Authors: Aimee Hyndman
Hour of Mischief
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© 2016 Aimee Hyndman
http://kallypsowrites.blogspot.com
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ISBN 978-1-62007-941-6 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-942-3 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-62007-943-0 (hardcover)
re-robbery stress made buckling things difficult, especially with a limb constructed out of circuits and steel. The promise of the soon-to-come adrenaline rush made my every nerve sing with excitement.
In the evening light, the crumbling, red bricks of my team’s favorite clock tower glowed crimson. Minutes ago, thousands of clocks around Fortuna tolled eight o’clock p.m., but the rusted silver bells behind me remained silent as a grave. Only the sounds of my team fiddling with their equipment and the gentle whirring of gears beneath the plates of my left arm filled the room.
Naturally, Parker broke the pleasant silence.
“Hey, Sid, what do you think?” Parker asked, holding up two different types of bombs, one a pocket watch altered to create a smoke screen at the touch of a button, the other a chaser beetle, meant to pursue moving targets until it exploded. Both were low-grade devices. Murder wasn’t on our agenda, and I’d never paid much tribute to the Goddess of Death. I hadn’t met her, but based on the stories she was a dreary and unlikeable individual.
Sid shrugged, storing a pair of silver-lined revolvers in his jacket.
“The pocket watch,” I answered, since Sid wasn’t one for audible feedback.
Parker frowned. “No one asked you.”
“I know, but I’m the team leader and I reserve the right to trump all other members of the team.” I gave the barrel of my gun a final once over with a dust cloth before securing it to my belt. “Take the pocket watch over the exploding critter. It’s handier for an escape anyway.”
Parker pouted. “Aw, but the chaser beetles are so much more fun.”
“Parker, Amontillado’s Temple has floor alarms,” Sylvia said, looking up from the loose thread she was so intently playing with. She sat on the windowsill of the old clock tower, the light of the setting sun catching her silvery-blonde hair in its rays, turning it nearly white. “If you need to use a Chaser Beetle, you’re probably already damned.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Parker, this is why logic is a helpful tool. Try inventing some for yourself.”
“Ha, ha.” Parker rolled his eyes. Sid’s mouth twitched, the slightest hint of amusement darting through his narrow, dark eyes. A smile tugged at my mouth as well as I stood to address my team.
“So, I know this job looks difficult from the outside. Religious artifacts are always a bit tricky. But we’re prepared for this. This is nothing but a routine heist. So let’s get in, get the goods and get out.”
“Eloquent as always, fearless leader.” Parker saluted. The corner of Sid’s mouth jerked slightly again. In “Sid language” that translated to cracking up.
I rolled my eyes. “Eloquent inspiration doesn’t inspire stealth. It inspires loud, brazen battles. I’m not riling you up for a war. We don’t tick that way.” I rolled my steel shoulder to make sure the connection worked properly. The nerves buzzed dully at the motion, a sensation that once weirded me out. Now it was as commonplace as breathing–noticeable only when I paid close attention. “Everyone know they’re jobs? Parker, you’ve got enough wire?”
“And extra to spare.” Parker pulled a coil of thick, black wire halfway out of his pack.
“And you two are good on your equipment?” I looked at Sid and Sylvia. “You’ve practiced with the new harness Parker made?”
“Yeah, it works fine,” Sylvia said, giving me a bright but anxious smile. “Makes maneuvering a little easier in midair.”
Sid merely nodded, which was good enough for me, and I trusted Sylvia to be prepared. She always had her gear ready the night before the heist. Preparations distracted her from her frequent anxiety attacks.
“Good.” I clapped my hands together. “Based on my evaluation of the temple, we should be just fine. The floors are well guarded but Sylvia found some excellent routes through the roofs. Basically fool proof so long as we don’t screw up.”
“My plan was to bring a Chaser Beetle,” Parker said, chucking a shard of crumbled brick against the wall. “I don’t think things will be fine without a Chaser Beetle.”
“Parker, if I see you with a Chaser Beetle, I will hit you.” I held up my steel fist. “With my
left arm
.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine.”
Despite appearances, my team was on good terms. But the closest teams are the ones who can poke fun at each other’s flaws constantly.
We were known as the Pendulum Thieves, so dubbed for the master timing of our heists. We swooped in and out within a second, leaving our victims wondering where their valuables had gone. A nice name but I’d always had one problem with it. Pendulums are predictable. Sure as Aelius lights the sky with the sun each morning, they keep on ticking at a steady, foreseeable rate. We were not so easy to anticipate. No one expects a group of seventeen-year-olds to be so good at what they do.
I liked defying expectations. Like our patron, the God of Mischief, it was our job to catch people by surprise.
Street sounds always comforted me the day of a heist. On the nerve-racking walk to our location, I distracted myself with the echoes of the nomads, calling out to potential customers up and down the narrow streets of the slums. Nomads–called Clock Hands by many because they traveled around the realms like the ever-ticking hands of a clock–were a colorful group of people and procurers of every product imaginable. Sandstone sundials of Kabila, still dusted with the crimson sand of the wilderness realm hung from violet awnings. Timepieces and stone carvings from the ancient halls of Tiyata sat upon multicolored cushions made of rare silk. Or so the vendors claimed. And all manner of pocket watches and clocks from the wealthy inner rings of Fortuna, glittered from within faux glass cases. I didn’t know how they acquired such trinkets, considering most nomads weren’t welcome in the inner rings. I guessed they didn’t have strictly honest methods.
I loved that about them.
The market was in high form today. If we weren’t in a hurry to reach the inner rings of Fortuna by nightfall, I might have stopped to browse. On days like today, the aroma of rare spices subdued the stench of industry and oil clinging to every slum dweller, filling my nose with a delightful scent each time I inhaled. The storm-gray clouds pumping daily from the workhouses seemed less grim when surrounded by so many bright colors. And the faces of every worn-down miner and underfed child brightened at the sight of the street performers.
To my right, a woman garbed in azure silk danced to the beat of a migale skin drum. Only a few tents down a man sang songs in tribute to Artifex, the God of Craftsmen and one of the most revered gods in the outer ring of Fortuna. People passing by tossed tin gears into the bowl at his feet and, if they had a bit more change, copper ones. And of course, the air was rife with the cries of vendors, calling out from every direction.