Read Among Thieves for Free Online

there had always been at least one incarnation alive somewhere in the empire. The writings of the Imperial Cult hinted at dire consequences if no emperor strode the earth, but no one knew if the warnings were apocryphal or prophetic.
    Of course, someone decided to find out. Unfortunately for Stephen, it had been his own Regents.
    And so had begun the Regency Wars: eighty-one years of cat and mouse between the usurpers and the incarnations of Stephen Dorminikos. Lucien died twice, once to plague, and once to a dagger in the back. Markino passed from the same plague as Lucien while still a babe in arms. Theodoi was butchered leading an army against the walls of Ildrecca. In the sixty-fourth year of the Fourth Regency, the Regents declared there were no incarnations of Dorminikos left on this earth, let alone on the throne.
    The emperors were dead.
    And then, seventeen years later, Markino proved them wrong and emerged from hiding at the head of an army out of, of all places, Djan. Things had gotten interesting after that.
    “Are you to the Cleansings yet?” I asked. On the march from Djan to Ildrecca, Markino had ordered his troops to deface every depiction of his former incarnations they came across. He claimed he was “cleansing” the temples and promoting a fresh start after the Regency; his other selves had had other opinions. They didn’t like being erased when they weren’t around. And so had begun the centuries-long, ongoing spat among the incarnations of the emperor. Lyconnis had hinted that he had found a new source on the topic, but he hadn’t been willing to elaborate on it.
    Today was no different. Lyconnis smiled a crafty smile—or, at least, he tried to; it didn’t really fit his face. “I’m not telling,” he said.
    “You wouldn’t be.” I considered pressing him—he loved to talk about his work, and it wouldn’t be hard to get him to relent—but sighed instead. “No, as much as I’d love to read it, I have to see your master on business.”
    Lyconnis’s face clouded over. “Ah. I’ll leave you be, then.” He didn’t know the specifics of my relationship with Baldezar, but he was smart enough to realize it was something he would rather stay ignorant about.
    I walked to the back of the shop and climbed the narrow circular stairs to the gallery. Baldezar was waiting for me at the top.
    “Young Lyconnis does not seem to appreciate your trade as much as you do his.” The sentence rasped out of Baldezar’s mouth, his words dry and brittle as the parchments that surrounded us.
    “I think it’s your business with me he disapproves of,” I said.
    “Most likely.” The master scribe turned away and paced slowly toward his office. “But since the opinions of my lessers matter nothing to me . . .” He let the sentence drift to the floor, stepped past it.
    I let my eyes brush the works that resided here. Books and scrolls filled the narrow spaces between the windows in the gallery, the shelves running floor to ceiling. Many were of little use to anyone except the scribes, but there were enough histories and collected tales here to keep me busy for ages. Baldezar consented to rent some out to me now and again, but only grudgingly, and always at a high price.
    “No touching or taking,” he warned over his shoulder. There was no humor in the tone.
    I bristled at the implication. “Mind your words, Jarkman.”
    “It’s my trade—how can I not? You just mind your trade, burglar.”
    “I haven’t cracked a den in years,” I said.
    Baldezar sniffed but otherwise stayed silent.
    We stepped into his office. The master scribe arranged himself like a potentate behind his reading table. I took the narrow seat across from him. The shutters to the room had been thrown back for light, but the glass windows themselves were closed against the dust and noise of the street. It made the space feel tight and bright and warm. I fought a yawn and sneezed instead.
    For most people, such a basking would have