Page 22 of A Thief to Die For

Sam claps me on the back, then squeezes my shoulder with his big, meaty hands. ‘Stay safe, brother, and don’t starve.’ A playfulness dances in his eyes. ‘This isn’t Kingsland – there’ll be no special treatment for having the connection out here.’

I resist an eye roll by searching the trees for vagabonds.

‘Special treatment?’ Levi asks.

Sam snorts. ‘It’s like a nonstop parade outside our house – people with gifts, trying to convince him to come over for dinner.’

I sigh. ‘I don’t ask for it and if anyone takes advantage of it, it’s you – requesting pies. Inviting yourself to the meals.’ I actually appreciate that part. It’s nice to have Sam there to diffuse the attention, since it’s a lot of pressure to find the right person to share the connection with. This gift may be my destiny, but it’s also incredibly permanent once it’s triggered. Partners – lovers – to the end. And as for people desperate for my attention, that doesn’t bother me. Who wouldn’t want a security net for survival?

I know I do.

You understand, they just want to use you.

I look away, ignoring Mum’s past words of warning.

‘Nice,’ Levi says a little wistfully.

I eye him, pretty sure he knows exactly what we’re talking about. At sixteen, I was already in over my head.

‘Yeah, whatever,’ Sam grumbles. ‘Let’s get moving.’

‘Hey, Sam,’ I say. He turns back. ‘Don’t kill Wonder Boy. Sound good?’ I fix him with a serious look. ‘Through honour we prosper.’

He inclines his head. ‘Through trials we earn our name,’ he says, finishing our elite guard creed. ‘And no promises.’

I watch their backs as they ride away, hand on my bow, until I can’t see them any more.

‘The Commander said I can move you to the guard barracks,’ Fitzgerald says, approaching my camp. ‘They’re the bunkhouses east of the compound. Most guardsmen and their families live there. There’s another couple for the farmers and kitchen staff.’

I pour the dried meat and vegetables into the pot of boiling water and stir with my nine-inch blade. The Commander’s trying to soften me up? Or does he just want me close? Probably both. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine here for now.’ Slipping away to talk to, or investigate, whoever I want won’t be as easy if I’m surrounded by guards.

Fitzgerald shrugs. ‘Suit yourself,’ he says, turning to walk away.

The strum of a guitar floats through the air. It’s a sound I’ve been hearing all evening. ‘Wait. Is there some sort of party going on?’

‘It’s Sunday night,’ Fitz says. ‘The Dresden like to gather around their fires, some of them sing.’

‘Do you ever go?’ I ask.

‘Not usually. But some guards sneak into the New Moon celebrations. They have lanterns and dancing. I’ve heard the music’s pretty good.’ He waits, raising a brow. ‘Anything else?’

I glance in the direction of the Dresden houses. ‘One more thing. I’m looking for a middle-aged man who’s missing a hand. Do you have anyone here like that?’ Helping Kingsland wasn’t the only reason I stepped up for this mission. I trained with the best and became an elite guard because of my father’s murder. I want to help people. Protect the innocent. And ultimately, end these nightmares by searching for my father’s killer – even if it’s like finding a sliver in a scrap pile.

That makes him laugh. ‘You’re going to have to be more specific. I can think of … at least a dozen.’

‘Really?’ I say, surprised.

‘Yeah, accidents happen. So do hangnails. You know how it goes – sucks to lose your arm from a stupid infection, but better that than dying.’

Right. Except in Kingsland we have actual medicine we’ve scavenged, preserved, and in some cases even replicated, like old-world antibacteriums and medicinal tinctures from herbs. Not to mention there’s a surgeon and trained nurses at our hospital. I stretch my neck, feeling a little disturbed and a lot less optimistic about my chances of chasing down a murderer. At least on this trip.

But I’m still going to look.

Fitzgerald backs up. ‘Don’t be late for your meeting with the Commander tomorrow, or this’ll be your last night here.’

After eating, I make my way towards the light of the fires burning in the centre of the ring of Dresden homes. As I get closer, I find the source of the music: a woman sits on an upside-down bucket, playing a guitar.

‘No militia guardsmen allowed!’ a kid yells with a lisp. He suddenly runs at me, holding a foot-long stick. His red shirt is torn, showing a swathe of brown skin. He lunges and swings, and I barely jump back in time so he doesn’t tag me.