Hour of Mischief (2 page)

“A rare artifact from the temple of Kova! Red as her hair and immune to the hottest flames!”

“This here plant is taken directly from the empty realm! Yes, from Cambiare itself!”

“Here, here! Don’t miss this opportunity!”

“I love market days.” Parker sighed, glancing wishfully at a man selling weapons. His dark-brown skin always got a certain glow to it when he noticed dangerous, shiny things. But, to be fair, maybe it was just the late afternoon sunlight.

Maybe.

“Me too, but unless this heist is a success, we don’t have enough gears to buy anything,” I ducked around a few giggling girls and the bearded jewel merchant trying to sell them a cheap necklace. “Even if we did, we don’t have long before sundown. We need to make our hit during our window of opportunity when–”

“When the watchmen start drinking. I know, I know,” Parker said.

“A talisman of the gods for the young lady?” one fellow asked, stepping in front of Sylvia and blocking her path. “We have a talisman for all twelve of the Clockwork Gods. And even some for the minor gods that serve them.”

“Oh, I . . . well. . . .” Sylvia smiled uncomfortably.

“Very cheap. A discount for you being so pretty.” The man beamed. “Come now, who’s your patron god, miss?”

“The God of ‘we’re in a hurry,’” I said, taking Sylvia by the arm and pulling her away from the man. “Sorry, but we don’t have time for shopping today.”

“Thanks,” Sylvia murmured as we pressed on through the crowd.

“No problem.” I tugged my fingers through my tangled hair. “You really need to learn the word ‘no’, Sylvia.”

Sylvia smiled impishly. “But I have you for that.”

“Don’t exploit my backbone.”

“Hear my words, children! You, who are all born of time, come forth!” A deep voice rang out above the other sounds of the cobblestone street. It was impressive to hear such a booming, grand voice, and my ears perked up at the sound.

“Check it out,” Parker said, popping up between Sylvia and I. “Religious nut job at ten o’clock.”

A man stood on a platform under a slanted, golden awning. He was bald and had a pointy little beard dangling from his flat chin. From his clothing, there was no doubt he hailed from Tiyata. His robe was bold orange, dusted with the crimson sands of the desert realm and stitched with swirling, red symbols meant to depict the constant shifting of time. The robe, much too long for him, fell in a rippling pool at his feet. Said pool shimmered with every word he spoke because he kept making sweeping gestures with enough zeal to impress even the most apathetic of passersby. Even if they didn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth, they had to give him credit for trying.

“The Clockwork Gods you pay tribute to do not deserve your reverence. They do not deserve your prayers,” the man said. “They walk among us humans, lowering themselves to less than what they are. They’re no longer sacred! Even the Mother and the Father have lost claim to our reverence as they let their twelve children do as they please.”

“Bold words,” Sid said. Parker, Sylvia, and I almost jumped at the sound of his voice. “I’m surprised he hasn’t been attacked.”

I blinked. When Sid felt the need to speak, something profound usually lined his words. I one day hoped to decipher their elusive significance, but it was a work in progress.

“As long as he doesn’t denounce Artifex, specifically, I don’t think anyone will give him much trouble,” Sylvia said.

I nodded. The God of Craftsmen was beloved amongst the slum dwellers. No one would tolerate slander against his name. Fortunately, this preacher spoke in broad terms.

“Only the Clockmaker, creator of all, deserves your reverence. Even the lesser beings who call themselves gods worship him. The Sacred Keeper of Fate and Time. The maker of the great clock binding us and each of the gods who govern it as one. Give your loyalty to him and carry his sign.” The man, out of pure chance, caught my gaze as we passed by. Lucky me.

“You, girl! Take up the sign of the Clockmaker.” He held up a necklace with two charms on the end. One, a four-handed clock, so common across the city you could turn your head in any direction and see it ticking. But the second charm was a key, made up of six spiraled shapes. Three as the head and three as the blade. The Clockmaker’s Key.

“Thanks.” I said, holding up my own identical necklace. The two charms clinked together. “But I’m covered.”

“Bless you, girl. May fate be kind to you,” the man said. He went back to preaching his words to the “naïve” slum dwellers.

“That’s the sign of the Clockmaker?” Parker leaned in to see my necklace. “Never noticed it before.”

“Yeah, you’re a bit oblivious in that way,” I said.

“Do you believe in that stuff?” Sylvia asked. “In a god above the Mother and the Father?”

“My dad does,” Parker piped up. “But he believes in a lot of weird things.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Like father, like son.”

“Hey!”

“Just joking.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, I’d rather wear the Clockmaker’s sign on my neck than the signs of any of the other gods. The man’s right. The twelve clockwork gods don’t exactly command reverence.” I looked up at the sky. Night was falling fast now, drawing Fortuna into its dark embrace. My time of day. “At least the Clockmaker is mysterious. I don’t know enough about him to hate him.”

Then again, I didn’t like the idea of some old god running a clock determining the fate of the world. But I didn’t care much about who governed the destiny of the universe, so long as I could call the shots in my own life.

Parker had this annoying habit while on a job. He talked a lot. Even if silence was absolutely, you-will-die-if-you-aren’t-quiet necessary, Parker talked. His incessant speech was annoying on the best of days, but especially grating when we were crouched in the rafters in an old shrine to the God of Abundance, lowering Sylvia down on a wire to retrieve an important gold artifact. I had priorities then, none of which involved listening to Parker ramble on. And yet. . . .

“I’ve been thinking,” Parker said. “You know how the hour of mischief is at seven o’clock?”

“Yes, Parker.”

“Then why don’t we steal at seven o’clock?”

“Because, Parker.”

“That’s a terrible answer.”

“Shut up, Parker.”

Parker frowned and crossed his arms. I took advantage of his silence to call down to Sylvia. “Doing all right?”

“Fine,” she whispered back. She looked so small in the great belly of the temple, surrounded on all sides by towering marble columns. “Just a little further.”

My heart fluttered excitedly in my chest like one of Parker’s explosives gone spastic. I always got a certain joy from stealing, but my favorite victims were aristocrats. The high-nosed, stiff-necked snoots lived such frighteningly glamorous lives. Taking something away from them seemed like an act of civil service. They favored Amontillado, God of Abundance, Wealth and Snobbery. We were defiling his temple and I loved every second of it.

Parker recovered from my brush off and launched right back into his questioning. “But seriously, why don’t we steal at seven o’clock? We’re stealing at nine o’clock. The hour of
water
. What does water have to do with stealing?”

“Those who favor mischief do as they please,” I said. “We don’t conform to what others say is ‘our best hour.’ We just . . . steal.”

“But–”

“Parker, thieves don’t steal when expected.” Sylvia sighed from below us. “If we did, we would always be caught.”

Parker went quiet, and I made a mental note to hug Sylvia later.

“All right, I’m close enough,” Sylvia said, turning in her harness with the grace of a dancer. In her position, I’d flail my way out of the straps and onto the alarm-rigged floor. But she had extraordinary balance. She’d scamper across long rooftops only a few inches thick in a second. Even the movement of her silvery blonde hair appeared controlled.

“Good,” I said. “Now, don’t worry. I did a check of the place earlier. As long as you don’t hit the ground, you’ll be fine. Just make sure there are no alarms right around the artifact.”

“We’re good,” Sylvia brushed her hand inches from our prize. It was an ugly relic in my opinion; the head of a man with no eyes and a boxy nose way too big for his face. I don’t know if they meant it to look like Amontillado but I’d be insulted if
I
were the god.

Ugly or not, it had value. Even from this height, I could see its golden light reflecting off of Sylvia’s hair. It made my fingers itch. My flesh ones, anyway.

There didn’t appear to be any alarms set up around the artifact. Even when Sylvia’s fingers passed a hair’s breadth from the surface nothing happened. No sirens or bright flashing lights or cages. “I’m taking it,” Sylvia said.

“We’ll pull you right up if something happens,” I promised. Sid agreed with a firm nod.

Sylvia grabbed the golden head.

That’s when the sirens started blaring and I started inwardly damning myself to the darkest depths of the Abyss. Ordinarily, alarms wouldn’t be a problem; we were very good at making a quick escape. But before Sid and Parker even had time to consider pulling up on the rope, a cage shot from the floor, entrapping both the artifact and Sylvia.

Terror washed over Sylvia’s face and she dropped the artifact on the ground with a resounding
clang
. Sid, in a burst of panic, released the rope and Sylvia landed on her hands and knees on the floor. I could see the makings of an anxiety attack etched on her face.

“Don’t panic, Sylvia!” I had to shout over the sirens. “We’ll get you out.”

“Janet,” Sid called from across the room, his voice urgent. I followed his gaze to the entrance of the shrine, where the flashing yellow lights illuminated the shadows of the fast-approaching vigilant squad.

“Shit,” I muttered. Before either Sid or Parker could object to me being an idiot, I grabbed the extra wire, threw one end to Parker and leapt from the rafters. Drawing my knife, I swung down and landed in a crouch in front of the cage, my knees cracking against the cold marble. I looked up just as the vigilants came into view.

There were twelve of them, a whole squad, and all were armed with gold-lined revolvers. Sylvia squeaked and gripped the ivory-white bars of her cage, her nails scraping against the gold patterns swirling over the surface. Even the cages here cost more than anything I’d ever owned. “J-Janet–Janet don’t. You have to get out of here.”

“No.” My free hand clutched at my necklace, as if to squeeze some good fortune out of the tiny configuration of gears and circuits. Moments later, Parker and Sid landed beside me, flanking the cage.

“You are outnumbered and out-gunned, thieves,” the head vigilant said. “Drop your weapons.”

“Janet, please,” Sylvia whispered. “It’s better if just one of us gets caught. You can make it out.”

Of course, I had no intention of listening to her, or the vigilant guard. Twelve against four wasn’t in our favor by any means, but I didn’t care.

“Parker,” I said. “Pocket watch. And because I’m feeling nice, throw in a few beetles.”

Parker beamed. “Yes, fearless leader.” He raised one of his explosive pocket watches and hurled it to the ground. The gears smashed and smoke exploded from the shattered clock face, covering the entire room in a sea of grey. We dropped to the ground, obscuring ourselves in the cloud. Even outnumbered, we could still keep the element of surprise.

I kept myself low as I shot forward, slipping a knife into each hand and going for the first vigilant guard. He heard my footsteps but as he swiped his arm to the side in attempt to hit me, I dropped and slid past his legs. My knife caught him behind each of his knees, one of the few parts of the vigilant guards unprotected by armor, slicing through skin and sinew. He collapsed with a scream and shot his pistol blindly into the smoke, but I bolted out of his range before the silver bullet left the chamber.

The second guard I lunged for was more prepared and he bent slightly in anticipation of an attack from below. The poor sap assumed I would be
predictable
or something and he got a nasty surprise when I launched myself into the air and drove my knee into his face. The man’s nose crunched on contact, and he was knocked backward by the force. I rolled forward as he hit the ground, drawing my gun in the same instant and firing off two rounds at an incoming guard’s legs. He went down. For a moment, I crouched on the floor. Breathing. Scanning the room for more attackers. If my nerves were singing before, now they had joined together in an adrenaline filled choir that made me feel weightless and deadly all at once.

“Heads up!” Parker called. I nearly lost it when a shiny, bronze, chaser beetle landed on my back.

“Damn!” I grabbed the beetle and hurled it away from me, seconds before exploded.

“Careful, Janet,” Parker said running by me. “You don’t want to get in their path or they’ll start chasing you.”

“Yeah, I got that!” I said through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you watch where you throw those things?”

“Sorry, I–Ah!” Parker cried out as a vigilant materialized through the smoke screen, gun raised. Thinking fast, I reached into my jacket and sent a pair of throwing knives spinning toward the guard. One hit the chink in his armor at the armpit and he lost his footing. I shot forward as he did, leaped in the air, and jammed my steel elbow into his face, breaking his nose. That was two smashed vigilant noses by my count. Not bad for a day’s work.