The Penitent Damned by Django Wexler Page A

desperate indeed. But what makes you think he has a chance of success? Surely ordinary procedures will be sufficient."
    Orlanko loved 'ordinary procedures'. He'd written most of them himself, over the years, converting the Concordat into an organization that ticked over like a gigantic clock with human bearings.
    "The problem is the thief," Andreas said. "I've included some eyewitness reports from his last job, in Hamvelt."
    The Duke leaned forward, flipped the page, and read. His index finger tapped the paper again.
    "Ah. You're certain this is the man we're dealing with?"
    "Reasonably certain. We know he's in the city, and for him to risk venturing within our reach the job must be a sweet one. This is the only thing that qualifies."
    "I see." Orlanko leaned back again. "How do you want to proceed?"
    "If we can believe the reports, the thief's … capabilities are unknown. I assume you want the identity of his backer?"
    "Of course."
    "In that case I would like to borrow some of your … 'special assets'."
    The Duke's expression darkened. "Matters at court are coming to a head. I may not be able to spare them for long."
    "We won't have long to wait. The thief won't risk being in the city any longer than he has to. It'll be tonight, or tomorrow at the latest."
    Orlanko hesitated a moment, then nodded. "As you wish. But I expect good results."
    "Of course, Your Grace." Andreas bowed, coat flapping. "I will begin immediately."
     
    · · ·
     
    Alex grabbed the lip of crumbling brick and hauled herself up until she could swing one leg over and lever herself up to lie flat on the narrow surface. The bricks made up a battlement-like rise perhaps a foot wide. Beyond them was the building's roof, a sloped, irregular surface of wooden shingles, but she dared not trust that with her weight. Most of the the tenements of the Newtown district still had their original hundred-year-old roofs, patched inexpertly and sporadically as they rotted and started to leak, and the ancient shingles were likely to shatter under her weight.
    Instead, she rose to her feet, as smoothly as a dancer. She looked around for a moment, taking her bearings from the lights of the city, and then started to pace easily down the narrow strip of brick.
    On her right hand was the roof, and on her left was a sheer drop — five stories to the street below, without even the hope of catching a convenient clothesline to slow her fall. The winding streets of Oldtown and the narrow alleys of the Docks were always thick with ropes, which could be quite useful for a second-story man — or woman, in Alex's case. Here, though, the long-dead Farus V had decreed that the boulevards be wide and straight, in accordance with the latest Rationalist principles, and though the area had gone a bit down-market since the old boy's day, the buildings were still too far apart to string washing-lines.
    Alex's heart was beating fast, but it wasn't from the precariousness of her foothold or the prospect of a hundred-foot fall. Young as she was—another month would see her twentieth birthday—this sort of work had become so second-nature to her that a few inches of moldy brick might as well have been a broad highway. This, the rooftops of a great city at night, was her world, into which she'd been born and in which she'd spent her entire life. Anyone who had asked her about the possibility of a fall would have gotten only a quizzical stare in response.
    Her nervousness had quite another source. This wasn't Desland, with its brightly painted shingles and sleepy constabulary, or even Hamvelt, with its terraced archways and sharp-eyed sell-mercenary guards. This was Vordan City , home to the Last Duke's Concordat, who watched from every shadow. Ever since she'd started working with the Old Man, some three years now, he'd been telling her dark stories about the city of his birth, to which he'd sworn up and down he'd never return.
    Everyone knew what a thief's oath was worth, of course, and it