I could have told them there were no ghosts, just me and a few creative rumors. I could have told them there were several ways into their bedchamber, they’d only ever just walked in through the solar. I could have told them not to squeal about their security measures to anyone, even if they believed Princess Gisele was too well known, too well off, to bother stealing so much as a copper bit from them.
But I didn’t. Because here’s the thing about stealing from people like the Count and Countess von Eisendorf: Odds are they deserve it. And instead of sitting around gathering dust, their riches can go to someone who deserves to be rich.
(Me. That’s usually me.)
There’s a saying in the Blessed Empire: Little thieves steal gold, and great ones steal kingdoms, but only one goes to the gallows. I’m not sure I agree. I’ve little interest in kingdoms, but even less in dancing with the hangman. And I’ve gotten very good—great, you might even say—at stealing gold.
There’s still more distance between my balconette and their master balcony than I’d like, but it’s manageable. Besides, I did not send the von Eisendorfs so many anniversary gifts just to leave empty-handed.
I climb onto the balconette’s railing, then inch over to the timber ledge along the wall at my right. It’s not wide enough to shimmy across, but it does offer a small foothold. I steel myself, then half leap into the open air, planting my right foot on the timber and pushing off the final few feet to the master balcony. I collide with the balcony’s sturdier balustrade with a soft oof and wrap my arms around the cold stone, then roll over it as quick as I can and hold my breath, listening through the pounding of my heart.
There’s not so much as a fracture in the guards’ quiet conversation below.
I push myself back up to my feet and carefully try the handles on the balcony doors. They’re locked. I figured they would be, this close to Winterfast.
Hence the gift I knew Ezbeta would keep for herself: the spiced mead.
It’s no secret that Ezbeta overindulges, and that she loves nothing so much as a good spiced mead on a midwinter night. She’s also in her forties, and likely prone to night sweats. If she’s anything like Dame von Falbirg, they’re worse when she drinks.
I check the window closest to Ezbeta and Gustav’s bed. Sure enough, it’s been left unlocked.
No dust on the sill, so she must use it as often as I suspect, and as I gently push the panes open, the silent hinges confirm it. They’ve been well greased so as not to wake Gustav when his wife needs a breath of fresh air.
It’s child’s play to climb in. There’s an entire solar between the bedchamber and the guards, so I don’t have to shed my leather boots, just step quietly. I did that for years in Castle Falbirg anyway.
Typically, the bedchamber would be left dark to conserve candles and oil. If I were a servant in this manor, though, I would leave the lamps burning on a night when my mistress was sure to stagger into her bedchamber half pickled in glohwein.
The Eisendorfs’ servants have done just that, giving me plenty of light to see by. I cross the room to the vanity, barely making a sound.
I find a story spilling from Ezbeta’s jewelry cases on the vanity, as I often do. An open box of rings to the side, with seven sitting outside it in a heap, all of them extravagant gold to match her gown’s trim this evening. All seven rings removed at once, likely at Gustav’s insistence that she not cover up her wedding band on their twentieth anniversary. Her earrings, bracelets, and necklaces lie in a similar state of disorder, but only a few have been removed from the case, like she’d chosen in a hurry in order to make up for the lack of wealth on her hands. A few precious stones, but the most valuable piece is around her neck.
She may or may not keep that one. We’ll see if Fortune decides to keep meddling.
I admire the splendor a moment, noting the angles of the cabinet doors, the tilt of case lids. Then I pull out the linen drawstring bag, slip its lone penny into my dress pocket, and begin the harvest.
The Pfennigeist has been hard at work all year, picking jewelry off Bóernische gentry like apples from an untended orchard. (They’ve certainly left enough lying around to rot.) I’d never get away with this in the Free Imperial States, where Almandy’s most cunning and ruthless train for years to join the Order of Prefects of the Godly Courts, who serve as instruments of the Low Gods’ laws.
But in the nobility-governed principalities and border marches, the local bailiff is usually someone’s slack-jawed brother-in-law who won’t fuss when a komte’s tax ledgers don’t add up. So if I get caught in the march of Bóern, it’ll be my own damn fault.
I still won’t. I can’t afford to. The von Eisendorfs are among Adalbrecht’s wealthiest vassals, and I’d secretly hoped tonight’s haul would be my last, but the sum of my efforts is still short of where it needs to be. I’ve mustered just over seven hundred gilden so far. The magic number is one thousand.
That will be the price of my safety. Of my freedom.
You see, there are two things they don’t tell you about having gods for godmothers:
First, nothing is freely given, even a mother’s love.
And second, it is very, very costly to run out on a debt to a god.
I eyeball the gold, silver, and jewels as they slither into my bag. I can’t say for certain—I take what my fence pays—but I’d guess after
tonight, I should have between eight hundred gilden and nine.
Not enough, but almost there.
There’s a trick to it, packing away the little things first so they settle at the bottom, rather than clinking around the bag. Rings, earrings, brooches; then the bracelets, then the necklaces, sometimes a girdle or a tiara if I’m feeling lucky.
One silver blur tumbles out and rolls off the vanity. I barely catch it before it hits the flagstones. It feels heavy in my hand, heavier than it ought to be. When I unfurl my fingers, I find a ring at odds with the rest of Ezbeta’s collection. It’s not silver but cool pewter wrought like talons, a perfect moonstone nestled in their grip.
Now this looks like a different story entirely.
A rumble reaches my ears from the drive outside. At first I ignore it; the ring is much more interesting than the arrival of a late guest.
Then the rumble grows louder than it has any right to be. Dozens of horses, maybe half a hundred. The Eisendorfs are wealthy, but not nearly important enough to merit a visitor that commands such an escort.
A horn sounds, and I hear a commotion on the ground level, which means the party has noticed their surprise caller. And that means my window of time to finish this job is shrinking, for that courtyard below is about to fill with gawking guests.
I don’t have time to ponder the ring or anything else; instead I shove all the jewelry into the linen bag and cinch it shut. I do bother to arrange all the boxes, cases, and lids just as I found them, like a gold-eating ghost simply swept through the vanity.
No, not a ghost. A phantom.
I leave the finishing touch in the crushed-velvet lining of an empty case, as I’ve done a dozen times now: a single red penny, crown-side up.
Then I double-check the knot on the bag and tie it up in my sash. When I climb out the bedroom window, I see banners of fore riders stabbing through the fog.
A white wolf rears on the banners, collared in gold, stark against an unmistakable field of Reigenbach blue.