“Is ignorance always part of your outfit?” Ana snapped, and cast a glance around the inn. It was mostly empty, save for one or two weary-looking travelers nursing mugs of black ale over cracked wooden tables. Still, she kept her hood drawn tightly as she sat across from him. “Besides, shouldn’t you be more cautious? After what happened with the mercenaries?”
Ramson leaned back, brandishing his spoon. “Caution’s my middle name, sweetheart.”
“Is that why you got kidnapped in the thirty minutes I left you alone?”
“I had that situation under control.” Ramson grinned at Ana’s expression. “All right, let’s just say I have some insurance now. Someone high up wants me alive.”
Ana dug her spoon into her thick bowl of porridge. “So what’s the news?”
“May is scheduled to perform in three days. One day before Kerlan’s Fyrva’snezh.”
Her spoon dropped. Porridge spilled on the table. The rest of the world—the dim inn, the smell of seared fish in the air, the chipped wooden table—faded. “How do you know?”
“I know everything.”
“You’re absolutely certain?” Her tunic suddenly felt too tight; it was hard to breathe.
“Yes. When you’re done interrogating me, perhaps we can finalize the plan.”
Plan. She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think of anything besides May behind those blackstone wagon doors, alone and helpless and afraid.
“Don’t worry so much.” Ana blinked, and realized Ramson was watching her with a smile curling his lips. “The plan’s simple. We’re going to bid for her contract after the show. Remember I told you that’s what happens in the back rooms.”
Ana’s mind spun. “I don’t understand. Bid for her? What if we don’t win?”
“We will. I called in an old favor.” He finished his last bite of sourdough bread and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “If you can’t win it, just rig it.”
“This is not a game, con man,” Ana snarled, her temper rising at his levity, at the thought of May sitting in a cell somewhere in that horrible place from hell. “If even one thing goes wrong, then May’s life is in danger.”
The grin faded from Ramson’s face. He placed his spoon back in his bowl, carefully, deliberately, as though handling a weapon. “You think I don’t know the difference between life and death?” he said. “I’ve been in this business for seven years. I started as a street rat and worked my way up to where I am today—where I was. One slip along the way, and I would’ve been dead.”
Her breathing came shallow. Ramson Quicktongue had taken care to never reveal anything about himself to her, other than what was strictly necessary. Yet something had changed. She just couldn’t place…what.
“And that’s why we have backup plans,” he said, and the moment was gone. “I have one for several different scenarios, and they consist of secret tunnels and underground passageways.” He leaned forward, his hazel eyes bright in the morning light, tousled hair curling against his temples. “As soon as we have May, we need to be ready for the Fyrva’snezh ball.” He slid something across the table at her.
A piece of parchment, with names hastily scribbled on it. Ana scanned the title. “Kerlan’s Fyrva’snezh guests?” She thought of asking him how he’d procured it but knew that questioning Ramson Quicktongue’s sources would lead to precisely nowhere.
“Yes.” Ramson touched a finger to a single name in the middle of the list, and for a moment, all that she saw were the words blazing up at her. Mesyr Pyetr Tetsyev.
Ana drew a sharp breath. She gripped the parchment so hard that her knuckles turned white. “We’ll need to lure him somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can talk to him and then leave, unnoticed.”
Ramson’s eyes glinted. “There’s a secret room in Kerlan’s basement. It’s soundproof. I have it on good authority that no one will be standing guard during the ball.” He drummed the table in a restless beat. “It’s perfect. There’s a tunnel leading out from the basement to the back—it’s where all of the estate’s supplies come in. Food, flowers, clothing…the like. I’ll arrange for a carriage pickup. We just need to agree on the timing.”
* * *
—
They retreated to their rooms to hash out the rest of the plans. They discussed every minute, pinpointed every position, worked through all the potential scenarios, and carefully mapped it all out.
By the end of two days, they had exhausted every detail of May’s rescue and Kerlan’s ball, and even Ana’s diligence was wearing thin.
“There’s no chance we can get her today or tomorrow?” she’d pestered Ramson.
“No,” Ramson replied on the afternoon of the second day, lounging on Ana’s cot. “We need to attend the show and play by the rules.”
“But—”
“Do you really want to rob a man before attending his party?” He flipped a goldleaf between his fingers; the coin caught the late-afternoon sun, flashing as Ramson made it appear, and then disappear again. “We’re walking into the lion’s den. There’s only so much we can control. But if Kerlan wanted us dead, we’d be dead already.”
“Why do you say that?” Ana looked up from the corner where she sat, straight-backed and cross-legged amid dozens of parchments with the maps and plans they had scribbled. Parcels of their supplies were stacked neatly against the wall—outfits, mostly, for the next few days. They’d spent a good portion of their coin—and the rest, well, Ana assumed she and Ramson would split it between them when the time came to part ways.
The thought filled her with a strange feeling, and she quickly looked at him again—his tousled sandy hair peeking over her pillows—to make sure he was still there.
“I’ve been in touch with some of his contacts. He’ll be expecting us at his ball. That’s why, while you corner Tetsyev, I’ll be upstairs distracting Kerlan so he doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.” He flicked the goldleaf into the air and caught it; when he opened his palm again, it was gone. “He thinks I’m going to offer him a Trade.”
Ana bit the end of her pen. “And what are you going to do?”
“Kill him? Charm him? Who knows.” Ramson gave her a wicked smile, and Ana suspected he knew exactly what he was going to do. She’d learned to stop asking for answers she’d never get.
So Ana returned to her papers, focusing on the things she could get: May, her alchemist, and a way back to her brother.
* * *
—
Boom-ba-da-BOOM.
The drums beat. The torches blazed. The audience cheered. Yet tonight they struck a different rhythm in Ana’s heart. Tonight they were a countdown for her as she weaved through the crowds of sleepy, intoxicated nobles.
It was the fourth night of their stay at Novo Mynsk, and the evening of May’s performance. Everything hinged on tonight.
Bogdan paced the stage, his voice booming across the crowded auditorium. Was it Ana’s imagination, or did a sheen of sweat coat the entertainer’s brow?
The Ice Queen had finished her performance; she stood at the side of the stage outside the glass, beaming at the crowd. She was the constant on a stage of rotating Affinites, their displays filling the arena with water and rocks and fire and all other elements imaginable.
Bogdan spread his arms. “Next up, mesyrs and meya damas, we have an earth Affinite.”
Every fiber in Ana’s body drew taut.
“She can coax life from nothing but mud; she can make your favorite flowers bloom brighter than the stars in the night sky!”
Onstage, the curtains parted. An assistant scurried out and placed a pot at the edge of the glass wall before ducking backstage.
From the darkness of the curtains, a silhouette emerged—and Ana’s world hissed into sharp focus. The Affinite shuffled forward in an oversized dark brown dress sewn with glittery red flowers, their stems curl
ing around her body. Her shoulders were slumped, her outline smaller and bonier than Ana remembered, and her head was bent. Her lovely ocean eyes were hidden.
Ana fought down tears as May, barely half the size of the other Affinites that had appeared in the ring, stumbled onto the center of the stage. Titters started in the audience, and Bogdan gave an accommodating chuckle. “Come now, darling!” he boomed. “We haven’t got all day!”
May’s eyes were fixed upon a spot on the floor as she tried to quicken her pace. Her skirts twisted around her ankles; she stumbled and fell with a thud.
A small, distressed noise escaped Ana as the crowd jeered; she felt Ramson’s hand close around her arm. His eyes glinted. “All good things—” he whispered.
—come to those who wait.
Still, Ana’s rage coiled white-hot within her. She stretched her Affinity, brushing it hungrily over the blood of the crowd. How she wished to unleash her power unto these bastards—to let them feel pain and helplessness.
“She may be small, but she is extremely talented,” Bogdan boasted. “She can create rocks, and she can break them apart. She can manipulate them. And she has a special touch of life with anything growing from the earth. My honored guests, I present to you: Child of Earth!”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Onstage, May crouched by the pot of dead flowers. Despite everything, the expression on her face was a mix of sorrow and hope as she stretched out her hands.
For a few moments, nothing seemed to happen. And then the crowd gave a collective gasp, pointing as a lovely green hue seeped up the stalks like ink. Red blossomed into the petals. In front of their very eyes, May was breathing life back into the plant. And Ana found herself leaning forward slightly.
The gasps of the crowd, the animal masks, the torches, and the blackstone glass faded, and there was just May. She sat in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by tall, snowcapped pines. Her hands were cupped around a single white daisy, wilted from the snow and locked in the hard, frozen ground. Her eyes were closed, and she hummed softly. Ana had watched as, slowly, the daisy unfurled, its petals uncurling to face the winter sun.
It had felt like watching a miracle.
The memory dissipated as the crowds in the Playpen broke into a smattering of applause. Onstage, the Ice Queen beamed.
Bogdan spread his arms. “The smallest ones are often the most underestimated and tend to be much stronger than we anticipate.” He paused theatrically, waving his hands. The rings on his fingers glittered.
“Now, does anyone have any requests for our talented Child of Earth?”
A cry immediately went up. “Have her grow a fruit tree!”
“Make her juggle rocks!”
“Ask her to make a statue from earth!”
And on and on it went, copperstones and silverstones and goldleaves clattering at Bogdan’s polished black shoes while May kept her head bowed. Nausea pounded at Ana’s stomach as wave after wave of jeering calls and mocking yells continued, and Bogdan shouted orders for May to comply with.
“Hey.” A pair of hazel eyes, a warm hand coming to rest gently but firmly on her shoulder. “It’ll all be over soon. She’ll be safe, with us.”
Ana looked down and realized that she had gripped the sleeve of his peacoat. She snatched her hand back.
Something caught her attention. Onstage, a leather sack the size of Bogdan’s head had landed. Gold coins spilled like guts across the Penmaster’s feet, glittering viciously in the firelight.
A hush fell across the crowd. Ramson straightened.
From somewhere near the stage, a clear tenor rang out. “Penmaster, I have a very special request to make—one that I believe the audience will very much enjoy!”
Bogdan stooped to pick up the bulging pouch of goldleaves, his mouth hanging open. Coins continued to spill like water from the overflowing bag.
“Well, mesyr,” Bogdan exclaimed, a slight breathlessness to his tone. “You have certainly shown your dedication to entertainment!”
Behind him, May had finally lifted her head and was watching with sharp intent. The Ice Queen’s beam looked frozen, forced. In the shadows of the wings, the pale-eyed broker observed with unimpassioned interest.
A feeling of foreboding descended upon Ana. She searched the crowd for the owner of the voice, panic low but rising within her. This was wrong. The amount of goldleaves offered up was enough to feed fifty families for an entire year. It was enough to buy a small dacha.
No one in their right mind would offer up this much money for a few moments of entertainment.
Onstage, Bogdan’s eyes sparkled in delight. “And how else,” the Penmaster continued, his voice growing louder as he held up the pouch of coins, “are affairs conducted here at the Playpen but through gold and coin? Mesyrs, meya damas, and everyone—I say we hear out this civilian who seems set to give us the show of the night!”
As the crowd burst into thunderous applause and roared their approvals, something moved amid them. A flash of gold, a hooded figure.
As the man took a light leap onto the stage, Ana found herself gazing into a familiar golden mask.
There was no mistaking it. It was the nobleman she had bumped into on her first night at the Playpen. He wore the same mask he’d worn then, with a derisive crying face, yet it was the burning in his eyes that she remembered. That first night, she had only glimpsed him, but he had looked irate.
Something wasn’t right.
“Ramson,” Ana whispered, but the man had begun speaking.
“I’ve been to many, many Affinite shows,” the gold-masked nobleman cried, his voice lofty, his hands raised in elegant, sweeping motions. “And I have waited for this moment for so long.”
Ana began to move forward. She wasn’t sure why, but she found herself pushing past people with a growing urgency to reach the stage. To reach May. She heard Ramson hiss her name behind her; sensed the thrum of his blood as he began to follow her.
“We’re glad to have you here, noble mesyr!” Bogdan chortled, patting his bag of goldleaves. His smile stretched from ear to ear. “Let me know any and all requests you’d like to make of this Affinite, and I can—”
“I wish for everyone gathered here to remember this glorious moment with me!” the gold-masked man crowed. With a flourish, he slipped off his hood. His hair shone red as he stepped forward, closer to the edge of the stage. He ripped his mask off, tossing it onto the ground in front of the glass.
Ana stopped in place. The face onstage was alight with triumph and the orange-red glow of the torchlight. And it was utterly familiar.
Someone’s hands closed around her wrist. Dimly, she heard Ramson speaking to her. “Ana, listen to me—”
But she couldn’t. She was staring at the man’s face; it drew her back to her childhood in the Palace, when he’d brought her steaming tea and fresh pirozhky pies—but it was his words and the brightness in his eyes that had warmed her to the core.
“I know him,” she said hollowly.
“You—what?”
Onstage, the red-haired man had availed himself of a torch. “My fellow noble guests, I want you all to remember one thing.” He held the torch up, and the triumphant expression on his face twisted in hatred.
“I know him,” Ana gasped. “Ramson, he’s an—”
“Long live the Revolution.” With all his strength, the red-haired man smashed the burning torch onto the stage.
Flames roared to life along the thread of oil that poured from the torch, winding along the marble floor like a shimmering, transparent serpent. For a moment, the man was hidden from view behind the wall of fire. And then he stepped through, his hands outstretched, and two pillars of flames shot from his palms into the air.
The screaming started.
Ana ran for the stage.
The crowd jostled against her as t
he nobles fled like frightened children, the leers on their faces replaced by unadulterated fear. But Ana’s eyes were fixed on the fire Affinite.
Yuri.
She remembered the sparks in his coal-gray eyes back then, when he would slip ptychy’molokos onto her dinner trays. That warmth had grown to a raging fire—wild and untamed.
He’d planned something—she didn’t know what—but the show, the gold, had all been a ruse to get him to the stage. And now May’s life was in danger.
Movement in the ceiling alcoves drew her attention. The marksmen shifted, orange torchlight glinting off their blackstone arrows.
Ana’s gaze whipped to the stage. Beyond the searing flames, behind the blackstone glass, stood May, alone. The broker was gone; she thought she saw a flash of his back as he disappeared behind the curtains.
The archers nocked, and drew.
For a terrifying second, the world seemed to slow, and all that Ana heard were arrows whistling as they shot toward the stage.
Ana reached for May’s blood—and again, her Affinity hit cold, empty blackstone. Panic surged in her chest—
The stage exploded. Not in blood and not in fire…but in ice. Crystal-white ice crackled to life above the arena, forming a hard, glittering arch over the entire stage. The arrows ricocheted off the ice and clattered to the ground.
Onstage, the Ice Queen straightened, her hands outstretched, her ash-white hair whipping in the heat of the flames. She turned, locking gazes with Yuri. And gave a single slow nod.
Together, they turned to the blackstone glass wall behind them. Fire and ice crackled into existence from thin air, whorls of silver-white and flaming red that slammed against the glass.
They were going to bring down the arena. And if that glass fell, if the stage collapsed, everyone underneath would be crushed.
Which meant Ana had to get May out before that.
Blood Heir Page 19
