Midnight Thief (8 page)

E L E V E N

O
ver the next few days, Kyra worked harder than she’d ever worked before. She entered the Palace early and stayed dangerously late, going from chamber to chamber, digging through piles of records. The warehouse inventory wasn’t kept with the trade schedules, so Kyra broke into neighboring rooms. She was determined, and it paid off. One week later, Kyra dropped a stack of parchments on James’s desk.

“The herbs are all kept together, in a building on the eastern side of the outer compound. It looks like the landlord in’t even using them.”

James scanned the list. “There’s too many here for us to carry out without a wagon. We’ll have to decide which ones are the most valuable.”

Kyra grinned. “Our landlord was also curious about the coin it’d fetch. He had the Palace herbalist price them, and I nipped that list too. Looks like he has a good stash of Far Ranger goods—the strange ones that the wallhuggers can’t get enough of. The dryad-raised flowers by themselves are worth a good quarter of all that was taken.”

She stood back, arms folded, not bothering to hide how pleased she was with herself.

“You’re enjoying this. Taking things back from the fatpurses,” said James.

Kyra gave a quick nod, which James acknowledged with a slight smile.

“I suspected you would,” said James. “You’ve got the skill, and you’ve got the drive. You could go far if you wanted. It doesn’t take long to rise in the Guild. I was fifteen when I joined.”

James had never spoken about his past before, and Kyra wondered how old he was. His face had no trace of boyish roundness, and his skin was smooth except for a slight crease at the corners of his eyes. He was older than she was, and probably older than Flick. But he was still in his prime. His quickness testified to that, the taut readiness obvious even as he sat at his desk. She thought back to their fight, remembering his intense gaze and fluid movements. How had he risen to power at such a young age? What did he have to do?

“Why did you join?” she asked him.

“Same reasons as most others. I wasn’t an orphan, but I might as well have been. Outside, you’re limited by your lineage, your family. In the Guild, if you do things right, you’ll go far. Use what you have to your advantage—your abilities, your speed. Some look down on you because they think a lass is too fragile to do what it takes. But even they won’t be able to deny your skill.”

“Do
you
look down on me because I’m a lass?” she asked.

“No.” He studied her a moment, his blue eyes pensive. “Not at all.” The last phrase was soft, as if he were talking to himself.

Silence hung for a moment. And then James gestured toward the parchment. “Let me look at these, and we can plan the raid in a few days.”

Rand was in the hallway as she left James’s study. He leaned against the wall, thumbs hooked in his belt.

“Thought he’d given up on women after Thalia,” Rand said.

Kyra only half heard him. “Hmmm?”

Rand snorted and rounded the doorway into the storeroom.

“Wait, Rand, what’d you say?”

He let her follow him across the room before he finally turned around. “Curious, aren’t we?”

She scowled. “I didn’t hear you. Who’s Thalia?”

“Dancing lass at the Scorned Maiden. Red hair, hot and cold at the same time. She was something to see.” Rand winked, which annoyed Kyra even more. She never did understand the obsession with dancing girls. “She hated the wallhuggers something fierce too. Never seen a lass with that much fire in her.”

“And she and James…”

“Been six years, and he in’t returned to the Scorned Maiden.”

Kyra stopped short, intrigued despite herself at the thought of James having a lover. He was usually so distant—at least he had been until recently. “What happened?”

“His rival got to her, when they were fighting over the Guild.” Rand spat on the ground. “A coward and a rich man’s lapdog, that one. But it was hard to tell friends from enemies, with all the double-talk and secrets. James tried to wait it out—didn’t want to invite trouble—but they surprised us. We lost Thalia and barely escaped ourselves. That was the last time James ever gave anyone a chance to strike him first.” Rand looked at Kyra, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Not the tale you expected? There are safer men to pine over.”

“I in’t pining over—”

But Rand had already walked away, chuckling as he went. Kyra stared after him, tempted to follow, but decided against it. People always talked. The regulars at The Drunken Dog had speculated for years about Kyra and Flick, and now it looked like the Guild was talking about her with James. There was no point in letting it bother her. James was interesting as an assassin and a leader, and Kyra was curious about his past, but that was all. Though she could see why women might find him attractive. Had Thalia known that her life was in danger? Kyra wouldn’t be surprised if she had. There was something about James—his intensity of purpose and strength of personality—that could inspire a woman’s loyalty despite the cost. Kyra took one last glance toward his study before stepping outside.

The city at midday was a welcome distraction, with markets bustling. Cooks wearing the uniforms of noble houses perused rare mushrooms and spices, while mothers with barefoot children haggled for eggs and flour. A young woman walked past Kyra with a basket of bread. The fresh smell made Kyra’s mouth water, and she turned her head to find the woman’s stall, thinking to bring a few loaves back for Bella and the girls. It still felt strange to be able to buy things without worrying about money. Strange, but good.

Just then, a woman screamed in the distance. The terror in the sound cut straight to Kyra’s bones, and she snapped her head toward its source. For a moment, no one in the marketplace moved or spoke. Then a man’s voice carried over the crowd.

“It’s a barbarian attack. Alert the Palace!”

T W E L V E

S
ummers in Forge were hot and dusty. Roads and stonework absorbed and reflected the sun, and passing crowds kicked up dirt, which in turn stuck to Tristam’s drenched tunic. Of course, the Council would decide that this was the perfect day to extend an aqueduct. So here he was, with his contingent of shieldmen, passing rocks in the midday heat.

“Bet you wish you weren’t working under Sir Malikel just now,” said Martin as he hefted yet another cut stone to Tristam.

“Why’s that?”

“Because if you were working under anyone else, you’d be supervising.”

Tristam grunted and passed the rock to the next man in line. Martin was probably right, but in Malikel’s unit, knights and shieldmen worked side by side. “Nonsense.” Tristam mustered a grin that felt more like a grimace. “What greater honor can there be than to be roasted to a crisp and worked to the ground so that Forge’s noble citizens can have fresh water?”

“I’d forgo that honor for a bath and a nap in the shade, myself.”

“No more mention of shade, or I won’t last the afternoon.”

Tristam wiped the sweat from his brow and surveyed the progress. Despite his complaining, he was actually grateful to be on such a simple assignment. There was something to be said about physical labor, when the task was straightforward and the reasons were clear. The same was not true of his other jobs. One in particular still lingered in his mind. Malikel had recently assigned him to the city’s northwest quadrant, and Tristam’s contingent had been called in for a rent collection. The herbalist had admitted to failing his rent when Tristam asked, and Tristam understood that Forge’s laws needed to be upheld. But days later, he still couldn’t forget the despair in the shopkeeper’s face as the Red Shields emptied his store, nor could he dismiss the simmering anger in the crowd that had gathered to watch.

Martin’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “How goes the search for the barbarians?”

Tristam gave Martin a sideways glance. “You’re just full of cheerful conversation today, aren’t you?”

“That bad?”

“We’ve not skirmished with them in three weeks.”

Martin’s expression brightened. “So they’ve pulled back.”

Tristam’s laugh must have been sharper than intended, because a few Red Shields looked at him in alarm. “If only. There have been the same number of attacks. They’re just getting better at avoiding patrols. They’ve changed their pattern of attack. It used to be mostly farms and the occasional caravan. Now it’s the other way around.”

“That’s strange. What do you make of it?”

He shook his head. “One week would be a coincidence. We have a large area to patrol, and relatively few soldiers. But three weeks in a row…there’s something going on.”

“Kind of makes you wish we were out there instead of building an aqueduct, doesn’t it?”

Tristam didn’t trust himself to respond. It had been one thing to give up the road patrols when he thought he’d be making a difference. But after all this time patrolling the forest, talking to villagers, and poring over attack reports, the Demon Riders were slipping even further away. It was maddening.

Shouts sounded from down the road, and a messenger rode up yelling for someone from the Palace. A crowd of people surrounded him. Tristam heard something about a barbarian attack.

“Make way.” He pushed through the crowd. The messenger’s eyes were wild with fear. “What’s this talk of an attack?”

“In the city, sir.”

“The city?” Was the man mistaken?

The messenger forced the words out between gulps of air. “The northern perimeter. I rode at the first sign of them.”

It sank in that this was really happening. Tristam grabbed the messenger by the shoulders. “Carry your news to the Palace and muster reinforcements. Make sure they’re in mail or plate armor, and outfitted with as many spears as possible. Those wielding swords should use the point rather than the edge. You can’t slice through a cat’s fur, but you can part it.” He turned his gaze to the other soldiers. “Return to the Palace, outfit yourselves, and go immediately to the northern perimeter. Does anyone have a spear?” Tristam asked. One of his shieldmen volunteered his weapon. Tristam grabbed it, dismissed the crew, and ran for his horse. He didn’t have armor, but there was no time. The barbarians were getting bold if they were attacking the city perimeter. He needed to get a better look at them.

He rode as quickly as he could down Forge’s crowded streets. The messenger hadn’t given him an exact location, but as Tristam reached the northern perimeter, he navigated simply by going against the current of people.

As he rode closer, shapes resolved themselves out of the chaos. Tristam slowed, steeling himself against the nauseatingly familiar scene. People ran into each other in their panic. The injured already lay scattered in dirt—the lucky ones pulled to the gutters, the unlucky ones trampled. Three demon cats prowled the road in front of him. Two dug through a market stall, pawing their way through chunks of ham and fish. The third, and largest, was crouched over an unconscious Red Shield.

Tristam leveled his spear and kicked Lady into a charge. The cat didn’t look up until it was too late. His spear pierced its chest with a crunch of bone. The impact traveled all the way up his shoulder. The beast screamed, and battle heat rushed through Tristam’s veins, only to turn to dread when his spear broke off with a loud crack. The demon cat staggered back with Tristam’s weapon embedded in its flesh as Tristam threw his broken spear shaft aside.

Roars filled the air—the other two demon cats had noticed the fight. The largest one clamped its jaws around the injured beast to drag it away, while the other, a sleek tawny-yellow creature, advanced on Tristam. The young knight pulled on his reins, guiding Lady back and desperately hoping that reinforcements would come soon.

The beast sprang. Tristam threw himself sideways to avoid its claws as Lady screamed and bucked. He hit the ground hard, first bruising his shoulder and then cracking his head on the cobblestones. Spots swam in front of his eyes, and he scrambled out of range of Lady’s hooves. The cat sidestepped his steed and bared its teeth.

Tristam heard a shout from behind the demon cat. A rock glanced off the beast’s shoulder, and the creature turned to see its new attacker. Tristam put his hand to his head, wincing at the pain as he tried to see around the beast. A slender girl, olive-skinned and dressed in trousers and a tunic, was yelling and waving her arms. Was she crazy? He opened his mouth to command her off the street, but his voice came out as a croak. Before he could draw another breath, the girl had run around the corner with the demon cat in pursuit. Tristam staggered to his feet, trying to ignore the hammers pounding at his brain. He grabbed the rock the girl had thrown and limped after them.

There was no sign of either the girl or the cat. Had they turned down another street? He gathered himself to follow, when a man shouted in a language Tristam didn’t know. Another cat came into sight, this one pure white, with a rider on its back. The Demon Rider was a man this time, with muscular arms and long black hair that hung to his waist. There was something inhuman about the way the barbarian watched him. Was that anger in his eyes? Disdain? Tristam met his eyes, fury in his own gaze as they stared each other down. The white cat growled deep in its throat, but the Demon Rider shook his head and spoke a command. Both cat and rider turned away, and Tristam slumped against the wall. Then he looked closer at their retreating figures, and his breath hissed out in disbelief.

The rock bounced harmlessly off the demon cat’s flank. The beast turned away from the injured knight and watched the stone roll away. Then it locked its eyes on her.

Kyra spun on her heel and ran.

She stumbled as she turned the corner, stubbing her toe on something hard, but Kyra forced herself to keep going. Behind her, the cat’s growls grew louder. What had possessed her to help that knight?

A windowsill caught her eye, and she scrambled for improvised hand- and footholds to climb as quickly as she could. With every step, Kyra expected to feel claws on her shins, tearing into her flesh. When she cleared the first story, she finally chanced a look down. The cat wasn’t there, and Kyra kept climbing. Only when she’d pulled herself onto the roof did she catch a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision. She scrambled back as the demon cat launched itself off a tree, landing softly on padded feet right where Kyra had been standing.

She should have remembered that cats could climb trees.

It came at her now, like a kitten pursuing a bird, only so much bigger. Kyra desperately looked around. She couldn’t get back down, not with the cat right there. Her only choice was to run.

Kyra sprinted across the rooftop, jumping over steps and praying that she wouldn’t step on any weak shingles. She could feel the massive cat chasing, could sense its heavy paw pads as it bounded after her. Kyra reached a gap in the rooftops and leaped. As her feet touched the next roof, a weight pushed her forward. There was a slashing pain as something sharp cut her shoulder blade. She landed hard on her forearms, curling herself into a ball as claws raked her shin and slid off.

She lay there, stunned, but nothing happened. Finally, she twisted her head to see. The cat stood a pace away, delicately sniffing at her injured leg. It made a guttural sound and slowly licked her shin with a rough tongue.

The wet touch shook Kyra out of her stupor and she pushed herself to standing, stumbling onward only to collapse again at the pain from her injured leg. She sat back up, facing the cat and doing her best to scoot away. The demon cat stormed toward her and knocked her down, bending its head down to hers. Kyra closed her eyes and turned her head. She felt the animal’s hot breath on her face and resigned herself to the worst. Then the breaths receded, and the pressure on her chest released. Kyra opened her eyes to see the demon cat several strides away, looking at her intently through amber-slitted eyes. Then it turned and bounded off.