Something that looked very much like a white rook.
Lila looked around to make sure she was alone, then did away with the concealment spell. It was easy enough, undoing the magic, but letting go of the stone itself proved considerably more difficult; it took her a long moment, and when she finally managed to pull free and drop the talisman back into her pocket, the whole room tilted. A shudder passed through her, stealing warmth and something more. In the magic’s wake, she felt … empty. Lila was used to hunger, but the stone left her feeling starved in a bone-deep way. Hollow.
Bloody rock, she thought, tucking the toe of her boot under Fletcher’s dead shoulder and turning him over, his blank stare now directed up at the ceiling, and at her.
She knelt, careful to avoid the spreading red slick as she picked up the blood-flecked chess piece.
Lila swore with relief and straightened, weighing it appraisingly. At first glance, it looked rather ordinary, and yet, when she curled her fingers around the stone—or bone, or whatever it was carved out of—she could almost feel the difference between its energy and that of the London around her. It was subtle, and perhaps she was imagining it, but the rook felt like a draft in a warm room. Just cold enough to seem out of place.
She shrugged off the sensation and tucked the chess piece into her boot (she didn’t know how magic worked, but it didn’t seem a wise idea to keep the two talismans close together, not until they were needed, and she wasn’t touching the thieving little rock again unless she absolutely had to). She wiped Fletcher’s blood off on her pants.
All things considered, Lila was feeling rather accomplished. After all, she had the Black London stone and the White London token. Now all she needed was Kell.
Lila turned toward the door and hesitated. He’d told her to stay put, but as she looked down at Fletcher’s fresh corpse, she feared he’d walked into trouble of his own. She’d been in Red London only a day, but it didn’t seem like the place where royal guards went around slitting people’s throats. Maybe Kell would be fine. But if he wasn’t?
Her gut said to go, and years of stealing to survive had taught her to listen when it spoke. Besides, she reasoned, no one in the city was looking for her.
Lila made for the door, and she was almost to it when she saw the knife again, the one she’d been so keen on, sitting on top of the chest where she’d left it. Kell had warned her against thieving in the shop, but the owner was dead and it was just sitting there, unappreciated. She took it up and ran a finger gingerly along the blade. It really was a lovely knife. She eyed the door, wondering if the wards protecting the shop from thieves had died with their maker. Might as well test it. Carefully, she opened the door, set the weapon on the floor, and used the toe of her boot to kick the knife over the threshold. She cringed, waiting for the backlash—a current of energy, a wave of pain, or even the knife’s stubborn return shop-side—but none came.
Lila smiled greedily and stepped out onto the street. She fetched up the knife and slid it into her belt and went to find—and most likely rescue—Kell from whatever mess he’d gotten himself into now.
VI
Parrish and Gen milled around the festival, helmets in one hand and mugs of wine in the other. Parrish had won back his coin—really, between the constant cards and the odd gambles, the two seemed to trade the pocket money back and forth without much gain or loss—and, being the better of the two sports, offered to buy Gen a drink.
It was, after all, a celebration.
Prince Rhy had been kind enough to give the two closest members of his private guard a few hours off, to enjoy the festivities with the masses gathered along the Isle. Parrish, prone to worry, had hesitated, but Gen had reasoned that on this day of all days, Rhy would be suitably well attended without them. At least for a little while. And so the two had wandered into the fray of the festival.
The celebration hugged the river, the market triple its usual size, its banks overflowing with patrons and cheer, music and magic. Every year, the festivities seemed to grow grander, once a simple hour or two of merriment, now a full day of revelry (followed by several more days of recovery, the excitement tapering off slowly until life returned to normal). But on this, the main day, the morning parade gave way to an afternoon of food and drink and good spirits, and finally, an evening ball.
This year it was to be a masquerade.
The great steps of the palace were already being cleared, the flowers gathered up and taken in to line the entry hall. Orbs of crisp light were being hung like low stars both outside the palace and within, and dark blue carpets unrolled, so that for the evening, the royal grounds would seem to float not on the river as a rising sun, but far above, a moon surrounded by the dazzling night sky. All over London, the young and beautiful and elite were climbing into their carriages, practicing their Royal under their breath as they rode to the palace in their masks and dresses and capes. And once there, they would worship the prince as though he were divine, and he would drink in their adoration as he always did, with relish and good cheer.
The masquerade within the palace walls was an invitation-only affair, but out on the riverbanks, the party was open to all and would go on in its own fashion until after midnight before finally dying down, the remnants wandering home with the merry revelers.
Parrish and Gen would soon be recalled to the prince’s side, but for now they were leaning against a tent pole in the market, watching the crowds and enjoying themselves immensely. Now and then, Parrish would knock Gen’s shoulder, a silent nudge to keep a sharp eye on the crowd. Even though they weren’t officially on duty, they (or at least, Parrish) took enough pride in their jobs to wear their royal armor (though it didn’t hurt that ladies seemed to enjoy a man in arms) and watch for signs of trouble. Most of the afternoon, trouble had come in the form of someone celebrating Rhy’s day with a little too much enthusiasm, but now and then a fight broke out, and a weapon or a flash of magic was cause for intervention.
Gen appeared to be having a perfectly pleasant time, but Parrish was getting restless. His partner insisted that it was because Parrish had stopped at one drink, but he didn’t think that was it. There was an energy in the air, and even though he knew the buzz was most likely coming from the festival itself, it still made him nervous. It wasn’t just that there was more power than usual. It felt different. He rolled his empty cup between his hands and tried to set his mind at ease.
A troupe of fire workers was putting on a show nearby, twisting flames into dragons and horses and birds, and as Parrish watched them, the light from their enchanted fire blurred his vision. As it came back into focus, he caught the gaze of a woman just beyond, a lovely one with red lips and golden hair and a voluptuous, only half-concealed bosom. He dragged his gaze from her chest up to her eyes, and then frowned. They weren’t blue or green or brown.
They were black.
Black as a starless sky or a scrying board.
Black as Master Kell’s right eye.
He squinted to make sure, then called to Gen. When his compatriot didn’t answer, he turned and saw the guard watching a young man—no, a girl in men’s clothes, and strange dull clothes at that—weaving through the crowd toward the palace.
Gen was frowning at her faintly, as if she looked odd, out of place, and she did, but not as odd as the woman with black eyes. Parrish grabbed Gen’s arm and dragged his attention forcefully away.
“Kers?” growled Gen, nearly spilling his wine. What?
“That woman there in blue,” said Parrish, turning back to the crowd. “Her eyes …” But he trailed off. The black-eyed woman was gone.
“Smitten, are you?”
“It’s not that. I swear her eyes—they were black.”
Gen raised a brow and took a sip from his cup.
“Perhaps you’ve done a little too much celebrating after all,” he said, clapping the other guard on the arm. Over his shoulder, Parrish watched the girl in boy’s clothes disappear into a tent before Gen frowned and added,
“Looks like you’re not the only one.”
Parrish followed his gaze and saw a man, his back to them, embracing a woman in the middle of the market. The man’s hands were wandering a bit too much, even for a celebration day, and the woman didn’t seem to be enjoying herself. She brought her hands to the man’s chest, as if to push away, but he responded by kissing her deeper. Gen and Parrish abandoned their post and made their way toward the couple. And then, abruptly, the woman stopped struggling. Her hands fell to her sides and her head lolled, and when the man released her a moment later, she swayed on her feet and slumped into a seat. The man, meanwhile, simply turned and walked away, half walking, half stumbling through the crowd.
Parrish and Gen both followed, closing the gap in a slow, steady way so as not to cause alarm. The man appeared and disappeared through the crowd before finally cutting between tents toward the riverbank. The guards picked up their pace and reached the gap right after the man vanished through.
“You there,” called Gen, taking the lead. He always did. “Stop.”
The man heading for the Isle now slowed to a halt.
“Turn around,” ordered Gen when he was nearly to him, one hand on his sword.
The man did. Parrish’s eyes widened as they snagged on the stranger’s face. Two pools, shining and black as river stones at night, sat where eyes should be, the skin around them veined with black. When the man tugged his mouth into a smile, flecks drifted off like ash.
“Asan narana,” he said in a language that wasn’t Arnesian. He held out his hand, and Parrish recoiled when he saw that it was entirely black, the fingertips tapering into charred bone points.
“What in king’s name—” started Gen, but he didn’t have a chance to finish because the man smiled and thrust his blackened hand through the armor and into the guard’s chest.
“Dark heart,” he said, this time in Royal.
Parrish stood frozen with shock and horror as the man, or whatever he was, withdrew his hand, what was left of his fingers wet with blood. Gen crumpled to the ground, and Parrish’s shock shattered into motion. He charged forward, drawing his royal short sword, and thrust the blade into the stomach of the black-eyed monster.
For an instant, the creature looked amused. And then Parrish’s sword began to glow as the spellwork on the enchanted blade took effect and severed the man from his magic. His eyes went wide, the black retreating from them, and from his veins, until he looked more or less like an ordinary man again (albeit a dying one). He drew in a rattling breath and gripped Parrish’s armor—he bore an X, the mark of cutthroats, on the back of his hand—and then he crumbled to ash around Parrish’s blade.
“Sanct,” he swore, staring at the mound of soot as it began to blow away.
And then, out of nowhere, pain blossomed in his back, white-hot, and he looked down to see the tip of a sword protruding from his chest. It slid out with a horrible, wet sound, and Parrish’s knees buckled as his attacker rounded him.
He took a shuddering breath, his lungs filling with blood, and looked up to see Gen looming over him, the blood-slicked blade hanging at his side.
“Why?” whispered Parrish.
Gen gazed down at him with two black eyes and a grim smile. “Asan harana,” he said. “Noble heart.”
And then he raised the sword above his head and swung it down.
XI
MASQUERADE
I
The palace rose like a second sun over the Isle as the day’s light sank low behind it, haloing its edges with gold. Lila made her way toward the glowing structure, weaving through the crowded market—it had become a rather raucous festival as the day and drink wore on—her mind spinning over the matter of how to get into the palace once she’d reached it. The stone pulsed in her pocket, luring her with its easy answer, but she’d made a decision not to use the magic again, not unless she had no other choice. It took too much, and did so with the quiet cunning of a thief. No, if there were another way in, she’d find it.
And then, as the palace neared and the front steps came into sight, Lila saw her opportunity.
The main doors were flung open, silky blue carpet spilling like night water down the stairs, and on them ascended a steady stream of partygoers. They appeared to be attending a ball.
Not just a ball, she realized, watching the river of guests.
A masquerade.
Every man and woman wore a disguise. Some masks were simple stained leather, some far more ornate, adorned by horns or feathers or jewels, some fell only across the eyes, and others revealed nothing at all. Lila broke into a wicked grin. She wouldn’t need to be a member of society to get in. She need never show her face.
But there was another thing that every guest appeared to have: an invitation. That, she feared, would be harder to obtain. But just then, as if by a stroke of luck, or providence, Lila heard the high sweet sound of laughter, and turned to see three girls no older than she being helped out of a carriage, their dresses full and their smiles wide as they chattered and chirped and settled themselves on the street. Lila recognized them instantly from the morning parade, the girls who had been swooning over Rhy and the “black-eyed prince,” whom Lila now knew to be Kell. The girls who had been practicing their English. Of course. Because English was the language of the royals, and those who mingled with them. Lila’s smiled widened. Perhaps Kell was right: in any other setting, her accent would cause her to stand out. But here, here it would help her blend in, help her belong.
One of the girls—the one who’d prided herself on her English—produced a gold-trimmed invitation, and the three pored over it for several moments before she tucked it beneath her arm. Lila approached.
“Excuse me,” she said, bringing a hand to rest at the girl’s elbow. “What time does the masquerade begin?”
The girl didn’t seem to remember her. She gave Lila a slow appraising look—the kind that made her want to free a few teeth from the girl’s head—before smiling tightly. “It’s starting now.”
Lila parroted the smile. “Of course,” she said as the girl pulled free, oblivious to the fact she was now short an invitation.
The girls set off toward the palace steps, and Lila considered her prize. She ran a thumb over the paper’s gilded edges and ornate Arnesian script. Her eyes drifted up again, taking in the procession to the palace doors, but she didn’t join it. The men and women ascending the stairs practically glittered in their jewel-tone gowns and dark, elegant suits. Lush cloaks spilled over their shoulders and threads of precious metal shone in their hair. Lila looked down at herself, her threadbare cloak and worn brown boots, and felt shabbier than ever. She tugged her own mask—nothing but a crumpled strip of black fabric—from her pocket. Even with an invitation and a healthy grasp of the English language, she’d never be let in, not looking like this.
She shoved the mask back in her cloak pocket and looked around at the market stalls that stood nearby. Farther down the booths were filled with food and drink, but here, at the edge nearest the palace, the stalls sold other wares. Charms, yes, but also canes and shoes and other fineries. Fabric and light spilled out of the mouth of the nearest tent, and Lila straightened and stepped inside.
A hundred faces greeted her from the far wall, the surface of which was covered in masks. From the austere to the intricate, the beautiful to the grotesque, the faces squinted and scowled and welcomed her in turn. Lila crossed to them and reached out to free one from its hook. A black half-mask with two horns spiraling up from the temples.
“A tes fera, kes ile?”
Lila jumped, and saw a woman standing at her side. She was small and round, with half a dozen braids coiled like snakes around her head, a mask nested in them like a hairpin.
“I’m sorry,” said Lila slowly. “I don’t speak Arnesian.”
The woman only smiled and laced her hands in front of her broad stomach. “Ah, but your English is superb.”
Lila sighed with relief. “As is yours,” she said.
r /> The woman blushed. It was obviously a point of pride. “I am a servant of the ball,” she replied. “It is only fitting.” She then gestured to the mask in Lila’s hands. “A little dark, don’t you think?”
Lila looked the mask in the eyes. “No,” she said. “I think it’s perfect.”
And then Lila turned the mask over and saw a string of numbers that must have been the price. It wasn’t written in shillings or pounds, but Lila was sure that, regardless of the kind of coin, she couldn’t afford it. Reluctantly, she returned the mask to its hook.
“Why set it back, if it is perfect?” pressed the woman.
Lila sighed. She would have stolen it had the merchant not been standing there. “I don’t have any money,” she said, thrusting a hand into her pocket. She felt the silver of the watch and swallowed. “But I do have this. …” She pulled the timepiece from her pocket and held it out, hoping the woman wouldn’t notice the blood (she’d tried to wipe most of it off).
But the woman only shook her head. “An, an,” she said, folding Lila’s fingers back over the watch. “I cannot take your payment. No matter its shape.”
Lila’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand—”
“I saw you this morning. In the market.” Lila’s thoughts turned back to the scene, to her almost being arrested for stealing. But the woman wasn’t speaking of the theft. “You and Master Kell, you are … friends, yes?”
“Of a sort,” said Lila, blushing when that drew a secretive smile from the woman. “No,” she amended, “No, I don’t mean …” But the woman simply patted her hand.
“Ise av eran,” she said lightly. “It’s not my place to”—she paused, searching for a word—“pry. But Master Kell is aven—blessed—a jewel in our city’s crown. And if you are his, or he is yours, my shop is yours as well.”
Lila cringed. She hated charity. Even when people thought they were giving something freely, it always came with a chain, a weight that set everything off-balance. Lila would rather steal a thing outright than be indebted to kindness. But she needed the clothes.