Chapter 2

Kit had never run so fast in her life. She sped past other rooms in the Clocktower, cutting right the moment she saw a door leading to the outside. The sun was out in full force now, but Kit had no time to think about hiding. She bowled past mages, barely noticing their surprised looks at a clear outsider in the Square. Her feet thumped along the hard road, following the path blindly until she saw the sole gate back into the city.

If the gray cloaks stationed at the gate cared that a non-mage was sprinting breathlessly out of Thaumaturgic Square, they didn't show it to Kit. She thought she heard one call out a half-hearted "Hey", but she blew past them without so much as a second thought.

By the time Kit got to the square outside the Blue Palace, she was thoroughly out of breath. She ducked into a side alley, heart pounding, eyes tearing from the wind blowing in them as she ran. She rubbed one dirty hand against her eyes and gasped for breath. Her hands were quivering to the tips of her fingers, and her legs were shaking under her. Kit had been in danger before; but this was the first time she was really afraid.

Yet no one came after her. The angry mob of mages she was sure had been just inches behind her in pursuit (with wands held aloft instead of pitchforks, she presumed) did not appear, nor did a single person seem to care she was here. A few grey cloaks lounged against the palace fence; a number of carts trundled by for one of the city's markets. Her heart almost stopped when she heard running footsteps, but it turned out to be just a horde of boys squabbling and chasing one another for half a bread loaf.

Half-laughing, Kit rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. She had wasted a day, and had lost the little money she had on her, but at least she was free. She had faced off with a mage and lived to tell the tale; no one else she knew could say that. No one tried to steal from a mage, not if you liked your eyes in their sockets and your skin still attached. And she had won! (Well, more broke even that won, but no one else needed to know that.)

The wind prickled her sweaty arms and legs, goosebumps popping up all over her. Kit shivered. There might not be a mob of mages after her, but she still couldn't wait here. It would be dark soon, and freezing, both good reasons for finding somewhere besides the street to sleep. True, she had nothing worth stealing on her anymore, but neither her fellow thieves nor the Royal Guard knew that.

The Mews webbed over half the city; a quick walk in nearly any direction, and Kit found herself among the hovels and alleys she had called home as long as she could remember. As the sun set, Kit watched boys scrambling up the sides of teetering buildings to light the lamps which hung unevenly over the streets below them. Exhausted laborers trudged in from other parts of the city, unrecognizable in the dust and soot that blanketed them. In steamy rooms above the streets spinners worked through the night, but everywhere else the Mews’ inhabitants were glad to forget the day’s trials.

Kit made her way toward the best lit of the taverns around her. Inside, warmed by a roaring fire, patrons and prostitutes called for drinks, laughed and shouted toward one another. In another hour the place would be the scene of a dozen drunken fights and maybe a stabbing or two, but for right now it was the best place for Kit to find a hot meal. Still, she couldn’t stay long; even a woman in leggings and a shirt was liable to be taken for a whore in a tavern.

A meal wouldn’t be free, of course, but there was always money around if you looked for it. One of the whores was teasing a client in one of the snug booths - a young sailor from a merchant ship, still trying to grow a beard. She kept stealing his cap and fixing it jauntily on her own head, asking the other women how she looked. The boy pawed at it ineffectually, leaving his own purse hanging open on his belt. A swift cut from the spare knife Kit always kept in her boot and his coins were hers.

What was even better than the meat pie they bought her, though (even if Kit could actually taste meat inside, for once), was the conversation she overheard behind her. Most of it was meaningless, but she picked up on three magic words: “Public performance tomorrow”

A public performance was a pickpocket’s dream. Hundreds of people - maybe even thousands - watching the royal family put on a show for the populace. Not that the royals themselves, performed, of course, but at least some of the royals would be there, and most everyone in the city would turn out for a chance to see them. There would usually be free food and drink as well, or gifts for the assembled mob. A pickpocket could make a killing in such a crowd, and a killing was just what Kit needed.

Still, Kit brooded a little as she picked at the last of what might have been pigeon, rat, or dog. News traveled fast in the Mews, but this defied all precedent. The royal family certainly put on public performances of this sort, but usually she knew about them long in advance; they usually celebrated a royal birth, or marriage, or some great victory, and Kit had heard nothing of any of those. The proper security had to be organized as well, especially if - as the rumor ran today - the king himself would be present. A public performance only the next day seemed too good to be true.

Kit was not one to turn up her nose at the universe’s favors, however. Leaving the tavern, she scaled the jagged brick wall until she reached the tavern’s roof. If she curled near the chimney she could feel the warmth of the fire in the room below, and the likelihood of anyone else joining her up here was slim. She counted the money she would earn the next day until she drifted off to sleep, one hand clutching her dagger.

The morning dawned clear and cold, with the promise of a sunny early summer day. Kit was up before the sun, and even at that early hour she could see crowds of people surging out of the Mews toward the heart of the city. The narrow streets and alleys churned with people, drawing a grin to Kit’s face. This looked to be the best crowd at a public performance yet; Kit could only imagine the number of people from the more respectable districts who would be readying their sedans and carts for the trip.

Nimbly, Kit half-climbed and half-leapt down the wall onto the street. She tugged her great hood over her face until she was completely in shadow; Kit highly doubted whether any of these people would know her - she had yet to see a face she knew - but there was never harm in taking precautions. Dagger ready in her belt, Kit slipped into the surging crowd and let the press of people carry her toward wherever this performance might be.

Their destination was Alaric’s Square, the largest in the city. The sun was just beginning to stretch tendrils of orange light into the fading blue of the starry sky, but the Square looked at least half-full, if not more. Still more people poured in from every direction; even a few of the aristocrats were daring to show up this early, sumptuous in their jeweled court costumes. Kit pressed herself against a far wall, keeping her hood pulled as far as possible over her face. For now, she needed to be inconspicuous; if too many people remembered her now, she’d never be able to pick pockets later.

By the time the Clocktower in far-off Thaumaturgic Square sounded nine, Alaric’s Square was packed to the brim. No one in the crowd had more than a footing of space, but even this limited space was jealously guarded as people jostled one another for a better view. All thoughts of jealousy were forgotten, however, as the royal family made its appearance to thunderous cheers. Kit could spy the King, as ancient and gray as she ever knew him, as well as some prince, tall and gangly. A dozen of his highest-ranking courtiers gathered on stage with him, as well as a blue-robed mage. It was not the same mage from yesterday, that much she could see. Otherwise, the mage was a good sign; there would be real entertainment for the crowd today.

Still, there was work to be done, and nothing so good as a royal showing to give a pickpocket something to do; crowds were always too big and too distracted. Kit wormed her way through the close press of people, swimming through a sea of ragged pants and skirts made filthy by the mud of the streets. She avoided the poor; they were always the most on guard, and they wouldn’t have anything worth stealing anyway. She raised her head, scanning The real grandees would be on stage with the royals, sitting on low stools to show off how important they were. The rest, though, would have to fight for a place in the crowd along with the poor, hoping someone powerful would see them. Consequently, no one would notice her.

The speech given by the King had concluded, though no one had been listening anyway. The crowd was getting restless now; Kit could feel them pushing ever so slightly forward, respectful mostly-quiet (there was never a chance you’d get full silence) giving way to rising muttering. If someone didn’t do something soon to pacify the crowd, there would be a full-on riot. Kit had only ever seen one of those, and she’d climbed up onto a roof to escape it then. If one started now, though, she’d be totally trapped. Kit had no intention of being crushed to death, at least before she had made a decent profit off the crowd.

The mage up on the platform might have heard her thoughts, for just at that moment he walked dramatically to the front and drew his wand. The crowd hushed, expectant, every eye on the faraway figure in the bright blue robe. With a loud, sharp whistle, the mage summoned a shadowy figure out of his wand - a lion, three times the size of the largest real one. The mob oohed appropriately, hooting and applauding. With another flourish the mage produced another shadow, a massive boar. The roar of the crowd was deafening.

A shadow-beast fight, Kit thought with approval. That would keep even the outwardly bored aristocrats’ focus. As the lion leapt at the boar's throat, Kit ducked her way through the crowd. Purses hung everywhere, and Kit could hardly hold all the coins that rained down into her hands. Though the press of the crowd was thick, Kit slipped her way between legs and even under one woman’s wide skirt, disappearing before anyone could notice her thievery.

It was a marvelous day, but there was something ominous. No matter how many hundreds of people Kit passed by without a second glance, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched. She worked her way across the entire length of the Square, deliberately carving a highly crooked path, yet Kit could feel eyes staring at her wherever she went. One of the grays? That didn’t seem right to her though; they never cared much about pickpockets, and none of them could have seen her anyway. But if not the Royal Watch, then who?

It was enough to make Kit too nervous to continue. She had earned more than enough from the event, and besides the sinister feeling of being watched her plan had gone perfectly. Still, to make sure she was safe, Kit slipped into an abandoned home on a side street to wait out the crowd.

The mage was waiting for her.

"You!" she half screamed, half-yelped. "What are you doing here?"

"No friendly hello?" The mage shrugged. "I thought I'd drop in."

"What do you want?" she spat. "Are you gonna kill me?"

"Now that's two questions," he said, half-censuring her. “And I only asked you one.”

Kit's eyes darted around the room. The door she had ducked through had disappeared, and there was not a window to be seen from inside.

The mage looked around approvingly. “It’s a neat trick, isn’t it? Not just the door but this whole day?”

“You planned this?” Kit asked in suspicion.

“A feat even for the court mage,” he acknowledged with a mocking bow. “What else would bring a pickpocket out of her slum and exactly where I wanted her?”

“You stay away from me,” Kit warned, taking a step backwards. “You-you-mage.”

The mage gave her a flat stare. “I am a mage. Think of something else to call me.”

Kit spit at him.

“Lovely,” he commented drily. “I’m Croker, as it happens. Mage to the King, as I believe I mentioned.”

“I don’t care who you are,” Kit snapped. “Are you gonna kill me?”

"Right now?” He paused, considering. “No."

"Then what?" she demanded.

"So angry," he said, clucking his tongue in disapproval. "And you don't even know what I was going to say."

Kit narrowed her eyes to pinpoints, folded her arms tightly across her chest. "Well?"

"Oh, you petulant - what’s your name, again?”

“Kit,” she spat out.

“Kit?” Croker wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Kit, how would you like to be rich?"

Her arms relaxed slightly. "What?"

"Money, you're familiar with the concept."

Her shoulders dropped a little, but she still looked at him warily. "How?"

"Becoming my apprentice." He raised one eyebrow at her.

Kit furrowed her brow at him. "Why?"

"Why the fuck do you care?" came Croker's careless reply. "It'll make you obnoxiously rich. More than this -" he pointed his wand disdainfully at Kit's purse -"depressing little adventure could."

For a moment Kit just stared at him, lips slightly apart in confusion, the spinning tangle of thoughts in her mind trying to form into a coherent reply. "You-you tried to kill me."

"That was yesterday," Croker acknowledged. "This is today."

"And-tomorrow?"

"Well, that depends on how you answer right now."

Somewhere outside Kit could still hear the crowd. The voices rose together in a loud chorus of screams, accompanied by thunderous stamping feet. One of the royals must have thrown something into the crowd, she knew - coins, medals, once a real coronet; if it were anything like the last time she had witnessed something like that, at least a dozen would be stabbed to death in the next few minutes. She met Croker's eyes again. "Sure."

"Yes?" He seemed a little surprised. "Well, that's easy." He turned toward the door, started to open it, then noticed Kit stood, hesitating.

"What're you doing?" Croker snapped his fingers at her. "Get moving."

"Right now?"

"Did you have a better time in mind?"

She did not. Croker, not bothering to wait for her, had already started toward the wall. He gave an impatient whistle, and the door reappeared immediately. Kit dashed forward, just barely following the snapping end of his robe as he left the house.