Page 2

He doesn’t put on his usual cloak before he leaves.

That tells me he’s not going far. I purse my lips, debating whether this is smart after all.

If he’s only gone downstairs for supper, he might be back sooner rather than later, and if he catches me in his room, I’m not at all convinced I could shake him off.

I’ve fought men stronger than me, sure, but they were street criminals or commoners who needed to be taught some manners.

This one has combat training. I can tell from the way he moves, his confident walk, and his ability to blend in even though he’s so different from everyone around him.

If he got his hands on me, he could break me in half, and I have no desire to end today imprisoned or dead.

But this might be my only chance to finally find a clue about Lindie’s whereabouts. This man and his team’s surveillance of Damen’s mansion could be the key to learning where my friend has gone. I owe her that much, so I have to take this opportunity.

I wait a minute longer, just to make sure he won’t return to fetch his cloak or leave the inn entirely, then scamper over the roofs to the far end of the alley. The gap between the buildings is too wide to jump, so I climb down into an alley using a rope I strung from the rafters.

This will be my escape strategy. If I make it out of the room and onto the rooftops, I’ll climb up here again and be safe from anyone chasing me.

No matter how nimble-footed the orc is, he has to be too heavy to climb after me.

The city watchmen have a similar issue, always wearing chainmail shirts, if not plated armor, to protect themselves from regular thugs and street scuffles.

I pause at the entrance to the dank alleyway and rub my palms on my light wool pants.

I can’t have sweaty fingers when climbing.

When the coast is clear, I stride from the alley, and it only takes me eight steps to find the shadows again.

I love this time of year, when the days are short, offering me long working hours, but it’s not yet cold enough to freeze, so the surfaces I’m climbing aren’t slick deathtraps.

The downspout is easy enough to climb. I shimmy up to the roof, my breaths coming fast despite years of practice.

I checked the pipe last night to make sure it wouldn’t peel off the wall and send me crashing to my death, but the feat is still exhilarating.

I could be seen by the inhabitants of the apartments I’m slinking past, or put my foot wrong and end this adventure before it really begins.

Then I’m up, and only with a small cut on my palm from grabbing a loose shingle to keep it from crashing onto the cobblestones below.

I set the stupid thing aside and suck on the wound, tilting my hand to see better.

But it’s too dark now, and I need to move, or my mark will return to his room and catch me stealing from him.

I creep over the rooftops of the townhouses, grateful that Ultrup’s city center has been designed as a series of connected buildings clustered close together.

I slide from one roof to the next without issue, and soon I’m perched on top of the inn, peering down.

The street below is quiet for the moment, a lull when everyone is likely at supper.

The streetlamp on the corner casts a yellow pool of light onto the cobblestones, but its beam is trained downward, which gives me an advantage the city’s officials surely didn’t plan for—everything above the lamp is shrouded in deep shadow.

My only remaining concerns are getting caught by the orc himself or being seen by the guests on the inn’s upper stories, as I’ll be climbing right past their windows.

Still, there’s nothing I can do about that now.

I secure one end of my rope to the gable and give it a strong tug, then loop the other end around my waist. I haven’t slipped in ages, but a drop from this height would mean a rather sudden end to my life.

I’m not ready to go out just yet, so I’ve been using ropes, even if it means my escape is slower since I have to untie the rope before fleeing.

My soft boots find the edge of the roof, and I slowly lower myself over it.

When I’m hanging by my fingertips, I feel for the window ledge with my toes, relief rushing through me when I allow my weight to rest on the well-maintained wood.

This was the hardest part of the climb I’d anticipated, and I’m glad my calculations weren’t off.

I’ve made this trip in my mind several times since yesterday, but even with experience, things can always go wrong.

Now that I’m flat against the inn’s facade, the descent isn’t as difficult. I move from handhold to handhold, my fingers finding the smallest ornamental ledges and irregularities in the wood to cling to.

I pause just above my mark’s window, holding my breath.

This is it. If he returns now, he’ll find me hanging here, exposed.

But the room beneath me is still dark, so I inhale slowly, then lower myself onto the window ledge.

I take my lock-picking kit from my pocket and carefully jam a wire tool into the gap between the window and its frame.

The windows are well-made, but the tool is thin, just for this purpose.

I jimmy it up until it catches the latch, then lift my hand to undo it.

The window yawns inward on well-oiled hinges, nearly knocking me off balance.

I fumble for my tools, terrified I’ll drop one onto the street below.

That could be enough to alert the guards stationed in the entryway, and I’d have to flee without my prize.

But no one notices me, so I tip myself into the room instead, landing on the wooden floor with a light thud. I remain there for a moment, crouched and ready to escape, then straighten slowly and untie the rope from my waist.

The room smells nice, like the embers that must still be smoldering in the fireplace.

But when I check the grate, there aren’t any live coals left.

There’s a hint of cedar too, probably from the orc’s soap.

It’s surprising, even though I saw him wash just before.

From experience, I know men’s quarters often stink of unwashed feet and whatever food they brought in with them, but this room is neat.

He hasn’t unpacked his travel bag either. It sits on a wooden chest, still full.

Dangerous as it is, I light a candle, striking the flint twice to spark the flame.

It’s a necessary evil. Without it, I have no hope of picking the lock on the iron box the warrior had stashed under his bed.

I kneel right where he’d been sitting before, and there it is: heavy and larger than it had seemed from my observation post across the street.

It looked small in his hands, but it occurs to me now that he must be bigger than I thought as well.

My throat tightens with fear, but I push it down. I can’t afford distraction, not when the box’s owner could return at any moment and report me to the Duke’s watch.

The lock looks simple enough, designed to keep out most people—but I’m not the most sought-after cat burglar for nothing.

I squint at the tiny opening in the candlelight, tilting it this way and that, as if the lock might whisper its secrets to me and allow me to pick it faster.

Then I extract two rakes and a tension tool from my set and get to work.