by M. J. Kuhn
They needed the distraction now more than ever. She looked back toward the Brillish nobles, to the spot where Ivan would be sitting when the plan was ready to be set in motion. Still not there. What if he hadn’t made it into the arena at all? It wasn’t against the rules to bring weapons into the arena. Half the bastards in here were carrying swords and daggers, more for show than anything. Ivan’s possession of a weapon wouldn’t cause suspicion, but what he intended to do with that weapon could set off the Sensers. Ryia had been so sure the crowds would protect him—overwhelm the Sensers and allow him to slip by, at least for a while. She saw the Guildmaster whisper an order to a pair of Disciples at the edge of the stage. They turned, heading for the third door. Shit, shit, shit.
There!
She locked eyes with Ivan, watching as he milled through the increasingly restless crowd, jaw working steadily to chew Ryia’s lemon balm into a pulp. He had made it inside, at least. The first part of this cursed plan to go right. He was a little less than halfway up the bowl. Too far away. Definitely too far away. And too exposed, standing in the middle of an aisle. Her heart sank as she realized what he meant to do. She shook her head, eyes wide, hoping to convey the message Don’t be a fucking idiot over the distance between them.
Either the message was lost, or Ivan had become a fucking idiot, because he turned toward the stage, his hand reaching down his leg.
All the blood drained from Nash’s face. True, without Ivan’s distraction, Evelyn and Ryia were dead. But without Nash’s distraction, Ivan was dead. She turned back to the crowd surrounding her, looking for one of the poor souls she had planted her little black marbles on. Not one in sight.
She froze, the pieces clunking together far too slowly in her brain. The Disciples drew another step closer to the door to the dancers’ room. Ivan’s hand started to move back up his leg, now clutching a glint of steel. She still had some of the Trän vun Yavol in her coat pockets. Which meant it was time to do something colossally stupid.
Nash plunged her hands into her pockets, counting the remaining spheres. There were only twelve left. She grabbed as many as she could fit in her palm at once. Hopefully it would be enough.
She cocked her arm back, then released, flinging the tiny black marbles into the air. She threw them hard—would they fall to the ground hard enough, though? For the Trän vun Yavol to work their magic they had to break. Easy enough for the spheres she had tucked in the merchants’ pockets—they would soon be crushed by the press of the panicking crowd. But for the panic to start, for all those other capsules to break… first, these ones had to shatter. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ivan moving. His arm shot back as the capsules tumbled toward the ground in slow motion. Time shuddered to a stop.
The sound of the first capsule breaking was silent and deafening at the same time. A cloud of noxious-looking smoke billowed up from the ground a few rows ahead, dancing on the wind, spreading, taking over. As people started to panic, she saw another puff of smoke rise a few steps away and another halfway down the next row.
Like cats watching a dangling string, the eyes of the crowd followed as one by one the capsules burst, releasing ever-expanding clouds of hard-packed coal dust into the heavy, humid air.
Nash spun on her heel, turning the opposite direction. She saw it just as it happened. Ivan’s hand flicked up, flinging a small throwing axe toward the stage. The speck of silver glinted in the setting sun as it spun forward. Nash blinked and Ivan was gone, melted back into the crowd, probably already wearing a different face.
A gasp rippled through the crowd as the axe darted, seemingly out of nowhere, whirling end over end. The Butcher was a good teacher. Or maybe Ivan had just gotten lucky. Either way, it was a good throw—especially for the distance. A spiral of hard wood and sharpened steel heading straight for the Guildmaster’s hollow throat.
How had Tristan put it when he’d proposed this plan? The bigger the prize, the bigger the distraction. If an assassination attempt on the twice-damned Guildmaster of Thamorr wasn’t a big enough distraction, Nash didn’t know what was. Draw every set of eyes—every guard, every Disciple—to the arena. Keep the eyes off the bell tower long enough for Linley and the Butcher to sneak inside and get the Quill. And now, keep the eyes off the manor long enough for Nash to get Tristan out of that dungeon.
Her neck muscles tightened. It was time for her to get the hells out of here. She ducked backward into the nearest cloud of Borean coal dust. She lifted a hand to her collar and pulled roughly at Ivan’s sewing. The thread parted immediately, spilling a layer of dark green fabric over her burgundy coat. She pulled a false mustache from her pocket, leaning over as though in a coughing fit from the smoke, and pressed it to her face with a dab of spit. She was a new person all over again.
Now for the tricky part—getting out of the arena and into the manor dungeon.
Lucky for her, Evelyn and Ryia had secured blueprints to every building on this island. She knew the servants’ entrance ten paces behind her led to a path that would take her directly to the manor. Getting inside there was another story entirely, but one step at a time.
Nash edged toward the door. She was only a few steps away when the Guildmaster’s voice cut through the chaos.
“Block all the exits. No one leaves the arena until this would-be assassin is caught.”
Just as they had hoped. All eyes would be on the arena for sure now. This was a good thing, assuming she could get out in time. And assuming no one had seen Ivan throw that axe.
A foolish thought. No one could have seen. Nash had been watching him, and she had hardly seen, for Felice’s sake. Sure enough, the crowd in the arena started pointing fingers in different directions.
“I saw him over there! Skinny little man in a bright red coat!”
“No, he went this way! Snuck down toward the Adept entrance.”
“This big man shoved me! It was him!”
Nash ignored them all, edging closer and closer to the abandoned servants’ entrance, half-hidden behind an alcove in the arena wall. Nash eased the door open, stepping one foot silently inside.
“No.” The Guildmaster’s voice was soft, but still somehow carrying.
Nash took one last glance toward the stage to see him standing, stock-still, staring at the throwing axe he’d stopped in midair. A knowing smile curled on his puckered lips, a horrible fire burning in his cold, crushing eyes.
“We’re looking for a woman.”
25
RYIA
Ryia had worn a dozen different masks in her day. The Butcher of Carrowwick. The Poison Blade, terror of the Rena desert. The Neightgeiver, in Borean, had been a personal favorite. It would be a twice-damned shame if “jewel-encrusted ballerina” was the alias that finally got her killed.
The dance instructor’s grip was surprisingly strong, wrapped around Ryia’s wrist as she called out for help.
“Intruders! Someone get the Disciples! We have frauds in our midst!”
Unfortunately for Miss Talon-Hands, Ryia did not take kindly to being snared by the wrist. She lifted a sparkly sandaled foot and kicked the aging woman in the sternum. The woman’s piercing cry for someone to get the guards was interrupted as the air whooshed from her lungs. In her surprise, her grip loosened, and Ryia wrenched herself free. She shoved the already reeling instructor into the closed door with a bang, then grabbed Evelyn, yanking her forward.
“Back door,” Ryia said, tugging Evelyn behind her as she ran.
Most of the dancers screamed as they came through, jumping out of the way like Ryia and Evelyn were snakes. A few stared at them, frozen in shock. Ryia shoved them as she and Evelyn tore past, toppling them like dominos.
They reached the back door in just a few seconds, but it was still too long. Miss Talon-Hands was already back on her feet, screaming for help twice as loudly now. They needed to get the hell out of this room before the Disciples came in. Ryia tested the door handle. Locked. Damn it.
“Keep them back,” R
yia said, pulling out two long, thin sticks of metal from her costume.
Evelyn turned her back to the door, arms out at her sides in apparent challenge, glaring at the restless crowd of increasingly panicked dancers and acrobats as Ryia threaded the picks into the lock, twisting and jiggling, waiting to hear the sweet click that would win them their extremely temporary freedom.
“Who do you two think you are?” said a brusque, commanding voice behind her. Ryia looked over her shoulder to see a tall, blond dancer standing nose to nose with Evelyn. “You cannot assault Miss Eloise.”
“Assault? We didn’t mean to—” Evelyn started. “You’re misunderstanding what’s going on here. Just leave us be and no one has to get hurt.”
Sweat beaded on Ryia’s forehead as she twisted the two sticks in unison. The lock finally gave way, and the door swung open. Ryia turned just in time to see the skinny blonde throw a half-assed slap at Evelyn.
The captain ducked. She wound up and popped the dancer firmly in the nose with a rabbit punch. Ryia grinned as the dancer fell back, clutching her nose.
“Ready to get out of here, or did you want to beat up some more defenseless dancers?” she asked.
“Defenseless? She swung first,” Evelyn protested, clearly rattled by what she had just done. She looked guiltily down at her hands. “It was a reflex.”
They barreled through the door, slamming it shut and clicking the lock back in place behind them. Ryia grabbed a stone bench from beside the door, grunting as she dragged it to block the entrance. It wouldn’t stop a Disciple, but it might slow them down, at least.
“Now what?” Evelyn asked, eyes wide as the door to the dancers’ room banged against the makeshift barricade.
Ryia turned toward the tower, then nearly choked as the smell suddenly washed over her. It was horrible. Acidic and familiar, the sensation of a hundred scorpions fleeing up her nostrils. Danger. The strongest she had sensed in years.
“Get down,” she hissed.
“What is it now?”
“What do you think?” Ryia shoved them both into one of the tangled shrubs lining the circular pathway leading around the courtyard. The door they had barricaded jiggled and thudded against the bench one more time, then stopped as gasps spread through the arena, followed by a hush.
“That’s the signal. We need to move.”
“Not yet,” Ryia said, still nearly gagging on the scent of raw death.
“Now is really not the time for your bullshi—”
“Not. Yet.”
Evelyn’s mouth snapped shut as the sound of footsteps and flapping robes sounded outside their hiding spot. Disciples. At least half a dozen of the bastards, streaming past them into the arena, taking the stench of danger with them.
Ryia released her grip on Evelyn’s shoulder. The captain glared at her, suspicious.
“How did you know they were coming?”
“Not all of us are deaf as turtles,” Ryia said.
“Turtles?”
“Yeah, turtles. They don’t have any ears, right?” Ryia said distractedly, sniffing the air lightly.
Evelyn quirked one eyebrow.
Ryia held out a hand. “We don’t have time to talk about twice-damned turtles.” Her heart raced as the sounds of panic swept through the arena behind them. The door to the dancers’ room started banging against the bench-barricade again. She waved Evelyn toward the tower. “Go, go, go.”
“Are you kidding?” Evelyn gestured down at herself. “We’ll be spotted. We’re basically human beacons every time the sun hits us.”
Ryia gave her a look. “How many times have you been forced to listen to me on this job, Captain?”
Evelyn didn’t answer.
Ryia nodded. “And, remind me, how many times have you lost your head?”
Still silence.
The door leading to the dancers’ room banged against the bench again; this time the thud of wood on stone was punctuated by a sharp crack. The wood was starting to give way. It wouldn’t be long before it broke to splinters.
“Look, you have to trust me to get us into that tower, I have to trust you to watch my back while I’m in there, and Tristan has to trust all of us to save his sorry ass from the Guildmaster. Then we can all go home and collect our prizes from Tolliver Shadowwood, okay?”
She turned toward the tower. Not bothering to see if Evelyn was following, she broke into an all-out sprint. The glass beads on her skirt rattled noisily as she ran, but it hardly mattered. The arena was growing louder and more restless by the second. It only made sense—there were hundreds of people stuck there, squeezed into those stone walls like a plump merchant into his waistcoat. Good. The more chaotic the arena was, the more chaotic the docks would be later. And the more chaotic the docks were, the easier it would be for her to slip aboard a ship and escape.
Guilt clawed at her stomach. Escape and leave her crew behind. Best-case scenario, they would return to Carrowwick empty-handed—as good as a death sentence whether Callum Clem was alive or not when they returned. Worst-case scenario, they would all be blamed for destroying the Quill and killed in the Guildmaster’s murderous wrath when he realized he wouldn’t be able to hunt down every newborn Adept in Thamorr anymore.
Shut up, she scolded herself. They were a team of professional criminals, for fuck’s sake. The rules of the Lottery were clear as stervod. A team stuck together… until the cards were down. Then it was every man for himself. Or woman, in this case.
Ryia skidded to a stop at the last ring of shrubs, closing her eyes and sniffing one last time. “The Disciples are gone.”
“How do you know?” asked Evelyn.
“They just ran past us two minutes ago,” Ryia lied. “I’m guessing logic isn’t a big part of Needle Guard training?”
The ex-captain shot her a glare, then tugged at the sleeves of her dress, ripping them at the armpits. She stretched out, miming a sword strike with her bare hands.
“What are you doing?” Ryia asked.
“If we’re attacked—”
“Attacked?” Ryia looked pointedly at her outfit. “What are you going to fight with? A pirouette?”
“Very funny,” Evelyn said. “You don’t think we should be ready for a fight?”
“I’m always ready for a fight.”
“And what are you planning on fighting with?” Evelyn griped, thrusting her dyed hair behind her shoulders.
Ryia slid a single throwing axe from a small fold of fabric just below her bejeweled waist. Ivan was truly a master, managing to hide the weapon in such a revealing costume. “This.”
“You didn’t think to bring me one?”
Ryia ignored her, sprinting the last few steps to the base of the tower. She pushed through the greenery climbing up its stone walls, feeling her way along, looking for a door.
“Looks like I might have to climb this thing after all,” Ryia said, casting an anxious glance back toward the arena.
The door to the dancers’ room banged against the makeshift barricade one last time, finally splintering in half. Ryia peered through the foliage as two Edalish guards muscled their way into the courtyard—Shadow Wardens, Tristan had called them. Shit. Ryia pulled back, ducking into the brush before she was spotted. At least their pursuers weren’t Adept. If they could just get inside this damned tower.
“Climb it? Good luck.” Evelyn looked up at the smooth sides of the tower. “I don’t think you’re as impressive as you think you are.”
Ryia’s forced smirk turned into a genuine smile as her hands stumbled upon a flat stretch of wood, covered by vines. She felt along the panel, groping blindly until she found a metal bulb.
“You will continue to find,” she started, twisting the knob sharply, “that I am just as impressive as every story you have ever heard.” The door popped open, swinging into the tower.
“You are the most arrogant person I have ever met.”
“Is it arrogance to recognize my own genius?”
“Yes,” Eve
lyn said flatly.
Ryia shoved Evelyn into the tower, climbing in after her. “Then you’re probably right.”
The walls of the tower were so thick they nearly drowned out the sounds of panic boiling in the arena. Evelyn eased the door shut, and Ryia was overwhelmed by the unpleasant sensation of being stuck at the bottom of a very deep well.
“So, where is this thing?” Evelyn asked, like they were looking for a lost shoe.
Ryia straightened the stiff bodice of her ridiculous outfit, looking up the narrow staircase. “Up there, I’m guessing.”
“You’re guessing?”
“I’m not a fucking bloodhound,” Ryia said.
“You could have fooled me.”
Ryia clapped her on the shoulder. “Watch the door.” She cleared her throat, pulling away. “I’ll be back before you have the chance to miss me.”
Her nostrils whistled with every breath, jeweled skirts rattling noisily as she climbed higher and higher up the tower, spiraling around the long rope dangling from the bell high above her head. Her stomach clenched as she rounded the last loop to see…
Nothing.
Just a flat platform, some fifteen feet below the bell, holding nothing but dust.
“Shit,” she breathed. She had been so sure it would be here. So certain that pompous prick would hide the thing in plain sight.
She narrowed her eyes at the bell above her head. There was still one more place to look. She kicked off the ridiculous sandals and threw herself at the wall, latching on to the crevices and pulling herself up the inside of the tower. The hand- and footholds were clear and worn enough that she knew she wasn’t the first person to make this climb. It was almost as easy as a ladder, hand over hand, step by step.
Ryia’s skirts tangled around her knees as she hugged the wall, steering clear of the rope. One bump of that rope and the bell would ring out over the whole island. If that wasn’t worst-case scenario, she wasn’t sure what was.
When she was just a few handholds beneath the bell, she saw it. A tiny cutout in the wall. A hidden chamber leading to a skinny, ragged staircase. Blood thundered past Ryia’s eardrums as she swung inside, mounted those last few steps, and pulled herself, blinking, into the sunlight.
