In Jasta’s hands, the Ghost slowed, drawing up beside the Ferase Stras. A plank was shifted into place between the Ghost and the brim of the floating market, which led onto a covered platform with a simple wooden door. They crossed the plank one at a time, Jasta in the front, then Lila and Kell, with Alucard bringing up the rear. After an hour’s disagreement, the decision was made to leave Holland behind with Hastra and Lenos.
The remaining Antari was cuffed again, but some silent accord must have been struck between Holland and Kell, because he’d been granted freedom to move aboard the ship—Alucard had walked into the galley that morning and seen the magician sitting at the narrow table holding a cup of tea. Now Holland stood on the deck, leaning against the mast in the shadow of the mainsail, arms crossed as much as his chains would allow, head tipped toward the sky.
“Do we knock?” asked Lila, grinning at Alucard, but before she could reach out and rap her knuckles on the door, it swung open and a man stepped forward, dressed in trim white clothes. That, more than anything, made the scene surreal. Life at sea was a painting done primarily in muted shades—the sun and salt leached color, the sweat and grime wore whites to grey. Yet the man stood in the midst of the sea spray and mid-morning light, spotless in his milk-colored slacks and spotless tunic.
On his head, the man wore something between a headscarf and a helm. It circled his head and swept down over his brow and across his high cheeks. The gap between showed his eyes, which were the lightest shade of brown, fringed by long black lashes. He was lovely. Had always been lovely.
At the sight of Alucard, the figure cocked his head. “Didn’t I just get rid of you?”
“Good to see you, too, Katros,” he said cheerfully.
The man’s gaze swept past Alucard to the others, pausing an instant on each before he held out a tan hand. “Your tokens.”
They gave them up: Jasta, a small metal sphere full of holes that whistled and whispered; Kell, a Grey London coin; Lila, a silver watch; and Alucard, the vial of dreamsquick he’d picked up at Rosenal. Katros vanished behind the door, and the four stood in silence on the platform for several long minutes before he returned to let them in.
Kell passed through the door first, vanishing into the shadowed space beyond, followed by Bard with her brisk, soundless step, and then Jasta—but as the captain of the Ghost started forward, Katros blocked her way.
“Not this time, Jasta,” he said evenly.
The woman scowled. “Why not?”
Katros shrugged. “Maris chooses.”
“My gift was good.”
“Perhaps,” was all he said.
Jasta let out something that might have been a curse, or merely a growl, too low for Alucard to parse. They were roughly the same size, she and Katros, even counting the helm, and Alucard wondered what would happen if she tried to force her way through. He doubted it would end well for any of them, so he was relieved when she threw up her hands and skulked back onto the Ghost.
Katros turned toward him, a wry smile nocked like an arrow on his lips. “Alucard,” he said, weighing the captain with those light eyes. And then, at last, “Come in.”
VI
Kell stepped into the room, and drew up short.
He’d expected a contradiction of space, an interior as strange and mysterious as the ship’s facade.
Instead, he found a room roughly the same size of Alucard’s cabin aboard the Night Spire, though far more cluttered. Cabinets bulged with trinkets, cases brimmed with books, and massive chests hugged every wall, some locked and others open (and one trembling as if something inside was both alive and wanted to get out). There were no windows, and with so much clutter, Kell would have expected the room to smell stuffy, moth-eaten, but he was surprised to find the air crisp and clear, the only scent a faint but pleasant one, like old paper.
A broad table sat in the center of the room with a large white hound—though really it looked less like a dog and more like a pile of books shoved under a shaggy rug—snoring gently beneath it.
And there, behind the table, sat Maris.
The king of the floating market, who turned out to be a queen.
Maris was old, old as anyone Kell had ever seen, her skin dark even by Arnesian standards, its surface cracked into a hundred lines like tree bark. But like the sentry at the door, her clothing—a crisp white tunic laced to the throat—lacked even the smallest crease. Her long silver hair was pulled back off her weathered face and spilled between her shoulders in a narrow sheet of metal. She wore silver in both ears, and on both hands, one of which held their tokens while the other curled its bony fingers around the silver head of a cane.
And around her neck—along with three or four other silver chains—hung the Inheritor. It was the size of a small scroll, just as Tieren had said, not a cylinder exactly, but a thing of six or eight sides—he couldn’t tell from here—all short and flat and shaped to form a column, each facet intricately patterned and its base tapered to a spindle’s point.
When they were all there—all save Jasta, who’d apparently been turned back—Maris cleared her throat.
“A pocket watch. A coin. And a vial of sugar.” Her voice held none of the frailty of age—it was rich and low and scornful. “I must admit, I’m disappointed.”
Her gaze lifted, revealing eyes the color of sand. “The watch isn’t even spelled, though I do suppose that’s half the charm. And is this blood? Well, that’s the other half for you. Though I do enjoy an object with a story. As for the coin, yes, I can tell it’s not from here, but rather worn out, isn’t it? As for the dreamsquick, Captain Emery, at least you remembered, needless as it is two years after the point. But I must say, I expected more from two Antari magicians and the victor of the Essen Tasch—yes, I know, word does travel quickly, and Alucard, I suppose I owe you a congratulations, though I doubt you’ve had much time to celebrate, what with the shadows looming over London.”
All of this was said without a pause, or, as far as Kell could tell, the need for breath. But that wasn’t what unnerved him most. “How do you know about the state of London?”
Maris’s attention drifted toward him, and she began to answer, then squinted. “Ah,” she said, “it seems you’ve found my old coat.” Kell’s hands rose defensively to his collar, but Maris waved it away. “If I wanted it back, I wouldn’t have lost it. Thing’s got a mind of its own, I think the spellwork must be fraying. Still eating coins and spitting out lint? No? It must like you.”
Kell never got a word in edgewise, as Maris seemed more than content to carry on her conversations without a partner. He wondered if the old woman was a little daft, but her pale eyes flicked from target to target with all the speed and accuracy of a well-thrown knife.
Now that attention landed on Lila. “Aren’t you a trinket,” said Maris. “But I’m betting a devil to hold on to. Has anyone told you, you’ve something in your eye?” Her hand tipped, letting the tokens tumble roughly to the table. “The watch must be yours, my darling traveler. It smells of ash and blood instead of flowers.”
“It’s the most precious thing I own,” said Lila through gritted teeth.
“Owned,” corrected Maris. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, dearie. You gave it up.” Her fingers tightened on the cane, eliciting a crackle of ligament and bone. “You must want something more. What brings a prince, a noble, and a stranger to my market? Have you come with a single prize in mind, or are you here to browse?”
“We only want—” started Kell, but Alucard clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“To help our city,” said the captain.
Kell shot him a confused look but had the sense to say nothing.
“You’re right, Maris,” continued Alucard. “A shadow has fallen over London, and nothing we have can stop it.”
The old woman rapped her nails on the table. “And here I thought London wanted nothing to do with you, Master Emery.”
Alucard swallowed. “Perhaps,” he said, casting a dark look Kell’s way. “But I still care for it.”
Lila’s attention was still leveled on Maris. “What are the rules?”
“This is a black market,” she said. “There are no rules.”