Page 14

In truth, the stint had been mind-numbingly dull.

After a fraught first week—she’d been accosted in the mess hall by a thief she’d arrested during her time on the streetwatch—she was moved into protective custody and given a cell all to herself.

It was dark, cold, and lonely, but at least it was quiet.

It gave her time to think, to prepare, to mull over the prophecy and the mission ahead.

And part of her—the part permanently suspended as a traumatized six-year-old—had been secretly glad not to have to talk to anyone.

She vastly preferred the solace of her own thoughts.

“Fine,” she said, and it wasn’t wholly a lie. She’d always possessed the kind of internal grit necessary to persevere through bleak times.

Never one to dwell on a subject, Aspar dug around in a dark leather pouch tucked under her cloak, pulling out a green velvet coin purse.

“At the gamehouse, lose this money first. Preferably on the roulette wheel. Something that depends on pure chance, so you can’t be accused of being skilled or unskilled, rigging the game either way. ”

A shadow by the nearest stall shuddered and shifted, and a para noid heat spread up the back of Saffron’s neck. Again came that cloying scent of smoke, lightly spiced, like the achullah Nissa was so fond of. The thought of her old lover sent an unexpected lance through Saff’s chest.

“There’s a loan shark booth in the southwesterly corner,” Aspar continued. “Pular Sistan. A nasty Enchanter who operates out of the gamehouse with the Bloodmoons’ blessing. Because the more desperate they can make their patrons …”

“The more ascens they make. The more power they build.”

Because ascenite was not just money. It was the great magical amplifier. And the more the Bloodmoons had, the more dangerous they became. The harder they would be to bring down.

Aspar grimaced. “Borrow a further thousand ascens from Pular, to make sure your situation is truly dire.”

Saff took the green coin purse, and a curious frisson darted through her.

Not dread or fear, but anticipation. Excitement, even.

She’d worked her whole life for this assignment, and nobody felt more at home in a gamehouse than her—although she’d always boycotted Bloodmoon establishments in the past.

“Once you’ve lost everything,”Aspar continued, “including the additional ascens you borrow from the shark, plead futilely with the teller for a while, then sell yourself to the Bloodmoons.”

“Do you know how or where it’ll happen? How I’ll be … initiated?”

Tortured. Branded.

“The Bloodmoon compound is a few streets away, connected by warded tunnels we’ve never been able to breach. I’d imagine you’ll be taken there for interrogation and initiation, and based there throughout the duration of your assignment.”

“How will we communicate?”

“Sparingly. Use et vocos, but don’t jump straight in with intel. You don’t know what company I might be keeping, and this mission is highly classified. I’m the only one who knows the truth. So start with a code word. Dragontail. If I’m free to talk, I’ll say rising. If not, falling. ”

“Why Dragontail ?” The word sparked a glint of recognition somewhere deep in Saffron’s subconscious.

Aspar looked at her then. Truly looked at her.

“If you come out of this alive, maybe I’ll tell you.”

“If?” Saffron laughed, but the sound was hollow.

“It’s a dangerous mission, Killoran. I’ve never suggested otherwise.”

Saffron drained the last of her cup and tossed it in a street can. Nausea clamped around her stomach from the sudden influx of sugar, but she felt more human—more magical —than she had in months.

“Bide your time.” Aspar scanned the market warily.

“Root yourself in the order of things. Make yourself useful until you have a deeper feel for how the organization works. Only once you have this base understanding should you begin to plot means of gathering evidence. If it’s essential we meet in person, I’ll be alone at Esmoldan’s Baths every Oparling evening.

Not an ideal location, since there are darkened alcoves in which pursuants could lurk, so make sure you aren’t followed.

And I’ll be here at the Cherrymarket every Laving at noon. I’ll swap forms with my familiar.”

Her familiar, Bones, was a pissant of a white cat with a black smudge on its nose.

“Why don’t you go undercover yourself?” Saff asked. “As Bones?”

“They don’t let cats gamble.”

Saffron snorted. There was something humor adjacent in the retort, which Aspar was not exactly known for. “You know what I mean.”

“The compound is heavily warded. The dark magic guarding the territory will only yield to a Crown-decreed search warrant, which is why we need substantial evidence against them. To give the Grand Arbiter no choice but to issue the warrant. Otherwise, access is granted only to those with a brand.”

Saff looked up into the sun, letting the warmth wash over her face. “So I guess this is it. The point of no return.”

Aspar bowed her head. “Whatever happens, Killoran, remember … cera belrère. ”

It is written.

The Augurest expression—Bellandrian in origin—brought immense peace to followers of the religion.

An inherent trust in time and fate, a sort of absolution of worry and fear.

Whatever happened was always going to happen, for it was written by the prophets long ago.

While Saffron had been raised a Patron, and while she abhorred the Augurests’ mass slaughter of Timeweavers in the name of this mantra, she couldn’t deny feeling a certain comfort in the idea.

Her fate was already written. She just had to follow it to the end of its path.

With a final nod farewell, Saff set off in the direction of Celadon Gamehouse, feeling once again that every shadow had eyes.

Until, outside a secondhand bookshop one street from her destination, a shadow did indeed blink. There was a strange hissing sound, like sputtering embers, and it dropped like a curtain.

Before Saff stood a figure she thought would never want to see her again.

A figure of fire and smoke and dragon-gold eyes, in a cloak of flowing silver.

Nissa.