The High King's Tomb

Up and up the Raven Mask pulled himself, his fingers seeking the barest of crevices in which to anchor. The tiniest mistake, the least of slips, could culminate in disaster. Even if he survived the fall, his body would be broken and bleeding, and even worse, he’d be caught. He was thief enough to deserve being locked up by the constabulary till the end of his days. What he was doing now could merit execution, though if all went as planned, this would be the least of his deeds.

Despite the frosty chill of the night, sweat slicked his sides. He prayed that the soldiers on duty would not espy him, would not think to look for intruders on the wall. He hoped they all searched for danger outward beyond the castle walls, not inward. The arrival of the Eletians had been a serendipitous event, for everyone, not just the soldiery, was looking outward and paid little heed to what occurred on castle grounds, not taking any special note of one impoverished aristocrat wandering within their walls.

He had used the unexpected diversion well, picking out routes up the wall, and studying the routines of the castle and the habits of its guards. He’d taken time to become friendly with servants and to learn their ways through the warren of service corridors within the castle. There were many more corridors left abandoned that he itched to explore, but though they could be useful, he hadn’t the time to figure them all out.

Right arm up, finger-walk to the next seam between ashlars. Left arm. Right foot up, left foot. Stretch the right arm again and—his left foot slipped and he saw it all in his mind’s eye, the fall, the long tumble to the ground, the explosions of pain, his body lying broken and helpless.

He dangled there by the fingertips of one hand, his arm stretched taut, the muscles and sinews searing and strained. With a grunt he swung up his left arm and scrabbled for a hold, and when he found it, he worked his toes back into the crevices and leaned into the wall, pressing his cheek against cold stone, his heart pounding.

That was close.

He swallowed hard and worked to control his breathing. When he mastered himself, he continued his climb upward, disregarding the pain in his right arm and shoulder. He crawled until his toes stood securely on a cornice, and certain this was the desired level, he shuffled along it counting windows as he went.

Those three are for the chambers of Lord and Lady Coutre, he thought as he sidled by them. Two more for the sisters.

When he came to her window, he paused and sat upon the sill, which was flat and wide enough to hold him. No light shone within, but a shred of moonlight illuminated a square of floor and a corner of the bed.

How easy it would be to enter through the window, to steal across the floor and place a kiss upon her brow. He had done it a hundred times before, slipping into the bedrooms of highborn ladies—those who had so much wealth and glittery jewels that they’d not miss just one ring, or one brooch, or one necklace. Some anticipating, if not outright hoping, for his visit into their bedrooms left choice gems in the open for him, especially if they wished him to return certain “favors.” Sometimes he did, and sometimes he chose not to.

He thought he’d like to find the bedchamber of the lady who had confronted him at the museum. The thought of climbing through her window aroused all kinds of delicious sensations. He’d made discreet inquiries among the aristocratic circles about “Lady Karigan,” but no one seemed to know her. A pity, for he’d enjoyed riling her up, how her color rose. He’d continue to ask around. Who knew, but maybe by mere chance he’d come upon her bedchamber some night. The thought brought him pleasure.

Often he must remind himself that his work was not just for pleasure, but to help his foundering estate from being totally dismantled, leaving him a landless beggar without title. His grandsire, the first Raven Mask, had done as he now did: resorted to thievery to preserve their lands. But then his father, through terrible management and drunken gambling, had lost nearly everything his grandsire attained.

So, Xandis Pierce Amberhill the Third had taken up where his grandsire left off, training as he trained, learning the arts of the stealthy, and stealing from those who could afford to miss a trifle. Slowly he worked to rebuild the family’s wealth. His dream was to purchase back all the lands his father had squandered, and it might very well happen sooner rather than later if his latest task succeeded. He would earn a handsome sum.

Morry disapproved of the whole scheme, disliked their co-conspirator, the plainshield, thought the whole thing lacked honor and was too risky. Risky, very risky—Morry was right on that count, dear Morry his cautious manservant, who was so much more: surrogate father, teacher, and the one who had taught him the arts of the Raven Mask, for Morry had served his grandsire as a young man.

It was the servant in Morry who submitted to Amberhill’s desire to partake in this plan, this challenge, this opportunity to regain the wealth of his estate.

His breath fogged the window as he peered into it, discerning nothing. It was not his object this evening to slip into the bedchamber of Lady Estora Coutre and steal her jewels. He would not chance awakening her or her maidservant who must sleep at the foot of her bed. To do so could rouse the Weapon who stood guard on the other side of the door, causing a confrontation the Raven Mask did not desire, and ruining all his plans. It would bring him to no good end. He had risked enough already just by scaling the castle heights to sit on Lady Estora’s windowsill.

It was as surreptitiously close as he dared get to her on castle grounds. It was important for him to try, though, important for him to know whether or not this approach, via the wall, might work, but before he had gotten very far, he ruled it out, for he believed there were less perilous ways to accomplish his task.