her head in the direction where a gathering of people crossed the street. “And I’m guessing the uniformed man over there with the odd hat and pleasant-looking club will not simply run away if I scream.”
“But I didn’t even nab anything off you! All you had was a hanky, for Zarose sake.”
“Shall we test your word against mine?”
Admittedly, it was a gamble. For all she knew, the guardsman would regard her with no more than a sneer. She had yet to experience any semblance of kindness from anyone here. Except for the thief. His brand of kindness was exactly what she’d been looking for, and somehow, Glorian had delivered.
He held Kallia’s gaze long and hard, before amusement reared its head beneath his veneer of defeat. “Somehow, I hear you working in more than one favor in that threat. Though it does make me wonder if you’re truly as wily as you seem if you’re asking for my help.”
“Favors are not a matter of lifelong trust, only guaranteed delivery,” Kallia remarked. “You seem like the kind who delivers very quickly.”
“I can even perform miracles, too.” The thief lifted his palms with a flourish. “I can make things disappear and reappear.”
“Stealing is not magic.”
“I’d say it is if your only working props are quick hands and a disarming smile.” He winked, almost pulling a laugh from Kallia. Her sparring partner had always been Jack. But with the thief, it was easy and light, as if they could go on for hours like this without injury.
Oh yes, the thief would do very nicely.
“Want to see some real magic, thief?”
When that flicker of mischief in his eyes flared, mirroring her own, a deal had been struck in the exchange. Intrigue started it, and curiosity sealed it.
The air in Glorian was less chilly against Kallia’s skin when the man tipped his hat. “The name’s Aaros. And yours, miss?”
He’d know soon enough.
This whole city would, by the time she was through with it.
7
The Alastor Place was built like a tomb. Cold and forgotten.
Spacious, more importantly.
The perfect venue to house this brand of foolish chaos, Daron thought as he rubbed his hands for warmth, knuckles whitening beneath tawny brown skin. Paling without the constant graze of sun he was used to back home.
This city was not a place for sunlight.
Biting back a shiver, he settled deeper into his seat at the long table before the stage, the chairs beside him occupied by the rest of the judge’s row. An assortment of elderly former show magicians: Sydney Bouquet, a pale, reedy man who always appeared utterly unimpressed by his surroundings; Ricard Armandos, a sleepy-eyed gentleman donning a long silvery beard that he constantly stroked as if petting a cat; and Victor Silu, a stout man with the tallest top hat who kept sneaking sips from the flask hidden in his coat jacket.
Daron had not even been born when they’d graced the stage. Then again, with so many stage magicians, it was impossible for each one to remain memorable past their prime.
At only eighteen, Daron was by far the youngest present. His seat at the very end made that abundantly clear.
“I cannot believe it’s come to this,” bemoaned the mayor of Glorian, Andre Eilin, tugging at the collar buttoned up to his chin. “I wanted more business, not some mad talent show.”
Daron’s first impression of the mayor was that he was clueless, but too proud to admit it. Whether or not he willfully kept his ears plugged here in Glorian, it was as though the man knew nothing beyond the confines of his city. He’d had no idea who Daron or any of the other magicians were, suspiciously eyeing them until provided with an extensive list of their feats and performances. All Daron had to assert was his aunt’s name.
“Wasn’t it by your word that this whole event was allowed to occur in the first place?” Daron pointed out, rubbing the skin beneath his eyes. He’d long avoided mirrors of any kind, but could all too clearly imagine the mess. Dark hair in disarray, exhaustion scoring his face. He really should’ve put more effort into his appearance to fit in here. Dragged a comb through his hair, shaved his jaw smooth. A look in the mirror would inspire him to clean up, he was sure. Yet his resolve shattered each morning without fail. Only dread.
One could only run from their reflection for so long.
“Being mayor means making sacrifices,” Mayor Eilin grumbled. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Demarco. You’re