“Then you’re very lucky.”
The girl laughed. “I’m many things. Lucky has never been one.” She reached out and ran her finger thoughtfully along one of the swords. “It takes sweat and blood to make a blade like this. Use the two right, and the steel can’t be used against you.”
“So they are spelled,” said Lila.
The merchant shrugged. “A precaution.”
“A handy one,” mused Lila. “Don’t suppose you could apply the spell to an existing blade?”
The merchant shook her head. “No,” she said, “but I could make you a new one. I’d need a few days, and some of your blood.…”
The girl’s eyes had brightened when she said it.
Perhaps it was just the promise of a deal, or the challenge of the work, but Lila thought she caught a glint of steel in that gaze, just like the one that had drawn her to the stall. Her grip tightened on the knife, the cut along her hand still aching from the sacrifice she’d made to the queen.
Blood was a valuable thing. It anchored spells and strengthened curses. It made all magic stronger. According to Nadiya Loreni, it held countless secrets. And Lila had made her way through enough black markets in the past few years to know the value of that blood if it came from an Antari. Lila was glad she’d left the black eye back on the ship. She pretended to consider the merchant’s offer before returning the knife to the table.
“On second thought,” she said, “what fun is there, without a little risk?”
The merchant shrugged, but held her gaze. “If you change your mind…”
But Lila was already moving away from the stall, and the blades, and the fox-faced girl. She reached the far edge of the market, and turned right, away from the river and toward the shal, and Haskin’s.
Now all she needed was a pretense for visiting the shop. She patted her pockets, felt the familiar weight of her watch. Not her watch—the one Holland had found in her old rooms, along with Berras, the one he’d returned to her stained with blood, the one she’d given to Maris as payment years before—but a gift from her crew one summer festival, the surface engraved with a C. For Casero.
Captain.
She drew it out, ran a thumb over the silver shell before she clicked it open, listened to the steady, almost silent tick of seconds passing. And even though the hands inside were driven by a spell instead of cogs, it was easy to forget. Perhaps harder to break, she mused, but she was sure she could do it, was about to pry away the face when she saw the time, the minute hand slipping past the hour, both of them a breath off straight.
“Nonis ora,” she murmured.
Eleventh hour.
Her steps dragged to a stop. She’d assumed the time on the edge of the coin referred to night, but what if she’d been wrong? After all, the surest crimes were those done in daylight, right under the mark’s nose.
Lila turned, and headed for the nearest bridge.
VI
WHITE LONDON
Kosika leaned her elbows on the castle terrace.
Below, a hundred soldiers were going through their morning practice, the motions of battle broken down and ordered into movements. They reminded her of leaves, the way they bent and moved, the way they rose up and turned together, guided by an invisible wind, their charcoal armor turning them to shadows on the training ground.
As she watched, Kosika plucked at a strip of linen wrapped tight around her forearm, her skin still raw from yesterday’s tithe. And perhaps it was just her imagination, or the nature of the season—and there were seasons now, four of them, instead of the pale breath of change that used to mark the passing of the year—but today, the sky looked bluer, the leaves a more vivid shade of green. The sun was burning off the morning chill, and Kosika savored the warmth of it against her skin as a shout rose up from the training ground below.
The soldiers had finished their movements, and broken off to spar, those who could conjure paired with those who couldn’t, so each could learn how to best the other.
Kosika spotted Lark among them. He had grown a foot or more in the last few months, his narrow shoulders banded with new muscle. And while there were other fair-haired soldiers, his curls alone shone silver-white in the sun, making him look less like a boy of nearly eighteen and more like a struck match.
She watched him circle his partner, turning the sword in a lazy arc, fire licking down the blunted practice blade. The other man was twice his size, but Lark darted and dodged like flame itself, and in moments, the other soldier was stamping out a lick of fire on his forearm. As he did, Lark twisted around his sparring partner and came up behind him, resting the blade against his throat.