Page 29

B Y THE TIME SAFFRON LEFT THE JADED SAINT, ATHERIN HAD grown slack and wild.

The pleasurehouses sang with ecstasy, and laughter swelled from every tavern.

Velvines lay languidly along purple awnings, and the air was scented with achullah and dark chocolate.

Mages grouped together in clusters, some talking in hushed, urgent tones, others audibly arguing over religions and monarchs and which brand of whiteroot gave the best high when rubbed into the gums. Bright spellbursts erupted like fireworks up and down every street.

Shutters twitched, and deadbolts clinked, and the air crackled with a curious anticipatory energy—one Saffron had come to know all too well during her time on the streetwatch.

The taut hum of trouble threaded through the streets like a pulse.

Every Laving was like this—a day dedicated to using up all the spare magic left in the well after a long workweek.

It was an ancient belief, and not an especially accurate one, that magic left too long could fester, turn rancid, and so tradition held that the sixth day of the week was a day to purge the old, to cast loose and largely unnecessary spells until the well was clean and empty.

The last day of the week, Plenting, was an altogether quieter affair, built upon good food and great wine, long lovemaking by roaring hearths, refilling the well with fresh, pure magic once more.

Saffron used to love the weekly ritual of Laving and Plenting, but Duncarzus had smeared all the days together with little to mark them apart, and now the whole ritual seemed farcical, foreign.

Levan stood soldier-straight across the street, leaning against the quill shop window, broad arms folded between scarlet sleeves. Rasso had grown restless, galloping up and down the moonlit cobbles for no discernible reason.

At the sight of Saffron emerging from beneath the midnight blue awning, Levan pressed off the glass and raised an eyebrow in question.

Saffron gave a single nod.

They began walking back in the direction of the warded tunnel entrance, Rasso trotting at Levan’s heels with a lolling, panting tongue.

Saff’s neck still smarted from the memory of Levan’s leather belt coiled around it.

She squared her shoulders, trying not to let the residual humiliation show as their bodies fell into step beside each other.

“Which Silvercloaks were present?” Levan asked, wooden and formal.

Saffron stared straight ahead, not wanting to share a damn thing with this murderous vock, but she was still supposed to have truth elixir in her system. She’d have to oblige.

“Marriosan, Naszi, and Flane. Flane left almost as soon as I arrived.” It was strange to call them by their surnames, but it helped to create a sort of dissonance between her friends and the mission.

“And Marriosan’s going to find Zares?”

“It’s all in hand.” She didn’t want to admit that it was not Auria but Nissa who’d promised her the information. Papa Marriosan was already on the gallows, but Nissa’s family should be left out of it for as long as possible. “We’re meeting here again this time next week.”

They walked past a young, handsome mage in a violet Healer’s cloak, sprawled along the marble edge of a fountain and snoring quite emphatically.

Water shot from Saint Quissari’s rough-hewn wand and onto the Healer’s face, but it did not rouse him from his inebriated slumber.

A cloakless Ludder lurked a few feet away, sizing up the Healer—as though about to pick his pockets—and Saffron had to tamp down her detective’s instincts.

Though she could stay vigilant, she couldn’t intervene. Not anymore.

Levan didn’t seem to notice the impending thievery.

“What was it my father said about Marriosan’s love life?

She’d do well to cut the Flane boy loose.

The flame-hearted Eqoran would be a more suitable companion, although you have your own soft spot for Nissa Naszi.

” A neat grimace. “I won’t bother asking if there’s any truth to it. My father’s intel is never wrong.”

Saff pressed her lips into a flat line and said nothing, employing her well-practiced polderdash face, her long-perfected silence, but she still felt the pinkness in her cheeks from the pleasure Nissa had so recently wrought.

“You should bury any residual feelings you have for Naszi.” Levan’s footsteps were clipped and smooth on the cobbles.

His pace was brisk, and Saffron was a little breathless as she tried to keep up.

“You’re on opposite sides now. And if we order you to neutralize her, you’ll have to do so, or the brand will fell you where you stand.

Cut off the emotion while you still can. ”

An almost eerie mirror of what Nissa had told her a year ago.

“Thank you for your sage counsel, great oracle of romantic affairs.”

Better to lampoon painful observations than to let yourself recognize their truth.

“Tell me about the others in the cohort,” Levan said. “Aduran and Villar.”

“Gaian Villar is undercover in Pons Aelii,” she said reluctantly, tiredness weighing her down like a lead blanket.

The brand was already burning through the salve, and she clenched her teeth against the hot pain.

“Strong Enchanter, terrible polderdash player. Great hair, even better interrogator. Sebran Aduran is a decent Brewer, trained in the Vallish infantry, generally brusque and reserved. I know nothing of his past before the military academy. He’s down in Carduban, guarding the ascenite mines.

” Saffron paused uncertainly before continuing.

“One of them is likely a Compeller. I believe it’s Gaian—it would explain his interrogation skills, and the fact he won the most prestigious posting—but I can’t be sure. ”

It had been playing on her mind, the fact that there was a Compeller in the cohort. If she crossed paths with them while undercover in the Bloodmoons, it could present some serious complications. Knowing for certain who the Compeller was would make it easier to steer well clear.

At the mention of a possible Compeller, however, Levan’s expression darkened, his loathing for the Silvercloaks evident on his face. “Leave it with me.”

Immediate regret calcified Saffron’s lungs. Perhaps that was a misstep. The Bloodmoons would never abide a dangerous Compeller in the Silvercloaks.

Had she just put an irretrievable target on Gaian’s back?

Sloppy. Unforgivably sloppy.

Her thought processes were usually far more stringent, rigorous. Pain and exhaustion were addling her analytical mind—it had been a perilously long day. She could barely see straight.

You’re not as clever as you think you are, Levan had said less than an hour ago, shortly after collaring her on the street and slamming her to the cobbles like a misbehaving prisoner. Shortly after she’d revealed who failed torture training, and shortly after he’d pounced on the information.

The first thing you need to learn is that I control everything.

She had more than met her match, and she needed to be a lot more Saints-damned careful.

“Naszi’s heritage,” Levan asked, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “There are rumors that she’s part dragon. Any truth to it?”

“I don’t know,” Saffron replied truthfully. “Never got a straight answer out of her.”

They left the raucous Arollan Mile onto Dubias Row, a quieter street lined with shady shops favored by sneaks and mercenaries.

The lamplights flickered a warm orange bronze, casting the entire row in a furnace-like glow.

Black scorch marks licked up several ancient buildings—remnants from when dragons had burned up the city as a form of protest to the Dreadreign.

The scorch marks could very easily have been removed by a simple spell, but the proprietors believed them to add character.

On one of the street’s only unburned walls was an elaborate mural of Parlin the Great, raising his wand to the sky, dragons bowing deferentially in a semicircle around him.

The historical figure hailed from two thousand years ago and was said to be the most powerful mage who’d ever walked Ascenfall.

His list of credits included vanquishing a vast and omniscient evil, carving the world’s first wand from the Elm of Eternity, and possessing a cock of unprecedented stature.

In the dragon mural, the crotch of his trousers bulged beyond all feasibility.

Vallin was a land of people who lauded the hero figure.

The neighboring Bellandry favored the underdog, the warrior with all odds stacked against them, the unlikely victor as a representation of triumph over adversity.

The Vallish, on the other hand, loved the lore of undefeated champions and unassailable conquerors, of power and glory, of charisma and flair, of talent beyond all measure.

As such, Parlin the Great was as integral to Vallish culture as pleasure and flamebrandy, far more a symbol of the country’s spirit than the flag could ever be.

Three of the seven days of the week were named for his achievements, in fact.

Elming, for the day on which the first wand was carved.

Sording, for the defeat of the Sordai, his historic foe. And Oparling, for the mage himself.

“Naszi’s silence on the matter only pays credence to the rumors,” Levan said, slowly, as though deep in thought.

“What do you mean?” Saffron frowned, glancing at him for the first time in several hundred yards. The fiery lamplights illuminated the indented scar cutting through his lower lip, making it look deeper than usual.

Outside an almost deserted tavern called Cerna?ti’s, a place renowned as a meeting place for the Disciples of Halantry, two black-cloaked women spoke in rapid-fire Tarsan, their words accompanied by the elaborate hand-speak native to the Eastern Republics.

A pearl-colored pocketwatch lay on the table between them, emitting a high-pitched frequency that made Saffron wince.