Lila did not say the word menas—hand—she didn’t have to. A look of recognition had already crossed Tanis’s face. Her eyes darkened, but her smile never fell. And then she leaned forward, and pressed her own hand over the mark.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” she said, drawing her palm in a smoothing gesture over the table, erasing the burn from the wood. “If you’re looking for a helping hand,” she said, “Verose really isn’t the place.” She stood. “But if you find yourself in London, I hear the gardens are lovely.” Her gaze flicked once more to the blade on the table. “And I’d put that away, if I were you,” she added. “I’d hate for you to lose it.” Tanis tipped her head toward the barkeep.
“Oli,” she called out, “get the captain a real drink.”
And then she was gone.
A pint of ale arrived, and this time the contents were not entirely sludge, though a far cry from amber. Still, Lila drank, and sank back in her seat, turning over the woman’s words. Lost in her thoughts, the ale fizzing through her head, Lila took a moment to realize the air in the tavern had changed.
As if Tanis had shined a light on her and left it there.
She was suddenly glad she’d worn the brown eye instead of the black. The last thing she needed was word of an Antari here. Knowing Verose, someone would try to cut the eye from her head—lot of good it would do them—or take her as a prize to ransom, sell her to the highest bidder, and if that happened, she’d have to make a scene, and Kell would never let her hear the end of it.
But Tanis was right about one thing: she should have put the knife away. She’d left it on the table, that pearl sheath shining strangely, and at some point, the Tide’s patrons had begun to notice.
At some point, she’d gone from being the thief to being the mark.
Lila felt studied as she drained her drink. As she dug in her pocket for a coin. As she turned up the collar of her coat. As her fingers closed around the Veskan dagger and she rose from her seat. So she wasn’t surprised when she looked up and found a man standing on the table’s other side. He was tall, and thin as a pole, his eyes dark knots in the hollow of his face. His eyes slouched toward the blade.
“Careful,” he said. “Don’t want to cut yourself.”
“Fuck off,” she said, which, it turned out, was not a welcome answer. She was about to round the table when he shoved it forward, into Lila’s stomach, pinning her back against the wall.
“Give it up,” he said, hands splayed on the wood as he leaned forward.
“Fine,” Lila growled. She drew the blade from its sheath.
And drove it down into his hand.
The man gaped at her, his face a mask of rage and pain, but before he could pull back, or howl, or draw a weapon of his own, a change rolled over him. He went rigid, mouth open, as his veins blackened, and his skin curled, and he burned, charring from the inside out in the time it took Lila to suck in a breath and blow it out.
And then he simply fell apart.
Nothing but an ashy streak on the table, the floor.
The blade stayed upright, unscathed.
And the patrons, who had carried on despite brawls and broken glass, and the sight of drawn steel, turned to see Lila standing there, her blade driven down into the table, surrounded only by a mound of dust.
Lila decided it was time to go. She retrieved the blade and dropped a coin onto the wood, sending up a tiny plume of ash as she slid the dagger back into its sheath and walked away. No one followed. She stepped out into the night, which had gone cold.
The top button of her shirt had come undone at some point, and her necklace swung free. A black ring hung at the end of the leather cord, its face printed with a ship. She closed her hand over the band and tucked it back beneath her shirt as she set off toward the docks.
She made it exactly ten feet before she realized she wasn’t alone.
“Fair warning,” she said, “I’m not in a sparing mood tonight.”
“I can see that,” said a voice, smooth and deep. She turned and saw a dark-skinned man, dressed head to toe in white, and her first thought was how strange it was, that choice of white, so out of place among sailors. She’d thought as much the first time she’d seen the outfit, on Maris’s ship.
Valick, she thought. That was his name.
“You’re a long way from the floating market.” His gaze dropped to the blade in her hand, and her fingers tightened. “Finders keepers,” she added.
And he couldn’t have known what it was, but he obviously did, because he said, “A weapon like that belongs on the Ferase Stras, not on the street.”