When it was full dark he went to one of the clothes chests in the bedroom and put on a plain dark coat and trousers, then tucked a square of black silk and his tool roll inside his shirt. The cool weight of the tools against his bare skin was familiar and comforting, as was the dagger at his belt. After a moment’s thought, he buckled on his sword belt and threw on a light cloak to cover it, in case of assassins or footpads, though the latter were less likely in that quarter.

He blew out the lamp and went back to the sitting room and one of the chests there. Inside, he found the muslin bag he was looking for and selected an owl feather. He held it a moment, sending up a silent prayer to Illior Lightbearer, patron of thieves—and nightrunners, presumably—then singed the tip of it over the remaining candle and tucked it behind his ear for luck. Gathering the rest of the night’s equipment, he blew out the candle and set off.

Laneus’s handsome three-story villa in Ruby Lane had plenty of tempting balconies and lots of trees. Alec skulked down an alleyway to the tradesmen’s lane that ran behind it. The wall here was higher than most. Seregil had joked that the higher a noble’s rank and the greater their fortune, the more they walled themselves in.

He checked the lane, then took the rope and muffled grapple from under his cloak. Checking the cloth wrappings that would mute the sound of the metal on stone, he swung it up and grinned when it caught on the first try. Tugging it to make certain it was securely seated, he climbed up to the top and peered over. Metal spikes that had once protected the house had been sacrificed to the war here, too.

The garden was large and laid out in a formal pattern, with traditional crushed-shell paths that showed pale in the starlight between the beds of flowers and herbs. Balanced there, Alec appraised his route in. On this side of the house there were no trees or convenient drainpipes close enough to the balconies to be of any use. However, the ground floor was lined with tall glass doors overlooking a terrace and an ornamental fishpond. He’d have preferred a kitchen or pantry window, but the sides of the house were walled off. There was no choice but to take the risky way in across the terrace into the lower level, where it was more likely that some servants could still be underfoot.

But he wasn’t about to give up the job he’d had to fight for.

There was no sign of a watchman, but there could be a dog. Or dogs.