“Some throats are meant to be opened,” said Holland dryly.
Vortalis flashed a cutting grin. “Exactly. So you can sit around waiting for a storybook ending, or you can help me write a real one.”
Holland rapped his fingers on the table. “It won’t be easy to do,” he said thoughtfully. “Not with his guard.”
“Like rats, those men,” said Vortalis, producing a tightly rolled paper. He lit the end in the nearest lantern. “No matter how many I kill, more scurry out to take their place.”
“Are they loyal?” asked Holland.
Smoke poured from the man’s nostrils in a derisive snort. “Loyalty is either bought or earned, and as far as I can tell, Gorst has neither the riches nor the charm to merit his army. These men, they fight for him, they die for him, they wipe his ass. They have the blind devotion of the cursed.”
“Curses die with their makers,” mused Holland.
“And so we return to the point. The death of a tyrant and a curse-maker, and why you’re so suited for the job. According to one of the few spies I’ve managed, Gorst keeps himself at the top of the palace, in a room guarded on all four sides, locked up like a prize in his own treasure chest. Now, is it true,” Vortalis said, his eyes dancing with light, “that the Antari can make doors?”
* * *
Three nights later, at the ninth bell, Holland walked through the castle gate, and disappeared. One step took him across the threshold, and the next landed in the middle of the royal chamber, a room brimming with cushions and silks.
Blood dripped from the Antari’s hand, where he still clutched the talisman. Gorst wore so many, he hadn’t even noticed it was missing, pinched by Vortalis’s spy within the castle. Three simple words—As Tascen Gorst—and he was in.
The king sat before a blazing fire, gorging himself on a feast of fowl and bread and candied pears. Across the city, people wasted away, but Gorst’s bones had long been swallowed up by his constant feasting.
Occupied by his meal, the king hadn’t noticed Holland standing there behind him, hadn’t heard him draw his knife.
“Try not to stab him in the back,” Vortalis had advised. “After all, he is the king. He deserves to see the blade coming.”
“You have a very odd set of principles.”
“Ah, but I do have them.”
Holland was halfway to the king when he realized Gorst was not dining alone.
A girl, no more than fifteen, crouched naked at the king’s side like an animal, a pet. Unlike Gorst, she had no distraction, and her head drifted up at the movement of Holland’s steps. At the sight of him, she began to scream.
The sound cut off sharply as he pinned the air in the girl’s lungs, but Gorst was already rising, his massive form filling the hearth. Holland didn’t wait—his knife went whipping toward the king’s heart.
And Gorst caught it.
The king plucked the weapon from the air with a sneer while the girl still clawed at her throat. “Is that all you have?”
“No,” said Holland, bringing his palms together around the brooch.
“As Steno,” he said, opening his hands as the brooch shattered into a dozen shards of metal. They flew through the air, fast as light, driving through cloth and flesh and muscle.
Gorst let out a groan as blood blossomed against the white of his tunic, stained his sleeves, but still he did not fall. Holland forced the metal deeper, felt the pieces grind against bone, and Gorst sank to his knees beside the girl.
“You think it is that easy—to kill—a king?” he panted, and then, before Holland could stop him, Gorst lifted Holland’s knife, and used it to slit the girl’s throat.
Holland staggered, letting go of her voice as blood splashed onto the floor. Gorst was running his fingers through the viscous pool. He was trying to write a spell. Her life had been worth nothing more than the meanest ink.
Anger flared in Holland. His hands splayed out, and Gorst was wrenched back and up, a puppet on strings. The tyrant let out a guttural roar as his arms were forced wide.
“You think you can rule this city?” he rasped, bones straining against Holland’s hold. “You try, and see—how long—you last.”
Holland whipped the fire from the hearth, a ribbon of flame that wrapped around the king’s throat in a burning collar. At last, Gorst began to keen, screams dragging into whimpers. Holland stepped forward, through the wasted girl’s blood, until he was close enough that the heat of the burning coil was licking his skin.
“It’s time,” he said, the words lost beneath the sounds of mortal anguish, “for a new kind of king.”
* * *
“As Orense,” said Holland when it was done.
The flames had died away, and the chamber doors fell open one after the other, Vortalis striding into the room, a dozen men in his wake. Across the front of their dark armor they already bore his chosen seal—an open hand with a circle carved into its palm.
Vortalis himself wasn’t dressed for battle. He wore his usual dark grey, the only spots of color the spectrum of his eyes and the blood he tracked like mud into the room.
The bodies of Gorst’s guards littered the hall behind him.
Holland frowned. “I thought you said the curse would lift. They wouldn’t have to die.”
“Better safe than sorry,” said Vortalis, and then, seeing Holland’s face, “I didn’t kill the ones that begged.”
He took one look at Gorst’s body—the bloody wounds, the burn around his neck—and whistled under his breath. “Remind me never to cross you.”
Gorst’s meal still sat before the hearth and Vortalis took up the dead king’s glass, dumped the contents in the fire with a hiss, and poured himself a fresh drink, swishing the wine to cleanse the vessel.
He raised the glass to his men. “On vis och,” he said. “The castle is ours. Take down the old banners. By dawn, I want the whole city to know the tyrant no longer sits on the throne. Take his stores, and this shitty wine, and see it spread from the das to the Kosik. Let the people know there’s a new king in London, and his name is Ros Vortalis.”
The men erupted into cheers, pouring out through the open doors, past and around and over the bodies of the old guard.
“And find somebody to clean up that mess!” Vortalis called after them.
“You’re in a fine mood,” said Holland.
“You should be too,” chided Vortalis. “This is how change happens. Not with a whisper and a wish like in those tales of yours, but with a well-executed plan—and, yes, a bit of blood, but that’s the way of the world, isn’t it? It’s our turn now. I will be this city’s king, and you can be its valiant knight, and together we will build something better.” He raised the glass to Holland. “On vis och,” he said again. “To new dawns, and good ends, and loyal friends.”
Holland folded his arms. “I’m amazed you have any left, after sending so many after me.”
Vortalis laughed. Holland hadn’t heard a laugh like that since Talya, and even then, her laugh had been the sweet of poison berries, and Vortalis’s was the open rolling of the sea.
“I never sent you friends,” he said. “Only enemies.”
IV
Lenos was standing at the Ghost’s stern, toying with one of the little carved ships Ilo left everywhere, when a bird flew past.
He looked up, worried. The sudden appearance could only mean one thing—they were approaching land. Which wouldn’t be a problem if they weren’t meant to be heading straight for Maris’s market, in the middle of the sea. The sailor hurried to the prow as the Ghost glided serenely toward a port that rose on the shoreline.
“Why are we docking?”
“It is easier to chart the course from here,” said Jasta. “Besides, supplies are low. We left in a hurry.”
Lenos cast a nervous glance at Alucard, who was climbing the steps. “Aren’t we still in a hurry?” asked Lenos,
“Won’t take long,” was all Jasta said.
Lenos shielded his eyes a
gainst the sun—it had already passed its apex and was now sinking toward the horizon—and squinted at the line of ships tethered to the docks.
“Port of Rosenal,” offered Alucard. “It’s the last stop of any interest before the northern bay.”
“I don’t like this,” grumbled the Antari prince as he joined them on deck. “Jasta, we—”
“We unload the crates and restock,” insisted the captain as she and Hano uncoiled the ropes and threw them over. “One hour, maybe two. Stretch your legs. We’ll be out of port by nightfall, and to the market by late morning.”
“I for one could use a meal,” said Alucard, unhitching the ramp. “No offense meant, Jasta, but Ilo cooks about as well as he sees.”
The ship drifted to a stop as two dock hands caught the ropes and tied them off. Alucard set off down the ramp without a backward glance, Bard on his heels.
“Sanct,” muttered Jasta under her breath. Kell and Lenos both turned toward her. Something was wrong, Lenos felt it in his gut.
“You coming?” called Lila, but Kell called back, “I’m staying on the ship.” And then he spun on Jasta. “What is it?”
“You need to get off,” said the Ghost’s captain. “Now.”
“Why?” asked Kell, but Lenos had already seen the trio headed their way down the dock. Two men and a woman, all in black, and each with a sword hanging at their waist. A nervous prickle ran through him.
Kell finally noticed the strangers. “Who are they?”
“Trouble,” spat Jasta, and Lenos turned to warn Alucard and Bard, but they were already halfway down the dock, and the captain must have seen the danger, too, because he threw his arm casually around Lila’s shoulder, angling her away.
“What’s going on?” demanded Kell as Jasta spun on her heel and started for the hold.
“They shouldn’t be here, not this early in the year.”
“Who are they?” demanded Kell.
“This is a private port,” said Lenos, his long legs easily keeping pace, “run by a man named Rosenal. Those are his swords. Normally they don’t dock until summer, when the weather holds and the sea is full. They are here to check the cargo, search for contraband.”
Kell shook his head. “I thought this ship dealt in contraband.”
“It does,” said Jasta, descending the steps in two strides and taking off down the hold. “Rosenal’s men take a cut. Convenient, too, since the only ships that come here do not fly royal colors. But they are early.”
“I still don’t understand why we have to go,” said Kell. “Your cargo is your problem—”
Jasta turned on him, her form filling the hall. “Is it? Not in London anymore, princeling, and not everyone outside the capital is friend to the crown. Out here, coin is king, and no doubt Rosenal’s men would love to ransom a prince, or sell Antari parts to the Ferase Stras. If you want to make it there intact, get the traitor magician and go.”
Lenos saw the other man go pale.
Steps sounded on deck, and Jasta snarled and took off again, leaving Kell to snag a pair of caps from the hooks in the hall and pull one down over his copper hair. Holland couldn’t have heard Jasta’s warning through the floor, but the stomping must have said enough, because he was already on his feet when they arrived.
“I assume there’s a problem.” Lenos’s stomach cramped with worry at the sight of him free, but Kell just pushed the second cap into the Antari’s hands.
“Jasta?” called a new voice overhead.
Holland tugged the cap down, his black eye lost beneath the brim’s shadow as the captain nudged them both out of the cabin toward the window at the back of the ship. She threw it open, revealing a short ladder that plunged toward the water below.
“Go. Now. Come back in an hour or two.” Jasta was already turning away as one of the figures reached the stairs leading down into the hold. A pair of black boots came into sight and Lenos threw his narrow frame in front of the window.
Behind him, Kell climbed through.
He waited for the splash, but heard nothing but a rush of breath, an instant of silence, and then the muted thud of boots hitting dock. Lenos glanced over his shoulder to see Holland leap from the ladder and land in an elegant crouch beside Kell just before Rosenal’s sellswords came stomping into the hold.
“What’s this now?” said the woman when she saw Lenos, limbs spread across the opening. He managed an awkward smile.
“Just airing out the hold,” he said, turning to swing the window shut. The sellsword caught his wrist and shoved him aside.
“That so?” Lenos held his breath as she stuck her head out the window, scanning the water and the docks.
But when she drew back into the hold, he saw the answer in her bored expression and sagged with relief.
She’d seen nothing strange.
The Antari were gone.
V
Lila had a bad feeling about Rosenal.
She didn’t know if it was the port town itself that disturbed her, or the fact that they were being followed. Probably the latter.
At first, she thought it might be nothing, an echo of nerves from that close call back on the docks, but as she climbed the hill to the town, the certainty settled like a cloak around her shoulders, awareness scratching at her neck.
Lila had always been good at knowing when she wasn’t alone. People had a presence, a weight in the world. Lila had always been able to sense it, but now she wondered if maybe it was the magic in their blood she’d been hearing all along, ringing like a plucked string.
And by the time they reached the rise, Kell either sensed it, too, or he simply felt her tensing beside him.
“Do you think we’re being followed?” he asked.
“Probably,” offered Holland blandly. The sight of him loose, unchained, turned her stomach.
“I always assume I’m being followed,” she said with false cheer. “Why do you think I have so many knives?”
Kell’s brow furrowed. “You know, I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“Some towns have fog,” offered Alucard, “and some have bad feelings. Rosenal simply has a bit of both.”
Lila slid her arm free of Kell’s, senses pricking. The town overlooking the port was a tight nest of streets, squat buildings huddled against the icy wind. Sailors hurried from doorway to doorway, hoods and collars up against the cold. The town was riddled with alleys, the dregs of light thin and the shadows deep enough to swallow the places where a person might wait.
“Gives it a strange kind of charm,” continued the captain, “that sense of being watched…”
Her steps slowed before the mouth of a winding street, the familiar weight of a knife falling into her grip. The bad feeling was getting worse. Lila knew the way a heart raced when it was chasing someone, and the way it stuttered when it was being chased, and right now her heart felt less like predator and more like prey, and she didn’t like it. She squinted into the lidded dark of the alley but saw nothing.
The others were getting ahead of her, and Lila was just turning to catch up when she saw it. There, in the hollow where the road curved away—the shape of a man. The sheen of rotting teeth. A shadow wrapped around his throat. His lips were moving, and when the wind picked up it carried the broken edge of a melody.
A song she’d hummed a hundred times aboard the Spire.
How do you know when the Sarows is coming?
Lila shivered and took a step forward, drawing her fingertip along the oil-slicked edge of her knife.
Tyger, Tyger—
“Bard!”
Alucard’s voice cut through the air, scattering her senses. They were waiting, all of them, at the top of the road, and by the time Lila looked back at the alley, the road was empty. The shadow was gone.
* * *
Lila slumped back in the rickety old chair and folded her arms. Nearby a woman climbed into the lap of her companion, and three tables down a fight broke out, Sanct cards spilling onto the floor as a table ov
erturned between the brawling men. The tavern was all stale liquor and jostling bodies and cluttered noise.
“Not the most savory lot,” observed Kell, sipping his drink.
“Not the worst, either,” said the captain, setting down a round of drinks and a heaping tray of food.
“Do you really plan to eat all that?” asked Lila.
“Not by myself, I don’t,” he said, nudging a bowl of stew her way. Her stomach growled and she took up the spoon, but focused her gaze on Holland.
He was sitting in the back of the booth, and Lila on the outside edge, as far from him as possible. She couldn’t shake the feeling he was watching her beneath that brimmed cap, even though every time she checked, his attention was leveled on the tavern behind her head. His fingers traced absent patterns in a pool of spilled ale, but his green eye twitched in concentration. It took her several long seconds to realize he was counting the bodies in the room.
“Nineteen,” she said coolly, and Alucard and Kell both looked at her as if she’d spoken out of turn, but Holland simply answered, “Twenty,” and despite herself, Lila swiveled in her seat. She did a swift count. He was right. She’d missed one of the men behind the bar. Dammit.
“If you have to use your eyes,” he added, “you’re doing it wrong.”
“So,” said Kell, frowning at Holland before turning toward Alucard. “What do you know about this floating market?”
Alucard took a swig of his ale. “Well, it’s been around about as long as its owner, Maris, which is to say a long damn time. There’s a running line that the same way magic never dies, it never really disappears, either. It just ends up in the Ferase Stras. It’s a bit of a legend among the seaborne—if there’s something you want, the Going Waters has it. For a price.”
“And what did you buy,” asked Lila, “the last time you were there?”
Alucard hesitated, lowering the glass. It always amazed her, the things he chose to guard.
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Kell. “He bought his sight.”
Alucard’s eyes narrowed. Lila’s widened. “Is that true?”
“No,” said her captain. “For your information, Master Kell, I’ve always had this gift.”