The walks were filled with people coming and going from the long string of shops as they closed their doors for the day, carrying everything from baskets of apples to crates of iron remnants. The city would go to sleep until dawn, when the tradespeople would begin all over again, hauling their carts back down to the market or docks.
When I reached the largest pier on the water, I stopped before the grand double doors. They were still painted with the emblem of Holland, the gem merchant who’d been stripped of her ring, but the windows were black, the work that once went on between its walls ceased. Now, it stood at the entrance to the piers like a hollow cask.
The other buildings followed the shore. I studied their hand-painted signs with letters scratched and faded from the sea winds, making my way farther from the city’s center. The nearly illegible numbers jumped from three to seven to nine, and then up to fifteen, with seemingly no order to them. There wasn’t a single pier I could see with the number fourteen.
I grumbled a curse. If I couldn’t even find a pier on my own, there was little chance Henrik would trust me with anything else. And I wasn’t going to give Ezra more reason to argue with him about giving me the next job. The only way I was going to earn a stake in the family was by doing what I was told and doing it well.
I stood in the middle of the street, turning in a circle when a woman came around the corner with a long loaf of bread tucked beneath her arm. Her scrutinizing attention found my frock as she passed. I’d changed back into the simple purple one I’d worn that morning, but it was still too nice to be worn beyond the harbor and it was drawing attention.
“Excuse me.” I stepped forward and the woman instantly moved back, nearly hitting me with the bread. “Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I’m looking for pier fourteen.”
Her mouth went crooked with a frown. “Up there.” She nudged a shoulder toward the top of the next hill and kept walking.
I looked down at the piece of torn parchment in my hand, sighing. That couldn’t be right. If it was a pier, it should have been on the water, but the building at the top of the hill was in the opposite direction. Its chimney was blackened at the mouth, the roof shingles crumbling, and there were no windows to speak of.
I wove in and out of the people flooding down toward the street, turning to press myself against the nearest building when a caravan of carts piled with freshly shorn wool came barreling through. One of the wheels caught a groove in the cobblestones and I jumped to the side as a spray of mud splashed my skirts. I groaned, shaking them out and kicking the water from my boots.
The street narrowed into an alley and soon I found myself alone, the sun going down at my back. The streetlamps were still unlit, but the shop windows down the hill were filled with candlelight as the apprentices closed up.
A sound like a heartbeat echoed between the brick walls and I stopped, turning toward the water. It was the feeling I always had—like I was being watched. But the street was empty except for two women making their way down the hill. I waited another moment before I started again, keeping my steps quiet so I could listen more carefully. I didn’t know if it was the dimming light or the darkened windows overhead, but a chill crept up my spine and I was suddenly aware of just how bare the streets were. I was alone in a city I didn’t know, night falling by the minute. In another hour, it would be dark.
I swallowed hard, picking up my pace. Murrow hadn’t offered to come with me, and I hadn’t had the courage to ask him. Certainly not in front of Ezra. The last thing I needed was for any of the Roths to think I needed taking care of.
The sign hung from the northeast corner of the warehouse, the numbers one and four crudely etched into the metal with what looked like the tip of a blade. I’d never have seen it from the street, but I was beginning to realize that the buildings sprawled over the hill were probably all called piers, no matter their distance from the water below.
I tucked the parchment into the pocket of my skirt and followed the uneven cobblestones around the side of the building until I found a door. It was lined with iron rivets, no handle in sight. The cold iron stung my knuckles as I knocked, and I shook out my hand, watching the narrow alley behind me. There was no one, but I still had that feeling, as if someone’s eyes were following me.
When there was no answer, I knocked harder, and without warning, the door flung open, almost slamming into me. A thin man wearing a worn woolen cap stared down at me with an irritated look that turned inquisitive as his eyes adjusted. “Yes?”
My gaze went past him, into the dark warehouse, where there were rows of long tables lit with lanterns. From the acrid smell coming out, I guessed it was some kind of precious-metal workshop. Palladium, maybe. “I’m looking for Arthur.”
The man almost laughed, his hand slipping from the edge of the door. “Arthur?”
“That’s right,” I said, impatient. At the end of the alley, the streetlamps began flickering to life one by one.
He stared at me before he let the door close, leaving me standing out on the street. “Arthur!”
His voice echoed behind the walls and I stuck my cold hands into the pockets of my skirts, waiting. A workshop like this one would supply merchants like the watchmaker, refining metals before they were melted down for jewelry and other items. But I wasn’t here for silver or gold or palladium.
I pulled the small, folded envelope Henrik had given me from my pocket, turning it over. There was no inscription, and it wasn’t sealed. Inside there would be lists of ships that came and went from the harbor the week before and what was in their cargo holds. There were only three types of people who bought that kind of information: traders who wanted to know what was moving at each port, merchants who wanted to keep an eye on their competition, and people like the Roths, who were looking to take what wasn’t theirs. Arthur was one of probably dozens in Bastian paying the Roths for copies of the logs.
When the door opened again, a large man with a head of curling black hair appeared. He grimaced when he saw me, leaning on the doorframe with one shoulder. “Well, what is it?”
“Are you Arthur?”
His eyes swept the street behind me, as if he expected someone else to be there. “I am.”
I lifted the folded parchment into the air. “I’m here for pickup.”
I recited the words just as Henrik had told me to, but before they’d even finished leaving my mouth, Arthur’s expression shifted from annoyed to uneasy.
“What is this?” he growled.
“I’m…” My eyes went to the tables inside. “I’m here for payment. For Henrik Roth.”
He stared at me, as if deciding something. And before I realized he was moving, he’d pushed out into the street, nearly stepping on me. His gaze drifted from one corner of the alley to the next before he snatched up my arm by the wrist, yanking me forward. The log slipped from my fingers, landing in a puddle at my feet.
“What are you—” I tried to pull away, but his hand clamped down harder until pain was shooting up into my elbow. He shoved up the sleeve of my frock, tearing the tiny pearl button from where it was sewn.
“This some kind of joke?” He let me go and I stumbled backward, almost falling into the street. “A stunt by the harbor watch?” He turned toward the door, not waiting for an answer. “Get the hell out of here.”
I cradled my arm, watching the light on the street shrink as the door began to shut. But I wasn’t returning to my uncle empty-handed. Before I thought better of it, I caught the edge of door with one hand. “Wait.”
He whirled on me, his hand flying through the air so fast that I hardly saw it coming before it struck me across the face. My head whipped to the side and I hit the brick wall with my shoulder, gasping.
The explosion of pain in my mouth made me pinch my eyes closed and the taste of iron lit on my tongue. I tried to draw a shallow breath, and two footsteps sounded behind me, followed by the heavy door of the pier slamming shut.
Tears welled in my eyes as I looked up. I w
as alone in the alley. The steady, warm drip of blood streamed from my chin and I swallowed down the aching cry in my throat. My hands shook as I wiped at my mouth and when I looked down at the sleeve of my dress, the purple linen was stained almost black. The button at my wrist was gone where the man had torn my sleeve, a bright, red scratch trailing where his fingernail had scraped me.
The smooth, pale skin of my forearm was milk white in the darkness and a sinking, uneasy feeling settled in my gut when I realized what he’d been looking for. He was looking for the mark of the Roths.
SEVEN
I’d never been struck in my life. Not by anyone.
I stood before Henrik’s desk in his empty study, my eyes locked on the portrait that hung on the wall. The four Roth siblings looked down at me from the gilded frame, their mouths set in straight lines and their chins lifted. They looked as if they each belonged there side by side with the other members of the family. I wondered how long that had taken, what it had taken, to be true.
Murrow came through the door and handed me a damp, folded cloth that smelled of pungent vinegar. I’d heard him arguing with Sylvie in the kitchen, who was demanding to know who was bleeding.
I pressed the linen to my swollen lip, wincing. I could still taste blood despite the shot of rye Murrow had given me when I came through the door. It was as if he’d been waiting for me, sitting there at the table in the dining room with the bottle and a single glass.
We could hear his footsteps before the door of the workshop opened and Henrik appeared, his apron still tied around his middle. There wasn’t even the slightest flinch in his eyes as he looked at me.
“Bryn. You’re back,” he said, simply. As if my cut-up face was the most normal thing in the world. He patiently tugged at the strings of his apron and pulled it over his head, hanging it on the wall. “And? How did it go?”
The cloth fell from my mouth and I stared at the pink stain there before I looked from him to Murrow, stunned. I waited for some clue as to what I was supposed to say, but Murrow kept his attention on the fire flickering in the hearth.
“Bryn?” Henrik leaned into the desk with both hands. His eager eyes were on mine.
“I did what you said.” The cut in my lip pulled painfully as I spoke. “I asked for the payment and he told me to leave.”
“Yes?” Henrik pressed.
“When I insisted, the man … Arthur”—I swallowed—“he hit me when he saw I had no mark.”
Henrik straightened and crossed his arms over his chest, his bottom lip protruding in thought. “I see.”
“I didn’t get the payment,” I said, dropping the cloth to the desk and bracing myself for his disappointment. This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. There was no way for me to earn my stake in the family if Henrik didn’t trust me, and I’d botched one of the first tasks he’d given me.
The wrinkle cast across Henrik’s forehead deepened, as if he was confused. “Oh, don’t worry about that.” He waved a dismissive hand in the air.
I tried to read him. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look surprised. If I didn’t know better, I would have said there was a sparkle in his eye. A glimmer of dancing light. My head was aching and my jaw throbbing, but more unsettling than the memory of the man in the alley or the pain in my mouth was the expression on my uncle’s face. He looked almost … pleased.
Again, my gaze trailed to Murrow. This time, he managed a quick glance in my direction, but still, he said nothing. His eyes went past me and I looked over my shoulder to see Ezra standing silent in the corner of the study. He was half-wrapped in shadow, his coal-colored suit making him look like he was folded into the darkness.
I swallowed hard, a sudden chill creeping over my skin. I hadn’t even heard him come in.
His jacket was buttoned, one foot crossed over the other as he watched us. Black eyes flitted over me, to Henrik, but he didn’t speak.
“Would you like me to have Sylvie look at that for you?” Henrik said, finally acknowledging my face.
I blinked, turning back to him. His attention dropped to my lip for a fleeting moment, but he seemed wholly uninterested despite the offer.
“No,” I said, too quickly. Too sharply. There was some scheme at play here that I didn’t understand. It was evident in how the three of them looked at each other. But I couldn’t tell which side of it I was on.
“Thank you, Bryn,” Henrik said, sincerely. “You’ve been very helpful.”
I stared at him, trying to make sense of the hollow words, pulling them apart and putting them back together in different arrangements. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected when I walked into the house with blood on my skirts, but it wasn’t this.
“Helpful?” I repeated. Beside me, Murrow shifted on his feet. “The man hit me.”
Temper, Bryn. Sariah’s warning echoed in my mind again. My hands fisted at my sides and I swallowed down the curse on my tongue.
“Yes, that really is unfortunate.” Henrik tsked. “I do wish that hadn’t needed to happen.”
I didn’t miss the way he said it. Not I wish that hadn’t happened. He’d said, I wish that hadn’t needed to happen.
The number of questions I had was growing by the minute, but there were no answers in Henrik’s icy gaze as he surveyed me.
“Murrow, you’ve got work to do, I think,” he said, lifting a finger to the door behind him.
Murrow answered with a silent nod, turning on his heel and dismissing himself. His footsteps trailed down the hallway until the door to the street opened and closed. It was well after dark, so I didn’t know where he could be going. The only places open at this hour were the haunts of trading crews docked for the night.
“You best get up to bed. Sleep will do you some good.” Henrik’s attempt at gentleness fell short. It was missing any semblance of concern or warmth. He was ordering me to my room again.
Maybe he was disappointed in me. Or maybe he was thinking he’d made a mistake by asking me to go to the pier in the first place. Either way, I’d failed his test and I didn’t want to know what I’d have to do to make up for it.
I stared at him for another moment before I finally snatched the bloody cloth up from the desk. I flung the door to the study open with the burn of Ezra’s gaze following me, but my uncle’s voice made me stop short.
“And Bryn?” Henrik’s voice cut into the silence.
I turned, clenching my teeth painfully to keep from speaking.
My uncle’s gaze dropped to my feet. “Please do something about those boots,” he said, each word like the swing of a hammer.
I gaped at him, no longer needing to swallow down the curse that sat on the tip of my tongue. I was completely speechless.
I’d been taught to deal with men. How to charm them. How to persuade them. I’d been doing it for my great-aunt for years. But this man was something entirely different. He was so tangled in knots, I realized, that there may be no unraveling him.
He gave me a nod, as if allowing me to go, and I stepped out into the dark hallway, forcing one foot in front of the other until I reached the stairs. I paused midstride halfway up when I heard his voice again, going still. My hand clutched the railing and I slowed my breath, leaning into the wall as I listened. But the sound was muffled, distorted by the wind rattling the windows upstairs.
I took a careful step backward, and another, until I was at the bottom of the stairwell. Sylvie was still shuffling around in the kitchen and the glow from Henrik’s office bled out into the hallway. I could see his shadow rippling over the worn, uneven floorboards.
“… by morning. Should do the trick.” Henrik was speaking to Ezra now.
I took another step, my eyes searching the darkness as I listened. The sound of a drawer sliding open and shut in his desk, the tap of his pipe as he emptied the chamber.
“How’d she do?” he rasped.
“Fine,” Ezra answered.
“Fine?” Henrik was growing impatient again. Annoyed, even.
His deep voice was like a hot iron as the words sank in. He said it as if he was reporting what he’d seen. As if he’d been there.
Frost filled my veins, my heart beating so loud in my chest that it was difficult to hear over the heavy thrum. That presence I’d felt in the alley had been real. Someone had been watching. Ezra.
“Arthur checked her for the mark and when he didn’t see it, he figured it was a trap. Said something about the harbor watch, and when she tried to stop him, he struck her.” The words went on, making the walls of the stairwell feel as if they were closing in.
He had been there. Ezra had been there, watching. And he’d done nothing. Even more unsettling was that Henrik knew. It almost sounded like it had been planned.
“I want you working on the collection night and day. I want it done in time for the exhibition.”
The exhibition.
Slowly, the thoughts came together. The exhibition was the last step in the process of securing a merchant’s ring. There were only a certain number of rings in each guild and they only became available when a merchant died or was denounced. It was a rare opportunity, with a strict set of rules. Anyone vying for an available ring first had to secure a patron—an existing merchant who put you forth as a candidate. Then, the candidates submitted a collection to the guild, who would vote on who received the ring.
Henrik had a merchant’s ring to trade in the Narrows. Now he wanted one for the Unnamed Sea. But what did that have to do with a precious-metal smith on the other side of the harbor? What did it have to do with me?
“I told you, didn’t I?” Henrik said, a sudden, arrogant lightness in his tone.
There was a long pause. “You did.”
The frost turned to sharp, brittle ice and the sight of the firelight wavered as my eyes filled with furious tears. Henrik had known exactly what he was doing when he sent me to the pier. He’d sent me to Arthur for exactly this purpose. But why?
The Last Legacy Page 5
