He paused in the main room, where a single velvet cushion lay on the floor, a rip along the side releasing a small gust of white feathers. He thought of Antonetta’s gold locket, shining empty in her hand, and a wave of rage went through him, mixed with a frustration so intense it felt almost like despair.
Putting a booted foot against the pole of the crow’s nest, he shoved as hard as he could. He’d half expected it to wobble, but instead it went over so quickly that Kel had to jump back to avoid being hit as it toppled, slamming into the warehouse floor with a force that sent dust and splinters into the air like a sandstorm.
“Beck!” Kel looked up, at the empty hanging hooks, at the lightless interior windows of the second floor. “Where the fuck are you, Prosper Beck?”
“Kel.”
Kel turned. Standing in the stairwell was a familiar figure in black Crawler’s gear. His silver quarter-mask gleamed, as did his boots. His hood was up, drawn close about his face, but Kel could see that he was frowning.
“Jerrod,” Kel said.
“I thought they taught you better manners than that,” Jerrod said, “up at the Palace.”
“Manners don’t interest me at the moment,” said Kel. “I want to see Beck.”
Jerrod came into the room a little more, glancing with interest at the wreckage of the crow’s nest. “Haven’t we been through this once? Beck has expressed no desire to see you a second time. You aren’t that charming.”
“I want to know why he’s been wasting my time.”
Jerrod hopped up onto an overturned table, his legs swinging over the side. “Couldn’t get the locket from the girl, could you?”
“I got it,” Kel said shortly. “But it was empty.”
Jerrod glanced up at the ceiling. “So you snuck a peek inside? Beck won’t be pleased.”
Kel hesitated. He could mention the grass ring, the false bottom of the locket. But it seemed a betrayal of Antonetta, as well as a piece of strategic information he did not yet wish to share. If Beck did not know about the ring, there was no reason to be the one who told him. And if he did, then what had been the point of all of this? What was he after?
“You care about his opinion. I don’t,” said Kel. “Antonetta opened it herself. And it’s been driving me mad since. Why would Beck send me to retrieve an empty necklace for him? He told me there was information inside, but that’s hardly Antonetta’s way of doing things. What sort of information? Is this something to do with her mother—” Kel cut himself off impatiently. “And then it occurred to me. Beck wants me to be driven mad with pointless questions. He wants me to be gazing over at the locket and the Alleynes, so I won’t be looking somewhere else, somewhere he doesn’t want me to look. All of which had led me to come here and ask: What does he really want?”
Jerrod kicked his heels like a small boy sitting along the harbor seawall. “Well. You aren’t going to find out.”
“I will see him. You cannot stop me.”
“You are welcome to see him, if you can find him. Because I cannot.”
Kel went still. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s gone. He’s left Castellane.”
“You’re lying—”
“I’m not.” Jerrod gestured around the room. “You can confirm it with your friend the Ragpicker King if you like. I’m sure he’s heard the buzzing by now. The Maze is no longer Beck’s, and likely Andreyen will want to march his own people in soon.”
Kel thought of Mayesh. Odd. One does not usually willingly take leave of a position of power.
“Beck was thriving here,” Kel said. “Why leave so suddenly?” He narrowed his eyes. “On the other hand, he was planning to betray his patron, someone of importance on the Hill. Did that patron discover Beck was hoping to stab him in the back?”
Jerrod threw up his chalk-powdered hands. “You’re thinking too small, Anjuman. I don’t know who Beck’s patron was—there is some information it is better not to possess. I have been happy in my ignorance. But I do know one thing. You are thinking of your Prince and your House Aurelian, as you always do, while Beck was thinking of the whole of Castellane.”
“What did he know of the whole of Castellane? The Maze does not represent it, any more than the Palace does.”
“He knew enough to leave you a message,” said Jerrod. “Which, by the way, is the only reason I came when you called for Beck. Because he knew you would come, and he asked me to tell you this when you did.” He looked thoughtfully at the palm of his hand, as if there was a message scrawled there. “‘Trouble is coming for the Hill, Anjuman, and Marivent will not be exempt. You have no idea how bad it will get. Blood will run from the height to the depth. The Hill will drown in it.’”
Kel felt the back of his neck prickle. “A warning indeed,” he said. “But Beck is not concerned for my welfare. This could be another game he’s playing, couldn’t it?”
Jerrod smiled enigmatically. “Some people are only convinced by empirical evidence, I suppose. You need not heed anyone’s warnings, Anjuman. Feel free to fuck around and find out yourself.”
“Right.” Kel started for the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned; Jerrod was still seated on the overturned table, his mask gleaming like a quarter-moon. “Would you tell me one thing?” Kel said. “Why didn’t you kill me? That night your Crawler stabbed me. Once you realized I wasn’t Conor. Didn’t you worry I could make some kind of trouble for you?”
“You’ve made plenty of trouble for me,” Jerrod said shortly. “The answer is simple. I saw Ji-An on the wall. She seemed invested in keeping you alive, and I didn’t want to go directly against the Ragpicker King.”
It was a sound enough reason, but it didn’t sit quite right with Kel. Something about the whole situation gnawed at him. Abruptly, he said: “You’re not going to tell me anything really useful, are you?”
“No,” Jerrod said pleasantly. “I’ve discharged my last responsibility to Beck. Time for me to look for other work. Perhaps I’ll see if your Ragpicker King is feeling generous. He could always use another good Crawler in his employ.”
“He’s not my Ragpicker King—” Kel began, and nearly laughed. He was letting Jerrod get under his skin, and to what end, really? “You know what? Go ahead. I’ll let him know you send your regards.”
“Send my regards to the pretty poisoner, while you’re at it,” Jerrod said. “He isn’t the only one waiting for Artal Gremont to return to Castellane, you know.”
And he grinned.
As Kel approached Scarlet Square, he recalled how sure he’d been, the last time he had spoken to Andreyen, that he had severed their connection. That he owed Andreyen Morettus, inheritor of the title of the Ragpicker King, nothing at all.
And yet here he was, feeling a sense of near-relief as his feet carried him through the Warren to the Black Mansion. Jerrod had been very convincing, but Kel had known a great many convincing people. He thought of the Council, sitting around the face of their great clock, each one untrustworthy, each one convincing in his or her own way.