“This is a ship,” countered Lila. “And every ship has rules. The captain sets them. Unless, of course, you’re not the captain of this ship.”
Maris flashed her teeth. “I am captain and crew, merchant and law. Everyone aboard works for me.”
“They’re family, aren’t they?” said Lila.
“Stop talking, Bard,” warned Alucard.
“The two men who threw the other overboard, they take after you, and the one guarding the door—Katros, was it?—has your eyes.”
“Perceptive,” said Maris, “for a girl with only one of her own.” The woman stood, and Kell expected to hear the creak and pop of old bones settling. Instead, he heard only a soft exhale, the rustle of cloth as it settled. “The rules are simple enough: your token buys you access to this market; it buys you nothing more. Everything aboard has a price, whether or not you elect to pay it.”
“And I assume we can only choose one thing,” said Lila.
Kell recalled the man thrown overboard, the way he’d called out for another chance.
“You know, Miss Bard, there is such a thing as being sharp enough to cut yourself.”
Lila smiled, as if it were a compliment.
“Lastly,” continued Maris with a pointed look her way, “the market is warded five ways to summer against acts of magic and theft. I encourage you not to try and pocket anything before it’s yours. It will not go well.”
With that, Maris took her seat, opened a ledger, and began to write.
They stood there, waiting for her to say more, or to excuse them, but after several uncomfortable moments, during which the only sound was the rattling of one trunk, the slosh of the sea, and the scratch of her quill, Maris’s bony fingers drifted to a second door set between two stacks of boxes.
“Why are you still here?” she said without looking up, and that was all the dismissal they got.
*
“Why are we even bothering with the ship?” asked Kell as soon as they were through the door. “Maris has the only thing we need.”
“Which is the last thing you’re going tell her,” snapped Alucard.
“The more you want something from someone,” added Lila, “the less they’ll want to part with it. If Maris finds out what we actually need, we’ll lose what power we have to bargain.” Kell crossed his arms and looked about to counter, but she pressed on. “There are three of us, and only one Inheritor, which means the two of you need to find something else to buy.” Before either of the men could protest, she cut them off. “Alucard, you can’t ask for the Inheritor back, you’re the one who gave it to her, and Kell, no offense, but you tend to make people angry.”
Kell’s brow furrowed. “I don’t see how that—”
“Maris is a thief,” said Lila, “and a bloody good one by the look of this ship, so she and I have something in common. Leave the Inheritor to me.”
“And what are we supposed to do?” asked Kell, gesturing to himself and the captain.
Alucard made a sweeping gesture across the market, the sapphire twinkling above his eye. “Shop.”
VII
Holland still hated being at sea—the dip and swell of the ship, the constant sense of imbalance—but moving around helped, somewhat. The manacles still emitted their dull, muffling pressure, but the air on deck was crisp and fresh, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was somewhere else—though where he’d be, Holland didn’t really know.
His stomach panged, still hollowed out from his first hours aboard, and he reluctantly made his way back down into the hold.
The old man, Ilo, stood at the narrow counter in the galley, rinsing potatoes and humming to himself. He didn’t stop when Holland entered, didn’t even soften his tune, just carried on as if he didn’t know the magician was there.
A bowl of apples sat in the center of the table, and Holland reached out, chains scraping the wood. Still the cook didn’t move. So the gesture was pointed, thought Holland, turning to go.
But his way was blocked.
Jasta stood in the doorway, half a head taller than Holland, her dark eyes leveled on him. There was no kindness in that gaze, and no sign of the others behind her.
Holland frowned. “That was fast….”
He trailed off at the sight of the blade in her hand. One manacled wrist leaned on the table, the apple in his other hand, a short length of chain between. He’d lost the splinter he’d kept between metal and skin, but a paring knife sat on the counter nearby, its handle within reach. He didn’t move toward it, not yet.
It was a narrow room, and Ilo was still washing and humming as if nothing were amiss, pointedly ignoring the rising tension.
Jasta held her blade loosely, with a comfort that gave Holland pause.
“Captain,” he said carefully.
Jasta looked down at her knife. “My brother is dead,” she said slowly, “because of you. Half my crew is gone because of you.”
She stepped toward him.
“My city is in peril because of you.”
He held his ground. She was close now. Close enough to use the blade before he could stop her without things getting messy.
“Perhaps two Antari will be enough,” she said, bringing the tip of the knife to rest against his collar. Her gaze held his as she pressed down, testing, the knife sinking just enough to draw blood before a new voice echoed down the hall. Hastra. Followed by Lenos. Steps tumbling briskly down the stairs.
“Perhaps,” she said again, stepping back, “but I’m not willing to risk it.”
She turned and stormed out. Holland rocked back against the counter, wiping the blood from his skin as Hastra and Lenos appeared and Ilo took up another song.
I
GREY LONDON
Ned Tuttle woke to the sound of someone knocking.
It was late morning, and he’d fallen asleep at a table in the tavern, the grooves of the table’s pentagram now etched like sheet folds into the side of his face.
He sat up, lost for a moment between where he was and where he’d been.
The dreams were getting stranger.
Every time, he found himself somewhere else—on a bridge overlooking a black river, looking up at a palace of marble and crimson and gold—and every time he was lost.
He’d read about men who could walk through dreams. They could project themselves into other places, other times—but when they walked, they were able to speak to people, and learn things, and they always came away wiser. When Ned dreamt, he just felt more and more alone.
He moved like a ghost through crowds of men and women who spoke languages he’d never heard, whose eyes swam with shadows and whose edges burned with light. Sometimes they didn’t seem to see him, and other times they did, and those were worse, because then they’d reach for him, claw at him, and he’d have to run, and every time he ran, he ended up lost.
And then he’d hear that particular voice; the murmur and the susurrus, low and smooth and steady as water over rocks, the words muffled by some unseen veil between them. A voice that reached just like those shadow hands, wrapping fingers around his throat.
Ned’s temples were pounding in time with the door as he reached for the glass on the table that had so recently served as his bed. Realizing the glass was empty, he swore and took up the bottle just beyond his fingers, swigging in a way that would have earned him a reproach if he were still at home. The table itself was scattered with parchment, ink, the elemental kit he’d bought from the gentleman who’d bought it from Kell. This last item rattled sporadically as if possessed (and it was, the bits of bone and stone and drops of water trying to get out). Ned thought groggily that it might have been the source of the knocking, but when he put his hand firmly on the box, the sound still echoed from the door.
“Coming,” he called hoarsely, pausing a moment to steady his aching head, but when he rose and turned toward the tavern door, his jaw dropped.