Sam Clarke

CHAPTER 1

The air at the Swan Tavern was heavy with whisky, tobacco, and sweat. Of all the places to die, it was a pretty shitty one. The warm glow from the candle resting on the wooden table failed to soften Draven’s angular features. He adjusted the pin in his purple cravat, momentarily coming across as the gentleman that he wasn’t. His henchmen’s calloused hands had already found the ivory grips of the Shimar-made pistols strapped to their hips – ironically, the very same pistols I had smuggled into Traxia a couple of months earlier. The henchmen curled their fingers over the trigger and stared expectantly at their master; two mastiffs begging for a treat. I swallowed, but my mouth was dry. I kept my eyes on Draven. One nod, one tiny nod, and I’d be despatched to the land of the gods. A proper burial was out of the question, I was even too poor to die, but I pictured my tombstone anyway. A cheap slab. Nothing fancy. My life summed up in three lines of crudely carved letters: Mylo Durand, Sixteen, He won’t be missed.

Beside me, Skye shifted on her three-legged stool. A strand of red hair had escaped her side braid. She tucked it behind her pierced ear in a rare display of nervousness. Death was more of a deal to her than it was to me. Every ducat she made went into her little sister’s upkeep. The Aurora Boarding School didn’t come cheap, but Skye was determined to buy Astrid the childhood – and the future – that had been denied to her. Without Skye, Astrid would end up in the streets of the Seventh District, carving a living out of nothing like the rest of us.

The tavern’s door flew open. An icy gust of wind slapped me in the face. I silently cursed Draven for picking a table so close to the entrance – he could have shot me by the warmth of the fireplace just as easily. A tall, hooded figure stepped in and came short of bumping into a young maid carrying some empty jugs. He stepped aside to let her through and offered a graceful bow. We had seen a lot like him lately – tattered clothes betrayed by elegant manners. The Xakyan invasion - unexpected, brutal, and mercilessly efficient – had put the Seventh District on the map.

The Traxian army had crumbled like a house of cards and the highborns of the First District were suddenly brave enough to venture into our wretched neighbourhood, desperate to secure a passage to a safe kingdom. But nobody was desperate enough to take them. The Xakyans had made sure of that. Anyone guilty of smuggling aristocrats to safer havens would burn at the stake, like Bertrum and his gang. The Xakyans had doused them with water half-way through the execution and their charred remains were still visible in Main Square.

Two tankards of ale we hadn’t ordered landed on the coarse wooden table – the Swan’s official farewell. The tavern may have been a depraved den of pirates and smugglers, but it had a soul of sorts. When one of the regulars was about to meet the gods, the others pitched in to buy him one last, watered-down drink on the house. Skye and I glanced around the smoky room; a bunch of familiar faces raised their pewter mugs in our direction and quickly returned to their card games.

Draven flipped the cover of his golden pocket watch open. ‘Drink up. I don’t have all night.’

Skye turned to face me – green eyes sad, but unafraid – and raised her tankard in the air. When it comes to last words, Mjorsans tend to let their axes do the talking, so I wasn’t expecting anything too poetic. ‘See you in hell,’ she said.

I managed a smile. ‘It’s got to smell better than the Swan.’

I had just lifted the tankard to my lips when I caught a glint of steel in the half-light. Before I knew it, I had kicked my chair back and smashed the tankard into someone’s face. As my ale splashed all over the place, a startled Draven and his henchmen jumped up. Nazir (a despicable human being even by the Swan’s low standards) was stumbling backwards, one hand on his bloody face, the other clutching a gleaming dagger that he might have shined just for the occasion. ‘I’ll cut your throat and rip your insides out, Draven,’ he snarled, somewhat optimistically, given that the henchmen had pinned him to the wall and were pressing a pistol to his greasy forehead.

Draven dusted the drops of ale off the lapel of his plush velvet jacket and straightened his cravat. One nod later, the bullet that was meant for me had found a new home. As the shot left the barrel, Skye and I exchanged a fleeting glance. Draven didn’t admit failure – and we had failed him big time by losing one of his nyx shipments – but I had just saved his life. Surely it had to count for something.

Nazir’s body thudded to the floor; head surrounded by an expanding halo of blood. The top half of his face was a mangled mess of brain and bone. I instinctively touched my forehead. I liked my face; girls liked it too because as sure as hell they weren’t sleeping with me for my prospects. Behind the counter, the tavern keeper dried his chafed hands on his stained apron and grumbled something about having washed the floor earlier that day – a rare occurrence for the Swan. Still grumbling, he grabbed Nazir’s lifeless body by the feet, dragged him to a storage room and wedged him between some empty barrels. He’d get rid of him after closing time. The dark alley behind the Swan was a smuggler’s dream – flanked by a deep canal leading to the open sea and infamous enough to deter the bravest watchmen. There was no better place in the Seventh District to sneak stuff in or (as in Nazir’s case) out.

With the excitement over, the drinking and gambling resumed. The highborn in disguise was standing by the fireplace, hood rotating from side to side. Whoever he was meeting was late. Draven gestured we should return to our table and fixed his shark eyes on me. ‘You move incredibly fast.’

‘Unlike your henchmen,’ I replied. ‘Good thing I was around.’

‘I know where you’re going with this, Mylo,’ he said. ‘You’re not off the hook.’

I spread my hands. ‘I just saved your life.’

‘I appreciate that. But as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m not in the business of giving second chances.’

‘A single act of mercy won’t damage your reputation,’ said Skye. ‘If Mylo hadn’t—’

His glare silenced her. ‘I’m not in the business of giving second chances, but I’m no savage either.’

The last part was debatable – he had recently gouged Marky’s eyes out for being one day late on a payment. ‘These are exceptional circumstances,’ continued Draven, ‘therefore I am prepared to offer you an exceptional deal.’

I crossed my arms over the table and leaned forward. ‘Go on.’

Draven ran his finger over the rim of his pewter cup. The inns of the upmarket districts served their drinks in proper glasses, but the material was way too fragile for the Swan’s hot-blooded clientele. ‘Pay me back for the shipment you lost and we’ll call it even.’

‘How much?’ I asked.

‘One hundred thousand ducats.’

I sank back in my chair and let out a derisory snort. ‘Nyx is expensive, but not that expensive.’

‘It is now,’ said Draven. ‘The Xakyans have taken over the ports and the trade routes. There’s nothing going in or out.’

‘We’re small-time smugglers,’ said Skye. ‘You know we don’t have that kind of money.’

‘Then you’ll work for me until your debt is paid off,’ replied Draven. He leered at the curves peeking out of her leather bodice and stretched his lips into an unctuous smile. ‘In different capacities, of course.’

She clenched her fists. Using her charms to rip off wealthy highborns (which she was very good at) was one thing; being sold to the highest bidder against her will was quite another. She never talked about it, but I knew that her time at the Red Lantern still haunted her. ‘I’d rather die,’ she said.

Draven looked up from her cleavage. ‘That can be arranged.’ He turned towards me. ‘How about you, Mylo? Do you also have a death wish?’

I held his gaze. I knew I was cornered, but my freedom was all I had left and I wasn’t prepared to give it up so easily. Not for Draven, not for anyone. ‘We’ll pay you back,’ I said.

The henchmen smirked in amusement. Draven didn’t. ‘How?’ he asked, taking a swig of his drink.

‘I have a plan,’ I lied. ‘I’ll need some time though.’

Draven’s fingers rubbed his angular chin. He was driven by profit and the prospect of a hundred thousand ducats was hard to turn down. ‘Two weeks.’

‘At least three. It’s a lot of money, Draven.’

He rubbed his chin again, weighing the pros and cons in his head. ‘Fine, three weeks.’ He paused. ‘I’ll need something as collateral. In case you’re tempted to make a runner.’

‘We don’t have anything of value,’ I said.

‘Astrid will do,’ he replied.

The blood froze in my veins; Skye jumped up. ‘She’s just a child, Draven!’

He leered at her again. ‘Not for much longer. If she turns out as beautiful as her sister, she’ll be a great asset to the Red Lantern.’

I doubted he had a better nature, but I tried to appeal to it anyway. ‘This mess is down to me and Skye. You can’t drag Astrid into it.’

He checked his pocket watch again and got to his feet. ‘Stick to your obligations and I won’t.’

He clicked his fingers and marched out with his henchmen in tow.

CHAPTER 2

Skye watched Draven leave and let out a string of curses that would have made a seasoned pirate blush. ‘We’re screwed,’ she told me. ‘Totally screwed.’

‘Not yet. We still have three weeks.’

She threw her arms in the air, her bracelets jingled. ‘We’d struggle to make one hundred thousand ducats in a lifetime, Mylo! Let alone in three weeks! Making a run for it was our only option!’

I reached for the leftovers of Draven’s cup. No watered-down whisky for him, the tavern keeper only served him the good stuff. ‘We’ll think of something. We always do.’

She fixed her green eyes on me. The tavern was dark and the candle had burned down to a stump, but I could see them as clear as day. I could even make out the myriads of flecks of gold scattered around her pupils – their shape, the slight variations in the pigment… my breath got shallower. Gods, this shouldn’t be happening. Not so soon. I took a sip of whisky to calm my nerves, blinked a few times. The room went dark again. Skye’s eyes were still fixed on me. ‘Do you have anything set aside?’ she asked.

Her resigned tone was justified, but it hurt nonetheless. I took another sip of whisky to drown the sense of guilt rising inside me. ‘No.’

She let out a soft snort and shook her head, disappointed. ‘What was it this time? Cards? Dice? Some other stupid game?’

I shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

She slammed her palm on the table. My cup wobbled. ‘Of course it matters! We had some decent runs over the past few months and you’ve got nothing to show for it! If you’re serious about getting out of the Seventh, you really have to lay off the gambling! I mean it, Mylo!’

She was right. Except it wasn’t the gambling I had to lay off. I kept quiet. Mjorsans fly off the handle easily but they don’t hold grudges for long. The silence between us worked its magic; her features relaxed. I downed the rest of Draven’s whisky and nodded at the rundown tenement across the street. Sweltering in summer, freezing in winter. Home sweet home. ‘How about we call it a night? We’ll wake up bright and early tomorrow and swing by Jassin. See if he’s got any jobs going.’

She raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘You? Waking up bright and early?’

I cracked a smile and reached for my fur lined cloak. Its thickness kept the cold at bay and concealed the pockets I had stitched into its lining to move stolen gems or small quantities of nyx. ‘C’mon,’ I said, sliding it over my shoulders. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

She tapped the silver dagger strapped to her leather-clad thigh. Unless we were pulling a scam, I had never seen her in a dress. ‘Mjorsan girls can look after themselves. You should know that by now.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about the poor cutthroats who’ll stand in your way.’

She chuckled. ‘If you don’t go easy on the compliments, I’m going to blush.’

We were suddenly aware of the hooded figure looming over our table. ‘Good evening,’ he said, with a slight bow. ‘I wonder if you might be able to assist me. I am trying to locate the esteemed Nazir Sharafa.’

‘Right over there,’ I replied, nodding at Nazir’s feet sticking out of the storage room. Someone had already stolen his boots.

The stranger flinched. He flinched even more when a shot rang out, followed by fits of rumbling laughter. The group of drunken pirates lumbering through the Swan’s door had discharged a gun by mistake and killed one of their own. Somehow, they found the whole thing incredibly amusing. The victim, blood gushing from a head wound, was lying face down across the threshold, preventing the door from closing. The pirates trampled over him and made for the bar. The tavern keeper let out a string of curses, dried his hands on his apron, and vowed to never clean the floor again. As the dead pirate joined Nazir in the storage room, gusts of cold wind whooshed in and puffed up the stranger’s cloak, exposing the heavy purse dangling from his belt. I coughed twice to catch Skye’s attention and rubbed my thumb and index together to signal he was loaded. Our pickpocketing days were behind us (too much risk, too little money), but the prospect of ripping off a highborn while reducing the size of our staggering debt was too hard to resist. ‘Why don’t you join us?’ I told him, unfastening the strings of my cloak. ‘We’ll drink to Nazir’s memory.’

Skye, who had already loosened the laces of her bodice to expose a hint of cleavage, offered him a honeyed smile and patted the empty stool beside her. It was a ruse that we had played a million times before, usually in more upmarket taverns. We’d find an easy mark, get him drunk, lure him to a dark alley with all sort of sweet promises, and rob him blind – clothes and all. Naked men, we had discovered, are much more reluctant to chase after thieves than their dressed counterparts.

The stranger was still standing, hood turned in the direction of Nazir’s bare feet. Skye tugged at his tattered cloak. ‘Staring at him won’t bring him back. How about that drink?’

He hesitated, hood swaying back and forth. Compared to the rest of the Swan’s dreadful clientele, Skye and I looked positively harmless: no eye patches, no visible scars, full set of teeth. Skye patted the stool again. This time, the stranger accepted her invitation. He perched on the edge of the stool and twisted his jittery fingers, careful not to touch anything in case poverty was contagious. I signalled the maid for a fresh round of drinks and assessed our quarry: graceful demeanour, uncomfortable in a rowdy environment, smooth and unscarred hands. So far, so good – he wasn’t military. Hopefully, he’d be young too: easy to get drunk; even easier to seduce. I should know, I embodied those traits on a regular basis. ‘Now, let’s see who’s hiding under here,’ peeped Skye, pushing his hood back and letting it fall over his shoulders. ‘Oh my! Are you a god? Surely a mortal cannot be this handsome!’

Not exactly what I would have called a god, but I had seen worse – a mop of dark curls framing a regular face that displayed no signs of sagging. He couldn’t be older than twenty-five. Perfect. We’d have his purse in less than an hour. ‘What’s your name, handsome?’ continued Skye, shuffling closer to him and running her finger over the back of his hand.

He tensed, but it had nothing to do with Skye’s blatant flirting. A formation of Xakyan soldiers, gleaming silver buttons shining against their cobalt-blue uniforms, was marching past the Swan’s greasy windows. ‘Maximillian,’ he replied, when the last soldier disappeared from view.

‘What a beautiful name,’ said Skye. ‘So beautifully… um… long.’

If she shuffled any closer to him, she’d be on his lap. At this point, most guys would drape an arm around her and drop their eyes into her cleavage, but Maximillian reclaimed his hand and offered her a polite smile instead. His eyes strayed to Nazir’s feet. ‘Mr Sharafa’s untimely departure is most… unfortunate. Would you be able to recommend someone in his line of business?’

I drained the last few drops of Draven’s whisky. ‘Depends. What kind of service had he agreed to provide?

‘Transportation.’

‘For?’

‘Myself and my fiancée.’

‘To?’

‘The Kingdom of Shimar.’

I shook my head. ‘Not going to happen. You’d need a ship and the Xakyans have taken over the ports.’

Maximillian lowered his voice. ‘I hear that smugglers and pirates rely on their own network of unofficial ports.’

‘They do, but they’re all staying put. The Xakyans navy is patrolling the coast day and night to intercept the likes of you.’

The door flew open again. An icy gust of wind swept through the tavern and brought in the group of Xakyan soldiers that had marched past a moment earlier. Skye and I exchanged alarmed looks. We were sharing a table with a highborn on the run who couldn’t have sweated harder if he tried.