by M. J. Kuhn
The Snake of the Southern Dock didn’t wait to see if Tristan and Ryia were in tow as he turned, making his way toward the Saints’ row house.
* * *
THE GROUP of Saints drinking in the foyer of the row house cleared out the instant Clem opened the door. He didn’t seem to notice or care, walking past the Saints’ cook, Rolf, as he grabbed the cups off the table and disappeared into the kitchen. “Wait upstairs,” Clem said, vanishing down the long front hall without another word.
Tristan shot Ryia a horrified look, and she grinned, mounting the rickety wooden stairs and winding her way up to Clem’s apartment.
Ryia reached out to open the door, but someone inside beat her to the punch.
“Well, if it isn’t the infamous Butcher of Carrowwick,” grumbled a familiar voice. Ryia raised her eyes several inches to meet Nash’s gaze. “Shouldn’t you be out dismembering someone?”
“Shouldn’t you be out stealing someone’s hard-earned gold?”
“Excuse me, I don’t steal gold,” Nash said.
“No, just ships.”
“I haven’t stolen a ship in months,” she replied. “Although there is this beautiful little cog on the southeastern dock. Right next to the textile quarter…”
“There it is.” Ryia mounted the last step, patting Nash on the shoulder.
Nash shrugged out of reach. “Don’t get familiar. Get too close and I might have to show you what these can do.” She bared her teeth, showing off her razor-sharp canines.
“Don’t tease me like that. You know you’re just my type.”
Nash rolled her eyes. Her brow furrowed as her gaze fell on Tristan. “And who the hell are you?”
“That’s a damned good question,” Ryia said, chuckling. “What’s it going to be today? An ex-pirate? Maybe a Gildesh merchant’s bastard son?”
Color returned to Tristan’s face for the first time since the alley. “Today I think I’ll be a runaway Borean medev guard,” he said, naming the mysterious fighting force of the northernmost kingdom in Thamorr. “What can I say? The celibate life just wasn’t for me.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Ryia joked.
Nash chortled, and Tristan gave her a sarcastic glare.
The truth was, no one really knew where Tristan had come from. Maybe one of his increasingly elaborate lies had been the real story, maybe not. It didn’t really matter anymore. He wore Clem’s brand now. It might not be quite as effective as the Adept’s blood-brands… but it would still give anyone who came across the boy a good idea of who they could sell him back to. He wouldn’t be leaving Carrowwick for a long, long time, that was certain.
“What are you doing here, anyways?” Nash asked, looking her up and down suspiciously.
Ryia scoffed. “Don’t worry, the Snake’s all yours.” She pulled the battered iron coin from her pocket, flashing its kestrel skull at her in the dim light of the stairwell.
“Didn’t realize you were looking to hire out your dirty work,” Nash teased.
Ryia shot Nash a glare. She wasn’t exactly afraid of Clem, but it was just asking for trouble to joke about working for Wyatt Asher under this roof. The Kestrel Crowns were the Saints’ biggest rivals in the Lottery, after all.
“Where’d you find it?”
“On Efrain Althea.”
Nash let out a low whistle. “Well, that explains a hell of a lot.”
“Don’t know about a lot, but it explains the Foxhole for sure,” Ryia said.
As shoddy as the iron coins looked, the Kestrel Crowns didn’t hand them out lightly. Each coin won its holder a favor—usually the convenient, untimely death of some rival or enemy. And each one had to be earned by doing the Crowns a favor in return… such as orchestrating the downfall of the Saints’ most profitable gambling hall.
“Looks like Asher’s going in for the kill,” Tristan said. “Why now?”
“Don’t ask me,” Ryia said.
“I don’t have to ask you,” said Nash.
“How could I forget? Nash the infamous smuggler knows all.”
“Of course I do. Why do you think I’m here?”
Ryia gave her a wink. “The usual reason?”
“Oh fuck off,” said Nash.
The smuggler had survived Clem longer than most—almost a decade, last Ryia had heard. Rumor had it there was a reason for that. Of course, there were worse ways to buy protection in the Lottery than sleeping with a syndicate lord, but still, the idea of being in the same room as a naked Callum Clem made her skin crawl. Then again, she had never really seen the appeal of naked men at all.
Ryia sauntered past Nash into the apartment. She had seen Clem’s personal chambers dozens of times over the past year, but they never failed to simultaneously awe and repulse her. However run-down the rest of the row house might look, this room left no doubt that the man who lived here was someone of importance.
Or at least thought he was.
Plush rugs nearly as fine as the ones she’d seen inside Prince Efrain Althea’s room covered the floor, and the walls were lined with cherry-wood bookshelves that had to be of Gildesh make. A disgustingly gaudy gold-and-crystal chandelier hung over the center of the room, casting its yellowish light over the otherwise dim chamber. Ryia peered up at it, wondering briefly who lit all those candles every day. And why? One of these days, the whole south row was going to go up in flames because of Clem’s obsession with his fucking chandelier.
But trying to understand anything Callum Clem did was a recipe for madness. He read like an old poem; everything could be expected to have three meanings or none at all.
The Snake swept into the room like a frigid wave. The smell of chamomile flooded Ryia’s nostrils as Ivan Rezkoye strode in behind him, his shirt half-unbuttoned, blond hair spilling onto his lithe shoulders. If he was surprised to find a whole host of people in Clem’s sitting room, he gave no sign of it. Of course, when Ivan wasn’t working, his face rarely gave a sign of anything at all.
“Let me see that coin,” said Clem.
Ryia flicked it to him with her thumb. He caught it mid-step without flinching, flipping it over twice in his palm before handing it to Ivan.
The Saints’ chief forger held the coin up to the light of the chandelier, spinning it back and forth, running his fingers over the rough-hammered edges. He held it close to one vivid green eye, inspecting the symbol stamped onto the back.
“It is genuine.”
“Are you sure?” Clem asked.
Ivan bristled slightly. “It is my job to be sure. Besides, exactly what kind of dummklav would forge one of these coins? It would be suicide.”
“It would seem that with the Harpies in his back pocket, my dear old friend has decided to make a play for the Lottery,” Clem said.
Nash’s jaw dropped before she could catch herself. “You already knew?”
For as long as Ryia had been in Carrowwick, the Harpies had been pretty harmless, dealing mostly in whores and keeping to themselves. But now they’d chosen sides… just in time for the Saints’ downfall. That was no coincidence. What had Wyatt Asher promised them?
Clem traded his emerald coat for a burgundy dressing gown and settled into one of his chairs, his manicured fingers steepled in thought. His eyes pulsed with intensity—a thinly veiled madness that had caught flame alongside the Foxhole and had only grown steadily clearer in the days since. “It appears we have cause to remind everyone who rules these docks.”
Nash stepped past Ryia, snagging one of the apples sitting in the bowl on the spindly table beside Clem. She then slouched into the chair across from him, biting into the fruit. “I’d bet my left tit this means there’s a big job in the works.”
Not many people would be bold enough to invite themselves into Clem’s apartment and help themselves to his food without asking, but that was Nash.
“How astute,” Clem said thinly. He crossed to the fire, setting a kettle and staring pensively into the flames. He was silent for so long that Ryia a
ssumed they were dismissed, but just as she turned to leave, he spoke again. “Everyone get some rest. I’m going to need you all ready at sunrise.”
Ivan peered out the window, surveying the already brightening sky. “Ready for what, exactly?”
Clem removed the kettle from its hook as it started to whistle and poured a mouthful of steaming water into a comically tiny teacup. “To find out what that rat Asher is cooking up with Harlow Finn.”
Ryia nodded. “And once we do?”
“Simple.” Clem’s lips curved into a smile that might have been handsome if it wasn’t for the insanity lurking at its edges. He pulled Efrain Althea’s severed finger from his pocket and set it delicately on the table before lifting the teacup to his lips. “We ruin them all.”
5
TRISTAN
“Excuse me, sir. Sorry, apologies, excuse me.”
Tristan pushed through the late-morning crowds on the docks, hands brushing the pockets of anyone unfortunate enough to come within arm’s reach. He had fourteen coppers in a matter of seconds. Fourteen coppers to lay down against his debt to Clem. That meant only… eighty-five thousand to go. Or was it ninety by now? It was hard to keep track when Clem kept adding the cost of keeping him alive to his total.
As though a flea-bitten cot in the crowded attic of the Miscreants’ Temple was that expensive. Really.
He scratched his false beard as he slipped toward the trade docks. He had to be careful, even in disguise—it was somewhere just shy of suicidal for a Saint to hover this close to the Crowns’ territory these days. But Clem’s orders had been loud and clear—figure out what Wyatt Asher and the Harpies were up to. It would be pretty hard to accomplish that without leaving the southern dock.
A blast of salt air washed over him as he slogged north along the docks. He let out a soft breath. The Saints’ docks were positioned inland, along the sludgy mouth of the Arden River, but the trade docks overlooked the sparkling waters of the Yawning Sea. So beautiful, so open, so… free.
“Gonna stare at the water all day, dumbass?”
Tristan blinked, stumbling back into the building behind him as a stocky man shoved past.
“Some of us have places to be,” the man grumbled.
“Sorry, sir,” Tristan said, but the man was already gone. He felt his pockets. And so were his fourteen coppers.
Curses.
He pushed himself back to his feet, then frowned as his hand caught on a slip of parchment nailed to the wood behind him. A notice. There were dozens of them—maybe hundreds—fluttering in the wind all along the trade docks, every few steps, each adorned with the image of a delicate ship pressed into deep purple wax. The Baelbrandt crest. A notice from the king?
Tristan tugged the paper from its rusting nail, teeth clenched. There it was. A sketch of a dripping axe blade. Someone had spotted Ryia the last time she had broken into the Bobbin Fort. The Butcher’s crimes were finally catching up with her. All because Clem wanted to prove a point. Efrain Althea might be useless, but he was still Thamorri royalty. Baelbrandt would send the Needle Guard after her for this—or worse. Tristan shuddered at the thought of the king’s Adept servants streaming through the streets, hunting for the Butcher of Carrowwick.
But he knew what Ryia would say. You should have seen the notices they put up when I was in Fairvine, or something of the sort.
He peered over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching before crumpling the notice into a ball and tossing it into the water. No sketch of her face, at least. But still, he would have to warn Ryia to be more careful. Not that she would listen. It was exhausting, honestly, caring so much for someone who seemed not to care for herself at all.
A bead of sweat wound a disgustingly slow path down the center of Tristan’s spine as he settled into a shady corner. From there he had a clear view of Stitcher’s Street, the invisible border between the Crowns’ territory to the east and the Harpies’ docks to the south. He leaned back against the building, pulling an empty crate in front of him like a table. Next, he pulled three battered, empty walnut shells and a small stone from his pocket, setting them on the crate.
“All right, step on over! Who’s brave enough to test his sight against the speed of the infamous Falcon? How about you, sir?” He looked a tattered merchant up and down. “I think I can best you. I’ll give you two-to-one on me, that’s how confident I am. No? Well, how about you, ma’am?”
It might seem foolish to draw attention to himself when he was supposed to be spying on the Crowns, but in a place like the Lottery, the only way to blend in was to stand out. A quiet man was suspicious. A bustling man an easy target. But a loud, obnoxious fellow running an obvious scam? That was as good as invisibility.
The temperature rose in tandem with the blazing sun as he sat behind his makeshift table. Half a dozen sailors fell into his trap. He would let them win a game or two—just enough to convince them to bet more than a few coppers. Then he went in for the kill. And all the while, he was watching the length of Stitcher’s Street, the constant thrum of bodies winding back and forth through the docks and alleys, waiting for some sign, some useful hint of what Asher and Finn might be up to. Or at least that was what he was supposed to be doing.
If Tristan was being honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was mostly eyeing the ships. They came into the harbor from all directions, waving flags of every merchant fellowship and kingdom. From the south came vessels bearing wine from Gildemar and spices from the far, vast kingdom of Briel. From the far north came furs and coal courtesy of the icy, mountainous Boreas, and ships bearing weapons for the Needle Guard sailed in from the neighboring Edale. He even thought he saw the sapphire sails of the Guildmaster’s island tacking against the wind. Off to collect some Adept infant from one of the northern kingdoms, no doubt.
Tristan coughed, eyes flicking back down as he shuffled his shells around with deliberate slowness, allowing his latest mark to pick the correct one.
“Ah, you’ve got me this time. Care for another go?” Tristan slid a silver half onto the crate beside the shells.
The sailor puffed his sunburned chest. “I’m not sure you can afford it,” he said. He tossed his own half onto the table, leaning forward on his knees to closely watch the shells.
Tristan smiled, showing him the stone before covering it with the centermost shell and mixing them around the table. Mid-shuffle, he lifted the back edge of the shell, stowing the stone in the palm of his hand before continuing. One of the other Saints, Roland, had showed him this scam and said Tristan had mastered it faster than anyone he’d ever seen. Now Tristan was easily the quickest hand at Shells in the whole syndicate. The sailor’s eyes almost blurred as they struggled to follow the speed of it, but when the shells finally came to rest, his face split into a smile.
“That one,” he said, pointing to the shell on his own right.
Tristan’s eyes darted up as he saw a tall shadow slipping down Stitcher’s Street. One of the Crowns, off to meet with the Harpies? No, just a Needle Guard making his rounds. He looked back to his mark. “Are you sure about that? I’m a fair and honest man. I’ll give you one chance to change your bet.”
“No, that one on the right.”
Tristan sighed. “All right then,” he said, pulling back the left two shells. In the same motion, he slipped the stone from his palm beneath the center shell. Of course, when he turned over the right shell there was nothing there.
He scooped up the pair of silver halves. The sailor gaped at the shells on the table, grabbing the other two and flipping them over himself, finding the stone underneath the center cover.
“Twice-damned dodger,” he swore.
“You’re more than welcome to try your luck again. Double or nothing? Tell you what, I’ll even allow you to pick two shells for the price of one.” The sailor lifted his hand in Ryia’s favorite vile gesture, stalking away from the table. Tristan grinned at a nearby Needle Guard. “I guess not, then.”
The guar
d didn’t smile back.
Tristan shrugged, his gaze wandering up to the sky as a bird swooped overhead. A magpie, to be exact, winging its way toward a tall, stone-walled building on the edge of the trade docks. The one hung with the banner of the Messengers’ Fellowship; a black-and-white pennant of a bird in flight.
The steadiest business there is, Father always used to say. Long after gold had lost its charm and men no longer had a taste for bread and wine, words would still hold their value. Messages would always need a way to span the five kingdoms of Thamorr.
The magpies swarmed the tower, black feathers on top, but where the white should have shone through on their stomachs were feathers the color of lilac. The color of Carrowwick, capital city of Dresdell, smallest of the five kingdoms. Leaving from the uppermost windows of the building were more birds, these far more interesting and varied in their color. Some had bellies of blue, others orange or yellow, each bird trained to fly home to one of the great cities of Thamorr.
Red-feathered birds had the farthest to fly, returning to Oryol, capital city of the snowy kingdom of Boreas, some four thousand miles to the north. The vivid yellow would be heading to Fairvine, along the southwestern coast of Gildemar, Dresdell’s neighbor to the south. The birds arrived in great wooden crates, living in the tower of the Messengers’ Fellowship until it was time for them to wing their way home with a letter tied to their leg.
Tristan looked bitterly at his wrist—the place where Callum Clem’s brand lay, scorched into his flesh. Burned there the day he bartered his service for his life. Two snakes encircling a Saint’s head like a halo. Just like those painted birds, no matter how far he managed to fly, that mark would make sure he would always end up right back here, in Callum Clem’s pocket. After all his trouble, he’d escaped one prison just to end up in another.
“Who’s next, who’s next? You’ve got to have eyes like a hawk to beat the Falcon. I’m not sure you lot are up to it,” Tristan mocked with a wink, juggling the shells and returning his attention to his assignment.
