Page 170 of A Thief Among Fae

A lump forms in my throat as I nod. “I want to see them again.” I just want to make things right even more.

“It’s done,” Nog announces as she pads into the kitchen. She thrusts the stealth clothing I requested at me. Her jet eyes are full of skepticism. Nog knew about the fae’s capture when I first arrived. Like Rune, she deduced I’m the one who spilled everything.

“And the gown?” I ask her.

She harrumphs. “Presumptuous human. You are holding the finest gown I have ever sewn. Mutter the word and the ensemble will transform.” Her gnarled fingernail taps my thigh. “Don’t utter it too early and muck the whole thing up. It’s only good for one use.”

“What word?”

“Presumptuous.”

How could I have imagined otherwise?

She shoves a second bundle at Min. “I’ve also prepared a pack with matching outfits for Prince Desmond and the other two fae. It’s with the rest of your supplies.”

I draw her close for a hug, startling her. “You have my gratitude,” I whisper.

Nog harrumphs again. “Don’t appreciate me yet. Survive first. Bring our prince home.”

The main road through Mythos teems with resplendent horse-drawn carriages, but the patrolling armed guards outnumber them all. Flaming braziers line the defensive walls. They illuminate the chilled night with dancing red and golden glows. With Mythos lit as brightly as a beacon, no thieves would dare trespass the ball.

Any thieves besides us, that is.

Enbarr slows to a halt as we approach the bottleneck of carriages before the north gate. I shiver, despite the wool cloak and hat I’m wearing to complete my coachman disguise. I think I’d be shivering from nerves even if we were in the heat of summer. What we’re about to do might get us all thrown in prison alongside the fae. At least we’d be together during our executions—but that’s thinking a little too far ahead. I force out a steady breath, clenching the reins as we draw closer.

Brandur leans out the carriage window, a low growl in his throat. A guard walks by, and he forces his scowl into a grin. It drops as soon as the guard moves on. “What’s the hold up?” he asks me, just as surly as he was when we left.

As I catch another glimpse of him, it’s easy to imagine why. His usually wild hair has been tamed in a single thick plait, tied off with a gold bow at the bottom. He argued its necessity with Nog throughout the long styling session until she threatened to sew living, wriggling worms into the seams of his stealth linens.

His disguise is even more elaborate than mine since he’s posing as Maeve’s sha’dich, the orc equivalent of an escort. A beaver fur shawl with a golden clasp drapes over his embroidered navy jacket. Beneath that is a brocade vest with a leather battle sash around his waist. A sash that would normally hold sheaths for weapons, as Brandur had bitterly reminded us when we set out.

Looking at him again, I stifle a snort.

He bares his canines at me, a warning flashing in his eyes.

“There’s a scribe at the gate,” I explain, recognizing the cream robes and scholarly air of superiority. “It looks like he’s authenticating everyone’s invitations.”

We watch as the coachman ahead hands the scribe the passengers’ invitation. The scribe squints at it, rubs his fingers along every inch, licks it, and hands it back to the coachman. The guard opens the carriage doors, counts everyone inside, and admits them.

Judging by how quickly Brandur pulls back into the carriage, the scribe is going to be a problem. Rune spent all morning meticulously copying an invitation he purchased from an acquaintance who wasn’t attending. He matched the foiled calligraphy impeccably and crafted a stamp to imitate the official wax seal. He may be an expert at forgeries, but even he can’t make a forged document “authentic.” I never thought someone with a Minor Gift could stop our plan. A scribe with an authentication magic is just our luck.

“Prepare yourself for plan B,” Brandur says, leaning out the window again.

“Right,” I mutter to myself. The plan that I hoped we wouldn’t have to use.

When it’s our turn at the gate, I breathe in and out as steadily as I can manage.

“Stop,” a guard calls out. “We need you to verify your invitation and search your carriage.”

I halt Enbarr and climb down from the driver’s box. Brandur steps out of the cab. He slams the door shut before anyone catches a glimpse of the others inside, then glowers at the guard with a look that would make lesser men turn tail and run. “Mahu’rahs do not take kindly to being searched,” he growls. “You would dare insult her after she rode all this way from Vargesh?”

The guard’s gaze snags on Brandur’s flexing fists. He hesitates for several long seconds and then shakes his head. “We’re searching every carriage tonight.”

Brandur throws the door open with an angry bang and gestures to everyone inside. “You will see my mahu’rah, our footman, and our pet.”

My heart stops dead. Min has transformed into a housecat. She licks her foot and meows. Maeve frowns at the guard, almost unrecognizable in her dramatic makeup and brocade ball gown. The man beside her is not Rune Erickson.

He waves. The very same tricorne hat Rune wore when we set out casts a shadow over his pointed nose, ruddy cheeks, and soft brown eyes. The hair peeking out underneath the hat is ginger.