by M. J. Kuhn
“How is munching a handful of leaves going to help anything?”
“Just do it.” Ryia edged around the bookshelf, holding her breath as light seeped into the basement chamber from the stairwell.
Evelyn’s lips curled in disgust at the flavor of the lemon balm. She raised one eyebrow in a silent question as the light filled the basement. Ryia shook her head, putting up one finger. One Senser, lantern in hand. No sign of the second. Yet.
The Senser drifted, almost dreamlike, into the basement. His eyes were blank, his face slack, nostrils flaring with every step. It was always unnerving to Ryia just how brain dead the real, island-broken Adept were. His robes were spotless, shining silk… but he wouldn’t care if they were made of burlap. Or poison ivy, for that matter. Once an Adept was fully trained, they would stand blankly at attention as their master slit their throat if he wanted to. She had seen it firsthand. But now was not the time to dwell on such memories.
Ryia waved Evelyn furiously forward as the Senser disappeared behind one of the shelves to the right. Outside, the bells were still tolling. They had less than a minute before every guard in this twice-damned city was awake and milling around the courtyard outside. Ryia had faced worse odds, sure… but still, that was an awful lot of trouble to go through before breakfast.
Evelyn crept past her, chomping on the leaves like a cow chewing its cud as she mounted the stairs. The Senser’s lantern light bobbed between the bookshelves below as they tiptoed up the dusty staircase. Still holding her breath, Ryia eased the tower door open, waving Evelyn through. Moving as swiftly as freshly loosed arrows, they bolted through the shadows, slipping out the arched doorway and back into the city.
Ryia savored the scents of seaweed and raw sewage as they flooded over her. The too-moist breeze. The tang of sea salt. Anything but the suffocating stench of mildew and cobwebs. She spat her half-chewed lemon balm on the ground. Beside her, Evelyn did the same.
“So, that’s your trick, then?” she asked, looking toward the mashed leaves. “Where’d you learn that?”
Ryia forced a smile, pushing away the image of the Senser’s lifeless eyes and listless stride. “Secret of the trade.”
“Have it your own damned way. I have no interest in learning any trade of yours anyways.” Evelyn patted the scrolls nestled in her pocket to make sure they were still there. Or maybe like she couldn’t believe they were there—like she couldn’t believe what she had just done. “Robbing the records… robbing the damned Guildmaster. You lot are bloody insane. And stupid.”
“Insane I will gladly give you, but stupid…”
“Risking your lives for, what? A few crescents? Yes, I’d say that’s stupid.”
“You haven’t been in the Lottery that long, Captain. The Saints are already last in the pecking order these days. With the Crowns and Harpies all snuggled up, it’s only a matter of time before we start washing up dead on the shores of Golden Port.”
“So you’re all just trying to get yourselves killed instead of waiting for Asher to do it, then?”
“Maybe.”
“Fine by me. Anything that gets a few more Lottery scum off the…” Evelyn trailed off mid-sentence, gaze locked over Ryia’s left shoulder.
“What’s the problem, Captain?” Ryia grinned, turning to find a ragged piece of parchment tacked to the doorframe beside her.
A notice, written in grandiose script, set with the seal of the king. An arrest notice—the same one Ryia had seen fluttering from every corner of the docks since the night she had visited Efrain Althea.
“By order of the King of Dresdell, Duncan Baelbrandt the Second, the criminal known as the Butcher of Carrowwick is called for arrest… blah, blah.”
So, the king of Dresdell knew her name now, or at least her title—so what? The Butcher was only one of her names, anyway. She had many. Evelyn squirmed, obviously nervous to be spotted in the company of such a horrible criminal as the Butcher of Carrowwick, but Ryia truly could not care less. King Duncan was about as threatening as a kitten compared to what else was hunting her.
She turned to the captain, gesturing toward the image of her signature axe blade drawn just above the notice. “The king’s sketch artist is absolute shit. Doesn’t look a thing like me.”
Evelyn wasn’t amused. “You don’t take anything seriously, do you?”
“This is practically a love note compared to the flyers I got in Gildemar.”
They skirted a carriage with the shutters drawn tight. “You don’t understand anything. Do you realize your little stunt has soured relations between Dresdell and Briel? Because of this—because of you—we’re on the brink of war for the first time in three centuries.”
“And?”
“Seriously?” Evelyn rounded on her. “Goddesses, you’re impossible. Duncan Baelbrandt would tear these docks apart to find you. And he should. After what you’ve done, you should be rotting in a cell under the Bobbin Fort right now. Even Callum Clem won’t be able to save you from the whole Needle Guard.”
There was a long silence. Finally, the disgraced captain snapped, “What?”
“Oh, nothing, Captain.”
But it was not nothing. Ryia folded the arrest notice, tucking it neatly into the pocket of her cloak. Evelyn had just unwittingly handed her a way to make sure Clem did not accompany them on their voyage to the Guildmaster’s island.
A wicked smile spread across her face as they slunk back to the Southern Dock. Perhaps it was time to see just how far Duncan Baelbrandt would go to avenge his dear nephew’s finger.
12
NASH
If there was one thing Nash hated, it was waiting. It made her skin crawl, kept her glancing over her shoulder, though she was never really sure what she was worried she’d find back there. But here she was, stuck in the row house, waiting for nightfall.
It had taken only two days to prepare the ship for the journey to the island. Tonight they were set to leave for the auction—and not a moment too soon. The auction was to start in less than three weeks. In perfect weather, it took a little over two weeks to sail that far south, and this time of year the weather on the Yawning Sea was far from perfect. If they left tonight, they would make it with a day or less to spare, by Nash’s estimate—and Nash’s estimates were rarely wrong.
Cal had packed a bag and set it beside the door before heading out to check on some side business or another a few hours ago. Evelyn had been off the hook ever since she and the Butcher returned with those maps early this morning; Nash doubted they would ever see the ex-captain’s uptight ass again. Ivan had left moments later to stock up on supplies at the Carrowwick Fair. Nash’s crew was loading provisions onto the Seasnake’s Revenge; the Butcher was off doing whatever the hell she did, probably with the Beckett boy mooning after her. Someone should really stop that poor, lovesick fool before he got hurt. Literally.
The door to the row house flew open, banging against the wall with a shudder. Nolan, coming back from the tavern again, no doubt. Damned drunk. Nash made to stand, but froze when she found half a dozen Needle Guard charging through the open doorway instead.
“What in—” She stopped short as a slender rapier blade tickled her throat. She eyed the Needle Guard calmly. “How can I help you… gentlemen?”
She counted. Seven Needle Guard crammed into this ragged pile of driftwood. Nash might be able to hold her own in a tavern brawl, but against trained soldiers? She wasn’t too proud to admit when the odds were shit.
“We are here by order of the king,” answered the nearest guard. He was tall and lanky, with a face that reminded Nash powerfully of a weasel. “Here to arrest the mercenary known as the Butcher of Carrowwick.”
“Ah,” Nash said, mind racing. If the Needle Guard had made it all the way to the row house, they had to have marched through the whole damned Lottery. That wasn’t good. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”
“You sure about that?” Weasel-face said, pressing his sword point against the
soft skin of Nash’s throat. “How do I know he isn’t hiding out in one of those rooms back there?”
Nash carefully schooled her expression. He. The Guard still thought the Butcher was a man?
“Look, I don’t know where he is,” Nash said. Thinking quickly, she flicked her eyes toward the ceiling. “He comes and goes—I haven’t seen him in days.”
The guard watched her closely. “Check the second floor,” he said to the men behind him, never taking his eyes off Nash.
Four of the men streamed up the stairwell, leaving three guards downstairs. Still terrible odds, but she liked them a damn sight better than the ones she’d had a second ago.
“You gutter rats are worthless,” Weasel-face taunted. “If it was up to me, I’d torch everything south of the trade docks. Start fresh.”
The sound of splintering wood echoed from upstairs. The door to Cal’s apartment. Those fuckers had better not so much as breathe on that man’s chandelier. Weasel-face glanced up at the sound, his sword point drifting an inch to the left.
Nash lunged right, ducking under the sword and ramming her head into the guard’s chest plate. She heard the air whoosh out of his lungs, replaced by frail gasping. She stepped over the wheezing man, grabbing a rickety old chair from beside the sitting room table. The remaining two guards’ swords sang shrilly as they wrenched them from their sheaths.
She lifted the chair above her head. The first sword struck the seat. The soft, rotting timbers swallowed the blade, yanking it from the guard’s fingers. Nash shoved the chair forward. The wooden seat slammed into the third guard’s chest. She kicked the fork between his legs for good measure. She had just enough sense left in her adrenaline-drenched brain to grab the bag she’d seen Cal pack from beside the door before bolting out into the afternoon sunlight.
The alley outside was empty, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Shattering glass and shouts of alarm swam through the thick summer air, coming from the docks.
The docks. Shit.
If the Needle Guard had learned where the Saints slept, could they have also discovered where they docked? She needed to get to the Seasnake’s Revenge before the king’s men did or they would never make it out of the harbor. First the Foxhole… now this. Clem would have a fit. This couldn’t be Asher’s doing again… could it? But why else would the Needle Guard suddenly know where to find the Butcher? Why now?
It was pointless to ask questions when there was no chance of getting an answer. She tucked the thought away and stopped at the corner of Threader’s Lane. She looked right, over the dilapidated row of shops crowding the street leading to the southern dock where the Revenge was anchored, all dressed up in her pretty new sails. Then left toward the sounds of chaos coming from the Carrowwick Fair.
The job came first. That was the first law of the Lottery. Fill your own pockets and let everyone else fill theirs if they have the stones for it. Surely Cal was already on his way to the ship. Nash knew she was a damned fool if she thought the Snake of the Southern Dock would wait for her.…
She swore, turning left and dashing north toward the Carrowwick Fair.
The job came first, but without their crew, the job was dead from the start, right? She had no clue where the Butcher was, or the Beckett kid, but she knew where Ivan was. The black market. The beating heart of the Lottery. Ivan was something of a genius, but even he couldn’t talk himself out of a pair of manacles.
Clutching Cal’s bag tightly under one arm, Nash flew over the cobblestones. She had hardly made it two alleys when she saw the first company of Needle Guard. Hand brushing the knife in her belt, Nash slipped through the battered door of a long-abandoned shop. She crouched in the shadows as they thundered past.
She then dodged and weaved through the Lottery, hiding from the sounds of footsteps and breaking glass. She darted into the gloom as another row of polished helmets streaked by, glinting in the orange sunlight. How many Needle Guard did it take to raid a few square miles?
Dread coursed through Nash as she reached the black market. Just as she had expected. The Fair was an absolute wreck. Stalls lay upended, smashed remnants of about a thousand crescents’ worth of illegal goods scattered all over the filthy street. Nash leaned over, picked up a shattered vial, and sniffed it. Vitalité. Probably from the same shipment of the drug she’d smuggled in from Gildemar this week. What a waste. At least she’d gotten paid up front.
Footsteps approached her from behind. A straggling Needle Guard? Maybe a cocky Crown, come to gloat, if this really was Asher’s doing. She spun around, lunging for her knife. Her intestines performed a series of complicated acrobatics when instead she found herself face-to-face with Ivan Rezkoye.
He looked at the knife. “You came charging into a raid armed with… that?”
She flipped the blade end over end with a grin. “Heroic, I know.”
He bent over, scooping an unbroken vial of dormire’s blood from the ground. He shook it gently, then slipped it into his pocket. “I was going to go with ‘foolish.’ ”
“Foolishly heroic, maybe.”
That had to get a smile out of him… but no. “I assume our timeline has changed?”
“Nothing gets by you.”
He grabbed another vial from the ground. “Is Clem already on the ship?”
Before Nash could answer, they were interrupted by a gravelly voice. “What have we here?”
Four men slunk from the brothel across Leech Alley from the Fair. Three of their chests were bare, one peeking out from the neckline of a filthy shirt. All marked with the Harpies’ tattoo, a winged woman with breasts the size of potato sacks.
“If it isn’t Clem’s favorite sea rat,” the man on the far left chortled. His eyes flicked to Ivan. “And his favorite bear stroker! We’re in luck, gents.”
Ivan stiffened at the middle-kingdoms slur for someone from Boreas, his fingers now threatening to break the vial of dormire’s blood.
Nash lifted her knife. “You might want to rethink your wording.”
All four men pulled swords from their belts in response. Their builds were all lopsided, three right-handed, one left. Probably some of the freebooters Finn paid to stick around and defend his shipments. Nash tightened her grip on the tiny knife in her sweat-slick fingers. “Foolish” was sounding more and more accurate all the time.
Nash looked around for a better weapon as the Harpies backed them into the brick wall. Nothing in sight. How was that even possible? This was the Carrowwick Fair, for Felice’s sake; it was usually dripping with illegally traded swords and daggers. She looked at Ivan and—was that boredom she saw?
He wasn’t even looking at the Harpies—his bright green eyes were focused slightly higher, on something just behind them.
Nash followed his gaze, eyes widening at the figure perched on the second-floor window of the inn beside the brothel, bathed in late afternoon sunlight. None other than Evelyn Linley. What were the chances that their little scuff had ended up right outside her front door? She stood on tiptoes, red hair tucked into a braid down her back, freckled fingers of her right hand wrapped comfortably around the hilt of a long, needle-thin sword.
Then Evelyn leapt, soaring through the air. Her boots slammed into the back of the front-most Harpy with bone-breaking force. He sprawled to the cobblestones with a whoof.
Evelyn turned in a circle, sword pointed at each Harpy’s chest one after the other, her feet dancing over the ground like salt spray on a ship’s deck.
“Lay down your weapons and I might let you walk.”
One of them cackled. “What was that, girly? Why don’t you run along home?” He looked back at the brothel. “Or is this home?” He nudged the man beside him. “Few cups deep and I wouldn’t turn ’er away.”
Evelyn straightened. “Go ahead and give it a try. Wouldn’t be my first castration.”
Nash had a feeling the captain wasn’t kidding.
The first freebooter swung. Evelyn ducked beneath the whistling blade, delivering
a devastating uppercut to his bare stomach and clocking him around the temple with the bulky hilt of her sword.
“All right then—who’s next?”
She got the answer as the remaining two men both went for her. She stooped low, whipping her thin blade sideways to score a deep gash in one Harpy’s thigh. He screamed and collapsed, blood streaming down his calf as she kicked the other in the groin, forcing him to his knees. A well-placed boot then struck him in the chest. Nash thought she could hear the crunching of his clavicle as he fell backward, Evelyn’s sword point tickling his patchy throat.
“I will give you one more chance,” she said, her accent growing steadily stronger as her cheeks flushed a brighter red. “Set that blade down and I’ll let you walk away.”
“Evelyn!” Ivan shouted.
Nash snapped her head around to see the first of the fallen, the one Evelyn had kicked harder than a spooked horse, back on his feet. His sword flashed in the burnt-orange light of the sun as he cut toward her middle.
Evelyn had no time to turn and parry. But something small and silver flitted through the air from one of the rooftops, turning in an impossibly sharp arc to embed itself in her attacker’s throat. A throwing axe. Evelyn leapt back, startled, as the corpse crashed to the ground, his blade clattering to a stop at her feet.
“Mercy’s a curse, Captain,” jeered an unmistakable voice.
Nash looked up as the Butcher plunged from the sky like a raindrop. Tristan sprinted into the Fair next, doubled over, clearly out of breath. After all these months of chasing after the Butcher, you’d think he would be used to her breakneck pace by now. Ryia bent low, picking up her axe and wiping it clean on the dead man’s shirt as the other three Harpies scattered.
She stuffed the weapon back into her belt, looking from Nash and her pitiful knife to Ivan, and finally to Evelyn, who was still flustered and flushed.
“What are we standing around for?” she asked. “Don’t we have a ship to catch?”
