The bronzed mouths of brass instruments bobbed and swayed below as the parade crept on - a fat, multicoloured slug, towards the castle. There, those so inclined would glut themselves on the banquet provided by various knights and others of high standing. They had no idea how lucky they were, here in bliss while those across the border starved. It was too easy, even for those who had fled, to forget the more unpleasant situations of others.

A nest of glittering stones sat, completely vulnerable now, in the dank tower room. Who would think to look for them here, in this dimly lit chamber tucked far atop a forgotten turret? Whoever came up with this plan was just as broken, just as paranoid, as herself. And here she’d thought she was alone like this, the only one desperate intelligent enough to break from the grey masses of poverty. It made her angry, seething, prompting her to take far more than the agreed amount. Admittedly, her descent was far sloppier than her ascent had been, her pockets bulging as they were. On one particular window sill, she came face to face with a guard she had somehow missed when climbing the tower. A quick kick to the head had fixed that small problem, yet the mere fact that he was there…

The guard change was not due for another hour. She’d dealt with all fifteen guards.

Her unease was firmly pushed away as her feet hit the straw infested courtyard. It was a servants’ yard, with only the cursory decorations honouring the dead mounted at each corner. The sounds of merriment and feasting could be heard over the walls.

The feast of the Dead.

Cursed be those who dare steal from the dead. The mad witch, Bernadette, had grabbed her by the arm yesterday to hiss these words of wisdom – this threat – into her ear, as if she knew what was planned for today. She probably did. Yet no one had stopped the theft yet, witch or otherwise.

So she became careless. Festivals had always been avoided yet with the weight of jewels firmly seated against her thighs, a risk or two could not go astray, could it? Nobody would pay attention to one brown face peeking over the wall to watch. She would be just another servant in their eyes, skiving a moment off duty to watch the festivities.

To watch the skeletons dance.

This was a far cry from the graceful, colourful ballroom scenes she had glimpsed through window, hedge and fence as she loitered in the dark. The skeletons, dancers, moved much like marionettes; disjointed, haphazard and almost as if they held no control over their limbs. The bones hid the dancers’ gender from the observer, as if the celebration of death made little note of different sexes. No matter who or what you were, those horned skulls would grin out at you. At her.

Cursed be those that steal from the dead.

She pulled away, her palm spread across her chest as she panted heavily, involuntarily. She was being stupid, letting the words of a mad, old witch get to her. The chills splintering through her spin were nothing but unnecessary paranoia. Jumping from the wall, her landing on the courtyard floor was soundless, yet her unease grew. Half an hour until guard change, yet who else could know she was here? Despite herself, her pace slowly increased as she neared the servant’s exit that she’d snuck through earlier. It was a dark, narrow slit in the palace wall designed for the staff to move easily in and out without bothering the gate guard. Small flaws in design like these were the godsend to all thieves needing a quick exit. Once in there, in the comforting gloom, she would be safe.

The ghastly sounds of the festival became as muted as the light while she wormed her way through the exit. There would barely be enough room for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder in the passage and, despite the stagnant pools of water too shallow to drain properly, she felt comfortable in the claustrophobic environment. One sharp turn to the left, a few meters along, and she would be out. Safe. The thought was calming even as a foreign wedge of steel sank into her. The shock of intrusion took several seconds to manifest, as her eyes furtively darted before focusing on the grinning skull that hovered above her. Her crumpled body felt like jelly, the blade in her gut the only solid feeling she could grasp as shock slowly turned to horror.

Cursed be those that steal from the dead.

He’d have to congratulate the blacksmith on this blade. Not only had it sunk into flesh and bone with almost no effort at all, but the girl was dead within two minutes also. Highly effective. Whoever said that he didn’t like magic was far from correct; it was definitely helpful when used in the right way. Stooping a little to wipe the blood onto her clothes, he made short work of depriving the girl of the majority of the jewels she’d stolen. He left the most important – after all, it was to look like a theft of crown jewels, was it not? – and took the more valuable. The idiots had no idea how much more useful these would be to him rather than rotting away in a tower.