by M. J. Kuhn
Tristan fidgeted to his left. The usually cocky young con man pulled anxiously at his coat, shrinking backward, trying to hide his face behind his steadily curling hair.
“Quit schwindlin,” Ivan hissed, elbowing Tristan surreptitiously in the kidney.
The first lesson Kasimir had taught him: an innocent man does not look uncomfortable in his own clothing.
Tristan clenched his fists, his eyes locked on his toes. Ivan wondered what was wrong with the boy. Tristan always had a measure of composure not usually found in sixteen-year-old ship rats. The night Clem had nearly slit his throat for cheating at the Miscreants’ Temple, he had not broken a sweat.
Perhaps he was merely too callow for a job of this caliber. A job with a thousand elements, where only one had to go wrong for them all to end up rotting at the bottom of the ocean. He had tried to warn Clem the boy was too young, but the Snake had insisted on bringing him along. Ivan still could not fathom why.
He turned back to the stage at the base of the arena as a hush fell over the crowd. He had never seen the man taking his place on the center throne before, but there was only one person who could command that kind of attention. The seventh Guildmaster of Thamorr.
The Guildmaster’s blue robes were stitched through with elaborate swirls of silver threading that danced and shone in the sunlight like flakes of snow caught in the wind. An absurd comparison on so hot a day. His scalp was a mesmerizing maze of black tattoos on pale, bare flesh, and the face beneath reminded Ivan of a melting candle, scraps of prematurely aging skin drooping over one another in a race to reach his stubby neck.
He held up his hands as though to quiet the already silent masses. “Welcome, fine guests from the kingdoms of Thamorr,” he said, sounding like a katz welcoming a group of mice to its dinner bowl. “The Guilds thank you for the long travels that have brought you here.
“Tomorrow night the auction will take place. We have sixty-seven wards available for purchase. But first comes a day of celebration. Today we honor the truce among the kingdoms of Thamorr that began with the noble Declan Day. A truce that has held strong for nearly three hundred years.”
Onstage behind him, a few nobles shifted in their seats. The Guildmaster appeared not to notice. Or perhaps he simply did not care. He clapped sharply, and the arena was filled with the clattering sound of horse hooves. His eyes sparkled with what Ivan was certain was mischief.
“Let the tournament begin!”
* * *
BETWEEN THE blinding sun and the reckless heat, the day wore on achingly slowly. But unfortunately there was nothing that could be done but wait. This was the first day of the auction—a full day of tournaments and celebrations. Every guest on the island was inside this arena. The Saints would have to wait until the show had ended to begin their work. There would be a bell tower to case, some last-minute supplies to steal, details to work out… and they would have precious little time in which to do it. But everyone knew day one of the auction was the tournament, and if they did not play along, they would certainly be caught.
So there they sat, useless and baking in the sunlight, stomachs curdling with anxiety as the hours ticked away. Adept-in-training picked nervously through the crowds, serving expensive foods from all five kingdoms from massive platters while the crowd watched fools, acrobats, and contests between armored men on horseback.
Ryia nudged Evelyn as the group of feather-clad dancers spilled from a chamber along the back wall.
“There had better not be a ruddy feather in sight tomorrow,” Evelyn whispered darkly.
The dancers finished their twirling, and out came the prancing show horses of Gildemar. There were shows and displays of every kind, but the bulk of the entertainment featured Adept duels.
Ivan had been to the Catacombs a dozen times, but these fights were nothing like the brutal, bloody shows in the Kestrel Crowns’ pits. Many of these wards were far stronger, far more precise than the Adept Ivan had seen fight before. Like the youths who had come with the Disciples to inspect their ship, their eyes were still sharp and alert. They fought with frantic energy, full of fear and adrenaline, where the pit fighters on the mainland fought mechanically, blandly… as though they were in a dream.
The servitude of the Adept had always bothered Ivan in some ways, but he had assumed the creatures were simply mindless from birth. Now he could see that was clearly not the case. Something was done to them to make them so obedient. So… stehlen. Stonelike. To allow them to grow nearly to adulthood before wiping them blank and selling them to the highest bidder… that seemed a whole new breed of cruelty.
Ivan watched with growing unease as the fights wore on. One Kinetic’s face twisted in fear as it was magically strangled by its own robes mid-fight. Another fell victim to an arrow summoned from one of the Shadowwood guards’ quivers. In one fight, a single Kinetic fought ten heavily armed soldiers and won in a matter of moments.
There was no death in these contests. The Guildmaster used his Kinetic power to stop each match before real harm could be done—after all, many of these wards would be for sale tomorrow. The goal today was not death but a display of prowess. Ivan noted the greed in the eyes of the merchants surrounding him. These men were fools.
This was not just a sales pitch. This was a show of control. The strongest Adept were never offered at the auction, everyone knew this. They stayed on to become Disciples. To serve the Guildmaster for the rest of their days. This was a threat, and a thinly veiled one at that. Play by my rules, the Guildmaster was saying. You exist only because I allow you to exist. I could crush you in an instant.
One look at the stage told Ivan this message was not lost on everyone. Tolliver Shadowwood stared past the show directly at the Guildmaster, looking positively murderous. Ivan narrowed his eyes. What did this Quill do, again? And why did King Tolliver want it so badly? Exactly what was it that he would be handing over to the Borean Keunich if all went to plan?
Ivan bit the inside of his cheek, pushing the thought away. The Quill was Kasimir’s ticket to freedom. That was the only thing Ivan would be using the verdammte thing for. What did it matter to him what anyone else cared to do with it?
Ivan patted his forehead gingerly with his kerchief, careful to avoid removing the paint coating his face.
“You all right there?” Nash asked.
“Just the heat, harz,” he answered. The Borean pet name felt strange on his tongue, but they were supposed to be husband and wife for this little charade. With this many ears around, anyone could be listening. “Is it not getting to you?”
“Not all of us are as delicate as you, love.”
He shot her a look. “We will go up to Nordham this Januar. Then we will see who is delicate.”
At long last the sun began to set, and the Guildmaster rose from his seat, turning to face the sweat-soaked crowd.
“The Guilds thank you for joining in today’s celebrations. We know many of you have traveled long and are eager to return to your ships, and the rest are eager to begin the festivities in the courtyard.”
Cheers greeted his statement, and the Guildmaster smiled slyly.
“But first, we wish to present to you the honored few of this year’s trainees who will remain on the island to train the future generations of Adept servants.” The Guildmaster waved one arm pompously.
Ivan squinted, focusing on the wards who stepped forward from the line. As he had suspected, they were the strongest of the day. One Kinetic at the end of the line bit back a smile. Another patted the ward beside it on the back in apparent celebration. The wards who had not been selected looked petrified. But of course they were. They knew what would become of them. Perhaps that was why they had fought with such vigor. They knew they were competing for one of the coveted Disciple roles. Competing to keep their wits and their lives intact. A pang of emotion burned through Ivan’s belly.
What would happen to make them so flat? So vacant? Here they were, one day from being sold to the mainland lords, and th
ey were still filled with emotion. Undeniably human. Was it the branding process that somehow sapped the life from them? No matter what it was, something had to happen to the purchasable wards between now and tomorrow afternoon to make them as obedient as the servants he had seen on the mainland before. Some treatment from which these grinning, young Disciples-to-be would be spared.
“The auction will begin three hours past midday tomorrow,” the Guildmaster went on. “It will continue until the last ward has been sold.”
Ivan shook his head to clear it, exchanging a look with Nash. The crowd began to churn, heading toward the bell tower courtyard.
“Are you nervous?” Nash asked quietly.
Behind them, Evelyn hissed, “You? Nervous? You two have nothing to worry about. We’re the ones about to risk our hides.” She nudged Tristan. “You coming?”
The boy nodded, eyes darting around. He followed as the ex-captain began to wind her way back toward the docks. The Butcher fell in behind, eerily still and silent. Ivan would never have dreamed she was capable of not punching something for this long. Perhaps he would have to put her in costume more often when they returned to Carrowwick.
Returned to Carrowwick. He caught himself. He would not be returning to Carrowwick with the others. And with the way they had left things… they would be wise not to return either.
“Come, harz,” Nash said, grabbing his arm. “We have a party to attend.”
They did indeed. But more importantly, they had a bell tower to case. Finally, they could get back to work. Ivan linked his elbow with Nash’s, looking toward the tower. It poked up above the stage like the mast of a sunken ship over the waves. A massive, perfect cylinder of smooth stone positioned in the center of a small courtyard. The courtyard was surrounded by high walls, and its only entrance—or exit—led through the arena. The dying rays of sunlight glinted off the bronze bell as it sent its mourning toll out over the island. Ivan repressed a sniff of amusement as he remembered the conversation the day Ryia had solved the Guildmaster’s puzzle.
“Our problems are solved, you lazy shits,” she had said.
“How exactly do you figure?” Evelyn had asked, looking incredulous. “If it’s in the tower, that makes our problems worse. The courtyard is guarded by half a dozen Disciples at least. You’ll never get in.”
“I’ll just climb it.”
Ivan had seen the Butcher climb a fifty-foot vertical like she was climbing a set of stairs, so he had not understood Evelyn’s derisive snort at the time. Seeing the tower now, however, he had to agree. Not only did it look utterly unscalable with its smooth, polished sides, but it was completely exposed, visible from the stage and the seats in the arena.
Evelyn was right. If they had any hope of reaching the top of that tower and stealing the Quill, they would need to get inside it first.
“I’ve spent some… quality time with my fair share of merchants who hate their wives, but I wasn’t aware that was part of our cover,” Nash whispered.
She was right, Ivan realized, taking note of his posture. He was stiff, awkward, his hip held a few inches from Nash’s as though he could not bear the idea of touching her.
“Sorry.” What in Yavol’s realm was wrong with him? Flirting was usually as easy as breathing. Now was certainly not the time to lose his nerve.
He pulled Nash close, pressing against her as they entered the courtyard. There were people everywhere. Nobles, merchants, and vendors, all somehow already looking deep in their cups though the night had hardly begun. Adept servants hovered behind their masters, and all around them was a dull buzz of conversation. Figures and speculations. Who married his daughter off to which minor nobility. What Brillish cinnamon was going for these days.
“Now there’s a pair of unfamiliar faces.”
Ivan hitched a smile onto his face, turning toward the voice. It belonged to a squat Gildesh man with dust-colored hair and a deep complexion.
He thrust a hand out. “Peter Au—”
“Is that Peter Aurelle?” asked another voice. Southern Edalish by the sound of it.
“Elton Smithe,” said Peter. “I’ve just been introducing myself to…”
“Veber,” Ivan said smoothly, shaking the man’s hand. “Kristofer Veber. And this is my wife…”
“Sveta. Aus Soulvik,” Nash said, naming the southernmost Borean city, just along the border to Edale. Even after all their work on the ship, her Borean accent was nothing short of atrocious.
“Soulvik, eh?” asked the Edalish man, who, thankfully, did not seem to notice. “What line of trade you in?”
“Lumber transport,” said Ivan. “The forests in Boreas are not getting any thicker—”
“—and the people are not getting any warmer,” Nash finished.
“This your first year here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” said Elton, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes, this is the first year we have made enough of an impact to earn an invitation. But with luck it will not be the last!” Ivan said.
Peter waved over a nearby ward carrying a tray through the crowd. He grabbed two goblets, thrusting them into their hands. “I’ll drink to that!”
Elton took a sip of wine, nodding slowly, still looking suspicious. “Lumber’s a good business, should do well enough to earn an invitation back next year if you count your coins right.”
Ivan held up his goblet, nudging Nash with his foot as she glanced toward the bell tower for the dozenth time. “To the first year of many, then.”
“Indeed!” cheered Peter. He wet his lips with a clumsy tongue. “Now, we knew someone else in lumber, didn’t we, Elton? What ever happened to old Master Grayson? I’ve not seen him in four years or more.”
“Four years? Try nine, Peter! Have you not heard?” Elton leaned forward with the air of someone who took great pride in being the first to know the gossip. “Abner Grayson is dead. His estate gone. Lost to a fire.”
“Is that so?” Peter said. “Terrible, just terrible.”
“That’s not the worst of it,” Elton said. “When the Shadow Wardens sorted through the rubble they found a dozen Adept inside, branded with a dozen different seals. All dead.”
“Purchased illegally?” asked Peter, appalled.
“Rumor said they weren’t purchased at all,” said Elton. “Stolen.”
Nash fidgeted uncomfortably with the sleeves of her blouse. Elton gave her a curious look, and Ivan nudged her again. This Edalish man was getting dangerously close to catching on to their game. And Nash’s evident discomfort was not helping.
Peter shook his head in disbelief. “And they were lost to the fire? What a shame. I hope the rightful owners were compensated.”
“They weren’t lost to the fire,” said Elton, finally looking back to Peter. He drew a finger across his neck. “Throats were slit.”
“Slit?” asked Nash, openly aghast, her false accent almost completely falling away. “But why?”
“Old man must have gone insane. Can you imagine such a waste of gold?” Peter said.
“Gold? That’s what you’re worried about?” Nash burst out, clearly disgusted.
Ivan was surprised that Nash would care. Few of Callum Clem’s Saints would value any life but their own over gold, and few people anywhere would value the life of an Adept servant above anything at all. A sense of warmth filled him at the thought. The more he learned about the smuggler, the more fascinating he found her.
But he and Nash were stuck in a small courtyard on a small island surrounded by people who had come here expressly to purchase Adept as slaves… this was hardly the time or place to speak of rights for the Adept.
If Elton Smithe was not suspicious before, he certainly was now. One of his thick eyebrows flicked upward. “Concerned about the lives of the Adept beasts, are you, Missus Veber?” he asked, putting far too much emphasis on the name for Ivan’s liking.
Ivan gave the pair of merchants a charming smile, draining his goblet and setting it on the table beside them.
“This has been lovely, gentlemen, but I do not want to waste this music.” He looked meaningfully toward the swirling masses of skirts and doublets at the base of the bell tower. “Harz? Shall we?”
Nash swallowed, closing her fingers around his. Ivan could feel Elton Smithe’s eyes boring into the back of his head until they slipped into the swaying crowd and out of sight.
There was rarely cause for formal dancing in the Lottery, and there had been even less cause for it in Boreas. Evelyn and Tristan had shown them the basic steps aboard the ship, and they had practiced for hours, much to Ryia’s amusement. And with good reason—a single misstep would give them away as outsiders. Frauds who did not belong. Although it may already be too late for that.
“I know you are not used to it, Nash, but you need to let me lead,” he whispered, his hand cupping the small of her back, trying not to think about how close the smuggler’s face now came to his own.
“Fine,” said Nash. “As long as you don’t muck it up.”
But Ivan was mucking it up. He could not recall Tristan’s lessons. His mind was too full of Elton Smithe’s suspicious looks, and, if he was being honest with himself, a healthy dose of guilt as well. By this time tomorrow he would be on his way to Boreas, and Nash would be… It was probably best not to think about that right now.
Nash cracked her signature smile as Ivan trod on her foot for the third time. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were nervous.”
He held his arm out, spinning her away until only their fingers remained clasped. His heart stuttered again as she spun back into him, his hand closing on her hip.
“I am never nervous.” Back in the Lottery that was utter truth, but here the words had the bitter flavor of a lie. He leaned in. “I have been in greater danger than this before.”
“In the Lottery?” Nash chuckled. “Wyatt Asher would be thrilled to learn you’re more afraid of half a dozen Crowns than an island full of Adept.”