Lurking in the bushes, Sed watched the torches moving along the high wall. The dogs went ahead; behind them came the guards, talking about something.

  When the patrol vanished around the bend, he pulled a small vial from the pouch at his thigh and drained it in one swallow. A spasm ran through his body; his vision clouded for a heartbeat. After a few deep breaths came clarity— the world grew sharper, louder. The thief darted to a tall elm that grew tight against the wall and, scrambling up, looked first into the yard, then to the sky.

  By the moon’s place, two large patrols with verids were meeting in the central garden just now. At the strike of the bell, they would drift far enough apart. It would be enough to cross the garden and reach the kitchen.

  Sed dropped onto the soft grass and, in a swift burst, moved from the tree to the base of a massive marble statue. From there, melding with the shadows, he dashed to a shrub, then to a stone rotunda. By the muffled murmur of a fountain to the right, half the way was behind him. A sudden sound made him stop. A low but distinct growl, and quick breathing. Not human.

  The thief pressed himself flat at once and froze. Even with his scent masked, ridans could react to the slightest movement. They moved almost noiselessly, but fast. A few moments later the sounds began to fade. Unwilling to risk more, Sed crawled on, shifting from cover to cover until the rose thickets. From there, winding and keeping away from the fountain, he reached the wall of the right annex—and a window wide enough to squeeze through, were it not for a stout iron grate.

  He took a short pry-bar from his bag and slid it between the vertical bars. The muscles in his arms tightened. With an ugly squeal the metal began to yield, bending slowly. He forced one bar aside as far as it would go, then set to the second until an opening formed—wide enough to wriggle through. The thief slipped inside, drawing his legs after him.

  Setting foot on the stonework, Sedrik stilled, listening and looking about. The vast dark room bore down on him. The outlines of a hearth, heavy tables, and copper cauldrons hanging from the ceiling surfaced slowly out of the gloom. Everything seemed to have halted, waiting for the morning bustle.

  Footsteps broke the silence. Sed sprang behind the nearest massive cupboard. At the far end of the kitchen a yellow glow appeared. A man stepped in, wearing a long tunic and leather boots; in one hand he held a candle, in the other a carafe.

  “Well dressed—no common servant…”

  The stranger crossed the kitchen to the steps that led down, descended, and—judging by the jingle of keys—unlocked a door.

  Sed moved toward the place the servant had entered from, and, making sure the corridor lay empty, crept forward—careful, but quick—always listening, always glancing about. To be in corridors was the last thing a thief should want; it put him in a weak place. He searched for the right door, flicking his gaze from one to the next.

  “Given where the kitchen sits, I’m in the west wing. The chapel should be farther on, toward the main stair…”

  Muted women’s voices came from behind one door.

  — …incredibly fast—just open the cage and she’s gone. I feared the ridans would tear her apart, but they didn’t catch her.

  — And then?

  — Then the kennelman came running and started shouting. He drove off the shaggy ones, but didn’t catch her. Had to wait for the senior...

  Sed passed another turn and quickened when he saw his goal ahead: massive doors engraved with a seven-pointed star. As he approached, he drew his picks, crouched, and slid them into the lock.

  His fingers had already found the pins and were about to begin their quick work when voices sounded from the far end of the corridor. The thief pressed into a niche behind a tapestry, catching scraps of talk.

  — …give us all a day off.

  — Think his lordship will allow it? — asked the second.

  — He’s like to leave soon; the two of ’em won’t live together, not for long.

  — Haven’t heard a word of it, and I don’t believe it—sounds too good…

  Their talk was cut off by a whistle from the other end of the corridor, and both guards ran that way at once.

  Sed returned to the lock. Whatever was happening in the estate, it had drawn the guard away—and might be a chance, so long as he got out of the corridors quickly.

  There came the clatter of metal, the thunder of dozens of hurried steps, and voices. A large group was heading straight here.

  “Thrilling…”

  The thought flashed through him like a burning spark. His heart beat lively. Soft clicks followed one after another; the last was louder than all the rest—the mechanism yielded. Sed yanked the heavy door, slipped through the gap, and locked it from within, striving to avoid a loud slam.

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  He set his back against the cold wood, catching his breath, and for a second his mind went blank. The group outside drew right up to the door.

  — We won’t linger. Once we’ve spoken—off at once, — came a voice from without.

  “What a lively house…” Sed thought.

  He stood in a narrow nave. The air in the chapel was still and cold, smelling of old wood and incense. Moonlight from tall lancet windows lay in pale patches across the stone slabs and the rows of wooden pews. A massive chandelier hung from the high ceiling, and the walls were adorned with painted frescoes of varied scenes. At the far end, beyond a faceted marble pulpit, seven statues stood in arched niches.

  Rams, hounds, and oxen are gathered under shepherds. There were seven of them, each with different attributes: Aladon with a sword, Tessa with a sickle, Magus with a book, and so on. Before each stood a stone altar with offerings.

  The rumors of Louazier’s wealth were not merely true—they had been understated. Such a chapel would have looked impressive even by the standards of Mirchelle. But all this was only a shell, an ornament. The real interest waited above.

  The chapel’s arrangement matched the order of estates: the rabble below on the first floor; the priest’s pulpit and the seven statues on a rise; and at the very top, beneath the vault itself, the tier for the castle’s masters— a special balcony that ringed the chapel and was hidden from prying eyes by an airy stone balustrade. There, too, was a private oratory.

  Sed slipped the rope from his shoulder, fixed a hook to it, and, swinging it, threw it up to catch the railing. He gave it a couple of sharp tugs to test—held fast. Bracing his feet against the wall, he climbed swiftly and rolled over the balustrade onto the narrow balcony of the upper tier.

  Beyond the balcony lay a small hall strewn with red and blue carpets. To match their colors, two altars stood to the right and left.

  The first, draped in red and yellow cloth, was crowned by a statue of Aladon—like the one below, but smaller. The god of the higher estates, who grants power and victory, and, if the legends are to be believed, sees all that sunlight touches. Sedrik, it seemed, had long gone unnoticed by him. Prayer to such a god did not come cheap; the thief approached with interest. At the statue’s feet lay offerings neatly arranged, worth more than the wealth of any baron: an obsidian dragon figurine, a golden scepter with a ruby, and a medallion shaped like a blazing eye. With pleasure, unhurried, Sed swept everything into his bag. The fang went in as well—dragon, if fortune smiled; Dwain could sort that out.

  The second altar was covered in delicate shades of blue and pink—colors you might find only in Seltrivelle or the free cities. It was adorned by a statue of a girl holding a cup—Esma, goddess of love and family bonds, Aladon’s wife. Their placement side by side followed a contrived tradition: the divine pair was held up as an example to follow.

  “I never thought the duke such a family man.”

  Be that as it may, the altar was richly dressed: a large silver cup inlaid with sapphires, ornaments of shell, and four great pearls upon a velvet cloth.

  “So far it’s going too well. We’ll see what comes next.”

  The gold and silver candlesticks looked tempting, but they took up too much space. The thief’s eye fell on a small cabinet. Its lock made him work, but the reward was worth it: two leather-bound books, inlaid with gemstones and mounted in precious metals—The Book of Light and The Book of the Heart. By the materials, they had been made to order. Perhaps they were the most valuable things in the room, yet finding a buyer would not be easy.

  Casting one last look about the hall, Sedrik set to breaking the single door which, by all appearances, led to the duke’s bedchamber. It took time—and two broken picks. Beyond the door began a narrow corridor, and beyond that, the bedchamber itself.

  Moonlight, filtering through a tall lancet window, picked the room’s shapes out of the dark. Compared to the chapel it looked almost modest: a large canopy bed, an oak table strewn with parchments and books. On the chest at the bedside lay a doublet and a belt. In the corner, on a stand, rested a long sword in plain but sound scabbards; on the walls hung several blades and spears of odd shape—foreign, by the look of them.

  More attention drew the talk in the next room, carried through the fireplace. The first voice—young—had been audible even from the corridor; the second belonged to an older man.

  — …Both saw you there.

  — If I say it was so, will you stop hounding me?

  “Could it be the duke with his son? Luck indeed…”

  — To think the campaign would change you was na?ve.

  — Believe me, much has changed.

  — And what, then? From drink and whoring you’ve come to murdering allies?

  — You’ve done it your whole life.

  — For the good of the House and the Kingdom, not out of whim. Lady Farbe is no longer of an age to give you an heir. I need not even speak of status.

  — Soon she’ll be Lady Louazier—and do not fret over heirs. My sister managed it.

  “I wonder if they’ll cut each other now or not. That would be amusing.”

  While their reckoning went on, Sedrik chose to look into the wardrobe. Long fur-lined tunics and the like hung from wooden pegs; more clothing lay in chests. On a separate shelf sat a single jewelry casket, which he tossed into his bag at once.

  “Either Gaspar’s a rare modest one, or he truly is making ready to leave.”

  The talk in the next room ceased. Deciding to risk it, Sedrik stepped into a spacious hall lit only by the dying fire in the hearth. The walls were dressed with tapestries and draped cloth. A patterned carpet, embroidered with designs, covered the tiled floor. It was warmer here than in any other room—yet there was nothing to steal.

  Besides the bedroom door there were two more: one stood slightly ajar and led into a corridor. The other was shut. The thief took up his picks again. The lock proved hard; for the first time in the last two years, three picks snapped one after the other—yet at last the door opened.

  Beyond it, the silhouettes of cupboards and shelves showed dimly.

  No sooner had Sed stepped inside than, from the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. He sprang aside—and a blow swept past his face.

  Note: The story is written with partial imitation of the old style of the language, which may make some words or sentences seem odd. Let me know if you like it or find it uncomfortable.