OF THIEVES AND CONQUERORS

1. The Thief of Intemeroi (cont'd)

Theo's toes were half frozen by the time he cut into the familiar back alley. The snow piled higher here than similar alleyways. Vagrants and beggars avoided it, claiming there was something strange in the air around here—something more than just the smell of shit.

And, well, they were right.

Glancing over his shoulder, Theo knelt beside an iron grate and heaved the thing aside with a grunt. He ran a hand through his matted curls and adjusted his black cloak before descending the creaking ladder into the dark sewers.

Theo pulled his cloak over his face as the stench shoved up his nose. He took off toward the dim light of a torch in the distance, mud and excrement squelching beneath his thick-soled boots.

A decade ago, Theo had run down here to hide from the city guard. They'd caught him begging in the fancies' borough and threatened to string him up from the city gates. It'd been miserable, sleeping in the wet and breathing in the fowl fearing the guard would find him.

Yet his darkest hour had brought him here—to the strange door carved with hands and arms that looked to him as if a hundred great gods held the door in their embrace.

Now, Theo ran his hands over the carvings in the flickering torchlight, stopping only when he found the one palm that was smoother than the rest. Fitting his own hand to it, Theo sucked in a breath as the wall sucked Theoin and spit him out on the other side.

Contrary to its dramatic entrance, the Artist's home was just a small room with a lofted bed above. Shelves stacked with dingy jars and framed artworks lined the walls and a small fire burned in the old stone fireplace, illuminating the wall-sized mural the Artist crouched before. It was an image of the old gods in all their glory and the Artist had been perfecting it for as long as Theo'd known him.

It was just a shame no one else would ever see it.

"A whole shoe since last I was here!" Theo strode to the old man's side, squinting at the detail work he added to a bejeweled sandal. "What progress!"

The Artist turned from his painting and his face, so wrinkled Theo could scarcely tell where one fold ended and the other began, broke into an expression that could have been a sneer or a smile. Since the old man's eyes were trained on the bottle tucked under Theo's arm, it was likely the latter.

"Where've you been, boy?" The Artist swiped the bottle from Theo and popped the cork, giving the contents a deep sniff before he took a swig. Sputtering, he added, "What, you couldn't spare a silver for the good stuff?

"At the rate you drink it?" Theo snorted, sprawling across an ancient-looking chair shoved off in the corner. "Speaking of poison, you restocked on Red Haze yet?"

"What happened to the last vial I gave you?"

Theo shrugged and pretended to inspect his nails. "Ran out."

"I'm sure that has nothing to do with those loan sharks who washed up at the docks last month." The Artist groaned as he pushed to his feet. Despite the age and the groaning, the old man was spry on his feet, striding to his workstation with the vigor of a much younger man. "Don't know why I bothered giving you an education when all you seem interested in is offending the gods."

"I never asked you to teach me nothing."

"Anything." The Artist's grey robes swirled around him as he collected vial and scale and poison and laid them out on his worktable. "Never asked me to teach you anything."

"And I didn't come here for a grammar lesson either."

The Artist grunted, carefully transferring a spoonful of the red powder into the empty vial, his lined hands moving deftly. "You heard about the Conqueror's plans for Intemeroi?"

Theo fished a golden from one of the pockets Wilda didn't search. "Damn shame, isn't it?"

"Damn shame, indeed." The old man stuffed the poison-filled vial into a velvet satchel and handed it to Theo. "Be careful where you shift these days, boy. Won't be long before he starts rounding up magic users, if his previous conquests are any indication."

"I have a hunch his plan for our city won't go as intended."

"Now don't be getting any heroic ideas, boy."

"Heroics? Me?" Theo pressed the golden into the Artist's palm. "One might say that liquor's got to your brain."

"And another might say you hadn't a brain at all," the Artist snapped. "You know what that Conqueror does with magic users who get in his way? Chains them up and takes them to his ice palace in Tyrii, that's what. And only the gods know what happens after that, boy."

Theo tucked the poison away and grinned, ignoring the way his stomach flipped. "Fairy tales and ghost stories, old man. Don't believe everything you hear."

"Bah! Begone with you," the Artist grumbled, hobbling back to his mural with liquor bottle in hand. "Don't be late next week or I'll—"

"Change the locks on the door," Theo mocked in the Artist's grave tone. "I know."

As Theo picked his way back through the sewers, his stomach churned.

Rumors had always run rampant about the tyrant from the West and his hate of those who held a trace of the old gods' power in their blood. But he'd always listened to those stories with half a care. For as long as the Conquerer remained in the Tyrii, he was too far away to matter.

Now, though…

Maybe Theo was playing with fire.

But better to tamp out that fire before it spread and burned his whole city down.

As Theo emerged from the sewer, gooseflesh prickled at the back of his neck. Perhaps it was his thoughts, making him paranoid. But the instincts that came with being a shifter told him otherwise.

Theo forced his mind to calm and pulled up his hood, cutting through little-known back alleys until the feeling eased. Two blocks later, the gooseflesh returned. But just as he decided to shift and scout the area, a dirty hand clapped over his mouth and a familiar smell clouted his nose. Theo's legs buckled and for the second time that night, he found himself face down in the snow, a Black Shroud-induced sleep tugging him into darkness.