Riven Shadowleaf had robbed dukes blind, but he had never once picked a lock without knowing what waited behind the door. Tonight he broke his own rule. He sat in the corner of a riverside tavern, watching a noble he had sworn to seduce and rob—a man who had stood on the town steps and bragged that no thief alive could outsmart him. Riven meant to prove him wrong. He just had one problem. He knew nothing about the man. Not his tastes, not his weaknesses, not even how he liked his wine. Walk up blind, flash a smile, and one wrong word would spook the mark for good. A chambermaid dropped onto the bench across from him, uninvited. Elsie Watkins wore her house apron, and she talked before she sat. "You've been staring at my master's table for an hour," she said. "Either you want to rob him or bed him. Everyone in this town wants one or the other." Riven leaned back and gave her the grin that usually opened purses. "Which pays better?" "Gossip pays best of all," she said. "And I have the whole house's worth." She ordered a drink and made him pay. Then she talked. The noble hated to be touched first. He loved being told he was clever. He kept a weakness for cards and lost badly when he drank. His wife slept in a separate wing. Riven listened, and each fact was a lockpick sliding into place. Then a shadow fell over the table. A broad man set two mugs down hard, spilling foam. His beard was going gray, and his knuckles were scarred. Elsie went stiff. "She's telling you true," the man said. "I guarded that pig for six years. He had me beaten for looking at his daughter too long." He pulled up a stool without asking. "Garrett Stone. If you're planning to ruin him, I'll pay you." Riven studied him. A bitter man was useful, but bitter men were also reckless. "I work alone." "You work blind," Garrett said. "I know his house. Every door, every guard's shift, where he hides his winnings." He tapped the table. "You want him. I want him gone. That's the same road." Riven weighed it. An hour ago he had nothing—no angle, no way in. Now he had the noble's habits from the maid and the noble's floor plan from the guard. He would never get closer than this. "All right," Riven said. He raised his mug. "To bad losers at cards." Garrett clinked it. Elsie grinned and drank his ale. But as the guard leaned in and started naming the household staff, Riven caught the heat in the man's voice. This wasn't a job to Garrett. It was revenge. And revenge made men move too fast, too loud. Riven had gained his way in. He had also just tied his careful con to a man who wanted blood.

Riven had the noble's habits and the noble's floor plan. What he lacked was a door. The man moved only among nobles, and Riven owned no title to open that world. Garrett laid it out plain at the tavern the next night. "He trains at the fencing hall three mornings a week," the guard said, clipped as always. "Nobles only. You don't get past the steps without one of them vouching for you." Riven turned his mug and thought. A vouch. He needed a noble who hated the mark enough to lend his name. Elsie supplied it before he asked. She dropped onto the bench, already talking. "You want the younger Ashford," she said. "Exiled by his own brother, living on debts and charm. He'd sponsor a stray dog into that hall if it embarrassed a rival." She grinned. "And our master beat him at cards last winter. He hasn't forgotten." Riven found Damien Ashford in a rented room with a good coat and a bored woman. Damien didn't rise. "Elsie sent you," he said. "So you want something." "A vouch," Riven said. "Into the fencing academy. I mean to make a fool of a man you already hate." Damien studied him. "Which man." Riven named the mark. Something cold moved behind Damien's eyes. "He called me a parasite once. In front of my brother." He poured a glass and didn't offer one. "I'll get you in. But you'll need a name in there. Titles carry papers." He crossed to a drawer and drew out a ring. The crest was fine work, ornate, official at a glance. "Had this made when I still thought I'd claw back the estate. It won't survive a second look. It'll survive a first." He tossed it. Riven caught it. "Present it at the door. You're a cousin of a northern line. Nobody checks the north." Riven turned the ring. Fine metal, but a hairline crack ran through the crest. "You're trusting a thief with your forged crest." "I'm not trusting you," Damien said. "I'm spending you." Three mornings later, Riven climbed the academy steps. He wore borrowed silk and the ring on his hand. The doorman blocked him. Riven raised the crest and named the northern line, bored, like a man who'd done this a hundred times. The doorman glanced at the ring. He glanced too long. Riven's pulse dropped. Then the man stepped aside. Inside, blades rang on the practice floor. The noble stood at the center, fencing, laughing at his own reach. Riven leaned on the rail and watched. He was in. The mark hadn't seen him yet. But a man at the far wall had. An older noble, frowning, staring at Riven's hand. He turned and murmured to a servant, who left at a fast walk. Riven felt the crack in the ring like a crack in the floor. He was inside now. Someone had already started asking who he was.