Midnight Thief (11 page)

S I X T E E N

W
ould the setbacks never end? First, stolen armor. Then, leaked patrol schedules. And now, a successful raid of the Palace itself. When was the last time this had happened? Certainly not in his lifetime. Tristam pushed down his frustration as he and his fellow knights listened to the storehouse keeper’s report.

“They didn’t take much,” the keeper, a plump man named Finley, said to Malikel. “But they knew what was valuable. Rare herbs and medicines, only the best. But even those, they didn’t take much of. They seemed to be in a hurry.”

Tristam suppressed a bitter chuckle. So even though a group of unknown men had snuck into the supposedly impenetrable compound, past the best-trained guard force in the region, and carried off a fortune in medical supplies, they could at least take comfort in the fact that the thieves had felt the need to hurry while doing so.

A Red Shield rushed in, breathing heavily. “Sirs.”

“Yes, soldier?” said Malikel.

“We’ve found a body.”

The Red Shield led them behind the building to a pile of rocks, recently gathered for some building repairs. The guards had removed the top layer, revealing the victim hidden underneath. The body looked to have been hurriedly disposed of, still in the clothes he’d been murdered in, and clearly showing a neck wound.

“That’s my missing man.” Finley’s voice shook as he turned away. “I’ll have to speak to his family.”

Tristam didn’t envy him that task. “Who will be organizing his funeral? I’d like to contribute to the arrangements.”

Finley gave him a strange look. “The Palace doesn’t pay for memorial services for servants, sir. Just knights and other nobility.”

“Oh,” Tristam said. “I was not aware.” He needed to stop forgetting that things were done differently in the city. His father had always paid the funeral expenses of those who died while serving Brancel Manor. But apparently, there was no room for these gestures in Forge’s busy machinery.

To his relief, Malikel chose that moment to start giving commands. “Search the body and the surrounding area. Look for anything that might tell us more about the intruders.”

As everyone scattered to the tasks, Tristam lingered by the rock pile. Like the armory raid before it, this robbery was eerie in its precision. There were no signs of how the robbers had entered the compound or even of how they’d entered the storehouse.

He turned to Finley. “You say the locks to this storehouse can’t be picked?”

“Yes, milord, we replaced them according to Sir Malikel’s orders.”

“What about the windows?”

“They are well locked too.”

“All of them?” He knew his voice was harsh, but he couldn’t help it.

“All the ones within reach.”

Tristam backed up, squinting up at the top of the building. The sun proved too bright for him, and he closed his eyes, only to suddenly open them again. “Can you take me to your top floor?”

“Of course, milord.”

The top floor smelled of herbs and dried fruit. As was common with upper floors, it was warmer here. The builders had placed small windows close to the ceiling to let out the warm air in the summer.

Tristam peered over the sill of the closest one. The Palace maids were either shirking their duties or were too short to reach the high windows. The outer edge of the windowsill had a thin layer of dust, as did the next. The dust of the third window, however, had a streak across it, as if a halfhearted housekeeper had taken one pass with a dust cloth.

Tristam stared at this third window as the clues rearranged themselves into a new theory. A mysterious, high-climbing thief, breaking into buildings previously thought impenetrable. Leaked records that had been known only to a few trustworthy people. He’d been looking for informants within the Palace, but if the Guild had this much freedom of movement, they didn’t need informants. Why go to the trouble of turning Palace officials, when you could just browse through their notes?

“Thank you, Finley,” he said. “I’ll need to speak with Sir Malikel.”

They would start with the record rooms. Station guards in there at all times, morning and night. And there would be no more writing down of the patrol schedules. All commands would be delivered verbally.

And then, they’d wait and see.

S E V E N T E E N

“W
here’s the key?”

The armory guard would have fallen to the ground if not for the assassins holding him up. When he didn’t answer, Bacchus took another swing. The guard grunted and spit out a mouthful of blood.

Kyra grew increasingly impatient as she watched. Bacchus was incompetent and soft. They would be here forever with him in charge. She ran forward and pushed him out of the way.

“Give me your knife,” she growled. When Bacchus didn’t react, she snatched it from his belt and pressed it against the guard’s throat
….

Kyra woke to screams from downstairs. She panicked for a moment before realizing that the screeches were mixed with laughter. Just Flick and the girls, playing some game. She cast a hand over her eyes. It had been three days since they raided the Palace. Three straight nights of nightmares, and they weren’t getting any better. In her dreams, she was always the aggressor, the violent criminal she feared she was becoming. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the man’s blood running over her hands.

Another chorus of laughter erupted from the kitchen, and Kyra cast off her damp blankets. Sunlight streamed through the window, and her stomach demanded breakfast. She looked around, hoping she had some leftover bread, but her room was depressingly spare. Besides her cot, there was just her equipment chest, a bag of clothes, and a bare table by the door. There was no getting around it—she’d have to go downstairs.

She’d spent the last few days in self-imposed isolation. Bella had approached Kyra several times after her breakdown, wanting to help. A few times, Kyra had almost told her everything, but she couldn’t in good conscience endanger Bella or the girls. So instead, Kyra made excuses and kept to herself. Her friends weren’t the only ones she avoided. Kyra had not returned to the Guildhouse since the raid. James would have noticed her absence by now, but she couldn’t face him. Not yet.

When Kyra stepped into the kitchen, Flick was chasing a squealing Idalee as Lettie cowered in the corner.

“Watch out, Kyra! Flick’s a felbeast!” Idalee shrieked as Flick scooped her off the floor and spun her around.

“I see.” Kyra forced a smile. “Does Bella know you’re playing these games?”

Lettie tugged on Kyra’s tunic. “We’re not scared. We just hit him on the nose and he turns into a handsome knight. Brendel told us.”

That
was
how the legend went, though from the girls’ pleased expressions, Kyra suspected that Brendel hadn’t told them the rest of the story. The felbeast was indeed part man, and Lady Evelyne fell in love with him in his handsome human form. But as the months went by, Evelyne found that the felbeast still retained his animal nature. Unable to reconcile her love for him as a man and the horrors he committed as a beast, Evelyne flung herself down a ravine. The felbeast, upon finding her broken body, fled deep into the mountains and was never heard from again.

Flick set Idalee down and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. His grin faded somewhat as he met Kyra’s eyes, and she suddenly really wanted to apologize. Kyra suppressed the urge. Smoothing things over now would just mean more questions she didn’t want to answer.

There was a moment of awkward silence. “Lettie,” said Flick. “Don’t you have something for Kyra?”

The girl’s eyes brightened and she ran off, returning with a lump of dough cupped in her hands. Kyra bent closer and saw that it had been shaped into a small dog.

“Wow.” Kyra bent down, honestly impressed. “Did you make this?”

Lettie nodded. “It’s for you.”

“Thank you.” It was impossible to miss the change in Lettie since she’d moved in with them. The child talked more and was remarkably creative with whatever kitchen scraps Bella gave her. Kyra couldn’t help but wonder what would happen once she quit the Guild. If they couldn’t scrounge enough money to keep the girls here, where would they go?

“Kyra, you all right?” asked Flick. Kyra realized she’d squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m all right. Just tired.”

“Are you sure?”

Flick’s concern rattled her more than she could handle. She took the dog from Lettie and used the opportunity to turn away from Flick.

“Tell you what. Let me go put this somewhere safe.”

She retreated back up the stairs, shedding any attempt at hiding her turmoil as she stepped onto the second floor. She couldn’t stay with the Guild. She knew that, and Bella had promised they would figure something out for the girls. But it still didn’t make her feel better. Kyra was two steps into her room, rubbing her temples, when a voice spoke behind her.

“Where have you been?”

Kyra whipped around, crouching as she grabbed for her dagger. James sat at the table by her door, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“How’d you get in here?” She scanned the room. He seemed to be alone.

“Why haven’t you come in the last three days?”

Kyra drew a breath and forced her muscles to relax. She needed to be calm for this conversation. “I’m sorry. I should have come in.”

“Will you disappear every time we have a mishap?”

“A mishap?” Kyra almost choked. She clenched her fists to hold off another flashback, and any attempt at staying calm went out the window. “I slit a man’s throat like a pig at the slaughterhouse.”

“It happens, Kyra. Especially in a trade such as ours.” He was so calm, as if he were talking about a spilled bowl of stew.

“I in’t in your trade, James. You hired me as a thief, not an assassin.”

“I know why I hired you. What happened three nights ago was unfortunate. It will happen less as you become better at your craft.”

Would it really? Or would she just stop caring? Turn into the cold-blooded killer of her nightmares? A few weeks ago she’d been horrified to see the armory guards captured and beaten. Three days ago, she’d slit a man’s throat.

“What did you really do to the guards from the armory raid, James?”

He waited just a little too long to answer, and a chill settled over her skin. “I’m out,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I can’t do this.”

His expression hardened. “You’re overreacting.”

“No, I’m not.”

“So you’ll just leave? What happens when the next storekeeper gets his goods seized? Will you turn a blind eye?”

“The cost is too great.”

“And what will you do for coin? Where will your adopted sisters live?”

“That’s none of your business.”

James fell silent. Kyra fought the urge to step back. Had she pushed him too far? When he spoke again, his voice was dangerously calm.

“Close the door, Kyra. And have a seat.”

“No, I’m going back downstairs.”

“We’re just going to talk some more, about things better not overheard.”

His tone dared her to disobey and, as much as she wanted to leave, James wasn’t the type she could ignore without consequences. She pushed her door shut.

“The Palace Council’s stepped up its attacks on the Guild,” he said. “The new Defense Minster, Malikel, is more competent than his predecessor. He suspects what we’re doing in the Palace, and he’s taking steps against us.”

She knew this. She’d brought him records of Malikel’s orders.

“I’ve considered sending men to take care of him, but it’s unwise. Our biggest advantage is the Council’s sluggishness. Any attack from us might just spur them against us. It’s better to take a finer approach.”

He paused and looked her in the eye. “Malikel lives in the Fastkeep. It’s hard to get to, but you’ve mapped it several times. Do you remember where the officials’ quarters are?”

She nodded.

“Good, you’ve been paying attention. I want you to kill him tonight.”

Kyra gaped at him.

“He takes tea every morning that he mixes from dried herbs. I want you to sneak into his chambers, find the herbs, and pour clearberry juice over them. A small amount will do the trick. Palace healers will think his heart failed.”

Had James lost his mind? “You’re crazy.” She stared at him, trying to shake the feeling that she was in some incomprehensible dream. James gave no reaction, just regarded her calmly.

“How did your friends fare during the barbarian attack?” he finally asked.

“They’re fine.”

“There’s a lad you spend time with, in’t there? Flick? And of course the cook and the two lasses.”

She didn’t bother to answer. James now looked out the window, his voice taking on a philosophical tone. “They were lucky to get out of harm’s way. Not everyone is that lucky.”

“I see.” Kyra’s tongue was dry in her mouth, and she listened on with dread.

“The lasses, especially, have been fortunate considering where they came from. The streets of Forge are by no means safe. There are people, you know”—he trained his eyes back on Kyra—“who do things to children that make a pig in a slaughterhouse seem lucky.”

Kyra’s hands began to shake as James’s meaning sank in. “You said I wouldn’t have to kill anyone.”

“Plans change.”

It was the same tone of voice he’d used when talking of the nonexistent ruby, and Kyra suddenly understood. His insistence on fighting lessons. The way he’d humiliated her when she first joined the Guild. Her resulting determination to prove herself.

And prove herself she had.

“You wanted me as an assassin from the beginning.”

“You’re very skilled, with abilities I’ve never seen in anyone before, and you took to your training remarkably fast. Your first kill was clean and quick.” No shame crossed his face. Not a hint of guilt as he spoke of molding her into his personal weapon.

“The kill was an accident,” she whispered.

James directed the full force of his gaze at her. If there had ever been any warmth in their dealings together, it was gone. “What did you
think
would happen when you held your knife to his throat? What were you hoping for, Kyra? Don’t make this harder with delusions of moral superiority. You’re not some talesinger’s heroine. You’re a former gutter rat who steals for a living.”

That got her in the gut. Words of denial tangled at the base of her throat, threatening to close off her airways.

James continued. “I thought time in the Guild would grow you a spine, but your maturity lags behind your talents. This is no child’s game that we play. We’re dealing with the Palace and the Council, the most powerful men in the three cities, and the swords they control. You don’t win this war with petty raids on their storehouses. You draw blood. Do you think Malikel or any of his soldiers would think twice about killing you? You’re nothing to them. Street scum to be ignored, played with, or abused.”

He looked her over, appraising her like a piece of damaged china. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “I’ll have one good kill from you for all the resources I’ve invested in your training. Do this one job, and I’ll let you leave. But it needs to be done tonight.”

He reached below the table and brought up a parchment and a small leather vial. “One of your maps and a bottle of clearberry juice. I’ve circled Malikel’s chambers, as well as the living quarters of his most trusted men. It should be easy enough to understand. Of course, you don’t have to accept, but every choice will have its consequences.”