The Theft of Sunlight by Intisar Khanani (story reading .TXT) 📕

“You’re not going to convince me,” I say. “Because as much as you enjoy touting Red Hawk like he’s some minor king, it’s the most vulnerable of society who need protecting, and rule of law is what will help them. Not five different laws, not a thief on a throne, and not—”

“Not a king who doesn’t care?”

Darkness take it! “You have no certainty he doesn’t care.”

“If he did, then you, country girl, would not be roaming the streets after dark in company with a thief, trying to uncover who is systematically conspiring to sell the common folk into slavery.”

“The law can change,” I cry, almost desperately. “That is what I’m trying to do.”

Bren glances at me. “And, oddly enough, I’m helping you.”

I let out my breath in a sigh, and find I have no arguments left. We’re not going to see eye to eye. I don’t want Bren to steal, not to help me, not to help himself. And certainly not to taunt me. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done tonight,” I admit.

A beat, and then he says, “Didn’t do it for your thanks.” His voice is light enough to make it sound like a casual remark for all that it isn’t. No, he didn’t steal their freedom for me, or Alyrra; he did it for himself, for the boy he used to be.

“I know,” I say.

We walk in silence for a few paces and then, as we turn a corner, he says tightly, “Rae.”

“Yes?” I glance at him, surprised at his change in tone.

He’s looking up the road toward a group of men gathered on the opposite side of the street, just outside an inn, the front of it lit by a great red lantern. “Keep your head down, would you? And if I tell you to run, you do it. No questions.”

“Run?” I echo. I doubt I could outrun any of the men here.

“You know how to get back to West Road from here?”

I’ve been watching the streets, and at this point I recognize where we are. Only a block or two farther to the west side, and Red Hawk’s domain. “I think so.”

“Good.”

“Shouldn’t we maybe just turn around?”

“Too late,” he murmurs. “That will just invite the chase.”

As we draw even with the group, one of them steps forward, his head tilted to see Bren’s features past the shadow of his hood, the red lantern providing far too much light. “I’ve seen you before.”

“Evening,” Bren replies, his voice easy and carrying. If I hadn’t just heard him cautioning me to run, I would never have believed him worried in the slightest.

The man shifts, and I catch the gleam of lamplight on metal. It’s a knife of some sort. A long one. “You’re in the wrong neighborhood,” he says.

“Just passing through,” Bren says. “I want no trouble.”

He puts his hand at the small of my back, pushing gently, and I realize I’ve slowed. But Bren doesn’t want us to stop for this conversation, and neither do I. This isn’t the time for court manners.

The man starts after us. He is tall and wiry with a sparse goatee. “I’m talking to you. You unarmed?”

Bren half turns as he keeps walking. “Not particularly, but I’ve no interest in drawing blood.”

The rest of the group is now focused on us. There are three of them, and they are all walking after us. “Who is he?” one of them asks the first.

“Seen him doing Red Hawk’s work, I think.” He raises his voice. “Am I right?”

Bren glances back at them, spreads his hands, palms up. “I’m just walking a friend home.”

“You come here, walking through our territory like you own it, and we’ll give you trouble,” the man snarls. “I think he needs a lesson, boys.”

He starts forward at a jog, his knife gleaming wickedly in the moonlight.

“Rae,” Bren says, his voice no more than a puff of breath. “Run.”

He aligns himself toward the man, a pair of daggers in his hands now, materializing as if from thin air.

“Bren,” I say, suddenly terrified. There are four of them. How can he possibly get away safely?

“Run.”

I turn tail and flee down the nearest alley, my uneven gait loud in my ears. I hear a shout behind me. Bren snarls in response, and then I can hear nothing but the uneven thud of my own feet on the packed earth. I reach the corner, my breath coming short and hard.

A hand closes on my tunic, yanking me back. I stumble as the man behind me wrenches me against him. He is tall and barrel-chested and stinks of sweat. I try to twist away, Matsin’s lesson from this morning flashing through my mind, and then the man’s other hand comes up to press a knife cold and sharp against my throat.

And then there’s no running at all.

Chapter

27

Barrelchest marches me back down the alley, one arm twisted behind me and the dagger sharp and unforgiving at my neck.

“Got her,” he announces as we near the fight.

Until that moment, Bren was doing well. Even against three men. One of them crouches on the ground to the side, his hand wrapped tight around his arm, dark liquid dribbling down to the cobblestones. The other two have Bren retreating toward us, blades flashing as they attempt to storm him, and yet he continually maneuvers one behind the other so that they cannot reach him together. He moves like a dancer—until he sees me in Barrelchest’s grip.

Swearing a black streak, he steps back, raising his blades in a move that has the other two men stepping back as well. “What do you want with her?”

“Her?” the leader asks. “Nothing at all. Unless she’s something to you. You’re the one requiring a lesson.”

Barrelchest shifts his hold on his knife, the point cutting into the tender skin below my jaw. I inhale sharply, pressing back against his bulk because there’s nowhere else to go.

Bren eyes the men speculatively. “I think,” he says