Poison Dance (Midnight Thief #0.5)(2)

That sobered even Bacchus up. “How does she know?”

“Says she overheard some men talking. Didn’t know their names, but from her descriptions, it sounded like Gerred’s crew.”

Rand whistled darkly. “There’ll be trouble if she’s right.”

The last time a guildleader had died was twenty years ago. Then, a much younger Clevon had fought his way to the top, leaving much of the existing Guild dead. It had been before James's time, but nothing he’d heard made him wish he'd been there. Across the table, Bacchus shifted, reaching for his weapons as if he expected assassins to materialize out of the walls.

James remained still, though it took some effort to suppress that same instinct to arm himself. “Gerred’s firmly Clevon’s second. Mayhap he’ll keep a hold on everyone this time.”

Rand snorted. “Mayhap Gerred’ll hand out sweet buns, kiss us each atop our foreheads, and nurse us each to sleep upon his ample bosom.” He pushed a carrot-colored strand of hair away from his eyes. “But I’ll not be closing my eyes while he’s around.”

“You know . . .” Bacchus lowered his voice below his usual bellow. “When Clevon took over the Guild, he was about the same age we are now.”

They’d all been thinking the same thing, but leave it to Bacchus to voice it. James scanned his peripheral vision to see if anybody could overhear them. By his companions’ silence, he could tell they were doing the same. Thankfully, the minstrel's singing kept their voices from traveling far. “I’ve no interest in being guildleader,” he finally said. “It’s like fighting to rule a privy. Ending up on top just puts you first to be pissed on.”

Bacchus roared in approval. “But the wallhuggers piss gold. Comes in helpful, even if it stinks.” The city’s noblemen, called such because they lived so close to the Palace wall, had recently begun to notice the Guild’s potential usefulness. More than one of the Guild’s senior men were in the noblemen’s pockets.

Rand cleared his throat. “We can argue all night about whether the headship is worth the fight, but we might not have a choice. Especially you.” He jerked his head in James’s direction. “You think Gerred’ll just take you at your word, that you’ll be a good obedient lad?”

Bacchus nodded in slow agreement, and James didn’t contradict them. He’d long been at odds with Gerred.

“There’s one more thing the lass overheard,” said James. “She also said that someone will flip my quarters tomorrow while me and Bacchus run the job.”

“Really?” The scowl dropped from Rand's face. “We can check that, at least.”

“You working tomorrow?” asked James.

Rand downed the rest of his ale. “I am now.”





Chapter Two





JAMES had been fifteen and covered in blood when he first met Clevon. A bar fight had gotten out of hand, and James had hidden in a nearby alleyway to avoid the Red Shields. But it wasn’t Palace soldiers who discovered him. Instead, a plainly dressed man with a sun-darkened face and unshaven chin had come into the alley.

“None of that blood is your own, is it, lad?” Clevon had asked.

James didn’t answer. The drunkard from the fight wasn’t his first kill—James had learned early on to strike first and strike hard—but the aftermath still wasn’t easy. He didn’t like the feel of someone else’s blood drying on his skin.

Clevon continued. “You’re fast, and you don’t hesitate. You were clear across the room by the time anyone even noticed the fool had been stuck.” Clevon reached into his belt pouch and pulled out James’s knife. “This your only knife?”

Leaving it in the man’s body had been beyond foolish. James gathered himself to fight.

“Never carry just one knife,” said Clevon. He studied the blade, rotating it so that it reflected light onto the alley walls. “But I’ll make you a deal. I give your knife back and hide you from the Red Shields—if you come work for me.”

That was how James had joined the Guild. Bacchus and Rand had come in around the same time. The rest of their cohort had either dropped out or died since then, but James found that the work suited him. He was good at it, and over the years he grew used to the feel of blood on his hands.

The job today was a routine one, which meant that James and Bacchus wouldn’t know the specifics until they spoke to Gerred. The Guild’s second-in-command held court in various locations—sometimes public, sometimes private. Today, he was in the back room of a carpenter’s shop.

The smell of sawdust and the soft crunch of wood shavings underfoot greeted them as they entered a room cluttered with tools and lumber. Gerred sat at the carpenter’s work table and acknowledged them with a nod. He was middle-aged, with a paunch that testified to his recent success, though anyone who mistook his girth for weakness did so at his own risk. A few of Gerred’s subordinates were scattered by the walls, and behind Gerred stood a man who was fast becoming familiar to James. The man wore the clothes of a commoner, but his bearing gave him away. He stood tall and looked at people as if they existed at his pleasure. It was Lord Hamel, one of the richest noblemen in Forge. He’d always believed in spreading his influence, and he didn’t restrict himself to legal means. Not for the first time, James wondered how much of his bread and butter came from Hamel’s coffers.