Excerpt

"What dagger could be worth that bloody much?" Ilanna eyed the small mountain of imperials atop the wooden desk. A fortune in coin, more than she'd ever seen in one place. "What, is it made from pure gold and studded with diamonds?"

"Does it matter?" Madam Clafoutis arched one white eyebrow imperiously. "You're not exactly in a position to turn down such an offer."

Ilanna fought to suppress a scowl. She didn't quite succeed. The look she cast at the aging madam held more than a little irritation. She needed no reminder of her current…circumstances. They'd been all she'd thought about for the last five months.

"Nor are you," she shot back, her voice sharp. "If you were, you'd have looked at this proposition with exactly the same skepticism I am and done far more digging into the truth behind it." She rose to her feet and placed both palms flat on the wooden desk that stood between them. "That you are bringing it to me rather than your usual contacts leads to all manner of questions."

"Such gratitude she displays!" Madam Clafoutis' upper lip, painted a cherry red that stood in stark contrast to her pale and powdered face, curled into a sneer. "We take her in, offer her shelter in her time of need—"

"At exorbitant rates!" Ilanna matched the madam's expression in fury, if not in the weight of age. "You're doing me no favors, Madam Clafoutis. Not with 'offering me shelter'—" She parroted the woman's voice with a generous helping of scorn. "—or bringing me this job." She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes down at the woman seated in the overstuffed, faded leather chair across from her. "Which leads me to believe you need this as much, or perhaps even more, than I do."

Madam Clafoutis raised her head. "You audacious little bitch!" Flying spittle accompanied that last. "Need I remind you where you stand?" She rose abruptly, her white-starched wig slapping Ilanna in the face, her corset-supported breasts nearly dealing a second blow. "I am Madam of The Arms of Heaven. The Arms of Heaven!" Her voice grew more shrill, higher in pitch and intensity, and her fury set her sapphire-blue silk dress and the bustle beneath rustling like a forest in hurricane winds. "Voramis' foremost house of pleasure, filled to bursting with the most sought-after beauties from—"

"Spare me!" Ilanna threw up her hands. "I may be under your roof, but I am not one of your painted pixies." She bared her teeth in a snarl. She might have no choice but to show respect and deference to the Guild Council, but she'd be damned if she backed down before this overstuffed hag. "If you truly expect me to do more than immediately dismiss this offer—an offer that I shouldn't have to point out is far too good to be true—then you'd better get bloody talkative bloody quick. Because we both know that there are any number of thieves you could hire for precisely this job, and the fact that you're not going to them has me questioning even more!"

"What?" Madam Clafoutis sniffed. "It's impossible to believe that I'd hire you because I've been told—"

"If the next words out of your mouth are any form of flattery, then I'm walking out that door." Ilanna stabbed a finger toward the heavy oak door that sealed her and the madam into the secretive underground chamber.

Madam Clafoutis' face hardened. The look did not suit her. The former courtesan had features best suited to simpering smiles, fluttering eyelashes, and imbecilic giggling from behind silken fans. Her current expression reminded Ilanna of a pumpkin left overlong in the sun.

Ilanna wasn't fool enough to underestimate the woman based on looks alone. She hadn't risen to her place of power—both as Madam of The Arms of Heaven and in the Voramian underworld—merely because she'd known how best to use what the gods had given her between her legs. The woman's plump, powdered, painted, and ordinarily sunny face hid a devious mind and razor-sharp cunning. An ugly temper, too, which Ilanna was risking with her insolence. But she had no intention of being suckered into a suicidal heist or double-cross just to avoid pissing off the matronly Clafoutis.

Seemingly sensing she was getting nowhere—and apparently desperate enough to rein in her natural vitriol—Madam Clafoutis controlled herself with a deep breath. A slow smile spread across her lips. The expression was clearly rehearsed, for it appeared so natural, so disarming. Doubtless it had disarmed many a man over her decades. But Ilanna didn't fail to notice the expression's insipidity.

"Very well," Madam Clafoutis said in a voice just a tad too sweet. "You are right. I do have my reasons for bringing this heist to you." She held up a hand—one adorned with two rings to each finger, many of which bore gemstones worth nearly as much as the egg-sized ruby set into the pendant in the line of her cleavage—to stop Ilanna. "No, I will not tell you what they are. It must be enough for you to accept that I am bringing this to you rather than my usual contacts because I would rather avoid attention from the wrong parties."

By that, of course, she meant her masters. The Bloody Hand, the gang that ran not only The Arms of Heaven and all the brothels, bordellos, cathouses in Voramis, but every crime and vice under the sun—and a few more besides.

"And if I choose not to accept it?" Ilanna folded her arms across her chest, then quickly remembered that pose drew attention to the swell in her belly and let her hands drop to her sides. "If I say I'd rather stay out of this because I don't trust the clients."

And I certainly don't trust you.

"Then you'll find yourself looking for someplace else to…convalesce." Madam Clafoutis' gaze dropped pointedly to Ilanna's midriff. "And there's no telling what might happen if certain parties get it in their heads that your presence here poses a threat to them. Any arrangements between your Night Guild and said parties could evaporate like that!" She snapped her fingers for emphasis.

The words were no doubt intended to instill fear—and once, they might have—but Ilanna was beyond fear. After what Sabat had done to her—and she to him in return—she'd vowed never to be afraid again. Madam Clafoutis' threat slid off her with no more effect than a throwing knife striking hard stone.

But that it was needed at all spoke volumes. If she's willing to threaten me into agreeing, then she's desperate, indeed.

The question Ilanna couldn't quite wrap her head around was why. And once she found that out, she'd have leverage.

Madam Clafoutis appeared to take her silence and lack of immediate refusal as a sign of cooperation. Or at least the beginnings of grudging acceptance. "Listen," she said in a wheedling tone that felt like hot oil sliding down Ilanna's back, "say you'll at least meet the client. Hear what she has to say for yourself. Look her in the eyes and take your own measure of her." She gestured with one ring-bedecked hand toward the pile of gold on her desk. "She's offered double this amount when the job's done. And we both know you could use the coin."

Almost as much as you seem to.

Ilanna looked between the woman and the mound of imperials that glittered in the light of the room's lone lantern. Madam Clafoutis' desperation—she could call it nothing else, for the woman would not have pushed so hard had it not been utterly necessary—was only one factor weighing into Ilanna's decision. The other was the reason that had brought her to and kept her in Voramis in the first place.

After a long moment, she let out a low grunt. "Fine."

Madam Clafoutis' white eyebrows shot up toward her wig's hairline. "You'll do it?" She failed to fully keep the excitement—or relief—from her voice. "One meeting, and if you don't like the deal, you can walk away."

"With no consequences." Ilanna met the woman's gaze levelly. She spoke in a voice as hard and sharp as the throwing knives concealed in her leather bracers. "One meeting, and we're square."

Madam Clafoutis lifted her nose into the air. "You don't take the job, you earn nothing of the retainer." She flicked a finger in the direction of the gold on her desk. "Your share comes from the payment received after the job is complete."

Ilanna ground her teeth—for all she hated the Night Guild and everything it represented, everything it had done to her, they at least had some measure of fairness and honor among thieves, assassins, and poisoners. But she nodded nonetheless. "Deal."

"Excellent!" Madam Clafoutis was once again all smiles, her face bright and cheerful as a fresh pumpkin—albeit turnip-white with cherry-red lips. She turned back to her desk and snatched up a scrap of parchment that had been nearly covered by the pile of golden coins. "You'll meet the client here at sundown."

Ilanna took the proffered parchment and tucked it into a pocket without looking at it. Her gaze was focused on Madam Clafoutis, searching for any hint of deceit or treachery. She wouldn't put it past the woman to have some ulterior motive or double-cross in mind. Ilanna might only be a Journeyman—albeit one with a newly-earned reputation for daring, skill, and ingenuity surpassing any in House Hawk since Master Gold himself—but Madam Clafoutis seemed the sort who'd sell out her own child or parent for the right amount.

Madam Clafoutis' face revealed nothing beyond her visible excitement and the relief poorly concealed beneath. That didn't fully settle Ilanna's mind—a decade living in the Night Guild tunnels and running on the streets of Praamis had taught her lessons harsh enough her mind would never settle—but gave her at least enough confidence that the matron had no betrayals in mind for her immediate future.

"I'll be there." Nodding, Ilanna turned and strode toward the door.

The heavy metal bar securing the door clunked at her approach. Looking back, Ilanna found Madam Clafoutis standing beside her desk, her hand resting on the small lever she'd used to seal the door when they'd first entered.

"Remember," the madam said, waggling a ring-burdened finger at Ilanna, "double this amount."

Ilanna glanced once at the coins. Then back at the woman. "I'll remember."

The last thing she saw before she left the room was Madam Clafoutis settling into her overstuffed leather chair to finger the pile of golden imperials like some storybook dragon poring over its hoard.