by M. J. Kuhn
“No,” Evelyn said.
“Why would we not?” Ivan asked.
“He’s been locked in there for weeks,” Roland said. “All serious-like.”
Nash exchanged a look with Ivan. “Doing what?”
Roland treated Nash to a look like she was crazy too. Cal didn’t generally make his business common knowledge. But when the Snake of the Southern Dock locked himself away, it usually meant he was plotting something. And that was rarely a good thing for anyone but him.
Nash took a deep breath and opened the door.
The infamous back room of the Temple looked almost exactly the same as it had the last time Nash had been here, except for the addition of Cal’s writing desk in the corner, and… Ryia would have a fit. Cal’s precious chandelier hung from the ceiling, bathing the hideous, blood-spattered room in the soft, golden glow of candlelight. In the chair beside the desk, manicured fingers running along the edge of a crisp ledger, was Callum Clem. Alive and well.
“So you’re still alive, then,” he said. He scanned them each in turn. “Some of you, at any rate.”
“As are you,” said Ivan.
“Of course. Did you expect to find me otherwise?”
“I don’t know—last we heard, you were up to your bloody eyeballs in Needle Guard,” Evelyn said brusquely.
Cal’s lips twitched. “I have been back on these streets since the day you left.”
“The day we— How?” Evelyn asked.
“Gold, Captain,” said the Snake. “It’s a magical thing.”
“I see,” Evelyn said coldly.
“I doubt that you do.” Cal leaned back in his chair, resting the ledger in his lap. “The streets have been buzzing with the news ever since the birds brought it in last week. Chaos at the auction.” He ran his pale blue eyes over them, sending a shiver down Nash’s spine. “And yet I see no signs of my prize. I am sure this will be a most interesting story.”
Evelyn shook her head. “No it won’t. You already know every blasted detail somehow, don’t you?”
Cal took a sip from a ridiculously tiny tea cup. “Such a strong plan you must have had, to make it so far without me. Where did it go awry, I wonder?”
Nash couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. Evelyn took the bait.
“We were betrayed.”
At that moment, the door burst open, and for the first time since the beginning of this conversation—perhaps for the first time since Nash had met him—Callum Clem looked surprised.
“No sign of the little shit,” Ryia said, pulling off her hood. Her hair was starting to regrow, sticking out of her head like the needles on Ma’s old pincushion. “But I did learn a few things.”
“What?” asked Evelyn.
“First of all, the Harpies are gone.”
“Gone?” Nash asked. “What do you mean gone?” A whole syndicate couldn’t just disappear. “Double-crossed by the Crowns?”
“No,” said the Butcher, looking pointedly at Cal.
Nash followed her gaze. “Cal, did you…?”
“Harlow Finn stole my ship,” Cal said matter-of-factly.
“Your—” Nash started. She stopped quickly when she saw the look in his eyes. That slight glow of insanity that had been growing steadily stronger for months now. Even with the Saints in their weakened state, he had managed to dismantle an entire rival syndicate in a month. How? Nash’s stomach squirmed. She didn’t think she wanted to know.
“What else did you learn?” Evelyn asked in the silence that followed. “You said ‘a few things.’ ”
The Butcher grinned. “I saw a Shadowwood ship. Hiding behind some bullshit merchant sails, but I know a royal ship when I see one.” She turned to Cal again. “It’s got to be in the city. We still have a shot at those crescents.”
Cal rose, placed his ledger on the table, and walked to the kettle beside the fire. He poured a fresh mouthful of steaming water into his cup. “Of course it’s in the city. My dear friend Wyatt is a proud man, and he has a king on the hook.”
“You already knew we had failed, then,” Ivan said.
“Knew? No. But I planned for that possibility.” Cal cocked his head, stalking back across the room to his waiting chair. “And it’s lucky for you that I did.” His eyes lingered on Ryia as they combed over the group again.
“Why is that?” she retorted.
“Careful there, Butcher,” Cal said softly. He leaned back in his chair again, the picture of easy relaxation… if the string of a bow was considered “easy and relaxed” just before it was released. “It’s lucky because it means I already have a plan. I always have a plan.” His voice grew hard. “Even think about leaving me to rot again and you will find out quickly what plans I can devise for all of you.”
He picked his ledger back up again, holding it close to his face and peering at it through the ringlets of smoke swirling down from the sputtering candles on his chandelier. “You are all dismissed. I will call for you again when I’m ready.”
Ryia left first, Evelyn hugging her shadow. As Nash made to follow, she heard Cal’s voice again.
“Not you, Ivan. I have a project for you.”
Nash froze, one hand on the open door. She felt the weight of Ivan’s gaze on her back and turned, raising a brow in silent question. Was this the force Ivan had wanted to ally himself with? The person he wanted to end up with Declan Day’s relic? The Snake of the Southern Dock, the most infamous criminal in all of Carrowwick, skilled deceiver, murderer, and schemer? He couldn’t be serious. Of all the hands to go all in on.
Ivan gave a tiny nod. Damn it all.
Evelyn’s and Ryia’s footsteps faded into silence. Nash eased the door shut again.
“Can I help you?”
Nash steeled herself, standing tall against the Snake’s paralyzing stare. “I know you well enough to know the game has changed again, Cal.”
“Has it?” Cal asked, carefully unrolling an ancient-looking scroll.
“Yeah, it has. I know the two of you are cooking up some side scheme. One you’re not clueing the others in on.” She looked between him and Ivan, gritting her teeth. She wasn’t waiting for someone to double-cross her again. Ivan was the only person left in Thamorr whom she trusted, and if sticking by his side meant joining Cal in this new betrayal, then so be it. “Whatever this new game is, I’m in.”
35
EVELYN
Even in the middle of the day there was something sinister about the Lottery. A creeping rot so foul that not even seagulls and sunlight could take the edge off. Evelyn scrunched her nose, ducking into her shabby merchant’s coat as she waded through the scourge of the city.
A month ago Evelyn wouldn’t have dared venture into this part of the city without a whole squad for backup, but something had changed on that stolen ship. Everything seemed lighter now. Maybe it was the missing weight of her father’s ring, now at the bottom of the Luminous Sea. Or maybe she was finally just cracking up.
Option B seemed more likely, at this point. After all, she had volunteered for this jaunt into the Kestrel Crowns’ territory. Clem’s plot just required someone to venture into the Catacombs today. Ryia’s plot required it to be her.
Evelyn ran a finger over her scarred jawline. No face paint today. No need for it, since none of the Crowns had seen her bare face before. She was glad to be free of the sticky creams and clinging powders, but wearing her real face opened other challenges.
She ducked behind her collar as she passed a company of Needle Guard. They were nearly a full block away, at the end of the next alley. Robert was there with Crane, the latter unmistakable with his lopsided gait. Old friends of hers from her days in the training barracks. Two of the few cohorts who hadn’t scoffed at the idea of fighting alongside a woman. Those old friends would arrest her without a second thought, if they discovered what she had become.
Her head spun at the thought. She paused, leaning against a salt-encrusted door. That lightness that had felt so freeing a mi
nute ago just seemed irresponsible now. Stupid.
She reached unconsciously for her left middle finger. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Evelyn stood, breathing like she had forgotten what air tasted like, resting her head on the back of her hand. It wasn’t too late. There was still time to turn her coat again, to help Clem collect his prize, then trust that he would help her collect hers.
But that wasn’t an option anymore. Now that she knew what that Quill did, she couldn’t let it be sold off to the most power-hungry king in Thamorr.
She thrust herself into the western streets of the Lottery. Ivan had tried to give her directions to the Catacombs, but Evelyn had waved him off. The Needle Guard was indifferent to the Crowns, not ignorant of them. She turned left down another alley.
The Butcher might be in it for her own reasons, but she had it right—the Quill of Declan Day had to be destroyed. Because even if Tolliver Shadowwood never got a hand on the thing, it was only a matter of time before someone else discovered what it did and decided to use it for their own selfish gain.
There might not be much glory in saving the world in secret, but it was a good bit better than watching war take the five kingdoms, all the while knowing she could have stopped it.
And if an incredibly fascinating mercenary with a sharp tongue and sharper wit also happened to avoid capture in the process? Well, maybe that was just an extra bit of good fortune.
“Hey, you there.”
Evelyn’s eyes snapped up as she realized she had reached the Catacombs already. She faced the two men at the door, one tall, one short. Neither had opted for the subtlety of Asher’s standard knuckle tattoo, instead going for a much more practical swath of ink across their throats. She bit back a laugh. Imagine going through that many needle pricks just to look like a complete git.
“You simple?” asked the tall man.
Evelyn remembered Ivan’s coaching. “You must act as though you are better than them or they will see right through you,” he had said. “Pretend they are rodents beneath your boots.”
“That shouldn’t be too much of a challenge, eh, Cap?” Ryia had stopped in the middle of juggling axes to point excitedly at Evelyn’s withering scowl. “Just like that.”
This was critical. If she didn’t manage to get Ryia added to the list of fighters, their chances of getting that relic back were gone along with Clem’s. If she didn’t play her part just right and get inside right now, Clem was probably going to have her murdered before she even made it back to the Temple to tell him she’d failed. She shook the nerves from her shoulders, hitching her best look of irritation onto her face.
“Should I take my fighter and my crescents somewhere else, then?” she drawled.
The taller man looked her up and down. “I don’t see no fighter.” He craned his neck, peering around like he thought she might be hiding her Kinetic in her shadow.
She shot them a look. “Are the pits open now?”
“No.”
“There’s your answer.”
The shorter, bearded man cracked his neck. “You’d think you’d want it with ya. Skinny little thing like you needs protection in a place like this.” The wink that followed sent a writhing mass of imaginary earthworms slithering down her back.
“You think I’m going to risk losing my prize Kinetic to some Carrowwick dock scum?” Evelyn said derisively. “I know how to handle these streets. I’m my own protection.”
The tall one squinted. “Do you now? I don’t remember seein’ you around here before.”
“Haven’t seen you before either,” Evelyn said, shrugging. “Now are you going to let me in to make my wager, or should I take my coin to the Undertow?”
The fighting pits in the back of the Harpies’ dice hall had nothing on the Catacombs, everyone knew that, but after a moment the Crowns waved her forward.
“Arms out.”
She complied lazily, as though bored, and gave two loud coughs. The sound was followed by the slight scrape of leather on wood, coming from the roof above them. The taller man’s eyes wandered toward the roofline, and Evelyn stamped a foot, pulling back a pace to draw his eyes back down.
“Get any ideas and I’ll show you I don’t need my Kinetic to win a fight,” she said, glowering as the shorter man patted her down.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Freckles.”
She glanced back up just in time to see a flash of black fabric melting into an upstairs window. Ryia was inside. “Are we done here?”
“Get down to the pit. Matthieu’ll sort you out,” said the tall man.
Evelyn squeezed between the two of them, allowing herself a miniature breath of relief as she sank into the dank misery of the Catacombs.
It took several blinks to adjust to the lighting in the Kestrel Crowns’ fabled fighting club, so her first impression of the place came from her nose. Over the past month she had grown accustomed to the scent of the sea: the fresh sting of icy water, the tang of salt. The Catacombs smelled just the opposite.
The air was heavy, a vat of molasses hanging over her like a sticky cloak. She caught whiffs of blood and urine, mildew and old ale. She wanted nothing more than to escape back into the sunlight, but she set her jaw as she caught Ryia’s shadow creeping along the ceiling beams. They only had one shot at this.
She walked toward the reedy little man lounging alone at a table beside the fighting pit.
“You Matthieu?”
He took a sip of deep red wine, looking her up and down. “Why?”
She pulled her coin purse from her pocket and dropped it on the table. “I’m looking to put down some coin on my Kinetic, that’s why.”
He prodded the purse with the stem of his glass. “You’re a confident one, aren’t you?”
“Once you see my fighter you’ll understand.”
Her eyes flicked to the ceiling where Ryia was perched, just over the pit. The mercenary looked furiously toward Matthieu. Evelyn could almost read her mind: Stop fucking around and get that asshole away from the pit.
Patience: not a trait the Butcher had.
Evelyn snatched the purse off the table just as the Crown reached for it.
“Not so fast. I need to know my Kinetic’s got a good spot in the fight before you see a single copper.” She walked back toward the bar, letting the pouch jingle.
Follow… follow… come on…
There.
Matthieu rolled his eyes, extracting himself from the booth. “A good spot? Tonight?” He scrubbed a hand over his face, snagging a clipboard from the bar. “I’ve already got top fighters coming from everywhere from Sandport to Volkfier, Sticks,” he said. “I can give you a spot in the first round. That’s all I’ve got for you. You win tonight, you can come back later in the week for a better slot.”
First round? No deal. Asher wouldn’t bring the Quill anywhere near this place until everyone inside was piss-drunk. Best-case scenario, Ryia won the fight and was escorted out to the holding room before the Quill ever made it inside. Worst case? She would have to watch Ryia get her throat ripped out by another Adept. She swallowed. She didn’t want Ryia to have to enter that bloodstained pit at all, but the later the better.
Across the room, Ryia crept along the edge of the fighting pit. She yanked on a seat cushion just beside the ring. Matthieu frowned, moving to turn toward the noise. Unsure of what else to do, Evelyn grabbed his pimpled chin.
“Bottom seed?” she seethed. “Horse shit. Who else is bringing this much coin?”
He sighed, flipping the pages on the board back and forth. “I could move you up to the third round?”
Third round. Would that be late enough?
Evelyn saw a flash of silver across the room as Ryia tucked her hatchets and axe belt underneath one of the wide, cushy seats. Only Crowns were allowed to carry steel in the Catacombs. Ivan said everyone would be checked at the door, the same way Evelyn had just been patted down. If they wanted their weapons tonight, the steel would need to already be inside when they
arrived. The scrape of metal made Matthieu’s head turn again, and Evelyn jingled her coin pouch violently in his face. “Top coin for the top fight. My Kinetic fights your champion tonight.” The words were out before she could stop them.
Evelyn winced. But, at least, Matthieu’s eyes were now fixed on her. Ryia slid another gigantic cushion loose. Another flash of steel caught the candlelight as she slipped Evelyn’s sword under the seat. Then the Butcher was gone, up the wall like an insect and out the second-story window.
“Fine,” Matthieu said, leaning close. His breath smelled like rot and sour grapes. “You’re so determined to get your Kinetic killed, I won’t stop you.” He pulled a pencil from his pocket and licked the tip with a swollen tongue. “What’s your name?”
“Roisin McGillvery.” She dropped the coins onto the board. “And I’m bringing the fastest damned Kinetic in Golden Port.”
“Golden Port,” Matthieu chuckled, shaking his head. “All right. You and your fighter’ll need to be checked in by last toll.”
Last toll. Eleven o’clock. The last time the temple bells rang out for the day. She turned, heart beating a steady track up her throat as she pulled herself back out into the day.
She held her head high, kept a smirk frozen on her face, but her mind was racing in circles like a dog tied to a stake. Breathe. Just a few hours and this ruddy nightmare would be over. The champion of the pit fought last. There was no way Asher would wait that long to close his deal with Shadowwood. But, if she was wrong, Ryia would have to face the toughest pit fighter in all of Carrowwick.
Felice help them.
36
IVAN
Ivan tucked his hair behind his ears as he tilted the candlestick, watching the droplets of clear wax drip onto the desk in Clem’s chamber in the back room of the Temple. He leaned forward, blowing softly on the wax until it started to whiten. Prying it up carefully with one fingernail, he prodded it into shape.
Perfect. He added it to the row of wax blobs already lining the edge of the table. As strange as it was to be back in Carrowwick, he was glad to be off that verdammte ship. The waves would have been a nightmare for this project.
