INTERLUDE 8D: THING SIXTEEN

“To empty the mouth of words, silence is not enough. One must first speak. To become initiated as a paladin is no ordinary transition, not so mild as that from squire to knight. And the paladins of Kultemeren are not as other paladins. We will not admit any man who has aught left unsaid. Only then will the silence of his voice pertain to Truth. So – speak! Now! Speak your last! Cast it into the Maw, and be done with it for ever! Let only we poor priests speak in your stead.”

– from the inauguration ceremonies of the Chapter of Universal Stillness

There were at least fifteen things that could go wrong, the boss-man had said over breakfast. He’d ticked them off on his fingers, his face full of sausage. Rheva had trouble counting past ten, but she trusted his numbers – she always had. Her own skills lay in different areas. Less important, perhaps, but still important. The boss-man ran the figures, scouted the marks, did the deals – but there was no way he was fitting through a toilet window, not even in twice the time it took her. They stuck to the mid-range properties, those with something to steal but without the magical defences put in place by the super-rich. They’d lost Sour-Face Strom to a summoning circle last autumn – the imps had leapt on his back on the way out the window, and Rheva and the others had been forced to abandon their names, their base of operations, build it all back up from scratch. Abandoning one made-up name for another was no big deal, really, but packing up the few things she owned, leaving the digs she’d lived in for almost four years, since she became an adult… That stung. It wasn’t going to happen again, not if Rheva could help it.

And she could. She was good at what she did, one of the best in Tanvil Park. The area of Hilltown where they plied their trade had no shortage of burglars, and more than once the heads of a rival gang had approached her about betraying the boss-man, betraying her compatriots… There’d never been enough money in it for her for her to even consider it… mostly. She pulled in a good supply of low-risk hard cash each week – she lived large, like the daughter of a rich merchant – and she liked it that way. Only a significant payout would cause her to turn traitor like that.

She sat with Ghlaion and Usteru in the shadows outside the mark’s house, waiting for the rain to stop. Rain was a thief’s blessing, and a thief’s curse. Sure, to an amateur a deluge was probably a good thing – it covered up a whole bunch of different sounds, so if you were taking out a window-pane or breaking the pins in a lock, a torrential downpour could be your friend, letting the half-asleep inhabitant explain away the noise they’d heard and go back to sleep. But to Rheva, whose skills had been developed past that point by the time she was barely in double digits, rain was an enemy. Being wet made you squeaky and made your feet slip; even if you got into the property undetected it’d leave traces wherever you stepped, allowing a scrupulous guard to discern your presence without you making a single mistake.

No, to Rheva it was only a curse. Even more so to her colleagues. Ghlaion was the team’s official leader, and he liked to brag he’d broken into more houses than he’d walked in through the door. Thirty-plus years of experience had left the tall, gangly man a font of useful and useless knowledge in equal shares. Usteru was the team’s unofficial leader; the woman was only ten years Rheva’s senior, and she was difficult to get along with, but she had a mind for detail like no one else’s. Rheva looked up to her, sort of. As much as a street-thief who cared for nothing and no one could respect a person, anyway. She’d have still robbed Usteru blind if she thought she had a shot at it, and surviving.

Money. Magic could drown in the drop – money was the best invention anyone had ever come up with. It could move from hand to hand, its passage invisible, and no one even gave a damn. If you showed up in Mund with four thousand well-made spoons and no documentation, eyebrows would raise, bindlaces would be applied, and soon you’d find yourself before the judges. But if you showed up in Mund with four thousand gold and no documentation, they’d just assume you were some minor lordling and welcome you with open arms, offer you a place in high society, honours… Money was designed for theft. That was how the rich got rich in the first place anyway – they taxed the poor until the poor could give no more, then taxed them again. Or, at least, that was what Usteru always said.

“Eyes on.” Ghlaion’s soft voice belied his huge frame, the harsh lines of his ugly face. “Rain’s slacking off.”

His instincts about this kind of thing were usually right, so she started getting ready. Rheva’s clothes were still toasty and warm under the heavy winter cloak, and she peeled off her outer layers until only the form-fitting, dark blue cotton of her vest and hose remained.

Fifteen things that can go wrong, Rheva mused. I wonder how many actually will…

The complex outside which they waited was said to be a private household, but the boss-man found out the owner was using it as a treasury. It was a strong-house, filled with bags of gems, drugs, even magical reagents. Anything light-enough to be carried was fair game, but they’d prioritise the more expensive loot of course. Platinum, not copper. Rubies, not garnets. Dragonscales, not bat guano. Whitestick, not wane. And Usteru carried their prize possession, the small demiskin that’d cost them a year’s profits from the coffers – the lovely little thing had paid for itself in three months, and then some.

Rheva picked out the puddles she wanted to avoid when the time came. She imagined moving between them, planning her route, almost feeling the cobblestones through the soles of her light shoes as her imagined self darted across the empty road, barely touching the ground. Things always went better when she planned out in advance what she was going to do. She was currently tucked away beneath a crate, in the alley opposite the target-building; from her angle she could see the path clear as day. There were no passers-by at this hour – three in the morning – except the odd cat dashing out of the rain.

“It’s almost time,” Usteru’s hushed voice came from the other side of the alley. She didn’t whisper – whispering was for novices who wanted to be caught. “Even if it’s still coming down, we’re on.”

Rheva made a soft click in the back of her throat, the sign that she’d acknowledged. Ghlaion – the official leader – made the same sound from his own crate behind her. Rheva fancied she could hear the sullenness in his tone. He never liked it when Usteru stepped on his toes.

She shut her eyes to get them used to the dark, just in case the building’s internal spaces were unlit, and went through the plan in her mind again, turning it over, and over, looking for those weaknesses the boss-man mentioned. She concentrated on the worst.

Entry. The best way in was through the trapdoor in the attic, but there was no way to be certain whether a guard would walk underneath at just the wrong time.

The hounds. Fry-Pan Pendro had prepared the soaperiffix inside sausages, but they’d have to ensure every single dog they ran into got dosed or killed; just one of the beasts left on its feet would be plenty to raise the alarm.

The safe. Any of the three of them would be able to pick its lock – but whether they’d manage it quickly-enough was another matter. That was Ghlaion’s time to shine. He had the deftest touch of any man she’d ever known.

And there was, of course, the issue of the girl. The girl who’d ruined three out of their last four jobs. The girl who always seemed to know where they were going, what they were doing. It was really starting to get on the boss-man’s nerves, which Rheva found hilarious.

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“Some magic wench,” the boss-man had grumbled through his mouthful. “You come across her, I want her dead.”

Rheva had grinned at that, but Usteru and Ghlaion didn’t look too pleased at the prospect of killing. Killing didn’t bother Rheva; and the rest of it just made the idea hilarious.

“Time,” Usteru said tightly.

She didn’t really have to think – just let her body go. Rheva opened her eyes and got out from under the crate, then silently lowered it back into place before sliding out of the alley’s mouth, springing at the building opposite.

It was only three floors. She unslung her rope as she made the final ascent from window-ledge to roof, then helped the others up. Ghlaion prised free a few tiles with his tools, then they were in, dropping lightly through the support beams in the roof.

The attic-space was given over to works of art – not priceless, but pricey all the same. These were the ones their mark didn’t display in his gallery downstairs, not quite good enough to make the cut… Rheva studied a couple of them in the gloom: old-timey rural landscapes and plain portraits were mixed with paintings of demons and dragons and mages. They all looked rich enough for her tastes. It was a shame they couldn’t take one, but they were far too large to transport. A touch regretfully, Rheva joined the others at the trapdoor.

Usteru eased the heavy lid open and leaned forwards, moving around to take a look down the candlelit corridor beneath them in either direction. Rheva got the sudden urge to give her a push, send her sprawling loudly to the landing a good eight feet below. She grinned again, and put down the urge. The fun bit was coming, anyway –

Usteru gave her the nod, and Rheva scuttled forwards, put her hands on either side of the opening and dropped straight down, tucking almost into a ball as she landed on the carpet with a soft thump.

She moved aside as her colleagues followed her. Within seconds the three of them were in. Rheva and Usteru started locating the drug-laced sausages in their pockets, while Ghlaion moved out to check the end of the corridor. When he gave them the nod they caught him up, but as soon as they’d rounded the corner Rheva heard footsteps approaching from behind. A muffled voice. The clinking of a small chain.

“Guard!” Usteru hissed, and she grabbed Ghlaion’s arm, pulling him to the nearest doorway and flinging it open. The floor plan the boss-man went over with them at breakfast had been accurate – this room was too close to the corner to be a bedroom, and it turned out to be just a closet, shelves filled with wine-jugs and sugared-fruit baskets.

As Rheva squeezed in after her colleagues and pulled the door shut behind her, she rolled a sausage into the corridor.

“What did you do that for!” Usteru groaned.

“Newbie,” Ghlaion contributed.

Rheva just folded her arms with a trust me smile on her face that they probably couldn’t see in the darkness.

The way she saw it, the dog would be able to smell them at this distance. Putting a piece of wood between them and the beast wasn’t going to stop it catching their scent. This way, there was just a suspicious-looking sausage on the floor – not a closetful of would-be thieves. She doubted the guard would even raise the alarm.

The footsteps, the voice, the chain – they got closer, closer, and Rheva stopped breathing, stopped thinking –

“What’s that, boy? Whassat? What you got? Eh? Nah! Gimme that. Dumb mutt. It ain’t like Boddie to drop a sossage! Go on then, tha’ bit’s been in yoir gob so we’ll shares it. ‘Alf fer me, ‘alf fer you, sounds fair, right?”

The voice had halted right outside the closet, and Rheva was forced to slowly exhale, letting out the air she’d drawn into her lungs; just as slowly, she inhaled again, cautious of the hound’s ears just a few feet away from her face.

She could hear loud chewing.

“It ain’t like… Boddie…”

Thankfully a half-dose designed for a dog didn’t put the guard out anywhere near as quickly as it did the mutt, so he must’ve had time to lean against a wall – Rheva heard two relatively-gentle slumps as the guard and his companion hit the deck.

When she opened the door a crack, she saw him lying there half propped-up against the opposite wall, a guy in his thirties with red hair and fat cheeks, rosy with the effects of the drug. His hound, a grey loper with a long snout, was snoring next to him, bits of sausage-meat still clinging its chops.

“Well, I didn’t expect it to go that well,” Rheva admitted. “Belestae’s with us.”

“Or Mother-Chaos,” Usteru quipped in a distracted voice. “Come on, give us a hand.”

They stowed the guard and dog in the closet and continued on their way. Three corners, zero guards and two more sleeping dogs later, they descended a short, three-step flight of stairs and came to the target room.

It would almost certainly be protected. There was no lock on the door, but Usteru halted Ghlaion with a swift tap on the arm when he put his fingers on the door handle. She pointed at the top of the door, where a bell was hanging.

Ghlaion sneered at her, then reached up for it with both hands. He delicately held its mechanisms in place as he unhooked it from its nail, and slowly moved across to the wall, placing it down on the floor out of the way.

While he did so, Usteru took out a tiny phial of oil and greased the door’s hinges for good measure.

Rheva wanted to laugh, but suppressed the urge by instinct. She filed that one away for when she was her own boss, had her own base –

Don’t put the gods-damned bell on the outside of the door. And get some doors that open inwards.

The guard in the treasury was awake and alert, but he was standing with his back to them, facing the bookshelves, neglecting his duty. Ghlaion stabbed him in his voice-box then stepped back, letting the man turn before darting in again, piercing his skull through the eye.

The guard dropped, Ghlaion cleaned his blade, and they got to work looking for the safe.

Correction, Rheva thought. Don’t have a bell at all. It made the guard sloppy.

“Where is it?” Usteru said. “It’s supposed to be here!”

“This wasn’t even one of the problems he mentioned, was it?” Rheva remarked.

“Shut up, girl!” Ghlaion snapped, rolling the guard’s corpse over with his foot, then turning back to study the bookcase.

Rheva saw it just before he did. He loosed an “Aha!” of success when he tripped the small lever near the floor, and stood back while the whole piece of furniture slowly slid aside, books shivering on their shelves as it moved. Usteru, who’d been starting to look inside the cupboards at the back of the room, snarled in a mixture of relief and irritation as she came to join them.

The safe was there, right there. The metal door embedded in the oak wall was roughly eighteen inches by twenty-four – Rheva couldn’t have counted out the distance, but she’d heard the terms enough to know a measurement when she saw it; she wasn’t stupid. In the door’s centre, the combination lock.

Ghlaion bent down to his task.

“Watch the corridor,” Usteru ordered Rheva, flicking her hand without even sparing the younger woman a glance.

Rheva frowned as she turned away to the door. Things weren’t supposed to go like this.

Then one of the cupboards near her popped open, and, like a mantis slowly unfolding its limbs, the girl stepped out of her hiding spot.

It’s her. She’s done it again!

She wore form-fitting leathers; her raven mane had to have been tied back severely to fit within her blonde wig. Her eyes seemed to emanate shadows, such a dark grey they were. Most of the pale make-up had been cleaned off her tapering, red-brown face, but a few smudges remained around the neckline.

“You can give up on the dream, now, Ghlaion,” the girl said lazily, waving a big-looking demiskin about by its cord. “Ain’t nothing in there left worth taking.”

The final limb, her other arm, came free. She was holding a loaded crossbow, aiming it across the room at them.

The glinting tip of the bolt swung about, the crossbow pointing now at Rheva.

“Back up, lovey,” the girl said. “Hate to put a hole in such a pretty face.”

Rheva retreated towards the others, smiling grimly, her hands raised in a gesture of peace, surrender.

“Now, you’re going to give me a five minute head-start, and if you all promise me now that you will, and I believe you, I won’t bring any attention to you. Came in through the roof, right?” The girl squirmed a bit, involuntarily. “I had to pose as a maid to pull this off, you know. Been in that cupboard at least six hours. But… worth it!”

“Five minutes?” Usteru spat.

“Oh, fine. Sixty seconds, though, okay? Otherwise I raise a right racket.”

Rheva looked over her shoulder to see Ghlaion shrug, Usteru scowl. They both agreed.

“And you?” The girl eyed Rheva ominously. It was a good thing she did – Rheva had almost forgotten to maintain the pretence. She nodded to the girl, trying to keep her face grim.

With a flash of white teeth, the master-thief disappeared through the treasury doorway, the sharp point of her crossbow-bolt the final thing to slip through the gap.

“Drop,” Ghlaion gargled, “droppety-drop…”

“The boss-man won’t be happy,” Rheva offered.

“Jaylon,” Usteru named their leader, “is going to skin us alive.”

* * *