The Runner (Part I of the Runner Series)

Chapter 3

The first rule to successfully robbing a home is to blend in.

I walk around the back of the house with red shutters, slipping into an alleyway and scanning the exterior, my eyes picking out the bricks that will lead me to the top. Silent as a ghost, I leap up and scale the outer wall, bypassing the first-, second- and third-storey windows before reaching the top floor. I pause a moment to take a few breaths, concentrating on slowing my heart rate while I strain my ears to hear any sounds coming from inside.

Hearing nothing, I take my chances and swing over to the window ledge, peering in and scanning the room beyond. Excellent. It is completely empty and I can already see a promising-looking bureau sitting passively against the wall.

Experience has taught me that the top floor is the best place to check for a spare outfit. These rooms are typically used as the servants' quarters and are often unoccupied during the day when the commoners are out performing their chores.

I steal through the window and pad gently across the floor toward the wardrobe, still apprehensive of the sounds of any unwelcome company.

Pulling open the doors, I grin at the racks of maids' simple shift dresses and caps. I select one of the dresses at random and change quickly, re-tying my belt and concealing it behind an apron before I tuck my telltale red locks into a headscarf. I don't bother changing my shoes; my boots are scuffed and dirty, but the skirt hides them well enough. I stash my clothes back in the wardrobe and make a quick stop over at the water basin, frowning at the reflective glass above as I rub a bit of dirt off the side of my too-sharp nose, revealing the scattering of dark freckles beneath. My nose has always made my green eyes appear distrustful, calculating. Which I suppose isn't too far from the truth.

I leave after I've washed the excess dirt off my hands and face, shutting the door to the maid's apartment firmly behind me.

I make my way down the darkened corridor, my eyes flicking up occasionally to glance into the rooms leading off it. My chin stays tucked down low, my every air that of a humble servant. I pass no one in the hall and arrive at the landing of a spiral staircase.

The third floor has to be the living quarters. Bright fabrics of varying patterns and colours decorate the furnishings, a sharp contrast to the muted world outside. What is it with these courtiers? Half the City is struggling to put enough food on the table, while the courtiers spend precious money on making a room look pretty. What a waste.

I am certain that if I were to duck into any of these rooms, I would find some expensive heirlooms. Courtier jewellery would fetch a good price at the pawn shops, but I don't want to take anything that the family could potentially blame on the servants. No, I have my sights set on something else. I bypass the bedrooms and aim for the second floor.

The second rule to successfully robbing a house is to take only the odds and ends; pieces that anyone could put aside and simply "misplace." From the looks of this house, I'll have plenty to choose from.

As I descend the stairs to the second floor, I immediately note a lot more activity. Maids and stewards go about their chores, quietly murmuring instructions and gossip to one another as they work. With my head down and my steps purposeful, I fit right in. I slip into what appears to be a drawing room and grab a discarded rag off a chest. As I dust a shelf, I slip a small silver candlestick and an ebony letter opener into the pouch hidden beneath my apron.

The next room is an office, dominated by a giant, polished wood desk. I pass my rag over its surface, shuffling through the papers and slipping a couple of coins into my palm. A butler walks into the room just as I am leaving and I offer him a swift curtsey before I disappear back into the hall.