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Brian McClellan

The Girl of Hrusch Avenue

Vlora planned on stealing a gun.

The one thing that made Vlora truly happy was to sit atop the flat roofs of the gunsmithies in Adopest and watch them test-fire their rifles and muskets in the alleyway behind Hrusch Avenue.

The black powder smoke would rise up between the buildings and drift over her vantage point, the sulfuric scent filling her nostrils and instilling a sense of focus and energy. There was nothing quite like it. She'd once tried to explain to Amory, the headmistress of her boarding school, but Amory had dismissed it as a childish fantasy.

And though she was only ten years old, Vlora wanted a one of those guns.

Amory would never let her have one, of course. She never let Vlora have anything.

Vlora knew it was wrong to steal, but she needed a gun. She needed to fire it, and feel the stock kick against her shoulder and the black powder filling her lungs. She craved the music of the gunpowder blast in her ear.

The gunsmiths would sometimes leave a musket unattended for a few moments while they went into their shop to fetch more powder or bullets. Vlora knew that stealing one just meant waiting for the right moment. She could dash into the alley, snatch a weapon, and then be out and running down the street before anyone could catch her.

A musket or rifle was too big, too unwieldy. She wouldn't be able to hide it beneath her skirts and surely someone in the street would stop her-maybe even one of the Bulldog Twins. And Vlora didn't have anywhere at the boarding school big enough to hide a musket. If Amory found it, there would be pit to pay.

Vlora would have to steal a pistol.

She slipped from her hiding place, heading across the flat roof above the smithies, and climbed down the old copper drain pipe into the alley below. She headed out into the main thoroughfare and along the raised stone walk that fronted the shops of Hrusch Avenue.

The street was packed, the ring of horseshoes on the cobbles clattering over the cacophony of the crowd. Gunsmith apprentices sat on the front steps of their shops, showing off their master's wares: engraved hunting rifles or dueling pistols for the nobility, plain oak-stock muskets for the soldiers, blunderbusses for the country farmers.

Vlora let her eyes wander over the weapons. Displayed along the raised walks of Hrusch Avenue were dozens of models, just waiting to be snatched. There were too many people out here, though. Someone would call the alarm and she wouldn't have time to lose herself in the throng before she…

Her eyes stopped at the mouth of the narrow alleyway that led behind the Hrusch Avenue shops. A pair of sandy-haired boys sat on empty powder barrels beside the alley. They were each about fourteen, with round, nearly identical faces and upturned noses, their eyes pinched with affected disdain as they watched the passing traffic.

The Bulldog Twins.

Hrusch Avenue belonged to the Bulldog Twins. At least, that's what they wanted all the orphans and urchins to think. No one begged or stole on Hrusch Avenue without permission of the Bulldog twins and if they caught you alone, they'd beat you to a pulp.