The Victorian streets of London slept under a haze of fog, gas lamps glowing through the mist like observant eyes. The majority of people had long since withdrawn behind thick doors, where logs spat and servants murmured of tomorrow's tasks. But in Hyde Park, a secret assembly awakened under the bony limbs of oaks as ancient as history itself. Black velvet and silver lace tents had been set up in a hidden glade, creating a maze of village and shadow and intrigue.
Atlas lay back in the velvet-lined interior of the carriage, Napoleon watch clutched against his heart. He considered it a trophy, yes, but also an overture: a warm-up for tonight's real masterpiece. The illegal auction promised artifacts of far-reaching provenance—objects rumored to contain uncanny powers. And among them was the most fascinating prize to him: The Blazon Portrait, a work of art that was said to contain within its colors the very essence of the subject, so that to look at it was to experience the soul of the person painted rising up and breathing.
The carriage creaked to a stop beside a hidden entrance draped in ivy. Atlas descended, his domino mask already in place on his sharp face. He adjusted his violet tailcoat, patting the hidden blades at his wrists and the shiny lockpicks stowed in his boot. With a jerk of his head, he disappeared into the crowd, blending into the sweep of cloaks, masks, and hushed bargainings.
A hundred candles burned on iron pedestals, their flames shining on the smooth mahogany tables at which aristocrats and shadowy brokers negotiated in hushed voices. Silver platters carried goblets of scented wine, and scented smoke wafted from white porcelain censers. Music—a lone harpist stroking a mournful melody—filled the air, increasing the feeling of an unearthly carnival.
Atlas glided like a ghost, assessing prey. A Russian duke sporting a diamond-studded cane, an Italian baroness adorned with pearls at her neck, an American industrialist displaying a ruby-studded monocle—these were all possible pools of small wealth. His impersonators loitered on the fringe, a silent army awaiting confusion on his whispon command. But the great thief had grander intentions this evening.
He saw the tent that had no lanterns on it—its doorway a plain velvet arch with no ornament. Behind it, he knew, were the real treasures, guarded from prying eyes. Two burly men in ebony uniforms stood at the entrance, their faces hard and immovable. Between them a silk banner displayed the emblem of the Black Heralds—a cabal of collectors who dealt in the rarest and most dangerous of curiosities.
Atlas came up, removing his mask to show a face of grave respect. The guards, anticipating no commoner presence, shifted forward. One growled. "Invitation?"
Atlas reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and drew out a small, decorative card: gilt-edged, embossed with a raven's head. He extended it to the taller guard, whose reddened eyes ran over the name written in flowing script: "M. LeBlanc."
The brow of the guard furrowed. "LeBlanc? We didn't know he was going to come."
"He trusts discretion," Atlas whispered, his voice a soft hymn. "And he demanded to bid himself."
A held breath moment passed. Then the taller guard nodded. "Very well." He moved aside.
Atlas swept past them and into the interior of the tent.
Soft candlelight illuminated a vaulted room covered with black satin. In the center, on a pedestal of obsidian stone, lay a gilded chest fastened with three interlocking locks of complex pattern. Velvet ropes cordoned a captain's circle around it, and beyond these stood a ring of masked bidders, their eyes shining with greed.
Of all the treasures shown this evening, the chest alone caught Atlas's eye. It purported to hold the Blazon Portrait, locked away behind tiers of defensive wards. First, however, its locks would have to swing open.
When the bidding began—a showy wave of cashmere and wealth—Atlas measured his moment. The first lock, an intricate design of turning vines encrusted with emeralds, particularly interested him. He knelt beside the ropes, pretending to be interested in a jeweled dagger placed on the base of the chest. His bony fingers stroked its sheath, but rather than take the weapon in hand, he hitched up the hem of his coat, showing a panel of secret tools. With one swift motion, he removed a pair of mother-of-pearl picks and pushed them into his hand.
The auctioneer—a skeleton-like man with bird-like facial features—bellowed the next bid: ten thousand guineas. A marquis raised his gloved hand, and a ripple of applause sounded throughout the tent. Atlas permitted a slight smile to play on his lips. The focus of the crowd had turned completely on the display of wealth at the pedestal.
He. He played it slow. His fingers caressed the first lock's keyhole and breathed in the strong aroma of perfumed guests and woodsmoke. In the delicate finesse of a painter, he worked the tumblers, each click a brush stroke on a canvas. Behind him, his mimics repositioned—so as not to intrude, but to sprinkle subtle distractions, a cough there, a whispered question somewhere, all to fracture the onlookers' consciousness.
The voice of the auctioneer rose: twelve thousand guineas. The marquis hesitated for a moment, and another bidder—a figure in dark red cloak—pounced. Atlas's first lock fell with a muffled snap. He feigned his victory as he stood up, applauding with the crowd as the bidding rose.
The second lock, a maze of crossed gold filigree, was a tougher challenge. Atlas held his breath for the crescendo of bids—a moment when all eyes had turned away. With a practiced flip, he produced a thin steel comb and applied it to the lock. Metal squeaked against metal, springs compressing under the lightest persuasion. He heard every nuance, every whispery resistance, and coaxed the tumblers home. The lock snapped open.
A shiver coursed through him, but he stayed calmly immobile, resting against the ropes as if deciding whether to make a bid. The crowd surged forward, shouting over one another in an enthusiasm that left everyone oblivious to his calculated victory. Only the red-habited bidder looked suspiciously at the chest, where he observed Atlas's closeness. But even as he stirred to challenge the intruder, the last auctioneer's gong was rung.
A final offer: twenty thousand guineas. The marquis stumbled; the figure in the cloak put up a shaking hand. Silence fell. And in that suspended moment, Atlas performed the final action.
He swept his palms around the chest as if to set it into relief with awe, raising his mask for a dramatic flourish toward the pedestal. With the same motion, he applied his palm to the third lock—a mechanism said to react only to the touch of its rightful owner. His Gift, his Duplicate, granted him the fine power to subvert the magic-sealing circuits with the breath of his intent. The lock trembled and opened.
Gasps broke out as the chest's lid swung open, and the Blazon Portrait revealed in black velvet. The frame was rosewood, its inner edges silver runes too fine for mortal vision to read. For an instant, the portrait was still—until candlelight flickered and the painted eyes glowed with otherworldly life.
In that instant of shared wonder, Atlas scooped the portrait into his arms and leaped over the ropes. His replicas moved forward, a mobile line between him and the shocked bidders. The red-robed figure leapt, but one replica stepped between him and delivered a clever blow that sent him reeling away. Others bearing Atlas's face urged murmurs of bewilderment through the throng, pointing in conflicting directions as they funneled shock-stricken guests away.
The harpist's sad melody was engulfed by the chaos—the crowd's collective gasp, the guards' shouted cries, the sound of scrambling feet from those trying to find an out. Atlas, holding the portrait like a dozing child, ran for the back flap of the tent. Two guards stepped into his path, their faces burning with alarm. He made way for a mimic to crash into them—an exact duplicate of Atlas who bowed low, exposing his neck in mock deference—and during the momentary delay, the actual Atlas slipped by.
Outside, the night air struck him like a slab of ice. The mimics flowed behind, melting each one into the mist before a single rising shout could reveal them. Atlas stepped forth alone, portrait in hand, its painted face warm against his fingers as if it really contained a living spirit. He traded his domino mask for a simple velvet hood, hiding even his eyes, and hurried into the darkness beyond the glade.
Behind him, the auctionhouse erupted into pandemonium. The tents of the Black Heralds billowed in the wind, their patrons pushing through the brush in terror. Guards lifted lanterns and torches, but Atlas was already lost—a specter borne on the mists and secret veins of London's streets.
He stopped only once, under a wrought-iron lamppost, to catch his breath. The Blazon Portrait was cradled against his chest, its frame inscribed with secrets he would decipher later. The city around him slept on, its heart unaware of the theft that had just been executed in its very core.
There was a carriage waiting at a hidden crossroads, wheels silenced by horsehair blankets. Atlas got in, the portrait carefully wrapped in his cloak. The driver tipped his hat upon seeing the masked rider, and the carriage moved off, leaving only the fading sound of a magnificent symphony of deception behind.
In the silence of that midnight ride, Atlas permitted himself one unguarded triumph. The first of his empire's great heists was accomplished—an opera of locks, illusions, and brazen escape that would be the stuff of underworld legend for years to come. Ahead, new enigmas: the soul-stirring secrets of the Blazon Portrait, the Gifted rivals who would pursue it, and the growing awareness that Atlas's bold ambitions would soon surpass even the greatest productions at the Royal Opera House.
But for the moment, he just shut his eyes, and he could feel the vibration of his Gift and the throb of London's arteries under him. The world was for those who could mold it with darkness, and Atlas—the dandy master of disguise—was at the helm of this vessel, preparing to lead his next performance.