17
Felix sat before the fireplace in the centurion’s study, flicking through the pages he’d taken from the bloodshop safe. Already, though, his attention had begun to flit like a distracted bird. He turned another leaf, only to realize that he’d taken in nothing from the one before.
Unease still slithered through his mind. For an awful moment, he’d feared the centurion’s threats had been in earnest. Only years of discipline had kept him silent, backed by faith in his commander’s honor. He was certain she’d never execute a prisoner without trial.
Almost.
He still wasn’t sure what had driven him to make the offer—trust in his commander’s intentions, or doubt of them. Her love for her arcani was a double-edged sword, and Myria had put herself on the wrong side of it.
“You can bind me to your promises,” he’d said. “If Prima Gloriana breaks her word and harms your friends, I die. If Miss Cadessa runs, I die. I’ll go with her, unarmed. When she returns, I’ll be the centurion’s eyes in the scheme.”
They’d both looked at him as though he’d suggested leaping in front of a phaeton. Gloriana had drawn him aside, eyes full of alarm.
“She’ll double-cross you as soon as look at you.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t think she will,” he’d replied, raising his voice enough that Myria could hear. The thief had stared at him, but there was nothing close to glee in her expression.
“Blackmail,” she’d said flatly. He’d smiled in answer.
It was moral blackmail indeed, and he wagered she wasn’t prepared to set down his life as the price for her liberty.
She was full of mischief, but not murder.
She could have killed him in that bloodshop, and she hadn’t.
No, more than that—with him entirely at her mercy, she’d promised he was safe.
“The centurion’s word is her bond,” he’d said. “You’d have my life as the guarantee that she’d keep it. You have the better of the bargain.”
Gloriana’s hand had tightened on his shoulder, but he’d met her eyes without doubt. She’d swallowed her protest, set her jaw and nodded.
“Very well. Miss Cadessa?”
Myria had given him a long, studying look before replying with a single nod. The centurion had retreated to prepare the spell, and left Felix to wait alone.
He paced lengths of the study, shuffling through the stolen papers. They were scribed in neat columns, which he took at first glance for accountants’ records. Then he forced himself to focus on the contents, and his spirit revolted.
Arcana—memories—faculties—hair—blood—bone—teeth—labor. Rows of ticks and crosses ran beneath them, tallied up against scrawled names.
Cassandra, Torvus Lane, one read. 5–8: memories, hair to market—arcana and labor to the Gutter Seraphs, 4 lyrin.
Julius, Finitus Road, 8–11: memories, blood, bone, teeth to market—deceased.
Vitus, Torvus Lane, 8–11: faculties—discarded, deceased.
They were the records of the harvesters’ den—of the children they’d stolen, body and soul. The Gutter Seraphs . . . that sounded like the name of some thieving crew. Like a man watching a phaeton crash, Felix turned the page, skimming on in a kind of mesmerized horror.
Then, the final entry caught like a hook in his mind.
Myria, it read. Cadessius Lane, 8–11: memories, hair, faculties to market—arcana to the Bloodwrights, 2 lyrin—deceased.
His heart thudded. Myria. It wasn’t a common name. Was it her? If someone had borrowed her surname from the street where they’d taken her . . . It was too much to be a coincidence. Deceased, it said, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had mistaken that.
He read the entry again, making sure he’d followed the right columns. Memories? That was cruel enough. Arcana regenerated over time, but her faculties? His spirit wrenched at the thought. What he’d lost in battle, she’d had ripped away in the dark of that miserable bloodshop.
A knock on the door jerked him back to life. He snapped the book shut and went to answer it. Gloriana stood there with Myria at her side.
“The spell’s prepared,” said the centurion. “A word?”
He bowed her inside. She locked Myria to the spot with a dash of arcana, then closed the door in the thief’s face and turned to him.
“Aurelias, are you certain? To tangle yourself up in a scheme of this kind . . . I’ll square things with Regis, of course, but it’s a mighty risk.”
“A calculated risk, ma’am,” said Felix, his spirit warming at her concern.
“Calculated,” the centurion said slowly, as though measuring each word. “And what weight did your own life carry in the balance?”
“Ma’am?”
“I know you’ve not had the surgery, Felix,” she answered, eyes grave. “I know it’s killing you. I’ve seen too many wounded soldiers not to wonder.”
“Whether I was . . . gambling with my life, half hoping that I’d lose it?” Felix asked, forcing a smile. Some small part of him wanted to tell her—yes. Better the gamble than the slow defeat. In the end, though, there were some things better left unspoken. “No.”
“Your powers aren’t the only thing worth living for,” Gloriana pressed. “Don’t make a god of them.”
“Do you know anyone who’s had the surgery, ma’am?” he asked, trying not to make it sound like a challenge. She pursed her lips and shook her head.
“I’m ready,” he finished. Gloriana drew a short, hard breath, then flung open the door with a look and beckoned Myria inside.
The thief entered, and Gloriana took them each by the wrist. Silver arcana spun from her fingers. Without his command, his left hand locked around Myria’s, and his right, the centurion’s.
“Blighter,” Myria muttered as her own hands did the same.
“I give my word upon his life. I shall not pursue you to your accomplices, nor harm any of you who serve me in good faith,” said Gloriana. “If they refuse and you return, they’ll go unharmed. If you do my will, I’ll protect you all. Speak.”
“I . . . give my word upon his life,” she said with a slightly baffled frown. “I shan’t run from your prefect. In exchange for my friends’ safety, I’ll return and finish the job for you, whether with them or alone.”
The centurion released them, and the light died. With that, Felix glanced to the clock and smiled. It was the second hour of the morning, but he still felt wide awake.
“Excellent. Would you care to accompany me to your comrades, Miss Cadessa?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said dryly. “Best brace yourself. They’re not going to be pleased to see you.”
“Well. Myria. I’d wondered what it’d be like if you ever brought a gentleman home, but I confess, this wasn’t what I had in mind,” said a refined older fellow, eyeing up Felix as though he were some complex mathematical problem.
The other two weren’t quite so eloquent.
The steely little Isran cracked her knuckles, and the tawny-haired man watched him like a horse making ready to bolt.
They stood in a gorgeous suite at the Claritas Majestus, with Myria between the two sides in a kind of human shield. A hasty explanation had kept the Isran woman from knocking a second hole in Felix’s skull, but it was certainly more truce than surrender.
“Perhaps we ought to sit,” said Myria, gesturing to the table.
She led the way, taking a chair at the center.
Felix sat beside her, acutely conscious that she’d set herself across from her three friends.
They didn’t seem to miss it. Only the older gentleman joined them at the table, marking the page in his book as he went.
“Prima Gloriana,” he said. “Well, don’t take it too hard, my dear. You’d never have outrun her. I’ll be with you, come what may.”
“Take your time to think, Ly,” said Myria. “You have a choice. If you leave, she won’t follow.”
Lysander Arkadios, thought Felix. The one they’d broken out of Haideum.
“And you’ll be left to run the game alone,” the wiry woman said at once, her black eyes narrowing. “That’s suicide. Not a chance we’d leave you to the wolves. We can scarper. Find new faces, then come back when the fire’s gone out.”
Cassia Adel Salah, he thought, matching her to the Isran surname.
“I bound myself to return,” said Myria.
“Against his life,” her friend fired back.
“Yes.”
“Then forfeit it!”
“No.”
The calm deliberation of her answer took him by surprise. It seemed to catch her friend off guard as well. Cassia stood silent for a moment, simmering like a kettle about to blow its lid off. Then she lowered her voice and fixed Myria with a flint-hard stare.
“It’s him or us,” she said. “Do you think Hadria didn’t make those choices? When she did, do you think for a moment that she didn’t choose us?”
“I’ve already chosen you,” said Myria, unmoved. “This is what it looks like. Making it right. Whatever you do, wherever you decide to go, I’ll destroy Vixius.”
Cassia’s reply died on her lips. For a moment, she only glared, her jaw working furiously. Then, she seemed to bank her temper.
“Damn. Wish I didn’t like you, you stupid blighter,” she muttered. With an air of great ill will, she seized a chair and sat beside Lysander.
“If you choose to leave, there’s no dishonor in it,” said Myria. “This isn’t what you agreed to—”
“Oh, button it. We’re with you to the hilt, however the damned thing ends. Leo, sit down.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind—”
“Sit down!” Cassia repeated, dragging out the third chair with a shriek that made the fellow wince.
He turned an imploring look on Myria, then sighed and did as he was told.
Felix hid a smile at the sight. For all Cassia’s temper and Leo’s reluctance, he wagered there’d never been much question that they’d come. Loyalty traveled in packs.
“You can trust the centurion’s word,” he said. “If your scheme works, you’ll have her protection, and anything you take from Vixius and Evander to boot.”
The thieves swapped coded glances, and he wondered what he’d said. Cassia leaned back in her chair and gave him a look of hostile appraisal.
“Set your life on her promise, did you?” she said flatly. “More fool you.”
“She’s a war hero,” he shot back. “I’ve trusted her with my life a hundred times and never once regretted it.”
“War hero,” the woman scoffed. “Mmm, I heard about Draevund Heath. Drowned half the Hjelvak army in arcanic magma. That’ll teach ’em to want their country back.”
A whiplash struck his nerves. His memory flared with that soul-cleaving pain, that battlefield ablaze with hellish fires. Then, seeing Myria watching him sidelong, he drew a slow breath and locked it from his mind.
“Ma’am, I understand your anger—”
“Do you? Good. That’ll spare us some awkward misunderstandings when I break your nose—”
“Cassia,” Myria interrupted. That voice, which had flickered like firelight, full of mischief, suddenly turned deep and hard. Cassia gritted her teeth, but seemed to snatch the reins to her temper. From the corner of his eye, Felix saw Myria give her friend a subtle nod of gratitude.
“Prefect, perhaps you’d allow us a moment to confer,” she said. “I’d rather my friends spoke freely, and they’ll hardly do so with you here.”
“I think not, Miss Cadessa,” he replied. A flicker of vexation crossed her face, and she clicked her fingers to the tawny-haired man.
“Go on. Hand it over, Leo. He won’t let us talk if you could spirit us away at the drop of a hat.”
The man shifted in his seat like a reluctant schoolboy. With an air of great resentment, he drew a feather from his sleeve and gave it to her.
“Don’t. Damage. It,” he said, driving in each word like a man hammering nails. Felix took the feather from Myria with no little bewilderment.
“What’s this supposed to be?” he asked. They all looked at him as though he’d asked what shoes were, before Myria took pity.
“It’s how he silverwalks,” she said.
“Silverwalks?” he repeated, none the wiser. Cassia snorted.
“Those gateways,” said Myria. “That’s how he draws them.”
Felix nodded slowly. He’d never heard of such a thing.
Then again, if he’d been a criminal capable of cutting his own escape hatches in thin air, he probably wouldn’t have told the prefecture about it either.
Perhaps it was some rare arcanic aberration, like mementori and mercurial powers.
He had a mind to ask where that last gateway had taken him, but he fancied the answer would be another snort.
“Without it, our only other way out is the window,” Myria went on, “and that’s a ninety-yard drop. So, if you please . . . ?”
It was fair enough. After all, he’d already set his life on the gamble that she wouldn’t run. He rose and took a post outside the door.
For several minutes, Felix heard nothing. Then, sooner than he’d expected, Myria beckoned him back inside.
“Are you agreed?” he asked, sizing up the little company of thieves.
“Yes,” Cassia muttered. Lysander inclined his head, and Leo gave a grudging nod. Felix handed back the feather.
“Then I thank you,” said Myria, “and live or die, I’ll ensure it’s worth your loyalty.”
She took an Elementis bottle and topped up the wine. To his surprise, she set a glass before him.
“Felix Aurelias,” she said. “You’re in the fight with us now, for good or ill.”
With that, Myria filled her own glass and raised it in a toast.
“We’ll set things right. We’ll take back what he took from us, and lay to rest what can’t ever be restored,” she said quietly. “To the devious.”
“To the devious,” her friends echoed, and drank.
Felix hesitated, keenly aware of the eyes that cut over him like alchemists’ knives.
“Drink, Prefect,” said Myria. “You’re the surety for our lives. You’re bound along with us, now.”
He obeyed, and felt the burn of nothing more dangerous than a startlingly good wine.
Then, Myria set down her glass and turned to him.
She folded her hands demurely before her, like the woman she’d feigned to be.
He wasn’t sure what to make of that expression.
He fancied it was something like a cat playing with its food.
“Now, sir,” she said sweetly, “take me to your leader.”