A Thief to Die For

Chapter 1

The books left over from the old world warned of the apocalypse: meteors, plagues, a sky choked with ash. An endless number of ways to make humanity clutch its failing heart. But where are the stories anticipating what came after?

Was it supposed to look like this?

As I ride my horse along the edge of the shallow cliff, I glance at the mix of trees and unassuming open plains below.

The raised, bowl-like shape of our territory makes our lookout posts and catapults stand out like pointed jewels mounted on a crown – a warning to any would-be raiders – vagabonds – that they’d be stupid to try climbing the rocky elevation.

If only it would stop them.

‘Marian! You’re finally here,’ Lucky says as my horse trots up to him. He’s seated on a tree stump, nowhere near the post he’s supposed to be manning. His sword isn’t even on his waist. ‘Please tell me you brought water.’

‘Did you not bring something to drink for your shift?’ I flick open my leather satchel filled with morning field reports in hopes that maybe, just this once, he’ll hand me his report quickly. We both know we shouldn’t loiter together.

His lanky body nearly falls off his stump as he reaches for something on the ground. ‘I did, but it’s rotten.’ He thrusts his goat-leather water skin in the air. ‘Go on. Taste it.’

My lip curls at the sour odour. ‘No, thanks. And – sorry, I didn’t bring water with me.

’ Not when I can hit all six active lookout posts along the perimeter and return to the compound in under an hour.

I take in the view of the valley in the middle of our territory, filled with the Dresden camp.

Our mine workers. I suppose the trees are thick enough here that if I have to linger, this isn’t the worst place.

Lucky huffs. ‘It doesn’t help that I might be dying.’

My gaze jerks back to him. Lucky rubs his forehead, pushing back his receding red hair, and I notice his pale skin does look paler than normal. ‘Dying from what? Thirst?’ He’s still reasonably young – not even a decade older than my eighteen years.

‘No, it’s more than that. There’s this spot. And … well, I guess, if you insist, I can show you. I’ll just need to take off –’ He pushes to his feet.

‘Stop!’ I command, then bite back a curse. ‘You know full well the only thing I’ve been trained in is how to mortally wound you. I’m no help for that kind of stuff.’

Not to mention, the Commander would shoot us with our own arrows if he saw his guardsmen talking like this.

Actually, he’d probably only shoot Lucky. The leader of the Notting Militia would have other more humiliating punishments for his daughter.

‘Just … see the medic about that,’ I say.

‘Ah, Grendle won’t do anything,’ he grumbles. ‘Says I see her too often. But I could say’ – his eyes turn hopeful – ‘that you sent me.’

I grimace. Our medic is a disorienting cross between a toad whisperer and a spiteful old bat – this will likely come back to haunt me. ‘Sure. If you think it’ll help.’

He nods, and I return my attention to the Dresden homes below us. The glorified tents and makeshift treehouses huddle together like a ring of mushrooms. But with most adults working at the mine, only children are walking around the communal firepits in the middle. ‘Report?’

‘Ah, sorry, Mare … I haven’t filled it out yet.’

I inhale. Of course. ‘Just give it to me verbally, Lucky.’

‘Okay. Two lone vagabonds got a little close to the northeast border at dawn. I sent a few warning arrows and a bucket of rocks from the catapult, and they tore off. But then a caravan of traders went by at noon. No contact. An hour later, I saw a pillar of smoke to the east.’ He goes quiet. ‘Looks like the traders got bit.’

Bit, as in attacked or murdered for their possessions – a grim consequence of the Republic being ruled by raiding vagabonds, which is an ever-present threat.

Unless, of course, you prove your worth as a worker to a protected settlement, like us in Notting, and are granted shelter. But even those havens are a dying breed.

I keep my face carefully blank, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the tragedy of it. In fact, I tuck it away, holding it close as a reminder of why the Dresden need to stay here under the militia’s protection. No matter what the cost.

‘Okay,’ I say to Lucky, ‘I’ve got to move on.’

‘See you la–’

I throw him a sharp look, cutting him off. He knows better than to say that out loud.

My horse follows the dirt perimeter trail.

On the left, the land drops off into a small cliff, and another quick scan of the plain below reveals no travellers.

But that can change quickly, since we skirt the bomb-destroyed badlands and summer is settling in.

This time of year, vagabonds are always on the move.

It means everyone else has to hunt and scavenge while constantly being ready to flee.

Very quickly, a black shadow catches my eye. A raven. It swoops to a balding branch ahead, and I veer further into the trees for a better look. It’s Benedict and there’s something in his beak.

After tying my horse to the hitching post, I hide between the horse barns, remove some dried berries from my pocket, and toss them to the ground. A few guardsmen wander around doing chores and patrols, but they’re not paying attention to me. Benedict hops closer.

‘And what treasure have you brought me today?’ I whisper.

His black beady eyes blink at me, then he drops something on the ground not far from my feet. It’s a hairpin.

I huff a laugh, then toss him two more berries, before picking it up. ‘What? You don’t like my high ponytail?’ I pull the long, brown length of it out to the side and flap it at him playfully.

Benedict flies back a few feet and cocks his head, affronted.

‘Marian.’

I jerk to a stand. Benedict flaps away. My heart kicks into a faster rhythm as Coatl approaches. Why is he out here?

And how much did he see?

I pocket the hairpin and fix my posture, chin up, back straight. Then out of habit, my gaze locks on a spot in the middle of his forehead. Anything to avoid those dark, circular eyes that remind me of fish.

‘The Commander’s waiting for you.’

Well, that’s depressing. ‘Why? I’m not late.’

Disdain seeps into his face, causing wrinkles to stretch far into his bald scalp. Coatl hates when my tone is too casual with him. I don’t care. He may oversee the guardsmen, but now that we’re both Atlas’s advisors, I don’t answer to Coatl any more.

‘Something’s come up.’ His irritation melts too quickly, replaced with a hint of a smirk. ‘He has something he wants to show you.’

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Coatl expressing any kind of pleasure involving me – yeah, that’s not good.

I trail him to the compound. The towering building is the size of a barn and holds a large dining room, indoor training area, and Atlas’s High Command, the cold, soulless place where I spend my afternoons.

The scent of roasted venison wafts in from the outdoor kitchen, making my mouth water.

As we enter, the light dims, and I strain to see the floors of the living quarters rising up the far wall, the homes of the highest-ranking guardsmen.

Oh, how I wish I could disappear to my bedroom right now. Any room, really.

At the High Command entrance, Diggs salutes, opens the heavy wooden doors, then shouts, ‘Entering now, the Commander’s Captains.’

As always, the cavernous room is sunless and lit by oil lamps, but it seems extra dark today.

And a bit damp. The chilly atmosphere isn’t helped by the old relics of magic adorning the walls.

There’s nothing warm or inviting about ancient grimoires and mirrors that look like they’re haunted.

Or the supposedly enchanted objects that probably only contain something awful, like someone’s rotten toe.

But at least the swords and specialised crossbows Atlas collects are interesting. Useful even.

We round the corner of the hallway, boots thudding against the plank floor, and find the Commander seated on his glorified throne. It’s set on a raised dais, so he can look down on people sufficiently.

I spot my sister, standing before him.

Agatha’s fearful eyes meet mine and my stomach tightens. What has she done now? I stop not far from her. ‘Commander,’ I say, voice monotone, face utterly blank.

‘Marian.’ I ignore the pleased look on his bearded face.

His fingers toy with the ring on his thumb, stroking it like a cat – the very motion the travelling merchant who sold it promised would rouse the magic inside.

A magic that fifteen years later has yet to appear.

‘Did you know your sister has been getting traders to bring her … old-world garbage?’

Agatha’s head lifts. ‘Not garbage, Father. Certain rocks known for their chemical compounds. Dezzy and I have been studying the effects of keno–’

‘Enough!’ The command echoes around the room.

Agatha falls silent.

‘Don’t be brainless. We’re being attacked twenty-four hours a day on all sides.

We don’t need rocks or useless powders. We need advancements in weapons.

’ He gestures to the wall covered in the most sophisticated crossbows in the Republic.

‘And Dezzy is your nanny. Why are we even still keeping her around now that you’re seventeen? ’

I nearly scoff as anger rips through me. Dezzy is the closest person that Agatha and I have to a mother.

‘She’s not – we’re doing experiments,’ Agatha sputters. ‘Dezzy has studied alchemy. She knows about elements, and from the minerals I’ve secured I can –’

‘Experiments,’ Atlas repeats in disbelief. He turns to Coatl, who’s all too happy to mimic his disdain. ‘Can you believe this? She thinks it’s her coal to trade.’ His angry gaze slides to me. ‘Did you know about this?’

In the past, I’ve tried and failed to explain that Agatha’s not cut out to be a guardsman.

Even though she’s only a year younger than I am, she doesn’t fit into any part of his militia – so why not let her study her passion?

He took my argument like a cornered snake … and we were the ones who got bit.

‘I didn’t know,’ I say. ‘But –’

‘Hold your knife to her neck.’ Atlas stands, his long overcoat skirting his feet as he steps down from his stage, wandering closer.

‘What?’ My breath comes faster.

‘No, I –’ Agatha objects. ‘I’m sorry, Father.’

‘Marian,’ he snaps, then speaks slowly, his voice carrying a threat. ‘Hold your knife to Agatha’s neck. Let’s do a demonstration about what actually matters in this world.’

My blood pounds through me. Slowly, I draw the hunting knife strapped to my thigh and step behind my sister, letting the blade float six inches from her voice box.

‘To her skin,’ Atlas clarifies.

Countless times I’ve been in Agatha’s position, either in training as a guard, or in dangerous situations with raiders. Vagabonds. But this is different. It’s not about preparation or defence. This is Agatha’s punishment and blood is about to be shed.

Refuse.

I grind my teeth, knowing that if I tell him to go to hell, I’ll be the one stuck there.

Either Coatl will be unleashed on us, like the time I suffered a humiliating choke out after lying about Agatha attending guardsman training.

Or this escalates to her getting a full-on beating, like the one she got after running away. And that I cannot watch again.

Do it. You have no choice.

‘Coatl, show Marian what I mean.’

‘No,’ I shout, swinging my knife towards Coatl as he takes a step closer. He stops, his eyes flaring with indignation. ‘I’ll do it.’

Agatha’s trembling as I return the knife to her neck, this time pressing the razor-sharp blade to her skin.

‘Now, get out of that,’ Atlas commands Agatha. ‘Show me you can protect yourself.’

Come on. A half-dozen moves flip through my mind, and I mentally urge her to pick one. But she’s out of practice. Slow.

Finally, she grabs my forearm. Good. Now go for my thumb or press back into me. For a split second, it looks like she’ll go for a viper’s fang, a pressure point I’m positive she’s never successfully attempted, but I have no problem faking.

Instead, she raises her elbow. I see what’s coming from a mile away. My lips tighten as I force myself to take the blow. Sharp pain slams into my mouth and teeth, followed by the coppery tang of blood.

The Commander scowls. ‘You’re trying to humiliate me?’

‘No,’ we both say in unison.

‘This is about proving how pathetic and utterly useless Agatha is. But I’ll give you one more chance.’

My eyes close. Stop calling her that.

Blood drips down my chin, and I spit on to the floor.

‘Just do it,’ Agatha mutters.

I step back behind her, then place the knife against her throat.

Once again, she reaches for my forearm, only faster this time.

But she’ll never be faster than me. A seething anger settles in my bones as I snap into action, removing the knife from Agatha’s artery and hip-checking her, throwing her down.

Her back collides with the floor in a thunderous slam.

Then in one swift motion, I drop to my knee, arcing my knife through the air, stopping just above her heart.

My sister gasps heavily for air.

I meet Atlas’s eyes, my face nothing but blank.

He smiles, absolutely delighted. ‘See, Agatha! That’s how it’s done. Now cut the nonsense. Train, and stop wasting my resources on useless hobbies.’

My shoulders drop an inch now that the trial is over.

I hold out my hand to help Agatha up, but she slaps it away and runs from the room.