Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

“He’s a good sort of criminal,” said Merren, serious as a child asking whether it was true that the Gods lived in the clouds. “Not like Prosper Beck.”

Kel had heard of Prosper Beck. The area just behind the docks was called the Maze: a labyrinth of flophouses, pawnshops, cheap food stalls, and crumbling warehouses that, at night, became venues for illegal boxing tournaments, duels (also illegal), and the buying and selling of various contraband. It was a place the Vigilants themselves refused to go after dark. Kel had always assumed the denizens of the Maze answered to the Ragpicker King, but in the past few months he had heard the name Prosper Beck whispered about; rumor held that someone new was controlling the Maze.

Outside, the Windtower Clock chimed eleven and Merren frowned. When he turned to look out the window, Kel could not help but note the carefully mended tears in his jacket. Montfaucon, it was said, never wore the same article of clothing twice. “It grows late,” Merren said. “The cantarella antidote—I can have it ready by Seaday. Ten crowns for four doses—two of poison, two of antidote.”

He said ten crowns as if it were an enormous sum, and Kel reminded himself that, for most people, it was. “That’s fair,” Kel said. “We should arrange a place to meet. I assume you have lodgings in the Scholars’ Quarter? What’s the address?”

“Chancellor Street, across from the Lafont Bookshop,” said Merren, and closed his mouth sharply, as if he had not meant to let that information out. “But we shouldn’t meet there. I know a tea shop—”

There was a knock on the door. Domna Alys’s partner, Hadja, peeked her head into the library. A band of colorful silk held back her cloud of curling dark hair.

“Sieur Anjuman,” she said, inclining her head in Kel’s direction, “the Prince awaits you outside.”

Kel scrambled to his feet. This was not at all part of his plan; by his calculations, Conor ought to have been distracted for at least another few hours. “Is something wrong? Why would he be leaving?”

Hadja shook her head, setting her gold earrings to swinging against her russet-brown skin. “I’ve no idea. I didn’t speak with him. One of the Hindish girls passed me a message.”

Kel felt in his pocket for his coin purse and tossed five crowns to Merren. “Half now, half when I pick up the doses. I’ll see you then.”

“Wait—” Merren began, but Kel was already out the door. He loped downstairs, cutting through the main room of the Caravel, where the hanging tapestries had been drawn back to reveal the raised dais of a stage. Props were being brought out; it seemed a performance was soon to take place. Odd that Conor would have chosen to miss it.

Still puzzling, Kel made his way outside, into the fading warmth of the night. He glanced up and down Hourglass Street. Light spilled in dancing squares onto the cobblestones, and laughing groups strolled by the canal water. In the distance, a black carriage rattled toward the Caravel; someone inside was singing a loud and drunken song. A light wind spun discarded paper into miniature funnels.

There was no sign of Conor, or the horses. Kel frowned. Perhaps Conor had grown tired of waiting for him; it would not be entirely out of character. Kel had half turned to go back inside the Caravel when he heard the screech of wheels. He spun around. Whoever had been singing inside the black carriage had stopped. It swung toward him, wheels skipping over the cobblestones.

They were painted blood red.

The body of the carriage skidded sideways, blocking Kel’s path. Black curtains shaded the windows; he could not see who was inside. He turned, ready to flip himself over the low stone wall along the canal—he’d take his chances in the water—but wine had made him slow. A hand caught the back of his jacket. He was jerked back, half flung through the open door of the carriage and onto the seat.

Kel scrambled up as the door slammed shut behind him. He was not alone. There was someone else in the carriage—two someones—and a flash of something silver. Eyes still adjusting to the dark, Kel saw metal gleam, and felt the point of a knife rest against the hollow of his throat. He closed his eyes.

For that moment, there was only silence, darkness, his own breathing, and the knife at his throat. Then the driver, overhead, shouted hoarsely; a moment later, the carriage jerked forward, flying over the cobblestones into the night.


“In times of old, the wrath of the Sorcerer-Kings scorched the earth,” Lin read, “for they had taken to themselves power that is not meant for men to have, but only Gods. Their fury boiled the seas and brought down mountains. The land was marked with Sunderglass where magic had scarred it. Each person on earth ran before them in terror—save Adassa, the Queen of Aram. She alone rose against them. Knowing she could not destroy them, instead she destroyed magic itself, rendering them powerless. All magic was taken from the earth, save that which Adassa had set aside for the use of her people alone: the magic of gematry. And Adassa passed into the shadowed realm, where she became a Goddess, the light of the Ashkari people, who are her Chosen ones.”

Lin closed the book. Mariam, a small figure half buried beneath a massive pile of bedcovers, smiled faintly. “I always like the parts where Adassa is a woman best,” she said. “Before she becomes the Goddess. She had her moments of weakness and fear, like the rest of us.”

Lin put the back of her hand against Mariam’s forehead. It was cool now, to her relief. Mari had been crying out, feverish and delirious, by the time they had arrived back from Valerian Square that afternoon. There had been some consternation among the guards at the gates of the Sault over the appearance of a Palace carriage, but they had helped Lin carry Mariam inside. She’d brought her friend directly to her own house and settled her into bed in Josit’s room; her brother was away on the Gold Roads, after all, and she knew he would not have minded.

It had taken some arguing with Chana Dorin, who thought Mariam would be better treated at the Etse Kebeth, the House of Women. But Lin was used to arguing with Chana. Lin pointed out that she was a physician, that no one knew her skills better than Chana, and that here, in Lin’s small whitewashed home, Mariam would have peace and quiet and constant attendance.

It was Mariam who had put an end to the battle; she’d turned over on the bed and, between bouts of coughing, announced: “Honestly, the two of you will still be fighting over me when I am dead and gone. Chana, let me stay here with Lin. It’s what I want.”