Midnight Thief (5 page)

“It in’t for you. This is for any folk who need it. Tell them it’s from the Guild.”

“Really, anyone?” Was James trying to win favor within the city?

“Can’t be your friends and can’t be yourself.”

“Who exactly are my friends?”

Rand grinned. “That’s for James to decide. I’d play it safe though.” He jerked his head toward a man in the corner. “Ho, Jason. Show the lass your arm.” Jason scowled, but pulled up his sleeve. Even from a distance, Kyra could see the angry burn scars across his arm. “That’s what happens if James catches you dipping into the handouts. Understand?”

Kyra nodded. She would certainly have no trouble finding folk who needed the coin.

Seemingly satisfied, Rand gestured toward the mat. Kyra put down her things and stepped on, feeling the rough strands through the bottom of her shoes. The mats were better than the stone floor, but they still weren’t a welcoming surface to fall on. As they stood facing each other, Rand grabbed a sheath from his belt and covered his dagger, tying it well with a leather thong so it wouldn’t slip off during the fight.

“You got yours?”

“Aye,” she said. At least with knives, they weren’t quite so unevenly matched. She reached for her ankle and released her knife from its bindings, slipping it out the leg of her trousers. It had a plain handle and a blade the length of her hand. By now, she was getting a sense for its reach in a fight.

Rand attacked as soon as she stood up, coming at her with a downward thrust. She stepped sideways, backing lightly out of his reach. She was starting to get the hang of it. The secret was to stay away from him and keep moving. At close range, anyone in the Guild could overpower her with brute strength. But she was faster than most, and if she stayed alert, then she had a chance.

“What are you, a dancer?” Rand said. “Pretty moves won’t do any good here.”

Rand belonged to the “insult well and often” school of practice fighting. At first, it had made Kyra nervous, but it did make things more interesting. She smiled. “If I’m just a pretty dancer, come get me.”

He rushed her again, this time with a more controlled attack. As Rand passed, she dropped to the ground and hooked her ankle around his knee. She didn’t move away in time, and he fell on top of her, pinning her knife arm with his side. For a moment she was stunned, but as he shifted to bring his own knife around, Kyra realized her legs were free. She kicked up and wrapped both ankles around his head and under his chin. The unexpected move snapped his head back and he loosened the pin on her arm. Twisting her wrist, she grabbed her dagger and passed the sheathed blade across his throat.

A fair kill. Kyra whooped in triumph and flopped back down, grinning at the high ceiling as she caught her breath. It was clumsy, but she’d take it. Her elbow was raw from pressing against the mat, and she waited for Rand to get off her so she could inspect it.

“What you think, Rand? Not bad for a thief girl.”

“Pure luck. When you do that one out of every two times,
then
you can say something.” But there was amusement in his voice.

“Most times you won’t have the luxury of resting after a fight.”

At first she thought it was Rand speaking, but then her opponent climbed to his feet to reveal James watching from the side. This was the first time he’d seen her practice. Kyra jumped up, all cockiness draining away as she turned to face him.

James locked gazes with Rand until the redhead cleared his throat and looked away. As Rand stepped off the mat, James removed his outer tunic, tossed it on a nearby box, and took his place. He reached a pale but well-muscled arm toward Rand, who tossed over his dagger. James caught it and beckoned Kyra toward him. She stood, frozen in place, wondering what he wanted and why he was there. James motioned again, more curtly. This time she obeyed.

“Let’s see what you’ve learned,” he said, settling into an all-too-comfortable fighting stance. It wasn’t a request.

Kyra tried to ignore the prickling up her spine as she raised her blade and they started to circle each other. She had never seen James fight before. He moved deliberately with no wasted motion, graceful yet dangerous, and his eyes never deviated from her face. There was no taunting or boasting. James just circled her with cold, unswerving focus. He said nothing, and his face gave no indication of his thoughts.

A long time passed with no attack. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that activity around the warehouse had stopped. People were watching.

James continued to circle her. Kyra wiped her sweaty hand on her trousers. Was he expecting her to make the first move? She felt slightly light-headed. Her breathing became quick and shallow, and she struggled to slow it down.

Finally, she lunged at him, thrusting her blade toward his torso. He moved aside just enough to avoid the sheathed tip. She felt a stunning blow on the side of her face at the same time her legs swept out from under her. The ground came up hard. She lay there for a few moments, eyes closed, not wanting to see who was watching.

“Keep mapping for now,” she heard James say. Painfully, she rolled onto her side, keeping her eyes on the ground as he walked away. A loud laugh sounded from the corner of the warehouse, and Kyra felt her face flush with shame. To her horror, she felt tears prickle behind her eyes. She forced them back by sheer will and looked toward the source of the laughter. It was Bacchus, slapping his thigh in amusement before following James out.

E I G H T

T
he sting of that fight stayed with her. It was days before she could look another Guild member in the eye, and more than a week before she could think about James without flushing in shame. To work off her frustration, Kyra trained harder than ever, practicing in every free moment and grabbing Rand for lessons whenever he was around.

And it started to pay off. She became faster with a knife; the movements started feeling more natural. But she was also constantly sore and covered with bruises. Her olive skin camouflaged them to some extent, but she still had to dress strategically to hide her latest bumps. Kyra was doing her best to pull her sleeve over a blue spot on her wrist one afternoon as she helped Bella in the kitchen.

In Bella’s world, knife work implied something completely different from Kyra’s lessons at the Guild. James and Rand might be formidable opponents, but no one could possibly match Bella’s skill with a cleaver. Kyra watched in fascination as the cook quartered and trimmed five newly slaughtered chickens with efficient speed, deftly transforming them into ingredients for the night’s stew.

Bella glanced at Kyra as she dropped the last chicken quarter into the pot.

“I appreciate your efforts to remove every last bit of peel, dear, but if you keep this up, we’ll have no turnips left.”

Kyra shook her head in mock resignation. “I really think Idalee’s got more of a knack for this than I do.”

They both looked at Idalee, who sat at the opposite side of the long kitchen table, very seriously chopping potatoes. Next to her, Lettie played with a lump of bread dough.

“Mayhap you’re right,” mused Bella.

Kyra pushed her stool back and lowered her voice. “You really think she’ll be helpful, Bella? I don’t want them making trouble.”

“They won’t. Idalee’s smart and determined to work hard. Laman doesn’t mind hiring her as long as she does the work and Lettie stays quiet. Are
you
sure about covering the rest of her lodging?”

“I’ll be fine.” She checked again to make sure Idalee wasn’t listening. “James pays me plenty.”

“Here, let me do the rest.” Bella took the knife and rolled the remaining turnips away from Kyra. “You’ve taken a liking to them two, haven’t you? I don’t see you renting rooms for any of the other gutter mice.”

Kyra shrugged, self-consciously tracing the grains on the table surface. “I don’t know,” she said. “Lettie’s so small. I was that small once.”

“I really don’t know how you survived out there by yourself. Lettie had Idalee, at least.”

“Don’t remember much. Just really wanted to survive, I guess.”

“From what I could gather, you had a tough time. You were a suspicious little mouse when we met. The first few times I fed you, you watched Flick eat half the bowl before you dared swallow anything.”

“Really?” Kyra couldn’t decide which was more amusing—that she’d suspected Bella of poisoning her food, or that she’d been willing to sacrifice Flick as her taster.

“And then there were the nightmares,” said Bella.

Those, she did remember. The nightmares had followed her off the streets into her early years at The Drunken Dog. Flashes of bright heat. A woman’s dark eyes. Teeth. She remembered Bella coming into her room when she woke up screaming, holding her and stroking her hair until she stopped. That gesture, more than anything, was what had finally broken through Kyra’s walls.

“I don’t have them as often anymore,” said Kyra. And she was better at suppressing her screams when she woke. Kyra supposed she was too old these days to run to Bella, but a selfish part of her still missed Bella’s touch.

“I’m glad to hear it. And you’ve done well for yourself. You rented your first room with your own earnings,” said Bella.

“I stumbled on a flush trade.” Kyra gave the cook a wry smile. “I could train Idalee….”

“Please don’t. I’ve given up on straightening you out, but I still hold out hope for these girls.”

“I’m surprised you’re at The Drunken Dog, Bella.” Bella didn’t speak much of her past, but Kyra knew that she and Flick’s mother had been merchants’ daughters. Not nobility by any means, but not the type to be spending time with thieves and gutter rats.

Bella spun a turnip against her carving knife, peeling off the skin in a long spiral. Kyra grabbed the longer shreddings from the table as they fell. “About fifteen years now, sixteen since my husband passed. And if you’d told me seventeen years ago that I’d end up at the Dog, I would never have believed it.” She put the knife down. “It was hard. You’re old enough to understand now. My husband was gone. Who knows what had befallen my son in his eagerness to chase griffins and mermaids? Not many places would take a woman in, and I was lucky that Laman knew and respected my husband. I needed work and a place to stay. I couldn’t afford to be choosy.”

Kyra had a sudden vision of a younger Bella, clutching her bags at the door of the tavern, jaw clenched in determination as she looked over the tavern’s rougher patrons. “I suppose it took some getting used to.”

“It did.” Bella was looking off into the distance now.

“Did it get better?”

She looked thoughtfully at Kyra. “I got used to it. But what really made it better was finding Flick again. And meeting you.”

“Really?”

“Well, I’d given up on ever finding my sister. When she sent for me, and I found out she was dying…” Bella trailed off for a moment. “I see her in Flick sometimes. And the two of you gave me hope. Most of the patrons here are hard, jaded. The two of you still had some innocence about you, despite what you’d gone through.”

Kyra gave Bella a crooked smile. “Innocence? Do you still think that?”

“You two are more innocent than you think, and less innocent than I’d like.”

It occurred to Kyra that with Bella’s son dead, she’d have no one to care for her when she grew old. The responsibility would fall to her and Flick. Kyra found that she liked the idea.

“Well, Bella, if it makes you feel better, you don’t have to worry about Idalee following my footsteps. She doesn’t have the knack for it.”

“Just as you don’t have the knack for preparing vegetables.” Bella eyed the pile of shreddings. “How did I do?”

Kyra held up the longest shredding, about the length of her forearm. “Not bad, but not your best.” She fetched the scrap bucket and held it as Bella swept in the turnip peels.

“Are you leaving?” said Bella. “I have some leftover roast from lunch.”

Kyra obediently served herself some roast before excusing herself.

She thought about Idalee and Lettie as she left the tavern. What was it that made them different from the others? If Kyra was honest with herself, it was Lettie who really tugged at her heart. While the other children evoked memories of Kyra’s adventures with Flick, tiny Lettie tapped at more painful times—the earliest years before Kyra was old enough to fit in with the other children. Those were a blur of cold nights and days without food, scavenging like an animal in Forge’s alleyways. She’d been different from the others. Younger, smaller, and darker, strange in the way she moved and hid in the shadows. The other children had given her a wide berth. They’d feared her, even though she was too small to pose a danger to anyone. Though things got better, Kyra never got rid of the nagging feeling that she had barely survived, that she owed her existence to a few strokes of luck. Did she help Lettie out of compassion or out of some selfish desire to rewrite those memories?

The Guildhouse was more crowded than usual, with about a dozen people gathered in the storeroom. James stood at the back, speaking with Bacchus and a few others. The rest of the men were scattered amongst the wares. Some were stacking boxes against a wall, while others were just standing and talking.

“Rand,” she called. “Why’s everyone here?”

He looked surprised to see her but sauntered over. “Job tonight. James needs the extra hands to raid an armory.”

“An armory?”

Rand shrugged. “That’s all he’s told us.” He joined a cluster of men as they erupted into laughter at some joke she couldn’t hear.

Kyra had never seen the Guild mobilize such a large group before, but she doubted James would explain his plans to satisfy her curiosity. She glanced around the room one more time, looking for someone else she could ask, but aside from Rand, there wasn’t anyone she knew well enough to talk to. She moved on to James.

“Why are you here?” he asked brusquely. His expression clearly signaled that she needed to say something or get out of his way.

“Am I to keep mapping this week?”

“Aye.”

“I’ve gone over everything twice.”

“Go over it again.”

A clear dismissal. James directed his attention back to the man he was talking to. Frustrated, Kyra turned toward the door.

Someone plowed into her from behind, and she stumbled into the wall.

“Sorry, miss,” Bacchus called with a grin. A few of the men looked in her direction and chuckled as Bacchus entered their circle.

She usually ignored Bacchus’s jabs, but this time something snapped. Maybe because it was the first time Bacchus had physically touched her, or perhaps Kyra had just kept things bottled up for too long. She earned her keep in the Guild just as Bacchus did. If she ever left, it would be on her terms. She strode toward the group, furious, but stopped when she saw Bacchus’s face. He looked smug, delighted even, that she was reacting. She stopped. What was she going to do, yell at him? Attack him with James watching? She couldn’t fall into his trap. But she also couldn’t let this continue, not if she was going to stay in the Guild. She took a shaky breath, glanced once more at Bacchus, then spun around, heading straight back to James.

“Take me tonight.”

James stopped midsentence and stared at her.

“Take me with you tonight, on the job.”

She expected him to be angry at her interruption, but he gave her his full attention.

“Why?”

“If you’re cracking an armory, you can use me. I’m a thief, remember?”

“You’re supposed to be mapping.”

“I’ll make it up later this week.”

“I won’t pay you extra for this.”

Kyra fought to keep her voice steady. “That in’t a problem.”

James studied her face, then gave a curt nod. She might have imagined it, but he even looked slightly pleased. “Fine. You can come, but don’t get in the way.”

Kyra merged with the rest of the group as they followed James out the door. They moved as a silent unit through the chilly streets, and Kyra focused on the sound of their boots against the gravel. As the cold night air worked itself into her tunic, she found herself wondering what exactly she had volunteered for.

A tall stone building became visible in the distance, and they stopped. A nervous man waited at a street corner. His eyes flitted briefly over the group of assassins as James approached him.

“I tried the key,” said the man. “It didn’t work; they must have changed the locks.”

There was a tense moment of silence. James’s mouth tightened. “The key doesn’t work?”

The man reached into his pocket and took one out. “I tried it last week, and it was fine. I’m sure it was fine.” His voice was shaking. “There were rumors…a raid at the Palace…the new Minister of Defense cracking down….”

Ignoring the man’s ramblings, James handed the key to Bacchus, who took it and disappeared down the street. A few minutes later, he came back, spat on the ground, and shook his head.

“Tell me again,” James asked the man. “The key worked last week, but somehow it doesn’t work now?”

“I swear I tried it,” said the man. “I can get the new one. It should only take a fortnight.”

“We don’t have a fortnight,” said James. He turned away from the man in disgust as two assassins grabbed and held him.

James pointed at Bacchus and two others. “Come with me.” As he turned, his gaze fell on Kyra. “You too.”

Bacchus led the way, dashing from house to house. Kyra followed his trail, unsure whether to be pleased or terrified that James had included her. They stopped in the shadows across the street from the armory’s door. It was an old building, and judging from its architecture, had been repurposed from some more elegant function. Both the massive door and the walls were decorated with intricate carvings, and the building’s bell tower rose high above the surrounding houses.

James turned to Kyra. “Pick the lock. Watch for guards—there’s two of them making rounds.”

Kyra nodded, her heartbeat quickening as she scanned the road. No sign of the guards. She reached for her lock pick as she sprinted to the main door. Ears tuned for approaching footsteps, she inserted her lock pick and twisted the lock, but stopped. Something didn’t feel right. Her stomach clenched as she probed the tumblers. She’d heard of these locks before. The tumblers pointed in different directions. They couldn’t be picked. Kyra squeezed her eyes shut. This was not the time to fail.

She retreated back to the group. “The lock can’t be picked,” she said.

“You can’t pick the lock?” asked James.

“Nobody can.”

He had already turned away from her, a move that cut deeper than anything he could have said. “Get the guards.” The other assassins dashed toward the building and separated, melting into the shadows at different points. Then, silence. Long minutes passed until finally Kyra heard footsteps. A guard rounded the corner, scanning the road.

It happened quickly. Suddenly, the guard was clutching at his throat, falling backward into Bacchus. The assassin kneed the small of his back, and the guard stopped struggling. As Bacchus dragged him back to James, Kyra saw that the man was still conscious, face twisted in pain. The guard’s eyes fell on Kyra and their eyes met. She stood, petrified by the pain and pleading in his eyes. Why was he looking at her? She was powerless here. He had to see that.

Another assassin came back, dragging a second guard.

“Search them,” said James. The assassins stripped the men of their clothing, inspecting pockets and lining.

“Nothing,” said Bacchus.

James jerked his head. Another assassin grabbed one of the guards and pinned his arms behind him. Bacchus walked to face him and looked to James for a cue. James nodded and Bacchus struck him across the face. His blow connected with a sickening thud. Kyra’s stomach churned and she looked away.