You can read the previous chapter here!
“Hi, I’m Delia Violet,” said Asp in a tone just raspier than her own. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hello, I’m Lady Penelope Jasmine,” she said in a higher register with a thick slightkin accent. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hey, I’m Gilbert Hardlaurel-Timberline,” she said in a lower voice–a man’s voice–with a slight newtkin accent. “Nice to meet you.”
She sat alone at the table, rehearsing her voices quietly enough to not wake anyone. Again and again, she repeated these greetings in their respective registers. She spoke in rapid phrases at first, and then switched voices between sentences. I need to be ready.
Dancer emerged from the bunkroom, rubbing his eyes. “Mornin’.” He looked around and saw that they were the only ones awake, the morning still coming into focus. “You ready?”
“Yes,” said Delia. “Yes,” echoed Penelope. “Yes,” repeated Gilbert.
“Everyone’s on board then,” Dancer chuckled. He took a seat and regarded Asp. He seemed confused, but happy about it “Hey, what was it like for you working alone? I know it’s a tough life for a pickpocket when you’re on your own.”
Asp considered the question for a moment. “Well, there’s pluses and minuses. Nobody to back you up, but then, nobody keeping you from doing your work.”
Dancer chuckled again. “Hey, listen, everybody’s pretty much on board. Annabel’s excited that we’re following your plan–she says it has less long-term risks than what Oslo had in mind. And trust me, things wouldn’t have gone like they have unless Oslo approved of what you’re doing. We’re just nervous. We’re used to hitting the target once and getting the hell out of there. You’re a madwoman, though. You’ll try to talk your way into or out of anything, won’t ya?”
Asp frowned, puzzled. Here I was thinking that I was the careful one. Am I really like that? “I do what works,” she said finally.
Dancer smiled, and Asp could tell he meant it. “Well, let’s hope it keeps working,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
Jehosaphat stirred on the couch, let out a low moan, and struggled to his feet. “Who let me drink like that last night?”
Dancer grinned at Asp and turned to Jehosaphat. “We keep forgetting you’re too old to keep up,” he challenged.
“Oh, wash down that trash with some coffee, and pour a cup for me,” muttered Jehosaphat as he joined them at the table.
Asp fidgeted with a dirty fork left on the table. The curator’s promise of payment entered her mind. “Actually, I need to get out and see the city for a minute, catch my breath,” she said quietly. “I’ll be back before it’s time.”
“Be sure you do,” said Jehosaphat, and she was out the door.
She wandered through the city without any destination in mind. She had been in a position like this before, and searching intentionally hadn’t worked. She trusted that something would catch her eye. Because it was still so early, the streets were mostly deserted save for a few merchants hawking their wares to the occasional passersby.
She passed through the nicer parts of town and into what seemed to be a slum, mostly populated by hiskin, the poorer newtkins and slightkins of the city. She wanted to be able to blend in, so this was the ideal neighborhood. She walked up and down streets, passing blocks of housing, modest businesses, and the edge of the city walls. She headed further and further into the ugly parts of town until she felt the nervous impulse to look back over her shoulder. She did, and no one was there.
This is just the place.
She scanned the street, searching for signs of inhabitation. Most of the houses, though somewhat dilapidated, seemed to have obvious signs of people living there anyway. But eventually, as the street began to curve with the city wall, she spotted a small, crumbling house that would offer no shelter even to a houseless person. Perfect.
She checked again to make sure that no one was around and strode up the uneven stairs and into the shack. Its ceiling was filled with holes of various sizes, and the walls seemed to be barely standing. A small fireplace was built into the remainder of the south wall. Asp approached it, handling the stones that made up the fireplace. While the house had crumbled, the fireplace was still mostly intact. It took a while, but finally, Asp pried out one of the looser stones. It revealed a small opening that terminated in the empty shaft of the chimney. She reached into her coinpurse, pulled out a small stack of caps–square steel chits dipped halfway in copper–and placed them inside the opening. Then she returned the stone to its place and tried to judge whether it would be noticed. It’s not obvious that it’s been removed and replaced. If someone finds this, I’ll just lose a few caps, but if it’s safe, I can use this to stash my money. She considered the hole where the stone had been. Should be enough to hold my payment. This should work for now–at least until the gang starts trusting me. She frowned. And until I trust them.
She left the shack, checking again to make sure that no one noticed her. With that dealt with, she returned to the warehouse to join the gang for breakfast.
A pile of dirty plates sat on the table. The smell of eggs and warm dark bread filled the small warehouse, and the members of the gang sat sipping their coffee in silence.
“We start in half an hour,” said Oslo, breaking the quiet. “Any business you got, it’s gonna have to wait. Does anyone have questions about their role?”
The room was silent.
“Good,” said Oslo. “Get your head in the right place, and then, positions.”
The gang stood and looked to Asp. She sighed. “I’m suiting up. I’ll see you all there.” With that, everyone left in the kind of quiet that always precedes a job.
Asp grabbed a pile of men’s clothes from the area she had been using as her space and retreated to the small bathroom in the back of the warehouse. Using linen wraps for binding, she minimized her breasts as much as she could. She changed into a dark blue shirt, black trousers, and a matching set of crimson vest and cape before fastening her long hair into a tight bun and donning a theatrical pair of machinist’s goggles. She attached a fake goatee and stroked it as she had seen so many men do. She used her deep, manly voice again. “Gilbert Hardlaurel-Timberline, I’m so pleased you’re interested in my findings.” She listened to herself, shook her head, and tried again. “Gilbert Hardlaurel-Timberline,” she said, slower this time, and then, “I’m just SO pleased you’re interested in my findings.” Too much. She straightened her posture, trying to seem like more than her two feet of height. “GILbert HARDlaurel-TIMberline,” she said, “I’m awfully pleased you’re interested in my findings.” She smiled. That’s better. She nodded and headed for the door.
She wound her way through town towards the museum. A small crowd was gathered outside, chatting about the exciting signs around the museum’s entrance that promised a new attraction, coming soon. But no one was being let in, and there were a few guards posted outside making sure that was the case.
Asp meandered up to the nearest guard. “Excuse me!” cried Gilbert. “Sir, I have an appointment with Curator Gorman!”
The guard looked down at Gilbert, amused. “I’m afraid your meeting has been canceled.”
Asp managed to not look overly concerned. “And why might that be?”
The guard grinned and spat. “He’s been fired.”
Asp could have sat down on the ground and wept. But she didn’t show a reaction aside from performative frustration.
“I traveled all the way here from Eunax to meet this man, and now he’s not here? What am I to do with the artifact I have brought all this way?” Gilbert gestured to a small wooden box he was clutching to his chest.
“I dunno.” The guard shrugged, and Asp recognized that shrug: not the gesture of “I don’t know,” but of “I don’t know because I don’t care.”
Asp pointed to the signs around the entrance. “Seems to me your museum needs an exhibit, otherwise the public is going to be quite upset.”
The guard considered this for a moment, then shrugged again. “If you wanna wait for the new curator, he’s supposed to be here in a few minutes.”
Gilbert crossed his arms. “I have time.”
“Suit yourself,” said the guard, unmoving in the doorframe of the museum.
Asp went and stood at the edge of the crowd and waited. A pair of humans in museum uniforms approached the guards. Asp recognized that the older human was Oslo in makeup which made him look frightening. Oslo seemed not to see Asp whatsoever, but that might have been a good poker face or simply him not recognizing Gilbert–she hadn’t shown any of the gang her disguise. Oslo and the other guard were admitted entrance to the museum and headed inside.
A few more people approached the guard at the door, and Asp watched in growing desperation as each one was either admitted or, more often, turned away, but none were the new curator if the guard could be trusted to relay her message. Asp became distracted by her own anxieties–she was standing there, her contact eliminated, unable to do anything. Suddenly, she noticed that the guard was conferring with an aging newtkin man and gestured to Gilbert. The newtkin was completely covered in mechanical gizmos of one sort or another, a series of magnifying lenses attached to a jeweler’s loupe on a chain around his neck. He had the look of a true expert in newtkin gadgets.
I’m fucked.
The newtkin strolled over to Gilbert and offered a friendly handshake. “So nice to meet you,” he said in a tired voice which Asp attributed to his age and not his demeanor. “I’m sorry about the mix-up, and I’m sorry about Mr. Gorman. Hopefully he didn’t make things too bad for you.” He was making an amount of eye contact that told Asp he was not likely to be an easy mark. “I’m Pietro Candlewax-Hobbson. And you are?”
“GILbert HARDlaurel-TIMberline,” Gilbert said precisely as before, “I’m awfully pleased you’re interested in my findings.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hardlaurel-Timberline. Is that southern newtkin? It reminds me of their naming conventions.”
Asp felt herself slide into the mode of operation that she needed. Something about being challenged had a way of sharpening her skills.
“It’s actually an invented name. My grandfather was a northern newtkin, but he spent most of his life in the south, and so he paid homage to his found family that way.” Gilbert gestured wildly and emphasized occasional words with passion.
“Intriguing! Well, those northern newtkins are indeed known for bucking tradition,” said the man appreciatively. “Well, Mr. Hardlaurel-Timberline, why don’t you bring your artifact inside where we can examine it?”
Asp braced herself and followed Candlewax-Hobbson into the museum. He led her past the paintings and sculptures and vases of bygone eras, finally ending with the two of them alone in the new exhibit room. Unlike the rest of the museum, this room was largely empty. An early typewriter sat on a pedestal against the wall, and a large brass telescope filled one corner, but the room was otherwise without adornment. Gilbert let out a low whistle while staring at the typewriter.
Candlewax-Hobbson smiled. “Yes, indeed–it is probably the first machine invented which allows the user to create text without writing or even needing to apply ink. A fully functional model, too–we are considering a daily exhibition of its function if there is enough public interest.” The new curator looked fondly at the typewriter. “It’s the one thing that Gorman did right. Although, I suppose you could make that one of two things.”
Gilbert nodded repeatedly. “Oh yes, this is an old one, much older than the typewriter and likely even older than the telescope!”
“Well, then, let’s see it.” Candlewax-Hobbson’s voice was interested but reserved.
Gilbert unfastened the lid on the box, reached in, and removed the toy, handling it as though it were made of silken threads and not a solid alloy. Candlewax-Hobbson reached out, but Gilbert deftly swatted his hand away.
“Not until we come to an agreement,” said Gilbert, creeping frustration in his voice. “First, you must see it function.”
Gilbert pressed the metallic button on the base of the toy. Metal leaves separated from their spherical shape into the petals of a flower that spun slowly away from the center. The small dragon figure in the middle glinted slightly in the low light of the room. Gilbert looked not at the toy, but at Candlewax-Hobbson.
The newtkin seemed uncertain. “From what era did you say this came?”
Gilbert spoke with force. “As best I can tell, it’s from the early smelting era. I mean, look at the metalwork–just advanced enough to create a smooth surface like this, but still simple enough in mechanics that it represents a time when smelting became common enough to create more than vital tools.”
Candlewax-Hobbson furrowed his brow, some of the gadgets on his cloak clinking together as squirmed where he stood. “But from my understanding, that kind of availability of smithing didn’t come to pass until several hundred years after the period you are claiming. Am I misunderstanding?”
Gorman was an idiot. This guy is not. I’m gonna need something special to pull this out. “Ah, but that’s only true of newtkin designs!” cried Gilbert. “This piece is of joint newtkin and dwarven design, hence the difference in metallic alloy.”
Candlewax-Hobbson’s hand rose to stroke his goateed chin. Asp suddenly noticed how comical this situation was on its surface–she was trying to con a man by portraying that very same man back to himself. Their dress was almost identical apart from the number of Candlewax-Hobbson’s gadgets. An observer may even think that Gilbert was the elder newtkin’s son.
“Joint design? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Candlewax-Hobbson seemed to be losing patience.
Time to seal the deal. “It’s not a story that many people know. In the early smelting era, over a thousand years ago now, there was a commune built on the eastern coast of the Myriad, where newtkins arriving from Eunax usually landed. This commune mostly got by through the manufacture and sale of new technology–a realm that newtkins and dwarves have always excelled in. But a series of natural disasters blocked this commune from the outside world for a number of years, and in that isolation, they created a whole slew of devices which seem more at home in our modern world than in theirs. It’s not a story that people today like to hear, since it places cooperation between the races on such a pedestal, but I’ve been researching this little chapter of history for thirteen years now, and this is perhaps the finest example I can find of their craftsmanship. I took the liberty of restoring it to its original glory, but rest assured–it was scarcely in need of repair, given how well put-together it is.”
Gilbert came to the end of his speech and waited for Candlewax-Hobbson to respond. The new curator stood in silence for a moment, seeming to take it all in. Then he lowered his eyes and shook his head.
“I’m afraid that simply doesn’t make sense, Mr. Hardlaurel-Timberline,” he said. “There is no way that any part of that history is true. I’ve spent my life studying these things, and I frankly can’t tell whether you are misinformed or lying.”
Shit. Shit shit shit. Gilbert held both hands harmlessly in front of himself. “You mean to say that you know literally everything that has ever happened?” He took a step towards Candlewax-Hobbson, lowering the toy. “You mean to say that my whole life is a sham?” He mimed ripping out his own heart. “You mean to say that I am an idiot or a liar?” His voice rose as far as Asp felt a male voice should when this upset. “I cannot believe that I came all this way just to be insulted!” He looked at the floor, then with fury at Candlewax-Hobbson. “Especially when you yourself seem a fraud.”
It was a desperate tactic, flipping the accusation. It rarely worked with self-assured people like Candlewax-Hobbson. But it’s all I have left.
“A fraud,” Gilbert continued, pointing at the curator. “A supposed man of knowledge who turns up his nose at new information. A so-called ‘man of the world’ who doesn’t believe that history has many different things to say. A man who would take my precious artifact from me for nothing by claiming it is worthless.” Gilbert sniffed in disapproval. Now go for the throat. Let’s hope this works. “I suppose the leaders of the university will need to hear about this.”
“NO!” shouted Candlewax-Hobbson, immediately self-aware after crying out. He composed himself. “No, you cannot do that.”
Asp withheld a smile. Jackpot. “Oh, but I can. And I will.” Gilbert made a tight fist. “Or,” he said, loosening his grip, “you could have your new exhibit and keep your reputation.”
“Fine, fine, you unruly pest.” Candlewax-Hobbson wrung his hands. “What was the agreed upon price for your little artifact?”
I was wrong before. This is the jackpot.
“For the artifact, we discussed ten crowns, but don’t forget about the finder’s fee for my friend Delia, who put us in contact. I believe she is owed another crown for her troubles.”
“But that’s–” Candlewax-Hobbson pointed a finger at Gilbert, but deflated. “Fine.”
He opened a coinpurse in a coat pocket, counted out a stack of coins, and held them out to Gilbert.
“I’m sorry,” said Gilbert. “I haven’t a way to carry that. Could I have a coinpurse to hold it?”
Candlewax-Hobbson scowled. He shrugged, sighing, and counted the coins left in his coinpurse. Shaking his head, he passed his coinpurse to Gilbert and placed the other coins in his pocket. Gilbert in turn replaced the toy in the box and handed it to the curator. Gilbert counted the coins in the coinpurse and found an extra crown inside. Recognizing Gilbert’s confusion, Candlewax-Hobbson said through gritted teeth, “You give your friend the money. I want no more of this.” The deal done, Candlewax-Hobbson waited for Gilbert to leave, which he did without another word.
Asp made her way through the museum in a hurry and almost bumped headlong into a guard. It was a guard with a nearly familiar face–Oslo. With only the two of them together in the room, there was a moment of uncertainty. Asp still couldn’t tell if he recognized her. Quickly, Asp spoke, still in Gilbert’s voice until the final word.
“The iron is in the fire, but the smith changed. Get the hammer like we planned. I’m going to stoke the flame.” When the word “flame” came out in Asp’s voice rather than Gilbert’s, Oslo nodded and walked out of the room. Asp made her way out of the museum and gave a friendly wave to the guard she’d spoken to at the door. He didn’t wave back.
-
Asp, still as Gilbert, jogged through the streets. She arrived back at the warehouse before too long and set to changing back into Delia. As she slipped on her green-and-red dress and shoved her long sandy brown hair into her leather cap, she rehearsed the raspy Delia voice. She looked at the pile of clothes on the floor that was Gilbert and turned towards the door.
At that moment, Kyrn burst in through the front door. “Asp?” she said, out of breath.
“Yeah?” Asp replied, unsure of what had taken Kyrn away from her post outside the museum.
Kyrn talked quickly–too quickly. “I got the first hammer–the key, I mean–”
“I know thief-tongue, too, you know,” said Asp.
“Right,” said Kyrn, still catching her breath. “I got the hammer, but Dancer’s in trouble. He got picked up by the city guards. Something about an old job catching up to him. You gotta help.” Her eyes and her tone were pleading.
Asp glanced around, her mind churning. “I told Oslo to get the hammer too. He might have had better luck.”
“Yeah, but Dancer’s still locked up.” Kyrn looked desperate.
Asp straightened her dress and tucked her reporter’s notebook into her pack. “Where’s the jail?”
Kyrn was already headed back out the door. “Follow me.”
Asp tailed Kyrn outside and into the southeast edge of the city. Kyrn pointed towards a large stone building. Inside the building, there were dozens of guards milling about.
“Where in the building are they keeping him?” asked Asp.
“Back corner,” said Kyrn, gesturing towards the far edge of the building.
Don’t worry, Dancer–I’ve got a plan, she thought. “Alright. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, they have me too.” She reached into her pack, moving her hands around inside, and withdrew a small coinpurse, which she tucked into her dress. With that, Asp stepped into the guardhouse.
A surly-looking brass Ronan'el sat at a desk just inside. “State your business,” he grumbled.
“A friend of mine just got arrested on false premises. I’m here to talk to someone about him getting out.” Delia smiled at the Ronan'el, all teeth.
“The newtkin who just came in? False premises, huh?” He looked unconvinced.
“Who do I have to talk to about this?” asked Delia, even sweeter than before.
“Captain of the Guard. Good luck.” He pointed to an office on the other end of the reception area.
An oaken door stood half-open, and beyond it was a middle-aged elven man sitting at a large desk. Papers were strewn about the desk with no discernible organization, and a small bust of an elven woman sat in front of him on the desk.
Delia strode in with purpose, knocked on the open door, and smiled at the Captain of the Guard. He looked up at her, frowned slightly, and beckoned her to join him.
“Good morning,” he said, standing. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to be a bother,” said Delia, “but there’s a prisoner you have here who shouldn’t be here.”
“A story told a thousand times,” murmured the elf. “What makes yours different?”
“Aside from his actual innocence?” Asp kept her tone in constant Delia-level politeness despite her challenge to the man. “If you’ve arrested him for what I think you have, I know who actually did it.”
The Captain of the Guard raised his eyebrows. “That’s a big claim. So tell me, what’s the crime, and who’s the real culprit?”
Asp smiled. “I’m a young one, sir, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know information is valuable. So if you tell me that the crime you’ve accused him of is what I think it is, I’ll share it. But I am not about to just throw away a chance to help a friend.”
The elf sighed. “Okay. Before we go further, tell me how you know something that we don’t.”
Delia smiled, and Asp let just a touch of her own condescension affect her smile. “It’s my job. Delia Violet, freelance reporter.” She reached across the table for a handshake. The elf took it reluctantly, and Delia squeezed as hard as she could without seeming aggressive. “You know, I’m pretty new to town. I’d hate to find out that the guards here are corrupt. No one would want to read about that. Would they?”
The elf’s lips drew into a scowl. “No need for that tactic, Miss Violet. Your friend, Mr. Dancer Jarvis, stands accused of stealing the life savings of a dwarven family in the Myriad. What’s more, one of the members of that family is on their way now to identify him.” He paused, licked his lips, and continued. “You can do better than that?”
Delia smiled. “I can.” She leaned across the desk, as far as her tiny frame would allow. “Mr. Jarvis has lived here in town all his life and couldn’t possibly have committed this crime. But that’s not what you want to hear.” She glanced out the office door and lowered her voice. “I know who really did it.”
The Captain of the guard remained impassive. “So you say. So who’s the real thief?”
“There’s a new newtkin in town, the curator of the museum,” said Asp, pointing through the wall towards the museum. “I have gathered that he came here trying to escape from his criminal past and that he was on the lam for quite a while. And when I confronted him with this theory, he threatened to destroy me. But I can be crafty, you know, and so I offered to report him to you.” She smiled mischievously. “ The only thing is, he paid me not to.”
“And you’re going back on your end of the bargain?” asked the elf, leaning back in surprise.
“I think of it more as siding with justice.” Delia offered a friendly wink to punctuate her statement.
“And you have proof of this payment? Of course, coins alone won’t do–I need to know the payment is from him.”
Asp produced the coinpurse and laid it on the desk atop the papers. She pointed to the finely monogrammed “PCH” on the bag. “Pietro Candlewax-Hobbson,” she said decisively. “You can ask every guard in the museum–I’ve been to the museum a lot lately, including this morning. And I heard that he had a mysterious private meeting with a newtkin man as well. I don’t know his role in all this, but I believe that Candlewax-Hobbson is trying frame my friend.” Her speech finished, she looked expectantly at the Captain of the Guard.
He stewed for a minute, humming quietly to himself. He looked around his office. “I don’t know, Miss Violet. It seems a case of hearsay at this point. You could have stolen this purse from him, after all.” His eyes settled on the small bust on his desk as he spoke.
“Who is that?” asked Delia.
“Pardon?” He looked at her curiously.
“Your statue.” Delia pointed. “Who is that?”
The Captain of the Guard laughed self-consciously. “That’s my mum. She was the best person I ever met. Maybe you’ve heard of her? She did a lot of the work to build the guard force here before she passed.”
Delia looked deflated. “I’m so sorry for your loss. What did she fight for here?”
The Captain’s eyes softened. “There was less diversity here back then. She really pushed for everybody to get equal chances. No city guards who’d punish you for being a Ronan'el or what have you.”
“I’m sure she would be proud of you,” said Delia. “I mean, you lead the same way, right? Everybody gets a chance?”
The elf sighed. “I try. I mean, the system is what it is. It can’t always be fair for everyone.”
“But that’s not what your mum thought.” Delia dropped this sentence into the conversation like a stone into a well.
He froze. Silently, he considered first the bust, then Delia. “You made your point. I can’t let Dancer go today. I need the witness to get here and identify him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t get Candlewax-Hobbson. Our witness–she’s supposed to be here in two days. If everything is as you said, we’ll of course let Mr. Jarvis go.” He gestured towards the back of the building where the cells were.
Asp did some mental calculations. Was it worth it to push harder on the Captain of the Guard? Did she stand any chance of turning this around? Her estimation of the man’s face told her she had gotten all there was to get.
“Thank you, Captain,” she said. “I’ll be back soon. But can I speak to him real quick before I go?”
He began to form the word “no,” but he saw that Delia was staring not at him, but at the bust. He followed her gaze and sighed. “Fine. Come with me.” He led her back to the cells, pointed her to the farthest one, and turned. “You can see yourself out?”
“Absolutely. Thanks!” She curtsied as he turned back to his office.
Dancer approached the bars and looked at Asp. “Hey, buddy,” he said in a silly voice. “Looks like I got myself in a pickle.”
“Sure, but who doesn’t like pickles?” Delia said above a conversational volume, then added much quieter, “The irons are in the fire. Oslo is getting your hammer. I can’t break you out of here for another two days. Just hold tight, and we’ll get you out.”
Dancer shook his head, defeated. “They’ve got the family I robbed coming to identify me. Ain’t no way outta this one, friend.”
Delia stared at Dancer. “Shut. Up. I’m getting you out. That family is never making it here, and Annabel is gonna identify the curator. Just shut up for two days. I swear you’ll be fine.” She looked around, making sure no one was paying too close of attention and that it didn’t look like she was surveying the area. When her gaze returned to Dancer, he was visibly shaken.
“Really, though?” he asked. “I figured Oslo and them would just let me stay in here. I mean, maybe Kyrn would argue, but I know the score. When you’re really caught, there’s nothing to be done.” Dancer’s voice was hollow.
“Dammit, Dancer, just shut the hell up! You’re going to be fine. I gotta go, but just keep it together.” She looked hard at him, daring him to argue.
Dancer nodded, his eyes distant. “Okay, you got it.” He stood awkwardly for a moment, then added, “Thanks.”
Delia nodded too, then strode out of the guardhouse and back into the street. She rejoined Kyrn, who seemed agitated. “You couldn’t get him?” she asked, disappointed.
“We’re getting him out. I promise. We’ll get him out.” Asp reached up and patted Kyrn on the hip to calm her. “We’re all gonna be fine,” she said as much to herself as to Kyrn.
-
Delia approached the museum as dusk fell. If all the parts of the machine of the heist had worked as intended, she had one job left. She took position under a window towards the back of the building and waited.
People passed by, occasionally glancing at the slightkin woman standing under a window at the museum. Don’t attract attention. Delia pulled out her notebook and scribbled nonsense on the pages, and with the illusion that she was doing something, people now seemed to regard her with less interest.
A rapping on the glass above her set her ready. The tapping came again a minute later, and she pulled from her pack the small canister that Gregorio had obtained. She placed her hand on the release valve and waited for the third timed tap on the glass. When it sounded, she released the valve and threw the canister into an abandoned building across the way.
The canister exploded in a burst of flames. The sound of the explosion rocked the neighborhood, and dozens of people spilled into the streets to investigate the commotion. As the dilapidated building crumbled and burned, shouts went up around the area as people called for assistance from the fire marshals or anyone who could help. Asp grinned and ran around to the opposite side of the building.
No one was on this side of the building–except for Jehosaphat. He stood below the window which Candace had broken in time with the explosion, and she gripped a large wooden chest just outside the window. Candace and Kyrn lowered the chest down to Jehosaphat and Asp, and when the chest was safely on the ground, Candace and Kyrn leapt from the window.
Together, the four of them hauled the chest down a side street and into a rough Ronan'el neighborhood. They pulled the loot into a small house that had seemed deserted when they had scouted it in the weeks prior. Sure enough, no one was there. Kyrn used a crowbar they’d stashed along a wall to pry up enough floorboards to hide the chest. Once the chest was lowered into the hole, they hammered the boards back into place.
As they emerged from the crumbling house, their mission complete, Annabel approached from the direction of the museum. She nodded to indicate that everything back at the museum had gone as planned. Without a sound, the gang left the area and returned to the warehouse.
-
The entire gang, save for Dancer and Oslo, sat in silence around the table back in the warehouse. As much as they wanted to be able to celebrate, it was hard to be able to with Dancer gone and no word back yet from Oslo. No one stirred, except for nursing drinks.
The door creaked open. In his museum guard’s uniform stood Oslo. He grinned. “C’mon, everyone, aren’t we filthy rich now? What’s all the moping about?”
Jehosaphat winced. “Guards got Dancer.”
Oslo seemed unfazed. “They did? What for?”
“His last job before he joined up with us,” moaned Kyrn. “Asp knows more.”
Oslo swiveled to Asp. “Well, out with it then.”
Asp sighed. “They have a witness coming to identify him. I sowed some uncertainty–the Captain of the Guard thinks it might have been the new Curator like I told him. I have a plan to get Dancer out–it’s just gonna be tight.” Asp was surprised to find that her sorry tone was genuine.
“If they’ve got that good a case on him, there might be nothing we can do,” muttered Oslo.
Kyrn stood. “But Asp says we can get him out!”
“That’s nice, but what happened to Yancy?” demanded Oslo. The gang fell silent.
Asp piped up. “Actually, yeah, what happened to Yancy?”
The gang exploded in chatter, growls, and profanity. Oslo held a hand in the air. They fell silent.
“He got himself locked up, and there was nothing we could do. It’s a dangerous game, and if you play it, you stand a chance of losing.” Oslo sounded certain. “Sometimes, you just lose.”
“But I’m telling you!” cried Asp. “If we can just do two things, he’ll be fine!”
Oslo started to speak. “You don’t know how this works yet, child, and I’ll be damned if–”
“Give her a chance.” Candace had spoken, and she seemed more surprised by it than anyone. “Just give her a chance,” she pleaded.
Oslo seemed as shocked as anyone by Candace’s sudden change in tone. “My my my,” Oslo said. “I never thought I’d see the day Candace sides with a new recruit.”
Candace looked as though she felt she’d played out her hand. But then, with resolve, she said, “Oslo, listen. You said that the heist would need a mulberry bush. Asp got us the chest without it. You said that the guards would never listen to us, but Asp got the Captain of the Guard to consider helping us. If you say there’s no way to get Dancer, and Asp says there is, I’m siding with Asp.”
The room was silent for a time. Oslo stood, paced the room a few times, then left the building.
“Wow,” breathed Annabel. “Olso gets upstaged, Dancer gets nicked, and Candace defends the rookie. Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“Shut up,” spat Candace. She turned to face Asp. “Don’t get a big head. I just want Dancer back.”
The gang started to separate, people heading to their beds or to another drink, but when Asp got up to leave the table, Jehosaphat spoke up.
“Stay for just a minute,” he ordered. The room finished clearing out, and then Jehosaphat spoke in a very low voice. “Oslo is a proud man. He likes to be in charge, which is okay because he’s good at it,” said Jehosaphat quietly. “In his years of doing this, he’s become cautious. More cautious even than an old man like me. And your style–your confidence, your creativity–it intimidates him. It makes him feel like he’s gotten rusty, like he’s lost something. Like maybe he’s not cut out to lead us.” Jehosaphat swallowed hard. “And Asp, that’s really bad. If he starts feeling like you’d be better off running things, only two things can happen. Either he leaves and gives you the gang–not likely–or he runs you out of the gang. Maybe out of town, or even more. We have a delicate balance here. I need you to help sustain it.”
Asp started to speak, but Jehosaphat cut her off.
“No, listen. I’ve heard you talk to marks. You’re sweet as honey tarts. You can get away with a lot because of how you say it. I know you know this. Now, I’m not saying treat Oslo like a mark. That would be a disaster. But I am saying to be sweet with him. Let him have his ego. He needs it to work.” He looked at her for a moment. “What I’m saying is, Asp, if you’re gonna be a part of this gang, you need to be a part of this gang. Neither you nor Oslo is any good to any of us if you’re fighting each other.” He breathed heavily. “Not to tell you your business–just telling you ours.”
Asp nodded and jumped down off her chair. “Thanks, Jehosaphat. I’ll think on it.” She rose and stepped out the front door and into the night.
She practiced one of her favorite skills: heading somewhere with purpose while making it look like meaningless wandering. She cut wide loops through the city, trying to familiarize herself with the crooked streets and winding neighborhoods as she went. Finally, she reached her destination.
She headed up the uneven stairs up to the abandoned shack in the hiskin neighborhood she’d scouted earlier that day. Under cover of night, she slipped up the steps and to the fireplace. Removing the same stone as before, she felt around in the space and found that her stack of caps was indeed still there.
She reached into her pack and retrieved most of the money she had brought with her on her travels and all the money she’d been paid by the Curator. Stacking the coins and the dark red jewel she’d carried in the dark, she reflected on the last several days. By her count, she had stored enough money in the fireplace stash to keep her comfortable for a few weeks, maybe even a few months–time enough to figure out a new job. If this heist they had just pulled was to be as profitable as the gang said, they could have even longer to find a new angle.
Asp returned the stone and left the neighborhood, now truly meandering. She saw parts of town still new to her and kept out an eye for shortcuts that could be useful.
In the back of her mind, she heard her mother’s voice again: “But you’re my Heather. You’ll always be my Heather.” And as the stars twinkled overhead, she began to wonder if she would ever be Heather to anyone ever again.
You can read the next chapter here!
No comments:
Post a Comment