Page 37

With a curious twist of her heart, Saffron saw that Erling Tandall, the wizened author of the Lost Dragonborn books, was doing a signing. In another life, maybe Levan would spend his time at festivals like this one, clutching his well-worn book as he queued to meet his idol. Maybe they both would.

Esmoldan’s Baths were housed in a grand pillared building, outside which stood creamstone statues of various historical figures in the nude.

Parlin the Great had a characteristically large appendage, while Murias the Mighty, who had cast the very first wards around Atherin, appeared to be ogling the resplendent cock with little to no sense of decorum.

Saffron checked into the bathhouse at reception, noting her captain’s name was already scrawled on the sign-in parchment.

She entered the disrobing chamber, which had an ornate marble fountain ringed by little wooden galleries where bathers could sip at espresso or herbal tea after they’d bathed.

There were only a few other mages in the chamber, and at the appearance of Saffron’s scarlet cloak, they quickly drained their drinks and departed.

She shrugged off her cloak and other clothing, hanging the raiment on a small golden hook.

She was about to see her commanding officer naked, and vice versa, which was almost definitely a recurring nightmare come true, and not something from which she expected to emotionally recover.

Yet the thing that disturbed her was not Aspar seeing her pear-shaped breasts or her hair-tangled privates—it was the fact that her brand was out in the open.

A hideous dark crust, like dried blood and melted wax.

She was glad her cloak had cleared the chamber.

At least now nobody beheld her ugly, soul-marring wound.

The main bathhouse had vaulted, mosaicked ceilings of dark blue and gold.

Its walls were notched with shelves spilling over with green foliage—fern and ivy, palm and monstera, even some rare star-leafed plants said to be the favorite of Aterrari, the patron saint of earthwielding.

The space was dotted with enchanted goldencandles, which would neither burn down nor set fire to the greenery.

The hall held one vast pool and several smaller pods tucked into the naves, and it was in one of these alcoves that Saff found her captain.

Naked, still, the low light flickering over every ridge of her skull.

“Evening,” said Saff, setting her wand down on the ledge of the bath and lowering her body into the small pool of hot water adjacent to Aspar.

She didn’t opt for the same bath for two reasons: one, because she’d have to lower her naked body right in front of her commanding officer, and two, because if anyone else entered the bath chambers in pursuit of Saff, she had plausible deniability.

At the sound of Saff’s voice, Aspar did not turn to face her, but said only, “You’re alive. And branded.”

“I’m alive. And branded.”

This time, she was prepared for the vicious sting of fragranced bathwater against her brand, and she sucked the air through her teeth instead of screaming.

Once she’d grown accustomed to the heat, magic gathered and swirled in her well, as she fought the urge to sigh into the sensation.

Aspar too would be experiencing the divine sensation of pleasure turning into magic, but would never let it show on her face.

The captain was so repressed that Levan looked like a gushing sycophant by comparison.

“How full is your well?” Aspar asked, as though reading Saffron’s mind.

“Fairly. Both pleasure and pain.”

“Draw a mattermantic shield around us.”

Saffron picked up her wand from the ledge of the pool, then drew a circle in the steam.

“Ans clyptus.”

A shimmering film of golden magic formed a ring around their two bodies.

Aspar lifted her own wand and pressed it against the shield, murmuring, “ Et aquies. ”

A silencing charm. The magic poured out of Aspar’s wand, following the path of the mattermantic shield and mingling with the raw magic.

“Clever,” Saffron admitted. Though a silencing charm wouldn’t work on Saffron directly, this created a sort of muffling blanket around them. Other mages would still be able to hear them, but they’d have to strain to pick out individual words.

“Do you have intel?” Aspar asked briskly.

Straight down to business. Saff felt a needle of irritation that the captain had not asked how she was. Their time in the baths might be limited, but after everything Saff had endured … it rubbed her the wrong way.

Nonetheless, she did have information for Aspar—lots of it—although she decided not to share the mysterious quest for Nalezen Zares, and the fact she’d had to rope in Nissa. Saff hoped that if Nissa got her the information on time, she would escape this situation with her reputation unscathed.

Saffron took a deep breath, letting the steamy air fill her lungs for what might be the last time. Her pulse thrummed, and she hesitated.

Was she about to perish beneath the dark magic of the brand?

A test of her mettle, her resolve. There were not many causes for which she’d risk death, but this was one of them.

“The Bloodmoons are using loxlure to draw punters into their gamehouses,” Saff started, and then paused, waiting for a hook of pain through her heart, for a choking sensation around her neck.

None came.

Every muscle in her body sank with relief. The mattermantic shield wavered as she relaxed, and she had to yank herself back into focus.

Then, her voice so low and urgent that the echo was a dim hum, she told Aspar everything she’d learned about the operation so far.

When she mentioned Levan’s Rezaran blood, the captain practically foamed at the mouth—it was evidence of Emalin’s fourth prophecy, and for an Augurest as devout as she, it was akin to finding the Holy Grail.

Saffron had to hasten the conversation onward, describing the imported loxlure and its hideous effects on the city.

“That’s enough for you to bring them in, isn’t it?

” she finished, breathless. Sweat beaded at her temple from the heat of the baths and the effort of holding the mattermantic shield.

“Supply of a banned substance on a broad scale—organized crime at its finest. If they’re using lox in their drinks, it must be held on the premises. You can raid them.”

“Not without a search warrant we can’t. And we can’t procure a warrant without—”

“Evidence.”

There was always, always the burden of proof to contend with.

“And your word alone is not evidence. Not in the Grand Arbiter’s eyes.”

The Grand Arbiter’s corrupt eyes. For Dematus to act against the Bloodmoons, even once turned, the evidence would have to be so airtight, so compelling, that not pursuing warrants or charges would end her career.

Aspar shifted in her pool. “Find out when the next lox shipment is due. We can arrange to be at the docks, since it’s a public place. If we can intercept a large delivery, that’ll be evidence enough to secure a warrant for the rest.”

The captain climbed from the tiled seat built into the baths.

Water slid down her pale, sagging body. Stretch marks and loose skin hung around her abdomen, and her tiger-striped breasts sank almost to her navel.

Saffron wondered distantly whether she’d had children.

She couldn’t picture Aspar as a mother, and yet as a female authority figure, she was the closest thing Saffron had to one.

Wrapping a white cotton towel around herself, the captain issued her a look that might, from anyone else, constitute approval.

“Good work, Killoran. But we need more.”