Dusk settled over Biersport. The coastal city was silent, its residents long asleep in anticipation of night fishing ships arriving at dawn. Nestled under a towering rock outcropping was the Cliff District, shielded from moonlight. In this darkness, a man confidently marched towards a modest apothecary shop. A window of small squares of thick glass had a single candle burning behind it. The wooden sign dangling from a thick iron nail in the door advertised the apothecary as “open” in faded black ink.

The man shoved the door open and stepped into the dim, one-room store. He chuckled as he made eye contact with a large fellow slouched behind a marred counter. The visitor’s fancy coat was tattered from years of misuse. Short, ratty leather boots with obnoxiously large buckles clicked with each step.

The man in the doorway flipped the door sign around, displaying “closed”. Jagged teeth crept out from behind narrow lips, forming a smug smile beneath his hooked nose.

“If you’ll please,” came the gravelly voice of the shopkeeper, his cheek twitching in irritation.

“If I’ll please what?” replied the man, halting mid step.

“If you’ll please, Braedyn, you’ll flip that sign back ‘round or you might find yourself having an accident on the way to your meeting. We are open.”

The visitor’s smile fell, replaced by a leer. Without turning, he reached back and carelessly flipped the sign with a finger and resumed his walk to the rear of the shop, the sign chattering behind. He passed tightly staged rows of shelves packed with bottles and jars filled with an endless variety of leaves and seeds and other less easily identifiable ingredients. Slipping through a passageway at the back wall, Braedyn descended the stairway to a cellar crowded with wooden barrels large enough to hold a man. In the dark, the air cool and stale, he ducked behind a container of acrid smelling oil. Bringing his heel down on a lever, he pushed open a false panel in the wall.

The room had a dull yellow glow. Men and women sat around a broad table. Biersport natives, they all had dark curly hair with skin tanned and tough from years in the sun and coastal winds. Braedyn had never cared to conform to the typical Biersport dress of loose linen shirts and pants dyed in pale tans, greens, and blues.

He recognized many of his fellow Stewards from the Grey Society. While their title might mark them as peers, to him the bunch was a simple lot beneath his ambitions. Conversation ceased on Braedyn’s arrival.

How could these simpletons be responsible for managing and directing Thieves? He mused. How far has the Council lowered their standards?

“Hello, friends,” he sneered, taking a seat at one end of the table. The others turned away, resuming their conversations. Unaffected, Braedyn leaned back in his chair, feet on the table.

A man and woman strode in from a door at the opposite end of the room. The hoods of their long, gray cloaks hid their faces, and each sported a belt of small pouches encircling their waists. Beneath the hoods were intricate rose-red masks, adorned in gold stitching. The room became still as death, giving the arrivals complete attention.

“You’ve been called here today for a unique opportunity,” began the man. His voice was calm yet commanded attention. “There is something which the Society requires, something far greater than a trinket from a common mark. The one who returns this will find their life forever changed.”

“Each of you has been deemed to be of sufficient quality,” followed the woman in a voice sweet like overripe berries. “And as such you will have equal opportunity to vie for this prize.”

The corners of her eyes creased gleefully while the Stewards murmured amongst themselves. A few Stewards in contention was common enough, but to have so many competing for a single mark was unheard of.

A Steward broke the hushed conversation and pointed a bulbous finger at Braedyn. “You said quality, so what’s he doing here?” the man spewed as if his mouth was full of caramel. “That fool doesn’t know the first thing about acquisition, he just poaches from us honest gentlemen and ladies. Why is he here?!”

The Stewards found their voices, muttering disdainfully about Braedyn’s underhanded tactic of directing his Thief to steal from other Thieves rather than directly from a mark. Braedyn offered a toothy smirk in reply.

“Quiet,” said the woman softly, cutting through the din like a sword through paper. “If you believe yourself to be so great as to decide who should be present, then perhaps you are above this meeting, Jeobinas.”

The Stewards shrank in silence, Braedyn’s grin spreading broadly as the second Attendant continued. “Braedyn’s methods might be unorthodox, but they aren’t in violation of the Society’s creed. He was included by the Council’s judgement which is a satisfactory answer to your question. Now if you all are done voicing what little thought fills your simple heads then we will proceed with meaningful discussion. Tomorrow, at midday, a Historian will be arriving in Biersport. You are tasked with stealing her life essences.”

The Stewards were stunned, Braedyn’s smile drooping to a grimace. Even for The Grey Society, which directed Stewards and their Thieves to steal from dignitaries and royalty without discrimination, theft from a Historian was bold.

“Pick up your jaws and open your ears, we have much to discuss.”

Gathering close, the Stewards intently listened as the night wore on, eagerly seeking morsels of information like chicks in a bird’s nest waiting for worms from their mother. Shortly before dawn, they scurried from the shop into the drab morning to find their Thieves.

**

Jeobinas bolted through the city, pausing doubled over to compose himself near a gate in the city wall. Still wheezing, he sidled up to a rigid man with a curled brown beard and held out a pouch of coins. The man took the offering with a hand absent its pointer finger. On examining the contents his shoulders relaxed and the two spoke in whispers.

**

A fleck of dust settled on the tip of Aeda’s eyelashes, her eyes "uttering open. A feeble ray of light shone in the early morning darkness. To her side the floor abruptly ended, a torrent of water gushing by in a culvert a few feet below, its rumbling filling her ears.

She stretched on her thin mat, bracelets she had made of shells and barnacles and strands of scavenged sailor’s rope clinking as they slid on her arm. She cinched her billowy pants around her waist with a plaited cord and stepped into woven rope shoes. Though the footwear looked meager, the worn threads were soft and pliable. She yawned into a snug sleeveless shirt then flipped her satchel over her shoulder.

Aeda filled a cup from the surging "ow and drank deeply of the bracing water. Alert, she scaled a metal ladder beneath the stream of light. At the final rung she turned a small cog in the wall. Above her interlocked metal "aps opened like a blossoming flower. Sweet, salty air rushed in, raising goosebumps across Aeda’s arms as she exited the cistern. The twist of a cog embedded in the ground closed the grate.

She spilled out from the alley into a street on a hill, the ocean visible between the rooftops of Biersport and the sun painting the horizon in swaths of pink and yellow. Aeda groggily trudged towards the market, stomach churning in protest of the cold drink with no food to follow. Focused on sating her appetite, the girl all but ignored her surroundings.

The city was waking; the sounds of doors creaking open and yawns spreading through the streets. Two-story buildings were clustered between brown stone streets, tan and gray sand packed between the pavers. The thick, sandy concrete walls of buildings had rounded corners to ease the burden of storms. Colored with dyes of ocean plants, dark green, maroon, and purple trims laced windows and doors. Most windows were open holes with wooden shutters, thin glass was too brittle to endure hurricanes while thick glass too expensive for all but the wealthiest to afford.

Pods of four stout wooden poles punctuated the streets, supporting platforms high above. Running between the towers were wooden channels which crossed back and forth, filled with water like floating rivers. Skiffs sped in the channels, hauling goods across the city.

A shop door banged open, its glassless frame quivering. A delectable aroma crept out, Aeda’s agitation easing at the scent. Her belly grumbled as she eyed egg washed breads, frosted cakes, and sweet pastries lining the window. She dug into her satchel, retrieving a few small rectangles of copper. Her eyes pored over every pock, dent, and scratch on the coins, counting the meager sum with disdain. Three nails, not even a finger’s worth. Sighing, Aeda balled her fist and pulled away from the tempting treats.

The Grand Plaza hosted dozens of shopkeepers who busily pushed their brightly painted carts into place. They hurriedly unfurled canvas covers and set their wares out for viewing as early market goers began to arrive. Aeda approached a stall near the edge, white knuckles clutching her coins.

A hefty man with a bushy mustache and a mellow demeanor greeted her as she arrived. “Well hello, Aeda,” he said, whiskers flickering with each word. He leaned over his cart and whispered as she idly toyed with the nails. “Might be time to see Mr. Braedyn, hm?”

Aeda’s brow furrowed, knowing he was right, though not appreciating the need to see her Steward again. Focusing on her hunger she reached for a dried fish when a hand flew out and clasped tightly over her wrist. Aeda flinched, though the jacket cuff sporting colorful stitching immediately revealed its owner. Composing herself, she offered a feeble, disinterested smile to Braedyn. His eyes rapidly flicked back and forth between Aeda and the cart.

In a rush he stuffed food from the stall into her satchel, drawing protests from the shopkeeper. Aeda joined in complaint though her words were tepid, stomach growling at the sight of food filling her satchel. Braedyn’s voice screeched with excitement, “Aeda, Aeda, Aeda, I have been looking for you! We have much to discuss, so much to discuss… Come, we need to talk somewhere less… in the plaza.”

Braedyn shoveled in dried fish, fruits, vegetables, and miniature loaves of sweet bread until nothing more could "t, then pulled away. The shopkeeper blustered his objections, raising his voice and reddening at the theft of his produce. Braedyn pacified the shopkeeper by rudely throwing a handful of nails and fingers of copper onto the cart before darting into the crowd.

Aeda fought to keep her satchel shut as Braedyn wove through the streets, back and forth as if to lose some imaginary pursuer. He ducked into an alley behind a long-abandoned home, one of the Grey Society’s safe houses, and released Aeda. Braedyn rested one hand on her shoulder while the other hand went about relieving her bulging satchel, tucking fruits and vegetables into his pockets. Aeda, unsurprised by his display of self-serving behavior, crossed her arms.

Braedyn caught his breath and looked intently into her eyes. “There is an opportunity made available to us, the kind of opportunity that may never come again.”

What could this be if not another Braedyn tale of grandeur? Aeda slouched in disinterest. The Steward leaned in uncomfortably close and continued with urgency. “Just last night, this morning even, I was in a meeting with a dozen Stewards, led by no less than two Attendants. They have given us a new mark. A mark like none before. Aeda, my dear, we have been tasked with stealing rune essences from a Historian.”

He paused with his hands raised, awaiting a joyful response. To his disappointment, Aeda was entirely unaffected. “I forget you aren’t exactly educated,” he said flatly. “As you know we are in the wonderful city of Biersport, finest city in all the Known Lands. Now, the Historians are a group of people who constantly roam, recording history in giant books they carry at their side. This writing of history was decreed by the gods, meaning Historians are more important than any dignitary or merchant or noble. Not only is this Historian an exceedingly rare mark, when I successfully steal from one it will earn me unimaginable fame in the society.”

“Ahem,” Aeda cleared her throat, staring at Braedyn, his pompous finger pointing to the sky, eyes glossed. She was more bothered by his interest in taking credit for her work than she was by his patronizing tone. “Don’t you mean if I successfully steal from this Historian? Or perhaps you plan to join me this time?”

“Steward and Thief are one and the same,” he replied sourly. “Moving on, essences are used for runewriting. You’ve seen the Attendants; they carry rune essence in the pouches on their belts. The Historian has five of these pouches on her belt, you’ll need to figure out which one has the life essence. The Attendants say most likely it’s the pouch furthest from the Historian’s belt buckle but there’s no guarantee. They’re purple.”

“If the Attendants already have life essences, why do we need to steal more from this Historian?”

“Because the Council asked us to, that should be enough for you,” Braedyn chided.

Aeda remained cautious yet was resigned to the task. “When will the Historian be here?”

“She’ll be here today. Soon, I would think, perhaps in a few hours. Apparently, she prefers to loiter in markets when she arrives. You should wait for her at the Grand Plaza.”

“We were just in the Grand Plaza.”

“So, you’ll go back there now. Oh, and you will be retrieving the essence today. The others will be plotting and observing but they will not delay for long before moving. This is too important to risk another Thief taking the mark before you, no time for us to wait and plan. Also, there is no Fence; we are to take these essences directly to an Attendant. I’ll find you after you acquire the essences and then we’ll report together in the evening. Remember, when we succeed, the reward will be beyond dreams!”

“But…” Braedyn turned and shuffled out of the alley, dismissively waving his hand. “Typical,” Aeda muttered and worked her way back through the city. Why even have a Steward if all he does is dream? Not even the slightest bit of insight on what I should do.

The sun had just risen above the horizon, yet people flooded the streets. Avoiding the main avenues, Aeda coasted through shadowy alleys until she emerged at a ledge overlooking the Grand Plaza. Sitting on the perch, she watched market goers flowing down the main avenue. The Thief hoped a plan might come to her before the Historian arrived, though her mind wandered as the sun climbed, glowing warmly above. She rearranged the remaining food in her satchel and munched on a sweet oat roll.

Pulled from her daydream, she tensed on seeing an unusually dressed woman strolling towards the market. While merchants from various parts of the Known Lands were common enough in Biersport, this woman’s appearance was distinct.

She wore dark brown leather boots which rose halfway up her calf, the mud-flecked leather slicked with oil and trimmed in steel rings. Her pants were a gray muslin, with hardened leather pads stitched over the knees and thighs. The Historian’s shoulders were protected by leather pauldrons which ran halfway down her upper arm, and leather vambraces capped her sleeves at her wrists. A deep red tabard sat over a burnt orange linen shirt, emblazoned with a white tome over a tree, tucked into a thick leather belt sporting a row of small pouches. A second belt was home to a sword, the weapon fearsome and imposing even in its sheath. A leather-bound tome hanging from a fine silver chain at the woman’s right hip confirmed that she was a Historian.

I might as well go for it now. Aeda pushed off from the vantage and into the crowd.