Page 61 of Silvercloak

“What do you know about loxlure?” Levan asked, snapping her attention away from the carvings.

“Loxlure?” It wasn’t a familiar word, though she sensed that it should be, that her ignorance was an admission of failure.

“You mean the Silvercloaks don’t have a big fat case file on it?”

“Not that I know of, but my clearance level wasn’t high. They classify almost everything—streetwatchers and cadets walk around the city half-blindfolded, because the Order is so afraid of truth elixir.”

“Interesting.” Levan pursed his lips, the scar on the bottom puckering around the old wound.

“Why?” Saff asked, detective’s instincts firing up. “What is loxlure?”

“Lox is a … substance. It comes from a rare kind of nightpoppy that only grows in northeastern Laudon. It’s what gives blackcherry sours their color.” A heavy pause. “And it causes all-consuming addiction.”

Oh.

Saff’s experience in the gamehouse made sudden and terrible sense. The way her fear had been eased by the drink, the way she’d immediately ordered another. The rich, almost erotic pleasure of it. The heightened euphoria while playing roulette. The bone aches and burrowing weakness when the effects wore off. And then, when she’d returned for Tenea, the slack-jawed, dead-eyed stares of the patrons.

She’d been right—it was more than a potion, which wouldn’t affect her, and more than simple booze. It was a narcotic. And she was as vulnerable to those as anyone.

Was that the real reason she’d felt so rotten the last few days? Not feverish and dizzy and algae-like because of the brand, but because of lox withdrawal?

Saints.No wonder the citizens of Atherin couldn’t stay away from the gamehouse. Despite the violence and death and binding debts, despite mutilated bodies hurled from the rooftops, despite the naked dancers in glass jars … the loxlure was simply too powerful to resist.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, pulse thrumming.

This wasmajor.

“You’re hardly going to be useful to us if you have no idea how the operation works.”

“Which is how?”

“Our supplier from Laudon sails the lox along the Sleepless Sea and into Port Ouran—though we’ve lost several ships to pirates around Mersina over the last few years. Once the goods are safely in Vallish waters, our trader boats sail the freight east up the Corven and into the Royal Quay, where we’ve blackmailed several customs officers into not searching our holds. But there was a crate missing from our last shipment, so today we’re going to interrogate the dock workers who handle our cargo.”

Saff’s blood fizzed. Potential evidence had been handed to her on a platter. There was no way the Grand Arbiter would be able to burysomething like this. Charges wouldhaveto be brought. Aspar would be named commissioner, and Saff would be formally reinstated into the Silvercloaks with Quintan’s Cross pinned to her lapel.

Yet she felt a little uneasy over how willingly Levan was sharing this information—and the information about his Rezaran bloodline. He really did have blind faith in the brand’s dark power. He really did believe she couldn’t relay this information without immediate and agonizing death. And this was a smart mage, rigorous and cynical. If he had faith in the brand, it was for good reason.

What if he was right?

What if even her strange immunity couldn’t stop such dark magic?

What if shewastrapped in the Bloodmoons?

IN THE CHAOS AND CLAMOR OF THE DOCKS, LYRIAN WAS A QUIET, coiled serpent.

Standing between stacked wooden cargo crates, the kingpin was flanked by Segal and Vogolan, an expression of anticipation, ofhunger,on his pale face. His scarlet cloak was pinned high in the hollow of his throat, his white widow’s peak pronounced in the warm autumn sun. A swirling roulette ball hung around his neck on a chain—his eye into the gamehouse. Levan and Saff both towered over Lyrian, and yet his modest stature did not make him any less threatening. A dagger could be wielded far more precisely than a broadsword.

As they approached, Levan muttered something fast and low under his breath. “I say this because I have no particular desire to see you slaughtered. Donotfuck with my father. Don’t crack your little jokes, don’t argue for the sake of gaining control, don’t put a single foot wrong. And for the love of hells, if he tells you to kill someone—do it.”

Saff clenched her jaw so hard her teeth hurt.

Lyrian’s gaze narrowed as she and Levan approached.

“We’ve been waiting.” The kingpin’s words were soft, but not kind.

“We’re right on time,” Levan responded coolly, without glancing at his watch.

The kingpin fixed his son with a look of such sudden and potent loathing that Saffron physically recoiled. The expression was gone almost as soon as it appeared, leaving behind only a pale vestige of displeasure, but it had been there nonetheless: an obliterating and unfiltered hatred.