“When we find Cvareh, what are we doing with him?” Camile asked.
Leona thought about it a moment. Yveun Dono had never much specified what he wanted done with the traitor, only that he wanted the schematics back. She could whisper and ask him, but saw no need to bother her King.
“Well, Petra has assured us that he’s not even on Loom—that he is praying to Lord Xin high in the mountains.”
Andre snorted, showing how much stock he put in the claim.
“So we’re hunting a Wraith, a Fen, and a man who was never even here.” Leona’s lips curled into a malicious grin.
“So no one will care if such creatures were to, say, vanish.” Camile wasted no time on the pick up.
Andre laughed aloud. “Very cloak and dagger. What are we, assassins now?”
“I don’t think we can assassinate someone who isn’t here.” Leona started for the door. “And don’t act like you’ve never cleaned up a mess before. I know how many invisible beads you both wear.”
They all flashed their teeth madly. The Riders were the King’s men and women, the Dono’s most loyal warriors. If they were to be thieves, nothing would keep them out. If they were to be advisers, none would give better counsel. And if they were to be assassins…
Then let the scent of blood put a gnawing hunger in their stomachs.
20. Cvareh
They stood in complete darkness at the end of a dinky pier. His Dragon sight pierced through the blackness, enhanced by the goggles Arianna had upgraded him to. The world was reduced to a reddish filter over shades of gray, but he could see clearly enough to move without hesitation.
The woman was nothing if not meticulous. She waited for the boats around them to creak with every small wave before undoing another knot or line. She was dressed once more in her full regalia as the White Wraith: a pistol on her thigh, canisters around her waist, her winch box and spools of extended line on her hips and strung through her harness.
His attire wasn’t much different. It had been strange to be outfitted by the two Fenthri. Foremost, because it had been the most attention they’d paid him his entire time on Loom to date. But mostly because he’d not the foggiest idea how the guns and canisters strapped around his hips worked.
Florence did her best to explain them, but the girl went into far too much enthusiastic detail about alchemical runes, stored magic, latent power, adding will to the shot, and different types of powders for Cvareh to make sense of it. Arianna’s explanation made a lot more sense: point one end at the enemy, pull the trigger, and hope they die. The longer he spent around her, the more he saw Petra in her. The two had undeniable similarities in the way they approached the world. Things fit neatly into binaries defined by “that which would help them achieve their goals,” or “that which would hinder them.” He smirked privately, amending the last: That which had to be eliminated. He wondered if they would get on well, or be two strong personalities repelling, if they ever met.
Which really was a foolish thought, because there was no way Petra could come down to Loom—that was why he was there in the first place. As the Xin’Oji, Petra had too many eyes on her; navigating the Crimson Court for potential allies and enemies was too necessary an occupation to leave. No, the only way Ari and Petra would ever meet would be if the Fenthri traveled to Nova, and that was a trip he couldn’t imagine her taking.
Finally finished with the ropes, Arianna nimbly boarded the rocking vessel and held out a hand for him. Cvareh blinked at the gesture. She extended her arm a little further, impatiently.
He didn’t want her help; he wasn’t a soft House Tam. He was House Xin. He was sharp of claw and mind, and something like boarding a skiff wasn’t going to—
The boat rocked unexpectedly. With one foot on the pier and one foot on the vessel he was sent stumbling forward, arms flailing. Between the waves and his balance issue, the floor beneath him heaved back and forth, leaving him straining to find footing.
Two strong hands gripped his shoulders and Arianna virtually shoved him into the front seat. She set her feet wide, her knees bending with each wave to keep her balanced. Her face dominated his field of vision as she encroached on his space, their noses nearly touching.
“We don’t have room to be proud,” she hissed. “I must accept your help tonight when I need it. You must do the same. Or we will die here.”
All her pride, all her hatred for him and his people—however unjustified—she had put aside. Cvareh felt as though his slate had somehow been expunged of the crimes she had chiseled in from before they had even met. This was a woman on a mission: the White Wraith, free of the prejudices her alter-ego carried like armor.
“Do you understand?”