Free The Wicked Day by Christopher Bunn

grinning, but did not say anything. Old Varden appeared out of the fog like a ghost, yawning and grumpy, but clutching in his bony hands a cudgel that looked suspiciously more like a stone block laced onto a wood grip as opposed to its more humble and purely wooden cousin. Owain sighed and decided not to look any closer.
    “Where’s Arodilac?” he said.
    “Right here, my lord,” said a voice.
    Owain turned around. Arodilac stood behind him.
    “Masks,” rumbled Bordeall.
    He held out a fistful of what looked like lengths of dark cloth. On inspection, the lengths of cloth proved to be old and immensely stretchy socks with holes for eyes and mouths that Bordeall’s wife had cut in them.
    “A sock?” said Arodilac in disbelief. “Is this a sock?”
    “That’ll do,” said Owain. He glanced at Bordeall. “I trust these are sufficiently clean.”
    “They’re clean. My woman’s a stickler for scrubbing and scouring. You set foot over her threshold with dirty ears and she’ll wash them for you.”
    “First time ah worn socks this year, cap’n,” said Varden. “It jest don’t feel right. Tain’t winter yet.”
    They set off into the fog. Thick as it was, it grew thicker as they went, until Owain could barely see the form of Hoon slouching along in front of him. Beyond the little tracker, Posle was somewhere up ahead in the mist.
    “Don’t lose sight of him,” said Owain quietly. “I don’t want a last-minute change of heart.”
    “No worries.” Hoon turned and grinned lopsidedly at him.
    They turned down an alley. Water dripped from the eaves overhead. The stones underfoot were slimy with mud, and the air stank of rotting garbage. Owain fingered the club tucked away under his cloak—it was just a length of oak split for the fire (a toy in comparison to Varden’s monstrosity)—and considered the regent. He didn’t doubt for a minute that the regent would hear of the night’s work. Owain wasn’t sure how Botrell managed it, but he maintained an effective network of eyes and ears about the city. Sooner or later, the regent always found out. It didn’t matter if it was a dispute over market stalls in the Fishgate or a scullery girl gone missing from a manor in Highneck Rise. He always found out. The question was, would he also find out the Guard’s role in the robbery?
    “We’re here, m’lord,” said Posle. The thief looked at him nervously. Sweat trickled down his forehead. “Jest past the end of the alley now. The house with two chimneys.”
    Dimly, through the fog, Owain saw a narrow house built of the gray stone so common to Hearne. The house huddled between its neighbors on either side. The roofs drooped together to join in an ugly hodgepodge of mismatched slate.
    “All right,” said Owain, turning back to the others. “I want two of you up on the roof. In through the dormer window. Hoon?”
    “Easy enough,” said Hoon.
    “Are wards a trouble for you?”
    “Nah. Me old gram did some ward weaving. She spelled plenty of ‘em. I know the tricks.”
    “Good.” Owain nodded. “Take Arodilac with you. How much time do you think you’ll need to make the roof?”
    Hoon shrugged. “Ain’t much different’n climbing a tree, these old houses. All knobby stone. We’ll try, mebbe four, five houses down an’ then come back over the roofs. Twenty minutes, if young Bridd here don’t fall an’ break his neck.”
    “I won’t fall!” said Arodilac.
    “And remember,” said Owain, his eyes narrowing. “Anyone inside, I want them out cold. No noise. Don’t forget your masks.”
    Hoon chuckled and nodded. Arodilac sighed. The two walked away into the fog.
    Owain settled down on his haunches against the alley wall and tucked his cloak around him. “Twenty minutes. With luck, the fog’ll break enough for us to see them on the roof, and then we’ll go in. Varden, I’ll want you to slip around the back. If there’s a door, anyone coming out, tap ‘em on the head. If there’s no