Sometimes Banksy hated being right. It didn’t happen often. Usually, he quite enjoyed being right, and more often than not, he was. While the other members of the guild had spent the majority of time honing their physical skills, he had spent countless hours learning about all manner of things, reading book after book in the guild’s very impressive library. He stood by the idea that it was a much better use of his time compared to learning to punch something really, really, hard.
However… However, with the very impressive security system laid out before him, he rather wished he had been wrong. He also wished he could punch something really, really hard.
“Biometrics” he groaned softly to himself as he reached down and rubbed at the nub that used to be his finger. “I hate biometrics so much.”
Sitting back on his haunches, Banksy looked up towards the sky and let out a soft string of colorful curse words.
He hadn’t been lying when he told Servilia he could get through the security without setting off the alarm, but he may have been exaggerating exactly how confident he was in his ability to do it quickly.
Time… technically he had quite a bit of time. The ball wouldn’t be held until tomorrow evening, but tonight would be the best opportunity to get his hands-on Omar’s seal and get them entry into the ball. Actually, scratch that, it would be his only opportunity.
He was currently located near the back of the manor, a place that had a blessedly minimal amount of security. That wasn’t overly surprising to Banksy. The magical perimeter that surrounded the Omar Manor was more than enough to deter all but the most talented thieves, and that was only the beginning. After breaking the barrier, it was either scale the walls, or find and crack one of the few exterior doors built into the wall that were no doubt secured with equally impressive measures
That wasn’t even mentioning the guards that were patrolling from time to time. Though, tonight that wouldn’t be as much of a problem.
The main gate was currently filled to the brim with workers preparing for the ball, all of them being carefully checked before they were allowed to enter. This was actually quite helpful, as it kept almost the entire security detail busy.
But only for tonight.
So while technically he had a lot of time, in actuality, he had very little time. Well, that was fine too.
“Grace under pressure, right?”
Without looking, he pulled off a handful of rings and slipped them onto his fingers, reaching up and gently held his hands up to the barrier.
The air waved slightly and solidified to a pale white where his fingertips made connection.
“Alright baby, talk to me,”
Banksy tilted his head, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he ran a finger straight down, testing the strength of the barrier.
“Not particularly thick. So not defensive. Only alarmed, I think.”
He switched out a few rings and drew a circular symbol on the barrier before crossing through it with four diagonal lines. The circle turned blue, but the lines remained white.
“Oh, this isn’t human made.” Banksy pulled on a black ring and made another line, this one cutting through the previous four. The line turned black for a moment, before quickly fading to white.
“Hmmmmm.” Banksy rolled his head one way, then the other. “Not Elven then. Though, they normally don’t use this kind of spell anyway… who made you?”
Banksy looked one way, then the other, before leaning forward and licking the barrier. Almost as soon as his tongue made contact, he felt a jolt run along his tongue and he pulled back, smacking his lips together repeatedly and running his tongue against his teeth to dispel the uncomfortable feeling.
Sweetness. He had tasted sweetness. Not overly sweet. Almost like biting into a crisp apple, or maybe an orange. No, a strawberry. Yeah, a strawberry was the closest he could get to describing it.
Spitting on the ground, Banksy removed the rings on his fingers and pulled free two others. They were simple rings, nothing more than silver bands. Both were too small to actually fit properly on any of his remaining nine fingers and he was forced to use only the tip of his right pinky.
With quick movements he drew a hexagon. After a moment, it lit up a dark blue. Banksy followed up with a circle inside of the hexagon that he quickly bisected with a single line.
The circle turned opaque and Banksy pressed the flat of his palm against it. There was no resistance and his hand passed through cleanly. Smiling to himself, he circled his arm around, drawing an opening large enough for his body before he smartly stepped through. As the barrier closed behind him, he replaced the small rings back onto his necklace and gave a small nod of appreciation.
“Gensi. Amazing. Never seen one this big.” He turned his attention towards the Manor and the smile fell from his face. “Must have been a really long time ago. You never would have helped someone like him.” Banksy reached back and gently touched the barrier. “I’m sorry it turned out this way. I’ll fix this, after we’re done. I promise.”
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He held his hand against the barrier for a moment longer before making his way towards an exterior door he had spotted during his reconnaissance earlier. As he had assumed, it was secured with a particularly expensive lock. Unfortunately for the head of Omar’s security, they would have been better off with something older. Not that Banksy wouldn’t have been able to get through it regardless, but it might have taken him a bit longer.
This lock, however, didn’t even require Banksy to use one of his rings to disengage. That was because he had actually helped develop this particular lock.
There would be almost no way for anyone outside of the guild to know this, but Banksy had served as an anonymous contributor to many different lock and safe companies over the years. It was a side job that Servilia had set up for him after he had rebuilt the guild’s safe, along with a handful of the safes and locks of the local businesses that he had previously stolen from.
They weren’t safe from him, of course, but they would be more than enough to deter almost anyone who wasn’t at his skill level.
Banksy generously estimated that at less than a hundred people in the entire Kingdom.
If anyone pressed him on that, he was confident that number was actually less than ten. But it was good to be humble.
At least, it was good to maintain the appearance of being humble.
“I’m a genius.” Banksy hummed softly to himself as the door slid open.
Just because it was good didn’t mean it was always what Banksy was going to do.
The gate was well oiled, something Banksy was thankful for, and opened with barely a sound.
Somewhere in the distance Banksy heard glass shatter followed by angry yelling in Romian. While he wasn’t fluent in the language by any means, he did know his fair share of insults and curse words and those words in particularly were being throw around quite a bit.
Banksy couldn’t ask for a better time and he slipped on the ground proper, shutting the door shut behind him with the softest of clicks.
xXx
The Manor itself was more than impressive. The architectural was of the traditional Romiatii style, with lots of pillars adorned with elegant filigree and carvings, and a high, slanted roofline that would be almost impossible to walk along. Not that Banksy had any plans of being on the roof, especially considering it stood five stories high with vaulted ceilings and a multitude of windows, most of them left open to allow the crisp night air to permeate the building.
It was through one of these windows that Banksy crept through, easily making his way into the Manor.
As he had hoped, the actual security presence was almost nonexistent in this part of the home, the majority of the force being used to watch those working in the front and the areas that the ball would be held. They would be kept away from the personal living quarters.
Still, he would need to be careful. A reduced security force didn’t mean there would be no one.
Banksy easily located one of the service staircases after a few minutes of searching and began to work his way up to the third level. Had he been in any other Kingdom, he would have likely made his way to the top floor in search of Omar’s bedroom, but this was Romiatii, and he knew, from the handful of dwellings he had…. ‘worked in’ that it was Romian custom to have the bedroom on the third floor. He couldn’t accurately remember why it was done this way, but he vaguely knew it had something to do with good luck and the number three.
To Banksy it didn’t really matter why, it only meant that it was going to be that much easier for him to reach his target.
Servilia had informed him that Omar was a well-known schedule follower. He ate the same meals every week, went to sleep at the same time, and woke up the same.
Banksy loved people that like. Schedules were a thief’s bread and butter. People that fell into patterns had a tendency to get overly comfortable. Even those that were overly cautious would eventually get lulled into a sense of security from the daily rhythm of their life.
Omar’s schedule also meant that Banksy’s fear of getting caught by a guard were even lower. Without the watchful eye of an employers, guards had a tendency to slack off, especially late at night.
Reaching the third floor, Banksy paused, closing his eye and listening. He could still hear commotion near the front of the house, but the third floor felt relatively calm. Still, he forced his body to remain tense and alert.
No need to mess up the easy part.
“Yeah, easy part.” Banksy nearly snorted as he made his way down the dark hallway and towards the Master Bedroom doors.
A quick wave with his rings told him the door was locked, but it wasn’t magical. Taking in a soft breath, he quickly unlocked the door and opened it just a crack.
The hinges made a slight creak. Banksy cringed, but kept his nerve. It was normal. Most people would sleep through that and Omar would have been asleep for at least two hours by now. Even a light sleeper wouldn’t wake up from such a slight noise.
He pushed a bit more. The door traveled forward silently this time. Letting out a silent breath, he slipped his body through the thin opening and closed the door behind him.
Omar’s heavy breathing quickly reached Banksy’s ears and he lowered his stance slightly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. As he waited, he kept his gaze firmly on the ground and away from the bed.
He didn’t know if it was true that people could feel when they were being looked at, but it wasn’t a risk he had ever been willing to take.
Omar’s breathing suddenly hitched and he let out a loud snort. Banksy’s head snapped towards the sound; his eyes just able to make out the body moving around on the bed before settling into a more comfortable position. Frozen, Banksy waited almost a full minute to take in a breath as Omar’s breathing returned to normal.
Find the seal. Stamp the envelopes. Get the hell out of here.
Banksy had his mission, now all he had to do was complete it.
Omar normally kept the seal around his neck, but Banksy was banking on the fact that he took it off when he slept. If not… well, Banksy would rather not think of that.
In the dark room, Banksy started to move when a new noise reached his ears. No, not reached his ears. It had been there, but he hadn’t adequately recognized it.
There was something else breathing in the room.
It was a soft sound, almost completely drowned out by Omar’s own breathing, but it was there. It was there and it was waking up.
‘Oh no’ was the only thing Banksy was able to think before the small dog that was sleeping on the edge of Omar’s bed suddenly let out a piercing howl.
Banksy had only seconds.
He could go back the way he came, but could he get the door opened and closed again before Omar woke up?
No. No way. No one could move that fast and stay silent.
What if he…
Oh gods, this was such a stupid idea.
Banksy lunged forward and dropped onto his belly. Unceremoniously he slid himself under the bed, quickly shimmying his entire body underneath and curling up into a tight ball. Above him he heard the bed squeak in protest as Omar abruptly woke up and began to yell.
Though Banksy didn’t understand the majority of what he said, he did get the gist of ‘fucking dog’.
Light flooded the room as Omar turned on a lamp next to his bedside table and continued to speak to the dog, though this time in a much calmer manner. After a few moments of one-sided conversation Banksy picked out the word ‘piss’ and suddenly Omar’s feet were against the floor as he slid out of the bed.
Banksy stared at the man’s feet as he slowly walked around the bed before lifting up the dog with a grumble.
Piss?
Did he think the dog had barked because he wanted to go to the bathroom?
If Banksy wasn’t absolutely sure the action would have killed him, he would have laughed.
A sudden thump drew Banksy’s eye and Omar let out another loud curse. The dog must have wiggled free from his grip. Banksy could do nothing as the dog worked its way under the bed and without hesitation sunk its sharp little teeth into his ankle.
Through his pants, Banksy was sure it was barely breaking the skin, but still it hurt. It hurt a lot and the pain was only growing at it bit down harder.
Banksy slapped his hand over his mouth to keep himself from making a sound as Omar dropped down and blindly groped under the bed. Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, Banksy carefully pushed his leg towards Omar, angling the dog towards his grip.
After what felt like an eternity, Omar finally managed to grab hold of the dog, and with a quick tug, Banksy was able to free his leg from its mouth.
‘stupid dog’
Grumbling, Omar left the room, slamming the door shut behind him, even as the small dog continued to snarl.
Banksy let out the breath he had been holding in and quickly wiggled out from under the bed. Hands shaking, he glanced around the illuminated room. There, on the bedside table, was Omar’s seal. Pulling the two forged invitations from his pocket, Banksy pressed them with the seal. There was the slight smell of burning paper as the magic activated and burned the seal into place.
Replacing the seal exactly as he had found it, Banksy hurried out of the room and up to the fourth floor. There, he waited for what felt like ages, until he heard Omar return to his room, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it.
Sliding down the wall and onto his rear end, Banksy let out a silent laugh and patted the papers in his pocket.
It was time to leave.