by M. J. Kuhn
Ryia clenched her jaw. “I have no team. I knew what I was doing from the start of this bullshit job.”
“I guess I was asking for a bit much,” Evelyn said, forcing Ryia back another pace around the curve of the bell, “looking for loyalty in the dregs of the ruddy Lottery.” The Quill was completely out of view now.
Ryia blocked Evelyn’s left hook with her steadily deteriorating chunk of wood. “I guess so.” She tossed the remains of the beam from hand to hand, eyeing its splintered end. “Now, are you going to let me do what I need to do, or are you really going to make me kill you for it?”
Evelyn hopped as Ryia kicked at her ankles, nearly falling out the window to her left. She regained her balance, then thrust a heel up, kicking toward the broken beam.
The wood beam broke to splinters, and Ryia hesitated just long enough for Evelyn to swing her fist around in a right hook, smacking the merc in the temple.
The Butcher’s eyes crossed and she blinked. “Maybe I…,” she started, sounding dazed. Then she trailed off, nostrils flaring.
“Maybe you what?” Evelyn asked. Ryia swayed, almost like she was going to topple out the window.
Without thinking, Evelyn leapt forward to catch her, wrapping a hand around her arm. Ryia flinched away, and Evelyn let go immediately, brushing off her skirt. But the mercenary’s eyes were still distant.
“What is it?”
Ryia’s head snapped toward the arena, like a hunting dog on the trail. She dove forward without warning, heading for the place they had left the Quill sitting on its rickety table. “Someone’s coming,” she hissed.
“How do you know?” Evelyn asked, suspicious.
“Just listen to me, before you get both of us killed.”
“Oh, suddenly it’s ‘us’ again, is it?”
A floorboard creaked around the far side of the bell, and Evelyn froze. Ryia shouldered past her, sprinting around the curve of the bell.
Evelyn chased after her, her legs growing numb as the table holding the Quill came back into view. And the person whose fingers were now wrapped around it.
She had never met the woman before, but she had seen sketches. The round face and sinister eyes were unmistakable. Wyatt Asher’s right-hand man. What was her name?
Tana Rafferty.
The woman cackled, brushing her hands against her trousers to clean off the dust from her climb up the tower wall. “Wow, don’t you two look nice.”
“I thought you said the Crowns turned down this job,” Evelyn said to Ryia. “Or was that just another lie?”
Ryia ignored her, lunging for Rafferty. “Drop it. Now. Or I’ll shave a few inches off those nice round cheeks of yours.”
“Original,” Rafferty drawled.
“How did you find it?”
Rafferty gave a childlike laugh. “Your little bird gave you away.”
“Little bird?” Evelyn frowned, looking to Ryia, but she looked just as confused.
“What?”
Rafferty laughed again. “So you really didn’t know? Felice, no wonder the Saints are the bottom-feeders of the Lottery. You fuckers have been sitting on an absolute gold mine for months, and you had no idea. Well, this has been fun, but…” Tucking the Quill into her cloak pocket, she tipped an imaginary hat to them, then sprinted back toward the rickety wooden steps.
“Shit!” Ryia swore, darting after her. Evelyn followed close behind, but by the time she reached the hidden staircase, it was too late.
“Give my old buddy Cal my regards, won’t you?” Asher’s sidekick called with a wink. Then she leapt from the platform, grabbing on to the rope dangling from the bell.
Evelyn cringed as the first deafening clang rang out over the island. Somehow the second clang was even louder. And the third louder still.
“Dammit,” Ryia swore again, grabbing on to the windowsill. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”
The Disciples in the arena stirred, turning toward the tower. No doubt the Guildmaster was already shouting orders. They had seconds at best.
“What did she mean? About a little bird?” Evelyn asked.
“What does it matter? Look out the fucking window, Captain,” Ryia said sourly. “We’re about to have an army on our ha—” She stopped mid-word, her eyes jumping to the sandstone walls surrounding the courtyard.
There was Tana Rafferty, sprinting over the northern half of the courtyard like a deer, making for a rope dangling from the top of the wall. And perched up top, anchoring the rope in place…
Tristan.
That prick. That selfish, traitorous arse.
Ryia clenched the windowsill, threatening to turn the stone to powder as she glared after him. He looked up at the tower then, almost like he could feel her gaze. His face was dripping with shame and guilt and longing… but none of these emotions were reflected in the Butcher.
In fact, there was no emotion in her at all, from the looks of it. Just cold detachment. The face Evelyn had expected to find when they first met… and a face she had yet to see the unexpectedly jovial—if crass—mercenary actually wear.
The boy turned as Rafferty made it to the top of the wall, nearly tripping over his own gangly feet. Then they were both gone.
“Damn it all,” Evelyn whispered, looking back to the arena.
“What?” Ryia asked. Evelyn felt her turn beside her. Then: “Shit.”
A group of Kinetics sprinted across the courtyard, and in front, the Guildmaster himself.
“What are we going to do?” Evelyn asked. Her voice was so small and fearful she wanted to smack herself around the head.
“We?” Ryia asked. Her voice was soft and dangerously level. “I thought the little bird just made it pretty damned clear, Captain.” She dropped from the window, latching on to the sill with practiced fingers. “There has never been a ‘we.’ ”
28
IVAN
The arena was in utter chaos. Louder than the Catacombs, tenser than a cheat in the back room of the Miscreants’ Temple. Ivan slipped through the gaps in the crowd, making his way toward the entrance to the courtyard.
Anxiety prickled over his skin. If all went to plan, the Butcher would sidle up beside him for the handoff any minute now. That had been his own addition to the plan. He had told the team it was to reduce risk—if anyone had seen Ryia and Evelyn leaving the tower they could be stopped and searched. But if they handed the Quill off to Ivan first, there would be nothing to find. It was a good argument, one he had won quickly. But that was not his true motivation for the handoff.
Once Ivan had the Quill, he would not make his way back to the dock. He would follow the stream of the crowd as they left the arena, and then he would stow himself away on one of the Borean balingers he had seen lining the western docks. The instant his foot touched that dock he would be crossing Callum Clem. If Clem was alive that was as good as a death sentence in Carrowwick, but there was no guarantee the Snake was still breathing… besides, the world was so much bigger than Carrowwick.
But to betray Clem would be to betray the entire crew. He shook his head to clear it. That had been the plan from the start. Of course, the rest of the plan had changed quite a bit. From Callum’s arrest to Tristan’s capture this entire job had been a kataströph. Now he was stranded alone in this turmoil-ridden bowl, Ryia and Evelyn were charging blindly into danger, for all they knew, and Nash was likely inches from capture or death. His stomach curled. It was his fault Nash was headed for that prison cell. If he had not insisted on this handoff, he would have been the natural choice to break into the Guildmaster’s dungeon. Instead they had sent a clumsy smuggler straight into the belly of the beast, armed with nothing but a lockpick and a pocket full of Trän vun Yavol.
His stomach squirmed with guilt. Or perhaps something more. His intuition was spiked like the needle on a seismic reader in an earthquake. Something was wrong.
A sound burst through the still-rising chaos like a rock shattering a glass pane. The melodic gong of metal on metal. The bell tow
er. Ivan’s head whipped around in unison with a thousand others. Sunlight glinted off the bell’s burnished surface as it clanged noisily in its perch.
On stage, the Guildmaster froze, still holding Ryia’s axe. By now he had surely inspected the blade, discovered the heavy dosage of dormire’s blood. Ivan had hoped to nick his flesh, to knock him senseless, but the man was quicker than expected.
The Guildmaster pressed his lips together until they turned the color of chalk, like he was dying of the Gildesh Whisper. Then blood rushed into his face all at once, dyeing the skin a vivid, wrathful crimson. Ivan watched carefully, reading his lips as he turned to one of his Disciples.
“She is not here,” he said. Then: “I know the axe is hers, but she is no longer here. She is at the tower, you idiots.”
The Guildmaster flicked his wrist, and a wave of Kinetic power parted the crowd as easily as a pair of scissors cuts through parchment. Ivan’s jaw nearly hit the ground at his feet. He had never seen a display of Adept power so strong. They had been fools to think they could succeed in this task.
Ivan rolled his lower lip between his teeth. His plans were unraveling more rapidly than a poorly knit sweater. If the Guildmaster knew someone was in the bell tower—the place where his precious Quill was kept—it was unlikely that anyone would be permitted to leave without being searched. And somehow the Guildmaster knew the axe was Ryia’s.…
He pushed the thought aside and ran a few rapid calculations, then set his jaw, turning away from the courtyard, making his way toward the hidden servants’ entrance Nash had escaped through. Would it be difficult to free Kasimir without the Quill to use as a bargaining chip? Absolutely. But he would certainly not be able to free him if he were dead.
Perhaps there would come a time when he would regret abandoning his schemes, but now was not the time for doubts. Now was the time for action. He ducked around a knot of Brillish merchants, darting up the last few steps to the top of the bowl. Adaptability was the second lesson Kasimir taught his Fvene. If a mission turns bad, do not fight it. Turn with it.
The Guildmaster’s eyes were on the tower. That meant they were almost certainly not on the manor. It seemed less likely by the instant that all of them would escape this island alive, but if Ivan could get to Nash… He narrowed his eyes, darting into the alcove and through the door into the servants’ corridor beyond. It was utterly deserted.
Heart racing in his chest, Ivan broke into a sprint, charging through the darkened halls until he reached the door leading to the manor path. Throwing all sense of caution aside, he charged into the door shoulder-first. His stomach surged into his throat as he crashed into a tall, broad body.
“Whoof,” said a familiar voice. Nash.
Ivan scrambled gracefully to his feet.
“The Guildmaster knows Ryia is here,” he said.
At the same time Nash said, “Tristan wasn’t there.”
Then they both said, “What?”
Ivan shut the door behind him, dusting himself off. “What do you mean Tristan was not there?”
“In the dungeon,” Nash said. “No sign of him. No sign of anyone.”
“Then where is he?” Ivan asked, stomach prickling again.
“No clue,” Nash said hopelessly. “Now, what in the hells were you saying about the Guildmaster?”
“He knows Ryia. Knows she is here.”
“What? How?”
“He recognized her axe.”
Nash shook her head. “That reckless bitch is going to get us all killed.…”
“Not if I can help it,” Ivan said slowly.
He and Nash were alive and out of the crowd. They could make for the ship now, leave this terrible mess behind… but before he even finished the thought, he knew he could not live with himself if he fled now. He was not one for sentiment, but he did not want to abandon a crew who trusted him—not here, in this terrible place. It was not what Kasimir would have done. He chewed the inside of one cheek, thinking. If Tristan was not in the dungeons, Ivan had no way of knowing where he could be. In all likelihood, he was already dead. They would mourn the boy later, but Ryia and Evelyn could still be saved. They would need an escape route.
The courtyard was surrounded by high stone walls. The Butcher could climb them, and, with any luck, Evelyn could follow. But then came the matter of the cliffs and miles of open ocean below.
Ivan locked Nash with a penetrating stare. “We need to get to the ship.”
Nash gaped at him. “I’m not leaving them behind.”
“Who said I was planning to leave them behind?”
“You did. Just now.”
Ivan sighed, frustrated, and shot an anxious glance back toward the arena. Already a few parties had escaped the Disciples’ barricade, heading for the docks. It would not be long before the mayhem spread across the entire island. He broke into a fast walk, making his way down the hill.
“Evelyn and the Butcher will never make it through this schiss to the harbor. We need to get them off the island another way.”
“And what exactly do you plan to do, Ivan?” Nash protested, long legs somehow struggling to keep up. “Recruit some friendly seagulls?”
“No,” Ivan said, “I suggest we use The Hardship’s rowboat like sane people.”
Nash chewed her lip. “How will they know where to find us? It’s already getting dark. It’s not like they’re just going to know to leap into the ocean and trust we’ll be there to catch them.”
Ivan fell silent, stitching the threads of an idea together. “Do you still have those fireworks?”
Nash’s face split into a cautious smile. “To the ship.”
They melted into the growing crowd, pushing their way toward their stolen ship. Ivan only hoped they were not too late.
29
EVELYN
Ryia had left her. Jumped out the window, climbed down the side of the tower like a spider on its ruddy string, and left her. True, they had been trying to kill each other just a few minutes ago, but it still stung.
A beatdown from the Guildmaster himself would sting worse, though.
Shite. He was already past the first ring of shrubberies. Evelyn knew panicking wouldn’t do her a speck of good, but her training hadn’t exactly covered this. Fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on her kneecap, she knelt down, grabbing the axe Ryia had thrown.
Thrown and then frozen in thin air. She brushed a hand over her throat, remembering how the blade had hovered just a hairsbreadth away. She had no doubt the throw had been perfect… which meant the Butcher of Carrowwick had saved her life.
She shook her head, tucking the axe into her glittering belt. It didn’t really count as saving her life when she was the one who had endangered it in the first place. She needed to get out of this cursed tower, and there was really only one option.
Evelyn jumped off the platform, grabbing on to the rope dangling from the bell. It let out another deafening gong, rattling her skull as she slid eighty feet to the floor below.
Blood dripped from her rope-burned hands as her feet hit the ground. She would have to have a chat with Ivan about incorporating leather gloves and greaves into each disguise. But first she needed to survive the next ten minutes.
She wiped her bleeding palms on her skirts and sprinted for the hidden back door, only to freeze at the sound of boots striking the stone courtyard just outside.
“Secure the tower,” said the Guildmaster’s unmistakable voice. “If she discovers the Quill’s purpose, we are finished.”
“Why would she take it if she did not know its purpose?” asked a second voice. A Disciple.
There was a grim pause, then: “She knows only a part of it. We will just have to hope she does not discover everything it does.”
Evelyn edged backward as the voices drew closer and closer to the front door to the tower. She pressed herself against the wall, fingers fumbling with the latch behind her.
“But without the Quill—”
“You do not need to l
ecture me on its importance,” the Guildmaster interrupted. “Sort out the tower. I will deal with the Grayson girl.”
Grayson girl?
The opposite door finally creaked open, flooding the tower with the light of the setting sun.
Evelyn had always thought she would like to test her mettle against a Kinetic, but now she wholeheartedly disagreed with her past self. Heart hammering, she dove through the back door and sprinted across the courtyard, burying herself in the maze of shrubs beyond before they could catch sight of her.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to think. Hiding here wouldn’t save her for long. A lap dog would be able to find her here, never mind the strongest bloody Sensers in Thamorr. She needed to keep moving… but to where?
The most obvious choice would be to head for the harbor, but that wasn’t really an option. Even a fool would know to block everyone from departing the island, and the Guildmaster was no fool. If no one could leave, his prize couldn’t either.
Her heart skipped as she saw the sails on the horizon. It was too late for that. People were already leaving. If she could lose herself in the crowd, scrub off this blasted face paint…
She froze as a familiar, raspy voice caught her ear.
“You’re too late, you massive sack of horse shit. It’s already gone.”
Evelyn looked through the foliage to see Ryia flat on her back in the courtyard, surrounded on all sides by the high stone walls hemming them in. The Guildmaster towered over her, silhouetted against the darkening sky. His fingers held no ropes, but Ryia struggled like a rabbit in a snare, her limbs pressed firmly against her sides, held in place by magic. Blood poured thickly from her nose, and both eyes were ringed in deepening purple.
“Gone?” he asked, his voice the whisper of a funeral shroud on stone. “Gone where?”
“Hell if I know.” Ryia’s grunt of laughter was gutted by a gasp of pain. Evelyn’s eyes widened as the skin on Ryia’s shaven head peeled away, seemingly of its own accord. The fresh wound watered the grass with heavy drops of blood.
