The Ragpicker King (Chronicles of Castellane #2)

The Ragpicker King (Chronicles of Castellane #2)

By Cassandra Clare

Prologue

A rtal Gremont, heir to the tea Charter of Castellane, had never much liked the ocean. It was the source of his wealth, of course. The millions of crowns’ worth of tea and coffee that were carried in sleek ships across the seas to the Castellani port had made his family richer than Gods. In theory, he appreciated the convenience of the sea; in actuality, he found it flat, featureless, and dull.

Then again, Gremont found most things dull. People tended to be dull and generally limited in their thinking. Most parties were dull. Being the son of a Charter holder in Castellane, with money but no real power, had been equally dull. And when he’d tried to make life more interesting, he’d been exiled, sent off by his parents to oversee the tea business in foreign climes. That had been exceedingly dull.

Now, however, things were starting to get interesting. With his father dead, he had inherited the tea Charter and been recalled to Castellane, his exile ended. He’d booked passage on the next ship leaving Taprobana harbor: one of Laurent Aden’s galleons, which at the moment was carrying a shipment of teakwood to Castellane. The ship had six tiny passenger cabins, up near the stern, though the captain’s vast quarters hogged all the windows. Gremont’s room was little better than a closet with a berth built into the wall and a table bolted to the floor to prevent it from sliding when the ship rolled.

Dull, dull, dull. Gremont paced the floor of his cabin fretfully. There was nothing to do on the bloody boat, and his anxiety was building. When he got like this, he often had to do something to make himself feel better. It was a need, like other men felt for food or water.

Alas, Laurent Aden ran a tight ship and had little patience for Artal’s preferences. A young stowaway had been discovered last week after they’d left the port in Favár, but at least Artal had been able to have a little fun with her before Laurent found out about it and had the girl removed from Artal’s quarters posthaste. Words had been exchanged that were not particularly polite, and Artal had been given to understand that if he engaged in any more such business while on the Black Rose, he would be unceremoniously dumped off at the next port, charter or no charter.

He did not know what had happened to the girl, and did not care. She had gotten blood on his favorite jacket, which had annoyed him. Though not as much as being trapped in this cabin was annoying him now.

Laurent had told him not to wander the ship, but fuck Laurent. Gremont yanked open the door of his cabin and made his way out into the narrow passage that ran the length of the ship. He plucked a glass windlamp from a nail on the wall. Best if he strode purposefully, he thought, making his way across the ship toward the stairs that led up to the weather deck. A purposeful stride tricked people into thinking you were on important business.

He passed the ship’s galley, where the cook was asleep in a chair, a wooden bucket of half-peeled potatoes at his feet. Thank the Gods, they only had a few days left at sea. Gremont was vilely sick of salt beef, boiled potatoes, and suet.

Up on the weather deck, the air was clear. The moon hovered close to the horizon, creating a white path that stretched along the water. Rope for the sails lay in neat coils like sleeping snakes.

Some might have admired the view, the stars picked out across the sky as bright as nailheads, the water like hammered glass. Gremont merely glared at it all. The sea was a barrier between him and Castellane, between him and reclaiming all he had lost in exile.

The creak of a board underfoot alerted him to the fact that he was not alone. He turned and for a moment saw nothing; then she appeared, shadow evolving out of shadow. (The first time he had seen her do this, he’d nearly fallen over with shock; he was more used to her brand of magic now.) She wore her assassin’s gear: Every bit of her was covered with smooth black fabric. It rendered her faceless, which Gremont found unnerving despite the fact that he knew perfectly well what she looked like beneath the disguise.

“I came to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, Artal,” she said. Her voice was low and husky. If he hadn’t known her gender, he doubted he could have guessed it.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point asking you how you got here from the continent,” he replied sourly. “Flew on a bat, eh?”

She chuckled. “You are amusingly bitter for a man about to make a very advantageous marriage.”

He snorted. “You know I had my sights set higher than Antonetta Alleyne.”

“I know your sights were set as high as Anjelica of Kutani. But her family would never have accepted you; she is royalty, and royal blood demands royal blood to match with.”

“I suppose you would know.”

She scoffed and sprang lightly to the railing of the ship. She balanced there easily, though the thought of the long drop to the water made Gremont queasy. “Don’t be sour, Gremont. I do hope you are not having second thoughts about our arrangement.”

Gremont felt a slight chill run up his spine. He knew she held magic, though he had grown up believing that all but small magics had died with the Sundering. The first time she had proved this wrong had shocked him. He still bore the scar upon the back of his hand—a glossy patch of burned skin that resembled a starfish.

Even now, he feared her, though the fact that she knew it galled him. “I have not,” he said, “had second thoughts.”

“Good.” She gazed down at him, eyeless and faceless, a dark shadow against the vast blue of the night sky and the sea. “I hope you are made of stronger stuff than your father was. He gave us assurances of his loyalty, too, but planned to betray us in the end.”

“He was always weak,” Gremont muttered. His father had never lifted a finger to save him from exile, and Gremont had never forgotten or forgiven it. His mother was just as weak, but one expected less from a woman, and at least she adored him blindly. “You do not need to remind me that if certain strings had not been pulled, I would not be returning so soon from exile. I am well aware where my loyalty lies.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said, “for a new opportunity has presented itself. A chance for you to show your cleverness. Your dear lady-wife-to-be, Antonetta of the silk Charter, has certain information, it appears. There is someone else we need on our side, and she knows how to find him.”

“Antonetta? Really? I hadn’t thought she carried any information in that empty head of hers.”

“Even a mouse can come upon a precious crumb. Regardless, once you are married, I grant you entire permission to get the truth out of her. Using any means you might prefer.”

“Really? Any means?” Gremont smirked. “I will not let you down, my lady.”

“Try not to get too carried away, Artal. For now, Liorada Alleyne is more afraid of us than she is of House Aurelian, but if that calculus changes, it could spell trouble for all our plans. Your marriage to Antonetta is one more lever we can utilize to threaten dear Liorada. So keep the girl alive, won’t you? As a favor to me.”

“Of course,” said Gremont. “Far more fun to keep her alive anyway. My very own amusing toy. We’ll see what she’s like when her silk is torn.”

The dark figure chuckled. “How nice to see you happy, Artal. But remember. There are many on the Hill who would like to see us fail. Many still loyal to House Aurelian. Do not forget to wear your amulet. It is more powerful than you think.”

“Indeed.” Artal lifted his hand to touch the pendant she had given him in Taprobana before he’d ever set foot on this ship. “I would be a fool to scorn its protection. And you would not have approached me if I were a fool.”

She said nothing. A little insulted, Artal looked up, wondering at her silence, and saw that she was gone. He raced to the railing and leaned over it, but he saw only darkness and water below, and the moon’s white path laid across the sea, pointing the way to Castellane.

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