Page 3 of The Orc's Thief
Several minutes later, I’m cursing the lock and the locksmith who made it. It can’t have been crafted at any of the regular shops in Ultrup; I’ve bought wares from all of them to practice. I have more locks than anyone could ever need in my little attic apartment, but I’ve never encountered one like this.
The first rake, a round-tipped instrument, was too thick to push into the lock. I put it aside and worked the other one in, a flat little thing that slid in easily. Then I fit in the lever to hold down the pins, thinking it would be an easy job—but the damn thing wouldn’t open. Not on the first try, the third, or the tenth.
When my tools slip inside the hole again, I curse and pull them out, staring at the lockbox wedged between my knees. If I thought I could climb with it strapped to my back, I’d steal the whole thing, but that would be too dangerous. I haven’t brought a bag large enough to carry it anyway. Besides, I don’t want my mark to know he’s been robbed immediately. I only wantinformation. The last thing I need is to be chased by a stranger who has access to the best fucking locksmith in the realm and enough gold to afford this kind of room.
“Shit.”
If I can’t get this unlockedverysoon, I’ll have to leave or risk getting caught. How long can one man linger over a meal? Unless he’s meeting friends downstairs, I doubt he’ll be much longer. I probably should have teamed up with someone to act as a lookout, if nothing else, but I don’t know many people who could dress up nicely and play the part of a wealthy guest. Any street rat of my acquaintance would’ve been chased out the front door by the inn’s security.
“Come on, you beautiful piece of…” I mutter, gritting my teeth.
I take a deep, calming breath and rub my hands on my pants, then take up the tools once more. I’ll give it another good try, and if I can’t get it open, I’ll have to stop. I’ll root through the man’s travel bag and toss the room, but I suspect anything valuable is hidden inside this box, or he wouldn’t have bothered with it.
Pressing on the inner mechanism of the lock, I listen carefully for the tumblers turning. Then a thought occurs to me—what if…?
“You sneaky bastard.”
The locksmith must’ve added a dummy pin to throw off anyone trying to pick the lock. Grinning, I slide in another lever, barely making it fit, and nudge around with the rake until I feel a catch. Holding my breath, I press upward, slow and steady…then click. The clasp falls open.
I swallow the urge to cheer. Getting caught now would be the height of stupidity. Still, I can’t stop the rush of satisfaction. Another puzzle cracked. Another mark outsmarted.
Hands trembling, I lift the lid and peek inside.
“Oh.”
I reach for one of the heavy coin purses, weigh it in my palm. It’s full, too full. I loosen the drawstrings and peer in. Gold, not silver, gleams in the candlelight.
How rich is this man? And why stay on the second floor with this much coin? Is it even his?
No time to dwell. I pocket one purse, then another, stopping at two. There are seven total. Take too many, and the box will feel suspiciously light. And my satchel’s already near its limit.
This haul? It’ll cover rent, food, gear, and still leave a cushion. More than I’ve had in a long time.
Fencing stolen goods has become more difficult since the Duke of Ultrup cracked down on crime in the streets. Word is, human traffickers were his primary targets, and I’d cheered when I heard that, but a lot of smaller, less unsavory businesses got dismantled along the way. That’s why I had to travel to Morav to fence the necklaces I’d lifted last month. It was too dangerous to visit any of the local pawn shops right now while carrying stolen goods.
The trip and overnight stay at a small, dank inn in Morav had eaten into my profits as well, not that they were significant. Morav is a smaller town than Ultrup, and the pawn shop owner doubted she’d be able to sell those fancy necklaces at all. If things continue like this, I’ll have to resort to cutting purses and picking pockets to get coin instead of jewelry, but that comes with dangers of its own. I much prefer sneaking into quiet parlors and emptying the vanity tables of the richest members of our society.
Two purses of gold will go a long way toward keeping a roof over my head. More than that, I’ll be able to use some of this money to find Lindie.
But there’s another thing in the box—the reason I decided to break into the room in the first place. It’s a sheaf of papers, either letters or notes, and I grab all of them. I stick thembehind my back and tuck them in the waistband of my pants, then secure my tunic over them to keep them in place. I bring the candle closer to the box and check once more that I haven’t missed anything, but all that remains inside are the five pouches of gold.
My fingers twitch, and I barely keep myself from taking all of them.
No.
I quietly shut the lid and snap on the lock. The clicking sound has me pursing my lips. It almost seems wasteful to close it again after I’ve made such an effort to pry it open. But the stranger would surely notice if I left it unlocked.
I push the box back into place under the bed, then methodically search the rest of the room. A bottle of hair oil and a small pot of herbal ointment sit on the desk. I palm the bar of soap from the porcelain dish and slip it into my pocket before I can think better of it. I run my hands beneath the mattress and pillows just in case, but I was right. Those papers must be the most valuable thing he owns, or he wouldn’t have locked them away.
I blow out the candle, set it on the mantelpiece, and hurry to the window. While tying the rope around my waist, I leave the window wide open to air out the room. I don’t want my mark noticing the scent of a freshly extinguished candle. He’d know something’s off.
But I can’t linger. Any moment now, he’ll finish supper or whatever business he has downstairs and return. I scan the room one last time to make sure I haven’t left a trace, then swing onto the windowsill. Crouching, I shut the window and use the same wire tool to tug the latch back into place.
I climb using the rope, bracing my feet against the wall and hauling myself up with my hands. I don’t like this method—Iprefer good old-fashioned climbing—but it’s the fastest way past the roof’s overhang.
By the time I roll onto the rooftop, I’m huffing with effort, but there’s no time to rest. Quickly, I undo the knots securing my rope to the gable, wrap the length around my waist, and tuck it in. I run across the roofs, keeping low, and shimmy down a drainpipe as fast as I dare without skinning my hands.
I barely pause to check for witnesses before darting from the shadows across the street and into an alley. My second rope is waiting, so I climb again, arms burning with exertion. I should train more if two climbs wear me out, but I hadn’t expected a job like this. Not until yesterday, when I chose to break into the orc’s room.
