Cobb made a show of reading out the warrant. “Conspiracy to commit assault upon the person of a foreign emissary enjoying the protections afforded diplomatic representatives.”
That’s right: technically the old man who’d come to kill me, being a lord magus, held ambassadorial status in Darome.
Cobb went on. “Grievous physical abuse.”
Not nearly grievous enough.
“Theft.”
Knew I shouldn’t have kept any of the coins.
“Acting against the interests of the Daroman crown and the people it serves.”
That one they throw into almost every charge. Spit on the sidewalk and you’ve “acted against the interests” of the crown.
Cobb paused. “There’s something in here about ‘unlawfully being an irritating, half-witted spellslinger who doesn’t do what he’s told,’ but I’m not sure that’s an actual crime.”
I was pretty sure that was the only crime Torian was concerned about. “Funny how she had that warrant all written up before anyone even found the mage,” I said.
I was really starting to hate Lieutenant Torian Libri. While there was no end of people in the Daroman capital who wanted to make my life hell, few displayed her raw determination and consistently lousy sense of humour. “You do realize that under imperial law, my rank as one of the queen’s tutors prevents you from prosecuting me for any crime without four-fifths of the court first revoking that status, don’t you?”
One of the younger men gave an amiable chuckle. I’d let him win at cards with me last week in the vain hope I might win over some of the marshals to my side. “Don’t say nothin’ about you bein’ arrested though.”
“Let’s go, Kellen,” Cobb ordered, motioning for me to start walking ahead of him.
Reichis gave a low growl. “You gonna take this crap, Kellen? Again? Let’s murder these skinbags. You owe me three eyeballs, and this here’s an opportunity for you to pay up.”
“Three? How many eyeballs did you think that mage had?” I asked.
One of the marshals looked at me quizzically. She must’ve been new; the others were accustomed to hearing me talk to Reichis.
“Who can tell with humans?” the squirrel cat asked. “Your faces are all so ugly that every time I start counting, I lose track on account of needing to puke. Besides, two eyeballs was what you owed me an hour ago. The third is interest.”
Perfect. Because in addition to being a thief, blackmailer and murderer, Reichis now wanted to add loan shark to his list of criminal enterprises.
“Let’s be on our way, son,” Cobb Faustus said. “You know how the lieutenant gets when you keep her waiting.”
Several of the other marshals laughed at that—not that any of them would dare cross her. Reluctantly, I trudged along the wide flagstone street that led inexorably towards the marshals’ station. This would make my seventh arrest since agreeing to become the queen’s tutor of cards.
“You know where you went wrong with that female?” Reichis asked.
“Don’t say it,” I warned.
There are literally only three solutions squirrel cats have to offer regarding the resolution of conflicts between humans: kill them, rob them blind or—and this is the one where Reichis derives the most pleasure from devising elaborate and intensely nauseating suggestions—bed them.
“Should’a mated with the lieutenant the day you met her,” he chittered in my ear.
“Mating works better when the other person doesn’t hate you,” I said.
A couple of the marshals following behind me chuckled. Reichis treated their mirth as encouragement. Not that he needed any. “Nah, that Torian female wants you, see?” He tapped a paw against his fuzzy muzzle. “Smelled it on her first time the queen introduced you two. The marshal’s practically in heat for you, Kellen. I swear on all twenty-six squirrel cat gods, it’s true.”
It was, most assuredly, not true. Also, there are almost certainly not twenty-six squirrel cat gods. Times like these, though, it’s best to just let him go on.
“Now here’s what you’re going to do…” The squirrel cat tried—and failed staggeringly—to stifle his chittering laughter. “First, you’re gonna take off your trousers and perform a ceremonial dance. Human females love that. Then, you’re going to turn around and wiggle your butt at her. Then, drop to your knees and start making this sound…”
I’m not going to describe the sound he made. Suffice it to say that it’s exactly as disgusting as you could possibly imagine. He kept on making it all the way to the palace.
if you enjoyed
QUEENSLAYER
look out for
THE TETHERED MAGE
Swords and Fire: Book One
by
Melissa Caruso
Magic is scarce in the Raverran Empire, and those born with such powers are strictly controlled—taken as children and conscripted into the Falcon army, to be used as weapons in times of war.
Zaira has lived her life on the streets to avoid this fate, hiding her mage mark and thieving to survive. But hers is a rare and dangerous magic, one that threatens the entire Empire.
Lady Amalia Cornaro was never meant to be a Falconer. Heiress and scholar, she was born into a treacherous world of political machinations.
Chapter One
“Here, my lady? Are you sure?”
As the narrow prow of my boat nudged the stone steps at the canal’s edge, I wished I’d walked, or at least hired a craft rather than using my own. The oarsman was bound to report to La Contessa that her daughter had disembarked at a grimy little quay in a dubious corner of the Tallows, the poorest district of the city of Raverra.
By the time my mother heard anything, however, I’d already have the book.
“Yes, thank you. Right here.”
The oarsman made no comment as he steadied his craft, but his eyebrows conveyed deep skepticism.
I’d worn a country gentleman’s coat and breeches, to avoid standing out from my seedy surroundings. I was glad not to risk skirts trailing in the murky water as I clambered out of the boat. Trash bobbed in the canal, and the tang in the air was not exclusively salt.
“Shall I wait for you here, my lady?”
“No, that’s all right.” The less my mother knew of my errand, the better.
She had not precisely forbidden me to visit the pawnbroker who claimed to have a copy of Muscati’s Principles of Artifice, but she’d made her opinion of such excursions clear. And no one casually disobeyed La Contessa Lissandra Cornaro. Her word resonated with power in every walled garden and forgotten plaza in Raverra.
Still, there was nothing casual about a Muscati. Only twelve known copies of his books existed. If this was real, it would be the thirteenth.
As I strolled alongside the canal, my mother’s warnings seemed ridiculous. Sun-warmed facades flanked the green water, and workers unloaded produce from the mainland off boats moored at the canal’s edge. A bright, peaceful afternoon like this surely could hold no dangers.
But when my route veered away from the canal, plunging into a shadowy tunnel that burrowed straight through a building, I hesitated. It was far easier to imagine assassins or kidnappers lurking beyond that dim archway. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d faced either in my eighteen years as my mother’s heir.
The book, I reminded myself. Think of the book.
I passed through the throat of the tunnel, emerging into a street too narrow to ever see direct sunlight. Broken shutters and scarred brickwork closed around me. The few people I passed gave me startled, assessing glances.
I found the pawnbroker’s shop with relief, and hurried into a dim wilderness of dusty treasures. Jewelry and blown glass glittered on the shelves; furniture cluttered the floor, and paintings leaned against the walls. The proprietor bent over a conch shell wrapped with copper wire, a frown further creasing his already lined face. A few wisps of white over his ears were the last legacy of his hair.
I approached, glancing at the she
ll. “It’s broken.”
He scowled. “Is it? I should have known. He asked too little for a working one.”
“Half the beads are missing.” I pointed to a few orbs of colored glass still threaded on the wire. “You’d need an artificer to fix it if you wanted it to play music again.”
The pawnbroker looked up at me, and his eyes widened. “Lady Amalia Cornaro.” He bowed as best he could in the cramped shop.
I glanced around, but we were alone. “Please, no need for formality.”
“Forgive me. I didn’t recognize you in, ah, such attire.” He peered dubiously at my breeches. “Though I suppose that’s the fashion for young ladies these days.”
Breeches weren’t remotely in fashion for young ladies, but I didn’t bother correcting him. I was just grateful they were acceptable enough in my generation that I didn’t have to worry about causing a scandal or being mistaken for a courtesan.
“Do you have the book?” I reminded him. “Muscati’s Principles of Artifice, your note said.”
“Of course. I’d heard you were looking for it.” A certain gleam entered his eye with which I was all too familiar: Cornaro gold reflected back at me. “Wait a moment, and I’ll get it.”
He shuffled through a doorway to the rear of the shop.
I examined the shell. I knew enough from my studies of artifice to trace the patterns of wire and understand the spell that had captured the sound of a musical performance inside the shell’s rune-carved whorls. I could have fixed a broken wire, perhaps, but without the inborn talent of an artificer to infuse new beads with magical energy, the shell would stay silent.
The pawnbroker returned with a large leather-bound book. He laid it on the table beside the conch shell. “There you are, my lady.”
I flipped through the pages until I came to a diagram. Muscati’s combination of finicky precision in the wirework schematics and thick, blunt strokes for the runes was unmistakable. I let out a trembling breath. This was the real thing.
The pawnbroker’s long, delicate fingers covered the page. “Is all in order, then?”
“Yes, quite. Thank you.” I laid a gold ducat on the table. It vanished so quickly I almost doubted I’d put it there.
“Always a pleasure,” he murmured.
I tucked the book into my satchel and hurried out of the musty shop, almost skipping with excitement. I couldn’t wait to get home, retreat to my bedroom with a glass of wine, and dive into Muscati’s timeworn pages. My friend Domenic from the University of Ardence said that to read Muscati was to open a window on a new view of the universe as a mathematical equation to be solved.
Of course, he’d only read excerpts. The university library didn’t have an actual Muscati. I’d have to get Domenic here to visit so I could show him. Maybe I’d give the book to the university when I was done with it.
It was hard to make myself focus on picking turns in the mazelike streets rather than dreaming about runic alphabets, geometric diagrams, and coiling wirework. At least I was headed in the right general direction. One more bridge to cross, and then I’d be in polite, patrician territory, safe and sound; and no lecture of my mother’s could change the fact that I’d completed my errand without incident.
But a tense group of figures stood in the tiny plaza before the bridge, frozen in a standoff, every line of their bodies promising each other violence.
Like so many things in Raverra, this had become complicated.
Three broad-shouldered men formed a menacing arc around a scrawny young woman with sprawling dark curls. The girl stood rigidly defiant, like a stick thrust in the mud. I slowed to a halt, clutching my satchel tight against my side, Muscati’s edge digging into my ribs.
“One last chance.” A burly man in shirtsleeves advanced on the girl, fists like cannonballs ready at his sides. “Come nice and quiet to your master, or we’ll break your legs and drag you to him in a sack.”
“I’m my own master,” the girl retorted, her voice blunt as a boat hook. “And you can tell Orthys to take his indenture contract and stuff it up his bunghole.”
They hadn’t noticed me yet. I could work my way around to the next bridge, and get my book safely home. I took a step back, glancing around for someone to put a stop to this: an officer of the watch, a soldier, anyone but me.
There was no one. The street lay deserted. Everyone else in the Tallows knew enough to make themselves scarce.
“Have it your way,” the man growled. The ruffians closed in on their prey.
This was exactly the sort of situation in which a young lady of the august and noble house of Cornaro should not involve herself, and in which a person of any moral fortitude must.
Maybe I could startle them, like stray dogs. “You there! Stop!”
They turned to face me, their stares cold and flat. The air went dry in my throat.
“This is none of your business,” one in a scuffed leather doublet warned. A scar pulled at the corner of his mouth. I doubted it came from a cooking accident.
I had no protection besides the dagger in my belt. The name Cornaro might hold weight with these scoundrels, but they’d never believe I bore it. Not dressed like this.
My name meant nothing. The idea sent a wild thrill into my lungs, as if the air were alive.
The girl didn’t wait to see what I would do. She tried to bolt between two of the men. A tree branch of an arm caught her at the waist, scooping her up as if she were a child. Her feet swung in the air.
My satchel pulled at my shoulder, but I couldn’t run off and leave her now, Muscati or no Muscati. Drawing my dagger seemed a poor idea. The men were all armed, one with a flintlock pistol.
“Help!” I called.
The brutes seemed unimpressed. They kept their attention on the struggling girl as they wrenched her arms behind her.
“That’s it!” Rage swelled her voice. “This is your last warning!”
Last warning? What an odd thing to say. Unless…
Ice slid into my bone marrow.
The men laughed, but she glowered furiously at them. She wasn’t afraid. I could think of only one reason she wouldn’t be.
I flattened myself against a wall just before everything caught fire.
Her eyes kindled first, a hungry blue spark flaring in her pupils. Then flames ran down her arms in delicate lines, leaping into the pale, lovely petals of a deadly flower.
The men lurched back from her, swearing, but it was too late. Smoke already rose from their clothing. Before they finished sucking in their first terrified breaths, blue flames sprang up in sudden, bold glory over every inch of them, burying every scar and blemish in light. For one moment, they were beautiful.
Then they let out the screams they had gathered. I cringed, covering my own mouth. The pain in them was inhuman. The terrible, oily reek of burning human meat hit me, and I gagged.
The men staggered for the canal, writhing in the embrace of the flames. I threw up my arm to ward my face from the heat, blocking the sight. Heavy splashes swallowed their screams.
In the sudden silence, I lowered my arm.
Fire leaped up past the girl’s shoulders now. A pure, cold anger graced her features. It wasn’t the look of a woman who was done.
Oh, Hells.
She raised her arms exultantly, and flames sprang up from the canal itself, bitter and wicked. They spread across the water as if on a layer of oil, licking at the belly of the bridge. On the far side of the canal, bystanders drawn by the commotion cried out in alarm.
“Enough!” My voice tore out of my throat higher than usual. “You’ve won! For mercy’s sake, put it out!”
But the girl’s eyes were fire, and flames ran down her hair. If she understood me, she made no sign of it. The blue fire gnawed at the stones around her feet. Hunger unsatisfied, it expanded as if the flagstones were grass.
I recognized it at last: balefire. I’d read of it in Orsenne’s Fall of Celantis.
Grace of Mercy preserve us all. That stuff wo
uld burn anything—water, metal, stone. It could light up the city like a dry corncrib. I hugged my book to my chest.
“You have to stop this!” I pleaded.
“She can’t,” a strained voice said. “She’s lost control.”
I turned to find a tall, lean young man at my shoulder, staring at the burning girl with understandable apprehension. His wavy black hair brushed the collar of the uniform I wanted to see most in the world at the moment: the scarlet-and-gold doublet of the Falconers. The very company that existed to control magic so things like this wouldn’t happen.
“Thank the Graces you’re here! Can you stop her?”
“No.” He drew in a deep, unsteady breath. “But you can, if you have the courage.”
“What?” It was more madness, piled on top of the horror of the balefire. “But I’m not a Falconer!”
“That’s why you can do it.” Something delicate gleamed in his offering hand. “Do you think you can slip this onto her wrist?”
It was a complex weave of gold wire and scarlet beads, designed to tighten with a tug. I recognized the pattern from a woodcut in one of my books: a Falconer’s jess. Named after the tethers used in falconry, it could place a seal on magic.
“She’s on fire,” I objected.
“I know. I won’t deny it’s dangerous.” His intent green eyes clouded. “I can’t do it myself; I’m already linked to another. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t an emergency. The more lives the balefire consumes, the more it spreads. It could swallow all of Raverra.”
I hesitated. The jess sagged in his hand. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have—”
“I’ll do it.” I snatched the bracelet from him before I could think twice.
“Thank you.” He flashed me an oddly wistful smile. “I’ll distract her while you get close. Wits and courage. You can do it.”
The Falconer sprinted toward the spreading flames, leaving the jess dangling from my hand like an unanswered question.
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