by M. J. Kuhn
At the end of Stitcher’s Street was the alley leading to the Upper Roost, the Crowns’ massive apartment hall. Tristan could see some of the lesser Crowns flitting in and out of the alley… and not a single Harpy in sight.
The Harpies’ sprawling stretch of dock lay to the south. It was just barely visible through the tight-knit structures of the Saints’ territory, and from what Tristan could see, it was empty. Quiet as a temple to Felice. He pursed his lips, flicking a shell into the air and catching it on the back of his hand. Whatever agreement Asher and Finn might have, they certainly didn’t seem to be advertising it. Maybe the rest of the Crowns didn’t even know. Or maybe that Nash woman hadn’t seen what she’d thought?
Another hour passed. Seven more marks. Two dollops of bird excrement dripped onto his shoulders from the sky. All he did was watch. Watch and listen.
“Two ships lost to the damned pirates on the Luminous,” one shabby-looking man said to another.
“No fights in the Catacombs tonight?” a rough-voiced sailor griped. “Where’m I supposed to meet a lady?”
“Have you not heard’ve the Tail?” the scraggly man beside him remarked.
Hundreds of conversations bounced over his eardrums, but still no sign of Harlow Finn. Or of Wyatt Asher. Or of anything at all, really.
He sighed, pocketing his earnings. A generous amount of sweat had pooled along the waistband of his trousers. He had earned a total of six halves and twelve coppers and he had seen absolutely nothing. The information that Asher was keeping his new alliance a secret would have to be good enough.
Tristan pushed himself to his feet, casting one last look around the busy corner. Masts peeked from between the toppling structures to the north; Needle Guard roamed the streets, their boredom palpable. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, careful not to remove his false eyebrows in the process. But he swore he felt the moisture freeze into a thousand tiny icicles on his skin at the sight of a familiar cloak slipping through the crowd.
A cloak he hadn’t seen in a long time. The ones he had checked for over his shoulder every day for the past few months. The storm-gray cloak of a Shadow Warden. His stomach lurched. There was only one reason a man like that would ever wind up in a place like the Lottery.
They’d found him.
Tristan ducked his head into his collar. His wrists weren’t clapped in irons, so they clearly hadn’t seen him yet. He just had to keep clear of them. And keep Clem from finding out. If he knew who was looking for him… goddesses.
Forget his ninety thousand coppers of gambling debt. The bounty on him had to be ten times that figure.
Tristan darted down a side alley, quickly walking through brackish puddles without breaking into a full-out run. He knew he was heading deeper into the Kestrel Crowns’ territory, but Wyatt Asher and his cronies were the least of his worries now.
His hands clenched into fists in his pockets, ears pricked, listening for the whisper of fabric on stone. How could they have found him? Had someone recognized him in this goddess-forsaken corner of this wretched city? It was all Clem’s fault. If it wasn’t for that son of a snake, he could be halfway across the Völgnich Mountains by now, two kingdoms away, holed up with some Borean fur traders.
He jumped half out of his skin at the sound of footsteps behind him. Calm down. Just a passing Needle Guard. He’d lost them. Surely they could never navigate these filthy alleys with his own ease. He kept one eye over his shoulder as he slunk around another corner. He just needed to find somewhere to lie low. Figure out exactly how much they knew about where he was hiding.
Then he crashed headfirst into a wall of hard muscle and charcoal-gray fabric. He paled, looking up into the face of a tall, sallow man.
To the average Dresdellan, he appeared to be a rather dour, rather wealthy traveler. A nondescript sword hung from his belt; a simple cloth doublet peeked out from beneath his sweeping cloak. But Tristan’s eyes were not Dresdellan. He had seen these men in action before. The Shadow Wardens were the best of the best. Almost quick enough to rival the unnatural magic of an Adept Kinetic in a fight. Elite armed forces from the powerful kingdom of Edale, Dresdell’s neighbor to the north.
Tristan braced himself as the man combed him over, waiting for the flicker of recognition to light those hawkish eyes. But there was none. Could Ivan’s disguise really be enough to save him?
“Blimey, I’m sorry about that,” Tristan said, sending a violently strong Dresdellan accent shrieking through his tone.
The Shadow Warden grunted, eyeing Tristan’s mud-spattered clothing with distaste. Tristan’s breath snagged in his throat as an iron-clad hand snapped onto his arm.
“You look like Asher’s type. Where are the Catacombs?”
The Catacombs?
Tristan felt like he’d just been clunked on the head with something very heavy. Was it possible that these men weren’t here to haul him away?
All he wanted was to escape from this conversation, but in this part of town giving away information for free was suspicious. Even the Shadow Wardens were bound to know that.
He forced a yellow-toothed smile. “You sods planning to make it worth my while?” he asked. “You look like you’ve got some gold tucked away there.”
The man pulled his cloak aside, flashing the hilt of his sword. “How about steel?”
Tristan held up his filthy hands, backing away, eyes still averted. “All right, no need for that. Catacombs are that way, over on Flaxen Row.” He pointed west with his chin. “Don’t think there’s a fight there tonight, though.”
The Shadow Warden studied him carefully. Could he feel the veins in Tristan’s arm, throbbing with the force of his fear-maddened heart?
At least a century passed before the big man finally released him. He turned in a violent sweep of his cloak, stalking silently out of the shadowed alley.
“Flaxen Row,” Tristan heard the man’s muffled voice say from around the corner. “But I doubt Asher’ll be there if there’s no fight. Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Tomorrow?” another voice grumbled. “So we’ve got to stay the night in this filthy pit?”
Tristan held his breath, peeking around the corner.
“Unless you want to trust a message rat with this?” said the Warden Tristan had crashed into, waving a small roll of parchment in the other man’s face.
Their voices faded as they both turned west, moving through the close-knit buildings toward the Catacombs.
Tristan sucked in a sharp breath of relief, smashing himself against the rotting walls of the building behind him and sinking to the ground. So they hadn’t come for him. This time, at least. They’d just come to deliver some message.…
One too important for a bird to be trusted with, apparently—or a local scroll runner. A message for Wyatt Asher, of all people.
Tristan rose, dusting his grimy jacket distractedly as his brain struggled to stitch the threads together. Clem’s newest game had just gotten very, very interesting. The Shadow Wardens were headed to the Catacombs tomorrow night. He ducked into the stoop of an old shop at the northern edge of the Saints’ territory, pulling the false beard from his face and shedding his patchy coat. He ran his fingers nervously through his dark hair, trying to calm some of the tangles with still-shaking hands.
They needed to get someone into the Catacombs, which wouldn’t be easy… but Tristan had a feeling Clem would risk it.
After all, if a dock rat like Wyatt Asher was in direct communication with the king of Edale, Clem was going to want to know why.
6
NASH
“Are you almost done?”
Nash had been sitting in this chair so long it was starting to feel like the seat was made of a thousand tiny needles. She knew their disguises would need to be good to get them into the Catacombs… but this felt like a bit much.
Ivan leaned forward, dabbing dark red paint onto her forehead. “I would have finished half an hour ago if you did not keep fidgeting like a kindt.”
“A what?”
He leaned back to examine his handiwork. “A child.”
Finally, Ivan was satisfied. He pulled a stained jacket from the back of the chair, tossing it to her. It reeked of stale whiskey and body odor. Nash held it out at arm’s length.
“Felice, this smells even worse than my own jacket.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Nash gave him a side-eyed glare, inspecting the jacket closer. It was dark gray and structured, made of old, beaten cloth that looked like it had been tied to a mainmast through a year’s worth of summer storms. The left lapel sported a roughly stitched patch bearing a symbol anyone who sailed the coast of Gildemar was bound to recognize: a bearded skull with crystal eyes. The symbol of the Gildesh pirate, Salt Beard, and his crew.
“Have you gone mad?”
“What?” Ivan turned away, facing the gilded mirror and sweeping his hair into a tangled knot at his neck. The usual blond was gone, replaced by a reddish-brown hue that glowed in the light of Cal’s chandelier.
“You think just anyone can get away with wearing this patch?” Nash had heard stories of lesser pirates who tried to fly Salt Beard’s flag in order to intimidate their way into some easy scores. None of those stories had happy endings for anyone but Salt Beard.
“Anyone? No,” Ivan said, smearing violent streaks of color over his own face with deft, practiced motions. “But I think I can. And by extension, so can you. You do want to get into the Catacombs tonight, yes?” He strolled past her, disappearing into the closet.
“You’re awfully cocky.”
“I prefer to think I am ‘confident.’ ”
“What’s the difference?”
“Trust me, Nash,” Ivan said from the closet. “This is not my first day in this verdammte city. And look.” He re-entered the room, dressed in worn boots, patched trousers, and a linen shirt ripped halfway to his navel. Nash averted her eyes from the cut lines of his pectorals. “All of my limbs are still attached, are they not?”
“Fine.” Nash pulled on the jacket, throwing out her arms. If it would help get them the information they needed, she would wear the damn thing. “Happy?”
He looked her over one last time, sharp eyes flitting from the patchwork of scars he’d drawn on her face to the tattered clothes and empty scabbard at her belt. He turned away with a curt nod. “Very good. Time to go.”
* * *
IVAN MOVED through the Lottery like a spooked cat. Bobbing, weaving, turning without warning. Nash sighed, lunging forward to catch up as he darted east, skirting the bustling Carrowwick Fair.
“The Catacombs are that way, you know that, right?” she asked, stiffening as they passed a stall selling illicit Adept with more brands on their cheeks than Wyatt Asher had fingers.
Ivan rounded another corner. “Are you going to question me all evening? That will become tiresome.”
His eyes flashed, looking almost hazel now against his faux-bronzed skin. Just a few hours ago he’d been unmistakably Borean; now he passed easily for Gildesh. A lot of the Saints thought Ivan’s only value was his ability to charm women out of their gold with his handsome face. Nash disagreed—Ivan was valuable because he had a thousand faces.
It wasn’t exactly his fault every last one of them happened to be fucking flawless.
“Fine.” She slung him a grin. “You’re the expert in this shithole, I guess.”
“That is not really news to anyone else.”
“Maybe not. But if we’re ever at sea, you’d better listen to—” Nash broke off, cursing and leaping backward as a shadow scrabbled along the gutter beside them, a half-molded morsel of bread clamped in its filthy teeth.
Ivan’s stony face made its best attempt at a frown as he followed her gaze. Amusement flitted behind his eyes as he looked between the tiny rat and Nash’s towering frame.
“What is this? The most fearsome smuggler on the Yawning Sea, afraid of vermin?”
“First off, I’m the most fearsome smuggler on all three seas,” Nash replied, wiping her sweaty palms on her jacket. They came away dirtier than they started. “And I’m not scared. I just don’t like the disgusting little shits.”
“I see,” Ivan said, lips twitching in concealed humor. “You are on a ship some ten months of the year—I would think you would be more than familiar with rats.”
“The only things living on my ship are what I allow to live on my ship. And that doesn’t include rats.” Nash peered down at the gutter, but the creature had already scurried back to whatever disease-riddled hellhole it had crawled out of.
“Are you ready?” Ivan asked.
“Am I ready?” Nash gave Ivan a mock-pitying look. “This is hardly my first—”
“Just follow my lead.”
Then, right before her eyes, Ivan transformed into an entirely different person. His usually somber face lit with a cocky grin, his hips sinking into a confident swagger.
“I am not here to lose tonight, Simone,” he said in a lilting, Gildesh accent as he approached the pair of Crowns guarding the door. “So keep your bad luck to yourself, eh?”
Nash’s hand twitched habitually to the knife at her hip before she remembered it wasn’t there. No one without a Kestrel Crown tattoo made it within spitting distance of the Catacombs with a blade. Nash had never been much of a fighter in the traditional sense, but she still felt naked without an ounce of steel on her. Especially knowing Ryia was too busy tailing Tana Rafferty right now to swoop out of the shadows if they got in too deep.
How in the hells did Ivan look so calm? She bit the inside of her cheek. The information they obtained here had better be worth the years the stress was taking off her life.
The Crown at the doorway held up a hand as they approached. Marcus, was it? Or Matthieu? Either way, the man didn’t appear to recognize her. Ivan’s mask of scars had clearly done the trick. The patchy-bearded man distractedly patted them both down.
“Any open seat. They’ll come round to take your wagers each fight,” he said. He paused, eye catching on the patch on Nash’s lapel, the matching symbol on the cloth tied around Ivan’s wrist. “Don’t start any bullshit.”
“Us?” Ivan asked, drawing a hand to his chest. “Never.”
The Crown rolled his eyes, waving them through the door. Nash followed Ivan into the smoky darkness.
She had never been inside the Catacombs before, but there were a dozen places just like it dotting the coast from Fairvine to Volkfier. The faces might be different, but the smells? Those were always exactly the same. The sharp tang of dried blood and rat piss washed over her as Ivan steered them toward a stained booth.
“We will have a good view of Asher from here.”
“Where is he?” Nash breathed, craning her neck to peer over the cushioned benches set for the fighters’ masters. There was no sign of the Kestrel Crowns’ leader.
Ivan shot a meaningful look toward the back corner. There, shrouded in the smoke of half a hundred pipes, was an empty table.
“There’s no one there,” she said.
Ivan stared flatly at her. “Why should there be?”
“The first fight’s about to start,” Nash said, still carefully averting her eyes from the pit in the center of the room. “He’s going to miss it.”
Ivan’s gaze turned to the pit as a whistle rang out. “He does not care if he sees the fights. As long as someone is losing, he is winning. Do not worry. He will be here. Once we see who he is meeting with, perhaps we will be able to figure out why.”
Nash’s stomach twisted as she finally looked at the pit herself.
Two Kinetics stood on opposite sides of the blood-spattered ring, clad in black-and-blue robes in moldering disrepair. Their clean-shaven heads were both marked clearly with thick, black Ks, and mottled brands marred their left cheeks. The Kinetic closer to Nash looked like its face had been rebranded about five or six times. Unsanctioned trade of Adept servants was illegal in all five kingdoms… but then again, so wa
s dormire’s blood, and it looked like half the bastards in this place were high on the stuff. Even the Guildmaster had trouble extending his rule of law to places like the shadowy corners of the Lottery.
Kinetic fighting, on the other hand, was perfectly legal. And openly encouraged. The Second Guildmaster had outlawed wars between the kingdoms of Thamorr some three hundred years ago, so squabbles between kings were now solved in single combat, Kinetic versus Kinetic. No need to spill human blood that way. Though Nash was still on the fence about the idea that Adept didn’t count as “human.”
Any king to defy the Guildmaster’s decree of peace and start a war—or, really, any king to piss off the Guildmaster in any way—would find himself cut off. No more trips to the auction. No more Kinetics. No more Sensers. It had happened to the last king of Boreas, Leonid Avendroth, some fifty years ago. Some said Avendroth had threatened war with Edale, others said he had threatened war with the Guildmaster himself. The truth was, no one knew exactly what the old king had done to attract the Guildmaster’s wrath, but… well, a family called the Tovolkovs now ruled Boreas. The local rulers might like to play around like they had real power, but everyone knew the Guildmaster ran Thamorr.
Nash’s heart surged halfway up her throat as she studied the second Kinetic in the pit. A female. Shit. Its complexion was dark as Nash’s. But this one was so small. It couldn’t possibly be Jolie… could it? Her sister would be six feet tall by now, no? Both Ma and Dad had been near giants.
Breathe, Nash.
“Tonight’s first fight, straight from the Brambles, the backyard of King Descartes Devereaux himself, servant of Abel Chrysoux!” the Crowns’ charismatic fight caller boomed from the center of the pit, gesturing toward the bulky male, dead-eyed at his left. A reedy-looking man—Abel Chrysoux, Nash assumed—waved from the crowd.
“And our challenger, belonging to Aedin fija di Sarwell of Briel, the terror of the western coast!” A bulky Brillish woman fidgeted in her seat a few rows down, eyes locked on her Adept fighter. The announcer flung his arms up. “Odds are four to one against the challenger!”