Page 171 of A Thief Among Fae

“Are you satisfied?” Maeve asks the guard with a clear edge of impatience.

The guard notices my shock and squints at me. I clear my throat. “Sorry, sir. Never seen such an adorable cat. Have you?”

“No.” The guard turns away and waves at the others. “Carriage is clear. Now show the scribe your invitation, coachwoman.”

The stranger tips his hat and winks at me.

My jaw drops. How? Never mind. I have to stick to the plan. As I walk around the carriage, I kick the hidden lever that Brandur added to the front wheel this morning. The wheel pops off and rolls across the courtyard. Enbarr feigns being startled into hysterics, stomping and bucking wildly. The carriage jostles, and Maeve loudly swears inside.

“Quick! Help me catch that wheel!” I call out to the guards.

The two that were stationed at the gate scramble to run after it. They bump into each other as the wheel curves to follow a dip in the cobblestone.

“I’m so sorry,” I exclaim to the scribe. I whip the invitation out from my pocket and wave it through the air, just as the guards sprint back with the wheel. The scribe reaches for the parchment, but I yank it out of reach to grab the wheel with the same hand. “This is most unfortunate. We’ve made such a ruckus! Please forgive us. The mahu’rah does not like such trouble.”

The scribe scowls.

I purposefully drop the wheel, then pick it up again, crunching the invitation against it. “Pardon me. Ah, where are my tools? Oh, mercy.” I mime searching my body.

“Your back pocket, miss,” the scribe says, exasperated.

“Oh!” I grab the wrench and kneel before the wheel. Enbarr keeps up the act, her stomps and shakes of her head growing increasingly agitated. “She doesn’t like to stand still for long! Quite the lively mare, isn’t she?”

“Quite,” the scribe mutters.

As much as the carriage is jostling, I don’t have to feign struggling to line the wheel up before I tighten it into place.

Brandur looms over me, bearing his canine teeth. “Stop bumbling around, coachwoman! You are embarrassing my mahu’rah!” A flash of a grin lights his eyes. He’s enjoying the performance, despite hating his attire.

“Yes, sir! Got it.” I stand and dust my hands off, then turn to the scribe. “We’ll head on through, now. Any more dallying and we’ll delay the entire ball!” I laugh as I climb back atop the driver’s box. “Stable is around the back?”

The scribe bustles forward. “Yes, but I need you⁠—”

Enbarr bucks again, crying out so loud it drowns out the scribe’s words. A guard whips her arm across the scribe’s body to stop him from approaching. “Get a move on,” the guard says.

“Thank you kindly.” I crack the reins and lead Enbarr through the north gate, right into the courtyard of Drottheim Keep.

One step down. My blood pumps as I think of the dozen harder ones to go.

I halt Enbarr before the grand one-story staircase that sweeps up to the open ballroom doors. Dignitaries from Torok, Vargesh, and every province of Avedor make their way toward the music and affable laughter. Glittering gems adorn collarbones and wrists. The gowns and suits are rich in color, some of the softest of silks, others sewn from fabrics I don’t even have a name for. The sight would make the draper in the Mythos market envious.

The beams of enormous mage lights sweep across the courtyard, more for security than ambience. The lights are nestled in large metal bowls that the guards beside them rotate to redirect the beams. Otherwise, the light would shine in every direction, hindering the guards more than helping them.

I don’t miss the archers positioned along the courtyard walls. The guards patrolling the perimeter pose a greater threat. Their Gifts are unknown dangers to us.

Then I see it—in the shadow of the staircase is the door we need to pass through. There’s a guard stationed in front of it.

Brandur exits the carriage, then bends down on one knee to assist Maeve. Her gown is bold, Nog’s clever combination of Mythos’s current brocade trend with the war-ready ruggedness worn by orc women. Brandur escorts her until they reach the foot of the stairs. Then she advances alone, lifting her skirts like a practiced noblewoman.

“I’m accompanying you to the stables, to make sure you don’t give my horse another spasm,” Brandur spits at me. “My mahu’rah, I’ll return soon.”

Maeve holds her fist against her chest and nods with regal confidence. She’s a good actress, better than I thought she’d be.

Brandur walks beside Enbarr as I lead her around the perimeter of the keep. Nestled into its side wall is the stable that’s already overcrowded with drivers, horses, and carriages. “Slow down,” Brandur murmurs as we reach a patch of shadow cast by the towering keep.

Enbarr drags her hooves. I grab a spherical glass bottle from the pouch at my hip, one of Maeve’s creations. I throw it. It shatters on the cobblestone, and darkness curls from the broken shards. Our carriage is obscured in shadow within seconds.

Min hops out of the carriage, slinking low to the ground. Her ears are alert as she looks around for threats. Rune emerges next, sans the hat. His black gambeson and trousers blend into the shadows like he’s part of the night sky, but I still can’t shake the uncanniness of his face. Then Brandur climbs in to shed his disguise and quickly emerges in his own stealthwear.