Ryia had worn a dozen different masks in her day. The Butcher of Carrowwick. The Poison Blade, terror of the Rena desert. The Neightgeiver, in Borean, had been a personal favorite. It would be a twice-damned shame if “jewel-encrusted ballerina” was the alias that finally got her killed.
The dance instructor’s grip was surprisingly strong, wrapped around Ryia’s wrist as she called out for help.
“Intruders! Someone get the Disciples! We have frauds in our midst!”
Unfortunately for Miss Talon-Hands, Ryia did not take kindly to being snared by the wrist. She lifted a sparkly sandaled foot and kicked the aging woman in the sternum. The woman’s piercing cry for someone to get the guards was interrupted as the air whooshed from her lungs. In her surprise, her grip loosened, and Ryia wrenched herself free. She shoved the already reeling instructor into the closed door with a bang, then grabbed Evelyn, yanking her forward.
“Back door,” Ryia said, tugging Evelyn behind her as she ran.
Most of the dancers screamed as they came through, jumping out of the way like Ryia and Evelyn were snakes. A few stared at them, frozen in shock. Ryia shoved them as she and Evelyn tore past, toppling them like dominos.
They reached the back door in just a few seconds, but it was still too long. Miss Talon-Hands was already back on her feet, screaming for help twice as loudly now. They needed to get the hell out of this room before the Disciples came in. Ryia tested the door handle. Locked. Damn it.
“Keep them back,” Ryia said, pulling out two long, thin sticks of metal from her costume.
Evelyn turned her back to the door, arms out at her sides in apparent challenge, glaring at the restless crowd of increasingly panicked dancers and acrobats as Ryia threaded the picks into the lock, twisting and jiggling, waiting to hear the sweet click that would win them their extremely temporary freedom.
“Who do you two think you are?” said a brusque, commanding voice behind her. Ryia looked over her shoulder to see a tall, blond dancer standing nose to nose with Evelyn. “You cannot assault Miss Eloise.”
“Assault? We didn’t mean to—” Evelyn started. “You’re misunderstanding what’s going on here. Just leave us be and no one has to get hurt.”
Sweat beaded on Ryia’s forehead as she twisted the two sticks in unison. The lock finally gave way, and the door swung open. Ryia turned just in time to see the skinny blonde throw a half-assed slap at Evelyn.
The captain ducked. She wound up and popped the dancer firmly in the nose with a rabbit punch. Ryia grinned as the dancer fell back, clutching her nose.
“Ready to get out of here, or did you want to beat up some more defenseless dancers?” she asked.
“Defenseless? She swung first,” Evelyn protested, clearly rattled by what she had just done. She looked guiltily down at her hands. “It was a reflex.”
They barreled through the door, slamming it shut and clicking the lock back in place behind them. Ryia grabbed a stone bench from beside the door, grunting as she dragged it to block the entrance. It wouldn’t stop a Disciple, but it might slow them down, at least.
“Now what?” Evelyn asked, eyes wide as the door to the dancers’ room banged against the makeshift barricade.
Ryia turned toward the tower, then nearly choked as the smell suddenly washed over her. It was horrible. Acidic and familiar, the sensation of a hundred scorpions fleeing up her nostrils. Danger. The strongest she had sensed in years.
“Get down,” she hissed.
“What is it now?”
“What do you think?” Ryia shoved them both into one of the tangled shrubs lining the circular pathway leading around the courtyard. The door they had barricaded jiggled and thudded against the bench one more time, then stopped as gasps spread through the arena, followed by a hush.
“That’s the signal. We need to move.”
“Not yet,” Ryia said, still nearly gagging on the scent of raw death.
“Now is really not the time for your bullshi—”
“Not. Yet.”
Evelyn’s mouth snapped shut as the sound of footsteps and flapping robes sounded outside their hiding spot. Disciples. At least half a dozen of the bastards, streaming past them into the arena, taking the stench of danger with them.
Ryia released her grip on Evelyn’s shoulder. The captain glared at her, suspicious.
“How did you know they were coming?”
“Not all of us are deaf as turtles,” Ryia said.
“Turtles?”
“Yeah, turtles. They don’t have any ears, right?” Ryia said distractedly, sniffing the air lightly.
Evelyn quirked one eyebrow.
Ryia held out a hand. “We don’t have time to talk about twice-damned turtles.” Her heart raced as the sounds of panic swept through the arena behind them. The door to the dancers’ room started banging against the bench-barricade again. She waved Evelyn toward the tower. “Go, go, go.”
“Are you kidding?” Evelyn gestured down at herself. “We’ll be spotted. We’re basically human beacons every time the sun hits us.”
Ryia gave her a look. “How many times have you been forced to listen to me on this job, Captain?”
Evelyn didn’t answer.
Ryia nodded. “And, remind me, how many times have you lost your head?”
Still silence.
The door leading to the dancers’ room banged against the bench again; this time the thud of wood on stone was punctuated by a sharp crack. The wood was starting to give way. It wouldn’t be long before it broke to splinters.
“Look, you have to trust me to get us into that tower, I have to trust you to watch my back while I’m in there, and Tristan has to trust all of us to save his sorry ass from the Guildmaster. Then we can all go home and collect our prizes from Tolliver Shadowwood, okay?”
She turned toward the tower. Not bothering to see if Evelyn was following, she broke into an all-out sprint. The glass beads on her skirt rattled noisily as she ran, but it hardly mattered. The arena was growing louder and more restless by the second. It only made sense—there were hundreds of people stuck there, squeezed into those stone walls like a plump merchant into his waistcoat. Good. The more chaotic the arena was, the more chaotic the docks would be later. And the more chaotic the docks were, the easier it would be for her to slip aboard a ship and escape.
Guilt clawed at her stomach. Escape and leave her crew behind. Best-case scenario, they would return to Carrowwick empty-handed—as good as a death sentence whether Callum Clem was alive or not when they returned. Worst-case scenario, they would all be blamed for destroying the Quill and killed in the Guildmaster’s murderous wrath when he realized he wouldn’t be able to hunt down every newborn Adept in Thamorr anymore.
Shut up, she scolded herself. They were a team of professional criminals, for fuck’s sake. The rules of the Lottery were clear as stervod. A team stuck together… until the cards were down. Then it was every man for himself. Or woman, in this case.
Ryia skidded to a stop at the last ring of shrubs, closing her eyes and sniffing one last time. “The Disciples are gone.”
“How do you know?” asked Evelyn.
“They just ran past us two minutes ago,” Ryia lied. “I’m guessing logic isn’t a big part of Needle Guard training?”
The ex-captain shot her a glare, then tugged at the sleeves of her dress, ripping them at the armpits. She stretched out, miming a sword strike with her bare hands.
“What are you doing?” Ryia asked.
“If we’re attacked—”
“Attacked?” Ryia looked pointedly at her outfit. “What are you going to fight with? A pirouette?”
“Very funny,” Evelyn said. “You don’t think we should be ready for a fight?”
“I’m always ready for a fight.”
“And what are you planning on fighting with?” Evelyn griped, thrusting her dyed hair behind her shoulders.
Ryia slid a single throwing axe from a small fold of fabric just below her bejeweled waist. Ivan was truly a master, managing to hide the weapon in such a revealing costume. “This.”
“You didn’t think to bring me one?”
Ryia ignored her, sprinting the last few steps to the base of the tower. She pushed through the greenery climbing up its stone walls, feeling her way along, looking for a door.
“Looks like I might have to climb this thing after all,” Ryia said, casting an anxious glance back toward the arena.
The door to the dancers’ room banged against the makeshift barricade one last time, finally splintering in half. Ryia peered through the foliage as two Edalish guards muscled their way into the courtyard—Shadow Wardens, Tristan had called them. Shit. Ryia pulled back, ducking into the brush before she was spotted. At least their pursuers weren’t Adept. If they could just get inside this damned tower.
“Climb it? Good luck.” Evelyn looked up at the smooth sides of the tower. “I don’t think you’re as impressive as you think you are.”
Ryia’s forced smirk turned into a genuine smile as her hands stumbled upon a flat stretch of wood, covered by vines. She felt along the panel, groping blindly until she found a metal bulb.
“You will continue to find,” she started, twisting the knob sharply, “that I am just as impressive as every story you have ever heard.” The door popped open, swinging into the tower.
“You are the most arrogant person I have ever met.”
“Is it arrogance to recognize my own genius?”
“Yes,” Evelyn said flatly.
Ryia shoved Evelyn into the tower, climbing in after her. “Then you’re probably right.”
The walls of the tower were so thick they nearly drowned out the sounds of panic boiling in the arena. Evelyn eased the door shut, and Ryia was overwhelmed by the unpleasant sensation of being stuck at the bottom of a very deep well.
“So, where is this thing?” Evelyn asked, like they were looking for a lost shoe.
Ryia straightened the stiff bodice of her ridiculous outfit, looking up the narrow staircase. “Up there, I’m guessing.”
“You’re guessing?”
“I’m not a fucking bloodhound,” Ryia said.
“You could have fooled me.”
Ryia clapped her on the shoulder. “Watch the door.” She cleared her throat, pulling away. “I’ll be back before you have the chance to miss me.”
Her nostrils whistled with every breath, jeweled skirts rattling noisily as she climbed higher and higher up the tower, spiraling around the long rope dangling from the bell high above her head. Her stomach clenched as she rounded the last loop to see…
Nothing.
Just a flat platform, some fifteen feet below the bell, holding nothing but dust.
“Shit,” she breathed. She had been so sure it would be here. So certain that pompous prick would hide the thing in plain sight.
She narrowed her eyes at the bell above her head. There was still one more place to look. She kicked off the ridiculous sandals and threw herself at the wall, latching on to the crevices and pulling herself up the inside of the tower. The hand- and footholds were clear and worn enough that she knew she wasn’t the first person to make this climb. It was almost as easy as a ladder, hand over hand, step by step.
Ryia’s skirts tangled around her knees as she hugged the wall, steering clear of the rope. One bump of that rope and the bell would ring out over the whole island. If that wasn’t worst-case scenario, she wasn’t sure what was.
When she was just a few handholds beneath the bell, she saw it. A tiny cutout in the wall. A hidden chamber leading to a skinny, ragged staircase. Blood thundered past Ryia’s eardrums as she swung inside, mounted those last few steps, and pulled herself, blinking, into the sunlight.
The light glinted off the waves outside the weathered walls of the arena in front of her and reflected off the massive bell behind her as she tiptoed, barefoot, along the foot-wide ledge. The view was breathtaking. She could see the whole island. The sails of every ship in the harbor, the stage, the roiling mass struggling to escape the arena. The training barracks, one each for Sensers and Kinetics, positioned on either side of the Guildmaster’s manor on the eastern cliffs.
Click, click, click.
The sound pulled Ryia’s eyes back to the tower.
Click, click, scratch.
She slipped along the edge of the bell, heart leaping into her throat as she saw it. The relic of Declan Day. It was here. The Quill.
It looked just like the drawing. A long, ornate writing stick made of stone and carven wood. It shuddered, hovering on its point, sloshing, whirring, and hissing.
Beneath it lay the map of Thamorr, covered in tiny pinpricks of deep red ink. Ryia blinked. The dots were moving. Shifting slightly. One cruised along the western coastline. Another moved slowly across the border from Gildemar to Dresdell. Hundreds milled around the small island marked Guildmaster’s Stronghold. It seemed more sinister than she had expected. Its energy felt less like a hunting dog, sniffing out Adept, and more like a fox, cunning and dangerous. Once again, she was struck by the feeling that there was something about this relic that she just didn’t understand.
Click, click, scratch.
The Quill darted across the map, floating through the air before placing a fresh dot of ink right in the heart of the Rena desert.
Ryia drifted a step closer. After all this time. After all this running, it was right here. On the desk beside it sat half a dozen thick leather books. She picked one up, leafing through with numb fingers.
Known Adept per city; Oryol, Boreas, the first page read.
The following pages were covered with city names and neat tally markers. A count of the number of Adept that should be there corresponding with each dot on the map.
No wonder it was against the law for anyone other than the Guildmaster to sell Adept. The whole key to his power was knowing where they all were and where they all should be. Finding the splotches of ink that didn’t belong on the map. Without that power, he couldn’t find new Adept babies. Couldn’t kidnap them and brainwash them into submission. And then eventually, slowly, the Guilds would fall.
Would it throw Thamorr into complete chaos? Probably. But what did she care? She would just find a nice quiet corner of the world and watch the Guildmaster’s hold on Thamorr crumble. Watch with a smile on her face as he faded into irrelevance, powerless and alone. She grabbed a splintered wooden beam from the floor, raising it over her head like a club to smash Declan Day’s treasured Quill into a thousand tiny pieces.
But just as she tensed, preparing to strike, she hesitated.
Here it was, her freedom, the only thing she could ever remember wanting, staring her in the face, and she was hesitating.
Ridiculous. There was no other option. If she stuck with the Saints’ plan and stole the thing, she would still be in the same situation she was in before, only the Mad King of Edale would be hunting her instead of the Guildmaster. After all she had gone through to get here, she would have to be an idiot to just leave it untouched. No. She was going to crush it to splinters and run like hell.
Thamorr would figure itself out. And the team… the bastards were from the Lottery. Betrayal wasn’t exactly a novel concept there, right?
Her blood ran cold as she heard the unmistakable scuff of a boot on stone.
Mind full of images of Disciples closing in on her, she turned on her toe, blindly flinging her axe toward the noise. Her stomach clenched as her eyes found her target.
Evelyn Linley stood sideways, edging carefully around the bell. And Ryia’s axe was spinning straight toward her ivory throat.
No!
Without thinking, Ryia thrust her power out like a lasso. The weapon froze in midair, inches from Evelyn’s skin. The captain’s eyes grew wide. She stared at the axe as it hummed softly, frozen for a moment, then dropped at her feet. She turned her gaze to Ryia.
“I knew it.”