp, and a small tangle of red hair came out between his fingers.
Devan
Devan pushed through the curtain, and Lynna flinched. She tried to press herself farther into the corner where she sat, tried to make herself smaller and harder to find. Devan paused there in the doorway. He took a step toward her, and she flinched again.
Balancing on one foot for a moment, Devan held up both hands. Moving slowly, he reached for a chair, turned it around, and eased down into it, leaning his cane against the wall. After a moment watching each other, Lynna reached up and pressed her palm to the cut that Vertus had caused under her jawline.
“Can I clean that up for you?” Devan asked softly. The girl shook her head, never looking him in the eye. “Are you sure?” he asked. “If you don't wash it out, it can get worse.” She shook her head again. She pressed herself farther still into the corner.
A grimy window let in the faintest glow from the outside; it was the only one in the house that hadn't been blacked out with paint. Devan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his lap. He took in the sights—the pile of straw in the corner where Lynna presumably slept. The ripped bag that looked like it contained everything she owned. And peeking out of the top of the bag was a small red, leather-bound book.
Devan looked down at little Lynna. “Do you know how to read, Lynna?”
The girl's eyes bulged, and she looked like she might faint. She reached over and covered the book with the edge of the sack cloth.
“It's okay,” Devan said in a whisper. “I won't tell Vertus.” Devan slid off the chair and sat cross legged on the floor. “I like to read, too.”
For the first time, Lynna met his gaze. She watched him.
“What do you like to read?” he asked. When she didn't answer, he pointed to the sack. “What are you reading there?”
“Stories,” she breathed. “They're not real,” she explained, answering a question no one had asked.
Devan smiled at that. “Are you sure?”
Lynna didn't know how to answer that. “It's about a duck and a pig, and they dance. And they whistle. And they...” Lynna's eyes flicked over to the door, then back to Devan. She somehow lowered her voice even more that it already was. “And they kiss.”
Devan pursed his lips and bobbed his head, considering it. “Okay, maybe that one isn't real. But some stories are real. I have this one book...it's about a thief. But he's a good thief.”
Lynna screwed up her forehead. “There are good thieves?”
“This one is. His name is Cliven. And in this book, Cliven finds a little lost orphan girl. Her parents were killed. And Cliven, he saves her from...” Devan did some quick mental editing for the child's sake. “...from bad men. And with the money Cliven stole from a rich count, he was able to buy the little girl some new parents.”
Something resembling a smile crossed Lynna's lips, but only for a moment.
“That story isn't real, is it?” She asked at last.
Devan looked at the floor. “No,” he admitted. Then he looked back up at her and smiled softly. “But let me work on it.”
---
Devan and Tolem made the walk back to the docks in silence.
As they sat waiting for their skiff to return to fly them back up to The Palace, Devan watched as one airship after another landed, took on fresh men, loaded up another stack of Aurium panels, and took off again. Each time, the mage in the driver’s seat looked utterly exhausted. Devan was astonished they’d found enough magic users to undertake an operation of this size.
“There’s a lot of money here,” Tolem said, looking out at the same scene Devan was watching. “Money enough to build a thing like that.” He gestured up at The Palace. “Money enough to keep it flying. Money enough to wrap it in magic metals.” Tolem rubbed at one of his eyes. “What I don’t think you understand, Devan, is that money like that—money of that magnitude—it’s not that certain people will kill to keep it. It’s that anyone would kill to keep it. There’s not a holy man holy enough to let that kind of scratch slip through his fingers. Even the pissants who work up there scrubbing the chamber pots would kill to keep you from taking it, and it’s not even theirs.”
Tolem turned and looked at Devan. Devan kept watching the skiffs. “You’re young. And underneath your snotty attitude, you’re a romantic. I get that. But you need to get your head on straight.” He fell silent for a minute. “I need you to hear me. Do you hear what I’m telling you, Devan?”
Devan kept watching the skiffs.
Breigh
Torg answered the door to Breigh's suite. “Come in,” Torg rumbled. He was fully clothed, but his left eye was swollen shut.
A thin man stood in the doorway, a dozen or more rolled up parchments tucked under his arms. He squinted at Torg. “Torg?” he asked uncertainly. “What happened to your beard?”
“I made him shave it,” Breigh crowed, walking into the living room, smoothing out the front of her blouse and skirt. “It tickled.”
Deep in his throat, Torg growled.
The man with the parchments decided he didn't want to know. “Teeva of the Shine,” he said, introducing himself. “And you must be Breigh.” He smiled, taking in Breigh's mythic proportions. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Breigh smiled back at the scrawny man who reminded her of Allister. “What's going to be fun?”
Teeva dropped his armloads of parchments onto one of the few remaining tables in the apartment. “I'm here to get you ready for the arena.”
Breigh squinted at him. Torg remembered that squint. “Teeva is a painter,” he said quickly, placing himself between the two. “He's one of the things Torg was sent to talk to you about. All fighters need banners. Small banners to post in the towns where they fight. Big banners to hang in the arena. Gets people talking about them. Gets them excited. Gets them gambling.”
Breigh grinned broadly. “You want to paint...me?”
Teeva nodded vigorously. “After ten years of painting interchangeable musclemen with different colored face paint? I paid off a dozen other artists to get the chance to paint you.”
Breigh looked at Torg, then back at Teeva. “Then paint, tiny artist!” she said with a smile, clapping him firmly on both shoulders.
“First thing—we'll need to dress you. What do you typically fight in?”
Without another word, Breigh reached down to pull the hem of her blouse up over her head. Teeva reached out and stopped her.
“Classical style, then?” Teeva said, making notes with a pencil in a little notebook. “I'm afraid that won't fly in Kauleth. Bunch of prudes and religious types. It's a shame, because that kind of thing would fill the house at any of the other Last Cities.” Tucking away his notes, he swung a small satchel off his back and went to open it. “I took the liberty of having a friend of mine put together a few designs.”
Breigh held up one of the garments and examined it. “So, banners will make me famous?”
“Not on their own,” Torg said, picking up a raw steak he'd left in the kitchen. He resumed pressing it against his eye. “Torg will travel ahead to Kauleth and start spreading the word about you in the fight circles there. Torg will tell them stories about the famous Breigh of Fold and Fael, and her two hundred victories in the Hinterlands. And how she is coming to Kauleth to make her fortune.”
Breigh did
n't understand. “But I've never been to the Hinterlands. And I don't have two hundred victories there.”
“They're stories,” Torg said. “They don't have to be true.”
Breigh scowled. “I'm a captain of the field at Collegium Hill,” she said. “I don't lie about my laurels.”
“You won't,” Torg said. “Torg will. If it makes you feel any better, Torg will also schedule exhibition fights in some of the towns between here and Kauleth.”
Breigh fell sullenly silent and returned to rooting around in the bag of costumes.
“Don't worry, Breigh.” Teeva unrolled one of his parchments and began doing some sketches. “You're a woman fighter and a stunningly gorgeous one to boot. You'll be a sensation, fabrications or no fabrications. That is, assuming you know how to handle yourself in the ring. Even if we hire people to throw some fights, if you don't at least look like you know what you're doing, there's only so much we can do.”
Breigh looked over at Torg. “You don't have to worry about that,” Torg grunted from the other side of his steak. Breigh nodded gladly.
“This one,” she said at last, holding the outfit up for Teeva to see. “Red, like the colors of the Fael.”
Teeva smiled. “Red it is. Now for a background. Why don't you look through the scrolls over there and see if there's anything that strikes your fancy?”
In each of the banners Teeva had brought, the fighter was depicted performing some incredible or gruesome feat. One showed Fagus Wyrm's Bane standing inside the maw of a dragon, holding his jaws open with his bare hands. Another showed Wun of the East Shore tearing a tiger limb from limb—again, with his bare hands. A third showed Trumulus the Vast standing triumphantly atop a mountain of severed heads.
“This,” Breigh declared, holding the Trumulus scroll up for Torg to see. “But with one small change.”
Nalan
Two weeks later, Devan, Nalan, and Allister stood at the base of Breigh's banner, looking up.
Teeva's painting stood twenty meters high, stretching all the way to the arched ceiling of the Autumn Ballroom, the largest venue in the city of Kauleth. From its vast canvas, Breigh glowered out over the milling crowd with steely eyes. It was similar in composition to the famous painting of Trumulus the Vast, only while Trumulus was holding a broadsword, Breigh was holding a battle axe.
And while Trumulus was standing triumphantly atop a mountain of severed heads, Breigh was standing triumphantly atop a mountain of severed cocks.
“I imagine that ought to get people talking,” Nalan said. From anyone else, it would have been deadpan humor.
“Oh, it has,” Devan said, his eyes fixed on the painting. “For the last two hours, Tolem, Zella, and I have been doing nothing but answering questions about Breigh, the 'Famous Hinterlands Hangwoman.'“ Booking passage to Kauleth, buying forged invitations to The Palace's big reception, greasing the palms of Tolem's friends in the local fight scene, bribing the ballroom's staff to hang Breigh's banner at the last minute...all these had nearly depleted what little money they had left after the sale of Instructor Winselle's totem. But if their little whispering campaign worked...
Nalan couldn't keep from asking anymore. “Did they paint Breigh's...” He scratched his forehead with one finger. “Um...her...”
“Breasts too small?” Allister finished for him. “Yes. Yes they did. The artist said that, if he painted them to her actual proportions, people wouldn't take the painting seriously,” Allister said. “He's got a point. They are kind of ridiculous, really.”
“Yeah,” Nalan said.
“Yeah,” Devan agreed.
They stood there staring at the painting for a while longer.
“Oh shit,” Allister said suddenly. “What time is it?”
“Two minutes from seven bells,” Devan said, not taking his eyes off the painting. “Relax.”
Allister’s shoulders slumped. Nalan’s love of patterns usually didn’t extend to people’s emotional states, but even he couldn’t help but notice that Allister couldn’t seem to go twenty minutes without embarrassing himself in front of Devan, and that seemed to be wearing on him. He thought about asking Allister about it once, but before he’d even opened his mouth, Allister had shot him down with a preemptive ‘Shut up, Nalan,’ so he let the matter drop.
“All right,” Devan said at last, stepping off in the direction of the band. “Here we go.” Allister followed close behind, and Nalan was hot on his heels, for fear of being left to navigate the crowd on his own. When the two of them arrived at the orchestral dais, they found Devan tapping the conductor on the shoulder. He whispered some last minute instructions in the old man's ear, and slipped him a gold coin. The conductor smiled and nodded.
When the clock struck seven bells, the conductor fanned his hands and the band went silent, in the middle of Teppineau's “Love in Springtime” concerto. The crowd turned, almost as one, to look what had become of the music. As they did, the doors at the top of the grand staircase, which was situated behind the band, flew open. And there she was: Breigh of the Fold and Fael, staring out over the crowd, as if challenging them—all of them—to a fight to the death.
The crowd went electric with hushed whispers. Devan nodded at the conductor. The conductor raised his hands, and the thunderous opening strains of Thurys's “Aris, Queen of Fear” echoed in the quiet ballroom.
With the first deep drum beat, Breigh took her first step onto the stairway. With the second, she took her second. And as the tempo of the bass line grew faster, so too did her stride. She cast her gaze around the room, wordlessly informing everyone that, although this reception may have been announced by The Palace to promote its impending arrival in Kauleth, as of now, it belonged to her.
She pointed across the hall toward the side stage. There, Arachnus of the Fall and Fatalo, Sire of Darkness, had been laughing and shaking hands with Kauleth's more well-heeled fight enthusiasts. But now, Fatalo shook his head under his dark gray hood, and Arachnus sneered disapprovingly. Breigh gnashed her teeth in their direction.
By the time she reached the base of the stairwell, Breigh was running, her feet keeping time with the band's relentless martial drumbeat. The crowd surged toward her and, the moment Breigh reached the dance floor, the partygoers engulfed her. Instantly, she tore a wine goblet from the hand of some enthusiastic aristocrat and dumped its contents into her mouth, its overflow pouring down her chest. Nearby, an elderly arts patron, overwhelmed by this northerner's sheer audacity, had a heart attack and died.
“Looks like mission accomplished,” Allister said.
Devan waved to the conductor, then started walking out amongst the partygoers. Allister and Nalan fell into step beside him. “Yeah, I think she can handle it from here,” Devan said. “That's the beauty of this plan. We just let Breigh be Breigh.” Nalan jumped as Devan clapped him on the chest. “It'll be a little bit before the big show. You guys relax and have a good time,” said Devan.
Allister looked uncomfortable. “I don't think this is where people go to have a good time, Devan,” he said. “I think this is where people go because they never want to have a good time ever again.”
Nalan nodded. “I tried talking to some of these people. All they wanted to do was tell me about their gods, and what I had to do to get their gods to approve of me.”
Allister looked at him like he was crazy. “You talked to people?” he asked. “Since when do you talk to people?”
“I was trying to find the bathroom,” Nalan said, looking at the floor, ashamed. “Apparently their gods have some strong opinions about how people should go about doing that.”
Allister nodded. “I could see that. I had to stop trying to pick up girls. They kept insisting that I feel their hips to see how fit they were to carry my seed.” He shuddered. “Oh, and they killed ten thousand mages in a single day, and probably ten thousand more over the previous century. There's also that.”
“And yet, they fall in love with a woman who promises to chop off peop
le's dicks,” Devan said, looking out over the crowd.
“I don't understand,” Allister said, “and I'm pretty sure I don't want to.” He fingered the new charm he kept around his neck. It was made of a piece of the Aurium that Vertus had secured for them. As near as Nalan could tell, Allister was the only magic wielder in the crowd. And if anyone knew he was there, there soon wouldn't be any magic wielders in the crowd.
“Quit it,” Devan told Allister.
“Quit what?”
“Quit trying so hard to look like you aren't about to run out of the room screaming. Look at you. You're like one big exposed nerve.”
Allister looked away angrily. He ran his hand through his hair. Nalan noticed that a small clump came out between his fingers.
“And you!” Devan pointed to Nalan. “Blink for Krist's sake. Your retinas are going to dry up and blow off. Allister, I get. He's in a room full of people who want to kill him. What's your problem?”
Nalan said nothing. But he felt like he was vibrating, like a watch spring that had been wound a half dozen times too many.
Devan looked to Allister for some insight. At first, Allister waved him off, wanting to add nothing. Then: “Think about what day it is.”
Devan's eyebrows went up. “Ah. Today was the day...”
“Before I left, I sent Cheris a note and asked her to wait for me,” Nalan said. “And I was okay with that. Waiting. But...” Nalan groped for the words. “When you've been waiting for something a really, really long time, and you have it in your head that that thing is going to happen...on this date, at this time...”
“Nalan,” Devan said, trying to stifle a grin. “It's not like you were even going to...I mean, tonight you were just meeting her for the first time. The wedding is still a year away.”
“No,” Nalan said, a sharp edge to his voice. He was more agitated than Devan had ever remembered seeing him in the sixteen years they'd known each other. “No, the wedding would have been a year away. Now it's a year plus ‘however long it takes us to get back to The Tower’ away.”
Proper Thieves Page 15