“As long as it isn’t a someone.”
“Not at all. A fleet of ships—actually, how many ships are in a fleet? Let’s call it several ships,” came the reply, just as two men walked into the room where Lin was standing.
She recognized the Ragpicker King immediately. Tall and thin, with legs like the long black spokes of carriage wheels. He wore his customary black, his clothes plain but elegantly cut in a way that would be sure to intrigue Mariam.
With him was a young man with dark-red hair. （Lin was always glad to see another redhead, though the young man’s skin was the olive tone of most Castellani, not pale like her own.） His clothes were plain broadcloth, his eyes narrow and black. He was still speaking, a dark intensity underlying his words. “I’ve told you no one will be harmed,” he said. “I’ve planned it quite carefully—”
Lin had not moved. She stood still, hands clasped, near the shelves of curiosities. Perhaps she ought to have ducked behind a sofa, but it was certainly too late for that now. The Ragpicker King had seen her. His black eyebrows lifted, as did the corners of his mouth.
“Ciprian,” he interrupted, “we have company.”
The red-haired man paused mid-gesture. For a moment, both men stared at Lin.
Lin cleared her throat. “Ji-An brought me,” she said. This was mostly true. Ji-An had brought her to the Black Mansion, if not to this particular room. “But she had an errand to do.”
“Probably had to kill someone,” said Ciprian, and shrugged when the Ragpicker King gave him a dark look. “What? She’s very good at it.”
Lin thought of Ji-An’s cool eyes and graceful movements and supposed she was not surprised. Someone like Ji-An would clearly do more than simply fetch wayward physicians for the Ragpicker King.
“So you’re the physician,” the Ragpicker King said.
“Not feeling well, Andreyen?” Ciprian inquired.
“A touch of gout,” said his companion, looking not at Ciprian but at Lin, the same amusement playing around his mouth. So it seemed clear he had a name—Andreyen—but Lin could not imagine thinking of him that way. Even up close, he seemed more like a child’s tale than a living man. A figure one might follow down a dark road, only to discover he had vanished where the street turned. A golem made of clay and shadows, with bright-burning eyes.
“Ciprian, I’ll notify you when your shipment arrives. And by the way, I can guess who those several ships belong to.”
Ciprian grinned ferociously. “I’m sure you can.” As he left the room, he passed Lin, his shoulder nearly bumping hers. He paused for a moment. He had the sort of gaze that seemed to weigh heavily, Lin thought, like a too-familiar hand on the shoulder. “You’re awfully pretty to be a doctor,” he said. “Or to be Ashkar, for that matter. Quite a waste, all those girls locked up in the Sault—”
“Ciprian.” There was a sharp warning in the Ragpicker King’s voice, and the amusement had left his face. “Go.”
“Only a jest.” Ciprian shrugged, dismissing Lin as easily as he’d noticed her. She waited until his footsteps had faded from earshot before turning to the Ragpicker King.
“Do you really have gout?”
“No.” He threw himself into a worn armchair. She wondered how old he was. Thirty, she’d guess, though he had the sort of face that seemed ageless. “And I didn’t call you here because I need a physician, Lin Caster, though I am glad to see you’ve come. I wasn’t sure Ji-An could convince you.”
“Because you’re a criminal?” Lin said. Ji-An had said he didn’t mind the word, so why not be honest?
“No, because I’ve been told she has an off-putting manner—though I’ve not noticed it myself.”
“She told me you saved her life,” Lin said. “Perhaps she’s nicer to you.”
“She isn’t, and I wouldn’t like it if she was,” he said. “So you’re the physician who healed Kel Saren?”
“How did you know that?”
He spread his hands wide. They were very long and pale, like the legs of a white spider. “Knowing things that happen in Castellane is a significant part of my occupation. Ji-An had told me she did not think Kel would live, that his injuries were too great for him to survive. What I want to know is—did you use that to heal him?”
“Use what?” Lin said, though a part of her guessed what he would say.
“That brooch.” He pointed with a languid hand at her shoulder. “Or, to be more specific, the stone inside it.”
Her hand flew to her shoulder. “It’s only a bit of quartz.”
“No.” He pushed his chair back until the front two legs came off the ground. “That is what the jeweler in the market told you. But it is not the case.”
“How do you know—”
“He works for me,” said Andreyen. “He identified the stone as soon as you brought it to him, and sent a messenger to the Black Mansion. Ji-An went to fetch you.”
Lin could feel her cheeks begin to heat. There was nothing she hated more than the feeling she had been manipulated.
“I have eyes in the Palace,” he went on. “I knew you had healed Kel; that you also had a Source-Stone, I did not know. I assumed you knew what it was. That you used it in your medicine. Though—” He let the chair fall back down with a thump. “You are also Ashkar. This sort of magic is forbidden to you. It is not gematry; it is the very opposite of that. Source-Stones were invented by King Suleman, the enemy of the Goddess.”
“You know a great deal about our beliefs,” said Lin tightly.
“I find them interesting,” he said. “It is because of your Goddess, the lady Adassa, that there is no more magic in the world—save the low magic your people practice. I have always felt that if we were to find our way back to High Magic, it would be through gematry. There is some key there that will unlock the door. But what you have there—the Arkhe, the stone—that is a remnant of High Magic. It holds a piece of the world before the Sundering.” He narrowed his jade-green eyes. “So how did an Ashkari girl get hold of such an object, as priceless as it is forbidden?”
Lin folded her arms across her chest. She was beginning to feel the same way she did when the Maharam questioned her—a certain rebellious instinct to snap, to push back rather than answer. But this was the Ragpicker King, she reminded herself. As casual as his current demeanor was, that did not mean he was not dangerous.
She had seen a crocodile attack a seal in the harbor once; the water had been still and smooth as glass until the moment it broke suddenly into a boiling froth of thrashing and blood. She did not think it would be wise to lie to the Ragpicker King. One did not become the Ragpicker King without an excellent instinct for when others were prevaricating.
“Anton Petrov,” she said, and told the story quickly: that he had been her patient, that he had slipped the stone inside her bag, that she feared he was dead. That she had suspected he had known he was going to die.
“Anton Petrov,” he said, with some amusement. “I would almost think you were mocking me with a tale, but I can tell a liar.” He seemed to note her puzzled look, and smiled. “Petrov,” he said, “in the language of Nyenschantz, means ‘stone.’”