She studied the ships, entertained the brief but dazzling hope that she’d find Elrick’s little boat tethered to a berth, see the man waiting for her, unchanged by time, silver baubles shining in his twisted hair, one hand raised in welcome. But of course, he wasn’t there.
She considered the ships that were, trying to find the right one. Could she buy passage, or would she have to stow away? Either way, the merchant vessels were best, because they came and went, and always had room for unexpected cargo. One caught her eye. A fast-looking ship with a dark grey hull and white sails, a bird’s head carved into the prow.
But when she tried to move toward it, her feet felt pinned to the wooden slats. Not by magic, only doubt. Was running really the right answer? How far would she have to go, to feel safe again?
Sailors swept past, calling orders and unloading crates, and she might as well have been one of the figureheads, mounted to the prow of a ship.
Tes couldn’t bring herself to move. To go, and leave London behind.
Problems were meant to be fixed.
There had to be a way to fix this.
It wasn’t even her the killers wanted. It was the doormaker. She thought about chucking the device into the Isle, but she knew it wouldn’t help. If Bex and Calin came for her, and she told them what she’d done, they’d think she was lying, that she’d stashed it somewhere, would proceed to break every bone in her hands and then the rest for good measure, and once they figured out she was telling the truth, they’d probably just kill her. So no, ditching the blasted thing wasn’t a way out.
But there was another option.
She could stay, and try to fight.
The owl shuddered in her pocket, and Tes amended the thought. She could find someone else to fight for her. Bex and Calin were sellswords. Someone had hired them. But the city was full of strong magicians with loose morals. Maybe she could hire one of her own. Of course, the shal was the place to do that, and she couldn’t go back there. It was the first place they’d be looking for her.
Tes buried her fingers in her curls.
She wanted to scream. Instead, she turned and kicked the nearest crate, as hard as she could, and then she did scream, a little, in pain if not frustration. She was still rubbing her foot when she heard a voice nearby say, “Well, if it isn’t our illustrious captain.”
Tes turned, and saw the telltale shine of Antari magic.
It twined through the air, the color of moonlight but twice as bright, so bright it almost blurred the figure at its center. But as the threads shifted and danced, Tes saw the tall woman approaching a ship, whip thin, dark hair cut knife-sharp along a pointed chin. She knew her, at once.
Delilah Bard.
One of the strongest magicians in the world.
And unlike the crimson prince for which Vares had been named, Lila Bard was known for using her power, as if hungry for an excuse to put it on display. There was a rumor she’d even fought in the last Essen Tasch, disguised as Stasion Elsor. The real Stasion Elsor was from a port town near Hanas and spent the next year telling anyone who would listen that a strange woman had stolen his identity, and his spot in the final games. Whether or not it was true, everyone said that she was just as good with a blade as blood, or any of the elements. And she was always spoiling for a fight.
And Tes knew then, she’d found her champion.
Delilah Bard stood in her silver shine, one boot lifted on a crate and her head tipped back, chatting with an older man on the deck of the dark-hulled ship. Tes retreated a few steps, into the shadow between boxes.
“Aw, poor Stross, drew the short stick, did you?”
“Nas,” the deckhand grunted. “I volunteered. Let the newlyweds wander off. What about you? Food in the palace not to your taste?”
“Bed’s too soft,” said Bard, rolling her neck. “But Alucard sends his regards.” She kicked the hull. “What have you done to the Barron?”
“Took off a month of salt and grit. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say I liked it. She looks despicably decent.”
“Are we leaving port?” asked the deckhand, sounding hopeful.
“Not yet,” she said. “Just came to fetch something.”
“Hey Captain,” said a second, younger man, as Bard started up the ramp, “how long are we stuck here?”
“Till the job’s done. What’s wrong, Tav, not enough brothels in our fair capital?”
“I get dock-sick,” said the younger. “A ship’s not meant to be tied up like this.…”
“Funny,” said Bard. “I thought I hired sailors.…”
With that, she vanished aboard the ship. Tes chewed her nails, and waited several painful minutes, hoping Bard would reemerge. She did, tucking something into an inside pocket of her coat. She strolled down the ramp again, silver threads dragging like star trails in her wake, and Tes followed.
It was a perfect plan, really. Delilah Bard didn’t even have to know. If Bex and Calin were out there, they’d come for Tes. She just had to make sure she was standing close to Lila when they did.
* * *
“How many times are you going to do that fucking spell?”
Bex didn’t look up as another dark curl burned to nothing over the map. “Until I find the girl.”
It was morning, and the Saint of Knives was almost empty at this hour, save for a man who was either sleeping, or dead, and a trio playing a rather subdued game of Sanct. Calin slumped in a nearby chair, nursing his headache with a bottle of spirits. That was the worst of his injuries—the upside to having such a thick skull.
A bowl of stew sat at Bex’s elbow, the contents long cold beneath a film of grease. She was grateful she couldn’t smell them. She’d set her broken nose, bound her wrist, and stitched up her hand where Berras’s blade had gone straight through. It was hardly the first time she’d had to sew herself back together, but she needed both hands to do the spell, and every time, the stitches pulled and the splintered bones in her wrist sent white-hot sparks of pain up her arm.
Calin grunted, and offered her the bottle of strong spirits.
Any other time, she would have thought it poisoned. Today she knew it wasn’t, but still, the gesture rankled her. Let him dull his pain. She preferred to sharpen hers into a point. She waved the spirits away.
“Suit yourself,” he mumbled, drinking deeply. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “You’re going to run out of hair.”
Fucking useless sack of meat, thought Bex. But he was right—she had been going all night, was down to nine strands, and still the spell had turned up nothing, even when she tried maps that showed not just London but the entire empire.
“People don’t just disappear,” she muttered, half to herself. “She shouldn’t have been able to use the fucking door without the keymark.”
“Must have made a new one,” said Calin, the words half swallowed by encroaching sleep. “While she was fixing it.”
“Maybe,” said Bex, bitter that he’d made a good point.
She shoved up from the table, taking her empty glass and stretching out her stiff neck and throbbing knee—it had been a long night, and unlike Calin, she didn’t take well to having a building dropped on top of her.
Bex made her way over to the bar as dawn began to leak through the windows.
Despite the unwholesome hour, the Saint of Knives never truly closed. After all, it catered to sellswords. Death didn’t sleep, and neither did the hands that ferried it. The owner, Hannis, however, did go to bed, with the strict warning that anyone who tried to leave without paying would be cursed upon exit.