Chapter 1
Valerius Stern was on his deathbed. This was quite an accomplishment. Men of his profession seldom died at home, much less in the company of family and friends. Yet, here he was, surrounded by those he trusted most, propped up with a heap of exotic silks and pillows with gilded embroidery. He managed a grin. His enemies would be outraged to see him dying in comfort — but most of them preceded him in death.
In some cases, he saw to it personally.
Blessed at birth by Fortinea herself, Valerius rose through the ranks of Winston's Thieves Guild, becoming its Head after 7 years of membership. The ambitious rogue did not stop there. He expanded his enterprise to the farthest reaches of the Widegulf region. His criminal empire was relatively benign, yet wildly profitable. A series of shaky truces and devious maneuvers kept him one step ahead of the Merchant Kings who controlled the territory. He played one against the other, ensuring their resources were spread too thin to deal with him. In the end, a balance was reached, and Widegulf was much better off for it. It was a good life that Valerius made for himself: never at want for adventure, nor luxury, nor the company of women.
Still, the last few years had not been as kind to him. Several years ago, a misadventure in the Orian Wilds caused him to contract a wasting illness. His best apothecaries could only delay the inevitable for so long. Even the gem-eaters he paid an exorbitant sum for were powerless to stop it. Soon enough, his age became more evident, his old battle wounds more pronounced. There was barely a trace left of his lean, muscular frame, and his hair had grown thin and white.
Valerius surveyed his quarters, taking the measure of many familiar faces. Then, with great effort, he began to speak.
"Merrick, you filthy cur! There is not a soul present that I would rather drag down to hell with me, had I the strength. You were the only one who could out-drink me, and a royal pain in the ass besides. To you, I leave Winston's docks. Run them as you see fit."
"Augend, slippery as the devil's backside. You've been with me since we were old enough to walk, and somehow managed to get us both in more trouble than I knew what to do with. To you, I leave the Lower Workshop, with its trove of knickknacks, artifacts, and all of the jewels secreted away in its vault. Good luck getting it open."
"Tarissa, my closest cohort. To you, I leave whatever's left in the safebox behind the big dresser. Worry not; it would take three lifetimes to spend, at least. In case you grow thirsty in my absence, I leave to you the Bronbottom Orchard as well."
And, finally:
"Cecil, my only surviving son. I fear you are far too soft for this world, yet... There is something in you the others lack. To you, I entrust my whole empire. I know you find your inheritance burdensome, but you must manage. I leave to you the Thieves Guild, the Gambling Halls, the Pigsty, the Mortar and Pestle, as well as the key and contents of my personal treasury."
Ignoring the audible muttering in the room, Cecil stepped forward to hold his father's withered hand. He leaned in close.
"Go easy, father. I will make you proud."
"You're a terrible liar," whispered Valerius. And with that, he expired, a sly grin still on his face.
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Cecil Stern walked out of the Thieves Guild, and chaos erupted. Dozens of criminals of every sort swarmed about the entryway. Pickpockets clad in filthy rags, brutes who ran protection rackets, wealthy contraband dealers, even a few toxicians and dreadsmen. Someone tugged at his sleeve before he swiftly pulled it away.
"My lord," a hoarse voice pleaded, "we implore you to make amends for the slaying of the Duke of Yurzam, so that the Mortar may trade freely with —" Cecil brushed past him without a word of acknowledgement.
"Lord Stern," yelled someone from further away, "please consider approving a small increase of the fees for the Copper District —"
"SILENCE!"
The shout felt unnatural coming from Cecil. It did not carry the gravity of his father's words, he noted. Perhaps his voice even cracked a bit. Some lowlife dressed in fighting leathers found the situation humorous. His demeanor changed when a cloaked figure slipped out from behind him, pressing a dagger to his throat.
"All of you mangy vermin are eager to conduct business with me," the young lord continued, "while my father's body has scarcely grown cold. I declare today a day of mourning! Forget your trivial disputes. Pause your petty deals. Spend today paying my father the respect that he's due. Business resumes tomorrow."
No one protested, and the sea of criminals parted before him. On he went, running his hand through his chestnut-brown hair. His father was right: he did not want any of this.
It was only two weeks ago that he celebrated his 20th birthday. Although he trained night and day, his body was still soft around the edges, stubbornly refusing to inherit his father's muscular physique. He was slower, too. He could hold his own in a fight, but any of the experienced rogues who worked by his father's side would have made short work of him. An ugly scar on his chin prevented the growth of the kind of fearsome beard a proper scoundrel should have, leaving him only with unruly stubble. He detested fancy clothes, most days favoring a well-made leather tunic worn over a white undershirt. In short, Cecil looked very ordinary, if a little ragged. The position he inherited did not seem to suit him at all.
If he had one thing going for him, it was his keen sense of observation. He made use of it now, walking towards his private quarters, hidden away at the edge of Winston. Pausing at the door of the tiny apartment, he could hear the faintest of creaks — meaning that his shutters were open.
He had company.
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Cecil took a deep breath and flexed his fingers, trying to steady his nerves. He was almost certain that his uninvited guest was an old friend. After all, he was careful to make sure he wasn't followed. A pair of guards were supposed to be stationed across the street, observing the small window which was the only other means of entry to his hideaway. But with his father gone... There was no telling who might be plotting to take his head. More than a few power-hungry bastards would love to throw the Thieves Guild into abrupt disarray, that much was certain.
Still, there was no use hesitating.
He took care to open the door just the same as he would have any other day. Walking in, he shut the door behind him, deliberately exposing his back —
And there it was. A quiet step behind him, the distinct sound of knotted leather swinging through the air. A sap, then: a clever weapon designed to knock the victim unconscious. Whoever this was, at least they preferred him alive.
Acting on instinct, Cecil raised his arms to take the blow. It stung like hell. He exhaled in time with the impact, just as his father taught him. With a grunt, he grabbed his assailant's arm and pulled abruptly. The cloaked figure stumbled, caught off guard. In that moment, Cecil might have gotten the upper hand. However, it was then that he caught a glimpse of his attacker's eyes.
Amethyst eyes! Not the familiar green that he hoped to see. And a much bulkier build! This wasn't who he was expecting at all. His heart pounded in his chest as he struggled not to panic. An elbow struck him fully in the sternum, knocking the air from his lungs. Cecil ducked just in time, and the follow-up blow landed on the door frame. He shoved the figure away, went low, and lunged for the legs. This was one of the few techniques he had practiced, and very effective in close quarters. Unable to stop his momentum, the cloaked assailant tumbled back through the small apartment, towards his bed —
A quick flick of a gloved hand sent a dart flying through the air. Cecil did not have time to dodge. Twisting around, he took the dart with his left shoulder.
"You're dead, Stern! I win!"
The voice that made this bold declaration sent immediate relief coursing through his whole body. He exhaled loudly, and lowered himself to the floor as gracefully as his legs — still shaking from the surge of adrenaline — would allow. Then, he started to laugh.
The assailant did not like that.
"What the hell is so funny, Cecil? If that dart was poisoned..." Off came the hood, revealing a mess of long red hair. Then, the scarf which hid the rest of her freckled face. His opponent was a young woman, only a year older than him, who had done an exceptional job of disguising herself this time.
Cecil wordlessly motioned her over. He peeled the tunic away from his shoulder. Where the dart struck, thick bandages held a bulky satchel filled with fragrant herbs. The dart was lodged firmly inside, stopped before it could even prick his skin.
He took a moment to catch his breath, then explained himself. "For your information, I pulled a muscle doing something incredibly clever last night. Tarissa, gods preserve her, fixed me up with a poultice. I hardly think your 'win' counts."
"Bastard. Suppose this one's a draw, then."
Cecil grinned and extended a hand. "You're the only one of us who keeps score. Help me off the floor, and tell me how the hell you got in here, Claire."
"It was easy. The locks on your window are absolute rubbish," muttered the red-haired woman, pulling the young lord to his feet. "There are lots of spikes on the wall below, but only a few above it. Anyone who knows what they're doing is going to climb down from the rooftop."
"And my men?"
"Sleeping powder. Caught them playing bones with their scarves off."
Cecil muttered a string of curses. "Okay, then. What about your eyes?"
"Rohan made special lenses for me. Some kind of crystal, slim as a sheet of paper. Pretty, aren't they?"
Cecil nodded appreciatively, and Claire continued. "I went through a hell of a lot of trouble to throw you off. Powder for my face to cover the freckles, padding under my clothes to change the contours... And a stupid binder that hurts my chest. Your turn, now. How did you predict my attack when you walked in?"
"I had a hunch someone might barge in here and try something. Moved the dresser over before I left. There's just enough room on the side of the door to get a good swing in without being spotted. Anywhere else won't give you enough purchase."
Claire's eyes widened. "Good trick. I'll have to remember that. You stayed calmer than you usually do, too."
"I have to admit, I was hoping it was you. Besides, I spotted you back at the Guild. It was you going through the crowd, keeping the hecklers quiet, wasn't it? You must have taken the rooftops all the way here to outpace me."
"Foiled by my own loyalty once again," lamented the red-haired rogue. "Just one more question. Dare I ask what clever plan wrecked your shoulder bad enough for you to seek out Tarissa?"
"Moving the dresser, of course. See how it all comes full circle?"
Claire and Cecil shared a laugh, and an easy silence followed. Cecil was glad that this was not a genuine attempt on his life, although it was only a matter of time. His new title was a target painted on his back. Claire, on the other hand, was delighted that Cecil put up a good fight. He never took his combat training seriously, and his technique was lacking. Still... He would often slip in some unexpected trick that caught her completely off guard. Sometimes he managed to foil her ambushes, but most of them still ended with Cecil face down on the floor.
Claire finally broke the silence. "How are you feeling?"
"Exhausted," Cecil replied. "I keep expecting father to emerge from the shadows and declare that he has one more heist left in him, but... I saw it with my own eyes. He's really gone."
Claire nodded silently. Cecil knew that she felt the loss almost as keenly as he did. Valerius cared for Claire as if she was his own daughter. She was half-starved and wild when he saved her from the gallows. Only 9 years old, she managed to fashion a shiv from a bit of glass, becoming the scourge of Winston's merchants overnight. Her pardon cost a small fortune, which Valerius considered to be a fair price for her talents.
Claire and Cecil's relationship back in those days consisted of merciless taunts and provocations. Resentful of the wealth Cecil was born into, Claire would do whatever she could to goad the heir into a fight. She would always come out on top. It was these ruthless assaults that finally convinced Cecil to pay some attention to his arms masters. Still, the nimble girl was more than his match. He devised other ways to get even. He would visit the food stalls she robbed, and spiked some of her favorite dishes with spices her stomach couldn't tolerate. Once, he bribed most of his father's men into pretending they didn't know who she was. It did not end well.
At 14, Valerius sent Claire off to join the Brassworks — a rival organization, which he coerced into an uneasy truce. Despite this, she always looked for excuses to come visit. One day she would come unannounced to tell Cecil the latest crude joke she learned. Another, to show off with her brand new dagger. The taunts and teasing between the two never stopped, but a certain kind of fondness was written between the lines.
Of course, Claire never stopped trying to provoke him into fighting, either. "Good practice," she would say, "and Fortinea knows you need it more than I do."
Claire looked like she was about to say something else, when they heard the faint sound of boots scraping shingles on the roof. Two pairs of boots, to be exact.
"You lot may as well come in," said Cecil with a shake of his head. "Although I would have preferred it if you just used the door."
