It would be faster to cut through the market and pay a few kepas to take a narrowboat to the landing platform closest to the palace, but it was Thursday. Collection day. The market would be crawling with Teague’s people, and Sebastian wanted nothing to do with them.
He could make it back to the palace on foot quickly enough, and he could use the time to plan his approach to the rest of the iron weapons the princess wanted from him. She’d ordered one for herself and one for the king, but she’d given him enough iron to make at least three weapons, maybe four. He’d already fashioned a throwing star, but it still needed to be balanced. He’d drawn a model of a simple dagger, but he’d need to use the smithy’s fire for that. What else could he make out of iron that wouldn’t be too heavy to easily carry?
“You’re making a big mistake!” A girl’s voice cut through the air, and Sebastian stopped with a jerk. “Let us go this instant, or suffer the wrath of the king.”
He pivoted toward the merchant district and scanned the streets. The voice sounded like the princess, but that didn’t make sense. What would the princess be doing in the market on a Thursday? Even if she remained unaware of the true owner of Kosim Thalas’s streets, her guards knew it was unsafe. He’d seen the pair she’d recently been assigned—two men fresh from the streets themselves, though they’d cleaned up well. If they were truly committed to protecting the princess, they should’ve stopped her from leaving the palace.
He caught movement to his left and whirled to find the princess being dragged out of the merchant district toward one of Teague’s wagons by a thug who worked for a street boss in east Kosim Thalas. Another of Teague’s men pulled a shorter girl with curly hair behind the princess. Both girls shook with terror.
Sebastian’s jaw clenched, and he leaped over the low stone wall that separated him from the merchant district and headed straight for the princess.
“Get off me!” The princess’s friend clawed at the man who held her, and he shoved her to the ground. She landed in an ungainly sprawl with a sharp cry of pain.
Sebastian’s pulse thundered, and he broke into a run as the princess swore like a servant and twisted toward her friend.
The man holding the princess raised a fist and sent it flying toward her face.
Sebastian launched himself forward and slammed into the man, breaking his grip on the princess and sending him crashing into the side of the wagon.
“Daka!” The man swore as viciously as the princess had and reached for his dagger, but Sebastian was already there. Pinning the man’s wrist beneath one boot, he snapped his other foot into the man’s face.
Blood gushed from the man’s nose, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
With one man down, Sebastian pivoted, expecting an attack from the second. Instead, he found the shorter man fending off the princess.
Her form was amateurish—she had no idea how to harness the power of her height—but her determination was a thing of beauty. She kicked, scratched, and dove at him with her fists flying.
The man, momentarily taken aback, had gone on the defensive, but he was recovering quickly. Sebastian leaped to the princess’s side as the thug yanked a blade from his hip sheath.
“Left!” Sebastian barked, and the princess dodged the man’s blow.
Sebastian pulled his cudgel from his vest as he lunged for the man. He absorbed one solid blow to the face before swinging his weapon into the man’s stomach. The man folded, air rushing from him in a painful burst. Sebastian reached for his knife hand, but the princess was already there, applying painful pressure to the small bones of his wrist until the weapon clattered onto the road.
“You . . . fool.” The man gasped as Sebastian scooped up the knife and then shoved the man to his knees. “Do you have . . . any . . . idea who . . .”
“You’re the fool,” Sebastian snarled. “How dare you lay your hands on the princess?”
“He works for Teague.” The princess’s voice was flat. “Don’t say your name. Don’t say anything. No one is going to suffer for helping us.”
She reached for her friend and gently helped the girl to her feet.
The need to punish the man was fire in Sebastian’s blood. He stood over him, flexing his fists.
A warm hand brushed lightly over his arm, and he jerked away from the touch. Turning, he found the princess, her hair disheveled, her dress torn, looking at him with steady eyes.
“Leave him,” she said quietly. “I need help getting Cleo home.”
Sebastian drew in a deep breath and felt the fire inside him flicker and die. Quickly, he offered his arm for Cleo to lean on and joined the princess on the long walk back to the palace.
NINE
ARI GRABBED A plate, took one of everything from the breakfast laid out on the serving bar, and sank into a seat at the (blessedly empty) dining room table, her body aching from fighting Teague’s men at the market the day before. She took a bite of coddled egg and considered the results of the previous day.
She had a tiny jar of bloodflower poison. She had the rare Book of the Fae on order. She’d learned that Teague had a system of street bosses and runners collecting fees from the merchants—coin they paid to have Teague’s disgusting henchmen leave them alone for another week. She had the bruises to prove that Teague’s employees meant business. Cleo did too, which had required an elaborate story to satisfy Mama Eleni, who had spent the morning muttering dire threats against Lady Zabat’s maids for daring to spill milk and cause her daughter to slip.
But most important, she’d learned that the terrifying nursery tales of the Wish Granter were based in truth—a thought that still made her heart race and her hands go cold. Nanny Babette had always started each story about the Wish Granter with the adage “He’ll grant you the deepest desire of your heart, but in ten years he’ll return for your soul.” Ari had always thought the adage had to be an exaggeration meant to frighten children away from the belief that they could use the powerful fae without enormous cost. Now her stomach sank as she remembered Thad telling Teague he had nine years and eleven months left. If he’d made a wish, he was in more trouble than she’d thought. Whatever price he’d agreed to—and surely it wasn’t his soul; her brother was far too smart for that—the stories always made it clear that the wish was never worth the price. The Wish Granter always won.
She was determined that this time he would lose.
Ari spread a generous dollop of creamy butter over her slice of raisin bread. She’d also learned that the new weapons master was more than a match for Teague’s men. He was as strong as a smith but as quick as a stableboy. It was an interesting combination.