by M. J. Kuhn
“And what of a base full of medev?” He spun her out again, sending her skirts whirling.
Nash laughed as she collided with his chest again. “I think I would remember if Cal Clem had gone after a medev base.”
Ivan’s mind wandered back to snow-coated streets as he steered them closer to the bell tower. He thought back to his brother’s elaborate plans. His schemes and tricks and treachery. His bruised skin, stretched tight over what shards of bone remained in his face in the cells beneath Oryol…
“How did you end up with Cal Clem, anyways?” Nash’s voice cut through his thoughts like an axe through lumber.
“The same way most people end up with him.”
Nash snorted. “I have a hard time believing you were dumb enough to gamble your way into a pit you couldn’t climb out of.”
Ivan pursed his lips, hiding his amusement. Not exactly, but she had no idea how close to the truth that was. He and Kasimir had rolled the dice one too many times in Boreas. It had gotten his brother captured and him nearly killed. And here he was, back at the table again. Just like a true gambler, he had no idea when to stop.
20
RYIA
“Remind me again why I have to do this?” Tristan asked, trailing half a step behind Ryia and Evelyn as they followed the small crowd heading back to the docks.
“What are you talking about? This was all your plan,” Evelyn hissed. The crowd thinned as everyone flitted off toward their own ships.
“This wasn’t part of my plan.”
“No, but this is what keeps your plan from getting me killed,” Ryia said out of the corner of her mouth, studying the Edalish galleon they were walking toward. The same ship they had seen the feather-clad dancers coming from this morning. “Which is why you have to do this.”
Tristan peered curiously out at the Disciples guarding the docks. He frowned; then he shook his head. “All right, fine. I’ll distract the dock guards so you can get on board the ship. But once you finish your little thievery, I don’t know how you expect to get back off without being caught.”
“I won’t get caught.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Evelyn, lowering her voice as they neared the harbor. “These docks are guarded more closely than the bloody Bobbin Fort.”
“I hope so,” Ryia started. She shot one quick glance over her shoulder as the threesome darted off the path, hiding in the shadow of an overgrown shrub. She grinned. “The Bobbin Fort’s not even a challenge.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Evelyn said.
“Give it a rest, you two,” Tristan said wearily. He pulled his cloak off, flipping it inside out to change from an ostentatious burgundy to an unremarkable black before replacing it. “When you hear the fight break out, you’re safe to come out. Not before.” He wiggled his fingers, giving them a stretch. “Wish me luck.” He slipped back onto the path, heading toward the dock holding the galleon.
But he wouldn’t need luck—this was a maneuver Ryia had seen him do a thousand times before. He would pick the pocket of one man, plant whatever he stole on another man, accuse the second man of being a thief, and sit back and watch the fireworks. Sure, the stakes were a little higher here, but it was a song they’d sung before. Tristan would be fine.
Ryia pulled a cord at the back of her robes, unleashing a cascade of rich purple. She tied the sash tight around her waist and ducked her head into the hood, blending seamlessly into the twilight. She pulled her hatchets from where they hid beneath her robes, refastening the shoulder sheaths on top of the cloak where she could reach them, then peered anxiously around the shrub, waiting for the signal.
“Do you have a plan?”
Ryia looked back at Evelyn. “A plan for what?”
The ex-captain rolled her eyes, picking absently at the closest leaf. “For stealing these bloody things. For Adalina’s sake, you’re reckless.”
“What’s reckless about it? I slip in, find the goods, then slip out—no one’s any the wiser.”
“It’s not going to be that simple.”
“Sure it is. I’ll be quiet. And if someone notices me, I’ll make sure to keep them quiet.”
“Like hell you will.” Evelyn glared at her. “Petty theft is one thing, but I’m not going to stand by and let you murder some poor innocent sailor.”
Ryia peered around the shrub toward the tangle of masts crowding the harbor. “You noble types are all the same. No sense of adventure.”
“You really are a monster, aren’t you?”
Monster. For some reason the word made Ryia flinch. She couldn’t imagine why—it was something she already knew. She was a monster. A monster born of blood and shadow in the cellar of that estate just outside Duskhaven. Only a monster could have survived what she had endured.
“If I’m a monster, then what the fuck is Clem?” she hissed, rounding on Evelyn. “Don’t forget, you signed on for this, Captain. No one forced you—”
But Evelyn was ready for her. “When Clem came to recruit me, I was lying facedown in some shithole inn, up to my bloody eyes in stervod. Do you know why?”
Ryia drew back half a pace despite herself, bumping into one of the bushes concealing them. She cleared her throat, peering off toward where Tristan had gone to start a fight. Still nothing. “No,” she finally said, glaring back at Evelyn.
Evelyn poked her forcefully in the sternum. “Because of you. I was one year away from being named the youngest Valier in a century. One year away from achieving what I’d been training for since I was nine years old. One year away from being able to support my family and protect my kingdom for the rest of my ruddy days. And I lost it all because of you.”
There was that absurd feeling of guilt again, curling like a snake in her stomach. Ryia forced a sneer. “So you can’t play soldier anymore. Move on,” she said. “It’s not like your precious nobles ever needed you anyways. You could train your whole life and still fall to the weakest Kinetic in Thamorr.” She cocked her head. “Why don’t you go back to your father and your manor? He’ll marry you off to some nice old man. You’ll pop out a few of his noble brats and—”
“I can’t go back to my father,” Evelyn said stiffly, fiddling with the ring on her left middle finger. She never took the damned thing off, even in disguise. The moron. “I’ve failed the Linley name.”
Ryia peered out toward the harbor, then back to the path. Where was that signal? “Swallow your twice-damned pride,” she said. “You s—”
“It’s not pride,” Evelyn interrupted, redness showing through the layers of powder concealing her freckles. She clenched her fists, knuckles on either side of the ring turning bone white. “He wouldn’t have me back.”
Ryia opened her mouth, then shut it again. Finally, she said, “Good riddance. You shouldn’t want anything to do with a shit father like that.”
“A shit father?” Evelyn burst out. She looked around hurriedly, but no one was close enough to hear. “A shit father?” she repeated, quieter this time. “He is not a shit father.”
“He threw you out the second you stopped being useful. That’s a shit father.”
“What could you possibly know about it?” she spat. “You don’t even know your bloody father.”
A low blow if Ryia had actually been a bastard. An even lower blow given the real story. The job momentarily forgotten, she lunged forward, pulling up the sleeves of her disguise to reveal her scars.
“I knew my father,” she said, her voice low and hoarse as she held her wrists in front of Evelyn’s face. “Where the hell do you think these came from?”
Ryia’s heart beat steadily up her throat as she held Evelyn’s gaze, waiting for the ex-captain to make a cutting remark. The retort never came. Ryia shook her head, pulling her sleeves back down over her wrists and peering through the foliage toward the still-silent cobblestone path.
“Come on. Focus. We have a job to do.”
Stupid, she thought, avoiding Evelyn’s eye. The captain was already suspicious.
No doubt already thinking far too deeply about where she might have come from… but it was too late to worry about that now.
Ryia’s knees went weak as a memory consumed her, almost as real as it had been all those years ago.
She faced a bald man twice her size, the letter K inked onto his skull. An Adept. It felt strange not to have shackles biting her wrists.
“Defeat one and you’ll be free of these chains forever,” the old man—her father—said.
She had no hatred for this Kinetic, but the hatred for those chains was enough.
Her nose wrinkled as an odor, no, a sensation crawled into her nostrils. An itchy sort of tingle, mixed with the smell of blood and mold and dead things. A combination that set every alarm bell in her skull ringing. She hesitated, and the Kinetic’s fist slammed into her temple, sending her sprawling to the filthy cellar floor.
Panic welled up inside her as her father shook his head, reaching for her shackles. She rolled to the side, dodging the Kinetic’s next attack at the last moment. Her father froze, mad excitement sparking in his eyes.
She felt something shoot from her as the Adept charged forward again. An invisible rope snaked out from her fingers, wrapping around one of the axes sitting on her father’s workbench. The ones he usually wore belted at his waist. When she thrust her hand forward, the axe responded. It flew from the belt, burying itself in the Adept servant’s chest.
“I knew it,” her father murmured. “I always knew it!”
At that moment, her nose caught fire. Danger-danger-danger… the word pounded through her head on a constant loop as the scent of blood and ashes seared her nostrils. A loud crash sounded upstairs, and the night descended into chaos. Blue-robed figures streamed through the blackness, led by a tall, thin man with a bald head. The Guildmaster, she recognized him from the paintings. He looked right past her, gaze locked on her father.
“Abner Grayson,” he said, his voice low and carrying. “The rumors of your experiments have become too troublesome to ignore.”
“Experiments?” her father asked. Difficult to play innocent when he was surrounded by dried blood spatters and the stale scent of death.
“No one believes you will succeed,” the Guildmaster continued, still taking no notice of her. He waved his thin-fingered hand, and her rusty old chains moved of their own accord, winding around her father’s neck. “But the theft of Adept servants is a crime of the highest order.”
She froze, looking from her father to the Guildmaster… then to the belt of axes still sitting on the work bench.
“Rosalyn, please,” her father gasped.
But she did nothing. Nothing but run.
She grabbed the axes and the long-handled hatchets beside them with a shaking hand as she sprinted from the room. The scent of danger clogged her nostrils as she wrenched the lantern from the wall beside the door, thrusting it to the floor. The fire caught quickly, chewing through the old man’s notes and dry wooden walls, filling the cellar with choking smoke.
There were more blue robes upstairs. She burst through a multicolored windowpane and rolled onto the snow-covered ground as the fire raged and burned. She did not stop running, did not look back until she reached the edge of the woods. From there she saw the shroud of smoke curling from the manor on the Rowan River. The Grayson estate, her father’s home—her home—reduced to ash and memory. And silhouetted against the flames…
The Guildmaster. She could see his eyes from here, deep blue and vile, pouring their hatred into her. But he was too late. She turned and disappeared into the trees. Just another wisp of smoke, fading on the wind.
“Where’s Tristan with that damn signal?”
“What?” Ryia frowned, dragging herself out of the episode. She peered around the edge of the shrub, looking toward the docks. The guards were still in place, but there was no sign of Tristan. Something was wrong. “Where did that little bastard get to?”
“He’s been jumpy all day. Do you think he bailed?”
“Maybe,” Ryia said slowly. But that didn’t sound like Tristan.
She spared a look toward the arena. The party by the bell tower was still raging on, but it wouldn’t be for long. Before the guests dispersed, she had to get into that ship to lift the disguises they needed.
“I’ll do it,” Evelyn said, reading Ryia’s mind.
“You’ll do what, exactly?”
“Just wait for my signal.”
“What fucking signal?”
“You’ll know it.”
Evelyn meandered out of the bushes with a drunken stagger. Ryia had to bite back a smile as the usually somber captain flung out her arms, warbling an off-key rendition of some Gildesh love song.
Before long a voice hollered at her to shut the hell up. Evelyn whirled around clumsily, fists raised.
“Tell me that t’my face, ya coward,” she slurred.
“I just did, you drunken git,” the voice challenged.
The Disciples guarding the docks were on the move before the first punch even landed.
“We might make a half-decent outlaw out of you after all, Captain,” Ryia muttered to herself, swooping past the dregs of the crowd and onto the docks in the blink of an eye.
Ryia dropped to hang from the edge of the dock and pulled herself arm over arm into the shadow of the galleon. The Silver Swan. Only the Edalish would name a ship something so ridiculous.
It was part of Edale’s royal fleet, so breaking in was risky but essential. Evelyn should know. She was the one who told her about the arena’s back door. The one that led right out to the bell tower courtyard. Guests couldn’t access it, but entertainers were a different story.
Ryia sniffed the air. Nothing but salt spray and seaweed. The ship was as quiet as a Borean graveyard. For now, at least. In and out, easy does it. She climbed up the side of the ship, rolling lightly onto the deck.
“If I were a set of horrible dancing costumes, where would I be?” she whispered, giving the crewmen at the mainmast a wide berth.
She opened the hatch, peering down into the stifling darkness. They would be down there. Of course they would. She took a deep breath, forcing back thoughts of chains and manacles, and slipped below deck.
To her left were rows and rows of hanging hammocks. Muffled voices and lantern light bled from around the corner. She turned the other way. Cargo hold. Jackpot.
Her fingers whispered over the latch, easing it open. She slipped into the darkness. Ryia could feel the bile rising in her throat as the ship’s hull closed in around her, squeezing like the coils of a massive jungle snake.
No.
Now was not the time for that. She breathed in through her nose. Salt. Wood. Fish. Just like the docks at Carrowwick Harbor. Just like home? Nope. No time to unpack that idea either.
Costumes… costumes… She felt her way through the hold as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. There. Lined up neatly on the far side of the hold. She turned in a slow circle. The trickle of moonlight sneaking in through the open hatch set the shadowed garments on the far side of the hold sparkling and glittering. With the right tools, Ivan could have sewn any one of these monstrosities himself, but knowing which monstrosity to sew had been the obstacle there.
“Ah,” she breathed, fingers coming to a stop over a row of hanging garments marked Day 2 in a looping script she could barely read in the dim, silvery light. And farther to the right… she smiled. Auxiliary. Such a fancy word for “extra.” Pompous bastards.
“Don’t mind if I do.” She held a costume up, squinting to examine the disturbing lack of fabric on it. “Oh, the captain is not going to like—”
She froze mid-sentence, head turned toward the door like a hunting hound. It was faint, but she could smell it. Mold and decay. Danger. The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled to attention; her eyes went wide in the darkness as she scanned the hold for an escape route.
That was the problem with being belowground—or belowdecks. No fucking windows. There was nowhere to run. That mea
nt she had only one option left.
She dropped the costume and pulled her hatchets from her back, dropping into a ready stance as the hatch creaked open.
21
NASH
During their planning aboard the cog, Evelyn had referred to this party as the “drunken-git ball.” Looking around now, Nash couldn’t say she disagreed. It would be a miracle if half these merchants made it back to their ships in one piece tonight. No wonder the auction proper didn’t start until tomorrow afternoon.
Ivan wrinkled his nose as the man closest to them turned, spraying a wide arc of vomit across the ground. “Disgusting.”
“I promise never to vomit in your presence,” Nash said solemnly, hand raised in a mock vow.
“You have broken that promise already, if I am not mistaken.”
“What? When?”
“Two years ago,” Ivan said. “The Lacemakers’ Festival.”
Nash flushed. “I don’t remember that.”
“I wonder why.”
She grinned sheepishly. “Well, I promise never to vomit on you, then.”
Ivan’s lips twisted like he was trying not to smile. “That one you had better keep unless you would like for me to send the Butcher after you.”
“Please.” Nash pivoted them another step closer to the bell tower in the center of the courtyard. Just a few yards closer and they would be able to hide in its shadow and find the entrance. “She would never hurt me. She likes me better than you.”
“How do you figure?”
“What can I say? She’s drawn to my winning personality.”
“Is that what you call it?”
Nash let out a bark of laughter. “Is this how you make all the women in the Miscreants’ Temple fall for you? Because I don’t get it.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Her breath betrayed her, hitching in her throat as Ivan pulled her closer, his hand on her lower back, hips pressed against hers, lips just inches away. How did he always manage to make her head spin like that?