Author's Note

Elizabeth West is one of the most important characters in the Assassin Without a Name series. Her story begins here, in Master Thief, where you’ll get to see how she earned her title—and everything that came with it.

At the time of this story, she is a senior thief and lieutenant within Alchester’s thieves’ guild, operating under Guildmaster Garrick Greyfoot. She is skilled, ambitious, and sharp-witted—someone who has spent years proving herself on her own terms. She is also, by some measures, reckless, a quality her detractors use against her and that she herself struggles to reckon with fully. At this point in her life, she has not met the Nameless Assassin yet.

The promotion to master thief is more than a title. Within the guild, it represents the highest rank a thief can achieve through merit alone—recognition that you can plan and execute any job, against all odds, without help. Garrick gives Elizabeth a single night to prove herself.

Master Thief is the earliest entry in the Assassin Without a Name timeline, predating even the prequels. Readers coming to this collection after reading other books in the series will find familiar ground here—the city of Alchester, the guild, the characters Elizabeth carries with her into later stories—but seen fresh, before the larger world has complicated the lives of our heroes.

For readers new to the series, this is an ideal place to start. Elizabeth’s story stands on its own, and this is where it all begins.

Master Thief - Chapter 1: The Assignment

THE GUTTERING TORCH OUTSIDE GARRICK Greyfoot’s office sent shadows skittering across the hallway’s walls. Elizabeth watched them dance while she waited, her back straight, her expression neutral, her stomach tied in knots. Somewhere below, dice clattered against a table. A burst of laughter echoed up the stairwell, then faded. The smell of roasting meat drifted from the kitchens, mingling with torch smoke and the musty tang of old secrets. Guild House, House of Thieves some called it, humming along with its usual evening rhythm.

The door swung open.

“Elizabeth.” Garrick stood in the threshold, his features half-lit by candlelight from within. “Good. You’re on time.” He stepped aside. “Come in.”

Garrick’s office smelled of ink, old paper, and the faint sweetness of pipe tobacco. Maps covered every wall—Alchester laid bare in careful detail, with annotations marking guard patrols, noble estates, and routes both above and below ground. A single window overlooked the rooftops of Beggars’ Quarter, the glass thick enough to muffle the city’s noise but not its glow. Alchemical lamps burned in the streets below, their yellow light seeping through the panes.

Elizabeth waited for Garrick to take a seat behind his desk. As always, papers and ledgers—and a half-eaten meat pie—cluttered the surface. Garrick peered across the organized chaos at her with a gaze that had deepened since those early days when they had first met, when he was a younger man and she only a child. He ran a hand through his dark beard, the gray streaks seeming to grow in number by the day. The responsibilities of the Chief of Thieving Operations took their toll, but Garrick’s smile, which he had yet to show her, always remained the same: warm, knowing, and tinged with a hint of mischief. Garrick folded his hands in front of him, all business tonight.

“You know why I summoned you.”

Elizabeth took the opposite chair. She kept her movements loose, casual—nothing to betray the tension coiled in her chest. “My trial.”

“Your final trial. The masters have reviewed your work. Your record’s impressive. Better than most who’ve sat where you’re sitting. The Valmont jewels. The Harrington documents. That business with the shipping manifest—though I still don’t know how you got past the airdock guards.”

“Trade secret.”

Garrick’s lips tugged at a smile. “But records only take you so far.”

Elizabeth said nothing. Waiting.

Garrick picked up a leather folder and thumbed it open. He selected a folded parchment from inside and slid it across the desk. “Lord Sinclair’s mansion. You know it?”

“Mansion?” Elizabeth lifted the parchment. “More like a fortress. Yeah, I know it. East side of Grainger Town. Three stories, private guards, traps and other mechanisms designed to foil even the best thieves.” She unfolded the parchment, revealing a sketch of the place annotated in tight, careful script.

“That’s the one. Sinclair owns a gem called the Dawnfire Crystal. The client wants it. We agreed to deliver.”

Elizabeth brushed aside some other papers and laid the sketch flat on the desk. The mansion’s layout sprawled across the parchment: outer walls, guard posts, a central courtyard, and, rising at its heart, the main structure. A guildsman had marked entry points with small X’s and noted patrol times in the margins.

“The Dawnfire’s kept in a vault on the third floor,” Garrick went on. “Sinclair fancies himself a collector. Art, jewels, artifacts—if it’s valuable and desired by others, he has to have it.”

“Typical,” Elizabeth said. “How many guards?”

“Twelve men on rotation, four on the walls at any given time, with the rest patrolling the grounds and interior. They’re not Duke’s Watch, but they’re not amateurs either. Sinclair pays well enough to buy loyalty.”

Elizabeth traced the vault’s location with her finger. Third floor, northeast corner. At the end of a narrow hallway. “Locks?”

“Khorasi with a triple-lock mechanism on the vault door.”

Elizabeth let out a soft whistle.

“I know,” Garrick said, his chair creaking as he settled back. “Make sure you bring a tri-pick. It’ll be tricky work, but you’ve trained for worse.”

“It gets worse than a Khorasi triple-lock?”

Garrick snorted. “First, you have to get to it.” He leaned forward, tapping the sketch. “Sinclair’s lined the outer walls with blade traps—concealed in the stonework along the most obvious climbing routes. You know the type.”

She knew them too well, having seen firsthand what those sorts of traps did to a careless thief. Maiming was the goal, not killing. A corpse told no tales, but a screaming, bleeding intruder brought guards running and served as a warning to others when they hung from the gallows. But she knew how to handle bladies, as thieves liked to call them, so trying to sound more confident than she felt, she asked, “What else?”

Garrick’s expression sobered. “The vault is more like a private gallery. Private, as in nobody goes inside except Sinclair. We greased some wheels and got someone on Sinclair’s staff talking, but even he got nothing more than a glimpse before the vault door closed. Sinclair has an array of valuables on display. The Dawnfire Crystal is special, though. It has two display cases. The first holds the genuine article. The second’s a decoy—rigged with gas canisters. Soporific. You crack the wrong case, you won’t wake until Sinclair’s guards are standing over you.”

“And you don’t know which is which?”

“No,” he said, holding her gaze. “You’ll have to figure that out on your own once you’re inside the vault.”

Elizabeth tapped her finger on the arm of her chair. Two cases, one chance. She’d dealt with worse odds.

“There’s more,” Garrick said. Something in his tone made her straighten. “Sinclair had some hallways fitted with pressure plates. His trap master set the weight tolerance for Sinclair—anyone heavier or lighter triggers them.”

“Let me guess. Poison darts.”

“Nothing so elaborate, but they will set off the alarm.” Garrick leaned forward. “Thjorn does his best to keep the authorities in his pocket and out of guild business, but if Sinclair catches you—”

“I know the drill.” Elizabeth met his stare. “I won’t get caught.”

“This won’t be easy, Elizabeth. Sinclair’s fortress is one of the most secure private residences in Alchester. We’ve had it on our list for months, waiting for the right thief.”

Elizabeth nodded, acknowledging the trust the guild placed in her. This wasn’t just any job. Designed to push her limits, it was a fitting challenge given the prize.

“No backup,” she said, stating what she already knew.

“No backup. You get in, you get the Dawnfire, you get out. That’s the job.” Garrick tapped a finger on his desk. “This is a simple infiltration when you get down to it.”

“Simple?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Pressure plates, Khorasi locks, decoys, and a dozen guards? Seems anything but.”

“You know what I mean. No disguises, no false identities. No elaborate schemes. You get in undetected, and you get out. Pure craft.” Garrick handed her the folder. “Everything we have on Sinclair’s security—guard rotations, detailed floor plans, what we know about the gallery’s layout. Study it. You move tomorrow after dark.”

The folder carried the weight of weeks of careful observation and gathered intelligence. Someone had put proper work into this.

“The masters—Thjorn and I, included—will await the outcome. Succeed, and you’ll have your promotion to full master. Fail, and . . . ” He let the sentence hang.

“I won’t fail.”

“I know you won’t.” His expression softened, revealing the Garrick she’d known since she first joined the guild, the one who recognized potential worth cultivating. “You’ve got the skills, Elizabeth. The question is whether you trust yourself enough to use them when it matters.”

She wanted to fire back something clever, something confident, but the words caught in her throat. Trust wasn’t the problem. Fear of not proving herself—that was harder to shake.

Garrick read the silence as he always did. He rose from his chair and crossed to the window, gazing out at the amber glow of Alchester’s evening lights.

“I sat in that chair once,” he said. “Twenty-three years ago. Thjorn handed me a similar folder and told me I had one night to prove myself.” A dry laugh escaped him. “I was terrified. Certain I’d botch it and end up gutted in an alley somewhere.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” He faced her. “Because when I got down to it, I stopped thinking about what could go wrong and focused on my training. You’ll do the same.”

Elizabeth tucked the folder under her arm and stood. “Tomorrow night, then.”

“Tomorrow night.” Garrick extended his hand, and she clasped it—firm, brief, the gesture of equals rather than superior and subordinate. “Good hunting, Elizabeth.”

She released his grip. At the door, her hand found the latch, but Garrick’s voice stopped her.

“One more thing.”

She glanced back.

“If things go wrong—truly wrong—you get out. The Dawnfire isn’t worth your life, and neither is the title.” Garrick’s voice carried an edge of concern. “You’ll always have a place here, Elizabeth. No matter what happens tomorrow night. Understand?”

The words settled somewhere deep, loosening a knot she hadn’t realized she carried. “I understand.”

Garrick’s nod dismissed her, so as he returned to his window and the glittering sprawl beyond, she stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her. The torch still flickered on the wall, and the shadows still danced. Under her arm, the folder weighed her down in more ways than she cared to admit.

The second-floor planning room was empty at this hour, its long table cleared of the maps and documents that usually cluttered its surface. Elizabeth preferred it that way. She wasn’t a loner by any means. But she needed to make this job her own, letting her intuition, not anyone else’s, guide her as she studied every scrap of information and made every decision. She also didn’t need someone else’s careless comment allowing the doubt already festering deep down to gain a greater foothold.

She spread Garrick’s intelligence across the table: floor plans, guard rotations, sketches of the mansion’s exterior from three different angles. Focusing first on the exterior, she scrutinized the wall layout, identifying several possible entry points—high sections with multiple viewing angles for the guards, making those positions the least likely to have the bladies Garrick mentioned. The patrol schedule showed a gap—three minutes between the eastern wall shift change and the courtyard sweep. Narrow, but enough. If she timed her approach right, she could scale the wall and reach the servants’ entrance before the next patrol came around. Moving inside, she traced a finger along the second-floor corridor. The annotations marked suspected locations for the trip plates, but the intel was far from certain. She’d need to watch her step and test each floor tile before committing her weight. Her focus moved to the third floor, where the Dawnfire Crystal waited behind a Khorasi lock mechanism.

Khorasi mechanisms were rare—artifacts from a civilization that had vanished centuries ago, leaving behind only scattered relics and half-understood legends. Collectors paid fortunes for anything bearing the Khorasi mark, and artisans studied the few surviving artifacts with a mixture of awe and frustration. The designs defied modern understanding, built on principles no one had replicated in the modern age. Their locksmiths had crafted masterful pieces of work, many with interlocking pins that required simultaneous pressure at multiple points. False pins riddled the mechanisms—decoys designed to reset everything if a careless thief applied pressure to the wrong ones. Feedback through lock picks, nearly imperceptible, offered no telltale clicks or guidance, thanks to locksmiths machining the components to such fine tolerances. Only patience, a delicate touch, and specialized tools gave anyone a chance against Khorasi craftsmanship.

Guild intelligence had learned that this mechanism had three keyholes, each requiring simultaneous manipulation to release the central bolt. She’d cracked two such locks before, both under controlled conditions. But this was different. In the dark, with guards prowling the halls and her future hanging in the balance, one mistake ended everything.

“No pressure at all,” Elizabeth muttered.

The creak of a floorboard announced company before the voice did.

“Burning the midnight oil?”

Elizabeth recognized Zara Blackthorn’s Southern Reaches accent without looking up. “Something like that.”

Zara entered unbidden, her dark gaze scanning the spread of documents across the table. She moved with the coiled grace of someone who’d learned to fight before she learned to walk, her expression carrying its usual edge of suspicion. “Sinclair’s place. Big job.”

“Big enough.”

“Your trial?”

Elizabeth nodded, still focused on the floor plans.

“Heard the masters have been arguing about you for weeks,” Zara said. “Half think you’re ready. The other half think you’re too reckless.”

“And what’s your opinion?” Elizabeth asked, partly out of curiosity and partly because she knew Zara’s knack for speaking her mind. No way was she leaving without having her say.

Zara frowned. “I think you’re good. Maybe the best I’ve seen since I came to Alchester.” She paused, letting the words settle in. “But good and ready are two different things. Plenty of good thieves end up dead because they think they’re ready when they’re not.”

The observation landed harder than Elizabeth wanted to admit. She kept her expression neutral, her hands steady on the documents. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that.” Zara turned toward the door. She paused at the threshold. “You know, my trial is coming any day now. This job could have been mine.”

Elizabeth looked up. “Could have or should have?”

Zara shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, does it? They gave it to you. What’s done is done. Besides, I’m not worried. Another big job will come along. One always does.”

Elizabeth lifted a brow, wondering why Zara still stood there.

“For what it’s worth,” the other woman said, “I hope you prove them wrong. The doubters, I mean.” A flicker of solidarity crossed her face, an affirmation that perhaps they shared more similarities than differences. “This guild needs more women—especially ones like you—at the top.”

She slipped out before Elizabeth could respond.

The room felt quieter after she left. Elizabeth stared at the floor plans, but Zara’s words rattled around in her skull like dice in a cup.

Too reckless.

She shook her head. Her detractors—she knew who they were—could think whatever they wanted. Tomorrow night, she’d show them.

The next hour dissolved into memorization. Elizabeth traversed the mansion’s corridors in her mind, counting steps, marking shadows, and noting every door and window. The patrol routes became a rhythm she almost heard—boots scuffing on stone, the pause at each checkpoint, the shuffle of the shift change. By the time she rolled up the documents and put away the sketches, the layout was as familiar to her as a second home.

With that done, she retreated to her quarters—a small room near the back of Guild House, sparse but private—to lay out her tools on the narrow bed. She selected her best lock picks, making a mental note to check out a tri-pick from supply first thing in the morning. She double-checked her collapsible grapple and every inch of its thirty feet of silk rope. Inspecting the device sparked an idea, especially when she thought more about the bladed wall traps. Sinclair’s guardsmen expected an intruder to take a conventional approach, scaling the wall from the ground up. That’s where the bladies were the most effective and dangerous. But why make anything easy for them? She had to scout her approach tomorrow, anyway. Might as well keep the idea in the back of her mind until then. Satisfied, she next chose two smoke bombs filled with alchemical compounds designed to burst into thick purple clouds on impact, and checked the edge on a thin-bladed knife, more tool than weapon, though it served both purposes if needed.

When she finished, she checked them all again.

Her working clothes hung on a hook by the door. Running her fingers over each piece, she checked for wear or weakness. She inspected her fitted trousers first—dark fabric woven tight enough to resist snagging on rough surfaces but loose enough through the hips and knees for climbing. She’d had the tailor reinforce the inner thighs where rope and wall edges wore through lesser garments. Next came a thin undershirt of black linen, close-fitting to prevent bunching beneath her prize piece: a dark leather armor vest, commissioned years ago from a tailor who asked no questions and kept no records. The well-oiled leather had molded to her body like a second skin over countless jobs, supple enough for climbing yet sturdy enough to turn a glancing blade. She checked the seams and tested the buckles along the side that allowed her to cinch it tight or loosen it, depending on whether she needed protection or mobility. Scores and scuffs from past encounters with blade-wielding adversaries marked her forearm bracers. Boots with soft soles of layered cork and leather gripped a variety of surfaces without a sound. She’d replaced them twice in the past year alone—a thief’s boots wore faster than any other piece of kit. Last, her mask hung beside the vest, a thin piece of black fabric that covered all but her eyes. Even if Sinclair’s guards spotted her, they’d never see her face.

A knock caused her to turn.

“It’s open.”

Thjorn Targalas stepped into the room, ducking to clear the doorway. The Anolgan stood a head taller than most Kallendorians, broad across the shoulders, with arms thick as dock ropes and a wild beard he tamed with carefully threaded braids. His presence filled the small room the way a bonfire filled a hearth.

“Garrick told me he gave you the Sinclair job,” he said. His eyes—pale blue, sharp as broken glass—swept across the equipment laid out on her bed before settling on her. “You’re ready.”

Thjorn didn’t offer empty praise. He had raised her since she was a scrappy pickpocket running with the wrong crowd in the Shambles. If anyone knew her capabilities, he did. She wanted to believe him, but doubt still coiled in her chest, stubborn as a weed.

Elizabeth crossed her arms. “Not everyone agrees.”

“Who?” His voice rumbled across the small space, threatening to knock down walls.

“You know who,” Elizabeth said.

“Forget about them,” Thjorn said. “Those old hens can’t agree that the sky is blue half the time. They live to argue and take sides. It’s what they do. You’ve done the work, Elizabeth. You’ve put the time in. Tomorrow night isn’t about proving yourself to them.”

“Then what’s it about?”

He held her gaze, and for a moment, she saw past the guild leader to the father figure who’d pulled her out of the gutter and given her a future.

“Proving once and for all that you’re not your mother. Proving that you’re stronger.”

The words hung in the air between them.

“Nothing to say?” Thjorn asked, challenging her.

Elizabeth’s jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“To who? Della? That woman doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”

“Maybe not, but she’s still my mother.”

“You’re tied to her by blood, aye. But you’re nothing like her.”

Elizabeth turned away, busying her hands with equipment that didn’t need adjusting. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Thjorn’s voice softened—a rare thing, like seeing snow in summer. “Maybe you don’t realize it, but a part of you is still that girl in the Shambles, coming home to find her mother slumped in a corner with Devil’s Tongue in her veins and nothing in the cupboards. That girl who wondered if she’d end up the same way.”

Elizabeth’s hands stilled.

“I’ve watched you fight that ghost for years,” Thjorn continued. “Every job you take, every skill you master—it’s not just ambition. It’s you proving you’re not her. That you won’t waste away chasing the next high while the world falls apart around you.”

Elizabeth spun around, unable to keep her emotions in check. “And what if I fail tomorrow?”

“Then you fail. You pick yourself up and try again.” Heavy footsteps crossed the room, and then Thjorn’s massive embrace enveloped her, warm and solid as bedrock. “But you won’t fail, Elizabeth. You know why?”

She shook her head, light against his barrel chest.

“Because your mother never fought for anything in her life. The Tongue got its hooks in her, and she let it drag her down without so much as a whimper.” His grip around her tightened. “You’re not like that. You fight. You claw. Like some Anolgan she-devil, you refuse to stay down. That’s not something I taught you. Your mother sure as hell didn’t, either. Della never had your fire. The Tongue took her without a fight. Someone like that…” Thjorn shook his head. “You can’t save some people, Elizabeth. That’s just how it is.”

Elizabeth didn’t want to believe that, but she saved that argument for another time. Drawing a shuddering breath, she stepped away from Thjorn. “You always know what to say to make a girl feel better.”

Thjorn snorted. “I’m told my bedside manner needs work.”

“Whoever told you that was being generous.”

A ghost of a smile crossed his dour face, and then he moved toward the door. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it. Luck to you.”

Then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway like distant thunder.

Elizabeth stood alone in the quiet of her room, surrounded by the tools of her trade. Tomorrow night, she put everything she’d learned to the test. Tomorrow night, she either became a master thief or learned exactly where her limits lie.

She turned back to her equipment, packing each item into its proper pouch or pocket with practiced familiarity. With the last buckle fastened and the last clasp checked, she sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the wall.

Thjorn’s words circled in her head, tangling with the doubts they were meant to silence.

She pulled off her boots, blew out the candle, and lay down.

Sleep, she told herself. Tomorrow night, everything changes.

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