Page 1 of A Tower of Half-Truths

One

Of all the outrageous wastes of money Mavery had encountered while robbing manors, a four-foot-tall painting of hellhounds topped the list. The artist had depicted the beasts’ scarlet eyes, umber fur, and barbed tails with such chilling accuracy, it took her a moment to recover from shock and notice the blue aura peeking out from behind the canvas.

To hang this painting directly across from his four-poster bed, Baron Roven had to be fearless, eccentric, or—the more likely answer—a little of both.

If this were Mavery’s bedroom, she would never get a good night’s rest, despite that luxurious bed.

And that was to make no mention of the real hellhounds prowling about the manor’s lower levels.

“The safe is behind that painting,” she said. “Seems to be guarded with your run-of-the-mill protective ward.”

Her partner, Neldren, crossed the master bedroom in three strides and lowered the painting to the floor, revealing the safe embedded within the wall. Mavery began to follow him, but her green eyes flicked to the two pairs of red ones, and she froze again.

“Er, Nel, could you do me a favor and turn that around?”

He obliged with a chuckle. Mavery knew she was being ridiculous; it was only a painting. Still, she couldn’t deny how her shoulders relaxed once those demonic eyes were no longer staring back.

“Remind me again why you agreed to this job, knowing we’d be dealing with demonspawn?”

“We are not dealing with demonspawn,” she said. “Fennick and Itri are. And the pay was too good to pass up, as you reminded me at least a dozen times.”

She tucked a strand of golden brown hair behind her ear as she stepped forward to examine what, to Neldren’s eyes, would appear an ordinary safe.

Only Mavery could actually see the magic emanating off it.

Tendrils of blue light were loosely entwined like a sweater made with thick yarn.

Mavery didn’t need to break the ward completely to reach the metal beyond it.

As she spread her fingers, the tendrils pulled apart, creating a gap large enough for a hand to slip through. With a turn of her wrist, the tendrils froze in place. It was so effortless, it was almost insulting.

According to this job’s buyer, the baron wasn’t a mage, nor did he employ any.

The magic must have been contracted out to a freelancing wardsmith.

Mavery had occasionally dipped her toes in that line of work.

Making a steady income had been difficult when her wards lasted weeks at a time, even without anchoring spells.

To guarantee repeat business, she could have instead created second-rate wards like the one guarding this safe.

But no, there was more satisfaction—and money—in wardbreaking. Especially when it came to breaking the wards of mages who took little pride in their craft.

She reached through the gap and tugged the safe’s handle. It didn’t budge.

“It’s locked,” she said, looking over her shoulder. With his slate-gray skin, Neldren blended into the darkness, but Mavery glimpsed his leather boots dangling off the footboard. In the seconds it had taken her to manipulate the ward, he’d made himself comfortable on the baron’s bed.

“Paranoid bastard,” he snorted. “Magic wasn’t enough for him?”

“He was right to not put much faith in it. A child could break this ward, given enough time.”

She pushed her hands apart, stretching the gap until the ward created a thin border around the safe’s door, completely exposing it. She could very well crack the combination, too. But since the payout for this job was being split five ways, she wasn’t about to do more work than was necessary.

“All yours,” she said.

Neldren slung himself off the bed, landed on the carpet with a soft thud.

“It better not explode in my face when I open it.”

“I’m not Sensing any blasting wards. If you need me, I’ll be in the library.”

She turned to leave, but he took her by the wrist.

“Are you sure? Cracking this safe won’t take long, and it’ll be some time before we need to regroup with the others.” He placed a finger beneath her chin, tilted her head upward. “I figured, seeing as we have this bed and a couple of minutes to spare—”

“Come on, be serious.” She laughed, batting his hand away.

“Oh, but I am, Mave. Very serious.”

Even in the dim glow of their lanterns, the desire on his face couldn’t be more clear. But she still suspected he was only joking; he would never take such a risk. The only part she fully believed was that he’d only need “a couple of minutes.” Such had been the case the last time they shared a bed.

“Maybe later.”

“As you’ve said every night this week,” he grumbled, then shooed her away with a wave of his hand. “Fine, go enjoy your books.”

He turned his attention to the safe, body stiff and shoulders hunched. She didn’t need to see his face to know he was scowling, and she knew that arguing with him would be pointless.

Mavery headed down the darkened corridor and entered the library, where moonlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She touched the lantern on her hip, severing the connection between her arcana and the stone that fueled the light.

In most manors, the private library was little more than a status symbol. Roven’s was no exception. His shelves were coated in a thick layer of dust; even his servants didn’t give this room much attention. A neglected library presented a perfect opportunity.

Mavery searched the bookshelves for anything that stood out.

She had a personal code when it came to pilfering books.

She never took anything that was signed, gilded, or looked expensive enough to draw attention.

Books with cracked spines and dog-eared pages were also off-limits, as they were more likely to be missed.

Her prime targets were somewhere in the middle: mass-produced, but with enough literary or scholarly merit to be worthy of her collection.

And if the book was small enough to slip into her pocket, all the better.

Finding a target among Roven’s collection was more challenging than she’d expected.

The top three rows were filled with exquisite leatherbound encyclopedias.

She would bet her cut for this job that the baron had never read a single entry.

Below those books was a shelf filled with other reference materials: legal codes, dictionaries, almanacs…

She wasn’t expecting a non-mage to own any tomes on spellcasting or arcane history, but she was hoping for at least something with a little panache. Roven didn’t seem to own so much as a book of poetry.

At last, a book on the bottom shelf caught her eye.

A less discerning observer would have missed it entirely.

Tucked between two large tomes on animal taxonomy was a thin clothbound book with yellowing pages: The Modern Gentleman’s Field Guide to Mushroom Foraging.

It had been published fifty years ago, but its spine was pristine.

Flipping through it, she found dozens of detailed drawings of mushrooms. She wasn’t sure why this book was specifically for “the modern gentleman,” but she would have plenty of time later to discover that.

She tucked the book in her pack as footsteps thundered up the main staircase.

Her pulse quickened. Arcana hummed beneath her skin, waiting for her to unleash it on the approaching threat.

She was reaching for her dagger when a familiar mop of black hair passed the doorway. The youngest member of the crew, Itri, skidded to a halt. He doubled back and leaned against the doorframe, panting. Sweat glistened on his dark skin.

“Mave!” he gasped. “Oh, gods, we have to leave—now!”

“What? Why?”

“Hellhound! Coming this way!”

“You and Fennick couldn’t handle a pair of hounds?”

“Not a pair. There’s eight of ’em.” Itri shook his head. “No, nine. Fen missed the others when he was scouting the place.”

“How the hells does someone miss seven hellhounds?”

“Roven’s a breeder. Got a whole operation down in the kitchens and everything. A half-dozen pups and a bitch. Gods, was she pissed when she spotted us.”

She glanced over Itri’s shoulder and realized the boy was alone. “Where’s Fennick?”

“He distracted the bitch, told me to run for it and come find you. We only brought enough sleep tonic for two hounds, so—”

As if on cue, an otherworldly screech ripped through the manor. Mavery flinched, blood chilling and skin prickling.

Once she reclaimed her senses, she dashed out of the library with Itri on her heels. In the corridor, they narrowly avoided crashing into Neldren. From the look on his face—which was livid in every sense of the word—he’d overheard everything. He rounded on the boy, who flinched.

“Our mark is a fucking hellhound breeder? That’s a detail I should’ve known about!”

“Even the buyer didn’t know,” Itri squeaked. “Fen swore that Roven only had the two guard dogs.”

“And I swear to Fen, when we—”

The hound shrieked again. Louder, closer. Without another word, Neldren sprinted down the corridor.

“Wait!” Itri called. “What about Fen?”

“The bastard got himself into this mess, he can get himself out of it. Come on!”

Mavery and Itri exchanged glances, then ran after Neldren.

They retraced their steps from the break-in, scrambling down the corridor and up a narrow spiral staircase that led to the servants’ quarters.

Three young women lay on cots, exactly where Neldren and Mavery had left them.

Thanks to the sleep tonic Mavery had brewed earlier that day, they would continue sleeping soundly through the night.