22 RYIA

Ryia curled her toes as the bulky silhouette lurched into the cargo hold. He held a lantern in one hand, throwing long arcs of golden light over the deck. The glittery costumes lining the hull burst into full color, reflecting the flickering light so brightly it felt like someone had devoured the sun and retched it up inside the hold.

“Inventory rations twice a day,” he said in a mocking falsetto. “The fuck does she think is gonna happen to ’em between dinner and breakfast?”

Checking rations? So no alarm had been raised. Her hatchets sagged to her sides as she relaxed. Hopefully he was quick about it so she could get this business over with and find Tristan. The plan was still on track.

Then the man caught sight of the costume she had dropped on the floor and the still-wet boot print beside it. His free hand slipped to the scimitar at his belt.

“Who’s there?”

Shit. She leapt from behind a mountain of garish shoes, spinning her right-hand hatchet in her palm, aiming for the man’s throat. Quick and silent, just like always. The bit was a hairsbreadth from his flesh when the unthinkable happened.

She hesitated.

Her hand wavered uncertainly as a single word curled through her mind. A clawing, scratching rat trapped inside her skull.

Monster.

Ryia stepped backward, shaking her head to clear it. Of all the moments to grow a conscience, now was really not the time.

The man dropped his lantern. It landed with a clatter on the deck but didn’t break. He clumsily yanked his blade free of its scabbard, severing his belt in two in the process. Oh, this would be too easy. He had no idea what he was doing with that thing. She rolled forward, ducking between his legs and springing to her feet behind him. She aimed her left-hand hatchet toward his neck, cutting toward some crucial veins.…

Monster.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ryia hissed to herself, breathless as she hesitated for a second time. She probably had only seconds before this idiot thought to shout for help. Then it would all be over. No costumes. No Quill. No freedom.

The voice taunted her again as she swung under the man’s sloppy guard, but this time she was ready for it. She pulled back at the last second, bringing her left hand around and clocking the man solidly on the back of the head. He dropped like an anchor, thudding to the deck beside his still-flickering lantern.

Ryia stuffed a pair of the bejeweled costumes down the front of her shirt, turning to leave. She rolled her eyes, whirling back around as she remembered why Edale’s Worst Swordsman had come to check the cargo hold in the first place. Any captain checking rations twice a day might be suspicious enough to notice the missing costumes, even if they were just extras.

She groaned, head lolling back as she knelt beside the senseless man.

“You couldn’t make this easy for me, could you?” she asked, grabbing his feet and pressing one ear to the hatch.

Wet boot prints would dry, but bodies had an annoying habit of staying exactly where they were least convenient. At least the dead ones couldn’t spout any stories. She sniffed the air. Clear.

Hearing nothing on the other side, Ryia shouldered the hatch open and unceremoniously dumped the man beneath a swaying hammock, setting the lantern down beside him. Now for the finishing touches.

She rooted around in the man’s pockets until she found the jingle of coins. She walked a silver half across her fingers. “You’re overpaid, my friend.”

A half-empty wine bottle lay on the floor a few steps away. She popped the cork free and dribbled a few drops onto his shirt before stuffing the bottle under his arm. He might be telling some tales when he woke up, but who the hell would believe a drunken sailor who’d clearly gambled away his last silver?

With that, Ryia slipped above deck. She kept to the shadows, sneaking past half a dozen crew members who were too distracted by their duties to spare a look over their shoulder. The ship’s captain shouted orders from the bow as Ryia leapt over the rail near the stern, barely skimming the gangway as she soared back onto the docks.

What had happened back there? She ran a hand over her hood as her heart rate began to slow. Monster. It was something she already knew. Something she had never let bother her before, but honorable Captain Evelyn Linley had gotten into her head.

Her gut leapt into her throat once again as uneven footsteps sounded to her left. She dove for her axes, hoping to Felice she would have the brains to actually use them this time, then sagged with relief as the figure emerged from the shadows.

Evelyn.

“You,” Ryia said sourly.

“Is that the thanks I can expect every time I risk my arse to save yours?” Evelyn asked.

“Yep.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Did you get the disguises?”

“No, Captain. The dancers got the best of me.”

“… And?” Evelyn asked hesitantly.

Ryia suppressed a smile at the new bruise Evelyn was sporting on her chin. “No feathers.” Her amusement died suddenly as she remembered why the captain had had to pick her little fight in the first place. “Still no sign of Tristan?”

Evelyn shook her head, looking troubled.

“Well, shit,” Ryia said. That couldn’t be good. But there was nothing they could do. Nothing but make their way back to The Hardship, wait for Nash and Ivan, and hope he turned up.

The short walk over the docks passed in anxious silence. They reached the ship, and Ryia froze halfway across the gangway when she saw that Nash and Ivan were already aboard.

“Party end early?” she asked hopefully, striding forward onto the deck.

“For us it did,” Nash said glumly.

“I take it you have bad news, then?” Evelyn asked, slipping aboard behind Ryia.

Nash nodded. “We were almost made. Had to split. You’re going in blind tomorrow.”

“Fucking fantastic,” said Ryia. “We have bad news too. We lost Tristan.”

“We know,” said Nash.

Ryia’s stomach dropped.

“What do you mean you know?” asked Evelyn.

“You saw him,” Ryia guessed.

Nash sighed. “We saw him.”

“Where?”

But she already knew.

“They were taking him to the manor,” Ivan said quietly, confirming her suspicions. No need to ask who “they” were. The Disciples. Who else could it be?

“How did he get caught?” Nash asked.

“I don’t know,” Ryia said. “The little runt went off to set the distraction and never came back.”

“Schiss,” Ivan swore. “He must have been caught picking pockets. The Guildmaster does not tolerate theft.”

“You don’t say,” Ryia said sarcastically. If torture and death were the penalty for a little pickpocketing, she didn’t even want to know what punishment would greet them if they were caught stealing the Quill.

“Not helping, Butcher,” Evelyn said. After a pause, the captain said, “So how are we going to get him back?”

The question caught Ryia off guard. “What do you mean ‘get him back’?” she asked.

Ivan pulled out the stack of maps she and Evelyn had stolen back in Carrowwick, leafing through them until he found the blueprint of the Guildmaster’s manor. Ryia laughed incredulously.

“He’s not locked up in some Kestrel Crown back room. He is in the Guildmaster’s dungeon,” Ryia continued. “There are only four of us. There are at least two hundred Disciples on this goddess-forsaken island. I don’t think getting him back is an option.”

“So you’d rather leave him here to die?” Evelyn snapped. “Murder, theft, now betrayal? You really are an honorless thug, aren’t you?”

“I…” Ryia broke off, guilt swirling in the pit of her stomach for the third time tonight. What was the point? She was planning to betray them all anyway, but she had never intended for any of them to get killed. She pinched the bridge of her nose. This was why it was dangerous to stay with one crew for too long—she was going soft. “Damn it.” She snatched the blueprints from Ivan’s hands. “Let’s figure out how to rescue the little twerp.”