Beside his opponent, a bearded man who wore the marks of a healer spoke up. “I helped, too.”
Jude glanced from the healer back to Anton, remembering the look of determination that had crossed his face when Jude had questioned his motives back in the mausoleum. The missing Pinnacle Blade had driven everything else from his thoughts, but now he was forced to consider the fact that this loathsome, selfish thief who sat before him may very well have saved his life.
“If you’re quite done,” Anton went on coolly, “I have a game to win.”
“No, I’m not done,” Jude sputtered. “You are done. I’m taking my sword.”
“Now, boys.” Anton’s opponent leaned over the table. “I’m afraid the wager’s already been set.”
Jude narrowed his eyes. “And what exactly has my sword been wagered for?”
“A ticket out of Pallas Athos,” Anton replied steadily. “Remzi here is captain of a ship.”
“The Black Cormorant,” the captain said cheerfully. “She’s like a Vallettan shop girl. Not much of a looker, but she sure gets around.”
Jude flushed at the comparison, but embarrassment only kindled his anger. “You would allow someone like this on your ship? A proven thief? A boy who, until this morning, was a prisoner in the citadel of Pallas Athos?”
The captain blinked at Anton in surprise and then turned to Jude and shrugged. “A bet is a bet. The sword against free passage to Tel Amot.”
The sailor sitting beside Anton leaned toward him eagerly, cheeks flushed pink with alcohol. “What were you imprisoned for?”
“Wrongfully imprisoned,” Anton corrected loftily. “It was a misunder—”
“Wait,” Jude said suddenly, his thoughts catching up with what the captain had just said. “Did you say Tel Amot?”
I will follow the revenant all the way to Tel Amot if I must. That was what Hector had said inside the mausoleum.
Once the possibility of it bloomed in Jude’s mind, he found he could not leave it be. He knew, he knew, that was where Hector was going. The next words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “You’ll take me aboard, too.”
He could feel Anton’s eyes on him, but Jude kept his gaze fixed on the captain.
“The initial wager was for a single spot aboard the ship,” the captain said, spreading his fingers apart. “I like to think I’m a lenient man, but you can’t simply change the terms in the middle of the game.”
“It’s my blade, so it’s my passage you’ll be providing.”
“Sure,” the captain replied lazily. “If you’d like to play for it.”
“Play cards?” Jude had never gambled before in his life. He eyed the complicated layout of cards and drinks lined up like battlements. This did not seem like the time or place to start.
“Or perhaps you’ll convince your friend to play for your passage instead of his own. He does seem like a good-hearted fellow.”
Jude almost never swore, but he felt like doing so now. He wanted to invoke the crudest, most uncouth string of adjectives he could think of. Even if Anton had helped him before, he’d done so only grudgingly, and Jude doubted his capacity for more acts of selflessness.
But that didn’t mean that Jude couldn’t make a wager of his own. He swallowed the anger building in his throat and brought his hand to his neck, running his fingers along the ribboned gold ring of his torc.
He couldn’t be considering this. He wasn’t considering it.
Yet, deep in his gut, he knew the decision had already been made. It had been made standing in Hector’s empty quarters that morning in the villa. Revenge had been more important to Hector than his duty was.
And Hector was more important to Jude.
He had done everything his father and the Order had ever asked of him, and still, after all of it, he had fallen short. He would fail. He had already failed. He’d abandoned the Prophet. Not for the threat of the Pale Hand and the third harbinger. He’d done it for Hector, and he hadn’t hesitated. Lacking in discipline, wavering in his devotion, full of doubt and uncertainty and dreadful longing—Jude was not fit to bear the title of Keeper of the Word. Just as he could hear truth in the hearts of others, he knew that this was the truth of his own.
His fingers found the fastener of the torc at his throat and twisted it open.
“This is pure gold, forged by the Smith King himself,” he said, holding it out for not only the captain but also the rest of the gathered sailors to see. “It will more than pay for passage aboard your ship.”
Leaning over a white-faced Anton, Jude placed the torc in the center of the card table.
“If you win the wager, the sword and the torc are yours,” he said. He focused on keeping his voice even. Authoritative. “If you lose, you will provide passage and board for myself and your opponent. Are these terms acceptable?”
The captain smiled, slow and satisfied. “Well, I do believe this game just got interesting.”
37
ANTON
Anton leaned over the table that separated him and Captain Bedrich Remzi of the Black Cormorant, studying the cards between them.
Trove and River had been a favorite card game among sailors, watchmen, and ruffians trying to stave off boredom since the dawn of time. In every city he’d ever been to, the rough element (and Anton counted himself among them) always knew Trove and River. Each hand began with both players drawing six cards, then keeping three in their hand (their trove), and playing one to each of the three communal piles in the center (the river). Players built hands of five using the three cards in the river and two of their trove cards. The best Trove and River players were adaptable, able to change strategies on the fly. It wasn’t as elegant as canbarra, Anton’s preferred game, but he took what he could get. And what he could get was usually every last one of his opponent’s coins.
“I hold,” Captain Remzi said, placing down his trove cards.
Around them, some two dozen sailors, already drunk or approaching it, let out jeers and low whistles. Jude stood apart from them, his silent glower louder than any of the sailor’s hollers. Anton was all too aware of the swordsman, his esha swirling like a thundercloud, tugging at his attention.
He gritted his teeth and played his ace on top of a higher-value poet card. Now was not the time to lose focus.
“Oh, no, you don’t want to do that.” Captain Remzi leaned back in his chair, his eyelids at half-mast in an expression of languid confidence.
He had every reason to be confident. After two contentious rounds, Remzi firmly had the upper hand. Though they wouldn’t reveal their cards until the end, Anton had a good idea what cards Remzi had in his trove, based on the ones he’d already played. They would be hard to beat.
“Anton.” Jude’s voice was stiff and nervous behind him.
Anton didn’t even glance at him. If Jude didn’t like the way he played, then maybe he shouldn’t have bet on him. Anton still didn’t understand why he’d done it. One moment, Jude had been yelling at him for borrowing the sword, and the next, he was stripping the golden torc from his throat and demanding passage aboard Remzi’s ship. In one instant, he’d tied their fates together—at least until the game ended.
Anton had just wanted to win and sail far away from Pallas Athos and everything in it, including Jude. And yet here Jude was, hovering in thunderous silence over Anton’s shoulder. It was unnerving. Jude was unnerving.
And he was making Anton lose.
“What’s wrong?” Remzi drawled as he played a ten on top of the ace. “Make a mistake?”
Anton knew Remzi could tell he was rattled, though the captain no doubt assumed he was the cause.
Anton hated that his discomfort was so obvious. He was usually much better at hiding it. And if Remzi could tell he was unsettled, then Jude must see it, too. That bothered Anton even more than the thought of losing.
He plucked a card from the deck. A herald. The highest card in the game. A good, safe play would be to hold on to this card and k
eep it in his trove.
“Hurry up,” Remzi said, “before your swordsman decides to reconsider betting on you.”
Anton felt Jude’s intense gaze prickling at the back of his neck. He wasn’t about to let a surly swordsman fluster him. And he wasn’t about to let a wine-soaked sea captain beat him. If he couldn’t regain his composure, he would just have to bait Remzi into losing his, too.
Relaxing his shoulders, Anton peered up from his cards. “Does it trouble you?”
“Does what trouble me?” Remzi replied, looking for all the world like he’d never had a trouble in his life.
“That you have the better hand,” Anton said, “and yet you’re still going to lose.”
“You can bluff as much as you like,” Remzi said with an easy smile.
“Who’s bluffing?” Anton played the herald.
It was a bold, risky move, but Anton saw immediately that it had worked, knocking Remzi off kilter just enough to let something slip. A mere flicker in his expression, one that anyone else might have missed. But Anton knew how to read the slightest shifts in mood, to predict how someone would react to every tiny disruption. These were things he’d learned long before he’d proved himself at the canbarra table. It was how he’d survived his brother’s wrath all those years.
And those same instincts told him that Remzi had just given the game away.
Remzi recovered quickly, playing his next card, a seven of swords. The herald remained faceup between them. “You and I both know, in the end we all have to play the cards we’re dealt.”
“Captain,” Anton said, playing his next card, “if you really believe that, then I’ve already won.”
A smirk crossed Remzi’s face as his eyes scanned the cards left in the center of the table. “A herald and two sevens. I hold.”
Anton could take another turn, or hold as well, ending the game. He knew Remzi expected him to take another turn, buying more time to get back on even footing.
Anton smiled. “I hold.”
Remzi covered his surprise better this time, his eyes flitting to the cards in front of him. “All right then. Reveal.” He turned over his first card. Another herald, which Anton had expected.
Behind him, Jude let out a huff of agitation. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Hardly ever,” Anton said. He couldn’t resist tossing a wink over his shoulder as he reached for the cards. He flipped over his first card. A seven of cups.
Remzi turned over the final card to complete his hand—a scribe. The second-highest card in the deck. He picked up his glass of ale, toasting Anton with a smirk. “Better luck next time, kid.”
A hand on Anton’s shoulder wrenched him abruptly back. Jude loomed over him, his expression stormy. “I can’t believe you—”
Anton plucked Jude’s hand from his shoulder and flipped over his final card. The fourth herald.
A hushed silence fell over the onlookers.
“Two heralds, three sevens,” Yael said. “To Remzi’s three heralds, high scribe.”
Remzi choked on his ale. “You,” he gasped, coughing. “How did you—?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” Anton said with a shrug, and then turned to find Yael’s beaming face in front of his own.
“I guess you are that good,” he said. “Well done. Not many can beat the captain at this. I thought he really had you there.”
Remzi coughed harder. “Yael, stop flirting with the boy and get me some water!”
“Wait, so,” Jude started, his hand still clamped around Anton’s shoulder. “You won?”
Anton met his gaze smugly. “Of course. I told you I would.”
Jude’s expression wavered between annoyed and impressed. Anton leapt to his feet, seizing the sword from the center of the table and holding it up like a victory laurel. Jude’s expression landed firmly on annoyed as he snatched it back, his other hand closing around the torc.
“Here you are,” Remzi said to Anton, setting down a sloshing glass filled with wine, which, in the tawny light of the courtyard, looked almost gold. “And one for your swordsman.”
“Oh no. I don’t—”
But Remzi ignored Jude, setting down a second glass full to the brim.
“Drink up,” Yael advised from his other side. “The only way to survive a journey on a rat-infested pile of driftwood crewed by the world’s strongest-bladdered sailors is to drink more than they do.”
“I prefer my faculties unimpaired,” Jude replied.
“He always this much fun?” Remzi asked, arching an eyebrow at Anton.
Anton smirked. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”
Remzi guffawed. Jude was less amused, his lips pursing into a frown and his thick eyebrows drawing together.
Anton let his gaze linger on the swordsman, almost challenging. He knew exactly what he was doing. It was the same thing he’d just done to Remzi at the card table—provoking a reaction to hide his own unease. Because the thought of being stuck aboard a ship with Jude for six days, in close quarters with that overpowering esha, felt like a threat. And not the kind Anton could sweet-talk or run from.
Remzi squinted at Jude. “You know, I swore for a second you were one of those swordsmen. The Paladin. Rumor says, they returned to Pallas Athos.”
Jude’s frown deepened.
Anton’s mind whirred, trying to produce a plausible lie. “He’s—”
“Then I thought to myself, ‘Remzi, you idiot! A swordsman from the Order of the Last Light slumming it in a dump like this?’” Remzi thumped Jude hard on the back, managing to spill about a third of his wine in the process. “Could you imagine?”
He laughed uproariously, and Anton laughed along with him, relieved.
Jude looked like he might be ill as he stepped out of Remzi’s reach and ducked back through the crowd.
“Ah, well,” Remzi said, tossing back the rest of Jude’s wine and throwing an arm around Anton. “Now, you—you may have beaten me at Trove and River, but let’s see how you hold up in a good old-fashioned drinking contest.”
38
HASSAN
Hassan’s stomach twisted in anticipation as he snaked up the road to the agora. In a few short minutes, he would stand on the steps of the Temple of Pallas as the Guard proclaimed him the Last Prophet. There would be no turning back after that.
Hassan didn’t want to turn back. He was certain of their plan, certain of the people he’d chosen to trust. He glanced at Khepri, several paces ahead of him, deep in conversation with Osei about the finer details of the plan to return to Nazirah.
Part of Hassan wondered if Khepri, after her not-quite rejection in the garden, was looking for an excuse not to talk to him. Though it hurt, he was determined to give her space and adhere to the boundary she’d drawn. Besides, he had other matters to worry about.
He turned to Penrose, who strode beside him. “There’s something I wanted to discuss with you,” he said. “Captain Weatherbourne. He still hasn’t returned.”
The way Penrose stiffened was slight but unmistakable. Hassan was sure his hunch was correct. Penrose was hiding something about her captain’s absence.
“Is he coming back?” he asked. “The truth.”
Penrose closed her eyes. “The truth is, I don’t know.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“It’s nothing about the prophecy,” she said. “Nothing about the Witnesses. What I said before is true. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
He could see the conflict playing across her face. “You feel loyalty toward him. Not because he is your captain, but because you care for him. I can understand that.”
“You are the Prophet. My loyalty to you comes before anything else. Always.”
“I know.” If he demanded to know why Captain Weatherbourne had left, Penrose would tell him. “That’s why … I want to name you captain of my Guard.”
Penrose hesitated. “Jude is still captain,” she said haltingly. “The Prophecy name
s him Keeper of the Word. That isn’t me.”
“I know what the prophecy says. But now that I know what we must do to stop the Age of Darkness, I need someone to command the Paladin in Nazirah and coordinate with the Order. If Captain Weatherbourne doesn’t return—”
“I understand,” Penrose said. “I wish I didn’t have to, but I accept.”
Hassan saw what it had cost her to say yes. But the words did come, unflinchingly, and he knew it was the right decision.
“Thank you,” he said. “There’s one other thing. I wanted to ask you about the ship you brought to Pallas Athos.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t want it to sail to Nazirah with us,” Hassan said. “I want to send it back to Kerameikos Fort with the rest of the refugees from Herat—the ones who can’t fight. The Order will pledge to protect them while our forces fight to take Nazirah back.”
He’d thought long about what might happen to vulnerable refugees like Azizi and his mother if they were left behind in Pallas Athos. Would the Witnesses attack the refugees in retribution? Would the people of Pallas Athos grow tired of their presence and convince the priests to expel them?
Penrose stared at Hassan for a long moment, her expression inscrutable.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Your Grace. It’s just that—I’ve spent my whole life thinking about the Prophet, and how he would stop the Age of Darkness. I always knew the Prophet would be a savior, a bringer of light, but—”
“But?”
“You are those things,” she said. “But you’re something else, too. A good man.”
Hassan didn’t quite know what to say. Penrose didn’t seem like someone who showed her emotions easily. But he could see the pride and gratitude in her eyes.
“I’m just trying to do what’s right,” he said.
They were only about a quarter mile from the agora when Khepri and Osei came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road. Penrose halted, too.
There Will Come a Darkness Page 25