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“I think I prefer having someone else to blame if things go awry,” she said. Then her smile faded, and she chanced a look at Hadria. “He never said, though. Why did he want me to lead the charge? That’s your job.”
Not that you didn’t pounce on it like a hungry senyx.
“You’ve been planning our ventures for years,” said Hadria, “and you’re a woman grown, now. It’s about time you tried your hand at the helm.”
“Now? For the largest haul we’ve ever taken?”
“Well . . . perhaps he thinks it’s time you assassinated me and took the crown.”
Hmm. Not going to get a real answer, then.
“Fair enough,” she said. “Fine old grayside tradition.”
Her teacher’s expression softened with a smile. “You’re doing well, Myria,” she said. “Hold fast. We’re almost in.”
Anticipation played a merry reel down Myria’s nerves as the crew labored on. She was there. Right at the doors of the Elysius Vault, inches from the spoils of five hundred years of conquest.
Well . . . the spoils they haven’t worked out whether they can sell yet.
The Carinth Empire wasn’t usually fool enough to leave anything of value moldering in a vault.
Someone had to catalog the ancient treasures, though, and the academics of Elysius had been saddled with the job.
Luckily, that job took time and money, which came in short supply for the average university.
Things like that had a habit of becoming next year’s problem, until a great many problems had ended up locked in a vault never meant to store anything half so valuable.
Even so, it was well protected. They’d never found out where the key was kept.
If they forced the door, the alarms would sound, and the prefecture would be there with handcuffs in five minutes flat.
Cutting through nine inches of enchanted brass would take days.
They couldn’t even sever the vault from the arcanic grid and drain the curses that way—it had its own internal power supply.
Hadria wouldn’t have risked it, and that would normally have been the final word. This time, though, things were different. This time, the job had come from Vixius himself.
It was a curious thing. Their master didn’t usually press his luck by interfering with the business of the crews. They paid their tithes, he kept their feuds in check, and the uneasy bargain more or less held together. When he did give orders, though . . . suffice it to say, they listened.
Besides, the terms were good. Better than good. Find Vixius’s prize, and the rest of the haul was theirs.
And you get to steer the ship.
“Why do you suppose he’s after it?” said Leo, wicking the thought right out of Myria’s head. He lounged sideways on a chair in the corner, studying the scroll their master had given them. The image flicked before her mind’s eye—an engraved brass box inlaid with clockwork rings.
“None of our business,” said Hadria, “and best we don’t make it so.”
“Least he’s letting us keep the rest of the goodies,” Cassia added through the screwdriver between her teeth.
“Yes,” said Leo, “and doesn’t unprovoked generosity from our lord and master fill anyone else with the urge to bolt for the nearest sewer?”
“To be fair, old boy, most things make you feel that way,” said Myria. “We’ll be alright.”
“You might be,” Leo muttered. “He likes you.” With a sigh, he let the scroll spring closed and tossed it at Lysander. “Oi, you. Are we there yet?”
Lysander caught the scroll without looking up from his work. “Tell me, young man. Are you a mechanist?” he said.
“No.”
“A therical practitioner?”
“Hope not.”
“Then why, precisely, are you here?”
“Aesthetic purposes,” Cassia supplied. Leo beamed, evidently satisfied with his contribution to the proceedings. Hadria looked calmly on, like a mother wolf watching the pups at play. For all their antagonism, there was no need to intervene; they were fighting with their claws sheathed.
A moment later, a clank sounded from the vault door. Cassia ripped out a length of cable.
“Got it!” she said, rolling to her knees. “Ready, Ly?”
“Just . . . about . . . yes.” At a flick of his hands, arcana rippled out across the door. The mechanisms released with another heavy clunk.
Cassia screwed an attachment to the end of the cable she’d freed—a brass joint forking into two short cords—then took a place at the center of the door.
“It’s ready,” said Lysander, patting the locking wheels. “The moment it’s open, start feeding the current to the conductors.”
Myria took the left-hand wheel as Leo took the right. They moved as one, dragging the doors two inches apart, and Cassia darted into place. Her gaze raked down the inner edges of the door, then fixed on the conductors. She clipped one end of the forked cable to each side and turned a dial.
A flash of arcana leapt from the right-hand cable to the left—three seconds of stillness—then another flash in reverse. They all stood for a moment, waiting, breathless, for the alarm to tear the air. But then, silence. Beautiful silence.
“Got it,” said Cassia. “It’s poaching power from the vault’s supply, so the curses shouldn’t notice the difference.”
Myria clapped her friend on the shoulder. “To the devious,” she said.
“To the devious,” the others echoed.
Her heart ran fast with relief. The trickiest part was behind them. The vault told itself that it was locked by sending a pulse of arcana between the doors every three seconds. Now, they could keep it open for as long as they pleased.
“Splendid. My turn,” she said.
Leo and Lysander hauled the doors farther open, and Myria took her place before the gap. A dark arcanic wall lay before her, bubbling like hot tar, cloaking the inside of the vault. Lightning flickered down her nerves. Her fingers danced and snatched.
“Patrium curse. I doubt I’ll be able to hear you once I’m inside,” she said, in a creditable show of calm. “If I’m not back in five minutes . . . write me a flattering epitaph.”
“Myria Cadessa, died Year of the Empire 1034, aged Pantheon-knows-what,” said Leo. “Here lies one who didn’t watch her arse.”
“A lady can always rely on you for that.”
“My honor.”
“Good. Now, keep watch from the roof,” she said. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to call him.”
She lingered for a moment at the door, like a diver teetering on the edge of the highest drop she’d ever seen. Then, without a sound, Hadria was beside her.
“Good luck,” she said, voice deep and soft. “Go.”
Hadria gave her a steady smile—the closest thing to a mother’s embrace that Myria had ever known—and nudged her forward. With that, Myria stepped through the sheet of living blackness and into the Elysius Vault.
The moment she crossed the boundary, the curse cut off the sounds of life like a garotte. The world turned coffin black. Myria slipped a vial of illuminary vapor from her gown and sprayed a brassy glow across the air.
The low light glinted off the forgotten treasures of the empire.
The room was only ten by twenty feet, but its disordered contents filled it to the brim.
Strange antiquities of twisted emberyn gleamed from a cabinet to her left.
Atop it sat a blued steel blade that whispered like the wind.
Smoked-glass spheres hung from the ceiling, breathing out the tang of bottled storms. An exquisite violin lay at her right hand, but when she reached for it, an inexplicable swell of grief pressed her back.
None of that. To business.
Myria set eyes on a row of brass dials in the doorframe. She turned the first, and the blackness cleared, revealing Hadria and Lysander in the antechamber beyond.
“It’s working,” she called, but they didn’t move. She must’ve only undone the curse from the inside. She twisted the second dial, and sound flooded back into the vault. She was about to try the third when her own name snatched her attention.
“Myria’s done well,” Lysander said. His task complete, he’d reassumed his usual air of genteel antiquity. He was something like an academic from a century gone by, with his indulgent smile and kindly turquoise eyes. His silver hair fell about a face fifteen years too young for the color.
“Mm. Vixius should be pleased,” said Hadria. Even so, her jaw stiffened as she said it. Lysander threw her a sidelong look.
“You suppose he’s preparing her to take over?”
“I’m not sure. He’s preparing her for something.”
At once, Myria’s nerves snapped tight as wire, fear mingling with perverse excitement.
“I see,” Lysander said, then flicked off his spectacles in an oddly nervous motion. “Speaking of plans, have you given any further thought to a, ah . . . certain proposal?”
Half a frown and half a smile crossed Hadria’s face. She reached out silently and took Lysander’s hand. At once, Myria knew that she should watch no longer. Still, she’d have made a poor graysider if she heeded that kind of instinct.
“A great deal, when I had the time to spare. It’s . . . difficult,” said Hadria, gaze falling. “He might consider releasing me, but the rest . . . I can’t leave them.”
“If Myria’s to take over . . .”
“She can’t. She’s nowhere near ready.”
Myria held her breath by instinct. Not ready?
“She planned this entire—”
“There’s more to it than thiefwork, Ly. Lead the crew. Deal with Vixius. Fend off the other graysiders. She’s not hard enough for that game. You don’t know how much blood it took to mark us as untouchable to the rest of the crews. If you did, I doubt you’d want me.”
“You overestimate my rational capacities,” he said. A hesitant smile crossed his face before uncertainty erased it. “But Myria could find other hands to do the bloody work. You’re not so much afraid of leaving her, are you? You’re afraid of leaving her with him.”
Hadria closed her eyes and nodded.
“Vixius. He’s always had an interest in her. Ever since we dragged her out of that harvesters’ den, he’s . . . watched her grow, like interest in a bank. He has plans for her.”