A memory came to him. Lila Bard, leaning her elbows on the Spire’s rail, staring down into a tin cup of awful black tea. She was telling him of a fair that had come to London—her London—once, of a woman there who claimed to see the future in the leaves.
“What did she say?” he’d asked.
Lila had looked out at the vast expanse of sea. “That I’d cause a lot of trouble, and die a long way from home.”
Alucard had snorted. “I could have told you that, Bard.”
She’d flicked him one of those smiles, sharp as a knife. “Yeah, well, I looked into the cup, and do you know what I saw?” He shook his head. She dumped the last of the black sludge into the water. “Nothing but tea.”
Now Alucard stole a glance at Nadiya, who was staring down at the table, much as she’d been when he first found her, her eyes flat, unreadable, the current of her mind no doubt rushing past beneath the surface.
He cleared his throat. “Well? Did it work?”
Nadiya frowned, as if trying to make sense of the image. After several long seconds, disappointment flickered across her face.
“Not all spells work,” she said, drawing her hand through the ashes and scattering the lines. She turned on her heel and returned to the ruined corpse, staring down into his open eyes. For a moment, he wondered if she meant to pry them out, and try again, but then she brought her hand to a lever on the table’s side. The body vanished, falling through the surface and into the hollowed stone below. She flicked her wrist, and fire overtook the corpse.
“Do me a favor, Alucard,” she said, as the body burned.
“What’s that?”
“Next time, try to take the man alive.”
IX
The last thief was starting to feel unwell.
It began as a pain, just below his ribs, a twisting in his gut.
At first, he blamed it on the boat—even as a merchant’s son, he’d never had the strongest stomach, and as he’d sped away from the Ferase Stras, the little skiff had rocked and canted heavily on the night-rough swells. He blamed it on the energy he’d had to expel propelling the vessel alone, which left him sweaty and shaking by the time he reached the port, and the waiting ship, which had been hired to ferry the three men—now only him—back to London.
As he collapsed onto the cot in the little cabin, the stolen persalis bundled in the cloak and the whole thing pressed against his chest, he blamed the swelling sickness on the aftermath of his adventure, though it hadn’t been nearly as much fun as he’d hoped.
The last thief never thought to blame the wards back on the Ferase Stras, or the fact he hadn’t had time to throw the protective cloak over his shoulders as he flung himself over the side of the floating market.
He drifted, feverishly, turning the events over and over in his mind, until it read like one of the legends of Olik. Until he was, of course, the hero.
A rough hand shook him awake sometime before dawn. He was hot and cold, shivering with sweat, and it took him a moment to realize the ship was docked.
“London?” he asked hoarsely, but the man shook his head.
“Tanek.”
He had to drag his thoughts together, retrace the plans. Yes, that was right. He remembered the other two talking about it, in the hours before the robbery. They would sail the skiff to the nearest port, and then board a merchant ship, which would take them as far as the mouth of the Isle, docking just before the checkpoint, where a horse and cart was waiting. The ports kept track of ships and passengers and cargo, but no one counted carriages.
The two more experienced thieves hadn’t included the third man in the talks, but he had lurked and listened, and now he felt a bitter glee, because they were dead, and he was the only one left to carry out the mission.
But as he left the ship, his pride quickly faltered. The ground felt like it was still bobbing beneath his feet, and he was distressed to find that the ache had spread to his temples and his chest. He forced fresh air into his lungs as he tucked the wrapped parcel under his arm and went to meet his driver.
It was a nice carriage, big enough for three, and he had it to himself.
He tried to savor that as the wheels lurched and jolted on the road. Thin morning light streamed in through the carriage windows, and as London came into sight, he forced himself to unwrap the knotted cloak, and confront the glaring problem.
Their bounty—the persalis—was broken.
The doormaker had been in one piece aboard the Ferase Stras, and now it was in several. The last thief tried to recall the drawing he’d seen, the way the object had been meant to look when it was whole. Like a neat little box, a black-and-gold ring set into its front. That one piece was supposed to come away, he knew that much, and knew that when the persalis worked, it would open a kind of door that led to that ring, wherever it was placed.