Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

“You can’t,” Merren said breathlessly. He had rushed toward the balcony, then stopped, as if uncertain whether approaching Kel would make him more likely to drop the phial or not. “It’s for a client. He already paid for the ingredients. My reputation—”

“A poisoner’s reputation,” Kel said mockingly. “A great concern to me, to be sure.” He wiggled the phial, and Merren groaned. “Just tell me—did Alys know when she arranged the meeting between us that it was a sham? That you were planning to sell me out to the Ragpicker King?”

“No! Of course not. She would never have agreed to anything like that. She’d be so upset with me if she did know—” Merren bit his lip. He was an odd combination, Kel thought. Wise about his chosen field of study, and desperately na?ve about everything else. “It was just an interview. There was no plan to harm you, I swear it. I’m a kind person. I don’t even eat meat.”

Kel glared. “And what about Hadja? She said one of the courtesans had passed her a message, but that wasn’t true, was it?”

“She thought it was true,” Merren said. “Ji-An passed her a false message. Hadja would never keep anything secret from Alys, and Alys would never lie to you.” He looked miserable. A small pulse beat at the base of his throat, where the loose collar of his shirt revealed the notch of his collarbone. “Please don’t tell your friends to stop going to the Caravel. My sister depends on their business. It would break her heart.”

It would empty her coffers, you mean, Kel thought, but he didn’t say it. There was something about Merren that made it difficult to be cross with him. There was no malice behind those dark-blue eyes. They were the color of Antonetta’s eyes, and in his own way, Merren seemed just as innocent. More innocent, even. Antonetta had grown up on the Hill; she had learned to recognize machinations and backstabbing, even if she did not partake in them herself. Merren seemed as if he would not recognize venality or selfishness if they appeared before him and performed a puppet show.

Kel sighed. “I won’t tell them anything. Just—give me the rest of the cantarella antidote. And some of the poison, too,” he added. “I assume you have it.”

Merren nodded.

Kel lowered the vessel to his side. He watched as Merren went over to the bookcase and knelt, pushing some of the tattered volumes aside. When he returned to Kel, he was carrying four phials: two containing a gray powder, and two containing white.

“The gray is the poison, the white the antidote,” said Merren. “Both are tasteless. Give a full phial of antidote to anyone who’s ingested cantarella; it doesn’t matter how much.” He handed over the phials, which Kel tucked into his jacket, and proceeded to remain where he was, his hand outstretched. It took a moment for Kel to realize what he wanted. Kel handed over the vessel of blue liquid with a mild pang; he would always, he suspected, wonder what it had been.

He’d half expected Merren to seize the vessel and bolt, but he didn’t. He took it gingerly and went to set it on a nearby shelf, between a distressingly human-looking skull and a bottle that looked as if it had washed up in the harbor, its label faded and torn. Meanwhile, Kel set a five-crown coin down on the table between them. He saw Merren glance at it when he turned back around, but he didn’t reach for the money, only left it lying there.

“Is the Ragpicker King going to continue to bother me,” Kel said, “now that I’ve turned him down? I didn’t think one became a well-known crime lord by taking no for an answer.”

“He won’t bother you again,” Merren said. “He needs someone to report on the Aurelians and doings on the Hill, but if it’s not you, he’ll find someone else. Though no one else has your access.”

Kel raised his eyebrows. “Because?”

“Because you’re the Sword Catcher,” Merren said plainly, and Kel felt his stomach lurch. Of course he knows, he thought savagely. Merren was clearly in the Ragpicker King’s confidence. But Kel had lived more than half his life jealously guarding the secret of who he really was. He could not help the feeling that things were spinning out of control, the world tilting sickeningly on its axis.

“How many people know?” he snapped. “How many of those who work for the Ragpicker King? Does your sister know that there is no Kel Anjuman?”

Merren shook his head, his eyes worried. “No. Only myself, Andreyen, and Ji-An. And it will stay that way. It does Andreyen no good for you to be exposed.”

“Because he still hopes I’ll spy for him.”

“You should,” Merren said, with an unexpected intensity. “He’ll treat you fairly.”

“The Aurelians treat me fairly.”

“I don’t know you that well. At all, really. But I can tell that you deserve better than them,” Merren said. “No matter how safe you may feel now, the nobles and the royal family will turn on you in the end.”

“That the nobles of the Hill are untrustworthy is hardly news to me.”

“But you trust the Prince—”

“Of course I trust him.” Kel could hear the dangerous note in his own voice, but Merren seemed unaware of it. He plunged on.

“My father was a guildmaster. He was always loyal to the crown. To the Charter Families. But when he needed the Aurelians, they abandoned him.”

“Your father?” Kel felt dazed; the conversation had taken a turn he did not expect. “Who was your father?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merren said stiffly. “He’s dead now.”

He walked away from Kel, toward the table, and leaned on it with both hands. Kel half wondered if he should simply leave; their business was concluded, after all. He had the answers he wanted, and the antidote he’d aimed to get.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Something kept him where he was—not reaching out to Merren, but not leaving, either. He glanced around the flat again. It was true that the space was small and cluttered, but it was also rather cozy. Soft night air spilled through the balcony shutters. Kel could imagine curling up on the mattress under the eaves and reading a book. When it rained, the sound would be close, as if one slept among the storm clouds.

I have never had my own room, Kel thought in that moment. At the Orfelinat, he had slept in a dormitory. At the Palace, his rooms were Conor’s. In that moment, Merren’s tiny flat seemed like something from a dream.

It still felt like a dream when he crossed the creaking floorboards and put a hand on Merren’s shoulder. Merren twisted around to look up at him, clearly surprised. Whatever he had expected from Kel, it was clearly not kindness.

“I won’t say the Ragpicker King doesn’t lie,” Merren said, in a low voice. “But if he says he’ll do something, he’ll do it. That’s a sort of honor that those on the Hill don’t have.”