Page 4 of The Orc's Thief
I grit my teeth against the pain as the rope bites into my cut palm. Any sound might alert a passing patrol, and that would be the end of it. The roof feels impossibly far away, and I have to focus. One hand over the other, pulling myself higher.
When I finally clear the overhang, I flop onto the roof tiles, chest heaving. Why did I think this was a good idea?
Then I roll over, and the heavy purses in my satchel dig into my back.
Oh, right.
The gold. And more importantly, the chance of finding Lindie, if I can decipher the papers I stole from the stranger.
I crawl forward, keeping low to the rooftops. Any moment now, the man could return to his room and discover what happened, and if he’s smart, the first place he’ll look is out the window. But when I return to my previous vantage point, his room is still dark. A twinge of disappointment pinches my chest, and I grimace. I’ve never lingered after a job before to see my mark’s distress, so why should I do so now? I’m not in the habit of gloating over people’s misfortune, even if I’m the one who caused it.
A thief has to havesomeboundaries.
So I ignore the urge to keep watching and slink away, moving over the city rooftops and only descending when absolutely necessary. I crouch and hide whenever a night patrol passes in the streets below, and I keep my steps light to avoid waking anyone sleeping in the attics around me. I should probably check Damen’s mansion once more to see if there’s been any movement tonight, but I’m tired from the past few nights’ surveillance, and I can’t afford to skip rest again. My exhaustion after climbing made that clear.
Most of all, I need to study the papers I stole, which means I need a safe space to read and a good light. I won’t achieve anything by hiding in the dark tonight, so I keep heading east, to where the tall stone buildings of the city center give way to two- or three-story wooden houses that have popped up since the last fire. The Duke himself helped finance the rebuild of this entire quarter, and the newly constructed houses have been occupied by families and various businesses, as well as the city watch headquarters. Just around the corner from them is Etta’s bakery, a small but busy shop whose owner used all her inheritance to buy the place.
When I saw her sticking an offer to rent out the attic apartment above the bakery, I stalked her home, then snooped through the apartment by crawling in through an open rooftop window. It had a small bedroom nook and a cozy living space—cramped, but more than enough for a single woman living alone. Then I returned to the town square and ripped the paper with the offer off the board to prevent anyone else from applying. I knew I’d be the perfect fit for the place.
I’d worried about living so close to where most of Ultrup’s guards sleep every night, but as long as I didn’t try to steal in the vicinity of the headquarters, I was safe. Their presence alsomeant criminal activity in that part of town was low, since other thieves weren’t stupid either.
Etta had frowned at me fiercely when I told her I was a messenger for hire—a job that explained the strange hours I kept, as well as the occasional days-long absence from Ultrup—and told me rent was due on the first of the month, without exception.
“And no male visitors,” she’d added, her blonde eyebrows knitting together in a frown. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Neither do I,” I’d assured her. “It’s hard enough for a woman to make a living in this city.”
She’d nodded, and that had been it, the start of our slowly building relationship. We’ve been neighbors for two years now, and I’ve never been happier to call her small rental apartment home than tonight.
I climb in through the roof, unlocking the grate I’d fixed over my window. I know all too well how easy it is to break in from above, when all people think about is securing their front door. I plop my satchel on my small table and light a candle, then walk over to my door, unlock it, and undo the dead bolt, another precaution I’ve added since moving in.
On my doormat, which I barely ever use, is a small basket with two bread rolls and a fried, sugared treat. Etta’s offering of the day. She always lets me have some of the leftover bread, and in return, I got her a good price for the removable grate to cover her shop windows at night, as well as the secure locks for the apartment below mine, where she lives. If she thought my obsession with safety was weird, she never mentioned it. I suspect she might have had some bad experiences while living on her own too, and was simply glad someone else took care of that for her.
I pick up the basket and bring it inside, already taking a bite of a bread roll. We don’t talk often, but it feels nice to knowsomeone was thinking of me today. Etta’s rolls are delicious as always, and I devour one before I even sit at my table to study the papers I stole. I reach over to take a pot of honey from a cupboard and add the tiniest bit to the bread, savoring the sweetness of my next bite. I should eat something more filling, but I’m too tired tonight and too curious about my loot.
I light another candle from the flame of the first and unfold the papers in front of me. My heart thuds at the thought of finally finding some clues about Lindie’s whereabouts, but the first sheet of paper seems to be a letter, and a personal one at that.
Dear brother,
Thank you for your last letter. Your account of the raid on that smuggler’s house had the boys rolling around with laughter. They all want to be like their uncle now, going out into the world and bringing down bad people, which is a noble goal to be sure, but spare your poor sister a thought and tell my children they need to be much older before they can set out on their own.
We miss you, and Mother…
I scan the rest of the letter, grimacing. The warrior’s sister wrote this letter, and it contains absolutely no pertinent information for me. I set the letter aside and pick up the next paper, but I encounter a similar issue. This, too, is a personal missive, from someone named Mara this time. She could be his beloved, or even his wife. For a strange moment, my chest squeezes with something akin to disappointment, though it makes no sense. Why should it matter that a woman who is not his sister is writing to him? It must be my lack of success in finding clues about Lindie that has me feeling this way.
But I read the rest of the letter anyway, and when this Mara mentions her husband, someone called Owen, which sounds like a human name, relief swamps me, quick and surprising.
My cheeks flame as I set that letter aside, too. It’s because I’m prying into this man’s personal affairs. I usually deal in jewelry and rare objects, even art, and I never research my marks beyond their daily habits that allow me to time my heists perfectly. I don’t care about their families or personal lives. No thief worth her salt should. Knowing all that only makes our job harder.
I read another letter, skimming the lines, from someone named Gorvor, keeping up with whatever he’s doing in town. There are references to things he must have mentioned in his correspondence, and I wish I could read that too, because the affection pouring from these conversations is apparent. He is well-loved and has many people eagerly awaiting his return.
Something heavy lodges behind my breastbone, an ugly, unpleasant sensation. It takes my tired mind a while to realize what’s wrong, and I only figure it out when I catch myself absently rubbing my chest.
It’s envy.
He has family and friends. So what is he doing skulking around Ultrup, living in a fancy inn and wearing disguises to blend in with the humans?
I shove the stack of letters away, frustration boiling up. I risked my life tonight breaking into his room—and for what? No new clues about Lindie, no idea how he’s tied to Damen and his crew. I lost a night of rest over a pile of worthless paper.
