by M. J. Kuhn
The ex-captain’s face reddened. “You’ve all been cheating this whole ruddy time.” She unfolded her legs, pushing herself away from the makeshift table. “That’s why I haven’t won a single game this entire trip, isn’t it?”
“Maybe you’re just bad at cards,” Ryia said, grabbing a handful of almonds and popping them into her mouth.
“And dice,” added Nash.
“Right, and bad at dice,” Ryia agreed.
In response, Evelyn raised her right hand, crossing her first two fingers and turning her palm in.
“What’s this? Vulgarity from the honorable captain?” Ryia asked, holding a hand to her chest as though aghast.
“Oh, let it rest, Butcher,” Ivan said. “She is—”
“She is capable of standing up for herself, Rezkoye,” Evelyn said. “Stow the pity.”
Ivan shrugged. “Fine, then I will tell you… You are terrible at dice.”
“How can anyone be good at dice?” Evelyn asked, exasperated.
“Come prepared,” Tristan said, pulling a pair of dice from inside his coat.
“Loaded dice? Really?” Evelyn asked. “Who just walks around with loaded dice in their pockets?”
The ex-captain’s eyes grew wide in exasperation as every other person sitting around the overturned crate sheepishly pulled dice from their pockets.
“You lot are unbelievable.”
“Here, I have an extra set,” Nash said through a mouthful of potato. She shifted her weight, pulling another pair of dice from her pants pocket and holding them out to Evelyn.
“That’s not—that defeats the entire point of playing,” Evelyn said, folding her arms.
“Suit yourself,” Nash said, setting the dice down on the deck beside the captain and pushing herself to her feet. “Now if you layabouts will excuse me, I’m off to check our course.”
The rest of the group scattered from there, but Ryia saw Evelyn’s freckled fingers dart out, grab the loaded dice Nash had left, and stuff them into the pocket of her coat.
* * *
UNSURPRISINGLY, the loaded dice did not help Evelyn’s chances over the next few days of games. Cheating might seem easy, but it was still a skill that had to be perfected. Ryia was confident they’d make a crook out of the captain yet, though—she was already well on her way. An accessory to the theft of a ship, on the run with four of the most infamous criminals in Carrowwick. Well, three of the most infamous criminals in Carrowwick and Tristan.
The sun sank below the waves yet again. At this moment, Evelyn was down in the cargo hold with Ivan, going through yet another iteration of the forged auction invitation. An important step—and one where Evelyn’s knowledge was vital. If they didn’t have an accurate-looking invitation they would never make it past the Disciples at the dock, and Evelyn was the only one of them to have seen this year’s invitation.
Across the deck, Nash and Tristan were working on their dance steps. According to Evelyn, the tournament the first day of the auction concluded with an after-party. Tristan picked up the steps so quickly he was now helping Evelyn teach the others. Nash, on the other hand… Ryia bit back a laugh as the smuggler trod on Tristan’s toes for the thousandth time.
While everyone else was busy with their other odd tasks, Ryia was stuck on map duty. They had traded off for days now, one person at a time stuck shuffling through their stolen blueprints, trying to answer the half-million-crescent question: Where was the Quill hidden?
Clem had studied the maps for less than a minute before he had known. Less than a twice-damned minute. The whole crew had been staring at these maps until their eyes blurred, but they still had no clue. Fuck Clem and his paranoid genius; he had told not a single one of them any part of his scheme. If he had, they wouldn’t be in this mess right now. Arguably, if Ryia hadn’t gotten him arrested they also wouldn’t be in this mess… but all that was a pointless line of thought. That arrow had left its bow a long time ago.
Where was the damned thing? She shuffled her papers, images of the barracks, arena, and bell tower blurring together as she pulled out the blueprint of the manor for the dozenth time. Would he keep it in his house with him? It made sense to keep it close. She looked over the faded lines. There were four floors to the manor. She was pretty sure it wouldn’t be in the basement; all that was down there was the Guildmaster’s infamous dungeon. Her eyes widened as she looked over the dungeon map. What was that label in the corner? Body chute? A slide, cut into the wall, for the purpose of dumping the dead directly into the ocean off the cliff side. That seemed unnecessarily efficient.
Focus.
They were running out of time. Five days. They had five days to figure out where the Quill was and how they were going to steal it. Then, of course, Ryia would have to figure out how she was going to escape after she betrayed them all and destroyed it instead. Fleeing an island with no ship, not to mention her whole crew and the Guildmaster on her tail… One step at a time.
Ryia pushed back her long, black sleeves and massaged her temples, closing her eyes. She could crack this. After all, she knew the Guildmaster better than most. True, she hadn’t exactly sat down for tea with the man, but she knew him well enough to have kept herself out of his disgusting claws all these years. Well enough to salivate at the idea of ruining his entire life by destroying the root of his power. That had to count for something.
Eyes still closed, she pictured his face. Cold. Sallow. Eyes like chunks of frigid sapphire. She could still see him, tall and slight, silhouetted against the flames, staring after her as she turned and sprinted into the trees.
“What in Adalina’s name are those?”
Ryia’s eyes snapped open at the voice. Ringing, clear. Like a sword being drawn from its scabbard. Evelyn Linley.
Her skin prickled, the hairs on her arms rising despite the heat. The ex-captain made her nervous for obvious reasons. She was the one who had seen Ryia back on the dock, after all. Seen how the Disciples had come right for her—and seen how she had knocked them over like a pair of rag dolls.
Only a complete moron would believe a normal person could win a fight like that. She had to suspect something… but the captain hadn’t said a damned thing about it since leaving Carrowwick. Not to her—or anyone else, as far as Ryia could tell. Maybe she had forgotten in all the distractions. But how long could that luck hold?
Ryia turned, following Evelyn’s gaze. Her chestnut-brown eyes were locked on Ryia’s bare wrists. On the puckered, inch-wide scars encircling each one, pale as a corpse at the bottom of the Arden. Ryia tumbled headfirst into a cesspit of memory.
Rusted chains snared her wrists and ankles, tethering her to the wall of the chamber. The air was rank with the scents of mildew and dust and the blood of long-forgotten wounds. For years she had been down there, listening to the old man muttering to the darkness.
An endless parade of shaved, tattooed heads. They were brought into the chamber, black robes limp at their bare ankles, brands burned into their left cheeks. Not a single shred of fear registered in their eyes as, one by one, the hatchet found their throats.
“Adept from birth,” the old man whispered, pouring the crimson stream over her tongue until she coughed and spluttered. “Adept from birth, it’s in the blood. It’s got to be in the blood.”
“Ahem,” Evelyn said.
Ryia blinked dumbly, pushing her sleeves back down to hide her mangled wrists. “Whatever I have the ladies of the Satin House do to me is none of your business,” she finally lied, looking Evelyn up and down. “Unless you’d like it to be.”
A flush bloomed from the neck of Evelyn’s shirt, but she didn’t look away. “Fine, keep your bloody secrets, but if you’re looking to hide those scars, the worst thing you can do is cover them up.” Her eyes combed over the patchwork of cuts and marks on Ryia’s face. “When’s the last time anyone asked you about one of those?”
“Your point?”
“You flaunt those marks like trophies, and everyone keeps their tr
aps shut about them.” Evelyn shook her head. “Even I know the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”
The best place to hide something is in plain sight.
A rush of excitement stole over Ryia. She dove back to the maps, shuffling through until she found the one showing the whole island. Of course. The answer had been right in front of her this entire time. The one building they had all discarded without a second thought. The bell tower in the courtyard next to the arena.
The Guildmaster was confident. Bold in the way only the most powerful Kinetic in a century could be. But was he really crazy enough to hide the heart of his power somewhere so exposed?
She flipped through the drawings next: artists’ renderings of auctions past. But it wasn’t crazy. Not really. The bell tower was exposed, but the courtyard was surrounded by thirty-foot stone walls on three sides, connected to the arena on the fourth. Both the courtyard and arena were bound to be crawling with Disciples, not to mention watched by hundreds of prying noble eyes. It was the perfect place. It had to be there. She turned back to Evelyn with a grin.
“What are you so happy about?” asked the captain.
“Call the team together.”
“Why?”
Ryia cocked her head to one side.
“You know where it is,” Evelyn guessed.
“I know where it is.”
17
TRISTAN
Water spread from the ship in every direction like a great sapphire carpet, calm and dazzling as The Hardship curved around the southern coast of Briel. Before them lay the Luminous Sea, behind them the Yawning, though Tristan had never been able to tell the difference. The border between them was like the one between the Saints’ and Crowns’ docks back in the Lottery, or the one between Edale and Dresdell: imaginary. Just a line some dead men decided to draw on a map.
He watched the sun as it reached its long, fiery fingers out from beneath the horizon. This was what he’d had in mind when he had stowed away on that ship out of Duskhaven all those months ago. The open ocean at his front, the wind at his back…
Of course, the illusion came crashing down any time he bothered to remember that certain death lay on the far side of this ocean. And in the crumpled letter tucked in his breast pocket.
He slipped his hand into his pocket, stomach sinking as the worn parchment brushed his fingers. He kept hoping one of these days he would discover the Crowns’ threat had been nothing but an elaborate dream. He felt like the name on the letter was imprinted on his forehead for everyone to see. The name Wyatt Asher knew. The one that would damn him if anyone else discovered it.
But there were no Crowns on this ship. No one knew his secret here. His worries about the Crowns could wait until he got back to Carrowwick. He had plenty of other things to worry about in the meantime.
Rapid footsteps approached him from behind, followed by the unmistakable sound of retching.
Tristan whirled around, hurriedly withdrawing his hand from his pocket. He couldn’t help but smile as he caught sight of the poor soul heaving her guts into the Luminous. The fearsome Butcher of Carrowwick. He settled in beside her as she heaved another mouthful into the dark waters below.
“What do you know?” he said. “Callum Clem’s deadliest merc, brought low by water.” He leaned back against the rail, his heart performing a daring backflip as she looked up, wiping her mouth with one long sleeve. “You know, that’s information I could sell for a good bit of coin back in the Lottery.”
Ryia cracked a carnivorous smile. “You tell anyone about this and you’ll get to see how well you do your little card tricks with one hand.”
He backed up a pace, both hands out as a gesture of peace. “All right, all right.” He grinned. “Bet I’d still be better than Roland.”
She snorted. “I think Captain Honor would be better than Roland,” she said, looking toward the hatch to indicate Evelyn, sleeping below.
Tristan’s smile dripped away slowly as he thought of the ex–Needle Guard captain. She must have a memory like a court scribe the way she kept looking at him, trying to place where she’d seen him before. Hopefully, she would have trouble remembering his face just a little longer.
“You all right there?” Ryia asked, clapping him on the shoulder. She gathered a mouthful of saliva, spitting the last traces of vomit out into the churning wake of The Hardship.
Tristan shook his head to clear it. “Yeah, why?”
“You look like you do every time Corrigan tells one of his lame ghost stories.” She made a big show of chewing her fingernails like a scared child.
“Just a little nervous, I guess.”
“You should be,” Ryia said. “I mean, it is your plan we’re using, so if it goes to hell, it’s going to be your head.” Her eyes darkened. The expression was gone an instant later, replaced by her usual cheeky wink. “I’ll ask Clem to go easy on you.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve seen Clem’s ‘easy.’ It’s not much different from his harsh.”
Ryia turned away, looking out over the water. “He could be dead by the time we get back.”
“He won’t be,” Tristan said bitterly. “You know he won’t be.”
Ryia was silent for a long time. Tristan recognized her usual dismissal. He was just turning to walk away when she cleared her throat.
“If you really hate working for the son of a bitch so much, why haven’t you made a run for it yet?”
“If you want me dead that badly, you should just kill me yourself. Quicker that way,” Tristan said with a hollow laugh. “Otherwise I’ll keep working off my debt, thank you very mu—”
“You’re not completely brainless, Beckett. You know that debt of yours won’t be settled until Boreas is south of Briel.” She locked him with a haunted stare. “Only an idiot tries to play fair when they know everyone else at the table is a cheat. You want your freedom, you’re going to have to take it. Kneecaps don’t break themselves.”
Tristan narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He had never seen Ryia take anything seriously before, let alone give advice. Any second now she would crack her dangerous smile and make some obscene gesture.…
But she didn’t.
Finally, Tristan shook his head. “Not all of us know how to break kneecaps, Ryia.”
She studied him a second longer, then averted her gaze, looking out over the ocean. “Lucky for you, I’m an expert. If we make it out of this in one piece, I’ll give you some pointers,” she said, her voice oddly hoarse.
She was silent for another long moment, and by the time she turned back to him, her face showed only her usual smirk. “So, you sure we have to trust the nimrod and the Borean to find the entrance to the tower?”
“Would you rather I leave you alone with Captain Honor?”
“Fair enough.” Ryia leaned back against the rail beside him. “But hey, maybe the Guildmaster won’t even bother hiding the door to his treasure.”
“Something that valuable?” Tristan asked, shaking his head and wondering for the dozenth time what made this thing so valuable in the first place. What could Tolliver Shadowwood want with some antique of the Guildmaster’s? It must be like Ryia had said a few days before. The king probably meant to hold it hostage, use it to trade for something else. A foolish move, if that was his plan. The Guildmaster could just march his Disciples into Edale and take the Quill back without granting Tolliver Shadowwood a single thing in return. It made no sense.…
“Who knows?” Ryia said, cutting through his thoughts. “The Guildmaster is the craziest bastard in Thamorr.”
“You say that like you know the man.” Tristan chortled.
“We go way back,” she said with a grin. “I’ve stolen from him before, you know.”
Tristan rolled his eyes at the obvious lie. “Have you? Good, then you’ll be ready for this.”
“You’d both better be ready for this.”
Tristan jumped at the voice. Nash stood on the deck, arms folded. She pointed toward the nor
theast horizon with her chin. As Tristan turned his head, his stomach clenched so violently he thought he might follow Ryia’s lead and be sick.
A low shadow clung to the surface of the water like a toddler to his mother’s leg, just off the coast of Briel. It was surrounded by sails. Some broad, some small, some approaching from far up the northern coastline, some looping up from the south. The Guildmaster’s island, in full preparation for the auction.
It was too late for doubts now. The job had officially begun.
18
RYIA
The sun grew like a weed above the horizon. Ryia stood in the cargo hold of The Hardship, surrounded by strangers. Or at least they looked like strangers.
There was a tall, well-dressed woman in the shadows. The dark-haired girl beside her dabbed powder over the freckles dotting her nose. A few steps away, a younger boy leaned casually against the ladder, his hair styled in the severe cut popular in southern Boreas, his cheekbones sticking out like cliffs below eyes so blue they almost seemed to glow.
The man in front of Ryia pored over her with sea-green eyes. It was Ivan, buried somewhere under those layers of fabric and face paint.
“I don’t need to remind you how important it is not to fuck this up, right?” Ryia asked.
“No,” Ivan said, his Borean accent coming out more clearly than usual in the short, clipped word. “Now stop schwindlin, unless you would like for this to end up buried in your throat by mistake.”
The “this” he was referring to was a straight razor held right at Ryia’s temple.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you make a threat before, Ivan,” Ryia said. “Keep that up and I might just want to finally see what all the fuss is about with you.…”
“Just get on with it,” Nash snapped. “We don’t have all morning.”
Fear seeped into Ryia’s stomach like tea from a bag as Ivan drew the razor across her scalp. A fistful of glossy black locks fluttered to the deck. When every scrap of hair had been removed from her head, Ivan grabbed a tiny pot of black ink, dipping his utensil in and painstakingly marking the newly exposed skin.
