But not anymore. She knew that. She did. They had both been ready to end things. It wasn’t just that they were better as friends, as she’d told Alys. It was that the fire inside her burned away everything else. Sometimes when she’d held Evander, it had felt like she was holding the last good part of herself. Goodness couldn’t stop the council though, and so it burned with all the rest.
“What am I looking for in the shop?” Newt asked, his attention shifting back down the street.
“Gaz keeps his stash in a wooden chest,” Cassa said, holding out her hands to indicate the size. “There should be several doses in there. He’s been addicted for as long as I’ve known him.”
“How big is the shop?”
“Only one room, but I’ll keep him plenty distracted for you.”
Newt nodded and stared at the shop a little longer, gnawing on his bottom lip.
“I heard sometimes he steals people’s memories without them knowing, then sells them to the council if they’re incriminating.”
“If there was a way to collapse the roof on his head without getting caught, I’d do it,” Cassa said. “We’ll just have to settle for this, for now.”
Newt left without another word, headed for the street that ran behind the shop. Cassa started down the road, sidestepping the potholes and piles of refuse. She felt sorry for the desperate souls who had to crawl to Gaz for help. Except Alys. It had never occurred to her to feel sorry for Alys, whose desperation that day four years ago had seemed more like obstinacy. As if she’d never learned how to just give up.
She’d never told Alys that before. She wasn’t sure how.
Gaz was lounging in front of his shop window, his filthy boots propped on the sill, his chair rocking back and forth precariously. Cassa considered how easy it would be to knock him off balance, but she resisted. When Gaz saw her, his eyes flashed shock, then suspicion. Then he smiled.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the little rebel herself,” he said, stretching his arms above his head with exaggerated leisure. His teeth were even more rotten than they had been the last time she’d seen him. She wondered why he didn’t put some of his under-the-table earnings toward some dental hygiene.
Cassa stayed several feet away, reasoning that it was best to keep Gaz’s attention as far away from Newt as possible. She crossed her arms.
“How have you been, Gaz?”
“How’ve I been?” he crowed. “Must be a cold day in hell if you’re here to swap niceties with me.”
“Freezing,” Cassa said, keeping her tone as agreeable as she could manage. “I’m here for a favor.”
“Don’t do favors,” Gaz said, but he swung his legs down and leaned forward against the windowsill. “I buy dreams.”
“Among other things,” Cassa said.
Gaz eyed her for a few seconds, then smiled again. This one was tighter, crueler.
“Among other things,” he said.
Behind him, the interior of Gaz’s shop was shadowy and still. In her periphery, Cassa thought she could see Newt’s fingers grasping the sill of the small, high window cut into the back wall. She couldn’t risk a better look without Gaz noticing.
“I’m getting out of the city while I still can,” she said. “But I’m a little short of funds.”
“Ain’t we all.”
“I have some memories to sell that I think you’ll be interested in buying.”
Gaz didn’t look surprised. He’d probably already guessed as much. He scratched at the stubble on his chin in thought, never taking his eyes off her.
“I heard you was supposed to be executed a few days back,” he said.
“Why else do you think I’m running?”
Some people laughing at the end of the street stole Gaz’s attention momentarily, and Cassa used the opportunity to squint into the shop. She could definitely see the shape of Newt’s head, and then shoulders, as he pulled himself through the window.
Cassa met Gaz’s eye as he looked back at her.
“I don’t often consort with criminal types.” He flicked some dirt off his collar in what he probably thought was a genteel gesture. It might have been more believable if his entire shirt wasn’t stained with sweat and grime.
“And I don’t often consort with lowlife street scum,” Cassa replied, forgetting her determination to stay civil. Old habits.
Gaz wasn’t ruffled by her response. If anything, he was smug. Cassa wondered if he was reading her ire as desperation. That was fine with her. It would help sell what she was going to say next. Newt was in the shop now. There was no going back. Gaz had a knife with him at all times, and if Cassa didn’t keep him distracted, Newt was going to be on the wrong end of it.
“I went below the citadel,” she said. “I walked through the crypts. I saw the executioner with my own eyes.”
Gaz’s eyes glinted, and he leaned closer. His forearms were resting on the sill with his fingers intertwined. Cassa could see that they were trembling with excitement. She moved a couple of steps closer.
“You can take all of it—from my arrest all the way to my escape. That includes a route out of the dungeons, which I imagine those criminal types you don’t consort with would pay a pretty penny for. And I’ll bet some bored nobleman in the upper echelon would just love to know what’s under the citadel.”
Newt was searching the shop for the chest. His movements were silent and swift, but he wouldn’t remain undetected for long.
“What about those friends of yours?” Gaz asked. “You ain’t smart enough to break into the citadel on your own.”
“Leave them out of it.”
“That’s not exactly possible.” Gaz tapped a finger to the side of his head and grinned. “You runnin’ out on them too?”
“They’ll make their own way,” Cassa said, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. “Are you interested or not?”
“I’m plenty interested.” Gaz stood up. “I’ll give you ten coppers for the lot.”
He started to turn, but Cassa lunged forward and grabbed his arm.
“I’m not talking coppers, you greedy bastard.” She jerked him to face her.
Her caustic tone had the intended effect. He glared at her and wrenched her hand off his arm. Up close, he stank of beer and body odor. Cassa had to fight the urge to step back.
“You’ll take what I give you,” he said. “Or you can try your luck somewhere else.”
“What I have is worth ten silvers at least, and you know it,” she said. “I didn’t come here to get cheated.”
Gaz spit out the window, narrowly missing her left foot.
“And what if I decide you’re too much trouble? Maybe I can earn more turning you in for the reward money.”
“I think we both know that the council isn’t going to pay money for information they can just take from you.” Just because he was a rook didn’t mean he was immune to sentients—or even other rooks.
Gaz spit again, his smugness twisting into a scowl.
“Fine, but you don’t see a single coin until I have all the goods,” he said. “I don’t intend to get cheated either.”
“Deal,” Cassa said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
The last was meant for Newt. She couldn’t drag the conversation out much longer, and there was no way she was letting Gaz Ritter anywhere near her mind. In response, Newt lifted the chest high enough that she could see it over Gaz’s head.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m quick,” Gaz said with a wink.
There was a joke there she so badly wanted to make, but she was busy ducking away from Gaz’s hands as he reached for the sides of her face.
“What now?” he complained.
Newt chose that moment to open the chest. The lid creaked with a terrible squeal. Gaz spun around before Cassa could stop him. Her heart was in her throat, smothering her breath.
But the shop was empty—or looked that way. Cassa’s mind caught up, and she realized Newt must have dropped behind the desk. Hidden for
now, but not if Gaz decided to take a peek out the back window.
“Sorry,” she said, and Gaz turned back to her. “You caught me off guard. I’m ready now.”
She stepped even closer to the window, a fly into the web. Gaz’s eyes glittered with a dark sort of triumph as he put his fingers against her temples. If Newt didn’t hurry, she wasn’t sure what was going to happen. She had no doubt that Gaz would try to take far more than the memories she’d offered. And she didn’t know if she’d be able to stop him—or pull away once he’d started.
She felt the tug inside her head almost immediately. It was strange and nauseating. Even years into their friendship, she’d never let Vesper near her memories, and Vesper had never asked. This violation of her mind wasn’t something Cassa had ever wanted to experience.
She could feel him rooting around her head. Her thoughts were a jumbled, tangled mess, and Gaz yanked at the threads indiscriminately, searching for what he wanted. Cassa’s mind swam with memories, old and new together. The sound of her mother’s laugh. The hard stone of her prison cell. Her father lifting her onto his broad shoulders. Vesper on the Merchants’ Bridge, telling her that she couldn’t go through with their plan. The blue sheen of the ghost light against ancient crypts. Her first kiss, and the smile on Evander’s face before he leaned in to kiss her again. The Seras’ cozy kitchen as she laid out her plan to the others.
In the present, Cassa saw Newt disappear out the window. It somehow felt like a distant memory, but a part of her mind registered what it meant. She wanted to pull back from Gaz, but she felt tethered to him. She could feel the memories slipping away, into his greedy hands. It was almost too late.
She head-butted him.
Gaz howled, and Cassa gasped. It didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected, but maybe that was because she was too dazed to feel anything. She stumbled backward into the street, her vision reeling. For a horrible moment, she thought she might retch, but then her focus returned, and so did her balance. She didn’t wait to see what Gaz would do. She ran.
TWENTY-FOUR
EVANDER
With the crowds swarming the Merchants’ Bridge, it was easier than Evander expected for him and Alys to sneak out of the city and onto the path through the woods that led to the Blacksmith’s cottage. He kept stealing glances over his shoulder, certain that citadel guards would appear out of nowhere and give chase, but they were alone in the calm of the forest. The pines and budding oaks were so thick and close that they formed a canopy overhead, blocking out all but a few motes of sunlight.
Once they were a mile outside the city, Evander began to relax, though Alys stayed quiet. He made a few attempts at conversation to pass the time, but she was being purposefully taciturn.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” he said finally, stopping to face her.
Alys stopped short and blinked at him in surprise.
“Sorry about what?” she asked.
“About last night. That I yelled at you.”
“Do you really think I care about that?” Her eyebrows arched. “I was more upset that you almost got yourself shot.”
“But I didn’t. I’m fine.”
“I know.”
“If you’re not mad at me, then why are you acting like we’re marching to our deaths?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she kept walking.
“I don’t know how it’s escaped your notice, but we very well might be,” she said. “Not to mention the fact that our parents are probably in the dungeons right now, if they’re even still alive.”
“You know Mother would be the first one to tell you that moping never solved anyone’s problems.”
Alys slowed but didn’t turn around.
“Stop treating it like a joke,” she said. “Why do you always have to do that?”
Evander frowned at her back. Her rebuke hit him a little harder than he would have liked to admit. Of course he understood the precariousness of their position. Of course he was terrified that their parents would be killed and it would be his fault for wanting to help Solan.
“Truth or lie?” he asked.
That stopped her. With her back still to him, she took a deep breath. Then she turned.
“Truth.” She met his eyes without hesitation.
“Because if I don’t take it seriously, I don’t have to be afraid of it.”
She studied him in silence for a few seconds, thin lines of concentration wrinkling her brow.
“Must be nice,” she said at last. She started walking again.
It was baffling to hear that from her. Evander had always thought of his older sister as fearless. She was cautious and calculating, and though sometimes her own mind betrayed her with uncontrollable panic, that had always felt separate from the fact that she was impossibly brave. She’d been the one to start working with the rebellion, even knowing the risk. For months, she had plied the trade that their parents had taught her, keeping the firebrands stocked with medicine. For months, she had brought home ever-increasing sums of money, giving vague answers when their parents asked, giving their family hope before Evander had even considered hope to be possible. She’d been the one to take care of him when he stumbled home after his visit to the Blacksmith. She’d been the one to get them out of the citadel dungeons. Everything he had to deflect with humor, she faced without flinching.
He tried to think of how to tell her that in a way she might believe, but knowing his sister as he did, he had a sinking feeling that she never would.
He caught up with her, and they continued their walk along the rutted dirt road.
“Is the Blacksmith going to remember you?” Alys asked, after almost half an hour of silence. Her tone had lost its reproach, but he could still sense the tension in her.
“Probably,” he said. “It’s not as if he gets many visitors.”
The selection process for bloodbonding was intensive. It had to be. Before the process was in place, dozens of people had died during the bonding—some of them very important members of nobility. Finally, twenty years ago, the council had summoned the Blacksmith to the citadel, and with his help developed a set of criteria for what made someone most likely to survive the gruesome ordeal. A good constitution was vital, but it wasn’t everything. The Blacksmith insisted that every minute detail of a person’s anatomy affected the process: the thickness of their bones, their blood pressure, the rate of their pulse, their energy levels, and even the size of their tongue. A person’s temperament and threshold for pain were also taken into account. Bloodbonding wasn’t for the weak-willed.
Evander had heard once that for the final test, the applicant was cut with a knife so deeply that the blade nicked bone. If they cried out, they failed.
He didn’t know if that was true, but it made sense. The council had many uses for people bloodbonded with common metals—like Captain Marsh’s bond with iron—or even with the rarer gold and silver. They had no use for corpses.
Evander hadn’t gone through any of those tests. The Blacksmith hadn’t asked about his blood pressure or taken his pulse or measured his tongue. Sometimes Evander wondered if the process hurt less for people who were better suited for it. He didn’t think his survival was a testament to his strong constitution—just his luck.
Alys was side-eyeing him, and Evander noticed that a silver coin was in orbit around his head. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. He reached up and plucked it from the air. It was warm in his hand. When he held silver, it didn’t even feel separate from his skin. It was a natural part of him now.
The Blacksmith’s cottage was a slapdash collection of different materials, as if it had been built over the course of a decade using whatever was on hand. The original house was a squat square with a pitched roof and short chimney, built from crumbling gray bricks. Thrust against its side was a second structure, built from logs and patched with straw in places. From the other side, a newer addition protruded, walled by red bricks and mortar. There were two great wooden doors at the front tha
t stood open.
Evander and Alys stood at the threshold, peering into the dusky interior. It was fairly large—maybe even larger than the entire original cottage. Inside was the same as he remembered it, if a little more cluttered. Alys breathed in sharply at the sight. He’d never talked much about his visit here. She’d probably been expecting cold, hard surfaces and rows of metalworking tools and an angry furnace. But this was less a workshop and more a gallery. There was one long bench at the farthest end of the room that was cluttered with various tools, casts, crucibles, and metal cylinders of different sizes. In the very center of the room was a wooden table, roughly the size of a bed, with leather straps dangling from its sides. Evander remembered that table very well. Just the sight of it sent phantom pain through his arm and into his chest.
The rest of the space was crammed with shelves and smaller tables, all covered with trinkets and ornaments. On one table was a menagerie of animal figurines, cast in different metals, each one perfectly shaped. Beside it was a shelf full of silverware and small brass kettles and six identical tin gravy boats. More prominent than the displayed metalworking was the glass. Strands of delicate glass orbs hung from the ceiling in crisscross patterns, creating a galaxy overhead. Near the door dangled fishing line dotted with little glass teardrops, giving the illusion of rain that had been frozen in time. On other shelves, there were colorful vases blown in the most fantastic shapes and rows of figurines a hundred times more detailed than their metal counterparts.
When he’d come three years ago, it was after dark, the space lit solely by lanterns and candles perched or hung on every empty surface. Then, the spectacle of glass ornaments inside had glowed golden, seeming to amplify the light. Today, with the sun reaching its apex, the room was dim and murky with pale-gray shadows.
“What are you doing here?”
Beneath the Citadel Page 17