Page 102 of Silvercloak

Castian’s attention had sharpened, and Segal was searching the perimeter for disturbances. Levan was riled, rattled, extremely alert. Lyrian was a coiled snake ready to pounce. The very air was charged with tension so palpable it could be sliced with a blade.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They weren’t supposed to suspect a thing. Catching them off-guard was the best way to take them alive.

Yet Saffron was powerless to do anything but board the boat.

The cargo hold was in the hull of the vessel, and Lyrian stood vigil on the deck above, staring down at the pallets as they were unloaded. He interlaced his fingers and rested his forearms on the wrought-iron railings.

Castian stalked the deck, checking the small compartments beneath the cushioned seating benches as though traitors lurked in every nook and cranny. Crew workers scurried below, levitating and maneuvering cargo pallets with enchantments so that they floated into an open shipping container a few hundred yards away.

Levan stood at the prow of the boat, staring upriver. He was rigid as a soldier, and Saffron found herself afraid to approach him, afraid to provoke a premature confrontation.

A half-faded figure on the docks sprinted back toward the vessel, waving one arm in the air, footsteps hollow and loud as they thumped across the forecourt.

Segal, wordlessly trying to tell them something, blank eyes pinned wide and white.

But before he reached the boat, three mages in pale green cloaks materialized next to Bones’s perch on the bollard. Segal ducked behind a stack of crates at the last minute, blending into the shadows as best he could.

How did the green cloaks get there? Invisibility tincture? It certainly couldn’t have beenportari.

In any case, Saffron didn’t recognize them—they were not Silvercloaks.

“Good evening, folks,” said a tall mage with neat strawberry-blond hair. “Mind if we take a look inside your hold?”

Understanding struck Saff.

Customs officers.

They had sentcustoms officersinto this death trap of a situation. A sneaky bid to work around the warrant situation. The Grand Arbiter might not have granted one for the Silvercloaks, but customs officers were well within their rights to perform randomized checks on trader boats.

Realistically, there was no way the Bloodmoons would let a routine search happen, and the moment they became hostile, the moment things escalated, the customs crew could legally call for reinforcements.

Aspar was clever. Ruthless, but clever.

Lyrian narrowed his eyes. “On what grounds?”

“Routine check,” said a round-faced mage with owlish glasses and a dark, whiskery beard on his full cheeks. He wore a shaven head and Augur tattoos, which Saff knew would only inflame the situation. Probably why Aspar, in all her savagery, requested him for the job. “The banned import and export lists have been recently expanded, and we just want to make sure traders are following the law.”

Lyrian lowered his voice into a low, quiet seethe. “Perhaps in the dim light you can’t see the Bloodmoon flag flying above this vessel.”

The willowy mage with the posh accent stepped forward, drawing her wand. “Are you trying to intimidate us?”

“Oh, no. I’m trying tothreatenyou.” Lyrian laughed, and it was a cruel, rattling sound. “Apologies if that wasn’t clear. Step back, or we’ll slaughter you right here and now. We’ll dump your bodies so far upriver that your families will never find you. They’ll spend the rest of their miserable lives wondering how you vanished without a trace.”

Lyrian was playing right into Aspar’s plan.

Needless escalation. Fair cause to bring in reinforcements.

Saffron’s blood roared in her ears. Every sound and sight and smell was sharpened on the whetstone of fear—a fear she’d thought herself immune to, by now.

Levan stared at his father, every muscle in his body pulled taut. “Just let them search the hold. They won’t find anything. Do you hear me?” There was a light insistence on this last question. “They won’t find—”

“No.” Lyrian’s wand sparked with raw energy. “It’s the principle of it. We bend to them now, over some petty customs law, and then what? Then they know we’re weak, malleable, and they treat us as such.”

“They. Won’t. Find. Anything.” Levan forced the words through gritted teeth. “Swallow your pride. Don’t make a scene—”

Lyrian finally registered Levan’s meaning, and his face smoothed over. “Alright. Search the boat.”

The three customs officers stepped toward the hold, and then Lyrian’s whims swung violently in the opposite direction, as though he had lost some furious internal battle.