“The rocks are a blind,” she said. “If I throw these on a stone floor, they might make enough noise to busy the guards while I slip by. I just need practice getting them where I want.”

“You know, if you stayed out of the compound, you wouldn’t have to worry about guards at all.”

Kyra twirled a stone between her fingers. “James is demanding I learn to fight—keeps on saying he wants me to handle the occasional guard.”

Flick guffawed. “You? Against a shieldman? He’d just toss you over his shoulder while he calls his friends.”

Kyra dug her knuckles into Flick’s shin and watched without pity as he yelped and jerked his leg away. She understood his point though. A thief’s main protection lay in avoiding detection, and fighting a guard would be admitting to failure. It only took a second to sound the alarm, and even if she escaped, the resulting lockdowns would make it impossible for her to return. Concepts like this seemed obvious to Kyra and Flick, but they somehow evaded James.

Flick squatted next to her.

“So what do they have you doing now?”

“You know I can’t tell you the details.”

He snorted. “Pardon me for sniffing after Guild secrets. Tell me generally what you do, then.”

“I’ve not turned into a hardened killer if that’s what you’re wondering. I in’t even stealing these days.”

“And they don’t mind?”

“Most of them.”

“Most?”

Kyra kicked herself and affected her most nonchalant shrug. “It’s nothing. Just some of the men don’t think I can carry my weight.”

“Really?” Flick looked genuinely surprised. “After they’ve seen what you can do?”

She thought for a moment. “I guess they’ve not seen me work. I go to the Palace alone.”

“The lads around here were skeptical when you first started joining me on jobs. But they shut up after a few times out with you.”

“I’d forgotten that.” Kyra gathered the stones. “I need to go. I’m supposed to meet Rand.”

She waved good-bye and slipped down the stairs, relieved that he hadn’t pressed her further. As understanding as he’d been today, she still didn’t want to give him any new reason to object.

Brendel was sitting alone in the dining room, humming and scribbling on a parchment with one hand while tapping the table with the other.

Kyra sidled up to him. “How goes your masterpiece, good talesinger?”

“The meter’s wrong,” muttered Brendel.

Kyra looked over his shoulder. “The part with the bees?”

Brendel nodded, still scribbling. “Don’t ever be a talesinger, Kyra. You’ll end up as crazy as I.”

“I’ve seen worse,” said Kyra. “How much of your tales are true, Brendel? Have you been to the Far Lands yourself?”

“Of course they’re true. Would I lie to such a pretty face?” He punctuated his question with a wink.