“As my ex-wife used to say,” smiled Shahiid Mouser. “It’s all in the fingers.”
The acolytes were gathered in the Hall of Pockets, standing in a semicircle around the Shahiid. The hall was vast, lit with a vaguely blue light from stained-glass windows above. Long tables ran the room’s length, littered with curios and oddities, padlocks and picks. The walls were lined with doors, dozens upon dozens, each set with a different style of lock. And off at the light’s edge, Mia could see racks lined with clothes. Every cut and style imaginable from all corners of the Republic.
Mouser himself was dressed in common Itreyan garb—leather britches and a split-sleeve doublet—his foreboding gray robes nowhere to be seen. He still wore his blacksteel blade, the golden cat-headed figures on the hilt entwined in each other’s arms. Mia was again struck by the Shahiid’s eyes—though he seemed a man barely in his thirties, that deep brown gaze betrayed the wisdom of a man far older.
“Of course, my first bride wasn’t the brightest of flames. She married me, after all.”
The Shahiid walked among the novices, hands behind his back, nodding like some marrowborn toff out for a stroll. He stopped abruptly in front of Ashlinn’s brother, Osrik. Held out a hand, “Hello lad, what’s your name?” The blond boy shook the offered hand, and Mouser tossed him a small knife, hilt first. “You dropped this, I think.”
Osrik checked the empty sheath at his wrist. Blinked in surprise. Mouser turned to the acolytes with a wink.
“It’s in the feint,” he said.
The Shahiid wandered along the line, stopped in front of Tric. The boy’s bruises from Floodcaller’s knuckles and Solis’s boots were still etched in livid blue.
“How’s the jaw, lad?”
“… It’s well, Shahiid, thank you.”
“Looks nasty.” Mouser reached up, brushed a gentle hand across Tric’s face. The boy recoiled, lifted his hand to push the Shahiid’s away. In a blinking, Mouser tossed the boy a ring Mia instantly recognized—three silver seadrakes, intertwined.
“You dropped this, I think.”
Tric double-checked his now bare finger. The ring in his palm.
Mouser looked to the acolytes again.
“It’s in the feel,” he said.
The Shahiid meandered down the line again, finally stopping in front of Jessamine. Mouser flashed the redhead his silverware smile and stepped closer. The girl met his gaze with bright, hunter’s eyes and a playful grin, doing her best to out-smolder the Shahiid. The stare-off was broken by Mouser lifting a golden bracelet and twirling it around his finger.
“You dropped this, I think,” he said, tossing it back to the girl.
He turned to the acolytes with a wink.
“It’s in the eyes.”
Without a word, Jessamine stepped forward and kissed Mouser square on the mouth. Shock and amusement rippled among the novices as the Shahiid’s eyes widened. As he stepped back, raising his hands to ward the girl away, Jessamine grasped the hilt of his blacksteel blade and drew it out with a flourish. Smiling still, she pointed it at the Shahiid’s heart.
“It’s in the lips,” Jessamine said.
Mouser paused, glancing at his own sword pressed against his chest. Mia held her breath, wondering if his displeasure would take the same shape as Solis’s. But then the Shahiid laughed, long and loud, giving the redheaded girl a low, courtly bow. “Bravo, Mi Dona, bravo.”
Jessamine returned the sword, curtseyed with imaginary skirts.
Ashlinn shot a glance to Mia, who gave a grudging nod.
She’s good …
Still, Mia couldn’t help but rankle at the injustice. She’d shown up a Shahiid and got her arm hacked off for it. Jessamine had got a round of bloody applause …
Mouser turned to the group. “As our enterprising acolyte here has demonstrated, the game of Pockets is a game of manipulation. A theater. A dance in which your mark must be off step at all times and you, one step ahead. Romancing purses or the art of remaining unseen may seem a small thing compared to the ‘art’ of bashing a fellow’s skull open or killing him with his own goblet of wine. But sometimes all that lies between you and your mark is a single door, or a password on a slip of paper in a watchmaster’s pocket. The path isn’t always paved in blood.
“Unfortunately, the former love of my life did come close to the mark. Your fingers are your livelihood in this game. And the only way to get good with them is practice. So, this is what we do here. Practice.”
The Shahiid pointed to a pile of thin scrolls on one of the tables.
“By way of motivation, each Shahiid holds a contest every season. All of you are to take one of those lists. On it, you’ll find a series of items within the Quiet Mountain, a number beside each. These are the marks accrued if you successfully acquire the item and bring it to me without getting caught by the owner.”
Mouser looked around the room, meeting each novice’s eye.
“Understand, I take no responsibility for the consequences if you’re caught acquiring these treasures. And if you’re sprung wandering the halls after ninebells in breach of the Revered Mother’s curfew, Black Mother help you. This is a game, children. But a dangerous one.” He waggled his eyebrows. “The only kind worth playing.
“At yearsend, whichever acolyte has acquired the most marks shall finish top of this hall. Each other Shahiid will be running a similar contest; Songs, Masks, and Truths. Presuming no dismal failures in other areas of study, the students who finish top of each hall are virtually guaranteed to graduate the Red Church as full-fledged Blades.”
Murmurs rippled among the acolytes. Mia met Tric’s eyes across the room. Ashlinn was grinning like a cat who’d stole the cream, the cow, and the milkmaid to boot. A near-certain guarantee to become a Blade? To avenge her father? To stand on Scaeva’s tomb? Maw’s teeth, that was a prize worth pinching a few trinkets for …
Some acolytes had already begun snatching up the scrolls. The one-eared boy, whose name was Petrus, got into a brief scuffle with Diamo as they both grabbed the same one. Tric’s scroll was snatched out of his hand by a smiling Ash. Mia pushed through the throng to grab her own. She cracked the wax seal, perused the handwritten list:
A kitchen knife
—1 mark
A poleaxe from the Hall of Songs
—1 mark
A personal item belonging to a fellow acolyte
—2 marks
Jewelry belonging to a fellow acolyte
—3 marks
A book from the athenaeum (stolen, not borrowed, smart-arse)
—6 marks
A mirror from the Hall of Masks
—7 marks
Chronicler Aelius’s spectacles
—8 marks
A face from the weaver’s rooms
—9 marks
Shahiid Spiderkiller’s ceremonial knives
—20 marks
A keepsake from Mother Drusilla’s study
—35 marks
Shahiid Solis’s empty scabbard
—50 marks
And so on. Dozens upon dozens of items listed down the page, each more outlandish than the last. It looked like this “contest” was going to start an all-out thievery war among the acolytes, which was probably what Mouser wanted. They’d be on edge at all times, now. Always looking for an opportunity. Constantly watchful.
Constantly practicing.
Clever.
At the bottom of the list, Mia saw the final item. The most difficult of all.
The Revered Mother’s obsidian key
—100 marks
Mia recalled the key hanging about the old woman’s neck. How mad would someone have to be to try to steal that? She glanced up at Shahiid Mouser, found him watching her with that silverware smile. Clapping his hands, he looked about the room.