by Claire Luana
“We must see Guildmaster Pike,” Wren pleaded. “He said he would help me if I needed it.”
“I’m afraid Guildmaster Pike is not taking visitors,” the man said, crossing his muscular arms over his chest while sizing them up.
“It’s a matter of life or death,” Wren said. “It will only take a moment.”
“Gave you my answer,” the man said.
“Enough of this wasted time,” Hale said, lifting the man bodily from the ground by the collar of his shirt. “We will see Guildmaster Pike—” He cut off suddenly and his body stilled.
“Hale!” Wren said before seeing that the guildmember held a wicked curved dagger to Hale’s throat. Gods, this place was foreign territory. What had been the strange phrase Pike had mentioned? Swordfish? Fish’s spear?
“Please,” she said. “Enough, both of you. Grandmaster Pike said if I ever needed him, I should ask for the… marlin’s blade!” The memory had blessedly returned.
The guildmember’s dark eyes opened a hair’s breadth, and he removed the blade from Hale’s neck, sheathing it. “Put me down, you brute. I’ll take you to see Pike.”
Hale complied, and without another word, the man turned on his heel and headed down a corridor to the left. Hale and Wren looked at each other, her mouth dry at the sight of the stranger in her friend’s face. They hurried after him.
“Wait here,” the man said when they reached a set of double doors engraved with a proud schooner tossed about on a wave. The doors shut in their faces.
“Let me do the talking,” Wren hissed. “The last thing we need is you threatening Pike. Men in his position don’t take to being bullied.”
Hale growled but nodded. Curtly.
The door opened, and Pike’s smiling face appeared behind it, his grin as wide as a cat’s. “Wren,” he said, welcoming her inside. “And… is this the infamous Hale?”
Hale nodded, opening his mouth to say something offensive, no doubt.
Wren cut him off. “Guildmaster, I am sorry for barging in. But Sable has been poisoned. She hangs on the edge of death. Please help us find an antidote.”
Pike swore. “Flaming hells. How did this happen?”
“It’s not important,” Wren hurried. “An antidote? Sable’s body was pale and blue-tinged. Her fingers and toes had gray spreading up the tips. Do you know this poison?”
Pike nodded. “I am the Head of the Spicer’s Guild. I know every poison. That sounds like the work of sumac poison.”
“Is there an antidote?”
“Yes,” he said. He crossed the room to a massive armoire and threw open the doors. Inside were drawers and shelves covered in tiny bottles. Wren goggled at the sight.
He skimmed the labels, dancing over them with his fingertips. “Ah-ha!” he finally said, selecting a small red vial. “Give Sable three drops of this, no more, no less.”
“I’ll take it,” Hale said, snatching it from Pike.
“How many drops, boy?” Pike asked, his eyes narrowed.
“Three,” Hale said.
“Go save her,” Wren said. “I’ll make it back myself.”
“You’re coming with me,” Hale growled.
“The hospital’s halfway across town,” Wren said. “It’ll slow you down with both of us. I won’t run,” she said. I have nowhere to go, she thought.
Hale looked from Wren to the vial in his hand before turning and sprinting from the room.
Chapter 34
“Can I get you a drink?” Pike asked as Wren heaved a tremendous sigh of relief at the sight of Hale’s back disappearing out the door.
She eyed him warily.
“I don’t make a habit of poisoning my guests,” he said wryly.
“Am I that easy to read?” she asked.
“One doesn’t rise to the head of the most ruthless guild without knowing how to read people.”
“Once I thought I knew how to read people…” She trailed off, and as the adrenaline of their flight dimmed, the horror of her circumstances crashed in upon her like pounding waves. Sable was gravely ill—perhaps dead already. Lucas hated her. Hale wanted to kill her. And she had no idea who the real killer was. Wren’s knees grew weak, and she sank onto one of the colorful pillows that littered the floor.
“Yes, the girl needs a drink,” Pike said, retrieving a decanter of amber liquid and joining her on the vibrantly-hued rug.
She observed it all mutely, the riot of color and shapes, carved figurines of fantastic animals, wood-hewn patterns of spiraling mandalas on the walls. The room was a treasure trove of a lifetime of travel and trade. Just a day ago, she would have delighted to behold it, the color so incongruous against the guild’s black reputation. Now, she felt numb. Like she would never taste chocolate again—only the bitter dirt of the grave.
Pike handed her a glass patterned in a geometric design of gold that caught and refracted the light of the hanging lanterns. Pike clinked it against the one he held loosely in his fingers.
“Drink it,” he said. “It will clear the fog.”
Wren complied, letting the liquid slide down her throat. Whiskey. She hadn’t developed a taste for it, but she welcomed the burn. The feeling of something raw and angry and real.
“Thank you for helping me.” Wren looked at him then. He wore loose, violet trousers and a white shirt half-unbuttoned. The dangerous edge of sword and boots and high-collared coat was missing here, and he seemed like just a man. She saw that sharp edge for what it was now—a carefully-chosen uniform—a front to terrify the world. She felt safer here, in the den of this near-stranger, than at her own Guildhall. “It’s hard to know who your friends are in my Guild.”
“Make no mistake—I’m not your friend,” he said. “Though you are safe here. It’s my policy not to have friends. People who owe me things, people whom I owe things to. Those who are loyal, and those who are not. It keeps things simpler.”
“I see the value of that approach,” she admitted. It had been her approach, too, before she had gotten wrapped up in daydreams of friendship and family. Before she had remembered how nice it felt to have people care for you. Before she had let her guard down.
“It’s the only way to survive for people like you and me.” The way he said it made her again think that he knew of her Gifting. “Though there are the rare few who are something more. Those who defy categorization. Like Sable.” Her name rolled like velvet off Pike’s lips. It was clear Hale wasn’t the only man holding a torch for Wren’s sponsor.
“Will she live?” Wren asked quietly.
He stroked his beard in consideration, his face grave. “It depends on when she was poisoned. How much, how long it’s been in her blood. Maybe the poison will spare her. Perhaps she’ll get lucky.”
Wren let out a dark huff of laughter. Despite her Gift, she didn’t feel like she had enjoyed many strokes of luck lately. “You speak of poison as if it’s sentient.”
“Poison’s a funny thing,” he said. “Like a woman. Every formula is different. They demand to be known, to be understood. Each has telltale signs. A smell, a taste. A color and viscosity.”
“You sound almost… fond of it.”
“I suppose I am, in a way. How do you think a son of a Centu pirate secured all of this?” He waved at the room around him before standing and retrieving a tobacco pouch from a desk drawer. He sat back down.
“You poisoned your way to the top?” Wren asked. “I can’t believe you’d admit that.”
“I never said that,” he said, rolling himself a cigarette. “I said I owed it to poison. I’ll share a little secret. I managed to secure my first fleet of vessels by trading in the stuff, being willing to procure the deadliest. Some of these poisons”—he lit his cigarette—“fetch a king’s ransom.”
“You’ve never used it?”
“Poison is the coward’s way to kill. For those who are aren’t strong enough to face the truth of their deeds. Real men kill with swords. They look their enemy in the eye when they send them t
o meet the Huntress.”
Wren pondered this as the smoke from Pike’s cigarette drifted over her. She wrinkled her nose. It did seem cowardly, the king killing Kasper in secret. Trying to frame Chandler. The king was the most powerful man in Alesia. If he wanted Kasper dead, he should have faced the political consequences and taken on the guilds in the light of day.
And now, Sable.
“Someone planted a knife in my room. With the sumac poison on it,” Wren admitted. “Everyone will think I’m a coward.”
“Ah,” Pike said. “That explains why Hale looked ready to hold you under the surf and never let up. Did he give you those bruises?”
Wren’s hands flew to her neck, fingering the tender skin there. The animal rage in Hale’s face flashed over her, and she closed her eyes.
“It’s plain to see you’re far from a coward, Wren Confectioner. As clueless as a greenhorn when it comes to the spiderweb of guild politics, but no coward. I’m confident you have everything you need to get yourself out of this predicament.”
“I have nothing.” Her voice came out hard and bitter.
“Do you know that I was once sentenced to death, Wren Confectioner?” Pike blew an expert ring of smoke.
“No. When? For what?”
“Piracy is punishable by death in the Cerulean sea. But it’s how I got my start. By the time I was twenty-five, I had a fleet of three ships, loyal crews. I appointed my most deserving two men as captains of the other vessels. I kept the most impressive ship for myself, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Wren said, taking another burning sip of whiskey. Pike was a good storyteller, full of drama and bravado. She found herself settling into his story.
“I had one crew member, a man full of sulfur and rot named Hancock. He troubled me to no end, but the man was a hell of a sailor and had an uncanny way with the weather. So I let him stay. Hancock wanted one of those other ships and was furious when I didn’t name him one of my captains. He fomented rebellion in my ranks, biding his time. Now, in those days, the Spicer’s Guild was always chasing us. The guild head had it in for me, felt I was a barnacle on his hull he needed to be rid of. And one day, in the waters off the coast of Nova Navis, he found us. Now, I wasn’t worried, their three guild vessels were no match for us—my vessels were armed to the teeth, rigged with armor-plated battering rams and surprises for anyone who drew too near. But in the heat of battle, Hancock mutinied with the scoundrels he had managed to turn to his side. They killed the rest of my crew and steered their iron-clad bow into my beautiful ship, leaving us to flounder with our guts leaking out into the sea. My crew in the other ship defended us as long as they could, but when Hancock turned on them, they ran. I was arrested and brought back to Maradis to be tried for piracy.”
Wren’s eyes were wide now. “What happened?”
“I was executed for piracy, obviously.” Pike laughed, taking a swig of whiskey.
She rolled her eyes. “Come on, tell me.”
“I had no more aces up my sleeve. I sat in a cell in the Block, and I swear I could see the Huntress’s dark eyes burning though my cell door. The morning of my execution, the guildmaster came into my cell and knocked me across the face with a baton. This was surprising, you see; he was a snively little fellow. But the man was livid, beside himself. ‘Where are they?’ he asked me. ‘Where are you keeping them?’ ‘Where’s who?’ I say. ‘Don’t play coy with me!’ the man bellows. ‘My wife! My children!’”
“What?”
Pike held up his hand, signaling for silence as he continued. “I went with it. I said ‘You’ll get ’em back when I get a full pardon for my crimes. Announced publicly. And more than that. I want to be named a master in the guild.’ I figure, I’m a doomed man, so I might as well shoot for the moon. ‘When I get all that, you get your family back.’ The man hits me again with the baton, just for good measure, and storms from the cell. Next thing I know, I’m being cleaned up, trotted before the guilder’s council, pardoned, and named a master. I swagger up the dock to my last ship while that guildmaster’s family flees the other way, released by my crew.”
“Your crew kidnapped them? And held them for ransom? How in the gods’ name did you accomplish that from the Block?” Wren was in awe.
“I didn’t have the foggiest notion they were doing it! I just played along. Though don’t tell anyone that. I’ve carefully curated my legendary reputation.”
Wren huffed in disbelief.
“This is all to say that sometimes, what feels like nothing is really something. You may have more cards in your hand than you realize. You need only play them when the time is right.”
Wren looked at him sharply, studying his black eyes, those thick lashes and dark eyebrows. She shook off her despair and fog of moments earlier, finally thinking clearly again. It wasn’t over yet. Clearly, he thought she possessed something worthwhile, something that would help her. But what? She didn’t have a crew of loyal pirates to spring her from the Block when the inquisitor came for her. She had alienated all of her friends. She had no allies. Yet… here was one of the most powerful men in Maradis sitting in front of her. Could she use him somehow? How could he help her?
“Don’t hurt yourself thinking so hard.” He was rolling another cigarette.
“No wonder Sable rebuffed you,” Wren said weakly. “There’s no way she could put up with your bad jokes.”
“Words like knives,” Pike said, pantomiming a chest wound.
Sable. A ray of clarity burned through her. Wren did have something new. A new clue. Someone had poisoned Sable.
“How did you know what antidote to give Sable?” Wren asked.
“Every poison has its own trademark. Sumac poison tinges the fingertips gray, the skin a shade of pale blue. The body always tells the tale if you know the signs.”
“And you sell these poisons as well?”
He nodded.
“Did anyone buy sumac recently?”
“A man of my profession wouldn’t get very far if he told those types of secrets. I don’t disclose my customers. Not even for Sable. But in this case, there’s nothing to hide. No sumac purchases lately.”
“Do you sell Gemini? The twin poison?”
“The poison that killed your grandmaster?” he asked.
“Yes.” She blushed. Of course he knew that was how Kasper had died. A man this well-connected in the area of poisons would know of such things. “If you did… sell Gemini, would you have records of such things?”
“Again, I am confident that any such records, if they existed, would tell you nothing of use. I’m not the only purveyor in Alesia.”
“Of course.” She wilted slightly. The man was as slippery as butter. She’d never get any information from him, even if he had it. She tried another tack. “What about… Gemini’s signs? You said poisons smell? Taste? What are its distinguishing features?”
“A worthy question. When added to food, it adds an ever-so-slight sweetness, a citrus taste. One half of the twin is colorless, but the other has a blueish tinge. Especially if it comes into contact with sodium chloride.”
“Salt?” she asked.
“Salt,” he said. “You cannot put it in certain foods because the color will turn. On the tongue, if it comes into contact with salt or salt water, it will turn a bluish shade, almost like ink.”
Something niggled at the back of Wren’s mind. A bluish tinge. “What if… it was on your skin. If you spilled it. And it came into contact with salt or… sweat. Would it stain the skin?”
“Yes, of course.”
Wren’s mind strained, sifting through memory after memory, pulling together the threads of something. Someone.
“How long would the skin stay stained?”
“Well, it would fade if not exposed to salt, but a reapplication would reveal it once again. Perhaps a few days. It’s powerful stuff.”
A few days.
“And would it be a liquid? What would you keep it in?”
“The two h
alves are liquid; you must keep them separate. It could be in anything. A flask, a bottle. A stoppered vial.”
“A perfume bottle,” Wren said.
“Yes, I suppose, though you’d have to be careful not to spray it by mistake.” He chuckled.
The whiskey glass slipped from Wren’s hand, rolling down the mountain of pillows to the tile floor.
Guildmistress Greer with blue-tinged fingers, wiping the tears from her eyes the morning after Kasper had died. Greer snapping at Wren to put down her perfume bottle. Greer who oversaw all food, drink, and gifts coming into the Guildhall. Who could easily have sent food up to Wren’s room with a poisoned knife nestled on the tray.
Wren shoved her shaking hand into the pocket of her dress, pulling out the scroll of names Sable had left for her at Mistress Violena’s. On it were the names of those who had attended the garden party where her cupcakes had been discovered. Wren hadn’t looked any further than Bianca Chandler’s name. But Sable had.
Wren unrolled the scroll, her eyes widening as she found the name she had known would be there. The last name on the list. Iris Greer.
Chapter 35
Wren stood as if in a dream. Iris Greer. Guildmaster Kasper’s own sister. No one had suspected her because it was unthinkable. No one except Sable. Wren looked down at the message clutched in her hand. Sable had known. She must have. And when she’d confronted her, Greer had tried to kill her.
“You have a look about you,” Pike said, watching her with a bemused expression on his face.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. “I realized something important.”
“Who killed Kasper?” he said.
“Yes. And I know where to find proof.”
“Good girl,” he said. “Go get her.”
“Thank you for the whiskey,” she said, pausing at the door. “And the antidote. Two words I never thought I’d say together.”
The sound of Pike’s laughter followed her down the hall. She was out the front door before she realized what Pike had said. “Go get her.” He had known.
