by Claire Luana
The knife flashed in the air, dropping like the blade of a guillotine.
Chapter 18
Wren had never been at sea before. Now that she was here, she wasn’t firmly convinced that she ever wanted to be at sea again. She stood at the bow of the ship, her feet braced against the endless undulating waves. She kept expecting a vessel flying a flag of sky blue with a sunburst of yellow to appear behind them on the horizon, but so far, none had. The Black Jasmine was blessedly fast. There was only the sullen gray sky above, the endless slate-blue water below, frosted with whitecaps like peaked meringue. It was disconcerting, being so exposed. Here, it felt like the Piscator could reach his hand up at any moment to pull her down into his watery kingdom.
“Breakfast,” Thom said, coming up to stand beside her against the rail. He held out a meager offering—a hard biscuit and a cup of oily-looking coffee.
“Thanks.” Wren took both, licking the tang of salt off her dry lips.
“Hardly Guild fare.”
“At least it’s not infused with magic to make you fall in love with the emperor.”
Thom clinked his dappled ceramic mug against hers at that.
“Are they still at it?” Wren nodded back towards the stairs to the lower cabins.
“I almost think they’re enjoying it at this point,” Thom said.
Callidus and Rizio had been shouting at each other the better part of the night. Between their row and Olivia and Dash bellowing from the little locked cabin they’d been thrown in, it hadn’t been a restful night below deck.
Wren had emerged onto the deck before dawn, desperate for some peace.
The sailors on deck eyed her with a mixture of disdain and downright hostility, no doubt thinking these new charges were far more trouble than they were worth.
The wind gusted and Thom shivered, wrapping a thick navy blanket around his shoulders more tightly. It was the type that looked more scratchy than warm, but she supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers, now that they were as good as refugees.
“You still chilled? Should we go below?” Wren asked.
Thom’s face was pale, his hair gnarled and unkempt from his heroic plunge into the harbor’s frigid waters. “It’s more peaceful out here, but I should probably go inside. I just can’t seem to get warm.”
“I need you healthy,” Wren said, following him across the deck, washing down a bite of dry biscuit. Sweet caramel, the coffee was strong. Almost undrinkable. Did they just boil the grounds in the pot? “I still can’t believe you jumped in after him. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Neither did I,” Thom said. “We used to swim in Lake Viri a lot as kids, so I figured I wouldn’t drown. I just didn’t realize how blooming cold it would be.” After Thom had plunged after Dash, he had managed to right the unconscious man, holding him aloft in the dark water. A frenzied shouting match between Callidus and Rizio had resulted in a life ring being thrown down, secured under Dash’s armpits, and they had both been hauled up on board. They’d stripped off the men’s wet clothing and bundled them in blankets next to a stove in the captain’s cabin, where Wren and Callidus, after securely tying Dash, had rubbed the life back into the two men’s icy limbs.
“How’s Dash doing?” she asked.
“All right, I think. He’s mostly sitting in sullen silence, though he did thank me for saving him. Olivia...” Thom shook his head. “She’s another story.”
When they had added a warmed-up Dash to Olivia’s little cell in the lowest hold of the ship, Olivia had glared at them through angry red-rimmed eyes, calling Wren and Callidus traitors and thieves and worse. Wren hadn’t stuck around to hear more; it was too disconcerting to hear such vitriol coming from Olivia, normally such a sweet person.
“She seemed to have calmed down a little,” Thom said. “But she’s furious at us.”
“Do you think she’ll ever forgive us for stealing her away from the Guild?” Wren wondered out loud.
“I think so.” Thom coughed. “Once the infused bread wears off.”
Wren hoped he was right. “Shall we see if we can find Callidus?” Wren asked, searching for a change of subject as they plunged into the dark gloom of the hallways.
“If we must.” Thom let out a rueful laugh.
Their Guildmaster wasn’t hard to find. Raised voices sounded at the end of the narrow hallway, emanating from the Captain’s cabin.
Wren went first, knocking on the door with more confidence than she felt.
“What?” two stern voices barked from inside.
Wren and Thom exchanged a silent look of mirth. “They’re perfect for each other,” Thom whispered.
“It’s Wren and Thom,” she called.
Callidus appeared in the open doorway, his hair disheveled, dark smudges under his eyes.
“We were hoping to talk with you,” Wren said.
“About?”
“I don’t know, where we’re going, what we’re going to do with our prisoners...you know, our entire future?” Wren said, exasperated.
Callidus rolled his eyes but stepped aside, allowing them entry.
Rizio’s state room was the only place in the ship that had a little breathing space. The thick wooden paneling was painted white, and a soft rug with a Centu design of rolling waves cushioned their footsteps. A large bed was built into the back wall, which was lined with small leaden windowpanes.
Rizio stood at the small table in the corner, holding a mug identical to the one in Wren’s hand. “How are you feeling, Thomas?” Rizio asked, his dark eyes keen.
“Okay,” Thom said, slowly sidling towards the little stove in the other corner of the cabin.
“Ask my cook Nicolas to give you some hot broth. Take some to the other man, too. It’s important to keep your core temperature up. Exposure to the Piscator’s hallowed hall is no small thing.”
“So, where are we headed?” Wren asked.
“Centu,” Callidus said. “According to Rizio, there’s a small bay on one of the eastern islands that is well known for being an...off-the-record meeting area. It’s called Forgotten Bay.”
“I believe I called it a den of cutthroats and pirates,” Rizio said, settling into one of the little chairs and crossing his booted feet.
“Yes, well…” Callidus looked at him crossly. “Pike is there meeting with some of the Centese representatives. To see about them supporting an effort to retake Maradis.”
“Why don’t they just meet in Centa Kana? Isn’t that the capital?” Thom asked.
“The Apricans have spies everywhere,” Rizio said. “In every government. Going through unofficial channels is the only way we can talk without risking exposure.”
“How long till we get there?” Wren asked.
“Another day if the winds are fair,” Rizio replied.
“And Pike will be willing to meet with us?” Wren asked. After everything that had happened with Sable, she didn’t think anyone from the Confectioner’s Guild was a favorite of Pike’s right now.
“I believe so. You have assets to offer.”
Assets? Wren wrinkled her brow, doing a mental inventory. Their infused foods, gold, their wells...perhaps some contacts at other Guilds...it seemed a meager offering to secure Pike or the Centese government’s assistance. Callidus and Rizio were both staring, their dark eyes boring into her. “What?” she asked, stepping back inadvertently.
“Will you show Rizio the ring?” Callidus asked.
Oh. Rizio didn’t want the Guild or even her. He wanted Lucas Imbris, the missing heir to the Alesian throne. A legitimate face to lead their resistance. Her hands felt heavy as she lifted the chain from around her neck, slipping it over her head. The ring hung between them, swinging softly like a pendulum.
Rizio examined the ring, turning it over in his hands.
She knew what he was looking at; she’d memorized every inch of the ring by heart. A stylized falcon’s head grasping a milky white stone in its curved beak. On the band of the ring, the falcon’s
wings were etched, wrapping around each side. The falcon was the Imbris family crest. Lucas’s note had said that the ring would lead her to him. But Lucas must have been overestimating her prowess as a detective. To her, the ring seemed to be the most generic clue she could imagine.
“Interesting design,” Rizio said, handing it back to her. “Have you talked to the jeweler?”
“No. I have no idea who made it. It didn’t come with an instruction manual.”
“His mark is right on the inside,” Rizio said.
“What?” Wren asked.
She, Callidus, and Thom crowded closer, drawn like moths to a flame.
“I’ll show you.” He took the ring back and turned it over, pointing with his pinky to the inside of the ring, where the metalwork held the stone. “See this little leaf? It’s not just a decoration, it’s the craftsman’s mark. I don’t recognize it, but someone in the Forgotten Bay might. Actually, there’s a jeweler I know named Hiryo who might be able to help.”
Wren looked up, delighted. “That’s the first real clue we’ve gotten. Thank you!” Hope swelled in her. Lucas. Could it really be that simple? Find the craftsman, find Lucas. And if they could find Lucas, they would have a chance. To take back their city. And their lives.
Chapter 19
Hale’s pinky finger throbbed. Except it didn’t. Because it was gone. He couldn’t stop running his fingers over the bandage, over the emptiness where a finger once had been. It wasn’t the missing finger that bothered him, so much as the fear that Daemastra would decide he needed more precious parts.
Hale’s footsteps dragged as he headed towards the workshop. The place had taken on new meaning to him—its horrible secrets laid bare. He hadn’t been able to sleep at all last night, part for the throbbing in his hand, part for the realization of what those jars in the ice box were.
Do you know where magic comes from? Daemastra had said. It’s in your bones. How much bone would it take to produce a canning jar full of powder? A lot. More than a person could spare—and live. Hale’s mind rebelled at the thought, at the realization of who this man was. Who he now served. He should run. He should run and never look back. But he already had strange black lines creeping across his bicep, from the tiny red dot where Daemastra had stuck him. He needed the antidote if he wanted to live. And gods help him, for whatever reason, he wasn’t ready to let go of this flaming mess of a wreck he’d made of his life. He was too cowardly to die. So he dragged his feet, but he walked. Back into the lion’s den.
Voices sounded inside Daemastra’s workshop—raised voices. Angry voices. Hale slowed, pausing by the door. Daemastra’s calm, even tones contrasted with Willings, his words laced with panic and anger.
“Oosten is dead!” Willings said. Hale froze. Oosten, the huge guinea pig they’d tested their formula on?
“Did you perform the tests as I instructed?”
“Yes, of course. But you’re missing—”
“How did he perform?” Daemastra seemed as if he were speaking to a small child.
Willings let out a frustrated hiss. “He performed remarkably.”
“Good. Then the experiment was a success. We know the formula works.”
“The formula kills people,” Willings protested. “Are you going to drink that stuff? Because I sure as hell won’t.”
“The formula is missing a key ingredient,” Willings said. “Two, if I have my way, but only one that really matters. We need to make it permanent.”
“I thought it was permanent.”
“No.” Hale could almost hear Daemastra’s eye roll. “I told you. In its current form, the formula is only temporary. It puts a tremendous strain on the body and mind as it transforms it. When it returns to its weakened state...I thought it might be too much for some. We need the magic of time to make it permanent.”
Magic of time? Hale wondered. Which Guild was that?
“And do you have a plan for getting this last ingredient?”
“The Spicer’s Guild. One member in particular if my research is accurate, which it very usually is. The guild head.”
“You disbanded the Spicer’s Guild. They all fled the city,” Willings pointed out.
Daemastra clicked his tongue in frustration. “Well, that wasn’t my intent. I thought by disbanding them, they’d lose their legitimacy and we’d be able to scoop them up without questions. Unfortunately, they were craftier than I gave them credit for. A mistake I will not make again.”
“So where are they? Do you have a plan for getting this Gifted?”
“I am working on it. In the meantime, keep training our Golden Guard and preparing them for the transformation process. As soon as the formula is concocted, I want to be ready to administer it.”
“Very well,” Willings said, storming out of the room.
Willings started, almost running into Hale. Hale’s cheeks heated, as he had obviously been caught eavesdropping. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said lamely.
Willings only sneered at him. “Down in the mud with the rest of us, aren’t you, Firena? What would your precious Guild say if they saw you now?” He pushed past Hale, and Hale moved stiffly into the room, trying and failing to ignore how much Willings’s comment stung.
“Hale.” Daemastra smiled at him, flashing his too-white, too-straight teeth. A fleeting thought flashed through Hale’s mind as he wondered if Daemastra had stolen those teeth from poor Gifted, too. Was there any original part of this horrid man? Or was he a strange amalgamation? “How are you feeling?” Daemastra asked.
“I’ve got black running down my arm and I’m missing a finger, so I’ve been better,” Hale snapped. He was here. That needed to be enough for the man. He didn’t need to be polite too.
Daemastra’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes glittered dangerously. “Well, I can help one of those things.” He turned and retrieved a small vial from a cupboard. “Drink this,” he said, handing it to Hale.
Hale did as instructed. If the man wanted to kill him, he would have done it already. The liquid tasted bitter, like chewing raw dandelion leaves.
“Good. Now. About the sample I took from you,” Daemastra said.
Hale tensed.
“It wasn’t what I’m looking for. Your luck is...limited,” Daemastra twisted his too-smooth face.
Hale let out a bark of laughter. “You could have just asked. My magic only works on cards or dice.”
Daemastra nodded, frowning. “Helpful if you need a little extra coin, but that’s not what I’m looking for. The formula needs good luck that influences all situations. Who in the Confectioner’s Guild has such magic?”
Hale stilled.
Daemastra continued. “Need I remind you that if you don’t tell me, I can choose to withhold tomorrow’s antidote. And then I’ll just find out anyway.”
Hale licked his lips. They suddenly felt dry. “Wren,” he said softly.
“Of course. One of the three who have fled the city.”
“They’ve fled the city?” Hale’s eyebrows shot up. He tried to keep his features neutral, showing only surprise, not the relief that was welling deep within him.
“You didn’t know?” Daemastra seemed amused. “On the outs, are we? Well, yes. For now, they’re gone. But I have a feeling they’ll be back.”
Hale sent up a prayer to the Sower. It seemed like he had been doing that a lot the past few days. Pike and Wren were the two Gifted Daemastra needed to complete his formula.
Chickadee, he thought, wishing Wren could hear him, wherever she was. Stay far, far away.
Olivia had been trapped in this postage stamp cabin for an entire day. If she had to go another day, she thought she might lose her mind.
“You’re making me dizzy,” Dash said, lounging back on the hard bunk, his fingers intertwined behind his neck. “Come sit down.” He patted the bunk next to him.
Olivia sighed and plunked down by his feet, slumping over to rest her head in her hands. At least the company wasn’t entirely unple
asant. She supposed if you had to be trapped in a tiny cell on a rolling ship, doing it with a handsome Tamrosi man was the way to go.
“How are you feeling?” She leaned over, placing her hand against Dash’s temple. His skin had been flush when they’d first been brought to the cell, but the color seemed to have receded. “It seems like your fever’s gone down.”
Dash looked at her, his brown eyes like pools of molten chocolate. “I’m not sure. Perhaps you should keep checking.”
Her body flushed and she pulled her hand back.
Dash let out a husky laugh before scooting to a seat, leaning back against the wall of the cell. “I’ll live. Thanks to Thom, anyway. I’m healthy as a horse.”
“Good.” Silence fell over them, but it was warm, like a comfortable blanket. They’d spent the last day talking, sharing about their pasts and families, likes and dislikes. Their conversations had circled deeper—fears, dreams, hopes for the future. Everything Olivia learned about Dash made her soften to him more. He had been born the son of a blueberry farmer outside Terrasia, the Tamrosi capital. His father had died in the Red Plague two years earlier, and they’d had to sell the orchard in the following years to make ends meet. Dash had joined the Aprican army the next spring and sent the majority of his pay home to his mother and two younger sisters. He counted himself lucky that he’d never had to kill a man in battle, and he hoped he never would. He’d gotten the faint scar on his cheek from falling out of a hayloft at the age of seven. He hated pickles, he hummed lullabies in his sleep, and he had the edge of a tattoo peeking out from the cuff of his shirtsleeve that Olivia longed to see the rest of.
“Shall we play a game?” Dash asked.
“A game?” Olivia raised an eyebrow. “What kind?”
Dash stroked his beard, considering.
He had good hands—strong and broad, with neatly-trimmed nails and deft fingers. Olivia found herself watching his hands far too often. She scolded herself. If he caught her staring, she’d be mortified.
