Then he looked up and said to Gemma, “Go on, go find him. I’m right behind you.” She kissed his forehead and turned to leave, motioning for Tollan and Wince to follow.
Outside, Canticle Square was in chaos. Brambles had erupted from the ground around the Head, and when they burst into sudden flame, they lit up the night. Gemma could hear a child screaming in the distance. A man driving a cart barely slowed down to pass them, and Gemma let her dagger fly. It pinned him neatly in the back of the neck and he slumped over onto the seat. She was dimly aware in the back of her mind that she should feel guilty for killing him, but in the forefront all she saw was Devery, bloodied and alone.
“Come on,” she barked, running to catch the slowing horse. She yanked her dagger from the cart driver’s neck and pulled him down to the ground before claiming his seat.
Tollan stared, disconcerted, as he climbed onto the cart with her. Wince didn’t meet her gaze.
She opened her mouth then snapped it closed again. She didn’t need to make excuses. She was the Queen of Under.
She steered them toward Guildhouse, her throat tight. The clip of the horse’s feet on the cobblestones reminded her of the two finger snaps that Elam had sent her off with. As she pushed the horse to go faster, she remembered the years she’d spent with Devery and Elam, honing their craft, in their apartment together on Thieves Row. Their jobs got bigger and more difficult as time went by, but it wasn’t until they pulled off the assassination of a Farcastian baron when Gemma was nearly sixteen, that Devery had finally opened up.
As the three of them sat around their tiny table passing a bottle of congratulatory wine between them, the excitement that appeared in Devery’s eyes lit the room. “Nobody’s ever going to find that prickling shitbag! It was a brilliant plan, Gemma.” He handed the bottle to her, grinning.
“I didn’t know you could smile,” she said, taking another swallow. “I asked Fin about it once, and he said the muscles that pull your lips up had been severed in a tragic accident involving a goat, a printing press and a harvesting scythe.” Her own mouth turned upward in a devilish smile as she continued. “But he told me not to bring it up. Said you were a little touchy about your affinity for goats.”
Elam erupted with laughter, but Devery just looked at her—eyes glinting. Something within her—probably the wine—made her match his gaze. Until that moment, she’d been too afraid of him, too unnerved by him to ever even try to make him warm to her. She glanced away demurely. “I’m sorry for the loss of your goat, though. What was her name? Sugartits?”
Warm, hearty laughter tumbled out of him. She was sure he was mocking her until she saw his face. It was as if the Devery she had known for three years had vanished in the blink of an eye and was suddenly replaced by someone who didn’t hate her. Who maybe even liked her a little bit.
The sound of his laughter tumbled through her mind as she raced through the empty Above. They were one street over from Guildhouse, and Gemma was positive that the geyser of flame she saw just beyond the closest row of buildings was the aboveground portion of her home. But she did not slow down. She snapped the reins against the horse’s ass, urging it onward.
She was prickling done with slowing down.
There was a point earlier in the day, before Tollan’s whole life had gotten away from him, when he’d thought that he should be wary of Gemma. But wary didn’t even begin to describe his feelings now. The rage that boiled off her as they careened through the city was terrible to behold. She had gone cold, and there was violence in her that he had underestimated.
Wince had gone stiff. He was clearly weighing the risks versus the benefits of staying with Gemma. “We need to get out of here,” Wince hissed in his ear.
Tollan agreed. Gemma’s vengeance fantasy was not theirs, and he needed to get back to Iven to see if he was being controlled by magery, or if he did truly want Tollan dead. If Elsha was compelling Iven, and there was any way to free his brother from her talons, he had to do whatever he could. Iven was just a kid.
They took a corner too fast, and the horse faltered. “Prick!” Gemma shouted, whipping at the horse with the reins.
“Gemma, it—”
She interrupted Tollan with a glare so icy that he shrank from her. Her lip curled. “Get out,” she snarled.
He looked at Wince, who shrugged.
“Gemma, we need to talk,” Tollan said. “I know you’re worried about your … Devery, but I need to find out what’s going on with my brother. I can’t just leave him if he’s caught in a mage woman’s trap. They could control all of Yigris if we leave them there. Let’s just take a minute and think this through. If we could break into the palace through the Golden Door, maybe we could find out the truth …” He hated the clumsiness of his tongue. He wished he had some of his father’s authority behind his words.
She hopped down from the cart and drew a knife. When she met his gaze, there was a glimmer of madness in her eyes. “Right now, I don’t give two shits about Yigris. You want to head back to the palace, that’s your funeral.” She looked at the blade of her knife, glinting in the streetlight. “But I’m going to find Devery.” Her hand drifted over her midsection as she added, “It would take a whole army of mage women to stop me.” She offered Wince the reins. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be heading into their den without some friends at my back, but maybe you’re better swordsmen than I think.”
“My brother …” Tollan said and shook his head. “I can’t leave him if our suspicions about the mage women are correct. If I’m wrong, I …”
She nodded. “I understand. Sure. Family is important. I’m going to go find what’s left of mine.” She turned and walked away, but a few steps later, she called over her shoulder, “If you’re right, and this is Vaga, House Daghan is to blame. If I lose Devery …” She didn’t bother to finish the threat. Tollan knew exactly what she meant.
Wince gathered the reins, then snapped them to urge the wounded horse gently onward. “Well, that could have gone better,” he muttered.
Tollan couldn’t argue with that. He may have just made an enemy of one of his only allies. They plodded through the city streets. No one paid them any heed. The shops and homes were shuttered tight. There were no people about. Fires raged, but the streets had an eerie silence to them. Tollan picked at the gum paste that still clung to his chin. He settled into a sullen silence and ignored Wince’s prying gaze. “This whole city feels like a mummer’s show,” he said. Tollan’s eyes continued to search the horizon. Nothing else was burning. Not even the buildings adjacent to the fire. How was that possible? It was a windy night. The flames should be dancing from rooftop to rooftop. Prick, half the city should be engulfed by now.
“I know. It’s hard to believe it’s real.”
“No, I mean … it … this …”—he held his arms wide—“feels staged. Remember the stories of the Mage War? Hundreds of mage women swarmed through the streets, the Yigrisian army decimated. Remember the riots and the refugees and the mass chaos?”
Wince nodded.
“Why are people not fleeing? Where is the chaos? Back by Canticle Center there was a little, but here … almost nothing.” He turned in a circle and pointed to a column of smoke.
“It’s a farce,” Tollan said. “The flames aren’t spreading. The only thing that could explain it is mage work, but …”
Wince met his eyes, and his hand drifted to the hilt of his cutlass. “Bloody Aegos,” he groaned. “The mage women don’t leave the palace. And I find it awfully hard to believe that Iven’s princess has been down here in the shit and mud.”
“It has to mean that there are other mages here within the city. Someone must have marked the Guild buildings to make them, and them alone, burn.”