by V. E. Schwab
“I can imagine.” Kell wanted to tell Hastra that he was wasted here. That his talent was far too precious to be thrown away in favor of a sword and some armor. But then, if a person’s value alone should determine their place, what argument did Kell have for wanting more?
“But that’s just because they don’t know,” continued Hastra sunnily. “They probably think I’m doing street patrol in the sha. They’ll be proud, when they hear I’m guarding you, sir. Besides, I made a deal with my father,” he added. “I’ll join the sanctuary, eventually. But I’ve wanted to be a royal guard as long as I can remember. I knew I wouldn’t be happy, not until I tried. Can’t think of a worse thing, than wondering what would have been. So I thought, why not have both? The sanctuary will still have me, when I’m good and ready.”
“And if you die before then?”
Hastra’s cheery mood didn’t dampen. “Then someone else will get my gift. And hopefully they’ll be less stubborn. That’s what my mother says.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I tend the courtyards, though, when no one’s looking.”
Kell smiled. The palace grounds had looked suspiciously lush, for this time of year. Hastra straightened, his gaze flicking to the stairs. “We should go—”
“We still have time,” Kell assured him, getting to his feet.
“How do you know?” asked Hastra. “We can’t hear the bells down here, and there are no windows to gauge the light.”
“Magic,” said Kell, and then, when Hastra’s eyes widened, he gestured to the hourglass sitting on the table with his other tools. “And that.”
There was still sand in the glass, and Kell wasn’t ready to face the world above just yet. “Let’s go again.”
Hastra took up his position. “Yes, sir.”
“Call me Kamerov,” said Kell, slipping the helmet back over his head.
IV
Sessa Av!
The words ran across the tops of the scrying boards throughout London.
Two days!
The city was counting down.
Two days until the Essen Tasch!
Two days, and Lila Bard had a problem.
She’d hoped there’d be an obvious chink in the system, a way to threaten or bribe her way onto the tournament roster, or snag a wild card spot, but apparently the champions had all been chosen weeks ago. There were twelve names on that list, and two alternates, which meant if Lila Bard wanted a chance to play—and she did—she was going to have to steal a name.
Lila had nicked plenty of things in her time, but an identity wasn’t one of them. Sure, she’d taken up pseudonyms, played a variety of made-up parts, but she’d never impersonated anyone real.
And of course, she couldn’t simply impersonate them. She’d have to replace them.
Not worth it, warned a voice in her head, that pesky, pragmatic one that sounded too much like Kell. Maybe it was madness. Maybe she should just take her place in the stands and cheer for her captain, earn a few extra coins in the betting pools. It wouldn’t be an unpleasant way to spend the week. And after all, what place did she have in the ring? She’d only been practicing a few months.
But.
There was that one word, lodged in her skin like a splinter.
But.
But she was restless.
But she wanted a thrill.
But it would be a challenge.
And when it came to magic, Lila wasn’t just a quick study. She was a natural.
Master Tieren had told her months ago that something powerful lay inside her, waiting to be woken. Well, Lila had poked it with a stick, and it was wide awake—a living, humming thing as restless as she was.
And restlessness had always made her reckless.
Still, there was that pesky matter of the roster.
Lila had spent the day wandering Red London, learning everything she could about the Essen Tasch and its competitors. She’d passed enough time in taverns and brothels and public houses to know where you were most likely to find answers to questions without ever asking. Sure, you could always garnish pockets, but often if you sat in one place long enough, you’d learn more than anyone you paid would tell you. And everyone seemed to be talking about the tournament.
Alucard, apparently, was one of the Arnesian favorites, along with a woman named Kisimyr, the tournament’s previous victor, and a man named Jinnar. But names were names. She needed to see the lineup before they took the stage. If there were no good marks, she told herself, she would let it go, stick to the stands with the rest of the crew. If there were no good marks. But she had to see. Had to know.
Frustrated, Lila finished her drink and pushed off her stool and headed back to the inn.
Somewhere on the way, her feet changed course, and by the time she focused on where she was, she found herself standing across the main road from the royal palace, staring up. She wasn’t surprised. All day her legs had been tugging her here. All day she’d found her gaze drifting to the gleaming structure.
Go in, said a voice.
Lila snorted. What would she do? Walk up the front steps? She’d done it once before, but that had been as a guest, with a stolen invitation. The doors had been cast open then, but now they were closed, a dozen guards in polished armor and red capes standing sentinel.
What would she say to them? I’m here to see the black-eyed prince. Her English might get her through the front door, but then what? Would the king and queen recognize her as the scrawny girl who’d helped Kell save their city? Lila suspected Rhy would remember her. She found herself warming at the thought of the prince—not as he was under the control of Astrid Dane, or bleeding to death on a sanctuary cot, but after, surrounded by pillows, dark circles below his amber eyes. Tired and kind and flirting through the pain.
And Kell?
How fared the black-eyed prince? Would he welcome her in? Hand her a drink and ask after her travels, or frown and ask if she was ready to leave, return to her own world where she belonged?
Lila squinted up in the dusk—the high balconies of the palace reduced to haloes of light in the cold evening—and thought she could make out a shadow standing on one of the tallest patios. It was too far to tell, that distance where everything was reduced to vague shapes, and the mind could twist them into anything. Still, the shadow seemed to curl over before her eyes, as if leaning on the rail, and in that moment the smudge of darkness became a magician in a high-collared coat. Lila stood and watched until the shape dissolved, swallowed up by the thickening night.
Her attention drifted down and landed on a pair of elegant black scrying boards that rose like columns before the palace steps. Months ago, Kell’s face had shown up on these, first with the word missing at the top, and later with the word wanted. Now the ghostly chalk announced a variety of events in the hours leading up to the tournament itself—damn, there were a lot of parties—but one in particular caught her eye. Something called Is Gosar Noche.
The Banner Night.
She caught sight of the notice just before the board erased itself, and had to stand there for ten minutes waiting for the message to cycle back around. When it did, she read as quickly as she could, trying to make sense of the Arnesian script.
From what she could tell, competitors from all three empires were being summoned to the palace the following night—the night before the tournament—for a royal reception. And to select their banner, whatever that meant.
Wasn’t this what she’d wanted?
An excuse to walk right into the Red Palace.
All she needed was a name.
The bells rang, and Lila swore under her breath. A whole day gone, she thought grimly as she trudged back to the Wandering Road, and no closer to her goal.
“There you are,” said the captain’s voice as soon as she stepped inside.
A handful of Alucard’s men were gathered in the front room. They weren’t dressed for the ship or the dock or the tavern inn. Tav, Stross, and Vasry wore fine hooded half-cloaks that gathered at the wris
ts, collar and cuff fastened with polished silver clasps. Alucard himself was dressed in an elegant coat, midnight blue with silver lining, his curls clasped back beneath a hat that dipped and curved like the sea. One hand rested on the hilt of his short sword, the silver feather ring glinting in the low light. Aside from the sapphire still sparkling in his right brow, he didn’t look like the casero of the Night Spire. And yet, if he didn’t look like a pirate, he didn’t look entirely like a princeling, either. He looked polished, but also sharp, like a well-kept knife.
“Where have you been, Bard?”
She shrugged. “Exploring.”
“We nearly left without you.”
Her brow crinkled. “Where are you going?”
Alucard flashed a grin. “To a party,” he said. Only the word for party in Arnesian wasn’t that simple. Lila was learning that so many Arnesian words had meanings that shifted to fit their context. The word Alucard used was the broadest: tasura, which meant party, or event, or function, or gathering, and whose meaning ranged from celebratory to nefarious.
“I hate parties,” she said, heading for the stairs.
But Alucard wasn’t so easily dissuaded. He caught up, and took her elbow—gingerly, and only for an instant, as he knew how dangerous it was to touch Lila when she didn’t want to be touched. “This one I think you’ll enjoy,” he murmured in English.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I know how fascinated you are by the upcoming games.”
“And?”
“And it’s an unofficial tradition,” he said, “for the local competitors to share a drink before the tournament begins.” Lila’s interest sharpened. “It’s a bit of posturing, I admit,” he added, gesturing to the others, “but I was hoping you would come.”
“Why me?”
“Because it’s a chance to size up the competition,” said Alucard. “And you’ve got the sharpest eyes,” he added with a wink.
Lila tried to hide her excitement. “Well,” she said. “If you insist.”
Alucard smiled and produced a silver scarf from his pocket.
“What’s this for?” she asked as he tied it loosely around her throat.
“Tonight you’re part of my entourage.”
Lila laughed outright, a biting sound that stung the other men. “Your entourage.” What next? She wondered. Squire?
“Think of it as the name for a crew on land.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to call you Master,” she said, adjusting the knot.
“Saints, no, that word has no place except in bed. And Lord makes my skin crawl. Captain will do.” He gestured at the waiting men. “Shall we?”
Lila’s smile sharpened as she nodded at the door. “Lead the way, Captain.”
* * *
The sign above the tavern door said Is Casnor Ast.
The Setting Sun.
Lila’s steps slowed, then stopped. It was the strangest thing, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she’d been there before. She hadn’t, of course. She’d only stayed in Red London a few days after the ordeal with the Danes before taking up with the Spire’s crew—just long enough to heal and answer questions—and been confined to the palace the entire time.
But standing there, on the threshold, the place felt so familiar. When she closed her eyes, she almost felt like she was at … it couldn’t be. Lila blinked, and looked around at the surrounding streets, trying to layer the image of this city on top of another, the one she’d lived in her entire life. And as the images merged, she realized that she knew exactly where she was. Where she would be. On this corner, back in Grey London, the exact same distance from the river, stood another tavern, one she knew too well.
The Stone’s Throw.
What were the odds? Taverns were as plentiful as problems, but two occupying the same exact place? Even from the outside, they looked nothing alike, and yet this place tugged on her bones with the same peculiar gravity she’d always felt back home. Home. She’d never thought of the Stone’s Throw that way when she was there, but now it was the only word that fit. Only it wasn’t the building she longed for. Not really.
She thrust her hand into her pocket, and curled her fingers around the silver pocket watch that hung like a weight in the bottom of the silk-lined fold.
“Kers la, Bard?”
She looked up, and realized that Alucard was holding the door open for her. She shook her head.
“Skan,” she said. Nothing.
Stepping inside, the power hit her in a wave. She couldn’t see magic as Alucard did, but she could still feel it, filling the air like steam as it wafted off the gathered magicians. Not all the competitors traveled with a full entourage. Some—like the tan woman on the back wall, her black hair twisted into ropes and studded with gold—were the center of their own universe, while others sat in small groups or wandered the room alone, an aura of power drifting in their wake.
Meanwhile, the déjà vu continued. She did her best to shake it off and focus. After all, she wasn’t just here to be part of Alucard’s tableau. There was the issue of finding a mark, of performing her own little magic trick. The tavern was full of magicians, and Delilah Bard was going to make one of them disappear.
Someone boomed a greeting to Alucard, and the entourage came to a halt as the two clasped wrists. Tav went to round up drinks, while Stross surveyed the room with keen appraisal. She guessed he’d been brought along for the same reason she had, to size up the competition.
Vasry, meanwhile, eyed the room as if it were a feast.
“That’s the reigning champion, Kisimyr,” he whispered to Lila in Arnesian as the woman with the roped hair strode toward Alucard, boots ringing out on the worn wood floor. The man who’d greeted Alucard retreated a few steps as she approached.
“Emery,” she said with a feline grin and a heady accent. “You really don’t know how to stay out of trouble.” She wasn’t from London. She was speaking Royal, but her words all ran together—not in the serpentine way of the Faroan tongue, more like she’d hacked off all the edges and taken out the space between. She had a low, resonant voice, and when she spoke, it sounded like rumbling thunder.
“Not when trouble is more fun,” said Alucard with a bow. Kisimyr’s grin widened as the two fell to quiet conversation—there was something sharp about that grin, and paired with the rest of her face, the slanted brow and straight-on gaze, it read like a taunt. A challenge. The woman exuded confidence. Not arrogance, exactly—that was usually unfounded, and everything about Kisimyr said she’d just love an excuse to show you what she could do.
Lila liked that, found herself mimicking the features, wondering what kind of whole they’d add up to on her own face.
She didn’t know if she wanted to fight the woman or be her friend, but she certainly wouldn’t be replacing her. Lila’s attention shifted, trailing across a pair of brawny figures, and a very pretty girl in blue with cascades of dark hair, not to mention a fair number of curves. No good matches there. She continued to scan the room as Alucard’s entourage made its way toward a corner booth.
Kisimyr had retreated into the folds of her own group, and she was talking to a young, dark-skinned man beside her. He was fine-boned and wiry, with bare arms and gold earrings running the length of both ears to match the ones in Kisimyr’s.
“Losen,” said Alucard softly. “Her protégé.”
“Will they have to compete against each other?”
He shrugged. “Depends on the draw.”
A man with a stack of paper appeared at Kisimyr’s elbow.
“Works for the Scryer, that one,” said Stross. “Best avoid him, unless you want to find yourself on the boards.”
Just then, the tavern doors flung open, and a young man blew in—quite literally—on a gust of wind. It swirled around him and through the tavern, shuddering candle flames and rocking lanterns. Alucard twisted in his seat, then rolled his eyes with a smile. “Jinnar!” he said, and Lila couldn’t tell by the way he said it if that
was a name or a curse.
Even next to the broad Veskans and the jewel-marked Faroans she’d met in Sasenroche, the newcomer was one of the most striking men Lila had ever seen. Wisp-thin, like a late shadow, his skin had the rich tan of an Arnesian and his black hair shot up in a vertical shock. Below black brows, his eyes were silver, shining like a cat’s in the low tavern light and scored only by the beads of black at their center. A fringe of thick black lashes framed both silver pools, and he had a jackal’s grin, not sharp but wide. It only got wider when he saw Alucard.
“Emery!” he called, tugging the cloak from his shoulders and crossing the room, the two gestures wound together in a seamless motion. Beneath the cloak, his clothes weren’t just close fitting; they were molded to his body, ornamented by silver cuffs that circled his throat and ran the lengths of his forearms.
Alucard stood. “They let you out in public?”
The young man threw his arm around the captain’s shoulder. “Only for the Essen Tasch. You know that old Tieren has a soft spot for me.”
He spoke so fast Lila could barely follow, but her attention prickled at the mention of London’s head priest.
“Jin, meet my crew. At least, the ones I like best.”
The man’s eyes danced over the table, flitting across Lila for only a moment—it felt like a cool breeze—before returning to Alucard. Up close, his metallic gaze was even more unsettling.
“What are we calling you these days?”
“Captain will do.”
“How very official. Though I suppose it’s not as bad as a vestra title.” He dipped into an elaborate gesture that vaguely resembled a bow, if a bow were paired with a rude hand gesture. “His Eminence Alucard, second son of the Royal House of Emery.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“No, I’m embarrassing you,” said Jin, straightening. “There’s a difference.”
Alucard offered him a seat, but Jin declined, perching instead on the shoulder of Alucard’s own chair, light as a feather. “What have I missed?”
“Nothing, yet.”
Jin looked around. “Going to be a strange one.”
