Instead, he spit blood onto the deck and rolled onto his back in time to see Katros Patrol looming over him, one boot raised to crush his skull.
The world seemed to slow down, then. It was not the work of a spell. There was no magic to it. It was simply the moment someone turned the last card in Sanct when you’ve bet your whole pot. The sinking feeling you get when you realize you’ve gambled. And lost.
But the boot never came down.
Just then the second man, shaking off his stupor, threw himself once more at Katros, fist closing around his cowl as he hauled him back. The third’s head was still ringing, but he saw a slash of steel, heard the crack of bodies against a wooden rail, and then the two men vanished over the side of the ship, crashing into the sea below.
The third man didn’t remember getting to his feet, but he was there now, stumbling toward the sound, when he saw the flash of a green cloak, and the first man appeared, racing across the deck with a parcel under his arm.
He’d done it. They’d done it.
The first man headed straight for the rail, clearly meant to jump the narrow gap between the Ferase Stras and their own skiff. And he might have, if not for Valick Patrol. The young man had somehow gotten to his knees, then his feet, and despite the blood turning his tunic red, he summoned the strength to reach for the thief as he surged past, caught the tail of the other man’s cloak, bloody fingers gripping the precious cloth. The clasp broke free right as the thief lunged for the side of the ship. The cloak slipped off in the moment just before he reached the edge of the rail.
And the world flashed blue.
Like a bolt of lightning in reverse, it seemed to travel out from the man’s body as it made contact with the ship’s wards. A clap of thunder, like a door slamming shut, rolled across the air, and then the first man was flung back, his body only a burnt shell by the time it hit the deck.
And the object—the thing they’d come all this way for, the prize that would help them change the world—bounced roughly against the deck, a mess of bending metal and splintering wood, a handful of pieces breaking off entirely as it rolled.
The first man was a smoldering ruin, the second had gone overboard with Katros Patrol, Valick had finally succumbed to his wounds, and in the brief but crushing stillness, the third man realized he was the only one left.
But not for long.
He could hear the sound of people struggling below, their bodies slamming against the hull, and a door opening somewhere above, and so he scrambled forward, boots slipping in blood as he gathered up the broken object, which looked even smaller now that it was in several singed and smoking pieces.
All that work, thought the third man, for this.
He grabbed the green cloak from where it lay, slung it around his shoulders and clutched the folds against his chest as he ran to the ship’s edge, and leapt. This time, there was no terrible blue lightning, no thunderous crack. He felt only a brief, lurching resistance, as if a hook had lodged inside him, a line drawn taut as it tried to reel him back. But then the line snapped, and the thief was falling.
He landed hard on the deck of the waiting skiff, and rolled upright, the remains of the object still pressed to his chest. It was broken, but broken things could be fixed. He bundled the fragments into the cloak and got to his feet. He reached for a gust of wind, hoping his magic and nerve wouldn’t fail—and free of the Ferase Stras’s wards, the air rushed up to meet him, filling the sail. Moments later, the skiff had turned, and was cutting swiftly through the waves, carrying him away from the floating market.
The third man, who was now the last man, let out a small whoop of victory.
They said it couldn’t be done, but he’d done it.
He’d robbed the Ferase Stras.
He rubbed at his chest, where a small pain had formed. But it was one among a dozen hurts, so he paid it no mind.
The glass disk had been right.
He would not die today.
VI
Maris Patrol had very few vices.
She liked jewel figs and silk sheets, pure silver and secrets. And fine spirits, which she allowed herself to sample most nights, but always in moderation. A short glass of amberlow before bed, to ease the ache in her old bones and rest her mind. Never enough to upset her balance or muddy her thoughts.
So she knew, when she woke with ash in her mouth and her head like the shallows after a storm, that she’d been drugged.
Light spilled thinly through the curtains of her cabin. She sat up, limbs shaking with the effort. She was old—older than most—wrinkles gouged like grooves into her brown skin, but her ringed hands were still steady, her bony spine straight. Sweat broke out as she tried to stand, and failed, sagging back onto the edge of the bed.
“Sanct,” she swore under her breath, and the pile of bones and fur that called itself a dog looked up from the rug nearby at the unexpected sound of his name.
Voices reached her from across the ship. They weren’t raised, but this was the Ferase Stras, and its walls kept no secrets, not from her. Two of the voices belonged to her nephews, but the rest were foreign. A small voice in the back of her own mind told her to lie back, to rest, to let Valick and Katros handle the customers. One day, they would have to run the market themselves. One day—but Maris was still the captain of this ship, and they might be grown men, but they were still young, still—
A shout went up, a pained cry slicing through the air, and Maris was on her feet. Her knees nearly gave way at the suddenness, but she made it to the cabinet by the door, dragged open a heavy drawer and shuffled through until she found the vial, the liquid inside like melted pearl. She tipped it back, swallowing the contents, which tasted of metal and left ice in their wake. Unpleasant, yes, but in seconds, her limbs had stopped shaking. Her breath steadied. Fresh sweat slicked her skin, but it had the pearl shine of the concoction, and as she wiped it from her brow, she felt her senses return to her in full.
She swept her robe from the nearby hook, and was still pulling it around her bony shoulders when the wards of the Ferase Stras shattered.
The force of it rocked through the ship, and Maris swore out loud again. Only a fool would try to rob the floating market. But she’d been alive long enough to know the world was full of fools.
She surged across the cabin, Sanct unfolding from his place and rising to follow, a pale ghost in her wake. She snatched her dagger from the desk, threw open the cabin door, and stepped out onto an upper deck, her silver hair loose and wild in the wind.
“Venskal,” she told the dog. Wait.
Maris silently crossed the maze of halls, checking for broken cabinets as she passed, signs of theft. The sounds of a struggle wafted up from the main deck, followed by a splash, the sound of boots shuffling over wood. She pulled a blade from its sheath and descended the stairs.
But by the time she reached the main deck, the scene was oddly still.
The ship swayed gently from the force of the blown ward, and Maris could smell the stain of blood and magic. A chest sat open and empty on the deck, and the body of a thief lay halfway to the rail, little more than a blackened shell. There was no sign of Katros, but several strides away she found her youngest nephew, Valick, his once-white tunic dark with blood. It pooled beneath him, a shadow creeping across the deck. His face was turned up, his eyes on the sky, open and unseeing.
Maris knelt beside him, ran a ringed hand over Valick’s black hair. Not a single strand of grey.
“Venskal,” she whispered again, this time to her nephew’s corpse.
She knew there was an order to the world, a give and take, a season for all things. She knew it was forbidden to wade into the stream of magic and try to change its course. But Maris Patrol was the captain of a ship that traded in forbidden things.