“Dead,” answered Bex, and he might have believed her—after all, she didn’t flinch, or give herself away. But Calin did. His expression twitched, snagging on the word a second after she said it.
“You’re lying.”
“She couldn’t fix it,” said Bex. As if that was that.
As if Berras Emery didn’t need the persalis. As if it were some trinket he’d sent them to fetch on a whim, and not the key to his strategy. He looked down at his hands, at the net of lines, fine as lace, that crossed his knuckles. For years, his father had ordered him to wear gloves, but Berras relished the scars. He had earned them.
“We tried,” said Bex. “Trust me. Calin may be an incompetent shit, but I’m not…”
She went on making excuses, but Berras had stopped listening. He began to roll up his sleeves. The skin on his forearms was tan, and tough, the veins faint shadows beneath. He had survived the Tide and bore no silver scars, because when the dark god poured itself into his blood, he did not fight. Instead, he let it rage. Let it burn through him, unchecked, and as it did, it spoke. It told him what could be. It showed him that change was not a gift, it was a prize, something to be taken.
Across the room, Bex was still talking. Still making excuses. He cut her off. “Why are you here?”
Bex crossed her arms. Shifted her weight. “Well, the way I see it, we did our part.”
Berras stared at her, nonplussed. “You want me to pay you for a job you didn’t do.”
“It was a fair amount of work,” said Calin.
“I didn’t realize I was paying for the effort.” Berras took a step forward. “Your part was to meet the three thieves, dispose of them, and deliver the persalis to me. You failed. And yet, you have the nerve to show your face. To come to me for recompense. Get out before I break your necks.”
Calin stood. Bex straightened. But neither so much as looked toward the door. For a moment, no one spoke. In the end, it was Bex who broke the tension. Bex who rolled her shoulders and spread her hands.
“One way or another,” she said, “we’ll be needing our cut…”
As she spoke, her fingers twitched toward the metal wrapped around her forearm. She clearly expected the steel to answer, perhaps provide some dramatic flourish to the word cut—but the metal didn’t so much as twitch. It hung there, useless as a bangle on her wrist.
The mark he’d touched glowed faintly on the doorway. A sigil. A ward.
Berras watched, savoring the way Bex faltered, the confusion that spread like shadow on her face, her eyes widening, just a little, as she realized her magic wouldn’t answer. Too late she went for her nearest weapon, but Berras was already there. His fist crashed into her cheek, and he heard the satisfying crunch of bone as she staggered back, dropping to a knee. One hand went to her face, trying to stem the blood now pouring from her nose.
Her other hand managed to draw a dagger, but Berras’s boot came down, crushing her fingers under his heel as Calin finally caught on, and flung himself into the fight. Or tried. He threw a punch, and he was a large enough man that the blow would have hurt, if he’d known how to land it. But he didn’t. The gesture was sloppy, and Berras turned out of its path, palmed the side of Calin’s skull, and slammed it into the wall. The man dropped like a brick, but Berras kicked him once in the head, to keep him down.
Bex was up again by then, and came at Berras with the dagger, but she was half-blinded by tears and he caught her wrist, and snapped it cleanly. She gasped, her grip loosening on the blade, which he took, and drove down through the meat of her hand, pinning it to his desk.
Bex let out a feral sound. “You fucking pilse—” she got out, before Berras leaned on the blade, sinking it another inch, and she cut off, stifling a scream.
Calin was still on the floor nearby, clutching his head and groaning.
“My father taught me many things,” said Berras Emery, “but this one most. If a man does not know how to bow, you show him how to kneel.”
With that, he pulled the blade out of the desk, and Bex scrambled back out of his reach, cradling her bleeding hand and broken wrist, her eyes full of hatred. Hatred, and fear. Calin got to his feet, swayed violently, braced himself against the wall, and retched. Bex used her less injured hand to snap her nose back into place.
Berras studied the blood-soaked knife. “You want payment?” His dark eyes flicked up, the color of a storm at dusk. With his bare hands, he broke the blade in two, and flung the pieces at her feet.