CHAPTER ONE
Lyo Morandi knew this better than anyone. An accomplished artist views a painting with a practiced eye; a thief does so when choosing a mark. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and mediums, after all—the one he was tracking now was what they called “understated opulence.” In other words, a Mona Lisa. “See what I’m seeing?” he said out of the corner of his mouth, glancing at his companion sitting opposite him at the canal-side café. The newspaper the man was “reading” crinkled audibly as he folded one page to the left and followed Lyo’s gaze. “Mmm.” “Don’t even have to fan her to see the size of that wallet.” It was slight, and anyone else would have missed it, but the man’s mouth tilted upward. “It’s your move,” he said. Lyo brought his arms over his head in a stretch, leaned back over his wrought-iron chair—why did they make them so damn uncomfortable?—and rose to his feet in one polished motion. As he sauntered toward the mark, he adjusted the collar of his shirt. The buttons of his vest had to come undone, for access to the inner pockets, of course. He rolled his wrists. Flexed his fingers. It was like clockwork—before the clock was due to run. “Excuse me, Madam,” Lyo said as he drew near, “did you happen to see something roll this way?” A single eyebrow flew up. “Roll?” “Ah … yes.” Lyo rubbed at the back of his neck with an awkward laugh. In his periphery, he could see the other man approaching, dark red hair almost black, blue-gray eyes injected with false apprehension. “You see, my friend and I were arguing over the authenticity of a coin—a rather large one,” Lyo explained, gesturing once to the man now by her side and then to the canals near their feet. “Did you see it fall into the water?” the man asked, his voice carrying a breathy edge. “I …” the woman glanced into the canal. “Careful!” The man seized the opportunity to top the poke, pinching the pocket of her jacket so that the leather of the wallet saw the light. Whew. That leather was expensive. One heartbeat later, it was nestled in the inner pocket of Lyo’s vest. “Did you hear anything?” Lyo asked. “A splash, perhaps? Maybe it hit a brick so a noise such as …” He snapped his fingers, and in that instant, his partner in crime unclasped and swiped the gold bracelet from the hand resting at her waist. “No, I’m sorry.” The woman shot them a tight smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment I must be attending soon.” “Of course!” Lyo grasped her palm to shake it. One ring. Two rings. “Sorry for distracting you.” He stepped back, hands in his pockets, and watched as she hurried away from the glowing waters of the canal. The crowd around them was just dense enough to require a bit of theatrical flair—nothing major but still easy to pull off. Lyo grinned and jabbed an elbow into his companion’s stomach. “Jazz, what the hell? You almost tricked me.” Jasper Bray sniffed. “Pissed wouldn’t have worked there.” “Pissed works anywhere, and I can prove it. I’m just surprised you pulled a Panicked.” A sparkle of amusement was the only thing that betrayed the emotion on Jasper’s otherwise stoic features as the pair started to walk, their steps in sync both in rhythm and destination. “Don’t tell me you’re worried I’d do a better Panicked than you.” Lyo snorted. “No one can do a better Panicked than me. Not even you, Jazz. But if you want to try, be my guest. It’s a free country.” “You exhaust me.” Jasper dipped both gloved hands into the pockets of his coat. The material was dark and the cavity deep enough so that Lyo couldn’t get a good read on their contents. The lapping of the canal waters against the stone passageway, coupled with the shouts of river men and murmured conversations of an approaching dusk, added to the impossibility. “I’ll go first,” Lyo said. “The bracelet was an easy one. And I believe her satchel looked lighter when she left. Most of it was cosmetics, but …” he snapped his fingers “—a hairpin. Must be a hairpin.” Jasper tilted his head. “Is that your final guess?” Lyo nodded. “Bracelet and a hairpin.” The two of them crossed a crumbling bridge, and beneath the waves of ferries and closing businesses, Lyo could hear Jasper sigh. He lifted his left hand from his pocket for just long enough to splay his fingers, revealing a thick gold band and a bejeweled needle-like object, which quickly disappeared back into the folds of the fabric. “My turn,” Jasper said. “You took the wallet. Two rings. That’s it.” “A little hasty there, wouldn’t you say?” Lyo tugged open his vest, flashed the wallet and the rings—one solid gold, the other merely gilded. Then from his right pocket, he produced a glittering ruby brooch. “Damn, Lyo,” Jasper said, unable to hide a note of genuine surprise. “You lifted that from the pit?” Lyo smiled, patting his vest breast pocket. “At this rate, what do you think are the odds of Primus Voss themself requesting an audience with us?” “Astronomically low.” “Unfortunate. But at least with these, Santini will be off our backs for a while.” “Mmm.” As they reached the end of the bridge, the world seemed to change tone entirely. A vaulted exterior hallway stretched before them. The air grew warmer, touched with a hush of perfume and polished brass. To the left, a broad archway opened into what was unmistakably the domain of the Cimmerian Order: the infamous Obsidian Hall. The name was fitting. The hall’s gold-veined walls had been overlaid with a sheen so dark and mirror-polished it drank in the light, giving the impression of stepping into liquid shadow. Only the ceiling resisted the darkness; its great vaulted span of pale moon gold was embedded with constellations in fine relief. Lyo and Jasper’s footsteps were drowned beneath the low rhythmic swell of strings from a nearby quartet—and beneath that, the dull percussion of dice and gambling chips. The hall was crowded tonight. Nobles reclined on velvet lounges in the main atrium, wine-stained lips curling with amusement as masked dealers passed through with gilded trays. Order agents—Cimmerians—slinked between corridors and staircases that led deeper into the complex. There were one or two enforcers, who Jasper dipped his chin toward but no sign of the primus or their High Council members. This was to be expected. To their right, a doorway opened into one of the side lounges. Inside, nobles and Cimmerians alike hunched over low tables stacked with cards and shining coins, while attendants refreshed cigars and poured amber liquor from cut-crystal bottles. The air smelled of tobacco and money. At the front desk, two clients without Order regalia were making inquiries. Their nervous postures gave them away more than their dress. Lyo barely glanced at them. Instead, he tracked the other sicuros—many of them returning from jobs, their pouches clinking faintly with what they’d lifted. “Don’t risk it,” Jasper warned in a low voice. “These aren’t laypeople anymore.” “I know, Jazz,” Lyo muttered. He tore his eyes away from their satchels. They turned off the main floor, slipping into a quieter passage with lacquered doors flanked by sconces. The air here was still, muffled—no music, no dice, only the soft pad of their footsteps on plush carpeting. It had the feel of an exclusive hotel wing: Every door bore a nameplate and smelled faintly of wood polish—and power. Jasper stepped up to one such door and grasped the lion-headed knocker. Each strike sent minuscule vibrations through Lyo’s chest. Thump. Thump. Thump. “Come in.” Despite the stature of the Cimmerian Order, the hall’s hinges still squeaked as the door swung open, revealing well-used velvet-upholstered furniture in front of an unlit fireplace. To the left, there was a desk that suggested many unsuccessful efforts to fill the space, whether with small carved horses, cinnamon-scented candles, or letter openers. Lyo kicked the door closed behind them and took a seat at one of the chairs in front of a bureau. Jasper settled next to him, his features sinking into an air of practiced ice. “Hmm?” The lilting, vertigo-inducing voice belonged to a man behind the desk whose black suit made it difficult to spot where the luster of his equally black hair ended. “Sicuros. Go ahead—impress me.” He said their rank as if it scalded his tongue. The only rank he hated more was the High Council, but that was something he could not spit on so blatantly. As Lyo and Jasper emptied the contents of their pockets onto the table, the enforcer watched them through narrow green slits. The hollow smile didn’t leave his eyes as he leaned forward and plucked the brooch from the modest pile, examining it in the dim gas lamplight. “Not bad,” he said. “It appears your target could genuinely afford to be stolen from, this time.” Lyo forced his own smile. “Last time was a mistake, Lazaro. Poor people charading as rich …” “I don’t believe I asked for an explanation, Sicuro Morandi.” The corner of Lazaro’s eye twitched. “And it would do you well to address me as Enforcer Santini.” Lyo stiffened, but before he could do anything rash, he felt Jasper nudge him with the toe of his boot. Easy, Lyo. “All right then … Enforcer Santini,” Lyo said, exhaling and leaning back into his chair. “What do you think? Heard that ruby’s doing well in the market these days. Might be enough to last us a couple of weeks at least.” “That’s true.” Lazaro tilted his head, revealing the ink that curled around his pale neck in the scales of a snake. “The brooch, ring, and the wallet will fetch decent prices for wealth redistribution. The gilded ring, not as much. This should be common sense by now, but was the mark at least on the blacklist?” “No,” Jasper answered. “Not on the whitelist either.” “Shame. You know our clients pay handsomely for sabotage of their peers. Society folk,” Lazaro said, throwing Lyo a pointed stare, “are all the same.” Lyo clenched his jaw. “So?” Jasper asked. “Three weeks on your own,” Lazaro said. Lyo resisted the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. “There we have it then,” Lyo said, sending the chair screeching back as he stood. “Pleasure doing business with you. Always such a joy.” “Of course.” Lazaro’s features were taut. Jasper stood as well, the braid of his hair falling over his shoulder as he turned to leave. Suddenly, Lazaro spoke again. “However, I have another job for you,” the enforcer said slowly, as if each syllable took some effort to form in his mouth. “If you’re interested, of course.” Lyo was tempted to reject Lazaro outright, but something caused him to hesitate. He tried to make sense of what it was exactly—perhaps it was the dip in the timbre of his voice, the shift in the man’s demeanor, or the way his own stomach twisted in a knot that threaded the line between dread and excitement. Seeing he had their attention, Lazaro smiled again, but the smile looked glued to his face. “If it were my choice,” he began slowly, “I wouldn’t have selected you two for the job, but it appears you’ve struck a chord with some of the higher-ups.” Lyo tried to think of anyone in the High Council that would’ve put in a word for them. He could think of none, but he didn’t betray this to Lazaro. Lazaro continued. “It’s a recon, but that’s not what sets it apart. It’s, well, it’s the target.” The puppet smile stretched down into a frown. “The grandmaster,” he finally said. From beside him, Lyo heard Jasper’s sharp intake of breath—or was it his own? “No,” Lyo whispered. “Yes.”
