A stick cracks, out in the darkness. The girl looks up slowly, wary but not overly concerned. The forest is always full of sounds, if one takes the time to hear them.
But then there is another crack, and the brush of cloth against bark.
The girl draws her pistol, still spent, and makes a show of cocking it. Fear bubbles in her stomach like stew in the pot, but she’s getting better at hiding it now. At pretending to be someone she’s not.
Another part of her wonders if this new person, this new pragmatic girl with a powder-streaked pistol, has been there all along.
“Who goes there?” she asks.
Firelight runs up the barrel of a musket as a soldier steps into sight. An unremarkable face, mouse-brown hair swept up under a tricorn hat, two rows of matte black buttons on a deep green coat. The soldier’s cloak is thrown back, musket butt resting at her shoulder.
The Girl from the Wold stands slowly, pistol leveled. The soldier aims her rifle at the same time.
“We are the Queen’s Guns, and you, Abetha Bonning, are surrounded,” the soldier says. Her voice does not waver, and as she speaks, the girl hears more footsteps, sees the flashes of more guns, and feels the presence of more watching eyes.
Panic flutters in her stomach. The Girl from the Wold steadies the pistol in both hands and tries to think, tries to see another way forward.
There is none. Just a dozen guns in the night, and a noose intended for another woman’s throat.
Cool metal brushes the girl’s neck, and a male soldier plucks the pistol from her fingers.
“I’m not Abetha Bonning,” the girl says. A crack or waver in her voice would have been useful just then, anything to inspire pity or create doubt, but it doesn’t come.
The soldier who took her pistol smirks, his eyes glistening with success. “Tell that to the hangman.”
*
THIRTY-ONE
A Most Honored Guest
SAMUEL
I followed Captain Slader through the press and laughter of the ballroom. People and voices whirled past me, obscuring my view as I searched for one face.
I glanced at woman after woman, each one more beautiful, more lavish, and more shrewd than the last. Some of them met my eyes invitingly but I did not stop, growing frustrated as Slader reached the other side of the ballroom and stepped into a quieter corridor.
“You can mingle later,” the captain told me, pausing so I could catch up. He glanced over my shoulder to where a pair of Usti women watched me go, and the older man nearly smiled. “Stay focused, lad, and watch yourself.”
I nodded as a servant directed us into a private room. Half a dozen others were already here, seated about a well-appointed study with glasses in their hands.
James Demery addressed the company from beside the fire. As we entered his speech slowed an iota, his eyes jumping from me to Slader. Then he recovered with grace and gestured to several free chairs.
He continued in fluent Usti, “With this in mind, can you not see the profit of such a venture?”
“Many an explorer has ventured beyond the Stormwall, looking for treasure,” an old man replied, his Usti accent sliding and viscous. He sniffed over the glass of amber liquid resting atop his round belly. “So many that I cannot begin to name them. Do you know how few have returned?”
“Very few.” Demery shrugged. “But I am one of them.”
“How did you manage that?” Captain Slader inquired as he took a seat.
Demery offered the other captain a nod of acknowledgement. “Before I answer that, let me remind you we stand on Usti soil, and stretching my neck would be entirely unwise.”
Slader nodded. “You may be a brigand but, fortunately for you, you are not the particular brigand I am searching for. Have no fear.”
Demery’s smile was humorless. “In answer to your question, I crossed the North Line as a young man, and I know where the greatest riches are to be found.”
“How did you cross?” Slader asked again.
“With the aid of the Fleetbreaker, prior to her recruitment into Aeadine’s Fleet.” Demery turned his attention back to the company. “My current Stormsinger, Mary Firth, is the Fleetbreaker’s own daughter—equally as talented, and more than capable of taking us north.”
Slader turned to give me a silent look, reminding me of how gravely I had failed him.
“Where is the Stormsinger?” a woman with loose blonde hair and a fitted orange gown inquired. “I’d like to see the creature.”
The question alone was enough to nudge me into the Other. The walls and company vanished in a stomach-flipping jolt, leaving me on an empty plane with only myself and a handful of spectral figures. A Magni, outlined in red. Another Sooth in forest green. Two others whose talents I could not recognize. Demery himself had an odd aura about him, but before I could think too hard on that, Mary appeared.
I dragged myself back out of the Other, took a second to let my vision clear, then murmured to Slader, “She’s coming.”
The door opened and Mary entered on the arm of none other than Charles Grant. Grant looked well into his cups, flushed and subtly leaning on Mary for support.
Mary caught sight of me and stopped in place, staring in sudden apprehension. Grant staggered and she steadied him without breaking her gaze, her arm suspiciously easy around his back.
Baffled, I stared back. Last time we parted, she had looked at me so softly. She had even seemed—dared I think it—eager to see me again tonight. What had changed?
She pressed her lips into a cool, thin line, and broke my gaze. Unspeaking and unsmiling, she left Grant on a chaise and moved to stand next to Demery. Firelight ran up the side of her gown and angled across her chin, hiding the flush of her cheeks within a bar of shadow. But I did not miss a few red marks on her neck. Teeth?
I turned to study Grant. He met my gaze and offered a small smile. No guilt or gloating or possessiveness, but something else. He looked away and hiccupped surreptitiously.
Demery began to talk, introducing Mary and lauding her skills as a Stormsinger. Mary refused to look at me again but I felt the weight of her focus, and saw twitches of emotion across her face. I could not decipher them, too fast and too complex, but they felt like stones in my stomach.
Something had happened since the last time we had met. Something drastic, and it had tarnished me in her eyes.
I was so fixated on her that when I slipped into the Other again, I barely noticed. The rest of the room faded but she remained, staring at me without looking at me.
I had never seen her so close, not on this Second Plane. She wore no elaborate gown here, though her hair was still piled high. Instead, she wore her power, the soft teal of a Stormsinger. It was hedged with her signature grey and highlighted every curve of her, blurring the details but leaving little to the imagination.
Beauty. Power. The words lost meaning the longer I looked. And I knew, very clearly, why her disregard hurt me so deeply.
I cared for her. Wanted her. Deeply, painfully, and inexplicably.
So lost was I in that understanding that when another glowing figure stepped into my vision, I was slow to give it proper attention.
The red aura of a Magni surrounded Benedict. Without seeing me, he turned towards Mary and his power flared into a predatory madder.
I lunged back into my flesh and shot to my feet. Benedict’s gaze snapped to me and we stared at one another over the heads of the startled company.