The Blood Within the Stone E-Book

T.R. Thompson

• Herausgeber: Odyssey Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: The Wraith Cycle
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 525

Beschreibung

A shadow is spreading across the land. Fear will be your downfall.
When the Prefects of Redmondis discover that their quick minds and quicker fingers hide secret potential, young thieves Wilt and Higgs find themselves unwilling recruits. Wilt’s ability to sink into others’ thoughts, knowing what action they will take before they do, is both a prized and dangerous gift.
The Nine Sisters of Redmondis have sensed a growing threat, and search for the one who can control the power of The Blood Within the Stone. But even their sinister plots are nothing compared to the force that controls them.
As Wilt and Higgs rally their newfound weapons, they discover that the threat to their lives, and their reality, is much greater than they realise.

Leseprobe

The Blood Within The Stone

T. R. Thompson

www.odysseybooks.com.au

First published in 2017 by Odyssey Books

Copyright © T.R. Thompson 2017

The moral right of T.R. Thompson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

ISBN: 978-1-922200-82-2 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-922200-83-9 (ebook)

Cover design by Elijah Toten

Flows with you and without you

The blood within the stone

Writ for you and about you

Together and yet alone

Contents

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part II

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

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Part I

On still nights, when the trees cease their chatter and the shadows lie heavy on the leaves, that is when they come. Snatches of vision, images floating in a pool of darkness just long enough to be glimpsed before sinking away. Scenes from another place, too far away to yet be noticed by any save those who have delved too deeply.

A lone guard stands on a high wall, the torch burning beside him pushing its light out against the void, its heat and comfort forgotten. The guard’s eyes narrow and scan the shadows outside the walls; his ears strain for the slightest unfamiliar sound. There have been stories, tales whispered among the townsfolk. Tales of other towns and other nights. Tales best kept for the daylight hours. He knows he should put them from his mind, but he cannot.

There is no wind. The torch flame stands straight and high, and the guard stiffens beside it, reminding himself of his duty. He cannot help but wish he were not alone. He gazes out to the east and waits for the sun to rise and banish his fear.

A scuttering reaches his ears; he turns toward it, but sees nothing. Just the darkness, staring back at him, waiting for its moment. The sound sends panicked thoughts burning through his mind, opening up possibilities, doorways for the darkness to flow through.

This is how it always begins. Thoughts become form, fear takes on shape. The whirlwind deep within the dark reaches up to the world and finds something to grab hold of.

When it finally comes, he has no time to scream.

The wind chooses that moment to appear, and the visions rip away as the trees resume their dance. They do not appreciate the danger; it is too far removed for their concern. Another siren’s call interests them, much closer to home, a single spark in the night, just beginning to reach its potential. They are not alone in being able to sense its power. Others, too, will notice soon enough.

The trees wait and watch while the shadow creeps across the world and the first steps begin.

1

The boy crouched beside the flames, his face cast in shadow, waiting for the hammer to fall.

Heavy wooden beams ran along the ceiling of the blacksmith’s hut—long fingers hanging above his head, waiting to snatch him into their fist. He watched the burly blacksmith at work, the man’s massive back sweating in the heat of the forge, the muscles in his shoulders bunching and twisting with each powerful swing.

Clang!

The noise was startling. The whooshing, crackling flames, the clatter of metal as the blacksmith held the part-forged sword up to his eyes for study, the hiss of steam as he doused the glowing red blade in the water. Wilt could have shouted and still not have been heard. Despite this, he stepped carefully around the wall of the hut, every sense strained.

It was his first real job, his first real test. Lodan, first lieutenant of the Fingers, the thieves’ guild who ruled the streets of Greystone, had passed it on to him personally. Wilt still held the note in his jerkin, though he knew he should have disposed of it immediately. It was brief and to the point. The blacksmith’s forge. The back room. The third drawer on the right of the desk. The blue blade. The well behind the market. Before midnight. Wilt was expected to look after the details himself.

He slipped into another thick shadow and paused as he spied the door to the back room. It was directly behind the forge, completely exposed in the light of the flames. The blacksmith was working not three feet from it. Any movement he made would be noticed instantly.

Wilt studied the blacksmith and waited. There had to be a way.

Clang!

The job is a test. They don’t give jobs like this as tests unless there is a way to complete it. Try to read him. Know what he will do before he does it.

Wilt settled back onto his haunches and focused on a point just beyond the blacksmith’s back. He slowed his breathing and tried to clear his mind of everything but the sound of the hammer, the strain of muscle, the cut of air as it swung down toward its target.

The hammer struck, and the world disappeared.

The blade would be ready by morning, in time for the duke’s party. Just a few more passes and the steel would be strong, the edge sharp. Little use it would be in the duke’s hands, but one must always take pride in the work itself, not worry about the use to which it will be put. Father had taught that above all else. He would be proud of this blade. Clear the mind and focus on the work. Let the work guide your hands. There. Now back into the water for a final douse.

Wilt was back in the world and moving before the cloud of steam shot up into the blacksmith’s face, momentarily blinding him. Springing forward, he pulled open the door to the back room and slipped inside, all in the time it took for the steam to clear. He stopped at the doorway, the door closed at his back now, and listened. The sounds behind him didn’t change. After a few moments more he finally allowed himself to breathe again.

Wilt studied the room in front of him. It was empty apart from a desk and chairs, a few scrolls and half-forged blades scattered across the desk’s surface. His fingers itched as he scanned the room. So many opportunities for easy profit.

Remember why you’re here. Remember the test.

He took a deep breath and stepped over to examine the third drawer on the desk. It was locked.

It looked a simple tumble lock, nothing that should hold him for more than a few seconds. He pulled out his pick and leaned forward to begin his work, then stopped. No. That is not the way. You are after a prize. This drawer holds that prize. There is something other than this obvious lock protecting what is in this drawer.

Wilt raised his eyes and examined the other drawers in the desk. All had locks. All looked pickable.

He flinched as another clang rang out from the next room.

There was limited time, but he trusted his instincts. His hands moved up to the lock on the second drawer and inserted his pick. Wilt let his fingers move without thought, and in five seconds heard a satisfying click as the lock snapped open. He pulled the drawer out slowly, watching for any further traps, but found none. The drawer held more papers and a small purse, the sight of which gave him pause. There had to be enough in that purse to feed himself and Higgs for weeks.

Wilt pushed the thought from his mind almost as quickly as it appeared. The blacksmith was not his enemy. He would not rob him of anything but the prize he was sent here for.

He pulled the drawer all the way out and looked into the third drawer below it. Sure enough, the lock on that drawer had wires attached, and the timber at the back of the drawer looked thicker than it should be. It was set to do something nasty to whoever opened it.

Inside the drawer was a bundle of oiled rags. Wilt reached in and pulled them out, then unwrapped the blade to be sure of his prize.

There it was. He traced his fingers down the intricately carved blade, and his grey eyes shone blue as the blade lit up, bathing his face in an unearthly glow. Wilt only allowed himself a moment to drink in the sight before quickly re-wrapping it in its coverings. He couldn’t risk the blacksmith noticing any strange lights coming from under the door.

He pushed the second drawer into place and stood. There was something he was missing. It scratched at the back of his mind. Something missing.

The sound of the hammer had stopped.

Wilt acted without further thought, jumping up to grab the roof beam above, then pulling himself up onto it. Just as his feet cleared the air in front of the door, it swung open and the blacksmith stepped in, wiping his sweaty face with a rag. Wilt saw his chance and jumped over the open door to land silently behind the blacksmith, almost stumbling backward into the man as he landed. He caught himself and pushed forward, running for speed rather than stealth now, trusting the noise of the forge to cover him. He sprinted toward the open door of the hut, out into the safety of the darkness, and didn’t look back.

The streets of Greystone were empty and silent, but Wilt ran on, ducking down lanes and cutting up side streets until he was sure there was no one in pursuit. Finally he stopped in a dark alley and leaned against the cold stone to catch his breath. Silence enveloped him, broken only by snippets of late night music and curses from a distant tavern riding on the wind. Wilt looked at the bundle clasped in his hand and a surge of excitement ran through him. He had done it.

What’s more, he had read him. Read the blacksmith’s thoughts and acted on them. He was learning to control it.

The blade felt warm through the rags, and he was tempted to unwrap it to examine it more closely, but stopped himself. No. Finish the task and get home before Higgs wakes up. You can tell him all about it in the morning. Tell him about the reward coming to you, about the hot food they could share from now on. But finish the task first.

The well behind the market. Wilt knew the one the note referred to. It had fallen out of use years ago—something about the water being poisoned—and the town watch had boarded it over. The planks had rotted quickly, however, and the thin timber could easily be pushed aside by those wishing to gain entrance to the darkness below. Wilt had never dared himself, but he’d heard stories. Higgs in particular enjoyed whispering them to him at night. Dark shapes, ghosts perhaps, were rumoured to live down there.

Wilt knew better now. The note had told him to leave the prize there. That meant it must be one of the caches the Fingers used. No wonder they spread rumours to keep prying eyes away.

First you have to get there.

It was late, but not yet midnight. He had time to be cautious.

Wilt stood up straight and turned around to examine the wall he had been leaning against. The standard rough cut grey stones that gave the town its name also gave the agile and daring among its citizens easy access to the night highway above. The town watch patrolled the streets at night, but the Fingers owned the rooftops.

Wilt climbed the wall easily. He’d been scaling walls like these ever since he could remember. The dark streets held many dangers to lone young children, and those who wanted to survive learned quickly enough that safety lay above. Wilt had been one of the lucky ones, and had managed to scrounge a living long enough to reach his teenage years. By now, climbing up out of the darkness was second nature.

He reached the lip of the roof and pulled himself over, then rested on his heels to scan the area.

The well was directly to the east, along the outer edge of the great market square that dominated the centre of Greystone. Just the one break in the rooftops. Not too bad.

Wilt started to walk and let his mind drift. The citizens of the town knew better than to question any strange sounds they heard from the rooftops above. Such questions were discouraged. Even the guards knew not to raise their eyes too often once the sun had set. It was better for everyone if certain—not quite legal—trade was given safe passage in this town. Greystone needed all the business it could get. The Fingers helped ensure some coin still flowed through the town, and most residents were thankful for its existence. They even gave them an official sounding name—the Grey Guild.

The town had perched safely in the lee of the mountains for hundreds of years, growing slowly and steadily as more streets and homes were carved out of the rock. For years it had held its own as a trading post for those passing through the thick forest known as the Tangle. Now though, the highway that once linked the town had found an easier route to the east. Traders no longer felt the need to risk their lives and goods to stop at the Greystone markets.

Greystone was a town slowly dying, being eaten up by the Tangle, the great forest that surrounded it, its ages-old trees twisting and twining around each other to form a thick, impenetrable wall. Impenetrable to all but the bravest—or most foolhardy—of adventurers. Many men and women had disappeared in its shadows, never to be heard from again, and many stories were whispered over low burning fires of the strange creatures that haunted its depths.

Wilt stopped and looked out over a gap in the rooftops to the land beyond the town walls, where the Tangle stood. In the distant past, the Tangle had been seen as something of a boon to Greystone, a natural barrier to raiders and outside threats. As time passed and such threats ceased to appear, and as the flow of trade through Greystone slowed to a trickle, the Tangle loomed as something more. Something to be feared, and cursed. Now it caused all who looked upon it to pause in their step as the slow sway of the trees beckoned to them.

Wilt shivered and turned his mind back to the present as he reached a gap in the rooftops and surveyed the area. It was a six-foot jump from one rooftop to the next, and the roof he was on was two or three feet higher than the one he had to reach. Easy. Wilt took a few steps back and braced to run.

Don’t think about the gap. Don’t think about the fall. Think about speed and flight.

He took a breath and began to sprint. Four steps to the lip. Three, two, one, go!

Wilt jumped from right on the lip and flew through the air, and would have made it, except that halfway across a stone flew out of the darkness and smacked hard into the side of his head.

The rock knocked Wilt out of his jump, and his hands and legs flailed helplessly in the air as he dropped short of the roof’s edge. His momentum was barely enough to carry him to it, and he slammed chest-first into the gutter, the air whooshing out of his lungs. He couldn’t think about trying to breathe yet, though, as he began to slide toward the alley below. His fingers clawed at the smooth slate roof as he slipped, unable to find any purchase to halt his fall. His legs kicked air as he struggled, and for a second he glimpsed the possibility that he wasn’t going to make it, that no matter how hard he tried to stop he was going to fall into darkness and death. Just as he reached the lip, however, a firm hand reached down out of the darkness and gripped his wrist.

‘Not quite as easy as you thought it was, huh, Meat?’

Wilt grasped the arm and felt air struggle back into his lungs as he was pulled up to the safety of the rooftop.

‘You should be more careful which roofs you wander across at night, Meat. Not everyone will be as forgiving.’

Wilt fell on to the roof and looked up at his saviour, still gasping for breath. Red Charley—one of the older thieves, an outcast, and not renowned for his kindness to the members of the Grey Guild. Just what he needed right now.

‘Boys. Let’s see what Meat here has to offer us as thanks for saving his life.’

Rough hands pulled Wilt to his feet and frisked his clothes. In moments the prize was pulled free.

‘Ah now, what do we have here?’

Wilt managed to suck enough air back to wheeze out the words. ‘My prize.’

Red Charley unwrapped the blade and held it up to the moonlight. The strange blue glow of the metal seemed dulled now, but the intricate carvings on the blade still marked it as something special.

‘It certainly is a prize. Yours though? I think not.’

‘No!’ Wilt lunged forward to grab the blade, but was pushed onto his back and given a strong kick to the guts to keep him there.

‘This will do, Meat. Consider it payment for the toll. I’ll make sure it gets to where it needs to go.’

Red Charley grinned then, the red hair that gave him his name glowing grey in the moonlight.

‘I own these rooftops, Meat. Not the Fingers. Me. Next time, consider your path more carefully. Boys.’

Three more kicks sunk into Wilt’s stomach, and he lay alone on the rooftop, gasping for air, long after the thieves had disappeared into the shadows.

‘Wilt? That you?’ the small voice whispered from a huddle of blankets and rags in the corner of the room.

‘Yes, Higgs. It’s me.’ Wilt walked slowly into the room, holding his stomach. His back and chest were aching from the kicks he’d received, but it was his stomach that called for the most attention.

‘You get it?’

‘Yeah. I got it all right.’

Something about the tone of his voice must have given it away, as Higgs threw the blankets back and sat up to watch him as he slowly crossed the room.

‘What happened?’

Wilt lowered himself gingerly to the floor next to Higgs and let out a long breath. ‘Red Charley happened.’

‘He didn’t.’

‘He did.’

‘But the task was given to—’

‘Higgs! That’s enough. I don’t want to talk about it right now. I just want to lie here quietly and suffer.’

Higgs was quiet for all of ten seconds before letting his voice squeak out again. ‘But before Red Charley … did you get it?’

Wilt lay still and stared at the ceiling, trying to relax his muscles, trying to will the pain away. A smile crept across his lips at the memory of his brief triumph. He had done it, managed to focus his strange talent, the one even Higgs didn’t know about. The splash of vision that had taken him at strange times ever since he could remember, dousing him in the thoughts of others. It had answered his call.

‘Yes, Higgs. I got it.’

‘I knew you’d do it.’

He heard Higgs slump back to the ground and let the sound of his breathing carry him into sleep.

2

Higgs had been with Wilt when he was given the task. Higgs was always with him, ever since he’d caught the small boy trying to lift his purse from his belt. He’d felt a familiar tickle, snapped his hand out, and clung on as the little whelp struggled and screamed. Another street rat; Greystone was infested with kids left to fend for themselves, scrounging a living from what little they could steal. He’d pulled his arm back to knock some sense into this one, quieten his screaming, but something had stopped him. Perhaps a memory of his own time scurrying in the streets, thin and desperate and hungry. Always hungry. Or maybe it was the look in the boy’s eyes, the defiant glint that shone out through the caked-on grime.

So he’d fed the kid, helped him find somewhere relatively safe to sleep at night, and suddenly found himself with a shadow, always following him about. He’d protested at first, not wanting anyone to hold him back, mess up his schemes. But on their second night of sharing the same bare room, Higgs had fed them both. He walked in with a crate stacked with meat and bread, destined for the duke’s palace but waylaid halfway down Traders Way and somehow ending up in Higgs’s eager hands. Wilt had eaten his fill for the first time in months, and during the meal Higgs had informed him they were now partners. It was as simple as that.

That was months, perhaps even years ago. It was difficult to keep track of time when you lived hand to mouth, waking each morning wondering whether you’d go to sleep hungry again that night. His test was supposed to put an end to all of that.

Three days prior they’d been down at the riverside, slinging rocks into the river for nothing more than fun. It was their usual hangout on the off hours, when Traders Way was too bare to bother with its pickings, or when they’d had a good score the night before and could afford to spend time just being boys again.

Wilt had a natural affinity with the sling; it was the first and only weapon he’d learned to use. The only one he’d ever felt comfortable wielding. Some of the other thieves had daggers and knives, but Wilt knew better than to carry that sort of hardware. If a guard caught you with one of those, you were sent straight to the dungeons for a week at least, and who knew what you’d look like when you came out. If you ever came out. A sling could quickly become a scarf or a belt when the guards caught up with you.

Of course, if they never caught up with you, that was something else entirely.

He’d been trying to impress Higgs with the advantages of the sling. All he’d needed was a length of cloth, or even better a belt or strap of soft leather. Then whatever he could find for ammunition: rocks in this case, rotten fruit more often than not inside the city walls.

He’d been pleasantly surprised by Higgs’s ability to find good slinging stones, but when it came to being able to wield the sling itself, Higgs was taking some time to learn the basics.

‘Argh!’ Higgs screamed in frustration as his third stone went flying straight up into the sky.

Wilt kept his eye on it as it arced above them. The last two had landed a little too close for comfort. ‘You’re loosing them too late.’

Higgs muttered something under his breath and bent down to grab another perfect stone.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing.’ Higgs spun his sling quickly and loosed his stone, this one splashing straight down into the water at his feet.

‘Too early.’

‘Thanks, genius, I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Don’t get angry with me. Just focus on what you’re doing. You’ll get it eventually.’

Higgs muttered some more insults under his breath and bent down for another stone.

Wilt smiled to himself and gazed out over the river, toward the far bank where the Tangle waited, its green depths silently swaying. Beckoning to him. A shiver ran up his spine as he stared into it. The Tangle. Wild and unknown. Growing ever closer to the walls each year, waiting to consume the city.

Another splash, this time a few metres out into the river, pulled his thoughts away and told him Higgs was beginning to find his range.

‘Better.’

He turned away from the river and looked up at the high walls behind them. Guards patrolled the ramparts, their attentions focused in rather than out. In a strange way they knew the Tangle provided more protection than they ever could. Nothing was coming from out there; at least, nothing they could ever be expected to guard against.

Another splash, far out in the centre of the river, grabbed his attention again.

‘That’s great, Higgs. Almost as far as mine.’

‘Almost?’ A new voice answered, its tone tinged with amusement.

Wilt spun around and stood quickly as he saw Lodan standing next to Higgs, the sling dangling from his hands.

Wilt stumbled over his words. ‘I— I mean.’

‘Come then, show me your skill.’ Lodan held the sling out, a grin twisted on his face. Behind him, Higgs was bent over, trying to mask his laughter.

‘I didn’t—’

‘Come.’ Lodan cut him off gently but in a tone that brooked no argument. Lodan was known to all the thieves in Greystone, and most of the regular folk as well. He was a tall, dark-haired man, gentle of face but with a coldness in his eyes that spoke of years spent in the shadows. He was the public face of the Grey Guild, the closest anyone ever got to the guild’s mysterious leader, a figure known only as the Hand.

Wilt scuttled over the river rocks to where Lodan and Higgs stood and grasped the offered sling.

‘Let’s see how far you can sling it then, boy.’ Lodan’s face was serious, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he watched Wilt pick up a rock and begin to spin the sling up to speed.

With a grunt, Wilt snapped the sling loose. At the last second he flicked his wrist, sending every last ounce of force from the sling to the rock. It flew out over the river, arcing high in the air and easily clearing the distance Lodan’s rock had gone.

‘Told you.’ Higgs’s voice was quiet and sure, with a hint of a grin in his words.

Wilt turned back to Lodan, who was still staring at where the rock had disappeared into the river.

‘Huh.’ He turned back to look at Wilt appraisingly. ‘Not bad at all.’

‘That’s nothing, you should see his aim. He can—’

‘That’s enough, Higgs,’ Wilt interrupted, his cheeks beginning to flush red.

‘He can what?’ Lodan’s voice was calm and deep, and he seemed genuinely interested.

‘If you throw a rock out there, he can hit it before it lands,’ Higgs blurted before Wilt could stop him.

‘Can he now? I think I’d like to see that.’ Lodan bent over to grab a rock.

‘Higgs is just boasting, I’m not that—’

Lodan silenced him with a look and bounced the stone in his hand. ‘Show me.’

Wilt didn’t argue; he simply reached down to grab a rock of his own and started to spin the sling.

‘Tell me when,’ Lodan said, his arm cocked and ready.

Wilt began to spin his sling. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

Wilt heard his own quiet tone as though he was listening to someone else. The world seemed to have shut down, all outside noise and movement slowing into a low murmur beneath him. All that he was aware of was the sling moving in his hand, his senses stretched and waiting.

Then there was something more. It was as though he could feel the green of the Tangle waiting for him to act, the breath of the trees held in the silence of the moment, holding the world still for him.

Suddenly Lodan drew back and threw his stone high out over the river. Wilt watched it move in slow motion, its arc clear. It was almost like he read it; no thoughts—stones couldn’t have thoughts, could they?—but the action itself. As though each movement was preordained and therefore obvious. All he had to do was play his part.

For a long moment he waited, enjoying the sense of the world around him slowing, the universe pausing for him, only him—a taut drum waiting to be struck.

He loosed his stone with another low grunt and the world sped back into life. The sounds of the river, the birds high above and the wind in the trees where the Tangle waited—it all came back in a rush as his rock speared toward the one Lodan had thrown. It met the other with a crack and shattered it in mid-air, bits of rock showering down into the river.

Higgs let out a yell of triumph and jumped in the air. Wilt studied the ripples in the water where the rocks had landed, a strange calm having settled around his shoulders. Eventually he turned back to see Lodan studying him.

Wilt shrugged and dropped his head, embarrassed.

‘Great shot,’ Lodan said, holding his hand out to clasp Wilt by the shoulder. ‘You may be just the one we’re looking for.’

The gathering was in a large disused warehouse situated between the markets and the south gate of the town. In happier times, merchants would travel along the Traders Way, the main street that ran from one end of Greystone to the other, stopping off at the markets in the centre of town to buy and sell their goods. And if a few barrel-loads of ale, or a chest or two of cloth, or even a stray wagon of grain were to go missing on the short trek from the gate to the market, well, a smart merchant knew this was the price to pay for the privilege of trading in a place like Greystone. Merchants who weren’t smart, who raised a hue and cry over their missing goods, soon learned the error of their ways. They were bustled straight to the southern gate guardhouse to make a formal complaint. Only once they had left the town altogether did they realise that what had been one missing chest was now five. Any wagons they still had with them were decidedly lighter than they were before.

Now that the times had turned and traffic along the Traders Way had slowed, the Grey Guild too had shrunk in size, their shadows dwarfed in the vastness of the warehouse space they met in. They could also afford to be picky when it came to prospective new members, and so they had come up with the tasks.

Anyone who wanted to join the Grey Guild could, but first they would be tested. In a town the size of Greystone, everyone knew everyone else anyway, so one’s reputation and skills were generally common knowledge by the time they presented to the Fingers as a prospective recruit. This knowledge in turn helped the Grey Guild leaders shape each individual challenge to suit. The tasks were designed to push each thief to the limit, and many had failed to complete theirs. As times got harder and the need for new thieves lessened, the tasks had become harder still.

In fact, no one had been successful in completing their given task in well over a year, since Lodan had come to the fore and introduced harsher restrictions. Word was that the last person to try—and fail—had been Red Charley.

Now it was Wilt’s turn, and it looked like he too had failed.

Wilt stood in the vast warehouse and gazed up at the cracked beams and broken windows that lined the high walls, letting a little light from the grey sky seep into the warehouse. A circle of torches lit the middle of the room where he stood, and the flames marked out various shadows that stood just outside his view. The Fingers. Wilt knew many more faces studied him than he could make out in the dullness.

‘Wilt. You stand before us, yet you have delivered no prize. Explain yourself.’ The voice was Lodan’s, and Wilt recognised the tall silhouette standing to his side.

Wilt stood mute before them and held out his empty hands. ‘I cannot. I—’

‘I can.’

A new voice, all too familiar to Wilt, called out confidently. Red Charley stepped forward into the light, the bundle of rags held triumphantly before him.

‘I knew about your little test for this boy. He did not have the necessary skills to complete it. I did.’ Red Charley unwrapped the bundle and held up the small dagger, grey now in this light.

Lodan’s shadow inclined its head. ‘Is this true, Wilt?’

Red Charley interrupted before Wilt could answer, his voice louder now. ‘I hold the evidence in my hand!’ He raised the dagger higher still and stepped forward, his voice dropping in a low threat. ‘I challenge any who doubt me to speak now.’

Wilt remained mute. Red Charley glared at him, daring him to speak. The silence stretched as Wilt’s mouth moved, but no sound came from his lips.

‘I thought not.’ Red Charley smiled, and turned to the shadows.

‘I challenge.’ Wilt only whispered the words, but they rang out in the silence of the great hall.

‘What?’ Red Charley wheeled around and pointed the dagger at Wilt’s chest.

‘I challenge,’ Wilt repeated, more confidently now, staring into Red Charley’s eyes.

‘As you should, boy. As you should.’

The new voice boomed from the front of the hall and the room fell silent as a large round figure made its way toward them. Finally it entered the circle of light, and Wilt froze as he recognised the face of the blacksmith he had stolen the dagger from.

The blacksmith held out one enormous hand and clapped Wilt on the shoulder, almost knocking him over. ‘After all, you stole it fair and square.’

Lodan’s voice rang out in the silence. ‘Remove this charlatan.’

A scuffle broke out as rough hands seized Red Charley and threw him to the ground. The dagger was jerked from his hands and a gloved hand cuffed his mouth as he was dragged away.

Lodan stepped forward into the circle of light as Red Charley’s feet disappeared into the shadows. ‘Some people never change.’

The blacksmith shook his head as he watched the scene, then slowly turned to Wilt. ‘Now, boy, I believe this is yours.’ The dagger had been handed back to the blacksmith, who now held it out to Wilt.

The young thief studied him warily.

‘It’s all right lad, take it.’

Wilt reached out slowly and took the blade. As soon as his hands touched the hilt, the dagger shone a bright blue, filling the hall with a strange glow.

‘Ah. Good to see that crafter knew what he was doing. Red Charley is just the sort of fool who would try to take credit for the theft of a prize. Each one of them is enchanted—they remember the first hand to touch them and respond again whenever they’re back in that hand’s grasp. Helps avoid just this sort of situation. There now. I think that removes all doubt, don’t you, Lodan?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘A good theft it was too. Didn’t sense this one at all. Read me like a book, didn’t you, boy?’

Wilt stood completely still, hypnotised by the blue glow of the blade in his hand.

‘The glow marks a prize fairly taken by your hand. Lodan, if you would.’

A long thin arm reached out to Wilt. He only hesitated a moment before handing his prize over to Lodan. As soon as it left his hand, the blue glow faded and the blade became a dull uniform grey.

‘Yes. That crafter did know what he was doing.’

Wilt turned toward the blacksmith then, a hundred questions on his tongue.

‘You have questions, lad. Lodan will answer them for you. Congratulations. You are now a member of the Grey Guild.’ The blacksmith turned on his heel and walked into the darkness.

‘But, who are you?’ Wilt called after the retreating shadow.

Lodan’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘That was Master Turner, boy. You know him as the blacksmith. We know him as the Hand—leader of the Greystone Guild of Thieves.’

3

The next few weeks were a blur to Wilt. He was now a member of the Grey Guild, and as far as Higgs was concerned that meant they both were. In exchange for the guild’s protection and associated comforts, they were expected to pull their weight. They moved out of the small abandoned shop they’d been living in and into a much cleaner building off Traders Way, one of a multitude of haunts the Fingers claimed as their own. These days there were more than enough disused buildings for them to pick from.

There was also plenty of work to keep them busy. Wilt started at the bottom as a simple pickpocket, and began to make his name immediately. He’d been lifting purses from the careless along Traders Way since he could walk. Higgs was even better at it, helping him reach his quota in record time each week. Eventually he had to rein Higgs in; they were making the other pickpockets look bad in comparison.

Though trade had faded, there were still more than enough merchants and customers wandering the markets to support the thieves. Under the command of Lodan, they moved in and out of the crowds, lightening purses and pockets as they went, careful to never take too much or attract the attention of the guards. They would put up with only so much.

Wilt found it all incredibly easy. Wander the market and pick a target. Then watch them. Let them meander through the curving lanes and stalls, let them feel comfortable in their environment. Let them drop their guard. Then watch some more. Then read them.

He spotted one quickly: a fat man, wealthy. Wary too, by the way he held his coat tight around his belt. That was where the goods were. Wilt could simply walk past and cut his purse, but he was one of the Fingers now, above such clumsiness. No, he would work this properly, like a professional.

Wilt relaxed his mind completely, draining it to an empty pool. Suddenly he was inside the man’s mind, every thought as clear as his own.

Not this one. Looks too cheap for Mary. She’d know the price to the copper. Maybe a shawl instead. The ones piled under the table. Purse always getting in the way. Damn this back of mine.

Wilt stepped forward then and stood close behind the soon to be less wealthy man. A few gentle tugs on the purse and it was loose. His fingers sorted quickly through the coins to identify the silver and take a few. Leave the copper for the cut-purses, leave the gold for the guard if he raised the alarm.

Wilt melted away into the crowd and allowed himself a small smile. It was becoming easier every time, calling upon his strange ability. He no longer questioned it, or doubted it would respond. At times it was almost impatient to be used, pushing out at him, urging him to call on it, to let it out into the world.

It didn’t take the Fingers long to recognise Wilt’s particular aptitude for the tasks he was set. After only a couple of weeks, Lodan recommended Wilt be allowed to work outside the market, anywhere he thought the best targets would be. Lodan was trusted by the Grey Guild and, his advice heeded, he passed the good news onto Wilt with only a small warning. He should stay away from the south of the market. Red Charley still controlled those streets, and he had a long memory.

‘Tell me again about the prize, Wilt.’

They sat huddled by the small fireplace in the room that was now their own. No one was going to roust them from this place, but old habits died hard and they kept their fires small and their belongings packed. Wilt didn’t think they’d ever grow out of that. They’d never known anything else.

Wilt looked at his small companion sitting by the flames. They were well fed these days but Higgs was still skin and bones, his cheekbones prominent and his face falling away into a small pointed chin. If Wilt was honest with himself, he looked almost like a ferret, though he’d never tell Higgs that.

‘It was a dagger.’

‘A blue dagger.’

‘That’s right, a blue dagger. Though it was only blue when the one who had rightfully stolen it held it in his hands.’

‘And that was you.’

‘That’s right, that was me.’

‘And so when Red Charley took it from you it wasn’t blue anymore, so everyone knew he hadn’t stolen it properly at all.’

‘Who’s telling this story, Higgs?’

‘You are.’

They both stared at the flames some more, Wilt enjoying the feeling of them clearing his mind.

‘Wilt?’

‘Yes, Higgs.’

‘How did the crafter make the dagger turn blue?’

‘I don’t know. I expect you’d have to be a crafter to know that.’

‘How do you get to be a crafter?’

‘It’s one of the skills they teach in Redmondis. You know that story.’

‘The mountain fortress, where they teach all the skilled ones. If you get chosen to be a student, you get sent to Redmondis, and you get tested by the Prefects there, and if you pass their test you get given one of the skills.’

‘You know more about it than I do.’

Higgs began counting them off on his fingers. ‘There’s crafting, there’s healing, there’s soldiering, there’s apotha … apothec … apotaca …’

‘Apothecary.’

‘There’s potions, there’s foreseeing.’ Higgs ran out of fingers and stopped. ‘There’s lots of them.’

‘There are lots of them. Too many to count. I doubt anyone knows them all.’

Higgs lay back down on his bed and closed his eyes. ‘Wilt?’

‘Yes, Higgs.’

‘If you were chosen, what skill would you choose?’

‘I don’t know.’ Wilt’s eyes became heavy as he looked into the flames. ‘I don’t think it works like that. I don’t think you get to choose. I think the skill chooses you.’

‘I’d choose to be a crafter.’

‘Okay, Higgs. Go to sleep.’

‘Then I could make a blue dagger as well. Or maybe a green one. Or a red one!’

‘Higgs.’

‘Yes, Wilt?’

‘Go to sleep.’

Wilt was beginning to get comfortable in his new life. He was excelling in the Grey Guild, and even Higgs had managed to make himself more useful lately, helping to organise the younger street urchins under Lodan’s control. Most merchants ignored the urchins completely, never thinking of minding their tongues around the ever-present street rats. As a result, the Grey Guild was better informed now than it had ever been, with eyes and ears in every alley.

Things were finally beginning to look up for Wilt, so much so he actually began to relax and enjoy life. He really should have known better.

It had started off as a simple job. He’d been handed the message by one of the tavern wenches at the Thirsty Captain, the largest and busiest of the taverns lining the docks on the eastern side of the city. It was a favourite haunt of the merchant sailors who shipped in and out of Greystone on a daily basis. A tavern that offered hot meals and cold ale, and knew better than to charge full price for the workers who kept the trade of Greystone flowing. And for those looking for other entertainment, well, that could be found easily enough as well.

Wilt didn’t look closely at the girl who handed him the message.

That was his first mistake.

He had heard that some of the girls working here offered other services for those willing to pay, and he hadn’t wanted to send any wrong signals. Not that he wasn’t curious. He had been lost in the roaring fire burning in the main room, letting his ears work for him, scanning the random conversations that slipped in and out of hearing. Suddenly someone grabbed his hand and wrapped his fingers around a small slip of paper. Her hand had been warm, and she’d squeezed his fingers lightly before disappearing into the crowd. Knowing better than to react, he hadn’t even glanced up at the girl before she moved away.

The note was from Lodan. Wilt recognised the thin, slanted scrawl immediately. The blacksmith requests your company. He downed the rest of his drink in a gulp and stood up immediately. The Hand had asked for him specifically. That meant something important. A rush of excitement washed over him and he no longer paid any attention to the crowd.

That was his second mistake.

More than one pair of eyes watched him stride quickly across the tavern floor and push out into the darkness of the streets, and more than one pair of feet moved to follow him.

Wilt had never been summoned specifically by the Hand before, had never even heard of it happening to someone else. Messages were usually passed through Lodan or one of the other more experienced thieves, but Wilt decided not to question it. He hurried down the east road toward the markets in the centre of town. Perhaps the Hand had heard about his progress with the Grey Guild; perhaps he’d been impressed. Perhaps he wanted to reward him.

The blacksmith requests your company. The wording suggested the meeting place was at the forge itself, rather than the warehouse where they’d met earlier. That made sense. One-to-one meetings were probably less formal. Maybe they’d sit in the back room and the Hand would get him to tell the story of how Wilt took the prize from under his nose. He’d been impressed by that.

Wilt smiled as he trotted down the road, oblivious to the shadows that flitted from rooftop to rooftop beside him.

Maybe they’d share a drink. Higgs would be so jealous.

The forge was shuttered when he got there, but there was a glow from the back room so Wilt strode in confidently. Heat still emanated from behind the heavy iron gate of the fire as he passed it, and the blacksmith’s tools were set out on the anvil in front of it. Wilt paused in his step as he noticed the thin knife laying amongst the tools, its surface straight and sharp. It was free of blemishes, except for a heavy dent halfway up the blade, almost a chip, as if the blacksmith had lost control mid swing and struck one blow too many on the shining blade. He slowed to a stop as he stared at the imperfect work, his mind finally beginning to catch up. There was something wrong.

Wilt reached out slowly to let his fingers brush the flaw in the blade, and a vision whipped across his eyes.

Red Charley, standing beside the forge, a cruel smirk on his face. Staring at the flawless knife on the anvil, weighing the heavy hammer in his hand, unable to resist this small mischief.

It was a trap.

Wilt spun on his heel and started toward the door, but two shadows seemed to fall out of the darkness to block his way.

‘So. Not completely stupid then.’ Red Charley’s voice came from behind him. ‘Turn around, Meat.’

Wilt froze and let his senses flow out from him.

‘Boys, it seems young Meat here has lost the use of his limbs. Loosen him up for me, would you?’

The shadows moved toward Wilt, and he forced his body to relax as they fell on him. No use running now, there was no way out. Not yet. The larger of the two figures dropped Wilt to his knees with a punch to the stomach. He gasped theatrically, though the blow seemed unimportant as he kept searching around the room for a way out. The other one kicked him and rolled him over to face Red Charley.

‘Not so smart now, are you, Meat? Lodan’s scrawl isn’t the easiest to master, but given time and the right talents—’ Red Charley interrupted himself with a heavy kick into Wilt’s guts. ‘Anything is possible.’

Wilt looked past Red Charley to the anvil and the set of tools sitting beside the forge. A heavy hammer, some tongs, and something that looked like a large hook glowed briefly in the darkness.

‘Your little stunt cost me face in the guild. Did you think I would let that go? Boys, bring him to his feet.’

Wilt glanced from the tools to Red Charley as he was lifted up off the dirt. Red Charley paced back and forth, his eyes bright with anger. Wilt swallowed and focused his mind. Red Charley was mad and capable of anything. He had to escape.

‘Open the forge.’

Wilt heard the heavy gate open and felt the heat of the fire kiss his skin as it flared up with a rush of air. He closed his eyes. Forget the fire. Forget the fear. Focus. Focus on their minds.

‘I knew you were a coward the first time I saw you, Meat.’

Wilt’s sense scrambled over the surface of Red Charley’s mind, but it was closed, a blank wall of nothingness, with no way for him to get in. Look to the others.

With a silent effort he switched his attention to the other two men.

Charley’s really gonna to do it. Gonna burn him. Gonna cook his pretty flesh.

Wilt’s mind retreated quickly from the excited darkness of that mind. Samson. He was just as mad as Red Charley. He then focused on the other man.

Hold the boy and keep your mouth shut. They’re just gonna scare him.

He was the one. If he could just get him to loosen his grip …

‘Open your eyes, Meat.’

Wilt opened his eyes and lost contact with the other man’s mind. Harken, that was his name.

Red Charley stood in front of him, holding up a single glowing coal in the pair of tongs. The other tools were within reach behind him.

Wilt closed his eyes again and reached out for Harken’s mind.

Don’t let him loose, even if they do burn him. Don’t show any weakness.

Wilt could feel the heat from the coal tighten his skin as Red Charley held it up to his cheek.

‘Can’t even face this, can you, Meat? Closing your eyes won’t help you.’

Wilt clawed desperately for purchase on the other man’s mind. His fear lent his sense a panicked strength.

Red Charley let out a small sigh of pleasure as he pushed the glowing coal against Wilt’s cheek, pain screaming through Wilt’s mind—through his mind and into Harken’s, wiping out everything in its path.

Harken stiffened and fell backward as the shock overwhelmed him. Wilt felt him falling and jerked his arm free, throwing the limp man straight into Samson. Samson stumbled and fell onto the hot gate of the forge, shrieking with pain, holding his smouldering hands up in front of his face.

Red Charley was only beginning to react as Wilt dashed behind him, grabbing the hook from the anvil as he ran into the back room.

‘No!’ Red Charley’s scream echoed around the forge as he spun and charged after his prey.

Wilt rushed through the door into the small room without hesitating. Leaping on to the desk he jumped again, holding the hook above his head to catch the roof beam directly above. He pulled his arms tight as it bit, crunching his legs into his chest and letting his body’s momentum swing him up and over, releasing the hook at the top of the arc, flipping full circle in mid-air to come back around just as Red Charley charged into the room. Wilt thrust out his feet in a two-footed kick that landed in the centre of Red Charley’s chest. His bodyweight did the rest, crushing his attacker backward into the ground. Wilt heard a deep crack as Red Charley landed and knew he’d done some damage to the man, but he didn’t stop to check.

Wilt pushed himself to his feet and ran out into the cold darkness, only looking back when he was sure he heard no sounds of pursuit. The door of the hut glowed in the darkness, and a single shadow emerged and limped away. Wilt ran on, the cool air soothing the deep burn on his cheek.

4

The red burn on Wilt’s cheek didn’t fade with time. The wound closed and healed, and the skin became smooth again, but the angry red colour stayed, permanently marking his cheek. He was reminded of it each time he caught his reflection. Higgs knew better than to ask about it, as it only seemed to make Wilt angry.

They had been working hard for the Grey Guild, Wilt as one of the Fingers and Higgs with his new role of overseeing the street urchins—the Rats, they called themselves with pride—and had been given the day to spend as they wished. Wilt had mentioned the overabundance of river pebbles he’d seen lining the eastern wall of the city, and Higgs had grabbed their slings without further prompting. Once at the city wall, they took turns flinging the small stones hard and flat across the width of the wide grey river and into the trees lining the far bank.

‘I know something you don’t know,’ Higgs said with a grin. He spun his sling quickly over his head and flung his rock in a high arc over the swiftly moving water. It fell just short of the far bank, landing in the dark water with a plonk. His skill with the sling had improved in leaps and bounds.

‘Do you now?’ Wilt took his time picking his stone from the pile at his feet. The vagaries of the river tides had washed up a good pile of ammunition at this spot, so he could afford to be fussy. Higgs continued to blindly pick out his stones, but Wilt preferred to take his time.

‘Even Lodan doesn’t know about it yet.’

‘I doubt that.’ Wilt finally decided on a perfectly sized, round, shiny black stone.

‘It’s true.’ Higgs had let another rock fly, which fell into the water again. He was getting closer.

‘This something your Rats told you? What does that make you anyway? Chief Rat?’

Higgs ignored him. ‘Something one of them heard. Know where she works?’

‘What, you mean you’re not all vagrants?’

‘She’s a cook’s helper. In the duke’s kitchen.’

Wilt placed his rock in the pocket of his sling and gave it a few experimental spins over his head. Good. Not too heavy. ‘A dish pig.’

‘A helper. And she heard word that some special guests are coming to town. The kitchen will have to prepare meals for them.’

‘Dignitaries.’

‘Something like that.’

Wilt stepped to the water’s edge, set his feet, and began to spin his sling.

‘Funny thing about the food though. No meat.’

Wilt had the sling spinning in a blur over his head now. ‘No meat?’

Just a few more, then release. Follow through.

‘No meat. Know who don’t eat meat, Wilt?’

Three two one. ‘Who?’

‘Prefects.’

Wilt slipped and fell backward as he let go and the stone flung out in a great high arc over the water, easily clearing it to the other bank. Wilt didn’t notice, though; he hadn’t watched the stone’s flight at all. His eyes were locked on Higgs’s grinning face.

‘A Prefect? Coming here? To Greystone?’

Higgs’s grin widened as he nodded his head.

Wilt rolled onto his side and sat up. ‘You need to tell—’

‘Already done. You don’t think you’re the Rats’ first port of call, do you?’ Higgs turned back to the pile of stones and picked out another, whistling happily.

‘Sit down, Wilt.’

Wilt sat down in the small booth across from Lodan and looked around the tavern. Harvest festival was the busiest time of the year, and crowds were up. Business was unusually good for the tavern keepers of Greystone, and they were making the most of it, raising prices across the board. They couldn’t be sure of such a crowd next year, or the year after, and they knew well enough to strike while the iron was hot.

A young waiter wandered past their table and Lodan signalled to him for drinks. He included a three-fingered tap on his shoulder to ensure the tavern staff knew it was for serving members of the Grey Guild. No watered down or overpriced ale for them.

Wilt scanned over the various rich targets in the room until his gaze came to rest on Lodan.

He was openly studying Wilt’s face. ‘See anything you like?’

‘Oh yes.’ Wilt grinned and Lodan allowed a small smile to brighten his cold features.

‘Yes, these are rich times for all of us. Too rich for some.’

Lodan’s eyes darkened, and Wilt found himself sitting straighter in his chair. There was something about Lodan that demanded immediate respect from his men. A quiet strength in his words. He knew exactly what he asked of his crew and would only have done so if he had faith in their ability to complete the task. He was a born leader; some said he was the obvious next in line for the position of the Hand, though none would dare put such thoughts into words around Lodan.

‘Let me guess.’ Wilt’s smile had faded.

‘Red Charley. He’s been getting more active in recent months. No longer feels it necessary to follow the guidelines. Been taxing the merchants on the southern side of town a little too heavily of late.’

‘The guard?’

‘The guard won’t step in until they have to. Which will be soon if nothing is done, but we could all do without a total lockdown. No, best to try and sort these things out ourselves.’

‘So?’

‘So the decision has been made to remove Red Charley from his position. Permanently.’

Wilt sat back against the bench and let out a slow breath. There was certainly no love lost between him and Red Charley, but this? Even he wasn’t so sure. The scar on his cheek throbbed with a sudden heat.

‘Relax, Wilt, we’re not talking about killing him.’

‘But you said—’

‘You can remove players from the game without violence, so long as you know the right moves to make.’

The knot in Wilt’s stomach loosened. The waiter returned with two brimming tankards of ale and Wilt took a long draught.

Lodan smiled at him. ‘You didn’t really think we’d just kill him, did you?’

‘No, but—’