Page 15 of The Orc's Thief
So I squint through the thick darkness, peering along the hallway for the most ornate door I can find. I hold my breath as I pass each shadowy doorway. I’m betting on the fact that the gang leader is vain, a man who would flaunt his wealth and status.
There. The second door on the left side of the stairs. It stands out—wider, heavier-looking, with a polished brass handle that catches a glint of light.
But it’s locked.
I drop to my knees. My fingers tremble as I fish out my lockpicks. Precious seconds tick by. This one’s no easy task, not like Lindie’s flimsy bedroom latch. The mechanism is more complex, and I have to slip my stiletto into the gap and lever it with steady, careful force. The metal scrapes faintly, sending a small jolt of panic through me. My breath hitches. Then, finally, a soft click.
I glance down the hallway, then stumble inside, pulse roaring in my ears. Relief hits me in waves, so intense, dark spots dance across my vision.
Too close.
I shouldn’t be here. This could be suicide, because I don’t know what the guards would do if they found me. If I’m lucky,they’d try to capture and detain me, waiting for their leader to return and question me. But if I startled them too badly, they might shoot first and ask questions later. I wouldn’t be the first intruder in this house to end up with a crossbow bolt through the neck.
My hand flies to my throat. I swallow thickly, forcing myself to steady my breathing as I take in my surroundings.
I was right. This is most definitely an office. The scent of leather and ink lingers in the air, and heavy drapes frame tall windows that look out over the street. I can only hope it’s Damen’s and not someone else’s. None of the other rooms in this hallway seemed half as fancy as this one—walls lined with shelves, a thick rug muffling my steps, and a massive desk that commands the center of the room.
I don’t dare light a candle, not with the faint crack under the door where light might leak out. Not with the street visible just beyond the windows. There’s bound to be a guard out there, eyes trained on the building now that it’s empty. A flicker of light in a supposedly vacant room would give me away instantly.
I creep to the desk and shuffle through the papers. I carry them as close to the window as I dare, tilting the pages toward the glow of the streetlamps.
But it’s all regular correspondence, dinner invitations, food orders for the mansion, and one particularly strange request for a red-plumed bird originating from the isles in the south. What I don’t find is any mention of Lindie, and my heart sinks with every sheet I check.
But would Damen leave information like that just lying around on his desk? His study was locked, yes, but perhaps he doesn’t trust his people completely.
With a renewed sense of hope, I kneel in front of the desk again, positioning myself low in case a guard walks past and peeks in. I open the first drawer slowly, anticipating the creakof the mechanism. Inside is a tangle of writing supplies, spare quills, corked inkpots clinking gently as I shift them aside.
I close it and move to the next. More of the same—typical bits and bobs a man of business might keep. But there’s more here, too, several daggers with gleaming blades, a garrote, and a stiletto knife. Polished. Ready to use.
I nick a dagger with a jewel-encrusted handle, thinking it might come in handy someday, especially now that I’m putting myself firmly against Damen’s gang.
I’m still no closer to finding Lindie, and my time is running out. It must be close to midnight by now, and I have no idea whether the Ravens will return tonight. If they merely left for dinner or a party, they might start trickling back in any minute. I can’t be here when that happens.
Cursing under my breath, I check behind all the paintings on the walls, then snoop through the armoire by the wall. There are several interesting novels inside, but no ledgers or business books. But he must keep them somewhere…
My gaze settles on the small decorative table by the window, resting on a skillfully woven carpet. It holds a tray of crystal goblets and a bottle of dark spirits. I’d passed it on my way to the armoire but hadn’t really noticed it. Now, thinking of my own hiding place, I walk over and carefully pull the table aside. The glasses chime softly against each other, and my heart thunders in my throat. When nothing happens, I move the table a few more inches and crouch to flip the carpet out of the way.
And there it is, a hatch in the floorboards, with an iron ring the size of a biscuit inlaid in the wood. Relief and pride surge through me. I did it. If Damen had anything to do with Lindie’s disappearance, this is where the information will be.
With trembling hands, I open the hatch and find an iron lockbox inside, not unlike the one the orc had stashed under hisbed. But when I lift it out, huffing with effort, my hope plummets again.
The safe is locked with a number dial. I’ve seen them before, and I practiced on one I bought from a locksmith in Morav, but doing it on the fly might be too difficult.
I heft the safe onto Damen’s desk, trying not to smash any of his items. Then I put my ear to the top of the box and slowly turn the dial with my right hand, listening for the tumble of the pins inside the mechanism.
This is too dangerous.
A panicked voice in my head grows louder and louder, but I smother it and focus on my task instead. The door to the study is closed, and unless I make a sound that draws the guards, they have no reason to suspect I’m in here, behind what is supposed to be a firmly locked door.
The quiet of the house helps. I still my breaths and train my ears on the sounds of the mechanism. The clicks of the tiny metal parts rolling inside are barely audible, but that makes thetickof the pin sliding into place even louder. I grin and move on to the next number in the sequence.
The metal warms under my cheek as I keep my head pressed to it. The second and third pins drop into place soon after, but the fourth and last one eludes me. I chew on the inside of my cheek, wondering what to do. There are too many combinations to risk trying them all. If I try the lock before all the pins are aligned, they’ll roll out of place again, and I’ll have to start from the beginning.
I walk over to the table I’d set aside, pull the stopper from the liquor bottle, and take a slug straight from it, not bothering with the crystal goblets.
The brandy burns its way down my throat, and I stifle a cough, but moments later, warmth spreads through me, steadying the trembling in my hands.
“All right. One more try.”
