by M. J. Kuhn
Half a dozen Crowns picked their way through the crowd, taking bets. The nearest one swaggered up to their table, jingling his pouch of coins. “What’ll it be?”
Nash instantly recognized him. Owen… something. Vaguely handsome, if a little weasely. One of Tana Rafferty’s favorite toys.
Ivan counted out a small pile of coppers, picking his teeth with his tongue. “Seventeen coppers on the mountain.”
Owen chuckled. “Smart man. How about you?”
“Not as smart, I guess,” Nash said. She pulled a silver half from her pocket. “One half on the little one.” If she had to watch this bullshit, at least she could root for the underdog.
“A risk taker.” Owen ran his eyes over her. “I like that.”
“Keep on moving, mincehom,” Ivan said, dropping the Gildesh insult as fluently as if it really were his home tongue.
The Crown’s grin faltered at the sight of the symbol on Ivan’s wristband. He gave Nash a final wink, walking away as the announcer’s voice filled the tavern again.
“Last bets, folks! Don’t be shy—you fuckers came to win some gold tonight, didn’t you?”
The crowd cheered. Nash joined in, but her guts still swirled and clenched uncomfortably beneath her filthy jacket. Asher’s booth remained empty. Damn it. She looked back to the pit. The fight caller blew his whistle again, and the two Kinetics sprang to life like a pair of hunting dogs. It was mesmerizing, the way they moved. Fluid. Unnatural. Almost too quick for the eyes to follow. The female dove forward, punching toward the male’s chin. It ducked aside, reaching out with hands the size of cooked hams. The smaller evaded, leaping up to strike again before being pushed back.
The violent dance went on, and would continue until one of them lay dead on the floor. Kinetics were expensive, and fighting was risky. A loss could cost a trader hundreds or even thousands of crescents. But a win? A string of wins spanning the length of the coast? That could be lucrative. More than a few honest merchants had been known to turn once they got a taste for the pits.
“There he is.”
Nash jumped as Ivan whispered in her ear. She noticed for the first time that his leg was resting against hers.
“Where?” she breathed back. Even with her head spinning at Ivan’s sudden closeness, she wasn’t dumb enough to look around.
He didn’t answer, but Nash didn’t need him to when she felt the shift in the room. The chill wind any good captain carried with him. From the corner of her eye, Nash could see him. Tall, thin as a rapier, dust-colored hair cropped neatly around his narrow face. And, of course, the kestrel that sat on his forearm. The bird’s beady eyes darted around the room, looking like a bloodhound sniffing out a runaway.
The wind blew past as Asher stalked to the empty table in the back corner. He pulled a dead mouse from inside his coat and slipped it to the kestrel, who snapped it up eagerly, head bobbing as it forced the meat down its gullet. Disgusting? Yes. Surprising? No. If there was anyone in Thamorr who Nash would expect to walk around with dead rodents in his pockets, it was Wyatt Asher. Now they just had to wait until his mysterious new business partners arrived. Hopefully they would be able to sneak close enough to figure out what he was up to.…
“I am not sure I have ever seen you so uncomfortable before,” Ivan whispered, so close his breath tickled her ear. His eyes continued to scan the room, no doubt looking for the gray-cloaked Shadow Wardens Tristan had encountered.
“Who said I’m uncomfortable?” Nash asked, pulling her leg away from his to clear her head. What was the matter with her? Ivan’s tricks worked like a charm on giggling dock whores and simpering fools… Nash was neither.
“Your eyes,” Ivan said. “Would you feel safer if your dear Callum was here?”
Nash couldn’t stop herself from snorting at that. “Only an idiot would feel safer in that case.”
“Probably true,” Ivan mused, still scanning the crowd. “Though I have heard he has a soft spot for you.”
“ ‘Soft spot.’ Not sure he’d like your choice of words, there,” Nash remarked.
“So it is true, then.”
It wasn’t. “I didn’t say that. You’re smart. You know rumors are bullshit ninety-nine percent of the time.”
“Yet you have never challenged those rumors before.”
Nash flushed a shade as his eyes locked on hers. “Look, this city is infested with rats—most of them human.” She eyed the room surrounding them in distaste. “What better to keep them off my back than a snake?”
Ivan’s calculating stare flickered for a second, but before he had the chance to respond, the room sent up a loud roar.
Nash whipped around to look at the pit. The male Kinetic lay limp on the floor, blood surging from a vicious wound in its throat. A shiver went through Nash as she looked at the female. It had returned to its starting position, eyes flat and emotionless as the blood dripped thickly from its fingernails.
That definitely wasn’t Jolie. Even if it was the same body that had been born as her sister. Now it was just a beast. A monster, even. What in the hells did the Guildmaster do to those infants once he carted them off to that island of his?
“And the risk pays off!”
Owen was back, dropping a small pile of halves onto the table. Nash scooped them up, pocketing them.
“That it does. Says something when the only one at the table with no balls has the most balls, eh?”
She turned to Ivan, but he wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were locked over her shoulder, on Wyatt Asher’s shadowed booth. As she turned her head to follow his gaze, Ivan suddenly kicked out with his foot, catching a passing freebooter neatly in the shin. The massive man stumbled, then spun to glare at them.
“Watch your fucking feet.”
“Perhaps if you were not so… round, you could watch your own feet,” Ivan said, exaggerating his fake Gildesh accent with every consonant.
Nash’s eyes widened, and she turned slowly, shooting Ivan an incredulous look. Spying on Wyatt Asher required some serious blending in. Starting a fight with this walking brick wall helped them to do that… how, exactly?
“Say that again, peacock,” the man challenged, uttering the slur for a Gildeshman. It had been as good as a death wish to use that word in the slum where Nash had grown up. Even now, all these years later, it made a chill creep down her spine.
Ivan was on his feet. And about half a head shorter than their new friend. Nash blinked as he poked the freebooter in the sternum with one finger, holding up his inked wristband and spouting a string of Gildesh curse words so foul even Nash’s father would have blushed to hear them. The mountain of a man eyed Salt Beard’s symbol. Three more men materialized behind him. Oh, this was not going to end well. She knew it was a bad idea to wear this fucking jacket.
“Marcel,” Nash said, spitting out the first Gildesh name she could think of as she leapt to her feet, grabbing Ivan’s arm. “We’re going to miss the next fight.” She widened her eyes meaningfully, hoping he got the hint.
Clearly, he didn’t.
Ivan wrenched his arm away from her, lunging toward the first freebooter. He caught the man by surprise, shoving him back a step, toward the rear door.
“Looks like we’re all gonna miss this fight,” the massive freebooter rumbled. “Boys?” Suddenly Nash found her arms snared behind her back.
The Catacombs transformed into a multicolored blur as the four freebooters dragged her and Ivan past Asher’s corner booth. There was another man sitting across from the Crowns’ leader now. Dressed all in charcoal gray… If she could just get a look at Asher’s new business partner’s face, see who exactly he was meeting with… maybe they could salvage a tiny scrap of the job.
But it was too late. The wall of muscle behind her shoved her forward, pushing her out the back door and into the filth-strewn alley beyond.
“This ain’t Golden Port—Salt Beard’s name don’t mean shit this far north,” the giant man growled.
As someone who
sailed all three seas, Nash begged to differ. There were Boreans north of Volkfier pissing themselves at the mention of the brutal pirate of the Yawning Sea.
“What’s so funny, longneck?”
Longneck. Because she was tall. How original. Nash was about to tell him so when a flash of light burst on the ground at their feet. Firecrackers. All four freebooters leapt back, but Ivan dove forward. He grabbed Nash’s wrists, and they both started to run.
“Time to go.”
“You don’t say.”
“Follow me,” Ivan said, looking back nervously as the sound of the freebooters’ shouts drew closer.
“What in the hells does it look like I’m doing?”
“No, I mean…” Ivan pulled on his collar, then his sleeves. Buttons popped free, releasing a layer of carefully coiled fabric. Midnight blue. The exact same shade as the shadows on the docks. It flooded over his coat, rolling all the way until it hit the ground at his feet. He gestured at her, pulling a matching cap over his dyed hair.
Nash clumsily followed suit, nearly tripping over the new cloak as it spilled from the collar of her foul-smelling coat. Her heart hiccupped as Ivan grabbed her hand mid-trip, yanking her sideways down the street behind the Carrowwick Fair. A dead end. Everyone knew that.
Still eyeing the adjoining alley, Ivan pressed them into the shadows lining the walls of the long-derelict bakery at the end of the street. Nash’s breaths flitted unevenly between her lips as she felt his body come to rest against her own. This was the closest she had ever stood to the disguise master. She could feel the heat of his skin, feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It was steady and calm where hers felt wild as the hoofbeats of a charging cavalry. The cavalry only charged faster as he pressed closer to her still, crushing them both against the wall.
They stood motionless in the darkness until one, two, three, four enormous, stupid pirates streaked past on the next street, barely giving their hiding spot a passing glance. When the alley was clear, Nash swallowed the fireflies flitting around inside her chest, shoving Ivan away.
“What the fuck was that about?” She pretended to peer around the corner while really hiding the flush that had come to her face. What was the matter with her?
Ivan faced her, his eyes cold and calculating as always. “I got it.”
“Got what?”
“What we came for.” Ivan peered around the corner, checking for angry freebooters, then set off at a smart pace, heading back toward the southern dock.
“What exactly would that be?” Nash asked, tumbling along in his wake. What could he have possibly seen or heard over all that chaos?
“An address.”
Nash blinked. “That’s it?”
“You clearly do not know the Butcher. It will be more than enough.”
7
RYIA
Ryia had never thought of her line of work as “boring” before, but if that wasn’t the right word to describe tailing Tana Rafferty, she didn’t know what was.
She followed Tana from the merchants’ quarter to the Carrowwick Fair, watching her whisper in the ears of merchants and laborers looking to earn one of the Kestrel Crowns’ infamous coins. The nights were spent camped in the shadows outside the Upper Roost while Rafferty enjoyed some… quality time with a few of the other Crowns. Only one each night. And only men, Ryia noticed with disappointment. How dull.
She was just starting to tune out the rhythmic squeaking of the bedframe for what felt like the dozenth time when a man passed her. He bumped into Ryia with a wiry shoulder, muttering an apology before lurching into a nearby tavern. Ryia squinted after him, then looked down at the tiny square of parchment now clutched in her gloved fingers. Cameron—one of Clem’s newer recruits. Someone needed to teach the bastard the fine art of subtlety.
Sinking into the shadows beside the Roost, Ryia unfolded the paper. Three words in Ivan’s angular scrawl.
15 Second Spool
She popped the paper into her mouth, mulling over the words as she chewed. Second Spool was a street—northern tip of the merchants’ quarter, up by the Needle Guard’s barracks. Nice part of town. Not the kind of place Lottery rats usually met. Finally, something interesting to do.
First, she had to make it to number fifteen Second Spool before Wyatt Asher did, see who in the hells he was meeting with, and why. Next… well, that was where things got a little fuzzy. Quiet observation? Torture and intimidation? Every day was a dice roll with this job.
At this hour, the streets north of the Lottery were wrapped in sleep. Sprawling, elaborate houses lined a street that was dimmer than Nash’s wits… with the exception of a single, winking window at the far end of Second Spool.
If that wasn’t the place she was here to stake out, then she was King Duncan Baelbrandt.
She scaled one of the massive houses, careful to avoid the decorative spires she could only assume were there to impale birds in flight. Using the rooftops as her road, Ryia skittered down the dark street. She was less than halfway there when she paused, gritting her teeth. The house with the lighted windows was definitely 15 Second Spool. Because it reeked.
Not the usual stench of this disgusting city that the everyday nose could detect. It was an almost painful twinge in her nostrils, pulling her attention toward the stooped inn at the end of the road.
She crouched behind a black-shingled dormer, peering toward the inn. A shadow stood just beside the wrought-iron gate. A Kinetic. She swore under her breath as the Kinetic lifted his arms. The second-story window unlatched and opened, seemingly of its own accord. Not just any old Kinetic, then. No Disciple, either, but still, this Kinetic was a rare one—and powerful. Probably worth a small fortune.
Shit. Tristan was right. The Shadowwoods really must be involved here. The only question now was… what exactly were they involved in? With any luck, she was about to find out.
Leaning back against the dormer, Ryia combed through the pockets of her cloak. Lemon balm, lemon balm… there. Her fingers closed around the bundle of dried leaves. She put a few on her tongue, then rubbed the rest over her forehead, her arms, her chest. The leaves were generally enough to throw the average Senser’s nose off, but her target had Kinetics that could open windows with their damn minds—his Sensers were probably strong enough to match.
Shit.
Ryia reached down, running her fingers gently over her various axes. Finally, she unbuckled the belt of throwing axes, shrugging out of the shoulder sheaths holding her long-handled hatchets. She solemnly stowed all her weaponry in the shadow of the rooftop.
“Sorry, loves. I really am. You’ll have to sit this one out,” she said. “I’ll be back for you. Now, don’t you give me that look.”
She didn’t like the idea of going anywhere without her hatchets. More times than she cared to count, they were the only thing that had stood between life and death for her. Or life and one of the filthy Guildmaster’s Disciples. But if she kept her weapons on her, she might as well just waltz in the front door singing at the top of her lungs. Even the strongest Sensers had a weakness—one she knew all too well. Despite the rumors swirling around them, they couldn’t read minds, or sniff out a cheat at a gambling table. The only thing a Senser could smell was physical danger. The intent to harm. Somewhere else, she might be able to trust in the chaos of a crowd to mask her own dangerous scent, but here on this lonely street she would have to be a bit more careful. Without her hatchets, she was less deadly. Hopefully that would be enough to let her slip past them.
Ryia looked at the inn, then to the street below. It was a long way down. And a long way across. But entering the inn from the ground wasn’t an option—the skills she’d stolen from those Sensers all those years ago made that plenty clear. She’d have to hit the inn from above. Impossible… or it would be if she were an average person. But the Sensers weren’t the only Adept she’d borrowed abilities from.
She leapt across the street, flying twenty-some feet through the air before landing on the roof of
the inn. Pressing herself firmly against the rooftop, she crawled toward the edge, laying a practiced ear against the wooden slats. Nothing. No sounds of fighting or fucking or anything in between. That meant this mysterious target of hers had rented out the entire inn. And hopefully it meant she had beaten Wyatt Asher here. She still had time to get settled in for eavesdropping before the meeting began.
Shimmying to the edge of the roof, Ryia swung her legs over the side, dangling from the gutter like an icicle. She let go, landing gracefully on the narrow sill of the window the Kinetic had opened moments ago. She paused to make sure no one came running, swords drawn… then sank into a crouch, daring to peek into the room.
It was empty. A small bed was in the corner, its blankets rumpled. A decanter of wine sat on the bedside table, a lip-stained goblet beside it. A writing desk was positioned beside the window, papers littered haphazardly on its surface, all bearing the same looping signature. She couldn’t quite make out the name from here.…
A familiar sound cracked the shell of silence shielding the quarter, and Ryia whipped her head back toward the street. The screech of a bird of prey. A kestrel, to be specific.
Ryia grabbed on to the peaked roof and pulled herself back up into the shadows of the gable. Asher. She braced herself beneath the roof just over the window as voices wormed their way through the inn toward her ears. Garbled and soft, like they were speaking underwater.
Then came the rusty creak of an old hinge, and the voices were clear as day.
“… appreciate your discretion, Mr. Asher.” Sniveling. Whiny. Ryia knew that voice—it had just been pleading with her for mercy a few days before. Efrain Althea. So that was who was staying here. Or at least hiding out when he wasn’t inside the fort walls.
“I just hope this is worth my time, Prince,” said a second voice. Raspy, yet somehow distinctly mucoid. Asher.
If there had been any doubt before, there wasn’t any now. Efrain Althea was the only prince in the entire city, as far as she knew, since the Dresdellan queen didn’t have any sons.
