The Master of the Veil leaned back in the chair. “Perhaps what you say is true,” he mused, “perhaps not. We are paid to overlook the details of our patrons.”
“Discretion isn’t the same as ignorance,” she countered. “Nothing happens in my brothel without my knowing. And I’m willing to bet nothing happens in the Veil without yours.”
She studied the golden mask, and the man behind it.
“I was just with the king’s consort.”
The Master of the Veil inclined his head. “Here? Has the royal bed gone cold?”
“He came searching for information. The palace is worried. He suspects I’ve heard something. He would have paid me handsomely. Yet I gave him nothing.”
“And instead, you tip your hand to me.”
Ciara shrugged. “It’s not tipping if you mean to show it. I want you to know exactly where I stand.”
“You support the cause, then?” Surprise rang through his voice, and for the first time, she wondered if the Master of the Veil did more than simply host the Hand at his establishment.
Ciara considered. “I have nothing against the crown. And no love for your cause. But business is business, and our business is better in times of … upheaval.” She returned the glass orb with its rose to the cradle on the desk—her desk. “Still, my consorts’ discretion may be free. But mine will cost you.”
He rose to his feet, one hand slipping into his pocket.
“Three hosts should be sufficient,” he said, setting a stack of silver lish on the edge of the desk. To these, he added a single cheap red lin. “For your time,” he said, and despite the mask, she could hear the corner of his mouth twitch up in amusement before he slipped past her, and out the office door, leaving a chill breeze in his wake.
Ciara watched him descend the stairs, but she didn’t move, not until she was certain the Master of the Veil was gone.
V
SOMEWHERE AT SEA
A few hours after they set sail, the first two men explained the plan.
They were going to rob the Ferase Stras.
The third man listened, his excitement dissolving into horror.
He’d heard tales about the floating market, back when he was still just the merchant’s son, and not a hero in the making.
Not much was known about the legendary ship, which dealt in the empire’s most dangerous goods. Despite its name, the vessel wasn’t a market so much as a vault, a place to store forbidden magic. Few things aboard were actually for sale, and those went only to the right buyers, chosen by the captain, Maris Patrol.
Some said she was a phantom, bound to the boards of her ship for all time. Others claimed she was just an old woman—though she’d been an old woman as long as there had been the Ferase Stras.
It was impossible to find the market without a map, and the only maps that led there seemed to lead nowhere at all—unless you knew how to read them. And if you did manage to find your way by water, the ship could not be taken, since no guest could set foot on deck without an invitation. And even then, it could not be robbed, since the wards laid upon it were as thick as lacquer, and not only stifled any magic, but would turn a thief’s body to ash before it reached the rail.
It was a doomed endeavor, an impossible quest, and yet, two days later, here they were, huddled on the platform outside the Ferase Stras, waiting to be invited in.
It was a narrow ledge high above the water, little more than a plank fixed to the side of the ship, too small for three men and a trunk, and so as the first man knocked, the third clung to the back edge, close enough to feel the place where the platform fell away beneath his heels. His heart was pounding, bobbing on the line between excitement and terror. He thought of Olik, the hero who walked right onto enemy ships, and made himself at home. Olik, who had put his fear in a metal box, and sunk it in the sea. The third man pictured himself bottling up everything he felt and letting it drop over the edge behind them, leaving him steady, and sure.
Still, he wished he had a mask, like Olik’s friend Jesar, the ghostly terror. The hero never wore one, but the third man knew too well how much faces gave away. Unfortunately, he also knew they’d never be allowed on board with such concealments, so there he was, trying to keep his features smooth, his brow steady, and his mouth set. Trying to make a mask of his own face.
The first man knocked again on the simple wooden door.
“Maybe they’re dead,” mused the second, when still no one came.
“Better not be,” growled the first, resting his boot on the trunk. “We don’t know if the wards are bound to the ship or the bodies aboard.”