Day Robber by Linda Kage

Excerpt

Chapter One

Five soldiers stand guard around the wagon.

I watch them from the alcove of the masonry shop entrance, forming my plan. One fellow’s nearly dead asleep on his feet, jerking awake every few seconds when he starts to nod off. Two are arguing over who won the last training exercise they competed in, while another seems more concerned with watching the stars than the streets.

Only the fifth member peers alertly down the block, squinting into the inky night whenever he hears something suspicious.

I’ll have to take him out first.

Two night-lamps illuminate my targets perfectly. Their fluttering flames splash shadows onto the group whenever a gust of wind passes through, the burst of movement reminding me of dirty, thrown-out laundry water as it splatters random bits of darkness over their gleaming, metal uniforms.

The breeze works against me, though. Its chilly fingers cut through my cowl as if I’m not even wearing one. I had to go with the half cloak tonight so my arms and legs would be free for running—or fighting; whatever the case may be—and all the thin material does is hide my face and shoulders. It’s not ideal, but I’ll make do.

My muscles bunch as I prepare to move. But just as I’m about to launch myself forward with my fingers wrapping around both sheathed hip daggers, a cacophony of yelling erupts from behind me.

All five guards pull their swords, their attention immediately diverted in my direction. I duck backward, pressing my spine flush against the masonry’s stone wall.

Mortar crumbles away, raining around me, and I grimace. But thankfully, it’s not as noisy as the inebriated louts who’re approaching. From the path they’re taking, they must’ve just left the tavern and are now heading toward the brothel. Two of them stumble into view.

Arms wrapped around each other, the pair press their heads together and sway tipsily as they belt out—I squint and tip my head to hear the slurring words better. But is that… The Janek Vow of Fealty?

Timoth the Great, Timoth the First,
Created Granheim, and then he burst
From his own land to steal away brides
And plant his descendants, he thus confides.
Ten fair wives bore ten fair young
Who formed the Ten Tribes of which it is sung:
Vahine, the island to guard our dear sea.
Himari, the cold, and Bronwen, the free.
Anubis of heat and magic of old.
And Freya, the warrior, mighty and bold.
Sharma for sunshine, Kalliope for rain.
Emilio keeps history and Caihong the slain,
But Janek was first and rules them all.
We are of Janek; to him we stand tall.
Janek the Noble, Janek the Fine.
United, we link all of Granheim.
Despite how we act or where we may roam,
Our honor’s to Janek, this land we call home.

Snorting under my breath, I shake my head at their odd choice of ditties, and my lips quirk up at the corners as they pass right by where I’m hiding, close enough that I can swing out my boot and trip them if I so choose.

I do not.

Instead, I use their happy little reverie as a handy distraction. Creeping out of the alcove, I keep to the shadows and slink right past everyone.

All five guards have descended on the drunks, abandoning the wagon and commanding them to halt. Three soldiers hold them at swordpoint. One searches them for weapons. And the last peppers them with questions, demanding to know what they’re doing here at this time of night.

Before my unknowing accomplices can even remember their own names to answer the guards, I’ve made my way to the side of the wagon.

A tarp covers the top, concealing the contents inside, while enough rope to hog-tie the entire kingdom secures it in place. I gnash my teeth, annoyed by the extra work, even as my fingers fly, loosening knot after knot. After knot.

Thankfully, the drunkards are a talkative pair. “What’s all the fuss about? We ain’t done nothing wrong.”

I get enough bindings unfastened to silently ease the canvas off one corner while they’re explaining to the guards that they’re merely attempting to make their way to Bogami’s. Just as I suspected.

“Don’t you two idiots know there’s a curfew out tonight?” the chief guard demands.

Scratching his head in confusion, one of the drunks turns to his friend. “There is?”

While his buddy shrugs, the guard snaps, “Yes! There is. No treading on the market square after dark.”

“Well, why not?”

Because they wanted to keep this safe. My breath catches as I peer into the wagon. Moonlight from above glints across the surface of one of the many, many swords before me, making the metal shimmer with a taunting kind of wave.

I shake my head in disbelief. This is a lot of damn blades. There are easily hundreds, maybe thousands. Enough to supply an entire army. And… Tonight’s job just grew three times more perilous. Something that would’ve been nice to know before I’d accepted it.

“Because the prince commands it,” the guard is snapping at the drunks, which reminds me I need to hurry.

I glance their way as I pull my light wand from my pocket. Honestly, I have no idea what the stick is actually called, but it produces enough power that I’ve dubbed it my light wand. The strange thing’s saved my life on more than one occasion; it needed to be called something. It probably deserves a proper name. Maybe Natasha. Or Talia. Something fierce and beautiful. But I can’t seem to settle on the perfect one yet, so for now, it’s just the light wand.

Extending Wandy—ugh, no, definitely not Wandy—I lift my other hand, palm up, because that seems to help direct the magic it contains, and I close my eyes, concentrating on what I want the swords to do. A crackling sensation rushes through my arms. My ears ring, and my nose burns as fullness crowds my skull. Then my fingertips tingle and grow warm, letting me know it’s working. Suddenly, a jolt passes through my chest, knocking my balance askew.

I shift a step to the side to catch myself and open my lashes. A metallic tang fills my mouth, and I push the back of my hand across the top of my lip, smearing blood as it drips from my nose. Shaking my head to clear the dizziness, I grip the sideboard and rise onto my toes to peer at the wooden floorboards.

The swords lie in a pile at the bottom of the wagon bed, less than a tenth of the size they were moments before.

Pocketing the light wand, I pull a kerchief free and snap it open before straining my arm to reach down—and I mean, really straining because I’m way too short for this portion of the mission. I swallow the miniature pile with my cloth-covered palm, and once I have a handful, I jerk the tiny blades up and tuck them into the depths of my cloak.

I’m just peeking back into the wagon to make sure I didn’t miss any when a voice booms, “Hey! You there.”

My head snaps up. Busted.

The two drunks are toddling off in the direction of the brothel, released from their interrogation, and the five guards now stare at me, their swords lifted to full attention.

I freeze, my boots still perched on their tiptoes.

“Get away from that wagon, boy.”

Boy? Glad my hood’s up, and they have no clue who I really am, I drop back onto my heels and slowly inch in reverse.

“Why?” I ask, pitching my voice low to match the whole boy persona they’ve created for me. “What’s supposed to be in there?”

“Never you mind. Come here,” the main guard demands. “What’re you doing out after curfew?”

Instead of dutifully loping forward, I slink another step back. “Curfew? What’s a curfew?”

One of the guards spits his disgust onto the cobblestones and mutters, “Filthy street rat. Get him.”

I dart in one direction, but a guard leaps into my path. So I zigzag the other way, only for another to flank my other side. And that’s where I jar to a halt, surrounded.

“Easy there,” I caution, drawing my daggers from each hip holster. “I don’t want no trouble.”

The men on either side of me snarl but wisely keep their distance, while another strolls forward unconcerned. “Oh, you’ve got trouble,” he reports. “What’re you doing, snooping around these parts?”

I shrug, trying to keep track of the last two uniforms and gnashing my teeth in frustration as one leaves my field of vision. He’s probably creeping in from behind. “Just curious as to what’s so important it takes five armed soldiers to protect.”

The guard in front of me opens his mouth to answer, but the last soldier who’s moved to the wagon says, “Sergeant,” in a high, panicked voice. “Sergeant, they’re gone. They’re all gone.”

The sergeant glances over, confused. “What?”

I take that moment to strike, jabbing my blade at the hand of the guard on my right—the stargazer—and forcing him to drop his sword. He shrieks in pain and grabs his wounded appendage as I rush past him down the block.

“That boy’s stolen the swords,” I hear the sergeant roar. “Catch him.”

Their boots cause a racket as they scramble after me. Clearly loyal to the crown, the full moon follows me doggedly, revealing my every move to my pursuers as I whip around the corner of the guardhouse.

They’re faster on foot and larger than me. It doesn’t take long for the first one to catch up. I can feel in my bones that he’s about to leap and tackle me, so I pull up short, shifting to the side, and I duck my head low.

He sails past with a curse because he can’t stop his momentum. I help him along by springing up to plant the flat of my boot on his backside and give him an added push that causes him to go sprawling face-first to the ground.

With no time to celebrate that victory, I whirl with a gasp and draw up my daggers, crossing them in front of my face just as a sword swings toward me. My second attacker’s blade gets caught between the two of mine, and I take that moment to kick forward, nailing him right between the legs.

He drops with a howl of agony just as a third reaches me. I parry, ducking and dancing out of his reach with every swing he delivers. Oxygen chugs from my lungs, and my arms burn. I’m quickly running out of energy. But I keep going, blocking his attack, and getting in a swipe every few seconds to slice open an annoying cut on his arm.

I manage to nick him twice by the time another guard arrives. They double-team me, and I block them both until one gets in a slash that comes close enough to catch my hood. Too close. I duck to the side, barely fast enough to evade injury, but one of my daggers is knocked from my grip.

“Enough!” I growl, whipping my wand from my pocket. It’s already glowing and primed to assist.

The moment I jerk it up protectively in front of me, the men draw back in surprise. They blink, momentarily too startled to move. I’m still wearing a half-mask that covers the upper portion of my face, and my hood’s lifted, but they know exactly who I am.

“The Flare,” one breathes in awe.

I bow mockingly. “In the flesh.”

The others stagger to their feet from their recent defeats until all five soldiers are forming a leery half-circle around me. No one’s brave enough to strike first now.

“And while it’s been a pleasure,” I add. “I’ve no time for autographs tonight, fellas. Sorry.”

Before they can react, I fling up the wand and hold it over my head, squeezing my eyes shut. The power comes quickly, shuddering through my brain with so much force that it has me sucking in a surprised breath of pain while light explodes behind my closed eyelids. My knees go weak, and I begin to wilt to the side before I catch myself.

I open my eyes, blinking away the fuzziness to see into the dark. All five guards lie on the ground, stunned blind. Two are curled in the fetal position, sobbing; one’s crawling around and patting the ground, searching for his sword; one screams and begs for me to give his vision back as he wipes his eyes; and the last is just lying there, passed out cold.

Using the sleeve of my cowl to mop up more blood, I dash to retrieve my fallen dagger from the ground, then race away, not daring to wait until the strobe light wears off and the soldiers can see again.