Hour of Mischief Read online

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  © 2016 Aimee Hyndman

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  ISBN 978-1-62007-941-6 (ebook)

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  ISBN 978-1-62007-943-0 (hardcover)

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  re-robbery stress made buckling things difficult, especially with a limb constructed out of circuits and steel. The promise of the soon-to-come adrenaline rush made my every nerve sing with excitement.

  In the evening light, the crumbling, red bricks of my team’s favorite clock tower glowed crimson. Minutes ago, thousands of clocks around Fortuna tolled eight o’clock p.m., but the rusted silver bells behind me remained silent as a grave. Only the sounds of my team fiddling with their equipment and the gentle whirring of gears beneath the plates of my left arm filled the room.

  Naturally, Parker broke the pleasant silence.

  “Hey, Sid, what do you think?” Parker asked, holding up two different types of bombs, one a pocket watch altered to create a smoke screen at the touch of a button, the other a chaser beetle, meant to pursue moving targets until it exploded. Both were low-grade devices. Murder wasn’t on our agenda, and I’d never paid much tribute to the Goddess of Death. I hadn’t met her, but based on the stories she was a dreary and unlikeable individual.

  Sid shrugged, storing a pair of silver-lined revolvers in his jacket.

  “The pocket watch,” I answered, since Sid wasn’t one for audible feedback.

  Parker frowned. “No one asked you.”

  “I know, but I’m the team leader and I reserve the right to trump all other members of the team.” I gave the barrel of my gun a final once over with a dust cloth before securing it to my belt. “Take the pocket watch over the exploding critter. It’s handier for an escape anyway.”

  Parker pouted. “Aw, but the chaser beetles are so much more fun.”

  “Parker, Amontillado’s Temple has floor alarms,” Sylvia said, looking up from the loose thread she was so intently playing with. She sat on the windowsill of the old clock tower, the light of the setting sun catching her silvery-blonde hair in its rays, turning it nearly white. “If you need to use a Chaser Beetle, you’re probably already damned.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Parker, this is why logic is a helpful tool. Try inventing some for yourself.”

  “Ha, ha.” Parker rolled his eyes. Sid’s mouth twitched, the slightest hint of amusement darting through his narrow, dark eyes. A smile tugged at my mouth as well as I stood to address my team.

  “So, I know this job looks difficult from the outside. Religious artifacts are always a bit tricky. But we’re prepared for this. This is nothing but a routine heist. So let’s get in, get the goods and get out.”

  “Eloquent as always, fearless leader.” Parker saluted. The corner of Sid’s mouth jerked slightly again. In “Sid language” that translated to cracking up.

  I rolled my eyes. “Eloquent inspiration doesn’t inspire stealth. It inspires loud, brazen battles. I’m not riling you up for a war. We don’t tick that way.” I rolled my steel shoulder to make sure the connection worked properly. The nerves buzzed dully at the motion, a sensation that once weirded me out. Now it was as commonplace as breathing–noticeable only when I paid close attention. “Everyone know they’re jobs? Parker, you’ve got enough wire?”

  “And extra to spare.” Parker pulled a coil of thick, black wire halfway out of his pack.

  “And you two are good on your equipment?” I looked at Sid and Sylvia. “You’ve practiced with the new harness Parker made?”

  “Yeah, it works fine,” Sylvia said, giving me a bright but anxious smile. “Makes maneuvering a little easier in midair.”

  Sid merely nodded, which was good enough for me, and I trusted Sylvia to be prepared. She always had her gear ready the night before the heist. Preparations distracted her from her frequent anxiety attacks.

  “Good.” I clapped my hands together. “Based on my evaluation of the temple, we should be just fine. The floors are well guarded but Sylvia found some excellent routes through the roofs. Basically fool proof so long as we don’t screw up.”

  “My plan was to bring a Chaser Beetle,” Parker said, chucking a shard of crumbled brick against the wall. “I don’t think things will be fine without a Chaser Beetle.”

  “Parker, if I see you with a Chaser Beetle, I will hit you.” I held up my steel fist. “With my left arm.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine.”

  Despite appearances, my team was on good terms. But the closest teams are the ones who can poke fun at each other’s flaws constantly.

  We were known as the Pendulum Thieves, so dubbed for the master timing of our heists. We swooped in and out within a second, leaving our victims wondering where their valuables had gone. A nice name but I’d always had one problem with it. Pendulums are predictable. Sure as Aelius lights the sky with the sun each morning, they keep on ticking at a steady, foreseeable rate. We were not so easy to anticipate. No one expects a group of seventeen-year-olds to be so good at what they do.

  I liked defying expectations. Like our patron, the God of Mischief, it was our job to catch people by surprise.

  Street sounds always comforted me the day of a heist. On the nerve-racking walk to our location, I distracted myself with the echoes of the nomads, calling out to potential customers up and down the narrow streets of the slums. Nomads–called Clock Hands by many because they traveled around the realms like the ever-ticking hands of a clock–were a colorful group of people and procurers of every product imaginable. Sandstone sundials of Kabila, still dusted with the crimson sand of the wilderness realm hung from violet awnings. Timepieces and stone carvings from the ancient halls of Tiyata sat upon multicolored cushions made of rare silk. Or so the vendors claimed. And all manner of pocket watches and clocks from the wealthy inner rings of Fortuna, glittered from within faux glass cases. I didn’t know how they acquired such trinkets, considering most nomads weren’t welcome in the inner rings. I guessed they didn’t have strictly honest methods.

  I loved that about them.

  The market was in high form today. If we weren’t in a hurry to reach the inner rings of Fortuna by nightfall, I might have stopped to browse. On days like today, the aroma of rare spices subdued the stench of industry and oil clinging to every slum dweller, filling my nose with a delightful scent each time I inhaled. The storm-gray clouds pumping daily from the workhouses seemed less grim when surrounded by so many bright colors. And the faces of every worn-down miner and underfed child brightened at the sight of the street performers.

  To my right, a woman garbed in azure silk danced to the beat of a migale skin drum. Only a few tents down a man sang songs in tribute to Artifex, the God of Craftsmen and one of the most revered gods in the outer ring of Fortuna. People passing by tossed tin gears into the bowl at his feet and, if they had a bit more change, copper ones. And of course, the air was rife with the cries of vendors, calling out from every direction.

  “A rare artifact from the temple of Kova! Red as her hair and immune to the hottest flames!”

  “This here plant is taken directly from the empty realm!
Yes, from Cambiare itself!”

  “Here, here! Don’t miss this opportunity!”

  “I love market days.” Parker sighed, glancing wishfully at a man selling weapons. His dark-brown skin always got a certain glow to it when he noticed dangerous, shiny things. But, to be fair, maybe it was just the late afternoon sunlight.

  Maybe.

  “Me too, but unless this heist is a success, we don’t have enough gears to buy anything,” I ducked around a few giggling girls and the bearded jewel merchant trying to sell them a cheap necklace. “Even if we did, we don’t have long before sundown. We need to make our hit during our window of opportunity when–”

  “When the watchmen start drinking. I know, I know,” Parker said.

  “A talisman of the gods for the young lady?” one fellow asked, stepping in front of Sylvia and blocking her path. “We have a talisman for all twelve of the Clockwork Gods. And even some for the minor gods that serve them.”

  “Oh, I . . . well. . . .” Sylvia smiled uncomfortably.

  “Very cheap. A discount for you being so pretty.” The man beamed. “Come now, who’s your patron god, miss?”

  “The God of ‘we’re in a hurry,’” I said, taking Sylvia by the arm and pulling her away from the man. “Sorry, but we don’t have time for shopping today.”

  “Thanks,” Sylvia murmured as we pressed on through the crowd.

  “No problem.” I tugged my fingers through my tangled hair. “You really need to learn the word ‘no’, Sylvia.”

  Sylvia smiled impishly. “But I have you for that.”

  “Don’t exploit my backbone.”

  “Hear my words, children! You, who are all born of time, come forth!” A deep voice rang out above the other sounds of the cobblestone street. It was impressive to hear such a booming, grand voice, and my ears perked up at the sound.

  “Check it out,” Parker said, popping up between Sylvia and I. “Religious nut job at ten o’clock.”

  A man stood on a platform under a slanted, golden awning. He was bald and had a pointy little beard dangling from his flat chin. From his clothing, there was no doubt he hailed from Tiyata. His robe was bold orange, dusted with the crimson sands of the desert realm and stitched with swirling, red symbols meant to depict the constant shifting of time. The robe, much too long for him, fell in a rippling pool at his feet. Said pool shimmered with every word he spoke because he kept making sweeping gestures with enough zeal to impress even the most apathetic of passersby. Even if they didn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth, they had to give him credit for trying.

  “The Clockwork Gods you pay tribute to do not deserve your reverence. They do not deserve your prayers,” the man said. “They walk among us humans, lowering themselves to less than what they are. They’re no longer sacred! Even the Mother and the Father have lost claim to our reverence as they let their twelve children do as they please.”

  “Bold words,” Sid said. Parker, Sylvia, and I almost jumped at the sound of his voice. “I’m surprised he hasn’t been attacked.”

  I blinked. When Sid felt the need to speak, something profound usually lined his words. I one day hoped to decipher their elusive significance, but it was a work in progress.

  “As long as he doesn’t denounce Artifex, specifically, I don’t think anyone will give him much trouble,” Sylvia said.

  I nodded. The God of Craftsmen was beloved amongst the slum dwellers. No one would tolerate slander against his name. Fortunately, this preacher spoke in broad terms.

  “Only the Clockmaker, creator of all, deserves your reverence. Even the lesser beings who call themselves gods worship him. The Sacred Keeper of Fate and Time. The maker of the great clock binding us and each of the gods who govern it as one. Give your loyalty to him and carry his sign.” The man, out of pure chance, caught my gaze as we passed by. Lucky me.

  “You, girl! Take up the sign of the Clockmaker.” He held up a necklace with two charms on the end. One, a four-handed clock, so common across the city you could turn your head in any direction and see it ticking. But the second charm was a key, made up of six spiraled shapes. Three as the head and three as the blade. The Clockmaker’s Key.

  “Thanks.” I said, holding up my own identical necklace. The two charms clinked together. “But I’m covered.”

  “Bless you, girl. May fate be kind to you,” the man said. He went back to preaching his words to the “naïve” slum dwellers.

  “That’s the sign of the Clockmaker?” Parker leaned in to see my necklace. “Never noticed it before.”

  “Yeah, you’re a bit oblivious in that way,” I said.

  “Do you believe in that stuff?” Sylvia asked. “In a god above the Mother and the Father?”

  “My dad does,” Parker piped up. “But he believes in a lot of weird things.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Like father, like son.”

  “Hey!”

  “Just joking.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, I’d rather wear the Clockmaker’s sign on my neck than the signs of any of the other gods. The man’s right. The twelve clockwork gods don’t exactly command reverence.” I looked up at the sky. Night was falling fast now, drawing Fortuna into its dark embrace. My time of day. “At least the Clockmaker is mysterious. I don’t know enough about him to hate him.”

  Then again, I didn’t like the idea of some old god running a clock determining the fate of the world. But I didn’t care much about who governed the destiny of the universe, so long as I could call the shots in my own life.

  Parker had this annoying habit while on a job. He talked a lot. Even if silence was absolutely, you-will-die-if-you-aren’t-quiet necessary, Parker talked. His incessant speech was annoying on the best of days, but especially grating when we were crouched in the rafters in an old shrine to the God of Abundance, lowering Sylvia down on a wire to retrieve an important gold artifact. I had priorities then, none of which involved listening to Parker ramble on. And yet. . . .

  “I’ve been thinking,” Parker said. “You know how the hour of mischief is at seven o’clock?”

  “Yes, Parker.”

  “Then why don’t we steal at seven o’clock?”

  “Because, Parker.”

  “That’s a terrible answer.”

  “Shut up, Parker.”

  Parker frowned and crossed his arms. I took advantage of his silence to call down to Sylvia. “Doing all right?”

  “Fine,” she whispered back. She looked so small in the great belly of the temple, surrounded on all sides by towering marble columns. “Just a little further.”

  My heart fluttered excitedly in my chest like one of Parker’s explosives gone spastic. I always got a certain joy from stealing, but my favorite victims were aristocrats. The high-nosed, stiff-necked snoots lived such frighteningly glamorous lives. Taking something away from them seemed like an act of civil service. They favored Amontillado, God of Abundance, Wealth and Snobbery. We were defiling his temple and I loved every second of it.

  Parker recovered from my brush off and launched right back into his questioning. “But seriously, why don’t we steal at seven o’clock? We’re stealing at nine o’clock. The hour of water. What does water have to do with stealing?”

  “Those who favor mischief do as they please,” I said. “We don’t conform to what others say is ‘our best hour.’ We just . . . steal.”

  “But–”

  “Parker, thieves don’t steal when expected.” Sylvia sighed from below us. “If we did, we would always be caught.”

  Parker went quiet, and I made a mental note to hug Sylvia later.

  “All right, I’m close enough,” Sylvia said, turning in her harness with the grace of a dancer. In her position, I’d flail my way out of the straps and onto the alarm-rigged floor. But she had extraordinary balance. She’d scamper across long rooftops only a few inches thick in a second. Even the movement of her silvery blonde hair appeared controlled.

  “Good,” I said. “Now, don’t worry. I did a check o
f the place earlier. As long as you don’t hit the ground, you’ll be fine. Just make sure there are no alarms right around the artifact.”

  “We’re good,” Sylvia brushed her hand inches from our prize. It was an ugly relic in my opinion; the head of a man with no eyes and a boxy nose way too big for his face. I don’t know if they meant it to look like Amontillado but I’d be insulted if I were the god.

  Ugly or not, it had value. Even from this height, I could see its golden light reflecting off of Sylvia’s hair. It made my fingers itch. My flesh ones, anyway.

  There didn’t appear to be any alarms set up around the artifact. Even when Sylvia’s fingers passed a hair’s breadth from the surface nothing happened. No sirens or bright flashing lights or cages. “I’m taking it,” Sylvia said.

  “We’ll pull you right up if something happens,” I promised. Sid agreed with a firm nod.

  Sylvia grabbed the golden head.

  That’s when the sirens started blaring and I started inwardly damning myself to the darkest depths of the Abyss. Ordinarily, alarms wouldn’t be a problem; we were very good at making a quick escape. But before Sid and Parker even had time to consider pulling up on the rope, a cage shot from the floor, entrapping both the artifact and Sylvia.

  Terror washed over Sylvia’s face and she dropped the artifact on the ground with a resounding clang. Sid, in a burst of panic, released the rope and Sylvia landed on her hands and knees on the floor. I could see the makings of an anxiety attack etched on her face.

  “Don’t panic, Sylvia!” I had to shout over the sirens. “We’ll get you out.”

  “Janet,” Sid called from across the room, his voice urgent. I followed his gaze to the entrance of the shrine, where the flashing yellow lights illuminated the shadows of the fast-approaching vigilant squad.

  “Shit,” I muttered. Before either Sid or Parker could object to me being an idiot, I grabbed the extra wire, threw one end to Parker and leapt from the rafters. Drawing my knife, I swung down and landed in a crouch in front of the cage, my knees cracking against the cold marble. I looked up just as the vigilants came into view.