“Ah, he’s awake,” a voice murmured. A dim figure stood across from him at an open doorway. He could smell the man—Cobra, the one he had tackled through the portal. His head throbbed, but the memories were clear and sharp.
Beyond Cobra, another figure seemed to hover in the darkness. Burn squinted; his vision blurred again. When he moved, he felt sticky blood matting his hair.
Why am I still alive? he wondered.
“Keep him for a while,” a low voice reached his ears. “Don’t bother me again until you have the girl.”
“Of course, master.”
“And where is Krait?”
“Taken.”
“Ah.” The soft, sinister voice paused. “I’m sure she’ll find her way back home.”
The conversation stopped. Burn squinted again, but he couldn’t tell if anyone was still in the room. He couldn’t focus any more through the pounding in his skull. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. “Better you kill me now,” he murmured to the darkness. “You might not get another chance.”
A soft laugh reached his ears. “Spoken like a true mercenary,” he heard. “But when my master says wait, we wait.”
Wait. Assassins did not show mercy. The Shade wouldn’t keep him alive unless they had a plan. A flurry of thoughts ran through Burn's head. They might use him as bait to lure his friends into a trap, or to bargain for the Dark God’s weapons. He briefly strained against his bonds, instinctively trying to fight….
Then another streak of pain split his skull, and he found himself spinning into darkness.
CHAPTER 17
Sora stood in front of the mirror in Silas’ cabin—the only full-length mirror on the entire ship. She studied her yellow dress with a scrutinizing eye. In her younger days, she never would have worn anything so simple, but Silas had bought it last-minute from a vendor on the docks, and with winter solstice looming, pickings were slim. Everyone wanted a fancy dress for the festival.
The yellow, form-fitting bodice covered a long cotton shift with billowing white sleeves. Her flowing skirts of deep yellow opened at the front, displaying a wide section of white petticoats. Such a cut would have been highly scrutinized in the country, where petticoats were thought of as strictly undergarments, but Silas assured her the style was quite in vogue. A yellow and gold brocade jacket fit over the bodice. Silas pinned it last night and her mother spent hours tailoring it, from her recovery cot on Ferran’s boat, claiming she needed to keep her hands busy. When Sora asked Lori what she thought of the plan, her mother only bit her lip and nodded, her eyes focused hard on hemming.
“We’ll see if it works,” Lori finally relented.
Sora was surprised by how well the jacket fit, given their limited resources. Beneath her dress she wore a new pair of soft leather boots, appropriate for cold weather, though she knew the nobility would wear heeled slippers until the snows set in.
Her friend Joan had braided her hair that morning and wrapped it decoratively around her head. A sprig of winter jasmine finished off the look, tucked just behind her ear. All in all, Sora thought she could pass for a rich merchant’s daughter, or perhaps a country noble from a very meager estate. Not bad, considering how little time they had to prepare.
Last of all, she pulled on a pair of white gloves. She ran a hand over the rough crater at the center of her left palm, thinking of her battle on the Lost Isles and her Cat’s-Eye stone. The scar, along with her callouses, immediately betrayed her lower status. She would have to keep them hidden. Luckily, gloves were regularly worn both indoors and outdoors during the winter.
So much had changed since she last walked as a noblewoman. She wondered if she could still play the part.
There was a knock at the door. “Yes?” she called. “I’m decent!”
Ferran entered. He wore a majestic red greatcoat with gold-trimmed cuffs. It fell elegantly over a starched white linen shirt and black vest. His tall leather boots reached up to his knees. Sora was amazed Silas had found proper shoes to fit Ferran's large feet.
She stared at him, suddenly awkward. Ferran Ebonaire. To most people in the Kingdom, the name Ebonaire was synonymous with wealth: First Tier elite, second only to the royal family. Raised as a noblewoman, she knew even more about the family's reputation. Two queens hailed from their lineage. He was cousin to the prince, though somewhat removed. She remembered that their current queen was a Seabourne by blood.
And now he was a vagabond lord. Sora could still detect the wear of travel around his eyes and the heavy tan of his skin. Still, in his new greatcoat and slicked hair, he looked every inch a noble. She grinned quietly and wondered if her mother had seen him yet.
Ferran scratched the back of his neck. “I’m wearing far too many shirts under this vest,” he grunted. “Silas secured us a coach. We’re waiting for you.”
Sora nodded and gripped her skirt. “Do you really think this will work?”
Ferran shrugged. “We have to try,” he said. “Feels strange, doesn’t it? The whole…” he indicated both of them, “relative thing.”
“It does,” she agreed immediately. Silas came up with their supposed "family relationship" over breakfast: Sora would pose as Ferran’s daughter, and Lori, his wife. Sora wasn’t sure what possessed the pirate to devise the plan, but it made sense and would be an easy story to stick to. She didn’t entirely mind, though she wasn’t quite sure how to play the part, since she never felt close to Lord Fallcrest.
“Can I pretend we don’t get along?” she suggested. “Perhaps that would be more believable.”
“Perhaps so,” he said. He still seemed uncertain.
Sora turned back to the mirror. The matter was settled, but the thought still intimidated her. Lying to the Ebonaire family? Claiming to be blood? I must have lost my mind, she thought as she adjusted a pin in her braid.
She turned and offered her arm to Ferran, just as a lady would. “Sir,” she said, with a slight bow. She felt a little rusty, but he responded in kind, taking her arm gently and escorting her from the room.
“When we get to the manor, let me speak,” Ferran said as he walked with her across the deck. Outside, sullen rain clouds hung heavy in the sky and moisture lay thick in the air. A cold wind blew from the north. The wind rippled across the waters of The Bath.
Ferran led her to the plank. She searched for Crash on deck, and below on the docks. She spotted Silas standing near a carriage some ways down the boardwalk toward the South Gate, but no one else looked familiar. Perhaps Crash had decided to search for Burn after all. She knew that was her original request, but she felt slightly bereft. Without him, this would be a very lonely and awkward excursion, indeed.
Sora walked down to the wooden boards of the dock and started inland. Ferran released her arm at that point and passed by her with his long strides. They headed for a black coach at the end of the boardwalk. Admittedly, she took her time and enjoyed seeing the bustling wharf at dawn, the long row of fishing boats and the stacks of crayfish traps that lined the pier.
Someone fell into step next to her. She glanced sideways, then stared.
She almost didn’t recognize him.
Gone were Crash’s worn clothes and leather belts. His hair was trimmed and slicked back against his head with Silas’ expensive oils, emphasizing his angular face. His jaw looked clean and sharp. He wore a suit of black livery over a gray brocade vest; a dark gray neckerchief tucked into the high collar of his white shirt hid his scars. A few stray bangs fell across his sea-green eyes.
He returned her look. “Milady,” he said solemnly.
Sora almost tripped over her skirts. Her predominant image of Crash was as a mud-stained, bristling warrior in various forms of ripped clothing, certainly a far cry from sophistication. But in his suit of livery, with his scars well-hidden and his back so straight, she could no longer deny he was a fine-looking man. Even handsome.
He intentionally glanced over her tightly fitted jacket and billowing skirts, allowing his eyes to linger
. Sora felt her cheeks blush. Then he flashed her a smile. “You look sweet,” he said.
“Sweet?” she balked. “What does that mean?”
“Trustworthy. As you should.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Of course, Milady.” His words held a secret laugh.
“I think I might enjoy this,” she teased, just as a young lady might flirt with her handsome footman. “You’ll be at my beck and call.”
“I’m Ferran’s footman,” he corrected.
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ll soon see that means nothing to a Lord’s daughter.”
Crash stepped back wordlessly. She walked past him to the carriage and his eyes trailed after her.
Ferran and Silas waited at the carriage. Silas gave them a short, mocking bow before handing Sora into the coach. Her skirts caught on the door frame and she had to tug them loose.
“That can’t happen when you get out of the carriage,” Ferran murmured as he unhooked her petticoat from the door’s latch.
“I know,” she hissed, embarrassed. Her stepfather had always called her clumsy. In fact, she had even tripped and fallen at her own Blooming!
But I’m not clumsy, she thought, considering her training with Crash. Just nervous. Be calm.
Ferran entered behind her, then Crash. The two men sat across from her, giving her room for her skirts. Sora remembered quite vividly how much she hated riding in carriages. She barely had room to breathe.
“I’ll keep an eye on Lori for the time being,” Silas said from the doorway. “She thinks she’ll be up and walking tomorrow. Send word when you’re ready for us.”
“Us?” Ferran asked dryly.
“Aye,” Silas grinned. “What good is befriending an Ebonaire if you don’t get to visit his house? I look forward to a glass of aged brandy when I arrive.” He gave them a little wave and shut the door.
With a few quick words, Silas paid the driver and Sora heard a whip crack. She flinched on instinct, remembering her fight with the female assassin. When she looked up, she saw Ferran and Crash both grinning in amusement. Their expressions quickly changed when she glared.
The coach rolled forward. Sora watched the city pass by out the window. “Silas certainly seems confident,” she muttered.
“Aye,” Ferran agreed. “Perhaps we should try to do the same.”
* * *
Tourmaline Street was one of the longest boulevards in the City of Crowns. It was wide enough for three wagons to pass side-by-side and connected the South gate to the West gate, traveling parallel to the Crown’s Rush. At mid-morning, the streets were heavy with traffic.
Sora watched out the carriage window at countless peasants, merchants, housewives and other city dwellers going about their daily business. She lost track of how many intersections were crossed. The carriage would pause briefly as children, dogs or other coaches meandered past.
They passed over many bridges, some arced like little rainbows, others broad and flat, purely utilitarian. Canals crisscrossed the city. The smaller canals in the poorer districts moved sluggishly, and the stench of rotting compost seeped through the door into their carriage. Not even the brisk wind outside could dispel it. The larger canals were more pleasant, with faster-moving water. Despite the gloomy weather, Sora saw pleasure crafts carrying well-dressed ladies and merchant barges transporting goods.
At one point, they passed a large ship that obviously hadn't been allowed in a particular canal, as it was jammed at a crossing. Its forestay was broken and, from what she could see, its mainmast was snapped and buried partway under the bridge. A crowd of excited onlookers watched as the district magistrate and street patrol spoke to the owner of the ship. Before the scene disappeared from view, she saw several city guards surround the captain and march him away. Apparently he disagreed with their fines.
The city transitioned through every level of poverty, from wooden lean-tos built against the eastern wall to low thatched houses separated by narrow alleys. Tourmaline Street became narrow and dirty, and travelers kept their eyes downcast, keeping to the overhang of buildings or walking swiftly down the road, braced against the wind.
Then the carriage crossed a large bridge, leaving the poorer district behind. Sora watched the city transform outside the window. Polished storefronts lined the streets, supporting several stories of manicured apartments. They passed residential areas where houses sported large columns, brick porches and ornately sculpted facades. She imagined they were meant to mimic the nobility’s houses in The Regency, if smaller and less grand.
They arrived at The Regency gates after an hour of travel. Heavy drizzle permeated the air, making the streets slick and wet. The tall, bronze gates to The Regency were enclosed on either side with granite walls covered in ivy. Emblems of the royal crown and different house insignias stood at various intervals along the stone surface. The walls looked high enough to keep out a battalion, and the cast-iron gates were just as intimidating.
Sora had never been to The Regency before, but had heard plenty about it during her youth as a noblewoman. A city within a city, The Regency contained its own private parks, shopping districts and theater, meant only for the highest tiers. Select merchants and tradesmen were allowed to run high-end boutiques. Most peasants never saw the interior grounds in their lifetime.
Several soldiers guarded the entrance, their eyes heavy and solemn under their helmets.
Their coach rolled to a stop before the gates. One of the soldiers approached them, and Ferran exited the coach. The moment his foot hit the cobblestones, his entire demeanor changed. He stood upright and raised his head, his chin thrust forward. His shoulders were pulled back. Sora was surprised again by just how tall he stood, several inches above six feet. His narrow build only added to the effect.
She watched through the open door of the coach. Ferran spoke to the guard calmly at first, then emphatically, making a few quick gestures with his hand.
“What is he saying?” she muttered curiously, watching them interact.
“Whatever a noble would say, I imagine,” Crash replied. He sat next to her on the narrow seat, gazing out at the opposite wall. His eyes scanned the streets endlessly, and she suspected he was looking for a sign of the Shade.
Eventually, one of the guards let out a genuine laugh and clapped Ferran on the shoulder, then nodded to his fellows. A whistle blew somewhere out of sight, a wheel churned, and the heavy iron gates swung open on metal gears.
Ferran returned to the coach and signaled the driver to continue. He shut the door behind him.
As the coach rolled forward, Sora looked at him curiously. “What was that about?” she asked.
“We weren’t on the entry list,” he said, “so I told them the truth: we were visiting the Ebonaires, and we had arrived early.”
“Wouldn’t they ask for a letter of invitation?” Crash asked quietly.
Ferran shrugged. “I suppose this suit was enough.” He flicked a bit of lint from his coat. “Should thank Silas later. Or maybe not. We’ll see.”
“He certainly enjoys his clothes,” Sora commented.
“Aye. Who knew they would ever come into use?” Ferran smirked.
They traveled down several streets of whitewashed townhouses, twice the height as those she had seen outside The Regency gates, and decorated with intricate stonework. A frozen stream, crossed over by small footbridges, separated the row of houses from the cobblestone street. These townhouses would belong to the Second Tier, the less wealthy nobility.
After several minutes, there were no more townhouses and they entered a district of sprawling front lawns and large manors. In this area of The Regency, the streets were wide and lined with impressive elm trees and paved paths where people could walk or ride horseback in the shade. The front drives seemed impossibly long, circling around massive lawns adorned with statues and carefully hedged bushes. She saw few people out on the street. The sky darkened with rain, and the storm grew stronger.
The carria
ge reached a wide cul-de-sac at the end of a long street. A copse of ancient oak trees stood as a barrier between prying eyes and the estate beyond. The carriage followed a single driveway around the thicket of trees. They entered a long tunnel of thick, tangled oaks grown tall and wide enough to arch over the entire road like a canvas. Now in winter, their mighty branches were bare of leaves, and resembled a web of thorny bracken. Sora caught sight of the rain-laden sky overhead.
Eventually, they entered a large field of trimmed green grass. A sprawling, decadent manor came into view. It looked like a castle in its own right, twice the size of the manor where she grew up. Sora stared at the spiraling turrets and chimneys, the endless rows of windows and the old-world masonry of the front entrance. She saw gargoyles, stone swords and emblems of shields stamped around the entryway, and two flags flapping in the wind. One carried the symbol of the phoenix, the insignia of the Ebonaire house, and another of a boar’s head, the royal family. She swallowed nervously. The Ebonaire bloodline went back to the founding of the Kingdom and the war-tribes of days long past. Their name was known by even the poorest urchin—as unquestionable as the King’s own title.
Finally the coach came to a stop in the wide pavilion before the house. Sora was surprised that there were no people on the grounds. It looked well-nigh deserted, perhaps because of the weather. At her manor in the country, stable boys always stood on call, ready to assist with horses or luggage. But our arrival is unannounced, she thought.
She glanced nervously at Ferran and noticed a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. He thrummed his fingers against his knee. When the coachman opened the door, Ferran sprung out of the carriage and strode tensely to the front door.
Crash followed him, a bit more subdued. He paused to assist Sora with her dress. She was secretly grateful. Her skirts seemed determined to catch on the doorway’s latch. She felt extremely constricted by so many layers.
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