Do you know the feeling when you tip your chair too far and begin to fall backward? The sensation was something like that, mixed with self-recrimination and the fear of death. I flailed my arms, knowing it wouldn’t help, my mind gone suddenly blank with panic.
The wind saved me. It gusted as I teetered on the edge of the roof, giving me just enough of a push that I could regain my balance. One of my flailing arms caught the now-open window and I scrambled desperately inside, not caring how much noise I made.
Once through the window I crouched on the floor, breathing hard. My heart was just beginning to slow when the wind caught the window and slammed it closed above my head, startling me all over again.
I brought out my sympathy lamp, thumbed the switch to a dim setting, and swept the narrow arc of light around the room. Kilvin had been right to call it a thief ’s lamp. It was perfect for this sort of skulking about.
It was miles to Imre and back, and I trusted Ambrose’s curiosity would keep him waiting for his secret admirer for at least half an hour. Normally looking for something as small as a ring would be a full day’s job. But I guessed Ambrose wouldn’t even think of hiding it. In his mind, it wasn’t something he’d stolen. He would consider it either a trinket or a trophy.
I set about methodically searching Ambrose’s rooms. The ring wasn’t on his chest of drawers or the bedside table. It wasn’t in any of his desk drawers, or on his jewelry tray in his dressing room. He didn’t even have a locked jewelry box, mind you, just a tray with all manner of pins, rings, and chains scattered carelessly across it.
I left everything where it was, which isn’t to say I didn’t think about robbing the bastard blind. Just a few pieces of his jewelry could pay my tuition for a year. But it went against my plan: get in, find the ring, and get out. So long as I left no evidence of my visit, I guessed Ambrose would simply assume he’d lost the ring if he noticed it was gone at all. It was the perfect sort of crime: no suspicion, no pursuit, no consequences.
Besides, it’s notoriously difficult to fence jewelry in a town as small as Imre. It would be far too easy for someone to trace it back to me.
That said, I’ve never claimed to be a priest, and there were plenty of opportunities for mischief in Ambrose’s rooms. So I indulged myself. While checking Ambrose’s pockets, I weakened a few seams so there was a fair chance of him splitting his pants up the back the next time he sat down or mounted his horse. I loosened the handle on his chimney’s flue so it would eventually fall off, and his room would fill with smoke while he scrambled to reattach it.
I was trying to think of something to do to his damned irritating plumed hat when the oak twig in my pocket twitched violently, making me jump. Then it twitched again and broke sharply in half. I cursed bitterly under my breath. Ambrose couldn’t have been gone for more than twenty minutes. What had brought him back so soon?
I clicked off my sympathy lamp and stuffed it into my cloak. Then I scurried into the next room to make my escape through the window. It was irritating to go through all the trouble of getting in just to leave again, but as long as Ambrose didn’t know anyone had broken into his rooms, I could simply come back another night.
But the window didn’t open. I pushed harder, wondering if it had jammed itself shut when the wind had slammed it.
Then I glimpsed a thin strip of brass running along the inside of the windowsill. I couldn’t read the sygaldry in the dim light, but I know wards when I see them. That explained why Ambrose was back so soon. He knew someone had broken in. What’s more, the best sort of wards wouldn’t just warn of an intruder, they could hold a door or window shut to seal a thief in.
I bolted for the door, hands scrabbling in the pockets of my cloak, looking for something long and slender I could use to foul the lock. Not finding anything suitable, I snatched a pen from his writing desk, jammed it into the keyhole, then jerked it hard sideways, breaking the metal head off inside the lock. A moment later I heard a grating metallic noise as Ambrose attempted to unlock the door from his side, fumbling and cursing when he couldn’t get his key to fit.
By that point I was already back at the window, shining my lamp back and forth along the strip of brass and murmuring runes under my breath. It was simple enough. I could render it useless by scratching out a handful of connecting runes, then open the window and escape.
I hurried back to the sitting room and snatched the letter opener off his desk, knocking over the capped inkwell in my hurry. I was just about to begin eliding runes when I realized how stupid that would be. Any petty thief could break into Ambrose’s rooms, but the number of people who knew enough sygaldry to foul a ward was much lower. I might as well sign my name on his window frame.
I took a moment to collect my thoughts, then returned the letter opener to the desk and replaced the inkwell. I returned and examined the long brass strip more closely. Breaking something is simple, understanding it is harder.
This is doubly true when you are confronted with the sounds of muttered cursing from behind a door, accompanied by the clack and rattle of someone trying to unjam a lock.
Then the hallway went quiet, which was even more unnerving. I finally managed to puzzle out the sequence of wards as I heard several sets of footsteps in the hall. I broke my mind into three pieces and focused my Alar as I pushed against the window. My hands and feet grew cold as I pulled heat from my body to counteract the ward, trying not to panic as I heard a loud thump as something heavy struck the door.
The window swung open, and I scrambled backward over the sash and onto the roof as something struck the door again and I heard the sharp crack of splintering wood. I still could have made it away safely, but when I set my right foot down on the roof, I felt a clay tile crack under my weight. As my foot slid, I grabbed the windowsill with both hands to steady myself.
Then the wind gusted, catching the open window and flinging it toward my head. I brought up my arm to protect my face, and it struck my elbow instead, smashing one of the small panes of glass. The impact pushed me sideways onto my right foot, which slid the rest of the way out from underneath me.
Then, since all my other options seemed to be exhausted, I decided it would be best if I fell off the roof.
Acting on pure instinct, my hands scrabbled madly. I dislodged a few more clay tiles, then caught hold of the lip of the roof. My grip wasn’t good, but it slowed and spun me so that I didn’t land on my head or my back. Instead I landed facedown, like a cat.
Except a cat’s legs are all the same length. I landed on my hands and knees. My hands merely stung, but my knees striking the cobblestones hurt as badly as anything I’d ever felt in my entire young life. The pain was blinding, and I heard myself yelp like a dog that’s been kicked.
A second later a hail of heavy red roofing tiles fell around me. Most shattered on the cobblestones, but one clipped the back of my head, while another caught me square on the elbow, making my entire forearm go numb.
I didn’t spare it a moment’s thought. A broken arm would heal, but expulsion from the University would last a lifetime. I pulled my hood up and forced myself to my feet. Using one hand to make sure the hood of my cloak stayed in place, I staggered a few steps until I was under the eaves of the Golden Pony, out of sight of the upstairs window.
Then I was running, running, running. . . .
Eventually I made my careful, limping way onto the rooftops and let myself into my room by the window. It was slow going, but I had little choice. I couldn’t walk past everyone in the taproom disheveled, limping, and generally looking as if I’d just fallen off a roof.