21 NASH

During their planning aboard the cog, Evelyn had referred to this party as the “drunken-git ball.” Looking around now, Nash couldn’t say she disagreed. It would be a miracle if half these merchants made it back to their ships in one piece tonight. No wonder the auction proper didn’t start until tomorrow afternoon.

Ivan wrinkled his nose as the man closest to them turned, spraying a wide arc of vomit across the ground. “Disgusting.”

“I promise never to vomit in your presence,” Nash said solemnly, hand raised in a mock vow.

“You have broken that promise already, if I am not mistaken.”

“What? When?”

“Two years ago,” Ivan said. “The Lacemakers’ Festival.”

Nash flushed. “I don’t remember that.”

“I wonder why.”

She grinned sheepishly. “Well, I promise never to vomit on you, then.”

Ivan’s lips twisted like he was trying not to smile. “That one you had better keep unless you would like for me to send the Butcher after you.”

“Please.” Nash pivoted them another step closer to the bell tower in the center of the courtyard. Just a few yards closer and they would be able to hide in its shadow and find the entrance. “She would never hurt me. She likes me better than you.”

“How do you figure?”

“What can I say? She’s drawn to my winning personality.”

“Is that what you call it?”

Nash let out a bark of laughter. “Is this how you make all the women in the Miscreants’ Temple fall for you? Because I don’t get it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Her breath betrayed her, hitching in her throat as Ivan pulled her closer, his hand on her lower back, hips pressed against hers, lips just inches away. How did he always manage to make her head spin like that?

Nash pulled back a step, whirling out to the end of his arm. “Sorry to say I am,” she lied. “But don’t feel bad—I’m sure those tricks are fine for seducing your usual tavern girls.”

“And what are you, then?” Ivan steered them toward the tower again, eyes darting around to see if anyone had noticed them. Nash was pretty sure everyone would be too drunk to notice a stampeding elephant right now, let alone a pair of people slowly maneuvering toward a building.

“Me?” She raised a hand to her chest, as though offended he would even ask. “I’m the empress of the Three Seas, remember?”

Ivan let out a short huff of laughter. Their steps pulled them together, and he whispered, “And why would an empress be working for a man like Callum Clem, I wonder?”

“I don’t work for Cal,” she said.

“Is that so?” He eyed the Saint brand peeking out from the neckline of her blouse.

“I like to think of us as business partners,” she said. “I have a ship, which he needs. He has the crescents I need.”

If Cal Clem hadn’t agreed to take Nash on all those years ago, she would have died like a rat in the gutters of Golden Port, but still… The namestone hidden beneath her clothes suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. Ma would slap her silly if she could see her now.

“Spoken like true royalty.”

Nash cleared her throat, forcing a smile as their steps finally carried them into the shadow of the tower. “I may be going to the deepest of the hells, but as long as I’m the richest son of a bitch there, that’s fine by me.”

Her tone was just a bit too light for the words to ring true. Most people would never have noticed the shift. But Ivan Rezkoye was not most people. His brow creased. She could sense the question forming on his lips.

“Come on, we need to find the entrance,” Nash said hurriedly, shrugging out of Ivan’s grip to push aside the shrubbery at the base of the tower. The mysterious Quill was here, tucked away in that tower. They needed to find Ryia and Evelyn a way inside. Nash couldn’t believe they had come all this way to steal a pen. The damned thing had better be encrusted with every gem in Thamorr, with all the trouble they were going through to lift it.

Suddenly Ivan said, “Nash, stop.”

“What? Why? We’ve almost got it. Then we can head back to the—” Nash broke off as Ivan grabbed her by the collar, hauling her upright.

“We need to leave. Now.”

“Why?” Nash asked, straightening her blouse in irritation.

The blood drained from her face as she followed Ivan’s gaze. That asshole merchant, Elton what’s-his-name. He was speaking urgently with a Disciple. It was still strange to see the Disciple respond like a normal person instead of staring blankly into space like the Adept servants of the mainland. A small part of her perked up strangely at the thought. If Jolie had stayed on as a Disciple, would she still have her mind? Would she still truly be her sister? Nash tucked the thought away.

“So what?” she finally said. “That ass of a merchant is bitching to the Disciple about something. Why do we care?”

The last word came out small and hesitant as Elton whatever-the-hells pointed directly toward them.

“Because that man, Smithe, was suspicious of us from the start,” Ivan said. “I believe your impassioned speech about Adept rights sealed our fate.”

“I wouldn’t call it a speech,” Nash protested, flushing as Ivan dragged her to the far side of the tower, getting them out of the merchant’s sight.

“Well, it does not matter what you would call it. We have been made. But this is why Ivan Rezkoye does not ever begin a job without a backup plan.” He yanked at the collar of his coat, releasing a tab of brownish fabric. Working quickly, he undid several clasps at the neck of his short, silver jacket. A moment later the garment was ankle-length and canvas brown.

“Did that feel good? Referring to yourself in the third person?” Nash asked. “Because you sounded like an idiot.” Ivan ignored her.

Fear-addled fingers made Nash’s quick-change clumsy and frantic, but the last button was buttoned and the last sash tied in less than thirty seconds. Gone was Missus Veber, Borean merchant woman. Now she wore a knee-length black coat. Her skirt had been hitched down the middle to form trousers. A pair of spectacles and a rumpled hat pulled from a hidden pocket in her coat completed the transformation.

They slipped from the shadow of the tower, trying to lose themselves amid the drunken masses filling the courtyard.

“Stagger,” Ivan said.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Nash had to bite back a laugh as the usually composed disguise master slid into a drunken limp. She followed suit, grabbing a half-empty wine cup from a nearby table at random and stumbling along, forcing a foolish laugh.

“Where are they?”

“They are—do not look,” Ivan said, breaking off as Nash did just that.

Elton Smithe, the rudest merchant ever to walk the earth, stood a few steps south of the bell tower, his beady eyes scouring the merry crowd. Beside him stood a Disciple. A Senser. Shit. Its nostrils flared as it angled slowly from right to left… searching.

The Senser’s powers won’t do it any good, Nash reminded herself, snapping her head back around and willing herself to remain calm. The Butcher had said they could only sniff out a physical threat, and so far she seemed to be right. As long as Smithe didn’t recognize them now, they would be able to get back to the ship unscathed. As long as the Disciple didn’t give too much thought to why they had been standing in the shadow of the bell tower, the job could go on as planned.…

Nash’s stomach dropped. Except they hadn’t found the entrance to the tower. Ryia and Evelyn would have to go in blind. Fantastic.

She followed Ivan’s lead as he fell in behind a group of Brillish guards making their way toward the exit. Just a few more steps… Nash didn’t release her breath until the creepy arena archway was behind them, nothing but a short walk to the docks in front of them.

“Well, that went well,” she said.

“It could have gone worse,” Ivan said darkly.

“How? We didn’t get what we came for. And now the Disciples are on alert for intruders. How could it have gone worse?”

Ivan pointed to the right. “We could have ended up like that poor soul.”

Nash looked where he pointed, over the hills leading north. A blue-robed figure dragged a skinny shadow away from the docks and up the path leading to the Guildmaster’s manor. Some sorry wretch headed for the infamous torture cells. Nash narrowed her eyes as that pair entered a pool of moonlight, the skinny shadow’s features suddenly visible. Was that…? She pulled off her false spectacles for a better look. Dark, curly hair. Long, lanky limbs. There was no mistaking it.

“Ivan… that’s Tristan.”