The lamps had gone out across the Pipes, but a dim gray light permeated Ledion Square. When the flames gaslight finally died down, the full moon shone through the hole in the rock ceiling high overhead and bathed the fountain situated directly below with silvery light.
In a dark corner near the butcher shop, Satchel had been waiting for at least an hour. His eyes drifted back to the guardhouse near the checkpoint that led to Upper Ire. A citywide curfew was in effect, and only the guards were allowed in the square when the lights went out. Anyone else caught there after dark spent a night in jail if they were lucky. This was Satchel’s first job as a thief without Jarek’s supervision. The last thing he wanted was to be at the receiving end of a guardsman’s club. At the moment, none of the guards watched the square.
Probably playing Euchre, Satchel thought.
Just then, his ears picked up the faint sound of light footsteps. He slowed his breathing to calm his nerves. The footsteps grew steadily louder. A hooded figure appeared directly in front of him. He held his breath and willed every muscle in his body to freeze in place. To his relief, the figure did not look in his direction, their attention focused on the other side of the square.
The figure’s head turned this way and that, searching. Something near the fountain caught their attention, but Satchel could not make out what. The figure moved toward the fountain with the same silent gait as before, keeping to the darker areas of the square.
Satchel abandoned his hiding place and followed, minding his steps. As he drew near, he noticed another figure crouched beside the fountain. The first figure met the second. Short, furtive whispers followed. Satchel moved to a shadow beside a stack of crates, a place that put him within earshot of the conversation.
“This is too open,” said the first.
To Satchel’s surprise, the voice sounded familiar, but he could not quite place it.
“Do you have it?” said the second figure. The voice belonged to an older man. It carried an air of weariness.
“Yes. And you?”
Then it struck Satchel. He recognized the voice now. It belonged to a girl.
Inadvertently, he said in a low breath, “Addie?” He put a hand over his mouth, but if either of the people by the fountain heard him, they showed no signs of it. He tightened his jaw and listened more intently than before.
The man searched around inside his cloak and produced an object, but Satchel could not see what.
“Here,” said the man. “But, why is a girl like you—”
“None of your business,” said Addie, sharply.
“Suit yourself.”
New sounds from elsewhere in the courtyard piqued Satchel’s ears. Shuffling feet. Lots of feet. The clink of metal armor. The hard click of a bullet entering a steam rifle’s chamber.
His heart began to thud against his chest. Guards. Stay or leave? he thought. The payoff was good but if he was caught...
Satchel took a long breath, made his decision, and began to move. His body went into automatic thanks to years of rigorous training and work as a pickpocket.
His quick feet and even quicker hands made the rest of the world slow down. The timing was flawless. Passing through the narrow gap between Addie and the cloaked man, Satchel grabbed both packages at the exact moment of the hand-off and sprinted away without missing a beat. The two victims stood stunned for a full second before reacting.
Then the courtyard exploded with sound as guards rushed in. Thudding boots, bustling armor, and the cocking of gun hammers melded with barking orders, creating a discordant symphony that echoed through the square.
As Satchel neared the edge of the courtyard, a guard spotted him and broke rank to stop the young thief. Too easy. With a quick step and well-placed foot, Satchel bypassed his assailant and simultaneously tripped him. He exited the courtyard, tucking the packages into the empty pocket on his pack as he went. The young thief wound his way through narrow passages to lose any pursuers.
Even in the dark, Satchel knew the tunnels by heart. He breathed a sigh of relief when the rusty iron grate that led to the sewers came into view.
As he passed a nearby alley, a hand shot out, grabbed his arm and swung him toward the wall. Instinctively, Satchel kicked up a foot and pushed right as he neared the stone, softening the impact. He pulled out his dagger and slashed at the arm that held him.
Instead of flesh, he hit metal. It jarred his hand and made him drop his knife.
A voice said, “The more you struggle, the tighter I squeeze.”
Satchel stopped moving and gazed up at the imposing figure. Jarek.
“Old Man?”
“Fourteen years and still no respect.” He released his grip on Satchel. “You and I need to chat.”
The young thief rubbed his arm where his mentor had grabbed him. He had once seen Jarek’s mechanical left arm crush a man’s wrist, so Satchel knew that he got off lucky. Jarek kept his arm covered and gloved most of the time, so Satchel rarely ever saw it. Prosthetic limbs were not unheard of in Ire, but Jarek’s arm was of a different caliber altogether. Made from graphite-colored metal, its movements were as smooth and free as a normal arm, but far stronger. Though Satchel had asked many times about his arm, the old thief refused to discuss it.
Satchel bent down and retrieved his dagger. When he looked up, Jarek had already opened the grate and motioned for Satchel to go in. The familiar putrid stench of human waste filled the boy’s nostrils as he climbed down.
Once Jarek had joined him and replaced the grate, Satchel asked, “How did you know?”
“You have to ask? I make it my business to know everything that happens in Ire that’s worth knowing. I especially like to keep tabs on an apprentice who’s taken on a job without telling me.”
He looked back through the grate, checking for signs of pursuers.
Satisfied, Jarek led Satchel down the tunnel some ways before stopping and lighting his lantern. The young thief took in his mentor’s face as it was briefly illuminated. In this light, it took on the same color as his silver hair, contrasting with the slimy dank walls of the sewer. Ever since Satchel could remember, Jarek had always had the same gaunt visage that exuded experience. At times, he wondered what the old man looked like in his younger years, before he came to Ire, and before he found Satchel in that leather bag.
Jarek set the lantern down and sat, his face fading back into the darkness of the tunnel.
“Who put you up to this?” he asked.
Satchel hesitated before saying, “Not anyone from here. He never gave me his name, but he came to the Pipes a few weeks ago looking for a thief.” He looked down, embarrassed, as he said, “He promised a thousand cesteres.”
Though it was dark, Satchel could feel the scowl on Jarek’s face.
“You took a suspiciously high paying job and didn’t bother learning anything about who wanted it? I taught you better.”
“I tried finding out who he was but came up dry.”
“All the more reason to have turned it down.”
“I thought—I figured that I could—”
“Could what? Take on a job by yourself? I decide when you’re good enough, Satchel. No one else. Understand?”
The boy grimaced, looked away, and said, “Daft old man.”
Jarek smacked the side of Satchel’s head. “Stop calling me ‘old man.’ Show some respect.” He took a breath. “Now, let’s see the items.”
Satchel handed his bag to Jarek. Each item was wrapped in a dark cloth tied with string. Removing the first revealed a rolled-up parchment with a black wax seal. When Jarek tried to remove the seal, it resisted.
After several attempts, he stopped and said, “Curious.”
He turned his attention to the other package. It was a cylindrical brown leather pouch with a small strap. Inside that was an old, well-used spyglass, the kind used on sailing ships.
Jarek held one in each hand and shifted his gaze back and forth between them.
“Rather strange.” Satchel did not reply because he knew Jarek was speaking more to himself than his apprentice. “Why would anyone want to trade these, much less steal them?”
He examined them a little while longer before returning them to Satchel.
“All right,” Jarek said as he rose, “let’s meet this employer of yours.” Satchel began to protest, but the old man cut him off. “You’ll do as I say and be quick about it.”
Satchel felt a finger prod his back, and he started forward down the tunnel, with his mentor right behind him.
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