by M. J. Kuhn
It wasn’t a question.
Fear climbed up Ryia’s cheeks as she felt Evelyn’s gaze on the back of her head. Shit. She hadn’t been backed into a corner like this since the assassin’s guild in Doreur. That time her escape route had been simple: racing on a stolen mare over the border to Briel. This time things were a bit more complicated.
Ryia sighed. “I know what it does.”
“And how long have you known?” Nash asked.
“Since before we even shoved off from the damned southern dock, all right?”
Nash’s face went purple. “And you decided not to say anything. Did you even tell Cal?”
“Oh please, what does that even matter anymore? Callum Clem is probably still rotting in the Bobbin Fort cells.”
“You don’t know th—”
“What does it do?” Ivan interrupted.
Ryia closed her eyes, taking a breath.
“What does it do?” Ivan repeated, firmer this time, taking a step toward her on the deck.
“It knows the location of every Adept in Thamorr,” she said, squinting one eye open like she was expecting to be smacked across the face.
“It knows?” Nash asked, looking even more agitated, stepping back to allow a few members of her crew to pass by to tug the rowboat out of the water. They released the sails, and The Hardship nosed out into open waters. “What do you mean it knows? How does it know?”
“Do I look like Declan fucking Day to you? I didn’t build the damned thing.”
Nash stopped for a moment. Then: “So you’re saying whoever has that Quill…”
Ryia nodded wearily. “Whoever has it could track down every Adept in all five kingdoms.” Including her. She left that bit out. Nash and Ivan had already started to turn against her.
There was another pause. Then Ivan said, “You still have not answered our question. How in Yavol’s realm does the Guildmaster know who you are?”
Damn it all twice to the hells. Trust Ivan Rezkoye to keep a conversation on track. How could she answer that question without spilling the secret she had kept for almost a decade? She looked at Evelyn’s pale face, almost glowing in the light of the moon. How long would Captain Honor keep this quiet?
“I used to trade them,” Ryia lied. “Adepts, I mean. Used to traffic them through Gildemar.” She shrugged. “The man wants me dead, what can I say? He’s not the only one, but he’s probably the most powerful.”
“Probably,” Ivan echoed dimly.
“If you knew he wanted you dead, why the hell would you bring all of us waltzing right into his twice-damned arms?” Nash roared.
“Nash, Nash, Nash,” she crooned, sinking back into her usual swagger. “You know the answer to that question. How do I usually deal with people who want me dead? But I didn’t succeed this time. Captain Helpless saw to that.”
Provoking Evelyn was probably not the best idea right now, but old habits died hard.
“All right, but how—”
“Look,” Ryia interrupted, brushing crusted blood from her upper lip. “We can sit here and bicker back and forth about who lied about what—”
“You, about everything,” Nash said.
“Or,” Ryia continued, talking over her, “we can figure out how to get our prize back.”
“Excuse me?” said Ivan. “Do you have Tana Rafferty tucked inside your trüsen?” He gestured toward Ryia’s soaking-wet pants.
“No, but I think we all know where she’s heading.”
“You don’t seriously think they’ll go back to Carrowwick?” Evelyn asked.
“Wyatt Asher has the biggest ego I have ever seen,” Ryia said, looking out over the waves. “There’s no way he’ll miss the opportunity to bring Tolliver Shadowwood groveling to the Lottery.”
Evelyn looked unconvinced.
“No, she is right,” said Ivan.
“Of course I am,” said Ryia, turning away. “We still have one more chance at this thing. Let’s not let precious Callum down this time, all right?” She clapped a still-seething Nash on the shoulder, stalking to the bow.
She didn’t look back, but she could feel Evelyn’s shrewd eyes on the back of her head. Her skin prickled, and with every hollow thud of her bare feet on the deck the same two questions needled her brain.
Why had the captain kept her secret? And what would she expect in return?
31
NASH
The sound of groaning timbers filled the hold while the swift southern winds rattled the sails on the deck above. Nash knew she should be sleeping, but her legs wouldn’t lie still and her mind wouldn’t shut up. At any moment they might see blue sails crowding the horizon, Disciples gliding across the water to stick the lot of them like squealing pigs.
She cleared her throat, hammock swaying as she adjusted herself for the thousandth time. Sure, they had pissed off the most dangerous man in Thamorr, but he wasn’t the one keeping her awake. Her eyes popped open, blind in the darkness. First, half her crew had decided to slip themselves into the Harpies’ back pockets; then the Beckett boy sold them to Wyatt Asher. Who would drive a knife into her back next?
The easy bet would be the Butcher. Then again, Nash generally was a smart gambler, and she hadn’t bet right yet. It could be any one of them. What about the ex–Needle Guard and her mysterious pact with Cal Clem? Or Ivan…
She shook her head, pulling herself to her feet and lighting the candle beside her hammock. She was just being paranoid. She stopped at the stack of crates forming a makeshift desk just beneath the stern. It was littered with charts and the maps of the Guildmaster’s island. She hunched over them, looking at them without really reading them. Just being paranoid. After all, they were now all fucked to the same degree, weren’t they? Fugitives of the seventh Guildmaster of Thamorr, heading back to Carrowwick empty-handed, outsmarted by a sixteen-year-old boy so green he could be mistaken for pipeweed.
Best-case scenario, they would be laughed out of every tavern south of the Bobbin Fort. Worst case, Cal had managed to escape captivity while they were away. If he was back on the streets, she doubted he’d take kindly to the fact that they had abandoned him… not if they came back without the Quill.
Nash shuffled the charts around, grabbing one and holding it up to catch the light of her flickering candle. She’d sailed this exact coastline a thousand times at least, but she needed something to do with her hands. Maybe if she forced her eyes to study these well-known patterns, they would finally grow tired enough to stay closed.
“Planning to whisk us all away somewhere?”
Nash jumped, smacking her left kneecap on the crates. “Don’t try to tell me you’re not a little tempted.”
“Perhaps a little.” Ivan cleared his throat, turning so his sharp features were drowned in shadows. “But no, I do not think there is anywhere to run. Not from this. You heard what the Butcher said.” He lowered his voice, leaning closer. “What it does.”
Nash snorted, shooting a mistrustful glance toward the deck above. Ryia would be perched there somewhere, hanging from the rigging like a damned bat, no doubt. “If she’s even telling the truth.”
“I think she is. What cause does she have to lie?”
“The same reason she lied to us in the first place.”
“Did it really matter that she lied, though?”
“Did it— What?” Nash asked. “Of course it mattered. How else do you explain that?” She gestured vaguely south.
Ivan scratched his chin. “Would it have changed anything? If she had told us what the Quill was for… would you have cared?”
Nash stared blankly at a chart outlining Gildemar’s trade routes for a long moment, then sighed. She hadn’t really cared what Shadowwood meant to do with the Quill. She had barely even wondered. She had just seen the promise of a massive payout and run in headfirst without thinking—caught up in the excitement and the adventure.
“No. And I don’t care now.” The second part was a lie. She leaned back on her palms. “As long
as I get paid, I don’t care what the damned thing does or where it ends up.”
Ivan’s lips tightened. “You would still sell it to Edale?”
“For four hundred thousand crescents? Absolutely. Unless you know someone who would pay more.”
“And when Tolliver Shadowwood uses the Quill’s power to build an army and carve a giant slicht through the heart of Thamorr, will your gold protect you?”
“The things I can buy with my gold will.”
Ivan shook his head, his perfect face wrinkling sourly. “Do you not understand? Declan Day stopped the Seven Decades’ War with this device. It has kept the Guilds in power for nearly three zenturren. Three hundred years, Nash.” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Whoever has the Quill will be the greatest power in Thamorr.”
“So, what, you want to gift it to some peace-loving lord?” Nash chuckled mirthlessly. “Didn’t know you were the noble type.”
The smell of chamomile teased her nostrils as Ivan leaned forward, eyes like the southern seas pulling her in. “I would not call myself noble. But I believe we must be careful about who we let lay hands on this Quill of Declan Day.” He paused. “This will have larger consequences than gold, Nash.”
“Like what?”
“Think of this—Tolliver Shadowwood will have no use for us once he has the Quill.”
“And?” Nash asked, unconcerned.
“If you were truly that foolish, you would not have survived with Clem so long,” Ivan chided.
Nash knew he was right. If Shadowwood was ambitious enough to steal from the twice-damned Guildmaster, he wouldn’t stop there. He would be ruthless enough to dispose of anyone who outlived their usefulness.
“So what do you want to do if we manage to get our hands on it, then?”
“Make sure it finds its way into the hands of someone who will have a use for us, of course.” Ivan’s eyes crackled like fireworks in the darkness as he extended a hand toward her. “What do you say?”
Nash’s eyes darted toward the hatch. She didn’t trust her crew, or the Butcher, or the ex-captain. Hell, she hardly trusted herself anymore for that matter, but, for some reason, she trusted Ivan. He might just be the only one left in this world who she trusted. She grabbed his hand, giving it a firm shake.
“I say lead on, Mr. Rezkoye.”
32
RYIA
Ryia looped one arm over the top of the mast, body silhouetted against the sails. She ran her tongue over her teeth, watching the world bend away, curving down past the horizon. As ridiculous as it sounded, she had been lucky so far. Lucky she had lasted this long with the Saints without being discovered. Lucky Evelyn had not decided to share her deadly secret with Nash and Ivan. Lucky to still be breathing at all, honestly.
But Felice was a wily bitch. No luck ever held for long.
Ryia weighed her options. She could stick it out with the Saints, cling to the hope of getting one more shot at the Quill, or she could bolt for the North Road the second her feet hit dry land. But if she ran, she would lose track of the Quill. Once Shadowwood had the thing, who knew how long it would take to resurface somewhere she could find it?
But there were too many variables now. Too many cheats at the table, not enough marks.
She jumped, sliding silently down the rigging toward the deck. She had to run. That was it. She had stayed with this crew too long as it was. The clench in her gut at the thought of leaving them only strengthened her resolve. Friendships and trust were things normal people could count on, but Ryia wasn’t normal.
Running the second they made port would solve all her problems… except one. She dropped onto the deck, glancing toward the bow, where Evelyn Linley stood, rigid as a statue in the near blackness.
“If you’re trying to sneak up on me, you’re losing your touch, Butcher.”
Ryia leaned against the rail beside her. “Oh sure, now you have ears like a damned bat.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“In the tower. I can only assume you went deaf, since you failed to hear Rafferty barreling in like a bear on vitalité.”
“Sorry, I was a little distracted by the fact that you were trying to kill me.”
“Was not,” Ryia protested. “I could have killed you at least four times. I showed some serious restraint.”
“I think you need a new definition of the word ‘restraint.’ ”
They stood in silence for a long while, the salt breeze tangling Evelyn’s hair into a messy red cloud.
“Why?” Ryia finally asked.
“Why what?”
She pursed her lips as if to say, What the hell else could I possibly be asking about?
“What do I possibly have to gain from spilling a secret like that?” Evelyn asked.
“What do you have to gain from keeping a secret like that?” Ryia countered.
Evelyn paused, then: “I don’t know. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” She cleared her throat. “You’ve got some serious bloody firepower, Butcher. Could be useful.”
“Looking to put me on a leash?” Ryia asked flatly.
“Sure would beat being leashed by Callum Clem, wouldn’t it?”
“Clem only thought he had me leashed. There’s a difference.”
Another long silence. Then she said, “Why do you work with gits like that anyways? With your skills—”
“I’m guessing you’d rather I pledge myself to some honorable, royal shit?” Ryia shook her head bitterly. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Honor’s a myth. Loyalty, love: all bullshit. Callum Clem might be a rotten son of a bitch, but so is Tolliver Shadowwood. And Duncan Baelbrandt. And your father, from the sounds of it.” She shrugged. “Good people never end up in power, Captain. They don’t have the stomach for it.”
She expected Evelyn to refuse, to list the many honors of one Duncan Baelbrandt. But instead she said, “I’m starting to think you might be right about that.”
“You’ve known for a while, whether you’ll admit it or not,” Ryia corrected. “About three weeks, by my count.”
“How do you figure?”
“I’m not the only one leaning on this rail who signed on to work for Callum Clem,” she reminded her.
Evelyn looked over the water like she was searching for something in the distance. Finally she sighed. “Aren’t you curious about what Clem promised me?”
“Not really.” That had been irrelevant since the second Clem was arrested.
“You might be.” Evelyn locked Ryia with a severe stare. “Since he promised me you.”
Ryia blinked. “Excuse me?”
Evelyn’s hand twitched nervously toward the sword at her hip, but she didn’t elaborate.
“Promised you what? My head? My hand in marriage? You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”
“Not your head, exactly. Your… capture.” Evelyn winced on the word.
It made sense. Clem had never been her biggest fan. By promising her to Evelyn, he could get his maps and be rid of Ryia in one calculated move. The bastard was brilliant. A little too brilliant. “Why the hell are you telling me this?”
“I couldn’t really expect you to trust me if I didn’t, could I?”
“Trust you?” Ryia almost choked on the words. “Rule number one of being hunted by the most dangerous man in Thamorr: I don’t trust anyone.”
“I guess I’ll have to remember that one now.”
“Why’s that?”
Evelyn looked at her like she had lost her mind. “The bloody Guildmaster saw my face. I attacked him. You really think he’s going to forget that?”
“The Guildmaster might have seen your face, Captain, but by the time this ship docks in Carrowwick there will be a new ‘most dangerous man in Thamorr,’ and he’s only going to be looking for one person. Here’s a hint—it’s not you.”
Evelyn glanced around nervously as a few of Nash’s crew burst into raucous laughter over a game of dice across the deck. “And if no one end
ed up being the most powerful man in Thamorr? If the Quill were destroyed?”
“Well, that was plan A, but it’s pretty clear we’re past that now.”
“Are we?”
Ryia raised an eyebrow. “You’re not the brightest one, are you?”
“I’m serious.”
“All the bloody time, I know,” Ryia said, mimicking her accent.
“I mean it, Ryia. So what if you didn’t smash it to smithereens in that tower? So what if Tristan lied and gave it to that gutter rat? You said it yourself back there—the Quill is still in play for the rest of them,” Evelyn said, waving a hand to indicate Ivan and Nash, belowdecks. “That means it’s still in play for you, if you have the stones for it. I didn’t take you for a coward.”
“And I didn’t know the opposite of ‘coward’ was ‘idiot.’ ” Ryia moved to adjust the sheet as the sails started flapping in the changing wind.
Evelyn yanked the line from her hands. “How is stealing from Wyatt Asher any more idiotic than stealing from the ruddy Guildmaster?”
“Because I had you assholes to use last time around. Asher’s going to have that thing under lock and key tighter than that damn bird of his. I’m good, but I’m not a miracle maker.”
“What if you still had one of these assholes?”
Ryia turned sharply. “What game are you running?” First keeping her secrets, then giving away Clem’s plans, now offering to help. No one would do that for her. Not without expecting something in return.
“Game?”
“Scheme. Plot. Use whatever word you like. How the hell does helping me get you what you want?”
“What makes you think you know what I want?”
“You’re not as difficult to read as you seem to think you are, Linley.”
“Am I not?” Evelyn reached up, resting her hand on the line now stretched tight above their heads.
Out of habit, Ryia’s eyes flicked to the captain’s middle finger. The Linley family ring was gone. She frowned, squinting at Evelyn’s freckle-dusted face.
“Look, you can either run for the desert the second we hit Carrowwick, or we can try one last time to destroy that damned thing.”
