Chapter 15
It soon became obvious where Emment was headed. West from the docks, up the hill—to Queen’s Wharf.
Twice he turned and scanned the street for me. The first time, I ducked behind a burly dockhand, tugging my hood up over my face. After that, I made sure I kept to the road’s edge, slipping into an alley when he looked around again.
It seemed I’d managed to escape his notice, as he strode to the Veil without another backward glance.
In the evening dimness, the building glowed: red brick contrasting with bright-white plaster, firelight gleaming from diamond-leaded windows.
As I watched from an alley across the street, he skipped past the queue, the doormen nodding at him.
Clearly, being heir to the land it was built on stood him in special favor with the establishment.
I cursed under my breath. He was lost to me now. Unless…
I tugged my mask from my cloak.
The queue was long and moved slowly. It seemed to take an age to reach the door. In that time, I was acutely aware that no other Orha here was unaccompanied.
“You with them?” one doorman grunted with a frown, nudging his chin at the nobles behind me.
Their expressions must have told him I wasn’t, for he shifted his bulk in front of the door.
“No Orha without their employer,” he stated, eyeing the crest stitched onto my breastbone.
The squawking shearwater finally registered, for he raised an eyebrow, glancing at my face.
“You, of all o’ them, should know that rule. ”
“I stopped off a moment to run an errand,” I said, hiding my fingers, which were clammy and trembling. “Lord Shearwater said he’d meet me inside.”
Both doormen assessed me, faces like stone. “You can either wait here while I go in and check,” said one, “or piss off till he comes out and gets you himself.”
I pressed my lips together, eyes flicking over their shoulders. It was no use sending them in to ask Emment. It would only raise the Shearwater’s suspicions of me.
At the impatient clearing of throats behind me, I nodded and stepped away from the doors, but the doorman who’d spoken kept his stare trained on me, and eventually I sidled back to my alley.
Hells. This had not gone well. Whatever Emment was doing in there, whatever he was saying, perhaps revealing…I’d never know. I flopped down onto a barrel.
I had no pocket watch to track the time, but hours must have passed as I sat there brooding, not wanting to leave in case Emment emerged. The distant music grew louder and messier. The shouts turned angrier, the laughter wilder. Behind me in the alley, rats tugged at old refuse.
By now, fatigue clawed at my eyes, and patrons were trickling out of the Veil. It had to be getting on to midnight, or past it. But there was no sign of Emment. Had he gone out the back?
Cursing softly, I slipped out of the side street. If he’d left from the rear, I’d have missed him entirely. Perhaps there was somewhere I could see both exits. Or maybe I could sneak in again, like last time.
As I walked, I peered into the Veil’s burning windows, but the scarlet drapes hid its interior from view.
I wondered if my infuriating golden-haired contact was working tonight.
I wanted nothing more than to march back in there and demand to hear what the Cage knew about Zennia.
But I knew it would be useless. First I had to give him what he’d asked for.
As I skirted the Veil and approached its rear, I could tell immediately that something was different.
Voices—boisterous, with noble, clipped tones—floated out of the high-walled backyard. The archway I’d entered through last time was blocked by a woman in leathers, thick arms folded. She looked tired and bored, but her eyes still roved, watching for anyone trying to get near.
I shrank into shadow, heart kicking up a flutter.
“Shearwater!” I heard a familiar voice caw. “Don’t tell me you’re going to sit this one out.”
I’d last heard that voice in the Veil itself, and before that, at Rexim’s luncheon on the island.
Why were Turnstone and Emment out back? Whose were those other murmuring voices? And why was this woman guarding the yard? From memory, it held only a well and some barrels.
If Emment gave an answer, I didn’t hear it. There were only raucous cheers; the scraping of boot soles. Pulse picking up, I moved through the darkness. I had to find somewhere I could see what was happening…
The Veil itself was choked with ivy, but so were the outbuildings arranged around the yard. One, a low, single-story structure, must have been a stable or storehouse of some kind. Thick vines grew up it, trailing to its roof, and—astonished at myself—I found myself climbing them.
The ascent was nothing compared to the cove’s cliffs, the creepers easy to hook my feet onto. They must have been colonizing these walls for years, as their stems were almost as wide as my wrists. Only a few hauls took me up to the shallow roof, where I crawled to its edge, keeping my head low.
From there, peering through a cluster of vine leaves, I had a good view of the Veil’s backyard and its occupants: a circle of chattering nobles, mostly young men in various states of disarray.
Turnstone was there, clutching a goblet of wine, and I soon spotted Emment beside him, hair askew, collar unbuttoned, brandishing a palmful of winking regals.
“That’s more like it.” Turnstone grinned as a man in a black mask patrolled, collecting coins. “Don’t worry, Bryce never lets me down. You’ll see.”
A liveried figure stepped into the circle: dark-green tabard, tall, bulky frame. It was the Orha I’d seen with Turnstone before. His bruised eye was healed now, but he still squinted slightly, flexing his fist as he paced a few times.
Opposite him hovered a rose-clad woman with pointed features and darting eyes. She had an elaborate crest on her livery: a bird of prey with a rat in its talons. Some of the men were smirking at her, a few exchanging snide-sounding murmurs, but she ignored them, slowly circling Turnstone’s Orha.
“To first blood,” barked the black-masked overseer.
“First blood!” the other revellers echoed, sloshing their drinks, a few cheering loudly.
Ice lanced through me as I picked out Emment. He was hood-eyed, propping himself against a barrel.
“Put her down, Brycey,” a blond man heckled, and Turnstone’s Orha began to mutter.
As I lay there, the damp seeping through to my knees, a wind whipped up, blowing leaves from the gutter. It swirled around the yard, making some of the men yelp, and blasted right into the liveried woman.
She staggered backward, tottering on one leg, but her lips moved, too, now, and a torch on the wall flared. My eyes followed the pair, a sickness in my stomach. Making us fight, purely for their entertainment…
At least the two didn’t have weapons on them.
Turnstone’s Gustmouth had his sleeves pushed up, and he raised his fists as he ducked toward the woman.
By now, however, a series of sparks had flown from the torch and burgeoned into flames.
They shot toward the larger man, causing him to wheel and bat at them frantically.
Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, the Sparkmouth zipped in under his arm, spun, and snapped her elbow into his nose.
It all happened so fast, I barely caught it. A second later, another cheer went up.
“First blood!” shrieked a man in a padded silver doublet. More a boy, really, hardly older than I was. “My Sparkmouth wins! Bad luck, Turnstone.” He was hopping on the balls of his feet with excitement. At the sight, my scalp tightened, needling all over, flickers of anger curling up from my belly.
Turnstone’s Orha had stumbled backward, smears of blood under his nose, on his fingers. The Sparkmouth turned away, massaging her elbow. She was frowning, and I got the distinct impression she’d intended to make it quick—and relatively painless.
Across the yard, Turnstone stood white-faced, his goblet hanging, forgotten, at his side. Wine stained the cobbles alongside flecks of blood.
“And bad luck, Shearwater,” said another of the men as the masked overseer distributed winnings. “Second loss in as many weeks, now, isn’t it?”
“Let’s hope it’s not a Shearwater curse, eh?” said the Sparkmouth’s young, silver-clad employer, tucking a weighty purse into his breeches. “Not with the vote in just a few weeks. Don’t worry. If Daddy wins, he’ll be swimming in regals. No more raiding the coffers for ill-advised wagers.”
“Our coffers are none of your damned business,” Emment slurred, and stalked across the yard to the exit. There he leaned briefly against the stone wall, waiting for the burly guard to step aside, then pushed off from it—and disappeared into darkness.
Hells. I wriggled backward, sliding off the roof, feet casting around for purchase on the vines. When I’d reached ground level, I took off after Emment.
There he was, about fifty yards ahead of me, tracing a weaving path down the street. I jogged to catch up with him, staring daggers at his back. The rage—the outrage—that had kindled within me was simmering now, heading for a rolling boil.
“Hey,” I said sharply, catching his elbow.
He jumped, perhaps assuming I was someone nefarious, but when he saw it was me, his shoulders sank heavily. “Oh. I thought we were meeting by the stables.” He peered at me through the lamplit gloom. “What are you doing here?”
“Searching the streets. Do you realize what time it is?” I glanced around us. “You said midnight. It’s well past by now.”
“Really?” he muttered, listing to one side as he tried to focus on the pocket watch he’d pulled out. “Must’ve…lossht track. Cards weren’t in my favor.”
“Cards,” I repeated flatly, eyeing him.
He nearly dropped the watch—I swiped it from him—and tugged out his coin purse, which was now totally empty. “Huh,” he said; an interested little noise. “Washh going to offer to buy you a drink, but—”
“Come on,” I said bitterly, “we have to go.” Supporting his arm, I urged him away.
Our horse was ready, had even been fed and watered. I shoved Emment upward as he attempted to mount—it took three tries, but he eventually kept his seat.
“Here,” said the stablehand, handing me a lantern. “No moonslight tonight.” He looked resigned. This must be just one of many times he’d seen off the Shearwater heir in this state.
“Thank you,” I said, affixing the lamp in front of Emment. I was jittery, anger still coursing through me, as I climbed up behind him. I’d have to hold him steady. “If you’re going to be sick,” I muttered, “please warn me first.”
His only response was an echoing belch.
I nudged the horse onward, and we clopped down to the marsh, where our lantern bathed us in a pool of dim gold.
The stone track stretched away ahead of us, walled in with marsh reeds, uncanny in the darkness.
I set our pace at a solemn trot. It would take twice as long as the crossing here had, but I was an inexperienced rider—and I had unsteady cargo.
As we trailed through the marsh and out over the flats, I heard strange noises off in the night. A grating birdcall. An animal coughing. And then, somewhere not too distant, something that sounded a lot like a howl.
I fingered the reins nervously. Would wolves really venture here? Prowl down out of the Drowning Woods in search of roosting birds to pick off?
As if to ward off the creepiness, Emment took up a lilting song, his tenor off-key, his words bleeding together.
It seemed he’d thrown off any moodiness about the fight, as every now and then, after a particularly bawdy line, he chuckled to himself and swayed one way or the other.
I pressed my arms in tight to his sides.
Then, closer now, another howl. A sliver of ice speared through me to my belly.
I urged the horse onward, picking up our loping pace. We were maybe halfway to the harbor by now. I was eager to reach the waterline, where wolves couldn’t follow, and in my agitation I pressed the stallion into a canter. Emment’s song cut off. He gave a low moan.
“Hold on,” I said, irritated. “It can’t be long now.”
Abruptly, our lamp jolted, came loose, and flew downward. A tinkling crash sounded over the beating of hooves. Our light was gone, the blackness around us total, and the stallion reared up suddenly, blind now to the path ahead.
I yelped. Emment was dislodged from the saddle. He toppled with a grunt of surprise to the ground, where I heard him slam onto the stone and cry out.
Trying to keep from falling, I pulled the reins taut. The stallion sidestepped and snorted in alarm. Then, to my dizzying relief, he settled. I jumped down, disoriented, jarring my knees. Somewhere behind me, I heard Emment cough, then retch, then finally empty the contents of his stomach.
I swore. Still gripping the reins tightly, I picked my way carefully back down the causeway, searching for him in near-total darkness.
“Emment! Where are you?”
A groan from ahead. A hoarse voice: “…Zennia?”
My blood went cold.
I heard shuffling, then a worrying flumph.
“Emment!” I shouted. “It’s Corith! Don’t—”
But it was too late. I guessed that in his drunken confusion, he’d toppled right over the edge of the causeway, as I heard the shush shush of his boots on the slick sands.
He was moving, but in completely the wrong direction.