Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

“Beck owns you now, Aurelian,” the Crawler continued. “He sent you a message at the Caravel, gave you a chance to pay your debt back last night. But you hid up in that Palace on the Hill, like nothing down here matters at all—”

Last night. Kel couldn’t help but think of Conor, smashing his hand through the window, the blood. But it was not enough to fill in the puzzle; only enough for him to know that a puzzle was beginning to emerge.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said tightly. It was true enough.

“He’s disrespecting us, Jerrod,” said one of the other Crawlers—a girl with fair hair and a black cloth mask. “He’s pretending like he don’t know.”

It was impossible to see Jerrod’s expression. The alley was too dark, and the metal mask too disconcerting. But his voice held a gloating tone. “He knows, Lola.”

A big man with a pockmarked face barked a laugh. “No one’s likely to forget they owe Prosper Beck ten thousand crowns.”

“Ten thousand crowns?” The words were startled out of Kel. It was a massive sum. One might buy a fleet with such money.

There was ugly laughter among the crowd, but Jerrod didn’t laugh. The mask made it difficult to read his expression, but he seemed to be looking hard at Kel, a realization dawning in his eyes. He caught hold of Kel’s chin, forcing him to look up. “You’re not him,” he exhaled. “You’re not the Prince.”

“What?” Something silver flashed in Lola’s hand; she sprang forward, the moonlight glancing off a long, ragged-edged knife. “Then who in gray hell is he?”

“Let me go.” Kel tried to yank himself free of Jerrod’s grip, but the other man was stronger than he looked. He could sweep Jerrod’s feet, he thought, topple him and kick in his ribs, but that would only bring the rest of his crew down on Kel like a wave. “I’m not who you thought I was, so let me go.”

“Can’t do that,” said the man with the pockmarked face. He had drawn a long razor from his pocket. All through the group weapons began to flash, like stars coming out. It was an oddly beautiful effect for something so dangerous.

“Kaspar’s right,” said Lola. “We can’t let him go. Even if he’s just an anonymous mouse, a mouse can still squeak.”

She started toward Kel, Kaspar and the others following. Kel flexed his hands at his sides, preparing to fight. Jerrod, to his surprise, hadn’t moved. He was still holding on to the front of Kel’s jacket.

“Back off, Lola,” he said. “And the rest of you. Listen to me—”

Kel heard the sound of a high whine, like an insect buzzing past his ear.

Lola screamed.

Jerrod’s head whipped to the side, though he was still holding Kel against the wall. Lola, the blond Crawler, was sprawled in the alley, an arrow protruding from her chest. Blood was already pooling under her, running among the dirty cobblestones.

Kel stared, utterly stunned. Where had that come from? Jerrod pushed Kel back harder against the wall, his eyes narrowed behind his mask. “What the fuck?” he snapped. “There was no one following you—we would have seen—”

“Jerrod!” Another Crawler, a young man with gold earrings, reeled back, an arrow through his throat. He clutched at it, sinking to his knees, a red foam on his lips.

Jerrod’s mouth worked silently; no words came out. This time Kel took advantage. He lunged, slamming his head into Jerrod’s. The edge of the metal mask cut his forehead, but the pain was blunted by adrenaline. Jerrod staggered and Kel twisted away, breaking his hold.

Kel ran for the mouth of the alley. Only a fool picked a fight while outnumbered, and besides, he had no reason to believe the anonymous archer was on his side.

Kaspar, snarling, blocked his way. Without slowing down, Kel hit him, a clean uppercut that sent him spinning back into a stack of wooden boxes. An arrow flew past and struck one of the boxes, sending the stack tumbling.

The Crawlers had begun to panic, swarming up the walls like fleeing ants. Kaspar shoved past Kel, striking him two hard blows to the torso. Kel reeled back, the breath knocked out of him, as Kaspar flung himself at the wall and started to scramble up. Jerrod was kneeling over Lola’s body, his shoulders hunched.

Kel began to back toward the mouth of the alley, but something was wrong. His legs weren’t obeying him properly. There was a hot, needling pain in his chest. He put his hand to it. It came away red.

Kaspar hadn’t just struck him as he’d gone by, at least not with an empty hand. He’d stabbed him. Kel pressed his hand against the wound, trying to keep the blood in. If he could just make it to the Key, he thought, but the alley seemed to be elongating, stretching out before him to the horizon. He could never walk such a distance, and soon enough it did not matter. His legs had given out under him.

He sank to the ground. It was filthy and hard, and stank of fish and garbage. He would have liked very much not to be lying where he was, but his body was not cooperating.

He pressed his hand against his chest. His shirt was as wet as if he’d spilled water on it. The pain was a screw, turning and tightening, pinning him to the earth. He could hear his own breath, rough and hoarse. Brick walls rose above him, between them a thin strip of stars.

And then, blotting out the stars for a moment, the shimmer of a metal mask. Jerrod was crouched over him.

“You might not be the Prince,” Jerrod said, his voice strained. “But you’re wearing his cloak. I wasn’t wrong about that. Who are you?”

Kel shook his head, or tried to. I can’t tell you, he thought, but it is my job to die for Conor, and now I suppose it is happening. I just didn’t think it would be in quite such a stupid way.

“My apologies,” Jerrod said. And he sounded as if he meant it. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

Kel almost laughed. It was too ridiculous. But it would have hurt too much to laugh, and his vision was starting to blur. The shadows bled together, and Jerrod was gone. The stars were all Kel could see. He imagined himself on his boat again, far out past the harbor, where the sea and sky were the same color. He could smell salt and hear the lash of the waves. If this was death, perhaps it would not be so bad.

He thought of Jolivet then, shaking his head. He thought of Antonetta, pale with grief—surely she would grieve if he died?—comforting Conor perhaps, her hand on his. And lastly, he thought of Conor, wearing his crown of wings, of what he would say when he found out Kel was dead. Something clever and cutting, no doubt. He thought of Mayesh, saying, We will do our best to keep you alive, and he saw a blur of violet, the color of foxgloves. Something flashed, bright, at the corner of his vision. Then he seemed to sink below the surface of the air as if it were water, until darkness was all he could see.