Ramson was silent.
Ana took a deep breath. She swiped angrily at the tears on her face and seemed to collect herself as she lifted her chin and straightened. “I just need some time by myself.” Her tone was impassive and flat, the same as the first time she had spoken to him back in Ghost Falls. Somewhere, somehow in her life, she had learned to mask her emotions. And she was almost as good as he was.
Looking at her, eyes blazing, shoulders squared, standing tall and regal in her evening dress, he thought she burned like a beacon. Something stirred in him—something that drew him toward her like shadows toward the light.
Ramson stamped out that inkling of desire. “All right,” he said, shrugging. “I have some matters to take care of.” Stay safe. I’ll see you back at the inn. Yet he said none of those words as he turned abruptly and walked away, leaving her in the darkness of the alleyway. The Ramson Quicktongue of Novo Mynsk, Portmaster and Deputy of the Order of the Lily, gave no reassurances and made no promises.
Ramson stalked through the streets that he knew like the back of his own hand. He’d grown up in the city as a petty thief, running errands for the Order and learning everything he could about the cruel, crooked world he had been given to work with. In time, the red-shingled rooftops of the dachas had become his safe haven, and the shadows of the grimy alleyways had grown to welcome him like an old friend.
Ramson stopped by a pub. He spoke with several hooded patrons before slipping cop’stones beneath begrimed wooden tables and shaking hands, arrangement made. He then set out for the Dams.
The Dams was less of a dam than it was a vast meshwork of tight alleys and underground tunnels that separated the poor from the rich in Novo Mynsk. It was the nest of all gangs and crime networks. An open-air sewage funnel ran along the edge of the Dams, lending the area its wet, rotting stench that clung to one’s clothes if one stayed too long. It was also a convenient place to dump victims. Every few days, a body would bob along the foul green stream—corpses of nobodies or criminals that the city guards and Whitecloaks alike chose to ignore.
The streetlamps had all been smashed long ago, and the remaining shards of glass on the ground crunched beneath Ramson’s polished shoes. The moon hid behind clouds that promised snow—the First Snow—in four days, and Ramson was grateful that the stink of sewage had dissipated in the cold. He walked briskly, navigating the crooked twists and turns with no more hesitation than a man would pace through his own backyard.
He stopped suddenly, at the corner of an alleyway no different from any other. Ramson leaned against the wall and melted into the shadows.
He waited.
Minutes passed. The darkness pressed at his eyes. A small creature scurried through a pile of trash behind him.
And then he heard it: the faint clop-clop-clop of hooves, and the squeak of carriage wheels. He knew the exact carriage that was coming this way, and he knew the passenger it carried.
Of all the crime lords that ruled Cyrilia, Alaric Kerlan was the biggest and the baddest of them all. His wide-reaching network, his insurmountable wealth, and his league of highly trained brokers and gang members made him the most feared. It thus stood to reason that Kerlan’s men could stroll through the Dams clad in silks and tossing gold, and the other gangs would bow them forward and scurry after them to help pick up the coins they dropped. Alaric Kerlan’s wrath was the last thing one wanted to incur.
The carriage rolled into view: gilded, swathed in lapis lazuli, and pulled by two valkryfs. On the door was a huge engraving of a lily of the valley, its stalk carved of glinting emerald and its bell-shaped flowers made of white gold.
Ramson waited until the door was right in front of him. With a light leap, he was on the carriage’s folding step. The bald-headed bruiser driving in front didn’t even so much as glance back as Ramson swung the door open and soundlessly slipped inside.
Bogdan half turned; Ramson slapped a hand over the entertainer’s mouth. He could feel his old associate’s lips parting at the start of a yelp. “Make a single noise and my assassin outside will have an arrow through your heart faster than you can piss your blue silk pants.”
Bogdan blinked, and his eyes rolled to the carriage window. A shadow flashed by; the Playpen host’s eyes widened comically and he shrank back, nodding.
Ramson grinned and slipped off his mask. The shadow vanished from the window. “Relax, man,” he said lazily. “I haven’t waded through all this shit to come and kill you.”
Bogdan sniffed and sat back, straightening his bow tie and smoothing his silk collar. “I thought I’d never see you again, Quicktongue.”
Ramson rolled his eyes. “If I had a cop’stone for every time someone’s said that to me, Bogdan.”
Bogdan straightened. “Others know you’re back?” he asked carefully. “Does Kerlan know?”
“Some know. But I need him to know the truth. Or whatever can be perceived as the truth in our trade.” Ramson flashed Bogdan a charming smile. “And that’s why I’ve come to you. I’m here to collect my debt.”
“Your debt,” the entertainer repeated, suddenly looking like a Cyrilian nobleman who had discovered something nasty in his beet salad. Bogdan wasn’t the sharpest or smartest member of the Order; he was handsome and arrogant, obsessing over small details and petty money rather than looking at the bigger picture. Once, several years ago, his arrogance had nearly cost him his life.
“My dear Bogdan, surely you didn’t expect me to keep your secret from Kerlan for all these years for nothing?” Ramson leaned forward, locking his fingers together. “What would our master say if he knew of the side profit you were making from the contracts you sell?”
Bogdan’s expression turned ugly. “What’s keeping me from calling in my bruiser on you right now, Quicktongue?” he snarled. “I hired Svyet because he bested two Kemeiran assassins—”
“Because you know that before he even stops the carriage and opens this door, I’ll have slit your throat and ruined these expensive velvet cushions with your blood.”
“Always the same threats, Quicktongue,” Bogdan growled. “You forget that Kerlan trained me, too. Let’s have a try, and see whose blood spills in this carriage.”
“You want me to be a bit more creative in my threats, Bogdan? Well.” Ramson shifted his gaze to Bogdan’s fingers. “You’ve always had a fondness for rings, Bogdan. Each bearing a precious stone from all the kingdoms across the world.”
Bogdan drew back suddenly, his expression tightening. He twisted his hands together, tapping his nails on the rubies, emeralds, and sapphires on each hand.
“It’s a nice new one you’ve got there, the diamond. Looks to be an original from the Blue Caves out east.” Ramson’s eyes snapped back up. “How’s Olyusha?”
Bogdan turned pale.
“Imagine what Kerlan might say if he found out you were bedding one of his assets.” Ramson frowned, feigning a look of confusion. “My mistake, Bogdan—imagine what Kerlan might say if he found out you had wedded one of his assets.” He gave Bogdan a knife-sharp smile. “There. Much better. Affinite and Penmaster. Funny pairing, I’d say.”
Bogdan’s face had flipped through alternating shades of white and red, finally settling on a purplish, barely contained rage. “You’re a despicable human being,” he spat.
“I’m a despicable human being who gets things done. You’d do well to remember that the next time you ask me to get more creative.”
Bogdan stared at him for several moments with revulsion. “Fine,” he snarled at last. “Name your Trade.”
Ramson smiled like a cat in the sun. People were so easy, so predictable. He hadn’t really hired an assassin. After all, those cost more than a shiny silverleaf and were difficult to book the night of. Murders were quite the economy in Novo Mynsk. No—sometimes the belief of danger was more effective than danger itself. The shadow at the window h
ad been some street rat he’d found skulking by one of the taverns, desperate and willing to brave the Dams for a mere cop’stone.
Besides, Ramson preferred not to spend coins on his jobs where possible. He’d found, over the years, that there was a more reliable method for purchase. Secrets were Ramson’s currency when it came to these dealings.
“You will tell Kerlan that I am back,” he said. With Ana’s stubborn creed to save May, Ramson had had to adjust his plan. Now that the element of surprise was no longer possible—well, he would simply announce his arrival, as loudly as he could. He’d played this game with Kerlan for too many years, and he knew the rules all too well. As long as you remained one step ahead of him, as long as you kept his interest piqued, you lived. “You will tell him to expect me at his Fyrva’snezh ball. And you will tell him that I return to offer him the largest Trade of his life.”
“And what is it that you are offering?”
Ramson almost hesitated a beat, but the words were out of his mouth already. “The Blood Witch of Salskoff.”
Bogdan’s mouth formed a small O. The hostility vanished from his face, replaced by a look of pure greed. “That’s just a myth,” he said, but his tone begged Ramson to prove him wrong.
“She’s as real as the gold in your teeth, Bogdan. Took down five guards with a sweep of her hands.”
“She’d be a fortune,” Bogdan whispered. “Worth more than the Nandjian Fire Palace. I mean…how much do you think she’s worth?”
How much is she worth? The question jarred him, and he suddenly felt sick. He thought of Ana now, of the bold dash of her mouth, the way she frowned when she was thinking, the way she’d stubbornly kept her face fierce at the Playpen when her eyes had betrayed her horror.
The way she shone like a torch in the darkness.
Something stirred inside his chest: something buried far beneath the wall he had built from the ruins of his heart. It was as though a block had shifted in his carefully built world, changing everything with it for the first time in seven long years, when he’d flung his past behind him and kept running and had never stopped to think about what he was doing with his life.
What do you want?
I told you. Revenge.
But that was no longer enough, he realized. All this time, he’d thought he held the keys to his fate when really he’d been in a cage all along. Just one of Kerlan’s puppets with a fancy title, scrambling to do his bidding and cast aside when no longer needed.
Handing Ana to Kerlan meant he was still playing the hand Kerlan had dealt him.
It was time to change the game.
“She’s worth more than you could ever imagine,” Ramson said quietly. The wheels in his mind were already turning, skipping two, three steps ahead and fanning out in the infinite possibilities that this conversation could play into. Calculating all the scenarios in which he would win, and the conditions that would allow him to.
And as he spoke, he began to weave in details for his new plan. “I want you to listen carefully, Bogdan. You’ll tell Kerlan that at this Fyrva’snezh ball, I’m going to kill my betrayer, win back my title, and hand him the most powerful Affinite known to exist.”
Bogdan swallowed. “All right.”
“There’s more,” Ramson said. “I want you to get me a list of the guests attending the event this year. You’ll find a runner boy outside your home by the seventh hour tomorrow morning. Give him the list.”
“That’s hardly any time!” Bogdan spluttered, but at a look from Ramson, he conceded. “Fine.”
“And you’ll have me added to that list. Me, and my…wife. I expect my runner to hand me the invitations along with the guest list tomorrow morning. And I’ll know if they’ve been forged, so don’t get any ideas, Bogdan.”
Bogdan looked as though he’d somehow eaten a mouthful of cat shit that he wanted to spit into Ramson’s face. Slowly, with vein-popping effort, he swallowed and said instead, “Of course.”
“If anything goes wrong and I’m unable to get into Kerlan’s Fyrva’snezh, it’ll be on you.”
Bogdan sniffed. “Right.” Sullenly, he fished from his jacket a gold engraved pen and a piece of notepaper where he kept his balances. “And what name will I be adding to the guest list?”
Ramson paused. Not “Quicktongue,” the flashy, ridiculous pseudonym he’d adopted for the Order of the Lily. He needed a name that nobody but Kerlan knew, that would send a signal. A code.
The answer was so obvious that it came to him like a punch in the gut.
“Farrald,” he said quietly.
Bogdan rolled his eyes as he jotted down the name.
As soon as the pen and paper vanished into one of the many pockets lining Bogdan’s expensive silk suit, Ramson leaned forward. “And there’s more.”
“For Deities’ sakes!” Bogdan threw up his hands, and then lowered his voice in an angry whisper. “You’re Trading me three conditions for only two secrets.”
“Four conditions,” Ramson corrected, and plowed on over Bogdan’s indignant splutters. “The best deals are never on a one-to-one ratio. Think bigger picture, Bogdan. What’s the loss for me if these conditions aren’t met? I’d lose the option to return to the Order, and I’d leave the Empire to start a business elsewhere. But what would the exposure of those two secrets cost you?” Ramson raised his brows and shrugged.
Bogdan’s face was red. Ramson could practically see the gears working in his head as he weighed the costs and benefits of the Trade. “Fine,” he hissed. “But after this, I want no more dealings with you, Quicktongue. After this, I’m done.” The entertainer punctuated his sentence with a furious jab of his finger.
Ramson held two fingers to his chest and drew a circle. “I swear in the name of the Deities and all that is holy within me, my good man.”
“Oh, cut the shit. What’s the third condition?”
“There’s a young girl in Kerlan’s inventory; an earth Affinite. Caught by the Whitecloaks from Kyrov. Sound familiar?”
Bogdan’s eyes narrowed and he frowned, presumably running through the script of his upcoming shows. “Yes,” he said at last, the words lending Ramson relief. “She’s due to perform in three days. Look, I can’t just give her to you. Kerlan’ll kill—”
“I know. I understand the rules.” He’d hoped otherwise, but Kerlan ran his business tight. “I’m not asking you to give her to me. In three days’ time, I’m going to bid for her contract. And you’re going to rig the bids. In my favor.”
“Hum.” Bogdan scratched his chin, evidently appeased at the prospect of more money. “I suppose that can be done. I’ll have to make some arrangements, but…fine. Very well, then.” He gave a lofty sniff. “And the fourth?”
Ramson leaned in. “I want to ask about your Windwraith,” he said softly, and began to unspool the words that would weave the final pieces of his plan into place. When he held out his hand to shake, his peacoat was half a pouch of goldleaves lighter, and he had one last stop to make for the night.
“Trade up,” said Ramson.
“Trade up,” echoed Bogdan.
They shook.
* * *
—
Ramson chose to walk back through the Dams. A man like him was meant to crawl in the shadows of this world, without a light and without hope for anything better. Jonah had been right, after all this time—the world that the orphans and bastard sons and street rats were born into was not one of goodness and kindness. The world was divided into the conquerors and the conquered; those with power cast aside those without, like pawns on a chessboard.
When Jonah had died, Ramson had sworn on his friend’s soul that he would never be one of the pawns.
If Ramson’s plan succeeded, he would no longer be a pawn in Kerlan’s shadow. Kerlan would be dead, and Ramson would be running the show on the proverbial throne of the
greatest business enterprise in Cyrilia.
All those years of watching from the sidelines, of chasing after his father’s distant shadow, of whispers of packsaddle son and bastard, finally, overturned. And Jonah’s legacy, fulfilled.
Live for yourself.
This is for you, Jonah, he thought, with a glance at the sky—overcast, just like that night with the storm and the boat and that calm, thin voice by his ear.
Still, even after he exited the Dams he couldn’t shake the small twinge of regret that clung to him. Ana would be reunited with May, and they would go far, far away to someplace where they could be free.
Something about him changed when he was with Ana. The darkness, the scheming, the cold calculation in him faded, revealing faint traces of what he’d once been. A boy in love with the ocean. A boy who’d wanted to sail the seas forever, with the sun warming his back and the waves lapping at his hands. He’d forgotten about this boy, one who’d had big dreams and foolish hopes and had been good. The boy who’d become the smallest sliver of hope.
But what good was goodness itself, when the world was ruled by the cruel?
Ramson drew a deep breath, and only when he was near the tavern where he was staying did he take off his mask again. The man he had become in the Dams tonight, dead-eyed and merciless and calculating, was a side of him that he never wanted Ana to see.
Ramson returned to the inn in the early hours of the dawn, when the sun was just rising over the red-shingled roofs and glittering marble mansions of Novo Mynsk. Ana shut her eyes resolutely, pretending to be asleep as he unlocked the door to her room with the spare key he held. She sensed him standing at her doorway for a while, and then like a shadow, he was gone.
When she met him for a breakfast of salmon porridge and sourdough bread downstairs in the morning, something in his expression had shifted. “I have news,” he said through a mouthful of food. He’d showered and changed into a clean white shirt, hanging open at his collar. He squinted, and waved a spoon at her. “Is that hood always part of your outfit?”
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