At the far end of the market stood the inn called the “Silver Candlestick.” A tall, narrow, three-storeyed building, wedged tight between its neighbours. Its upper floors jutted out above the street, as did its cumbersome sign.

  Toward the doors of the “Candlestick” streamed crowds of all sorts. Some wore working clothes stained with oil or soot. Others were finer dressed, in motley doublets and cloaks. Many of them Gyuste knew by sight—along with the reason for today’s gathering.

  Rize shifted from paw to paw, her tail swishing impatiently. The joy of the night’s adventure had gone to her head. She was already imagining how she would leap roof to roof, creep along corridors, and then, after the theft, flee the chase. Anything was better than scrubbing the cauldron.

  — Look to the second floor, — Gyuste pointed upward. — The farthest window—Karen’s room. The manuscript is most likely in her chest. Do not fret; there is no lock on it. If you do not find it—look under the bed. Take it and come straight back.

  — Ayarr, — Rize nodded.

  — We meet here, around this corner. If I am not here—wait. I’ll go inside, to draw her off.

  Gyuste straightened his collar, drew a deep breath, and, without looking back, stepped into the throng and made for the entrance.

  In the main hall there was scarcely room to breathe. Among the guests were broad-shouldered smiths, tanners with dye ground into their skin, merchants of every degree of means, and even actors from travelling troupes. All were of the young Fourth Estate—the townsfolk—of which the bard himself was one. They clustered in knots and spoke in low voices, casting glances toward the empty platform at the far end of the hall.

  Gyuste worked his way slowly through the crowd, greeting acquaintances, until he came upon Karen. She stood at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed over her breast. Tall, with long black hair and a sharp, piercing gaze. Seeing him, she stepped forward.

  — Well, well, who’s come at last, — she said with acid sweetness as she came close. — Have you finally scraped together the coin, Gyuste? My patience is not without end.

  The bard did not so much as turn his head; instead, with studied slowness he adjusted his cuffs, surveying the crowd.

  — I am not here for you, Karen, — he tossed off indifferently. — I am here to hear Lambert.

  At such disregard, the actress’s eyes narrowed and her lips began to tremble.

  — So that is how it is? Then listen well. Only mark this: if by tomorrow eve you have not paid, your scribbling will end up in Ramani’s hands. I think he will find a use for it quickly enough. Oh—seems that’s him!

  She spun on her heel and crossed the hall toward a young man with a long feather in his hat. Gyuste watched her go, then let out a quiet breath.

  A hush fell over the room. At the centre, upon the low platform, stepped a man in a grey cloak. Preacher Lambert was a little past fifty. Long greying hair lay upon his shoulders, and his face, with its large aquiline nose, seemed hewn from stone.

  — My friends, — his voice, deep and even, carried through the hall. — I am glad to see so many worthy masters gathered here. And I bring good tidings. The nobility on the other bank have heard us. Among them are those ready to acknowledge and uphold the faith of the Twelve.

  A murmur rose. Some nodded eagerly, but from the back ranks came a sharp shout:

  — Uphold it? Or merely set us before their companies as a shield? We are masters, Priest Lambert, not soldiers! What if they mean only to use us in their feuds and civil wars!

  The craftsmen stirred and rumbled assent. Gyuste watched Lambert’s reaction closely. The preacher did not bristle; he only lifted a hand, calling for silence.

  — Of war there can be no talk, — he said firmly. — We do not gather an army, nor do we prepare a rising.

  The preacher let his gaze sweep the assembly.

  — The Church of the Twelve is no threat to the old order, but its continuance and growth. We shall seek change step by step—steadily and peaceably. The lot of the new estate is creation: whether forging, stitching, or the making of verse. These talents are granted by the Young Gods, and to begin slaughter by your hands would be naught but a breaking of the divine order—giving our ill-wishers cause. The money of our patrons is set aside for the spreading of the word of the “New Stars”—from Seltrivelle to all the provinces. Once they hear there, our recognition and the changes we need will be no matter of many years.

  When he finished, silence hung for a heartbeat—and then approving cries rang out. Faces broke into smiles; fear gave way to confidence and hope.

  Gyuste watched, enraptured. All he had once only dreamed of was beginning to take flesh in the world.

  Rize’s first attempts to climb the inn’s fa?ade came to nothing—the stones were too smooth, and there was scarcely anything to catch a claw on. But the neighbouring house, just as narrow and crooked, stood almost flush against it. Rize darted to its wall, digging her claws into gaps between half-rotted boards, and hauled herself upward.

  From above, the street looked different. Smaller—less crushing. She ran along the slope of the roof and leapt, catching a beam in mid-flight. Her claws sank deep into the wood; her forepaws held fast, while her hind legs dangled in empty air.

  After hanging a moment, Rize swung herself, then scrambled onto a narrow stone ledge and crept along the wall, pressing her whole body to it.

  The window was small, and the shutters were closed, but with the tip of a claw she managed to hook the latch, and the opening gave.

  She peered inside cautiously. No one. With effort, Rize squeezed through and dropped onto the wooden floor.

  The room was quiet; only from below, through the cracks, came the muffled roar of voices from the common hall. Against the wall stood a wide bed with a high headboard and a heavy woollen blanket; beside it, a crooked-legged chair with a dress thrown over it, and a small chest.

  Spurred on, she froze for a moment, imagining herself as Tarian—the hero of Gyuste’s street plays—who could sneak even into a king’s treasury. The girl straightened, set one foot forward, and swept her hand grandly, the way the actors did on the stage.

  Then play yielded to business. She flung herself at the chest and began to rummage, tossing out dresses, false hair, ribbons, and other odd things she did not understand. At last something caught her eye—something interesting, though not parchment: a shiny trinket. Rize drew out a ring and began to study it with eager fascination. In that great house there had been many such things, but since then she had hardly seen the like. Everything here was stone or wood, and this—this was something else. It seemed to beckon. Growing more curious still, she burrowed deeper into the chest, finding more adornments: chains, earrings. They delighted her.

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  “Seems Gyuste said nuffin prro shinies.”

  Smiling happily, she wrapped her finds in a kerchief.

  “He din’ say, an’ din’ forbiddr! It is no thef’, esri I merery... take them?” She froze a moment, recalling Hemile’s words: “In our tavern, there are no thieves.” “But I ain’t from the taverrrn now. I’m—Tarian!”

  At that very time below, in the hall packed with people, Gyuste saw a scrawny lad squeeze up to Karen and whisper into her ear, pointing at the ceiling. Even from afar one could see her face twist with fury.

  Hissing something under her breath, she began to shove through the crowd, driving her elbows into onlookers and ignoring their protests. She flew up the steep wooden stairs, and the steps wailed under her heels.

  Realising there was no parchment in the chest, Rize began to tear the bed apart, sending straw into the air and ripping at the cloth until she reached a stack of parchments bound with thin cord.

  — Aye! — she breathed, snatching the bundle.

  In that same instant heavy footsteps thundered in the corridor. Rize went cold. There was no time left to run for the window. She pressed the papers to her chest and, without thinking, dove under the bed, wriggling into the farthest corner against the wall.

  The door crashed open and struck the wall. Karen burst into the room, breathing hard. Her face, pale at the best of times, was now blotched red with rage.

  — I knew it! — she shrieked, staring at the wrecked bed. — I knew that drunken wretch would pull something!

  She began to pace the room in quick, ragged steps. The hem of her dress whispered close to Rize’s face, stirring a cloud of biting dust and fine chaff. The girl curled into herself, squeezing her eyes shut until it hurt and clutching the bundle to her belly. Her nose traitorously began to itch. Rize fought desperately to hold it back, pressing a hand over her mouth, but the tickle was unbearable.

  — How could it be!? How could you!? — the young woman wailed.

  Then Rize could bear no more:

  — Apshee!

  Karen froze. Her gaze dropped slowly to the dusty gap by the floor. She sank swiftly to one knee. Rize understood: if she did not move now, she would be struck down on the spot.

  Not waiting, the cat shot out the other side and, slipping past the candlestick flung after her, bolted into the corridor.

  — GRAB HIM! THIEF! — Karen howled so that the very walls seemed to tremble.

  Rize tore down the narrow passage, hearing furious curses behind her.

  Choosing not to waste time on the stairs, she sprang over the railing and, tucking herself in mid-air, landed straight in the middle of the hall, not far from the platform.

  A sudden silence seized the listeners. Dozens of eyes fixed on the small figure with a jutting tail and ruffled fur. Lambert broke off mid-sentence, looking down at the unbidden guest. She clutched the parchments in a death-grip. The dust raised by her leap drifted down slowly in the light of the oil lamps.

  Above, from the stair-landing, came Karen’s harsh breathing. She stood in shadow, baring her teeth in malice, yet not daring to step into the full hall.

  The silence was broken by Gyuste. He stepped out of the crowd, striving to look calm, though sparks of alarm danced in his eyes.

  — I beg your pardon, — the bard said loudly, sweeping his gaze about the room. — My apprentice has not yet fully mastered human manners. Young blood, too much zeal... We meant no interruption of so important a speech.

  A whisper ran through the hall.

  — Apprentice? — boomed one of the smiths. — He teaches a verid? Since when do beasts learn letters?

  Lambert lifted a hand, cutting off the rumble. He looked closely at Rize, who bared her teeth at anyone who came too near, and then turned his gaze to Gyuste. To the astonishment of those present, the preacher was smiling.

  — There is no need to beg pardon, Master Gyuste, — Lambert’s voice rang more solemn still. — On the contrary, I praise you. While many among us only speak of change and the gods’ mercy, you act.

  He addressed the crowd:

  — You forget, brothers, that the verids are children of Veridan. Though he be a forest god, and among us there are none who follow him, he is one of the Twelve Stars in the heavens. If we proclaim the faith of the Twelve, then he—and his creations—must be honoured. All in whom the spark of life runs have the right to grow and be made better. With the coming of new times, our own regard for the children of Veridan must change as well.

  The craftsmen fell silent, working over what they had heard. Such an interpretation of the canons they had not yet known. Seizing the moment, Gyuste gripped Rize’s paw hard.

  — I thank you for your wisdom, — he said quickly. — We will take our leave, so as not to hinder your discussion.

  The bard all but dragged Rize toward the exit. They burst out onto the night street, and only when the lights of the “Silver Candlestick” lay behind them did Gyuste allow himself to stop and draw breath.

  — It seems you managed it.

  Rize nodded and held out the parchments to him.

  — For Tarian it came out noisy, but dramatic. And the preacher said a curious thing. So it seems we are not only good thieves, but pioneers besides.

  — Stop! — a sharp, ragged voice made them both freeze.

  Out of the shadows sprang Karen. She was breathing hard, her hair dishevelled, and such fury burned in her eyes that Rize’s claws slid out of their own accord.

  — So this is the great playwright Gyuste! — she spat, regarding the bard with endless contempt. — Only in your cheap little plays can you write of noble thieves and bold heroes. In truth—you are a coward. So afraid of me that you sent this... little beast to do the dirty work for you?

  — We have taken back what is mine, — Gyuste answered coldly, stepping in front of Rize. — What you did was base. You sought to ruin not me, but our whole theatre. Has the spawn of Araha taken hold of you!?

  — Base? — Karen stepped forward, and her voice shook. — I answered baseness with baseness for your betrayal, Gyuste! It is you here who are the spawn—traitor! You promised me the leading role, you swore I was your only muse. And then that snivelling Lusena appeared, and you cast me out like old stage-props!

  Rize stood, shifting her gaze from one to the other. She had seen folk shout over food, over coin, or when they were beaten—but this quarrel was different. In Karen’s words there was something the girl could not grasp: a tangle of pain, rage, and some strange yearning. It seemed they were speaking a tongue she almost knew, yet the sense slipped through her claws.

  Karen smoothed her disordered hair, throwing Gyuste an icy look.

  — Do not flatter yourself, — she tossed at last. — This is not the end. I do not mean to yield to that little girl.

  She turned and strode swiftly away.

  Gyuste was silent for a long while, watching her go. His shoulders sagged, and he once more looked like that same weary drunkard from the tavern.

  — Come, Rize, — he said softly, stroking his apprentice’s head. — I hope Colette does not hear of this.

  They walked in silence for a long time, until at last they returned to familiar streets. Rize could hold back no longer.

  — Gyuste... why was she shoutin’ so roud? Your storrry!

  The bard gave a sad, crooked smile and ruffled her between the ears.

  — It is not about them, but about love. Next time... next time I shall teach you the most important—and, perhaps, the hardest—lesson of your life.

  — How thef’? — she asked hopefully.

  — No, — Gyuste sighed, and a strange sorrow sounded in his voice. — I will try to explain to you what love is. Though I fear you will understand that lesson only when you yourself...

  He did not finish, but to Rize it seemed he was speaking not so much to her as to himself.

  Black Sapphire - Chapter 18 will be published on February 25.

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