Dance of Thieves (Dance of Thieves 1)

I heard the name of one of them as they ran away. One day I will be stronger than I am now. One day I will call his name, and I will kill him.

—Theo, 11

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

KAZI

I’m not sure that’s your real name.

Oddly, that was probably the least complicated and most true thing about me. Kazimyrah of Brightmist.

My mother had come from the northern province of Balwood, venturing to Sanctum City like so many others who crowded in there hoping it offered a b

etter life than the harsh terrain beyond it, but she came there with the added burden of a baby in her belly and only a handful of coins. She never talked of my father. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead, if she had loved or hated him, or if she had even known him at all. Traveling alone across the barren plains was a dangerous prospect for anyone. He’s gone, Kazi, was all she had said, and she seemed sad so I didn’t ask again.

The quarter of Brightmist was in the northern part of the city. She managed to find an unoccupied hovel there that would keep the rain off—and a midwife—so that was where she settled. Jase wasn’t the first one to question my name, wondering if it was real. Most of those we encountered in the city had never heard the name Kazi. When asked about it, my mother told them it was a highland name that meant “spring.” Another time she had said it meant “little bird,” and another time, “god’s messenger.” I realized she didn’t know what it meant at all, and once she was gone, the name didn’t seem to matter. Who or what I was became a forgotten detail. Any name would do, and all kinds were pulled from the air to run me off. Scat, you nasty vermin, brat, pest, crapcake!

Until I devised a way to make them want me to stay.

The thing about a mark is they’ve created lies in their head, a story they’ve invented that they desperately want to believe, a fantasy that merely needs to be fed patiently—you are kinder, more beautiful, shrewder, wiser, you are deserving, eat up—like a round-mouthed fish breaking the surface of the water following after a trail of bread crumbs. Draw them closer with one morsel, two, and then hook them behind the gills, senseless and flapping, oblivious to what they have really lost because their bloated stomach is full.

Kazimyrah, I would sometimes whisper to myself as I slunk away with a meal hidden beneath my coat, because there were days even I forgot who I had once been.

* * *

I made more of an effort to erase Jase’s suspicions and convince him I was only a soldier, telling him about my training and life in the Sanctum. But even with that I had to carefully edit the truth. Training as Rahtan was different. The drills, hours, and study were endless. Probably the only thing I failed at was swimming, but only for lack of practice. I was smaller than most of the pledges and had to work twice as hard to prove myself. That part was easy to do. The hardest thing I had to learn was to sleep in a bed, not under it. Most nights, to save myself the anguish, I simply snuck off with a blanket to a hidden dark passage under the stairs.

One night, the queen had unexpectedly joined me. I remembered I had stared furiously at the lantern flame, focusing on it rather than her. I had felt shame for huddling in the dark. She sat on the floor next to me, the tunnel too small for us to stand.

“I came here too,” she had said. “It was a dark, safe space for me. There were many days I feared would be my last here in the Sanctum. I was so afraid then. Some days, I’m still afraid. I have so many promises to keep.”

“But you have kept your promises.”

“Freedoms are never won once and for all, Kazimyrah. They come and go, like the centuries. I cannot grow lazy. Memories are short. It is the forgetting that I fear.”

That was what I feared too.

Forgetting.

But none of this could I share with Jase.

When he asked me if juggling was part of Rahtan training, I laughed it off and said it was just something I had picked up along the way.

“What way is that?”

Digging.

I told him a friend taught me.

“You have clever friends.”

“Yes, I do,” I answered, offering no more information. I was self-taught. Desperation can be a good teacher, maybe the best teacher. I had to perfect new skills quickly—or starve. But his comment about friends made me think of Wren and Synové. They came to the Sanctum a few months after I did, both caught in scuffles with no immediate family to summon. Being the same ages and having known one another on the streets, we were naturally drawn together. After two years, Kaden, the queen’s Keep, had the final say on who would advance to Rahtan training. He had given us a long, stern look, trying to decide if all three of us would move on to the next level. Surprisingly, his wife, Pauline, had shot him a stern look in our favor. We’d trained and worked together ever since. I hoped they were safely tucked away, sitting tight, Synové entertaining Wren with the mundane details of the racaa. Yes, our plan had gone awry, but they were inventive and we had backup plans. By now they had probably figured out I wasn’t inside Tor’s Watch.

“How much farther is the settlement?”

“I’m not sure. I forgot to bring my map and compass. Why don’t you dig out yours?”

“You think we’re still on course?”