Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,73

the consequences if you’re caught acquiring these treasures. And if you’re sprung wandering the halls after ninebells in breach of the Revered Mother’s curfew, Black Mother help you. This is a game, children. But a dangerous one.” He waggled his eyebrows. “The only kind worth playing.

“At yearsend, whichever acolyte has acquired the most marks shall finish top of this hall. Each other Shahiid will be running a similar contest; Songs, Masks and Truths. Presuming no dismal failures in other areas of study, the students who finish top of each hall are virtually guaranteed to graduate the Red Church as full-fledged Blades.”

Murmurs rippled among the acolytes. Mia met Tric’s eyes across the room. Ashlinn was grinning like a cat who’d stole the cream, the cow, and the milkmaid to boot. A near-certain guarantee to become a Blade? To avenge her father? To stand on Scaeva’s tomb? Maw’s teeth, that was a prize worth pinching a few trinkets for …

Some acolytes had already begun snatching up the scrolls. The one-eared boy, whose name was Petrus, got into a brief scuffle with Diamo as they both grabbed the same one. Tric’s scroll was snatched out of his hand by a smiling Ash. Mia pushed through the throng to grab her own. She cracked the wax seal, perused the handwritten list:

A kitchen knife —1 mark

A poleaxe from the Hall of Songs —1 mark

A personal item belonging to a fellow acolyte —2 marks

Jewelry belonging to a fellow acolyte —3 marks

A book from the athenaeum (stolen, not borrowed, smartarse) —6 marks

A mirror from the Hall of Masks —7 marks

Chronicler Aelius’s spectacles —8 marks

A face from the weaver’s rooms —9 marks

Shahiid Spiderkiller’s ceremonial knives —20 marks

A keepsake from Mother Drusilla’s study —35 marks

Shahiid Solis’s empty scabbard —50 marks

And so on. Dozens upon dozens of items listed down the page, each more outlandish than the last. It looked like this “contest” was going to start an all-out thievery war among the acolytes, which was probably what Mouser wanted. They’d be on edge at all times, now. Always looking for an opportunity. Constantly watchful.

Constantly practicing.

Clever.

At the bottom of the list, Mia saw the final item. The most difficult of all.

The Revered Mother’s obsidian key —100 marks

Mia recalled the key hanging about the old woman’s neck. How mad would someone have to be try to steal that? She glanced up at Shahiid Mouser, found him watching her with that silverware smile. Clapping his hands, he looked about the room.

“Now. Practice.”

The Shahiid’s first lesson was in simple pickpocketry. He took a clinking purse from a table and tied it to his belt. He then schooled the novices on several ways his monies might be filched, each named more fancifully than the last. The Deadlift. The Jackanapes. The Juliette. The Gigolo. With a walking stick in one hand, Mouser picked a random acolyte to try and steal his prize. Carlotta, the slavemarked girl who swayed like a snake, and moved almost as quick. Big Diamo, whose sledgehammer hands proved faster than they looked. Those novices too slow were rewarded with a crack across the knuckles. Too heavy-handed? Crack. Too obvious? Crack. Too clumsy?

Crack, crack, crack.

Ashlinn seemed a deft hand at the game, and Jessamine and Hush were her equals. The pale, blue-eyed boy still refused to speak—he used his piece of chalk and charboard to service any question that couldn’t be answered by a nod or shake of the head. But he was quick as maggots on a corpse, and deathly quiet.

Mouser went through several costume changes, flipping through the racks of clothing and explaining how each might be overcome. He dressed as a marrowborn don, with a well-cut frock coat and a fat purse inside. Then a senator in purple-trimmed robes of office, with a hidden pocket to conceal his coin.1

“And next,” Mouser announced, rummaging through the clothing racks once again, “a breed that hangs on to their coppers like dogs to their bones.” The Shahiid slipped a heavy white robe over his head, fastened a golden chain at his neck. “Your good old-fashioned, god-fearing priest of Aa.”

Mouser raised his three fingers in blessing, shifted his voice an octave deeper.

“May the Everseeing keep you always in the Light, O, my children.”

He raised his voice over the chuckling. “Now, now, laugh if you will, acolytes. But this is genuine gear. Belonged to a minister in Godsgrave I met briefly in my younger years. Though he enjoyed the meeting less than I.” He scanned the faces of the assembly. “Now, whom shall we