The cudgel cut the air with a whistle. On the recoil, Sed felt the wind of the blow sear his face. He managed to slip aside a couple more times before he found himself pinned to the wall.

  The stranger seized his jacket, but Sed wrenched the man’s wrist and drove his head up into the bridge of his nose—only to take a knee in the gut in return. A sharp pain lanced through his belly. His breath locked up. Instinct moved before thought—his fingers bit into his opponent’s clothes, not letting him press the attack.

  Big and fast. I need to break away, and soon.

  A filthy, furious clinch-fight began. The brute’s fingers clamped on Sed’s wrist, keeping him from reaching his knife. Sed hammered an elbow into head and neck, but the blows landed as though on a slab of stone.

  Through pain and a haze before his eyes, Sed caught a moment and tried to throw him—yet the other man spread his stance and held his balance. Both bodies filled with aching heat; blood seeped through their cloth masks. Their lungs burned; with sweat and heavy clothes it felt as though they were fighting in a boiling pot.

  They traded blows—hands, feet, knees. Foreheads met; then they tore apart sharply, broke distance, and went for their knives.

  — What are you doing here, Roche? — Sed breathed out, forcing down the pain in his ribs and trying to bring his breathing back to a steady rhythm.

  The brute froze. He was broad-shouldered, dressed in dark clothes with a hood.

  — Sedrik… — a low, muffled voice rumbled from under the wrap. — Come again to ruin everything?

  — You manage that well enough without me.

  — Enough, — a lean fellow stepped out from behind a shelving unit, dressed much like Roche. His posture held a deceitful ease. — There’s no sense fighting. We’re thieves, not killers.

  — Tell that to your masters, Guy, — Sed snapped, shifting his weight from foot to foot and stealing quick looks around.

  Damn it…

  The place was crammed with shelves of papers and scrolls—some sort of archive.

  — Quit talking, — Roche grated, never taking his eyes off him as he slid a few steps sideways, cutting off the door. He looked like a drawn bowstring, ready to snap at any moment.

  — Stay where you are, you ox, — Sed hissed. — Make a move and I’ll raise the alarm, and the whole guard will come running.

  To fight two is suicide. To run is hard. For now, better keep them talking.

  — Just try, and they’ll find nothing but your corpse!

  — I’ve nothing to lose. So, we’ll meet on the Dark Streets.

  A taut silence hung between them.

  — Why all this trouble? — Guy broke it, tilting his head. He spoke with that maddening, condescending patience. — You came for the “Black Sapphire.”

  — And what makes you think I haven’t taken it already?

  — If you had, you’d be gone by now. We know where it is. If we part in peace, I’ll tell you.

  As if I’d believe you.

  Sed felt anger boil up inside him, but he forced it down.

  — And you came for papers? — he asked, and by the briefest, barely perceptible stilling of Guy he knew he’d struck true. — Looks like the Guild’s finally become servants to rams’ affairs.

  — Our lot is to steal, — Roche said dully, and in his tone, it was not merely a statement, but an iron rule. — What exactly—let the clients and the masters decide.

  — That’s the whole difference, Roche. — Sed gave his former friend a disappointed look. — I choose my own lot. And what I steal.

  — No one’s trying to stop you, — Guy spread his hands, stepping forward to stand between them. — We’re all in a hard place, and we can help each other, like before. Master Vyncent didn’t want you at odds with the Guild.

  — Don’t you dare speak his name! — Sedrik cut him off sharply, then exhaled. — What was before stayed there.

  Better play along.

  — But I agree. There’s no sense in gnawing at each other. Let’s do it this way: you tell me where the sapphire is and let me go, and I won’t turn you in.

  Roche flicked his gaze to Guy. He did not answer at once.

  — Opposite wing of the second floor, in one of the refitted bedchambers.

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  Sedrik nodded, straightened, and headed for the door. Roche stepped aside, keeping his furious eyes on him.

  Sed did not believe a word Guy had said. His word meant nothing to them; theirs meant nothing to him.

  Those who have gone into shadow rely only on themselves. There is no honor here. The strongest survives…

  He left the archive and took two steps, then drew a deep breath and shouted with all his strength:

  — GUARDS! THIEVES IN THE ESTATE! THIEVES HAVE BROKEN INTO THE ARCHIVE!

  The cry rolled down the stone corridors. For a heartbeat—silence. Then the estate flared to life.

  From the yard came a long, drawn-out howl. Signal bells thundered. Bolts scraped, doors slammed, boots hammered on the tiles.

  Gaspar’s heated argument with Ettiere broke off sharply; both looked up. The duke’s hand clenched into a fist. Ettiere’s eyes flashed—first with rage, then with ardor. A smile slid across his face. He seized his sword and threw himself toward the second floor. Gaspar watched him with a cold look, then turned and gave orders to the nearest guards.

  Roche burst out of the archive, but Sed was already gone. Only the echo of his shout hung in the air.

  — Curse you!

  Guy, wholly focused, kept rummaging in a hidden cupboard.

  — Change of plan, — he tossed out without looking back. — Draw the guards off and pull them away from this wing. Then get out. Don’t wait for me.

  — And you?

  — I’ll finish what I started.

  Roche darted into the corridor. Three guards were running straight at him. He spun and tore away, weaving and crashing into new patrols until he burst into a gallery, then into a boudoir—on the way knocking a massive candlestick into a silk tapestry. The cloth caught with a dry crackle.

  Seeing a window, he took it at a run and drove his shoulder through the frame, spilling out onto a narrow ledge. Hooking his fingers into the carving, he hauled himself onto a steep tiled roof. The wind slapped his face. Below—ridan barking; from the side an arrow whistled past. He ran, crouched low, searching for a place to jump. An arrow struck the tiles a finger’s breadth from his foot. Roche lunged aside and ducked behind a chimney.

  Gasping, he fumbled in his pocket, knowing time was short. Two dark silhouettes were creeping toward him across the roof. Finding a smooth stone marked with a carved sign, he lifted it before him. The creatures slowed, turned their heads in an unnatural way, and then, turning back, split and went off in opposite directions.

  Roche moved along the other side of the roof and, spotting a statue of a warrior with a spear, sprinted and leapt. Catching on the sharp spearpoints, he swung to an elm branch and dropped heavily to the ground—and had not yet risen when he heard a furious roar to his right. He barely had time to turn when a ridan struck from the side, teeth clamping into his outstretched arm.

  In the archive, Guy heard cries of fire. There was still time. His fingers flew over papers until he felt what he sought—a narrow bundle tied with a red ribbon and sealed with the Louazier mark. He slipped it under his tunic, cinched his bag, and, hearing heavy footfalls, drew a swordbreaker—something like a dagger with large teeth.

  He turned. In the doorway stood a man with fair hair and a sword in hand. One look at the silver-embroidered caftan made it plain who he was.

  Ettiere struck. Steel rang in the room—the sword met Guy’s weapon. Their gazes locked.

  Sed rode out the first moments of chaos in the duke’s bedchamber. In the wardrobe he found a long tunic that, from a distance and in darkness, could pass for a servant’s.

  Waiting until the first wave of guards thundered past, he stepped into the corridor in search of a fitting target: he needed a servant—preferably one high in the order—someone who knew where the trophy room was.

  The spreading fire served him well—meaning the senior staff were already organizing the bucket lines. The main thing was to move fast. Running through corridors ringing with shouts, he ran into guards, then frightened servants. No one paid him any mind.

  At last, commanding cries carried from ahead.

  — Water, at once! — barked an elderly man. Spotting Sed, he cut the air with a sharp wave of his hand: — What are you standing for?! Water, quickly!

  The thief came closer—and in the next instant pressed a knife to his throat. Only then did the steward truly see his face.

  — Not a sound, — Sed hissed, dragging him into the nearest room. — Or I’ll cut you.

  The man obeyed. In his eyes were anger and fear at once, but the old man did not shout or struggle.

  — Where does Ettiere keep the sapphire? Speak!

  — Th-the opposite wing… a b-bedchamber, second floor… — the senior servant wheezed as hands closed on his throat. A few seconds later his body went limp.

  Did Guy tell the truth?.. Sed thought, and, pulling the sleeper into a dark corner, ran for the opposite wing.

  It was not hard to reach—everyone was too busy with thieves and fire. Two guards with halberds gave away the right room. They spoke nervously, but did not leave their post.

  Sed stepped back behind the wall, drew a smoke charge, struck the fuse against the stone, and tossed it between them.

  They had barely flinched at the dull pop when black smoke billowed up to the ceiling. Coughing hard, both scattered. A second charge followed, and, choosing the moment, Sedrik went in.

  The first man, who had darted toward the wall, found Sedrik beside him without seeing him—then took a brutal blow to the throat.

  The second, glimpsing motion in the smoke, swung his halberd—wide and wrong. Sed ducked and, staying low, drove a kick into the side of his knee, then piled onto him, locked an elbow around his neck from behind, and squeezed. The body jerked and battered the floor, but the hold did not loosen. After a few seconds the convulsions stopped.

  Without wasting time, Sed searched them. A key hung at one man’s belt; it went straight into the lock.

  Sed flung the door open and, dragging both guards inside, shut it behind him.

  The room was spacious. Moonlight fell over captured wealth. On the walls—curved blades with geometric engraving, light armor of lacquered plates. On the tables—heavy cups of dull metal, daggers set with mother-of-pearl, rugs with bright, unfamiliar patterns.

  Strange, foreign—therefore alluring—trophies caught the eye, but the thief knew why he’d come, and impatiently sought the main prize. In the middle of the room stood something unlike the rest.

  A great decorative cage, wrought of black bars. From within stared two large blue eyes.