A Darker Shade of Magic

by Victoria Schwab

  He tried to focus, to think. He’d promised Rhy … but it was only a letter. And technically, under the laws set out by the crowns of all three Londons, letters were a necessary exemption from the rule of no transference. Sure, they only meant letters between the crowns themselves, but still …

  “I can pay you in advance,” she pressed. “You needn’t come back to close the deal. This is the last and only letter. Please.” She dug in her pocket and retrieved a small parcel wrapped in cloth, and before Kell could say yes or no, she pushed the note and payment both into his hands. A strange feeling shot through him as the fabric of the parcel met his skin. And then the woman was pulling away.

  Kell looked down at the letter, an address penned onto the envelope, and then to the parcel. He went to unwrap it, and the woman shot forward and caught his hand.

  “Don’t be a fool,” she whispered, glancing around the alley. “They’ll cut you for a coin in these parts.” She folded his fingers over the package. “Not here,” she warned. “But it’s enough, I swear. It must be.” Her hands slipped away. “It’s all I can give.”

  Kell frowned down at the object. The mystery of it was tempting, but there were too many questions, too many pieces that didn’t make sense, and he looked up and started to refuse. …

  But there was no one to refuse.

  The woman was gone.

  Kell stood there, at the mouth of the Scorched Bone, feeling dazed. What had just happened? He’d finally mustered the resolve to make no deals, and the deal had come to him. He stared down at the letter and the payment, whatever it was. And then, in the distance, someone screamed, and the sound jarred Kell back to the darkness and the danger. He shoved the letter and parcel both into the pocket of his coat, and drew his knife across his arm, trying to ignore the dread that welled with his blood as he summoned the door home.

  V

  BLACK STONE

  I

  The silver jingled in Lila’s pocket as she made her way back to the Stone’s Throw.

  The sun had barely set on the city, but she’d already managed a fair take that day. It was risky, picking pockets by anything but night—especially with her particular disguise, which required a blurred eye or low light—but Lila had to shoulder the risk if she was going to rebuild. A map and a silver watch did not a ship buy or a fortune make.

  Besides, she liked the weight of coins in her pocket. They sang like a promise. Added swagger to her step. A pirate without a ship, that’s what she was, through and through. And one day, she’d have the ship, and then she’d sail away and be done with this wretched city once and for all.

  As Lila strolled down the cobblestones, she began making a mental list (as she often did) of all the things she’d need to be a proper privateer. A pair of good leather sea boots, for one. And a sword and scabbard, of course. She had the pistol, Caster—beauty that it was—and her knives, all sharp enough to cut, but every pirate had a sword and scabbard. At least the ones she’d met … and the ones she’d read about in books. Lila had never had much time for reading, but she could read—it was a good skill for a thief, and she turned out to be a quick study—and on the occasion that she nicked books, she nicked only the ones about pirates and adventures.

  So, a pair of good boots, a sword, and scabbard. Oh, and a hat. Lila had the black, broad-brim one, but it wasn’t very flashy. Didn’t even have a feather, or a ribbon, or—

  Lila passed a boy perched on a stoop a few doors shy of the Stone’s Throw, and slowed, her thoughts trailing off. The boy was ragged and thin, half her age and as dirty as a chimney broom. He was holding out his hands, palms skyward, and Lila reached into her pocket. She didn’t know what made her do it—good spirits, maybe, or the fact that the night was young—but she dropped a few coppers into the kid’s cupped hands as she walked by. She didn’t stop, didn’t talk, and didn’t acknowledge his thanks, but she did it all the same.

  “Careful now,” said Barron when she reached the tavern steps. She hadn’t heard him come out. “Someone might think you’ve got a heart under all that brass.”

  “No heart,” said Lila, pulling aside her cloak to reveal the holstered pistol and one of her knives. “Just these.”

  Barron sighed and shook his head, but she caught the edge of a smile, and behind it, something like pride. It made her squirm.

  “Got anything to eat?” she asked, toeing the step with her worn-out boot.

  He tipped his head toward the door, and she was about to follow him inside for a pint and a bowl of soup—she could spare that much coin, if he’d take it—when she heard a scuffle behind her. She turned to see a cluster of street rats—three of them, no older than she was—hustling the ragged boy. One of the rats was fat and one of them was skinny and one of them was short, and all of them were obviously scum. Lila watched as the short one barred the boy’s path. The fat one shoved him up against the wall. The skinny one snatched the copper coins from his fingers. The boy barely fought back. He just looked down at his hands with a kind of grim resignation. They had been empty moments before, and they were empty again.

  Lila’s fists clenched as the three thugs vanished down a side road.

  “Lila,” warned Barron.

  They weren’t worth the work, Lila knew that. She robbed from the rich for a reason: they had more to steal. These boys probably didn’t have anything worth taking besides what they’d already picked off of the boy in the street. A few coins Lila obviously hadn’t minded parting with. But that wasn’t the point.

  “I don’t like that look,” said Barron when she didn’t come inside.

  “Hold my hat.” She thrust the top hat into his hands, but reached in as she did and pulled the nested disguise from its depths.

  “They’re not worth it,” he said. “And in case you didn’t notice, there were three of them, and one of you.”

  “So little faith,” she said, snapping the soft broad-brim hat into form. “And besides, it’s the principle of the thing, Barron.”

  The tavern owner sighed. “Principle or not, Lila, one of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “Would you miss me?” she asked.

  “Like an itch,” he shot back.

  She gave him the edge of a grin and tied the mask over her eyes. “Look after the kid,” she said, pulling the brim of the hat down over her face. Barron grunted as she hopped down from the step.

  “Hey, you,” she heard Barron calling to the boy huddled on the nearby stoop, still staring at his empty hands. “Come over here. …”

  And then she was off.

  II

  7 Naresk Vas.

  That was the address written on the envelope.

  Kell had sobered considerably, and decided to go straight to the point of delivery and be done with the peculiar business of the letter. Rhy need never know. Kell would even drop the trinket—whatever it was—in his private room at the Ruby Fields before heading back to the palace so that he could, in good conscience, return empty-handed.

  It seemed like a good plan, or at least, like the best of several bad ones.

  But as he reached the corner of Otrech and Naresk, and the address on the paper came into sight, Kell slowed, and stopped, and then took two steps sideways into the nearest shadow.

  Something was wrong.

  Not in an obvious way, but under his skin, in his bones.

  Naresk Vas looked empty, but it wasn’t.

  That was the thing about magic. It was everywhere. In everything. In everyone. And while it coursed like a low and steady pulse, through the air and the earth, it beat louder in the bodies of living things. And if Kell tried—if he reached—he could feel it. It was a sense, not as strong as sight or sound or smell, but there all the same, its presence now drifting toward him from the shadows across the street.

  Which meant that Kell was not alone.

  He held his breath and hung back in the alley, eyes fixed on the address across the street. And then, sure enough, he saw something move. A h
ooded figure hovered in the dark between 7 and 9 Naresk Vas. Kell couldn’t see anything about him except the glint of a weapon at his side.

  For a second, Kell—still a little off from his time with the Danes—thought it might be Olivar, the man whose letter he was holding. But it couldn’t be Olivar. The woman said the man was dying, and even if he were well enough to meet Kell on the street, he couldn’t know to meet him there, not when Kell himself had only just accepted the task. Which meant it wasn’t Olivar. But if it wasn’t him, who was it?

  Danger prickled at the edges of Kell’s skin.

  He dragged the letter from his pocket, studying the address, then held his breath as he broke the seal and pulled the letter free. He bit back a curse.

  Even in the dark, he could see that the paper was blank.

  Nothing but a piece of folded parchment.

  Kell’s mind reeled. He’d been set up.

  If they—whoever they were—weren’t after the letter, then …

  Sanct. Kell’s hand went to the parcel still in his pocket. The payment. When his fingers curled around the folded cloth, that strange sensation ran up his arm again. What had he taken?

  What had he done?

  Just then, the shadow across the street looked up.

  The paper in Kell’s hand had caught the lantern light, just for a moment, but a moment was all it took. The shadow charged forward toward Kell.

  And Kell turned, and ran.

  III

  Lila trailed the group of thugs through the winding London streets, waiting for them to go their separate ways. Barron was right: the odds weren’t great against all three, but she had her sights set on one. And as the three broke into two and the two at last diverged, she followed her mark.

  It was the thin one she was after, the rat who’d taken the coins off skin-and-bones back on the step. She hugged the shadows as she trailed him through the maze of narrowing roads, the stolen copper rattling in his pocket, a sliver of wood between his teeth. Finally, he turned off down an alley, and Lila slipped after, unheard, unseen, unnoticed.

  As soon as they were alone, she closed the gap between them in a single stride and brought her knife up to the skinny rat’s throat, pressing down hard enough to draw blood.

  “Empty the pockets,” she growled in a husky voice.

  He didn’t move. “Yer making a mistake,” he said, shifting the wooden pick in his mouth.

  She shifted her grip so the knife bit into his throat. “Am I?”

  And then she heard the shuffle of steps rushing up behind her and ducked just in time to dodge a fist. Another one of the rats stood there, the short sod, one meaty hand clenched, the other gripping a metal bar. And then, an instant later, the fat one finally caught up, red-cheeked and breathless.

  “It’s you,” he said, and for an instant Lila thought he recognized her. Then she realized he recognized the sketch in the WANTED ad. “The Shadow Thief.”

  The skinny one spit out his chewing stick and broke into a grin. “Looks like we caught ourselves a prize, gents.”

  Lila hesitated. She knew she could win against one street rat, and thought she might even be able to win against two, but three? Maybe, if they’d stand still, but they kept shifting so she couldn’t see all of them at once. She heard the snick of a switchblade, the tap of the metal bar against the street stones. She had the gun in her holster and the knife in her hand, and another in her boot, but she wouldn’t be fast enough to level all three boys.

  “Did the poster say dead or alive?” asked the short one.

  “You know, I don’t think it specified,” said the skinny one, wiping the blood from his throat.

  “I think it said dead,” added the fat one.

  “Even if it said alive,” reasoned the skinny one, “I don’t suppose they’d mind if he were missing pieces.” He lunged for her and she lunged away, accidentally stepping into the fat one’s reach. He grabbed for her and she slashed, drawing blood before the short one got his hands on her. But when his arms circled her chest, she felt his grip stiffen.

  “What’s this now?” he hissed. “Our boy’s a—”

  Lila didn’t wait. She slammed her boot into his foot, hard, and he gasped and let go. Only an instant, but it was enough for Lila to do the thing she knew she had to do, the one thing she hated to do.

  She ran.

  IV

  Kell could hear the footsteps, first one set and then two and then three—or maybe the third was just the pumping of his heart—as he raced through the alleys and side streets. He didn’t stop, didn’t breathe, not until he reached the Ruby Fields. Fauna met his gaze as he passed within, her grey brow furrowing—he almost never came by the front door—but she didn’t stop him, didn’t ask. The footsteps had fallen away a few blocks back, but he still checked the markings on the stairs as he climbed toward the room at the top, and on the room’s door—charms bound to the building itself, to wood and stone, designed to keep the room hidden from all eyes but his.

  Kell shut the door and sagged back against the wood as candles flickered to life around the narrow room.

  He’d been set up, but by who? And for what?

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he needed to, and so he dragged the stolen parcel from his pocket. It was wrapped in a swatch of faded grey fabric, and when he unfolded the cloth, a rough-cut stone tumbled out into his palm.

  It was small enough to nest in a closed fist, and as black as Kell’s right eye, and it sang in his hand, a low, deep vibration that called on his own power like a tuning fork. Like to like. Resonating. Amplifying. His pulse quickened.

  Part of him wanted to drop the stone. The other part wanted to grip it tighter.

  When Kell held it up to the candlelight, he saw that one side was jagged, as if broken, but the other was smooth, and on that smooth face a symbol glowed faintly.

  Kell’s heart lurched when he saw it.

  He’d never seen the stone before, but he recognized the mark.

  It was written in a language few could speak and fewer still could use. A language that ran through his veins with his blood and pulsed in his black eye.

  A language he had come to think of simply as Antari.

  But the language of magic hadn’t always belonged to Antari alone. No, there were stories. Of a time when others could speak directly to magic (even if they couldn’t command it by blood). Of a world so bonded to power that every man, woman, and child became fluent in its tongue.

  Black London. The language of magic had belonged to them.

  But after the city fell, every relic had been destroyed, every remnant in every world forcibly erased as part of a cleansing, a purge—a way to ward against the plague of power that had devoured it.

  That was the reason there were no books written in Antari. What few texts existed now were piecemeal, the spells collected and transcribed phonetically and passed down, the original language eradicated.

  It made him shiver now, to see it drawn as it was meant to be, not in letters, but in rune.

  The only rune he knew.

  Kell possessed a single book on the Antari tongue, entrusted to him by his tutor, Tieren. It was a leather journal filled with blood commands—spells that summoned light or darkness, encouraged growth, broke enchantments—all of them sounded out and explained, but on its cover, there was a symbol.

  “What does it mean?” he’d asked the tutor.

  “It’s a word,” explained Tieren. “One that belongs to every world and none. It is the word for ‘magic.’ It refers to its existence, and its creation. …” Tieren brought a finger to the rune. “If magic had a name, it would be this,” he said, tracing the symbol’s lines. “Vitari.”

  Now Kell ran his thumb over the stone’s rune, the word echoing in his head.

  Vitari.

  Just then, footsteps fell on the stairs, and Kell stiffened. No one should be able to see those stairs, let alone use them, but he could hear the boots. How had they followed him here?

&n
bsp; And that’s when Kell saw the pattern on the swatch of pale fabric that had once been wrapped around the stone and now lay unfolded on his bed. There were symbols scrawled across it. A tracing spell.

  Sanct.

  Kell shoved the stone in his pocket and lunged for the window as the small door behind him burst open violently. He mounted the sill and jumped out, and down, hitting the street below hard and rolling to his feet as the intruders came crashing into his room.

  Someone had set him up. Someone wanted him to bring a forbidden relic out of White London and into his city.

  A figure leaped through the window in his wake, and Kell spun to face the shadows on his heels. He expected two of them, but found only one. The hooded stranger slowed, and stopped.

  “Who are you?” demanded Kell.

  The shadow didn’t answer him. It strode forward, reaching for the weapon at its hip, and in the low alley light Kell saw an X scarred the back of his hand. The mark of cutthroats and traitors. A knife-for-hire. But when the man drew his weapon, Kell froze. It was no rusted dagger, but a gleaming half-sword, and he knew the sigil on its hilt. The chalice and rising sun. The symbol of the royal family. It was the blade wielded by members of the royal guard. And only by them.

  “Where did you get that?” growled Kell, anger rolling through him.

  The cutthroat flexed his fingers around his half-sword. It began to glow dully, and Kell tensed. The swords of the royal guards weren’t just beautiful or sharp; they were enchanted. Kell himself had helped create the spellwork that ran through the metal, spellwork that dampened a magician’s power with only one cut. The blades were designed to put a stop to conflicts before they began, to remove the threat of magical retaliation. Because of their potential, and the fear of that potential in the wrong hands, the royal guards were told to keep the blade on them at all times. If one of them had lost their sword, they’d likely lost their life as well.

  “Sarenach,” said the cutthroat. Surrender. The command caught Kell by surprise. Knives-for-hire took loot and blood, not prisoners.