Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

Well, really, Lin thought. It was one thing to be snatched from the market under false pretenses and another to be made to wait around afterward. The Ragpicker King could at least behave as if kidnapping her was a priority.

Annoyed, she wandered among the flowers for a time, naming off the ones she knew from botanist’s guides. Camellias from Zipangu grew beside the paths, white heads nodding like a group of old men in harmonious agreement. There were blue passionflowers from Marakand, and nodding Hindish poppies, the sap of which could be extracted to create morphea.

After what seemed like an hour, she lost patience. She could not remain here forever. She had patients to see in the afternoon, and Mariam would worry if she did not return for hours.

She slipped out the door of the solarium. She did her best to point herself back in the direction she’d come, but soon found herself in an unfamiliar room. It was large, with a massive fireplace and a great deal of shabby but comfortable-looking furniture—deep sofas and wing chairs whose brocade was fraying along the arms, not at all the sort of thing she’d have expected to find in the home of the Ragpicker King. The ceiling above disappeared into shadow—the famous dome of the Black Mansion? A pendant lamp hung from it on a long metal chain, swaying slightly above her head.

Shelves along the walls held oddments and antiquities: a brass and turquoise honey pot, probably Marakandi in origin. A map written in Malgasi. A jade statue of Lavara, Goddess of thieves, gamblers, and the underworld. And—she saw with some surprise—a silver incantation bowl of Ashkari workmanship. She picked it up, curious: Indeed, engraved around the rim were words in Ashkar. ZOWASAT MUGHA TSEAT IN-BENJUDAHU PAWWU HI’WATI. Designated is this bowl for the sealing of the house of Benjudah.

In the Sault, engraved bowls and tablets were often buried at the threshold of a home, to protect the family within from bad luck and evil spirits. Seeing such a bowl here, a holy item scattered among a collection of trinkets, made the hair rise on Lin’s arms. And it wasn’t as if Benjudah was an ordinary Ashkari name. Only one family bore it—the family of the Exilarch, the Prince of the Ashkar.

“Two long tons of black powder.” A man’s voice, gruff and irritable and very nearby, broke into her thoughts. “You’re sure you can manage it?”

“Calm yourself, Ciprian.” The second voice was smooth, low, peculiarly devoid of any identifiable accent. “Of course I can manage it. Though I am tempted to ask why you need quite such a large amount of explosives.”

Lin set the bowl down hastily, her hands shaking slightly. She was sure this was a conversation she was not meant to overhear. Two long tons of black powder could blow a city block into the sky. She had only heard of black powder being used to blast holes through rock or to destroy ships. During sea battles, flaming bags of it would be catapulted onto enemy decks, shattering the hulls when they exploded. She had treated sailors who had old burns from the stuff. Was a naval army being supplied? Or, more likely, a band of pirates?

“Because I need to blow something sky-high. Why else?”

“As long as it isn’t a someone.”

“Not at all. A fleet of ships—actually, how many ships are in a fleet? Let’s call it several ships,” came the reply, just as two men walked into the room where Lin was standing.

She recognized the Ragpicker King immediately. Tall and thin, with legs like the long black spokes of carriage wheels. He wore his customary black, his clothes plain but elegantly cut in a way that would be sure to intrigue Mariam.

With him was a young man with dark-red hair. (Lin was always glad to see another redhead, though the young man’s skin was the olive tone of most Castellani, not pale like her own.) His clothes were plain broadcloth, his eyes narrow and black. He was still speaking, a dark intensity underlying his words. “I’ve told you no one will be harmed,” he said. “I’ve planned it quite carefully—”

Lin had not moved. She stood still, hands clasped, near the shelves of curiosities. Perhaps she ought to have ducked behind a sofa, but it was certainly too late for that now. The Ragpicker King had seen her. His black eyebrows lifted, as did the corners of his mouth.

“Ciprian,” he interrupted, “we have company.”

The red-haired man paused mid-gesture. For a moment, both men stared at Lin.

Lin cleared her throat. “Ji-An brought me,” she said. This was mostly true. Ji-An had brought her to the Black Mansion, if not to this particular room. “But she had an errand to do.”

“Probably had to kill someone,” said Ciprian, and shrugged when the Ragpicker King gave him a dark look. “What? She’s very good at it.”

Lin thought of Ji-An’s cool eyes and graceful movements and supposed she was not surprised. Someone like Ji-An would clearly do more than simply fetch wayward physicians for the Ragpicker King.

“So you’re the physician,” the Ragpicker King said.

“Not feeling well, Andreyen?” Ciprian inquired.

“A touch of gout,” said his companion, looking not at Ciprian but at Lin, the same amusement playing around his mouth. So it seemed clear he had a name—Andreyen—but Lin could not imagine thinking of him that way. Even up close, he seemed more like a child’s tale than a living man. A figure one might follow down a dark road, only to discover he had vanished where the street turned. A golem made of clay and shadows, with bright-burning eyes.

“Ciprian, I’ll notify you when your shipment arrives. And by the way, I can guess who those several ships belong to.”

Ciprian grinned ferociously. “I’m sure you can.” As he left the room, he passed Lin, his shoulder nearly bumping hers. He paused for a moment. He had the sort of gaze that seemed to weigh heavily, Lin thought, like a too-familiar hand on the shoulder. “You’re awfully pretty to be a doctor,” he said. “Or to be Ashkar, for that matter. Quite a waste, all those girls locked up in the Sault—”

“Ciprian.” There was a sharp warning in the Ragpicker King’s voice, and the amusement had left his face. “Go.”

“Only a jest.” Ciprian shrugged, dismissing Lin as easily as he’d noticed her. She waited until his footsteps had faded from earshot before turning to the Ragpicker King.

“Do you really have gout?”

“No.” He threw himself into a worn armchair. She wondered how old he was. Thirty, she’d guess, though he had the sort of face that seemed ageless. “And I didn’t call you here because I need a physician, Lin Caster, though I am glad to see you’ve come. I wasn’t sure Ji-An could convince you.”

“Because you’re a criminal?” Lin said. Ji-An had said he didn’t mind the word, so why not be honest?

“No, because I’ve been told she has an off-putting manner—though I’ve not noticed it myself.”

“She told me you saved her life,” Lin said. “Perhaps she’s nicer to you.”

“She isn’t, and I wouldn’t like it if she was,” he said. “So you’re the physician who healed Kel Saren?”