Thief With No Shadow
Also by Emily Gee
The Laurentine Spy
The Sentinel Mage
THIEF WITH
NO SHADOW
Thief With No Shadow
is set in an extraordinary world where nightmarish creatures live alongside men, and magic runs in the blood of mortals. It is the story of Melke, a wraith who possesses the ability to walk unseen. In order to break a curse and save her brother’s life, she is forced, against her wishes, to use her magical talent to enter a den of fire-breathing salamanders. Full of engaging characters, this is a compelling tale rich in emotion.
First published 2007 by Solaris
an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,
Riverside House, Osney Mead,
Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
ISBN (epub): 978-1-84997-558-2
ISBN (mobi): 978-1-84997-559-9
Copyright © 2007 Guy Adams
Cover art by Larry Rostant
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
THIEF WITH
NO SHADOW
Emily Gee
SOLARIS
For my parents, Maurice and Margareta, and my sister Abi.
CHAPTER ONE
M
ELKE CROUCHED IN
the dying tree. Thirst was painful in her throat. The sun beat down, heating her hair until it almost burned on her scalp, and sweat prickled beneath her eyes, yet the stolen necklace was cold, as if drops of icy water lay against her skin.
She released the branch with stiff fingers and wiped her face and the beast below her growled.
The sound raised fine hairs on her skin, made her shiver in spite of the heat. How did it know she’d moved? She was a wraith. No living creature could see her, and yet every time she shifted, the hound’s lips drew back and it growled, deep in its chest. Black hackles stood stiff down its spine and the sharp teeth were strong and white.
Melke took hold of the branch again and drew in a shallow breath.
Go away
, she thought.
You cannot see me. I am not here.
The hound growled. Its pale wolf-eyes stared up at her.
The fierce sun inched across the sky. Heat burned through her ragged shirt and trousers. The tree was almost leafless, with thin and brittle branches. Splashes of blood showed dark on the parchment-pale bark, from where the snapping teeth had nipped her calf. The wound stung and her trousers were ripped from knee to ankle.
The skeleton shadow of the tree shifted on the ground, lengthening as noon passed. Desperation grew with each minute that slid away, each inhaled breath, each beat of her heart.
I am coming, Hantje. I will not let you die.
There was a knife at her belt, thin and sharp, a few inches long. Melke fingered the hilt. Dare she attack the beast with so small a blade?
All morning the answer had been
No
. It was a knife for paring fruit, not killing savage hounds. Melke shifted cautiously on the branch. The beast growled again, showing its teeth. “Go away,” she said, out loud. “I don’t want to kill you.”
I don’t know if I can.
Her voice, hoarse with thirst, set the creature leaping and scrambling, trying to reach her. She flinched back as strong claws tore at the bark. The hound began to bay, a fearsome sound, and the dying tree trembled beneath the onslaught.
Melke gripped the branch tightly. She closed her eyes and didn’t move, scarcely daring to breathe, and the hound’s baying became less frantic. It no longer scrambled to reach her, shaking the tree. The ululation became single deep barks, and then a low and menacing growl.
Melke opened her eyes. She saw a bright and cloudless sky and thin, twisted branches. Sunlight scorched her skin and hot air burned in her throat. She dared not look down at the hound.
I am coming Hantje, I promise.
The river was close. She almost heard the whisper of flowing water, almost smelled its damp scent. Trees stood lush and green on the far bank, beyond the edge of the dry meadow. So close. So far. The pain in her throat became more intense. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Her throat cracked inside, peeling as the pale bark of the tree peeled.
The waterskin lay hidden a mile or more upstream, beneath the bridge. A loaf of bread was there too, and the map that had led her to this place. The bread and map were unimportant; she could survive without them, but the water—
The beast whined, a sound so unexpected that Melke looked down.
It whined a second time. The black ears twitched. The wolfish head turned.
A whistle sounded, high and faint and thin. Hope leaped beneath Melke’s breastbone. Her heart beat faster. The whistle was repeated, louder and more imperatively. The hound shifted its weight.
Go
, she urged it silently.
Go! Your master calls you.
A man’s voice shouted, impatient. The hound bared its teeth at her. A growl rumbled deep in its chest, and then it turned and ran swiftly across the meadow.
Melke scrambled out of the tree in sliding haste, tearing skin from her palms and leaving more blood on the bark. Dust puffed as her feet hit the dry ground.
The meadow was as threadbare as her clothes, the grass sun-bleached, the dirt the color of old bone. To the west—no more than quarter of a mile distant—stood a man, a thin, dark scarecrow figure against the white glare of the sun. The hound ran towards him, a blurring black shape.
Fear shrieked in her blood—
run run run
—but her legs were stiff and cramped. They wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t straighten. She stumbled and fell heavily to the stone-hard dirt. The jarring pain was nothing, fear swamped it.
Run run run.
Melke pushed herself up, staggering, breathless, and snatched a glance behind her.
The hound stood with its master at the far edge of the parched meadow. The man had his hand on the beast’s head and they both looked at her.
At her. The man looked
at
her.
Terror clenched in her chest. For a second, her heart failed to beat. Melke jerked her gaze down, certain she was visible. But no. Nothing, not even a shadow. No eyes could see her.
And yet the man knew she was there.
He shouted, and the hound began to bark.
Melke ran as she’d run that morning: for her life, pushing past pain, aware only of fear. Desperation whimpered in her throat.
Hantje
. The river was close. She heard it. The air that she gasped so frantically smelled of moss and mud, of dripping vegetation. Her throat burned, her chest burned, the muscles in her legs and arms burned. The hound bayed behind her—close, too close—and the river bank wasthere,
right there.
