Vares rattled his bones in agreement, the feeling like a second heart against her shirt.
It helped, having someone to talk to, even if that someone was more of a something and that something was technically dead. Tes felt on edge, her nerves jangling as they always did when she’d left the safety of the shop. It was probably the pot of bitter tea she’d downed before setting out, or the sugar bun she’d eaten in two gulping bites at the last market.
She reached the end of the stalls, but instead of continuing on, she turned, and slipped through a curtained fold between the tents, into a second, hidden line of tents.
One of the first things she learned was this: most good markets have two faces.
The first face was bland and unassuming, filled with the ordinary fare, but the second, the second loomed just behind it, back-to-back, like a coin turned edgewise, or the high priest in Sanct—the only card that had two sides.
Here, the magic shone a little brighter. Here, the cost could be sorted out in trade as well as coin. Here, you never knew what you might find.
The second side wasn’t a forbidden market—Tes always avoided those out of her usual caution—simply one that preferred to conduct its own business, unbothered by the royal guard. Like the back room in an antiques shop, reserved for those who knew where to look, and also knew better than to ask any questions.
Tes slowed as she reached a table covered in different element sets, their lids yawning open to reveal their contents.
Five elements: water, fire, earth, wind, bone; the last included even though the use of it was strictly forbidden. Some of the sets were large, ornate chests, each of the elements contained in glass orbs the size of summer melons. Others were small enough to fit into a child’s hand, the elements trapped inside glass beads.
Pouches crowded the front of the table, each filled with spare beads, the elements pooling in the bottom, as if resting. They sat like a dark spot in her vision, the power dormant, the magic unconjured.
There was no sign of the seller, but Tes let her fingers drift to one of the sets, a small, gold-edged box, the elements in a single row. But as she did, the bag on her shoulder slipped, and caught the nearest sack of beads, spilling the contents across the table.
“No, no, no,” she hissed. She lunged, caught the pouch in time to right it, but not before a handful of glass beads had gone clattering over the side, hitting the cobblestones like hail. Tes flinched as heads turned toward her, and dropped to her knees, collecting the fallen beads, drops of tinted water sloshing inside each.
She grabbed two as they tried to roll away, missed the third as it disappeared beneath the table. She knelt to retrieve it, but as her fingers skimmed the glass, it rolled farther out of reach. At the same time, she saw the shift of boots behind the stall, heard the voices of two men.
“… days are numbered.”
“You know something I don’t?”
A low chuckle. “Let’s just say, I wouldn’t invest in crimson and gold.”
Tes went very still. They were talking about the crown.
“Does it really matter, which royal ass sits on the throne?”
“It does, when the body in question has no power.”
Tes frowned. Everyone said that King Rhy had no magic to speak of, but she didn’t see how that had anything to do with ruling Arnes, until the voice went on.
“It matters when the magic’s drying up.”
It wasn’t the first time Tes had heard talk about the shortage of power, the tide of magic pulling back, but if the threads were dimming, she didn’t see it. And if they were, well, who was to say it was the king’s fault? The Antari were supposed to be the pinnacle of magic, and they’d been dwindling for centuries, while Rhy Maresh had only taken the throne in the wake of the Tide. The Tide, which spread like a plague through the London streets, infecting those who didn’t fight, and killing most who did. If the power really was ebbing now, why not blame that? Didn’t it seem more likely that the empire’s magic had been damaged by that chaotic event, and not a magicless king on a man-made throne?
Not that it mattered.
When people wanted to make trouble, all they needed was a good excuse. For months, she’d been able to taste the trouble brewing. It was like smoke, or bitter tea, and every day it seemed a little stronger.
“Do you know what Faro and Vesk do to those without power?” one was saying as she held her breath and tried to reach the water bead.
“They sure as saints don’t hand them a crown.”
“Exactly. Makes us look weak. The way I see it, a mistake was made. The Hand is going to fix it.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Well, then, what’s one less pampered royal in the world?”
At last, Tes’s fingers closed around the lost bead. She scrambled back, and rose, dropping her quarry in the cloth pouch and hurrying away from the stall before the men stepped through the curtain and realized someone had heard them discussing treason.
She didn’t look back, didn’t slow, even when Vares pecked her through her shirt, as if the dead owl was nudging her to do something. And there was something she could do. Every citizen had seen the gold writing on the city’s scrying boards, the orders that sounded more like pleas, instructing the people of London to report any signs of rebellion.
There was a scrying board at the market’s edge. She knew if she pressed her palm to the mark, soldiers would come.
But she didn’t.
Tes had nothing against the king.
She’d been only eight years old, and a hundred miles north, when the Tide hit London, and Rhy Maresh was forced onto the throne. She hadn’t been there, to see the city fall, or rise again, to witness the rakish young prince suddenly orphaned and just as suddenly crowned king. But she remembered her first winter in the city, three years ago. The dazzling parade that filled the grand avenue with icy light on Sel Fera Noche, the royal family floating on a gilded platform, as if the road were a frozen lake. For a moment—only a moment—Tes had been close enough to see the king’s face, his proud chin, his dazzling smile, the crown nestled in his glossy black curls, but she’d been drawn to his gold eyes, which, despite their molten brightness, struck her as sad.
No, she had nothing against Rhy Maresh. He seemed a good enough king. But Tes had enough problems on her own, so she made a point of staying clear of other people’s trouble.
Besides, everyone thought the king powerless, but that day, during the parade, she’d seen the silver light that bloomed from his chest, spreading less threads than flames, burning the air around his crown.
Rhy Maresh wasn’t nearly as helpless as he seemed.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite apprentice!”
She’d reached the last stall, where Lorn, a wiry old man with glasses perched on his nose, was waiting for her. He had a face like a weathered stump, lines cracking at the corners of his eyes and mouth whenever he spoke. “How is Master Haskin this week?”
She pushed the king from her mind, and managed a smile. “Busy,” she said. “Believe it or not, things keep breaking.”
Lorn shot her a shrewd look. “Hard to believe there are any clocks and locks and household trinkets left in London that need fixing.”
Tes shrugged. “People must be clumsy.”