She staggered backward, tottering on one leg, but her lips moved, too, now, and a torch on the wall flared. My eyes followed the pair, a sickness in my stomach. Making us fight, purely for their entertainment…
At least the two didn’t have weapons on them. Turnstone’s Gustmouth had his sleeves pushed up, and he raised his fists as he ducked toward the woman. By now, however, a series of sparks had flown from the torch and burgeoned into flames. They shot toward the larger man, causing him to wheel and bat at them frantically.
Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, the Sparkmouth zipped in under his arm, spun, and snapped her elbow into his nose.
It all happened so fast, I barely caught it. A second later, another cheer went up.
“First blood!” shrieked a man in a padded silver doublet. More a boy, really, hardly older than I was. “My Sparkmouth wins! Bad luck, Turnstone.” He was hopping on the balls of his feet with excitement. At the sight, my scalp tightened, needling all over, flickers of anger curling up from my belly.
Turnstone’s Orha had stumbled backward, smears of blood under his nose, on his fingers. The Sparkmouth turned away, massaging her elbow. She was frowning, and I got the distinct impression she’d intended to make it quick—and relatively painless.
Across the yard, Turnstone stood white-faced, his goblet hanging, forgotten, at his side. Wine stained the cobbles alongside flecks of blood.
“And bad luck, Shearwater,” said another of the men as the masked overseer distributed winnings. “Second loss in as many weeks, now, isn’t it?”
“Let’s hope it’s not a Shearwater curse, eh?” said the Sparkmouth’s young, silver-clad employer, tucking a weighty purse into his breeches. “Not with the vote in just a few weeks. Don’t worry. If Daddy wins, he’ll be swimming in regals. No more raiding the coffers for ill-advised wagers.”
“Our coffers are none of your damned business,” Emment slurred, and stalked across the yard to the exit. There he leaned briefly against the stone wall, waiting for the burly guard to step aside, then pushed off from it—and disappeared into darkness.
Hells.I wriggled backward, sliding off the roof, feet casting around for purchase on the vines. When I’d reached ground level, I took off after Emment.
There he was, about fifty yards ahead of me, tracing a weaving path down the street. I jogged to catch up with him, staring daggers at his back. The rage—theoutrage—that had kindled within me was simmering now, heading for a rolling boil.
“Hey,” I said sharply, catching his elbow.
He jumped, perhaps assuming I was someone nefarious, but when he saw it was me, his shoulders sank heavily. “Oh. I thought we were meeting by the stables.” He peered at me through the lamplit gloom. “What are you doing here?”
“Searching the streets. Do you realize what time it is?” I glanced around us. “You said midnight. It’s well past by now.”
“Really?” he muttered, listing to one side as he tried to focus on the pocket watch he’d pulled out. “Must’ve…lossht track. Cards weren’t in my favor.”
“Cards,” I repeated flatly, eyeing him.
He nearly dropped the watch—I swiped it from him—and tugged out his coin purse, which was now totally empty. “Huh,” he said; an interested little noise. “Washh going to offer to buy you a drink, but—”
“Come on,” I said bitterly, “we have to go.” Supporting his arm, I urged him away.
Our horse was ready, had even been fed and watered. I shoved Emment upward as he attempted to mount—it took three tries, but he eventually kept his seat.
“Here,” said the stablehand, handing me a lantern. “No moonslight tonight.” He looked resigned. This must be just one of many times he’d seen off the Shearwater heir in this state.
“Thank you,” I said, affixing the lamp in front of Emment. I was jittery, anger still coursing through me, as I climbed up behind him. I’d have to hold him steady. “If you’re going to be sick,” I muttered, “please warn me first.”
His only response was an echoing belch.
I nudged the horse onward, and we clopped down to the marsh, where our lantern bathed us in a pool of dim gold. The stone track stretched away ahead of us, walled in with marsh reeds, uncanny in the darkness. I set our pace at a solemn trot. It would take twice as long as the crossing here had, but I was an inexperienced rider—and I had unsteady cargo.
As we trailed through the marsh and out over the flats, I heard strange noises off in the night. A grating birdcall. An animal coughing. And then, somewhere not too distant, something that sounded a lot like a howl.
I fingered the reins nervously. Would wolves really venture here? Prowl down out of the Drowning Woods in search of roosting birds to pick off?
As if to ward off the creepiness, Emment took up a lilting song, his tenor off-key, his words bleeding together. It seemed he’d thrown off any moodiness about the fight, as every now and then, after a particularly bawdy line, he chuckled to himself and swayed one way or the other. I pressed my arms in tight to his sides.
Then, closer now, another howl. A sliver of ice speared through me to my belly.
I urged the horse onward, picking up our loping pace. We were maybe halfway to the harbor by now. I was eager to reach the waterline, where wolves couldn’t follow, and in my agitation I pressed the stallion into a canter. Emment’s song cut off. He gave a low moan.
“Hold on,” I said, irritated. “It can’t be long now.”
