Three weeks later

Temple woke with a gasp. He registered that he was in his dark, quiet, undisturbed home – that he was safe – but that was all a realisation at the back of his mind.

At the forefront of his thoughts were still the heated images of the dream, and he couldn’t and wouldn’t keep the powerful impressions back. He could still almost feel the Watcher captain’s large hand on his cock, stroking him in perfect rhythm with the ride, while Armstrong’s other hand locked around the back of his neck. It was possessive, domineering, and reassuring at the same time, while Temple’s hands explored the Watcher’s chest, revelling in the feeling of hot, firm skin under his fingers.

Heart thundering in his chest, Temple desperately unbuttoned his undershorts and pleasured himself to the echo of the dream’s sensations and the Watcher’s warm voice saying, ‘Come for me, Magpie,’ in a pleading or commanding tone, he wasn’t sure which; but he willingly obeyed and didn’t bother trying to hold back a cry of lust at his release.

Afterwards, he lay panting in the warm darkness, just as stunned at the madness of the reaction this time as the previous ones. The damned Watcher kept invading his dreams in the most heated ways possible.

He could vividly recall the man to his inner gaze, as easily as he visualised a lock he was picking or an illegal mage-trap he was dispelling. He could see the small smile that drew lines at Armstrong’s green eyes, his broad shoulders, the scar that parted one eyebrow, the calm, carefully measured way he moved when trying to convey his good intentions and prevent Temple from fleeing…

It had seemed so sincere. Kind.

It had been twenty-one days, and there hadn’t been the shadow of a reaction anywhere, although Temple had watched fervently for it. He had spent several, long hours each night hugging the shadows and monitoring the Kaala Wharf palisade and its captain’s comings and goings. Then he had changed tactics and gone back to Armstrong’s home to keep it under surveillance when he knew the Watcher was at work. It would be an easy place for the Watchers to catch a thief returning out of puzzlement, but again, despite repeated nights of careful vigil, there was nobody there to apprehend him.

One late night, he had broken into the house opposite Armstrong’s and sat concealed behind the curtains of the attic window, staring into the Watcher captain’s bedroom window. Armstrong came home late in the morning, clearly tired, judging from his movements and how he rubbed his face. When he hung his weapon belt on the hook in the bedroom, he seemed relieved. He spent time out of sight in what Temple knew to be the kitchen and then, later on, went to the washroom, rummaged around in the office, and went to the bedroom with a book in hand.

Then he stripped down to his undershorts, threw his clothes on the chair he had slept in when Temple woke up, stretched his long, strong body and …drew the curtains closed.

In the end, Temple had simply gone back when Armstrong was at work, opened the old, simple lock in the street with a skeleton key that worked for almost all worn, two-pronged locks with nary a metal ward, and done the same to the door to Armstrong’s flat, after having listened at the neighbouring one and heard nothing.

He had spent about half an hour rummaging around in the tidy office and retrieving his diamond, which had apparently lain undiscovered behind the socks since it was placed there. There was nothing of note that he needed at the moment in the office. He had looked for any orders or papers detailing special authority given to the Kaala Wharf palisade to apprehend thieves, but nothing interesting came of it.

In the end, he shrugged and left unchallenged.

He had sold the Glob’s Eye diamond to Miss Kaia and could turn his back on the whole thing. She had told him a rumour that the original architect’s plans of Spenbell Estate, the historic home of the High Merchant, second only to the Harbour Master in importance, would be going on display at the university. She suggested he might be interested in them, and he was but…

It solved nothing. Evidently. …Because here he was, in the dark, fingers sticky with absolutely confused lust.

It had to be a form of madness he was suffering from because of the uncertainty. Was Armstrong trying to con him into revealing himself? What kind of game was he playing? How clever was he really?

And the only way he could think of to shed light on the matter was to pressure Armstrong for reactions.

*

“Nah, I’m just saying, it’s an odd one and the men are having their balls shrivel up with fear,” Sheridan reported as they walked to the house of the apprehended murderer, Tann Barlik, up in the district of Urod Circle, just a ten-minute walk north from their palisade.

“Well, in that case, I guess I’ll assign Milla, Nell, Eline, and Josefine to the task if balls are being problematic,” Gilbert commented acerbically. “At least they know what part of the anatomy to apply to problem-solving.”

“I hear you, captain; I said something similar of the sort, but to be fair, you weren’t there when it happened. It hit Ril right in the eye when he bent down to look in. Just came straight out of the lock and hit him. And then the whispering began. Almost gave me the shits, sir.”

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“How is Ril?”

“Don’t know yet, but Neel and Jans took him to Margan Elfslayer’s Hospital, and he was still screaming when they left. I mean, no wonder, what with a dart in his bloody eye. That was when I decided to get you. The rest of the gents are still there, at least I hope so. You know, keeping an eye.”

“Right,” Gilbert muttered. The night was only halfway through and already things were cracking at the seams. So, a normal night in Sonderport, really. “What was the whisper business about?” he inquired of the younger officer.

“Well…” Sheridan looked a bit shamefaced, but bravely ploughed on, “they were sort of just on the cusp of hearing, you know? The voices. Like if dirty oil could speak inside the mind.”

Gilbert stopped in his tracks for dual reasons. One was the notion of dirty, talkative oil and the other was the sight of the godsdamned Magpie!

For days, he had been getting little glimpses of the man and feeling eyes on him at odd hours. The Magpie King was following him – that was a certainty – but why? Why the hells would he do this when Gilbert knew who he was? Did he have some sort of death wish? Or worse, did he have anything to do with the Barlik-murders?

But then why let himself be seen so clumsily? The only explanation was that he intended Gilbert to see him. Just now, he was lounging casually against a wall, arms crossed, just watching them walk down the street towards him.

He stood at the entrance to a side street, illuminated by a brazier in the road. He was dressed in good quality clothes, tight-fitting dark trousers, a green shirt, and a white vest. He had a leather bag slung over his shoulder and looked perfectly relaxed. He could easily just be a random civilian, lounging around in a not-terrible neighbourhood while waiting for someone, even though the hour was a bit late.

“Captain?” Sheridan asked.

Gilbert stared pointedly at the Magpie, who looked back with his grey eyes, now untouched by grease paint, and Gilbert knew that the second he turned around to answer Sheridan, the second he even blinked, the legendary thief of Sonderport would have melted back into the shadows and vanished.

He sighed and gestured resignedly with his arms and walked on, ignoring the thief. “Sure, what was that about the whispering, Sergeant?”

“Well, it was creepy, and we all heard it. There’s definitely some sort of wrongness about that place and I don’t think anyone else is in the mood for peeping inside, to be honest, sir.”

“I understand that, but that’s what we get paid to, and we need to go over the evidence before the trial next week. It’s not really a question of comfort—” He stopped in his tracks when they turned the corner to the cul-de-sac and the house came into view. Although there was nothing, in particular, to see that he could register, Gilbert felt the wrongness of the place deep in his bones. This was definitely not normal, as if a thick, nasty smell clung to the narrow, normal, two-story house. And somewhere deep inside his mind, he felt the whispering.

It wasn’t words that were spoken, it was …intentions, and the intentions were ugly and violent and excited about being so. The two Watchers, Fendan and Fuseridge, who had been left here were standing at the corner as far away as they could get and still be said to be at the house. They both looked relieved to see them, and curiously, in an otherwise busy city, this little part of the street was quiet and deserted.

Gilbert stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. They could break the door in, but if Barlik had trapped it… He didn’t want to put his people at undue risk. Conversely, he didn’t want to be told that traps were his problem if he went to the main office and requested the assistance of a city-approved mage. Gilbert sighed. This job…

And then the whispering suddenly exploded in intensity for a few, sanity-killing seconds; a rush of dark, hideous wants hitting him like a tidal wave of ugly hunger – and then it vanished. Panting and wide-eyed, Gilbert looked at the others around him. Sheridan was doubled over and had lost his helmet. The other two Watchers had lost breakfast and mind respectively, judging by the screaming.

Gilbert’s fingers trembled when he put a hand on the screaming man’s shoulder. “Calm down, Fendan. We’re fine.”

“Respectfully, Captain, this is not how fine feels!” the Watcher snapped vehemently.

“All right, all right. I agree with you,” Gilbert said. This was beyond what could be handled by the Watchers. This was …something else. But he was still proud of his people that they stood their ground, and none had bolted. Maybe one of the priesthoods could handle it, or perhaps a mage? Something white moved at the corner of his eye. He sucked in his breath and turned his gaze, hand going to his weapon.

The Magpie King. He was standing close by, staring at the façade of the house, a look of awed repulsion painted on his expressive face. He started violently and spun around to turn his silver stare at Gilbert, and then looked around as if it surprised him to be caught out in the open.

Gilbert smiled. And the smile became a wolf grin. He quickly closed the gap between them and embraced the thief, holding him close to his green and yellow uniform tabard.

“What the hells are you doing here?” he whispered in the Magpie’s ear.

The thief lifted his head to look up at him. “Returning your clothes,” he said softly.

“Right…” Gilbert turned towards the house and broke the embrace, holding the thief tightly by the shoulder instead. The Magpie didn’t resist him, which surprised him. He looked at the three other Watchers. Sheridan was picking up his helmet, Fendan was staring blankly into space, and Fuseridge was still spitting.

“Right,” the Magpie confirmed. “What did you just do?”

“I was going to ask you the same. But since you are here, would you mind terribly giving me a hand?” Gilbert asked conversationally and squeezed the thief’s shoulder.

The Magpie turned and looked at him with deep bewilderment and concern obvious on his face. The man was either a fantastic actor and should be teaching at BardArt, or he would be the easiest person to interrogate in the entire history of crime if he ever got caught.

“What do you think I can help you with, Armstrong?” he asked quietly.

Sheridan put his helmet back on and was now staring at them. Fendan was coming to as well, staring at the newcomer.

“I think you can get into places without using the door and disarm traps so others can enter. What do you say, Magpie? Mags?” he whispered and squeezed the thief’s shoulder again, knowing that the nimble thief could run for it at any second the moment he let go. “Boys,” he said loudly at the three Watchers, who all looked at the thief in his grip. “We are in luck. This is my good friend, Mags; he’s a locksmith, and he’s going to help us get in safely. Aren’t you, Mags?” he asked and looked at his ‘good friend’ with a big grin.

Served him right for being a nosy bird, whatever it was that he was up to. At least now he’d be making himself useful.

The Magpie was looking at the three guardsmen who were now aware of his presence, and Gilbert could almost feel how his heart sped up being stared at like this. And then the thief said, “Of course, I’m happy to help, Gilbert,” and took a step forward towards the house.