CHAPTER ONE

Alinea

Blood is a terrible thing to spend when you’re already broke. Seems I’m in debt now.

It slides down my leg, warm and thick, staining the pristine marble beneath my feet. Not that the floor is pristine anymore. The soles of my almost nonexistent shoes are caked with whatever I had trudged through in the sewer to get here.

Funny, I have no recollection of the guard managing to slit my leg with his sword before my knee connected with his groin.

I remove the ragged scarf that was chafing my neck to scrub the floor as best I can, before wrapping the fabric around my wound. After years of it, pain doesn’t trouble me quite as much.

When I hear footsteps heading my way, I race behind a tall white pillar and press myself against the cool stone. The Gilded Exchange. High risk, extra-high reward. Usually I’m not this desperate, but hunger breeds ambition. People like to call me a thief. Rat, if they’re feeling creative. I prefer survivor. Pops used to say you do what you’ve got to do to stay alive, and staying alive meant getting in, grabbing something worth selling, and getting out before anyone with a weapon noticed me. It’s been years since I stepped foot in these hallways.

Quietly, I hesitate, only briefly, before silently withdrawing my glass dagger. The footsteps get closer. And closer. I hold my breath.

“The hell you doin’, Garrick?” another one shouts. He has a long, unkempt beard, a few gray strands visible. He was leaning more on the fat side with a peg leg and eyebrow piercings. Shame the peg is attached to him; it looks worth more than my entire wardrobe. Not that I have one.

Thank Helios.

“N-nothing, sir. Just t-thought I heard something.” The younger man, Garrick, is clearly afraid of the older one, which is reasonable, given his appearance, yet unreasonable given Garrick’s size. He’s tall, broad in the shoulders, and big enough to crush me if he managed to catch me. Even so, I doubt he could. Speed is a whole other thing. However, he’s unmistakably one of my favorite kinds of targets: young, unknowing, fidgety. And filthy rich. That belt of his spoke volumes–thick sunhide. Double stitched. Pricey, yet undoubtedly heavy. He’d sooner notice me snagging the whole belt than that hefty sack of his swinging openly, begging to be stolen, which I plan to revisit later after my errand.

After a few more rounds of pointless back-and-forth arguing, the older guard finally snaps at Garrick to return to his post, and the two stalk off to return to whatever duties they’re paid for. I doubt they should’ve wasted such time on childish quarreling, but I’m not one to complain when their incompetence lets me live another day.

I effortlessly make my way through the crowd of people in the wide doorway who think too much of themselves to notice a dirty eighteen-year-old girl wearing a muddy gray server's apron. Inside the theater, I stop despite myself. Ahead waits a black stage framed by crimson curtains, rows of empty seats, and boxes above them likely reserved for the High Assembly. Then I look up.

The entire ceiling is glass, a vast curving dome that drank in the midday sun. It fractured the heat into long, blinding ribbons of gold, throwing them across the walls like bars of a gilded cage. Soon, the light is shrouded by a screen, closing in from the outer walls and working its way to the middle last until the theater’s pitch-black. The stage lights flicker once before beaming at full brightness, drawing everyone’s attention as the only source of light in the theater.

I slump low into a seat in the farthest row back. It smells sorely of rich perfume, making me fight the urge to gag aloud. Servants in the same apron as mine walk around with trays made of fiberglass, holding glasses of champagne as well as bizarre dishes: Avocado paste, it seems, maybe steak, beef, really anything off-limits to non-nobles. 

The “show” starts—an auction where nobles spend glass coins on junk. Midway through, I grow bored waiting for Lot Twenty-Seven and wander the theater, just happening to snag a few glass coins and lesser jewels. It's greedy enough to come here with guards lurking in every corner. To take the whole pouch would be to invite capture. Greed is a luxury I can’t afford; its price a week upon the scaffold, bound by chains, broken and bleeding, elevated high as a piece of advice for those foolish enough to let greed guide their actions as well. I learned that lesson early: theft could keep you alive, but greed got you displayed as a warning.

Contrary to popular belief, we do have standards. Any honorable thief knows the code.

1. Never steal from the poor, the working class, or people performing acts of charity.
2. Avoid violence at all costs; never kill.
3. Share stolen wealth and resources with the poor.

While most children aspired to be a Master Glasswright or Chief Waterkeeper, I was set on the Gutter Saint. A criminal to the rich; a savior to the poor. Pops raised me in those alleys, though only the wealthy called them “the Gutters.” Though the tale never specified, I preferred to imagine her a woman. Men, of course, claim we are incompetent and incapable of such accomplishments, which just proves how one-sided their minds are. She stole things for us in poverty, such as coins for those completely indigent, medicine for those on the brink of death, food for those with continuous grumbling stomachs.

“Lot Twenty-Seven. Bidding starts at three suns.”

Like I said, junk. A single sun could buy a four-person house in the Market District, and they’re spending fifteen on jewelry they’ll wear once. If I had that kind of money, first I’d get Pops a proper coffin, not much of him to dig up now though.

The bidding quickly escalates for the “exquisite” glass sun pendant. 

“Five!”

“Nine!”

“Fifteen!”

Everyone gasps at the very considerable price. I snort loudly, then slap a hand over my face awfully late. Fortunately, no one seems to have noticed my impropriety.

That’s my cue.

I worm through the rows, ducking low and nearly tripping over overpriced loafers, until I reach backstage and toss my damp black-haired wig into a corner. My salmon-pink hair often attracts attention I have no desire for, regardless of how short I chop it; thus the reason I often wear such sweat-inducing disguises. 

Backstage is where all the auctioned-off items are stored until the show concludes and it’s time to deliver them to their new owners. Ornate, hand-crafted pots and glassware, exotic butterflies displayed in transparent cases, luxury fleece fabrics, glittering Austrian-crystal chandeliers lofted high, and so many more belonging in the category of obscenely costly.

Something sparkly in my peripheral vision draws my eyes. Fixed against a sturdy pillar is a burnished rack, where rows upon rows of spears stood stacked and waiting. The spearheads were all glass, of course; some, however, were doused in the color gold or silver. At first glance, it looks possibly like paint, but the finish just doesn’t look right. Whatever.

Really, my objective today is pilfering from some unfortunate soul. I had earlier settled on a random Lot that wasn’t something sharp, because the buyer, with my luck, would end up being some Corven and my demise. So Lot Twenty-Seven became my target; I’d simply steal the bidding coins from the patron. I’m not truly after the pendant. And yet, why does it captivate me so much? Oh. 

It took me an alarming amount of time to realize this is the exact sort of thing Pops would create. He was a Friloux, who produced heat-resistant glass for buildings and other miscellaneous items along with Hoarclifs and Zephyrs. The light coming in from the thin window that sat high on the wall caught the sun, seeming to shimmer.

Clearly not in my right mind, I reach for the jewel.

A large, masculine gloved hand closes around my wrist before I could even come in contact.

Oh, shit.