Meeting the Master
Reya Vance
My shallow breaths came quickly as I peered out of the dark alleyway. The moonless night of Royal City felt like it was smothering me with sticky summer humidity. Without a storm on the horizon, I had hoped that the temperature would drop just a little, but I was wrong. The air felt too close, too claustrophobic for me to breathe properly. I fought against the urge to remove my mask. Hell, I fought the urge to take off my clothes altogether and complete the job in just my underwear. Anything just to make myself feel comfortable in this oppressive heat. But that would mean abandoning all the tools of my trade, and the one cardinal rule for a master thief was - don’t be stupid.
Accepting this job had already been a stupid decision. The Thieves Guild would not be happy to learn that I had gone rogue. Normally, I would have turned down a side gig, but the client was offering five hundred Crown, and wanted me especially for the job. It is nice to feel wanted, especially when you can use it to negotiate a higher rate. Miss Beatrice would find out, eventually. I knew I would not be able to avoid her wrath forever, but the new life that eight hundred Crown could buy me would make my punishment extremely unprofitable for her.
The sound of hobnailed boots clattering off cobblestone drew my attention to the two Royal City Constabulary Guard making another pass. I shrank deeper into the shadows of the alley as they neared. There were tow of them, a man and a woman, their conversation was low and hushed but became clearer as they approached. The orange glow from a burning torch cast its lambent gaze towards me, but I was confident I would not be seen.
“Fancy a quickie down the alley?” Asked the man. My heart plunged into my stomach.
Panic stretched icy fingers around my throat as I realised he meant the exact alley I was standing in. My mouth was suddenly dry as I realised, no matter how good I was at sticking to the shadows, I would be discovered.
“Not tonight, Clive. I can’t say I’m in the mood for back alley fun. Although we could shag in the graveyard, if you are game”.
Clive’s sounds of excitement masked my whispered blessing for the sister with an odd kink. Then I waited for their footsteps to disappear down the road towards the graveyard, one neighbourhood over.
I made my move.
Darting from the alley like a dark arrow, I struck a straight path for the door. Although there was no breeze, the rush of movement tugged at the hood over my head. I did not worry that it would slip, as hair clips had been sewn into the black fabric.
I made no sound as I ran, the soft soles of my shoes gently padded against the stone, polished smooth from decades of wear. My clothes did not rustle. Made from coleskine cotton, my dark britches and hooded top were dense and rugged, although the midnight humidity made them cling to my skin in all the wrong places. I could have worn something heavier, like leather, but I was not expecting a fight tonight. The job was planned as a quick in-and-out, so I did not need proper armour. If I did encounter any unexpected resistance, I trusted that I had enough toys strapped to me to make quick work of an unfortunate situation.
As I approached the door, I dipped my hand into the leather pouch on my left leg and pulled out a strip of paper. It was sticky on one side, and I softly slapped it on the door. Anti-magic diagrams were scrawled on the paper, which the client assured me would nullify any scripts securing the door. Normally, I would find my own entry point. But given that I was robbing The Great Library of Knowledge and Mysteries, I thought it best to defer to the client’s experience. Not that I ever actually met the client, only their intermediary, but the plans and blueprints they provided were extensive. It was good enough to have me trust their expertise.
That was the first time I broke the cardinal rule of thievery.
Quickly moving my hand within my right glove,I flipped a switch and a lockpick slid from the secret compartment. One-handedly, I slid the rake into the lock, applied tension, and penetrated. Other thieves like to show off by taking an agonisingly long time teasing each pin into place. Not me. If there is one thing that could be said about Reya Vance, it is that I prefer quick and efficient penetration.
Within seconds, the lock yielded. The hinges began to groan, but I took the weight of the hefty oak and pried them wide enough for me to slip through. Beyond into absolute darkness.
Not even the inside of the library could escape the ever-present summer heat. The place stank of old books, musky robes, and mildew. Now, I was thankful for my mask screening out as much of the noxious odour as possible. Grabbing a pipette from a pouch on a bandoleer, I squirted one drop of silver liquid into each eye. It stang for a few heartbeats and I blinked the pain away as the Cats Eyes Elixir began to work its magic.
The abyssal gloom quickly retreated, replaced by a soft twilight. Edges of desks, chairs, and the rows of bookshelves resolved into outlines of shimmering silver. The elixir enabled me to see in the dark for half an hour; however, any sudden lights would be a challenge. Other downsides included a debilitating headache after three hours and the worst possible hangover over the next two days. Cats Eyes was undoubtedly useful, but it was far from the most enjoyable tool in my arsenal. Still, the promised payday would more than make up for my self-inflicted misery.
The Great Library of Knowledge and Mysteries lived up to its name. Statues stood proud throughout the building, and vast artworks hung on the walls. Each piece was masterful in its own right and was worth more than a few dozen Crowns apiece. As I followed the planned route through the maze of towering bookshelves, I resisted the urge to pinch a piece as a bonus.
The problem with art theft is that it is inherently hot property. Everyone knows where it came from, and no one wants to purchase something from a fence that would see them spend years in a gulag. Quietly, I made my way towards an inconspicuous corner of the building. The client had assured me that the staircase to the library’s most valuable collection was located in the North West, behind a statue of a woman sitting under a double moon. Finding the statue was frustrated by the twisting pathway made by the shelves. As hard as I tried to remember the mental map, I found myself running into a dead end twice and backtracking. I found the statue eventually and tried my best not to laugh.
It just looked like a fancy lady sitting beneath a pendulous set of balls.
Skirting around ballbag girl, I found the inconspicuous corner I was looking for. To anyone else, it would look like a blank wall set into a decorative alcove. However, with the elixir running through my system, I could see the subtle difference in sheen between three bricks and the others. With a gentle prod of my gloved forefinger, one of the shiny bricks moved inwards a fraction.
“Shit,” I hissed, confident there was no one around to hear me. “Okay, Reya, there is obviously some combination here. Three buttons to press means there are nine possibilities. Get it wrong, and chances are you are completely fucked.”
The bitter tang of adrenaline and dread collected in my mouth. My mind wandered about what manner of anti-theft security measures could be at play. Given who I was robbing, the possibilities ranged from highly unpleasant to a wholly unflattering death, exploded by whatever arcane secrets had been hidden. Pushing those worries aside, I swallowed my nerves and began acting like a professional.
“A lock is only as strong as its simplest flaw. So, what’s the flaw here?” I queried. “If someone gets the code wrong, something nasty happens. So, everyone has to remember the code. But let’s say I’m some old boy, I’m very busy and very important. So I might not be able to remember every code to every secret passage in my life. The answer to that problem is to write the codes down. But then, if I had hundreds of scraps of paper floating about, it would take me an age to find the right one and I don’t want to waste half a day going through my draws each time I want to read some three-hundred year old book… so I would write the code down somewhere nearby.”
Quickly, I scanned the alcove. There, by the top left corner, were inscribed three tiny letters. M,L,R.
“Middle, left, right,” I said triumphantly, pressing each corresponding brick. Each moved inwards a fraction of an inch, locking into place with a soft click. Then nothing. Readying myself for an untimely demise, I was pleasantly surprised when the wall swung back on hidden hinges.
I whispered a blessing for laziness.
A dark stone tunnel was revealed, accompanied by a blast of cool air, which would have been refreshing if my forehead were not the only patch of exposed skin. Now keenly aware of the stifling heat pressing against me and the sweat seeping into my clothes, I pushed into the secret passage. It was tiny, barely large enough for me to stand in. A tall person would have had to stoop to get through. However, after ten feet, the tunnel connected to a stone staircase stretched up several stories.
I began to climb. At the top was a wrought iron gate, secured with a padlock and chain. The padlock yielded to my tools and in no time at all I stood in a tiny vault which housed around two hundred books on obsidian shelves, a small desk with an unlit candle, and a single stool.
Something about this place felt strange. The backs of my teeth itched, and I got the distinct impression that I did not belong here. The vault felt hostile, the architecture amplifying feelings of dread, doom, anger, arousal, joy - anything and everything to cloud my mind and keep me locked in a state of paralysis.
Malevolent architecture would not work on me.
Slowly, with practiced ease, I cleared the errant emotions from my mind. Disposing of them like dirty rags. All that remained was my purpose - to obtain the goods - and get the hell out.
Still, one lingering thought remained. Did the client pick me because they knew I could withstand the vault’s pressure? If they did, then they were keenly aware of the breaking room and the Thieves Guild’s secret training regime. “No,” I assured myself. “They chose me because I am a master thief. I am expected not to break”.
The vault laughed at me.
It was a low, imperceivable rumble that only caught at the very edges of my consciousness. But it was there. The intense malevolence was simply unnatural. Each step into the vault felt like walking through molasses. My sweat ran cold, my body shivered, and I could see my breath mist before me. The sharp, silvery angles from the Cat's Eyes began to blur and run into each other. It had not been long enough for the elixir to run out. I shook my head to correct my vision and instantly regretted it as the world wheeled around me.
I collided with the table, and the stool skittered across the glassy floor. The sound was cacophonous. It echoed, seemingly forever, before sounding like tittering laughter.
I groaned, pushing myself back up to my feet. The malevolence poured itself into me, shredding through every mental barrier I could erect. The cold hands of dread groped me while terror lapped at my soul. Something constricted my throat, and after a moment I realised that my ungloved hand was around my neck. My fingers had slipped up under my georgette, pressing into my carotid artery, nails biting into my skin. When I had lost my glove was the least of my worries as I peeled my fingers away from my jugular. I wanted to turn and run, to leave this place and find somewhere nice in the country to settle down. Get married, have kids, and leave this entire life behind me once and for all
But I needed the book to make that happen.
Afraid even to whisper - as there was no telling what this vault would do to the sound of my voice - my eyes darted from shelf to shelf looking for my target. Then, as if my eye was drawn to the prize, I spotted it. Midway along the third shelf down was a black leather book. The words The Chronicles of Erebos were written in gold on its spine. That was my target.
Every nerve in my hand flared in protest as I reached for the book. The sensation was primal like my body was telling me not to reach for a blazing fire. Stupidly, I ignored my body. The second I touched the cold leather, my world changed.
The malevolent hostility stopped. The ringing in my ears I had not even been aware of shut off completely. I stood in silence, not even daring to breathe. My hand clasped around the spine of Erebos.
Then I felt it. The coalescing of shadows in the corners of my vision. At the end of the vault, the darkness began to resolve into a figure. Vague. Shifting. As if stuck between realities. Slowly, I turned my head to look, but there was nothing. Only blank wall etched with arcane symbols.
When the darkness parted to reveal a set of golden eyes, I ran.
Behind me, the laughter began again.
Tucking the book into my satchel, I thundered down the stairs and out of the tunnel in only one breath. Something was behind me.
And it was following me.
Survival instinct kicked in as I fled from some primeval predator that had no right to exist. Without a care for stealth, I charged through the labyrinth of bookshelves. My heart pounded in my ears as my mind raced to remember the path out of the library. Taking lefts and rights at full speed, I wondered if it would be quicker to simply scale the shelves, smash a window and fly out into the night.
“No,” I hissed to myself through a dry mouth. That was fear telling me what to do. I pushed the thought aside and kept focused on the path to freedom.
As I turned a final corner, I collided with a shelf and lost my footing. With the grace of a newborn lamb, my legs splayed out wide and I stumbled.
Crashing to the ground, I slid into the opposite shelf, and a torrent of books toppled onto me. A heavy volume smashed into the back of my head and the world swam around me for a moment.
Cursing beneath my breath, I clambered to my feet.
That’s when I felt it.
The compulsion to look over my shoulder.
Despite every raging synapse telling me not to look, I felt the insatiable pull commanding me to look.
To see.
Him.
The man stood between the rows of bookshelves I had just run down. He was naked, save for a loose, mottled, yellow robe draped about him. His sculpted body was pale, as if he were a marble statue = glowing under moonlight. Locks of platinum blonde hair fell loosely to his shoulders. His face was haunting, angular and noble but rugged and wicked also. He stared at me with golden eyes of indifference and intense curiosity.
He was dreadful and beautiful at the same time.
Quiet and peaceful, but seething with anger and the promise of violence. The man in yellow was a tapestry of contradictions manifested as a single entity. And I could feel him wanting me.
“Say my name”.
His words echoed into my head, forced in without consent. His voice blurred the line between dream and nightmare. It was equal parts angelic chorus and demonic orchestra. The force of his will was like standing before an avalanche, knowing there was nothing else to do but accept your fate.
My lips moved on their own, forming the shape of his first syllable. I screamed internally, fighting with every shred of self-control for my body to do something to avoid the inevitable. But my legs would not obey. It was as if no part of myself belonged to me. In desperation, I bit down on my lip. Hard. The sharp spark of pain brought me back to my senses. The warm coppery taste of blood filled my mouth.
I blinked in pain, squeezing my eyes shut in the hope that the man in yellow had disappeared. That I was just experiencing some reaction to a bad batch of Cat's Eye, or - something.
But I wasn’t.
He was still there.
Watching me.
Expectantly.
With his golden eyes.
And so, I screamed.
