“Prince Kai?”
I stiffen, sigh, and turn towards the voice behind me. A young boy looks up nervously, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. I raise my eyebrows, my impatience evident.
“The king requests your presence in the throne room.”
Chapter Three
Paedyn
The wheel of a merchant’s cart rolls over my toes. I bite back a yelp but don’t bother biting back my rather rude retort directed at the oblivious man who’s mindlessly crippling people with his cart.
Well, today’s off to a great start.
I slept fitfully last night, tossing and turning as I faded in and out of my recurring nightmares. Flashes of my father dying while I can do nothing but hold his hand, climbing up a chimney only to find the top boarded up, and Adena, the only person I have left in this world, being dragged away from me screaming.
Sometime between my numerous nightmares, Adena made a feeble attempt to shake me awake. I rolled over groaning, trying to cling to the little bit of blissful sleep I managed to steal. I may be the thief, but I’m regularly robbed of rest.
Persistent per usual, Adena then switched her strategy, deciding to pelt me with rough scraps of fabric until I finally raised a white cloth in surrender.
The sun, lazy as ever, is slowly struggling to peek over the run-down buildings, casting Loot Alley in morning shadows while I make my way down the cobblestone path. As the street comes alive with the hustle and bustle of merchants haggling while beggars plead with anyone who spares them a glance, I easily blend into the chaos that surrounds the slums.
My hands itch to snatch some food to quiet my grumbling stomach and to bring back for Adena. My eyes flick across the street in search of my next unfortunate victim to rob when—
Something’s not right.
Fourteen. There are only fourteen Imperials lining the street.
But there should be at least sixteen today.
I would know, seeing that I’ve memorized their rotations.
I spot Egg Head and Hook Nose in their usual spots outside of Maria’s shop, along with several other Imperials with equally accurate names. With the white, leather masks obscure half their faces from view, it’s rather difficult to come up with creative nicknames for the bastards, so I pride myself on the few I’ve invented.
Normally, the prospect of fewer guards would be a relief, and perhaps it’s my Psychic abilities kicking in, but the sight worries me.
My stomach growls angrily, impatient as ever.
Food first, funny feeling second.
I zigzag through the crowd with ease, swiping apples from the cart that ran over my toes, the revenge as sweet as the crisp fruit I bite into. Leaning against the crumbling wall of a shop, I spot what looks to be a young apprentice haggling with a tradesman. I watch as he fixes the merchant with a glare before throwing down several coins and snatching up a bundle of what can only be black leather. My eyes skim over the shillings as they roll on top of the cart, counting them quickly to find far too many coins there for leather.
He’s in a hurry. That's why he’s willing to pay double what he should rather than take the time to negotiate a cheaper price. And he has the money to spare.
The perfect target.
I step onto the street and head for the boy now quickly shoving through the crowd while I pull at the leather strap holding my hair out of my face and off my neck. It falls down my back in a cascade of messy, silver waves while I curse the sweltering heat that already has my neck sticky with sweat. Letting a curtain of hair fall over my shoulder and into my face, I morph myself into the perfect picture of innocence.
“Make them underestimate you. Make them overlook you until you want to be seen.”
It’s been so long since I’ve heard my father’s voice that the soft sound of it threatens to slip from my memory and drift into death with him.
The thought shatters when we collide.
I stumble, scrambling to grab hold of the unsuspecting apprentice as I let myself fall. Gathering a fistful of his shirt in one hand, I slip the other into his vest pocket where I saw him grab his coins. I can feel six shillings there and resist the urge to grab all of them before only palming three.
Greed is not an easily tamed emotion, but I force myself to leave the other coins, knowing that he’s likely smart enough to feel the lack of weight in his pocket if I take them all. And I don’t need to add any more scars to my back for getting caught.
But right as I’m about to pull out my hand and ramble an apology for nearly running the boy over, my fingers catch on the inside lining of his vest. No, not just the lining—a secret pocket. I feel a folded piece of parchment within, and on an impulse I can’t explain or justify, decide to palm that too before sliding my hand out and shyly looking up into the apprentice’s face.
His brown eyes are wide as I stare up at him through the strands of hair blowing across my face. I arrange my expression into that of utter embarrassment and quickly uncurl my fist from his shirt.
Blowing a strand of hair from my eyes, I take a step back to put some space between us. “I am so sorry, sir!” I force myself to sound breathless, embarrassed, harmless. “I’m quite certain I am the only person in all of Ilya who is capable of tripping on air!”
Go on. Underestimate me. Overlook me.
He runs a hand through his curly hair and chuckles. “No worries. Guess you have quite the talent then.” He wears a smile, but his gaze lingers a little too long for my liking. So, I offer him a grin and a nod of my head before turning on my heel and vanishing into the crowded street.
The sugary scent of sticky buns wafts down the busy alley as I stroll past Maria’s shop and sidestep into one of the many small alleys branching off Loot. The note I nicked grows damp with sweat as I grip it in my palm. What could possibly be written on this little piece of paper that warrants it to be so hidden?
I intend to find out.
Flattening my back against the grimy brick wall, I unfold the edges of the paper to reveal a scribbled note:
Meeting begins quarter past midnight.
White house between Merchant and Elm.
Bring the supplies.
I stare at the note, blinking in confusion while my heart races in anticipation.
That’s my house.
Well, that was my house.
I can tell by the slant of the letters and the smudging of the ink that whoever wrote this was likely in a hurry to hide the note from prying eyes.
Prying eyes like mine.
Dozens of questions flood my mind, each one more confusing than the last. Why on this Plague forsaken earth are meetings being held at my house?
Former house. You left it, remember?
And to meet there in the middle of the night with supplies—?