Suffering from the inability to become inebriated has left Riposte Clasicant more cantankerous than usual. The body count is rising, and Pertuli isn't the only one who wonders if Rip's condition is more serious than an unusual curse; with dire resul...
There was no chance of finding a stained glass artist at night, but it was the perfect time to go snooping around The Hand's storerooms.
A bell and a half later, I must have seemed a very different kind of tilwenna. Though I was a mercenary, I survived lean years using what I learned of the larcenous arts. I wasn't an expert, but living long encourages a girl to reinvent herself from time to time, and being a champion blades'wenna helped when I got caught.
I stowed my cloak under a hedge in the cathedral garden and tied a black scarf over my face. It had been modified to contain my uncooperative hair and hide my face and ears but not my eyes. If I was seen it would be impossible to avoid suspicion, but the loose fitting silk shirt and trousers I wore were perfect for becoming one with most shadows. Even my hands and feet were sheathed in dark, supple leather and invisible until the moon rose. My bodice was tighter, another silk number, quilted with padding and straps to conceal all sorts of tools, knives and weapons that might come in handy.
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There was no telling what the Stronghold of The Hand would consider proper security, and though my goal wasn't any kind of priceless treasure, it may as well have been; I still had to get in and out unseen. The building was a two floor barracks-like structure with squat towers, separate from the majority of the Priory complex. Rumors said it ran more like a military outpost than a monastery, and that worried me. The knights within were trained in arms, and their religious zeal would make them more attentive than hired men-at-arms.
Guards flanked the main door, which was lit by a continuous soft yellow glow like a city street. I was surprised—I knew the cathedral was older than I was, but an amber light meant even The Hand's stronghold was a good deal older. This in turn meant the church's militant branch had had hundreds of years to install security meant to thwart people like me. I tried not to dwell on that as I glided over the lush grass until I was lost in the shadow cast by the building itself, out of sight from the entrance.
The difference between myself and a professional thief was preparation. I knew experts who cased targets for weeks, planning every step of the heist to the last detail. I couldn't be bothered; it was just too much work and I didn't have a head for details. Knowing that, though, was hardly comforting during a job. My hands itched to draw my blades and end the guards so I could walk in the front door.
Tonight is about stealth, I told myself. Leave no trace, find some clues and get out.
I glanced around quickly to make sure no one had seen me. Satisfied, I moved stealthily—Ow!—past the—Ow!—insanely sharp thorns of the Discors-damned bushes that lined the building's flank. Seriously, who needs this many roses?
I found an open stretch of grass under a dark window and with an irreverent prayer to Pordo, King of Rogues, elbowed a glass panel into the building where it broke with a dull tinkle. I froze with my teeth clenched for a hundred-count before reaching my hand inside to find the hook.
