Excerpt

People think it's easy, being a mouse. You think all I do is scurry around all day, eating cheese, gnawing on things, and stealing cushion stuffing for my nest.

My name is Theodore, though my crew mostly calls me Mouse because like most humans, they lack a certain amount of wit and imagination.

My name is Theodore, and I'm a thief…

The Singing Sisters Tavern and Grill was overly crowded as usual. How a place with doors the size of a carriage house and a vaulted ceiling with rafters so high I didn't care to scale them could get filled this tightly with such a loud assortment of people, I couldn't fathom.

And by people, I mean humans, elves, talking cats, and even a wandering Lamia and, brooding in one corner, swathed in black, an air djinn.

After a quick bow at the big altar to the Singing Sisters near the door, I tucked myself into the cotton lined breast pocket of Castor's long, burgundy wool coat to keep out of the way. My crew knows to watch for me underfoot, but a crowd of strangers?

I didn't trust those boots and claws. Not for one moment. Besides, I needed time to think. My mother had gotten word to me that things were amiss in the Warrens, but the messenger didn't have any more information than that.

Which meant I would eventually need to make my way back to the trash heap where I'd been raised. But I preferred to not think about my past. My mother was not the most pleasant mouse in existence, and the Warrens? Well, the only people—human or mouse, gremlin or flea—who lived there?

Didn't have many other choices.

No. I'd gladly left the Warrens behind from the moment Castor had caught me plucking a shiny coin from his purse and wrapped his brown fingers around the soft gray fur of my neck.

But thinking came hard in a place as filled with light and noise as the Singing Sisters on a Friday night.

The place was pleasant enough, as taverns go. The floors got a scrubbing once a month, and a clean sweep every night. The woodwork could use some polish, but in light this dim? Most human eyes didn't notice. The soft yellow glow of tallow lanterns mingled with the occasional blue of witch light, creating a cozy atmosphere, and a fire roaring in the hearths at either end of the large space kept out the damp.

One hearth was near the kitchens and held a huge iron pot filled with soup or stew depending on what the cook had on hand. There was also a steaming iron kettle hanging from a large hook, hot water ready to make tea or the more exotic cocoa or coffee the traders brought from climates far warmer than what we have here in Montsedge on the northern tip of Camorranta, at the foothills of a mighty mountain range.

The other hearth is where musicians set up on slower weeknights, bringing in customers. Friday nights or Saturday market days? Musicians were useless. There was no way a bard's voice would carry above the clamor.

As I mentioned, the Singing Sisters was a large place, as human establishments go. The high ceilings were held aloft by stout dark beams, and the space below was filled with battered wooden tables large and small, an assortment of benches and chairs, as well as a large sweep of polished mahogany behind which the proprietor, Jessamine Moon, presided. Jessamine was a handsome witch with dark brown skin, hair that curled around high cheekbones, and a no-nonsense attitude that went along with her practical trousers, green wool waistcoat, and soft white shirt.

She also had a smile that could charm the venom from a snake and was good at stopping fights before they had a fool's chance to begin.

My crew huddled around a large table near the back of the room, on the opposite side from the dartboards and billiard table. Some sort of raucous storytelling contest was happening in the center of the room, the noise providing us with a small bubble of privacy reinforced by Mags, whose actual name I don't know.

Just as my use-name was Mouse for obvious reasons, Mags' name was short for what she was: a Magus. Unlike my dark gray coat, Mags wore her favored blue wool coat today, which was slightly singed around the cuffs, and her russet hair was pulled back in a sensible knot at the base of her sunburned neck. She only wore it loose when trying to get Jessamine's attention.

Sometimes Mags got lucky, and the witch-proprietor allowed her to pay court. But on busy nights like this? Mags knew to keep out of Jessamine's way.

Looming over one end of the rectangular slab of scarred mahogany was Phi, our Calculations Dragon. Phi didn't emerge from her aerie cavern much, preferring the mountain just outside the city—far above the wizard's school—with her strange cypher-stone, and her own large fire. Besides, though dragons weren't unknown here in Camorranta, they weren't all too common, either.

Besides, being the size of a large ox—but with wings and the ability to stand on her hind legs, making her around nine feet tall set back on her haunches—Phi's shimmering purple bulk just wouldn't fit most places, no matter how tightly she tucked her wings in or how low she ducked her thick, graceful neck.

Unlike me, no one would ever think to stomp on Phi.

Bella, aka Bella the Brute, aka Brutus, hunched next to the dragon, the two of them engaged in a heated conversation, likely about the uses of levers to shift heavy objects. I never knew with those two. Phi was interested in any sort of mathematical calculations and Bella was interested in anything that would help her move large objects, usually before she cracked their skulls.

Bella was a strapping, broad-shouldered warrior with short blond hair and a round face. The raised scars that criss-crossed her pale cheeks and cut through one blond eyebrow couldn't mar her beauty.

But they did increase her intimidation factor by a lot.

The only one of our crew currently missing was Ena. When the crew was between cases, we all took on side work to keep ourselves in cheese. How to describe Ena? Well, Ena was smallish, around half the size of Bella—who was admittedly tall and broad for a human woman—and very, very fae. What sort of fae exactly I haven't been able to determine. Ena had dusky golden skin, dark eyes with a pleasing tilt, brownish hair, and slightly pointed ears designed for hearing things many others could not. In other words, Ena was a perfect scout and spy.

Hell, for all I knew, Ena was in the room somewhere right now, hiding in plain sight. They were a master at blending in.

"Got any jobs for us?" Mags asked Castor. Her pale fingers cradled a brown earthenware mug filled with fragrant chocolate spiced with cinnamon. The drink was as expensive as the aged whiskey that came from one township over. Ever since Jessamine started serving it, liquid chocolate was Mags' drink of choice.

Castor grunted in annoyance. Our Fearless Leader was happily tucking into Jessamine's grilled chicken with a side of winter vegetables.

Jessamine's was popular because she was one of the few taverns that really knew how to use the spices the traders brought from down south, along with herbs from her own kitchen garden. The chickens were hers, too. Sometimes they shared their grain and seeds with me.

Other times, I stole them.

But what I really wanted right now? A piece of the wheel of cheddar Jessamine had been aging for the past year. She kept it beneath a dome made of magicked, wavery glass, "to keep the likes of you out," she'd pointedly said when I'd sauntered over to examine the glorious, pale-yellow wheel.

As if a thief couldn't just admire a thing on its own merits. As if all we ever wanted to do was steal.

Not that the proprietor of this fine establishment was wrong.

"As I told you yesterday," Castor mumbled around a mouthful, "no. Not yet. Why? You out of funds already?"

Castor was a tall, dark-skinned man with short, curled hair and a shorter, curled beard. A snappy dresser, he had an even snappier mind, and though he hadn't a lick of magic himself, he managed to corral us all through sheer charm and dint of will.

Besides, Castor had an uncanny ability to put things together, whereas the rest of us? We only captured pieces. Castor was the reason we were willing to work together at all. Our first job, which was meant to be our only job, proved so successful, it was soon clear that working together on a regular basis was in our best interests.

And then, despite occasional skirmishes, we'd slowly become friends.

Of a sort. I had been unsure whether I could ever fully trust another being, but Castor's crew came closer than any others ever would.

At least for me.

I had fled people who said I should love and trust them, hadn't I?

Yeah. Besides, as the Old Tomcat told me long ago, a thief should trust no one.

But this crew? Moon by moon, it seemed that I trusted them just fine.

Wasn't that something?