On the eastern bank of the Sel, towers thrust up into the sky; there is glass in the windows, and many-coloured banners hang from the walls. Broad streets, lit by rows of bronze lanterns, are laid with even cobbles, and the air is laced with the scent of flowers. A man who came here for the first time might think he had died and found himself in divine halls. All of this was Mirchelle—the richest district of Seltrivelle.
Against that screaming luxury there reigned an almost complete silence, broken only now and then by the footfalls of patrols and the clink of armour. The aristocrats who lived here fancied themselves griffins and dragons out of their own coats of arms—great, untouchable creatures. To Sedrik, known in the streets simply as Sed, they were sheep, fit for nothing but shearing. Lurking on a roof, he watched as one of them—Baron Patye—left his house under guard.
Patye was not especially rich, which did not keep him from squandering what money he had left on diversions and games of chance. His house, one of the smallest in the quarter, suited its master well: only two storeys, and half-smothered by the estates of wealthier neighbours. One might ask why break in here when there were far tastier targets all around. But, as a reliable source had reported, the night before the baron had cheated at play.
The buildings here stood tight together, so that by moving across the roofs one could reach near anywhere. Having chosen his spot in advance, the thief vaulted the wall and dropped down behind the back of a passing guard. The man noticed nothing and continued his rounds. Sed drew in close, almost heel to heel, copying his gait and motions like a second shadow.
Turning a corner, they came into an inner yard. At the crossing of four stone paths stood a well; shrubs and trees grew all around. It smelled of wet earth, damp, and something sweetly soured—the unchanging perfume of late autumn. A glow appeared from around the corner, torchlight: another guard was coming toward them. By the time he neared, Sed had slipped behind a tree.
“I’d sooner have gone with the master,” sighed the one without the torch. “This place breeds melancholy, and there you can at least look upon folk.”
“And listen to his whining after he lost? Nay, I’d rather bide here,” the second said. “And you, don’t grow lax. They say Count Jafye’s house was cleaned out the other day.”
“The Guild?”
“Most like. Seems they climbed in by the drainpipe. And what did you think—why the master’s been so jittery of late?”
When both had turned away, the thief climbed the tree to a loggia, all the while weighing the guards’ positions.
“One went with the baron, two below… Four in all. Patye’s bedchamber is on the second floor—so the fourth is guarding it. Going through the corridor is awkward; better by roof…”
Gripping a beam, he was up in two swift motions, and, pressing himself to the wet tiles, crawled to the chimney. Then he drew a narrow crowbar from his belt and carefully levered at the cap. The stone shifted with a muffled creak, sending a little dust down the shaft and releasing a heavy reek of soot, sharp even through his face wrap. Sed took out a hook, lashed a rope to it, and fixed it to the chimney; he dropped the rope down, then climbed in himself. The shaft was cramped, but passable. He moved by setting his feet and bracing his elbows against the walls until he reached the lower grate. He had to turn himself over—which, in such tight confines and at a vertical angle, was no simple thing. After worrying at it with his knife, he managed to take the grate off, and, tucking it under his arm, the thief dropped down, raising a cloud of ash.
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Sedrik saw in the dark better than an ordinary man. Most of the bedchamber was taken up by a great canopy bed; beneath it lay a large rug, embroidered with patterns and strewn with clods of dirt and clay. Opposite stood a bath; by the wall, a writing desk and a chest of drawers. The room had two doors: the main one, under which torchlight seeped, and a second that most likely led to a wardrobe.
He began with the chest of drawers: a gold medallion, a couple of silver chains and rings went straight into his bag.
The writing desk was locked, though not for long—he did not even have to force it; the key lay in the chest of drawers. Inside, nothing of note: accounts, seals. For a moment Sed caught himself thinking he was looking for letters that might serve as leverage. “Unneeded complication,” he thought, recalling how some members of the Guild lavished far too much attention on such things.
Next came the wardrobe. The lock was not a simple one, and he had to work at it with his picks. The door opened with a soft click. A narrow room, a massive trunk at the back. Cloaks and furs hung overhead; on the shelves lay rolled bolts of fabric. On the floor—various shoes, one pair smeared with mud. In the air lingered the familiar scent of old fur and cedar—the latter kept moths at bay.
The trunk looked imposing, but once it became clear it was empty, any thought of loot vanished at once. Still, he had not hoped for much—given the baron’s reputation, his last coins would have gone to the gaming table.
Yet there was something he could not have carried off—something that had not turned up before his eyes. There was no false bottom in the trunk, nor any hidden compartments in the walls. Sed went back into the bedchamber. He peered under the bed and found nothing; then he lifted the rug. Several stones in the floor were plainly different from the rest. A cache. But when he shifted them, the thief found only emptiness.
“The size fits… The box was here. Patye hardly sold it—else Dwain would’ve warned me…”
The thief straightened and, leaning on the hearth, began to sift through possibilities, recalling the guards’ talk in the garden.
“If he was frightened by what happened to Jafye, then he might have moved the box on a whim. Where? The kitchen, the cellar, the servants’ quarters—no. Even such a wretch won’t stoop to their level. The hall? Too much traffic. The attic? Illogical—easier to get into than the bedchamber…”
Thinking, Sed’s eye went again to the clods of dirt and clay on the floor, and, remembering the muddy boots in the wardrobe, he smirked. For a moment it seemed he was dealing with the slyest aristocrat in the district. It appeared not.
Climbing back up the chimney to the roof, the thief surveyed the grounds until he spotted a patch of earth that had plainly been freshly turned. He went down by the drainpipe, slipped the iron claws from his thigh, and began to dig. They usually served for climbing, but in a place like this everything was conquered in a single leap.
As expected, a box wrapped in cloth lay shallow. Flat, of pale wood, without a lock, but with a tightly fitted lid. Inside, set into special recesses, were little figures—small, yet weighty, carved from gold. Beasts, soldiers, towers… They play such a game in the east, and knights who fought there brought it to the kingdom.
“That’s what it was worth climbing into soot for,” Sedrik smirked, studying the trophy; the sight of a full set always gave him pleasure, that sweet sense of completeness.
Strapping the box to his back, he ran to the wall and, in two quick steps straight up the vertical, was out on the street, slipping swiftly into shadow.
