“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 against 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.