A Thief & a Gentlewoman

Clare Sager

Contents

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Part I

1. Opportunity

2. A Game of Chance

3. A Thief’s Duty

4. The Night Shift

5. Under the Influence

6. Making an Exhibition

7. A Fence & a Philanderer

8. A Gentleman’s Watch

9. In the Bathhouse

10. Flirtation & Foreigners

11. Swords & Sabrecats

12. Neorion Square

13. Masquerading

14. The Fanciful Janissary

15. Intoxication

Part II

16. The Hangover

17. Realisation & Reality

18. The Royalist Pawnbroker

19. Crime & Punishment

20. Uninvited & Unexpected

21. Gifting

22. Card & Crime

23. Ink & Invisibility

24. Trials & Tribulations

25. Madam Fortune

26. Left Hanging

27. Cold Comfort

28. Perchance to Dream

29. Quarry

30. Judgement

31. Fondness & Farewells

32. Visiting Time

33. Cowardice

Part III

34. The Fortress of the Seven Towers

35. The Seer

36. On Broken Glass

37. Smoke Without a Fire

38. Chase & Consequence

39. By a Silken Rope

40. Kediler Square

41. After

42. A Thief’s Reward

Quin & Atesh’s Story Continues …

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The Hidden Court

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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Get a glimpse of the start of Quin’s career in an exclusive prequel, Mudlark.

How does a girl from the Gutter Streets become a gentlewoman thief?

Meet Livia before her illness and Quin before she became the Counterfeit Contessa in this origin story.

Keep reading to the end to get the link to your free book (see Get Your Free Book in the contents page).

Women are armed with fans as men with swords

and sometimes do more execution with them.

Joseph Addison, The Spectator

Part I

1

Opportunity

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a thief. And Quin was that thief.

The key was not to look like one.

To that end she passed through the crowd with a nod here, a smile there, a pointed avoidance of eye contact elsewhere. Posing as a gentlewoman made that avoidance easy: there were plenty of props to help. Gloves to adjust. The slanted hat brim to hide her amber eyes behind. The lady’s companion at her side to speak with. And if all else failed, simply being a lady of the nobility gave all the excuse necessary for a haughty turn away.

But Quin’s gaze couldn’t keep away from the reason they were all at Kediler Square today. Every so often her eyes turned to the front of the long, stone-paved square, over the heads of the folk gathered, toward the timber construction whose image was ingrained in her mind as a dark silhouette.

She tugged at the ribbon tied fashionably around her throat – it was suddenly tight – and winced at the sight of nooses swaying in the summer breeze. The long lean line of the rapier hidden beneath her full skirts provided no comfort against the haunting presence.

Quin had come for the crowd and they were here for the gallows. The deadly nevergreen. It sprouted from a stage that rose above the heads of the spectators.

And what a crowd they were. All of Arianople was here – people from each of its fourteen districts. The shadowed figures of Zeynab Sultana and her husband Ilyas sat in a gazebo to one side of the scaffold, shielded from the bright sun already drying the air. On the stage shuffled various officials, presiding over execution with all the care of accountants over their books.

Out in the main body of the square, though, that was where the press of bodies and the rising heat were greatest.

Derry walked at Quin’s elbow, neat folded hands and plain blue gown the picture of propriety for a lady’s companion. Her pale skin drew glances as they passed. The Canting King, ever watchful, caught Quin’s eye for a moment before she turned away, her lips pursed.

Pashas stood out like jewelled peacocks, their embroidered silk jackets and gowns resplendent above the street dirt. The aghas – janissary generals rather than aristocrats, technically-speaking – were barely less gilded than the pashas. Some were better-dressed than the beys of less prominent families.

Hawkers cried their wares, saffron buns and one-page pamphlets on today’s criminals, their voices amplified above the hubbub thanks to the magic of their Cards.

Amongst them the professionals, beggars, and all the other sundry folk of the Gutter Streets drifted, but never quite mixed, like oil stirred into water. Their smells of too-strong lavender, unwashed flesh, and street filth punched through the genteel floral and fruit perfumes of those further up the ladder.

Quin walked those eddies between oil and water, eye open for opportunity.

Against all instinct, she moved towards the gallows, aiming for an area where pashas and other aristos tended to gather for hangings. That was where she was likely to get a glimpse of him, the grand opportunity that had brought her back to Arianople, the City of Cities, after so long. She wanted to see him from a distance first, size him up ahead of a formal introduction.

“Blind Lady, let me find him,” she murmured. Her research told her that was the best spot, but a little extra luck from the Blind Lady never hurt. She smiled and brushed her thumb over the Deck of Cards in her pocket – the Blind Lady had saved her skin many a time, in fact.

The heady scent of amber tickled her nose. An expensive cologne. The source? Just ahead, a deep conversation between gentlemen in embroidered silk coats, their attendants intent on swatting away any hawkers or beggars who strayed too close.

This was opportunity. A small one, but one nonetheless.

Barely breaking her stride, Quin removed her glove and skimmed close to the nearest man. He’d thrown his coat open, hands on hips, leaving the side pocket of that pretty silk coat out of his sight and directly in Quin’s path. As she passed, she slipped her hand inside. Cool metal greeted her fingertips. She caught two items between her straight fingers and pulled them out. Without looking, she dropped one in her own pocket and slipped the other to Derry, whose blue eyes remained fixed on the scaffold as if nothing had happened.

It was done.

They had been in her hand only briefly, but Quin had been doing this long enough to know the feel of any coin. Two zeri by her reckoning. She carried on her journey, a bee in search of golden nectar.

A little here, a little there, that was the key to not ending up there. Her traitorous gaze returned to the scaffold.

Preparations were well under way on the stage, officials and the condemned up there, acting out their parts in the pantomime. The convicted were all young men it seemed from this distance; one stood so short he must have been an older boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen.

Their wrists were tied behind their backs, making them hunch awkwardly. The hangman was speaking to the boy, patting his shoulder. What had he done to earn his place up there?

The stage was at one end of the square, which was something of a misnomer – Kediler Square was actually a long, open space, formerly a racetrack for sabrecats. Like a spine through the middle, some of the ancient centre markers still stood testament to its old purpose. Most famous was the serpentine column, some fifteen feet tall, in the form of three snakes twisted together, their bronze heads staring fiercely from the top. Today a small, scruffy girl sat up there, legs dangling either side of one snake’s neck. Quin’s mouth quirked for an instant – that had been her favourite spot as a ten-year-old, too.

Kediler Square backed onto the Watergardens, but all attention was on the south-western end. That was considered the front of the square for events and a semi-circle of pale columns stood vigil around it, as they had for some thousand-and-something years. Tiered seating remained between some of the columns, baking in the sun, crumbling to dust, and kept clear by janissaries.

The seats looked down upon the stage and scaffold, flanked by four racing sabrecats cast in bronze, two on each side. Their long, curved teeth gleamed.

Behind the scaffold, an empty plinth rose above the others, its winged sabrecat honouring Felida long since looted and dragged away by the Venetians.

Turning from the empty nooses, Quin noted a hollow-eyed woman, some fifty years old. Her clothes were threadbare and would be poor protection come the autumn rains, which were fast-approaching now they were nearly at the Dying Summer Festival. She stared up at the scaffold, arms wrapped around herself. Quin nodded to Derry, whose blue eyes glanced left and right before she gave an encouraging smile.

Another opportunity.

She adjusted her course and again dipped her hand into a stranger’s pocket. This one was rough against her fingers and shallow, just a patch on a linen jacket that had been washed a thousand times. The hollow-eyed woman didn’t stir as Quin dropped in one golden zeri.

Quin smiled as she walked further towards the front of the square. A zeri would buy new clothing and still have plenty left over for food.

Her good mood soured too soon, though, as the drumroll hiss began. Quin stopped mid-stride, grimacing at the scaffold. Sure enough, the executioner had his victims lined up and moved down the row to drop white hoods over their heads. Now she was closer she could see they were as young as she’d thought: not a single one had seen more than 25 years come and go.

As the hangman reached the final victim, Quin clutched her plunging stomach. It was a young woman, not a boy, and that frown was familiar. Faintly and from long ago, but Quin knew it and the dark eyes beneath.

The drums echoed Quin’s hammering heartbeat, as she stared, dry-mouthed. They’d trudged through the mud together as children, scouring the seashore for anything they could sell. What was her name? Amina? No, Aminda.

Aminda. Another mudlark who’d graduated to a life of crime. And another one who’d been caught by the janissaries.

Aminda’s terracotta brown face was hidden now, but the angle of those frowning brows and the dark glint of those eyes were etched into Quin’s vision. It was a battle to keep her breath steady against threatening panic.

They hadn’t been close, but they’d lived the same childhood. Luck and an unusual education from an unusual mother – that was the only difference between her and Aminda.

How long was luck going to stay on her side?

There was a snatch of movement near the gallows as the hangman approached his lever, but Quin had seen the trapdoor open and bodies swing enough times before.

She spun on her heel and, with a gasp, straight into someone.

Someone in a rich silk coat. A man, and equipt, then.

Yet another small opportunity, but she could lose herself in it for a moment. Action pushed the panic away.

She fell harder into the stumble than necessary, letting him catch her, strong hands at her shoulders. Perfect. Her own hand was already at the inside pocket of his coat, where all gentlemen kept their pocketbooks, full of notes, and their jewelled snuffboxes.

Except then she looked up.

It was him.

The breath caught in her throat. She had only ever seen his self-portrait, but with those jade eyes and – she was amused to see – the same slight frown of concentration or confusion as in the painting, this was undoubtedly Atesh Shahin, a Pasha of Arianople and cousin of the Sultana.

From her research, she’d expected him to be weak and pale – he was an artist, after all. She’d imagined him locked away in a studio for days on end, starved of sun, not bronze-gold and tall. The self-portrait she’d seen had been honest, not flattering, right down to the shadow of dark stubble and slightly long nose. The famous family blade must be on his person somewhere, its emerald hilt safe from light fingers.

Quin had learnt so much about him, but he had no idea of who she was and, with any luck, he never would.

All that was a moment, already she had mastered her surprise and smoothed her face. Leaning against his chest, as though her feet were still unsteady, she was rewarded with a smile and the sight of his dilating pupils above flushed cheeks. His warm hands tightened on her shoulders, reflexively holding her close.

The first victory in her campaign – he found her attractive. The eyes, the rosy cheeks – they were the signs her mother had taught her and that she’d seen in half a dozen other marks. But that he was handsome – that was a pleasant bonus she didn’t usually get to enjoy in the gentlemen she conned.

They’d been aristocrats she’d made fancy themselves in love with her, when in fact they’d just desired ownership of her or wanted a suitable wife. They’d all had their own reasons. With her looks, inoffensive wit, and apparent wealth, she’d made an excellent candidate. She’d won their admiration, their hearts, their proposals, and helped herself to a cut of their wealth.

Across Europa she’d conned a bey, a baron, a count, two earls, even a marquis. A Pasha, though? That was a new challenge, one she’d spent most of her life training for. Mother had called it her magnum opus. Now she was ready. She’d do Livia proud.

Quin peered up at the Pasha from beneath the brim of her hat, knowing it framed her amber eyes to great advantage. She’d practiced the move enough times in the mirror it had become effortless. She smiled. All those people of the Gutter Streets his fortune would help – rent, food, clothes, medicine, the simple but expensive business of living. She couldn’t help Aminda, but she would help the rest of them.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she murmured, lowering her gaze and pulling away as if overcome with modesty.

“Madam, no,” he said, voice smooth and deep as velvet. Quin shivered – she hadn’t expected him to sound like that. “It’s I who should –”

The sudden silence of the drumroll stopped his and all talk in the square. Into the quiet, a creaking of wood and rope cried that the trapdoor on stage had opened. The Pasha tore his eyes from her, but instead of turning to the spectacle of the hanging, he looked away.

Quin took a steadying breath, also avoiding the gallows and taking a last glance at her mark. While he was distracted, she slipped away into the pressing crowd – leave him wondering at the mystery of the woman at Kediler Square. Leave him wanting more.

He’d be at the party later where they’d be formally introduced – she’d set it all in place. She’d draw him in, take a slice of his fortune, and give it to the Gutter Streets. And with him looking like that, she might even enjoy it.

A grand opportunity indeed.

* * *

Not that such opportunity was a rarity for Quin. Finding and taking advantage of them was her job, after all, and they tended to go much the same.

Take the Venetian Con. That had been five years ago and although it had almost ended in disaster, it had started as all their ventures did.

Quin was 18 years old, her mark, the Baron, a couple of years older.

“Ready?” her mother murmured in her ear. Her voice was rich and low and her bronze skin gleamed in the torchlight. “Now.”

It was only Quin’s second con, so there was a little flutter of nerves in her belly as she let go of her fan. With a quiet clatter, it landed directly in the path of a tall young man.

“Well then,” he said, swooping to pick it up. “Here, madam, you dropped –”

He rose and saw Quin.

They had spent hours getting her ready. The black hair twisted and pinned and curled and smoothed and decorated with a single white rose. The gown in the shade of purple that suited her so well, cut to show just the right amount of décolletage for a young gentlewoman. The rouge staining her lips and cheeks just a touch deeper than their natural tone. It had been hard work, but his speechlessness made it worth it.

With mid-brown hair and a square jaw, he was faintly handsome. Something about the flare of his nostrils gave Quin the impression of a man used to being obeyed.

He cleared his throat and held out the mother-of-pearl fan, not taking his walnut-brown eyes off her. “My most humble apologies, Miss –?”

“Thank you, sir,” Quin said, deliberately brushing her fingertips across his palm as she took back her property. He took a quick breath at her touch. Perfect.

“Sir, you are very good, thank you,” her mother said, amber eyes glinting above a smile. Her angular jaw was softened by the lush curls falling over her shoulder. “Please forgive the lack of a formal introduction – I’m afraid the manner of our meeting leaves us without an appropriate mutual party.” She gestured at the crowd as if helpless.

“Of course, madam,” he said, sparing the briefest glance for her mother.

“I am Baroness Sorrento and this is my daughter Lady Quinta Bucca.”

“Ladies, I am most honoured.” He bowed. “Baron Belluno, at your service.”

Quin and her mother returned his bow as if they hadn’t known his name all along.

“Sorrento – that’s in the south, isn’t it, madam?”

“It is, indeed,” Mum said, wafting her fan, “you must be well-travelled, sir.”

He visibly swelled at her compliment. “When my lands allow it, madam. Might I ask what brings you to La Serenissima?” Before they had a chance to answer, he fixed Quin with a smile. “Though how it can be so serene with such a pair of beauties causing raptures wherever they go, I don’t know.”

Seriously? Quin’s toes scrunched up in the ends of her shoes, but she forced a giggle from her lips and looked away.

“Oh, sir,” her mother said, tittering, “you are too kind!” She lifted her fan, as if whispering behind it to him alone. “Although I confess to being perhaps a little biased, sir, I must agree with you.”

“Oh, mother,” Quin gasped, looking away modestly. She forced a pink blush to her cheeks by imagining herself naked in front of all these people.

The hum of chatter lowered as the pianoforte struck up. The rising excitement was palpable – young women took each other’s hands and hurried into the adjoining ballroom. The men exchanged glances and nods before following.

“Madam, the dances are about to begin,” the Baron said. “If Lady Quinta isn’t already claimed, I’d humbly beg the honour of this first dance.” The way he peered down his nose at her didn’t suggest he humbly did anything.

But Quin smiled and placed a hand on her chest, as if surprised. “Sir,” she said, “I’d be honoured, but you must promise to excuse my mistakes – I’m not so familiar with your Venetian dances.”

His shoulders squared and his chest puffed. Let him feel superior, having to help this provincial girl from the south.

The back of Quin’s throat ached, but she took his hand when he offered. It was hot and clammy.

“I’ll hurry straight back, Mama,” she called over her shoulder, as he led her away.

Her mother’s eyes were bright above a fierce smile of victory.

A few people watched as they made their way to the ballroom. One tall young woman glared particularly hard at them, dark eyes flinty. The Baron must have an admirer or perhaps a courtesan as was so fashionable in Venetia. They’d made enquiries before coming here – there was no serious understanding between him and another lady. He was fair game.

The tall woman made a step forward, as if to intercept or draw his attention, but the Baron’s grip on Quin’s hand tightened and he steered her away. Her interest was not returned, then. Or at least it had been eclipsed by Quin’s presence.

The admirer’s jaw knotted and her nostrils flared, but after a few seconds she gave up and turned away, hair shining reddish brown in the candlelight.

Quin suppressed a sigh of relief and lined up beside the other women waiting to dance. A prior attachment would have thrown off all their plans, but when the Baron took his place opposite, his eyes were focused only on her.

Each side bowed to the other as a viola and flute joined the pianoforte.

Quin’s feet took over, following the music to the complex steps and turns of the minuet. That allowed her to focus on giving the Baron deliberately questioning glances, as if unsure of the next move.

With each worried raise of her eyebrows, his expression became more sickening in its intensity. He grasped her fingers where they were meant to only touch flat palm to flat palm.

The way he looked at her – it was like he wanted to eat her. He didn’t see her, just a thing to add to his catalogue of possessions, an object to get heirs upon. And the way his gaze lingered on her cleavage suggested he anticipated enjoyment from doing so.

But Quin had to keep up the show, so she smiled, blushed, and even threw in a misstep towards the end. Her stomach was lead the whole time. There was no excitement left, only dismay.

At last, it was over. She sank into a bow, squeezing her eyes shut for the moment her face was hidden. When she rose, she was smiling.

The Baron offered his arm and she placed her hand on it. In another place and time, with different people, it could have been a love story. There were women who dreamed of dancing at a ball with a dashing young nobleman. Quin wasn’t one of them and the Baron wasn’t the kind of gentleman sensible women dreamed of.

“Madam,” he said, as they cleared the way for the next dance, “I must admit, I am quite parched and I should imagine you are, too.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t wait for her to respond. “Let us have a little refreshment before I return you to Lady Sorrento. I’m sure she won’t mind a few minutes more.” He was already leading her towards the low mahogany table groaning under the weight of an enormous cut-glass punch bowl – it wasn’t much smaller than the troughs of water sabrecats drank from.

“A drink is an excellent idea, sir,” Quin said, looking up at him from lowered lashes.

He gave her hand a squeeze before fetching a glass and ladling a generous portion of punch into it. This was the whole reason such balls had self-serve punch bowls – it allowed a gentleman to gallantly serve a lady her drink, ensuring time for flirtation and favours. The Baron was taking full advantage of the opportunity to keep her to himself a little longer.

“Madam,” he said, handing her a glass so full it was almost overflowing, “I must say you danced beautifully. I wouldn’t have known you had reservations about dancing in the Venetian style.” He took a glass for himself and ladled in the bright orange punch. It wasn’t as full as the one he’d given Quin. “Although I’m not the least bit surprised that you’d pick up our ways so quickly – with a little help, of course.” He gave a little, self-important lift of his chin. “The first moment I saw you, I knew there had to be an uncommon woman behind that uncommon beauty.”

“Oh, sir,” she murmured, lowering her eyes. One, two, three, she counted, then returned her gaze to him. His chest rose in a sudden breath.

It was almost too easy. Quin took a sip of her drink, holding his gaze over the brim of the glass. She knew the move framed her eyes and when she took the glass away, the drink left her lips glistening, inviting.

The Baron’s eyes bulged and he emptied his glass in one gulp.

Far too easy.

That night they danced twice more, causing tongues to wag already. It was a little boring – he’d been hooked so easily. Ariston had joked about betting on how long until she had her proposal. With how nicely this was going, Quin was only too happy to gamble on the date.

And with the Baron, well, she’d wager it wouldn’t take long at all …

* * *

Quin had travelled across much of Europa, but the gallows party was an institution peculiar to Arianople. After a public hanging the nobility retired to avoid the heat of the day, before emerging in the evening to gather in oak-panelled rooms in houses across the city for private parties thrown, ostensibly, to celebrate the death of a deserving criminal (or two or three or half a dozen as had hanged that morning).

The idea turned Quin’s stomach, threatening to bring back the glass of sweet punch she’d just finished. Perhaps they were truly here to celebrate that they themselves still lived or to blot out the images in their minds of kicking legs and twitching fingers.

Surely, they were as haunted by that as she was. Though none of them would have known the names of any of the condemned, never mind spent a childhood mudlarking with one.

Quin sipped the fresh glass of punch a footman placed beside her, the sweet pomegranate and sharp orange not quite masking the alcohol burn. She wanted to gulp it to steady her nerves, but that would be unseemly and the way Malos’s eyes kept lingering on her, there was no doubt he’d notice such behaviour.

She smiled at him over the rim of her glass as he gathered the cards from the table. With his dark hair and black eyes, he was a handsome rake, but a rake nonetheless. The poor man had paid her a lot of attention since her arrival in the city and she almost felt bad to have befriended him just to get to his richer cousin.

A friendship with Malos Aksoy had been the surest way to get herself formally introduced to his close friend and cousin, Atesh Shahin Pasha. The Pasha was newly returned from his country estate and he’d already – quite literally – bumped into a mysterious young woman in Kediler Square. Tonight, he’d have a proper introduction and put a name to the face he’d clearly found so attractive.

She balled her hand into a fist under the table – the only expression of excitement she allowed herself. She couldn’t have planned it better if she’d tried. All thanks to the Blind Lady for the stroke of luck that had made her walk into him.

Her friendship with Malos had also won the invitation to this most exclusive of all the gallows parties. Quin had only seen their host, Erdem Chalik from a distance, but clearly Malos had made enquiries on her behalf. Erdem was a distant cousin to the Sultana, but one of her closest friends. Quin smiled: her aristocratic persona was going up in the world.

“It’s your deal, Lady Sabia,” Malos said, passing her the stacked playing cards. These were a world away from the Decks of Cards in everyone’s pockets, the ones that let them manipulate magic, as the hawkers had done at the hanging. These were dead rectangles of cardboard in comparison. No vibration of energy. No painted figures that wore different expressions each time you looked at them. Nothing but the fun of the game.

And more opportunity.

This opportunity was the chance to rob the rich right under their noses, in plain sight and quite legally. Or mostly legally – that depended on how one felt about hidden cards or stacking the deck.

Quin smiled again, wider this time. The trick was to win enough to make a profit, but not so much to rouse suspicion or make one unpopular. If no one would play cards with her, she couldn’t very well win their money, could she?

Even now the other two nobles at the table sighed and exchanged looks. Nazli and Danyal Uzun. A sweet pair, apparently that rarity at court: a married couple in love with, of all people, each other. She with the largest brown eyes Quin had ever seen that so often turned sparkling to him. He with this private smile he wore when she played the zither, her singing voice rising pure and true.

There were no ugly rumours about them. Her landau had never been spotted parked outside another gentleman’s home late at night. He had never been caught with a professional or any other woman warming his bed.

They smiled at each other and shrugged at the coins and notes Quin pulled into her pile with an apologetic tilt of her head. Danyal took a glass of wine from a passing footman, giving the first to Nazli, then taking one for himself.

She’d try not to win so much as to ruin these two, especially.

The distant music and chatter grew louder as the door opened. Quin resisted the urge to crane her neck to check who’d entered – it wouldn’t do for anyone to think she wasn’t entirely absorbed in the fun of a good card game. Bored people attracted no one. She glanced out the corner of her eye.

Jackpot.

It was the Pasha, just as she’d hoped. Let him come to her, think it was his idea.

She half-heartedly shuffled the cards, eyes on them, but attention on him. He faltered in the doorway, likely recognising her and surprised that she knew his cousin, and then made a beeline for their card table.

“There you are, Malos,” the Pasha said, “I’ve been looking for you – I’d already checked the smoking room and if you weren’t there, then you had to be here.”

“Atesh,” Malos said, smiling broadly, “I’d heard you were back at last!”

“As you see,” he said, clapping Malos on the shoulder. “I can’t let you have the run of the city for the whole year. Who knows what scandals you’ll stir up?” His jade eyes glinted above a grin, the mirror of Malos’s expression. Their closeness struck her immediately.

“That’s a conversation for later,” Malos said, with a raised brow. “One not fit for ladies’ ears.”

“Or anyone’s ears, I’d wager,” the Pasha said, rolling his eyes. The group around the table laughed.

“Too true. Now, join us, so I can make introductions and win some of that money weighing down your pockets – this one has taken most of mine.”

That brought Malos’s smile to Quin, but it was trumped by his cousin’s. It animated the angular planes of the Pasha’s face. He considered her a long while, not looking away even while waving off the help of a footman; the Pasha pulled up his own chair.

Remembering herself, Quin glanced away. Modesty. A lady shouldn’t stare at a gentleman, however pleasant the view.

“Well, I know the Uzuns – as always it’s a pleasure to see you both,” the gentleman in question said, his bow smooth, his smile sparkling in his eyes, “but who is ‘this one’, as you so rudely put it, Malos?”

“Oh, I’m only playing,” he said with a dismissive hand wave. “Lady Sabia and I are good enough friends for her to appreciate my witty repartee.”

“Childish banter, more like,” Danyal muttered, fussing the money stacked beside him.

“This, Atesh Shahin Pasha,” Malos went on, ignoring Danyal, “is Contessa Quinta Sabia. Madam, I’m afraid this fellow’s my cousin. He’s such a terrible cad he had to flee to his country estate for half a year and is only just come back to terrorise the lot of us.”

“This is how you present me in my absence, is it, Malos?” The Pasha laughed and shook his head. “Contessa,” he said, bowing, “I’d humbly beg you to utterly ignore anything my cousin says – about me at least.”

“I’ve discovered it’s best to do so in general, Pasha,” Quin replied, winning a pout from Malos and a chuckle from his cousin.

She made to stand to bow to the Pasha in return. “No, no,” he said, taking a seat “don’t worry yourself with that, madam. We’ve got cards to get to and I can see Malos is positively yearning to lose more money.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you properly, sir,” she said, voice low.

“I trust you won’t be disappearing into any crowds this time, madam,” the Pasha replied, a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Quin found herself returning the expression at his gentle teasing.

Malos frowned, looking from Quin to his cousin. “So, you two have already met, and yet I’m not inclined to ask, as I suspect it will be either some secret scandal you can’t possibly reveal or so frightfully dull you’ll send us all to sleep. Are you going to deal those cards, madam, or just tickle them?”

She was still absently shuffling the deck. She handed it to Malos. “Would you do a final pass? You’re much better at it than I.” It was a peace offering – the exchange between her and the Pasha had upset him. She must have made more of an impression on Malos than she’s realised.

That was all she needed, inviting an offer from the wrong cousin! She’d have to balance their friendship with his expectations.

Yes, Malos was wealthy and high-ranking and, apparently, would be an easy enough mark for her, but he was less wealthy than his cousin and was not second in line to the Tulip Throne. He also wasn’t the mark her mother had picked out for Quin all those years ago. She’d come here for the Pasha and nothing else would do.

Malos passed the cards from hand to hand in an effortless shuffle, then returned them to Quin.

“Thank you, sir. My hands are so small, I do struggle, you know.” She smiled sweetly, though it almost choked her to say the words.

Making herself smaller, lesser, it was necessary. Noblemen like these loved to feel powerful, greater than the dainty little creatures they believed women were … Or wanted them to be. Ladies were ornaments made of spun glass – silent, beautiful, hollow, liable to shatter at the slightest provocation. They needed protecting.

She’d seen it before. She knew the part well. Just enough wit to be amusing. Helpless enough to need a guardian. Beautiful and flirtatious enough to be irresistible.

That was the mask she’d worn for the past six years.

As well as his art, this Pasha was known for creating a great show in society; no doubt he wanted a woman who would reflect his own glory back at himself. If she was going to win him, she would have to oblige. A lot rested on her victory – it wasn’t just her own subsistence that depended on separating him from a fraction of his vast fortune, it would change the lives of dozens of families on the Gutter Streets.

Their hunger-sharp faces in her mind made her swallow away the sick feeling that came from putting on that hollow mask for the start of a new con.

“Oops,” she said, deliberately dropping a card as she dealt them out.

Malos gave her an indulgent smile, returning the card, and Nazli patted her shoulder. “There’s no need to rush, Quin,” she said with an encouraging nod. The Pasha leant back in his chair.

“You are quite right, madam,” Quin said, “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

She finished dealing the cards and looked at her hand. Damn, three kings and that was without cheating. Having the Blind Lady smile upon you was usually helpful, but not when you were trying to lose a game.

“Nazli Pasha,” Shahin said, granting her a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, “how is your sister? I thought she had debuted now, but I don’t see her here.”

Gods, please say he wasn’t asking about her because they’d formed an attachment. She was a sweet girl, but surely not old enough for him, only 18 and a young 18 at that. But then some men preferred a younger woman.

Quin kept her eyes on her cards and her body relaxed, but all attention was on their conversation.

At last night’s ball, the younger Uzun sister had seemed quite happy to draw the attention of a handsome Bey. Surely there was nothing between her and Shahin.

“You just missed her, sir,” Nazli replied. “Quin met her last night, didn’t you, my dear?”

She smiled, looking up from her cards as if only just becoming aware of the conversation. “Indeed, a lovely young woman.” Too young. Let him remember that. “She’s returning to the country with your parents today, isn’t she?”

Unless the Bey flirtation had been to make the Pasha jealous. No, she was an innocent, not the type to play such games. Quin had no need to worry about any attachment. Hundred, what had got into her? She didn’t normally worry about attracting her marks.

Nazli confirmed her sister was en route to the country and they fell to polite conversation on other subjects. The Pasha didn’t dwell on the absence of the younger Uzun sister and Nazli didn’t fight to keep her the topic of conversation as any elder sister with designs would. No need for alarm.

When it came to Quin’s turn to bet, she threw some coins in and sipped her drink. So much money. She sighed softly. It was an investment in the con. She’d get it back hundredfold when she carried this off. Massaging his ego was just the first step.

“I must say, Contessa,” the Pasha said, peering over his cards in a way that made Quin shift in her seat, “bright pink fruit punch is a bold choice for a lady wearing an ivory gown.”

“Only a clumsy one, sir.” It was a quick reply, flippant and hollow.

“Then I’d be concerned after the way you dropped that card when you were dealing.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Perhaps I just love to take risks, then.” She threw in another zeri to illustrate her point.

“Have you finished?” Malos broke in. He gestured to the money accruing on the table.

“Oh? Yes,” Quin said, “I raised two.” Except he hadn’t only meant the betting.

They went around the table, finishing their bets, and then discarding cards face-down. Quin rid herself of two of the kings before drawing two cards. Two knaves. Bloody hells, the Blind Lady really wanted her to win the game – that would have been a full house.

Malos wore a small pout. His hand wasn’t great. Nazli kept moving her cards around, her nose piercing glinting as her nostrils flared. She had nothing to speak of; shuffling them about wasn’t going to make a straight suddenly appear. Her husband kept rubbing his face, trying to hide a smirk. He had something – three of a kind or a straight perhaps.

The Pasha, though … He was all stillness that revealed nothing. He’d looked at his cards after the draw, then placed them face-down on the table. The light chatter that went with the game held his attention – he nodded at the odd comment, added a few of his own, but gave no obvious tell.

Intriguing.

They had another round of betting – Nazli folded as Quin had expected, Danyal raised more than he should have, so Malos folded too, but Quin’s attention was on the Pasha. He saw the other bets, so he had something.

Then his eyes were on her, returning her bold gaze. Her stomach lurched – she’d watched him too long and he’d noticed. She lowered her eyes to her cards, face suddenly warm. One, two, three, she counted then glanced back from under lowered lashes.

The tiniest frown flashed across his brow for a second and he leant away, looking at his drink.

Disinterest. Quin frowned at her cards. Well that was …

Damn. All those years of training, all those other cons – they were meant to be preparation for this. Had it all been for nothing? Perhaps she wasn’t good enough to catch a Pasha after all.

No. This was just a misstep. A small one. She’d find a solution.

That morning at Kediler Square, he’d held her tight and smiled. His pupils had blown to large black circles, despite the brightness of the sun. He’d definitely found her attractive.

When he’d walked in the room, he’d noticed her immediately and approached, even making a comment about their earlier meeting that was almost intimate. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her, even when fetching that chair.

There had to be something since then that was putting him off. In his excitement about his cousin’s return, Malos had told Quin plenty about him, including that there was no woman in his life, so it wasn’t that. It must be something she’d said or done.

His interest was waning now – he hadn’t looked back at her – but there had been interest to start with. She was positive. If she could work out the problem, she could amend her behaviour and win him back.

She had to.

Now they had to reveal their cards. Danyal had three tens, but Atesh beat him with three queens – still his face was neutral, no victorious smile. He watched Quin and gave an expectant raise of his brows.

“Oh dear,” she said, making a show of sighing as she revealed her cards. “Just a pair of knaves. Pasha, you’ve beaten us all!”

But he sank back in his chair again, so obviously disappointed, it might as well have been written across his face in ink.

He’d leant back when she’d dropped the card, too, and now she’d lost the hand he was all the more indifferent. What had put him off?

Quin narrowed her eyes, going to gather the cards from the table, but the Pasha reached for his winnings at the same moment, somehow knocking her two discarded cards on the floor.

“Apologies, madam,” he said, already leaping up, “please, allow me.”

“Oh, no, I’ve got –”

But he was already crouched by her, close enough for the bright orange and bergamot of his cologne to reach her. The cards had landed face-up and he stared at them a moment. “You discarded two kings. You –”

He made a show of looking at the five cards she’d revealed as her hand. If she’d discarded the two junk cards and kept the kings, as anyone playing to win would have, she would have had a full house, beating all the other hands.

“Now, Lady Sabia,” he said, voice low, green eyes intense upon hers, “you could have won that hand. You wouldn’t be deliberately throwing the game for some reason I can’t fathom, would you? I know my cousin can be a bit of a cad, but he won’t get too stroppy if you beat him at cards.”

“Throwing the game, sir?” He’d seen the cards now. She could admit it or she could pretend to be so monumentally stupid that she didn’t understand the rules of the game. So far, every time she’d played the incapable damsel, he’d backed off, so … “Would I do such a thing?” she asked with a raise of her eyebrow that was as challenging to him as his proximity was to her.

“I don’t know.” He spoke so softly it was intimate somehow, almost scandalous. He didn’t back away, if anything he leant almost imperceptibly closer. She held still, though the urge to shift in her seat was strong. “Yet.”

“So, sir thinks he’ll come to know me well enough to tell?”

A moment’s secret smile flickered across his lips. “I get the feeling I will.”

“Perhaps,” she said with a shrug and an impish smirk at the corner of her mouth, “but I suppose it depends whether you’ll get as stroppy losing to me, as your cousin did last time we played.”

Somewhere in the background Malos protested, but their eye contact didn’t break.

“Ah, Malos is just too competitive for his own good sometimes. Trust me; I am nothing like my cousin in that respect, dear fellow that he is.” He glanced down at the cards in his hand, those accusatory kings. “Fear not, Lady Sabia, my ego won’t be mortally wounded by losing a game of cards to a young lady newly come to town. That’s if she can win …”

“Well, sir, we’ll just have to see if she can possibly manage such a herculean feat, shan’t we?”

He held the cards out to her, eyes and smile bright. “Let’s.”

Heart pounding, Quin took the two kings. With a nod, the Pasha rose and returned to his seat. The others at the table rushed to sort through their money or sip their drinks, as if they hadn’t been listening to the exchange.

What a confounding man. So, he favoured a challenge or capability or something over the helpless routine. How peculiar. How interesting. Maybe she’d enjoy this con even more than she’d expected.

Quin passed the deck to Nazli to deal the next hand, which she would play properly. Then she’d watch the Pasha’s reaction and see how different he really was.

“Oh, Atesh,” Malos said, looking at his nails, “when did you say that exhibition of yours was?”

Atesh’s hand hovered over the cards Nazli had just dealt him. “Thursday,” he muttered.

“Thursday, yes. Contessa, have you heard Atesh is having a little soirée to celebrate the opening of an exhibition of his art?”

“An exhibition?” Quin’s brows rose. “I’d heard the Pasha was a most esteemed painter, but I didn’t know I was lucky enough to be in town in time for an exhibition of his work.”

“It’s only –” began Atesh, but Malos leapt in.

“Indeed, madam, you must come! Nazli and Danyal will be there, won’t you accompany us?”

“Of course, I –”

“Madam,” Atesh said, “if you’re busy, you really needn’t –”

“Now, now, cousin,” Malos interrupted again, “there’s no need for false modesty. I’m sure Lady Sabia relishes the opportunity to – how did you phrase it? – ah, yes, to see your soul on the canvas.” Malos’s eyes bore into his cousin’s. For a moment, the two sat locked there. The Pasha smiled, but his cheeks were flushed and his jaw knotted.

Quin watched the pair closely. Malos had a wicked smirk on his lips. He knew he had upset his cousin. He’d intended it.

“Then I hope you all enjoy the show,” the Pasha said softly. Vulnerability. Just a touch, but definitely there around the edges of his quiet voice.

Atesh – no, the Pasha was just full of surprises.

“Goodness,” said Nazli, “are we going to play this hand or not? Because I have such excellent cards, I’m sure neither of these two shall win!” With a pert smile, she gave the cousins sidelong looks.

“Well, who am I to resist such a challenge?” the Pasha asked, fanning his cards out and surveying them at last.

Malos tried to hide his smirk behind a sip of wine, but his eyes flashed with a victory that had nothing to do with kings, queens, or knaves.

Despite Nazli’s confidence, however, she didn’t win the hand, folding in the second round of bets. Quin played properly now and was duly rewarded with the Pasha’s rapt attention. His eyes were on her more often than they were on his own cards, sometimes furtively, sometimes unabashedly, such as when she raised the stakes by ten zeri. She couldn’t say whether it was her own bold bet or his lingering look that left her heart pounding so hard. It was clear the Pasha was enjoying himself, relishing the challenge, even.

Between the bets and cards, they laughed and chatted. It was shallow, but fun banter and more often than not, Quin’s laughter was genuine, not forced. She was enjoying herself.

Almost as shocking, she had to focus to stay ahead of the Pasha in the game. She won the next hand, but he had the one after that.

The intensity of the game, the stakes creeping higher, they were what made her gasp when she reached for the cards and Atesh’s long fingers, gathering his winnings, brushed hers. That was why, it was nothing to do with the way their gazes collided or their hands froze, warm skin against warm skin for scandalous seconds.

Quin swallowed and snatched her hands and gaze away. She needed to focus on the game, always the game.

She was rescued by the burst of distant music that signalled the door opening again. This time, she used the distraction to very deliberately turn her attention away from Atesh and to the tall, angular man who entered.

Their host.

2

A Game of Chance

Atesh drew a long breath, taking longer than necessary to pile up his winnings.

How curious this lady was. A contradiction. Apparently a hollow-headed society-courting girl one moment, then a capable woman he was struggling to beat at cards all in the space of a few hands. There was something faintly familiar in the amber colour of her eyes, but she was from Umbria and there was no place or time they could have met. Sometime far in the past or –

“Cousin!” Erdem swept into the room and bowed deeply to Atesh.

“Erdem,” Atesh said, nodding in return, though he’d rather have replied with second cousin. Erdem was so keen to remind everyone of his family ties. Already his light brown eyes darted around the players, narrowed in calculation. The nod he eventually gave them was almost contemptuous.

Atesh gritted his teeth – such disregard! Atesh was no stickler for etiquette, but Erdem’s casual greeting had strayed into rudeness. He was meant to be their host, but a gracious one he was not.

Atesh took another long breath. “Nazli Uzun Pasha, Danyal Uzun Pasha, Malos Aksoy Bey,” he said, “I believe you know Erdem Chalik.” Of no title. He couldn’t say that, but Erdem could do with remembering it before he offended all of society. Atesh smiled at his friends in an attempt to smooth any offence taken. Danyal gave a brief nod and Nazli a tight smile. “And Contessa Quinta Sabia, may I introduce Erdem Chalik? He’s our host and a distant cousin of mine.”

“Yes, thank you, Erdem,” Malos jumped in before either could speak. “I appreciate you inviting the Contessa at my request.” His broad smile passed from Erdem to the Contessa.

After peering down his nose at her for far too long, at last Erdem saw fit to bow. “Madam.”

Atesh cringed both at Malos’s obvious attempt to best him and at Erdem’s arrogance. It seemed that Erdem grew worse with every year he spent at the Sultana’s right hand. He had only to please her and he was safe. The worst thing was he knew it.

But the Contessa rose in one movement, a charming smile on her mouth. She couldn’t be unaware of Erdem’s rudeness – undoubtedly, she was graciously ignoring it. Atesh almost sighed in relief as she bowed, dipping to the exact height Erdem’s position required.

“I hear you’re newly come to the city, madam,” Erdem said.

“Indeed, sir, I’ve only –”

“It’s a shame,” he went on, “I would have introduced you to Her Majesty, Zeynab Sultana – also my cousin – but she had to renege on her RSVP, alas.”

“Oh?” Atesh raised his brows. “Anything wrong?”

Erdem’s mouth pursed, just for a moment. “Something about the little Shehzade being unwell.” His shoulders lifted dismissively.

“Oh no,” Nazli said, “is she –”

Erdem’s outstretched hand halted her. He stood very still, head cocked. “The damn minuet? I told them not to play that!” His yellow ochre skin flushed as a scowl set in, heavy across his brows. “It’s an utter embarrassment.” Shaking his head, he dabbed at a speck of spittle on his lip then turned for the door, yanking it open himself.

Atesh clamped his teeth down on his tongue. The Sultana’s daughter was ill and Erdem cared more about what dance was up next.

“You’ll excuse me, of course,” Erdem threw back over his shoulder, even as he strode out.

“Well, then …” Malos said, staring after him.

“It appears our host is a little distracted,” Nazli said, eyes wide.

“Just a little,” Lady Sabia said. Despite the curve of her mouth, the shadow of a frown touched her eyes but was gone again in an instant.

“Let’s return to the game,” Nazli said with a nod.

Atesh took a breath, blowing out his frustration at Erdem. What a self-absorbed cad.

“Quin,” Nazli went on, “you are a dear, but I’m determined to beat you in at least one hand.”

Quin smoothed away a smile and said very solemnly, patting Nazli’s hand, “Then I wish you luck.”

Malos snorted. “I’m going to win this one, so there’s no need to worry yourselves, ladies.” He gave the cards one last shuffle, flicking them between his hands in a showy move, and dealt them in for another hand. Atesh used it as an opportunity to watch the Contessa.

She was held tighter than a violin string, each gesture and expression controlled, calculated, yet every so often …

Her breath catching when they’d brushed fingers before Erdem had arrived, that hadn’t been studied. That had been real. That little frown at Erdem, too.

The others at the table hadn’t picked up on it, carrying on their card game. They took the performance at face value, it seemed.

She’d thrown that first game, discarding her winning hand. Hiding luck and ability, it seemed. What else was she hiding?

It was fascinating to watch her body language for the little slips, so subtle he was sure no one else noticed.

Atesh’s fingers twitched – he couldn’t stop them tapping on the edges of his cards. They ached for a pencil that might let him capture one of those fleeting expressions, make sense of it, perhaps.

He was hit with such impulses sometimes – certain people compelled him to draw them. It could be the particular line of a footman’s nose, a girl’s bursting expression of joy when presented with a box of Anatol delights, or, here, it was the angle of her jaw, the curve of her full lips, and those tantalising glimpses at something beneath her mask.

Sighing, he clamped his fingers still. It would be much too forward to ask a lady if he could draw her, especially on first meeting.

With a huff, Malos threw his cards face-down on the table. “I’m done. Where’s a tray of drinks when you need one?” He scowled and stalked into the hall.

Nazli sighed and pushed her cards away. “Oh, I fold as well. You two play too hard for me!” Danyal squeezed her hand, already out of the game himself, an apologetic smile on his face.

That left just Atesh and Quin in the game.

He raised the bet again, watching her. Just a controlled smile, as she considered her hand, gaze occasionally drifting past the cards to him. She licked her lips, reaching for her pile of coins and notes.

The clock opposite the fireplace chimed. She jumped, eyes breaking from his, widening at the clock.

Midnight.

He was sure he’d only sat at the table ten minutes ago, but it had been two hours. From the way she threw in enough to see his bet, cheeks pink, he wasn’t the only one who’d lost track of time. Another little glimpse – a wonderfully flustered Contessa – but it was soon smoothed away.

Without ceremony, she threw down her cards.

A straight flush.

“Madam,” he said, revealing the four of a kind he’d been holding, “you have the Blind Lady’s own luck!”

She gave a quick smile, but no witty retort, and just gathered her winnings. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Nazli, gentlemen. My companion, Miss Bowyer, is trying to subtly get my attention. And by subtly, I mean she’s waving madly from the doorway.”

Sure enough, a young woman at the entrance suddenly folded her arms, face shockingly pale against the mahogany. Her gown was a gleaming deep green satin, matching Quin’s for quality of fabric and tailoring, but without flounces or lace, marking her as the companion to a high-born lady, but not so high-born herself. Her red hair and startling blue eyes marked her out further. A Frank – a fairly unusual sight in Arianople. There had to be some story of how she had become Quin’s companion.

The Contessa rose and bowed, body angled ever so slightly towards Atesh.

“The clock chimes and you disappear,” he said, rising and bowing with Danyal. “Are you about to turn into a pumpkin? I’ll be sure to check the staircase for a glass slipper.”

“I think you’re getting your metaphors mixed up, Pasha,” she said, eyes glinting with humour. “It was the carriage that turned into a pumpkin and the woman who wore a glass slipper.”

“Perhaps you have that effect on a man.” Too forward perhaps but she didn’t pull away. He nodded to the cash she slipped into her pockets. “Particularly when you’ve robbed him blind at the card table and then flee before he has a chance to win it back.”

“Terrible show, I know. Maybe the Blind Lady will smile on you next time, sir. You played well.”

“But you played better.” He sighed. “Oh well, at least I did better than poor Malos – I’ll have to console myself with that.”

“And a glass slipper, sir, because now I really must run.”

With that she bowed again and strode to her waiting companion.

What a curious gentlewoman.

“Come along, Atesh,” Malos muttered, resuming his seat and passing a glass to Atesh, “enough mooning after Lady Sabia, it’s your turn to deal.”

* * *

“What’s wrong? You look flustered,” Derry whispered to Quin as they stepped into the hallway.

Flustered? Damn. She needed to calm down. Her cheeks were warm and her head was abuzz, as though she’d been spinning on the spot and had just stopped, giddy and laughing. Long breath. And another one. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly,” she replied.

“‘Exactly’? Hmm, why does that have me worried? I saw you speaking to the Pasha, so you’ve met him – properly, that is.” She glanced back. “And he was looking rather admiringly after you as you left. What happened?”

“Yes, I met him. But he” – Quin paused as a footman pulled the door to the ladies’ room open for them, accompanied by a burst of chatter from within – “he wasn’t what I expected.”

“Oh?”

“He …” How to explain? “He didn’t want an ornament.”

Derry’s brow screwed up at that, but she didn’t ask as they passed other women with their attendants, clouds of perfume, and curious ears. They entered the furthest of the private water closets. Quin locked the door and sighed. Away from sharp eyes at last.

“Quin, can you start making some sense, please?” Derry folded her arms, blue eyes boring into Quin.

“Not sure I can. He’s … fun.”

“'Fun'?” Derry watched her for a long while. “You two did look like you were locked in rather an intense card battle over that table. Weren’t you meant to be letting him win?”

So much for best laid plans. Mouth twisting, Quin nodded. “That was the plan, but all through that first hand, he was losing interest – backing off, barely looking at me.”

“Did you do the –”

“Look away for three trick? Yes. Nothing. He didn’t like it. I even got Malos to shuffle for me, pleading that I was no good at it.”

“Buggeration.” Derry rubbed her forehead. “So, what did you do?”

“What did he do would be a better question. It was the strangest thing. At the end of that first hand, he was reaching for his winnings and knocked my two discarded cards off the table. Derry, I swear he did it deliberately, because then he darted over to pick them up for me. He saw I’d thrown two kings.”

Derry’s eyes were wide.

“That’s not even the worst of it.” Quin shook her head, barely able to believe his actions. “Damn it, Derry – he challenged me!”

“To a duel?” A flicker of a smile betrayed Derry’s attempted straight face.

Quin rolled her eyes and explained the exchange about throwing the game.

“So that’s how you came away with such full pockets.” She held her hands out and raised her eyebrows. “Shoes.”

Quin rifled through the slits in her skirts and petticoats and pulled out a buttery-soft leather pair of shoes, one from each pocket.

They were made of white kid with a coating over the soles and toes. The substance came from a particular type of tree found far to the south. When Quin had heard of it, she had stopped at nothing to get some imported and incorporated into a commissioned pair of shoes. The layer of milky sap dried to create a flexible, durable barrier that gripped surfaces superbly.

She placed them in Derry’s hands.

“I take it you stopped playing helpless, then?” Derry asked. She examined the soles then looked up at Quin, one eyebrow raised. “And did it have the desired effect?”

Quin swallowed, grateful that Derry’s work swapping footwear took her piercing gaze away. “He loved it.” He wasn’t the only one. To display, to joke, to challenge and be challenged – it had been a heady combination. “He wasn’t easy to beat, mind. I was so focused, I lost track of time until you came.”

Derry peered up, narrowing her eyes as she placed Quin’s heeled shoes to one side. They clicked, hitting the floor tiles harder than necessary. “Focused, eh?”

“Indeed.”

“Blood hells, Quin, you need to be more careful,” she hissed.

“Careful? What –”

“It sounds a lot like you were, well, you. Not Lady Sabia, but Quinta Guldan.”

Quin flinched. “Don’t say that name.” She held her breath, straining her ears for the voices outside. Had they heard? But, no, they continued in their low hubbub of chatter. Thank the gods. “I’m not sure I had a choice.”

“And how, pray, did you come to that conclusion?” Derry’s blue eyes were even icier than ever.

“He was not the usual. I could feel his attention slipping from the usual show.” Shaking her head, Quin went on. “I should have known – the only other woman I’ve heard of him admiring with anything approaching romantic intent was no empty-headed highborn. Now if you’ve finished telling me off, we’ve got work to do.” She shook a stockinged foot at Derry, who sighed and slipped a white kid shoe onto it.

“I’m sorry,” Quin said, “I just –”

She couldn’t tell Derry she’d enjoyed it. This was meant to be work and it was work that risked their lives if it was ever discovered. And what about the people she was meant to help? What would they make of her – the real her – flirting with a Pasha? She shook her head, her stomach churning. She’d be sensible in future. She’d let Lady Sabia flirt and be more of a challenge, but she’d make sure it was Lady Sabia, not Quinta Guldan, the girl from the Gutter Streets.

“It’s just so much rides on this, Derry. So many people are depending on us and he wasn’t falling for the usual act.”

Derry tied the laces, not looking up.

“I was worried,” Quin said, voice soft. “If he didn’t want me, then this whole thing was a waste of time. We’d have risked bringing Livia back to Arianople for nothing. But earlier, that first moment I met his eyes, I had no doubts he was attracted to me.”

“Oh no,” Derry shook her head, “I never had any doubts on that count.”

Quin snorted half a laugh, most unladylike. “Well, I’m pleased you’re so bloody confident, but when he seemed so – so disappointed almost, I thought all was lost. I was still floundering about for the way to draw him in when he pressed me about the cards, so I decided to throw my dice and see where chance would take me.”

“Firstly, you’re mixing your games.” Derry looked up with a smirk. “And secondly, you take too many risks too often, Quin.”

“How else to keep the Blind Lady on side?” Quin flashed a reckless grin.

“And what happens when you leap and she’s looking elsewhere?”

Quin shrugged. “Luck hasn’t deserted me yet.” She wriggled her toes in the shoes now they were both secure. “And I’m sure she’ll keep me safe from such terrifying dangers as Pashas at card tables.”

Derry pursed her lips for a long while. “Flippant as always. Just – could you maybe try being a bit more careful for once, Quin? That man worries me.” She wore a small frown. “He’s not your usual Pasha – if he could tell you were throwing the game, what else could he see in you?”

With a snort, Quin waved away her concerns. “You have such an imagination, Derry. I have the Pasha’s attention now and that’s the important thing.”

Quin reached beneath a bow on her bodice and pulled a cord hidden there. The pocket hoops that widened her hips in the western style collapsed upon themselves – Quin hadn’t had the contraption long and still marvelled at the simple genius of the idea. “Would you look at that?”

“The butler certainly has out-done himself this time,” Derry remarked, tucking the hems of Quin’s skirts into their own pockets. It was true – Ariston, their mechanically-minded partner in crime, had created various devices over the years and each one seemed cleverer than the last.

“As always.” Quin opened the small frosted window that overlooked a courtyard garden. “You know what to do; I’ll not be longer than ten minutes – fifteen at most.” And with that, she clambered onto the windowsill and out into the night.

As she eased her fingers into a firm hold above, Quin thanked the Blind Lady that the fashion in Thanatolian architecture for the past century or two had been for intricate carving. Add the coated shoes to the equation and it halved the effort to climb from the bathroom window up to another window. The weight of her gown and awkwardness of the collapsed hoops were a slight hindrance, but she’d had many years of practice.

Within a few moments, she made the short leap from windowsill to balustrade, vaulted (with only a little clumsiness) over the barrier. Her muscles eased into movement – there was a pleasure in the pull, tension, then spring in her limbs that made Quin smile. To do, rather than think, that was better than puzzling over pashas and green eyes and trying to work out the unknowable thoughts going on behind them.

Catching her breath and shaking out the strain in her arms, Quin peered through the glazed balcony doors.

Still and dark.

She tested the handle.

Unlocked. Even better. Perhaps only quicker by the few seconds it would have taken her to pick the lock, but time was of the essence for a thief.

Without a sound, she moved through the luxuriously appointed bedroom, with its heavy drapes and thick carpet, and to the opposite door that would lead to the landing. She slipped her hand into her pocket, which proved a complex manoeuvre with the hoops collapsed, but after a brief fumble she managed to flick open the leather flap of the Card case.

Feeling her way through her Deck, she tested the prickly sensations of magic each Card gave off – the mysterious whisper of Lady Deception, the eager leap of the Fool, the dark stillness of the Moon, then a steady thread of focus. The Seer. Drawing it out, she knew without looking that the Card depicted a figure wearing a blindfold, walking through a labyrinth of pitfalls and traps.

With that Card in her left hand, Quin closed her eyes, pressing against the door. She slipped into the picture ingrained in her mind; the waves of magic throbbed, and beneath there was the sensation of something bigger, something unknown and unknowable. A thing of power, untamed and full of dangerous potential. It buzzed behind her eyes, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Some said the Cards were a way to pray to the gods themselves, ask a boon of them in return for adoration and offerings at shrines. Others believed the gods too busy to answer such trivial requests, instead they said the Cards let mere mortals tap the power of the gods’ servants, the djinn and the endless other spirit-beings that lived beyond human understanding and sight.

Whoever or whatever it was that answered the calls of humans with their Cards, Quin slipped into their current. At first it threatened to drag her away, but she stood firm, feet on the ground, that little reminder of the reality of her body, still outside the pull of magic, gods, or djinn. She had a good relationship – if it could be called that – with The Seer and so the flow was quick to settle into something calmer. She directed it, willing it to give her the strength of perception depicted on the Card. She focused it on her sense of hearing.

She listened. Nothing in the corridor. She moved to the right, to the dressing room entrance. No noise from there, either.

This must be a guest bedroom – there were no personal touches, like toiletries on the dark wood dressing table or a half-written letter by the bed. Not likely to be rich pickings here.

Quin nodded and returned to the door leading to the hall. Still no sound, except the distant music, stronger when she focused on it. The quiet click of the latch was like a crack of thunder. She licked her lips – it was just the Seer making it seem so loud – and pushed the door, slipping into the corridor.

No tell-tale creaking hinges. She blew out her relief. As careful as Quin was, every house had its hinges that needed oiling and after a nasty incident with a loose bottle-top, she had stopped carrying oil in her pockets when she was dressed as an aristo.

The corridor stretched in both directions, dimly lit by candelabrum. Most of the candles had been left dark. So, their host was trying to save money, was he? Perhaps his allowance from the Sultana wasn’t as generous as many claimed.

Left or right? She sunk back into the Seer’s smooth magic. The hum of a man’s voice.

She could bolt and be out on the balcony in moments, but a long breath kept her calm. Although it seemed close thanks to the magnification of sound, the voice came from across the hall and two doors down.

Quin should go about her business, albeit in particularly careful silence, but she would just pause by the door, see what was – ah, there, a woman’s voice, low and even. A secret rendezvous? That could prove useful. While affairs were common amongst the nobility, most didn’t admit to them or want their spouses to know. Information a person was desperate to keep secret could prove most useful indeed.

Quin padded across the hall.

“– it’s all arranged. Don’t you …”

Even with the Seer, she couldn’t quite catch that last part as his voice fell into a murmur.

She inched closer, placing each step on the thick carpet. Even that whispering footstep hissed loud in her ears.

“– take care of the matter once and for all.” The way he bit out the words had an air of finality. “She won’t get in our way anymore.”

Quin frowned. That sounded … No; she was as bad as Derry, letting her imagination run away with her. She strained to maintain concentration on Card and conversation. Already a headache was starting to throb behind her eyes.

“It will teach them for keeping us apart.” That was the woman, her voice hard and sharp as cut glass.

“It’ll teach them for looking down on you, my dear.” There was something familiar about his voice. Was that Erdem? This was his home, after all.

“Don’t worry yourself on that front, I’ll teach them all a lesson, once I’m at your side.”

Quin shouldn’t be here. She should be off in a dressing room stealing something small and expensive. Listening in on cruel people plotting was foolish. She shivered, imagining the unknown woman had a small smile that could freeze the Golden Horn, warm and salty as it was.

The finality in his voice, the talk of teaching people lessons … What were they planning? Perhaps he was married and they were going to get his wife out of their way, once and for all. That was what they’d said, once and for all.

Or it could be something much more innocent, like –

“And have you fixed the guest list?” the woman asked.

Guest list? You didn’t invite people to a murder. So, a party? But how did that mean they’d be together at last? An elopement, perhaps.

That made much more sense. Someone was keeping them apart – of course! If that was Erdem speaking, then as part of the royal family, however remote a part, he would need to ask the Sultana’s permission to marry. And if his intended was considered too low-born, the Sultana would look down on her.

“Of course, my dear,” he said. “It’s all taken care of.”

But the same applied to Atesh. To get his proposal, Quin would also need the Sultana’s approval. If the Sultana was angry that Erdem had eloped and married someone below his station …

Damn.

Biting her lip, Quin edged closer to the door.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Erdem went on, “I’ve missed you terribly.”

She bent down to peer in the keyhole. But all she could see were the emerald green pleats of a woman’s gown – Erdem’s would-be wife must have been standing just in front of the door.

“I just wish you didn’t have to hide like this.”

The woman showed no sign of moving and now she thought of it, Quin hadn’t heard the rustle of her gown throughout the conversation. No secret trysts. How proper. How boring.

“When you leave –”

“I know,” she said. “I’ll be careful. There are so many people here, one more lady won’t be noticed.”

Time for her to go, too – if the woman came out and found Quin in the corridor …

Quin backed away and checked a door across the corridor.

“But you can’t mean –”

A large bedroom – this time a book sat on the bedside table. There was a door at one end, probably leading to a dressing room.

“I said I’ll be careful. No one will notice. Don’t insult me with …”

The conversation disappeared as she clicked the door shut behind herself.

Quin held her breath, straining even harder to listen. Just the distant music and hum of the party and faint conversation, echoing her blossoming headache. They were out of ordinary earshot.

Could that conversation be useful? There was clearly an illicit relationship of some description happening here and likely an elopement. That dark turn her thoughts had initially taken seemed faintly ridiculous now.

But if that was Erdem and he was planning an elopement, it could have consequences for Quin and her plans for Atesh.

She pursed her lips as she listened at the door leading off the bedroom. Nothing. Creeping in, she pulled her focus back from the Seer, but kept the Card in her hand. This room was smaller than the bedroom, but full of cabinets, a gold velvet settee, and a huge mirror, its frame almost a foot wide. She didn’t have Erdem down as being so vain.

On a low sideboard, sat an ornate cabinet decorated in an interlacing design of gilt lines. They formed stars, pentagons, triangles, and irregular shapes Quin didn’t know the names of.

Perfect. She smiled and started toward it.

It was the work of moments to pick the lock – it was only a three pin. Twist the tension wrench (disguised as a hair clip), press the lock’s pins with her pick (another hair grip), and in an impetuous instant she flung the door open, revealing so much glimmer and glitter. These must be jewels for his lady: there were women’s pieces mixed in with the men’s.

If Erdem ruined her plans …

She scowled, a pearl pin in her hand. She’d need to keep an eye on him. Perhaps the lady he was pursuing wasn’t so lowly – there might be hope to bring her out into society and improve her position before they eloped. Or maybe Erdem could be put off from running off with her, if she really was beyond redemption in the Sultana’s eyes.

She needed to find out who the woman in question was, then perhaps she could help or hinder their plans, or at least delay them until after she had Atesh’s proposal. Hopefully the woman’s position could be improved – Quin would rather help her than get on her wrong side. She had sounded as cold and hard as the diamond necklace glittering in the jewellery cabinet.

Quin sighed. Complications. That wasn’t what she needed – she had work to do.

She shook her head and sorted through the spoils.

3

A Thief’s Duty

The party had given Quin a good haul: thirty zeri (legally gained) from the gaming table, two pocket watches, some small, nondescript gold items, and a faux pearl necklace that looked identical to a hundred others in the city – hard to identify, hard to prove as stolen. Before she could rid herself of that loot and some from a ball the previous night, though, she had a more personal task.

A few days after the party, she left her town house in their rented brougham – a convincing equipage for a visiting aristocrat keen to travel through the city and see its sights while retaining the privacy afforded by its closed top and curtained windows. Derry stayed behind to help Mrs Tepe piece together some dinner from the pantry’s slim pickings.

Ariston held out his hand to help her into the carriage, his greying hair and long, straight nose lending a distinguished air to the plain driver’s uniform. The small scar that ran along his left jaw had almost melted with time into the fine lines that etched across his face. Nestled within his close-trimmed beard, it lent him an air of mystery.

Quin smirked. Mystery, that is, as long as the observer didn’t know he claimed the scar actually came from tripping over a piece of equipment in his workshop: it didn’t quite match up to fancies about highwaymen or pirates. Not that he hadn’t fought more than his fair share of duels, albeit a long time ago, it was just that he was too good to end up with such an injury.

Ariston’s hazel eyes narrowed. He knew she was mocking him, even if it was only in her thoughts. She winked, closing the door behind her, and motioning for him to get into the driver’s seat. With a sigh, he obliged.

As they left Neorion Square, she was sure to be seen giving a neighbour a genteel wave.

A short ride took Lady Quinta Sabia to the tended slopes of Valens Park in the shadow of the ancient aqueduct. Quin was sure her scarlet plumed hat and red linen walking gown would be spotted as she waved Ariston off and started on a turn around the park to enjoy the morning breeze. Dozens of other gentlemen and women were already here or just arriving, so Quin blended into the throng.

Her fingers twitched with impatience, but she forced herself to smile and greet those she knew and maintain the appropriate promenading speed. The route she took past the fountains and beneath the aqueduct might have appeared pleasantly meandering to the casual observer, but it took her steadily westwards and out of the park.

A few minutes later she arrived at a reputable coffee shop – exactly the sort of place a gentlewoman might stop for a sweet cup of chocolate and a nargile pipe.

The wide windows gave its patrons a view of passers-by and the park over the road. Within, the walnut wood panelling made the room cosy in winter, but today it was claustrophobic. The darkness would be a relief once the sun’s full force hit towards noon, but for now it was like a cave. The sensation of being trapped inside made Quin hurry through, head ducked, the early pipe-smokers sparing but a glance as they exhaled fragrant clouds of cinnamon and orange.

Quin slipped through a door at the back of the shop, past the bathroom and trotted up three flights of stairs, arriving puffing at the attic.

A quiet knock. She waited, catching her breath. No answer. The girls who slept in here must all have been busy working downstairs, melting chocolate, brewing coffee, and lighting charcoal in the nargile.

Quin entered. It wasn’t much of a bedroom – there were four narrow beds, each with a plain table next to it and a chest at its foot. The ceiling sloped low overhead – a tall person would easily bump their head, but Quin only had to duck when she reached the table by the furthest bed. She lifted the brass lamp there and placed a kurush on the rough wood. The silver coin glinted in the dim daylight straining to enter the small window.

Hopefully the girl would spend it on a treat for herself, perhaps a few precious cups of the hot chocolate she served. Maybe she’d just save it for some desperate day. Quin replaced the lamp, hiding the coin.

From under the bed, she pulled an oak chest – it was shallow and wide, unlike the ones that stood at the ends of the beds, and this one bore a much more complex lock. In a moment she’d unlocked it with a key from her chatelaine and was shaking out the wrinkles from its contents: a messenger’s sandy-coloured coat and trousers.

Within ten minutes Quin had changed and pulled on the black leather boots from the bottom of the chest. She spent a few minutes more folding the scarlet gown she’d arrived in and arranging the stiff stays so they wouldn’t be crushed when she lowered the lid of the box. It wouldn’t do to damage the stays that laced Lady Sabia into such a fashionable shape, all heaving bust and small waist.

There! She topped off the disguise with a tricorne hat. No one would ever dream this was the fine lady who’d just entered the coffee shop. She hid the chest and her plumed hat under the bed and made her way downstairs. This time she slipped out the back door, flicking a nod at the yellow-jacketed waitress she passed.

Stepping out into the light, Quin frowned. Here even the alleys behind the buildings were wide – this was certainly not the Gutter Streets. Come noon, sunlight would touch these cobblestones. Northwest, in the Gutter Streets, the buildings overhung such narrow alleyways that certain lanes lived in a perpetual twilight.

That she knew exactly which lanes stayed dark was why she needed to do all this. No gentlewoman should be so familiar with the Gutter Streets. But Quin was no gentlewoman. Not really.

She looked northwest, not able to see any sign of the Gutter Streets, but it was there and it was where she’d been born, where she’d grown up, and where she’d eventually escaped from. Well, almost.

The careful planning, the change of costume, the rented chest hidden in a waitress’s bedroom – they were the vital tools that kept these two worlds separate. If anyone made the connection between Lady Sabia and the girl from the Gutter Streets, she’d be ruined. If they discovered quite how she financed the illusion of the Contessa, she’d be hanged.

And all that made today’s task particularly risky.

Squaring her shoulders, Quin pulled the black tricorne hat low and strode round to the road.

Two doors down from the coffee house stood an inn with a dozen sabrecats for hire tethered outside. Hira was hidden amongst them, left by Ariston while Quin had been in the park. She could have hired a cat, but she and the silver tabby knew each other. They would be safer together out on the roads beyond the city limits. Who knew how a strange sabrecat would react to wild creatures or highwaymen?

As they rode northwards, Hira’s coat gleamed in the morning sun, pale grey stripes glinting like silver and steel. The messenger disguise allowed them a swifter pace than would have been considered polite for a lady, and Quin was only too happy to let the sabrecat outpace the others on the road.

They kept to the main streets, taking advantage of their width to pass barouches carrying silk-clad ladies and carts loaded with crates of goods, no doubt destined for the docks.

The closer they came to the coast, the fewer barouches and phaetons swept past in the wake of sabrecats and the stronger the smells became. Hira sniffed the air, giving an inquisitive chirrup. Fish. Of course. Quin twitched her nose at the brine scent, the trace of rotting seaweed wafted beneath, faintly sulphurous and metallic somehow.

Slippery, silty mud up to her knees. Covering her hands. Sifting through, hoping to find something, anything to sell.

That was where the sea took her every time. It might have been over a decade since she’d last mudlarked, but just a whiff of sea air could pull her straight back. Aminda’s face – as it had been when they were children, smooth and pretty, tanned deeper by the sun, always with that faint frown – rose clear in her mind.

They turned out onto the Platea Bridge, running northeast across the Golden Horn. Quin glanced east and for a moment had to cover her eyes against the fierce reflection of the morning sun on the water.

She sighed out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. That was then. A long time ago. A different lifetime. A different Quin. Dwelling on it wouldn’t change it or bring poor Aminda back. It wouldn’t bring her mother back, either. Trying to do so was like trying to cling to seashore mud – the tighter she held, the faster it slipped between her fingers.

The bridge was quiet, so Quin urged Hira faster and within minutes they’d sped past the bridge and into Galata, the small city district that stood here on the north shore. It had grown since she’d last lived in Arianople four years ago and it still surprised her that they took five minutes to ride through what had in her childhood been a huddle of wooden shacks.

From the range of languages she caught snatches of, Quin guessed that Galata was now home to many foreigners newly arrived and building businesses to take advantage of the eastern trade routes and status of Arianople as the gateway to Europa. Judging by the amount of wooden structures that had been replaced with stone already, trade was good.

Quin’s mouth twisted – it was ironic that the Sultana kept foreigners without titles out of the city proper when Arianople was descended from immigrants. A family who’d arrived a decade ago was apparently entirely different from one whose great-great-greats had entered the city gates two centuries earlier at Arianne Sultana’s invitation.

At last, even the newest timber buildings on Galata’s northern limits faded behind, and Quin was forced to frown against the road-dust. She wiped grime from her forehead and pulled a scarf up over her nose to keep her lungs clear. Now she was away from society, she could unbutton the messenger jacket to try to cool down.

Squinting against the sun, she could make out the whisper of purple across the sea to the east – mountains that from here were a slither against the horizon. The road ahead forged into the forest, slender oaks rising either side, and Quin rode on, skirting the trees for their shade.

Soon after, Hira slowed, ears flicking. What had she heard? Quin scanned the road ahead, the edges of the forest – nothing, but Hira’s ears were flat now.

In the city, there were muggers and murderers to worry about, but beyond Arianople roamed forest elephants, giant sloths, prides of wild sabrecats, and worse ...

Her hand fell to the sabre attached to the saddle. Its leather-bound handle was a reassuring weight and Hira’s powerful muscles a further comfort.

The Sultana’s hunters, a specialist orta of janissaries, regularly swept the lands close to the city walls, keeping the most dangerous animals at bay, but they couldn’t prevent every incursion.

Hira had drawn to a halt, attention fixed on a spot ahead and to the right. Quin held her breath, loosening the reins – if Hira thought it best to run, she’d let her.

A rustling in the trees, then a wedge-shaped head appeared, huge and covered in brown fur. It was as tall as an elephant. Hira backed away a few careful paces but remained silent.

The shaggy creature kept coming – stocky front legs, thick as tree-trunks. Slow, heavy steps. Claws so long, the animal had to walk on the sides of its feet.

The bulk of its body next, like the hull of a small ship. Small bark-brown eyes glinted as it regarded Quin and Hira.

The sabrecat stood tense. Quin swallowed. It was a ground sloth – she’d heard of them, but never seen one in the flesh before. They weren’t known for attacking people, but if they were protecting young or felt threatened, their sheer size could prove deadly.

The great head swung away from Quin and Hira and the sloth continued its way across the road, back legs and thick, muscular tail finally coming into view. The thing must have measured at least twenty feet end to end.

A few minutes longer and it was gone, rustling off into the forest.

Quin let out a shaking breath and patted Hira’s shoulder. Apparently, they rode horses into battle in some other countries. It was preposterous, but Derry assured her it was true.

Quin had seen horses. They’d be no use in a fight – they’d panic, try to flee, or freeze in snorting terror. True, they were fast, but they couldn’t fight back, not like a sabrecat. Patting Hira again, Quin clicked her tongue and gave a brief squeeze of her legs. Onward.

After three quarters of an hour, they took a path rising further into the foothills; at last a breeze breathed through her shirt from the sea. Above rose a beige stone building – all tall walls and thick doors that invited no visitors. Those oaken doors banded with iron were her destination.

As she approached the sprawling stone fortress, the birdsong and breeze of the road were pierced by a wail. A second sounded from one of the narrow, barred windows and she looked away, taking a deep breath.

It wasn’t as though there was a choice to leave her here. Not really.

Without a word, a middle-aged man admitted Quin through a wicket door: the warden recognised her from the last visit. A young girl led Hira away into a leafy courtyard while Quin and her guide plunged into the cool darkness of corridors.

At last, he broke the silence in a voice that started hoarsely, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long while: “She’s been well since your last visit.”

They crossed an intersection – from the right came those wails Quin had heard outside.

“I think you calm her,” he went on. “You should visit more often.”

She flinched but was quick to smooth away the reaction. She told herself the same thing every day. Their previous con had been in Ravenna. Their best asylum had been in the city proper, easier to reach and sneak into, so she’d visited far more frequently.

But there were no asylums in Arianople’s city limits, as if the sane feared lunacy was catching. So Quin had to risk the longer journey and being spotted leaving and returning to the city. Because, what good reason could a gentlewoman have for visiting an asylum?

The warden threw Quin a glance, his dark eyes unreadable, but flicking to her messenger uniform. “What did you say you do, again?”

“I didn’t, warden.” Quin handed the man a pouch of coins. “I pay such high rates for the sake of silence, particularly yours.” Inwardly, she grimaced at her own condescension, but, she reminded herself, it was an unfortunate necessity. Always play the part and this part could show no weakness. What must the warden make of this dusty woman wearing a messenger’s clothes while speaking with the authority of the Sultana herself? “I trust you are maintaining the level of care afforded by such fees?”

“Of course, madam,” the warden bowed his head. “But, since you brought up our rates, I have to tell you they’ve increased.”

“Increased?” The word plummeted through her, dragging her heart with it. “By how much?”

“Double.” He hefted the pouch she’d given him. “So, I’d say you’re short.”

“Double?” Her mind raced, how could she find another four zeri every week? A housemaid only earned seven in a year. What could she fence this week’s gains for? The money from the gaming tables covered two weeks’ rent. And then she’d still need to put food on their table, and the whole point of her work was to help the Gutter Streets, so she needed money left over for them, and there was still the rest of the house to run …

“Her food is the finest,” the warden said, interrupting her thoughts, “brought from the city particularly for her, and she is washed daily as you requested.” He straightened the corded belt that cinched his shapeless homespun robe. “She has even been well enough to feed and bathe herself with minimal assistance on occasion.”

Just those few words sent Quin’s heart skipping for a moment, despite the rise in fees. “What – truly?” She grasped the warden’s sleeve.

“Truly, madam.” His smile was warm – Quin’s firm words forgotten or interpreted as concern.

Quin looked away, hiding the glistening of her eyes. “Then” – she paused, steadying her voice – “then I’ll make sure you get the rest.”

Somehow.

“We’ll need it by the end of the week.”

She nodded as they stopped before another reinforced oak door, this one with a small viewing hatch. Quin took a deep breath, exhaling slowly while the warden jangled through his keys.

She’d work it out. She had to. Here and now, that was what was important in this moment. Money worries would still be there later.

He unlocked the door and swung it open, a yawning portal into a dark world. Fists clenched, Quin steeled herself and strode in.

The curtain was closed across the single window, but it was easy to spot the ghostly figure, starved of sun and wearing a white dress, sitting on a narrow bed in the corner of the cell.

She was looking at the wall, so her face was in profile, but even so, the ravaging of her beauty was clear. Old scabs and scars pinched at her expression, leaving pale lumps and marks on the earthy brown of her skin. Even so, with her large amber eyes, strong jaw and full lips she was still Quin’s striking mother beneath all that.

Livia Guldan – the envied rose of the harem, that’s who she’d been a long time ago. She was still there somewhere, a little clearer when the light hit her cheekbones like that.

Some instinctive part of Quin recoiled from the obvious signs of disease and disfigurement, and she hated herself for it, but all she showed was a smile.

“It’s Quin, I’ve come to see you, as I promised.” Her voice was seeking and soft to avoid surprising or agitating her.

There was no response even as she approached. The linen dress her mother wore was simple yet clean, as were the bandages on her sores. Good, they were being true to their assurances of excellent care.

Quin sat next to her and smoothed a lock of greying hair from her temple. It wasn’t the latest style as she would have worn long ago, but her hair was neatly clasped in a white ribbon at the nape of her neck.

“Do you need anything else, madam?” asked the warden from the doorway.

“Oh.” Quin jumped – she had forgotten they had company. “No thank you, we’ll be quite all right.”

“Very well – oh goodness, boy, don’t sneak up on me like that!” He clutched his chest and frowned at someone out of sight. There was a murmured response that Quin didn’t catch. “Is it that time already?” The warden shook his head. “Madam? I hadn’t realised, but it’s time for luncheon. Perhaps you’d like to join me for a simple meal while your mother is fed, then we could take her on a turn around the courtyard?”

“Thank you, but I’d like to feed her myself, if that’s permitted?” She inflected her voice with just the right amount of firmness.

Always play the part. A lady was gracious but would not be denied.

“Very well.” The warden betrayed no feeling in his expression. “I’ll have some food brought here for you – you must be hungry after your journey.”

“That would be very kind of you, warden. A walk would be lovely after we’ve eaten.”

“As you wish, madam, I’ll have someone fetch you in an hour.” He stepped to one side to allow a young man to bustle in with a tray.

“Thank you.”

The nurse busied himself with setting the tray on a stand next to Quin and tying a large white napkin around her mother’s shoulders. “There you go, madam.” He smiled, smoothing the well-worn fabric. “I must say you look quite charming today,” he said, placing another serviette on her lap. “I hope you’ll behave with your guest, not like the last one, eh? I suspect he wo –”

“Come along, boy,” said the warden, with a placid smile. “Madam doesn’t need to hear about –”

“I know he’s been,” Quin said, nodding at the low table next to the bed. Standing on it was a three-inch-tall tin model of a man with a sword, all painted in gold and black. She didn’t need to turn the dial on the back to know it would make the tin man wave his sword. Ariston didn’t need to visit her mother, but he still did. Why he insisted on keeping it secret was a different matter – how could he think Quin hadn’t realised? Who else would make such an automaton and leave it here?

“Sorry, sir, madam,” the nurse said, shooting upright. He bowed to the women before making a hasty exit.

Quin began the difficult task of turning her mother away from the wall – her muscles were stiff today and required much massage and cajoling.

“That’s it, Mum, time for lunch,” she said as she eventually succeeded, forcing herself to call her Mum. She’d been Livia to Quin for a long while – it made it easier. “Much better – I can see you properly now.” She smiled and took off her tricorn hat. “Besides, wouldn’t you rather look at your ‘little one’ than a stone wall?” This time Quin’s smile was tight – she suspected her mother didn’t notice a difference either way.

Turning to the tray, Quin saw that it was a simple thing made from oak and covered with yet more white linen. The bowl of stew steamed; it had been cooked so slowly its contents fell apart under the spoon. It was simple fare, but smelled of sweet lamb and rosemary and, as Quin’s stomach reminded her, she’d only nibbled a heel of bread that morning. Hopefully the nurse would hurry back with her serving.

It took a couple of attempts before her mother began to cooperate and open her mouth, chew, and swallow at the right times. After a few spoons, a change came over her and rather than staring passively before her, she watched the spoon move and scoop and rise to her mouth and bent forward to meet it.

A thrill shot up Quin’s spine as she went on with her work. “Good, Mum, good,” she cooed. “I’ve brought cards for us to play after we eat.” She deposited another mouthful which her mother chewed a couple of times. “You remember – we used to play all the time. You remember, don’t you?”

Her mother swallowed. “Yes, cards – I remember playing,” she said, frowning. “And I know full-well I’m Livia Guldan, but I’m puzzled.”

Quin winced and checked the open doorway. No one there. No noise either. Thank the Hundred no one had heard that name. Livia Guldan had been banished with the rest of the harem on the Night of the Innocents and to be her daughter …

Well, her daughter was a bastard and wouldn’t be invited to any social engagement of even minor importance, never mind a party hosted by the Sultana’s favourite. Her daughter wouldn’t be allowed in the presence of a Pasha – she certainly couldn’t entertain thoughts of a proposal from one.

And even if no one made the connection between the woman sitting before Quin and the harem, just the fact Lady Sabia had a relative in an asylum with such a terrible disease would be enough to ostracise her from society, humiliated, and force her to leave the city, con over, Gutter Streets failed.

Quin swallowed.

Her mother’s brow was still furrowed in confusion. “And what’s puzzling you?” Quin asked.

“Why do you call me ‘Mum’?”

“Because – Mum, it’s me, Quin.” She smiled in a tenuous way that could see her expression break at a single word. “Your daughter, Quinta Guldan?”

“Are you quite sure you have the right person, dear?” Her mother raised an eyebrow. “They’re all gone. Prima saw to that when they were tiny.” She frowned and crossed her arms, hugging herself, eyes turning distant.

She was back in the harem, Quin was sure. She’d never got the full story from her mother before her mind had fallen apart, but there were times like this when she said things Quin didn’t want to hear, things that suggested Prima hadn’t been the mother to the sole surviving heirs of the previous Sultan purely by accident.

Quinta was a name usually given to the fifth child, after all.

Livia’s voice broke through Quin’s thoughts: “Are you sure you’re not someone else?”

The smile Quin was barely clinging onto shattered. Biting her lip, she held back the sob that threatened at the back of her throat. Her mother, her beautiful, clever mother had become this. The woman who had captured a Sultan’s heart, masterminded a whole continent of cons, and taught Quin so much was gone. Instead her body was host to someone else. A person who barely remembered how to speak on a bad day and who didn’t always remember her own daughter on a good one.

Then again, perhaps Quin was someone else – it was hard to tell with so many secrets and such colossal lies that came one after another.

If her own mother couldn’t remember her, then maybe she was someone else, not Quinta Guldan, maybe not even Quinta Sabia or Bucca or Numerius or Devora or any of the other names she’d assumed over the years. Could she be sure what was real in all the lies? Did she care?

To the gods with it all – let them decide. Quin put down the empty bowl and laughed, sounding as though she should have her own cell there at the Rumelihisari Asylum.

Her mother’s hands shook as she dealt their cards.

* * *

Some hours later Quin rode back into Arianople, completing her messenger disguise with the delivery of a letter to an inn. She left Hira outside the park that acted as a buffer between the Gutter Streets and the rest of the city, went into the district on foot, and doubled back on herself.

When she was satisfied no one was following her, she ducked through a low door into a small, spare room with two women bent over work by the empty fireplace.

One glanced up at Quin’s entrance and nodded before returning to her work, needle glinting as it dipped in and out of the linen cloth. “Interesting outfit, as per usual,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“If you ask me, she looks like a strumpet in those mannish clothes, Oria,” said the older one. Her eyes never left her thread and her hands were never still.

“No one did ask you, so hush up.”

“Hmpf! I was just saying.”

After giving Oria an apologetic shrug, Quin went to a chest beneath the staircase and rifled through it, kicking off the messenger’s boots and ‘mannish clothes’ before stashing them inside.

She pulled on a simple black dress that could have been one of Oria’s cast-offs. Careful not to send the stuff billowing into the room, she sunk her hands into the ash in the fireplace and dusted it through her hair. A light pat of it on her face gave her skin a grey cast that practice told her made her look older. With a severe white neckerchief covering her from bust to throat and a wide-brimmed hat low over her brow, she looked at a glance like a woman in her 30s who’d had a hard life.

Oria gave her another glance. “Rather more respectable.”

“That’s not hard,” muttered her companion, but she was quick enough to hold out her hand for the coins Quin gave them. She bit into one and grunted her approval.

“A pleasure as always, ladies,” Quin said with a wink that made Oria bubble with laughter.

Mrs Haradee left the house through the front entrance, though no one had seen her enter. Quin had invented this character as having delusions of grandeur and even as she milled about a bazaar she sniffed and scorned over every item on display. Eventually, she bought flat bread that smelled of herbs, a pot of honey, and a cured joint of boar, haggling all the way.

Strolling out of a narrow lane of stalls she hissed a curse and backed up, pressing herself against a display of curled-toed shoes. The shopkeeper tried to shoo her away, but she silenced him with a scowl.

No. It couldn’t be.

She huffed out a breath. She’d seen Atesh. Wait, when had she started thinking of him as Atesh, rather than the Pasha? She shook her head – irrelevant. Besides, she was mistaken, had to be – he would never be in the Gutter Streets.

That card game had been too intense, all the eye contact and flirtatious chatter had addled her brain temporarily and now she was imagining him.

Swallowing, she peeked around the corner. There was no one by the stall where she thought she’d seen him. Must have been someone who looked like him. Vaguely.

How ridiculous – what would he be doing at a market stall on the edge of the Gutter Streets? Picking up his supper? Indeed!

“Bloody hells, now I’m imagining him,” she said and snorted at herself. The shoe-seller watched her out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, as if you don’t speak to yourself sometimes.”

It was fine, she hadn’t seen Atesh.

Even so, she glanced up and down the bazaar then slipped back down the lane, choosing a different route.

Eventually, with no signs of imaginary or real pashas, she wandered down a quiet alley at the south end of the bazaar and up a narrow staircase. She unlocked the door and with a grimace of disdain, Mrs Haradee entered.

This time, Quin’s contact wasn’t at home, no doubt working. Quin shook out as much ash from her hair as she could and coiled it up under a plain cap. She swapped the neckerchief for a wide collar and added a scrub of dirt to her face. Now, she took on the appearance of a modest Gutter Street girl, shabby basket in hand, eyes on the ground. She set off again, skirting the fringes of the Gutter Streets. Along the way she left the basket full of Mrs Haradee’s food on the doorstep of a house where a large family of unlucky pickpockets lived.

A final costume change back in the attic of the coffee shop took Lady Quinta Sabia to the tended slopes of Valens Park and the carriage awaiting its fine lady. She nodded at Ariston. He had collected Hira who was at the front of the brougham paired with another sabrecat.

Quin’s scarlet plumed hat disappeared inside the brougham. She rattled the curtains closed.

“Home, Ariston,” she called, rapping on the ceiling. With a sigh, she collapsed against the padded seat, sinking her fingers into the red velvet. Another day’s show done.

4

The Night Shift

In the night, the rooms seemed formed from silver and shadow.

Derry shivered. She was still not entirely used to being in eastern buildings with their plastered smooth walls, ornate mouldings, and wood panels. The fashion for all things western meant that while the ceiling was covered with the usual girih tiles decorated with blue and white interlacing lines, they had been overlaid at the centre and corners with plaster shaped in shell curves. Like the plaster mouldings, the lines of the modern chandeliers swept gracefully, but she was left with an overwhelming impression of straightness and perfectly calculated angles, which were ideas alien to her.

Home, in the north, the walls were hewn of timber or patted into a wattle and daub finish, never sleek and flat. The roofs were hefted by huge wooded pillars, covered in carvings of sinuous, knotted designs. Light came from torches, the hearth, and occasional tiny windows that could be shuttered closed, not so very many candles with wicks that had to be kept trimmed and tidy. There, the longhouses were large and low, but they didn’t seem quite so big and quite so claustrophobic as the buildings here managed to.

She shuddered and continued her passage from one room to the next, her night’s earnings – a box of coins – tucked safely in her belt. Tonight’s venture was one for her alone – she’d come out to break into the house of an agha they’d heard some interesting gossip about. A few questions in the right ears and it had been confirmed: he was taking payments from landlords to collect rent in areas of the Gutter Streets where most rent-collectors wouldn’t set foot. Even better, he had his janissaries (because of course he wouldn’t dirty his boots by going himself) threaten the renters into handing over more money or, if they had none, whatever they could offer. And if nothing was offered, the janissaries took whatever they fancied.

Derry scowled. She’d spoken to some of the women and men they’d fancied. The least she could do was return their money and perhaps a bit more, by the weight of the box. She squeezed it. At least the agha wouldn’t have it.

At last Derry came to the door that led to a room with an open window, which awaited her escape. She reached for the handle but paused at the voices coming from behind the door. Yellow candle light seeped through the crack beneath it. She mouthed a curse.

“Come along,” a man said, “there’s no use suddenly getting coy on me.”

“But Deniz,” a woman responded, “are you completely sure no one will find us here?”

“Look you little strumpet, I’ve told you they’re all sound asleep at the other end of the house!”

Derry sighed at his loss of patience.

“If you don’t get on with it, I’ll tell our dear masters that you’ve been filching the silver and you’ll be out of here soon enough.”

“Deniz! How could you say that?” There was a pause and when she spoke again the woman’s voice was shriller. “I don’t believe you, you wouldn’t do that. I’d – I’d tell them what you’ve been doing. The butler and the maid – you’d never work again!”

“And neither would you, Mar.” In contrast, he almost sounded bored.

“You’re a beast, you are – a beast!” The maid started to sob and the butler made comforting noises.

“There, there ... Come on now ... It doesn’t have to come to that, you know. Let’s just have our usual fun and I promise no one will find us and I won’t tell a soul.”

“Really?” There was a wet snuffle. “You – you promise?”

Derry shook her head and turned away in disgust – both at the conversation itself and at the fact that it was blocking her exit.

Posing as Quin’s lady’s companion was no bad thing. However, the orphaned ‘aristocrat’ rather overshadowed her drab companion and any attention Derry did get was often thanks only to her ‘exotic’ looks. A northern or western woman with her white skin and light hair was something of a fetish for some nobles, a trophy for others, and Derry didn’t intend to be anything of the sort. She certain wouldn’t be starting an affair with a servant. The only other people they came into contact with were in the Gutter Streets and that simply wasn’t worth the risk of scandal.

So romance was firmly off the table.

Whatever was going to happen beyond the door, it sounded as if it would last a while, so Derry would have to find a different way out.

Retracing her steps, she tried each room off the hallway, but in one the windows were firmly locked and she would rather not risk the noise of rusty locks. Another faced a long drop to the cobbles below. The next overlooked a low roof below that she could jump to, but the windows seemed to be painted shut. Other rooms were too close to the sleeping masters of the house to dare attempt.

Deep breaths.

She had to stay calm. There were footmen and maids still awake downstairs. If she didn’t find an escape route, she would have to try to sneak past them and out the front door. There could be janissaries or guards out on the street. She shuddered.

That wasn’t an option. Capture was not an option.

Derry found herself again looking over the low roof. She took more time to examine each of the windows but, alas, her first appraisal had been correct – they couldn’t be opened. She scratched at the paint, frowning at it in the moonlight. It didn’t budge.

“A bit stuck, are we?”

Derry almost leapt out of her skin at the woman’s voice. She spun round.

A tall young woman watched her, though Derry had to look twice to be sure it was a woman – she was dressed in a man’s suit that had clearly been altered to fit a female figure, nipping in at the waist. Her refined features were hard to place – her colouring, with olive complexion and a reddish gleam to her dark hair, suggested the central region of the Inland Sea, but her eyes were so dark they looked almost black. She had a smile on her pouty lips and a hand in her breast pocket – the consummate gentleman’s pose. Then Derry spotted the slender sword at her side.

Her throat clenched tight; she was going to be sick. No. Deep breaths.

This woman was clearly an aristo – her fine silk stockings and red-heeled shoes were testament to that – but Derry knew she wasn’t the owner of the house. There was something about her she almost recognised – perhaps she had seen her at a ball.

Gods, she’d better not recognise me. Derry fingered the dark wig she wore. It was still in place.

“Could you do with a hand?” The woman drew a flat silver box from her pocket, not taking her eyes from Derry. The movement made a small pin glitter yellow and black. A bee? “I understand the windows in this room are a bit stiff.” With a casual air of grace that Derry knew came from a gentlewoman’s lifetime of practice, she took a slim cigarette from the box and placed it between her lips. A cigarette – that marked her out as having some foreign influence, even though her accent was Thanatolian. Here they tended to smoke nargile pipes. “I say, you do talk, don’t you, my dear?”

Derry nodded, mute. What else could she do? Part of her was simply speechless while the rest of her decided to go along with that part, thinking it better not to say anything to incriminate herself further. If that was possible.

“Of course!” The woman tapped her forehead. “I haven’t introduced myself – how rude of me! A young lady cannot be expected to make conversation with someone she hasn’t been introduced to.” She took a few steps forward and bowed. “Tacita di Vespa. At your most humble service.” Di Vespa. A wasp pin, then, not a bee. And the name was from Italia, hence the foreign cigarette-smoking habit.

Her smile, Derry thought as she bowed in return, was most disarming. “Madam, it’s I who am at your service.” Perhaps this Tacita thought Derry a servant prowling around the house when she shouldn’t be. That was better than a thief. She eyed the sword at the gentlewoman’s side “What would you have me do, madam?”

That brought an unmistakable smirk to Tacita’s face, momentarily illuminated in the flare of a match as she lit her cigarette. “What I would have you do, my dear? Perhaps you ought not to ask.” She abruptly cleared her throat and her manner changed, losing any sense of danger or intent in an instant. “Please set your mind at rest, my footpad friend, I merely wish to speak to you and help you escape the corner you find yourself in.” In two strides she was by a low settee covered in teal brocade. She eased into the seat, leaning back and crossing her ankle over her knee like a gentleman among old friends. “Won’t you join me?” she asked, patting the spot beside her.

Footpad. So, she knew Derry was a thief. She also knew at least some cant to use that word. But she was obviously a noblewoman.

What a puzzle.

Perhaps she was like Quin. Derry had often considered that there might be others like their little crew: people who pretended to be gentlefolk in order to get close enough to steal from them and appear above suspicion. After all, what would a lady with a gold watch chain need to steal anyone else’s for?

With caution, Derry moved closer. She watched Tacita watching her. She seemed to be enjoying their strange meeting and showed no signs of hidden motives or ambush: she appeared quite relaxed, one hand rested on the back of the settee, the other on her knee, both far from her sword. It would have been difficult to draw while seated, anyway.

That should have been comforting, but it made Derry want to flee.

On the other hand, Tacita’s smile drew her closer. Derry took a seat at the far end of the settee.

“Thank you, madam,” she murmured. Fighting the urge to fidget in this strange situation, Derry placed her hands on her lap. They stood out against the grey of her breeches.

“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here?” Tacita smiled brightly.

That made Derry’s eyebrows shoot up. “Surely it’s you who should be wondering what I’m doing here.” Her heart was still hammering: it felt as if it were somewhere in her throat. She’d never been caught before, but the plan for that eventuality was to pretend to be a servant – many nobles barely paid attention to their servants’ faces and even those who did wouldn’t question the presence of a new maid claiming she was there for a trial, thanks to her friend Ozlem’s recommendation.

There was always an Ozlem.

The laugh that came was that of a consummate gentlewoman – breezy and frivolous but with the edge of restraint that reminded everyone of her superiority.

“I think it’s quite clear what you’re at.” She turned the cigarette box over, long fingers caressing the engraved silver, but eyes on Derry all the while. “Truth be told, I was bored and unable to sleep – I’m rather more alert than my hosts who retired some hours ago.” She leant back, dropping the box on the seat between them. “I was trying to decide whether it was too late to attend the Watergardens – I hear there’s a masquerade there this evening. I had decided that it was too ghastly a concept to arrive unaccompanied when I heard you scrabbling about.” She glanced at the window she had been investigating. “Surely you are a gift from the gods if ever I saw one.” Derry caught scent of ginger and sandalwood as Tacita leant forward, eyes intent. “I shan’t be happy until you join me there. Won’t you indulge a young lady’s whim?”

Yes. She nearly said it, too, but luckily her mouth was too dry for rash words. Derry’s gaze followed Tacita’s to the window as she wondered if she truly had a choice.

“Come now, my dear, it’s a masquerade, so you won’t look out of place in your night prowler getup.” Moonlight glinted on her teeth as she grinned. “Just think what sport it would be to masquerade as a sneak thief with no one to know that it was in fact the truth!” A throaty chuckle escaped her lips, more genuine than the gentlewoman’s laugh from a moment ago.

“No one except you, madam.” Derry licked her dry lips, but it didn’t seem to improve the situation. Her stomach threatened to return everything she’d ever put in it. “Aren’t you at all angry for your friends whose things I’ve gone through?”

Amongst the confusion and fear there was also a vague sense of frustration. She almost would have been glad if Tacita simply called the guards and there was a confrontation rather than this surreal conversation.

“Oh, the Asams?” She snorted and the delicacy of the studied lady dissolved further, but it returned just as quickly with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I don’t care for them at all! I only came here because the agha has a cat I’m interested in and his wife invited me to visit town for a few days to discuss it.” Again, out came that disarming smile. It made Derry forget to be shocked by her frank disregard for her friends. “If I were going to turn you over to them, don’t you think I would have done so by now?”

“Well – I suppose so.” She crossed her arms. “But here I am your prisoner, unable to escape unless I accompany you.”

“Then accompany me, mysterious young lady!” Tacita leapt to her feet, the jewelled buckles of her shoes glinting as she straightened them. But Derry was watching the large diamond on her finger, thinking how much Quin would swoon over it. Before she could wonder how she could possibly steal it, Tacita had grabbed Derry’s hands and pulled her to her feet. Derry stumbled against her but was quick to pull away from her warmth.

Damn it, she was behaving like a giddy child. She needed to pull herself together. Barely had she decided that when soft leather was pressed into her hand. She looked down: it was a black half-mask. Where had that come from? Tacita couldn’t have known she’d find a companion, surely ...

“There, now you’re fully costumed.” Tacita beamed, pulling a similar gold mask from her large coat pockets and fastening it. “Put it on, put it on.”

Derry took a deep breath – Tacita’s enthusiasm and abandon were contagious, but she couldn’t drop her guard. She was still at this stranger’s mercy – or at least she could let her think that, Derry decided as she tied the mask in a secure bow, picturing the two long daggers hidden in her boots. Could she draw them before Tacita drew her rapier? No, hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. She’d find a way to sneak off. The knives were just a desperate last resort.

Taking a step back, Tacita surveyed Derry and nodded. She must have been pleased because another smile lit her face and before Derry knew what was happening, Tacita had grabbed her hand and was pulling her out the door and past the room with the butler and the maid.

“Let’s be going, then, my lady. We don’t want to miss a moment more!”

“Don’t we?” Derry asked, but her words were lost in the darkness of the corridor and the hurried clicking of Tacita’s heels.

They flew down the flight of stairs, past a startled footman desperately trying to look as if he hadn’t been snoozing on duty, and through the grand front entrance. An unliveried landau stood outside, front and back hoods closed to shield against the cool night air or perhaps prying eyes.

“Hello there, my man!” Tacita rapped on the gilt panelling and the driver jumped upright in his seat, “I’ve decided I shall go to the ball!” She finished with an aside to Derry: “After all, I’ve found a most charming companion.”

Derry’s smile was stiff; the woman seemed genuine, but that didn’t make the situation less disconcerting, rather it made it more so. Best to play along just a little longer, so she bowed her most elegant bow when Tacita pulled the carriage door open for her. Climbing up, she heard Tacita call instructions to the coachman.

Perhaps … And sure enough, when she turned the handle, the door on the other side of the landau opened.

Derry bolted away into the alley opposite, fighting laughter as she thought of Tacita’s face when she found the carriage empty of her ‘charming companion’.

5

Under the Influence

The white townhouse almost seemed to glow in the night gloom; it stood proud like a soldier’s ghost snapped to attention. Its high windows were dark, some empty, others curtained in heavy damask, but there was one that shone with a warm yellow light.

The small north-facing parlour wasn’t used for guests. It was a cosy place where the needs of society could not encroach. Here was the heart of this home and it was a heart congested with curios.

The collection of objects in the room each told tall tales and sordid stories of crime, camaraderie, and dangerous secrets.

On one wall hung the first rapier Quin had ever used and crossing over that was a pole of a similar length. It was the last stick she had used for protection on the Gutter Streets before her upgrade to steel.

A mannequin stood in one corner draped in a fabulous silk Quin had stolen a year ago but had not yet found occasion to wear. The cloth fell in soft folds that glimmered silver and white.

The furniture here was older than in the rest of the house, pieces plainer than a contessa would choose. Most surfaces were covered with trinkets too useful to get rid of or too worthless to sell. Books on history and etiquette. Shells that gleamed with a hundred pale colours – little finds from Quin’s mudlarking days. A pretty rosewood box with a broken hinge, another with a cracked lid.

Inside those lay the only true treasures in this place. Quin’s heart swelled at the thought. Her mother’s jewellery. Not every piece her mother had grabbed as she’d fled the palace, but some of them. Over the years of Quin’s childhood, Livia had pawned them, sold them, and bartered them, until they were all gone.

It had been slow work to trace any of the jewels, but Quin had, and eventually she’d even managed to get some back, winning them in card games or outright stealing them.

Tonight, Quin wore one of the most precious pieces, a silver ring set with a tear-drop shaped sapphire that glinted a deep violet-blue. It was part of a set called the Sultan’s Tears. She rubbed her thumb across the facets and smiled for a moment. One day she’d find the rest of the set. She already had the ring, earrings, and a bracelet; there was a necklace, another bracelet, a comb, and tiara still missing.

She was sitting in the same wing-backed armchair she always used when they were in the den – Derry liked to joke that it had her buttocks imprinted in the padding and so no one else could possibly find it comfortable. Her stockinged feet rested on one corner of the coffee table and every so often she wriggled her toes, taking pleasure in not wearing the little pointy shoes of fashion.

In her hands were a needle and a gown of floral silk in shades of blue, green, and gold. She’d changed the back from deep pleats to sewn-down seams and now she was adding ruffles to the front. With any luck, it would look like a new dress, ready for her to wear again.

Derry sat at a table, legs stretched out, Ariston next to her. She hadn’t long arrived home from since her night’s work and hadn’t changed except to take her wig off. The dark clothes set off her bright hair. Her light eyes scanned the pages of the book before her.

Quin winced – the ledger. The judge of her success and, at the moment, it could only be proclaiming her failure as a thief, a con artist, and a daughter.

From Ariston’s frown, she was a major failure.

The pair murmured to each other, so Quin only caught the odd phrase, but that was enough.

“… that goes there, then we might …” Derry said.

Ariston shook his head and spoke softly. “… need to make sure … cut down …”

“… still not enough to …”

“Ow!” Quin hissed at the sharp pain in her finger – she’d managed to prick herself with the needle. “Damn.” Before she could bleed on the silk gown, she put her fingertip in her mouth. She’d been too distracted by their conversation.

“Are you all right?” Ariston said.

“I’m fine,” Quin said, holding her finger up in explanation. She set the gown aside and stuck the needle in a pincushion. She nodded at the ledger. “How bad is it?”

Ariston and Derry shot each other a glance.

They weren’t talking. Quin grimaced. “That bad?”

“Well …” Derry said. She looked at the ledger, as if staring at it would add some noughts to the money coming in.

“We’ve faced worse,” Ariston said, smiling. “To just pay our current living costs, excluding any donations, but allowing for the new rate at Rumelihisari, we need to make 27 zeri and four kurush per week.”

“That much.” She sighed. That was as much as a good coachman made in an entire year and he’d have board and lodging covered by his master’s house. “And can we –”

“Cut back anywhere?” Derry said with a raise of her brows. “Not really. Most of that is rent on this place. We were lucky to broker such a good deal on a house in the Sixth District, to be honest and a contessa wishing to win the heart of Shahin Pasha couldn’t be seen in a lower district.”

“I’ll speak to Mrs Tepe about being clever with the food,” Ariston said. “But I wouldn’t hold out too much hope – she is good, but she’s already using every scrap of leftovers.”

Quin nodded. They’d had a roast chicken on Monday, then chicken stew for dinner yesterday and today. Tonight, there hadn’t been much meat left in the broth, but she’d soaked it up with a stale piece of bread.

“Well.” She looked around the room. There had to be something here of worth. Her gaze fell upon the two broken boxes. “I could sell –”

“No,” Ariston and Derry said as one.

“But there’s hundreds of zeris’ worth of –”

“No, Quin,” Derry said, coming around the table. “You can’t. You already lost it all once and you’ve been lucky to find this much.” She crouched and rested her hands on Quin’s knees. “This is your mum. You can’t sell off the last – we’ll find another way.”

“Derry’s right,” Ariston said, back to them as he opened a cabinet. “It’s bad enough – that disease.” His head lowered and he leant on the cupboard. “It’s stolen her from you, from us all.” One-by-one he took out three long-stemmed glasses and placed them on top, then a dark green wine bottle. “Those stones – they’re the only tangible thing we have left of who she was.” The glasses clinked softly as he lifted them in one hand, the bottle in the other, and brought them over. “When I see you wear them, Quin – gods – you remind me so much of her. For a little while it’s like she’s still here.” He looked at her, hazel eyes bright.

Quin held her breath, not trusting herself – breathing was liable to turn into sobbing. She squeezed Derry’s hand.

“We’re not that desperate yet,” Ariston said with a tremulous smile. “Besides, there are still those around who’d recognise these jewels.”

Letting out a long breath, Quin nodded. She smiled at Derry, whose eyes glistened in the candlelight. “We’ll find another way. The card table was good to me on Sunday night. If I can keep that up …”

If Livia had been here, she’d have devised a plan. Something ingenious and lucrative.

Quin sighed and twisted in her seat to face the wall behind it. There hung the only painting in the den. It captured her mother as she had once been. There were no scars, no signs of the madness or deprivation she would come to know after being cast out from the Palace. The Livia in the picture was the perfect gentlewoman, highest of the harem; a threat to any Sultana so regal and imperious was she.

She wore the Sultan’s Tears jewels, but even they were overshadowed by her. Her dark hair curled lustrous and long, cared for by servants and kept shiny with honey-rinse and lemon oil; even in painted form her eyes glinted bright and knowing – they looked straight out from the canvas and invited the viewer in.

And any viewer would have to be sore tempted to join her with her luscious bronze-dark skin that curved and heaved in all the right places.

The harem had been a place for dazzling and glittering, full of women from across Thanatolia and beyond, and Livia had been its rose.

In exchange for the Sultan’s pleasure, she and the other harem wives had been given a life of education and luxury and a position in court that was as powerful as they were beautiful and equally precarious.

But twenty-four years ago, that sequestered existence had shattered.

Ibril Sultan had been quite infatuated with his Livia, the Sultana-Not-Named as many called her, much to the displeasure of Prima, the first of the harem to give him a child.

He had not been a very old man when he died, but he had been a sick man. When it happened, Prima had seized her chance and declared the harem, indeed, all harems held by the highest aristocratic houses, dissolved for ever more and herself the Sultan’s one true wife. She was Thanatolia’s Sultana Valide, to act as regent until their daughter, the little Sultana, was grown. The harem women were turned out of the palace before the Sultan’s body was cold; all they had were their clothes, their jewels, and their charms.

Any who tried to stay didn’t escape at all. The Night of the Innocents had been a bloody one.

Even those who left carried a parting gift from the Sultan, one that didn’t show its terrible symptoms until much later.

Ibril was nothing if not generous.

Quin gave a regretful smile to her mother’s image, painted years before those symptoms would ever manifest. She turned back to her friends and found a full glass of wine awaiting her. “An excellent idea.”

“A toast, then?” Ariston said.

“A toast,” Derry said, rising and pulling Quin to her feet.

Quin barely avoided spilling wine on the threadbare carpet. “A toast to us and to those who cannot be with us.” She turned to the portrait and raised her glass.

Derry and Ariston nodded. “To those not with us,” they murmured, glasses held high.

Closing her eyes, Quin took a long draught of the heady wine. It was cheap and sharp but held a trace of the fruits’ sweetness.

Their work sat forgotten for the rest of the night, as they drained that bottle and another two.

Eventually Quin stumbled her way to bed. She gave up unlacing her stays and crawled under the sheets still half-dressed.

* * *

The sun was setting on the squalor of the Gutter Streets. This scene often sat behind her eyelids, waiting for sleep.

No, not tonight.

But it was too difficult to fight the sinking warmth pulling her close.

It grew darker in the stinking alleys and dimmer in the pokey rooms of the crowded terraced houses, while the sky became colourful and bold.

On a narrow street, Quin stared up at the array of shades melding together overhead. Which of the gods was painting this scene?

She took her Deck from her pocket and fingered through them. So far, she had ten. None of them suggested a god with a taste for the blood-orange tones smeared across the sky.

At home, the little room she shared with Mum, sat three more Cards in varying degrees of completion – one sketched out on the thick cardboard, another coloured with precious watercolours, and the other partially outlined in ink. As impatient as she was to build up her Deck, to rush or make a poor-quality Card could be dangerous. A Card on shoddy paper that insulted a god would be worse than no Card. Time spent on a beautiful creation could earn a god’s favour.

She’d need a powerful Deck if she was going to help herself and the rest of the Gutter Streets.

She ran a finger over the oldest Card – Lady Deception, today wearing a knowing smile. Mum made this Card when she was at the Sultan’s court. It was edged in gold leaf, still bright, and it was the most beautiful thing Quin owned, tied, perhaps with her rapier.

Not quite a year ago, on her Carding Day, her thirteenth birthday, she’d closed her eyes and drawn this single Card from her mother’s Deck. That was how everyone started a Deck and, lucky Quin, of all the Cards she could have chosen, she’d pulled out this one, the Card of lies and deceit. What kind of life did that spell out?

Scowling, she shoved Lady Deception into the middle of her oxblood leather Card case and snapped the magnetic closure shut.

“Oh, look, Quin’s got her Cards out again,” said a sneering voice.

Talat. Why was he talking like that, with dark eyes glinting?

“Evening,” she nodded to him and the gaggle of a dozen boys and girls that always surrounded him nowadays. Half of them were around Quin’s age, the rest were younger, usually trailing at the back, following older siblings. All in grubby clothes, some in bare feet, one with a bruised eye, another missing her little finger.

“‘Evening,’” Talat put on a posh voice, “Well, good evening, madam.”

Quin bit down hard on her tongue. It was hard to switch between accents, and she clearly hadn’t managed it this time. Or maybe the elocution lessons with Mum were affecting her actual voice.

No, she hadn’t changed. She was still Quin.

Talat snickered. “What do you think this is – the Evengate Palace?”

His crew laughed and made simpering sounds, apparently mocking Quin’s accent, but their exact words were lost in the clamour.

Quin joined in the laughter, but hers was half-hearted, awkward. “Sorry, just – you know – Mum’s teaching me some things.” She made an effort to take her accent back to how it had been – dropping the ends of words, running ‘you know’ together.

She grimaced, if only she could explain to them why she couldn’t join in their little wars with neighbouring gangs and thieving trips anymore. But exactly what Quin and her mother were doing was a secret for now. Perhaps one day she’d be able to tell them.

Redore stepped out from the back of the group and Quin’s heart flipped at the sight of her, taller, slimmer, even prettier than last time they’d seen each other. Her hair was a mane of tight curls just past her shoulders now. There was a hollow shadow beneath her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Was it really six months ago since they’d last seen each other? Over the past year or so Red had drawn further away, had stopped talking to her altogether at times.

Now her wide, terracotta-brown eyes regarded Quin, from her clean, calf-length boots to her neatly braided hair. “Walk with us,” she said at last. Her voice was husky, no longer reed-thin as it had been. Not like it had been when they were eight-year-olds trotting about the cobbles and hiding in the bushes of the parks. When they had been giggling best friends.

The group moved on along a road leading out of the Gutter Streets, Quin falling into step at the edge. She walked a few feet away from Red, trying to make eye contact and pass along a secret smile that said they were still friends.

Red didn’t look at her, but she did speak after a couple of minutes, peering at the Deck still in Quin’s hands. “How many Cards you got now?”

“Ten,” she mumbled, an uncomfortable twinge in her belly. That had to be at least twice as many as anyone else in the group. Most only had one or two.

Despite all her attempts at worldliness and seen-it-all-before cynicism, Redore’s mouth dropped open and she stopped mid-stride.

A dozen pairs of eyes stared at Quin, as the gang all stopped, surrounding her, craning to look at her Deck.

Talat narrowed his eyes. “No one has more than ten Cards, Quin. No one round here, anyway.” His voice was low. “You should be careful – no one likes a Cardswine.”

Quin’s skin caught light. “I’m not a Cardswine – take that back.” Her eyes gleamed like fire on gold as she glared at him.

He smirked, patting her shoulder. “I didn’t say you were. You’re just heading that way.”

Redore peered down at Quin. “You talk funny now and you have so many Cards – how can you afford it? You haven’t been out pinching with us in months.”

There was mumbling from the other guttersnipes, just beyond Quin’s hearing. Most of them nodded.

“I don’t ‘talk funny’.” She scowled and looked around, but there was no support. “I told you, Mum’s teaching me ... things.” Even she thought it sounded as lame as a sabrecat with three legs.

“Your accent’s changed,” Redore replied with a toss of her head.

“You’ve changed,” concluded Talat. He looked Quin up and down. “Ain’t any holes in your clothes.” He slipped an arm around Redore’s waist. “And I bet you’ve not had to sell yourself.”

At this, Red’s expression lost its sure, bored look and for a moment she stared at Quin, soft as the eight-year-old girl she had once been.

Talat’s sharp smile drew close to Red’s face and her eyes screwed shut. He held her face still and pressed a long kiss on her downturned mouth.

Quin couldn’t look away.

When he was finished, he laughed and Redore turned her back on Quin.

Quin’s throat clenched, her stomach tightened. She was going to be sick. She hadn’t known.

She hadn’t known.

How had Redore got so desperate? How could she let him do that to her, let him speak like that in front of the crew? The edges of Quin’s Card case cut into her hands as a wave of heat broke over her followed by another of ice. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

Many girls on the Gutter Streets ended up in the profession, but she never thought it would happen to Redore. For them it had always seemed something that happened to other people – they had always prided themselves on being far too clever for that. Far too clever by half.

But now Redore’s withdrawal made terrible sense.

“Red,” Quin murmured, reaching out for her shoulder, but Redore pulled away.

“Don’t worry about her,” Talat said with a laugh, his manner as off-hand as any dandy’s, “she likes it when she’s doing it.”

The crew laughed again, a dozen eyes bright.

“Oh, look, I think we’ve made her blush,” he pressed a finger on Quin’s cheek, just a little too hard. She jerked away. “We should stop – we’ve clearly offended her ‘delicate sensibilities’,” he said in a posh falsetto voice.

Jeering and laughter again – the sounds hit Quin like heavy fists.

“Poor little snobby snot,” piped up one voice and the others laughed all the more.

You’ve changed, chimed Talat’s voice in her head.

“Shut up,” she yelled, pushing Talat away. “I’m not any different. I don’t know what the bloody hells you’re talking about.” They fell silent at her shove. A couple of the younger ones giggled. “I’m the same old Quin who’s always run with you.”

“All right, love, calm down.” Talat rolled his eyes, hands brushing down his shirt. “Maybe there’s a way you can prove you’re still one of us.” His dark eyes glinted and another damn smirk played across his sneering lips.

The crew hooted and howled with excitement. A challenge.

Redore whirled around. Her face was blotchy, but her voice came out firm. “Good idea.” She glanced at Talat before going on. “If she can sneak into the Watergardens and throw rotten fruit at the poshos there, then she must still be one of us.”

The crew was quiet. They looked at each other, unsure.

“If she can ruin their fun and their fancy gowns,” Red went on, holding out her skirt like a lady stepping over a puddle, “then she clearly don’t want to be one of them. And if she can escape without getting caught, then she must still be Gutter Street fleet.”

A roar of approval sounded and the younger ones leapt in excitement.

Except from Talat. He tried to speak, but Quin couldn’t make the words out amid the crows.

One thing was clear in his smouldering eyes – this wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but before Quin could wonder what his plan was, she was borne away on a tide of guttersnipes.

And for a moment, in the middle of the crowd, it was as if she was still one of them.

6

Making an Exhibition

Atesh smiled and nodded at all the faces he knew as he walked past. Nervous energy made him desperate to pace the room, but that would be ridiculous behaviour. He was a gentleman of society.

The glass of wine was cool under his tapping fingers. So, he couldn’t hide all his worry. No one was looking. He drained the glass in one gulp, the tang of red wine warm on the way down, and passed the glass to a footman.

Not that he was worried for no reason. If anyone recognised that model …

Maybe he shouldn’t have put that painting in the exhibition after all, but it was too late to take it down – guests were here, milling about, drinking, chatting, laughing, and filling the columned hall. Daylight still streamed through its high windows, glinting on gold picture frames and bouncing off the pale grey walls, lighting his art to best advantage.

Atesh nodded to an agha he often fenced with when he was in the city, who raised his glass in return.

He’d made the decision, now he had to stand by it.

Although, if anyone did point out the model, they’d have to explain how they knew the woman’s face, themselves. And no one would admit to that here. No, he was safe.

Taking a long breath, he turned to the sudden chatter from the main doors. Nazli and Danyal entered, deep in some conversation. They were always so warm with each other. Their little private jokes made him smile, even when he didn’t understand them.

They moved to one side and in swept Malos, a smug smile on his face.

Ah, that was why. Quin entered on his arm, quite the sight in cerulean blue, her lady’s companion beside her. Miss Bowyer, wasn’t it? She wore a paler version of the same colour.

Atesh wanted to greet them, but the urge to wave them away from his paintings, Quin particularly, was so strong it froze him in his tracks. He was being ridiculous. He’d set up this exhibition to show his work. They were his friends. He took another steadying breath and started forward.

“Why, if it’s not Atesh Pasha himself,” a woman’s low voice made him spin on his heels.

“Yildrim Pasha,” he said, smiling and returning her bow.

Yildrim was a Pasha of a lower order than Atesh and an old acquaintance. She was not quite a friend in that way of people who never really had friends – she knew everyone but was never still enough to be known herself. With her handsome face and fair fortune, she’d married well many years ago, leaving her to concern herself with the affairs of all the rest of society.

“Well, sir, I must congratulate you on such a wonderful collection.” She encapsulated the room with a sweep of elegant hands. “As if you could be more admired – you really don’t need to impress us any further, my dear. Ah well, perhaps your future wife will swoon before your art.” She touched his arm and winked. “Oh yes, and you’ll arrive just in time to catch her. Such a romantic moment!”

“Madam, your imagination is even more vivid than my own.”

“Oh really, Atesh Pasha, I will see you happily married this season. I am quite determined!”

“Yildrim Pasha, you know I hate to disappoint you and yet I can’t leap into marriage willy-nilly just because you long for a grand wedding.”

“It has been too long, you know.”

“And here I was only joking.”

“As I have told you before,” Yildrim said, bowing her head, all solemnity, “I only crusade for the matrimonial bliss of all my dear, unmarried friends. It’s just a happy coincidence that your wedding would be quite the event of the decade – nay, century.”

Atesh shook his head but smiled all the same. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re too kind to say so.” She winked again and gave an ironic bow. “Now, you must excuse me, for I have more wine to drink and art to consider.”

He bowed her away and sighed with relief. Tonight, he’d escaped lightly. She could be an insistent woman.

Damn. No sign of Quin or the rest of her party, but there was a footman with a tray full of wine glasses. That would give him something to do with his hands, at least. Atesh strode over, taking the offered drink with a nod.

“Well, then, Atesh,” came Erdem’s voice just before he emerged from behind a pillar – Atesh had noticed him arrive with the Sultana and Sultan but hadn’t yet spoken to them as they’d been deep in conversation that looked so intense, he was loathe to interrupt. “This is quite the little show.” His pouty lips twitched in a smile.

“Thank you, Erdem.” That was a great compliment coming from him. “I trust you’re –”

“Although,” Erdem said, glancing at a nearby canvas of Safira Shehzade hugging a sabrecat cub, “I suppose it’s easy to become a great artist when you’ve got your own income.” He shrugged. “I’m far too busy aiding our great Sultana for such trifling hobbies.”

Atesh fixed the smile on his face; behind it, his teeth gritted.

“But you’ve done very well, cousin,” Erdem went on. “You’ve made great use of your position; it’s only a shame that not all of us can have what they’re entitled to.” He straightened his cuff and sniffed.

Atesh sighed. So Erdem was back to these rants, then. It had been a few years since the last one. Since he’d gained more influence with Zeynab they’d abated, but here they were again, his discontent raising its ugly head. “Erdem,” he said, attempting a conciliatory smile, “it is terrible luck for you. It’s not your fault what your father did, after all. However, it really could be a lot worse – at least you have –”

“Worse?” Erdem paled, his yellow ochre skin becoming sallow. “At least I have what exactly? Nothing that’s my own! I have to rely on our cousin for everything. It’s damn hu –”

He stopped and drew a long breath. A slow smile crept over his narrow face. “Our gracious cousin. May the Hundred bless her for helping her poor, unfortunate relative.”

Atesh swallowed. “Indeed.” At least it had been a short-lived rant. Perhaps he had learned some self-control, after all.

“And you’re right.” Erdem clapped him on the shoulder. “You are right – my father was a foolish man and he cost my family dearly, but here I am still welcomed into the bosom of court life. I am a lucky, lucky man.”

“Exactly,” Atesh said, smile relaxing into a genuine one. “You have your health, a home to be proud of, a position –”

“Oh!” Erdem’s gaze was fixed elsewhere. “I must go and help our cousin – I see the Sultan’s left her and I’m sure she is desirous of my company and a drink.” He trotted away. “Goodness, where are the damn servants in this place? Don’t they realise …”

Atesh stared after him, shaking his head. Sure enough, the Sultana was alone, but she was looking at a painting, a thoughtful smile on her pointed face. Tonight, Zeynab wore a gown the colour of new spring growth. The bright sap-green suited her and she wore leaves in the braids coiled around her head.

But her serenity was short-lived, as Erdem thrust a glass into her hand. She jumped, brows raised.

“Oh, Erdem,” Atesh said and sighed. Zeynab already found him indispensable; he didn’t have to try so hard.

As he turned from the pair, searching for more guests to welcome, his ears pricked at a familiar voice coming from around the corner.

Quin. And she was around the corner where that painting hung. Hundred help him. He held his breath.

He knew he shouldn’t have hung it. It was his best work and his worst. His chest swelled to think of it, but dread shrivelled his heart at the idea of her viewing it. Warring with dread, though, was pleasure at the thought of getting to further examine the puzzle box that was this Contessa.

The comforting smell of oil paint tickled his nose as he edged closer, hand reaching into his pocket for his Deck box. But when he reached the corner, no Card was required for eavesdropping.

“It’s the Maiden in her tower come to life,” Quin said. “Those eyes, I swear they’re reflecting the chandeliers. I wouldn’t be surprised if they followed me around the room. It’s – I love it, Derry.”

“Such strong words!” That must be Derry – he’d never heard her speak before. She had a soft accent that he couldn’t place. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you wax so lyrical about, well, anything.”

Quin went on, quieter this time, forcing Atesh right to the brink of the corner. He could see them now – it was just the pair of ladies, no Malos or Uzuns. Gods, she was stunning. Deep colours like this cerulean blue suited her best, bringing out the richness of her skin and the brightness of her eyes. Her full lips curved around her words invitingly. What he wouldn’t give to take her to some quiet corner and taste them. Tension twitched low in his stomach.

“… they’re all well-painted, yes, they capture an excellent likeness of all these courtiers and so on,” she was saying, “but this … it’s something else entirely. It’s so much more – it’s powerful. It’s – the wistfulness, the longing in her eyes. She’s magical. Alive.” Her fingers were an inch from the canvas, yearning to touch it.

His heart was surely going to burst with pride. The other paintings were noble’s portraits that had been commissioned for one favour or another. This was the only piece in the show he’d painted for himself, the subject his own choice, with no demands or input from the sitter. When he’d first seen the woman, his fingers had itched with that need to paint her – her terracotta-coloured hair, curved, almost cruel lips had put him in mind of the Maiden of the Tower immediately.

The morning light had gleamed on the canvas in his studio that day, so he’d grabbed it at the last moment to fill a small spot in the corner of the exhibition. It had been finished for weeks, but he’d never intended to show it to anyone. Now it was here for all to see.

And that was the piece Quin had picked out of the two dozen there. She saw it was worlds apart from the other paintings. She understood.

* * *

Quin stared at the portrait. If she touched it, would she feel paint or hair? If she –

“Good evening, ladies.”

She snatched her hand away, as if burnt. Where had he come from? And what had he heard her say? She hadn’t been thinking, just gushing. Damn last night. Thanks to the liberal application of wine and insistent dreams of her childhood, she still had a headache stomping away and it had made her babble.

“Sir,” Quin said, ducking her head. Had he overheard her sounding like a fool? But his eyes were bright and his smile animated, genuine, warm. He turned the full force of that smile on Derry. “I believe I’ve mentioned my lady’s companion, Miss Derry Bowyer?”

“Indeed, you have – I’m glad to meet you at last, madam.” He bowed as smoothly and deeply as he had to Quin or anyone else. That Derry had no title was no matter to him. For many a nobleman, it would have been reason enough for a cool greeting.

“You’re very kind, Pasha,” Derry said with a bow so elegant, Quin could have hugged her for it.

“I must thank you, Lady Sabia,” he said, eyes intent on her, “I’m afraid I couldn’t help but overhear your kind praise about this piece. It’s my favourite, too.” He looked up at the large canvas, a deep breath raising his chest. “This is the only painting in the exhibition I had free rein with.”

“I’m no connoisseur, sir, I just know what I like, but perhaps you should do as you wish more often, because it so clearly works.”

He smiled at her again, but just as he went to speak, Malos appeared at her elbow. Damn.

Derry – wonderful Derry – had even backed away to a discreet distance to give them some privacy and in blundered Malos, ruining it all.

“And here’s the man of the hour,” Malos said, with a wave of his wine, “skulking around in corners with the toast of the town. Really, Atesh you should be mingling. You’re the star of the show, after all!”

“Alas, not me,” Atesh said, “the paintings.”

“Still, you’d best not neglect your fans, had you?” Malos smiled at his cousin, but his eyes were narrow.

“Indeed, that would be most rude of me, wouldn’t it?” How Atesh kept that affable smile on his face, Quin couldn’t fathom.

“Ah! And here’s my clever cousin,” a woman’s voice cried.

Quin gasped – the Sultana, with Erdem at her shoulder. As one, the group around the Maiden of the Tower painting dropped to low bows.

Gods damn it – she should have known the Sultana was going to be here. She wasn’t prepared! She hadn’t …

Deep breaths.

When she rose from the bow, she’d planted a calm smile on her face.

“Oh, Atesh,” the Sultana went on, quite unaware or at least unfazed by the effect of her presence on the group, “I swear you’ve quite outdone yourself! You’re the best painter in the city – nay, the country!”

“If Your Majesty doesn’t mind me saying,” Atesh said, “I think you might be a little biased. Most other painters aren’t your cousins.”

The Sultana’s laugh was breezy, but her eyes didn’t wrinkle. It was controlled, just like the subtle tilt of her head and glance at Quin.

Erdem opened his mouth, but Atesh beat him to it.

“Your Majesty,” he said, extending a hand to Quin, “please allow me to present to you the Right Honourable Lady Quinta Sabia, Contessa of Mordano, and her lady’s companion Miss Derry Bowyer.”

Quin and Derry bowed again. Was this real? Was she actually being introduced to the Sultana?

Faced with this indeed being reality, Quin’s rigid observance of etiquette became a brittle crust over warring instincts. Her fingers twitched at being so close to the diamonds glittering at the Sultana’s wrist, throat, fingers. To steal those …

She forced a deep breath down her throat. And another.

There was something deeper tugging at her heart, something more personal than the pickpocket’s impulses. For so long, she’d thought this woman was her half-sister. For years, Livia had let – no, encouraged Quin to believe the dead Sultan had been her father, so of course she’d dreamed of being discovered. A secret royal! In the fantasies, her older half-sister found her and whisked her away to a new life in the Palace. They became the best of friends and Quin had an easy life …

But, of course, it was a lie. Ibril Sultan wasn’t her father. The Sultana wasn’t her sister, half or otherwise. And no one was coming to whisk her away. So, she’d whisked herself away.

“I hear Lady Sabia has made quite the impression in society,” the Sultana was saying.

Gods, what had Quin missed, locked in childish fantasies? She swallowed. “Your Majesty, I’m sure it’s simply the novelty of a new visitor.” Winning modesty, hopefully that would please her.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” She shot a meaningful glance at Atesh. “Indeed, I believe in certain quarters you would be sorely missed if you were to return home.” She held Quin’s gaze just a little too long.

It was a reminder. Atesh’s future was in her hands and by extension, so was Quin’s – or Lady Sabia’s, at least. The Contessa was a visitor to Arianople, but she’d end up living here if she married Atesh. To make that happen, he’d need the Sultana’s permission.

Erdem’s gaze was on the ceiling. If Quin had to guess, she’d have said he was bored. Atesh shifted his weight, watching the exchange, but it was Malos who jumped in. “Lady Sabia would be missed by all who’d ever met her, or so I’d wager,” he said, trailing off at the raised eyebrow he drew from the Sultana.

Oh, Malos. He was still gallantly battling, but this was Atesh’s show.

“But Your Majesty,” Quin said, “how could I be tempted to leave the great City of Cities when such beauty lies here?” She gestured at the painting of the Maiden of the Tower, smiling brightly.

For a second, Atesh’s face crumpled in a grimace, but it was gone before the Sultana could spot it. What did that mean?

“Indeed, Lady Sabia,” the Sultana said, turning from Malos to Atesh, “you have excellent taste. My cousin is the greatest painter in Arianople today, just as his mother was in hers.” The skin around her eyes crinkled now – this smile was warm, genuine. Any other woman would have touched her cousin’s arm at that, but she was the Sultana and even in that moment of warmth, she had to hold back.

Quin’s chest ached for the Sultana in that moment. Was that … empathy? For her of all people. The Sultana was as much an actress as Quin. That was … unexpected.

She frowned away the thought. Focus.

“And speaking of family,” the Sultana said, “I must steal you away, cousin, to discuss your utterly enchanting painting of my little Safira.”

Atesh nodded. “I thought that one might catch your eye.”

“Of course you did.” She gestured to the far end of the room where that painting hung. “Come along.”

Each member of the group hurried to bow as she swept away, Erdem trailing behind her. Quin hadn’t yet noticed him paying particular attention to any woman other than the Sultana and she was already married. Perhaps his intended would be here tonight. She’d have to keep an eye out.

“Well, I’ll bid you good evening, Contessa, Miss Bowyer,” Atesh said. “I hope you continue to enjoy the exhibition, even if the other paintings can’t match up to the Maiden of the Tower.” With that, he bowed to Quin, nodded to Derry and Malos then followed his cousin.

Quin’s ears were ringing, her hands trembling. She’d met the Sultana. Been introduced to the woman. If she could go back in time and tell her childhood self it would happen one day …

Lady Sabia was certainly moving up in the world.

Pressure on her arm brought her gaze back from the Sultana’s retreating form. Derry’s hand was fastened on, squeezing.

“What could possible match up,” Malos was muttering, handing Quin a wineglass.

“Hmm?” Quin shot Derry a raised eyebrow.

Derry widened her ice-blue eyes towards a row of pillars in the opposite direction from the one the Sultana had taken.

Oh no. The other side of those columns. What in all the hells was he doing here?

She stared, glass halfway to her lips. That was trouble on two legs, if ever she’d seen it. That tall, narrow figure, the black hair sticking out from underneath a rakishly angled top hat, the bump in his nose. He was more equipt than she’d ever seen him – was that silk? – but it was definitely him.

The Canting King, Hakan. The closest thing the Gutter Streets had to a leader. He was passably disguised as a gentleman, but he had no place here.

She hurried their excuses to Malos, her smile too wide.

Hakan was still there, back towards them now, as if he was examining one of the paintings. She bet he was, but not for the same reasons as anyone else here.

Skimming the edge of the room, she and Derry made their way over to him, blending with the crowd and depositing their wineglasses on a ledge.

Now Quin was behind him, she scowled – as she’d suspected, he was eyeing the high windows above the painting he was pretending to admire. That was his plan – come back tonight, climb in through the window, grab a painting or two, and back out the window, across the rooftops, and into the night. Or, rather, that was what he’d have some nimble youngsters do for him.

The Canting King was only around ten years older than Quin but surviving the criminal life this long and manoeuvring himself to take the Hidden Court had won him the right to hand off the hard work – and the risk – to younger folk.

The bastard had to appear the same night she’d met the Sultana. She nodded to Derry who took up a spot nearby, keeping watch.

“Branching out, are we?” Quin whispered over his shoulder, a botanical waft of gin filling her nostrils.

She grinned when he leapt, spinning on his heel. “Quin!” He blew a long breath and looked her up and down. The old break in his nose gave his face an asymmetry that was somehow rakishly handsome. “Still got the quietest feet in Arianople, despite all those gems weighing you down, then?”

“I manage.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“Don’t you worry yourself,” he said, “I might be here, but my people are still honouring our deal. Talat ain’t so much as come within a street of Red and sweet little Ela.”

Hearing him even mention their names in the same sentence as Talat’s made every muscle in Quin’s body tense.

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing at her reaction. “Just so long as you keep up the payments, eh?”

Damn it, she needed to control herself in front of him even more than she did in front of the Sultana. “Always on time, don’t you worry, but that’s not why I came over.” She glanced towards the rest of the exhibition and took a small step to keep the pillars between herself and the other guests, so she wouldn’t be spotted. “Look, I can tell you’re here scoping out the place.”

“And you ain’t? Sorry.” He cleared his throat and went on in an imitation of an aristocrat’s accent, “I mean, and you aren’t, my dear lady?”

“Art isn’t my area of expertise and it certainly isn’t yours. Neither is impersonating a gentleman.”

“You mean you aren’t greatly enamoured by my rich attire? I’m so very well equipt, madam!”

Quin winced. “They don’t say ‘equipt’ – an aristo wouldn’t even know what it meant. So however rich your garb, it’ll convince no one if that’s your best impersonation.”

“Ah well, it’s always worth a try.” He shrugged, returning to his normal voice. “Didn’t realise you was gonna be here.” His dark taupe eyes narrowed at her. “Course! You’re angling one of these gents, ain’t you? Which one? No, don’t tell me, lemme guess.”

She ignored his game. “You need to get out of here and sniff after someone else’s canvasses.”

“Oh, the artist hisself, is it?”

Damn him. And damn herself – she’d given it away. She’d not been around him much in such a long while she’d forgotten his skill at reading people. Hakan the thief hadn’t become the Canting King for nothing.

He shook his head, blowing a low whistle. “Heard he was some fancy pasha, well equipt. Very well equipt. Our darling Sultana’s cousin, in fact – such a tragic family, all that disease and death. But I hear he’s a strapping cove. Get you, amusing a Pasha – you’ve come a long way from your mudlark days, ain’t you?”

“Keep your damn voice down, would you?” She glanced around, chest pounding. Thankfully no one was nearby except for Derry.

The Canting King raised his hands in supplication. “Your secret’s safe with me, madam. And so’s your mark. I can see you’ve staked your claim here. I’ll graciously accede,” he said with a mocking bow, “that’s what you aristos say, ain’t it?”

Quin gritted her teeth, fists clenched at her side. Bastard. “I’m not bloody one of them.”

“That’s my lass.” His face bent close to hers. Beneath the gin, he smelled of lavender, like a cheap professional. Rumour had it his mother had been one. “You can take the girl out of the Gutter Streets, but you ain’t never taking the Gutter Streets out of the girl. Remember that, Quin.”

“And what about the boy?” She raised an eyebrow at his outfit. “You’ve come here in your silk suit, putting on a ridiculous accent. I’m no more one of them than you are, Hakan.”

His eye twitched as she said his name. Good, let him remember that she wasn’t under his control.

“Thing is, Quin,” he said, voice lower, “I’m only here for a little jaunt. You do this full-time. Seems like you forget sometimes that you ain’t one of them and you’ll never be. This lot,” he paused and nodded to the painting, a portrait of a bey on a balcony overlooking the sea, “don’t know you like we do. Might smile at you now, maybe even he’ll put that ring you’re after on your dainty little finger, but just think what they’d do to you if they found out what you really were.”

Quite the speech – he must have been missing her since her last visit to the Hidden Court. “And they’d give you just the same trip to the deadly nevergreen.”

“Ah, so you do remember how to patter flash.” He nodded approval at her use of cant. “Problem is, they’d want far worse than a hearty choke for you. You’ve shammed them, made fools of them, lifted their hearts, as well as their gems.”

Quin leant in close, lowered her voice: “And you don’t think they’d love the day they laid their heavy hands on the Canting King’s shoulders?”

“Aye, they’d be glad, for sure.” He nodded. “But they’d have to get those hands on me first. I can hike it home to the Gutter Streets, get lost in there.” Sharp eyes on her, voice all soft like a kid glove. “Where will you go?”

His unspoken implication was as clear as if he’d said it outright – the Gutter Streets were his home, not Quin’s. Despite her work, to many of the Gutter folk she was just too different.

“Oh, but I see I’ve upset the lady.” He bowed low, arms spread in a ridiculous mockery. “I’ll go and leave you to your paint-slapping Pasha. Don’t think art theft is for me, anyway – far too many toffs. I’ll leave you be, little mudlark. Good evening.” He winked then started away.

“Watch out for the nappers on your way out,” she said, nodding to the front doors, where janissaries stood guard. “I’d hate for any of them to recognise you.”

His laugh was a touch too loud for the soirée. “They’d need to have seen me before to recognise me. Never been caught, never been seen, remember, my little amuser. And I know you swan around all equipt, but you ain’t ever been one to have a long tongue. I’m safe.” But he still tipped his hat at her and strode away towards a different set of doors at the back of the gallery.

At least she’d rattled him.

She let out a long, shaking breath. And he’d more than rattled her. Bastard.

Grimacing, she watched him disappear. She shouldn’t have come back to Arianople. It had been a terrible idea. Any other city, she’d be fine, but here her past could collide with her present and that could pose a major threat to her future. This whole endeavour was a mistake. But if she got it right …

Quin blasted out a sigh. Her head was pounding harder than ever.

“You’re safe,” Derry said, sidling over now Hakan was gone, “everyone was too distracted with watching the Sultana while pretending not to, they didn’t even spare you two a glance. What did he want, anyway?”

“To get a rise out of me.” She could have reminded him of all the people she’d helped in the Gutter Streets, but that would have been justifying herself to him. “I’m not sure if he succeeded or not.”

“I hate to say it, Quin,” Derry said with a hand on her shoulder, “but you look terrible. He – he hit a nerve, didn’t he?”

Quin sighed. “Can we go home?”

Derry’s eyes warmed as she put an arm around Quin’s waist. “That’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”

7

A Fence & a Philanderer

Just the one change of costume took Quin to the fringes of the Gutter Streets the day after the exhibition. It was fun swaggering along in long boots, scandalously tight breeches, and a swishing full-skirted coat. Topped off with a tricorne at a suitable jaunty angle, she looked quite the part. From the slender sword at her side to the ribboned ponytail at her nape, she was the consummate mercenary – more assured than the Sultana, bolder than a brass band, and cockier than a whole farmyard of roosters.

As much as she enjoyed her disguise, Quin was here on business. Stealing, fencing, donating, that was how her weekly work went. It tided them over while they played the longer cons with their larger rewards.

Today was a day for selling off what she’d stolen.

She passed the usual beggars and hollow-eyed children of the Gutter Streets. The stinking rot of alleys was lighter here than in the deeper warrens of the district, but it still touched the back of her throat.

This south-eastern edge of the Gutter Streets was an odd buffer between the rich and poor – the former coming for discretion or titillation, the latter to buy their cast-offs in pawnbrokers or simply to beg.

Two, three, and four storey buildings shouldered each other in crowded terraces. Some were still the traditional timber construction of Arianople, but many here had been rebuilt entirely in brick and stone some years ago in a building programme. For the betterment of the district known as the Gutter Streets, the Sultana’s decree had said. But her apparent concern had been short-lived – only a few dozen structures had been renovated before the plan was abandoned and, with it, the Gutter Streets.

Today trouble stirred the people. Fearful glances left and right, whisperings of blood. Passing a tightly huddled group of women, she heard them muttering, “bloody awful” ... “poor girl” ... “murder” ...

Still, that was no concern for a mercenary – they came here to do business, selling loot and spending cash.

Ever playing the part, Quin passed by, face a study in disinterest.

Her attention was on the corner of Meddah Row and Kahvesi Street where the shop sign read Ariston & Kasim.

She strutted inside and straight to the counter at the back. The assistant, Edan, was helping a woman with red-brown hair in a tight bun and dark eyes that flicked in Quin’s direction. The woman stiffened and turned away.

As soon as the young man saw Quin, he called towards the back office, “Dethero, one of yours!”

With a nod of thanks, Quin idled her way through some of the goods on offer in the numerous cabinets that cluttered the shop. A pawnbroker come fence (or fence come pawnbroker, she was never sure which category the shop fitted), this place always stocked surprises: the key was finding them amid the junk and the too-hot-to-touch merchandise.

Next to the counter was a selection of gold and silver pocket watches, sets of brass buttons in little boxes, and a few yards of lace hanging from a huge set of elk antlers that jutted from the wall in a threatening manner. They must’ve spanned ten feet, half the width of the shop.

Quin stayed close to the counter, but the watches and buttons weren’t anything exciting, so she turned her attention to the discussion between Edan and the dark-eyed woman. They bent over the far end of the counter, each with one shoulder firmly towards Quin, exchanging hushed words.

The woman was tall – she must have stood a little shy of six feet – and even from this angle it was clear her form was well-tailored. Quin tugged at the cuff of her own jacket. The cut, the fabric, the proportion – despite being simpler than Quin’s, it was obvious the customer’s black jacket was considerably more expensive than her own.

Whatever her thoughts about sartorial taste, Quin just couldn’t shake the feeling there was something about the woman that seemed familiar. Something about the pouty, petulant lips she caught sight of every so often as she turned to look at Edan. Or perhaps it was something about the way her fierce eyes examined the papers on the counter between them.

Must be a regular customer or, gods, don’t let her be someone who knew Quin as Lady Sabia. Not here. Not wearing this outfit.

No, Quin didn’t know her from this trip to Arianople – if she’d seen the woman, it was a long time ago, probably her last visit to the city and probably in this very shop.

While the green stones the woman poured into Edan’s hands looked a little too much like paste for Quin’s interest, their conversation seemed secretive enough to be intriguing, so she craned slowly towards them. Pretending to examine the pocket watches, she kept her hat angled to hide her face, just in case the woman did know Lady Sabia.

She was rewarded with the usual garbled shushing of a whispered conversation to the eavesdropping ear. Moistening her lips, Quin reached into her left pocket, feeling for her Cards.

“Blimey, Quin!” Dethero’s voice was loud and sudden, as Quin fought to look as nonchalant as she could with a hammering heart and hand shooting out of her pocket. “You must be doing well – there’s more gold braid on you than a whole regiment of dandy officers!” he said, fingering the rose-shaped buttons on her sleeves.

Quin slapped on a too-wide smile; the pair’s attention was firmly upon her now. “Dethero! You surprised me, dear,” she said, “I was just admiring these quite splendid pocket watches.” The ‘splendid’ stuck in her throat, but now was no time for accurate jewellery appraisal.

“What, those?” Dethero peered into case and waved a bronze-brown hand, his onyx ring catching the light. He turned the full force of his smile on the customer with Edan, before bending to Quin’s ear. “They’re a bunch of piss-poor rejects.” His whisper tickled her cheek. “As always, the good stuff’s out back.”

With a gesture, he let her go first into his book-lined office, shaking his head. “Really, Quin, I always thought you had quite good taste,” he said, then closed the door on Edan and the customer, “after all, you chose me.” A smile touched at the corners of his deep blue eyes, at the sinuous line of his lips: he was still boyish and charming and damned as ever.

Quin rolled her eyes. “Chose, Dethero. Once upon a time. Past tense. Now and evermore, it’s just business. You know the deal.” She kept her voice light – Dethero was a devil if he could find any weakness and he didn’t need to know quite how tempting his flirtation was.

Which was very tempting, indeed. Her belly fluttered as images of Dethero being very wicked in the past popped into her mind and she tried to swat them away.

“Are you all right?” He cocked his head, still with that stupid grin. “You look very red all of a sudden – is it that brocade coat? Are all those buttons weighing you down? I bet there’s a whole bank’s worth of gold in them!” He stopped smirking at his own joke and turned earnest eyes upon her. “Maybe you should take it off. And those wonderfully-fitting breeches while you’re at it.”

Quin sighed, eyes rolling. It had been a long time, but she had work to do and things between them were ... complicated. They’d been something once, a long time ago, and now they were friends. Good friends.

He was the one she entrusted with distributing her donations around the Gutter Streets when she was away in other cities and other countries. He made sure the Canting King got his money each month to keep Talat away from Red and Ela. Of all the people in Arianople, he was the one trusted with all her secrets – where she was from, her mother’s identity, how she made money. That wasn’t something she could risk damaging.

Besides, if ever there would be more between them, it would be on her terms – it wouldn’t do to let him think he could have it all as easily as he once had. They weren’t teenagers anymore and she’d been burned by him last time she’d returned to the city. She’d forgiven him, but it wasn’t so easy to forget. Perhaps one day, in the far-off future, when she retired. If she retired.

“If you’re so eager to uncover something hot,” she said, “try these.” With that she dumped a fabric bag on the table. His greedy eyes latched onto it.

“Ah, your week’s work, I suppose.” He leant forward, intent on business now there were stolen goods to examine. His long fingers were deft at picking apart the cord of the pouch and pulling out the entrails – a faux-pearl necklace tangled with gold chains, a pair of fob watches, and a couple of brooches. A silver ring tumbled out when he tipped the bag upside down.

His smile broadened. “I wish all my clientele were like you.” He began examining the items as he spoke. “You know just what to take and what to leave.” The glass pearls hung between his fingers. “They look good quality.” He paused and rubbed one against his front tooth. “Not real, but realistic.”

“Of course.” She folded her arms. “You know my marks – they wouldn’t dare be seen in obvious coated glass, it would mean instant demotion from society.”

He nodded, not quite seeming to listen as he turned his attention to the brooches. “Not bad, not bad.” He plonked himself on the large oak desk that dominated his office and reached over to pull a magnifying glass out of one of the drawers. “Hmm, good artisan’s mark, too.” Remembering Quin, he gave her a grin. “But not too good or too rare, either. I can’t believe that while you’re in there you find the time to examine everything to make sure it’s not traceable.” He shook his head appreciatively, before returning to his work.

A few minutes more and he had an offer for her. “Seven zeri the lot.”

Quin flushed red. “Seven? Now look here, you.” She waggled a finger at him. “I go out there and laugh and simper at those aristocratic idiots and risk my life climbing up buildings and through windows to get to the goods. And what is more, I do all that knowing that if they found out what I was about, they’d not hesitate an instant in dragging me to the hangman themselves.” Her hands rested on her hips now. “If not the greatest thief in Arianople, I am the boldest – who else would dare steal the hearts of the court dandies and then sell them on? Who else could?

“Don’t you give me that rubbish about any of this being un-sellable,” she went on – if need be she could go on for a while, “you just spent the last five minutes enthusing about how excellent my choices were, about how wonderful and discerning a thief I am. I am incensed, Dethero – incensed! – that you would even think to insult me by offering seven zeri – seven sodding zeri!”

She snatched up the fake pearl necklace. “Now I know you’ll sell this for at least seven zeri alone and it would be a bargain.” His only reaction was to wince when she threw the glass pearls on the desk. “And if I took this gold anywhere else, I’d get three zeri per ounce.” Out came the waggling finger again. “There must be at least three ounces of gold here. And don’t even get me started on the watches. And, yes, it is hot, but it’s worth far more than seven.” She gave him a straight, hard look. “Fifteen zeri.”

Dethero looked lost in thought throughout her speech – listening carefully. Good. Perhaps that meant he’d come back with a reasonable offer. It was a long while after she had finished before he gave a slow nod, reaching a decision. “It’s no good, Quin, my dear woman, I still think, as magnificent as that coat looks on you, it would look far better on the floor.”

“You little bugger.”

“Is that an offer?”

“Gods, you are almost incorrigible.” She glared at him, fighting a smile. “Almost.”

“Then encourage me.” With a swift movement, he had her waist in his hands and was pulling her towards him. “You look better without all those buttons and brocades ... and whatever else you’ve got on under there.” He placed her in the space between his legs; with him sitting down, they were at an equal height and that playful smile was full in her face now. That, together with his impossible eyes – too blue, far too blue – meant she was finding her resolve not terribly resolved.

“Dethero,” she muttered, though it came out more as a heavy breath, “get off.” She gave a half-hearted attempt at pulling away, but there wasn’t much determination in it and his hands were so firm and so right at the small of her back.

“Shh, Quinta.”

She would never admit it, if asked, but her stomach flipped at the way he said her name in full.

It had been a long time.

“For old time’s sake,” he murmured, slipping his hands under her coat so only thin linen separated flesh from flesh. Strong fingers traced lines across the small of her back and up her sides. “Won’t you come back to me, Quinta?” His breath was hot in her ear and tickled in the most delicious way.

Quin’s internal organs were leading each other in a merry dance with her heart pounding out the beat. She found that her hands, quite without realising, were resting on his chest where his heart thudded its own rhythm. He rained kisses on her neck as he pushed back her coat, only pausing to look approvingly when the thin shirt was revealed.

Her eyes half closed, head arched back, concentrating on each movement. Dethero trailed his hands lower, skirting the taut fabric of her breeches and suddenly gripping firmly at the flesh beneath, he drew her to him.

Quin giggled, running her hands over his chest and beneath his coat. She planted a lingering kiss on his lips and then it was his turn to tremble, kitten-weak.

Fingers dipping into his inside pocket, the lightest touch of leather.

“Ow!” she yelped, as he crushed her hand.

“What the hells, Quin?” he said, releasing her fingers. He patted his pocket, satisfying himself the pocketbook was still there.

She withdrew, shaking the pain from her hand and looking anywhere but at Dethero.

“Quin, seriously,” he said, leaping to his feet, trying to meet her gaze, “what are you playing at? Trying to angle me? I can’t – I’m not one of your marks. They’re the ones you steal from, remember? They can afford it.”

Quin wrapped her arms around herself. “I need more than seven zeri, Dev.” Closing her eyes, Quin turned away and the words tumbled out. “Do you have any idea what I have to spend to just attempt to look like I’m one of them? And I try to keep it cheap, all a pretty illusion. Most of the rooms in the house have no furniture. I eat more than I should when I’m at their balls, just to try to save on buying food myself. I’m running out of ways to remodel my gowns, so it doesn’t look like I’m wearing the same thing twice. And it’s not just me, I have to look after, it’s Derry, Ariston, Hira. I have to pay a housekeeper and stable lad as the bare minimum staff, then there’s everyone here who keeps the secret and lets me keep my kit in their attics and back rooms. And – and ...”

“But that’s always been the way.” His voice from right behind her. The weight of his hands fell on her shoulders and, slowly, he turned her to face him. “You’ve always managed like that, haven’t you? What’s changed? What’s happened?”

“It’s Livia.” She held her hands up before he could ask the concerned question. “She’s fine – well, not fine, but no worse than usual. It’s just – the place – they’ve upped the fees, and when I went the day before yesterday I was short. And I have to pay them by the end of the week, as well as the rent, and put food on the table. And at the moment I think I might manage two of those things.”

“Oh Quin.” He sighed. “You are silly. And lovely, but mostly silly right now.” He shook his head then kissed her forehead. “You use your body like a weapon. You don’t need to do that, you’re more than that. You have more than that. Now don’t scowl at me like that, I do have a point – you have friends, people who care about you for you, people who will help you.”

A weight appeared in her hand. “All you had to do, Quin,” he said, folding her fingers around a pouch of clinking metal, “was ask.”

8

A Gentleman’s Watch

The string quartet’s music blanketed the room, the zither’s notes snaking through the crowd. For now, they played the more formal dances – the looser country reels would come later.

A whole host of footmen glided throughout the assembly ferrying trays of minted lamb pastries, kofte, and grilled helim cheese, showing off their master’s wealth with their satin breeches and lace flounces.

But they were nothing to the attendees who wore every fashionable shade from puce to periwinkle and were so covered in embroidery, bows, ruffles, rosettes, flounces, pearls, gold, silver, marcasite, cameos, diamonds, and ostrich plumes that it was a surprise they could even move. They wore hair in braids, rolls, coiled knots, fluffy curls that wafted around their heads, tall complicated styles, and even shorn short and adorned with dangling jewels.

The chandeliers twinkled in their candle-lit glory and the oil paintings stared down in full pride and pomp; dancers swept across the parquet and couples promenaded through the state rooms.

Quin prowled beside them, minding the dancers and the swan-like footmen. She’d sated her hunger on the savoury, spicy meats and pastries, and now she was on the hunt. So far, she hadn’t spotted Atesh, but she smirked when she noted the third gentleman who had copied his hairstyle. The rumour that he led society was no exaggeration.

Ordinarily the invites Quin received to balls and parties also extended to Derry, being her lady’s companion, but this one hadn’t. She sighed. Derry was her perfect cover, her partner in crime, but – most of all – her friend. Quinta Guldan’s friend, not Quinta Sabia’s.

Instead Quin wandered the party, smiling, nodding, pausing to speak to Lady Sabia’s friends. If she was going to do a job, she’d do it well. So, she stalked the gathering, charming left and right, stopping to enquire about this bey’s health and that lady’s wedding arrangements, before moving on.

She’d spotted Erdem once or twice and paused to watch him, but there was still no sign of him showing any lady particular attention. Perhaps the woman he was planning to elope with was so below him socially she didn’t even move in the same circles. Oh gods, if he ran off with a woman the Sultana perceived as utterly beneath even a disgraced branch of her family …

Quin shuddered and turned away.

A savoury scent wafted over her as a doe-eyed footman passed through the crowd, offering his silver tray of lamb pastries left and right. He moved with experienced grace but sweat beaded his brow. It was a warm night and his livery allowed no respite – at least the gentlemen could choose to unfasten their cravats and top buttons as the evening relaxed. Footmen had no such luxury.

Poor fellow. She gave him an apologetic smile and his brows raised, apparently surprised that someone should look upon him as anything more than a decorative automaton for ferrying food around. With a bow of his head, he offered her the tray, followed by a shy curve of his lips.

“I thank you,” she said, “but –”

A raucous cry sounded as a middle-aged man swung his arms wide with a braying laugh and stepped back, straight into the footman. His large, dark eyes widened even more as he lurched towards her, tray teetering.

Quin grabbed the tray in her right hand and his arm in her left. Staggering, she managed to keep the footman, the tray, and herself upright, without so much as a pastry flake dropped.

“Madam,” he gasped, face flushed as he regained his footing. “Thank you. Thank you.” His dark eyes shone with gratitude.

Quin caught her breath and glanced around. The man who’d knocked into the footman was still blustering through his conversation – something about a friend being thrown by his sabrecat – entirely oblivious to the disaster barely averted.

Half a dozen people had spotted Quin’s inelegant manoeuvre and were muttering to companions about it, but she’d saved the young man from punishment. Any food or drink he spilled would be taken from his wages. If he’d dented the tray and it hadn’t been his first such offence, it could have led to his dismissal with no letter of reference.

He was still staring at her in a way that made her shift uncomfortably. The weight of his gratitude was faintly embarrassing. She’d barely done anything, simply treated him as a human being: he didn’t owe her this much. She swallowed and smiled. “You are quite welcome, young fellow. Think nothing of it.”

With a flick of her head, she indicated the rest of the room and the young man glanced about, apparently remembering himself and the other guests.

“Madam,” he murmured, “I am in your debt.” He bowed to her, keeping his tray level all the while and turned to offer it to a pair of ladies nearby, distracting them from eyeing Quin from behind their fans.

Quin blew out a long breath and brushed her hands down her skirts before continuing through the crowd.

Now, what could be so interesting over there? A knot of ten or twelve people had gathered in one corner of the ballroom. She casually drifted to the edge of the group, careful not to seem too interested, but too many taller people blocked her view.

Ah, a movement of one gentleman, bending to whisper in a lady’s ear, and now she could see the source of all this fascination.

She should have known.

Atesh stood at the centre of the group, deep in conversation, apparently unaware of the attention he had gathered.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he spoke and the group around him broke into laughter. Quin wasn’t well acquainted with any of them – to insert herself into their conversation would show a shocking lack of decorum.

The crowd moved again, cutting off her view. With a short sigh, she turned away. Time for a glass of punch and to regroup. Perhaps if she lingered near that door, he’d have to pass when –

“Lady Sabia?”

She paused, punch ladle mid-scoop, and looked over her shoulder.

Dark hair gleaming in the chandelier light, Atesh emerged from the pack. Heads turned to watch him. “Ah, I thought it was you disappearing.”

Or she could wait for him to come to her. Much better. “Pasha, a pleasure to see you, as always,” she said, bowing.

“I assure you, the pleasure is mine.” He bowed in return, eyes lingering on hers all the while. That was forward of him. Thank the gods, her initial failure with him appeared quite forgotten. “I was just going outside for a breath of air – it’s so warm inside at this time of year. Perhaps you’d care to join me?”

Quin poured a ladle of punch into a glass and passed it to him. “That sounds like an excellent idea.” She took another for herself and tucked her hand in the crook of his offered arm. Firm, strong, he was a tall presence next to her and for a moment she didn’t dare look at him. How did a painter get so athletic? She supposed he fenced like most gentlemen.

In her peripheral vision, he glanced down at her and took a sip of punch. There was a moment’s tension in his arm then they set off, all eyes upon them.

And every person wanted to greet them. Atesh smiled and bowed, introduced Quin to those she didn’t know. The warmth in his voice put her at ease.

“Lady Asam, how is the litter coming on – all well, I hope?” he asked.

Asam – that was the name of the Agha who’d been taking money from landlords to threaten their Gutter Street tenants. He was the one who’d ordered his janissaries to take whatever they wanted.

Quin’s smile became fixed, just as she realised moments earlier it had been genuine. She’d been enjoying promenading on Atesh’s arm. Gods, that was a lucky realisation – she was here to play a part, not enjoy herself.

“Oh, of course Pasha,” Lady Asam replied, patting her greying hair. She was a handsome woman of middling years and she inflated under Atesh’s attention, like a bird puffing up its feathers for show. Had she any idea of her husband’s corruption?

“You know, sir,” Lady Asam said, “they’re not spoken for yet – all you need do is ask and I’ll give you first pick.”

“Madam, you’re too kind. I’m not currently in the market but thank you.”

There were over a hundred people here and Atesh could speak to any of them, but for every person they greeted, he had some individual enquiry or reference to their last meeting. It made for slow going across the room, but as with Lady Asam, his attentiveness brought a pleasure that shone in each person’s eyes.

One agha praised his exhibition, his wife asking if she could buy the painting of the Maiden of the Tower.

“Thank you for the great compliment, madam,” he said with a brief glance at Quin, before returning to the lady. “However, I’m afraid that piece is not for sale.”

It took them an age to reach the glazed doors leading onto the terrace and by the time they did, footmen had refilled their glasses so many times Quin has lost count. She had managed to surreptitiously ‘lose’ her full glass a couple of times, so she had drunk less than Atesh, but her limbs were still warm and heavy. Atesh’s cheeks looked a little rosy.

“Does it always take you so long to walk anywhere?” she asked, as footmen filled their glasses once again.

“Sorry,” he said with a lopsided smile, “that did take a while, didn’t it?” He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a gilt watch. “You’re not due to turn into a pumpkin yet, are you?”

“Not for a little while,” she replied, grinning.

“Excellent, then I get your company for a little longer.” He squeezed her hand, which was still on his arm. “I definitely need that fresh air now, though.” He lifted the fresh glass of punch. “How strong do they make this stuff?”

Inside, Quin crowed. She was going to get a slightly drunk Atesh to herself for a while. The perfect time to push her seduction up a notch. She wore a broad smile, as they stepped out into the cooler night air.

“Just the people!”

Malos. Ruining her plans again. He beckoned them over to where he stood with Nazli and Danyal.

“I am simply bursting,” he went on as soon as the greetings were over. “I must share the juiciest morsel of gossip I’ve ever heard.”

“And you couldn’t tell just us?” Danyal asked, looking at his wife in mock outrage. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, as if she couldn’t withstand the indignation then shot Quin an impish smile.

“Now, now,” Malos said, raising his hands to defend himself, “who am I to deprive my cousin and Lady Sabia? I was hoping I’d catch you all together.”

“Very well, cousin,” Atesh said, “I’ll follow the breadcrumbs. What is this great secret you’ve uncovered?”

“Well,” he said, making a show of glancing left and right, in case anyone was nearby. “I suppose you’d heard that one of the criminals from Sunday’s hanging was a pickpocket already on her second warning?”

“She stole a gentleman’s pocketbook,” Quin said, trying to keep her voice neutral. It was Aminda he was speaking of – she’d been the only woman up there that day.

“Well-informed as always, madam,” Malos said. “But do you know where the poor fellow was when this unfortunate event occurred?”

Poor fellow. Quin bit her tongue. Of course, Malos saw the true victim of the scenario as the man whose purse had been stolen, not the woman who was now dead because of it.

“I believe he was” – Danyal began then glanced at Nazli and Quin, clearing his throat – “excuse me, ladies, but I believe he was leaving an establishment of ill repute.”

“Which is an open secret.” Malos waved his hand. “What’s lesser known is the identity of the poor victim.”

She couldn’t think about Aminda. She had to picture anything but Aminda’s face as the hood went down. Anything else. Holding her breath, Quin stared at her glass of punch. Atesh shifted beside her, perhaps trying to catch her eye if he’d noticed something was wrong, but she didn’t trust herself to look at him.

“Lucky for you all,” Malos went on, “I have discovered the truth of it.” He leant forward, again with that theatrical check for eavesdroppers. Danyal and Nazli bent toward him. “It was Sir Polat.”

Nazli gasped. “Polat? Isn’t he married?”

Malos nodded.

“Then didn’t he deserve it?” Nazli said with a shrug. “The gods were punishing him for infidelity, surely.”

“Indeed, madam?” Malos’s brows shot up. “Why, a man’s pocketbook is his to keep upon his person without vagabonds laying their dirty little fingers upon it, wherever he may be.”

“And whatever he may be up to?” Atesh asked, head cocked.

“Exactly. Even right on the edges of the Gutter Streets where such an establishment may be found.”

“Amongst the desperate?” Atesh said.

“Desperate?” Malos shot Danyal a lascivious wink. “Ha, they weren’t desperate by the time Polat left, I’m sure!”

Atesh’s arm tensed under Quin’s fingers.

“Oh, don’t look so lemon-faced at me, Atesh. I know full well what you meant.” Punch splashed on the floor, as Malos waved his glass. “He had as much right to be there as anyone else without being robbed. After all, it’s not his fault they’re poor. Hundred have my tongue if I’m wrong, but it’s not the fault of any gentleman that any commoner is poor!”

Quin’s jaw ached as she gritted her teeth. Would it count as the work of the Hundred if she lopped his tongue off herself?

Atesh glanced at her, green eyes querying. Her grip on his arm had tightened. She gave him a small smile and dropped her hand.

“Oh Malos,” he said, returning his attention to his cousin, “you truly will say anything to be entertaining, even if you don’t believe it. Though it’s hard to work out what you really do think at times.”

“Don’t I mean it?” Malos’s gaze locked with Atesh’s. “Is it not true?”

“Indeed,” Danyal said, “they live there for a reason – they have chosen it. Damn fools.”

Quin whipped her fan from her pocket to disguise the way her hand had jerked into a fist. How could someone – surely, he didn’t believe that.

“Oh Danyal,” Nazli cried. “One should not be cruel to such people. I still give to charitable funds as there are those,” she said with a knowing nod, “who cannot work because of illness or disability. Last year a few of us gentlewomen donated our maids’ old clothes to the needy. It’s up to us women to look after each other, isn’t it, Lady Sabia?”

Quin flicked her fan open, face hot. “Always,” she murmured.

The four of them watched her expectantly, as if she must have more to say, but the silence stretched on.

“Our dear Nazli is quite right,” Malos said, leaping into the awkward quiet. “We have our station, but that’s no reason to ignore theirs. Only the other day I gave a kurush to an elderly lady who barely had clothes enough to keep herself covered.” A sharp smirk came to his face. “Of course, I gave it to her to save my own eyes from the sight!” At that the group laughed: Danyal threw his head back, his wife laughed awkwardly, Quin softly, and Atesh politely.

Idiot. A kurush wasn’t enough for even a cheap petticoat from a pawnbroker. How could they be so clueless?

“Malos, your compassion is as touching as always,” Atesh said, rolling his eyes. “I’m surprised even you don’t know that wasn’t enough for her to buy an old gown, never mind a full outfit.”

How did Atesh know that when the rest were so ignorant? She squeezed her fan, wishing she had her hand on his arm again.

“Oh, of course you’d know that,” Malos said, opening his mouth to say more, but the look Atesh gave him would have stopped a stampeding elephant.

What had Malos been about to say? Something his cousin didn’t want revealing, but there was no opportunity to ask.

Atesh cleared his throat, the darkness in his eyes lifting. “Nazli Pasha, might I ask why you and your friends donated maids’ drabs, rather than your own gowns?”

Nazli blinked.

Quin’s fan stopped mid-wave.

“I – well – they’re silk,” said Nazli, as though that explained it all.

Atesh’s raised eyebrows suggested it didn’t.

“I suppose, sir,” she said, “it hadn’t even crossed my mind. After all, what could a Gutter Street girl do with silk?” She looked to Quin, as if for support.

Quin returned a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes, but she didn’t trust herself to speak.

“Couldn’t they sell the gown or the fabric, then live off that a while?” Atesh asked. “Put food on the table, maybe clothe their little ones?”

“Oh yes, and then they’d be at our doors every day,” Danyal said, chin up, as if ready to fight to defend his wife. “We can’t be expected to do it all for them – it’s for them to work their way out of the Gutter Streets.”

“If they worked hard enough,” Malos said, nodding, “they wouldn’t be there in the first place.”

Wordless shock, anger, frustration – it all choked Quin. She disguised the sound as a cough, muffling it behind her fan. Once she’d regained control, she muttered an apology. With a soft hand on Quin’s shoulder, Nazli checked she was well.

Her husband went on: “Indeed, my family worked hard for what we have.”

“Well, Contessa,” Atesh said, cocking his head at her, a teasing tone edging his voice, “I know what these three think, but you’re the only one who hasn’t yet offered her own opinion on the matter.” He raised his eyebrows. “You do have an opinion, don’t you?”

Damn him.

“I don’t see that it’s a matter of import, sir.” Her tone was flat. She raised the fan like a shield between herself and her inquisitor.

“Come now, madam,” he said, “you must have thoughts upon the audacity of the poor to presume to take what doesn’t belong to them. I can’t imagine why you would be shy of sharing them with us.” He nudged her gently with his elbow, almost as if it could have been an accident. Almost. “The only reason I can think of is that you don’t have an opinion on the matter, but you’ve been quite the friend to Malos for some time now, so I cannot imagine that to be the reason – he makes a point of avoiding the uninterested and the uninteresting.”

A flicker of a frown crossed her face, before she smoothed it with a faint smile. He was challenging her again. But this conversation was much more dangerous than a game of cards. If he wanted challenging, interesting, or whatever nonsense, though, she’d bloody well give it to him.

She took a long sip of punch – if only it were something stronger, like that good whisky Derry had brought in from the north.

“Very well, Atesh Pasha,” she said, voice calmer than she felt, “this is what I think: people do so love to struggle, don’t they? They choose lives without money, dreams, or hope. And so, they live in the Gutter Streets, when just a little hard work would see them at parties like this one, rubbing their shoulders with us, we who have worked so hard.”

Danyal nodded. “See, Atesh,” he said, “she agrees with us. Quite a sensible young woman.”

Atesh laughed, winning surprised looks from Danyal and Nazli and narrowed eyes from his cousin. Quin’s mouth quirked despite herself.

“Madam,” Atesh said once he’d recovered from his laughter, “I must apologise on behalf of the nobility of Arianople – it appears they have quite lost the ability to detect sarcasm in my absence.”

“At least you still can,” she said.

His attention fixed on her in a way that made the rest of the terrace fade into the distance, like the blurred background in one of his paintings. Did she puff up visibly in response, as Lady Asam had?

“So, what would be your solution?” he said. “To help the poor, that is, not the sarcastically-challenged.”

“Not for them to work hard – I doubt you’d find harder workers than the street sweeps and seamstresses of the Gutter Streets. I think perhaps their only hope is for us to work hard to help them – we have the means they don’t.”

“The contacts and the capital?”

“Yes,” she said, tilting her head to one side in a half-nod, “but we also have the education, the opportunities, the confidence.”

“The confidence?”

“To try, to hope, to strive for something different. To even think it’s possible.”

His brows drew together. “I’d never thought of it like that.” A soft smile touched his mouth. “Thank you for opening my eyes.”

“Yes, yes, this is all very agreeable,” Malos said, clapping Atesh on the shoulder, bringing the rest of the world back – the lanterns overhead, Nazli and Danyal watching the exchange, the refreshing breeze hushing through the trees. “But this conversation has all grown much too serious for my liking. I only brought it up to share the scandal.”

“And what scandal is this in my city?” It was the Sultana, approaching across the terrace, Erdem at her elbow.

Quin swallowed and bowed alongside the rest of the group. Thank the gods she hadn’t appeared a minute earlier and heard Quin’s true views. At least Quin hoped she hadn’t heard them.

“Your Majesty,” Malos said, “it’s a trifling matter concerning a gentleman’s personal affairs.”

“Another man bedding a woman who isn’t his wife, then?” the Sultana said, a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Nazli gasped and fluttered her fan.

Quin smirked. Was the Sultana drunk?

“Your servant,” Erdem said suddenly, as if changing the subject to deflect embarrassment from the Sultana, and turned to Quin, “she’s rather unusual looking.”

“Derry?” Quin raised her brows at him. “She is my lady’s companion –”

“Erdem, you must be aware of the Contessa’s situation,” Atesh interrupted in a low voice.

“Of course, Pasha, I know Lady Sabia’s an orphan,” said Erdem with a dismissive flick of his hand. “But, one doesn’t often see pale-skins in Thanatolia. My father had a Frankish woman in his harem.”

The Sultana’s lips pursed a moment. It certainly took courage to mention his family’s ruin so casually. Or perhaps he was just as oblivious to that as he was all other matters of politeness.

Erdem returned his watery gaze to Quin. “I’m trying to get hold of one myself. How ever did you find her?”

Breath hissed between Atesh’s teeth as he shot Erdem a glare and Quin flinched inwardly at Erdem’s rudeness.

“Get hold of one?” Quin said. How on earth was she meant to respond? No one spoke that way since the Abolition when the great Sultana Arianne had ended slavery in Thanatolia. But Erdem’s position afforded him a good deal of power politically and socially – here he was at the Sultana’s side, after all. Offend him and she risked offending the whole of court.

“Of course, I wouldn’t buy one,” Erdem said, shrugging. “I assume you didn’t buy yours. I’d wager it’s an interesting tale, how you met her, though. I’m sure Her Majesty would be most keen to hear.”

Quin’s smile froze. Did he know she’d been looking into his business and was now trying to warn her off? No, there was no way he could know. He was just curious about how a Varangian woman became a lady’s companion to a Contessa from Umbria. It was understandable.

“Oh, sir,” she said, waving her hand, “it’s quite a dull story. Really. I’m sure Her Majesty –”

“Would love to hear it,” the Sultana finished. “Lady Sabia, I’m curious to learn more about you, the mysterious newcomer to my city.” She shot Atesh a raised brow. “And this sounds as good as place as any to start.”

It wasn’t a request. It was an order from the Sultana. Politely put, but an order nonetheless.

“How can I deny Her Majesty when she honours me with such attention?” She took a sip of her drink, though she’d have gladly drained it at that moment. “We met in Venetia some years ago …”

* * *

They’d been in Venetia for two months and things had gone as well as Quin had predicted. The Baron had proposed on the exact date she’d wagered. Of course, she’d been able to stack the deck to push it to that day, manipulating the push and pull of courtship. She’d had a particular stroke of genius when she’d pretended to be stranded on a gondola in the canal, inspiring a most daring rescue by the Baron.

How could he not propose after such high emotion?

They were about to enact the next stage of the con, where Quin would confess to the mark she was being blackmailed. It would be something innocuous that would make him feel protective. This was the first time they’d tried this tactic and the story was that a scoundrel claimed he had paperwork showing he owned her family estate – her inheritance. Although she’d assure the Baron they were forged documents, she’d admit they were convincing enough that she wouldn’t want them presented to the law, leading to an expensive (and potentially embarrassing) court case.

Thankfully, the fellow would accept a thousand florins to leave her alone. Alas, poor Lady Quinta Bucca, being so far away from home, wouldn’t be able to summon that amount of cash before the blackmailer’s deadline. Whatever was she to do?

Cue the Baron rushing to the rescue.

Wandering along the market square, Quin smiled at the thought, despite the sharp stink of the canals, running low in the summer heat. Ariston laughed and shook his head.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking,” he murmured in her ear. His current identity suited him. He was posing as her guardsman, his hand relaxed near his rapier hilt. The deep brown leather of his waistcoat complimented his olive complexion. At his belt hung a plump pouch of metal scrap masquerading as Lady Quinta Bucca’s wealth, ready for her to spend at the market. They made a sound as he moved that perfectly imitated the chink of coins.

“Perhaps,” she said, making a show of examining a silver patch box.

There was a chuckle from the next stall. “Yes, yes, she’ll do quite nicely – plenty to play with.”

It was a voice she recognised and it sent a shudder across her shoulders. “Let’s go,” she mouthed to Ariston.

She made to turn away and go back the way they had come when the voice sounded again. “Lady Quinta Bucca! How delightful to see you,” and with that, Callonze was upon them, his thin fingers pawing at Quin’s as he kissed the back of her hand, leaving a damp patch. He was a native Venetian, though unusual-looking even for that city. He had a narrow face and pointed nose, giving an overall impression of sharpness.

“I was just examining this slave – I thought she might do for show. Pale-skin Franks are so striking once you get them out of their barbarian rags.”

Quin slapped on a rigid smile. The worst thing about Venetia wasn’t the stink of the canals at high summer, it was their continued insistence on slavery and the sense of superiority it instilled in them. Ariston stiffened beside her.

“Indeed, signore?” Quin said, willing her voice smooth and friendly.

“See for yourself.” He returned to the stall he’d been perusing when Quin had heard his voice. With bony fingers, he beckoned to her.

As Quin approached, the stale smell of unwashed bodies mingled with that of the canals and for a moment she had to hold her breath.

One more step revealed a young woman a little taller than Quin, with auburn hair and light skin turning pink in the fierce sun. She looked more Varangian than Albian or Frankish, but most who called the westerners and northerners ‘pale-skins’ couldn’t tell the difference and referred to them all as Franks.

Beneath the red-haired woman’s white shift there was too much bone jutting out and not enough curved flesh. Chains on her ankles bound her to a post.

She stared back with pale blue eyes. There was no apology or shame in that look, just pride and a clenched jaw only slightly softened by what Quin guessed was fear.

Quin looked at Ariston. Ariston looked at Quin. They both knew Callonze’s reputation when it came to slaves – who didn’t?

Quin couldn’t leave her to that fate.

“My dear signore, I think there has been a misunderstanding,” she said. “You see, I came to market today to buy this girl.” She turned to the stall owner who had been standing to one side until now. “Did you not receive my message? Have you been displaying her when I expressly instructed you to keep her for me?”

The trader shuffled and muttered that he hadn’t received anything. He smelled sour – stale wine. Quin wafted the smell away with a flick of her fan. Callonze watched on with an open mouth as the poor trader searched through his pockets as though a letter might appear.

“Madam,” Ariston said, “I did ensure that letter was sent, but perhaps we could find madam another slave.”

“But I wanted that one!” It was an impressive pout that she ensured both Callonze and the trader could see. “A Northling girl will set off my complexion quite perfectly.”

Callonze had recovered from his bewilderment and drew up his tall, slim body. “Much as I hate to disappoint you, madam, I am afraid that I have made a claim on this girl and was just about to seal the deal when you arrived.” A twitch flickered around his left eye. “As you can see, this man has no knowledge of any message from you – perhaps you are mistaken.”

“Oh no, signore, I’m never mistaken.” She gave him a honey-sweet smile, but even that couldn’t cover the steel in her voice.

“Then perhaps,” he said, tone cooling to match hers, “your messenger never made it past the first tavern he came to.”

“I am quite sure he did, signore.” She brusquely turned away from Callonze, since she was getting nowhere, and addressed the trader. “My dear man, surely you recall? Last night, you were in the Spring Inn drinking with your eldest son – my messenger mentioned that you had been there a while when he arrived, but says you assured him that you were quite sober.” A cock of her head, another syrupy smile. “He spoke to you there and even joined you for one drink before he returned to me at – well, it must have been almost midnight when he got back.”

The trader looked from Quin to Callonze and back again. “Well, I – I did get home late last night,” he ran a hand over his mouth, “so my wife tells me.” And being a slave-trader, he undoubtedly frequented the Spring Inn. Many a deal in flesh was done in that place.

“I hope she wasn’t too hard on you. Now, my dear fellow” – she snapped her fan shut and touched it to her chin – “would you be so kind as to take off those restraints? You must know a lady’s servant is only worth as much as her footwork and I simply must see her dance.”

“Now then, look here,” Callonze huffed, his arms flapping as the trader rushed to obey Quin’s directions, “I’ll not have any damned southerner come along here and take a slave from right under my nose. I’ll give you a hundred florins for her.”

Quin placed a warning hand on Ariston’s arm as he started forward. “Signore Callonze, I am disappointed at your behaviour,” she said and sighed, putting the fan in her pocket. Let him remember that he was an untitled gentleman, just a signore, while she was a Baroness’s daughter. At least, as far as he knew that’s what she was. “It is quite unseemly to speak so.”

The trader shifted from foot to foot, watching the quarrel.

The red-haired woman flexed her ankles now they were free. “I don’t want to go with him,” she finally said, her voice barely tinged with a Varangian accent.

“You little bitch,” Callonze hissed, lunging at the woman. He grabbed her arm and dragged her close.

Too far.

Quin’s right hand flew to her left pocket and found the hilt of her sword, hidden beneath her full skirts. “My dear signore, I’d suggest you take some lessons in how one behaves in polite society.” She drew the blade. The steel glinted as the point found its way to Callonze’s throat where it rested. “I’d also suggest you don’t move.”

His face was somewhere between incomprehension, a creased glare, and slack fear.

A ripple ran through the market: there were gasps and wide eyes as those closest noticed the naked blade.

This was drawing too much attention. Their con might be up.

Her left hand went to her pocket and flipped open her Card case. If she could draw a Card, perhaps she could fool the slaver into believing the pouch of metal scrap was full of florins, even seeing gold coins when he opened it. The illusion would only work as long as she concentrated on it, but she didn’t have the money to outbid Callonze.

If she took that route, they’d have to flee the city today.

“That bag,” she said, nodding to Ariston, not taking her eyes off Callonze. He’d know what she meant.

A bead of sweat rolled down her back as she found the Lady Deception Card. One mistake and she would be wanted for murder. But if she walked away, she would be responsible for that woman’s abuse at the hands of Callonze. There was something in the woman’s bold gaze that jabbed like a dagger to the ribs.

“Madam, if I may,” Ariston said, placing his hand lightly on her shoulder, “you know what your mother says about your temper. I’d wager the sword isn’t necessary – you’ve impressed upon Signore Callonze how set you are on this girl and he’ll release her gladly to you.”

Callonze’s hand fell from the woman’s arm, leaving red marks on her pale skin. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed slowly.

“Excellent work, signore,” Ariston said. “Now, I’m sure this trader is happy to send the invoice for two hundred florins to your mother.” He added for the slaver’s benefit: “Baroness Sorrento.”

Quin released the Card, shoulder relaxing. Oh Ariston – she could have kissed him. He might have just saved their con. Within a month they’d have the Baron’s money and would flee, leaving the slaver’s invoice unpaid behind them.

“Of course, you’re right,” she said, lowering her blade, “Mama chose well when she employed you to guard me. I must apologise, Signore Callonze, my passions do indeed run away with me sometimes.”

Callonze sagged. “I” – his voice came out strangled and he cleared his throat – “I understand, madam.” He backed away a few steps, rubbing his neck.

“You have our address, don’t you?” she asked the slaver.

“Two hundred florins, madam?” he said, small eyes alight. At her nod, he bowed. “Yes, my lady, yes – I’ll have the invoice drawn up right away and will send it in the morning. She’s yours.”

“Thank you, my good man.” Quin’s smile was tighter than she would have liked.

“Quin,” Ariston whispered, shifting his stance.

More and more eyes were fixing upon them. Quin fumbled to return her rapier through the pocket hole in her petticoats and into the scabbard hidden underneath.

She laughed lightly. “My, what a mix-up,” she said loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Just a little misunderstanding.”

“All cleared up now,” Ariston said, his broad smile enough to reassure almost anyone.

“Come along now,” she said, taking the woman’s hand, “let’s be going.” She hurried the group along. “What’s your name?” she said in an aside.

“Eddera, but most call me Derry,” she said with a toss of her head. “And you are?”

“Just call me Quin.”

“Yes, yes, and I’m Ariston and this is all very lovely,” whispered Ariston, “but you nearly blew our whole trip, Quin.”

“I’m sorry,” Quin said, “and thank you. That was quick-thinking.”

“Thankfully one of us kept a straight head.” He huffed. “Do you have a plan for your new friend?”

They turned down a narrow path leading to the canal system. Their house was a short gondola ride from here.

She looked sidelong at Derry. There was pride and intelligence in her. Even now, wearing what wasn’t much more than a rag, she walked with a straight back and her head high. She must have been in pain, with that peeling skin on her nose and the red marks on her ankles and arm, but there was no sign of it in her face, just gritted determination.

What was she thinking of Quin and Ariston? Did she really expect they were going to treat her as a slave?

“Derry,” Quin said, offering her arm and a smile, “hypothetically, how do you feel about crime?”

* * *

Of course, that wasn’t the exact version of the story Quin told.

“You paid two hundred zeri for her?” exclaimed Nazli.

“Well –” Quin began to answer.

“They don’t have zeri in Venetia,” Erdem said, rolling his eyes. “She meant the equivalent in their gold florins. Still” –he paused and looked at Quin with a raised chin – “that’s a good deal of money in any nation’s reckoning. Why ever anyone would spend so much on a pale-skin, I’ll never understand.” His gaze rested on the Atesh. “Lucky for her, that guard of hers stepped in with sword drawn. She was careless to vex the other gentleman.”

“Well, that signore did insult the lady’s honour,” Malos said, eyes intent on Quin as they had been throughout the telling of the tale. “He’s lucky he didn’t get a blade through the gullet. I’d have challenged him to a duel on your behalf, Lady Sabia.” He drew his shoulders back, as if he had just demanded satisfaction of some imaginary foe. “To the death, if necessary.”

“I’m sure that would have been a touch excessive,” said the Sultana. She had an odd look on her face as she examined Quin, as if she was trying to work her out. With any luck she’d buy Quin’s act, just as the others had.

“To the death, Malos?” Atesh said, grinning. “You’re a regular Cheviker. Such a hero.”

Quin’s neck prickled at the name. She took a sip of her drink to disguise any involuntary reaction. At least the topic of conversation had passed from her rescue of Derry without too many questions.

“Cheviker wasn’t a hero,” Erdem said, scepticism in his lowered lids, “just a duellist.”

“Not just a duellist,” Atesh said, stiffening. “He was an excellent fencer, legendary, in fact.”

“Ah yes,” Erdem said, smirking behind his glass, “I’d forgotten you were the founder of the Cheviker appreciation society.”

Quin bristled. At least Malos teased Atesh because he was competing with him. Erdem, he was just rude – cruel, even.

“There’s a society?” Nazli said, brows rising.

“He’s being ever so delightfully droll,” Quin said, eyes narrowing above a smile.

“Oh.” Nazli sniffed.

The Sultana sighed. “Gentlemen, it’s easy to be heroic with a sword in hand, but quite another matter when all you have are words.” Her gaze fell upon Quin again. “Thank you for an interesting tale, Lady Sabia – it’s inspiring to hear of a gentlewoman standing up for another of her sex. And you set her free after?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Quin said, nodding. All eyes were back upon her.

“And standing against slavery, too,” the Sultana said, “in the middle of Venetia, no less.”

The smile she gave Quin lit up her eyes. It was genuine. Perhaps this was the way to win her approval.

“Oh yes,” said Nazli, patting Quin’s shoulder “you were very brave, my dear.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Malos, lifting his glass and frowning when he found it empty. “Here – you there – we need more drink.”

“Not I, sir,” said Quin, glancing at the lantern-lit walkways beyond the patio.

“And nor I.” Atesh took half a step away from the group. “What I need is that walk I promised the Contessa what feels like hours ago. If Your Majesty will excuse us?” His raised eyebrows and the long look at the Sultana suggested there was more to his question. Quin swallowed.

The Sultana held Atesh’s gaze a long while before nodding. “Of course, cousin. Who is even a Sultana to stand between a Pasha and his promises to a lady?”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, smiling broadly. “Shall we?” He offered Quin his arm and she took it gratefully.

“Well, take these with you,” Malos said, holding out two full glasses he’d just taken from the footman he’d accosted.

They took the drinks, bidding the group farewell, and bowed to the Sultana before strolling away. Torches and gaily-coloured glass lanterns constellated their way through the trees, lighting their way.

They passed cordoned-off beds of dormant bulbs that were worth hundreds of zeri. There were even little stone panels carved with tulips dotted along the gravel paths, as if to make up for the lack of blooms in this season. In spring, the place must be a riot of tulip and crocus, dripping with colour and dew and outshining the carvings.

Overhead, the spindly-leaved oaks were decked out in ribbons for the occasion, the pastel colours standing out in the gloom.

They only encountered one other couple out for a stroll; everyone else was keeping to the terrace and the house. Thankfully. Out here, Quin could at last breathe a bit more freely. She’d survived her second meeting with the Sultana. Somehow she’d even managed to tell the tale of meeting Derry without raising too many questions or implicating herself. Thank the gods, all hundred of them.

After some minutes of quiet Atesh let out a sigh and tugged at his cravat. “Peace at last.”

“I never thought to hear the legendary Atesh Shahin Pasha relieved to escape his adoring fans.” She looked at him sidelong.

“Madam, you mock me too harshly.”

“I only tease, sir.”

“Ah, but you’ve wounded me,” he said, giving a melodramatic wince. “You could make it up to me, though.”

She blinked. Even more forward than his eye contact earlier. Only just alone and he was about to ask for a kiss? Perhaps this would be easier than she thought.

“Oh?” She raised a brow.

“You could stop calling me ‘sir’.”

“Oh!” She bit back a laugh at herself. “And what should I call you instead?”

“Just Atesh will do quite well enough.”

“Then you’ll have to call me Quin, but only in private – it would be unseemly, scandalous, even. Others would get the wrong idea.”

“We have ourselves a deal.” He nodded solemnly before taking a sip of his drink. “So, Quin, other than scandal, what’s running through that head of yours?”

A flush of pleasure washed over her when he said her name and at the word scandal her thighs throbbed.

Damn drink – she peered at the full glass. Despite surreptitiously depositing two other glasses on side tables as they’d worked their way through the party, she’d still lost track of how much she had drunk. There was a warm, fuzzy feeling around the edges of her body and her brain.

Too much, that was how much she’d drunk.

A long breath would steady her. If it wasn’t full of the scent of him, all warm bergamot, orange, fresh soap, and the fruity punch they’d been drinking, then beyond that the heady floral fragrance of the rose bushes surrounding them, mingled with the cleaner cut of lime. The little green fruits hung in the low, round trees, peel glinting in the lantern-light. If she were a wealthy widow, she might lie with him amongst those trees …

“Sabrecats,” she answered at last. That was a safe reply. The crease of his frown was confused, querying. “I was admiring that.”

The sound of rushing water reached them as the breeze changed direction. Ahead stood a tiered fountain lit by floating candles, with a rearing sabrecat at the centre. It was only a statue, of course, but the flickering light of candles and lanterns gave it movement. Glimpsed from the corner of the eye, it could have been alive.

“Ah.” He nodded, as they approached. “And are you a great fan, then?” Settling on the granite edge of the fountain, he brushed any grit off the spot beside him.

It gave her a chance to look at him. The tip of his nose and cheeks were flushed. Tipsy. More than her, at least.

He motioned for her to sit, now he’d prepared the space, and she obliged.

“I’m no expert on them, but mine is dear to me.”

“That I understand. Mine, great brute that he is, can be a soppy fellow when he wants.”

“You already have a favourite? Poor Lady Asam. She seemed very keen on you having one of her litter.”

Atesh’s deep laugh took her by surprise. “Mrs Asam doesn’t want me to take just a sabrecat off her hands,” he said at her puzzled look. “She has five daughters. I guarantee if I go to see the cats, I won’t leave without having met all of them, too.”

“Because she’d love to see one of them wed to a Pasha.”

Atesh sighed. “I’m afraid so. They’re only after my family name, title, something like that.” His hand waved, careless of the punch he spilled in the fountain.

Quin shook her head. “That is not all they’re after – you are the most eligible bachelor in Arianople, after all. Handsome, charming, all of society hangs upon your attention, and you’re quite the painter.”

“Is that what Quinta Sabia thinks, then?”

Damn. She kept her eyes on her drink, breathing deeply. She’d said too much. Men liked the chase, so a woman needed to be a challenge to capture. Seduction was all about the push and pull – that little hint that they might have a chance, just enough interest to draw them in, but never so much that feelings were laid bare.

“The closed book finally opens.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it still made her breath catch in her throat. With the lightest touch, he adjusted a stray lock of her hair. He didn’t touch her skin, but the warmth radiating from his hand sent goose bumps across her shoulders.

Quin swallowed. “I think I’ve had too many of these.” The empty punch glass glinted as she held it up. She’d poured half its contents into the fountain.

She could salvage this, regain control. Modesty time.

“Atesh,” she bit her lower lip in that calculated way her mother had taught her, peering at him from lowered lashes. “I fear I’ve been too forward. Please forgive me.”

A momentary frown passed across his brow. “And just as quick as it opens, it closes again.” He sighed. “I suppose we’re coming up to pumpkin time, are we?” He flicked open his pocket watch as he had earlier.

Tick tock, tick tock.

Quin’s stomach flipped. This was unheard of – no man could resist the lip-biting, I’ve-said-too-much routine. He could see too much of her, past the mask. Panic threatened in the pit of her belly. He was trouble. Part of her said she should run away…

Tick tock, tick tock.

… Another part whispered she should fling herself at him, fall into the cold water of the fountain clinging to his shoulders and then …

She bit her lip. He was damned handsome, she had to give him that. She’d had too much punch. That was all.

Tick tock, tick tock.

And he didn’t like the act. He liked something, but not the act.

How many ticks until they would kiss? How many days until he asked her to marry him? How many until she extracted hundreds of zeri from his coffers? And how many until she ran off with the lot?

She hadn’t emptied enough of that damn punch away.

“Quin? Are you well?” He was looking closely at her and she fidgeted under his scrutiny. “You’ve gone rather pale.”

“I – I feel unwell,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry; I should have stopped the footmen refilling our glasses quite so often.” He set down his half-full glass on the edge of the fountain. “Shall we return to the house and call your carriage?”

At her nod, he stood and offered his hand.

Arm-in-arm, they passed through the fragrant lime grove and past the dormant bulbs. She should have been using this opportunity – him alone and tipsy and clearly attracted to her – to her advantage, but instead she was miserable at the very thought, practically running away.

In the torchlight near the house, Atesh’s eyes glinted a goldish green like verdigris over brass. Tall and strong at her side, where his body had been attractive, even comforting before, here he was statuesque and fierce in the carving play of shadow and light.

Despite the warmth of his body next to hers, unlike any statue in that way, Quin shivered, thoughts on the watch in his pocket ticking down to the moment she would betray him.

9

In the Bathhouse

In the steam of the baths’ hot room, Derry and Quin lounged. A pair of young women in gauzy white shifts pummelled their stiff muscles with firm strokes from hands and elbows and even feet. A heated slab coaxed out sweat.

Quin hadn’t spoken in a while and Derry wondered if she was asleep. She hoped not as she was desperate to ask her about the previous night’s ball. Perhaps there was a way she could casually ask Quin if she’d seen Tacita.

She glanced sidelong at Quin, who lay there with eyes closed. No, there was no way she could ask without rousing Quin’s curiosity.

Derry’s evening had been uneventful – interesting in a way that only she could appreciate. She had visited the apothecary who was helping broaden her knowledge of medicinal herbs and remedies and the often-brutal art of surgery. Reyhan, a woman in her forties with a firm gaze and firmer hands, always had interesting tales to tell and didn’t look strangely upon Derry’s pale skin. She also appreciated the knowledge Derry had of the plants from the north-west that she sometimes found in the bazaar.

There was an understanding between them that seemed to exist from the moment they met – no question was off limits, but no answer might be forthcoming. It seemed to suit them both.

Derry sighed as the seraglio finished the massage and moved to the doorway to signal that it was time for a slightly cooler chamber. Quin was on her feet in a moment – definitely not asleep, then. Perhaps pretending in order to avoid questions … That meant there was something worth asking questions about.

Quin tied the light cotton peshtemal around herself, its stripes of bright colour – ultramarine, crimson, turquoise, violet, and indigo – mixed with the light that filtered through the tinted glass windows above to make a hundred shades.

A nasty little twitch of envy stirred in Derry as she watched Quin slip on her wooden clogs, intricately carved and inlaid with silver and mother of pearl. Her own were rather plainer, as fitted their assumed roles of gentlewoman and companion.

She shook away the feeling – Quin had saved her life and one day Derry would return to her people and be welcomed back as their ‘lost’ daughter. She could go back any time she pleased and have a hundred pairs of bath house clogs covered in gold and gems, if she chose. But for now, she chose here, with Quin and a life debt Derry was determined to repay, however much Quin told her not to worry. For the Varangians saving a life could be a debt passed down generations until it was deemed repaid – it wasn’t to be waved away.

Besides, their roles were just for show. Before they’d come to Arianople this time, they’d stayed in a small house in the countryside, waiting to hear that Atesh was returning to the city. There, the four of them, Derry, Quin, Ariston, and Livia, had enjoyed a simple life for a few months. Derry had even shown Quin how to milk goats, not that it was her greatest skill. They’d taken it in turns to look after Livia, but it had been Quin who’d bathed her, fed her, and stayed up with her the nights she couldn’t sleep. It had been touching to see.

Although she had the finer clothes and made the great show in society, away from the cities they were themselves and Quin mucked in just as much as Derry and Ariston did.

The next room was the warm room. Here the attendants splashed Derry and Quin with fresh water. Its coolness washed away the sweat that had built up on their skin.

There were a couple of other women present. They peered at Derry with interest and shared a whispered conversation. She suppressed a sigh – would these people never get used to seeing fair-skinned foreigners?

Amongst the Thanatolians with their flesh shading from olive-gold to ebony, Derry (whose skin was a closer colour to the goat milk they’d had in the country) stood out like a pauper in a parlour. Not that anyone was overtly rude – often the opposite – it just grew tiring to be seen and judged as a foreign object rather than a fellow subject.

Worst were the gazes of gentlemen who only saw an exotic experience, a temptation from the fashionable west – such as Frankia from whence Arianne Sultana had chosen her husband, starting a Thanatolian fascination that would last centuries.

The women looked away at last and Derry’s limbs loosened. She submitted to the attentions of the woman who had filled a gauzy pouch with soap and was now blowing through it, creating a mass of sweet-smelling foam.

The attendant’s stroke with the cloth was firm and it was a while before Derry recalled that she had been meaning to ask Quin about the ball.

“So, how did it go?” she asked in the Dansk tunga, her native language. She’d taught it to Quin over the years as a way for them to communicate in public without being overheard. Few in the east regarded the language as anything more than the grunts of barbarians, never mind deigned to learn it.

“Hmm?” Quin was rapidly disappearing behind a layer of bubbles.

“Last night – at the ball. Did you see him?” She saw a flash of white teeth as Quin grinned for just a second before hiding it behind her usual gentlewomanly disguise.

“We spoke.” Her shoulders bobbed in a nonchalant shrug.

“Oh, you are exasperating! No one here speaks my language, so why so coy?”

“Because,” Quin said with a chuckle, “winding you up is just too easy.”

Derry rolled her eyes. “Well?”

“Well, we spoke –”

“Yes, you said that.”

“All right, all right, let me finish!”

“Go on then.”

“Goodness – you’re in a tetchy mood today. In fact,” she paused to puff foam off the end of her nose, “you’ve been ill-tempered since your light-footed ‘outing’ the other night. Did something happen?”

Derry blinked. Quin knew her too well. She fought to make a quick recovery. Quin would leap on any sign of uncertainty and Derry wasn’t ready to reveal the tale of Tacita di Vespa quite yet. Why was that?

“Well, I did have a sticky moment,” she said at last. This wasn’t the time for soul-searching. “When I went to leave, the room I entered through was – er – otherwise ‘occupied’, shall we say?”

“Ooh – don’t tell me – the agha and a maid were at it in the parlour?” Quin’s eyes gleamed wickedly.

“Nearly as clichéd – the butler and the maid.”

“How unoriginal.”

“Strangely enough, that wasn’t my main concern at the time.” She paused as the attendants splashed them with water again, rinsing away the soap. “So, I had to find a different way out. It wasn’t anything exciting, just shook me up for a moment, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Quin seemed disappointed. “Yes, I suppose.”

“So, enough of your distraction attempt – what happened with the good pasha?” As the attendants donned horse-hair mitts and began to scrub, Derry watched Quin’s expression like a janissary quizzing a suspect. She didn’t have to push any further. Once Quin was rid of the playful urge, she was quite willing to share, and related the details – each word and gesture – of their conversation by the fountain.

“Bloody hells,” Derry breathed at the end of it. “It sounds like he’s keen.” It should have been good news, but … She bit her lip, choosing her words. “It also sounds like – like he likes you.”

“He’s only human,” Quin quipped then laughed at herself. Perhaps it was the way it echoed around the chamber, but there was something hollow in the sound.

“No – I mean – he likes you. He likes Quinta Guldan not Lady Sabia.”

“Shh,” Quin hissed, eyes darting to the other women in the room.

“Oh hush, no one’s going to pick out your name in the middle of what sounds to them like gibberish.” Derry folded her arms, then had them pulled straight again by the attendant. “You know I’m right – about that and about him.”

“Yes – I know. Maybe. We’ll just have to see.”

“I’ve said it before, Quin, be careful. Please.” She touched her friend’s shoulder. “I’ll beg you if I have to. He worries me. You worry me.”

“Me! I worry you?” Quin’s lips pursed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You – I think you’re in danger of him.”

“Yes, Atesh seems so terribly dangerous! What terror could he visit upon me, exactly?”

“Every other mark has carried no risk because you could laugh at them as fools and fops, but him” – she shook her head – “he’s no fool and you – you’re too close.”

Quin burst into laughter. “Too close? Don’t be silly,” she said, still wiping her eyes once she’d recovered. “He’s just another aristo, Derry. I’m in no danger of losing my heart or my head. I’ve got it under control – just like all the rest. It’s fine.”

Then why had she retreated last night, rather than pressing her advantage and claiming a kiss from the Pasha when she had him alone? She was determined to pretend all was well, but Derry had watched her with him that first night at the card table before the clock had chimed. She’d positively thrummed for him and he for her, like a zither’s plucked strings.

If she slipped in this con, it would mean ruin for all of them.

“But is it fine?” Derry frowned. “How do you know, Quin? You can’t see the future. You don’t know.”

“Keep your voice down,” Quin hissed.

“Fine,” she said, quieter, “but I think you need to seriously consider stopping this now.” She held up a hand to stop Quin’s protests, but inadvertently sent the attendants away, leaving them covered in a blanket of foam. “You are” – she took a deep breath – “you’re too close to him – and I mean you, not the Contessa. He clouds your judgement and if you can’t do what’s necessary when the time comes …” She left the idea unfinished. Let Quin follow that thought for herself.

Despite the massage, Quin’s face was rigid. A long time passed and she still hadn’t responded.

“It’s not worth the risk,” Derry said at last. “He’s the Sultana’s cousin – if he finds out, we’ll both be for it, and Ariston, too. Then what would happen to Livia? And goodness knows who else we’d bring down with us – maybe even Dethero.”

“Dethero can look after himself,” Quin muttered. “And you are completely –”

“Lady Sabia! Am I ever pleased to see you?” The interruption was a well-to-do lady who’d just entered the room, followed by three servants. Derry thought she remembered seeing her at the exhibition.

“Yildrim Pasha,” Quin said, smiling. “I am pleased to please.”

“Well, I suspect you must be positively delighted today, you’ve brought me such pleasure.” Yildrim perched on the edge of the nearby bench, wrapped in a silk robe. “And a gentlewoman can never begin her preparations too early for such an occasion. Especially with such an esteemed partner on her arm.” Her fine-boned hands gave a fluttering movement and her dark eyes darted from Quin to Derry and back again.

“An occasion?” Quin glanced at Derry. Undoubtedly, they were thinking along the same lines: what was the Pasha talking about? “And what partner do you speak of? I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, madam.”

“You don’t know? My word!” The fluttering increased in tempo and a smile curved her thin lips. She leant towards Quin and Derry, shooting them knowing looks before going on in a quieter tone. “The city is all in raptures because the Sultana has announced the date of the masquerade ball of the season.”

Quin looked blank, despite the expectant rise of Yildrim’s brows. Despite knowing exactly what masquerade Yildrim was referring to. Derry had to give it to her, she was an excellent actress. Sometimes too good.

The Pasha’s eyes flicked to the ceiling for a moment and she rearranged her thick braids so they cascaded over her shoulder. “Goodness! I forget you’re a newcomer to Arianople, my dear, so I’ll explain. Every year the palace holds a masquerade to celebrate the start of the Dying Summer Festival. It is, without question, the event of the year – it could only ever come second to a royal wedding.” One eyebrow arched meaningfully before she went on. “Entry is by strict invitation only and such invitations are rarer than blue diamonds. And, my dear.” The Pasha’s voice lowered into reverent tones. “I am most reliably informed that one of these invitations, written in gold calligraphy on Amalfi butter-white – oh, and they would have been sent out sooner if that Mr Chalik hadn’t insisted on getting the paper shipped over especially.” She rolled her eyes. “I wonder if he’d be so quick to spend his own money.”

Mr Chalik? So, Erdem was involved in planning the ball. Quin had told her what he’d said about foreigners and ‘pale-skins’. Derry’s nose twitched, but she stopped the sneer before it formed.

Yildrim wasn’t finished with her tirade, though. “It’s a wonder the fellow worked himself into this position at all – organising the Sultana’s ball, indeed! Next he’ll be asking her to” – she took a breath and held out a hand – “but, no, I shouldn’t say!”

Quin sat up, glancing at Derry. Perhaps Yildrim knew something about his elopement. So far, their observations hadn’t turned up any clues on that front. “Madam,” Quin said softly, “I hope you understand that I am nothing if not discreet.”

“Oh, of course,” Yildrim said, “you are a dear. But let’s not waste any further breath on that vile little man and his inappropriate requests of Her Majesty. Not when I have much more exciting news!”

Inappropriate requests? Like one to marry an unsuitable woman, perhaps.

“Then I am all ears.” Quin’s face betrayed none of the frustration she must have been feeling at getting close to potentially helpful gossip, but she reached out to flick a bubble floating past.

“As I was saying, despite his frivolous expenditure, one of those most sought-after invitations to the event of the year is due to be delivered to a certain Contessa any day now.”

Quin’s mouth dropped open and she was, for once, speechless. Even Derry had never seen her look so surprised. It was genuine too. She wasn’t doing her usual act of touching her chest as if to say ‘Who, me?’ They’d known about the masquerade, but Quin had only just arrived in the Sultana’s circles and certainly didn’t expect an invitation.

Despite her concerns, Derry had to admit this was quite the victory for them – or Lady Sabia, at least. In all their cons, they had never received an invite to a royal palace.

“Yildrim Pasha,” Derry kept her eyes and voice low, fighting bubbling excitement, “as you can see, my lady is quite stunned by your news, but I suspect she is the best kind of stunned. Please accept my most humble thanks on her behalf for your wonderful tidings.”

The Pasha smiled benevolently. From their acquaintance, it seemed she was a woman who had married well and whose greatest enjoyment lay in the idea of being the soul of benevolence to those still young and single. She lived to match make.

“Of course, of course,” Yildrim said. “Quite understandable!”

Quin blinked and appeared to remember herself. “Indeed, I am most honoured – I had not the slightest idea – an invitation from the Sultana!”

“And that’s not all – but – no, I hesitate to say.”

Derry fought to not roll her eyes – it was quite patent that she would say and within the next twenty seconds, she’d wager.

“Yildrim, I’ll not push you to reveal anything told in confidence. Indeed, I would –” Quin began, but didn’t get far.

“Oh, very well – I’ll tell you, but I ought not to reveal my sources!” She leant closer to Quin. “I have heard rumours that a certain other Pasha of our acquaintance has been invited.” At this she gave an exaggerated wink. “And, I have heard that this particular Pasha no longer desires a bachelor’s life.” If possible, this wink was even more overstated than the last. “Indeed, they say – don’t ask me who! – he is hoping for a clandestine rendezvous with the lady he hopes will alleviate him of that lifestyle.”

Quin’s eyes flashed with something Derry couldn’t identify – something she’d never seen there before.

“Oh!” Yildrim’s hands fluttered at her temple and she leapt to her feet. “But I’ve said too much! I beg you, do not repeat what I have said – I’ll not tell another person.”

“Yildrim Pasha,” Quin said, “I know you are the soul of discretion.” She nodded with a twitch at the corner of her lips and Derry had to bite back a laugh. “And you have my word this will go no further.”

“Such a good girl,” Yildrim cooed, stroking Quin’s cheek with the backs of her long fingers.

“Although, madam,” Quin said, gaze lowering, “if a lady were to make enquiries about that particular family and any scandals or shames that she ought to know of, relating to perhaps a disgraced family line … What would you tell her?”

Derry had to battle against another laugh – Quin was playing Yildrim’s own game of making quite clear whom she was speaking of while giving all the appearance of attempted subtlety. Clever. Perhaps Yildrim would reveal what she’d almost said earlier.

“Ah, that fellow.” Yildrim nodded solemnly. “I would understand such a lady’s concern – reputation is so important – however, she would have no fear of any tarnish upon her own name or that of the Pasha in question. That branch’s shame is quite contained and although a particular leaf is still floating about, his influence is limited to certain social matters and nothing more.”

Yildrim cleared her throat and waved to one of her servants who hurried to fetch a stool, placing it by Quin and Derry. “He has so little influence, I hear,” she said, perching on the stool and bending low to them, “that despite having the gall some years ago to ask the Sultana if his – and I must apologise at even bringing this up in polite society, but I would allay your fears – to ask if his bastard half-sister could come to court, he was denied. Imagine! Some get from the harem allowed at court.” She shook her head. “Unthinkable.”

The foam covering Quin quivered as she tensed. Understandably – after all, she was some get from the harem.

“I see I’ve upset you, madam,” Yildrim said. “Do forgive me mentioning such a distasteful subject, but I hope you understand. Her Majesty may consider him a close friend, but that fondness doesn’t influence her decisions or allow him to overstretch his position. He is no danger to – ahem – your Pasha.”

So, Yildrim didn’t know anything about Erdem’s possible elopement and thought Quin was worried he might manage to get his branch of the family reinstated, potentially damaging Atesh’s wealth or status. Because that was precisely the sort of thing a lady wanting to marry a Pasha would be concerned about. Layers upon layers of social manoeuvring. It was enough to give Derry a headache.

“You” – Quin’s throat croaked and she cleared it – “you have been a great comfort in so many ways, madam.”

“Then I am very glad of it.” With that she bade them good-day and clattered on her clogs back to the warm room.

Quin watched the woman go, her face fever-flushed.

“Don’t forget what I said,” Derry whispered, switching back to the Dansk tunga.

“About what?” Her eyes were bright. That was a bad sign.

“About being extra careful.”

Quin laughed. “Oh, I don’t have time for extra careful: I’m going to a masquerade at the palace! Just think of what I can lie my hands on at the home of our beloved Sultana – her jewels and her cousin.”

Derry closed her eyes and lay back into the bubbles. There would be no reasoning with Quin while she was still giddy on the news of the masquerade invite. She’d wait for a calmer day.

Some hours later, they returned home, limbs loose, both smiling despite Derry’s concerns. Ariston waved two letters at them, both addressed to Lady Sabia. Neither was on Amalfi butter-white, though, which made Derry raise her eyebrows.

“You’re expecting something else?” she asked.

Quin shrugged and handed one letter to Derry to open.

“Oh,” Derry said when she saw the seal – the Shahin falcon. She cracked it open and read, Ariston peering over her shoulder. “Well, Lady Sabia is a popular woman.” She grinned at Quin. “She’s off to the Uzuns’ picnic on Sunday – and I think we all know who with.”

“Ah, but I think my invitation wins,” Quin said, eyes glinting over a smirk.

“How could any invite win over one from the Pasha?” Ariston said.

“Oh, Ariston, have you forgotten everything you knew of court? Intrigue wins every time and this” – she waved the piece of paper – “this is intriguing as all the hells put together. Malos has asked me to meet him outside Atesh’s house.”

“At – wait, what?” Derry said, grabbing the note.

“Exactly. And get this,” Quin said, “I’m to meet him at the tradesman’s entrance.”

“Tradesman’s entrance?” Derry frowned, skimming over the brief note. It didn’t say any more than what Quin had already outlined. “Curious. Do you think the Pasha has asked him to arrange a secret meeting and sneak you in?”

“I can’t think of any other reason. Still, it’s … odd.” Quin shrugged. “Well, I’ll find out soon enough – he wants to meet me early this evening. Now, Derry, come and help me decide what a lady wears to such a mysterious rendezvous.”

* * *

Late that afternoon, Ariston drove Quin to a spot around the corner from Atesh’s townhouse. They weren’t far from Kediler Square. Here the houses were detached mansions, set back from the road behind high fences and walls, unlike the place she rented, which was attached to other homes on both sides and only had a matter of feet between it and the pavement.

Quin’s townhouse was just about suitable for a foreign noblewoman come to sample the delights of Arianople for a few months, the expectation being that she had a home more akin to these back in Umbria.

Ariston opened the door, holding out his hand to help her down.

“Now this is what I call a townhouse, eh, Ariston?” She gestured to the estate behind the fence they’d parked next to.

A tight frown creased the edges of the smile he tried to give her.

“You’re worried,” she said. “I’ll admit, it’s a touch insulting to be invited to the tradesman’s entrance, but you can’t deny it’s intriguing.”

“I don’t care about intriguing,” he said, giving in to a full scowl. “Just – what does he want with you? Why has Malos written to” – he looked from her hand to her face with its raised eyebrow – “fine.” He sighed. “At least be careful. Be safe.”

Quin nodded and squeezed his hand, stepping lightly down to the road. “Wait here while I see what’s going on. If I’m staying, I’ll come and wave you off.”

“Good idea.” He closed the carriage door after her and leapt up to the driver’s seat, watching her walk away.

Had Atesh used his cousin to set up a secret meeting? She drew the hood of her cloak closer around her face. But why had he not written? He had permission to – he’d used it to invite her to the picnic, after all. Curious.

But, no, Malos had an interest in her for himself. Unless he was willing to accede to his cousin so quickly.

Her heeled shoes clipped on the cobbles as she hurried on. The sooner she reached the townhouse, the sooner she’d get answers.

“My gods,” she breathed when she rounded the corner.

Of course, she’d known Shahin House would be more like its neighbouring mansions than her own, but …

‘House’ was a misnomer for a start – this was a palace.

The road she’d been dropped off on emerged opposite the buttressed walls that separated it from the public. To her left, the walls disappeared along the street – the palace and its grounds must have filled the entire block. Ahead, they turned a corner and continued for 100 feet before curving inwards in a broad semi-circle, leading to an ornate gate.

Above the walls plane trees peeked, their foliage bright golden-green in the setting sun. Beyond the leaves a glass dome glinted. How that thing stayed up, only the gods could know.

She’d conned well before, but this was the next level. On a logical level, she’d known that a Pasha of the highest order and cousin to the Sultana was the wealthiest and highest-ranking mark she’d ever targeted, but seeing his palace gave physical form to the magnitude of difference. The difference between her previous marks and a pasha was dwarfed by the chasm between her and a member of the royal family.

Quin swallowed and took a long breath. “No, I’m meant to be here,” she whispered and crossed the street.

Flanking the gate stood ridged pillars, cast pale gold by the sunset. Complex interlacing patterns were carved across the stone and echoed in the gate’s girih design. There must have been guards just inside the gate, but none were visible from here.

Quin squinted along the wall. Malos’s note had said the tradesman’s entrance was on this short wall of the complex.

Ah, there, discreetly off to the left of the curved entrance.

Tugging her hood closer around her face, Quin made towards a gate not much wider than a wagon. It was almost hidden in the wall’s decoration.

Through the diamond gaps in its iron bars, at last she could see in.

A wide courtyard led in from the main gate, with stables off to the far side. They were larger than her house. Combined with the two next door. The arches along the walls were graceful in their simplicity, befitting their function housing sabrecats. A pair of figures bustled around the stable yard, one sweeping out debris and dirt, the other scooping it into a barrow.

Nearer to Quin, opposite the stables was a set of outbuildings that must have been used for storage, servant’s quarters, to receive deliveries, and all those other necessities that went on unseen in grand houses to keep them running. There was movement in the windows and smoke rising from the chimneys.

Beyond the courtyard, there was a wide, low pond with a fountain spouting from the mouths of three fish, their backs arched.

And past that, the great house itself. Two grand storeys of marble stood in elegant proportion, with a columned entrance, and goodness knew how many windows. Some glowed with candlelight; others were dark within. They all gleamed in the evening sun.

Perhaps it was the beauty of the sunset in the windows, or maybe it was the pleasing symmetry of the architecture – whatever the reason, Quin leant her cheek against the cool iron gate, staring for longer than she’d intended.

She took a long breath. The savoury, smoky smell of meat over an open flame filled her nostrils, beneath it a waft of spices and herbs – cinnamon, saffron, and rosemary. She sighed, but it came out as a soft moan. Lamb for dinner.

Quin, Derry, and Ariston had set off for Arianople when they’d heard Atesh’s household was preparing to return to the city from his country estate. Only now did she appreciate the full implications of such preparations. This place was more like its own little town, providing home and work for so many people – cooks, stable hands, footmen, butlers, valets, maids, gardeners … It was dizzying.

And all to look after one man. Looking at it like that, it was excessive, but then where would they be if they didn’t work here? Would they be starving, begging for scraps? Perhaps they’d just be messengers or clerks for the courts or who knew what. Perhaps –

The tap-tap of shoes on paving. A woman’s, heeled like Quin’s own. Inside the palace grounds, just beyond some bushes off to the left but coming closer.

Quin hurried away from the gate and ducked into the shade of a buttress ten feet along the wall.

The tradesmen’s gate swung open – someone coming to let her in? But where was Malos? Perhaps he waited within or maybe he had simply been asked to invite her on Atesh’s behalf. She bit her lip, waiting.

Dark, flashing eyes glanced left and right, not spotting Quin, who pressed herself deeper into the shadows. The woman stepped out, back to Quin as she closed the gate and smoothed down her skirts. They were a bright scarlet, ragged at the hem, but with a flounce. Miss Scarlet’s fingerless gloves were a kind of net that Quin knew at once – the fabric felt soft but wasn’t as fine as the lace a lady would wear. On the Gutter Streets, they were a close enough approximation.

That was where the woman was from.

Her skirt was that touch too short, showing her ankles, meaning it wouldn’t drag in the gutter filth. From that moment’s glimpse of her face, Quin knew her lips were a bold rouge, as deep as her dress, and her eyes were rimmed with smudged kohl that gave her a sultry look. There’d been a fake beauty spot at the corner of her eye. That meant passion.

She was almost familiar – perhaps Quin knew her. They might well have grown up together.

Miss Scarlet pulled up the hood of a black cloak and turned, pausing to fasten it over her chest, but not before Quin caught sight of her low neckline and the bosom that heaved right above it almost spilling forth.

Quin shrunk into the shadows and swallowed. A professional. The woman was a professional. One from the Gutter Streets, at that. Not even a courtesan from a higher district.

She couldn’t let herself laugh, but the urge was strong in her throat and she couldn’t say why. Her chest was sure to burst with it. Her stomach twisted with it.

The great Pasha, so beloved of society, so noble, so creative and artistic, so touched with apparent vulnerability and with art so beautiful it made her heart ache, and he had professionals scuttling away from his home as the sun set.

Of course he knew the troubles of the Gutter Streets so well he could argue for them with his cousin – he plucked his professionals from there! No upper-class courtesans for him, he liked a touch of something rougher.

Had Miss Scarlet been there earlier when Atesh had written the invitation for the picnic? In his arms? In his bed? Had he written the damn thing using her naked back as his writing desk? Had they laughed at the foolish woman who’d be so excited to receive such an invite from the Pasha?

“Madam, I’m so sorry.”

Quin smothered a yelp, hand already reaching for her pocket and the rapier hidden beneath her skirts, as she turned.

Malos. She’d forgotten about him.

“Oh.” She sank against the wall, heart throbbing against her ribs. Miss Scarlet, thankfully, was trotting away, already far enough to not hear Quin’s surprise. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if she came face-to-face with the woman.

Malos gave her a small smile, apologetic, but his eyes flashed with the same thing she’d seen when he’d annoyed Atesh by inviting Quin to his exhibition. Triumph.

He bowed. “I apologise madam, both for making you jump and …” He trailed off. His hair was perfectly combed in place, his suit was a fine velvet, and his shoes shone with fresh polish.

Damn her stinging eyes and how stiff her fingers were from the fists she’d been clenching so tightly since spotting Miss Scarlet. From the brief glimpse, it was obvious she was beautiful, Quin gave him that.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Malos said, “but you had to know what kind of man you’d –”

“I’d what?”

Damn Malos. And damn Atesh.

“I’d nothing,” she hissed. “He is simply a gentleman I’ve danced with on occasion, just as you are.”

Malos’s face dropped, as though he’d been slapped where he’d expected to be kissed. He’d known. He’d lured her here precisely to see the professional leave. This was what he’d meant at the party when he’d said of course Atesh would know the cost of clothing and living for someone on the Gutter Streets. Pillow talk with professionals.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it: “Don’t concern yourself with my imagined broken heart. I am quite well, I assure you.”

With that she turned and strode away, the blood in her veins searing.

Business. This was business. She didn’t care.

Lady Sabia would care, if she were a real person, but Quin, well, her plans for Atesh didn’t require his love or loyalty, just his proposal.

Malos called after her, but she raised a hand, not stopping or looking over her shoulder. “Good evening, sir.”

So, the Pasha saw professionals – what else had she expected?

She didn’t care. He was just another aristo.

Her face burned, but that didn’t mean she cared. She would go home, sleep, get up, go to parties, get through the week, and come Sunday she would go on a picnic with the great Pasha.

She would beautify herself, charm him, and steal his bloody fortune.

10

Flirtation & Foreigners

That Sunday was warm and dry – the tail end of summer with a cool breath of the coming autumn. Quin had spent the week on business – stealing, fencing the goods, fencing with swords, and avoiding Atesh at the one ball she had attended. It had been a large affair, so it had been easy to disappear into the crowd.

Now, she had a firm grip on her emotions – it had been shock that had made her nails dig half-moons into her palms. Just shock. She’d had the best part of a week for the memory to dull and now she could face him. She was sure.

Besides, her invitation to the palace masquerade had arrived on Thursday and the thought of it still made her stomach flip. If she pictured that, it would distract her from Miss Scarlet’s red skirts.

The group for the picnic called for Quin shortly after eleven o’clock. She greeted a more intimate party than expected: Nazli, Danyal, Malos, Erdem, and Atesh. Three footmen followed, picnic baskets hanging from their sabrecats’ shoulders.

Excellent. Fewer people meant more time with Atesh.

Quin smiled an especially winning greeting at him as she mounted Hira. He didn’t have the grace to show any sign of shame, no tell-tale fidgeting or shifting away of eye contact, but then he had no idea anyone knew his little secret.

She strangled the reins.

The quicker she worked, the sooner this game – her business – would be over and done with.

Today she was going to crank up the seduction: it would be excellent timing for a first kiss. Then he’d be firmly on the hook. She’d fooled around too long and he’d got under her skin, because she’d spent too much time around him and his bloody paintings.

They set off in the late morning sun, sabrecats sauntering out of Arianople and into the wilds. Erdem chose to ride alone at the front. Danyal, Nazli, and Malos rode just behind, the sound of their laughter and chatter drifting back to where Quin and Atesh rode side-by-side in silence.

When Atesh had called his sabrecat a brute, he hadn’t been exaggerating – Atil wasn’t much taller than Hira, but muscles rippled beneath his sleek, black coat. His legs were thick with yet more muscle, but the round yellow eyes that examined Quin and Hira made him look almost kittenish.

As they passed into the forest, there came the green scent of cool, damp earth and drying leaves.

The awareness that this was the same road she took to visit her mother was a dagger in her ribs. She made a point of not seeking a glimpse of the ancient fortress atop its hill in the distance.

What was her mother doing at that moment? Whatever it was, it didn’t involve a picnic or pleasantries. She fixed her eyes on a spot between Hira’s ears. The sabrecat’s ears twitched as if sensing Quin’s agitation.

“Have you heard the latest gossip?” Atesh ventured into their silence.

“Arianople is a hot-bed of gossip, Pasha – which particular piece did you mean?”

Too harsh. She needed to call him Atesh. She was meant to be drawing him closer, not pushing him away. With a long breath, she loosened her shoulders and threw a smile at him.

“Very true,” he said, hands resting lightly on the reins. “I was referring to a recent spate of thefts from the nobility in the city. Erdem thinks he was robbed the same night as his gallows party a fortnight ago.”

“Goodness – surely not?” Quin’s eyes widened – another studied manoeuvre in her arsenal. “What was taken?”

“Oh, just some jewellery,” he shrugged, “nothing terribly expensive, but not cheap tat, either. It’s no disaster – they can afford it, can’t they?”

Was he teasing her? She looked sidelong at him. His green eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his hands still relaxed. No clues.

“My dear Pasha, was that a reference to our last meeting, perchance?” She cocked her head at him, tone playful.

“Why, I do believe it might have been, Lady Sabia.” He feigned innocence frighteningly well. “It’s true, though, isn’t it? If anyone can afford to lose a few diamonds, it’s those who – how did you put it? – oh yes – who have worked so hard.”

“Are you mocking me, Atesh?”

“Would I do such a thing?”

“Yes, I do believe you would!”

“Ah,” he sighed. “Then you already know me too well, and I’m afraid this whole picnic will be frightfully dull for you. I am that predictable.”

She laughed despite herself. “I’m sure you’re not entirely predictable.” Did it even cross his mind she might know his little secret?

“Ha, don’t you be so –” he began but a call from Erdem interrupted.

“There it is – the clearing’s just off to the left!” His voice was reed-thin yet carried over the jingling of harness buckles and rustling of leaves.

“Come on,” Atesh said, grinning at Quin, “let’s beat our little leader to it.” With that he called a command to his sabrecat, Atil, and bounded ahead.

Quin urged Hira on. With a leap, the sabrecat was after Atesh, skirting the edge of the trees. “You’re keen.” Quin laughed, leaning low against Hira’s thick fur.

They galloped through the dappled light at the border between road and forest, Hira’s striped coat blending into the shadows, the camouflage effect spoilt by Quin’s deep red riding habit.

Ahead, Atesh glanced at his pursuit and, seeing that they were gaining, loosened the reins further. His great black cat sped on.

Without a signal, Hira bounded into the woods and Quin found herself having to hug the cat’s back to avoid low branches and shrubs. “Hira! What –”

The first mouthful of leaves warned her to keep quiet. She tucked in as close to the sabrecat as she could.

Quin spat out a twig. She had a choice – trust in Hira and give her free rein or try to haul her in. The trunks and scrub hurtling past suggested the latter would be a task easier said than done.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she muttered into Hira’s warm-smelling coat.

Quin squinted ahead. Without warning, they sped to the right, leapt over a fallen oak, and burst into a long oval clearing. At the same moment came Atesh and his cat, galloping down a path to Quin’s right.

“A draw,” called Atesh as they pulled alongside each other.

Quin reined Hira in amongst the tall grass that covered the meadow. “Just.”

Her breath caught at the glint of green at his side. The Shahin Dagger. The gallop had blown back his coat and it was now caught on the hilt, revealing the curved knife. Of course, Quin had heard of the famous blade, but this was her first time seeing it for herself. Brilliant emeralds ringed the golden hilt. The sheath gleamed green – it was enamelled perfectly smooth, with a gold falcon wing design sweeping along the arced shape, the feather tips narrowing to form the end of the scabbard.

As soon as she’d won the glimpse, it was gone, as Atesh adjusted his coat.

The sabrecats chuffed and briefly sniffed each other’s faces before Hira bared her teeth in a brief warning. Atil took the hint and turned his head away but didn’t retreat.

“Did you enjoy your shortcut?” Atesh asked, plucking a piece of bark from Quin’s hair and holding it out to her. “I believe this is yours.”

“I’ve never seen it before in my life,” she said, patting Hira’s neck, “you must be mistaken.”

There was time for shared smiles before the rest of the party caught up.

Was this really the same man who had been with Miss Scarlet on Monday? His eyes glinted in the sunlight; his cheeks were flushed from the race. He seemed so fresh, playful, even the way he moved in society was natural. There was nothing seedy about him, nothing to suggest he wanted a woman so far beneath him to make himself feel all the higher. That was what aristos usually called upon professionals for.

Quin sighed, dismounted, and surveyed the ballroom-sized glade, while the footmen laid striped blankets on the ground. Overgrown grasses bent in a breeze and tangled with red and pale blue anemones. In the centre grew a solitary field maple, its green leaves already touched with fiery cadmium, heralding the coming autumn. It was in the shade of those leaves that they sat on large cushions embroidered with pastoral scenes of milkmaids and carts, provided by Nazli.

For a good time, Quin relaxed into the idle chatter that always accompanied al fresco dining.

Atesh had arranged the food. Dolma full of minted rice. Lamb kofte, flavoured with parsley and onion, crispy at the edges, juicy in the middle. The softest flatbread Quin had ever eaten, studded with rosemary sprigs and dusted with fiery black pepper. Cool cacik and thick hummus.

Quin had to restrain herself. She could gladly have stuffed herself and not bothered with conversation, but a lady couldn’t do such things.

Erdem proved to be more reserved today than he had been at last week’s ball and what little he did say was at once servile and self-important in the way only he could be. There was no mention of ladies or any hint of the elopement he might be planning.

“Well, Malos,” Nazli said, holding up her glass as Danyal poured more wine, “don’t you think you’ve played the rake long enough, my dear?”

“What does that mean?” Malos said, head cocked.

“When are you going to settle down?” She nodded at Atesh, as if to say like your cousin.

“Oh.” Malos’s voice fell soft and he looked down at his own glass, still half full of deep crimson wine.

Quin shifted in her seat. Nazli meant well – she never meant otherwise – but she hadn’t picked up on Malos’s interest in Quin.

“Nazli, really,” Quin said, “you can’t leave Mr Chalik out.” She turned her smile to Erdem – perhaps she could turn this conversation to her advantage and discover something about his plans. “Surely there’s a special lady you’ve got hidden away?”

There was no reaction from him – no shocked or worried widening of the eyes or raise of brows. If anything, his hooded lids said boredom.

“Madam,” he said eventually, “at risk of disappointing you, I have business far above such idle matters as flirtation and marriage.”

Quin frowned. Disappointing me? How –

But Erdem wasn’t finished. “The only woman in my life is the Sultana. I understand your interest in me, however –”

Just as Quin’s mouth dropped to an O-shape somewhere between surprise and horror, a high peal of laughter burst from Nazli’s mouth, making Erdem flinch. Danyal grinned, taking the glass from her before it spilled. Malos and Atesh shared the same low chuckle, though they each avoided the other’s gaze.

Nazli waved her hands, catching her breath. “You think Lady Sabia – no, it’s just too much!” She collapsed into laughter again, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

Erdem’s back shot upright. “Well why else would she be asking?”

“Politeness, perhaps?” Malos murmured.

The unspoken addition chimed in Quin’s thoughts: something you’re unfamiliar with, Erdem.

Erdem scowled, genuine confusion in his dark eyes. “Well,” he said, shrugging, “I wouldn’t marry a foreigner, anyway …”

* * *

“… I mean, Umbria, that’s practically Venetia.” Erdem peered sidelong at Quin. “Weren’t we always at war with them?”

Atesh almost choked on the mouthful of baklava he’d just taken. Erdem hadn’t really said that, had he? Closing his eyes, Atesh gulped the sparkling elderflower wine and cleared the pastry from his throat. Once refreshed, he fixed his second cousin with a pointed look.

How much Erdem had changed since their childhood. He’d been a cautious boy, all too aware even at that age that his position as playmate to the Sultana and her cousin was a stroke of luck that must have come from the Blind Lady herself. Erdem’s family had been disgraced when he was just a boy after ignoring the edicts of the Night of the Innocents.

Years later, Erdem’s mother had managed to win pity for her son, so he’d been allowed to join the royal household. He’d been eager to please and friendly, occasionally prone to tantrums, but he always came back apologetic, usually with a pocket of Anatol delight to share.

Now, every time Erdem spoke, he managed to fall in Atesh’s estimations.

The rest of the group were evidently as horrified as he was, judging by their continued silence.

Danyal returned Nazli’s glass to her. She took a long sip. Even the footmen, stationed a few feet away, shuffled from foot to foot and shared glances.

Quin, though, she just smiled serenely.

“Erdem, don’t you think –” Atesh began, but a flicker crossed Quin’s face.

“I hear Venetia just quashed a revolution,” Nazli said. “It sounds like a dangerous place.”

Everyone nodded, muttering agreement.

Atesh took a long breath. That brief expression on Quin’s face had been a warning to him. And Nazli, gods bless her, had leapt into the void with neutral, idle conversation – the only type there ought to be at a picnic. They were right, this wasn’t the time or place to argue, however skilled Erdem had become at provocation.

“Ha, Venetia,” Malos said, lying back against a cushion. “They’re always having a revolution.”

“Don’t you fall asleep,” Atesh poked him with the toe of his shoe, “I was going to suggest we take a turn about this clearing – stretch our legs.” Escape Erdem.

“You can suggest all you like” – Malos paused, suppressing a yawn – “I’m quite happy here, thank you very much!”

Nazli nodded.

“The sun’s too hot for me,” replied Erdem, straightening his lace cuffs.

“A walk?” Danyal peered around the meadow. “That sounds – ow! What did you kick me for?”

“Kick you?” Nazli asked, her eyes wide. “Whatever are you talking about? Why would I kick my husband? Really, dear,” she shook her head, “you’re imagining things.”

“Hmm.” Danyal frowned at her and she gave the slightest shake of her head.

“Well, Atesh” – Nazli smiled brightly – “it looks like it’s just you and Lady Sabia for that walk. Have fun.”

There was a definite sparkle in her eyes as she shooed them away. Malos pursed his lips but closed his eyes as if already falling asleep.

Atesh scrambled to his feet, narrowly avoiding a swat from Nazli’s fan. “Er, Lady Sabia,” he adjusted his waistcoat then offered his hand, “would you care to accompany me?”

It felt as if she looked up at him for a long time before giving her answer. “Well – yes – of course. I mean, that would be lovely,” she said with a slow smile, allowing him to help her up.

As they walked away from the group, arm in arm, there was furious whispering and muttering from Danyal and Nazli.

“What was that for?”

“I can’t believe you’d be so dense!”

“What? Oh. Oh!”

Beside him, Quin chuckled.

They skirted the shadow cast by the maple, where the sabrecats lounged and watched with fleeting interest, eyes half closed. When they came to the other side of the clearing, with the tree separating them from their friends, they found the grasses and flowers stood as high as Atesh’s waist, undisturbed. Here they were out of earshot of the others.

“I am sorry about –”

“I really must apologise for –”

They spoke at once then laughed.

“For the other evening,” Quin said.

“That’s what I was trying to apologise for.” He looked away on pretence of examining a crimson flower with velvet, blue-black centre. “I’m afraid I had rather too many glasses of punch.”

“No, no, you have nothing to apologise for, sir. I was the one who was too – it was inappropriate.”

“Quin,” he said, daring to make eye contact, enjoying the feel of her name on his tongue, “I might have overindulged, but I remember well enough I asked you to call me Atesh. And that part of the evening I truly don’t regret.”

A soft smile lit her face, soon chased by the flicker of a frown, gone so quickly perhaps he’d imagined it. “Then Atesh it is.” The slightest squeeze on his arm sent warmth coursing through his body. “So, I’m allowed to call you by your first name, but is it too much to ask the cousin of the Sultana if he had a sore head the next day?”

He laughed. “I’m not sure where the etiquette books stand on that one, but yes, yes I did.”

They walked on and a bead of sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades. “I hope you don’t mind, but it’s growing quite warm,” he said before removing his coat.

“No, not at all. I was just thinking the same thing myself but was worried it might seem improper.” Quin shrugged off her riding habit. “That’s better,” she sighed as the breeze ruffled her linen blouse.

Atesh watched her out of the corner of his eye, again pretending to be fascinated by the anemones growing all around. The floaty linen seemed incongruous with the sword at her side and that, he realised, wasn’t the only discordant note. She appeared to be a typical Umbrian aristocrat, touring the Inland Sea as such ladies often did, many picking up a husband along the way.

And yet – and yet what? He thought back to their first proper meeting and again to their conversations since. She seemed at odds with herself, somehow.

“Are you all right?” she asked, watching him closely. “You’re frowning. Hmm – and pouting a little, too. Is something wrong?”

“The others have the right idea – it’s too warm for walking. Let’s sit for a while.” He spread his jacket out over the grass, offering Quin a spot first.

“An excellent idea,” she said. “It is too warm for much of anything.”

They sat side-by-side, not quite touching, though he was intensely aware of her closeness, the light warmth coming from her. She leant back, peering up.

He followed her gaze to the few clouds scudding along in the cerulean sky, wispy tails like banners.

“Heh, that one looks like a sabrecat,” he said, pointing to the right.

“And that one’s a heart.” She leant closer to point it out.

Hundred, she actually smelled of rose oil and geranium; it was heady, almost dizzying. Despite the day’s heat, he longed to bend closer to her warmth, like a seedling towards the sun. If he just turned his face, he’d be able to kiss her.

“Do you see it?” she asked.

“Oh yes, I see what you mean.” It was a puffy cloud shaped like a love heart. “Sort of. You do know hearts aren’t really shaped like that, though, don’t you?”

The laugh burst from her. “Wow, thank you for the biology lesson. I didn’t have you down as being so pessimistic.”

“Only when it comes to matters of the heart,” he said with a solemn nod.

She laughed again then shook her head. “Just so you know, I only laughed at how bad that pun was.”

He chuckled. “The pun wasn’t intended. What I said was kind of true.”

“So, you’re telling me that you, the great painter, don’t believe in love?”

“It probably exists elsewhere, but not for the likes of us.”

Out the corner of his eye, Quin gave him an odd look – a frown with narrowed eyes and something else he couldn’t place his finger on.

He winced. Her dismay was no surprise – he had just told a woman who possibly had designs on him that he didn’t believe in love. Hundred damn it, couldn’t he have put it better? Maybe he shouldn’t have told her at all.

“Sorry,” he said to break to silence, “I’m just saying that at court no one marries for love.”

“What about Nazli and Danyal?”

“Well, yes, they do seem well-suited and perhaps they’re the exception that proves the rule. But do you ever really know what goes on in a relationship, if you’re not part of it?” He looked down, running his finger over the frayed cuff of her riding jacket. It must be a favourite; it had been repaired where others would have given it away. The stitches were rough though, as clumsy as this conversation. He’d get the name of Nazli’s seamstress and pass it to Quin.

She was still quiet.

“For all we know,” he forged on, “they might hate each other or be having affairs left, right, and centre.” She shot him a shocked glance. “I’m not saying they are! Just, we don’t know. They might seem to us so perfect, so in love, but the reality could be something entirely different.”

“I hadn’t expected to find you such a cynic,” she said, voice soft. “I thought artists were meant to be dreamy idealists, all inspired by love and nature and so on.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps others are. Perhaps I’ve just spent so long expecting a marriage based on family lines and titles, I comfort myself by choosing to believe that’s all anyone can hope for – all I should hope for.”

When she didn’t respond, he dared to look at her. She’d closed her eyes, face still up to the sun. At last he could examine her openly, without those sharp amber eyes piercing him back.

Her nose was straight and refined, yet a little wide, which worked with her angular jaw and full mouth. Those features and her colouring made him struggle to place her. Her skin tone, somewhere between rose-gold and bronze could have been from several places on the eastern Inland Sea, but it was darker than was typical for Umbria. Amber eyes, while unusual in most places, were associated with certain villages in the mountains of Thanatolia.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

Her eyes opened at the question but remained on the sky. “I thought you knew? I thought everyone knew everything about newcomers to Arianople?” A sardonic smirk twisted her mouth.

“I know that they say you’re from Umbria, but” – he licked his lips – “but I wondered if your family were from somewhere else as there are things about you that seem to be from elsewhere – like your eyes.”

Quin gave a measured nod. “Yes, I see what you mean.” She took a breath and turned to face him. “My mother is from Thanatolia, so I get my eyes and accent from her.”

His face grew warm as she fixed him with those eyes.

“I’ve travelled a lot,” she went on, “so I suppose I’ve picked up a lot of ideas and mannerisms from different places. Maybe that’s what confused you?”

“That must be it. I did realise you had Thanatolian blood. I suppose that’s why you’ve come here.” He stopped, running through what she had said. Is? “Sorry – did you say your mother ‘is’ from Thanatolia? I thought –”

“Did I?” she said. “I meant was. She only went two years ago – it’s hard to get used to.”

She’d rushed to correct herself too quickly, but the sad smile now on her face – there was no lie in that.

“I’m sorry, Quin – it’s hard losing a parent. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine.” She took a long breath, her chest rising and falling in the periphery of his vision. “Although, really Atesh, you do know how to distress a young lady.”

“I – sorry, I really didn’t mean to –”

“It’s not that. I said I was fine about that.” Her head cocked to one side. “Rather, you are cruel in a different way. Here we are on a beautiful day. You, an eligible young man who tricked me into telling him I thought as much the last time I saw him, have invited a young, unmarried lady to a picnic. Our friends have conspired to get us alone, and yet you just want to ask me about my parentage. It’s enough to make a lady question her feminine wiles.”

Atesh found himself smiling at her playful diatribe. She’d somehow managed to invite him to – what, kiss her? – without actually saying the words. “Well, we can’t have such exquisite wiles being questioned, can we?” he said, voice coming out husky around the tightness in his throat. “Please accept my deepest apologies and this humble petition for forgiveness …”

A smile flickered on his mouth, an inch from hers. Her eyes closed, long lashes brushing her cheeks. His heart thundered in his ears. What if the others spotted them? Kissing this woman he barely knew in broad daylight would the scandal of the season. If they were caught.

And damn it, he wanted to. Needed to. He leant forward slowly, savouring the anticipation. He was sure her lips would be soft and as sweet as the baklava they’d eaten earlier and –

The earth was moving. Not figuratively, the earth was actually moving.

A crash rolled through the forest and into the clearing.

His eyes opened with a jolt. “What –”

Quin was already on her feet, rapier in hand. “I don’t know, it’s – bloody hells,” she gasped the last and her knuckles whitened. “Move!”

A shadow fell upon them. Leaves and earth and bark and grass flew everywhere. Atesh rolled to his feet, almost stumbling as the ground shook.

“Are you –” he began, but then he was flying backwards, landing with a bitten tongue.

The warm weight of Quin pressed him down, his hands rested at her waist, though he wasn’t sure how they’d got there. Her gaze met his, eyes wide. She must have leapt at him, throwing him to the floor.

They gasped as one when something large and muscular trampled past, leaving a round flattened print on the ground where he had just been.

“What was that?”

11

Swords & Sabrecats

“I don’t – I don’t know.” Quin shook her head, staring at the gaping hole in the undergrowth. A flattened path led into the forest – something had charged across the width of the clearing and was now beyond the treeline. “I think it’s coming back.” More crashing came from the vegetation growing louder by the second.

What was that? Not something she wanted to face lying on top of Atesh, however good that felt. Not the right time or place. Not the right man, either. Gods, she had to remember that.

She gave him an awkward smile and scrabbled to her feet, offering a hand. He took it with a nod but didn’t put too much weight on her as he rose. He assumed a fencer’s stance, light on his feet, long limbs balanced, ready. With those broad shoulders, he cut an impressive figure, primed to spring if the creature returned. Brows lowered into a sharp V, he looked like the Shahin falcon watching for movement in the trees.

Hira came bounding over, chuffing and sniffing at Quin. Quin’s nostrils flared – there was a definite musky smell in the air where a few minutes ago there had only been the damp, green scent of leaves, punctuated by floral hints.

She laid a hand on the cat’s shoulder to calm her. Really, she wanted to fling her arms around Hira’s neck, but this wasn’t the time for relief. Not yet.

“Atesh! Quin!” The shouts rose as Malos, Danyal, one of the footmen, and four sabrecats rushed towards them.

“Are you all right?” Malos asked as he approached, gaze searching the treeline, Danyal and the footman behind, swords drawn.

Quin brushed down her dress. “Fine. I’m fine. Where’re the others?”

“They’re climbing the tree,” Malos said with a jerk of his head, “their cats are guarding them. Nazli and the footmen have pistols and –”

Danyal swore. “Where’s Erdem?”

Malos’s brows lowered, but Danyal didn’t seem to realise what he’d said in front of a lady. Quin was inclined to agree with Danyal – there were more pressing matters right this moment. There was the creature, but on top of that, she didn’t much like the thought of anyone shooting in her general direction, even if they were aiming at something else.

“In the tree, sir,” said the footman, voice wavering, “I think.”

But movement and clamour in the trees claimed their attention.

“It’s turning,” said Atesh, pushing his sleeves up. His legs flexed, lowering his stance as his gaze raked the forest.

“It’s coming back?” Sweat shone on Danyal’s brow. His face fell slack with fear.

“Pull yourself together, man,” Malos said, grabbing his arm just as he tried to run.

“No time to run,” Quin said, barely able to speak over the dryness in her mouth. If he ran away, he wouldn’t be able to see an attack coming. “Pay attention and get out of its way.”

Sure enough, the ground trembled again. Atesh stood beside Quin, sparing her a glance before the deafening noise was upon them, throwing up dirt and grass. Trumpeting split the air and dark grey, wrinkled flesh blurred past as she leapt to one side. A thick trunk thrashed from side to side, whistling above her head.

A forest elephant.

Again, there was calm once the creature had passed them. Panting, Quin rolled upright and surveyed the group.

They were clambering to their feet, Malos rubbing at a thin, red scratch on his cheek that must have come from diving away. The footman flexed his elbow, muttering about getting hit – if he was still moving his arm, he was bloody lucky it was only a glancing blow. Those seemed to be the only injuries so far, but if it continued, it was only a matter of time until something worse happened.

“An elephant?” Atesh tore his gaze from the creature’s wake, checking Quin from head to toe. He nodded when she saw no signs of injury.

“It’s bloody huge,” Malos said, swallowing. His cheeks reddened. “Er, excuse my language, madam.”

Quin forced her breaths deeper, slower. Someone should have been barking orders, making some sort of plan, not apologising for swearing in front of a gentlewoman.

Danyal was quiet. He had only made it up to his knees. Eyes wide, his breathing came fast and shallow. He was inches away from panic. If he succumbed, he could endanger them all, never mind himself.

“Come on,” she said, dragging him to his feet. “You need to be ready if it comes again.”

He stared at her, blank, but rose, clutching her hand as if grateful to have someone else giving him direction. She gave him a tight smile and squeezed his fingers.

“Not if,” Atesh said, slipping a hand under Danyal’s elbow and nodding in the direction the elephant had gone.

Sure enough, the creature was skidding into a turn at the edge of the forest.

No time for prevarication, only action. She had five people, each with swords and sabrecats against a ten-foot-tall wall of bone and enraged muscle. Not terrible odds on paper, but rapiers were for duels and close-quarters, not for hunting elephants.

“Two groups,” she said, fighting to be heard over the elephant’s crashing and that terrible shaking at their feet. She backed away from the men. “Atesh and your cat to me. You three, that way a bit further.”

Atesh joined Quin, whistling for his sabrecat to follow. Danyal, Malos, and the footmen looked to each other, but when no one else offered instructions they obeyed hers.

“That’s it, stand fast there,” Quin went on, ignoring the pause. “Try to channel it between us. Slash at its legs when it passes – that should slow it.”

“Madam,” Malos said, “shouldn’t we just run?”

“It comes!” That was Danyal’s voice, shrill with fear.

“And have it chase us all the way to the city?” She raised her eyebrows. “With our backs to it?”

He looked away, seeking out the elephant. It had finished its turn and now paused, watching. Weighing them up, no doubt.

“Can your cat leap on it?” Quin asked so only Atesh could hear. His cat was larger than the others, a muscular creature with paws the size of dinner plates. Apart from Hira, the other mounts held their tails low, ears flat and twitching – they were too scared to fight, but they might follow a braver sabrecat. If Hira and Atil could lead by example …

Atesh gave a firm nod. “As surely as if he had Felida’s wings.”

“Then mount up,” she said, doing so herself. She spared a brief smile at the thought of Felida, the winged sabrecat, being here to fight by their side. But this was no myth and the deity wouldn’t fly down from the skies to help them. They had to save themselves.

There was no time to fasten herself to Hira’s harness, so Quin gripped with her legs. She would have liked to exchange her side-sword for the sabre strapped to Hira’s saddle, but the creature was fast approaching, its mouth frothing and massive feet thundering.

“Hold!”

The men, to their credit, stood firm, swords at the ready, low and braced. With one hand on Hira’s neck she kept the cat crouched low in the grass. They both watched the charging elephant, awaiting the right moment.

Before Quin even signalled, Hira launched into the air on instinct, claws out, teeth bared. In a second, they were on the beast’s shoulder, Hira clinging on with front and back paws and slashing with her sabre teeth.

Quin slipped a few heart-stopping inches, but she dug the fingers of her left hand into the saddle’s pommel and tensed her thighs until they burned.

Blood and fur and flesh, sky and dirt and flowers all around in a juddering confusion, but at Quin’s core there was an odd relief. Action. Blessed action. For once, she could trust her instincts and be guided by her reactions. Now they told her to duck low to Hira’s back and she obeyed. There was no need for performance or second-guessing.

To her left, the black mass of Atil sought purchase on the leathery hide, Atesh slashing. His blade came away edged red.

Squinting into the fray, Quin sought an opening.

Atesh grunted, brows in a fierce frown. His sabrecat was slipping. Before he fell away, Atil flung his great head back, maw open wide, and brought it down. A deep gash opened in the crease between the elephant’s leg and ribcage.

Hira’s back paws also lost grip, falling away with a jerk. She still clung on with her front legs, jolting with the elephant’s thrashing. An expanse of tough grey skin appeared.

Quin thrust, but after barely an inch, the steel skittered against bone and slid aside, jarring her wrist. The elephant flung its massive head towards her.

With a flick of her back paws, Hira sprung away. She landed back on solid, bloody ground, sides heaving. The elephant thundered away.

A crack rang across the clearing and a clod of dirt at the creature’s feet flew up. Quin gasped before she realised what it was – Nazli firing from the tree. Thank the gods she had the sense to shoot when they weren’t engaged with the creature. No way would a pistol be accurate from such a distance.

As Hira loped to regroup, Quin caught her breath and checked the sabrecat over. No limping or signs of injury, thank Felida.

Atesh rushed to meet her. “Are you all right? That was –” He shook his head, wide eyes on the elephant skidding to a stop.

She nodded. “Is anyone hurt?”

The men shook their heads, faces grim and moist with sweat, spattered with grime and gore. Their sabrecats edged forward – they hadn’t run.

“If your cat can fight,” she said, “buckle yourself on.”

Quin gave her rapier a cursory wipe against her dress and sheathed it, now drawing her sabre, better suited to the slashing of cavalry combat. Atesh had already swapped his weapon and was fastening his harness. Quin followed suit, surveying the elephant as she buckled the strap around her waist.

The enraged creature was turning again, furiously trumpeting. A dozen wounds stood out red on its grey flesh, mostly on its legs, but the gash Atil had inflicted stood out as the worst – red and wide and deep.

With a tug Quin checked the straps attaching her harness to Hira’s saddle.

Part of her was glad she had found bone and not soft flesh. She had hoped that once it was injured, the creature would decide they were too much bother and leave them alone – but now she looked closer, there was little hope. Its glinting eyes were fixed on them.

“Leave us alone, damn you,” she said through gritted teeth.

Why was it still attacking? Forest elephants were known to charge, but usually they would trumpet and threaten first, only attacking after a warning. This thing had burst out of the forest without notice. Even when they did attack, by reputation they were known to back away if injured.

Whatever its reasons, the creature had visibly slowed, but that didn’t make it less dangerous – it tossed its head. Red gleamed on its tusks. Blood?

“Who’s hurt?” She didn’t take her eyes off the elephant as it gathered itself and started towards them again.

Nothing more than grunts came from the men.

She pointed with her sabre. “Whose blood is that?”

“Its own?” Danyal ventured, his voice strained. The elephant’s speed gathered, but more slowly. “Brace yourselves!”

“Stay calm. Same again,” Quin ordered, fighting to keep her own voice calm. The damn thing had made it clear it wouldn’t back down until death.

It was almost upon them again. The great head thrashed from side to side as if to make up for its lack of speed. As Hira twisted away from a wildly swinging tusk, Quin thanked the gods her straps were fastened. Hira had avoided the tusk, but the trunk came whistling after and caught a glancing blow across her flank.

Quin gasped and touched the striped sabrecat’s shoulder, but apparently unperturbed Hira sprang onto the elephant’s side, finding a firm purchase high on the leathery shoulder.

Atil leapt and engaged similarly at the rump, with Atesh slashing from the saddle, teeth gritted, eyes fierce.

“Quin, there,” he called, pointing below her.

Low down, behind the creature’s shoulder there seemed to be a soft spot, like the place in a human’s armpit where the heart was vulnerable – a gap in its cage of bones.

Quin twisted and stretched for the spot, reaching the limit of her harness’s straps, target just out of reach. Hira jolted as the animal thrashed and ran, fighting to shake them off and live, but the sabrecat held fast, head rising and falling to slash with long canines.

Below, the footman grunted as the elephant knocked him from his sabrecat. A trampling foot soon hid him. His shrieks blended with those of the elephant; bile rose in her throat.

Why hadn’t he fastened his straps? Quin swallowed. She had to end this.

Renewing her efforts, she slid the straps lower around her waist to get a little more reach. The harness creaked as she strained against it, but at last the tip of her blade was above that soft spot.

She paused over the wrinkled flesh for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered before plunging the sabre in. It shrieked up her arm as one edge caught against a rib, but, with both hands pushing, the steel sank slowly, sickeningly.

With a shrill cry, the creature tossed its head, gait faltering.

“Away,” Quin choked out, bloodied sword slipping from her grip, “away!” Hira broke off, landing in the spoiled grass.

The elephant’s front legs collapsed and it skidded through the wildflowers. With a huge shuddering sigh, it fell on its side, making the ground tremble. Then it moved no more.

Staring at her sabre still buried behind the creature’s shoulder, Quin gasped for breath. With shaking fingers, she unbuckled the harness and slid from Hira’s back, dimly aware that the others were doing the same.

So much blood. It seeped into the mud and painted the meadow crimson. It stained her dress, her hands, her face. It marked each of them as they stood panting in the heat.

Hira’s nose twitched. She made a low noise of query in her throat. The scent of blood must have been delicious, promising the spoils of the hunt, but she was well-trained enough to not eat without instruction.

Quin shook her head – she wouldn’t give the command. The thought of watching the elephant get ripped apart by sabrecats turned her stomach.

The footmen who’d been in the tree with Nazli rushed to their fallen companion. Quin barely heard their report over the rushing sound in her ears. A broken leg but he was alive – he’d just been knocked over, not crushed.

Nazli ran over, mouth open in horror, face streaked with tears. She touched Danyal’s shoulder, as if to reassure herself he was really standing after such a battle.

Quin’s knees trembled as all the focus that had kept her going evaporated. She staggered towards the fallen elephant, legs heavy.

Now it was still, it seemed a miracle that something so huge had ever moved with such ease. A trail of red anemones was caught in the foam around its mouth, mirroring the ribbons of blood that trailed from the many cuts in its hide. She laid a hand on the muscular shoulder – the warmth radiating from it somehow comforting and disturbing at once.

Taking a breath, she took hold of the sabre’s hilt and drew it out, inch by crimson inch.

Just as it pulled free, the elephant shuddered and a gasp blew from its open mouth.

At once, the spell of silence over the nobles behind her broke.

“That was –”

“Goodness, is anyone hurt?”

“I couldn’t reload, it –”

“How did you –”

“Gods – I thought –”

The words and questions and exclamations collided so Quin couldn’t tell who said what as she stumbled away. The heaving in her stomach dropped her to her knees and a sour taste rose in her mouth. She vomited until there was nothing left, gasping between retches.

When she lifted her head, she was at the back of the elephant, away from the others. She shivered, hands, face, body, all slick with sweat. Rising, she spat into the grass, trying to rid her mouth of the taste.

“Quin?”

She turned. Atesh stood within arm’s reach. His brow crinkled in concern, but his body clenched, full of tension, as if contradictory emotions warred within.

“Are you all right?” He lifted a hand as if to touch her shoulder but stopped short. “You’re not injured, are you? You look pale.”

“Mmm?” She ran a hand over her face. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” She looked down – the sabre was still in her hand, fixed in a cramped grip. She wiped the blade on her skirts, since they were already ruined.

“What’s that sound?” Nazli asked, head cocked. “And where’s Erdem?”

A soft moaning drifted from the fringes of the forest where the elephant had first appeared.

Malos’s gaze followed the sound, face draining of colour. “He wasn’t with you?”

Atesh fixed Quin with a long stare and opened his mouth as if to speak. Instead he gave an abrupt sigh before starting off towards the sound with the rest of the party. If Erdem had been separated from the others, perhaps the elephant had …

Quin swallowed, frowning at the dead creature – whatever had possessed it to attack and to keep on attacking?

She turned away and went to Hira, crouched at the rear of the body, as if guarding it. Anything to put off facing more death – she might not like Erdem, but she didn’t want to see his crushed body. With a sigh, Quin buried her face in the soft fur of the sabrecat’s neck, clinging on for a moment. Hira chuffed and nuzzled Quin’s shoulder.

“Thank you – whatever would I do without you?” Quin gave a faint smile before returning her sabre to the scabbard attached to Hira’s saddle.

There was a shout from the trees – they’d found something. Or someone.

Quin started towards them – there was no more putting it off – but as she turned, she noticed a glinting at the rump of the elephant. An object dug into the creature’s flesh several inches from its tail. It was long, thin, and metallic with feathers at one end – a dart. When she pulled it out, it was covered in blood, but also a dark residue with an acrid smell. She avoided touching the substance.

Nazli called her from where the others had gathered.

A shred of fabric hung from Quin’s petticoat. She tore it off and wrapped it around the dart before putting it in one of Hira’s saddle bags. She hurried towards the calls.

Here the trees were mangled and splintered and spattered with blood. Gods, poor Erdem.

A twisted body lay on the floor. Its sandy-coloured clothes were stained red and scuffed with dirt. Erdem hadn’t been wearing beige. Messengers for hire wore that colour.

Atesh crouched beside the body, a comforting hand on the shoulder. He spoke so softly Quin couldn’t hear.

Her insides lurched.

The messenger was still alive.

Atesh frowned in concentration, listening to the words being forced from the poor man’s broken mouth between forced breaths.

He struggled to move his hand, pushing at his coat revealing the red gore of a large wound. The blood on the elephant’s tusks – the blood that hadn’t belonged to any of them. Quin took deep breaths against a wave of nausea.

Atesh made comforting sounds and helped the messenger reach his inside pocket – he pulled out a sealed letter bearing Atesh’s name. The Pasha sucked in a sharp breath.

“Thank you,” he murmured to the messenger, taking the note.

The man’s mouth twitched before his hand dropped to the ground. His wheezing gasps stopped.

For what seemed like a long time, they all stood frozen. How had their jaunt turned so deadly?

Malos was the first to move; he strode back to the maple and returned carrying the picnic blanket. With surprising care for someone with a rakish reputation, he wrapped it around the messenger.

“Help me strap him to one of the cats,” he said to the two uninjured footmen. With silent nods, they obliged. “And keep an eye out for his cat, it must be here somewhere.” They carried the body between the three of them.

Quin realised she was gripping the fabric of her skirts as if clinging to a rope on a cliff. She watched Atesh. He still crouched by the crushed undergrowth, unmoving.

“That poor man,” Danyal whispered, shaking his head.

Nazli placed her hand in his. “I can’t believe it. Oh, Erdem!”

Flinching at the sudden cry, Quin turned. Erdem emerged from the woods, apparently uninjured.

Nazli made a step towards him. “Where were you? We thought maybe …”

“I’d gone to answer the call of nature,” he said, grimacing as his gaze landed on the blood-stained floor. “When I heard the ruckus, I hid over there.” He waved back the way he’d come. “So, that beast got some poor fellow, then?”

Nazli shared a glance with her husband. “A messenger,” she said. Quin looked away. No one confirmed that the elephant had killed him – the answer was obvious, after all.

“Did he have a message, then?” Erdem asked. “Maybe I should check.”

“What?” Atesh stared up at them blankly, then down at the letter in his hand. “It’s for me.”

Erdem raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps you shouldn’t open it – the janissaries. We should report it to them. They’ll want it. I can give it to them.”

“Must have been important for him to come all the way out here. Urgent.” Atesh broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet of paper, winning a scowl from Erdem.

“I really think you should let the janissaries deal with –”

Atesh silenced Erdem with raised fingers, his eyes flicking over the letter several times. He placed it in his breast pocket then glanced at Quin, his mouth set in a straight line, eyes cold.

“Come,” Malos called. “Let’s be gone.”

The footmen cleared up the remainder of the picnic before they all mounted in silence. Despite the sun shining, Quin shivered. What had that look from Atesh meant?

As they rode from the glade to the road, each pair of eyes flicked to every sound and movement. With ears tense, the group fell into an order – Danyal and Nazli at the front with Erdem, Malos stuck to Quin’s side, Atesh behind the other aristocrats, the footmen bringing up the rear.

The messenger’s body was strapped to the injured footman’s sabrecat and the injured man doubled up with his colleague, lolling over, groaning softly whenever the path grew rough. Someone had dripped a couple of drops of laudanum in his mouth; no one had questioned it. At least the poor man had some pain relief.

Quin’s hand rested on her sabre hilt, but the forest had returned to its normality of leaves rustling in the breeze and chirping birdsong.

That poor messenger. Why had he come all this way with a note for Atesh? And what had driven the elephant to attack him? She chewed her lip – the dart in her saddlebag had to hold the answer. Did that mean there was someone else out here in the forest? Were they watching now?

A shudder passed over her shoulders and she glanced left and right, but there were no eyes hidden in the undergrowth and as they broke out of the treeline, the road was clear in both directions.

As they turned towards the city, Nazli and Danyal dropped back to ride by Quin and Malos. Atesh still dawdled behind, not meeting Quin’s gaze when she turned to him.

Malos took a long breath. “Well, that was quite the show, Lady Sabia.”

Quin swallowed, stomach rolling. In reacting to the threat, she’d stopped playing the noblewoman. How was she going to duck out of that? “I’m not sure ‘show’ is the right word when a man is dead, sir.”

Nazli was watching her sidelong, as if looking directly at Quin might open her up to scrutiny, too.

“Indeed, madam,” Danyal said, watching his hands as they squeezed the reins, “it’s no joking matter. I must thank you, though.” He met Quin’s gaze and nodded. “You – you saved my life. If not for you, I’m ashamed to say I would’ve run away. But you were right, if I’d done that, I’d have ended up like that poor fellow.” He glanced over his shoulder to the sabrecat carrying the wrapped body. “Crushed, broken, dead … All that blood …”

“Shh, dear.” Nazli reached over and touched his forearm.

“I’m glad you’re safe, sir,” Quin said, choosing her words with care. “But I can’t take credit – I simply had luck on my side and, thankfully, a strong group of men and cats distracting the creature. It was the Blind Lady’s work that a sword found its mark – she could have used any one of us.”

“I saw you got a good hit on it,” Nazli said with an encouraging smile at her husband, “right across the leg.”

“And your own shot was quite admirable, Nazli,” Quin added. “Excellent instincts to wait until it was away from us, too.”

The woman’s gaze skipped away from Quin, though her hand went to the pistol now mounted on her saddle.

Quin turned to smile at Malos, but his brows were fixed in a low scowl. “And the Bey’s sword was quite bloody by the time we’d finished,” she said. “I’m most relieved he was brave enough to take its attention. I swear if it had turned those rageful eyes on me, I’d have quite lost my nerve.”

His brows relaxed as he straightened his back. “Well, madam, I take your safety very seriously.”

She smiled through gritted teeth. “And I thank all the gods for that.”

How easily he’d have fallen for her usual act. Making herself small and targeting Malos would have her well on the way to a proposal by now. Not – gods, what even was her position with Atesh?

She frowned and fell quiet as the others spoke haltingly about the attack, avoiding the topic of the dead man they carried home. The image of his bent form at the edge of the forest haunted her every time she closed her eyes and when she tried to slow down and join Atesh, he circled back to the footmen, asking after the injured one. He refused to meet her gaze.

Quin sighed, returning to the gap between Nazli and Malos, but their chatter was no comfort and neither was the bright sun overhead.

12

Neorion Square

The next morning Derry set off from their house in Neorion Square, heading in the direction of the Gutter Streets. She wore a maid’s outfit, suitably prim and quite dull, and carried a well-wrapped package.

The contents had something to do with Quin almost getting killed yesterday, she just wasn’t sure exactly how.

Derry shivered. Quin seemed invincible, probably believed it herself at some level, so Derry had never considered the consequences if anything happened to her. Now …

What would she do? It could happen so suddenly – a terrible disease, an accident on the road. Derry bit her lip, sickness bubbling in her stomach at the thought.

What would become of her? And Ariston? And Livia? It was something she needed to plan for. If she saved money, it could help them leave the city, but then what?

Derry sighed – for now she had a different puzzle. This was a plan she’d need to work on another day.

Holding the package carefully, she hurried to a familiar doorway on a wide street barely outside the Gutter Streets. A wooden sign showing a snake twined around a chalice hung overhead.

Derry knocked three times in quick succession. As always, the door opened five seconds later, revealing her teacher, Reyhan – a slight woman with henna-dyed hair.

“Derry” – she frowned a moment – “we don’t have a lesson today.”

“I know.” Derry gave a brief nod. “I bring what I hope will be an intrigue to you and a help to me.”

Reyhan raised an eyebrow and let Derry in.

It was a well-lit room by Gutter Street standards and exceptionally clean by any standards. Even the labyrinth of glass and silver apparatus that dominated the far end of the room was well-polished and free of dust. There were scales for weighing the smallest quantities, vials and jars for storage, and complex arrangements for condensing, heating, and mixing at specific quantities and temperatures. The collection sprawled far and teetered high, connected by tubes and held up with stands and rods. Behind, shelf upon shelf of ingredient jars hid the wall.

From experience, Derry knew it all took an age to clean.

“So, what do you have for me, my dear?” Reyhan bolted the door behind Derry and turned the heavy lock. Thieves tended not to target the area beyond the Gutter Streets – if they had to flee, there were fewer safe places to run to beyond their territory – but with so much expensive equipment and potentially dangerous ingredients, Reyhan refused to take chances.

With great care, Derry placed her package on the table and began to unwrap it. “I think it’s a poison, though I don’t recognise it.” She glanced up at her teacher. “It was almost responsible for my friend’s death and –”

Reyhan grunted. “Is this your thief friend?”

Derry nodded quickly and turned back the last fold of cloth, hoping to distract Reyhan from her usual lecture about thievery. It always went the same way – bloody thieves, taking what’s not theirs, sniffing about your silver, always after your purse.

Reyhan raised an eyebrow at the dart and wiped her hands down the front of her dress.

“Well then.” Without looking away, she took up a sturdy apron and fastened it around herself. “Yes,” she muttered, picking up the dart without touching the substance covering the tip.

Gingerly she sniffed it then wrinkled her nose. “I see. That’s an intrigue all right.” Her round eyes glinted as she retreated to the laboratory end of her living-room-come-lab, Derry following.

“Here,” Reyhan pressed a few coins into Derry’s hand, “go and fetch us some cinnamon cakes – from the good baker on Eagle Walk, mind, not that swindler on Candle Rise” – she nodded absently, eyes transfixed by the dart – “we may be here some time.”

* * *

The afternoon after the picnic Atesh found himself standing at the smart frontage of 7 Neorion Square. Seven steps led to the large bottle-green door; they may as well have been a mountain for all he wanted to climb them.

Coming here had been a bad idea. Terrible. His man was just around the corner, waiting. With a shout his equipage would be here and he would be gone.

But this was a task he couldn’t put off.

After the previous day’s misadventures, he had scrubbed himself in the bath for a good hour. Now he tugged at his cuffs, scowling at the door.

She had seemed so … So, what? So much the toast of the town. So much another charming society lady, albeit with an intriguing edge. He had been so very wrong, so much deceived.

Even riding behind her, he’d heard how Quin had tried to deflect her actions on the ride home, overplaying his role and how much the others in the group had helped. The entire party had been quite subdued, understandably, but now he thought back to the conversation, he realised there had been comments about her, but not many to her, as if they skirted around her presence. For a woman to do what she did – well, she’d not only risked her life. Her very reputation was on the line.

Gods, don’t let her become an object of ridicule. If anyone spoke ill of her in front of him, he swore he wouldn’t let it lie. Not that they were likely to, considering his fondness for her seemed to be common knowledge already. Only the other day he’d overheard someone speculating about the likelihood of a spring wedding.

Gossips!

Rumourmongers were the least of his worries. What did yesterday’s adventure mean? What was the purpose of her act? What was her façade hiding?

He rubbed his head – it was aching from a sleepless night that had brought him no closer to answers.

On the one hand, she’d saved his life. To say he was grateful didn’t begin to cover it.

But part of him felt a fool. She’d played him and he was still clueless as to exactly what end.

And yet seeing her fierce on her sabrecat, wielding a sword like she’d been born to do it … Just the thought made his cheeks hot and stomach taut.

That wasn’t helping.

“Time to face the real Quinta Sabia,” he muttered and bound to the top of the stairs. Standing at the top step, he squared his shoulders.

Atesh reached out for the heavy brass knocker, when the door swung open and he found himself about to grab the nose of a grey-haired housekeeper. Gasping, he snatched his hand away.

“Can I help you?” she asked, giving him a sour look that suggested she’d rather not.

“Er – yes, I’ve come to see your mistress, if you’d be so kind?”

“And whom might I say is calling” – she paused to caste an appraising glance over him, eyes narrowing at his black diamond cravat pin for a second, a smile settled on her face – “sir?”

“Atesh Shahin Pasha – Lady Sabia isn’t expecting me, but I was hoping to have a brief word with her after –”

“Oh – say no more, sir, say no more!” She opened the door wide and hustled him in. “If you’d care to follow me, sir, I’ll show you to the drawing room and fetch my mistress.”

It didn’t seem as if Atesh had a great amount of choice, so he did as he was told and was soon alone in a large drawing room. Silvery silk-flocked paper decorated the walls and rosewood furniture flaunted its curved legs. Here was a space furnished most elegantly, but not quite to the latest fashions: perhaps Umbria was a little behind Arianople in terms of style. Still, it told him little about the woman behind it. He would have to look harder.

Examining the paintings revealed little. They were standard pastoral scenes and – he wrinkled his nose – the ‘gallant parties’ showing parkland balls so adored by genteel society. How he despised that fashion for sentimental scenes of doe-eyed milkmaids in fanciful outfits no true milkmaid could ever afford, never mind wear while working on a farm.

He sighed. Despite his opinions about their subject matter, nothing about the paintings stood out as anything other than, again, fashionable. Yet she understood his art, which was a million miles from the stock paintings on her walls. Or perhaps she’d lied about that, too. No, she’d been talking to her friend when she’d praised his work, it wasn’t a show for him, and it had held the ring of truth as he’d eavesdropped.

Opening an inlaid wood box on the mantelpiece was similarly unhelpful – it was empty, just for show. Likewise, a porcelain jar, another box, and a tall thin cupboard in the corner. All empty.

He scanned the room – where could there be some sign of Quin or her family or background or something?

A delicate bureau by the window caught his attention. The walnut wood gleamed fiery in the sunlight. He tried the little drawers, but they were locked, or perhaps stuck. They rattled as he shook them but wouldn’t budge. He winced at the noise, but –

“Does sir require something?”

Atesh spun around.

A man eyed him steadily. He had greying hair and a close-cropped beard, but his shoulders were broad beneath his dark coat – there were no signs of frailty here. His smart, simple clothing said he was a high-ranking servant and from his age and the size of house, Atesh guessed he was the butler.

“Oh no, sir is – I mean, I am fine, thank you,” he said, smile a little too broad and much too quick.

“I see.” The man didn’t move; he just watched Atesh from the other side of the room.

How hadn’t he heard the fellow come in?

“It’s just that sir was poking around,” the butler said. “I thought sir might be looking for something.” He lifted his right cuff just an inch. It must have been an unconscious movement, almost a twitch, but it was the habit of a swordsman. “Was sir looking for something?”

Atesh thanked the Hundred Gods that he didn’t have to answer that question, for at that moment the door opened and in walked Quin.

The informality of her outfit made him draw a quick breath. A simple sky-blue skirt and a matching jacket fastened with a series of bows down her front, with a pleated peplum over her hips. Her hair was loosely coiled at the back of her head, a couple of long curls cascading over one shoulder.

“Is anything the matter, Ariston?” she asked, fussing with her hair, as though she’d only just pinned it up.

“I was just enquiring whether sir required coffee or tea, madam,” Ariston said before turning to the door.

“An excellent idea,” she said, eyes fixed on Atesh. “Coffee, I think – yesterday was so tiring for everyone involved. Thank you.”

From over Quin’s shoulder, the butler shot Atesh a last look before leaving the room.

“Well, I must say this is pleasant surprise,” she said with a smile. “Won’t you sit?” She perched at one end of a chaise longue, all formality.

Very well, that was how it was going to be. He took a seat opposite her, casually resting one arm on the back of the settee. The tension thrumming through him was anything but casual.

“You’ve been lying to me.” There, he’d said it, bald-faced as that.

Quin blinked, hand flying to her chest, affronted. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve masqueraded as nothing more than a gentlewoman on her grand tour of Europa,” he said, intent on her, searching for any movement. “A beautiful one, who’s good at cards, but just another lady come to court. That … that was not who I saw yesterday. That was not who killed that elephant.”

Who had? A capable, clever woman. One who could give him a run for his money, whether that was at a card table or over crossed swords. What would it be like to fence against her? He bit his lip.

Quin sat quite still, but her eyes flashed and the fine hairs on her bare forearms stood on end. “In case you didn’t notice, there were four men, including yourself, plus the footmen, all involved in that incident.”

“Whom you organised and led, devising tactics to keep them all alive. You then led the strike, ordering your cat to leap on the damn thing, as if taking down a berserk elephant were a perfectly normal activity for a country stroll.”

Chuckling, she shook her head. “I’m glad I appeared so confident, but I assure you I was quite terrified the whole time.”

“And for your finale, you managed to bring it down with a sabre through its heart.” Gods damn it; he would not be deterred by her breezy attitude.

“I’ll admit, I’ve done a little hunting over the years. Combine that with sheer luck and I got the killing blow,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It could have been any of us, I just happened to reach the opening.”

Why was she denying this?

“None of us would have survived to reach any opening,” he said through gritted teeth, “if you hadn’t organised us.”

“Oh, I just did what anyone else would have done in time. I’ll grant you, I’m quite a fast-thinker, so I got my thoughts in order a bit more quickly than the rest of you. But you and I worked as a team yesterday.” She raised her brows, all innocence. “It just so happened the Blind Lady was smiling upon me – that’s the only reason it worked. Isn’t it amazing what the human body can –”

“Don’t –” He bit his tongue and leant forward, right at the edge of his seat, making fierce eye contact.

“Quin, I know that ladies learn to look after themselves, but I don’t know a gentlewoman alive who could do the things you did yesterday. I don’t think I know a gentleman who could.” Mercenaries, yes, but not gentlefolk. “So, who are you, Quin?” He laughed, a bitter tinge to it. “Or should it be, what are you? Because you sure as all the hells are no ordinary gentlewoman.”

A small smile, apparently calm, but her chest heaved with deep breaths and the knuckles clasped in her lap were white. “I never pretended to be ordinary.”

Another laugh escaped his lips, exasperated this time. “There we agree! Don’t insult my intelligence or your own ability. We both know what happened. We both know we could have died. We both know it was you who stopped that happening. Don’t make a joke of it.”

Her amber eyes fixed on him – it was the longest he’d ever stared back. Gold flecks and ochre and … fear? What could she be so afraid of?

The door swept open and Quin took a sharp breath, breaking away from his gaze. Ariston carried the coffee service to the low table between them, placing it harder than was necessary. The cups rattled.

Smiling, as if this were a normal afternoon visit, Quin poured the thick coffee. As she held his drink out, the slightest tremble of her hand sent the cup tinkling against the saucer, spoiling the effect. Her jaw knotted and the sound stopped. She poured the second cup in silence, her breath slowing throughout the ritual.

At the end of the table, the butler still lingered, eyes lowered.

“Sugar?” she asked brightly. At Atesh’s shake of his head, she nodded, dropping a cube into her own cup and stirring. “Thank you, Ariston.” She frowned at the table. “You didn’t bring us cake.”

“No, madam.” No explanation, but he met her gaze boldly.

“Would you fetch us some, please?”

“Madam.” He bowed and left them.

Atesh wasn’t sure why, but there was some tension between Quin and her butler, some sort of disagreement. Perhaps it was about Quin’s actions yesterday or Atesh’s presence. Whatever Quin’s secret was, this Ariston was in on it.

“Just tell me the truth, Quin,” Atesh said, watching the door shut. Time to try a different tack. “I know there’s more to you than meets the eye – just like I knew you threw that first hand of cards we played. I just don’t know exactly what.” Steeling himself, he rose, walked around the coffee table, and sat beside her.

It won a short gasp from Quin, but he wasn’t finished yet. “I’ve said enough for you to know – gods” – he shook his head – “I’m sure I said more than enough at that fountain and yesterday we nearly … Quin, you must know that you are dear to me already, but realising you’ve been lying to me …” He took a breath – this had started off as a tactic to win an answer from her, but his words had grown uncomfortably honest. “I feel a fool to have been taken in and I’m even more of a fool to still be here. But I am.” He swallowed. She hadn’t reacted yet. “I can’t base my life, my future on a lie, but I can base it on the truth. Quin, I need to know the truth about you.”

It was practically an offer, or at least the promise of one.

Their coffee steamed. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Carriages rattled past outside.

Quin stared at him, the only movement the slow, deep rise and fall of her chest.

Perhaps she was a spy, in which case revealing the truth could risk her life.

A spy. It fitted – she’d have to fake her identity, hence the mask he’d glimpsed past at times, and she’d have to be able to defend herself, which explained yesterday.

But a spy for whom? If she were from Umbria – and he wasn’t convinced she was – it was probably for them. But that little state had no diplomatic problems with Thanatolia nowadays.

She could be a Venetian pretending to be from nearby Umbria – she had at least been to Venetia, according to her story of meeting Derry. A Venetian spy in Arianople – that would be a risky assignment indeed. Peace between Thanatolia and Venetia was a relatively new concept – the memories of nations ran long, after all.

However, if he had to bet on her origin, he’d say Thanatolia, perhaps Arianople itself – her accent was impeccable. So could she be a spy for the country or a particular person here. Maybe she was a spy for the Sultana, keeping an eye on her subjects.

Perhaps. Could. Maybe.

She might not even be a spy.

What he did know was that she’d saved his life. In fact, there had been no sign of ill-will or malice in her masquerade. Did it really matter if she was lying, if it wasn’t causing any harm?

With a sigh, Quin’s gaze dropped. “Atesh,” she said at last, voice wavering on his name. She swallowed. “I – I’m afraid I can’t give you information that doesn’t exist. Please.” Her eyes flickered to him for only a moment. “I’m asking you not to press this matter. If you can’t leave it, I’m not sure our friendship can continue.”

He sat in silence. The end of their friendship? Did he want that? Gone as quickly as she’d burst into his life. Just the thought was intolerable. No. This was … Whatever it was, it was something he didn’t want to give up. She was someone he didn’t want to give up.

It was a relief when she spoke again. “I’m sorry.” The warmth of her hand on his brought his eyes back to her and she held his gaze again, eyes wide. “I don’t mean it as an ultimatum, but please understand: I can’t give you what you want. Anything else, just not this.”

Atesh took a long breath. What was he delivering himself into if he accepted? At last, he turned his hand, capturing her fingers. “Very well. I won’t ask this of you further, for the sake of our friendship, which it seems I am already too attached to.”

She nodded, visibly sagging with relief. “Thank you.”

They sat that way a long minute, the silence between them trembling like a violin string holding a long, high note. It broke when Ariston returned with a cake stand.

Quin snatched her hand out of Atesh’s. He missed the warmth at once.

The butler paused in the doorway, a pointed look in his sharp eyes. They were sitting only a few inches apart, alone. Most inappropriate.

Quin gave the butler a sweet smile. “Thank you, Ariston. If you’d leave it on the table, that would be lovely.”

He put the stand down and raised his eyebrows at her.

Smile still fixed in place, she said, “You’re dismissed.”

His jaw clenched, as if he was going to protest, but Quin gave him a look that dared him to speak and leant closer to Atesh. Ariston narrowed his eyes and swept out. What a daring butler to silently confront his mistress so.

“I’m sorry,” Atesh said, “I should have asked your lady’s companion to join us.”

“Oh no, not necessary.” Quin lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Derry isn’t in anyway.”

She plated a slice of gold-coloured sponge and passed it to him, taking another serving for herself. Summery lemon. The smell made him smile. Heat-hazy afternoons when he was five. His mother showing him how to hold the brush. Her paint-speckled fingers on his.

Strange how coffee and cake could suddenly make the world so normal again.

“What are you wearing to the masquerade?” Quin asked, as he took a mouthful of cake. Not just lemon – the yellow, earthy hint of saffron, too.

He blinked, still away in distant memories of his mother. “Hmm?”

“The masquerade ball at the palace – I hear you’ve been invited. I was enquiring as to what your costume will be so I might pick you out among the maskers.”

An indelicate snort escaped him. “A subtle change of subject, then?” He shook his head and sipped the rich, thick coffee. “You’ll have to wait and see. I don’t need to ask what you will be dressed as – I’d recognise you anywhere.”

“Very well,” she said, some of the usual playfulness returning in her smile, “but I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you. I might be better hidden than you expect.”

So, they went on in teasing conversation, coffee, and cake for some hours until the clock chimed.

“Five o’clock,” Quin said, stirring the third pot Ariston had brought them, “is that the time? I’d lost track.”

“Already?” Their laughter and flirtation had passed too quickly and combined with the coffee, it made him jittery. Still he didn’t have answers, if anything, just more questions.

They rose and said their goodbyes at the drawing room door. Atesh bowed and went to leave.

“I would ask you to stay for dinner,” Quin said suddenly. When he spun around, she was standing so close her rose-scent filled his nose. “However, I’m afraid I have a prior engagement. I – I hope this adequately conveys my apologies.” And with that she stood on tiptoe and brushed her mouth against his cheek, breath ruffling his hair, making him shiver.

She gave a teasing, knowing smile, but her cheeks flushed pink shyness. A contradiction, like everything else about her.

“Sorry,” he said, soft-voiced, “I didn’t quite catch that – I’m afraid you’ll have to repeat yourself.”

“I couldn’t possibly be so bold.”

But her eyes were bold on his and she didn’t move away.

His heart beat so hard, it was a wonder she couldn’t hear it across the scant inches separating them. If he bent his head, their lips would touch, as they had so nearly yesterday.

There was a secret this woman was hiding and she was lying to him, which should have repelled him, but here he was wanting to pull her closer, to press her against him, feel her warmth, her hair, her skin, see if they felt as smooth as he imagined.

He bit his lip. He should walk away. Regroup.

He should.

Instead he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and leapt into the dark. Just for a moment, the softness of her mouth on his, dizzying.

Lips a breath apart now. Her eyes were wide up at him, the colour of morning sun on a wheat field. To paint those eyes, to find the perfect mix of pigment …

Better to live it than paint it.

So, he bent himself to her again. Firm, warm, sweet as the honey they’d drizzled on their cake. A little gasp he thought was hers but couldn’t be sure.

But that single point of contact wasn’t enough, he needed more, to lose himself in her, in the feeling of her, in her secrets like dark water he couldn’t see through.

His hands fastened around her waist, fingers splayed across the stiff bones of the stays beneath her gown. Was that too much? Too forward?

As if in answer to his unspoken questions, she tiptoed into the kiss, into him, hands braced against his chest. The clatter of carriages outside receded into a quiet overwritten by their ragged breaths, their pounding hearts, and the whispered rustle of silk.

His body ached, burned, melted into hers. Still he wanted her closer. His fingers ached to untie those bows than ran down the front of her jacket so temptingly and the thought of it forced a low growl from his throat.

She gasped into the kiss, as he crushed her against him, and the sound was a prayer to his ears. Hands knotted into his jacket, she clung to him, like a drowning sailor to driftwood.

This. Just this. It was everything. Dizzying. Terrifying. Exhilarating. So many things, he couldn’t keep track of them all.

His fingers plunged into her hair – it was as sleek as he’d imagined – and he sunk his mouth to her throat –

Bang. A door slammed and they leapt apart, as though a static shock had jumped between them. The sound had come from somewhere else in the house. The butler being careless or sounding his irritation?

They stood breathless, Quin staring at the floor, him watching her.

“I – er” – she smoothed her skirts – “I think I hear the bell for dinner.”

There had been no such sound, but he nodded. “Yes, I – it’s time I be on my way. Things to do.”

What momentary madness had taken him over? It was her. Her strangeness, her mysteries, the challenge of her – it had seeped into him all afternoon. Like laudanum to an addict, it called now, pulling him towards her.

He shook his head, mastering himself. “If you’ll excuse me, madam,” he said with a playful grin and a bow, eyes never leaving her.

“Of course.” She finally ventured a look at him and gave a small smirk. “Good day, sir.”

With his body throbbing, he left.

* * *

Once Atesh had left, Quin sank against the doorframe and slid to the floor. She ran a hand over her face. Her mind was weary, but an electric energy thrummed in her limbs.

If that door hadn’t slammed, how far would she have gone? She bit her lip, the quivering in her thighs giving an uncomfortable answer.

He was getting too close. Caution told her to run. Almost every word, every flirtation that afternoon came from her, not the Contessa. And that kiss – that was not regulation seduction.

She screwed her eyes shut, trying to block it out, but there was no escaping the fact: she had wanted to kiss him. Still wanted to, ached to. Of all the people in the world she could want to touch, to kiss, to pull closer still, it would have to be the pasha she was here to con.

There had been other attractive aristocrats, of course, but they’d always been easy to fool, to keep under control. Hells, she’d always be able to keep herself under control.

Atesh was … Something different.

His questions played through her mind, each one chipping at her carefully crafted persona, each one sending a kick of panic and a thrill of something else through her. Why couldn’t he be like Malos? He’d been only too keen to believe Quin’s dismissive comments about her own role, but not Atesh. No, he had suspicions and he was bold enough to confront her, asking dangerous questions.

She shuddered at how terrifying that had been. She’d kept her words calm, but her bones had shrieked at her to run and never look back.

That letter from the previous day had sparked an odd reaction in him. All afternoon she had been dying to know its contents, but with his suspicions, she didn’t dare ask.

With his suspicions, how could she continue the con?

Because she was here for his money, not his searing touch. How pathetic that she had to remind herself.

The door flew open, making her jump again. Ariston strode into the room. She winced, rubbing the back of her head.

Seeing her on the floor, Ariston gasped. “Quin!” He rushed to her. “Did he do something to you? I should have known – these damned aristos thinking they can – well I’ll bloody show him he can’t!” He turned to the door.

“No, no!” Quin cried. “He didn’t do anything.” She grabbed hold of Ariston’s trouser legs and dragged him back into the room. “It was just a tiring afternoon.” She sighed, pulling herself to her feet.

Ariston narrowed his eyes a moment, examining her. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Quin said with an emphatic nod. “He asked me some questions about yesterday, that’s all. He was – quite insistent.”

“Hmm, yes,” he said, folding his arms, “I caught him poking around in here before you came in.”

Quin laughed. “Ah, so that explains the tension when I arrived. You could’ve cut through the air with a butter knife.”

“This isn’t funny, Quin – you need to be careful. I don’t trust him.”

“Goodness – you didn’t approve of Dethero either, and he –”

Ariston’s hazel eyes flashed and Quin grimaced, realising her mistake. “Dethero is like a nephew to me, but he’s still a rake and not good enough for you and you were …” He gave a flustered wave of his hand. “Are you looking to – this is meant to be business, Quin.”

She felt pinned by his stare, by those eyebrows drawn together in a deep V.

“No, of course not – don’t be silly.” She made a good attempt at a laugh. “I only meant that you are always so very suspicious of any man I mix with, whatever the capacity. Must be what it’s like having a father.”

With a long, deep breath, he stared at her. “Well, I – yes, I see what you mean, but it’s because I worry about you and I don’t trust them. I know what they’re generally after.”

Quin patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, Ariston. I know what they’re generally after, too; I just like to use it to my advantage.”

“And when it no longer works to your advantage, Quin, what then? What did this Pasha ask you, that has you so afraid? I can see in it your eyes, so don’t deny it.”

Bloody hells. He was right. Atesh had asked her what she was. She’d subdued him for now, but it was only a matter of time. He’d ask again or perhaps even investigate for himself. A good dig around in Lady Sabia’s affairs would reveal she was nothing more substantial than tissue paper.

“He’s suspicious,” she said.

“Of your impressive show, yesterday?”

Just a nod.

“And do his suspicions take him close to the truth?”

“Close enough.”

“Quin, I –”

“I know.” She held up her hands to stop him and closed her eyes. “I know.”

Blessed quiet. Just for a moment while she got her head straight. How could she continue the con when Atesh had already seen too much? There was only one answer. Her bones had told her to run. She should listen to them. “I have to leave. We have to leave.”

Ariston nodded, face softening. “I know this job means a lot to you, Quin. I know Livia always planned this for you, your magnum opus – the cousin of the Sultana and all that, but …” He sighed. “But the greatest con in the world isn’t worth getting your secrets spilled for. Isn’t worth hanging for.”

She opened her mouth to say she’d never let it get to that, but it was his turn to silence her.

“He might already be investigating you, Quin. He’s a Pasha: he no doubt has connections.”

She swallowed. “I – I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, quietly. She’d let herself get wrapped up in the challenge of a difficult mark, in flirtation with a man she actually wanted to flirt with, in the idea she could have both.

Perhaps she couldn’t have either.

And then there was the professional. He’d seen Miss Scarlet the day he’d invited her to the Uzuns’ picnic. She clung to that thought like a talisman. It was foolish to like him.

Bloody foolish.

“I know you’re careful,” Ariston said. “I know. But as wonderful, as clever, as skilled as you are, you’re not infallible. You can’t allow for every threat, you can’t pre-empt every hitch, and you can’t win every game.”

Her lips pursed. She wanted to deny it, wanted to say she could do it. She could con anyone, even Atesh, even if it meant playing dangerously close to the precipice. It wasn’t so hard. But Ariston was right and she hated that.

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

“Come,” he said, smiling, “we’ll find you a prince near Venetia – that beats a Pasha, right?”

She snorted. “Yes, but after the masquerade. I can’t pass up the chance to go to the palace, Ariston, I’ve dreamt of that place since I was a child.”

And it would let her say goodbye to Atesh. She cringed at her weakness, but that feeling of his fingers plunging into her hair, the strength of his hands against her body, his chest, his lips, his …

Professional or no, she would allow herself to enjoy wishing him farewell.

Ariston’s hazel eyes hardened to mutiny and he opened his mouth to protest about the masquerade.

“It’ll be simple,” she said, placing a hand on his arm, “I’ll attend the masquerade and steal some pretty pieces from that vain Sultan, then at least we’ll leave Arianople with something in our pockets and leaving something for the Gutter Streets.” She smiled brightly, despite the great heaviness in her chest. “Then onwards and upwards to Venetian princes.”

* * *

That evening, Quin and Ariston stood in the den, hunched over a map.

“I still think Venetia’s best,” Ariston said, tapping the thick yellowed paper.

Quin sighed, frowning at the miniature Europa laid out before her. The compass rose pointed north, south, east, and west, as if where to go was so clear. The Inland Sea, edged in blue, were home to bobbing monsters – a head poking out of the waves here, a tail flipping there, a tentacle wrapping around a ship. Quin shuddered – as if the sea wasn’t bad enough, with nothing solid for hundreds, perhaps thousands of feet below and its treacherous waves and currents.

She’d never seen monsters quite like them, but she had seen the huge sharks they brought in at the docks and left hanging while crowds marvelled at the size of the things and the wide mouths full of row upon row of teeth. The blank, glinting eyes sometimes found her in her darker dreams.

Even if she could swim, they were reason enough to avoid the water.

The paper was smooth under her finger as she traced a line west from Arianople, across western Thanatolia, Macedonia, and Hellas. There they’d hit the sea before turning north-west to enter Venetia by ship. “But can we go back with Derry? Is it too soon?”

“Ah, so that’s what’s got you worried. It’s been – What? – four years.”

“More like five.”

“There you go, that’s ages. Besides, I know –”

They both turned to the door at the click of the handle. A shock of red hair appeared.

“Derry,” Quin said, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Where have you been?”

Ariston crossed his arms. “I was starting to get worried.”

With yesterday’s elephant attack and Atesh’s suspicions there was plenty to worry about.

Derry shrugged and approached the table, peering at the map with a frown. “At Reyhan’s all day – it was a long experiment.”

Quin glanced at Ariston – they’d been so consumed by the puzzle of where to con next, they’d forgotten about the puzzle of the dart. “And did it yield answers?”

“Eventually. We tested the substance and turns out it comes from the bark of a tree, the gregair, that grows further west, beyond Venetia, but it's not known by my people, so it must stay near the Inland Sea. South Frankia, that area.”

“Gregair? Never heard of it. A poison, I assume?”

“Of course.” Derry leant on the table, fingers splayed. “But it’s a very interesting one. No animals eat the raw plant because it causes gastro-intestinal problems.” At Quin’s raised brows, she added, “Vomiting and diarrhoea –”

“How delightful,” Ariston said with a wry smile.

“That’s not the interesting part,” Derry went on. “You see, when the liquid is extracted, distilled, and consumed or – in the case of your forest elephant – gets into the blood stream through a dart, it induces a blind rage. It's very potent, just a few drops would be enough to kill a human – Reyhan said they become so enraged that eventually their heart explodes.”

Quin wrinkled her nose. “How does she know that?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“So, someone did it deliberately?” Ariston frowned at the map, as if it held answers. “Darted an elephant to make it angry and get it to attack.”

“That's what it looks like.” Derry nodded, nibbling her lip.

“Who would do that?”

“And why?” Quin added. “It’s not as though many people have reason to be in the forests.”

Ariston shrugged. “About the only people I can think of being out there would be an orta of hunters.”

“I didn’t know they used poison.”

“Maybe if there’s a problem animal?” Ariston tugged his beard. “Perhaps that elephant was already aggressive and they were using the dart to bring it under control?” Even he didn’t sound convinced.

Derry watched their exchange. She shook her head, long fingers tapping on the map. “This poison would be not only risky but damn expensive. Reyhan reckons the only times she’s ever heard of it being on the market, it was over 50 zeri an ounce.

“50?” Quin winced.

“Preparing gregair takes time and highly specialist knowledge. Reyhan’s never seen the stuff in Arianople and you know she's been to every bazaar and store.” Her blue gaze passed from Quin to Ariston and back again. “I’m worried. Someone was trying to make a dangerous wild animal attack Atesh or perhaps you.”

Quin frowned. How did the pieces add together? “No.” She shook her head. “It got the messenger first. He was the target, but somehow he kept going – maybe his cat dodged the initial attack, allowing him to reach us.” The crimson gash in his chest. Atesh’s soft voice in his ear. The way his body had sagged as the last breath left him.

She swallowed, closing her eyes a moment. “Someone didn't want Atesh to get that message. But why?”

“Do you know anything about its contents?” Ariston asked.

“No. Atesh acted strangely after reading it.” She shrugged. “But that could just be because of the circumstances of its delivery.”

“Whatever the reason,” Derry said, “this reeks of something dangerous, just like your behaviour yesterday.” Quin winced. Here it came … “You should have run.”

Ariston straightened from the table, looking down at Quin. “Or got up the damn tree with that other woman.”

“Run where, exactly?” Quin folded her arms. “Into the forest for it to chase us down? For one thing, I wouldn’t have been able to keep the whole group together – it could’ve started picking us off from the back. And you said yourself, Derry – that stuff on the dart sent the poor creature mad.” She shook her head. “You two didn’t see it – it was … Well, I’ve never seen anything like it. The eyes …”

“True,” Derry said, “I think the gregair didn’t give you much choice, but have you considered the questions this is going to raise in society? The effect it’ll have on the con?”

Ariston couldn’t keep the smug edge from his smile. “Well, society has already raised its questions.” Quin scowled as he told Derry about Atesh’s visit.

“That’s bloody rich,” Derry said when he was done. “How dare he come here demanding answers from you when he has dirty little secrets of his own?”

Miss Scarlet. Quin gave a twisted smile. “I nearly said as much to him. But making him more angry wouldn’t have got him to back down and I didn’t want to humiliate him.” She sighed. “I thought there was still a chance, then.”

Derry’s brows raised above her cool blue eyes. “For the con?”

“Of course. What else would I be talking about?”

She just gave an enigmatic shrug.

Quin’s eyes narrowed. “Not that it matters, as we’re leaving.” Away from Arianople again.

“What? Leaving?” She searched Quin’s face and Ariston’s, lips pursed.

Quin sighed and explained the decision they’d reached after Atesh’s visit.

“I told you he wasn’t the usual.”

Quin bit the inside of her cheek to silence herself. He certainly wasn’t. If Ariston hadn’t been there, she might have confided in Derry about the kiss.

“Perhaps,” Quin said when she’d mastered herself. “But, as I said, it doesn’t matter now – we’re leaving. The question is, where next?”

Derry bent over the map as Ariston pointed out the possible locations they’d been discussing when she’d arrived, discounting the places they’d visited most recently.

Quin stared at the map, not really seeing it or her friends’ fingers tracing across it.

Well, Atesh had rid himself of one threat – the threat of her to his coffers, now the con was off – but if someone had been trying to keep that message from him, then perhaps there was a bigger one lurking somewhere in Arianople. And whoever it was, they’d been desperate and reckless enough to use such as uncontrollable method as the gregair dart.

Had they even considered how many lives they’d risked with that bloody thing?

She shivered, finding herself staring at the nearest corner of the map. A sharp-fanged sea monster reared out of the waves, its great maw open, poised to swallow up the compass rose.

* * *

A week later, Quin walked the Gutter Streets, a parcel hugged to her chest. Beneath the brown paper wrapping was her costume for the masquerade ball. A precious load, indeed. She’d collected it from a seamstress deeper in the warrens of the Gutter Streets. The woman wouldn’t accept charity but would take paying work. Luckily, she was handy with needle and shears, clever with hidden pockets, and discreet, so she helped Quin and Quin helped her.

To anyone passing, Quin looked the consummate mercenary, clutching a parcel from her tailor. But this costume was more important to her than buttons and braid were to sellswords. She’d wear it to the Evengate Palace. She’d wear it to steal from the Sultan. She’d wear it the last time she saw Atesh.

On Wednesday night, she would dance, charm, and steal, then she’d leave Arianople once more, set off across Europa to find a new mark, start a new con under a new identity. She’d use a different first name this time, distance herself from, well, herself.

It felt … how did it feel?

She scowled and hugged the parcel tighter, dodging a pair of arguing men, their hands waving in gestures that would soon become punches.

Did it feel good? Another fresh start. That had to be good, right?

But she had no plan, no mark picked out, no new asylum chosen for Mum, and nothing significant to show for her time in Arianople.

It was a shame to be leaving so soon. Much as she enjoyed travelling across Europa, Arianople was home. This time she’d be going before she’d had the chance to spend more time with Dethero. Without giving her mum the stability of months in one place. Without repairing her friendship with Red or at least getting it to a point where things were less difficult between them. Neutral would have been an improvement.

At least she’d be away from –

Atesh? Perched on a low wall at the edge of a ramshackle bazaar, dressed in a grey suit – it was him.

Pivoting mid-step, she ducked into a doorway. She’d been avoiding him since – well, since the drawing room.

Despite his fierce questioning that day, the rest of society had been happy to accept her version of the elephant incident where she played a minor supporting role. Malos, Danyal, and Erdem told a version where her part was omitted entirely. Although she wasn’t sure whether they did so to protect her reputation or their own, it suited her very well. It had given her the space to return to society and even enquire as to the health of the injured footman – he was making progress slowly, but progress nonetheless.

As for Atesh, she’d sent a couple of non-committal answers to his letters and invitations. She’d even had Mrs Tepe tell him she was out when he’d come to visit.

But here he was.

His suit was a plain grey, as if to blend in, but even from here it was clear the tailoring was of a quality beyond anyone living in the Gutter Streets. Perhaps she hadn’t been mistaken when she thought she’d seen him on her way from Dethero’s a couple of weeks ago.

Atesh bent over a book, hair falling in his eyes, while the pencil in his hand arced back and forth. Glancing up, he looked not towards Quin, but at a man stacking onions on a stall. Brief, intense scrutiny, then back to the book.

He was sketching. More art. Perhaps planning for his next exhibition.

His face fixed in a small frown of concentration, just as it had been in the self-portrait she’d studied before she’d even glimpsed him. This was the man she’d seen at the exhibition, passionate about his work, but also vulnerable, shy even, because it revealed too much.

The brown paper crinkled under her fingers. It was smooth under her chin as she leant on the parcel.

If she’d been dressed as the Contessa, she might have approached, pretended she was here visiting a pawn shop, perhaps – they were close enough to the edges of the Gutter Streets to make her presence acceptable. Barely.

But she wasn’t the Contessa, she was a sellsword today, and that swishing coat, tight breeches, and jaunty hat were wholly inappropriate, shocking even.

Instead, she watched him. Just a little longer. It would be a shame to leave those broad shoulders unobserved, after all. She’d indulge herself for a while.

He was at once intense and peaceful in a way that made her gut knot in envy. There was a hypnotic rhythm to the movement of his pencil, the glances at his subject; the rest of his body held a stillness born of focus. He knew himself. He was whole.

She bit her lip. How would he react if she snuck behind him and ran her hands over those well-tailored shoulders? Would he even stir, or was he too absorbed in his work?

“Damn!” She pressed up against the door, breath held. He’d glanced up, in her direction – he must have had that prickling of the skin that said someone was watching.

Stupid girl. He’d seen a professional, had written Quin ever such a romantic invitation while Miss Scarlet had been there, probably naked in his bed, perhaps even doing goodness knew what to him.

Her teeth gritted. For a moment, she’d forgotten.

A breath huffed out. He could be a bit of fun, pleasant to look at, hot against her mouth and under her hands, perhaps, but he was just another aristo, getting what he could from the Gutter Streets, whether that was professionals or art subjects. That was what she had to remember.

Pulling her hat down, Quin emerged from the doorway and hurried in the opposite direction from Atesh. She’d take a different route home, one that didn’t take her past gentlemen sketching in the Gutter Streets.

13

Masquerading

Approaching the palace was an eternity caught in a trail of post-chaises, landaus, swift-turning broughams, and enormous town coaches snailing their way through the twisting streets of Arianople. Orange, yellow, and red maize hung from eaves and above windows. Grape vines curled their way up and through fences, ribbons of every colour tied in their branches. Candles and torches lit up every corner and doorway, thanking the sun for its bounty all summer long and promising to keep the light going throughout the winter. Tonight was the start of the Dying Summer Festival.

Quin maintained her calm up until the point they passed beneath the first palace gate. From the moment the pale, pinkish stone arched above them, each second was devoted to pointing out to Derry every feature she’d been told about by her mother.

The great shrine to Udex, The Judge, its domed roof stretching high to their left, just past the first gate. There, the copper fountain where the harem women had once washed their feet before dancing for Ibril Sultan. That had been a long time ago and no one washed their feet there anymore.

Livia had lived here until that night 24 years ago. She’d been brought here as a child, educated in etiquette, history, music, dancing, literature, flirtation, art – the list went on.

What would Quin’s life have been like if the harem hadn’t been abolished? To grow up somewhere like this – she couldn’t begin to imagine it. Tonight would be her chance to sample that what if.

“To think – here I am invited to the palace after all these years.” Quin sighed a scoffing laugh, sprawling against the seat. “And in a janissary costume.”

“It’s a good thing these curtains hide your giddiness.” Derry raised an eyebrow, gesturing at the painted interior of their equipage. “Most unbecoming in a gentlewoman or a gentleman.” She eyed Quin’s deliberately androgynous costume.

“Quieten down,” Ariston called from the driver’s seat, “someone will hear you – we’re coming up to another gate.”

“Bah,” Quin waved a hand, but softened her voice, “I’ll be calm when I need to. I just” – she shook her head – “I can’t believe it.” She laughed again, her face flushed. “We’re at the palace, Derry: just think of all the – the stuff we can take from the pockets of the most rich, the most spoilt, the most overindulged and overindulgent. We’ll spend the next month redistributing the wealth from tonight alone.”

“Stuff? Stuff?” Derry tutted. “The excitement’s gone to your head – you’re starting to speak like I imagine the little Quinta Guldan did, running around the Gutter Streets in her raggedy cast-offs.” Derry’s hand was cool on Quin’s. “Just be careful, Quin. Please? If you’re caught in the Sultan’s rooms …”

“Of course – of course,” she said, making an effort to calm her voice and expression when she repeated herself. All the while her mind soared: here she was, born in not just the wrong part of Arianople, but the worst part of Arianople, to a disgraced former harem favourite, and now invited to the Evengate Palace for one of the most exclusive events of the year.

Even the invitations had been written by the Sultana’s Master of the Pen himself. The gold ink swirled around the page, each letter thought out and drawn with careful precision and an elegant flourish.

“I swear you’re going to burn a hole through that thing the way you keep staring at it,” Derry said, snatching the invitation out of her hand.

“Derry, it’s just,” she said, frowning for the words to explain, “when I was a child, I spent the longest time thinking I belonged here, that the Sultan was my father and that I should be here, growing up with my half-sister, the little Sultana.” She pressed her forehead to the carriage window. “When I discovered he wasn’t my father, after all, I was suddenly ordinary, and I gave up on any dreams of getting beyond the palace walls. But here we are.”

“Quin,” Derry said, “you’re anything but –”

“Look,” Quin gasped, pointing out the window. Here was the next gate, leading to the second courtyard. Another step closer to the palace and its riches. Another step closer to what might have been. Another step closer to her last glimpse of Atesh.

The west-facing gate glowed like green fire in the setting sun. The effect came from covering stone pillars in gold leaf, then encasing them in jade. Or so she’d been told – it was hard to believe that any mere human had made the gleaming gates.

Even Derry was stunned to silence. “Bugger me,” she breathed once they had passed beneath the gate.

Quin grinned. “Indeed!”

“I think I understand now.”

Fanning herself, Quin shook her head. “And imagine the firework display they’ve got planned for tonight.”

“I heard they’ve got so many, they had to store them at the Fortress –”

A sharp rap on the roof. “We’re here, ladies,” Ariston called as the carriage rumbled to a halt.

Derry smiled at Quin, her blue eyes sparking with excitement. “Mask up, my genderless janissary.”

* * *

Despite teasing Quin for her excitement, Derry couldn’t quite believe they were inside Evengate Palace, and legitimately, too. After more than two weeks of anticipation she was sure she would be sick of the place before she’d even arrived, but here it was and here she was and it was sickening in an entirely different way. The flickering candlelight amplified the sense of movement in the grand ballroom as people thronged, milled, lounged, and danced into the night. Everywhere was the rustle of lavish fabric and the rasp of lascivious whispers into eager ears.

Derry lost herself in the whirl of masks that looked her up and down.

Tonight, she wore the silver mask of a crescent moon down the left side of her face, with black continuing over her right eye. A white wig hid her fiery hair. Quin had sprinkled silvery dust through it and painted her cheeks and lips with shimmering make up.

Her gown was white and silver, fading to black at the hem. In the dark, it looked as though she floated like a ghost. She’d gasped when Quin had held out the gown to her, recognising the precious silk she’d had draped in the den, waiting for a special occasion. She’d had it made especially for Derry, insisting she’d look radiant in it.

It seemed Quin wasn’t the only one to think so. When his gaze reached Derry, one man in a leafy costume became bold, reaching for her waist, but with a twist she slipped away into the crowd.

There was no sign of a woman at quite the build and height, with quite the dark brown hair that gleamed red that Derry was looking for. But then, she hadn’t spotted Tacita at any of the other parties or balls she’d been to. Tacita was clearly so wealthy from her manner and her clothing, yet either she wasn’t invited to these events or declined the invitation. Strange.

Passing a footman, Derry snatched a glass of purple-red wine from a teetering tray. His stained lips revealed his own indiscretion with a glass or two.

She sipped the bitter-sweet liquid, grimacing and smiling at once. Drinking amongst the aristocrats as if she were one of them, this was a rare day indeed. No one looked askance at her helping herself as the pashas and beys did; no one paid attention to the lady’s companion mingling without her lady.

For tonight, no one thought she was the hired help.

A young man who hadn’t spared her a second glance at the gallows party at the beginning of the month approached and asked her to dance – his mask and hood weren’t enough to disguise his distinctive deep voice. He stood very close, inappropriately so, and reeked of spirits as if his cloak were soaked in whiskey.

“I’m afraid I’ve made a resolution not to dance with drunken idiots tonight,” Derry answered. With a bright smile, she tugged his hood down over his face, spun him around, and pushed him away into the swell of bodies.

Yes. They could stay away. Tonight, she was no servile little pale-skin. As far as anyone knew, she was a pasha’s Frankish wife, a rare trophy, but one who could answer back to inappropriate advances.

Hells, even if they thought her someone else, she could do what she wanted, thanks to her mask.

Derry grinned, energy (and perhaps wine, too) buzzing through her as she dove into the throng again. This impertinence business was fun; she could see why Quin enjoyed it so much. Though she wasn’t so sure about the men leching after her money and prized breeding. Somehow Quin dealt with it through slippery words and winning modesty, but Derry was quite sure it would infuriate her. Those grasping hands to avoid, this foolish anecdote to laugh at. She shuddered.

Finding herself near a corridor that led to the garden, Derry started down it. Perhaps she would sneak up on a couple in the undergrowth and give them a good red-wine soaking. Not perhaps: definitely. She giggled.

The passage was gloomy, lit only by a few sconces as if to prepare the eyes for the darkness outside. Or, rather, Derry realised as she almost tripped over two pairs of stockinged legs, to conceal couples who couldn’t wait to reach the darkness outside before giving in to their passion. Beneath the sound of viola and pianoforte drifting out from the main ballroom, there drifted a faint chorus of moans.

Derry hurried along the hall, laughing to herself.

Before she got far, a hand fastened around her arm. The next thing she knew, she was in a shadowy alcove, a hand over her mouth, her heart hammering.

“Please forgive my method, Miss Bowyer, I didn’t want you to scream,” said a familiar voice. “It’s Tacita. I’m going to let go now.”

She was good to her word and released Derry, who sank against the cool plaster of the wall with a sigh. “What the hells do you think you’re doing? How did you know it was me?” She was sure her disguise had been so good.

“I recognised your driver when you arrived,” Tacita said, “so when I saw the resplendent moon step from the brougham, I knew it had to be you.” Her gaze dipped to Derry’s costume, lingering from shoulder to hem. “Though you could be the sun, you know, rather than a heavenly body only reflecting light.”

Derry scowled. And Quin was the sun, the source of that light. Even Derry’s costume alluded to her place off to the side. When had that stopped being enough? It always had been before, but this secret desire to be the centre of attention, even just for a moment, simmered beneath the surface.

“Well, I am so sorry to disappoint,” she said. “Did you grab me for something particular?”

“I wanted to show you my outfit,” Tacita said, her smile matching the mocking tone in her voice. They stood close together, Tacita towering above Derry, her eyes dark against her silvery-green mask. “And when I saw you trotting past, I couldn’t resist. Do forgive me, please. You’ve been in my thoughts since you left me so bereft in my landau.”

“I’m sure you still had fun at the masquerade.” Derry set her face in a frown.

“Some,” she said with a small nod, “but not nearly as much as I would have had with you. But this isn’t how this was meant to go – let’s not argue. I wanted you to see this – look!” Tacita backed away, holding her skirts out wide. “It will allay any doubt of my words.”

True enough, Tacita’s costume could only have been chosen with reference to Derry, or at least her homeland. Tacita wore a long, form-fitting gown of pale green that gleamed silver like aspen leaves. Its flared sleeves reached the floor, harking back to the height of Varangian fashion some fifty years ago. The train pooled at her feet like molten metal. A belt sat just below her waist, made up of domed disks shaped like tiny shields, all jewelled red and gold.

The breath stuck in Derry’s throat.

Aspens lined the road leading to her family home – Tacita’s gown was their exact colour. Derry had spent her childhood running under their shade, playing with their leaves when they fell in autumn, climbing their branches with her brothers and sisters.

A prickle of homesickness hit her behind the eyes. The shoes weren’t quite right for a Varangian – they had the pointed toes of Thanatolian fashion – but the rest ... It was an unexpected reminder of home.

“Your verdict, madam?” Tacita asked, as she gave a twirl, the curve of her back catching the dim light. She turned to Derry with an expectant smile that broke as soon as she saw her face. “Oh no. I’ve upset you. Is it not right? Is the fit wrong? Is it the sleeves? They’re too long, aren’t they?” She twisted the silk in her hands, unexpectedly vulnerable, not studied like her other gestures.

Derry shook her head and went to speak, but found the homesickness wringing the words from her throat.

“I’m sorry,” Tacita said. Strong, gentle arms encircled Derry, pulling her close. “I promise I’ll never wear fancy dress again, if it upsets you so much.”

Derry couldn’t help but laugh at that, squeezing the teardrops from her eyes.

Tacita looked down at her, face only inches away. “Tears? Is my costume as bad as that?”

Derry hid her face against the tumble of Tacita’s hair. The smell of sandalwood filled her nose and calmed her enough to speak. “No, no,” she said, smiling and at last pulling away, “it’s not that at all. Your costume is wonderful.” She looked Tacita up and down again – she could have been a statue of a woman, forged from silver or steel and polished for an age, the way the gown fitted to capture every curve of muscle and flesh. Derry shivered. “Exquisite, in fact.”

Tacita visibly puffed up at that, standing even taller, a small smile on her full lips. “So why these?” she asked, a long finger tracing a line along Derry’s jaw, catching the tears there and holding them up to glisten.

Derry looked away. “It reminded me of home.”

“And you’ve not been there a long while?”

A nodded reply.

“I see,” Tacita said softly. “I miss my family, too.”

“You live far from home?” Derry thought back to her first impression of Tacita’s colouring and the question of where she could be from.

“Not exactly.” Her fine-featured face, so like a statue, softened, revealing something of the woman beneath. “My parents are long dead and I can’t see my brother as often as I’d like. Though my mother was a Frank, like you.”

Long dead? Tacita didn’t look much older than Derry, so her parents must have died when she was a child, in her teens at most.

“I’m sorry.” Derry wondered who her mother had been and which part of the lands northwest of here she’d been from. But Tacita’s grief was a private thing Derry didn’t want to probe, however old it might be.

“Oh, please don’t be,” Tacita said, “let’s not let our new friendship grow maudlin, shall we?” She smiled and twirled again. “I just want to be sure you like my costume, since I thought of you in choosing it.”

“I do,” Derry said with a chuckle. Tacita’s change in mood was infectious.

“Excellent – I so hoped you would approve.” Tacita returned to Derry’s side and pushed her mask up. “I – I also hope you will approve a request.”

“And what –” Derry went to answer but found her throat husky. She cleared it and tried again: “And what request is that?”

“I saw those men in there, pawing at you and your inspired evasion of them. I’m impressed. You impress me.” There was a flash of even, white teeth, as she grinned. “I would ask that you give me a chance to impress you, rather than evading me as you did those poor fools. They may just see an exotic freed slave, not a most rare woman: daring and lively and clever. A woman I’d like to know better, for her own sake. Will you let me?”

Derry pursed her lips, as much at the unfamiliar lurching in her stomach as at Tacita’s words. “You seem to already know more about me, Madam di Vespa, than I do about you, including the circumstances that led to my current employment.” She studied the response to this. Did Tacita know that Quin was no more a Contessa than Derry was a mere companion?

“And she still doesn’t believe me.” Tacita sighed. “I did tell you that I’ve thought of nothing else but you since we met, didn’t I?” There were no signs of deception. Her hands were raised as if to defend herself. “I made a few enquiries and learned something about you and how you met – how you came to be here. The story from your friend is half-way around town. Won’t you come to the terrace with me so I can hear more about you from your own lips?”

“To the pleasure gardens, you mean?” Derry raised an eyebrow. Everyone knew what the pleasure gardens were for late at night. Was that what Tacita wanted? More importantly, was that what Derry wanted? She’d never consciously entertained the idea, but now she thought of it, her face grew hot, and she was grateful for the gloom hiding her blush.

“Where better to uncover the most salacious gossip?” Another flash of teeth – she grinned a lot. It reminded Derry of Quin.

Quin. That was why she was here. To work. Not to spy on the pleasure gardens, not to make a new friend, and certainly not to wonder what she wanted from that new friend. “I am afraid I must regretfully decline.” As she said it, Derry was surprised to find how true the words were, the disappointment ringing through her heart. “I have a prior engagement, and – and I’m going to be late for it.” She took a step away from a frowning Tacita. “Please excuse me,” she called over her shoulder.

“The Crossed Keys,” Tacita called back.

Derry paused, throwing her a questioning look.

“If you find yourself not otherwise engaged,” she said with a small lift of her shoulder, “ask for me in there.”

Derry nodded, though she would never go there and hurried back to the ballroom before her resolve deserted her.

Then it hit her. Tacita had called her ‘Miss Bowyer’.

She ran through their previous meeting. Tacita had introduced herself, but, no, Derry hadn’t given her own name, not even a false one, and her red hair had been hidden by a dark wig.

Tacita must have somehow linked Derry to Quin and thus discovered how Derry had been in the slave markets of Venetia, but how had she discovered Derry’s name in the first place? And how had she known Derry would be at the ball? It seemed Tacita had ways of sniffing out information.

What else could she discover about Derry and Quin?

14

The Fanciful Janissary

With a huff, Atesh concluded that there was no sign of Quin. There’d been no sign of her for the past week. Since her drawing room, in fact.

This evening, he’d asked around, and when that had revealed nothing, he’d searched every room of the palace that was open to the revellers. He’d even slipped into a couple that weren’t, just in case. He had grown up here since the age of ten when his father had died, so he knew many of its secrets, its passages, its awkward latches, and the doors that scraped against the floor. But all he’d found were drunkards, dancers, and one rather compromising position.

That had made him laugh, but a laugh was not what he was looking for.

And now here he was standing next to a punch bowl that was bigger than a bath feeling rather sorry for himself. He scowled and folded his arms, then unfolded them when he realised he was looking and acting like a love-struck sixteen-year-old.

“Good grief, man, get a hold of yourself,” he muttered.

Stalking into the heaving mass of bodies, he resolved not to look for Quin for the rest of the night.

Probably. Maybe. Perhaps.

As he walked, the crowd parted, but few spared him a second glance. Those who did look twice drew away with a shudder.

It was a good disguise.

He had based the costume on an old story written around the time of the plague. For months, even before the invites had been written, he had searched for just the right shade of blood-red fabric for breeches, jacket, and waistcoat. Together with shiny black boots, a wide-brimmed hat, and a crimson plume, he looked quite dashing. Add the half-mask that was somewhere between a corpse’s face and a skull and the ensemble became positively macabre.

It was a very good disguise.

Cheerful at the effect his outfit had on others, Atesh entered the card room. It had been painted black for the occasion and red glass drops hung on the chandeliers giving a disquieting quality to the light.

Near a table stacked with drinks, a pale arm caught his eye. Was that Derry? Red hair peeped out from beneath a slightly askew white wig. In fact, her whole appearance was slightly ruffled and her one visible cheek was pink beneath glittery makeup.

“Good evening, madam,” he said, sidling up to her.

He hadn’t tried to sneak, but the woman jumped as if ice had been dropped down her back. She said something in a musical language he didn’t understand.

“Are you trying to scare me?” she said once she’d caught her breath.

“Not at all, madam. I trust you’re having a good evening.”

She eyed him for a moment before responding: “Most wonderful, thank you. And yourself?” Slowly, she edged away from him, glancing around the room.

“Fairly entertaining, but” – he reached past her for a glass of wine, blocking her escape – “I was hoping to see a certain young lady here this evening. I don’t suppose you, Miss B, could shed any light on the matter?”

“Miss B? I think you have me mistaken, sir – I am married, as you can see.” She held up her left hand.

“I see that you have a gold ring, I don’t see that you’re married.”

“You should, sir, or else my husband would not be best pleased.” Pale blue eyes turned to him. It had to be Derry. “In fact,” she went on, “I should go and meet my husband now – he’s expecting me.”

She went to leave, but Atesh stepped in front of her.

“Then perhaps you can tell me where Lady Sabia is before you go.”

“Lady who? Goodness, I don’t know to whom you are referring.” Her voice grew sharp and again, there was that furtive flick of her eyes around the room, this time accompanied by an adjustment of her white wig.

“You seem rather on edge today,” he said, cocking his head.

“That’s because I am late meeting my husband, sir. If you would just kindly –”

“Derry, come now, just tell me where Quin is and I’ll let you go and do whatever it is you’re so eager to do.”

Just then, a smash from the opposite end of the table. Atesh turned in time to see shards of china scatter across the floor. Something brushed against his arm and when he looked back, Derry was gone.

“Well that’s just –” He ended the sentence with a sigh.

Searching for Derry did find him something else, however. He thought he spotted Malos through a doorway beyond the broken plate. He’d hinted that he would be dressed as the Woodsman and this person at the card table was covered in leaves from mask to pointed shoes.

Taking a seat beside the man he asked: “Do I know you?”

The Woodsman gave him a long look with narrowed eyes, before breaking into a slow smile. “I know you,” he said. Yes, that was Malos’s voice and Malos’s grin.

While they dealt him in for speculation, a footman brought a tray of sherbet punch glasses to the table. Atesh took one, then after a moment’s pause took two more, arranging them beside his counters – as identities were supposedly hidden at a masquerade, cash was swapped for counters at the card tables.

Beginning play, Malos eyed the line of drinks. “Planning on a good evening, then? Trumps are hearts,” he announced to the table before revealing his first card, a three. “Damn.”

“I was,” Atesh grumbled, turning over the queen of hearts. The other players groaned and muttered.

“The Blind Lady smiles on you tonight, my friend,” Malos said. “You have the lead.” His dark eyes took on a wicked glint. “And I don’t think anyone could take your queen from you.”

Atesh frowned, his friend’s intent look left no doubt he wasn’t just talking about cards. “My queen?”

“Well, your lady soon enough,” Malos said with a stiff shrug, watching the game progress.

The other players kept glancing at the pair and Atesh wondered if he knew any of them.

“Perhaps, but –”

“No ‘buts’ my friend – I’m positive all you need do is ask. It’s clear you find her intriguing and I’m sure she’s probably fond of you, though I can’t imagine why she would be. The two of you flirt enough to make it obvious.” His mouth twisted and he lowered his voice. “And I’m not sure you’ll have much competition after her antics the other day.”

“I’m sure her reputation’s safe,” Atesh said, “after you took the credit.”

“I didn’t take it – I think you’ll find it was freely given.”

Perhaps that was a fair point. Quin had tried to shirk any recognition for her actions on the way home from the picnic and again in her drawing room.

“Besides,” Malos went on, “you can hardly blame the woman for not wanting her role known. Imagine the reception she’d get from these.” He jerked his cards at the other players, the small groups around the room.

They’d shun her. A few would look upon her as a curiosity, perhaps, but for the most part, she’d be a freakish example of a lady behaving as a man ought. Shouting orders and riding a sabrecat into battle in an impressive show of athleticism. No, that would never do for a gentlewoman. It would never be accepted, however magnificent he thought it.

“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking,” Malos said as Atesh remained silent. “If she’d rather everyone believed we took it down with barely any help from her, I’m only too happy to play the hero and shield a lady’s reputation. And so should you – you never know how grateful she might be.”

Atesh gritted his teeth at the smirk on Malos’s mouth.

“Not that I’d spurn her for such a display, you understand,” Malos whispered, leaning over.

Did the man never shut up?

“Did you see her holding on with just her legs?” Malos said. “Imagine what those thighs could do …”

“Malos,” Atesh growled. How Malos hadn’t ended up in more duels was a mystery. Right now, Atesh would gladly have rung his neck.

“And to think I considered her a helpless little creature.” Malos sighed before turning his next card. “Ah – the ace!” Raking in a handful of counters, he gave Atesh a broad grin. “I do believe I win. I suppose sometimes the underdog comes out on top.”

Atesh glowered. Malos still wasn’t just talking about cards. Did that mean he was trying to win more than just the game? No, he was just being his trouble-stirring self.

“Come along – why so testy? It’s not as if – well, well, well,” Malos focussed on something behind Atesh. “Good evening, dear, dear lady.” His eyes veritably bulged.

Turning around, Atesh found the source of his friend’s delight. Before him stood a woman not covered by a great deal other than diaphanous cloth and a coined belt that jingled as she moved, like some dancing girl of the harem.

“Good evening, madam,” Atesh said, eyes firmly fixed on her mask, unlike Malos who stared at the places where her costume was terribly inadequate, which was everywhere.

“Gentlemen,” the woman said with a bow. “I would request a dance with Red Death.” Her lashes fluttered.

Malos glanced to the doorway, black eyes lighting up again. “Yes,” he said. “Er, that is, Red Death would be only too willing to oblige.”

Atesh shot his cousin a frown before following his gaze.

Another woman had just entered, this one dressed in sleek black breeches and shirt, a long tail draped over one arm. A sabrecat. Its fit made it almost as scandalous a costume as Dancing Girl’s and from the pert smile on her lips, the wearer knew it.

Was it Quin? What was visible of her face could be her, black glossy hair, but perhaps – no, too tall. But then she could be wearing higher heels than usual. Had he finally found her?

Smiling, Atesh returned to the lady who’d asked him to dance. “Thank you, madam, however I’m afraid I can’t abandon the game.”

But Malos was unperturbed and gave the woman an encouraging, if slightly mischievous, smile. “Don’t worry, this hand has finished and I roundly thrashed you. I’m happy enough with that, but he could use a bit of cheering up, madam.” He rapped the table. “Come along Red Death, you can’t leave your delightful partner waiting.”

The dancer offered her hand.

“Well, in that case,” Atesh said, “how could I possibly refuse?” He clenched his teeth behind his smile and took her hand, rising.

Malos was on his feet, too, and rushing past Atesh towards the sabrecat who was possibly Quin.

“Shall we, madam?” Atesh said to the woman on his arm and gestured to the door leading to the grand ballroom.

They stood at the edge of the crowd, waiting for the current dance to end. She was standing very close; every so often she would turn to him and there would be the brush of her body against his. Atesh fixed his gaze on the couples bowing the end of their dance – there were only so many times he could edge away.

“Bad luck old chap.” It was Malos, clapping Atesh on the shoulder, the black sabrecat on his arm. “Looks like I’ll have Lady Sabia to myself for this one. Doesn’t she look ravishing? And I’m sure she won’t mind you partnering with such a well-dressed lady in the slightest.”

Except it wasn’t Quin. Now he was closer, he was sure. Her hands were too tiny, her arms too slender, her skin tone not rich enough. This woman was brittle where Quin was strong enough to rescue a slave, kill an elephant, and knot her fists in his jacket in a way that –

“You’re not going to leave me to dance alone are you, sir?” His dance partner stood in the row of women, looking pointedly at him with dusky grey eyes. The space opposite her was empty.

“Apologies, madam.” He strode to his spot, so the dance could begin.

“My dear sir, does something trouble you?” She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem very happy. Perhaps I could cheer you up.” She stroked her own shoulder, eyes on him.

Atesh smiled, all politeness. “I fear my friend exaggerated my upset at the card game. Your concern is quite commendable, and I thank you for it, but I’m quite fine. Really.”

“I’d say you’re more than ‘quite fine’, sir.” Her hand trailed lower. Others along the row glanced at her.

The quartet struck up, cello, zither, oboe, and viola cutting through the bustling of people and tinkling of glasses. With the row of men, Atesh bowed and, opposite, the ladies did the same. A wave of unease passed over him as his partner bowed, keeping her eyes on him. Although she wasn’t the one in the sabrecat costume, it put him in mind of one hunting, eyes fixed on prey.

With the music, Atesh’s feet took over, leading him through each move and turn, spinning and rising on tip-toe as the dance required. It was just as well he knew the forms so well, as the woman seemed to be doing all she could to distract him. She watched him as if she were waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. At every pass, she came just a little too close. Each hand-hold lingered a touch too long.

“Won’t you tell me something?” she said as they twirled around each other.

He made a noncommittal sound.

“What would you like me to do to you when we retire to the gardens after this dance?” There was certainly no danger of her being accused of coquetry.

Atesh braved a sigh as he was given a reprieve from responding by striding along the line. How on earth could he answer that? More to the point, how did she have the gall to ask such a question? He was only separated from the woman for several paces before he returned, touching hands and turning away again.

But when he spun around, Atesh missed a step, finding himself facing a new partner entirely. He hurried to regain his place in the dance. There was no sign of the woman in the dancing girl outfit.

Standing in line as another couple passed down the row, he had a moment to examine this other person. They were either a beautiful youth or a handsome woman – he couldn’t be sure which. The billowy trousers of a whimsical janissary uniform hid the person’s shape and where the coat fitted around the waist, it suggested a slim torso that could have been a young man’s or a woman’s.

When they approached each other for a turn, the first thing Atesh noticed was a rouged mouth, plump and feminine, but there were more than a few feminine youths at court. The janissary’s cheekbones were sharp as blades, just showing beneath a deep purple mask. Before Atesh could take in any more, the dance tore them apart again and as he passed the line, he wondered if he would have another new partner when he returned.

What was going on? Perhaps his costume hadn’t been as clever as he thought – there certainly seemed to be more strange people bothering him than usual.

“Your face – what I can see of it – is quite a picture, sir,” the janissary said as they held hands and turned. The voice gave nothing away, either, not too deep, but not too high. “Perhaps I should relieve you of some of your misery.” With a smirk, his companion took his hand and placed it at her waist. Because it was her waist – beneath the jacket it nipped in like a woman’s, but most telling of all were the firm strips of boning from a pair of stays beneath his hands. His fingers twitched at the memory of gripping Quin’s waist in her drawing room.

No sooner had he smiled at the thought than the dance tore them apart. They paced down the line, behind the other dancers, her watching him, him watching her.

Who was she? She reminded him of Quin, with her angled jaw and pointed chin, but her skin was darker and freckled, and those cheekbones were different to hers, more severe. As they turned, he caught a glimpse of dark eyes behind the mask – no, it wasn’t Quin. That was wishful thinking.

“Now will you at least try to appear pleased to dance with me?” she said, cocking her head as they turned around each other. The gesture brought Quin to mind.

“I’ll make the attempt, madam janissary.”

“Excellent, Pasha.” Their fingers interlocked and another pair of dancers passed underneath. “But, pray tell, who is it you’re looking for?”

“Merely observing the assembly.” She’d called him Pasha. “But madam has me at a disadvantage, because I’m sure you’re no janissary.”

“At a disadvantage, eh? Perhaps that’s exactly where I want you.”

Her mouth quirked in what must have been a suppressed smile and they stepped close to turn, palm-to-palm. Her hand was soft and she smelled of roses. Just like Quin.

A twinge of guilt stirred in his belly – he was enjoying the warmth of her fingers and the moments when the dance allowed him to place a hand on the small of her back.

Her eyes were strangely dark, he noticed now they were closer. In fact, they seemed to have no colour whatsoever – they were all black pupil – and she kept blinking and shifting her gaze as if she were having difficulty focusing.

“Tell me,” he said as they twirled in the opposite direction, “do you know a Lady Sabia?”

A quick smile parted her lips. “Perhaps I do, sir, however –” The rest of her answer was lost to a turn. Coming back to him, she went on: “I do wonder if your Lady Sabia would approve of you manhandling another woman, sir.”

Atesh narrowed his eyes as the dance took him along the line once more. This janissary might not be a stranger after all. As he strode along the row of backs, he decided to confront her. That inflection when she said sir, just like in her drawing room – it made him sure enough to ask.

But when he arrived at the end of the line, the end of the room furthest from the musicians, she was gone. His brow crumpled in a frown. Just when he was sure he’d found her, she –

A hand darted out from behind a damask curtain and grabbed his – the grip firm, warm.

“Come here, you.” It was her voice, husky and low, pulling as insistently as her hand did.

Powerless, he followed, ducking behind the silk curtain.

“Qu –”

But she pressed a finger to his lips. They stood in the corner of a bay window, hidden by the curtain, but the sounds of the ball still crept through: laughter, chatter, and the quartet still sounding out the rhythms of the dance.

Their disappearance hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Who’s that?”

“Gods, what is he doing?”

“He? I thought it was a she!”

“How deliciously scandalous – if I only knew who it was.”

And on and on …

The janissary, Quin, he was sure now, smiled in the gloom and pushed his mask up. He went to remove hers, but she captured his fingers in hers and gave the smallest shake of her head.

Her eyes were dark because of the dilated pupils, he now realised. Women in Venetia dropped poison in their eyes to get the effect and make themselves more alluring. Juice of belladonna, that was the stuff. Beautiful lady. To go to such lengths, she must have really wanted to fool him – or someone else, perhaps, if she really was a spy.

Whatever the reason for using belladonna, those dark eyes roved over his face, drinking him in, lingering on his mouth.

He swallowed, but made no other movement, waiting in stillness. It made him ache to not grab her, pull her in close, kiss her mouth, her throat, her shoulders, touch her hair, her cheeks, the nape of her neck. But it was an exquisite ache that left his lips tingling in anticipation.

She squeezed her eyes shut. There was sorrow in the gesture, but if he asked what was wrong, he’d break the spell that had wound itself around them in their dark corner of the masquerade.

His hands were still trapped in hers, held over his shoulders, but he didn’t fight it. With a languid slowness, she lifted her mouth to his, gentle, questioning.

He sank into the kiss, not caring whether the rest of the room was on fire with guessing what they were up to. All that mattered was this side of the curtain and he surrendered to it, to the fingers intertwined in his, and to one delicious little bite upon his lower lip that wreaked havoc down his spine.

But then there was nothing more to surrender to. He opened his eyes.

He was alone.

He dashed the curtain to one side. No sign of a purple uniform.

With a curse, he sidled out from the bay window. Revellers threw smirks at him, some tittering, but he glowered them to silence.

Too easily. His mask was still up – they’d seen him.

Damn it. He pulled the mask back into place and hurried to the nearest table.

He leapt onto a chair, searching for Quin, but all he achieved was startling a small dog on its owner’s lap into shrill barks. Sighing, he sat down, cheek on hand.

That damn woman. No one else was so infuriating and intriguing all at the same time. She constantly oscillated and changed, as if unable to stay in one state or one spot for too long.

Even for a masquerade ball, her costume was elaborate, rendering her unrecognisable unless one knew her exceptionally well. She must have used makeup to change her skin tone and shade beneath her cheekbones. Clever, but far beyond anything needed for a masquerade. It was as if she went out of her way to be – to be what exactly? Contrary? Impossible to pin down? Confusing? All of the above?

Perhaps getting involved with her was a bad idea.

He pushed the stiff tablecloth into a peak and smiled ruefully. It was too late – he was involved. He couldn’t turn back or change his mind or extricate himself.

Even if he could, he knew he wouldn’t.

Damn her. He slapped his hand on the table, sending glasses tinkling and the little dog yapping again. Its owner rolled her eyes at Atesh and fed the creature a morsel of pastry from her plate.

“Sir.” A quiet voice in his ear, female. It ruffled his hair, barely audible over the dog’s complaint. “If you wish to see your gentlewoman janissary, she awaits you in the olive grove.”

“How –” When he turned, there was no one close enough to whisper to him, just the dancers, spinning in their courses. Had he imagined it?

He knew the olive grove well from a childhood spent playing with his cousins. It wasn’t far. Straightening the misplaced hair, he decided it was worth looking.

Perhaps he would capture his quarry after all.

15

Intoxication

That had got out of hand. The drops of belladonna in her eyes made them appear dark – the perfect finish to her disguise – but they also made her vision hazy, which in turn made her head hazy. And for the likes of her, a hazy head was one that would all-too-soon find itself on a spike in a palace courtyard. Not a desirable location.

Quin blamed the belladonna for everything, of course. Whatever had possessed her to drag him into a hidden corner and …

That was maybe her own fault. And the belladonna’s.

Quin had asked the woman in the diaphanous dress – a courtesan invited to the ball to entertain the gentlemen – to dance with him to see if he could be tempted. The irrational flare of – of what? Anger? Jealousy? – whatever it was, it hadn’t been part of the plan.

It had engulfed her and drawn her towards him like an automaton on a rail.

Never had she intended to dance with him, never mind lure him away, and certainly not in front of so many people. She’d heard their scandalised comments as she’d slipped away. That kind of behaviour was (or had once been) reserved solely for Quinta Guldan’s trysts with Dethero. It was highly inappropriate for the Contessa.

But how could anyone even know it was the Contessa who had strayed from the boundaries of common decency?

Sometimes a mask was a lie that grew heavy with too much use and yet tonight it had become a wonderful thing. How ironic it was that wearing one had freed her from her usual masquerade.

But that kiss. That hadn’t been in the plan for the evening.

Hadn’t it? Hadn’t she promised herself a goodbye to Atesh? As they’d danced, a little part of her had said, Damn it all. This is the last time I’ll see him, the last time Lady Sabia will exist, let’s do what I want.

Want, not need. She usually existed on necessity, on duty, on the rules of the game. That one little moment with Atesh, that had been hers and, damn it, it had felt good.

Quin found herself biting her lip, thinking of how a few minutes earlier she had been doing the same to Atesh’s ...

“Focus, Quin, focus!” she muttered.

But with belladonna in her eyes and Atesh in her head, that was a task easier said than done.

And that moment, it had been goodbye forever. She had to remember that.

Striding through the ballroom with a scowl, she found herself jostled by one burly man into another and then another. She didn’t remember there being that many muscles at the Sultana’s court. Righting her course toward large doors leading to the second courtyard, she dismissed the thought. She’d had quite enough of distractions for one night.

The chill of the terrace was a brusque rap across the face. Time for business.

She skirted the walls, leaving the pooling light from the ballroom behind. Lurking in the shadows of columns, she found a quiet, hidden spot in a corner of the courtyard. In the darkness, her eyes recovered and the world became more distinct. The music quietened, but the night lived with a new set of noises. Rustling and giggling. A hundred breathy conversations. Panted groans and the crush of gravel played across a splashing fountain.

At least someone was having a good time.

Scowling, she pushed thoughts of bare flesh and what might have been from her head.

The task at hand. Yes, she needed to focus on the bloody task at hand.

Thankful that she could see properly now, Quin surveyed the second courtyard. This was as far as visitors got in the Evengate Palace. Off to her left the third gate led to the final two courtyards of the palace, but it was blocked by janissary guards.

As she’d expected, the roof overhung the walls and columns in most places, so climbing wasn’t an option. She’d planned for this. Quin pulled off her mask and jacket and, with a deft flick, turned the latter inside out, revealing its bottle-green lining, and put it back on. She rearranged the soft fabric of her billowing trousers so most of the excess was tucked and folded away. Finally, she drew a wad of fabric from down the front of her stays and shook it out before winding it around her head in a slightly rumpled turban.

There. Now she was a true janissary, not an over-the-top costume. Nearly, that was, just one finishing touch. She pulled the belt from her trousers, before fastening the jacket and buckling the belt on top. That’s it.

With a last brush down of her sleeves, she took a deep breath and strode out of the shadows.

Purposeful. Back straight. She was meant to be here.

Down the path and towards the gate. If they stopped her ... If they realised she wasn’t one of them ... A wash of metallic-blood-taste filled her mouth as she bit her cheek hard.

Stop it.

The guttering lanterns at the gate grew closer. Keep going, just march through. Four men, two on either side. Their backs straightened as she approached, but no questions, not yet.

Nearly there.

Drawing into the lamplight, Quin nodded to the palace janissaries, not pausing in her step, as if they shouldn’t even think to stop her.

“What’s that?”

Heart in her throat, Quin was sure she was going to choke.

The tallest guard stepped forward from his post, peering at Quin’s face, forcing her to stop.

“What’s what?” she asked, hands already slick with sweat. Could she out-run them? Just sprint all the way back to the first courtyard and out?

“On your lips,” he said, dark eyes squinting in the dim light.

“Oh, yes,” another said, joining his colleague, “they’re all red.”

Quin’s hand darted to her mouth. Rouge. She’d rouged her lips for the ball and despite the drinks and kissing, some must remain. “Ah, well, I – um.”

The first janissary burst into deep laughter. “You dog, you,” he chuckled, slapping Quin on the shoulder. “And with one of those fine gentlewomen?”

He thought she had been kissing a woman wearing rouge. She looked away, as if she’d been caught out, hoping the relief didn’t show in her eyes.

“Well, lad,” he went on, “good for you.” He patted her shoulder again and gave a friendly shove towards the third courtyard. “Get that stuff off your lips before the colonel sees you or he’ll have you flogged and on street duty faster than you had that woman on her back.”

Quin managed a strangled laugh and trotted through the gate, the amusement of the guards following her.

Scrubbing at her lips, she passed through the third courtyard, dark because guests weren’t meant to be here. She wasn’t meant to be here. But when had she ever let that stop her?

Heartbeat and breath recovering from the scare at the gate, Quin hurried on to the final gate, the green, sappy smell of cypress trees calming her, their dark shadows punctuating the night sky, visible as areas without stars. This gate was unguarded – who would dare enter the private gardens of the Sultana? Who would sneak past the dormitories of the palace janissaries, whose sole job was to protect the Sultana, her family, and her riches? Who would risk death by being found in this forbidden place?

Quin glanced around, but it was empty, quiet compared to the second courtyard, so she darted into the shadows beneath the fourth gate. She inched forward, holding her breath, but there was only the sound of crickets, the sea nearby, and distant celebration. The only light ahead from the moon and stars.

And then she was there, in the final courtyard.

Here she didn’t dare use the paths where she’d stand out against the pale grey slabs, instead she slipped into the flowerbeds, keeping as close to the wall as she could. The stone sapped her warmth. Much as she was obliged to the gardeners for growing plants that gave her cover, she cursed their choice of roses as another thorn pierced her skin. She’d leave a pool of blood behind at this rate.

She counted windows, hugging the wall, until she found the one she’d come here for, just as Ariston had drawn on a crude map at home. The Sultan’s dressing room. Three storeys up.

Creeping up the staircase that ran along the wall was easy enough, though it revealed a distant guard. He was slouched over a flat object in his hands – a book. Quin almost laughed. His attention was fixed on a distant story of adventure and romance, rather than his work.

She slipped around the corner and out of sight, now just one floor beneath the window. A colonnade ran along the wall at this level, but the pillars were smooth. Since they went well with her outfit, she was already wearing the coated climbing shoes, but even they weren’t enough to get her up the marble column. Crossbeams ran between the columns and the main building, but they were beyond her reach, unless ...

Unfastening her belt, Quin peered up. Perhaps? But an experimental toss revealed it was far too short to loop over. Wincing at the clatter of the buckle on the floor, Quin froze.

No sound.

When she dared to move, she went to check on the reading guard, but he was in the same position, apparently so engrossed he hadn’t noticed her noise or that the end of his turban had come loose and flapped behind his neck.

That was it. She was already unwinding her own turban when she got back to the window. Folding the length of fabric in half, she tied a knot in one end. This time, when she tossed it, her makeshift rope reached, the knot giving the cloth weight to sail over the crossbeam and land at her feet. She tied the ends together and, hand over hand, climbed up, feet braced against the column. Her arms burned by the time she dragged herself onto the narrow crossbeam.

For a moment she caught her breath then stood, balancing her way across. By the time she reached the window she was coated in a chilly layer of sweat.

A laugh threatened in her throat as she found the window was open. They really didn’t expect anyone to even attempt to steal from the Sultan, did they? She took a breath to calm herself and pushed the window wide enough to drop inside.

And what an inside. With all the thoughts of Atesh and the concentration on climbing, Quin had almost forgotten where she was. The gold tiles beneath her feet and the magnificence of the painted ceiling soon reminded her.

The Sultan’s dressing room.

She stretched and her many reflections matched the movement in a series of full-length mirrors. He was rumoured to be a vain man, so she shouldn’t have been surprised.

The back of her neck prickled, as if someone was watching her, but the only eyes there were her own, reflected a dozen times. Hunching away from the mirrors, she did a circuit of the room, checking each cabinet and drawer.

The first thing she ascertained was that the Sultan had an inordinate number of gloves. Silk, wool, linen, cotton, hide, kid, each kind in every colour Quin could think of and then some.

That was all very well and good – every gentleman needed lilac satin gloves, she supposed – but where was all the jewellery? That trinket of wealth and display captured in such a neat package, so conveniently pocket-sized.

From the centre of the room, she braved her reflection, slowly turning around. She’d already checked the cabinets, no jewellery. The dressing table had powder and cologne, not jewels. In one corner stood a mannequin of a man’s torso, which she hadn’t spared a second glance for before, but now the mirror revealed a new angle. A thin crack ran down its side. Cocking her head like a magpie spotting a shiny coin, she approached.

Thinking better of sticking her fingers into an unknown crevice, Quin pulled the mannequin’s shoulder. There was the tell-tale click of a latch only half-closed and it swung open, revealing the gleam of precious metals and gems. Jackpot.

As she fingered through compartments of gold rings and bejewelled chains, there was a rustle of paper. So the Sultan kept letters in his jewellery box. Most of them were yellowed, but the one on the top of the pile was a fresh white, its corners still crisp. Exquisitely curly handwriting, surely a woman’s, said My Love.

Did the Sultan have a lover? If so, he’d kept it quiet – there had been no rumours of such. Quin nibbled her lip, glancing to the door and window. It was quiet, all attention undoubtedly on the ball. She had time for a quick look …

The paper crackled as she unfolded the letter – the seal was missing, leaving just a waxy red stain. My dearest husband, it began. How dull.

But Quin couldn’t bring herself to fold the note up and return it to the jewellery box. This had been in the Sultana’s hands. She’d written it. The little girl who’d believed herself the Sultana’s long-lost half-sister tugged at Quin’s jacket.

A quick read wouldn’t hurt.

Forgive the manner of my delivery of this news – I simply can’t wait another two weeks to tell you …

The Sultana had recently toured the western reaches of Thanatolia, checking defences, increasing troop morale, and, no doubt, reminding the border nobles and generals of the importance of loyalty and to whom it was owed. The letter was dated over a month ago, so must have been from that trip.

… I will have to satisfy myself with imaging your face when you read that Safira will soon have a little brother or sister …

Quin’s eyes widened. The Sultana was pregnant. They had an heir and soon they’d have a spare. There had been no announcement yet and she hadn’t been showing when Quin had seen her – this letter must have been from when she’d first discovered her condition.

Folding the letter, Quin smiled, though she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she’d listened in on a private conversation. She shouldn’t have read it. But it was done now and –

Footsteps in the corridor.

Quin swallowed. With one hand she dropped the letter back in its spot, while the other palmed a few items from the cabinet. Breath held, she eased the mannequin almost-shut, leaving it exactly as she’d found it.

A rumbling conversation. Two men. Not right outside the door, but near.

She could go and listen with a Card, as she had at Erdem’s, but this room was too open for her to hide within if they opened the door and she had only the window for escape.

Besides, this was the palace. If anyone found her she wouldn’t be able to claim she’d taken a wrong turn looking for the powder room.

She crossed the room in a few long strides, sliding the spoils into a velvet pouch and clambering out the window a little heavier than when she’d entered. She smiled at the thought, heart returning to a normal rhythm.

Close.

She crept out onto the crossbeam and dropped to the floor, quiet as a sabrecat.

She gave a wriggle, checking the pouch was securely tucked in her stays, wound her turban back into place then began retracing her steps. A quick costume adjustment back in the second courtyard, turning the jacket inside-out, back to purple, removing the turban, then she checked herself in a dark window – yes, quite dishevelled. She fiddled with her coat, fastening buttons through wrong holes, then plucked a leaf from a climbing rose and tucked it in her hair.

Tottering back into the ballroom, Quin tried to look as if she were attempting to be discreet but failing miserably. It worked and soon the eyes of half a dozen gossips were upon her, speculating on who this was and with whom she’d been trysting.

A studied bump into a footman, a giggling apology, and the guise of a flirtatious drunk was established. Certainly not someone who’d been sneaking around the palace.

What would Atesh think if he saw her? She screwed her eyes shut at the thought – she’d seen him for the last time. Ever. It didn’t matter what he thought of her.

When she opened her eyes, a flash of pure white stood out amongst the flitting jewel-colours. The Sultana, all in white, unmistakable despite the mask, gave a gracious smile here, a nod there, a wave of her fan ...

Quin lost herself, watching for longer than intended. The woman was even more studied than she. It was only from experience that Quin could tell each gesture had been practised before a mirror a hundred times and more, perfected and then practised still further until it looked like, until it became, second nature. Here was a master of the art. No one could have guessed she was carrying a child.

Before she could stare any longer, a flash of crimson distracted her. Red Death stood a few feet away from the Sultana.

Atesh?

Something was off. Was it his posture? The rounded shoulders weren’t quite right – perhaps he was just feeling the effects of alcohol. Or maybe some small detail in the costume? That wasn’t quite the right shade of crimson red. The plume in the hat, too limp. She had been close enough to Atesh for a good inspection, after all.

Something wasn’t right here. Was that Atesh? And if it wasn’t, who the devil was it? She hadn’t seen a second Red Death at the masquerade and it was not an ordinary costume for such an occasion.

Quin’s hand dipped into her pocket, opening the case and seeking out a Card. This one was easy to find – it was the first she had ever possessed, given to her by her mother on her thirteenth birthday. It had been chosen at random and yet fitted her with frightening accuracy.

Lady Deception flew to Quin’s hand. The keen throb of the Lady’s magic worked its way up her arm and reverberated through her body. For a moment it overwhelmed her, blinded her, sent her head spinning, as if an overeager and overgrown sabrecat had bowled her over. The power soon subsided – the familiar side-effect of an approving Card – and her sight returned.

Red Death stood closer to the Sultana now, watching her with a straight-set mouth. Quin frowned – not Red Death, False Death. They were not Atesh’s lips.

She focused the power thrumming through her. As the name suggested, Lady Deception could help deceive, but the Card could also reveal deceit.

“Show me the lie,” Quin whispered. Her gaze, focus, every fibre was intent upon the crimson figure. He wasn’t wearing a costume, just a red suit. His mask was white, not a skull, and his hat a plain black tricorne, not plumed.

Not Atesh. Someone else. Someone else with a steel-cold glare for the Sultana and a dagger in hand, down at their side.

Quin gasped, stomach dropping, then three things happened at once.

A footman, less than stable on his feet, stumbled into a stocky reveller, spilling a dozen glasses of red wine on the Sultana. The falling footman grabbed the first thing that came to hand – a lady’s arm – and dragged her down after him. Smashing glass and shrieking lady drowned out the warning Quin called as she lurched toward the Sultana and False Death.

Too many people, far too many people between her and the Sultana, and all of them so damn well in the way. Quin slid the Card back in her pocket now it had done its work. Starting forward, she resorted to less than gentlewomanly measures, shoving left and right, eyes on the gleaming blade at False Death’s side, getting closer to the Sultana.

At last only the tangle of bodies caused by the falling footman and lady stood between Quin and her goal, but there was nothing between False Death and his. Again, she cried a warning, but it was as though she were shouting into a bubble – her voice travelled nowhere in the noise of the ballroom.

Picking her way through people and glinting broken glass, Quin glanced up in time to see the False Death murmuring into the Sultana’s ear. He stood close to her, inappropriately so, legs pressing into her full skirts. His back was to Quin, blocking her view of the Sultana’s body, but the way he’d turned his lips to the Sultana’s ear meant Quin could see his face in profile. His pouty lips curved around the words, balancing a sneer and a cruel smile.

Quin’s hands rose, but she was much too far away to reach them, the footman and fallen woman blocking her path.

False Death’s arm moved once in a swift jerk and there was a moment’s surprise on the Sultana’s face, mouth dropping to an O, then a smile that faded.

False Death’s smile grew.

Staring at his mask, the Sultana stumbled to be caught by a man at her side. He’d been staring at the spectacle of the fallen footman. The warm brown of her skin grew ashen.

Quin gasped and finally found her voice. “Stop him!”

Purplish wine stains soaked the Sultana’s white dress. Now a deeper red joined it, spilling from a jagged hole in the fabric over her chest.

Too late. The Sultana knew full-well that False Death had a knife.

A woman screamed.

Quin’s throat clenched. She searched the crowd for the False Death. A flash of red – someone’s back to her, fleeing. Men and women stared after him, but no one moved.

“No.” Quin shook her head. Someone couldn’t stab the Sultana at a masquerade ball. This had to be some sort of theatrical skit. Why else weren’t they chasing him? Without their Cards, surely they’d all seen Red Death stab the Sultana.

But, no … the plume was gone. Quin blinked. The disguise had dropped – even without her Card, she could see he was just a man in red with a plain hat.

A wheezing, feeble laugh came from the Sultana, now lying in the arms of the man who’d caught her. The way he stared at her, it must be the Sultan. She held out a blood-spattered Card and then grew still. Her husband covered his mouth, blood smearing on his cheek.

This was no act.

She couldn’t pinpoint making the decision to pursue, she just found herself shoving revellers out of her way for the second time that night. Legs pumping, she ran after False Death, eyes fixed on him.

The disguise returned a second later – enough time to fumble through a Deck.

So that’s what had happened. The Sultana had seized the assassin’s Card from his hand, causing the illusion to drop. Had anyone else noticed? The killer was still wearing red beneath the illusion – in the confusion and disbelief it would be easy not to notice. Where was a damned janissary when she needed one?

No time to find one. And no time for these damned crowds, gasping and swearing as the news spread through the palace, and most of all, getting in Quin’s way. Some still stood in little groups around the punch bowl – the news hadn’t rippled through the entire ball yet.

There, a clearing. Without ceremony, she bounded up onto a table, next to a startled couple still helping themselves to a drink.

Now she could run. Thankfully, she still had sight of the red figure, though he had pulled ahead. She leapt over canapés and dodged fine wines, creasing the table cloth and spilling sherbet glasses, single-minded in her pursuit.

Then there was nothing beneath her and she fell into a sickeningly empty space. Her ankle crumpled against the floor. Unforgiving marble slamming against flesh and bone. She’d misjudged the length of the table. Quin’s first reaction was to curl up. Swearing, she rolled in a ball for a good five feet before coming to a standstill.

When she stopped, shocked stares raked her, but that didn’t stop her cursing. She dragged herself to her feet, the jabbing pain in her ankle wrenching out a few more choice words.

There was no sight of the False Death. She’d lost him.

Gods damn it. She should’ve looked where she was going. A dull pain in her leg as she thumped her thigh, cursing.

A commotion rose from the doors she had entered through earlier – sure enough, a glimpse of red.

Again, she was off as fast as she could, ankle shrieking with every step. This time she was more careful, glancing between the False Death and her path.

As she half-leapt, half-limped over chairs and onto tables, she noticed that a dozen real janissaries had joined her pursuit, coming from all sides, swords and pistols drawn, apparently remembering their guard duties.

She flung open the patio doors and burst out into the cool night air. There she paused, panting for breath as she searched left and right. There, movement in the darkness beyond the terrace.

A leap over a stone balustrade sent fresh pain shooting through her ankle. She yelped, landing in the soft earth of a flower bed, throwing up clods of dirt and petals in her wake.

The moonlight revealed the crooked shapes of the olive grove off to the right, its shadows tangling around False Death twenty feet away.

Quin’s chest was ready to burst as she squeezed out a last surge of speed, battling the odd skip to her gait necessary to keep her ankle bearable.

Branches scratched at her face and pulled at her hair making her earlier dishevelment pathetic in comparison.

She’d lost sight of her prey amongst the ancient, twisted trees, but there was movement ahead, a flash of dark red amongst the shadows. Janissaries shouted behind her. Ducking under creaking branches and hopping over loose roots brought her closer.

She was going to get him. It was a wild thought, but she was gaining ground. As soon as she was close enough, she’d leap, damn her ankle, and tackle him to the floor …

Then there were no more leaves as the olive grove opened out into a clearing. A man in red stood stock-still, back to her.

Quin stumbled to a stop, breathless. As he turned, moonlight caught his face, half-covered with a skull mask.

He stared back at her, wild-eyed – green-eyed. A faint smile, confused, on the curve of his lips. He wasn’t out of breath.

Janissaries erupted from the trees, pistols drawn, and surrounded the Red Death. The real Red Death.

Atesh.

A mark on his right arm stood out a darker, glistening red against the crimson fabric. Blood. A handprint.

Quin stared at it, then at Atesh, then at the men around him. They shot glances at each other as if unsure what to do.

Some with grim-set jaws looked perfectly sure of what they wanted to do.

How was there blood on Atesh? That hadn’t been him in the ballroom, knife in hand. Those lips whispering in the Sultana’s ears had been pouty and sneering, not sensuous and sculptural like Atesh’s. The costume had been all wrong, an approximation covered up by a Card’s illusion. It had been someone else wearing a cruel smile as he’d driven the blade up beneath the Sultana’s ribcage.

Quin clutched her head, mind whirling with the puzzle of how Atesh came to be here, directly in the path of fleeing False Death. There was no sign of another man in red – he must have run on past Atesh. How was he here with what was undoubtedly the Sultana’s blood on his sleeve when she knew, knew he wasn’t the killer?

The killer. She swallowed. Because with that stillness, that pallor … The Sultana had to be dead.

At last one of the janissaries, a sergeant by his red buttons, cleared his throat. “Take off your mask.” To his credit, he did a fair job of keeping his voice even.

The plumed hat came off, the corpse mask, too. The janissaries gasped.

“He didn’t do it,” Quin managed to blurt at last, cringing at how pathetic it sounded.

A couple of the men laughed, albeit darkly. It seemed to cut through their shock.

“Atesh Shahin Pasha,” said the sergeant, “I’m arresting you for the attempted murder of the Sultana.”

“What?” Atesh frowned at Quin, head cocked in a question.

The janissaries closed in, one muttering, “You’ll hang, dog.”

A cry from behind, as a young janissary emerged from the olive grove. “Murder! The Sultana’s dead!”

Atesh’s mouth fell open, his eyes wide.

The sergeant cleared his throat again. “For the murder of the Sultana.”

With arms pinned behind his back, they dragged Atesh in the direction of the palace.

“But – but –” Quin started after them.

Atesh twisted in their grip to look at her, despite the rough shakes it won him. His face was pale in the moonlight – even his eyes, fixed on Quin, were leached of all colour.

Bourne away by the janissaries’ inexorable march, the shadows of the olive trees swallowed him up.

Part II

16

The Hangover

Red-eyed nobles filled the palace still, their masks discarded or dangling around their necks. They glanced at each other and muttered. Some wept, others slept. Janissaries guarded the doors.

“How could this be?”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“It’s an act of war I tell you! An act of war.”

“No, it’s worse – haven’t you heard? It was a janissary that did it.”

“Don’t be foolish – they would never …”

“… And the Card he used! Well, they say power corrupts – he must have wanted more.”

“What other motive would he need?”

“Next in line to the throne, now.”

“But I heard it was ...”

Quin and Derry sat in a window seat, Quin staring out towards the olive grove, doing her best to ignore the captive aristos. Not that any were nearby – an invisible exclusion zone kept everyone away from her and Derry.

She’d returned to the palace a few steps behind ‘the murderer’ and the gossip had been instantaneous.

“Did you see her run?”

“Who is it? Only a professional would be so physical.”

“I heard she danced with the murderer.”

“Ha, a dance with death, indeed!”

“Well, did you hear …”

None of the partygoers had approached her. The most they ventured were raised brows of curiosity at best and rapier-sharp glares at worst. The only people who had spoken to her were Derry and the janissaries who’d directed her to stay put. The only allowance they’d given was to go to the powder rooms, where she’d washed off her face paint. Even the footman who’d brought lemonade to the ailing revellers hadn’t dared hand a glass to Quin – he’d passed two to Derry before gliding away.

Then there was Derry. She’d pursed her lips at Quin but hadn’t dared speak until the partygoers had slunk out of earshot. First, she’d hissed at Quin, demanding what she was thinking, making herself so visible considering what she had upon her person.

But the stuffing wasn’t the problem – it wasn’t as if a janissary would search a noblewoman’s stays, after all. The problem was she’d made herself so visible. So un-gentlewomanly. So involved in the Sultana’s murder.

“I didn’t really give it much thought,” Quin had said, “I just … Someone had to do something.”

It was just terrible luck that person happened to be her. The Blind Lady hadn’t been on her side for once.

She pressed her forehead against the leaded glass, a sigh misting against it.

The same thoughts circled: I’m trapped in the palace. The Sultana is dead. Atesh has been arrested. I led them to him. It’s my fault.

Damn it. Why had he been at the olive grove right at that moment? And where had False Death gone?

So many questions and yet after returning her to the Palace and instructing her to stay in the ballroom, the janissaries hadn’t asked her any. They’d locked down the grounds with solemn instructions to the guards that no one was to leave or enter. By that time, it was likely too late – False Death had vanished somewhere in the grounds and must have escaped before the gates were closed.

They might not have caught False Death yet, but that didn’t detract from the fact Atesh was innocent. The bloody janissaries needed to hurry up and work that out. The sooner they did, the sooner it’d stop being her fault.

Where was he now? Locked up somewhere, most likely the Fortress of the Seven Towers. That place …

Shuddering, Quin turned back to the ballroom with its broken revelry, like a hangover come too soon.

Just as she did so, the large doors at one end swung open. Everyone turned, expectation in their held breaths. Derry’s hand pressed on Quin’s and they exchanged glances.

A janissary entered, brown hair, not very tall, but not short either. Decidedly unimposing. The gathered aristocrats exhaled, a few watching him with passing interest, like bored sabrecats.

Gaze sweeping the room, the average janissary turned to a smooth-faced colleague stationed at the door. He craned to whisper in his ear.

Quin’s eyes widened when the younger man nodded and gestured towards her. The average janissary’s head snapped round to fix her with dark eyes.

“We are beginning our questioning of those who were in the grand ballroom when” – he cleared his throat – “during the incident. Madam, there, in the” – he paused, arching his eyebrows – “uniform. If you would accompany me.” With a wave to the door, he gave an odd little half-bow, almost mocking.

Glancing around, Quin hoped to see a woman nearby dressed as an officer or some other uniformed costume, but hers was the only uniform in the area. Her tongue flicked out, moistening her lips.

“Yes, madam, you in the rather inaccurate janissary outfit.”

Of course. Quin sighed. She had never expected to so regret her choice of costume. What must the janissaries think of it? Of her? It certainly wouldn’t make them sympathetic, though it had been a necessity for her plan.

Ha, stealing from the Sultan. That was a plan from a lifetime ago.

Steeling herself, she rose and limped across the room. Her ankle twinged with each step.

At least questioning meant she could explain and get this whole mess cleared up.

“It was only meant as fun, officer,” she said, offering her most apologetic smile. The last thing a thief wanted to do was annoy a napper – mostly because it might be the last thing the thief did. Ever.

“Fun. Of course.” He barely glanced at her before he turned to the doorway. “This way, if you please.” As they walked, he enquired after her ankle, offering to have a doctor fetched.

She declined in as few words as politely possible. Derry had checked it over briefly in the powder room.

Other than that, she remained silent. Perhaps that was the best option – give him as little verbal rope as possible to hang her with. She shuddered. That was what they’d do to the assassin when they found him.

It was what they’d do to her if they discovered her night’s work. Trying to avoid squirming, Quin’s attention narrowed on the velvet pouch hidden in her bodice and its contents.

Even as sure as she was that no janissary would check the contents of a gentlewoman’s stays, she’d been stupid to run after False Death, but she’d do it all over again. No one else had moved. No one else had seen what she had seen with her Card. They’d just stood there, letting the news ripple out, gaping when they heard it.

None of them had acted.

So Quin had to. Yes, running after False Death had been stupid, but necessary.

She allowed the janissary to lead her into the corridor, speaking only when and if spoken to. The candles in the corridors were burning low, many of them smoking, the acrid smell filling the air; clearly the servants were too distracted or distraught to tend to the wicks.

“Here,” the janissary called back along the corridor, “have someone see to these candles, would you? It’s a damn fire hazard.” He sighed and muttered, “And that’s all we need.”

At last they came to a set of doors, which Quin’s escort opened before ushering her into a morning room full of the cloying smell of potpourri past its prime. Ordinarily, it would have been a comfortable space – well, as comfortable as a palace got with all the guards and etiquette.

However, now it was occupied by two constables who seemed to fill rather a lot of it. One was well over six feet tall, broad, and muscular, the other short with a rounded belly and arms that strained his uniform.

Quin’s toes wriggled against the ends of her shoes – it was the only place she could show the desire to be anywhere but shut in here with them. Right down to her bones, she itched to run.

The burly constables must have been the reason all the comforts had been pushed to the sides of the room – dainty pianoforte, armchairs, and side tables displaying ceramic ornaments of sabrecats and birds of prey.

They stood at opposite ends of a rosewood table that was itself surrounded by a set of six beautifully carved, but uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs. The rest of the room seemed to fade into the dim greys and browns, indistinct and irrelevant. A lot of things became irrelevant to a thief when she found herself stuck in a room with three janissaries.

“Now then, Lady Sabia, isn’t it?”

Quin flinched at the sudden sound of the janissary’s voice. She took a steadying breath and nodded.

He laid a pad on the table and jotted her name in pencil at the top. “I am Sergeant Porto. It would be a pleasure to meet you under less ... trying circumstances.” He gestured to one of the chairs. “Won’t you please take a seat, madam?”

She obeyed, while he named the two constables – Mert and Top. The seats, however pretty, were as uncomfortable as they looked. No, worse. She shifted and failed to find a better position, settling on one that held her injured ankle out straight, the heel resting lightly on the thick rug.

“We just need to ask you a few questions about the evening. Although,” Porto said, taking the opposite seat to Quin, “with you, it might be more than a few.”

The corners of his mouth turned up a little. It looked like a lot of effort.

Quin gave a single nod of acknowledgement. She fought to keep her posture relaxed (or as relaxed as was proper for a gentlewoman) and her expression placid – but was that even the right thing?

How was an aristo meant to react to the murder of their Sultana?

How was she meant to react to seeing the fading smile, the blood, the sudden stillness?

She didn’t have the answer to either question and yet she needed both.

Swallowing, she did that rare thing and allowed the confusion, the shock, the edge of sorrow – all of it – to show. She had no idea what it looked like but giving up minute control of her expression calmed her, as though releasing that constant tension freed up a portion of her mind to focus on this monumental mess. And she needed to focus if she was going to explain that Atesh was innocent without dropping herself in the noose.

The sergeant watched her with a curious narrowing of his eyes. “That was quite the chase you gave our suspect, Lady Sabia.” His colleagues shot him looks when he said ‘suspect’, their eyebrows raised. “Commendably brave of you, but how ever does a gentlewoman become so ... physical?” To his credit, no lecherous looks accompanied his question.

“I like to walk, sergeant,” she responded. It wasn’t a lie.

Porto sat back at that, studying her from beneath his average brown eyebrows. Currently they were drawn together in a deep frown.

“Walk, Lady Sabia? You like to walk? And this is how you were able to leap across tables and sprint after your prey like a sabrecat after a deer?” It was his turn to cock his head. “A great walker you may be, Contessa, but purely pedestrian you are not.”

She smiled despite herself. “Ah, a punning janissary, how droll. For that, I’ll tell you my secret.” Leaning forward conspiratorially, she murmured, “Like many gentlewomen, I also enjoy a little sword-play – for self-protection, you understand. A young woman can never be too careful, you know.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, nodding, though his smile seemed to take a moment too long to come and it barely reached his eyes. He noted a few words without taking his gaze from her.

For a long time he didn’t say anything more. He just studied her, as if taking in every detail, drinking her up, swilling her about like he was sampling wine and soon would spit her out. She fought the urge to fidget.

“Let us take a step back to before your little run, madam.” At last he moved, tapping his pencil on the pad. “What did you see in the ballroom?”

Quin took a long breath – this was a much safer area of questioning for her and one vital to getting Atesh out. Time to be straight-forward. “Sergeant, events tonight were not quite as they appeared.”

Porto arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“It was not Atesh who – who ...” She swallowed and then went on in almost a whisper, “The Sultana, is she really dead?”

He put the pencil down with a click. “I am afraid so, madam.”

There it was. Final confirmation. Not gossip. “I feared so.” She gave a soft nod. “She was so pale when she fell …” A shiver crept down her neck. When she blinked, the image of blood on white silk flashed. She rubbed her eyes, trying to scrub the picture away.

“Take your time,” Porto said, a surprising softness in his voice. “I hear you were nearby when the attack took place. That must be distressing for a lady.”

“For anyone.”

“True.”

“Sergeant, this whole …” She shook her head, tongue dancing away from the words. Instead, she waved her hand as a euphemism. “It’s awful and I was right there, a matter of feet away. I saw what happened and I know people thought they saw a man dressed as Red Death, but it wasn’t him, and you must believe me.”

The burly janissaries snorted at this – it wasn’t quite laughter, the tension knotted in their jaws, corded in their necks and shoulders spoke of too much anger for that.

A twitch at the corners of Porto’s mouth. He didn’t bother to write anything down. “Is that so, Lady Sabia?” He cocked his head. “And in that case how do you explain all the eyewitnesses, including the Sultan himself, who saw this Red Death stab the Sultana?”

“I know how it sounds – really, I do – but I assure you that the man in red was not the Pasha. It was an impostor.”

“An impostor murdered the Sultana, not the Pasha?”

“Of course he did,” grunted one of the constables.

The other rolled his eyes. “Not her beloved pasha.”

Quin pressed her lips together, so they knew the Contessa’s relationship with Atesh. That made things trickier. Still, she had the truth on her side.

“I know what people think they saw,” she said, “but that man in red by the Sultana was not Atesh Shahin Pasha. When the Sultana grabbed the Card in his hand, the illusion he had cast upon himself flickered, someone else must have seen that.” She cast a desperate glance around the janissaries, hoping for a sign of recognition, but none came. Perhaps no one had yet mentioned that lapse in the illusion.

Perhaps no one else had seen it.

“Everyone reported seeing a man in red commit the crime, Contessa; I don’t understand how you seem to believe it was not the Pasha.”

“Yes, the murderer was wearing red beneath the illusion, probably for just such an eventuality,” Quin went on, speaking quickly, “but it wasn’t the right costume. There was no plume in his hat. No skull mask, just a plain white one.”

“And you would recognise the Pasha in costume at such a distance, would you?” He lowered his head, looking at her as if over a pair of spectacles. Little red marks sat either side of his nose. He must normally wear them – perhaps he’d left them somewhere in the evening’s dramatic events.

Quin leant forward. This was all getting out of her control – she hadn’t even told the story in proper order. She had to make them understand. “Your colleague himself called the Pasha my ‘beloved’, should you be surprised that I would know him anywhere? I danced with him earlier in the night and know very well what he was wearing and, furthermore, Mr Porto, I would recognise his face from opposite ends of a ballroom, mask or no mask.” She took a breath. “As it is, I was but no more than six or eight feet away.”

Again, Porto fell quiet, though Quin suspected that his mind was less silent. The same could not be said of his fellow janissaries – they snorted in derision and exchanged looks. A cold, leaden lump of doubt landed in her stomach.

They didn’t believe her.

She replayed the dreadful moments in her mind – there must be some other detail, some evidence that she could offer that would have her sent home with a free and proven innocent Atesh.

False Death drawing a dagger ... Advancing, talking to the Sultana ... A grin ... A bloody blade ... Blood against emeralds, except ... A missing glint of green ...

“The dagger,” she whispered.

Porto frowned at her.

“I saw it, the dagger the killer used was missing an emerald from the hilt,” she said almost laughing with relief – it was so obvious and jewels were her forte. And these hadn’t glittered enough. “Well, I say emeralds – they were fake, and –”

A meaty fist slammed on the table, making both Quin and Porto jump. “Look,” growled Mert, “I’ve had enough of your foolish jabbering about clothes and gems and I don’t see the point of any of what you’re going on about.” Quin got a face-full of his glower as he bent over her, his height adding to the threat.

Porto opened his mouth: “Now then, Mert, is that –”

And Quin opened hers: “How dare you speak to me in such a manner.” She rose, not backing out of his space, even though that kept her inches away from his face. Turning the full force of her glare upon him, she lifted her chin. “Constable, I should imagine that you struggle to comprehend a great deal in life.”

He took a step back, mouth open. She’d seen the type before – people like him weren’t used to others standing up to them, least of all women.

“However,” she went on, “as a janissary, you know very well that you ought to exercise patience and listen to the explanations of one’s superiors. I am sure Mr Porto’s most excellent mind understood the exact relevance of what I have said about the murder weapon.” She fixed Porto with a smile.

Another twitch pulled at the corner of Porto’s mouth. He jerked his head at the over-excited constable, sending him back to his post at one end of the table.

“Well, Lady Sabia,” Porto said with raised eyebrows, “it is abundantly clear that you are quite capable of taking care of yourself. I do apologise for my colleague’s overenthusiastic technique – he is more used to dealing with suspects than gentlefolk.” He gestured at her chair. “Won’t you?”

Eyeing the glowering constable, Quin returned to her seat and resumed her genteel posture as if nothing had happened.

“Madam,” Porto said, taking up his pencil again, “I think what Mert was trying to do was ask you to focus. I understand it’s been a long night, but could you perhaps start from the beginning when you first noticed something was wrong?”

Quin took a long breath and started from the moment she’d spotted False Death near the Sultana. The details she’d noticed wrong about the costume and what was visible of the man’s face. What her Card had revealed. Spotting the dagger. Her shock as he whispered in the Sultana’s ear before driving the blade into her body. How she’d chased him into the olive grove, only to discover Atesh standing alone, blood on his jacket.

Porto nodded and wrote it all down, pencil scraping across the page, struggling to keep up.

When she was finished, he frowned at the pages, flipping between them.

“And this dagger you said had paste in it.” Porto’s slender fingers flitted to the bridge of his nose, pushing up those missing glasses. “I believe what you’re getting at is that no gentleman of the Shahin family would ever allow himself to be seen in paste –”

“No member of the Shahin family would need to be seen in paste, however great their diamond habit.” Precisely why she had sought out Atesh in the first place.

“Indeed, that’s true.” Porto nodded slowly. “But the question is, how can you be sure that it was paste on the murder weapon?”

“My word, Mr Porto,” she said, shaking her head, “have you not heard? Despite being a visitor to these parts, I am already quite renowned amongst society for my love of jewellery and knowledge of gems. And those, I assure you, were not real emeralds. Besides” – she gave an absent flick of her hand – “the Shahin family blade is not missing any stones and if it were, I know the Pasha would have them replaced at once, certainly before wearing the heirloom to a ball at the palace.”

“This is true, madam,” he said, standing. “But is there anyone who can corroborate your story?” Placing his hands on the table, he leant towards her. “Did anyone else notice the missing emerald?”

“Isn’t it your job to find that out?” She winced. Too harsh. She was trying to win him over, not beat him, but weariness had eroded her control. Cocking her head, she fixed a smile on Porto. “Which I’m sure you will. Others near the – the terrible … Others nearby would have seen the missing stone in the forged dagger.”

“And where the devil is this supposed second dagger now?”

“Where is it now?” Quin frowned. “You mean you haven’t found it?”

“That is exactly what I mean – if such a thing exists.”

“But you have the real blade, don’t you? He had it when I danced with him this evening – he always wears it.” Quin’s face grew warm; she’d been quite aware of the heirloom, and its owner, when pressed against him this evening and at the picnic.

Porto sighed. “We have the Shahin family blade. No stones are missing. There is no evidence of a second dagger. Currently all I have is the word of someone quite obviously invested in protecting my chief suspect.” One shoulder raised in a minute shrug. “Perhaps another will corroborate your story of this mysterious forged blade, but then you’ll have to understand my continuing investigation into the Pasha.”

“But –”

“Do you have anything new to add, madam?” He raised an eyebrow. “Because I have a great many people to interview.”

Quin opened her mouth, but she’d said it all and in a logical order and they still didn’t believe her. Repeating it wasn’t going to help. She clamped her lips together and shook her head.

“Then I’ll have Top and Mert escort you to the carriages.” Porto nodded to the constables before stepping away from the table, a deep frown etched on his brow.

Mert held the door, apparently having learned a lesson in manners. Quin paused, staring at Porto’s downcast eyes, willing him to believe her. They still had others to interview – she was the first, after all. Perhaps someone else had spotted the same details that showed Atesh’s innocence.

“Thank you, sergeant,” she said at last. “Please do let me know if you have any further questions.” Gods, had she really just invited a janissary to call upon her again?

His head bobbed and he murmured his thanks.

The constables respectfully but firmly escorted her out, one looming over each shoulder. Soon Quin found herself at an entrance hall, Derry back at her side.

A russet brow rose, asking if Quin was all right.

She tilted her head to one side in a non-committal answer. That depended on how you defined ‘all right’.

Opening the doors, Top instructed her to stay in town and be available for questioning, if needed.

Blinking at the daylight, Quin and Derry walked out into a wide stable yard full of parked carriages, sabrecats lying, despite their harnesses. Drivers and footmen filled the gaps in between, some lounging against the equipages or grooming the sabrecats, a few napping on driver’s seats, others huddled in tight knots, deep voices rumbling.

“I’ll go find Ariston,” Derry said, going to step away.

Quin’s hand shot out, grabbing her arm. “Let’s find him together.” She smiled tightly, slipping her hand through the crook of Derry’s elbow, holding her close.

Derry’s brows shot up. She surveyed Quin’s face then nodded slowly. “Of course.”

They threaded their way through the yard, followed by occasional glances. Unlike the aristos, these men didn’t shy away from Quin, as though she were contagious. Apparently, news of her encounter with the murderer hadn’t reached here … or they didn’t care.

They certainly didn’t care enough to lower their voices.

“… leaves that bloody vain idiot in charge.”

“I don’t think you can say that about –”

“And who’s going to tell on me, eh? You?”

“You never know who’s listening.”

At that, one of the men, a tall fellow in grey stiffened, spotting Quin and Derry and nodding at them. “See.”

Quin’s gaze slid away from the men as she passed.

“Ah, there he is,” Derry said, angling Quin to the right.

A few carriages away – a familiar crop of grey and black hair. As they drew closer, the rest of him came into sight. He sat high on the driver’s seat of the brougham, leaning back, eyes closed, hands resting on his stomach.

Quin was about to step up and tap his leg, when his eyes flicked open, turning to her. He sat up without stretching or yawning or rubbing his eyes.

“You weren’t asleep,” Quin whispered.

He shrugged and tapped his ear. “Madam,” he said louder than was necessary, “I’m sure you wish to get home immediately after all this upset.” He jumped down and opened the brougham door. Voice soft, he asked, “Are you two all right?”

Quin tilted her head in a non-answer again. There was no way to answer that without falling into the whole story and this wasn’t the time or place.

“Did you hear anything interesting?” Derry asked.

Ariston frowned at her as though that was the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard.

“Other than the obvious.”

“Just that servants are shocked, worried. This lot” – he nodded to the servants in the stable yard who’d accompanied the guests – “are grumbling about having to come help clean because the palace will be in mourning and so out of action. They’re more concerned than I expected about what’ll become of Safira Shehzade and who’ll be her regent, but I suppose children always pull on the heartstrings.”

“Not just that,” Derry said, “they’ll be wondering how the choice of regent will affect them and their masters.”

Ariston nodded towards a knot of men two carriages behind. “They’ve already started taking bets on who it’ll be. Most reckon the Sultan, but a fair few think it’ll be Prima.”

Quin’s mouth twisted. “It’s not as though she hasn’t leapt into a power vacuum before.”

Ariston glanced left and right. “I wouldn’t even whisper that around here, Quin.”

She scowled. “I just did. Let’s get home.”

“And to bed,” Derry said, stifling a yawn before climbing into the carriage, Quin close behind.

Ariston’s lips curved and he nodded before shutting the door. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but even his normally sparkling hazel eyes struggled to light with the smile, rendering the gesture gloomy.

In a few minutes the brougham pulled away, rocking gently. Quin half-watched the courtyards and gates passing the window with no trace of her earlier excitement. Even the jade and gold gate stood dull in the morning shadows.

What a difference a matter of hours had made for her, Atesh, and all Arianople.

* * *

If they were still asking questions, Atesh couldn’t hear it over the thundering blood in his ears. The room rocked, stone floor tilting drunkenly, walls lurching away at odd angles. Guttering candlelight made the pitching all the worse and lit up the half a dozen janissaries with a ghoulish light. They crowded the small room, eyes trained on him.

Even if they were asking, he couldn’t give them the answers they wanted. Why? Who else was involved? How long had he planned this? But mostly they asked why?

He’d given them the truth. Over and over. But the janissaries didn’t want it and one had handed it back in the form of a cuff around the head.

That first strike had caught him by surprise, sending his head snapping to one side and light flashing across his vision.

He’d been hit before. By his father as a child, especially in the four years between his mother’s death and his father drinking himself into his own grave. With blunted practice swords when fencing. As teenage boys he and Malos had fought – just the once – and they’d been an even match, each coming out with a bruised eye.

But he’d never been hit like that. His head still reeled with the impact, but the spots of light had faded now. Never before had he been on the receiving end of such anger.

Instinct made his hands ball into fists, but the hatred etched into the face of the man who’d hit him gave him pause.

The janissary’s brown gaze flicked to Atesh’s hands and he shook his head. “Murdering bastard wants to hit me back, lads.”

“Just let him try.”

“Needs teaching a lesson, that one.”

They all wore the same deep lines between their brows and around their noses: they said rage, disgust, loathing.

They really believed he’d done this thing.

He tried to slide his thoughts away from exactly what that thing was.

But her name was insistent. Zeynab.

He would never hurt her. She was his cousin. They’d grown up together. He loved her like a sister. What reason could he have?

The idea of Safira left without a mother shattered something inside him. It bloomed cold in his chest, drowning. He closed his eyes, but that was no protection from the emotion bubbling up and over his head.

It was bad enough he’d endured the loss of his mother; he ached that she now had, too. Maybe their family really was cursed.

Gods, who would tell her? Did she know already?

Her father would go to her. Ilyas would have to say the words.

Atesh screwed his eyes tighter. Better to retreat to kinder thoughts. Not Safira’s little face crumpling …

Kinder thoughts where a janissary was touching him more gently than those surrounding him. When she had hurt his lip – which was now swollen from less tender attentions – it was welcome and wanted and raised colour on his cheeks that wasn’t bruising.

Think of that, not of this. Think of that.

He tried to picture long grass and crushed wildflowers, but that was too far away, too long ago to blot out another crashing blow.

He gasped at the pain bursting in his cheek. He needed to be somewhere, somewhen else.

Tonight, that was still fresh. A message from her to meet him in the olive grove, whispered in his ear. He’d gone eagerly, drawn by the promise of her touch, her lips, the rose-smell of her hair … He found a seat amongst the warm scent of olive trees and waited. And waited. And waited. But there was no sign of Quin. Even straining his ears, every inch of his body thrumming for want of her, there was no rustle to signal her creeping close. He hadn’t thought Quin the type for games – he thought she wanted him for himself, not to toy with.

Sighing, he stood, about to leave when the sound of footfall reached him. “At last,” he muttered.

But the person bursting from the darkness wasn’t Quin. All he had was the briefest impression of someone – a man? – in red with a white mask crashing into him. He staggered, swearing, but they were too slight to knock him over.

Before he could ask what they were up to or even think to grab them, they’d gone, fleeing into the darkness.

He stared after the retreating footsteps when another set approached from the other direction.

Quin.

He knew it before he turned, smiling, ready to tell her about the odd encounter of a moment earlier.

She was a mess, gasping for breath, eyes round and wild, hair coming loose and tangling around her face. Was she in some sort of trouble?

But before he could ask, more people poured from the trees. Janissaries. What were they –

They’d come for Quin. They were going to take her for being a spy. She’d been caught in the act – gods, had she been stealing secrets from the palace?

But the janissaries’ pistols levelled at him and he was the one they dragged away.

Now he was sure of it – she’d lured him there.

She’d drawn the chase to him somehow. Or had she been chasing the person in red? He couldn’t tell. Perhaps she had been ensuring the janissaries didn’t catch her accomplice.

It was too jumbled to make sense of.

The simple version he’d pieced together from the muttering of janissaries, mostly to each other. Someone they thought was him had stabbed Zeynab. They’d fled. The janissaries had given chase and that chase had led them to the olive grove. Somehow Quin had also been running that way and had found him seconds before the janissaries did. What did it mean?

The answer eluded his rattling brain, but he did know one thing: it was a message from Quin that had taken him to the olive grove.

She was involved. Somehow.

He’d known there was something off about her. That note at the picnic – it had been a warning, perhaps of her. But he’d thought himself too clever.

Too damn clever by half. Such arrogance. He knew what he was doing. He’d been so sure he could play with such intriguing fire – but she’d seduced him, enticed him, played him like a hand of cards. Now she’d helped frame him.

Fool.

And he was surely paying for it now. In this stone room somewhere in the bowels of the Fortress of the Seven Towers, here he was paying for his idiocy. Being beaten for something he didn’t do. His cousin …

Oh, Zeynab. It didn’t seem possible, but their ugly words had accused him with such certainty and rage that even he wondered if he had done it.

“Hey, back in the room,” a deep voice said, close. “No cheating, hiding away in your head.” A pat on his cheek, almost gentle, pitched just hard enough to pull him from his thoughts.

Atesh blinked, flinching at the face full in his. Broad cheekbones and a square chin. Mouth curving into a cruel smile that made the scar in the middle of his top lip stand out pale even in this gloom.

“That’s better,” the janissary said. His hand fell on Atesh’s shoulder, heavy, pinning him. Not that he’d have got far if he tried to run with the other janissaries in the room.

Hit me.

He wasn’t sure where that thought came from, but it made a horrible kind of sense.

It was too much. All of it. Zeynab dead. Poor Safira. Quin a traitor. Him arrested. At least if they hit him and knocked him out, he could escape for a few hours.

The janissary with the scar straightened. He was huge – people called Atesh tall at six foot one, but this fellow had to be inches beyond that. Hulking shoulders strained under his shirt. If any of them were going to knock him out, it was him.

Atesh worked his tongue around his mouth, the metallic tang of blood overwhelming. He swallowed. “Just get on with it.”

The janissary’s mouth twitched and he shook his head, chest heaving with fury. One hand still on Atesh’s shoulder, he raised the other.

That fist brought blessed darkness creeping at the edges of Atesh’s sight. He closed his eyes and sank into it.

17

Realisation & Reality

A sweet, sharp snatch of birdsong pierced the afternoon air. It carried on the breeze, lilting between branches and through windows. Quin jolted awake, momentary confusion at the woodgrain filling her vision.

“Didn’t make it to bed, then?” Ariston’s voice moved behind her.

Quin yawned, sitting up. She’d sat down at the kitchen table with Derry when they’d arrived home. Their intention had been to tell Ariston all that had happened, but evidently they’d fallen asleep before they had the chance. Opposite, Derry rubbed her eyes, blinking awake.

“What’s the time?” Quin asked.

“Half two,” he said, setting coffee cups before them before taking a seat himself. The rich smell helped her wake. “So, the news is out in the city – our Sultana’s dead at her cousin’s hand.” He shook his head, hazel eyes boring into her. “You would have to pick a murderer for your mark. What in the world have you got yourself into?”

“That’s it, Ariston,” Derry said, “he’s not.”

“From the way the coachmen were talking this morning, I thought everyone saw?”

Quin took a sip of the thick, bitter-sweet coffee – he knew how she liked it. “They saw wrong.” Between them, she and Derry explained the whole sorry tale to Ariston: the confusion of the False Death, how Atesh must have been framed, and how the Sultana had broken the illusion just for a moment, snatching her killer’s Card.

“Well,” Ariston sighed at last, draining his coffee before running his hands over his face. “That’s – that’s – I don’t quite know what to say.”

Quin nodded.

“The poor boy,” he went on. “Framed for regicide.”

Derry’s face screwed up in a grimace. “Hanging’s a terrible way to go.”

Quin swallowed another gulp of coffee. “But it won’t come to –”

“We can’t just leave him to hang,” Ariston interrupted. “We know the truth, there must be a way we can help him.”

“Help him?” Derry paused with her cup halfway to her lips. “You do recall we’re meant to be robbing him, don’t you?”

“Things change.”

Quin frowned from one to the other, blinking at Ariston’s apparent change of attitude towards Atesh and Derry’s coldness. If she’d had to bet on their reactions, she’d have wagered on them being the opposite way around.

“I’m sorry, Ariston,” Derry said. “It’s a shame, but we can’t afford to get wrapped up in this. Think of Quin’s reputation. Think of janissaries sniffing around here. What would they find?”

His lips pursed. “There are a couple hanging about over the road. Think they’re being subtle-like.” His shoulders lifted. “But we could prepare – move the hot stuff out before we go to them.”

“And won’t they find this gentlewoman’s half-empty house suspicious?” Derry waved her fingers at Quin. “A newly arrived, foreign gentlewoman, at that. It’s sad that Atesh might hang, but better that than we hang with him.”

“You must be joking.” Ariston’s brows fell into a glower. “You think we should just leave him to it?”

“And what would you have us do, Ariston? Send Quin into the janissaries’ den, prostrate herself on the floor, and beg them to listen?” Derry’s cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink. “And when they arrest her for causing a scene and start looking into her business and find her persona crumbling around them, because don’t forget, Contessa Quinta Sabia doesn’t bloody exist. What then, Ariston?”

Quin shivered at the thought.

“But –” Ariston tried to speak, but the slap of Derry’s hand on the worn table silenced him.

“But nothing.” She paused for a gasping breath. “You’ve never been captured, either of you. You don’t know what that’s like. Having your life in someone else’s hands for them to tug the little marionette’s strings. Deciding when you eat and if you eat and what you have. Controlling where you go and when and whether you get to even see daylight. Dragging you along, because they own you.” She shook her head. “I’ll not risk going through that again, and this time without you two to save me; only the gallows at the end.” Her coffee cup almost spilt as she picked it up, draining it in one gulp, grimacing after.

Quin placed a hand on Derry’s trembling one. She snatched it away. Ariston tugged at his beard, brooding eyes distant.

“It’s no responsibility of ours that he’s in trouble,” Derry went on, “and it’s hardly Quin’s fault the janissaries didn’t believe her. She tried and that’s enough.”

“Tried once, Derry.” Ariston was on his feet, striding to the window that overlooked their garden. “There must be evidence of his innocence.”

“And if there is, the janissaries will find it.” She folded her arms. “He’s just a mark – it’s best to move on as we always do when a con comes to the end, isn’t it?” Her blue eyes seemed paler than usual when they turned to Quin.

Quin sighed. This wasn’t in the script – meet them, charm them, fool them, that was what she did. Except Atesh hadn’t fallen for her usual masquerade and she’d resorted to more drastic techniques to draw him in. Even if he were just the usual mark, she wouldn’t be simply leaving him robbed and conned as she always did, she’d be leaving him to die. She’d be leaving him swinging in Kediler Square. It couldn’t come to that, surely?

Suddenly the first time she had met him at the square took on an ominous significance. She shook her head. No, it wouldn’t come to that.

“He’ll have an expensive attorney to argue his case,” she said at last. “He’s innocent, so they have to find him not guilty.”

Don’t they?

“Oh yes,” Ariston said, “because we’ve never seen an innocent hang. I’ve never heard anyone’s friends and family crying their innocence to the last.”

Quin closed her eyes, but it only brought to mind Aminda’s face as the execution hood dropped, and all the other hanging days when the hands of loved ones reached out. The taut twisting of the rope.

“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Derry said. She rose, the sound of her chair shrieking across the floor like the wails on the hanging days. “And there’s nothing we could have done to prevent it, either,” she went on, gathering the coffee cups, “so you needn’t feel guilty about it. It’s not as if we knew there was a plot.”

“Exactly,” Quin said. “How could we have known? There’s plenty of salacious gossip in society, but it’s not as though people plot assassinations at dinner parties.” The laughter died on her lips and a knot tied in her stomach. She tried to turn away from the thoughts, even as pieces slid into place, fitting with unnerving accuracy. That overheard conversation at the gallows party. Had she known?

So quickly she’d leapt to the conclusion it was an elopement. What were the actual words they’d said? They’d spoken about taking care of things once and for all. Death was pretty permanent. She won’t get in our way anymore. Not a wife – the Sultana. A guest list. For the masquerade, perhaps? It fitted.

Oh, gods. It fitted.

How stupid she’d been. She’d made her mind up and hadn’t even considered the other possibilities. Not seriously.

She didn’t even know it had been Erdem in that room, she’d just assumed that because it was his house. It wasn’t as though he’d kill the Sultana – they were so close and he owed her so much. Without her he’d have nothing. The brief glimpse she’d had of him early this morning, red-eyed with tear-stained cheeks, rushing to the Sultan’s side, seemed convincingly grief-stricken. It wasn’t him.

If only she’d taken the damn conversation seriously that night. She could have hidden nearby and watched who had left the room. Then she’d know.

A weight of responsibility and guilt landed on her shoulders. She slumped over the table, head in her hands. There was more she could have done. If she’d looked more closely, perhaps she could have warned the Sultana, who might not have listened, but at least Quin would know she’d tried.

“Where to next, then?” Derry asked. “I know we hadn’t decided on the next target, but I say we go to the Cestephonites – it’s always good for witless wonders with more coin than sense.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Ariston said, a laugh of incredulity running through his words. “My own – from you two, no less. All this” – he gestured at the room, the part-stocked larder, the well-used oven – “we do it for justice, don’t we? Because the world rewards people who don’t deserve it and punishes people whose only crime is being born to the wrong family. Isn’t that what we’re always fighting against?”

Quin cringed and looked away. He wasn’t wrong. She redistributed wealth as best she could because hard work wasn’t always rewarded and money somehow flowed uphill to the aristos at the top of the pile. The world wasn’t fair, but that didn’t mean she had to accept it.

Atesh being imprisoned wasn’t fair, either. Perhaps she was partially responsible, leading the janissaries to him. But she’d tried. She’d explained exactly what she’d seen; now it was for that Sergeant Porto to put the pieces together and discover the truth. It just might take a few days.

At Quin’s silence, Ariston returned to Derry. “This isn’t about money or a mark anymore – a life is at stake. You talk about the horror of being imprisoned, yet you’re happy for him to sit in a cell knowing he’s done nothing wrong and that he’ll likely hang for it.”

Derry’s face twisted and she opened her mouth to reply.

“Enough,” Quin roared. Their faces froze, staring at her. “Shut up the pair of you. Atesh is innocent and this is all just a terrible misunderstanding. I’m sure he’ll be released very soon.” I hope. “In fact, I’ll be shocked if he’s not out by Sunday. In the meantime, it’s business as usual for us. We can’t leave town, anyway. The janissaries have ordered me to stay in case they have more questions and Ariston says there are two stationed outside. How suspect would it look if I packed up my house?”

She rose, making a deliberate display of putting her chair back under the table. “Now, I’m off to fence last night’s work – no one’s mentioned it being missing yet. If I’m quick, Dev will be rid of it before anyone notices.” Checking his jewellery cabinet was probably not high on the Sultan’s list of priorities. “I’ll see you two later, with no bickering.”

18

The Royalist Pawnbroker

Swaggering sellsword gear always lifted Quin’s mood and her stride. Today was no exception. With all these buttons and such a huge plume in her tricorne, surely, she would succeed – she couldn’t not – and surely all would soon be right again with the world. Yes, Atesh would be freed in no time.

She tried to ignore the doubt in the back of her mind. It wasn’t helped by the shock and dismay clear in every face she saw from the First District to the Fourteenth – the gasps at gossip, frowns at rumours, and the little shake of the head as a subject remembered the woman who had once been their little Sultana was dead.

Not that there were many faces around – the streets were quiet by Arianople standards. There wasn’t the usual hum of people hurrying about their business. Those she did see wore black. Many shops and bazaars were closed. On the corners of the main roads, bunches of white flowers tied with white ribbons had started to appear.

It had made Quin rush to change outfit and travel along narrower roads – the emptiness was keener on the wide streets. But she still had work to do and couldn’t resort to staying home.

Dethero’s shop was her first stop. It was best to be rid of last night’s gains before stumbling into any janissaries jumpy after the evening’s events.

The sign on the front door read closed, but peering through the window, she could make out Dethero behind the counter. When she tapped on the glass, he jerked his face from where it had been buried in his hands.

From the shadows around his eyes, he looked as if he’d had about as restful a night as Quin. He moved slowly to straighten himself up, pushing hair out of his eyes. It hung loose from his usually neat pony-tail.

Something on the counter took his attention for a moment. He folded it – a piece of paper, then, or maybe fabric – before placing it out of sight.

Frowning, he approached. He stood there looking at Quin, but after a few seconds, he unlocked the door and held it open.

“Dethero? Are you not well?” Quin hurried inside. She flipped a lock of his hair as she passed. “I don’t think I’ve seen you this dishevelled since – well – you know when I mean, and that wasn’t in public.” She gave him a teasing grin. “Surely you didn’t drink that much last night?” He gave no reaction, no answering smirk. “Don’t tell me – someone pawned an invite to the palace masquerade and you got to go?”

There was the response, but not the one Quin had expected: Dethero’s bronze skin grew ashen and his eyes flicked to his hands. The onyx ring on the middle finger of his left hand glinted as his fists clenched and unclenched. Swallowing, he locked and bolted the door.

“I wasn’t drinking,” he muttered, turning and walking to the counter. “Haven’t you heard? All the city’s in mourning, or had that escaped your attention?”

Quin’s eyebrows shot up. “The Sultana?” She followed him, half-laughing. “You, Dethero Kasim, are mourning the loss of – what was it you once called her? – oh yes – the Queen of Parasites.” Shaking her head, she went on: “You’ll have to excuse me if I didn’t have you down as a royalist.”

His mouth set into a straight line. “Are you here for a particular reason, Quin, or just to take the piss?”

She blinked then tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at her. “I – uh – I have my usual business here, Dethero,” she said, patting her plump jacket pocket.

The pawn-broker let out the slightest breath as if he had been holding it and at last met Quin’s gaze. Even his eyes seemed pale, as if all his vibrancy had been leeched away – but by what? Surely the assassination of the Sultana could not have so deeply affected him.

“Right then,” he suddenly said into the grim silence that surrounded them, “I’ll just ...” He looked at Quin for a long moment, but with none of that heat that had sparked in his eyes last time they’d seen each other. He was closed off, as if his mind was away in distant thoughts, leaving his body empty.

Quin shuddered, remembering the stories the other mudlarks had told her as a child about spirit-creatures that stole bodies of those lost in their thoughts or meditating too deeply upon their Cards.

Dethero opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it again and tapped his fist on the counter. “To business then,” he gave a sharp nod, gesturing towards his office.

“Is Edan not here today, then?” Quin asked as they retired to the back room, away from prying eyes and wide windows.

“No.” With a sweep of his hand, Dethero cleared a space on his desk, the clutter of papers rustling and a few sheets falling to the floor.

Quin frowned when he didn’t pick them up.

“What have you got today?” he said. “Not more wandering, pocket-pinching hands, I hope?” The way his head cocked to one side and the faint whisper of a mocking smile on his lips – that was more like the Dethero Quin knew.

“Only if you’re lucky.” Quin grinned back. “Until then, I have these,” she said, pulling out the velvet pouch that had spent last night tucked in her stays. The soft touch of the fabric as she drew it open sent her back – had it really been a matter of hours since she had last opened it and hidden her carefully chosen spoils inside?

First, she drew out a parcel of canary yellow silk and the zingy scent of lime flooded her nostrils.

Dethero took a long breath and raised his eyebrows. “Scented handkerchief?” he asked, watching Quin unwrap the package.

“Almost,” she said and smiled as the next note of the perfume unfurled: green neroli. “Gloves.”

“Ah,” he nodded and reached for the gloves and the jewellery that had been wrapped inside them. “Very nice.”

Quin’s attention wandered as Dethero took his time examining each piece, turning them over in his hands, drawing out his magnifier. Her fingertips ran over a book on the corner of his desk. The Life & Loves of Lady Iffar. She raised an eyebrow at Dethero, who glanced up and shrugged.

“Ela borrowed it, brought it back yesterday.”

“So, she’s grown into a reader,” Quin said. She hadn’t seen Red’s younger sister since last time she’d been in Arianople. She would be a woman, now. “What’s she like?”

“Bookish and beautiful.”

“Oh.” Quin blinked at Dethero. A ripple of envy crawled under her skin – silly, but there for what they’d once had. “And she visits you, eh?”

The scented gloves in his hand flapped as he lifted them in a shrug. “Not like that. She just likes to read and I have books. Besides, she’s too young for my tastes.” His blue eyes stayed on Quin a touch too long before returning to the gloves’ intersection of seams between thumb and first finger.

Quin nodded to herself. Not that it mattered. Her interests lay elsewhere and that was complicated enough. She had no ownership over Dethero.

She glanced to the door that led to the shop – it wasn’t like him to ever close the shop during the day. Closed shops are lost opportunities, that was what he’d always said.

Her brow creased. There had to be a very good reason for Edan not to be here. Perhaps he was ill. She thought back to the last time she had seen the assistant – he hadn’t seemed unwell when he’d been talking to that tall woman, his skin had been a healthy, rosy olive and his hands steady.

“Well, Quin.” Dethero’s voice made her jump as he put down a cravat pin. “You must have disgustingly rich friends to receive such extravagant gifts.” He smiled at her.

“So, you’re not going to insult my delicate sensibilities by offering me a low price again like last time.” She gave him a sidelong look.

“‘Delicate sensibilities,’ eh?” With a snort, he slid his hand to the small of her back. “My dear Quinta, much as I adore every inch of you, I do have a business to run as well you know.” He pulled her closer.

“Oh yes,” Quin chanced a glance up at him, “that business of pawning and fencing. But you can’t do that with a closed shop, can you?”

One eyebrow raised and he stopped the gentle rubbing at the base of her spine. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Where’s Edan?”

Dethero snatched his hand away as if burnt. “What?”

“Edan. I’ve never known you to close the shop during the day – that was the whole reason for you hiring an assistant. And I don’t buy your tall tale about being in mourning. There are a few other shops open on this street. Why not yours?”

His eyes hardened and Quin found herself facing a cold stare. “My business is my business and my job is to be discreet,” he said in a voice at once soft and hard. “I would suggest you visit a different fence if you cannot be discreet yourself.” He grabbed Quin’s goods and thrust them at her. “Take them with you when you go.”

“But –” Quin began, barely managing to hold all the trinkets.

“I can’t sell them, not now.” Dethero’s face softened when he looked at her, but his voice remained hard as granite.

“But I don’t –”

“The janissaries are sniffing about everywhere after last night – I won’t have you risking my shop by leaving these here.” In two paces, he was at the back door, yanking it open. “I suggest you leave.”

“Then why’d you even look at them?” Quin’s mind was reeling – what was wrong with him? She’d never seen him like this, even when things had gone bad between them. “Dethero, what’s – what did I say?”

“Quin,” his voice softened the slightest touch, “please, just go. Perhaps you’ll give more thought to what you say next time.”

She blinked at him and the daylight pouring through the doorway. He really was kicking her out, and for what? For asking where Edan was.

Something wasn’t just off, it reeked. One more look at his eyes, glinting, flinty, told her she wouldn’t get any answers today.

“Very well,” she nodded to him, dropping the jewellery and gloves into the pouch and then that into her pocket. She paused by the door. “Next week, then?”

Looking up at Dethero, she felt foolish for needing that little reassurance that the kicking out wasn’t permanent, but they had been friends, sometimes more, for a long while and it was hard to imagine her life without him in it.

He gave what was half a shrug and half a nod, but that was enough and Quin found herself smiling with relief.

Before leaving, she sprung up onto her tiptoes and planted an impish kiss on his cheek. “Take care of yourself, Dethero,” she called over her shoulder, just catching him smiling and shaking his head as he closed the iron-banded door.

So, they had argued – and Quin wasn’t entirely sure about what – but it wasn’t beyond repair. Beginning the walk home, she made a mental note to be on best behaviour next time she saw Dethero, to be quite the picture of pleasantness and the arbiter of amiability.

Once she would have thought to give him even more, to have gone beyond the teasing she had used last time she saw him, but now ... now she wanted to go beyond teasing with someone else.

No. She didn’t want to; she had just done it for the con. Anything for the con.

The image of Atesh and his lopsided smile leapt to mind and her stomach gave a wild flip both of pleasure and anxiety.

Except the con wasn’t on anymore. That turned her stomach to stone.

“Latest news, get the latest,” cried a newspaper seller up ahead. He held up the front page, the Card he was using to magnify his voice in his other hand. “Our Sultana dead, Pasha to stand trial!”

Trial? Already?

Someone behind her jostled past when she stopped.

No, it couldn’t go to trial. He was innocent. It was all a big mistake. He should have been released by now.

She grimaced, walking past a flower seller who must have wondered if his wares were starting to moulder. Handing the newspaper seller a coin, she took the top copy from his pile.

Pasha to Face Trial. She hadn’t misheard.

“Oh Atesh,” she murmured.

What was she doing carrying on like this? As if nothing had happened.

What had she thought to achieve by going about her business, pawning her goods, and returning home for a nice spot of tea? Her stomach lurched, but this time with disgust at herself.

He hadn’t killed the Sultana, but no one else believed it. There could be no question in the janissaries’ minds if they’d already announced a trial. Or they were desperate to resolve the issue and give the nation a person to blame.

Atesh’s innocence was a piece of a puzzle only she had and, as long as that was true, there would be no justice for him or the Sultana.

So, what could she do?

She drew herself up, finding she was already on the narrow lane that ran behind the coffee shop where she needed to get changed.

Find more pieces and work out what picture they made – if she could find evidence and give it to the janissaries, preferably anonymously, they’d realise Atesh was innocent.

She could give him that much.

An aristocrat he might be, but he’d no more asked to be born in that palace than she’d asked to be born in the Gutter Streets. He certainly didn’t deserve to hang for a crime he didn’t commit.

Bitter bile hit the back of her throat. Hanging. That was what he was facing.

She screwed her eyes shut at the thought, but she couldn’t block it or the unfurling realisation of why it horrified her quite so much.

Atesh had forced her to be herself and she’d loved it. She’d loved flirting with him as Quinta Guldan and it made her want to live like that. To live as herself. It would be a cruel irony if a man who made her feel so alive were to be executed in his prime.

Long, deep breaths. She needed to regain control of herself. She had to be the Contessa for now, then whatever next identity she chose. There was no room in her life or the world for Quinta Guldan. A daughter of a harem whore had no place.

“Remember what you are,” she whispered past the tightness in her throat.

Swallowing, she opened her eyes.

But she would help Atesh – she owed him that, even if just for the glimpse of herself he’d gifted her.

Besides, the sooner the investigation was over, the sooner she could skip town without suspicion.

Slipping in the coffee shop’s back door, she resolved to begin investigations of her own.

19

Crime & Punishment

The passage of time was marked only by a window no bigger than a tea tray. Atesh didn’t have regular visits to an exercise yard and there was no common space for meals or mixing with other prisoners – he saw only green jackets. All he had each day was the dim light that crept into the room, passed across the smooth, stone wall, before eventually fading away.

He hadn’t seen it the day he’d arrived – he’d been quite ignorant of the light and the rest of the room. At some point, guards had carried him in, knocking his shoulder on the doorframe. He’d been only hazily conscious, but he remembered that and falling asleep or passing out curled on the bed. He had awoken in the dark to a deep ache in every part of his body.

But all of yesterday and part of today he’d witnessed its passage. There wasn’t much else to do in this semi-circular room, somewhere in one of the fortress’s seven towers. A narrow bed with a few blankets, an oak desk, and a simple wooden chair. Other than janissaries bringing food or asking more questions, the rectangle of light was the only thing that changed in here. He’d spent the time rotating between watching it, replaying the events of three nights ago, cursing himself for trusting her, and exercising to stop from going mad.

That last was vital. His fencing master had taught him that his body was his first weapon, then his sword. As with painting, he’d found something meditative in movement. Being able to trust in the strength of his body had made it easier to withstand his father’s cruelty. Here he needed both those things even more. So he’d spent time jogging around the cell, doing press-ups and sit-ups, before stretching it all out in the end with the series of movements his fencing master had taught him as a boy that he still did every day.

Even all that couldn’t quiet his mind entirely. Being locked in here had given him an abundance of time to think and come up with a solution to this predicament. All he needed was Ilyas. If he would speak to Atesh, he’d be able to explain everything. The janissaries were clearly too fixed on one version of events to consider anything else, including the truth. Ilyas, though. They’d known each other for years. Once he was over the initial shock of his grief, he’d see more clearly. He’d realise how ridiculous it was to think Atesh had actually done this. And when Atesh told him about the dangerous woman in their midst …

He hadn’t told the janissaries. They’d already shown they didn’t give a damn for anything he had to say – he’d be wasting his breath. He might not even tell Ilyas, not right away. He’d prefer to confront her first, see what she had to say for herself. Would she at least have the decency to admit the truth?

Spy or something else, there had been something real between them. She’d resisted it – he’d seen that in her attempts to act the desirable coquette – but even she had given in that day in her drawing room and later at the ball. The sorrow in her eyes for that moment behind the curtain, just before they’d kissed. That had been no act.

He’d give her a chance to explain first.

Sighing, Atesh rubbed his shoulder – the bruise had dulled to an ache now, but it still made him wince.

“Sir?” the gangly young man had been mid-tirade, something about how esteemed his master was and how unfortunate a position he now found himself in. Atesh wasn’t clear on whether it was the master or Atesh himself who was the subject of the assistant’s sympathy. He had an uncomfortable feeling it was the former.

Damn attorneys. “I was just meditating upon your enlightening lecture, Mr Flittin.”

The assistant cocked his head for a moment as if listening to a distant sound, then crinkled his eyes. It was almost a smile, except he forgot to move his mouth. “Well, yes, indeed.” He gave an emphatic nod.

The pair were sat either side of the oak desk. The guards had brought in an extra chair for Flittin’s delicate posterior. A standard-issue gaol chair (simple, functional) would not do for an attorney’s assistant, oh no, such a man required upholstery and arm rests. Compared to Atesh’s usual standards, the shabby green velvet wasn’t up to much, but after three days here, he was considerably less particular. Perhaps he could persuade the guards to leave the armchair after Flittin left.

“Look, Flittin,” Atesh said, “this whole exercise is purely academic – I’ve requested an audience with the Sultan. We’ve known each other a long time and if I can speak to him, I’m sure we’ll be able to clear up this whole misunderstanding.”

“Indeed? Well,” Flittin said, fidgeting and ruffling his papers again. “One wouldn’t hold one’s breath, eh? He’s rather busy with funeral arrangements and the little Shehzade.”

The breath caught in Atesh’s throat. Funeral. That was so final. So real. And Safira, she must know by now that her mother was dead and that her Uncle Atesh – that was what she called him, although they technically were first cousins once removed – was the one who’d killed her.

It wasn’t true. His throat clenched with the need to tell her that. Even if everyone else believed it, gods, don’t let her think her mama had been murdered by someone she trusted.

“Are you well, sir?” Flittin watched him, head tilted, little eyes blinking.

Atesh nodded, though nothing was well about any of this. “How is the Shehzade?”

“Well, I’m sure she’s thoroughly distressed, sir.”

He didn’t know – it’s not as though he should. Atesh sighed. “And the funeral?” If they cleared all this up in time, he’d be able to go. It would be a huge affair – a state funeral, with Ilyas’s personal flair – but it would be a chance to say goodbye.

“Will be after the trial and execution.” Execution. He said the word so casually, as if it were luncheon or Tuesday. “That way the dear Sultana can be laid to rest in peace, knowing justice has been done.”

Atesh gritted his teeth. Justice. Execution. Trial. How had these words become so commonplace in his life? And justice with such damn irony. All the time he was in here, there was no justice – the real murderer was out there somewhere. Gods only knew what they were planning. Were they planning it with her?

“Now, as I was saying.” Flittin took his handkerchief from his pocket, shaking it out with great care before wiping the desk with it. “My poor master is in such a very unfortunate position –”

“Your master?” An abrupt sigh escaped his mouth, despite his efforts to maintain his composure. This man was an idiot. A snivelling one at that. “Mr Flittin, is it your master who is in jail? You see, I had the strange idea that your master was in a lovely large office somewhere, probably sipping at a strong cup of coffee brought to him by some kindly housekeeper, while I – whose family have employed your master’s practice and kept them in good coffee and servants for almost a century – get to enjoy the finer points of the Sultan’s pleasure, totalling a room with one barred window, stale bread, some filthy-tasting grog, and all the hospitality angry janissaries can afford.” His forearms ached from his white-knuckle grip on the edge of the desk.

“And believe me, Mr Flittin, angry janissaries are quite attentive hosts.” The blue and purple bruises around his eyes throbbed harder the more agitated he became, and though it caused a wave of further pain, Atesh made a point of tossing his head back so the finger marks showed on his neck.

Flittin’s eyes widened a moment at the impact of his obvious injuries. No, he glanced at the iron door: Flittin wasn’t distressed by Atesh’s injuries. The little weed was afraid of what a desperate criminal might do.

Atesh fought a sigh and clamped his mouth shut, struggling to keep a level gaze at Flittin.

Flittin tangled his handkerchief through his fingers before taking a long breath. He folded up the fine linen, and replaced it in his inside pocket. “Atesh Shahin Pasha, I understand that you must not enjoy being in this place, however” – he dared to look up at Atesh – “but you” – he cleared his throat with an affected cough – “well, you murdered the Sultana, what did you expect? I am afraid you will just have to face the consequences.”

Atesh stared, mouth open.

“Now, as I was saying,” Flittin went on, apparently oblivious to Atesh’s shock, “my master is in the unfortunate position of being under contract with you to provide all and any legal services you require. As I am sure you appreciate, he would be loath to break any such agreement, and yet he cannot be associated with – with” – his beady brown eyes flitted again to Atesh, looking him up and down – “such an undesirable case – it would be suicide for his professional reputation, never mind his personal one.”

Hot, red anger bloomed in Atesh’s chest, setting his skin alight, while a finger of ice traced its way down his spine. Never in his life had he been looked at in such a way, least of all by this jumped up, squawking, little –

“In order to save my master such a fate,” Flittin continued, staring off into some reverie, “I have graciously offered to step forward and bear that burden for him, even if it does mean I’ll probably never be able to practice myself.” With a smile somehow both wistful and smug, the assistant brushed his fingers over his chest, right where his inside pocket lay. Blinking, he glanced at Atesh, seeming to remember himself and tried to disguise the gesture as adjusting his neck-tie.

How much compensation was this little rat getting for his gracious offer? Enough to make the destruction of his career worthwhile, he’d wager.

“So, then” – again, Flittin ruffled through his papers – “the upshot of the whole matter is that my master is providing you with the legal service required and I will be representing you. It’s – er – well, it’s probably better if you don’t mention to anyone that I am Master Atoli’s assistant.” He graced Atesh with what for him must have constituted a friendly smile. “Best not to get the good master’s name linked with all this unpleasantness, eh?”

Atesh gaped as Flittin actually clapped him on the shoulder as if they were old friends discussing a mistress who would be their little secret.

“Good, good.” Apparently Flittin took silence as assent, as he went on. “Now, as for your case itself, I suspect, with this weight of evidence, that the trial will be short and fair – and by that, I mean not in your favour – you did commit regicide, after all.”

At last Flittin’s paper-shuffling seemed to be with purpose, as he pulled out a sheet covered in his small, looping hand – it curled and curved in all the places the handwriting books prescribed, with no personal flourishes, no touch of personality. “I do think, however, that I can get you some concessions in terms of execution style. Instead of the regulation death by being hung, drawn, and quartered …” Flittin flipped open a book that had been sat on the desk since the start of their conversation, the page he had bookmarked showed a grisly series of images; with three taps, he indicated scenes showing the three stages of the process. “I should be able to get you a simple hanging, by virtue of your position and” – with a flourish he brushed his fingers over his own chest – “my careful negotiations. Furthermore, being a Pasha, you are entitled to be hung with a silken rope, rather than hempen, so the whole experience should be as agreeable as you could wish for.”

Atesh stared at the young man. Clearly, he was suffering from some sort of insanity. That had to be it. To see hanging with silk rather than hemp as a victory was nothing short of madness.

Across the table, Flittin’s expression crumpled when his client didn’t immediately burst into a profusion of praise and thanks.

Or was it madness? Flittin knew more of the outside world’s current state than Atesh did from this tower room. He said no one else would represent Atesh. The situation – his reputation – must be far worse than he’d thought. He’d assumed the janissaries had been exaggerating when they’d claimed everyone knew his guilt – a tactic to pry out a confession. Perhaps he’d assumed wrong.

Gods, however much he hated it, he needed this assistant attorney.

He swallowed all the words he wanted to say, to scream, to shout, and instead began the hard work of ingratiating himself upon the wheedling little idiot. Perhaps he could persuade him, get him on side.

“My dear Flittin,” the words stuck in his throat like a hundred bristling fish bones, “it is not that I don’t appreciate your efforts and skill employed on my behalf – truly, if you can achieve all you say you can, well” – a sickly-slow smile spread across his face – “I should be in your debt, even in the life after this one.” Atesh glanced towards the door then leant towards Flittin as if about to share a great secret. “But, you see, I didn’t do it, and I’m sure there must be some evidence to resolve what is so obviously a case of mistaken identity.”

It was Flittin’s turn to look shocked, as he blinked his sharp, little eyes at the Pasha. “My goodness,” he gasped, so completely astonished that Atesh’s stomach leapt with hope. “What superb acting, Sir!” He laughed and struck the desk with his palm. “You almost had me going then. I am sure we can use this to our advantage in the trial – I shall have to consider what it will be best for you to tell the judge.” Standing, Flittin nodded to himself. “Oh yes, such beseeching tones should definitely get us a better hanging.” Us. As if they were in this together. More rustling of papers as he gathered them together and tucked them into his brown leather satchel.

“No, Flittin,” Atesh said, clutching at the assistant’s wrist, “I really didn’t do it. Why would I? She’s – she was like a sister to me.”

“Yes, yes, very good, sir,” Flittin said, smiling and untangling Atesh’s fingers, “though I am afraid you won’t be able to do that to the judge – the Court bailiffs wouldn’t like it and you’d be liable to find yourself with a pike in your necessaries.” He patted Atesh on the shoulder. “Well done, Pasha, I hadn’t expected to find you such an accomplished actor.”

“It’s not an act.” His voice raised, frustration winning over the need to stay calm.

“There’s really no need to keep it up, now.” Flittin knocked on the door then turned back. “Though if you can think of something really compelling, that might help.” The iron shutter shot open and a guard grunted something before the jangle of keys sounded outside. Flittin gave a bright smile. “We might even be able to get you drugged before they hang you – I hear laudanum’s a great help. Well, I’ll see you soon, sir.” A quick bow and a wave, then the door swung open and Flittin was gone, leaving the clang of the locks and bolts outside, with Atesh very much on the inside.

For a good while, he stared after his legal representative. What had just happened?

“A hundred bloody gods, and not one of them to help me.” With a sigh he sank to the table. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the passage of time marked out on the cold, stone wall.

* * *

The maid’s drabs encouraged quite a different stride in Quin compared to her sellsword flamboyance of two days earlier. She trotted on her way through the morning light, purposeful enough to pursue her tasks, but timid enough to perform them unseen and ignored by her betters. A slight limp still pulled at her gait, though the pain in her ankle was much less insistent.

For this mission, she needed to be ignored. If she was discovered infiltrating the palace, she’d soon join Atesh in the Fortress of the Seven Towers. It was something she’d never consider attempting if not for the plans Ariston had overheard the morning after the masquerade. Many of the great families of the city were lending their servants for the five days the palace workers had to be in full mourning. There would be dozens of unknown faces around the place cleaning the building, gardening, clearing up after the ball, grooming sabrecats, and so on: it was too good an opportunity to miss.

It might be her only chance to check how the investigation was going and discover any evidence of Atesh’s innocence. Had anyone corroborated her story of the flickering False Death’s costume or the dagger’s missing stone? Were they any closer to freeing Atesh? Surely they’d picked up on the inconsistencies that cast doubt on his guilt. She might even overhear a clue to his wellbeing. She’d chanced writing him a brief message, but had heard nothing back. Was he too injured to reply? Perhaps they were just withholding any letters.

She chewed her lip and fussed the neat white cap on her head for the hundredth time. That together with the starched apron helped her blend into the long trail of servants winding from the tradesman’s gate.

Black jacket and petticoat rather than grey had been the right choice: the other servants beetling in and out of the palace were all dressed in mourning, faces sombre against the dark linen. The only discord came from the green of janissary uniforms as scattered groups scoured the grounds for evidence.

What a contrast the tradesman’s entrance was after the grandeur of sweeping through the main doors on the night of the masquerade: it was simple, small, and guarded by a matronly woman who looked as if she’d sooner thwack you with the wooden spoon she was holding than feed you from it. She stopped each servant, speaking a few words and pointing with her spoon.

Quin trailed a pair of maids carrying bundles and hefted her own basket into a prominent position. Eyes forward, look relaxed. She matched the mannerisms of the women in front of her: those careful, quick steps, no signs of dawdling, and an assured grip on her burden. As reward for such diligence she was ignored – workers hurrying past and men and women following didn’t even spare a first glance, never mind a second.

“You three can go to the steward’s offices,” Mistress Spoon said, waving the wooden implement. The two maids bustled off, but Quin hung back.

She bobbed her head, keeping her eyes down. “Excuse me, mistress,” she said. “Might I be permitted to help in the state rooms, please? My master lost a snuff box the night of the masquerade and asked if I might locate it while I work.”

Mistress Spoon eyed Quin a moment longer than was comfortable. Her deep brown eyes glinted. “A snuff box?”

“Yes, mistress. I believe it was a gift from his late father.”

The matron sighed. “Very well, though really no further help is needed in there. And keep out of the janissaries’ way – they’re still crawling about the place.” She waved her spoon and gave brief directions in a tone that suggested she’d repeated the words dozens of times.

“Thank you, mistress.” Quin bowed her head and hurried towards the ballroom. The scene of the crime seemed the best place to start.

These servant corridors were simpler and narrower than those she had walked down as a guest, but they still held a certain grandeur – the quality of the blue floor tiles and the height of the ceilings were enough to leave no doubt that this was still a great estate. Even the large doors separating the Sultana’s domain from that of the servants were surrounded by ornate mouldings showing budding tulips, sweeping vines, and small birds on the wing. The doors themselves were no less ornate, covered in tessellating geometric shapes, the wood gleaming.

Left then left again, then past three doors on the right. This was the one. She pressed it open and passed through into a familiar-looking grand corridor. To one side a wide set of double doors had been wedged open. Beyond them she could just see the glimmer of the gilt decoration that covered the ballroom.

When she reached the doors, she paused. The image of three nights’ earlier ghosted across her vision – the dancing, the music, the footmen serving drinks and canapes, and the revellers in their masks. Her hand pressed to Atesh’s. His confusion at her dark eyes, then his slow realisation. She couldn’t stop her gaze drifting to the bay window where they’d hidden from prying eyes. His body warm and firm. The way he’d closed his eyes and let her pin his hands, trusting her.

“Here and now,” she whispered, blinking away the spectre of the masquerade. She needed to help Atesh.

A handful of janissaries in their bottle green jackets populated the ballroom. Three stood talking; their dropped hips and angled shoulders suggested it was more casual chatter than professional analysis of clues. Another janissary walked across the space, peering at the floor. Thankfully, servants were cleaning at the edges of the room, far away from – there it was – the deep red bloom staining the parquet floor.

Would it ever fade or would it always be there as a horrible reminder; would dancers avoid it, or would they step straight through? Perhaps they would simply replace that section of the floor.

Despite the growing warmth of the day, a deep chill worked its way through her body. That ghastly ashen face in a white dress that had been stained with two shades of red.

With a shudder, she turned away, pulling a soft cloth from her basket. She glanced left and right.

The janissary crossing the floor was the one who’d questioned her. Porto, wasn’t it? A frown was fixed on his brows and he kept fiddling with his glasses. So she had guessed right.

Keeping her head ducked, Quin set to work dusting the intricate mouldings on the wall, her goal being to work her way towards the grouped janissaries, see if she could overhear their conversation.

She strained her ears as she worked her way towards them, not daring to draw attention to herself by using her Cards or else there would be questions about why a maid had such a developed Deck or needed to be using her Cards at work at all. With a grimace, Quin pictured the accusations flying. They would think her a spy or even involved in the assassination and then how would she help Atesh?

The rhythmic sweep of her cloth over the scroll-work lulled her thoughts towards him again. How did he fare in the fortress? Her fears conjured great brutish men, toughened criminals who didn’t take kindly to gentility or titles at the best of times and certainly not when, as far as they were concerned, that particular gent had assassinated their Sultana. (Because although she knew it was ridiculous, somehow in her imagination these men were at once disgusted by the excesses of the nobility and fiercely loyal to their Sultana.) Her fears weren’t helped by the fact that she had known such men in her time and it was not only possible, but likely that they would be in jail, keeping Atesh company with their fists.

“Oh, Atesh,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.” She bit her lip and ground her cloth into the scroll-work.

“Huh.” Nearby, Porto stooped to pick something up between thumb and forefinger.

Quin was almost level with him at this point. She peered around the edge of the linen cap, slowing her creep towards the other janissaries. What had he found?

“What’s that, sergeant?” A younger janissary detached himself from the huddle.

“I’m not sure.” Porto held the object up, his back to Quin. It really was tiny, not visible from here, but then it caught the light and glinted brilliant green. She gulped back a gasp.

The constable squinted at the green gem. “How in the world did you spot that?”

Porto’s mouth bowed in a brief smile. “I had a little help.” He held up a Card, before sliding it into his pocket.

“Justice herself, eh?” The younger man raised his brows, impressed, then sighed. “Though I don’t know why we’re bothering to look for clues, sir. There’s a dozen witnesses who saw that Pasha do it. Isn’t it an open and shut case?”

It was worse than she thought – even the janissaries thought they were wasting their time. Had no one else seen what Quin had? Had no one else told them Atesh was innocent?

Bloody hells, she really was the only one who believed it.

“Why we’re bothering, constable?” A scowl darkened Porto’s face. “We’re bothering because the Sultan has asked that we investigate. We’re bothering because we owe it to our late Sultana and” – he paused, glancing at the red stain upon the floor – “the horrible way she died. But most of all, constable, we’re bothering because it’s our job.”

At least one of the janissaries thought there was something worth investigating.

Quin’s slow progress put her parallel to the pair now. She stole a glance at them, pretending to hunt through the basket on her arm for some cleaning implement.

The constable bowed his head, muttering something remorseful. They were a little more than ten feet away from her. Of the other maids and janissaries, the closest one was perhaps thirty feet along the wall, but moving closer all the time.

Porto might be her only hope. Atesh’s only hope. She couldn’t just go up to him – he wouldn’t recognise the lady he’d interviewed in this dull maid, but he would wonder why a servant knew so much about the murder or was so intent on seeing the, likely fake, stone in his hand. This required a less direct route for a closer look.

With a sharp gasp, she dropped her basket, pushing it in Porto’s direction; various clean and dirty cloths fell to the floor and tins of polish and wax rolled towards the two janissaries with a metallic clang.

“Oh dear,” she cried, rushing after the polish tin as it came to a stop against Porto’s foot.

He peered down at it, glasses sliding to the end of his nose, and then raised an eyebrow at Quin as she too arrived at his feet and snatched up the tin.

“My apologies, sir,” she murmured, straightening up, yet not looking him in the eye. With all the appearance of servility, she kept her gaze lowered, using it as an opportunity to eye the small green gem in his hand.

Except it wasn’t a gemstone. Someone wanted it to look like an emerald to the untrained eye, but the colour was off and the way it caught the light didn’t scintillate in the way a true emerald would. That confirmed it.

Paste.

Quin hid the wrinkling of her nose by rubbing at her forehead. Fake, but how to make sure Porto knew that? This plan needed extending ...

“Is something wrong, Miss?” asked the other janissary.

“Oh no, sir.” She gave them each a bow and backed away to her other belongings. “I’m sure it’s nothing – just slipped out of my hands it did! I am sorry, sir, I’ll try not to disturb you both.” While their eyes were still on her, she fetched the other tin and one of the cloths, giving a deliberate wobble as she stood up.

Illness could explain a dropped basket and, when faked, provided a wealth of opportunity. The shammers of the Gutter Streets were evidence enough of that. Crippled beggars dragged themselves from the Eleventh District across the border into the Gutter Streets, around the corner, then – miracle of miracles! – they stood and walked the rest of the way home, spending a few akche on a beer or two on the way to whatever alley or rented bed they called home.

“Where were we, constable?” Porto cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, I suppose you could be right about this gem. Though it’s a curious coincidence to just happen to find an emerald of all jewels right here. And such an expensive stone. Wouldn’t someone report it missing or come searching for it?”

The constable began to argue that an emerald was likely not so very rare or expensive to the sort of people who attended balls at the palace.

Turning away from the janissaries, Quin hung the basket by its handle from the crook of her left elbow and made a good show of shuffling through its contents until the other occupants of the ballroom lost interest.

Sure that no one was looking, she opened the large tin of beeswax, enjoying the sweet smell for a moment before prising up the shallow inner tray with a fingernail. Beneath was a hidden compartment containing a tiny pencil and several folded-up squares of paper – just one of the secrets hidden in her basket. With the tin in her left hand, paper resting on it, and pencil in her right, she wrote:

Green stone is paste –

pursue further and you’ll find more than open and shut case;

S blade is not murder weapon.

Though the words looked slightly squashed by the end of the sentence, it was just about readable. With that done and both pencil and note hidden away, it was time to pursue such opportunities as fake illness could offer.

The other maids had moved further away and paused their work to indulge in brief chatter. The janissaries were still debating the relevance – or not – of the green stone.

Lifting a hand to her face, note hidden in her palm, Quin gave a soft gasp: “Oh!”

Porto and the constable glanced in her direction, frowning at this new interruption. As soon as she was sure of their attention, Quin let her knees buckle and fell limply to the floor. The hardness of the parquet made her wince as it slammed into hip and elbow. The plan had been that one of the two janissaries would spot the warning signs and reach her for a well-timed catch.

No such luck. She waited on the floor, eyes closed, throbbing bruises forming.

At last, the sound of footsteps approached and soon a hand lifted her head. She fluttered her eyes barely open and caught a glimpse of the janissaries on either side of her, with Porto carefully feeling the back of her head, a faint frown on his brow.

“I don’t think it’s cut,” he said.

“Miss? Miss? Can you hear me, Miss?” the constable called, shaking her shoulder.

Quin fluttered her eyes again, as if waking, and clutched at Porto. “Oh Hundred,” she gasped. “What happened?” She kept her grasp on his jacket, pulling herself up and twisting to a sitting position. Amongst all the jostling, she tucked the palmed note into his jacket’s inside pocket.

He would arrive home that evening, take out his notebook, and find the little square of folded up paper. Of course, his curiosity would make him open it and then he would see her message.

Or at least she hoped; otherwise she might have to try more drastic measures. Like the time she had set up a mock ‘haunting’ of a mark to get him to believe it best to give his new fiancée a large amount of money.

“Oh, there, there, Miss,” the constable said and patted her shoulder, while Porto looked decidedly uncomfortable, but didn’t pull away. “You just fainted, miss. I think it might be best if you go and have a good rest.”

Porto nodded and gave a stiff smile, squirming. At the same time a softness in his eyes showed concern: it was amusing to see a grown man apparently so professional and prim look so uncomfortable and worried at once.

“Fainted, sir?” Quin gave her best wide-eyed, slightly frightened look. “Goodness! I’m not feeling entirely well. Perhaps a rest would be best.”

“Here, let us help you, Miss.” They took an arm each and gently lifted Quin to her feet. It seemed effortless for them both – Porto must be stronger than he looked.

“Do you think you can manage to stand?” Porto asked her. As soon as Quin nodded, he let go of her arm and gave a small sigh of relief.

“Thank you both, sirs.” She bowed. “You are so kind to have helped me.”

“Not at all, Miss,” the constable said.

“Now, you find somewhere to rest, Miss,” Porto instructed, rubbing his hands on his long coat. “I’m sure the housekeeper will help. Only go home when you feel well enough and if you’re not feeling better by lunchtime, have your master send for an apothecary.”

“Yes, sir.” Quin nodded and gave another bow before bidding them farewell. As she fetched her basket and made her way out of the ballroom, she wondered at Porto’s concern. He had seemed so aloof before, untouched, untouchable, and yet today she had seen another side of him. Perhaps that was a side she could appeal to.

One thing she was now absolutely sure of: the murder weapon was a fake. The dagger that had stabbed the Sultana was not the Shahin Dagger.

Somewhere existed evidence of that: it was just a case of finding it.

20

Uninvited & Unexpected

It was almost eleven when Quin arrived at Neorion Square. She approached their elegant townhouse confident she hadn’t been followed. Servants blended in so easily – no one spared them a second glance. They were ghosts in their masters’ houses and out on the streets.

She needed to speak to Derry and Ariston. The janissaries had a little evidence supporting Atesh’s innocence. Quin and her partners were going to have to keep tabs on the investigation to check the emerald led them in the right direction. That wasn’t going to go down well with Derry, but perhaps she could play on her empathy for Atesh, wrongly imprisoned and –

A familiar face caught Quin’s eye. Familiar, but not in this place. He was an older boy, almost a man, but still gangly and narrow-shouldered, perhaps 14 or so. His scruffy clothes hung loose and his hair was a wild mop above a pointed face. He belonged in the Hidden Court, not here.

Arms-folded, he stood opposite her house, leaning against the fence that separated the road from small park at the centre of Neorion Square. He kept glancing left and right through the brown fringe of hair flopping in his eyes.

He was waiting for her.

Quin adjusted her course. For all anyone watching knew, she was a maid and he was her little brother come to meet her.

“My dear brother,” she said loud enough for the benefit of anyone passing.

He shot her a frown, confused.

“Don’t worry,” she said, quieter, “I’m no amuser. At least not with you as my mark.”

“You patter fla – ah” – his brows shot up – “it’s you. Didn’t recognise you in that getup.”

Quin smiled. “That’s kind of the point.”

He raised a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Came looking for you.” Glancing along the road, he chewed his lip. “Went to our switcher-friend just now.”

“Dethero?” His name was barely audible on her lips.

“Only he ain’t open yet. It’s not like him, so I looked through the windows. No sign of him.”

“When was that?”

“About half past.”

Dev opened at ten o’clock promptly. Every day. Except for when she’d last seen him – the shop had been mysteriously shut then, too, but he’d at least been at the counter.

“Perhaps he’s ill,” she said, frowning.

“Must be.” The boy shrugged, shuffling his feet. “Know you’re mates with him, thought you’d want to know.” His gazed darted up to hers, then away again. He was waiting for payment.

“Thank you for coming to me.” She fished in her pocket and pulled out a silver kurush, handing it to him. His dull brown eyes grew wide at the sight – he’d probably been expecting copper. She smiled at his reaction and winked. “Anything else interesting like that, bring it to me, eh?”

He nodded vigorously, tucking the coin away before scurrying off.

Quin trotted across the road, down the steps leading to the tradesman’s entrance and inside. She hurried to her dressing room and changed into non-descript grey riding gear, suited to the middling sort. The sweeping, hooded coat would blend into that end of the Gutter Streets, even riding Hira, which was a necessity now the ache in her ankle had become an insistent twinge with each step. Riding also meant she’d be able to go and fetch medicine or an apothecary, if that was what Dethero needed.

She paused, boot half-on. For Dev to not open the shop on time, he must be feeling terrible. The sooner she reached him, the better. She tugged at the supple leather and stamped the boot the rest of the way, then strode downstairs, out the back door, and through the gardens to the stables.

Hira came to the gate at the sound of Quin’s movements, chuffing a welcome and peering through the slats.

“Hello, lady,” Quin murmured, unbolting the gate. She allowed Hira a stretch before tacking up, careful to fasten saddle and bridle securely. Her movements were swift and methodical, smoothing the fur beneath the saddle, checking the curved sabre that hung from it. The sabrecat responded with an insistent butt of the head, pushing her rider to the doors, apparently eager to be gone.

“I’m sorry, I have rather neglected you these past few days, haven’t I?” she said, burying her face in the thick fur of the sabrecat’s neck, letting it tickle her cheeks and nose, breathing in the dusty, warm smell of catflesh. She took her time to run her hands over the sleek coat and examine the retractable claws, glad to see the stable hands had taken good care of her steed, even when she had not.

With a last pat on Hira’s flanks, Quin mounted in one swift movement. The sabrecat was through the doors before her rider sat, making for the main thoroughfare.

The streets were relatively quiet for this time of day, though some still walked and rode through, visiting friends in sombre afternoon attire or bustling on errands in servant livery.

Quin blended into the throng, Hira carrying her through the traffic, overtaking or slipping between carriages. Once she bared her teeth when a team of four sabrecats drawing a post chaise dared to hiss at her proximity. Ordinarily, Quin would have apologised to the driver for her mount’s poor manners, but today she was as impatient as Hira and, besides, his cat had hissed first.

Hira’s agitation reflected her own. Perhaps the paste she’d seen in Edan’s hands was a close match to the stone at the palace. And both were the right size to match Atesh’s dagger. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

When she’d seen the emeralds at Dethero’s she hadn’t made the connection, after all, she had only seen the original dagger in a portrait at that point. Since then, she had got very close to the Shahin blade indeed. Warmth creeping up her face fought with the cold knotting her stomach. To think just days ago she’d been so close to Atesh and now ...

She urged Hira on towards the borders of the Gutter Streets, taking as direct a route as she dared and trusting in her hood to keep her identity hidden. Maybe Dethero would be able to help her. But what if he was implicated? Would she have to choose between proving Atesh’s innocence and hiding Dethero’s guilt? No, there was no way he’d have anything to do with murder, never mind assassination. Not knowingly. Perhaps he’d been duped.

If those stones had been used in the murder weapon, that would make him an accomplice. Gods. What had Dethero got himself into?

Quin frowned the rest of the way to the pawnbroker’s.

Sure enough, when she rode past the front door, it was shut. The sign read closed and there was no sign of life. The boy hadn’t been lying for a quick penny.

Still, there was more than one way into the shop. She turned down the shaded alley that led around the back. It widened into what was almost a courtyard, but that was a generous name for it. The buildings here were a mix of timber and brick, more permanent than the ramshackle wooden houses deeper in the Gutter Streets. A couple of older establishments were even stone, the colour bleached out over the years to a silvery grey, like driftwood too long in the sun.

She left Hira lounging in a pocket of sunlight at one edge of the tiny courtyard.

Quin had picked the lock to Dethero’s shop over a hundred times: the first time he’d found her in there unexpectedly, he hadn’t complained. In their youth, he’d waited for her, sitting at the desk expectantly, a candle burning.

Of course, her efforts had always been generously rewarded.

But today Quin didn’t need her lock picks. The door stood ajar, its mangled keyhole a dark scar against the solid wood. A break-in? Heart pounding, Quin edged forward, drawing her dagger in silence. With breath held, she nudged the door open with one foot, eyes alert to any movement in the room beyond. But there was none.

In the stillness, a scene of chaos – Dethero had never been one for filing, but even he would balk at the scattered papers, turned over drawers, and –

That was when she saw it. A hand, just peeking out from behind the desk, an onyx ring on the middle finger. Just beyond its reach, a rapier glistening red.

Quin stumbled into the room, glancing about for assailants, but all her thoughts on that hand, that ring, that crimson-edged blade. The back of her throat was so tight, she thought she might see breakfast again, but instead a moan escaped her lips as she rounded the desk.

Dethero lay in yet more blood, wisps of his bronze hair over his face. The dark line of his lashes, eyes closed. A small, almost neat hole in his shirt. His feet, bare. Strange the details that stood out in shock.

Her knees crumpled until she was kneeling beside him in the gap between staircase and desk. Her hand wavered – she wanted to touch him, waken him from a dream, but if those dusky-blue eyes stayed shut …

“Dev?” she whispered, voice catching in her throat. “Dethero?”

It took an age for her hand to cross the short distance to his shoulder. He was warm. That gave her hope and she gave him a little shake. “Dethero.”

The barest breath passed Dethero’s lips and his lashes fluttered. Those deep blue eyes that Quin had so often marvelled at were still. A croak came from his throat and Quin had to bend down to hear the tiny voice that came out.

“Chair,” Dethero said, his hand barely rising in the direction of his toppled desk chair with its dark green seat.

“What happened?” Quin whispered.

A faint smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Don’t matter.” He raised his hand again, touching Quin’s fingers with his own cold ones. “I didn’t –”

He took a ragged breath and screwed his eyes shut in pain.

Her sight blurred. “Don’t speak if it hurts.” She clutched his hand. “I’ll fetch an apothecary and we’ll let them stitch you up and –”

“Shut up,” he hissed. “No more ands. The chair. They couldn’t find it there.” His fingers twitched in her grasp. “Remember I showed you?” Despite the tears, Quin smiled. Dethero had never been good at keeping secrets from her and had shown her a hidden compartment beneath his chair. “Look there. Something for you. Something else they wanted. Edan’s. I didn’t know. Found it.”

“I’ll look after I get you fixed.” What did Edan have to do with this?

“Too late – too much blood. I didn’t know – you have to … He did it without me. Stupid kid.”

“Don’t explain now – save your strength. Tell me later.” What had Edan done? And who were they? And what were they after? So many questions she ached to ask, but they’d have to wait – this was the time for survival.

“In over his head. He helped them.”

“Helped who?” she asked, despite herself.

But Dev closed his eyes, pain etched between his brows. When his eyes opened, he smiled. “I always ... always cared, Quin. Should’ve gone with you … or told you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you start apologising, Dev,” Quin said, her voice breaking on his name, “you never apologise. You’re scaring me.” She tried to laugh, waiting for his answering grin.

There was no smile. His eyes were still. No more words came.

“Dev?” She tugged at his hand, but it hung limp. A sob choked her, hot and stifling.

“No,” she said, burying her face into his shoulder, waiting for his arms to reach around her, his voice to comfort her.

But no comfort came.

“Dethero,” she whispered, barely able to get the name through her throat as she closed the blue eyes that had always glinted so mischievously. With a kiss on his brow, Quin stamped her surging emotions down, burying them beneath necessity and logic. She was in the midst of another crime scene.

Who had done this? What was hidden in the chair that had cost Dethero his life? She slid her dagger down the side of her boot and took a long, shaking breath. Dashing the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, she turned to the rest of the room.

The office had been utterly turned about. Drawers lay on their sides on the floor, their contents carpeting the floorboards. A black pool glistened near the back wall, shards of glass glinting. They’d smashed an inkwell. In haste or rage or during the fight?

A tangle of silver chains glinted on the desk, snaking over papers and silk handkerchiefs. Expensive stuff. Stuff a thief would’ve taken. They’d been discarded because the attacker was after something else. Something specific.

A confusing picture emerged. The attacker had broken into the shop before it opened, perhaps not realising or caring that Dethero lived upstairs. A sound must have alerted him, perhaps them brutalising the lock or trashing the room, and so he came wandering downstairs, feet still bare, rapier drawn, probably expecting to find a petty thief.

Some small voice wondered whether he had thought, even hoped, it was her breaking in to renew their games.

No. That was emotion. That wouldn’t do.

A tight, grim smile stretched her lips as she examined the blood on Dethero’s blade – at least he had taught the bastard a lesson. She vaguely considered looking for a crimson trail, to see where the killer had fled, but she’d had enough of blood for today. For a lifetime, even.

The best lead was the one Dethero had given her. She crept over to the upturned chair, recalling the trick that would open the false base. Feeling her way as much as seeing it, she swept her fingers over the wooden panel underneath the seat. There, the slightest groove running from one side of the chair to the other, one at the front and one at the back, marking off a section of the panel.

She pushed against the brackets either side, which creaked as they moved sideways on sprung mechanisms. Once the brackets had slid a quarter of an inch each, the central panel popped out, the dull grey gleam of lead on its inside face. Within the hidden compartment was what looked like a letter, and a box about a foot long and narrow.

Frowning, Quin examined the two treasures. The box had a simple capital letter Q embossed upon it – for her? While the papers were folded like a letter, with Edan written on the outside in an elegant hand, but no address. The seal was missing, leaving fragments of red wax. There was no sender’s address, either.

Two mysteries. Both intriguing, but Dethero’s bare feet reminded her how important the sheets of paper must be. They rustled as she unfolded them.

The lines were blurred through the tears still pooling in her eyes, but she could see it wasn’t rows of text. Not a letter, then. A drawing? Something long and thin.

A heavy footfall on the landing.

Quin froze, uncertain that she had heard it.

Another step. A person – no, damn, two – two people were starting down the stairs.

“No bloody luck,” grunted a deep voice.

“I told you” – this one was a woman and her next words made Quin shudder – “we should have tortured it out of him.”

Two people coming down the staircase. The stairs led straight into this room, giving anyone coming down full view of the exit. The back door had swung to after she’d entered. Dethero’s chair stood in the way. It would take too long to reach the door, open it, and escape, all the while in view of the people who had murdered Dethero.

Stuffing the papers and box into her pocket, Quin crept into the footwell of Dethero’s desk. Silently she thanked him for having a large, solidly-built desk, even as she cursed herself for not thinking clearly enough to realise the killers could still be in the building. She pressed her back into the footwell and hugged her knees close, willing herself small and quiet.

The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Well, you got lucky,” said the man, “didn’t really have a chance to torture him after you pretty much offed him with one thrust!”

The woman snorted as the footsteps moved around the room. “Well, he cut me.” Her accent was sharp and crisp, perfectly enunciated and faintly familiar. An aristo, if Quin had to guess. “He deserved it,” she said, venom in her voice. “And it wasn’t luck.”

Quin could just see Dethero’s hand from her hiding place – it rocked as the woman hissed, “Bastard.” Hot rage rose up the back of Quin’s neck. This woman had just kicked Dethero’s body. She bit her hand, forcing herself to be silent, despite the burning desire to scream.

“Well he ain’t gonna do that again,” the man said. “Why don’t you try your Cards again?”

“We couldn’t find it before and I still have a headache from that. What makes you think it’ll work this time?”

“Maybe the Gods were pissed off at you before; maybe they’re in a better mood this time.” Quin imagined the man shrugging. “I don’t know what they bloody want, but have you got any better ideas?”

“Hmm, I suppose not,” she admitted. “Fine. Just keep out of my way.”

Quin held her breath: the woman was going to use a Card to locate the object of their search, though for some reason, her previous attempt had failed.

Dethero had once said something vague about the secret compartment in his chair having an added layer of protection. At the time, she had assumed he meant the items couldn’t be felt from the seat above, but now she’d seen the lead lining she understood: it blocked searches by magical means.

Although they’d failed before, these two were trying again and this time the contents of the protected compartment were in Quin’s non-lead-lined pocket.

Their search would lead them directly to her.

Shifting inch by quiet inch, Quin tried to reach the Cards in her pocket, but the foot well was too cramped to manoeuvre within. She could, however, reach the dagger in her boot and edged it out of the sheath, listening to the footfalls of the strangers.

“What do you suppose?” the woman said. “I can feel it this time.” The steps came closer, rustling a discarded sheaf of papers. “Are you sure you checked the desk properly?”

“What? You saw me do it! I turned the bloody drawers out.”

With painful slowness, Quin pulled her knees against her chest as far as she could, feet in the air.

“Well, I can feel it this time and it’s coming from the damn desk,” the woman said, doing a perfect impression of the man’s defensive tone. She stomped closer and a pair of leather boots appeared at the footwell opening.

Quin tried to swallow against the dryness of her throat. Muscles tense, legs ready to spring, she waited for the opportune moment.

First one knee, then the other, the woman knelt inches away from Quin, berating her partner all the while. “I told you to be thorough. Send a monkey to do a man’s job and this is what –”

The instant the woman’s head came into view, Quin kicked out with both feet, bracing herself against the back of the desk. Not waiting for a reaction, she slid out of the footwell into a crouch that throbbed in her stiff ankle. Ignoring the pain, she sprang forward, dagger out, barrelling into the woman while she was still surprised.

The dagger caught in the woman’s coat, not finding its mark, but she was on the floor and distracted, clutching her nose. Good – more blood, hopefully, and hers this time. The rest of her face was covered with a half-mask and around that dark hair gleamed reddish brown, strands falling from a braid.

But there was no time to watch – Quin leapt to her feet, finding a man nearly as broad as he was tall staring at her, mouth open beneath a plain black half-mask.

“What the –” was all Large managed before Quin leapt at him.

Her dagger wouldn’t miss its mark this time.

He fumbled with a knife at his belt and cursed again as Quin slashed his arm, red blooming across his brown jacket.

The next thing she knew, she was flying across the room. Flashes of light burst across her vision as she hit the wall. He must’ve clubbed her with his injured arm.

She shook her head – it was a powerful blow, but her brain had stopped rattling already and Large was still clutching his arm. It was limp below the elbow. Hopefully she’d damaged the muscles or tendons there.

But the woman was back on her feet, rage distorting the lower half of her face, blood covering it and the mask so it wasn’t clear where one ended and the other began. Nostrils flaring, she advanced upon Quin, a rapier drawn.

“Who the hells are you?” Mask growled.

Quin dragged herself up using a bookshelf. She was in the narrow walkway between the desk and the shelves that lined one wall. The large oak desk blocked Large from reaching her for now – he stood by the staircase, one arm useless, brows low, watching Quin as if unsure which way to go.

Mask was to Quin’s right, between her and the back door. Her reach was longer than Quin’s, but that wasn’t necessarily an advantage in the close quarters of Dethero’s office. If Quin could get inside the blade, she’d have the advantage.

How to get past the sword, though? Shields, as much as they were passé, would have been helpful in this situation. With a bleak smile, Quin backed away, relying on the bookshelf to keep her steady after that ringing blow. If only she had a buckler.

“Vengeance,” Quin replied at last, feeling flippant.

Her hand closed upon a book. Dethero had amassed quite a collection over the years. Gods, this wasn’t the time to think of reading habits. Her fingers brushed over the leather spines, eyes on Mask.

Perhaps she’d find something useful on the shelf. A nice, heavy paperweight to throw – that would be good.

Large was to Quin’s left, advancing as if herding a flighty goose into a corner.

No paperweights under her fingertips, just the rough leather of another thick tome. Not helpful.

Or was it? Thick leather. Sheets of paper. It might not block a blade completely, but it would take the worst of the blow.

There was no time and no other options – she’d nearly backed into the corner where the duo would be able to surround and overpower her easily.

She grabbed a chunky book and again pressed her attack against the woman, this time blocking with the book to find an opening for her dagger. The woman’s left-handed blow thudded against the volume and Quin darted forward, closing the distance. But just as she brought her dagger back for a strike, Quin’s foot caught on an upended drawer. She half-fell, dropping the slashed book to catch herself on the desk.

Mask lunged, taking advantage of the trip. Grunting, Quin twisted away from her swift blade.

A streak of heat spread across Quin’s ribs – she’d avoided the piercing thrust, but Mask had caught her with the edge of the rapier. Heat blossomed into sharp pain that made Quin gasp.

“Of course” – a thin smiled stretched across the woman’s bloody lips – “it’s you.”

Jerking herself upright, Quin thanked the gods the blow had been a quick shot and had little power behind it, otherwise she would be in a much worse position. Still, warmth seeped into her shirt.

It’s you – what did that mean? She squinted at Mask, but her face was so hidden and bloody, it was impossible to tell if they’d met before. That voice, though … it had a familiar edge.

“Vengeance?” The pink tip of Mask’s tongue appeared for a moment, as if tasting the air or the word. “Is that how you see yourself? I suppose you would, wouldn’t you? And you knew him?” She nodded towards Dethero’s body, on the floor beside Large. A short exhale, almost a laugh. “That’s just too delicious.”

Jaw clenched, Quin feinted forward. The searing pain in her side wrenched a cry from her throat.

The blow was blocked, but she was more interested in buying time and keeping Mask busy. If she was blocking Quin’s attacks, there was less time for her to strike. But each movement pulled at the slash down her ribcage, bringing more pain and more blood. She wouldn’t be able to keep this up for long.

Mask’s gaze flicked over Quin’s shoulder. Damn, she’d lost track of Large. He must have circled behind her.

Surrounded. Large behind her. Mask in front. Desk blocking her route to the door.

Dizziness swam at the edge of her vision.

Each aching moment stretched out as the dark-eyed woman drew her blade back, teeth showing shocking white against her bloody face in a smile assured of victory.

Odd little details caught Quin’s attention. More of the woman’s hair had fallen out of her braid, smooth strands sticking to the blood on her mask. A picture on the wall had tilted drunkenly to one side. The dry rustle of paper underfoot.

Then, three things happened almost at once. The blade began its thrust, a roar sounded outside, and the door crashed open.

Quin flung herself at the wall furthest from the door, flattening herself against it. Large gaped at the doorway, now blocked by a large sabrecat, whose hackles were raised and teeth bared.

“Hira,” Quin gasped.

Mask’s thrust fell wide, missing Quin, but it held such force the momentum drove the blade forward.

Large’s eyes bulged. A wordless bellow sounded, petering out into a croak. Gasping, Mask released the sword.

It stayed in his belly.

With a horrible fascination, Quin stared at the quivering rapier. It had pierced him quite centrally, somewhere between bellybutton and the bottom of his ribcage. Derry would have been able to name the organs it had punctured. All Quin knew was that every injury she’d seen like that had ended in a slow death.

And the blood – she knew that. More of the stuff. Already his jacket was edged crimson, the shirt beneath more red than white. The dirty, metallic smell hit her nose, making her stomach spasm. He still held his knife, though, and his rolling eyes turned to Quin.

Mask backed away from Large, gaping at him, hands spread as if claiming innocence.

This was Quin’s chance.

She grabbed the sword, yanked the hilt down, and drove the blade upwards before he could slash at her. A weak groan came from his mouth and his knife thunked to the floor. The rapier had hit his heart – at that angle it must have. He was going to die. She had killed him. She swallowed.

Gods, she’d killed him.

A rumble in Hira’s chest shook Quin from her blank stare at the red spilling from below his ribs, bubbling out his mouth.

She scrambled over the desk and ran to Hira, falling onto the sabrecat’s back, half-fainting from blood-loss, bile in her throat.

“Away! Home!”

21

Gifting

Derry had sworn at Quin before smuggling her into the house, out of sight of neighbours and strangers.

She’d muttered questions the whole time, voice tight, barely restrained. “What in nine hells have you been doing?” and “Do you think that because we look after you, you don’t need to bother looking after yourself?” and “How are we going to explain this away?”

Then there had also been instructions. “Hot water, please, Mrs Tepe,” and “Pull your coat about yourself and no one will see that slice down your side,” and “Get inside, now.”

Now they were in the den, Quin lying on her side, her coat spread on Ariston’s chaise longue. Derry bent over her. Ariston leant against the fireplace.

Home. Safe. That woman hadn’t followed. Quin had managed to rouse herself enough to pull Hira into an alleyway and stop, watching the road. There’d been no sign of Mask. All the blood on her face – she must not have wanted to go running out in public like that and there’d been no sign of a sabrecat nearby, so she’d probably been on foot. At least Quin’s injury had been hidden beneath her coat.

Derry cleaned the slash running down Quin’s ribs – it was maybe four inches long, but not deep. Looking at it made Quin’s head go fuzzy, so she watched Derry’s face, which was intent on her work. She frowned at every wince and gasp, but her expression softened as Quin forced the story of Dethero’s shop from her lips in broken sentences.

The words were distant, as if she were listening to someone else speak them. It was just a story. One she was reading or someone else was telling.

Dethero couldn’t be dead and there was no way Quin had killed a man.

“Poor Dethero,” Derry murmured, skilled fingers pressing and prodding at the now-clean wound.

Quin sucked in a breath at the fresh pain lancing down her side. She shook her head, as if waking from a doze. Except the blood was still on her skin, her skirts, crusted on her boots. She’d vomited at some point on the way home and it speckled the toe of one boot. Even the worst dreams faded when she woke, but this …

It was never going to fade.

“Quin?” Derry’s voice was painfully soft. Pitying. “If you’re feeling light –”

“Does it need stitches?” Pity was too much for Quin to take. She’d take sarcastic Derry over pitying Derry any day.

“Hmm.” Derry examined the wound a moment longer. “No, I think you’ll be fine with just bandages. It’ll need cleaning and a salve applying every day, though, so no gallivanting off for you. Not for a while, anyway.”

Quin nodded. No gallivanting. That she could do.

That she should have done after the masquerade. Hells, she should’ve stopped after the elephant. But, no, she’d known better. She’d been so sure this was all a game that she controlled, as though she’d stacked the deck.

But there were players at the table she wasn’t even aware of.

Who was that woman? Why had she gone to –

Quin clenched her jaw, staring at the ceiling.

Dethero. His name whispered through her thoughts, giving no comfort. It brought only the image of his ashen face, the stillness, the emptiness in his eyes where there’d always been such a lively spark.

This was no game.

This was life. And she’d been stupid to spend so long thinking of it as something to be played. First Atesh had been framed for assassination, now Dethero was dead.

She glanced at Ariston and Derry. Were they going to get dragged into this mess, too? What if ... No, even edging towards the idea was unbearable.

“Will you stop fidgeting?” Derry sighed. She went back to spreading a pungent salve on Quin’s wound. It was cool, soothing the stinging pain.

Ariston sniffed. He stood a short distance away, apparently listening, or perhaps lost in thought, head down, rubbing his unshaven jaw.

Perhaps he shed his own tears for Dethero. Dev had been a sort of nephew to him. Ariston had owned the pawn shop with Dev’s father, so when he was old enough, he’d joined the business under Ariston’s training. But after Quin had started visiting Dethero late at night, things changed. Ariston had even gone to give the young man a stern warning to leave well alone what he couldn’t afford because he’d “never be worthy of any Guldan woman.” Quin had been furious about the intrusion, but now that was tempered by wonder that Ariston was so protective over her. Perhaps that was how it felt to have a father. Had Derry’s parents given young men similar speeches?

It made her heart ache to think of Dethero or fathers or any of it. She shook her head, as if that would shake off the thoughts.

“I told you, you’ll be a bit fuzzy because of the blood loss.” Derry’s slender fingers probed the side of Quin’s head. “And the knock on the head. It’s just a little bump, not anything to worry about.” She frowned a moment, tilting Quin’s chin, peering into her eyes. “Just tell me if you start feeling sick.”

“Got it,” Quin said, sounding firmer than she felt.

Ariston cleared his throat. “So, what’s in these papers, then?” When he lifted his head, the frown lines were etched more deeply than usual.

“That’s the question.” Taking a deep breath, Quin pulled the folded sheets from her pocket, leaving the box behind.

She hadn’t mentioned that to her friends. Maybe she would have told Derry if Ariston hadn’t been around, but she was uncomfortable about the idea of discussing Dethero’s final gift with them. He had kept it such a secret himself, it felt like a private thing between them. Even if he wasn’t there to share it. What a strange thought. Would she ever get used to it?

She’d open the box later, alone.

For now, she had this. “It’s addressed to his assistant, Edan. No address, but it could easily have reached him at the shop.” She unfolded the document and stared at the lines on the pages, her mind stuttering in its attempts to resolve them into meaning. “A set of designs. For – oh bloody hells.” She swallowed. The jewel-encrusted dagger in the drawing was all too familiar. “Why did Dethero have these?” She handed them first to Ariston, then to Derry.

“Impressive designs.” Ariston nodded appreciatively. A series of sketches showed different views of the hilt design and below that a brief note in different handwriting explaining the colours and cut styles of the fake jewels, as well as giving dimensions for elements of the weapon.

“They had to be bloody good designs,” Quin said before her throat clenched so tight she couldn’t say anything more.

“Oh gods,” Derry said, smoothing out the sheet. “Because they were copying a famous dagger.”

Ariston gasped. “It matches …”

Quin took a sip of the wine Ariston had poured her. “The emerald dagger handed down the Shahin line for generations.” A pang deep in her belly when she thought of Atesh. What was happening to him now? There were honourable janissaries (or so she’d heard), but there were some who used their work as an excuse to let loose their violence and thuggery.

This framing for the assassination was no accident. Judging from the designs, this had been plotted some time in advance.

She clutched her head as it spun with the significance of the designs. How long did it take to forge such a piece? How long had this been planned? There were no dates on the designs.

In those faltering final moments, Dev had said Edan had helped ‘them’ without his knowledge. What had the boy got himself into? And with whom?

“Are you all right?” Derry asked. “You’ve gone very pale. You need to lie down quietly for a while. Read a book. Apothecary’s orders.”

Quin winced. “You mean apothecary-in-training’s orders.”

Derry shrugged. “Well, they’re still my orders. And speaking of my orders …” She frowned and folded her arms. “I told you this whole plan was a bad idea, that you should be careful around Atesh.” She paused and pursed her lips a moment before apparently deciding to speak her mind. “I hate to say it again, but I think you should leave this whole thing alone.” She glanced to Ariston, as if seeking support this time, but he remained silent. “These people have killed twice now and one of those was the Sultana in a ballroom full of people. They wouldn’t think anything of ridding themselves of a nuisance noblewoman, however much of a toast of the town she was.”

Ariston laughed humourlessly. “Come, Derry, you must know Quin well enough by now.” He smiled: Quin couldn’t decide whether it was grim or proud. “She can look after herself and even if she couldn’t, she’d not back down this easily. Not now. After this.” He swallowed and took a long breath. “After all, she’s decided to save the man she was meant to ruin.” One grey-flecked eyebrow raised and Quin squirmed under the weight of his gaze. “At least you will when you hear the news.”

Quin glanced at Derry, but her red brows were still lowered in a frown, blue eyes fixed on Ariston. At least they weren’t arguing. Yet.

Quin raised an eyebrow. “News?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid.” He glanced over the drawing. “A date has been set for the trial.”

“Trial?” But even as she said it, the piece fell into place. “Atesh’s trial.” They still hadn’t realised his innocence. He wasn’t going to be freed.

A trial with a date. That was for real, just like Dethero’s death, and a trial could be just as deadly – after all, the price for murder was execution.

But if she could gather evidence, persuade the janissaries to investigate his innocence … This drawing supported the idea the dagger had been forged. The paste stone she’d seen at the palace made the argument more compelling, but even combined they weren’t definitive proof of Atesh’s innocence.

And this wasn’t just any murder – this was the Sultana’s. The janissaries and the court would require certainty to free him; the mob needed it. A city with an empty throne demanded answers and a man with a question mark over his guilt was a better answer than none at all.

And the answer they needed? The true culprit.

The drawing. Perhaps that could lead her to the real killer. The woman, Mask. Had she killed the Sultana as well as Dethero? Or was she just working for the murderer? Had she merely procured the forged dagger? So many questions, so few answers. How long did she have to find them?

“When?” She bit her lip.

“Monday.”

“Monday? The twelfth?” Just over a week.

Ariston shook his head.

Good. More time, then.

“No, Quin.” He swallowed, gaze skirting away from hers. “The day after tomorrow.”

“The day …” A chill prickled its way down Quin’s back. “So soon?”

“They must think it a lost cause.” Ariston lifted the drawing. “But we have this.”

Quin nodded. “It’s a start.”

“Quin,” Derry said, eyes wide, “no, you can’t – you’re not going to pursue this. It’s madness.”

“Well my mother is in an asylum,” she snapped. A sharp hiss came from Ariston as he sucked in a breath. She’d gone too far. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

“I’m not surprised.” Derry waved at the bowl of pink water. “Look at what it’s done to you already and you’ve barely even started.”

“Derry.” She held up her hands when Derry opened her mouth. “This woman” – she had to stop and grit her teeth for a moment at the thought of her, that she’d kicked Dethero’s body, the casual disregard – “she killed Dev. Killed him. And she’d’ve killed me, gladly. She has something to do with the Sultana’s murder and framing Atesh for it. At the moment, she’s winning and if she goes on winning, we’re in danger.”

“But she doesn’t –”

“Maybe she doesn’t know who we are. Yet. Maybe she does. Either way, I need to keep you two safe – damn it, we need to keep ourselves safe. And the best way to do that is to beat her.”

“We must act.” Ariston nodded, stroking his whiskered cheek. “If we sit back, she takes all the moves.”

“This isn’t a game of chess.” But the angle of Derry’s brows had softened, however harsh the bite in her voice.

“We need evidence.” Quin nodded at the drawings, still in Ariston’s hand. “More evidence. And we need to find out who that woman is. Then we take the information to the janissaries, get Atesh freed, and watch her pay.”

“Are you sure you –”

“Please. Don’t waste your breath arguing. Derry” – she placed her hands on her friend’s cheeks, staring into her cool blue eyes – “I must do this. If nothing else, I need to do it for Dev.” Just saying his name was a fresh blow, opening her grief all over again like a wound not yet healed. Surely her chest was going to burst. She held her breath until it passed.

She released Derry’s face. “I have a plan, but for now, I just need to lie down.” She lay back on the chaise longue, sighing.

“Fine, you rest,” Derry said, holding out a book she’d pulled from a shelf. “I – I know we need to do this. That woman’s dangerous and …” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “And I know Atesh doesn’t deserve this punishment. But we need to be smart about this and careful. When you’re feeling better, we’re discussing this next plan of yours, and this time we’re discussing it before you put it into action.”

“Of course.” Quin patted Derry’s hand before taking the book – an old tome of fairy tales she’d read several times. A comforting book. “I’ll have to discuss it with you before, anyway – you’re helping me with it.”

Derry made a strangled sound, but Ariston cut her off. “Let’s leave the woman in peace; she’s been through enough for today.” They walked across the room, footsteps soft. Ariston paused holding the door open for Derry. “I’ll put these designs somewhere safe and I’ll bring you some tea later. Come find us, if you do need company, right?”

“Got it,” Quin said, opening the book, “and thank you.”

“It’s a shame the designs are unsigned,” Derry said, walking out.

“There are still ways,” he said before the door clicked shut.

Quin took a few deep breaths, listening to the fading murmur of conversation. She was alone, but the presence of the box still in her coat pocket was almost palpable, even from a few feet away. It drew her thoughts and made her anxious, though she couldn’t explain why.

For a long while, she stared at the grey coat. Why had Dethero saved a gift for her? How long had he been keeping hold of it? What had he been saving it for?

Her vision blurred: she would never get the answers to these questions now. She would never know. She would never be able to tease or be teased by the man with a wicked grin. No more sly winks from deep blue eyes. No more late debates on the finer points of wealth redistribution, as they referred to Quin’s work. No more of that familiar ease between one-time-lovers and old friends.

A sick twisting in her stomach: this gift was the last surprise Dethero would ever give.

She sat up and pushed loose hair back, wincing at the bump before giving up and untying it from the braid she had worn all day. She reached for the box then thought better of it – if this would be one of the last echoes of Dethero’s life, it needed more ceremony. Bending over the low coffee table, she ran her hands over it sweeping away any dust or dirt.

She fetched the long, flat box from her coat pocket, and returned to her seat.

Turning it over in her hands, she stared at it a long while. It wasn’t particularly light, or heavy. The box was well-made, with small, but sturdy hinges holding the lid in place. It was hard and would protect anything inside, though the outside was velvet, as grey and soft as cygnet down.

It was a beautiful object in its own right. One Dev must have had made for her. She traced the letter Q on the lid. He’d gone to too much trouble. Far too much. He should have spent the time and money on better locks and a stronger door.

With a thud, she put the box on the table, glaring at it. This meant too much. She didn’t want it, whatever it was. That he’d done this meant – what? That he loved her, wanted her back? She’d made it clear that wasn’t possible. He understood that. Or he’d said he did. She’d never have flirted with him, if she’d known he wanted more than a friendship with occasional … extras.

Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe this was just a gift between friends. Maybe he’d got it ready for her birthday.

But that was the thing – she’d never know. She’d never be able to ask and she’d never get an answer.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and ran a hand over her face, fresh weariness breaking over her and dragging her under like a wave. It would’ve been easier to be angry at him. Instead she had to be thankful, curious, confused, and so horribly sad it threatened to cut off her breath.

“Damn you, Dethero.”

She slid off the chaise lounge to sit cross-legged on the floor before the coffee table. Steeling herself, she took a breath and opened the lid. Inside was a package wrapped in yet more velvet, matching the box.

It was so bloody like him to drag out the surprise.

Swallowing, she pulled back the cloth to reveal a fan in that same pale grey. But to simply call it a fan did it no justice. The wide guard sticks were carved in sinuous s-curves and swirls that took plant and shell shapes from the natural world and captured them in stylised perfection.

She touched the fan with shaking hands and found it cold – not wood or tortoise shell or mother of pearl, but enamelled metal.

She frowned. Why would someone go to the trouble to make a fan from metal (something she had never seen before) and then disguise it by making it look like lacquered wood? The fan was heavier than usual, when she lifted it, but not so much to make it cumbersome.

A low gasp fell from her lips when she opened it, for the work inside was even more exquisite. The sticks continued the curves of the guard sticks, introducing colour in the form of translucent turquoise enamel that allowed the metal to glint through. The leaf of the fan was a fine, but stiff fabric painted with a motif of dusky pink roses tied with a large bow also in turquoise, which flowed into a stylised border. She wondered if the roses were a coincidence or a reference to her true surname, Guldan, of the rose. The flowers weren’t shown in painstaking detail, but rather were suggested through clever brushstrokes, elegant in their simplicity. A close look revealed tiny thorns on the stalks.

Quin shook her head at the work and beauty of the object. How had Dethero got his hands on it? It looked new, but Quin knew nowhere that such an object could be bought. Perhaps it had been imported or commissioned, but either way it must have cost a small fortune or a great favour.

She was unworthy of such a gift, especially after arguing with Dev the last time she had seen him.

As she folded the fan, it slid a little past closed and began to open in the opposite direction. She gasped and nearly dropped it. Damn, had she broken it by being too rough?

Gulping, she checked for damage. The hinge gave a satisfying click at the closed point then turned anti-clockwise as readily as it had turned clockwise.

She raised her eyebrows. “What’s this?” She continued to open the fan anti-clockwise. Perhaps it was designed so it could be used as readily in the left hand as the right, allowing the thumb to sit comfortably over the front guard stick.

But as she slowly opened the fan, it gave a quiet metallic scrape, a mechanical sound, and there was the slight grind of movement somewhere inside. Still, it gave no resistance to suggest she was doing damage.

“Oh!”

That was the source of all the sound.

At the tips of the fan, along each stick, a sliver of metal started to appear.

“What the –”

When the fan opened fully, finely honed steel glinted in 14 blades, just a quarter of an inch long. They sat at a low angle, giving the fan a sharp edge. Quin had heard of bladed fans, but as some sort of distant legend, never as a reality.

She tested one of the blades and swore. She had barely touched it, but her finger now bled with a wicked cut. The edges were razor sharp.

Peering at the leaf, she worried that blood from using the weapon would damage the fabric and carefully-applied paint. It seemed to be covered in a thin, flexible varnish, so perhaps that gave protection. A droplet of wine rolled off, leaving the motif and fabric clean and dry. Sure enough, the same happened with her own crimson blood when she tested it.

With a sigh, she passed her hands over her eyes, shaking her head at the marvellous fan, so cleverly wrought by gods knew who and so perfectly chosen by Dethero. It gleamed as she closed it again, placing it on the table.

There was no better object she could wish for, yet she would gladly return it for his life.

“Oh Dethero, I don’t deserve this.” The image of him in her head glowered at the comment, the same look he’d worn that day they’d argued about Edan’s whereabouts. No wonder he had been touchy about the subject – he must have only discovered the boy’s side project in the day or two before her visit. The weight of the designs must have been oppressive with the city in mourning, janissaries on guard, and that piece of evidence hidden in his office. Maybe he hadn’t realised the link to the Sultana’s murder right away …

She shook her head. If only he’d spoken to her about it. She could have taken the designs off his hands, kept them somewhere safe. But then, Mask and Large would still have shown up at his shop. They’d still have lashed out when they couldn’t find the designs. It wouldn’t have saved him.

Quin sighed, head drooping. Something else in the bottom of the box caught her eye. A small, folded piece of paper. Perhaps a note about the maker?

But when she opened it, she found Dethero’s plain hand. The note simply said:

For the thorned rose, a bladed fan.

The roses were no coincidence. He must have had the fan made especially for her.

Quin ran a hand over her face and gave a brief laugh. “Damn you, you bloody …” but her words melted into sobs.

She didn’t deserve this gift, the attention, the thoughtfulness. Dethero hadn’t deserved to die like that. And Atesh didn’t deserve to be framed for a crime he didn’t commit.

There was one way she could pay Dethero back and the same key might just help Atesh. She had to find out who’d killed the Sultana.

22

Card & Crime

The next day Imperiosa Darmuk, a most esteemed Pasha, emerged from a brougham outside the Fortress of the Seven Towers.

The near-white stone base for the janissaries of Arianople was a later addition to the city’s ancient fortified walls. The fortress jutted into the city, its crenelated ramparts some forty feet above the road. This was where prisoners of import were kept. Prisoners like Atesh.

As its name suggested, seven towers of different shapes punctuated the citadel. Just left of the entrance was the nearest – an octagonal shape, rising pale grey and shadowed on this northern side.

At this time in the morning, the gates were open. They were almost pretty with their patterns made of overlapping straight lines creating stars, triangles, squares, octagons, and other irregular shapes. Except those patterns were made of iron strapping whose express purpose was to protect against attack. The gates were so reinforced more iron was visible than timber.

It was said once anyone other than a janissary passed through, they were never seen again.

Of course, it wasn’t true. Mostly.

Quin swallowed. She’d be fine: her disguise was the perfect armour. Her black hair was quite perfectly coiffured, piled on top of her head in swirls and curls, topped with a miniature tricorne hat. Her gown swept with just the right amount of trim for daytime wear. A parasol opened to guard her delicate gaze from the glare of the sun. A close inspection might reveal she wore perhaps a touch more glittering diamond jewellery than was appropriate and her eyes seemed a little puffy, but no one could be in any doubt this was a gentlewoman of the highest quality.

Her maid wore black to best display her pallor. She stood to the side while the driver helped the Pasha from the brougham to the open gateway.

“Are you sure about this, Quin?” Derry whispered.

Quin gave a curt nod. “Quite.”

Derry sighed, and Quin was sure she was biting her tongue. Doubts or none, this venture had to go on.

Clinging to that thought, Quin drew a long breath, pushed her grief to one side, and strode into the den of the janissaries.

The entrance wasn’t as grand as she’d expected. Dark, chilly, some sixteen feet across, and perhaps fifty feet long. It was hard to gauge the distance to the arch of daylight ahead. Under their feet the simple flagstones were scrubbed clean. Lamps hung on the walls, their flames burning low and orange, fighting a losing battle against the gloom.

They were beneath the fortress walls. The crushing weight of stone and age and law made Quin swallow, toes scrunching in the ends of her shoes. She exchanged a glance with Derry, who was chewing her bottom lip. She wasn’t alone in her discomfort, but they had quite the show to put on if they were going to gain an audience with Atesh.

They ventured on and found an iron grille to the left. Behind it was an office where a young man staffed a counter, swinging back on a chair, feet on the desk, and hands behind his head. He looked up as they stepped into the pool of light, eyes widening. The back legs of the chair teetered for painful seconds before he managed to right himself and scrabble to his feet.

“Miss?” he said, managing a sketchy bow.

“Miss?” Derry spluttered. “Miss!” She strode to the counter, shaking her head at the poor man. “Don’t you know who this is?” She rolled her eyes and rushed back to Quin. “My apologies, madam, I hate seeing you in such a place as this. Are you sure you won’t leave and let me deal with this unpleasantness?”

“No, no, I’m quite sure this must be done, however disagreeable.” Quin made a great show of drawing herself up to face the horrors of the place. “Now then, young man.” She approached the counter and rapped on the grille with the handle of her parasol. “Come out from behind there and speak to me in the correct manner!” The Pasha’s voice projected around the cavernous entranceway.

“Er – I – I’m sorry, madam. I’m under strict instructions to man this desk until relieved.”

The steel-tipped parasol slammed into the floor, echoing in the dark. “Do you dare to question me? And address me without so much as an introduction?” Quin shook her head. “Such behaviour! It shall not be tolerated. Do I need to summon your superior officers here?”

Her own behaviour was abominable, but a necessary evil. She needed to see Atesh. He hadn’t replied to the two brief messages she’d sent. She didn’t even know if he’d received them. Perhaps the janissaries were withholding his letters or perhaps he wasn’t able to reply. The things she’d heard happen in the fortress … What if they’d broken his fingers? Those long, strong fingers. Painter’s fingers. Surely they wouldn’t harm a Pasha who hadn’t even been proven guilty yet.

They would.

She shook away the thought, blinking at the janissary. Raising an eyebrow, she cocked her head at him – back in character.

He stared at her, sweat sheening his brow. “No – I mean, no, madam.” He rushed out to stand before Quin, bowing even more deeply. “My apologies, madam. I am Constable Yusuf, at your service madam.” Another bow.

“Good, good.” Quin smiled and Yusuf visibly swelled with pleasure. “Now then” – she nodded at Derry – “if you would make the arrangements.”

Derry motioned for the constable to join her a suitable distance from the supposed-Pasha. “My mistress,” she began in hushed tones, “is the Pasha Imperiosa Darmuk.” Yusuf nodded with enthusiasm. “I’m glad the name means something to you. Perhaps now you understand how uncouth your previous behaviour was. Despite your failure in etiquette, you find yourself in the fortunate position of being able to right that wrong by helping the Pasha in a most distressing matter.”

The young constable glanced at Quin, wringing his hands. “How, exactly?”

“Much as it pains my lady, she is distantly related to a current – ahem – guest of yours. She utterly disapproves of his most heinous crime but wishes to speak with him so that she might tell him exactly what she thinks of him and ensure he understands he is quite utterly removed from her family now and for all time.”

“A prisoner? Of ours?” Yusuf frowned, clearly unable to associate the grand Pasha with the usual denizens of the station.

Derry nodded and lowered her voice. “That damned Atesh Shahin Pasha.”

He gasped. “Oh no.” He lifted his hands as if to ward her off. “That’s not possible.” He shook his head, eyes wide. “He’s not to have visitors without prior agreement from the Agha.”

“You would deny me?” Quin blustered over, brandishing the parasol. “It is the Sultan’s desire that I should see this murderer and disown him from my family line. Would you deny the Sultan’s express wishes?”

Yusuf’s face turned ashen. “The – the Sultan wishes it?”

“Would I say it if it weren’t true? Are you now suggesting I’m a liar, boy?” Quin rapped her parasol on the ground again and took two steps toward the exit. “That’s it, I am going to fetch a decree from the Sultan himself.” She stopped and spun on her heel. “And don’t you think I won’t tell him of this outrage. He will be hearing all the details of this shameful experience and I will ensure he knows that none from this fortress would let me see my cousin, despite it being the Sultan’s desire!” She spun again and took another step.

“Madam,” a smooth voice echoed around the entrance, “is there a problem?”

She turned slowly. Another janissary had been summoned by the noise. This man was older and had bronze buttons. Much higher ranking. Possibly a tougher target, but one more likely to be able to bend the rules. Quin lifted her chin. “Yes, there most certainly is a problem, Colonel. Your constable here has called me a liar and refuses to help me.”

She held her breath while Yusuf shuffled behind the counter with the colonel, speaking in hushed tones. The older man shook his head several times in the telling and finally hissed something back at Yusuf, pointing at the chair and leaving the younger man sitting in it, contemplating the ground.

“Madam,” he said, stepping back from behind the grille and bowing. “I must beg your pardon for the constable’s behaviour. He’s not used to dealing with gentlewomen of such quality as your excellent self.”

“Well, I suppose he wouldn’t be.” She arched her eyebrows.

“The poor fellow’s so keen to do his job, he doesn’t understand when to make exceptions to the rules.” He gave an apologetic smile. “We have told him not to let anyone without permission in, but of course, madam, you are not just anyone.”

“So good of you to notice.” Quin lowered her parasol, brandishing it less like a weapon now. “I’m glad someone in this place understands, Colonel –?”

The officer bowed with rather more grace than his younger colleague. “Colonel Orhan, madam. If you would like to accompany me” – he gestured ahead – “I will take you to your relative.”

Quin graced him with a nod and walked at his side, Derry to her left, half a pace behind.

“I am sure madam will find the rest of her visit more agreeable and if madam should happen to speak to the Sultan, she will remember the respect she was shown.”

Quin smiled benignly, and Derry replied: “And I am sure the Colonel understands this meeting requires the utmost discretion.” She cleared her throat. “My mistress must have privacy with this vile criminal to discuss matters concerning their family. It would not do for strangers to hear their words and begin wagging their tongues about the business of their betters.”

Orhan glanced over his shoulder to Derry, to Quin, then back to Derry again. Quin lifted her chin, staring straight ahead as if she were above such a crass topic of conversation.

Don’t let him deny the request. Please, gods.

Eventually he nodded. “I quite understand – our great families must be allowed their privacy. The Hundred know there’s enough gossip spread about them in the newspapers.” He rolled his eyes. “I’d not be a part of that. Madam, you can be assured of absolute privacy.”

Quin murmured her thanks as she stepped outside, squinting against the sudden brightness.

The air was thick with male voices, the clatter of work, and the smells of wood smoke, baking bread, and warm bodies living close together, undercut by the faint muskiness of sabrecats.

When she could open her eyes again, Quin grimaced. Sometimes ignorance was better. She’d only seen this many janissaries at major events in Kediler Square and then they were diluted by crowds of civilians. Here, she was surrounded by green jackets in all directions. And where there wasn’t a green jacket, there was stone, unyielding and ancient.

Janissaries ahead, striding along the path. More to the right, working in the stables, cleaning plain black coaches and grooming sabrecats of all colours. Ahead, a low timber building, green peeking out to the left – a kitchen garden perhaps. It made sense for the janissaries to be able to feed the garrison from within the walls, if they could. Another low building stood to the left, blocking the view of the greenery – this one was stone and belched out smoke from a copse of chimneys. The kitchens, most likely.

Surrounding it all, the crenelated walls of the fortress rose, a tower at each of its five points. The final two towers peeked above the buildings dotting the yard, marking the Golden Gate, once the triumphal entrance of the city.

A shout ahead and to the right made Quin pause, mid-step. Beyond the stables, a young man stumbled from behind a large oak tree. Quin’s body tensed, but she forced her instincts steady. She was here to play a part and get to Atesh.

A club fell at the young man’s side. Another man, taller, pulled the first to his feet, laughing and shaking his head. They were sparring. Quin puffed out a breath.

She could just make out parts of the open space they returned to. A pair of janissaries jogged around the edge, others fought with clubs, bare hands, or yatagans. Quin watched their slashing technique. Yatagans, with their recurve, single-edged blades, weren’t seen outside of janissaries’ hands – rapiers were the sword of choice amongst civilians – and she’d never seen a fight between two people wielding them.

“Madam?” The colonel paused and followed Quin’s gaze. “Ah, I’m sorry if the men startled you. Please, this way.” He gestured to the left, where a walkway passed between a pair of two-storey buildings. “It’s a bit quieter.” With their wide windows and smooth render, the structures must have been more recent additions than the others within the fortress. Offices, perhaps.

The fortress walls rose directly ahead, a crude staircase leading to the ramparts. But that wasn’t their route – at the base, they turned right, directly towards a circular tower. That one had a name – she wasn’t sure if it was official or a nickname, but she knew it as the Dungeon Tower. There, aristos caught in their political machinations discovered the full displeasure of the Tulip Throne and it was said more than one Venetian ambassador had been tortured to death within its curved walls.

Quin shivered and looked away. Along the wall, far to the left, she could make out the large octagonal tower by the entrance, this side a warm, pale grey in the sunlight. Hopefully she’d never have to use it but having a mental image of the layout of this place might one day prove useful.

Walking beside the colonel, Quin’s neck prickled – they were approaching the entrance of the Dungeon Tower. Sure enough, the colonel nodded to a janissary stationed there who opened the door, too professional to do anything more than glance at Quin and Derry, even though the curiosity must have burned in his throat. The men shared a few quiet words before the guard handed the colonel a ring of keys.

They were keeping Atesh in here? Why hadn’t she paid more attention to the history books Mum had made her read? They would’ve said whether anyone had ever made it out of the place once imprisoned there. Quin pursed her lips. She couldn’t remember.

They walked at least 16 feet through the narrow entrance hall and again Quin couldn’t shake the feeling of stone surrounding her, heavy on her shoulders, claustrophobic, making her breaths that bit quicker.

When they emerged, it was into a circular room that must have been almost twice as wide as the walls were thick. Here, the stone had been plastered and painted white. At the centre stood a massive oak pillar, some three feet across, with great beams radiating from it and joining others angled along the walls, all working together to hold up the floors above. Chairs surrounded a table this side of the pillar, and other cabinets and chests dotted the room.

“I’m afraid there’s a slight climb, madam.” The colonel nodded in an almost-bow before leading them through another door and to a spiral staircase. Thank the gods, it only led up – steps down would have meant a dank cellar like every dungeon in every adventure story she’d ever read.

At first he spoke, explaining that they kept important prisoners in this tower, including the Sultana’s great uncle back when he’d disobeyed the Sultana Valide’s decree banning the harem, but as they ascended, passing shut doors, his words became fewer and his breathing louder.

Quin and Derry were also panting by the time they reached the seventh floor. Quin’s face was flushed, her armpits damp. Thankfully, the stone walls kept the air cool.

When he’d caught his breath, the colonel dabbed his brow and opened a door off the staircase. “Almost there.” He led the way into a long corridor that stretched the full width of the tower. There was one door on either side, both banded with iron and featuring a small shutter at eye-height (for an average man, at least).

The colonel stopped by the right-hand door. As he jangled through the keys, Quin and Derry shared a glance behind him. Derry gave a tight smile. They’d done it – got a legitimate meeting with Atesh away from the prying eyes and ears of his guards. Despite this brief taste of success, Quin’s mouth was full of dust.

How would Atesh be? Gods, let the janissaries have left his artist’s fingers – all of him – alone.

Would he think to control his reaction at seeing her rather than his Imperiosa? What would his reaction to her be? She pictured him as she’d last seen him, face pale in the gloom, being carried away by janissaries.

Quin closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Focus. She shifted her face to a scowl suited to a lady come to disown a murderer. Back straight and lips pursed, she converted her anxiety into the appearance of haughty impatience.

“Just a moment, madam,” Colonel Orhan said as he opened the door, and then disappeared behind it. “Sir – uh – your relative is here.” It was the first time she’d heard the colonel sound unsure. She couldn’t blame him – what did you call a pasha who’d been arrested for murdering the Sultana, after all? That one wasn’t in the etiquette books. “If you try anything, I’ll be at the end of this corridor. One cousin is bad enough; let’s not make it two, eh?”

Quin glanced at Derry, biting her lip, mask slipping for a moment.

“He’ll be fine,” Derry mimed back.

The Pasha’s expression was back just as Colonel Orhan returned. “Through here, madam. If you have any problems with him, just call. At your call, I’ll be in here with a dozen guards.”

Quin looked along the corridor’s length – there weren’t a dozen guards in there ready to spring into the cell, but he likely meant that exaggeration as reassurance to a lady about to be left alone with someone who was, as far as they were concerned, a dangerous killer.

“You are good, Colonel,” she said, condescending him with a smile. “That is such a comfort to hear. My servant will wait here with you. Much as I trust her, this is a family matter.”

Derry opened her mouth for a moment, but clamped it shut before the Colonel could see. He nodded to Quin and stepped to one side, gesturing to the open door.

Heart in her throat, she stepped through.

Quin fought to keep her expression fixed at the sight of Atesh. He stood below the only window in the room, the high-level light coming from behind cast his face in half-shadow. Even so, it wasn’t hard to spot the dark bruises circling his eyes, making his bronze skin look pale and sallow in comparison. His bottom lip had swollen around a small cut.

They hadn’t left him alone. Quin swallowed down the sorrow, the pity, the anger that all threatened to erupt. The door behind her still stood open.

Atesh’s brows shot up. For a moment his eyes widened then he opened his mouth as if to speak.

“There you are, distant cousin,” Quin said before he could get any words out, giving him a meaningful look as she raised a hand, “though I am loath to call you such. We have family matters to attend to before you are disowned and cast out by us all.” She turned to call. “Thank you, Colonel. I shan’t be too long with him.”

The door closed and footsteps faded along the corridor.

There was no handle on the inside. That small detail made the panic rise hot and suffocating in her chest. She’d known on an intellectual level that prisons were for keeping people in, it’s just she’d never been the one being kept in before. She was only visiting, but the urge to batter on the door almost overwhelmed her for a moment – it was only clenching her fists until they ached that stopped her succumbing.

She forced a slow breath in and a slow breath out.

This was why Derry so feared their getting involved with the investigation. In their work, they risked arrest, but they’d done it so many times, planned so carefully, and had so many tactics to keep themselves safe, it was a dim and distant likelihood.

Helping Atesh, though, put them right under the noses of the janissaries. It lifted their heads above the parapets. It was a new and unusual and unprepared course. It risked that much more and the risk felt that much more raw. No wonder she’d fought so vehemently against Ariston that day in the kitchen. She must have been terrified.

And how must Atesh feel now?

She swallowed and turned to face him.

Jaw set, he stared back at her. The flatness of his mouth, the crease between his brows. Anger, unmistakeable. His gaze shifted from her intricate hairstyle and the small hat perched on top, to the face beneath. “Impersonating Imperiosa?” He shook his head and looked her up and down. “When he said cousin, I expected Malos. Why would you – have you any idea what they’d do if they found out? What in all the hells are you doing here?”

Quin opened her mouth and closed it again. She’d planned questions for how he was, what he knew, what the janissaries knew. Him asking about her – that she hadn’t planned for.

But answers could wait: Atesh swayed on his feet. She rushed to take his elbow and help him to a chair she’d dimly registered in the room.

“Don’t.” He brushed her away and shook his head, jaw tight. “After what you’ve done, I want you nowhere near me.”

“What I’ve –”

Of course. She’d failed him. She’d chased, but hadn’t caught the killer and, potentially, she’d led the janissaries straight to him. An apology wasn’t going to be enough. She swallowed. “Please sit, at least. You look …” She trailed off – he was even paler close-up, his eyes hollow. Not quite broken, but close.

Her throat closed and for a moment she couldn’t breathe past those emotions, back again and battling to escape. What had they done to him? Who had done it? If she got her hands on them …

Anger was easier.

Fear, sorrow, those things might break her right now, but anger fortified her. Its heat seared, tempered her into something stronger, like Ariston had told her they did when forging blades.

“That bad, eh?” He gave a small, bitter smile, but sat.

“Do you need me to send a doctor?” She bent over him, peering at his face from all angles. Sickness bubbled in her belly when she found red finger marks on his throat and another cut on his cheek.

He swatted her hand away. “It’s just a few bruises. They know I’ve got to go to trial, so they can’t hurt me too much. Justice must be seen to be done.” His mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “Not that you’d care about such a thing.”

Quin bit her tongue against the desire to snap back – Colonel Orhan might think she was calling for him if he heard raised voices. “Look,” she said, taking a seat on the simple wooden chair by the desk, “I tried. All right? I tried, Atesh and I –”

“And you’re still insisting on calling me that? The audacity! You have lost that privilege, madam.”

“Madam?” So formal. Back to acquaintances that easily. She had to be patient – he was locked in this place and he’d been beaten how many times? But she couldn’t just leave it. “Now, that’s a little unfair. I tried to –”

“Unfair?” His laugh was mirthless. “Indeed, madam, you are the wronged party here. And here I was thinking I was the one facing hanging for a crime I didn’t commit. I should call him back in here and have you arrested.”

For impersonating a pasha? Quin shifted in her seat, glancing at the door – if he called, they’d be in here swiftly and she had no escape route. “Wait, now, that’s a bit –”

“But I won’t, because it won’t help me.” He folded his arms, a barrier almost as formidable as the fortress’s walls. “You and your accomplices have seen to it that the evidence is quite overwhelming.”

“Accomplices?” He didn’t mean Derry and Ariston. Sinking back against the simple wooden chair, she closed her eyes a moment. “I thought you were angry because I didn’t catch him, but that’s not the reason, is it? I don’t understand, Atesh.” His glower deepened when she said his name, but damn it, she’d earned the right to call him that. “I tried to catch him. And I told them it wasn’t you and they all but laughed me out of the palace. But I tried, despite the risk to myself. I damn well raced across that ballroom, through the gardens, the olive grove, and I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough and I’m sorry that by the time I reached you he’d gone. But I did my best and you’re still not happy. What must I –”

“You chased him?” His hand raised, palm outward. His green eyes were on her, narrowed. “Just to be sure I understand you correctly. When you say ‘him’, you mean whom?”

“The assassin.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And you’re here. In disguise.” He looked her outfit up and down again and shook his head with a snort. “You’ve lied your way into the Fortress of the Seven Towers.” He frowned at the desk, thoughtful this time, rather than furious. “That’s quite a risk.”

Quin couldn’t take her gaze from him. What was he thinking behind that furrowed brow?

When he spoke again, his voice had grown very soft: “So you didn’t help frame me.”

“What?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “That’s what you – no! Of course not.” No wonder he’d been so angry. How could he really think that of her?

But, then again, he knew she had secrets. He knew she was no ordinary gentlewoman. He’d seen her skills with blade and sabrecat. Was it really such a great leap to think she might be an assassin or at least in league with them?

“Atesh,” she said softly, “I would never do that to you.” She wanted to say she’d never betray him, but the words stuck in her throat, making her want to vomit. Instead she drew her chair closer to the desk and explained how close she’d been to the murder and had given desperate chase.

“So, you saw him do it?” His jade eyes shone with an intensity that caught her breath. “You saw it wasn’t me?”

Quin nodded. “I know you didn’t do it, Atesh.”

He laughed, face in his hands. “Then you’re the only one in this damned city who does. Even my attorney has abandoned me, sending his assistant who” – Atesh’s jaw clenched – “who is the most useless creature that ever existed and is quite convinced of my guilt.”

“He doesn’t believe you?” Quin grimaced. There was no hope for Atesh’s trial if even his own counsel thought him guilty.

“He thinks my best hope is to be executed in the most comfortable way possible.”

It was Quin’s turn to sway as she dropped back against the seat. “Execution? Is there no other option? What about exile?” Wasn’t that what they did to the rich when they strayed too far?

Atesh shook his head. “This isn’t a death at a duel. Execution is the only punishment for killing –” His voice cracked on the words and he took a long breath.

Quin’s chest ached. He wasn’t only here facing his own possible death, he’d also lost his cousin. Zeynab might be just the Sultana to Quin, but she and Atesh had grown up together. They were practically siblings. She reached across the table to rest her hand on his.

He held her fingertips, grip light, and inhaled again. “I don’t see there’s any escape from it. All the janissaries think I’m guilty. Hells, all the city thinks it. There isn’t any evidence of my innocence. I don’t even think they’re bothering to investigate. After all” – another twisted grin – “everyone saw me do it.”

“Not everyone.” Quin gave him a stern look. “I saw through his illusion and when the Sultana took his Card, he was just wearing a red suit and a mask, not your costume at all. It was only a few seconds, but the number of people there – someone else had to have spotted that. And as for evidence ...”

Quin swallowed. Dethero. She couldn’t speak past the grief crushing her throat. Those designs were evidence. What could she safely tell Atesh?

It must have shown on her face, because Atesh squeezed her fingers and tilted his head, query and concern in the gentle lowering of his brows. His care was a comfort. Even in the middle of this, he was concerned for her.

He didn’t need her sorrow on top of his own. She took a long breath and smiled. “Well,” she said, “I wouldn’t be so sure there is none. But let’s start from the beginning; I don’t think we have long.” She ignored the bleak chuckle he gave at that. “What’s happened to you in here, have you heard anything useful or noticed anything strange? Someone is responsible for all this and there must be some clue about them.”

He gave her a long and thoughtful frown, before finally responding. “From the beginning ... well ...” He ticked off points on his fingers as he went. “My Deck went missing at some point that night. When I was arrested, they took out all my belongings from my pockets, but my Cards weren’t there.” He sighed. “I’ve seen nothing of them since and the janissaries don’t seem very interested. They are, however, quite attentive to my wellbeing, as you can see.” He gestured at his face. “There are two who are particularly generous with their special treatment. Mert and Top.”

Quin scowled. They’d both been so charming when Porto had interviewed her. She would happily make their lives more difficult, if she could.

His bleak humour made her stomach churn. It was as if he’d given up and that was the only thing that would carry him through to this hanging his attorney thought so inevitable.

Well, it bloody well wasn’t inevitable. She’d give him hope.

“You know them?” he said.

She didn’t want to talk about them or hear what they’d done to him. It was too much. But he’d raised it again, so he clearly wanted to talk about it. After all, who else could he speak to about this place? He was locked up here on his own. Even if he was allowed visitors, there couldn’t be many who wanted to see him. He needed this.

“A little,” she said. “They were present when I was questioned.”

Atesh shook his head. “The one with the scar on his top lip is the worst.” His gaze grew distant. “It always stands out really pale against his smile, which he always wears when he’s carrying out his work. There’s one who loves his job.” He gave a soft snort.

The knot of nausea tightened in her belly and she had to look away. The gallows humour made it so much worse.

She must have stayed quiet a long while, because it made her jump when Atesh spoke up again. “You know, it’s funny that you’re here in the middle of all this, so sure of my innocence and yet unable to help. I think I had a message about you.” He calmly watched her.

“A message?” A trickle of sweat ran down the back of her neck. “About me? From who?”

He frowned and cocked his head. “Don’t you mean ‘whom’?”

Quin said nothing. She’d had grammar lessons with her mother, but no one said ‘whom’ on the Gutter Streets. It had been a hard habit to shake, and now her fears for Atesh and herself had made the mask slip again. Only by a fraction, but these slips were adding up and he seemed to have glimpsed every one.

It was no comfort that he might be hanged before he could piece it all together.

“I know it’s no time for grammar,” he went on, “but this is it – I said I wouldn’t ask, but all these little things about you just don’t quite add up. And now I must place my life in your hands, when I don’t even know if you can be trusted.”

Feeling sick to say it didn’t stop her: “Trust me, Atesh.”

Trust me, I’ll make you love me, then I’ll rob you blind.

“Trust you?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I have a choice. As for this message – you remember our picnic?”

“I don’t generally forget almost being trampled to death by an enraged elephant.”

“As I recall, you kept yourself and the rest of us quite safe. Undoubtedly, it would have ended badly for everyone involved if you hadn’t been there.” He frowned and stared at her again in that way that made her fidget. “Another thing that doesn’t add up.” With a shake of his head he went on. “But that’s a puzzle for another time. That poor messenger carried a note telling me to return to the city post haste, to pack up my townhouse, and return to my country estate.”

He’d been told to leave. Hundred, why hadn’t he listened? “If you’d done that you wouldn’t be here now.”

“True, but I also wouldn’t have enjoyed a rather interesting dance at the masquerade ball with, ironically, a janissary-lady.” Again, that pointed look. “And if I’m going to hang, that’s an experience I’ll be glad to have had.”

“You’re not going to hang,” Quin muttered, but Atesh waved her protestations away. “Who was the note from?”

“That’s the strange thing. It was from a fortune teller – the one in the Tower of the Card, Suheyla. She warned that the festival would bring me … How did she phrase it? Oh yes, ‘mortal danger’ and ‘a double-edged love’.” Above the blue bruises, Atesh’s eyebrows rose. “You wouldn’t know anything about the latter, would you, because the former of those predictions has become quite clear?”

The fortune teller. So, she was still here. She wasn’t as popular as she’d been a decade or two ago – no one had even mentioned her at any of the balls and parties Quin had attended. Perhaps they simply kept their visits secret. It was said she knew all that happened and would happen in Arianople. More likely, she had spies amongst the servants and common folk, perhaps even amongst her wealthier patrons. A clever person with enough information could predict many of the comings and goings of a city. Had she predicted the Sultana’s murder and did she have any information about who’d done it?

A long time ago Livia had told her of a game they played at court where the fortune teller would ‘read’ a piece of jewellery and identify the owner. Most likely, she’d seen the person wearing it and had simply shammed the act of ‘reading’ it with some clever theatrics.

It didn’t matter where the information came from – if the fortune teller could help prove Atesh’s innocence, then a visit to her would be worthwhile. If she’d sent a warning to Atesh, perhaps she knew he was innocent or was at least sympathetic.

She drew a long breath and nodded. “So that’s what they were trying to keep from you.” Someone else didn’t want him heeding the warning and leaving Arianople before they framed him. At Atesh’s querying look, Quin bit her lip. “Look, I found something that day – there was a dart stuck in the elephant’s flank.” She briefly explained about the poison and her conclusions.

“It was no accident, then?” Atesh pursed his lips. “No, I suppose not. And I suppose I don’t have time to question you about how you know all this.”

Quin smiled back at him. “I’m afraid not. But I must ask before I go – you said your Deck went missing. Do you know what happened to the Card the Sultana took from the killer?”

“The janissaries have it,” Atesh said. “I heard someone mention it’s with their evidence, so I suppose it’s locked up somewhere in this place.” He smiled bleakly. “I wouldn’t hold out any hope on that front, they’ve assumed it’s mine and they’re not looking any further into the matter.”

They weren’t looking into it? Quin frowned. Then there’d be no point in taking the designs for the forged Shahin Dagger to them, either. Just as they’d dismissed her during questioning after the masquerade, they’d dismiss the designs. She could hear it now: They prove nothing. You could have drawn these yourself this morning, for all we know.

As for the Card, the true killer had been smart in covering their tracks. “That’s why someone took your Deck.”

Atesh grunted in agreement. “I’d thought much the same – if they looked through my Cards, they’d see I already had the Eunuch in there.”

“The Eunuch?” Quin frowned. “That’s the Card the assassin used?” That Card had no relation to disguise or illusion; normally someone would use a Card like Lady Deception for that.

“I’ve been puzzling over that myself.” His hands spread in an expansive gesture and his mouth cracked in a faint grin. “Well, I’ve had plenty of time. I think he used the Eunuch not because it related to the effect he wanted to achieve, but because it related to his motives.”

Quin frowned, thinking of the Eunuch. She didn’t have one in her Deck, so it wasn’t so familiar to her. “Have you seen what this person’s version of the Card looks like?”

“Briefly.” He nodded. “A tall, fleshy man, handsome and smooth-faced, singing. As he sings, he passes a note behind a man’s back to a Sultan.”

“You saw all that from a brief look?”

“I’m a painter. I observe.” He shrugged. “Oh, and through the window behind them, a storm gathers.”

Quin snorted. “They’ve certainly created a storm.” She shook her head. “So, a eunuch singing – castrati they call them in Venetia.”

“More slaves.”

“Prized ones at that. So, a person owned, on display. A note – some sort of secrecy or influence or betrayal?” Were they the things the owner of the Card associated with the Eunuch? While each Card had a general, shared set of associations, individuals always brought their own interpretation when designing them. “What does the design tell us about its owner?”

Atesh sighed. “Nothing? Everything? All I know is that the janissaries are convinced it’s mine, so they don’t care to interpret it beyond it meaning power.”

“That’s why they think you did this?”

“I am second in line to the throne.”

“Then surely you wouldn’t be so bloody careless to do it in front of a ballroom full of people?” Quin gritted her teeth. A gentlewoman didn’t say bloody, but neither did they disguise and trick their way into the Fortress of the Seven Towers, so they were rather past that.

His brow arched, but he didn’t press the issue of language this time. “Clearly they think I’m power-hungry and stupid.” His gaze slipped from hers. “Not to mention disloyal to my own family.”

Quin swallowed. What would Atesh think of her and her loyalty if she ever succeeded at her plans for him?

Plans for him. What if he was the target of all this?

“I know you probably don’t want to consider this,” she said, the idea forming as she spoke, “but did it ever cross your mind that you were the target? They so deliberately framed you, specifically.”

“What are you saying?”

“I know someone who envies you. Someone who feels like the third wheel. Someone who competes with you.”

He frowned a question.

She sighed – she’d hoped to avoid being the one to bring his name up, but Atesh hadn’t taken the hint. “Malos.”

Laughter. When she didn’t join in, he shook his head. “Oh, you meant it? Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“But he –”

“Quin, he’s my cousin and one of my closest friends. Yes, I might have – er – stepped on his toes where you’re concerned, but he’s not going to kill the Sultana and frame me over that. It’s an interesting leap of logic, but it is just that – a leap. It doesn’t stand up.”

“Perhaps, but what if –”

Footsteps sounded outside, together with muffled voices. They shared a glance as Derry’s voice raised to almost a shout, “My mistress must have a few moments more. She will tell us when she’s ready.” The discussion outside continued at normal volume, muffled by the door.

“I think our time’s up,” Atesh said. The way he said it so flatly – he didn’t mean just for today.

For a moment, it was as if she were being strangled and she fought down a rising panic that this would be the last time she saw him. Stamp it down – she had to be strong and optimistic for his sake.

“For today, anyway,” she told him with a bright smile. “Now, I’ll try to visit you again soon. Write to me, if they’ll let you and pass on anything useful you discover – though try to keep it coded. They’ll probably read your correspondence.” She rose and glanced at the door, part of her was desperate to escape this place – it was wrong for a thief and con artist to be here voluntarily – but there was also a thread pulling her back to Atesh.

“Quin.” He grabbed her hand as she turned to go. “Please, just one more thing.” Wide eyes looked up at her and she caught a glimpse of the fear that lurked behind his gallows humour and smirks. “Promise me, you’ll be there. When the time comes.” He swallowed. “When they hang me. Be one of those who grants a merciful death by dragging on my feet. If I’m to suffocate, let it be quick.”

It was a kick in the gut: he didn’t say ‘if they hang me’, but when.

“Atesh, no.” She dropped to her knees before him, clutching his hands between her own and shaking them as if that would shake sense into him. “No, this isn’t the last time I’ll see you. There won’t be any need for mercy, because you’re not going to die.” She forced a smile. “You see, I’ve heard rumours that there’s an understanding between you and a certain Contessa and I have it on good authority that she’s got something for you. In fact, she gave me this to pass on.” She leant forward and drew his face down to hers. Eyes shut, she kissed him, careful not to press too hard on his cut lip.

She willed all her hope, all her strength towards him. He would survive this. He would be freed. He had to be.

As if in answer to her will, he leant into her.

“And that, my dear Atesh, is a promise of the future.” She returned to her feet and smiled again, invigorated, believing her own words. “So, you see, you can’t die, because it would be rude not to accept her gift.” With a wink, Quin turned to leave, Atesh staring at her with a half-amused, half-dazed grin on his face.

The conversation continued outside, not quite at the door. They must be in the corridor, Derry still trying to stall the colonel.

Atesh found his voice again: “Tell Lady Sabia that she’s a most unusual woman who puzzles me greatly, but if anyone can give me some hope to survive this thing, it’s her.”

They had a few moments still – she’d make the most of them.

“Then you’d better have this.” She tugged on the indigo bow around her neck, turning and finding him already covering the distance between them. He took her offered hand and pulled her close. Quin closed her eyes, squeezing him.

He was still firm and warm and solid beneath her hands, against her body, as he had been in her drawing room almost two weeks ago. In another place and time, she’d be kissing him again, tugging at his clothes, succumbing to the ache he set off inside her. But this was not that time or place.

This was the Fortress of the Seven Towers and his trial was due to start tomorrow.

It could be the last time she was alone with him.

Atesh winced and pulled away. A purple bruise peeked over his shirt collar.

“There’s more?” Of course, his clothes hid other injuries. The bastards.

“I told you he enjoys his work.” His mouth twisted. “Don’t worry –”

But Quin didn’t find out why she shouldn’t worry as there was a rapping at the door. “Apologies, madam,” came the Colonel’s voice, “but I must insist your meeting ends now.”

They gaped at each other: a woman come to disown her relative really shouldn’t be found in his arms.

Quin backed away, pressing the indigo ribbon into Atesh’s hands. “For hope,” she whispered and gave him one brief, sweet kiss on the mouth before rushing to the door. Gods, that might have been their last – the thought crushed her with its weight.

With a heavy look, he returned to his seat.

“I’ll visit again, somehow,” she whispered, forcing a smile.

He nodded, tucking the ribbon in his pocket. A faint glimmer of hope lit his eyes. The man she was leaving in that cell was slightly further from broken than the one who’d greeted her.

“I’m ready,” she called, brushing down her skirts. She drew a deep breath and tossed her head back, the angry pasha again.

As she walked away from Atesh, thanking the Colonel for his understanding and discretion in the matter, that thread tugged again, urging her to run into the room, grab his hand, and lead him out with her and damn the consequences. Like the tragic hero emerging from the final level of the worst hell, she couldn’t look back, much as she ached for a last glimpse as the door swung shut. To look back would have shattered the resolve she cradled.

The passage back through the fortress was a haze, with Derry’s arm the only solid thing she could recall.

She had to stop this. She had to help him. Because if not her, then who?

The designs. That was a start. She could look for Edan. He’d have answers. And the fortune teller – what did they have to lose by seeking her help?

Derry squeezed her hand. They’d reached their carriage. Ariston looked down from the driver’s seat and raised an eyebrow. There were still janissaries around, so they couldn’t speak plainly, but Quin gave faint shrug and twisted her lips in a half-grimace. Not great, but not without hope.

Once seated within the brougham, Quin peered out at the Fortress of the Seven Towers. High, small windows, many barred. Thick oaken doors, banded with iron. Janissaries constantly in and out and patrolling the entire block. She pursed her lips: poor chances of breaking in there, either to free Atesh (And then what?) or liberate that Card, their only direct link to the killer.

“The Eunuch,” she muttered as Derry knocked on the carriage roof for Ariston to pull away.

“What’s that?” Derry asked, settling back in her seat.

“The Eunuch – that was the Card the assassin used,” Quin said. “Atesh thinks it’s to do with the motive, rather than the method. I hadn’t considered that.” She shook her head, pulling out her Deck and flicking through. “I was convinced he’d be using Lady Deception.”

“To change his appearance.”

Quin nodded. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtain covering the carriage window, hazing the world beyond as they drove off. “Hidden power, but whose?”

“Perhaps not their own power,” Derry said, voice soft, thoughtful. “What if they used that Card purely to help frame Atesh? He’d be next in line if anything happened to the Shehzade.”

“And with Atesh framed, no one’s looking for the real killer. A neat plan. And why else bother to construct such an elaborate scheme to frame him.”

“No loose ends,” Derry said, nodding. “Except you, that is.” At Quin’s frown, she elaborated, “You saw through the disguise. You know that Atesh was framed. You’re pursuing the truth. Atesh is protesting his innocence, yes, but with hundreds of witnesses, who’d believe him? And soon he’ll be – Quin, you’re their only loose end.”

“Only if they know.” Quin cut off any arguments with a slice of her hand through the air, the forceful gesture ill befitting her ladylike clothing. “If they don’t know I’m onto them, they don’t know I’m a loose end.” She pulled her Deck out. “I’m more interested in their motives – that could lead us to the culprit.”

It was Derry’s turn to purse her lips, but she stayed silent.

“The Eunuch, Hadir.” Quin sucked air in between her teeth and shook her head. “I wouldn’t mess with him – he’d as soon turn on the hand that casts him as help them, Mum always said. Whoever it is, they’re desperate.”

“Or mad.”

“Or both.” Quin nodded, leafing through her Cards, peering at the familiar faces. Her fingers traced over each hand-painted image.

23

Ink & Invisibility

Quin had still been painting her Cards when Mum had started teaching her their use. Small things at first, just at home, but one day she’d handed Quin a cloak and nodded her out the door.

They strode through the Gutter Streets, the autumn day grey and heavy with the promise of rain and the people on the roads not much brighter. Quin lengthened her steps to keep up, rather than resorting to a trot Mum would call unsightly and unseemly.

She ached to ask where they were going or what they’d be doing, but it would have been pointless – Mum would reveal what she wanted, when she wanted.

They wound their way through the narrow streets, shoes spattering through muck it was best not to consider the exact composition of. Familiar smells and familiar faces passed by until they reached the gates of a bazaar Quin often visited on errands to fetch housewares, bread, vegetables, and on rare occasion meat. She licked her lips – lunch had been cold and meagre and some hours ago.

Before she could follow her nose to the rich, gravy waft of the pie stall, Mum herded her into a doorway. Quin bit back a sigh. The pastry would be flaky and hot, barely containing the spilling meat and juices. The smell was so thick, she could almost taste it.

“Now this is all familiar to you.” Mum waved a gloved hand at the stalls full of glass lanterns and pointed-toed shoes, spices and sweet fruit.

“But you will have to pass by all these people who know your face, know your name, and know I am your mother without being noticed.”

Despite her training, an echo of a scowl touched Quin’s face. How was she supposed to manage that? The market place was bustling. Its pathways criss-crossed in a grid, lined with arched openings that housed the businesses. The shallow archways cradled tiny stalls, while the deepest stretched back some twenty feet or so, providing space for a full-sized shop. Some lanes were so narrow, you could pick up shoes from one stall in your left hand, while the right lifted a small leather purse from a shop opposite. Others were in such poor repair they’d been blocked by rubble. The place had stood for almost three hundred years. With its cracks and crumbling roof, it looked it.

But it still lived, with the people of the Gutter Streets as the blood in its arteries and their meagre money its sustenance.

From the doorway they’d stopped in, Quin spotted half a dozen stall workers who could greet her by name. Some knew her favourite foods and sometimes saved morsels to tempt her with. One or two even bought smaller stolen goods to sell on, if they knew you well enough. And they knew Quin well enough.

“A disguise?” she said. “But won’t people recognise me even under that?”

“Not a disguise,” Mum shook her head, still watching the market life passing by and shuffling about. “Disguise I will show you soon. And as for people recognising you, well, let’s just say assumption and expectation can be valuable tools.”

“How?”

“If someone always knows you from one situation, in one appearance, in one type of clothing, say at lavish balls in a gentlewoman’s gowns, then when they see you dressed in maid’s drabs running errands in a bazaar in the Seventh District, well, they’re not going to make that association.”

“They’d never expect to see you there, wearing that, so they don’t think it’s you.”

That won a smile from Mum. “Exactly. They don’t recognise you, and you don’t even need a mask or false nose.”

They shared a grin. Disguise sounded like it might be fun. And simpler than Quin had expected.

“But,” Mum said, “that is a lesson for another day.”

“And today’s is?”

“Camouflage.”

“Isn’t that what a disguise is for?”

“Yes and no.” Mum’s head tilted to one side. “If you don’t have time or materials for a disguise, your Deck can help. Why wouldn’t you just use your Deck all the time?”

Quin screwed up her eyes. Trust Mum to turn a question back at her. Ever the teacher. “Because it takes so much concentration. You can’t afford to be distracted using them, so if you might get diverted, a disguise would be better.”

“And another reason?”

Of course she had to push further – that’s what training was about. “Because … you’ve …” She chewed the inside of her cheek, buying time. Ah, that was it. “If you’d used your Cards a lot already, you’d have a cracking headache. And the effort” – she was on a roll now – “if you needed to, say, cross the city, it would be exhausting to use magic for such a long time and against so many. Plus you’d risk someone seeing past with that many people. And who knows what would happen in that journey? If you’re concentrating on your Card, you might easily get run over by some young buck charging his cabriolet through the streets or the sudden rattle of it might make you jump and poof there’s your concentration gone. Or even –”

“Yes, yes.” Mum smiled, holding her hand up. “Very good. You see how it all fits together? All those potential risks and pitfalls. Marvellous as magic it, it isn’t a panacea. You know what that –”

“Yes, it was in one of the books. A cure-all.”

“Excellent.” Mum’s dark eyes gleamed with pleasure.

Quin had impressed. Warm pride flooded her. Mum might be a challenging teacher and maybe sometimes she was a little unfair, but as hard-won as her praise was, it made winning it all the more rewarding.

Not that Quin could show just how pleased she was. Control. At all times. She allowed herself a small smile.

Mum nodded. “Now, if you were to pass by unseen, what Card would you choose?”

Quin didn’t even need to think. While the Cards were an art, working slightly differently for each person, depending on their associations with each image or deity, for her this choice was an easy one. “Lady Deception.”

Mum exhaled through her nose, not quite a snort. “No surprises there. Yes, you could of course use her.” She raised an eyebrow at Quin. “Just remember, there are other Cards in your Deck and the others may grow jealous if you only associate with her. I know that’s your first Card and it relates closely to our work, but too much contact with Lady Deception has risks of its own.”

“Like?”

“Like I’ll tell you another day when you don’t have a job to do.” Her attention returned to the scene before them – the wares in natural shades of brown, earthy red, and olive green, the men and women flitting between stalls, flowing along the lanes. The chatter of traders and customers merged into a burbling murmur. The scent of spices, hot pies, and baked bread mingled in the air, tickling Quin’s nose. “So, you’ve chosen your Card and Lady Deception will serve you well for this task. How might she help you pass by unseen?”

The idea had to be clear in her head before she attempted to use the Card. And before she attempted to satisfy her mother, she had to be able to explain it. She chewed at the inside of her lip. “I would focus on smallness, on being unnoticed and unimportant; I would ask her to direct attention away from me – ‘Look over there. There’s nothing here. Just a fly buzzing by. Nothing worth your attention. Look at that man, is he a thief? Better watch him.’”

Mum’s lips twitched at the last part. “I like that, good distraction technique. The idea isn’t to become invisible – I’m not sure that’s even possible – it’s simply to get by unseen, unnoticed. It’s easier when you’re doing something unremarkable, like walking past a market stall, but the more noticeable your actions and the more people you’re distracting, the tougher the misdirection. You’ll start with strolling past. If no one greets you or calls your name, you’ll walk back along the row and stop at each stall.” She paused, scanning the crowds, the booths that were like little caverns, each filled with their own treasures. “When you’ve mastered it, another day, you’ll take something from a stall, right in front of the trader.”

Breath caught in Quin’s throat. “But they’re good to me, Mum, I –”

Livia cut off Quin’s objections with a hand on her shoulder. “I know, they are good people, we’ll not keep what we take, don’t worry.” A slow smile. “Your challenge after that will be to return what you’ve stolen.”

Quin sighed. Taking from people who already had so much wasn’t a problem – it felt fair – but these traders were from the Gutter Streets, too, and they helped each other out when times were tough. Stealing from them wouldn’t be right.

“You’ll return it all right: you’ll put it right back into their pockets,” Livia murmured.

Quin gulped. “In their pockets?”

“Unnoticed.”

“But –”

“You’d better run along and get practising, hadn’t you?”

It took several deep breaths before Quin could answer. “I suppose I had.” Faint anxiety rose, heat rushing up her back and to her cheeks. Because although she’d be returning their goods, if her hand was caught in a pocket, it would say thievery all the same as if she’d been lifting.

Her stomach roiled. The pies didn’t smell quite so tempting anymore.

She swallowed, trying to force the fear down and push away thoughts of the gallows awaiting thieves who got caught. Yes, she’d picked pockets for years, but always in anonymous crowds or with distracted marks and never with people who knew her.

Dipping into their pockets was for another day. Not yet. For a moment, she pressed the side of her face against the stone doorway they’d stopped in, willing the coolness to seep into her.

Today, she just had to sneak past. That she could do.

Another couple of breaths and she was ready. Mostly.

She slid her hand in her pocket and opened the Card case, searching for some sort of encouragement in her mother’s eyes.

Mum’s expression was impassive. A cool observer.

Quin was on her own.

The benefit of only having a small Deck was that it took a second to flick through them. Under her fingertips the different energies fluttered, little reflections of the personalities of the gods depicted.

Right away the buzzing menace of The Falling Tower Card loomed large. She skipped past that one. It was the first Card she’d painted. She wasn’t sure why that one, but it was the one she had dreamed of two days after her Carding Day, so it was the one she’d needed to make.

Her first two Cards, deception and disaster. What did that say about her?

She huffed a sudden sigh, plucking Lady Deception from her pocket. If she was doomed to deception and disaster, it was more a case of when than if ... but when would not be today.

At first, she strode away from the doorway and her mother, clutching the Card in her pocket.

That wasn’t right. Striding said look at me, not look away.

She forced her pace slower, smoother, steadied her step, and reached her mind towards the threads that linked her to the world and the unseen court with its gods who saw all Cards and their users.

A momentary shudder cloaked her. The immensity of all those threads, so many links, an entire world just at the edge of perception. But she couldn’t linger on that. It would engulf her, terrify her out of ever trying to use her Cards again. It might destroy her, casting her out into the depths, leaving an empty body behind.

She summoned her mother’s lessons – this happened to everyone when they first came to the Cards. Highborn and low, girl and boy, from beggar to Sultana, everyone felt that dizzying terror when they first touched magic. Over the years it would lessen, if she trained, but it was just another challenge to overcome to master the Deck.

For now, she mastered herself. Slow, deep breaths, right into her belly.

The first step was always to observe. Then decide. Then act.

Eyes on the route ahead. The bustle of shoppers, some shuffling and browsing, others striding, purposeful, ticking off items in a mental list. Their paths took them along lanes running between the stalls, dipping into them, or turning off at intersections.

There. That row of stalls. It was one she knew well and if she could pass a dozen traders who all knew her and get by unseen, that would be the true test of whether she’d ever manage to steal and return their goods.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, she thought the word with each step.

Not here. She kept the thoughts soft and small, suggestions rather than shouts.

Her breathing was slow and deep as she approached the first stall. This was a merchant who didn’t know her so well – a hunched over old man, with eyes always sharp, on the lookout for a good sale of his second-rate spices and herbs or a thief threatening those goods.

At first, Quin put thought into each placement of her feet, staring at the trader all the while. His eyes flicked left to right and back again, passing over but not settling on Quin and her held breath.

Too tense. Creeping and staring were not natural, they drew more attention than they diverted, and she had been concentrating on the wrong things. With a deep breath, she forced her back straight and her feet to a normal pace. She tore her eyes away from the spice-seller and fastened her thoughts on deflection. That and there, not here.

Then she was past him, with a throbbing pain setting in behind her eyes as reward.

The next booth belonged to a shrewd baker and her husband, both of whom would always greet Quin on sight.

Trying to keep her movements casual, Quin glanced over – the baker worked in her permanent cloud of flour. The large crusty loaves on display mirrored her round form and her hair was fastened in a bun on top of her head – all it needed was a slather of icing and that too would look like one of her wares. The herby scent of baking bread crept out, tickling at Quin’s nose and hunger.

Focus. Not hunger. She kept walking, squeezing her Card.

Look there ... is that a fly trying to land on the rolls?

Sure enough, the woman swatted, cursing under her breath, and Quin passed without receiving a greeting. She stalked onward, a little quicker, a little calmer with each stall she passed, until she reached the edge of the bazaar, knees weak, head pounding, but wearing a grin of triumph.

“Not bad, little one,” Mum said suddenly in her ear. She was too good at sneaking. “Not bad.”

24

Trials & Tribulations

Even Atesh had to admit the prosecution’s case was compelling. He bit the inside of his cheek as he listened. The burgundy-carpeted floor dampened any echoes and footsteps, so the prosecution attorney’s voice rang crisp and clear across the room. Even the mahogany panels lining the courtroom seemed to absorb the argument. They loomed higher, darker, more solid in Atesh’s mind.

He blinked and tore his eyes away from their gleaming presence.

Judge Pavo sat on a raised platform to Atesh’s left, fingers steepled as he watched the attorney, Cassian. The pair of them could have been brothers, both middle-aged men with fiercely-arched grey brows above black eyes and complexions the colour of aged bronze. They wore pleated turbans: Pavo’s in white, bordered with black, Cassian’s the same grey as a rainy autumn evening.

Cassian dressed it up with long words and plenty of them, but his case was quite straightforward. And, of course, a straightforward answer was a credible one.

Atesh had murdered his cousin in order to further his own claim to the Tulip Throne. That was it. So simple, so convincing.

He glanced up – on the next level were the galleries with rows of benches. Apparently law was a spectator sport. Were they as convinced? There were plenty of them – the benches were full – and they were rapt. Men and women – mostly men – watched, eyes fixed, unblinking on Cassian.

Perhaps Malos was here … or Quin. He scanned the enthralled faces. No Quin – she’d stand out right away – but Nald was there. Good fellow. He should have been out looking for a new job, distancing himself from Atesh, but here he was, loyal as ever.

Nald’s dark eyes turned to Atesh and he gave a shallow nod. Atesh twitched his mouth. He couldn’t be seen to smile, given the severity of his supposed crime, but he had to acknowledge the man and his risk.

At least he had a little support. Perhaps there was hope.

And something else – another familiar face. A man in his late forties or early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and glinting eyes. Quin’s butler. What was his name? It began with A. Ariston, that was it.

What the devil was he doing here? From the way he’d behaved at Atesh’s visit, the butler clearly wasn’t keen on him. Ariston must be there at Quin’s bidding. Why hadn’t she come?

Atesh sagged, realising. She’d been called as a witness. No Malos, either – Flittin had called him as one of the only defence witnesses. So, she’d take the stand for the prosecution. He shouldn’t be surprised – she’d seen it all and she’d given chase. Of course they’d summon her.

Would she give the same version of events that she’d told him? The truth? It was one thing to give a statement in a closed room with a few janissaries. To speak in direct contradiction to the accepted story in a courtroom before a hundred plus people was a different matter entirely. It would be in the court records. It would be in the papers. Her reputation could be ruined.

Cassian tilted his head, a smirk both cruel and smug in one corner of his mouth – he’d just made some comment that evidently pleased himself and had the gallery nodding. What would he put Quin through? The thought made his jaw clench. He didn’t know Cassian personally, but attorneys by reputation could be a merciless lot, insinuations and probing questions dripping from their tongues like venom. They’d slip a fang into any weakness and they’d not hesitate to inject their poison, destroying the person just to portray them as an unreliable witness.

Quin’s actions at the ball were already considered bizarre. Word of the elephant incident had been largely suppressed, but it hadn’t been silenced entirely. If they could find anything else amiss in Quin’s history, they’d use it.

Here. In public. And he couldn’t stop it.

Beneath the table, his hands squeezed into solid fists. She would slip her way through the snaking grasp of Cassian’s questions, just as she had when Atesh had asked about the elephant, but what if they had something she hadn’t accounted for?

He was being foolish, he told himself, forcing his hunched shoulders down. If anyone could handle the prosecution’s examination, it was Quin. His chest swelled with pride at the thought of her, chin lifted, voice calm, perhaps a ghost of a smile in the corner of her mouth as she played Cassian like a hand of cards.

She would handle it and she’d do it beautifully, but that didn’t mean Atesh had to enjoy watching the attorney attempt to tear her down.

Before he could picture that, though, the glossy, girih-panelled main doors opened, heralded by the shuffling of a hundred people turning in their seats. A mid-height, brown-haired janissary. He’d spoken to Atesh when he’d first been arrested. Sergeant Porto.

The prosecution’s first witness. They must have called him while Atesh had been lost in reverie.

It begins. He drew a deep breath. He’d been allowed a pencil to jot notes for Flittin about the proceedings – a pen, with its metal nib was deemed too dangerous. Taking it up, he poised the grey lead above the rough, yellowed paper he’d been given.

It fit to his hand, snug between fingers and thumb. Completion. It had been almost a week since he’d held a pencil. Gods, he’d missed it. The urge to sketch tugged at his hand – he could just let it flow across the page …

No. This was, quite literally, life or death. Sketching could wait. He’d ask to keep the pencil and the paper and take it to his cell. Maybe he could get some charcoal.

Now, though, he had to focus and note anything he might be able to use to help his case. Flittin was sitting back. No help there, then. No surprise, either.

Porto took his place in the witness stand to Atesh’s right. Left hand holding his brown leather Card case, he said, “I swear by the Hundred gods and by my Deck, which is their boon, that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Pavo nodded at the janissary, acknowledging his swearing in.

“Sergeant Porto,” Cassian said, “you are here to present the evidence your orta has gathered in this case. There’s been plenty of gossip around the city, so to ensure we’re working with the facts, I’d like to start at the instant of the heinous crime itself. What do we know about the moment our beloved Sultana was brutally murdered?”

So, he was evoking the strength of emotion in the case, then. Atesh suppressed a sigh of frustration. The clues taken at face-value were fairly damning, but there was a chance to argue their shortcomings and the little specks of evidence that supported his innocence, like Quin’s testimony.

The anger, the grief, the desperate, bubbling need for justice or revenge or someone to blame, though, those things couldn’t be defeated with any argument.

“Her majesty was stabbed once and died within moments,” Porto said, voice and expression quite flat and calm, despite the true horror of what he was describing. “Her majesty grabbed a Card from the assailant’s hand before he fled. There were dozens of witnesses to the crime; however the culprit was wearing a mask.”

“Of course,” Cassian said, nodding, “it was a masquerade ball so that’s nothing unusual. What costume was the murderer wearing?”

“According to the majority of witnesses, he wore a red outfit, a skull-like mask, and a plumed hat. However, some mentioned the costume flickered at one point, looking like a red suit with plain hat and mask.”

Cassian’s fiercely angled brows twitched. “Flickered?”

Porto’s back straightened and his throat bobbed. “A few witnesses mentioned in their statements that the costume looked different for a few seconds. We believe it might have coincided with the moment when –”

“Believe?” The attorney shot Pavo a look that said, You see what we have to work with? He sighed. Porto’s spectacles slipped down his nose as his brows lowered. “Sergeant, I’d expect a professional like you to stick to the facts. You said the man fled, and then what happened?”

The glasses flashed as Porto pushed them up. “But it –”

“What happened when the man fled, sergeant?”

Atesh noted a few words about the flicker, scowling. Cassian wouldn’t settle for anything less than control of the conversation. That must be why he’d become an attorney.

Porto stayed silent a moment, his chest rising and falling once, giving in. “A number of janissary guards gave chase –”

“Together with?”

It was as though he had a pathological need to interrupt. Atesh’s fingers whitened on the pencil, but he managed to control any other sign of frustration.

Porto, though, had a little tell – his head tilted to one side, just a momentary gesture, almost a twitch really, but a sure sign of annoyance. “Together with an attendee,” he said, to his credit keeping his voice calm, “one Contessa Quinta Sabia.”

“From whom we’ll hear shortly, Your Honour.” Confirmation. She’d be in that box for the prosecution. Cassian glanced to Pavo who lifted his fingers in acknowledgement. “And when they pursued the killer, sergeant, what did they find?”

“It was dark at –”

“Obviously. Just answer the question.”

“This is relevant, sir.”

The attorney opened his mouth, but Pavo waved him down, turning to the janissary. “Please explain what happened, sergeant.”

Porto nodded to Pavo, drawing a long breath. “With it being dark, those pursuing weren’t able to keep sight of the suspect the entire time. The route also led through the palace’s olive grove, putting obstacles in the way.”

Cassian cast his gaze over the spectators before he asked the next question. Several in the galleries leant forward, drawn in by that simple gesture. “But they did catch the murderer?”

“While running in the direction of the fleeing suspect, they did find a man in the olive grove.”

“And what was he wearing?”

“A red costume with a mask like a victim of the Red Death.”

Cassian raised his eyebrow at first his audience, then Pavo. “A ghastly costume, to be sure. One might argue, a sign of a sick individual.” He turned back to Porto. “And what was on his person?”

“A clean dagger.”

Atesh jotted it down, but his chest ached with an odd desire to laugh as the attorney missed a beat, nostrils flaring at Porto. He was so obviously annoyed his grand reveal had been ruined by that detail. Poor fellow. But he went on, tone clipped: “I didn’t ask the state of the item, merely what item it was, sergeant. Your Honour?” He looked to Pavo for support.

“I fail to see the relevance of the knife being clean,” Pavo said. Breath caught in Atesh’s throat at those words – there was every damn relevance. “He could have wiped it off on his clothes as he ran.” His white and black turban bobbed as he nodded to his clerks. “Strike that from the record. Now, Sergeant Porto, please stick to the facts of the matter.”

“But, Your Honour, the only blood on his jacket was a –”

“Sergeant.” Pavo’s voice boomed off the mahogany walls with a force unexpected from a slight, middle-aged man. “I am shocked to see a janissary so experienced and familiar with the courts as you question a judge. For that reason, I’ll assume that was not your intention and we’ll continue. However, if it happens again, I might realise an error in my assumption.” Porto’s eyes lowered from Pavo’s gaze. “Now we’ve cleared that up, does the prosecution have any further questions for this witness?”

Cassian cleared his throat, approaching the witness stand. “Sergeant, when this man found in the olive grove, dagger on his person, was discovered and his mask removed, whose face did it reveal?”

“The defendant’s.”

To be fair to the sergeant, there wasn’t really anything more he could have said to that.

The attorney’s gaze roved over the room again. He nodded in silence for a few seconds. “The defendant’s.” As if that proved it all.

The men and women in the gallery buzzed in brief conversation, nodding to each other, glancing at Atesh, and then turning back to Cassian.

“That will be all, sergeant, thank you.” He truly thought his argument so compelling, his job so easy. Atesh swallowed. The way the gallery had responded, he was right.

Perhaps it was that cut and dry. He’d been foolish to expect Pavo to reach any other conclusion.

No, it was only meant to seem that certain: he’d only heard one side of the argument. Perhaps Flittin, for all his failings, could summon some ounce of doubt in the prosecution’s version of events.

At Atesh’s side, Flittin rose to cross-examine the witness. He stepped to the centre of the square open space between Pavo’s bench, Cassian’s desk, the witness box, and the defendant’s desk.

His narrow back straightened, shoulders drawing back. He lifted his pointed chin and took in the crowd.

Perhaps Atesh had underestimated Flittin. He’d grown on this stage, under the gaze of his audience. This was a confident man, not the little bird-like creature who’d simpered his way through their meetings.

Flittin cleared his throat with a low cough.

This was it. He was going to say something important, insightful.

And then he spoke. “Is there anything else relevant to the case that you’ve not mentioned, sergeant?” His voice barely reached Atesh, who was only ten feet away.

The slumping shoulders up in the galleries and low murmur of disappointment echoed Atesh’s sentiments precisely. Was that it?

All that build up and Flittin hadn’t even asked a specific question. Was he going to use any of the suggestions Atesh had made in their meetings? Flittin took two steps back toward his seat, as if expecting to be done.

Porto stood with his head tilted seconds longer than necessary, as though he were expecting a clarification or addition to the question. “Oh,” he said when none came. “Well, there are two things, actually.”

Flittin’s brows shot up when Porto spoke. “Oh!” He glanced from Porto to Atesh and back again. “Oh, right, I see. Well then – er – go ahead?”

“We haven’t yet been able to determine with certainty the owner of the Card the Sultana seized from the murderer as she was assaulted.”

Flittin frowned. “But wasn’t it taken from the killer?” His eyes flitted to Atesh as he said the word killer. Gods, the man was worse than he’d feared. Did he even realise he was meant to be defending?

“Yes,” he said in a tone made for explaining the obvious to the stupid, “however the defendant’s Deck wasn’t on his person when he was arrested; therefore we’ve not been able to determine that this Card matches his Deck.”

“Well, I suppose he could have thrown it away while running, couldn’t he?”

Atesh couldn’t stop the strangled noise scraping past his clenched teeth. Flittin was meant to be defending him, not working out scenarios to support his guilt! Hundred help him, he really was doomed.

“It is possible,” Porto said, “however no Card was found despite a thorough combing of the route between the ballroom and the olive grove. I mention it for the sake of presenting all the facts, which brings me to one other odd detail. Two witnesses close to the crime noted that the murder weapon was missing one of the stones from its hilt.”

Atesh held his breath. Missing stones? His dagger, the family blade had no missing stones, despite its age. The pencil hovered above the page as he held his body very still. This was something. This could help. Flittin just needed to ask the right questions to leverage this gem of information. Atesh stared at his attorney. Come on.

Flittin’s brows knitted. “And that’s relevant because?”

“When he was arrested, the weapon on the defendant’s person –”

Cassian jumped in: “A well-known Shahin family heirloom, no less.”

“Yes, yes,” Flittin said, shooting him a scowl.

Porto glanced between the two men. Once they were silent, he continued. “The weapon found on the defendant was missing no stones – all emeralds were firmly in place. However, a green paste gem was found in the ballroom during the course of our investigations, close to where the unfortunate incident occurred.”

“Your Honour,” Cassian said, smirk in the corner of his mouth as Flittin managed nothing more than a confused frown, “I fail to see the relevance of this whole tangent. Some masker lost a stone from a necklace, that’s all.”

“Indeed, sergeant,” Pavo said, “I need you to stick to relevant facts.”

Porto pushed his glasses up his nose. “With all due respect, Your Honour, the green paste stone could be seen as corroborating those witness statements.” Atesh leant forward – who had seen the missing stone as Zeynab had been stabbed? “After all, one was from our very own –”

“That’s enough, Sergeant.” Pavo hadn’t raised his voice, exactly, but it rang across the room, drowning out Porto. “Unless the defence has any further questions for you, you’re released.” His grey brows rose at Flittin.

“N – no, Your Honour.” With that he gave an odd little stooping bow, backing away.

Atesh cringed. His expectations hadn’t been high, but Flittin had outdone himself. Bowing and scraping to the judge. Gods.

As Flittin returned to his chair, Porto met Atesh’s gaze. A small frown creased between his brows for a few moments then Pavo dismissed him. Without a word, he nodded and left the witness box and the courtroom.

Three more witnesses came and went: two guests from the masquerade and one janissary who’d chased and arrested Atesh. They all supported the prosecution’s general argument – they’d seen Red Death stab the Sultana and flee into the night, only to be caught in the palace grounds.

After that, they broke for lunch, which Atesh took in a small office with Flittin and a janissary guard. Atesh couldn’t stomach talking to Flittin about his morning’s performance, so he occupied himself with the plate of buttered rice and roasted chicken. It was basic fare, but quite the tastiest meal he’d had since his arrest. The chicken was tender and had been well-basted in its own juices with lemon squeezed over at the end. Thin slivers of onion had been stirred into the rice. Just the smell made his mouth water and he made sure he scooped up every morsel before lowering his fork.

When they returned to the court room, Atesh held his back straight, fortified by the meal. A full belly of good food had done wonders for his morale. Perhaps Flittin would feel similarly revived and produce a great performance this afternoon.

A man could dream.

* * *

The reality was Flittin had been just as terrible that afternoon and the next morning.

Atesh continued to scribble notes and pass them to the attorney, but either he never mentioned them or did so in such an ineffectual way that he might as well not have bothered.

The second afternoon, Atesh leant on the table, cheek in hand, suppressing a sigh. It really was worse than he’d anticipated. Was it even worthwhile writing the notes anymore?

Cassian approached the bench to announce his next witness. “The Right Honourable Contessa of Mordano.”

Atesh held his breath.

The great girih-patterned doors opened and there she was. She’d dressed in mourning, as most of the spectators had, but while they looked drab or severe, she glided through the room like a black swan. She held her head high, but kept her eyes lowered and pace sedate.

He’d seen her perform before – their first meeting had started as an act – but never with such an audience. Spectators in the gallery craned forward to watch. A whispered hush descended on the courtroom. Even Pavo sat still and quiet, dark eyes on Quin and her unrushed progress. Flittin’s seat creaked as he shifted to better see past Atesh.

Approaching the witness box, she didn’t respond to the reaction in her audience in any obvious way. And yet there was a quality to this performance he hadn’t seen before – as if the size of her audience and their attention sustained her, as if the act were a fire they stoked with their unblinking gazes and parted lips.

She drew a Deck box from her pocket. A low murmur drifted down from the gallery. Five sides of it were rosewood, the sixth covered by an oxblood red calfskin flap that belonged to the inner case. The box was fairly thick and intricately carved, that was clear even from the dozen feet separating them. Its tasteful décor and size reinforced her status in a way just announcing her title could not.

She would have made an exquisite pasha. His bride. His partner in the world. The thought should have warmed him, but in these circumstances it sent a chill down his spine. Being here meant it would almost certainly never happen.

Unless …

After a delicate clearing of her throat, Quin spoke. “I swear by the Hundred gods and by my Deck, which is their boon, that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” Her voice rang to each corner of the room, reaching the spaces Flittin’s hadn’t.

Now she was closer, he could appreciate how much more well-rested she looked today compared to two days ago. When she’d visited his cell, her eyes had been puffy and red-rimmed, her complexion ashen, as if she’d slept poorly or been crying.

Pavo nodded, signalling the prosecution could begin.

“Lady Sabia,” Cassian said, an ingratiating smile on his lips, “you were close to the horrific murder itself, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“And what did you see?”

“Initially, I saw a man in a Red Death costume approach the Sultana, but I noticed there was something not quite right about the costume.” Her amber eyes flicked to Atesh for the barest moment, making the breath catch in his throat. “It wasn’t the defendant.”

The false smile fell from Cassian’s face. His ferocious brows lowered even further. “Ah, yes, the defendant is innocent – of course, a ballroom full of people and each one wrong!” His head tossed so he could look down his nose at Quin. “Madam, what exactly is the nature of your relationship with the defendant?”

Her gaze stayed on the attorney, though his question was practically an invitation to look at Atesh. Such self-control was admirable, but surely there were rumours about her and him. There was no way she could deny they had a relationship of some sort.

“The Pasha and I are friends,” she said, lifting one shoulder as if to dismiss the question, “but whatever he stands accused of, he has always been a popular gentleman and many attendees at the masquerade would also number themselves amongst his friends.”

Cassian’s head tilted. The sidelong look he gave Quin made Atesh’s hands clench. “Simply friends?”

Atesh’s jaw knotted. He was the one on trial, not her. If her reputation was ruined by this …

But she just smiled, unruffled.

“At the present time, sir.” Her eyes lowered. “There is, of course, gossip of a sensational nature; however I wasn’t aware that gossip was admissible in a court of law. Or am I mistaken, Your Honour?”

Atesh could have cheered at the way she raised an eyebrow at Pavo.

“Madam, you are correct,” Pavo said with a nod. “Cassian, is there a point to this line of enquiry?”

The attorney spread his hands. “Simply to establish that this lady is not an unbiased observer.”

“By her own admission, she’s friends with the defendant. Get on with it.”

“Apologies, Your Honour. Now, Lady Sabia.” Cassian turned to Quin, a gleam in his eye. “You admit your friendship with the defendant.” A twitch pulled the corner of his mouth, making the back of Atesh’s neck prickle. “Do you also admit that your hand was in your pocket when the vile act occurred?”

Quin’s brows rose for an instant in unguarded, genuine surprise and Atesh frowned. Her hand in her pocket – where was Cassian going with this?

“It was,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I was using a Card to see through an illusion. You see, Your Honour, the murderer was just wearing a –”

“I didn’t ask what you were doing, simply whether you had a hand in your pocket.”

“But you were about to ask what I was doing with that hand, weren’t you? I’m simply saving you the trouble. As I was saying, the murderer was wearing red and used a Card to create the illusion of the correct costume –”

The attorney gave a short bark of a laugh. “Conjecture, madam. Where’s your evidence for any such thing?”

Quin’s jaw knotted – the first sign of annoyance she’d shown, despite Cassian’s interruptions and insinuations. “Evidence is what I am giving, sir, as a witness to this crime. And I’m not the only one – when the Sultana took the Card from the murderer’s hand, there was a flicker in the illusion.” She glanced to Flittin and Pavo. “Others surely saw it.”

“Oh, indeed, one other.” Cassian turned his back to Quin, addressing Pavo alone. “Undoubtedly, she’s heard of what the Sultan saw in his, understandably, distressed state, mentioning a ‘flicker’ in the murderer’s appearance, and now she’s taking advantage of his grief-stricken vision for her own ends. And that is how she’s come upon this elaborate tale!”

So Ilyas had seen it, too. If only the Sultan could be made to give testimony, but alas he could stand only through choice. Atesh knew of only one occasion from the past century when that had happened.

“Elaborate?” Quin bobbed, as if she wanted to rise, but thought better of it. One hand rested on the partition around the witness box. “It’s hardly –”

“Madam, you’ve not been asked a question.”

“You are not letting me answer your questions.”

“Well, here’s one for you.” Cassian paused, his silence drawing attention more effectively than Flittin’s voice had. A rustle and creak signalled that the men and women in the gallery had craned forward, collective breaths held. “Is there an understanding between you and the defendant?”

Quin flinched – another crack in her façade. Atesh’s knuckles grew white on his pencil. If only he could take her away from here. To see her under this attorney’s attack, albeit a verbal one, was unbearable. He’d seen her use her act at the card table, in the ballroom, and – most impressively – to talk her way into the Fortress of the Seven Towers. For someone like Cassian to chip away at it under the gaze of so many felt wrong. It was a private thing, something she’d given him a glimpse of when they were alone, not something for everyone to feast their eyes upon.

Even worse, if she were a spy, it could be dangerous for her. Atesh bit his lip and watched.

“An understanding?” A tiny frown creased her brow. “What are you insinuating?”

The smile on Cassian’s face put Atesh in mind of a hunting sabrecat ready to pounce. “That you and the defendant are all but promised to each other in marriage and that’s why you’ll say anything to see him go free.”

Her gaze flicked to Atesh for the briefest moment. That dayin her drawing room. He had essentially made her an offer or the ghost of one. And yet she had flinched away from it, had pushed even the idea away. There was a want in her, though. The way she’d behaved, particularly that day at her house and the day before in the clearing, spoke of a tension in her, an ambivalence. She was torn in some way he couldn’t quite fathom. Some part of her must have wanted to invite his offer, so why had she thrust it away?

Cassian couldn’t have known about that conversation, but he didn’t need to. The gossips had already alluded to a pending engagement – that they already had an understanding wasn’t such a great leap.

The light from the high windows of the courtroom caught Quin’s cheekbones and straight nose as she lifted her chin. Atesh looked down to find his pencil – wicked thing – had already marked the curved line of cheek into jawbone, down to chin. He dropped it as though it had just turned into an asp.

“There is no such promise between us,” she said, voice ringing through the room. “I’m merely reporting what I saw.”

Mutters in the gallery. It was true. And he was a fool to wish it wasn’t. His situation – if there had been any confirmed understanding between them, it would likely mean her sitting here with him, implicated in Zeynab’s death. If she distanced herself from him, she would be safe. She could even stay in the city and marry well after … After. Perhaps Malos. He shut his eyes against the thought.

“Indeed, madam,” Cassian said, voice treacle-sweet, jolting Atesh back into the room, “it’s a pretty picture you paint, with a mystery intruder who just so happens to be wearing the same costume as your beloved and –”

The bastard – he was trying to stress their connection, pushing her to a perilous ledge.

Atesh would damn well stop him. His hands gripped the edge of the table and he rose.

“Sir,” Quin cried, slamming her hand into the witness box’s partition. All eyes fell on her, but hers were wide at Atesh.

She’d drawn attention away from his action and had warned him to undo it all at once. He dropped back to his seat. She was right – if they’d seen him react, at best it would be a confirmation to all in the room of his violent temper and at worse it might win him a pike to the gut from an overzealous court bailiff.

“The murderer wasn’t wearing the same costume,” she went on, voice louder now. “That’s what I’ve been trying to –”

“Lady Sabia, you must calm down.” Cassian shook his head and wrung his hands, as if a woman raising her voice or hitting an inanimate piece of wood was a threat to the entirety of civilisation. “Your Honour!”

Pavo raised his hand, light palm silencing the room. “Madam, you’ve already been told you must only speak to answer a question that’s been asked. Do you understand?”

Quin took a long breath, apparently regaining control. A soft smile curved her lips, though the tendons on her neck stood out. “Yes, Your Honour. I apologise – it’s difficult to hear one’s honour called into question.”

Pavo nodded, eyes closing in a patronising picture of benevolence. “I understand. Cassian, I think that’s quite enough about any rumours, understood?”

The attorney’s nostrils flared, but his voice was smooth. “Very well.” He turned back to Quin, a smile on his lips but cruelty in his eyes.

Atesh planted his pencil on the paper in front of him, breathing deeply. He couldn’t react – it would only reinforce Cassian’s belief in their connection, and distance, or the appearance of it, was the best thing he could give Quin now.

“Madam,” the attorney went on, “I put it to you that you’re trying to protect the defendant. You admit your hand was in your pocket and I don’t doubt it was on your Deck, but you weren’t using your Cards to help truth – no, madam, you were using them to make the flicker appear and thus help the murderer.”

Atesh’s breath stopped in his chest. The bastard.

The colour faded from Quin’s face, leaving her a dull shade of brown, almost grey. Her chest rose and fell quickly, the only movement.

Cassian raised an eyebrow, a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Do you deny it?”

“A question at last! Well, I have one for you.” Only her mouth moved; the rest of her remained quite still. There was something unsettling in that stillness, like the calculating watchfulness of a wild creature backed into a corner. Not for the first time, Atesh thanked the Hundred she wasn’t his enemy. At least he didn’t think he was, but he wasn’t entirely sure of it. “Am I on trial, sir?”

“Not yet.”

Yet. Nausea knotted in his stomach.

“As I thought,” Quin said, voice light as if untroubled by the barely veiled threat. “I deny your wild accusations in the strongest possible terms. It is on record that I chased the killer – why would I have done that if I were his accomplice?”

Cassian shrugged. “To obstruct the janissaries giving chase?”

“And did I block them?”

“It” – he glanced at Pavo – “there isn’t any indication of that.”

A loud sigh from Pavo cut through their exchange. “The Contessa makes a fair point, Cassian. Let it be noted on the record that she’s not the one on trial and there is no investigation into her involvement in the crime.” He turned from the court clerk to the attorney. “Do you have anything further to ask Lady Sabia?”

Cassian’s smile was sickly sweet, his eyes cold above it. “Not at this time, Your Honour.”

Thank the Hundred for that. She was safe. For now. Whatever it was she’d feared in her drawing room and couldn’t tell Atesh, the prosecution hadn’t uncovered. Whether it was that she was a spy or had some dark past or a secret in her attic, it was still hidden. If Cassian found out, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it against her.

“Very well.” Pavo lifted a hand in Flittin’s direction, inviting him to cross-examine.

The attorney grabbed the page of notes in front of him – he’d jotted down a few things as Quin had spoken, suddenly competent.

Atesh pushed the paper back down on the table, weighting it in place. Flittin gave him a wide-eyed look. Atesh shook his head. “Leave it.”

“But –”

“Leave it.” Atesh’s voice growled in the back of his throat, softly, like a sabrecat’s warning.

Flittin swallowed. “No questions, Your Honour.”

Pavo’s brows shot up. “Indeed.” He nodded to Quin. “You’re dismissed, madam.”

Even she looked relieved, taking a deep breath – another glimpse past her masquerade. She opened her mouth as though she were going to say something more, but instead she rose and bowed to the judge.

As she turned to leave the witness box, she gave Atesh a quick look. Her chin dipped for a second. Was that a nod to him? But before he could give a querying raise of his brow, her gaze had swept away.

She walked along the aisle between the seats, the opening doors framing her squared shoulders. Despite her poise, she seemed small against the great doorway, a black shape receding.

A few cracks had creaked across her mask, but she had still given an admirable show. Not many people could stay so cool in the face of Cassian’s ill-mannered insults or veiled threats. In a full courtroom of people, he’d accused her of colluding in regicide. It was only her quick-thinking and confidence that had saved her. And somehow in the midst of all that, she’d even saved Atesh from his own foolishness when he’d lost control for that one mad moment and started rising from his seat. That could have ended badly if she hadn’t drawn attention away.

Despite Flittin’s advice to attempt to appear serene and un-villainly whatever that meant, Atesh found himself glowering. And with damn good reason – it was bad enough he was here facing the very real possibility of hanging, but for Quin to end up beside him at the gallows … Intolerable.

Distance. That was what they needed. There would be no calling to her for help in this mess, however tempting. If she attempted to visit as herself, he’d have to deny her, however comforting. Even letters wouldn’t do – if they were found …

He had to let her go. It was all he could do to keep her safe.

At least until the verdict. If he were found guilty, he’d hang and maybe he’d glimpse her there at the foot of the gallows. If somehow Pavo found him innocent, then he would be free to go to her and explain his aloof behaviour.

The great girih doors swung shut behind her, leaving him alone.

* * *

The doors shut, the sound echoing through the hallway. Quin’s legs shook and she sank into one of the chairs lined up outside the courtroom. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe as deeply as she could – surely that would stop her heart feeling like it was about to burst from her chest. Gods.

That was the first time she’d ever been in a courtroom. It had felt like the place was going to swallow her up, never to be seen again. All she’d been able to think about when she’d first stepped in had been that this was the home of the law. This was the place where she would be judged and sentenced if her crimes were ever uncovered.

And that was what Atesh was facing, despite his innocence.

The injustice of it – bloody hells! How could they be so sure of his guilt? She shook her head and wiped her palms on her skirts – she’d kept them clasped in her lap in the witness box to hide the shaking and the sweat. The slickness made her shudder and rub them again.

Thank the gods she’d only needed to swear on her Deck box. If they’d made her remove the leather inner case and place her hand on that, they’d have seen the design embossed on its oxblood red surface: thorned vines twisting around a pair of roses. That could have raised brows and perhaps more questions that just might have led to the name Guldan.

She’d been safe from that, but that bastard prosecution attorney had tried to implicate –

The slap of running feet rose from somewhere nearby.

Quin shot to her feet, breath held, ears straining. Perhaps Pavo had sent guards for her after all. If she ran, would that make her look guiltier? If she stayed, would she be able to argue her way out of their grasp? What to do? She glanced from the courtroom down the corridor and back again. The weight of decision on top of the visceral reaction to being questioned held her in place.

But a smaller door to one side of the courtroom’s great double doors opened and it was Ariston who came through – a narrow staircase rose behind him, presumably leading to the gallery.

“Oh good,” he said, “I hoped I’d catch you. Are you all right after that?”

She released the breath she’d been holding. “Oh, Ariston.” Just Ariston.

“Quin?” He frowned, looking her up and down. “Bloody hells, you’re shaking. Come here.” His hands were heavy and warm on her shoulders as he pulled her close.

For a moment, Quin closed her eyes and tucked her head under his chin. A hug. A rare thing, but welcome, needed, even. She leant against him, drawing warmth and strength.

She was safe. Well, as safe as a thief ever was. Pavo seemed to have no interest in adding her as an accomplice to the murder and with any luck, she’d never need to enter another courtroom again.

“You did amazingly.” A side-to-side movement against the top of her head must have been him shaking his. “You kept your cool, despite that arse and his –”

Quin sighed in what was almost a laugh and pulled away. “Thank you.”

“And I spotted your distraction technique. If Atesh had lost his temper, they’d have beaten him, you know. Those truncheons are nasty things. An excellent performance.”

She sighed. “For all the good it did me. They didn’t listen.”

“Well, hopefully you’ve sown the seeds of doubt.”

“Those seeds will grow well if the Sultan gives evidence. He was right there, too. He saw the flicker in the illusion – surely he must realise Atesh isn’t guilty?”

The skin around Ariston’s eyes wrinkled as he winced, making him look suddenly older than his years. “I wouldn’t count on it. He’s got enough of his own worries – wife’s dead, child without a mother, and a battle for the regency, potentially.”

“Oh?”

“Gossip in the galleries.” He nodded towards the door he’d come through. “There’s talk of the arrangements made. The little Shehzade will be crowned the Sultana soon enough, but there’s question about who’ll be her regent.”

“Surely it’ll be her father. Who else could possibly” – she stopped at the grimace on Ariston’s face – “Who?”

“Prima.”

Quin flinched at the name. Damn Cassian for leaving her so tired that she couldn’t control her reaction to that woman’s name.

“Sorry,” he muttered at her silence. “There’s another possibility, too – Erdem could argue precedence over them both to be regent – he’s of the royal bloodline where the Sultan and Prima are not.”

“But they were removed from the succession.”

“This is true, but in case you hadn’t noticed, the royal family can’t afford to be picky – they’re a bit thin on the ground.”

The tap of distant footsteps echoed down the corridor, staying further conversation. The next witness approaching, most likely.

“I’d better go back in,” Ariston said, glancing down the hall. “Will you be all right?”

Quin forced her face into a smile, though it was tight on her lips. “Of course.” She leant closer and whispered, “I’m going back out to look for Edan.”

“They’ve not scared you off, then?” His chin thrust towards the courtroom. At her half-smile, he snorted softly. “Course not. Well, if we’re looking into this properly, I’ve got a possible use for those designs.”

She raised an eyebrow in question.

He opened his mouth, as if to say more, but instead turned to the gallery door, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll tell you later.”

25

Madam Fortune

It wasn’t the tallest tower in Arianople, not anymore, but once, 500 years ago, it had held that record, so Ariston said. For Mahir, a man known in his day as the Master of the Card, it had been important that he look out over the city and that others see him high above them. His work had done much for understanding of the Cards and how they connected users to the Hundred, so the place had become known as the Tower of the Card.

Centuries later, when he was nothing but bone, his tower and his work had been taken over by the slight, wispy-haired academic sitting opposite Derry and Ariston. Suheyla was perhaps a little younger than Livia, but untouched by the ravages of illness. She had made her home in the tower three decades ago, seeming to appear out of nowhere with money to buy the crumbling remnant of the past. Her budget had apparently extended to repairing it enough to be safe, but not so much that it lost the appearance of precariousness and ivy-draped mystery.

There were rumours that Suheyla had a network of spies and that was how she knew the comings and goings of everyone (at least that was how it seemed); others believed that she truly was a master of reading the world, past, present, and future, in the Cards.

It was a rare skill, once thought lost, so Derry could understand people’s scepticism, but still they came to Suheyla for readings, accepting her answers whether they came from the Cards or her spies. As long as she spoke truth and gave them good news, who cared?

When they’d arrived, Ariston had run ahead up the stairs, instructing Derry to wait at the doorway. He knew Suheyla from before Quin was born and must have wanted their reunion to be a private one. Perhaps he had needed to smooth over past wrongs.

Whatever his reasons, Ariston had called for Derry five minutes later and Derry had climbed up the staircase that spiralled around the edge of the building. Narrow windows afforded a better view of the darkening city the higher she climbed. At one level she saw the Golden Tower, its roof still lit gold by the setting sun. Higher, she spotted the dull, cluttered boxes of houses to the west that was the Gutter Streets. She’d stopped at an open doorway on the third floor, but how far would she have been able to see if she’d climbed to the fifth floor, the very top of the tower? It was an academic question – Derry didn’t dare step outside of Suheyla’s welcome.

The woman may be slight, small of stature and build, but her eyes were as hard and dark as the flint arrowheads Derry had found so many times as a child playing in the dirt.

Those eyes glinted as Suheyla looked at the folded papers on the table between them. They were the designs for the forged dagger, but what the woman thought she was going to gain from them while they were still folded up, Derry didn’t know. Even so, she sat waiting for Suheyla to respond to their request.

It seemed the room was round and about 20 foot across, but the walls themselves were hidden by an abundance of shelves, cupboards, and patterned carpets. It looked like a workroom-come-study, where old papers came to die. The shelves were lined with books and rolled up sheets, all bristling to be read. Derry yearned to leaf through them and discover their mysteries.

Every flat surface, except the small table at the centre of the room, was covered in stacks of papers, candlesticks (some filled wax remnants, others with spluttering candles beating back the darkness), and bowls of smouldering incense that tickled Derry’s nose and tugged at some distant memory she couldn’t quite place. Jars of ink teetered on the edge of a large desk at the edge of the room, apparently shoved to one side when a new pile of books had been hefted onto the surface.

Coffee cups clustered beside a fireplace that stood tall and oppressive. On the stove, a round-bellied coffee pot sat forgotten, full of promise, though Derry and Ariston hadn’t been offered drinks. Perhaps he had pissed Suheyla off twenty-odd years ago.

Like the tower itself, everything gave the impression that the slightest touch would send it all crashing down, but looking at Suheyla, intent and sharp-eyed, Derry doubted the place was as haphazard as it appeared. Likely the academic had a mental, if not physical, catalogue of exactly what she had and where she had it.

At last those shrewd eyes flicked to Derry then Ariston and Suheyla nodded, seeming to recall her visitors. “Hmm, yes, it can be done.” A small wrinkle formed between her brows. “Perhaps.”

Derry raised her brows. “Perhaps?”

She glanced at Ariston, but his face betrayed no surprise or disappointment and he didn’t question Suheyla’s vagueness. It had been his idea to ask the fortune teller to use her skills with the Deck on the designs to discover their owner or where they’d come from.

Suheyla sighed and tapped a slender finger on the table. “This is still an experimental technique. The Cards have been with us for as long as we know, and yet still no one has all their secrets.” She raised an eyebrow. “I have more of those secrets than any other in Thanatolia, perhaps even the Inland Sea, and yet I am still learning. This” – she waved her hand at the designs – “is not a personal item, it won’t be imprinted with a single person’s” – she pursed her lips, searching for the right word – “one person’s essence? Energy?”

Derry sighed. “So, what are you saying? Can’t you get a name or location from it?”

Suheyla’s dark hair, pinned at the back of her head, shone in the candlelight as she cocked her head. “I can get a location, certainly.” She smiled, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “I’ll get several, perhaps even dozens of locations from this. And that’s the problem. A personal item, like a Card or favourite necklace, would lead me straight to the strongest connection: its owner. This thing” – again, the wave of her hand – “could lead us in a hundred directions, none of them right. It will tell me where the paper was milled, where the ink was manufactured, the warehouses where the paper and ink were kept, anywhere the letter or its constituent parts have been for a significant amount of time. If we’re lucky, it might give me a dim image of who drew it and perhaps their location at this specific moment in time, but it might just as well show me the plants that form this paper.” She ticked off the possibilities on her fingers. “And then there are all the ingredients of the ink ...”

Grimacing, Derry stared at the designs. All those connections, from just a couple of sheets of paper. Quin’s desire to free Atesh seemed all the more impossible, and it hadn’t seemed that likely in the first place. She sighed. “So many places.”

Suheyla nodded with a sympathetic smile. “Yes, so many. But,” she said with a shrug, “it might give you something useful to go on.” She hopped to her feet and went to rummage in a basket of papers on a shelf. “I just don’t want you under any false hopes that I’m about to point you straight to the assassin.”

Derry’s heart leapt to her throat. “The assassin? What –”

Suheyla stopped her with a raised hand. “Don’t bother with denials or any of that rubbish.”

Again, Ariston showed no sign of surprise, if anything the twitch at the corner of his mouth looked amused. Damn him – he knew things about the fortune teller he hadn’t let on.

Suheyla plucked a roll of paper from the basket and turned to Ariston. “I know I’m not your favourite human being, but did you have to lead her to think I was an idiot?”

The way he jolted upright, mouth flat kept the laughter from Derry’s lips. There was a past between them, she was sure now, but what was it?

But Suheyla gave no time to ask. “Every day I read the Cards, see what’s on its way. Sometimes I see things that are useful to me; sometimes I see things that are useful to others. Such as when I warned the Pasha to leave town. Pity he didn’t.

“Other times I see things useful to no one and on occasion I misread the signs from the Hundred Gods.” Her eyes flicked to Ariston then lowered, a sad look there momentarily. “Much to my chagrin. But when the companions to Quinta Guldan come to me, seeking clues from the designs for the dagger that murdered the Sultana, I read the signs very well indeed.”

Gaping, Derry made to stand, the desire to flee strong in her feet. How could Suheyla know the contents of the papers, when she hadn’t unfolded them? And how did she know Quin’s true name? Derry had thought this a safe line of investigation, but no, this woman knew too much, she was dangerous.

Ariston’s hand landed on her shoulder, making her jump with the sudden weight and pushing her back into the chair. The gentle squeeze he gave was a comfort, though, and he followed it with a smile. Of course, he must have told Suheyla who they were.

“Calm yourself, Varangian Princess.” The fortune teller’s dark eyes softened as she smiled.

So, she knew Derry was from Noreg. Most in Arianople just used their blanket term for pale-skinned folk – Franks. Surely Ariston hadn’t had time or reason to go into that much detail.

“Don’t worry, Derry,” Ariston said, his voice a low rumble in his chest that carried through his arm to her shoulder, “Suheyla has always known a lot of things she shouldn’t.”

Suheyla sighed before her mouth became flat and sombre. “I know these things about you and about your friend, yes, but I am no threat to either of you. I know the Pasha is no more guilty of murdering the Sultana than you or I. Stay and I’ll tell you what I can about these papers of yours.”

She returned to her seat and used the rolled paper from the basket to push the designs to the left edge of the table. At Derry’s curious frown she smiled. “I don’t want to touch it until I’m ready to read from it. I might miss initial impressions and sometimes those instinctive first sparks are the vital ones. Not always, but sometimes.” She spread a map of Arianople across the rest of the table, securing it in place with coffee cups and jars of ink.

Derry hurried to help, moving an inkpot to catch one of the corners. “So, you’ll be able to locate its home on the map?”

Suheyla lifted one shoulder. “As I said, I’ll be able to find many places, but, yes, I’ll be able to pinpoint the associated locations on the map. It might be quite fast at times – be ready to note them down. There’s pen and paper on the desk.”

Ariston fetched them and placed them before Derry, next to the inkpot. She dipped the nib, ready.

Suheyla nodded approval and lifted the flap on the worn leather box at her belt.

The hairs on Derry’s arms prickled. Magic. The woman’s connection to the flow had to be strong for Derry to sense it at the mere opening of her Card case.

The gilt edges of the Cards gleamed in the lamplight as Suheyla ran a finger across. Her measured flick through the Deck was a dry whisper. She pulled a Card out – Derry didn’t see which – and placed it face-down on top of the folded designs. She wasn’t even going to look at them.

Sliding her left hand over the Card, Suheyla closed her eyes.

Derry held her breath, watching. Ariston’s chair creaked as he leant forward.

The room was silent, but Derry could feel a buzzing across the bare skin of her hands and forearms, as though the air itself vibrated. Ariston rubbed his beard – the hair was thick and full, as if battling to stand on end. If thunder had crashed outside the window, Derry wouldn’t have been surprised.

She probably wouldn’t if it had struck the tower.

Surely this much vibration wasn’t safe in such an old building. Yet the stacked papers didn’t rustle. The ink in its pot didn’t even ripple.

Derry shifted in her seat. Magic had never disturbed her before, but this …

It was worse that Suheyla sat so still in the centre of it, eyes closed, unruffled.

Then her right hand darted out. Unwavering, the tip of her forefinger landed on the map. Derry craned to peer at the spot – the corner between two roads in the Seventh District. Plenty of tradesmen and merchants had their shops there – that was a likely spot for supplying the ink or paper. Still, she copied down the location.

Even as she did so, Suheyla’s hand swept across the map again. Her eyes were still closed, but her finger landed with the nail perfectly aligned with a block a few streets away from the first address. Dipping her pen, Derry hurried to jot it down. Thank the gods her love of books and learning meant she was used to writing quickly, because Suheyla’s finger was already moving to a new spot.

Ariston raised a brow. “I think we might need more paper.”

* * *

An hour later, Derry and Ariston trotted down the stairs of Suheyla’s tower. The back of Derry’s neck still prickled at how much the woman seemed to know.

Had she given Derry good news? That was hard to say. She had dutifully copied out a dozen locations in and around Arianople that Suheyla had pinpointed. Sometimes her finger had gone to the edge of the map, giving just a vague direction from the city. Once she’d returned from her connection with the flow of magic, Suheyla had suggested these were likely the origins of the ingredients that went into the ink and paper – where the hemp had grown to make the fabric that had later been collected as rags to make the paper. There were so many stages in that process and although Suheyla could pinpoint a location, she couldn’t always say the relationship. Sometimes she had been able to dismiss a site, telling them it was a paper mill – she had a sense of many workers moving and chatting, the rush of moving water, the clatter and thrash of machinery.

Leaving the tower, Derry sighed – they would have to visit each address and search for signs of the assassin. Exactly what clues did an assassin leave in their own home? At least if they saw it was a stationers shop, it would be fair to assume that was where the paper or ink had been bought.

A dark shape loomed out of the evening shadows at the base of the tower. Derry gasped, hand going to the dagger at her side.

Danger? Or maybe Tacita? Warmth rose in her ribcage, a flickering hope. Where had that foolishness come from? There was no reason for Tacita to be here now – she did seem to enjoy sneaking up on Derry, but thus far she’d only done so at social gatherings.

Besides, this was someone shorter, who was now pulling back a hood to reveal Quin’s grinning face.

“Oh,” Derry said, dismayed to realise she was disappointed it wasn’t Tacita. That was something she’d need to puzzle over later, alone, away from Quin, who had an irritating habit of guessing her thoughts at times.

Life was quickly getting complicated – first Quin had grown far too interested in their mark, then that mark was framed for assassination, and now Derry was hoping to encounter some dubious noblewoman in the dark.

“Don’t look too disappointed to see me,” Quin said with a lopsided smile.

Ariston glanced past Quin but didn’t seem on guard – he must have heard her approach. “You got my note, then?”

“Thought I’d come and collect you in the brougham, since it’s dark and you never know who might be lurking around.” She shot Derry a look with brows raised. Nodding towards the gate leading out of the tower’s courtyard, she led the way. “And I had abysmal luck in my search for Edan.” Her mouth twisted.

“No sign of him, then?”

“It was a long shot.” Quin shrugged. “I don’t know where in the Gutter Streets he lives and no one would bloody tell me.”

Ariston cocked his head. “And have you asked the Canting King?”

Her nose wrinkled. “No.”

It was obvious Quin was putting it off. He’d love having a favour to hold over her, but at some point she was going to have to ask for his help.

“Anyway,” she went on, “what did – hmm, I’m never sure what to call her – a seer, fortune teller, professor, spymaster? What did she up there have to say?” She gestured at the tower, before unlatching an iron gate and letting Derry and Ariston through first.

“Well.” What to say and what to leave out? “She used the designs –”

“Did she find them?” Quin grabbed Derry’s arm.

“I don’t know, she gave us several locations, it –”

Derry stopped in her tracks, peering ahead to the brougham stopped in the gloom between the streetlights of a small square. It faced away from them and a flapping movement on the back panel caught her eye. “What’s that?”

“Hmm?” Quin followed Derry’s gaze. “Huh, there’s something on the carriage.” She frowned and strode ahead, Derry on her heels. Ariston moved to the right, frown on face, dagger in hand. His steps were silent as he circled around the equipage.

As Derry approached she could see there wasn’t just an object flapping in the soft night breeze, something else long and thin gleamed above it. She rushed ahead, squinting at the grey shapes in the half-light. “A dagger.”

“How rude.” Quin glared at the blade embedded in the lacquered wood. “The bastards have ruined the finish.” The weapon pierced a folded sheet of paper with the letter Q written in cursive script.

Ariston appeared from the left, dark frown still in place. “No one nearby. I’ve paid the girl you left with Hira – she didn’t see anything.”

At least he was taking this seriously. Derry sighed at Quin. “Someone leaves you a note stuck in place with a dagger and you’re worried about the woodwork?”

Quin glanced over her shoulder. “If anyone’s watching,” she murmured, “I don’t want them seeing me so easily rattled.” She smiled, but knowing her so many years, Derry could see the brittleness around the edges. “Let’s see how worried I need to be.” She yanked out the dagger, giving a quick glance – plain, steel. Apparently unimpressed, she handed it to Ariston.

He passed it from hand to hand, hefting the weight. Raising his eyebrows, he nodded. “Simple, but well-made. A pin would have done the job, but a dagger makes a point. No pun intended.”

Quin gave a wry smile and rolled her eyes. After unfolding the page, she angled it so they could all read the contents in the yellow lamplight. It didn’t take long, it said simply:

Quinta ‘Sabia’, if you wish your reputation to survive long enough to help the Pasha, come to the Golden Tower at dawn. Come alone. Come unarmed.

“The writing looks familiar,” Derry said with a frown, trying to place the hand.

Quin’s eyes flicked to hers. “It should do, its match is in your pocket.”

“The notes on the designs?”

Ariston tugged his beard. “So, it’s from the same people.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

“You can’t go,” Derry said, hand raised at the objections she knew would come. “If they framed Atesh, they’re not going to help you clear him. These people –”

“I’ve got to go.” Quin spared another glance at the note before folding it up and slipping it in the breast pocket of her sellsword jacket. “These people know something about me – not Quinta Sabia, me – and I need to know what that is.” She moistened her lips and took a breath, before squaring her shoulders and yanking the carriage door open, gesturing for Derry to get in.

Ariston’s folded arms and flat mouth matched how Derry felt. The pair of them watched Quin. A standoff.

Quin sighed. “Look, let’s get home. If you want to try to dissuade me, you can do it with just as little success there as you would here, and I’d rather not discuss this further on the street.”

The crease between Ariston’s brow deepened for a moment and he glanced at Derry. Quin had a point – this message was not for casual conversation in such a public place. If they returned home, they could speak freely behind closed doors. Derry gave him a tight-lipped nod and climbed inside.

Who were ‘these people’? Were they just the Sultana’s enemies? Atesh’s? The note made it seem that they might be Quin’s, too. Whoever they were, they had already assassinated the Sultana within her own palace and they had murdered Dethero.

The three of them climbed into the carriage, Ariston taking his accustomed spot in the high driver’s seat. As the brougham rocked, starting homeward, Derry glanced at Quin’s side, where the bandages criss-crossed her ribs and belly underneath her jacket. They hadn’t left her unharmed, either. What more were they capable of?

Derry pulled her jacket closer around herself, but still she shivered in the warm summer twilight.

26

Left Hanging

The Golden Tower stood proud on the third of Arianople’s famed seven hills, west of the palace, the Watergardens, and Quin’s house. Its pale marble walls rose above the Golden Horn and the brass roof was said to be the first part of the city kissed by the sunrise each day.

As prestigious as the building was, it had been subject to a land dispute for over a decade and stood empty, abandoned by all, save the occasional ministrations of two small armies of builders, one from each side of the squabble, who fell upon the tower once or twice a year to argue about what was essential maintenance and which team would carry it out.

This morning, a lone figure approached the tower, moving through the half-light before dawn with a purpose. The sun had not yet touched the tip of the tower with gold, but it soon would, and Quin wanted to be in place before that happened.

She didn’t know who or what she would find up there, but that hadn’t stopped her from lying in bed all night wondering. Perhaps arriving a little early would give her opportunity to scope out the area, check for entrances, hiding places, anything that might give her some small advantage.

Although a night time chill still hung in the air, the climb up the hill made her sweat. Her stomach was cold and heavy as stone, almost as if it could drag her back down home, away from this foolish meeting.

Quin lifted her skirts higher and continued onward. An informal day gown befitting Quinta Sabia had seemed like a good idea when she had risen, but now she cursed the petticoats swishing about her legs and longed for her sellsword gear. She drew some comfort from the breeches, which she’d pulled on at the last minute, giving some sense of security beneath the skirts.

She hadn’t dared don her whole mercenary ensemble: she didn’t know exactly what information these people had on her, so it was best to play the part of the noblewoman and let them reveal what they knew, or thought they knew, at least. She grimaced.

There was a long list of possibilities, so many things that could ruin the reputation of her persona – that could ruin her.

Head down, marching on, she tried not to think about that.

At last, she came to large wrought iron gates, thick with ivy and firmly chained shut, set in high marble walls.

Or were they chained shut? A closer check revealed the chains weren’t padlocked, just looped around the bars enough to appear secure to the casual observer. So that was one possible entrance, probably the one her enemy would use and expected her to use. Best not to be expected.

Quin looped around the building to the right, searching for an alternative route, but she reached a craggy bluff, falling away some fifty feet, without sign of another gate. She contemplated the steep drop and the abrupt termination of the wall. Perhaps she could climb over or around, but even if she hadn’t been wearing long skirts, the wall was smooth and sheer and any fall would land her on cruel-looking rocks below.

“Too risky.” She sighed and then she heard it.

Behind, just the faintest scrape of earth and gravel, the footfall not judged perfectly. She spun to face the sound and caught a glimpse of a tall figure, closer than she’d expected, before there was a dash of movement, an instant of pain, and then black.

* * *

She woke groaning, something inside her head pounding. A breeze flowed around her arms and tickled her neck. Swinging. No, she couldn’t be. But when she opened her eyes, it was to a view of Arianople stretching out above her head, sunlight just beginning to touch the seven hills, all swaying left to right to left to right.

Above? Why would the city be above her, with the Golden Tower, now gleaming, sheer beside her, its domed roof below her feet?

She went to rub her head, but her arms were leaden, dangling useless above her head. Now she focused on it, the stretch was pulling on the cut on her ribs, opening up fresh, stinging pain. Wincing, she twisted in an attempt to relieve the stretch, but the instant she moved, the world spun – stone, city, sky, sea, and back to stone again.

A cry bounced back from the Golden Tower’s wall, sounding thin and pathetic. Damn, that was her sounding thin and pathetic. At least the pain was starting to cut through her grogginess.

That rough sensation around her ankles, looping up her legs was a rope, holding her suspended (and thankfully holding her skirt down, rather than leaving it to flap around her face). Those blobs of colour, some 200 feet above – no, below, were flowers in the tower garden.

She was hanging upside down at its top.

Buggeration.

“So nice of you to join us.” A woman’s voice from the direction of the tower, somewhere on the edge of familiarity.

Sea, sky, city. Quin ground her teeth, waiting for the uncontrollable spin to bring her round to face the voice. Her feet were tingling, toes on the verge of numbness.

Just above her feet a window stood open, a black mask peering out. It was like a domino mask, but covered the nose as well as around the eyes. The rope around her ankles stretched upwards, onto a pulley, then into that window. So, this woman, whoever she was, could just cut the rope and be done with Quin, as easy as that.

A trickle of cold sweat ran up her neck.

“Yes, thanks for the invite,” Quin called back. Good, her voice didn’t betray her, despite the dizziness that swam around her head with each swing of the rope. “Though I’d rather join you inside.”

“That all depends on you.” The masked face disappeared from the window and Quin swallowed down panic.

A heavy headache began to pound behind her eyes, similar to the ones that came with Card use, but with it came a dark haze at the edge of her vision. How much longer could she take this?

At last, with a squeaking of the pulley, Quin rose, the tower’s blocks of stone passing with painful slowness.

The woman was back at the window, watching her captive like a sabrecat sitting over some small creature it toyed with. “I thought you might appreciate this view of the city,” she said with a sugary smile. “Perhaps it will help you to appreciate our sincerity.” Something about that clipped voice, the careful enunciation, stirred a memory.

Quin grunted an acknowledgement and wriggled her fingers, the tingling creeping up her arms at once painful and near-numb.

“Not as talkative as I’d expected.” The woman cocked her head, and then shrugged. “No matter, you can listen to me. I know that you’ve been poking into business that doesn’t concern you. I’m here to give you some friendly advice. Woman-to-woman.” Again, that smile, this time so tight it seemed to cut the blood from her lips. “Business that does not concern you can be dangerous.” She stared at Quin a long while, her dark eyes not giving anything away. “Now, can you come inside and speak to me in a civilised manner and listen to my advice, or would you rather stay outside a little longer?”

“I’d love to come inside,” Quin said, “and I assure you, I’m a fantastic listener.”

“An excellent choice.” The woman nodded and gestured to someone in the tower. A long hook came out the window and pulled Quin’s rope inside; once in arm’s reach, the masked woman and her accomplice, a burly man, also masked, pulled Quin inside, narrowly avoiding cracking her head on the windowsill before laying her on her front, cold stone against her chin. At last, he untied the ropes and without so much as a grunt lifted her to her feet.

Sparks of light filled her vision and her knees buckled as the blood rushed back, winning a tut from the man. With one arm, he carried her, toes scraping across the floor. She gasped at the burning in her right side as it stretched.

Slowly, her sight cleared, but it was as though thousands of hot needles jabbed into her limbs. Wriggling her toes only made it worse. She held her breath, waiting for the pain to clear.

At least she wasn’t upside down anymore.

The man bound her wrists to the richly carved arms of a chair. So much for civilised. Still, sitting was better than dangling. The chair screeched across the floor, jolting her joints, as he shoved her towards a table where the masked woman already sat, palms against the varnished surface.

“Thank you, Mus,” the woman said to her assistant, before turning her attention to Quin. “Do forgive me; I have quite forgotten my manners. Let me introduce myself: you can call me Alora du Vertin.”

“Charmed I’m sure.” Quin didn’t recognise it. She knew the names of all the aristocratic families of Arianople and most of those across the continent, and Alora’s clothes screamed of that level of wealth. Du Vertin had to be an alias.

“It’s so important to remember one’s manners, isn’t it? And yours are quite impeccable.” Her dark eyes fixed on Quin, calculating. There was a tension in her jaw, behind that curve of smile, something that said she wasn’t quite as calm as the lightness in her voice suggested. “Small talk is a favourite of mine and much underrated. For example, I suppose this terrible business with the Sultana has rather put a dampener on your pursuit of Atesh Shahin, hasn’t it?” She cocked her head and leant back. “But really, did you think you of all people could win him, a Pasha of the royal house, cousin of the Sultana?” A cold tinkle of laughter echoed around the room, like shards of glass.

That voice, even without the insulting words, got Quin’s hackles up. Where did she know it from? She bit the inside of her cheek and counted to five before answering. “He is a gentleman, I am a gentlewoman: so far, we are equal.”

“Yes, but was your mother?” She leant forward. “Or, rather, I should ask, is your mother?”

It was as though a bucket of January water from the Golden Horn had been poured over Quin, the cold creeping down her neck, shoulders, back, across her face, the prickling flesh of her arms, and over her legs. Her palms grew slick with sweat. The hammering of her heart swelled to a deafening volume, overshadowing even the pain in her limbs and ribs.

She knew.

Alora’s smile was broader this time, triumphant. For a moment her tension faded. “Let me give you that piece of advice I mentioned, Quin” – she paused, clearly relishing her work – “don’t dream too high. Pashas do not marry the daughters of harem whores.” She spat out the last word, the taunt echoing in Quin’s mind. “You’ve done well for one and I almost admire you for coming so far. Truly, it shows great tenacity and skill.” Leaning across the table, she placed a hand on Quin’s in almost a sisterly gesture.

Alora’s flesh burned against the chill that engulfed Quin’s body, but much as she strained against the rope at her wrist, Quin couldn’t pull away. How the hells did she know?

“I wouldn’t even mind seeing your work continue just a little longer,” Alora went on, “so it would be a shame if I had to reveal your parentage at court – or rather, your mother’s name.” Another short laugh. “After all, to reveal your parentage, we’d need your father’s name, and I don’t think even you know that.”

Quin clenched the chair until her hands went white. Now heat bloomed in her belly, her chest, her brain, but she was at Alora’s mercy, impotent to act. One of her fingernails bent back against the wood.

“I suppose once a whore, always a whore – why would she be any different outside the harem?” Alora spread her hands, as if to say, What can you do?

Quin had never asked what her mother had done after the harem was abolished; she’d been afraid to. The Sultan’s harem had been a position of power, a way for a country girl like her mother to get an education and, if clever and ambitious enough, to rise to become one of the most powerful women in the country.

A common professional? Well, that brought little money and little else. She could be proud of the woman who had risen through the harem, but surely there was a better way to earn a living in the Gutter Streets than becoming a professional.

“But that’s not your fault, my dear” – again, she patted Quin’s hand – “and it would be such a shame if your reputation at court were ruined for something beyond your control.” She withdrew and tapped a finger to her lips. “I even suspect it could be more than your reputation you’d lose, wouldn’t it? Last time I checked, this kind of fraud could win you a good spell in the stocks, no?”

Gritting her teeth, Quin stopped herself breathing a sigh of relief – so Alora didn’t seem to know about Quin’s usual line of work, or else surely she would have mentioned the far worse sentence for thievery.

Yes, here was a woman who would love to dangle the threat of hanging above Quin’s head, there’s no way she would keep that quiet if she knew. That was some small comfort.

“I believe so,” Quin replied, surprised to hear her voice so calm.

“And as for your other crimes” – Alora cocked her head and this time her smile had no sweetness – “well, as they say, hanging would be too good for you.”

Quin’s comfort shattered. So, she knew.

She’s playing with me.

Knowing that did nothing to calm her twisting stomach.

“I suppose,” Alora went on, “you’d like to know what you can do to avoid such dreadful secrets ever getting out?”

Quin swallowed past the panic rising in her throbbing heartbeat, the beat so hard it threatened to shake her whole body. If Alora told everyone Quin’s secrets, she wouldn’t be able use them to blackmail Quin into helping. “That would be useful.”

“Good,” Alora said with a smile below her half-mask. “I’m so glad you can see the sense in dealing with me.” She leant forward, the tension knotting her jaw, squaring her shoulders, draining the playfulness from her voice. “Firstly, this business with you harping on about the Pasha’s innocence to anyone who will listen needs to stop. As does any investigation you might be carrying out into the matter.”

“But your note said if I wished my reputation to survive long enough to help him, I should come here.”

“Oh yes, that. I lied. Something I’m sure you’re familiar with.”

Quin bit her tongue. She had to listen carefully to the wording the woman used – perhaps she could piece together exactly what they did and didn’t know. They suspected she was investigating the matter, though maybe didn’t know for sure and Quin would wager they didn’t know exactly what she had discovered so far.

“And just in case you’re tempted to continue your investigation, I really wouldn’t recommend it,” Alora said, smile evaporating. “After all, it would be such a shame if more friends of yours were hurt.”

It was as good as a kick to the stomach. Dethero’s ashen face swam before Quin’s eyes. That’s where she knew Alora’s voice from. She’d heard it four days ago. “You,” she gasped, “it was you at Dethero’s.”

Alora had been at the shop looking for the designs. That tension she’d been carrying behind her cockiness: it was fear. She was spooked by the trial or by Quin’s investigation, maybe both. Loose ends. That was all Dethero had been to her.

“You,” Quin said again, throat tight around her voice, choking out the insults she wanted to roar.

Alora’s mouth twisted in a sneer, but she didn’t otherwise acknowledge Quin’s words.

Quin drew a long breath. Calm. That’s what she needed. Focus. Her eyes narrowed, throat loosening. “You’re going to an awful lot of trouble to keep me out of the way. You wouldn’t be scared, would you?”

Alora’s sneer thinned. “You have no idea how much trouble I’ve gone to over you.” An odd thing to say, but she gave Quin no time to ponder it. “I assure you it isn’t through fear. Look at you.” Her eyes flicked to Quin’s bound wrists. “If I wished, I could kill you now and be done with it. I’d prefer to keep you around as long as possible, but I can’t have you running wild like a little Gutter Street rat.”

Whether it was fear or not, there was something else behind Alora’s threats. It was as though this ran deeper than just the assassination.

“However,” Alora continued. “I’m not quite so attached to your friends, as I’ve so clearly demonstrated. There is something you can do for me to assure their safety and that of your little secret.” She paused, as though expecting Quin to ask. When Quin remained silent, she puffed a short sigh. “You’ll deliver the designs to me.”

Another loose end.

Quin frowned as if confused. “Designs?” she asked, innocently. It was petty, but any way she could disobey, however small, she would take.

Alora fixed her with a cool stare. “You know which designs I mean. Or have you forgotten your dear pawnbroker’s death so swiftly?” With one smooth movement, she was on her feet and leaning across the table over Quin. “Perhaps you need a little reminder.”

“Oh, no, I remember well enough.” Quin poured her grief, her anger, her hatred into the glare she gave Alora. “I’m always going to remember the satisfaction of breaking your nose and helping you kill your minion with your own rapier. Does Mus know how his predecessor met his sticky end?” Quin jerked her head at the burly man, he wasn’t as large as the one from Dethero’s office, but he was still well built.

The back-handed blow was more powerful than she’d been expecting from Alora, snapping her head to the side, sending the pounding to a crescendo. Quin licked her bloody lips, smiling a red smile. Good, breaking Alora’s nose had pissed her off. That was a start. “I thought you said this would be a civilised conversation?”

Alora rubbed the knuckles of her left hand. “Don’t make me show you how uncivilised I can be.” She sat and pressed her shaking hands into the desk. “I’d gladly give you a demonstration on your companion, sweet little thing – what’s her name? Something quaintly Varangian.” Fingers clicking, she made a show of trying to remember. “Ah, Derry, that’s it! Yes, I’d be glad to show you a thing or two on your dear friend Derry, but I don’t think you’d be so grateful. So, to avoid that unpleasantness, bring me the designs for that blade.”

How naïve Quin had been. After Dev, she’d thought she could save Atesh and keep Derry and Ariston safe just by solving the Sultana’s assassination, as if there was a way to win. But here the assassin was before her – it had to be Alora – and Quin was powerless to do anything about it. She couldn’t capture her. That name was a fake. She’d check it, of course, but she had no doubt of the result.

There was a wall at her back and now another to her side, and enemies ahead. Damn it all to every single hell imaginable – she had no option.

Quin spat a mouthful of blood on the floor. “Fine.”

“Good. Also, the janissaries have one piece of evidence locked away, a Card. We need that as well.”

“What? You expect me to –”

“I expect you to have no problems charming your way inside or bribing some young officer. Frankly, I don’t care how you do it; I just expect it to be done.” She folded her arms. “I believe I’ve made clear the repercussions if you fail to meet my expectations.”

Run. That would be their best option. Just get the hells out of Arianople and never again think of Atesh or this damned place. Her stomach plummeted at the thought of leaving him. But even that wasn’t an option – there were janissaries watching the house and maybe Alora’s men now, too. Perhaps they were also checking the gates. Certainly there were janissaries at the city walls and she wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been given instructions to watch out for Lady Sabia and her entourage fleeing. If they were caught, they’d be arrested by the law or killed by an assassin. Bloody hells, how had she messed up so badly that arrest was the best possible outcome?

Quin sighed. “Clear as crystal.”

“Excellent.” Alora strode to the window, gazing out, the morning sun glowing red in her hair. “I believe our business is done. See our guest out,” she said, waving at Mus.

With thick fingers, the man untied Quin and pulled her to her feet. Thankfully her limbs had started working. “It’s been a pleasure,” she said with a mock bow.

Alora glanced at Quin and smiled, running a hand over her knuckles again. “You have no idea.”

Tightening his grip so it threatened to cut off the blood supply to her arm, Mus steered Quin through the door and half-dragged her down the stairs. She tried to think of some quip to make at him, but every thought veered towards the threats made that morning and the enormity of the task before her. How on earth would she get that Card from the janissaries? A sick tension settled in the bottom of her stomach and she suspected it would stay there a long while.

Moments later, Quin was shoved out the gates she had inspected just an hour earlier, with Mus grunting firm instructions: “You’ll hear from us about handing over the stuff. I’d get on with it, if I was you.”

With that, the gates clanged shut.

27

Cold Comfort

Quin hurried home, hood up to hide her bloodied face. She hailed a passing sedan chair when she reached a main road and sat back in its shade, glad to be concealed from a world that suddenly seemed much more dangerous.

Had the threats been idle? She grimaced: no, she had no doubt these people were more than happy to carry through. After all, it would be nothing compared to the crimes they had already committed. What did a thief’s friends matter when Alora had already murdered the Sultana?

In a bid to steer her racing thoughts into some sort of order, Quin planned her next steps. As soon as she arrived at home, she needed to check on Derry and Ariston – who was to say the assassin and her lackeys hadn’t already harmed them?

She knocked on the door of the sedan chair and called out to the men carrying her, “Hurry and I’ll pay you triple.” The compartment bounced as the men settled into a jog.

She’d make sure Derry and Ariston were well, and then go to mother.

Her tongue traced over the jagged cut where her teeth had pierced her lip. Did they know where Livia was? The warders at the asylum focused on keeping patients in, not attackers out, and they didn’t have any weapons that Quin knew of. Why would they need them? Who would ever want to attack an asylum?

Toes tapping, she rubbed her head. Too many questions and no good answers.

It seemed an eternity before they reached the town house, but at last Quin rushed up the stairs, having to run back with an apology to pay the sedan runners. Bursting through the door, she called for Derry and Ariston and held her breath, waiting for a response.

Long moments passed, but at last there were footsteps at the top of the staircase. Quin flattened herself to the wall and grabbed an umbrella from the stand by the door, just in case.

“Quin?” Derry’s voice.

She sagged against the wall, dropping her makeshift weapon. “Derry,” she said, voice breaking with relief.

Derry rushed to her, a frown of concern on her face. “What happened? Are you well?” With soft hands, she tilted Quin’s head to the light. “Bastards, what did they do?”

Before Quin could answer, the door leading downstairs opened and Ariston emerged, muttering about interruptions to his work. He glanced at the grandfather clock then raised his brows. “The meeting?” Taking in the crimson smear across Quin’s face, he swore. “What did they do to you?” His back straightened and he bristled, eyes immediately darting around the room, Quin guessed, seeking a weapon. He looked like the famous fencer of his youth, survivor of a thousand duels, formidable and deadly.

“Calm yourself, Ariston,” Quin said, swatting off Derry’s help. “You’ll do us no good smarting for a fight.”

“Then what happened?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Come, I’ll tell you both,” she said, jogging up the stairs, “but I need to change.”

The pair hurried after and closed the door to her chamber once they were safely inside. Quin splashed her face with cold water from the washstand – it cleared her head and wiped away the blood around her mouth – before disappearing behind a screen. As she changed into beige messenger gear, Derry coming to help with the unlacing of her stays, Quin explained what had happened at the tower.

Ariston swore again and the tap of footsteps suggested he was pacing the room. “And you’re going to check on Livia? Perhaps I should go. It sounds like they’re watching the house at least, if not following you specifically.”

“I’d thought of that,” Quin replied, pulling a white linen shirt over her head, wincing as the slice across her ribcage twinged. “If they’re following me, I have a plan. Though I’ve got the feeling they don’t have so many people that they can watch each of us day and night.”

She emerged from behind the screen and sat on the bed, tugging her boots on. “I want you to go to the Hidden Court, speak to the Canting King.” Ariston raised an eyebrow. “I know you know him of old. Get him to send men to guard the house, as soon as possible.” She grunted as the boot finally cooperated and went over her foot. “Mention Mum – he always liked her – but still make him a good ‘donation’. That should get us his best.”

“His best cutpurses,” Derry muttered, an eyebrow sceptically risen.

Quin’s mouth twisted into what could almost have been called a smile. “Isn’t that all we are, really?” She shrugged, gathering her weapons and a half-mask and heading to the den, Derry and Ariston at her side, shooting each other querying looks. “I might not trust him, but he has the numbers and he knows which of them will risk death for the chance to impress him. He always had a lot of respect for Mum and I think, despite his reservations about my style of work, he likes seeing us get one over on the aristos, so I’m sure he’ll help.”

“For a price,” Ariston added.

“Always for a price,” Quin said with a nod. She pulled open the rosewood box containing her mother’s jewellery.

It was a high price, but she needed him to take her seriously. She bit her lip and took the ring from the Sultan’s Tears set. This was worth it. And she’d get the ring back. Some day. She’d buy it or steal it or whatever she had to do. She had to believe that.

Her hand trembled as she held it out to Ariston. “Pay it then get back here. I can’t concentrate until I know those bastards can’t carry out their threats against you two.”

He shook his head.

Quin drew a quick breath. It was hard enough to part with the ring; she didn’t need his refusal, too. “These are the best pieces we have. To keep you two safe, no cost is too –”

“It’s not that,” he said, raising his open hand to ward her off. “I understand that. It’s just … You have to go.”

Quin wrinkled her nose. It was one thing going cap in hand to the Canting King for a favour. It was another to have to see his gloating face as she stood there. Knowing him, he’d make her beg.

Ariston tilted his head with an apologetic smile. “I know the thought of it hurts your pride, but it’ll have more impact coming from you and you know that.” He clasped her shoulder, the warm a brief comfort. “You can go to him while I check on Livia.”

“Fine,” Quin sighed, “I’ll go, but you two stay here. It’ll be easier for just one person to get past anyone they might have watching us and I need to see Mum’s safe with my own eyes.”

“And after today?” Derry raised her brows at the pair of them. “Why does Alora want that Card?”

Ariston rubbed his beard. “It’s a loose end. It must belong to her, so –”

“It doesn’t matter why,” Quin said. “We need to try and get it for her. I have no idea how we’re going to do that – the fortress is even better guarded than I’d feared. I could maybe get into the courtyard, but the main buildings?” She shook her head. Even if she could get inside, she had no idea which of the various structures held the Card.

“You two can work on ideas while I’m out, because let me be clear on this: this woman has threatened us. In case you’d forgotten, she’s already killed the Sultana in a room full of people, she murdered Dev” – she swallowed past the cracking of her voice – “and now she’s threatened you. We cannot – will not take the risk of going against her.”

Ariston drew a breath.

“No, Ariston. I’ve made the decision. Right now, you two are staying here and you’re staying safe. Do you understand?”

“Fine,” he growled.

“Work out how I can get that Card, if it’s even possible. That’ll keep you occupied.”

“But she’s revealed herself now.” The words burst from Derry’s mouth. “We have a name –”

“Derry!” Quin’s shout silenced her. Ariston’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t blame them – she never shouted. Calm down. She took a deep breath. “Do you imagine that’s a real name? Look it up, if you like, but I guarantee you’ll find nothing. We have the designs, but it’s pointed us to stationers and paper mills. We don’t know where she lives, what family she’s from or who the hells she is. We have nothing. There is no evidence against her. All we have is my word and Ariston saw how much that was worth in court on Tuesday.”

Derry sighed. “Fine. We’ll work on things here.” But her lips pursed.

Quin dropped the ring into her inside pocket and took Derry’s hands. “I need to know you are safe.”

Derry nodded. “Go to the Canting King and then your mother.” Her voice was husky and she pulled Quin into a sudden embrace. “But also make sure you’re safe.”

Quin squeezed back, burying her face in Derry’s lavender-scented hair. “I will.”

With jaws set, they made their way downstairs. “What will you do about their other demands?” Ariston asked, handing Quin a full water skin.

“I’ll work that out when I get back. I need to see to mother, first.”

“But you’ll keep working to help Atesh, right?”

Quin looked away from Ariston’s penetrating gaze, pretending to check the lid of the water skin. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” She tied the mask in place and strode out to the stables.

Ariston’s words echoed through her thoughts as she tacked up Hira and rode out.

The warm, musky smell of the sabrecat and the swaying movement of her gait were a small comfort, but still that question mark reared its ugly head. What would she do about Atesh? If she continued trying to help him, the lives of Derry, Ariston, and perhaps even her mother could be forfeit.

If she didn’t, his would be.

There was no path she could see that would save them all.

Once they reached the road, she urged Hira west. It was busy on the road, so she could easily dodge between coaches and cut through small gaps to lose anyone who might be following her. Even so, she glanced back every so often and at one point waited in an alley for five minutes. There was no tail.

They cut through the Gutter Streets. It was a more direct route and she knew its winding lanes well. It would be a challenge to follow her here.

At last, the city walls rose ahead, a mixture of sandy and pale grey coloured stone. Even from this distance their dilapidation was clear in the scrubby green of buddleia and saplings springing from the masonry. The Walls of Arianople had been unbreached by war, but now they’d been broken by age. By the time she reached them, she’d still seen no sign of Alora’s men or janissaries on her trail.

She turned right, following the once-great wall north. Here the crumbling of the forty-foot high crenelated inner wall was worse than further south near the Evengate. Sections had tumbled down, leaving piles of rubble leading up to the infilled terrace between the inner and outer walls.

In places trees grew in the cracks, pushing the stones further apart with each year. Quin had even heard of rocks falling on people’s heads as they passed, but that hadn’t stopped people brave or foolish and definitely desperate building shacks at its base. Their makeshift homes leant against the brick and stone. Some were little more than leather stretched between stakes and the wall with flaps for doors.

Small faces peered out at her. A sabrecat was a rare sight here, so the children huddled to watch their passage. Some braver boys and girls crouched at the tops of the stairs that led up to the tops of the walls every few hundred yards.

A tall woman carrying a pitcher of water on her head widened her eyes at the sight of Quin and hurried to a nearby hut, pushing three curious children inside and closing the door behind. The latch clattered into place.

Quin gave a grim smile. Sensible woman – not everyone who rode the Gutter Streets did so with good intentions. Sometimes men and women came offering desperate parents money for just one child. Think of how it could feed the others, they said. Other times little boys and girls simply disappeared.

Shivering, Quin closed her eyes and rode on.

At regular intervals the ghosts of ancient gates punctuated the walls: arches of different coloured stone and brick where they’d been filled in over the centuries. Vagrants and drunks huddled in their shelter. Each old gateway was overlooked by a square or hexagonal tower some 60 or 70 feet tall. They couldn’t help but be imposing standing at such a height, but they were just as ramshackle as the walls, each one in varying states of disrepair.

It was the northernmost of these towers that Quin aimed for. Looking out to the Golden Horn, it too had been abandoned by the military long ago. The entrance to the bay was now guarded by a chain that could be lifted to keep ships out and little threatened the city by land anymore.

This tower was round, its crenellations still intact, like some huge stone crown high above. No shacks had been built against its walls. Some of its windows were covered by stretched thin hide, others had been filled with window frames that were too short or narrow to properly fit, but in the Gutter Streets you took what you could salvage. A few at the very top just had curtains, if that’s what you could call the rags hanging at them.

One of those rags rippled, but not from any breeze. A child’s face peered out, her eyes briefly widening at the sight of Quin on Hira’s back before she disappeared.

Quin drew the sabrecat to a stop and jumped down from her back. It didn’t matter if the Canting King knew of her arrival; it wasn’t as though she was planning to ambush him.

Hira leapt up a staircase in the crumbling walls to lie in the sunlight at the top, peering down at Quin. At least one of them would enjoy this visit.

Quin faced a wooden door built from scraps of different coloured timber, hanging in an old entrance to the tower. If you didn’t know the viewing slot was there, you’d be lucky to spot it in the patchwork effect door. But she knew it was there and sure enough a few seconds after she arrived it slid open and sharp eyes looked out at her.

“What’s the –”

Quin lifted her mask and smiled sweetly at the young man inside.

“Oh! It’s you.”

She lifted her hands in apology. “Afraid so.”

“You – er – you know the password?”

“Just let me in, Florus.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I’ve known you since you were a baby.”

“I suppose.”

The door opened silently revealing a man five years younger than Quin with a profusion of mid-brown curls haloing his head. When she’d still been a mudlark, he’d go down to the sea with his older brothers and sisters. He’d watch their shoes and socks as they worked their way along the shore, later searching through the silt for treasures himself when he was old enough. He’d always been a sweet boy. Someone must have been looking out for him to get him a job for the Canting King, rather than letting a crueller employer sink their fingers into him. He looked like a man grown now, no longer a gangly boy. Quin wasn’t old, but it made her feel it.

He winced, as if not wanting to speak.

“Go on,” she said.

“He’s not going to be –”

“He never is.” She sighed.

He shrugged. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She gave a stiff nod. “Much obliged.”

None of them were going to be pleased to see her. They never were. Well, that was a little unfair – a few of them were. A few of them remembered her for who she had once been. The rest …

The faint sound of conversation drifted along the dark corridor, along with the mingled scents of unwashed bodies, lavender, and smoke.

Florus waved her on when she paused, and she squared her shoulders like the bareknuckle boxers who fought for money at the docks. Deep breath, then in.

Daylight fell upon her. The tower was open to the cloudless sky, its wooden floors long since rotted away. At the far end, a canopy covered an area of seating. Windows studded the walls, some square, those that faced out from the city, just arrow slits.

The shuffle of activity bustled around her, not quite filling the circular space. A lady with grey hair crouched off to the right, roasting nuts over a small fire. Their savoury smell made Quin lick her lips. A gaggle of skinny children gathered around her. They wore grubby clothes, some full of holes and tears, others whole, but far too short or with the sleeves rolled up. A couple even had shoes.

To one side, a clutch of older children huddled, trying to not look interested in the story the old lady told or the morsels she offered to the little ones beside her.

A tall lean man lounged near Quin, his face part-shadowed by a crumpled top hat. He looked at her, not even attempting to hide his curiosity. Why would he need to when this was a safe harbour for him and all sorts of beggars and thieves? This was the Hidden Court, the Gutter Streets’ answer to the Sultana’s Court. Here the Canting King ruled and that rule spread out across the district through the men and women he trusted or employed.

And ahead, the Canting King himself sat in a large wing-backed chair beneath the canopy, deep in conversation with a group of women. Quin recognised a couple of them.

She took another breath and inched forward. She needed to speak to him, but the possible reactions of these women when they realised who she was made her grimace inwardly.

One of them was talking. “… he raped –”

“I don’t care who he raped,” the Canting King said, “you don’t just go around cutting off –”

“And you don’t just go around raping people,” another woman spoke up, her back to Quin. The voice was familiar, though she couldn’t immediately place it.

The Canting King opened his mouth to reply, but then his eyes met Quin’s and he held up his hand. At that, the women shifted, turning to see what had drawn his interest. The one who had spoken last raised her brows when she saw Quin.

Red. Quin swallowed. This might make things harder or easier. It was so hard to predict how she’d respond to Quin these days. They’d been so close as children, it made the distance between them now a gaping chasm.

“Well, well, well,” the Canting King said, “look who’s dirtied her boots to make her way to my door.”

Red’s face smoothed, apparently mastering her surprise at seeing Quin.

Quin nodded to her and the other women she knew. “Red,” she murmured.

The other women’s reactions were, as she’d expected, mixed. A few turned their attention straight back to the Canting King, apparently not recognising Quin or not caring who she was. A couple looked back at her with narrowed eyes. One smiled.

“How long is it you’ve been back in Arianople, madam?” the Canting King asked, cocking his head. “I’m an old man, I forget.”

Though he was only maybe ten years older than her – hardly an old man, but she’d humour him for a moment at least. “A couple of months.”

“Is it really? And this is only the second time you’ve come to see me. I’m hurt.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive.”

He smirked. “I always do. So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Got something you want to show off – remind us all how generous you are?”

Red folded her arms. To say she didn’t entirely approve of Quin’s work was an understatement.

Quin huffed out a long breath. “I’ve come to ask for help.”

Even the Canting King’s mouth dropped open at that. Red blinked and looked from Quin to him. The other women muttered amongst themselves, though she couldn’t catch their words.

“You’ve come to ask us for help?” Red asked, recovering before the Canting King.

He frowned, leaning forward on his shabby throne, elbows resting on his knees. “You shamming us?”

Quin sighed. “There’s no trick. And no time for playing your games, Hakan.”

The women gave a collective intake of breath at his name.

He looked at Quin a long while. “And what’s it you need? Must be bloody desperate to come here and ask me.”

“I need men –”

He smirked and opened his mouth to say something salacious, Quin wagered.

“To watch the house,” she finished before he could. “As if I’d come to you for – look, never mind. I need people to watch the house, make sure it’s safe, and to make sure I’m not followed when I go through Galata and out of the city for a few hours.”

His head cocked again. “Someone’s after you. Who?”

Her toes squirmed in her boots, hidden from his sharp eyes. “I’m not sure, exactly.”

The Canting King’s chuckle echoed around the courtyard. He shook his head. “And you bloody hate that, don’t you? When you gonna learn that it’s you up on the stage at the end of the strings? You ain’t the puppet master.”

She frowned but bit the inside of her cheek to stop it deepening. “Are you going to help me or not?”

His hands spread in an expansive gesture, palms pale. “And why should I? When’s the last time she helped any of you ladies?”

“I ain’t ever seen the woman. Who is she?”

“Just a professional like you and me,” said a woman with braided hair, “only she knows how to play fancy, so she gets paid fancy.”

The Canting King’s eyes glittered in the shade of his canopy. The bastard was bloody loving this.

“Six years ago,” Red said.

All eyes snapped to her, the silence just as abrupt.

Six years ago.

Quin’s first con. Her first engagement ring – large and sparkling and worth more than any Gutter Street family would see in years of work. The con had all been so new then. Exciting at first, but then tempered by the realisation it meant she’d be its slave with no life of her own. She could have turned her back on it, then. But Red’s family had the threat of rent collectors hanging over them, so it only made sense to give her the money she needed. Quin had left Arianople for the first time after that, leaving Red and Dethero and the life she knew behind.

“The problem is,” Red went on, head tilted as if trying to work out what was before her, “I’m not sure how much good you really do, Quin.”

The women who had shrugged at Quin’s arrival gasped at the name. One now fixed her gaze on her intently. She was a true beauty, with small rosebud lips, an upturned nose, and her terracotta-coloured hair in fine braids. There was something about her that tugged at a memory, but Quin couldn’t place her. They must have bumped into each other somewhere on the Gutter Streets, perhaps in the distant past.

“You drop off money here and there, but what difference does it really make?” The flat line of Red’s mouth was cold. “We’re still here year after year, still living in this place, still putting up with those same bastards coming here for rent and taxes. And still we can’t always pay them. So now we’re meant to be grateful to our great benefactor and risk ourselves to help you, just ‘cause you asked nicely?”

Quin sighed. Red was right, life here was still hard no matter how much money she pumped into the place, but what could she do about it? Nothing. She was just another cog in the machine of Arianople. It sucked Gutter folk in and ground them down like meat.

She searched Red’s eyes for some sign of empathy. “I can’t change all of this, Red. You know I’m only doing what I can –”

The Canting King snorted. “While living in a fancy house and going to pretty parties.”

“How else am I meant to get close enough to them to steal the –” She stopped and took a deep breath. They were never going to understand or agree. “Look, I didn’t come here for an argument. Or favours. This is a fair business transaction.” She pulled the ring from her pocket.

Red’s assured expression broke as her mouth dropped open. Her gaze roved over Quin’s face and she shook her head. She recognised the sapphire ring – it was one they’d played with as children when Livia was out of the house, before she’d been forced to pawn it. Quin’s chest heaved as she fought the tears springing to her eyes. This was the Red she’d known back then. She understood it wasn’t just a piece of jewellery.

“Ah, so you’re looking to pay for my help.” Hakan’s eyes glittered, fixed on the ring. “And prettily and all. Well, why didn’t you say so?” He reached for the payment. The sapphire glittered as her hand trembled.

“No,” Red said, grabbing his arm.

Quin looked from one to the other. What was Red doing? Of course, she knew there was more jewellery where that came from. She was going to demand more. Quin couldn’t blame her, even if it stung. But she’d stolen the pieces back once and when Hakan pawned or sold them off, she’d just have to do it all over again. It was a comforting, if unbelievable lie.

The Canting King stared at Red’s fingers on his wrist, his eyes and mouth wide. “But she –”

Red nodded to Quin. “Put it away.”

“Away?” She blinked at Red, then at the ring. It wasn’t worth enough. Perhaps they’d let her leave this for now, so long as she brought the rest later after she’d checked on her mother.

The women glanced at each other, muttering.

“What’re you doing?” He pulled out of Red’s grasp. “You did see –”

“She’s paid enough to us over the years – call it an advance payment for this job. But only this once, mind.” Her expression was stern again when she looked to Quin. “Don’t expect this treatment next time.”

Quin stared at Red. An advance payment? She didn’t want more money from Quin.

Red’s resentment that Quin had left wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Maybe there were even enough shards of their broken friendship left to glue together to make something new. Quin wanted to hug her and thank her, but they weren’t in that place. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But this was better than she’d dared to hope. Instead she nodded and put the ring away, trying to hide the shaking of her hands. “Course not,” she said, voice gruff.

Hakan watched the ring disappear, shaking his head before turning to Red, brows raised for an answer.

“Think of it like this,” Red said, “if someone’s after her, it means she can’t help us.”

“But you just said she don’t make –”

“I know.” Red held up her hands. “She hasn’t saved the Gutter Streets and ended all this, but there are people here who’d’ve starved or been taken by the rent-rats if not for her. So we’re doing this for them.”

Quin looked from face to face as half the women fell to agreement, nodding. Red’s influence in the Hidden Court had grown. Quin hadn’t realised the sway she had on its people. Hopefully she had it on its leader, too.

Hakan scowled, also watching the women around him. At last his gaze returned to Red, her face still and calm. He huffed. “Fine. I’ll get people on your house and to cover your back, my little mudlark.”

Quin’s shoulders sagged as the tension released. “Thank you.”

She nodded to Red, who shrugged in return, but there was a small frown on her face that belied her casual response.

The Canting King straightened in his chair, calling attention back to himself, sharp eyes on Quin. “When?”

“Now.”

Ten mins later she left the tower and whistled for Hira – three notes, short, short, long. The sabrecat flowed down from the wall, thick coat warm under Quin’s hands as she mounted. The Canting King had sent four men and two women to Neorion Square, plus a gaggle of guttersnipes to the Platea Bridge. They’d wait there and trail her into Galata, watching for pursuit.

A group of children might not seem an effective choice for stopping anyone following, but these were Gutter Street children, like Quin had once been. They’d spent their lives kicking up distractions to help each other pinch purses, lift goods at bazaars, and avoid getting napped by janissaries.

They’d be perfect.

* * *

Quin rode along the seafront, watching the long, low arc of the bridge crystallise against the scintillating reflection of sunlight on the Golden Horn. Before reaching it, she paused at a street vendor to buy a box of Anatol delights and to ensure the children on foot had time to reach the bridge before her.

As she approached, crews of nippers scampered across the road, past the other pedestrians, and onto the bridge. One crew played near the barriers at the edge of the bridge. Another started dancing to a little girl’s pipe tune, holding caps out for money from passers by. Some older boys and girls prowled the crowds. To an observer, they’d seem like separate groups who just happened to be here, but they operated as one, creating a watchful barrier across the bridge. They separated for her to pass, eyes sharp to anyone taking too much interest in her.

The back of her neck itched to turn and peer over her shoulder, but that was their job. A messenger shouldn’t be worried about pursuit. She bit her tongue and rode on. She faced no trouble on the bridge or riding through Galata and if anyone slipped past the children and out of the city behind her, well, she had already chosen the best place to confront any shadows.

Soon she was out on a familiar road, the bustle of the city behind her, replaced by grassland and the forest up ahead. Willing herself not to look back, she loosened the reins and let Hira run, her coat gilded by the morning sun.

For a while, it was almost fun, as though this were a ride for enjoyment, the wind pulling Quin’s hair out of its braid and Hira rejoicing in the simple pleasure of movement.

For a while.

As soon as they were around the first sharp bend in the road, Quin pulled Hira up. They steered into the tree line. She doubled back, Hira understanding the hand on her shoulder blade and placing each paw in silence.

The pair stopped on a mound that gave them a clear view of the road, but whose undergrowth kept them hidden. Quin watched the road. Through the leaves and tree trunks, just the dusty roadway and the forest continuing on the other side. Nothing else. Hira sniffed the air, but her muscles remained relaxed.

They waited for half an hour with no sign of pursuit. Alora must have considered her threats deterrent enough or perhaps Quin was right and they didn’t have enough people to watch her at all times. Whatever the reason, Quin sighed with small relief and rode on to the old fort.

Riding into the courtyard, she dismounted before Hira came to a standstill and threw the reins and a few coins to a stable girl. She trotted up the stairs to the familiar doors, suddenly appreciative of their weight and iron banding. The asylum’s thick walls and isolation were some defence, at least.

As usual, they let her in and the warden led her through the cool corridors of the asylum.

“We hadn’t expected to see you again so soon,” he said, eyeing Quin as though she were up to no good. “You’re not due another payment yet.”

“Has anyone been here asking questions about your patients?” Quin asked, ignoring his accusatory tone.

“Of course not,” he said, pulling a ring of keys from his belt, “and if they did, they’d have no answers out of us.”

“And no one’s been to visit her?”

The warden shook his head. “Only the gentleman who delivered your additional fees.”

“And what about strange people hanging about?”

“No, madam,” he huffed, stopping, keys jangling with an abrupt hand gesture. “What is this about, are you in some sort of trouble and have brought it here?” His eyes grew dark and his lips pursed.

“No, warden,” Quin said, trying to sound contrite, “I’m just concerned about security. After all, if the Sultana can be murdered in her own palace, who’s to say anyone’s safe anywhere?”

The warden nodded and continued with their route, face softening. “Yes, it’s a terrible business, but I hope being out of the city keeps us away from such troubles.” He stopped outside Livia’s room. “It’s peaceful out here and we’ve never had any trouble with outsiders. Don’t worry yourself.” He gave a stiff sort of smile. “Just keep yourself safe in that city. I hear about the types they get there, cutpurses and cutthroats, courtesans and conmen.”

Quin smothered a smile – well, she could tick two occupations off that list and almost a third.

“Here we are, madam,” the warden said in a breezy tone, striding into the room and fussing about with a set of green curtains that had been hung over the single, small window of the room since Quin’s last visit. “Your daughter’s here to see you, isn’t that nice?”

“My little girl?” The voice was heartbreakingly frail compared to how it once had been, but it was Livia’s.

Entering, Quin peered around, immediately looking to the bed for her mother, where she usually was. Empty, except for sheets folded back. “Mum?” Her search found Livia sat in the corner behind the door on an armchair, a book in her hand. A small table stood at her side with another book, a cup, and the tin model of a fencer.

Today was a good day.

Quin rushed to her and Livia slowly rose, clasping her skinny arms around her daughter’s waist, book still in hand. “You’re taller than I remember. How long since you last visited?”

Quin hadn’t grown in many years now, but still this was a good day. “Too long,” she murmured and her heart clenched for the days they had lived together, when her mother recognising her hadn’t been a momentous occasion. “Here.” She sat her mother back down and pulled the Anatol delights from her pocket, the gooey packet a little squashed from their hug. “I got these for you.”

Livia’s eyes widened. “Are they rose-flavoured?”

Pulling up a foot stool, Quin nodded. “Of course.” She perched on the stool at her mother’s feet. The warden had gone; he must have slipped out while they were talking, ever discreet.

Livia unwrapped the waxed paper and held one gelatinous cube up to the light before biting into it. She sighed with pleasure and offered the packet to Quin.

“No, they’re all for you.”

“You are a good child,” Livia muttered around a mouthful of delight.

Quin smiled, a weight falling from her shoulders. Mum was safe and knew who she was. She could just enjoy that for now. She laid her head in Livia’s lap and closed her eyes.

Here she was warm and safe. This was home.

The reassuring weight of Livia’s hand rested upon her head. She unfastened the ribbon tying Quin’s hair in place and pulled out the braid. “Tell your mother what troubles you, little one.”

However good Quin became at disguising and hiding her true thoughts from her marks, Livia had always known when something was wrong. So, with long-practised fingers combing through her hair, the story of Atesh, the assassination, and everything that had happened since spilled from her lips. Her mother listened, occasionally asking a question for clarification, but otherwise waiting for Quin to finish.

She hadn’t planned to tell her mother about that morning’s meeting and the threats made, not wanting to worry her, but once she had started, she found she couldn’t stop until the whole sorry tale was out.

“Du Vertin,” Livia said at mention of the name. Her fingers paused, tips resting on Quin’s scalp, just above her ears. “She sounds like one of those unpleasant people who puts on the pretence of pleasantry.”

Quin snorted. “Exactly that.”

“Frankish.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s a Frankish name.” Livia massaged circles, lightly pushing through her hair. “I think I heard it a long time ago.”

“Really?” Quin opened her eyes and tilted her head to look up at her mum. Her eyes were far away.

“Many years ago …”

Quin held her breath. Sometimes the older memories were still intact.

“… Before you were even born …”

“I think she’s around my age,” Quin said softly, “so it couldn’t be her. Who had that name back then?”

With a shiver, Livia shook her head and blinked, as though she had awoken suddenly. “What are you doing here?”

Gone.

Quin smiled against the sorrow pooling in her chest. “That woman I told you about, Mum, the one who’s killed the Sultana and framed my mark.” She placed a hand on Livia’s. “She threatened you.”

Livia frowned and looked away, as if battling to remember. “So, you’re here to make sure I’m safe?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Quin replied, all words drained from her.

“And this began as a normal job – draw him in and ring him out?”

She nodded.

“What did I teach you to do when things went wrong?”

“Move on to the next mark.”

“Or?”

“Escape if the situation wasn’t safe.”

“So,” Livia said, eyes narrow, “why are you helping this man?”

“Because he’s innocent?”

“Aren’t all the men you target?”

She frowned. This wasn’t an avenue of conversation or thought she wished to pursue. “Never thought I’d hear you call any of them innocent. But whatever unofficial crimes against society the men I target are guilty of, they normally just risk losing some wealth, not their lives.”

“Indeed, that is a new variable.” Livia smoothed the fabric of her gown where it had rumpled in her lap. “But what does it matter to you? Why should you care if he is hanged? Why not just find a new mark?”

Quin closed her eyes but opened them as soon as she found the image of Atesh at the scaffold awaiting her in the darkness. “It – it just does. There are people out there deserving of such a fate and Atesh isn’t one of them.”

“You keep doing that,” Livia said.

“Keep doing what?”

“Calling him Atesh.” She shrugged. “You normally just call them ‘the mark’ or by their title or something else impersonal like that. At best, by their surname, but never by the first name. It’s ... interesting.” The raised eyebrow even sounded in her voice – that sharp arch in her words.

“It would be a lot more interesting to know what to do next,” Quin said, winning a laugh from Livia.

“Yes, I suppose it would. Let’s be quiet for a while. Think clearly.” Her fingers smoothed over Quin’s hair again.

“Hmm.” Quin closed her eyes again. She broke down the problem logically, trying to picture it like a puzzle. Atesh was in prison, likely to hang for his supposed crime. Dethero was dead, murdered by the people who had plotted against the Sultana and Atesh. Clearly, they were not afraid to spill blood.

Alora knew who Quin’s mother was. It didn’t seem she knew where Livia was, but she could certainly find Derry and Ariston. If Quin was caught trying to help Atesh, two or perhaps even three lives would be forfeit. And what would she achieve? Perhaps she would find a clue, perhaps she could save Atesh, but only perhaps, and who’s to say the judge and the janissaries would even listen to any more evidence from her or care?

So, the other option. Leave Atesh to his fate; keep Mum, Ariston, and Derry alive. Perhaps the janissaries would find some evidence of his innocence by themselves. Again, perhaps.

Livia’s hand had stopped stroking Quin’s hair. “Mother?” She sat up and Livia jumped, eyes fluttering open.

“Sorry,” Livia murmured. “I’m so tired.”

Quin grimaced. Livia suddenly looked so old, her skin dull and ashen where once ...

“No, no. I’m sorry, Mum, here I am tiring you out with my problems.” She rose and went to fuss over the bed, pulling back the blankets. At least they were clean. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

Gods. She’d been so selfish. The rare glimmer of past Livia had made Quin forget she was a frail woman, a sick woman.

She drew a long breath and retrieved the book Livia had been reading. Finding a pressed violet on the side that seemed to be a makeshift bookmark, she tucked it inside at the page she had open and placed the book on the chair, so her mother would find it easily. The Seer and the Sultan. An old romance, not something the Livia of old would have had time for, but things changed.

Quin might have needed her mother’s help, but this fragile woman didn’t need Quin’s problems.

Hells, Quin didn’t need Quin’s problems.

The chair creaked as Livia pushed on its arms, wobbling to her feet.

“Here,” Quin said, rushing to her side, “let me help you.” She slipped a hand under Livia’s elbow.

Livia’s eyelids fluttered again, as though barely awake, and she stumbled to the bed, leaning heavily on Quin. “Thank you,” she mumbled when Quin pulled a light cover over her. Her eyes cleared and settled on Quin’s. “Don’t leave me.”

Quin couldn’t breathe, the air blocked her throat. She couldn’t stay. But how could she deny such a plaintive request? “Of course. I’d never leave you, Mum,” she said, forcing the words beyond the catch in her throat.

The lies. Hadn’t she left her in this place for months already? “I think of you always.” She pressed her lips against the rough scars of Livia’s forehead as her eyes fell shut with a sigh.

Now it was Quin’s turn to stroke her hair, still thick as it ever had been, but dull where once it had gleamed.

“The tower,” Livia muttered.

“What’s that?” Quin frowned and bent closer to Livia’s moving lips. The barest breath escaped, but there were no discernible words.

Quin sat there watching Livia, but her lips were still, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and deep. At least she was sleeping.

Quin rose slowly, but her mother didn’t stir. Sound asleep. She tucked the blanket around her shoulders. Livia had grown so skinny, she was prone to catching a chill. Now the height of summer was over, they’d be heading into autumn. Would they still be in Arianople for that? With Atesh gone …

Oh gods, she couldn’t think about that. She pressed her face into the pillow next to Livia, fighting the urge to scream into it.

If they found him guilty and gave him the sentence she feared they would – Hundred knew she’d seen enough of them, but she couldn’t bring herself to even think the word – she’d leave town, collect Mum and move on somewhere else. And they’d never come back to this damn city – its Sultan’s disease had claimed Livia’s mind and its intrigues were about to claim Atesh’s life. A choke shook her body.

“Read the Card.”

Quin pulled back, staring at Livia – it had been her voice, soft as velvet. “What?” She stared, but the only movement was the slow, deep breath of one sleeping. “The tower … Read the Card?” She sighed. “The Falling Tower, is that what you’re saying?”

The Falling Tower. The Card of destruction.

She must have been dreaming of that book, The Seer and the Sultan.

But even if they were dream-mutterings, she was right. “This whole endeavour is indeed doomed.”

Atesh is doomed.

With a bitter smile, Quin left.

28

Perchance to Dream

Blood, bruises, and the smack of flesh against flesh. It had become routine, so he braced for the inevitable.

The old cut on his lip would explode anew, perhaps a fresh one would open alongside it. There would be the familiar delayed pain, throbbing and bursting with each old injury and every new strike.

At least if he kept his eyes shut, it stopped his defensive instincts. After last time, he knew it would only be worse if he lifted a hand to block a punch.

But his eyes were shut and still no blow had landed. They were playing with him. The bastards.

“Tell you what, lads,” Mert said, “there’s nothing like coming up here to round off the day.” Thick fingers raked through Atesh’s hair, then yanked it, tilting his face upwards. “Not a fancy Pasha anymore, just some drunk’s get.”

Even with his eyes closed, he knew Mert smiled – it rang cold and amused in his voice. He could envision the pale scar that stood out in the middle of Mert’s top lip when he smiled, a badge of malice.

“Here, Top – hold him for us.”

Rough hands propped him up under the arms and Mert released his hair. Atesh tucked in his chin. He could just flick his head back and break Top’s nose. Such temptation.

With a crack of knuckles, Mert’s feet scuffed across the floor. “Oh yes, this is going to be a good one – I can feel it!”

Get on with it.

Atesh pictured him, hands raised to guard his face while he dodged and danced about on his toes, as though it was going to be a real fight, rather than a one-sided beating. He’d seen the janissary do it before – that had been the day he’d blocked an incoming fist.

It had all been done before. Top would hold him and the other two – he’d never heard their names – would titter from the doorway where they kept watch.

Something about Mert brought out the worst in everyone. In his colleagues it was a love of casual violence and the feeling of power it gave them. In Atesh it was cold, hard hatred of an intensity that startled him. It settled deeper in the pit of his stomach with each meeting.

His hands twitched with need – to lift his own fists, to stop Mert’s, to hit him back and add to that thin white scar on his lip. The desire made him ache somewhere deeper than the bruises.

But it was a desire he’d grown accustomed to suppressing. Shut down and take the beating. That was what he’d done as a child and somehow Mert had brought him right back to that place.

It was amazing how much you could hate someone in just shy of a week.

Despite himself, Atesh’s hands balled into fists.

“Ooh, he’s getting feisty,” Top said.

“Feisty?” a new voice chimed from the doorway.

Atesh’s eyes flew open. Who was this standing up to Mert’s brutality?

Clearly Mert wondered the same, as he spun on his heels with a scowl. Top’s hands dropped from Atesh and he jumped to some sort of attention.

“Why don’t you let him fight back and see just how feisty he can be?” His voice was more measured than Mert’s with a studied neutrality that spoke of someone used to positioning himself in a place of both authority and polite deference. An officer. “I’m sure a gentleman of his standing is well-versed in the arts of war. In a fair fight, I doubt you’d be so cocky.”

Mert shuffled from one foot to the other, revealing the new speaker – a short, bespectacled man. His red buttons marked him as a sergeant. Porto, from the first day of his trial.

“Bloody hells,” Mert muttered. “Sergeant,” he said, louder, “we were just having a bit of fun.” He’d lifted his chin, but his arms folded, belying his confidence.

So this small, dark-haired man held real authority over Mert and his lackeys, not just the rickety pedestal of a superior rank.

“It’s not like he’s going to be around long enough for anyone to care,” Top said, voice at a distance as though he’d backed away.

Mert’s shoulders squared. He’d remembered Top and the others were watching. He couldn’t lose face before them. “And he deserves it.” This slight sergeant might have power over them, but Mert couldn’t be seen to bow down without some show of defiance.

“That is not for you or me to decide, Mert,” Porto said, voice level. “It’s for the judge to determine if he’s guilty and what punishment he deserves if he is.”

Mert’s laugh echoed off the walls. “If he’s guilty?”

Top grunted a low chuckle in reply. “Suppose we’ll know tomorrow.”

Atesh’s stomach lurched. Tomorrow. Decision day. Much as he hated Mert and company, at least they’d made him forget that tomorrow was due to be the last day of his trial. The day Judge Pavo would retire to consider his verdict.

So soon. How long would he take? How long until I hang?

“Have you lost it, Porto?” Mert went on. “He was caught red-handed, seen by a hundred people.”

“It’s Sergeant to you. Need I remind you of that as well as your duties?” Porto asked. He took a long while, pushing the glasses back up his nose and adjusting his sleeves. “We gather evidence, question witnesses and suspects. We do not determine guilt. I bet you’ve not even asked this man a question in days.” He raised a questioning glance to Atesh, who thought better of answering. It would only mean worse for tomorrow.

Not that there’d be many more tomorrows for him.

Porto sighed. “I thought not.” His eyebrow rose at Mert and Top, the janissaries by the door having skulked away. “If you’re not asking him questions or feeding him, then you have no business here. Need I further remind you that this man is still the cousin of our late Sultana and a pasha in the line of succession? Such gentlemen are even afforded the luxury of a silken rope if they are hanged, so as not to mar their noble bodies – a nicety no one would spare for you two.”

Mert cringed from the half-threat hanging in the air. “And why would we be hanged?” he asked.

“You tell me, Mert,” Porto replied with a small smile. “Is there some reason I should investigate you?”

“Course not! What’re you saying?”

“Nothing, my dear fellow, merely that this man may be our prisoner, but he is still a gentleman of some standing and influence. Did you not notice he has a proper bed and decent meals? Imagine if he were found innocent. What do you think he would do first, come and thank you?” The arched eyebrow again. Top shuffled into Atesh’s line of sight, eyes fixed longingly on the door. “Exactly, so I suggest you treat our guest more kindly, lest you mar that noble body of his and it comes back with a rapier.”

Mert huffed a sharp sigh. “Fine, it’s nearly the end of my shift, anyway,” he said, making for the door with Top crowding his heels.

Porto stood his ground, blocking the doorway. Despite having to crane his neck to look up into Mert’s eyes, he held eye contact. “And tomorrow’s shift and the day after and the day after that, until this man leaves, you’ll not be in his cell or I’ll make sure you have docks duty indefinitely.” He stepped to one side, letting the pair pass. Top hurried, but Mert walked a little slower than usual, as if to make a deliberate show of not hurrying.

“Don’t know why you’re bothering,” he muttered, “it’s a done deal, case closed.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to question him,” Top whispered sotto voce, finding his confidence now he was out of the room. He left the doorway, leaving Atesh’s line of sight, but called back along the corridor, “Maybe he just wants that ‘noble body’ to himself.”

Mert laughed. He paused behind Porto’s back and mimed dropping his trousers, before also disappearing from sight.

Porto’s jaw hardened, but he didn’t look back at Mert, just pushed the door to. He didn’t shut it fully, however. Perhaps there was some grain of truth in Top’s suggestion and Porto didn’t want rumours spreading about him alone with a prisoner.

Porto let out a slow breath. “I must apologise for those two. Their kind can be useful in some janissary duties, but” – he pursed his lips – “but as soon as a brain is required, their use comes to an end and they become a liability.”

He approached Atesh and raised his hand as if to lift his chin.

Atesh flinched.

He hated to admit that it was because of Top and Mert’s suggestions. But wasn’t that the sort of thing that happened – violence became sexual violence and violation? Atesh had no problem with men’s relationships, he wasn’t a stranger to them himself, but here and now it wouldn’t be his choice. It wouldn’t be about pleasure. It would be about punishment and power and powerlessness. And Atesh had had enough of punishment and powerlessness to last him a lifetime.

Not that it looked like his lifetime was going to continue much longer.

Atesh held his breath into the long moment of silence that spread between them.

Porto’s hands dropped to his sides. In a low voice, he said, “Yes, I do like men – it’s well-known and I don’t deny it – but I’ve no interest in raping you, or anyone else for that matter. I just wanted to check your wounds, see if you need stitches.”

Atesh looked away and beneath his bruises he flushed with shame that he had so readily pushed away help because of Mert and Top of all people. He knew their cruelty all too well, but a small part of him had still been too ready to believe them. He’d been here only a week, but already it was too long. Surely he wouldn’t have given them any credit whatsoever before. Had this place really made him so cynical already?

“Sorry, it isn’t that.” He managed a smile. “It’s just I’m a little sore and haven’t exactly experienced the greatest hospitality lately.” He lifted his head so Porto could see the cuts and bruises.

The janissary’s hands were gentle as he turned Atesh’s face this way and that. “Yes, you really should see about booking a different inn on your next visit.”

“Was – was that a joke?”

“It doesn’t happen often, so make the most of it.” Porto paused, prodding Atesh’s jaw. “I don’t think anything’s broken, but I’ll ask someone to check you over properly. This isn’t my area of expertise.” The janissary dusted his hands off. “Well, I’d suggest you try to get some rest.”

“Wait.” Atesh clutched at Porto’s sleeve as he turned to leave. “Didn’t you come here to ask me some questions?”

The janissary’s eyebrows rose. “I had intended to, but you’re not in the best condition, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Atesh said, tripping over his words. “Please, just ask me something – anything!”

Ordinarily, he might have felt ashamed to hear the desperation in his voice, but he was past caring. He’d bottled it up and now it seeped out, making his throat clench. The trial ended tomorrow. This short sergeant with his owlish spectacles was his last chance. “Please, question me now – if you’re asking me, then there must be some doubt that’s worth asking me about. Let me cling to the idea that someone doesn’t think this is just an open and shut case.”

Someone other than Quin. She had seemed so sure of proving his innocence, but her appearance at court had been two days ago and it hadn’t turned the tide. She must have given up. And he couldn’t blame her. He fought the urge to look up at her ribbon tied to the bars of his window. There was no way to know what Porto would do if he saw it.

The sergeant had gone quiet, his dark eyes made large and round by his glasses, his look thoughtful. At last he shrugged and took a short breath. “Very well, but sit – let us be civilised unlike my colleagues.” Porto pointed to the bed and took a seat at the small desk.

He leant forward, steepling his fingers and pressing them to his lips. His gaze grew distant. “Tell me again about that night.”

Atesh sighed. “Really?” How many times had he told that story?

“Really,” Porto said, nodding once.

So he sat on the bed and did as Porto asked. A few times the janissary asked a brief question about some detail or other, but otherwise he listened and watched.

“… and they led me away.” Atesh raised his hands to signal he had finished.

At first Porto said nothing, just looked from above his steepled fingers. Had he somehow fallen asleep with his eyes open? But then he parted his hands and nodded. “Your story hasn’t changed once, you know.”

Atesh frowned. Was this some sort of trap? “Should it have?”

“Usually when people are lying something changes. A small detail, perhaps. Maybe something larger – particularly if evidence that implicates them is presented. Or else nothing at all changes, even the phrasing – they’ve rehearsed it so often, it’s become a script.” His hands lowered, lying flat on the desk. “Your phrasing has changed each time I’ve heard you tell your story, but the contents have stayed the same.”

Atesh swallowed, heart pounding. He shouldn’t get hopeful, but …

Was Porto uncertain? He couldn’t believe Atesh was innocent, but perhaps he was genuinely reconsidering his guilt. If Atesh could persuade him, could he intercede with Pavo and get the trial stopped to start fresh investigations to find a different suspect?

He took a long, shaky breath. “Are you saying you believe me?”

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s say I’m having doubts.” Light glinted off his spectacles as he lowered his gaze and muttered, “Serious doubts.”

Atesh bit his lip. He shouldn’t get excited, but damn it, this was the best news he’d had since Quin had visited on Sunday, telling him she knew he was innocent.

Not that that had led anywhere.

He pressed his feet into the floor. That solidity beneath his soles was reality. Quin’s grand plans going nowhere – that was real, too. This – it might be hope, but it might not lead anywhere.

“I’ve been pondering something,” Porto said, sitting up suddenly, as if reaching a decision. “There was a piece of evidence found at the scene, but none of my – ahem – esteemed colleagues deem it worthy of discussion, so perhaps you’ll indulge me.”

Atesh nodded slowly. He wanted to bound across the room and sit opposite Porto at the desk, all attention on him and this little titbit, but that might break the spell or stroke of luck or whatever it was that had made Porto decide to share.

The sergeant frowned. “When we swept the ballroom, we found an emerald on the floor. Not ordinarily something of note to a murder investigation but –”

“But because of the Shahin Dagger, emeralds are now of interest?” Atesh interrupted, and then bit his lip.

Thankfully the outburst didn’t make Porto think better of sharing. “Something along those lines. One or two witnesses reported that the murder weapon was missing a stone, yet your own blade, seized when we arrested you, was complete: no missing emeralds.”

“And not bloody.”

“Blood can be wiped off.” Porto’s narrow shoulders lifted. “As I was saying, we initially dismissed the stone and those witnesses, who were clearly mistaken. Yet that evening after finding the emerald on the floor, I found a note in my pocket saying that the stone was paste, your blade wasn’t the murder weapon and that further investigation along those lines would reveal this wasn’t an open and shut case, as you put it.”

“Was it a woman’s writing?” Atesh asked, hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

Porto’s eyebrows shot up. “If I had to guess, I would say it was. Why do you ask?”

“Just a hunch.” His heart leapt. Could that be Quin? But how would she know about the stone, never mind get to Porto and slip a note in his pocket about it?

Porto watched Atesh a long while, but when he received no further elaboration, he shrugged again. “A hunch? Hmm.” His brow creased but he went on. “Earlier that day, just after finding the stone, in fact, a young maid working in the ballroom fainted and I assisted her. As you can imagine, I thought little of it at the time, but when I asked about her the next day, no one knew her.” He tapped his knee with a loose fist. “I’ve gone over the entire day and no one had the opportunity to get close to my inside pocket. Just her. That woman, whoever she was, maybe she faked the whole thing and used it to slip the note to me.”

Perhaps not Quin, then. Slipping into the palace dressed as a maid? Atesh tried to picture it, but instead saw her wild and fierce, fighting the forest elephant.

But then came the image of her dressing as his cousin to smuggle herself into the Seven Towers to visit him. Was sneaking into the palace any less audacious? He ran his fingers over the cut on his lip. He dared to let hope flare.

Maybe she hadn’t given up. He didn’t quite know what to make of her, but she didn’t strike him as the type to yield easily. The ferocity in her lowered brows and fixed jaw when she’d fought the elephant had spoken of determination. And their conversational sparring hadn’t only entertained and allured him: it had revealed a quick wit and intelligence.

Had she put those talents to use in helping him and found evidence of a second dagger?

True, he didn’t have evidence it was her, but who on earth else could it be?

It had to be Quin.

Who the hells was this woman that she could apparently get herself into any building and slip her hands into a janissary’s pocket unnoticed?

And despite that impressive set of skills, he had witnessed her refuse the pianoforte at a party where any other self-respecting gentlewoman would jump at the chance to display. Perhaps she couldn’t play, or at least not well, but what gentlewoman couldn’t?

That was something he’d never know. The thought blocked his throat with bitter regret and it was a moment before he could breathe.

He’d never get to know Quin and discover the answers to the vexing questions her secrets raised.

Then there were all the ideas he’d never get the chance to paint. Almost as much as these things, a surprising sorrow bloomed in his chest that there weren’t more future possibilities in his life – no grand plans to lament.

What did others regret in the face of death? Children and grandchildren they’d never watch grow. That unfinished magnum opus. The mark on the world left unmade.

What mark had he made?

“So, you’ve no thoughts on whom this maid could be?” Porto asked, breaking Atesh’s reverie.

Atesh gave an apologetic smile. Much as he wanted to uncover her secrets (and her, truth be told), he wouldn’t risk harming Quin by revealing what little he had learned. They weren’t his secrets to tell.

Porto slumped back in his chair with a quick sigh. “Well, I’ve had no leads on her, or a forged dagger. Though when we took the emerald we found on the floor to a master jeweller, it was indeed paste.” Porto pushed his glasses up his nose. “It did cross my mind that this mysterious woman was part of some plot that killed the Sultana and framed you for it, but why would she leave me that note, alluding to your innocence if that were the case?” He shook his head. “No, she is … something else.”

That was one way of putting it.

“Whoever she is,” Porto said, “let’s say she’s telling the truth and there is more to this case than meets the eye.” He raised a hand. “I’m not saying I believe you, but let’s talk hypothetically. Who else might want to kill the Sultana and frame you?”

“If you don’t believe I’m innocent, then why are you even bothering to ask me about all this?” Atesh frowned, folding his arms.

“Who else can I speak to about it?” Porto cocked his head, a thin smile on his lips. “The Sultana’s murder has struck at the heart of this city and some blame us janissaries. We should have known. We should have been prepared. We should have prevented it from happening at all. The only reason the city hasn’t turned on us entirely is because they have someone in the dock.” He peered at Atesh over his spectacles. “Do you think any of my colleagues want to even entertain the idea of your innocence?”

Mert was a bully and Top was his pet – their willingness to believe his guilt and act upon it was unsurprising, but the two who’d been at the door were just normal young men. They watched Mert and helped him because they were sure of Atesh’s guilt – it made the cruelty and their complicity justified in their minds. The men and women he’d seen in the court room watching proceedings – they ignored his bruised face because they were positive of his guilt. If he was beaten, then it was only the janissaries enacting righteous justice.

He sighed. “I suppose not.”

“And how do you think my career would go if I prodded that wound too much?”

“Not brilliantly.”

“And not for long. Now you see why I’m here speaking to you. So, enemies?”

That was the problem. “Zey – my cousin didn’t have any enemies.”

“As far as you know.” Porto raised his brows. “Everyone has enemies – and if you think you don’t, you’re in greater danger, because yours are unknown. They could be right beside you, an apparent friend, until the moment comes to stab you in the back.” The tip of Porto’s nose had turned pink, but otherwise he was as calm as ever.

Something from his past. Atesh watched, but he said nothing more. “Perhaps she knew her enemies,” Atesh said in the gap Porto left, “but I do not.”

“And perhaps they weren’t only hers.” Porto’s fingers drummed on the desk. “Someone who’s not only her enemy, but yours. Framing you would get you both out of the way.”

“Then just killing me would be a lot easier, surely?”

“Easier, perhaps initially, but it would leave lose ends. Killing her and framing you for it is remarkably neat.” He nodded, the crease between his brows deepening. “This ... This I could believe.”

It did have an uncomfortable ring of truth to it.

“So,” Porto went on, leaning forward in his chair, “who are your enemies, Pasha?”

Atesh snorted. “I’m not some hero from those swashbuckling novels all the ladies read – I don’t have an arch nemesis that leaves insulting calling cards with an obscure alias. I” – he was about to say he didn’t have any enemies, but after Porto’s earlier comment, he swerved mid-sentence – “I don’t have any enemies I’m aware of.”

“What about someone who disliked you both enough to kill?”

“If anyone did dislike us, they kept it hidden.”

“Let’s try a different angle, then. Why might someone want you or the Sultana out of the way?”

Atesh sighed. His brain was sluggish – it was rattled by the constant threat of violence and his head ached and he was tired. But this was a chance – Porto was wavering. If Atesh could get him to believe his innocence …

Focus. Why might lead to who.

It would have to be something major. Going after a pasha was one thing, but what motive would anyone have to take such a huge risk as to assassinate a Sultana?

They were saying that Atesh had done it in order to get closer to the Tulip Throne. With Zeynab dead, only his little niece stood between him and the highest position in the country. If he weren’t the chief suspect (worse still, the only suspect), the Divan Council would most likely be offering him or Ilyas the regency. There had been enough times in history that regents had become rulers in their own right that it wasn’t a difficult leap to make.

“The throne?”

“By way of the regency,” Porto said, “as per the accusations against you?”

“For some people it would be a big enough reason to warrant such a monumental action.”

“Perhaps.” Porto’s mouth twitched. “Who do you think would consider themselves likely to be next in line for the regency after you?”

Atesh shook his head. “It would be Ilyas. But he can’t be responsible – he was seen by everyone at her side when it happened.” Besides, they’d always seemed genuinely in love: there’d been true affection between them from their first meeting. “Ilyas’s grief that night was no lie.”

“My dear fellow,” Porto’s voice was soft, his eyes lowered, “there are some very good liars in the world.”

“I can’t believe it of Ilyas. If nothing else, he wouldn’t do that to his child.”

“If you say so. Who else, then?”

“There isn’t anyone else. The rest of our family is dead or removed from the line of succession.” No wonder people said (when they thought they were out of earshot) that his family was cursed – almost none of them were left.

Where else would the Divan Council turn? But there was nothing. He sighed. If he could just have a decent night’s sleep and a couple of days without his head getting battered, he’d be able to think clearly.

“I should bid you goodnight.” Porto raised an eyebrow. “I have work to do and you look like you could do with the rest. I just caught your eyelids drooping.”

“Wait.” Atesh was on his feet before he’d even decided to stand. “It – do you believe me?”

Porto hadn’t flinched at the sudden movement of an alleged murderer. Whatever amount of grit he had, surely he’d have at least glanced at the door if he thought Atesh guilty.

“Alas, belief is unimportant, Pasha.” The dull smile Porto gave was full of regret. “Proof is all. No matter what I might think, I have no evidence to support claims of your innocence – at least nothing that hasn’t already been presented to the court.”

Damn it all to all the damn hells. He was right. This whole conversation changed nothing. All he had was tomorrow and any small chance the final witnesses might sway Pavo’s mind.

His hands and feet were cold and heavy as stone. His heart boomed slow and loud in his ears.

“I’ll keep my colleagues away,” Porto said, voice soft from the doorway.

Atesh shook away the stillness that had wrapped around him and forced a smile. “Wish me luck for tomorrow, then?”

“I’m afraid not.” Porto paused, framed by the dark hallway. “I don’t hold with that Blind Lady – I prefer the one with the scales. Instead I’ll say: may Justice do her work. I’m not sure what a just verdict would be, but I know she does, so I hope she’ll be in the court room.”

Atesh nodded as Porto disappeared behind the cell door. “So do I,” he sighed as it closed and the familiar clunk of the locks echoed around his rapidly shrinking world.

The rectangle of sky outside his window was almost dark now and he flopped back on the bed, drawing the blankets around his shoulders.

The conversation with Porto should have given him hope, but the sergeant had been right – there wasn’t enough evidence of his innocence, just little hints. The only hope Porto had left behind was that he would keep Mert and Top away. He’d escape a visit from those two tomorrow.

But nothing could keep Mert’s words away – they came back to him as his eyelids sank, pulling him down into sleep: Just some drunk’s get.

I’m not.

But what had he done with his life? What had he changed for anyone else?

Was he just some drunk’s get?

There were no answers in the black, just a staircase leading down, down, down to that day when he was six years old …

* * *

There she was at the bottom. She could almost be asleep, but no one slept with their neck at that angle and blood trickled out of her nose, dark against the white marble floor.

“Mama?”

But there was no answer.

A hand on his arm squeezed. He yelped and it tightened so the fingers met. He should have smelt him coming: the sweet and sour stink of alcohol always preceded him.

“What have you done, boy?” Hot, damp breath in his face. The stench grew even worse.

He wanted to say he didn’t do anything, but his mouth was dust-dry and no sound came.

“Look at what you’ve done!”

His feet barely touched the steps as his father dragged him down them.

“Mama?” He tried to touch her, shake her awake, but the grip hadn’t loosened and he was yanked back.

“I asked what you had done. Now you’ve found your tongue, you can damn well answer.”

“I didn’t do anything – I didn’t hurt Mama. I found her like this.”

She still hadn’t moved. Some part of his brain, the adult dreaming, knew she wasn’t ever going to.

His eyes closed and a sob escaped and echoed around the hallway.

Another yank at his arm spun him around to face his father’s distended belly. “What’re you crying about her for?”

His father had barely looked at her. He hadn’t touched her, held her close, lifted her from the cold floor. He hadn’t checked. Just in case.

“Mother’s hurt and I love her, even if you don’t.” He bit his lip, realising his mistake in adding that last part. It was true, but when his father was in a temper like this, whether something was a truth or lie was no protection.

Instead of shouting or a cuff around the head, there came laughter. His father laughed and laughed until he wheezed, tears streaming down his red face. “Love? Foolish boy,” he whispered when he finally found his voice, “there’s no such thing.”

“But Mama says –”

“It doesn’t matter what your mama said, Atesh, because she’s dead. She’s gone, she left me – left us, and she’s never coming back.”

29

Quarry

It really was hopeless.

Atesh maintained the same even expression he’d worn throughout the trial, but behind it, the realisation struck as solid and cold and real as the walls of his cell.

Flittin had just finished questioning their best witness (his words, not Atesh’s). From the witness box, Malos gave Atesh the faintest nod, while Flittin returned to their table. He’d done his best, painting a glowing picture of Atesh’s character, but his words amounted to a grain of sand when weighed against the evidence presented by Cassian.

With a beaming smile, Flittin sat beside Atesh. He raised his brows as if to celebrate a job well done. Flittin didn’t have even the faintest idea that Malos’s best efforts had achieved nothing. He thought this a great win for Atesh’s cause.

Absurd. Atesh could have laughed at it all, but the empty hole that had opened somewhere in the centre of his chest sucked any mirth away. It was enough effort just to keep breathing.

Cassian had risen and now approached Malos. “Do you think the defendant is guilty?”

Malos’s brows rose. “No, of course not.”

The attorney nodded, as if considering the response. “What was the relationship between the defendant and the victim like?”

The victim. As if she no longer had a name. Zeynab. She was a person, not a catalogued piece of evidence.

Malos frowned, looking to Pavo. “I’ve already answered that question, Your Honour.” Flittin had asked about their relationship.

“Indeed, sir, you said it was good,” Cassian said, “but was it always so?”

Pavo nodded, apparently satisfied that Cassian was pursuing a different line of enquiry.

“Of course. They were more like brother and sister than cousins. They were largely raised together, after all.” Malos half-shrugged as if it were obvious.

“So there have never been any problems in their relationship?” The tilt of the attorney’s head spelt out his scepticism. “It was always as positive as the picture you painted?”

What was he getting at?

Malos’s frown suggested he was wondering the same.

A short, impatient sigh marred Cassian’s otherwise impeccable mask of professionalism. “Let me put it a different way. Tell me about what happened after Fehim Shehzade died.”

Ah. That. But that had been three years ago. She’d come round after a few days.

Malos shifted, glancing at Atesh for a second. “They did argue about that.”

“What was the problem, specifically?”

Covering his mouth, Malos cleared his throat. “Her Majesty initially blamed Atesh for her brother’s death – but he had nothing to do with it. The boy looked up to him like an older brother, so naturally when Atesh returned from his grand tour, Fehim Shehzade wanted to go on his own.”

“Where he died in a tragic accident,” Cassian finished.

Tragic. Seemed to be the word for their family. Accidents. Disease. Childhood deaths. Now a murder in the palace. And, soon, a public execution.

Poor Fehim. He’d only wanted to get out of the palace for a few months, see the world, get away from the stifling court. What young man wouldn’t?

“An accident.” Malos nodded. He sagged a little, as if relieved he’d avoided implicating Atesh through Cassian’s questions.

“And when it became clear the Sultana didn’t want the defendant invited to the funeral,” the attorney said, “what did he say?”

“I – I don’t recall exactly.”

But Atesh did. He closed his eyes.

“Perhaps I can jog your memory – did he say, ‘I could murder her’?”

A collective gasp rose.

He had indeed said that. As many a person had undoubtedly said about a brother or sister whom they loved but had the uncanny ability to drive them quite insane. Sighing, he opened his eyes.

Malos’s hands were raised, asking for quiet in a room suddenly full of chatter.

The gallery shuffled with movement. Men and women craned forward to look at Malos or Atesh. Others turned to one another, exclaiming at this turn of events. As one woman moved, she revealed a familiar face in the row behind. Quin’s butler looked left and right, frowning at the reactions around him. So far he’d attended every day of the trial.

“It – no,” Malos said once he could be heard. “He didn’t mean it like that – it was just a frustrated reaction.”

Cassian’s brows rose in that same infuriating way they had at Quin. “I didn’t ask you to speculate on his state of mind. Did he say those words?”

Malos lifted his head. “He said, ‘I love her, but I could murder her sometimes.’”

“Yes or no,” the attorney said, expression flat, “he said the words: ‘I could murder her’?”

Malos opened and shut his mouth, then shot an apologetic look at Atesh. His chest rose and fell in a deep breath before he hung his head and murmured, “Yes.”

It was the only thing he could say. It was the truth. Atesh hadn’t meant it – the literal meaning or intent wasn’t truth. But that he’d said it was indeed a fact.

“Just to ensure everyone in the room hears, please repeat your answer.”

Malos lifted his head, eyes remaining lowered. “Yes.”

Triumph flashed in Cassian’s eyes as he turned from Malos to the judge. “No further questions, Your Honour.”

Malos was dismissed and the court returned to a low hum of conversation. Atesh would leave him a note for … after.

It wasn’t his fault. Under oath, there was no other answer he could give. Besides, to think a character witness could have done anything to turn the balance of this trial was madness.

Atesh glanced at Flittin out of the corner of his eye. Or rank stupidity.

“Your Honour,” came a voice from the aisle. He peered past the crowd to spot Porto hurrying to the front of the court.

Some small part of Atesh still clung at the edge of the precipice that had opened within him. It whispered that perhaps Porto had found evidence of his innocence. Foolish hope. Where had it got him?

“I must apologise for interrupting,” Porto said once he reached the bench, “however some new information has come to light and I would humbly request the court’s permission to adjourn proceedings to give us time to investigate.”

Atesh swallowed, poised between flinging that small part of himself into the hole and pulling it back up. Perhaps Quin had found something. Would she have shared it with Porto, though? She had left him that note about the fake emerald.

Pavo’s lips tightened. “What new evidence is this?”

Porto’s weight shifted from one foot to the other and he pushed up his glasses. “It’s not exactly new evidence, yet, Your Honour. However, a new line of investigation has come to light and might reveal there’s more at play than first appears. I believe the defendant might have been –”

Pavo cut Porto off with a theatrical sigh. “I’m hearing a lot of mights, sergeant. Are you saying there is no evidence?”

“No, but if we could just have a little more time, we might – we will be able to –”

“Sergeant,” Pavo said, head tilting and brows rising in an expression both condescending and irritated, “the city appreciates your dedication to your job, but I fear on this occasion it takes you in an ill-conceived direction.” With a stern gaze and a flick of his fingertips, he dismissed Porto.

The sergeant stood there a few seconds, opened his mouth, closed it then turned away, frowning. As he left, he didn’t meet Atesh’s questioning look. His shoes barely made a sound in the silent courtroom.

Before speculation could bubble, Pavo split the silence with a crack of his gavel. “Now, if everyone's finished with little surprises, I will retire to begin my deliberations.” His gown rustled as he rose, but the movement faltered at a noise from the back of the court room.

The great girih doors had opened again.

Quin? She’d seemed so sure she could help. Atesh leant forward, craning to see who –

“Ilyas,” he whispered into the collective gasp.

A severe figure in black, he took his time walking along the aisle between the seats. As he passed, each person jumped to their feet and bowed, then whispered to their neighbour or at least cast them a wide-eyed stare.

Even Pavo wore a stricken expression for a moment before smoothing it and bowing.

Remembering himself, Atesh rose and bowed, eyes lowered.

What in the world was Ilyas doing here? As the Sultan, he could only be summoned to take the stand if he were a suspect. He could choose to, though. That had to be what he’d come for. He’d been right next to Zeynab when it had happened. Had he seen through the killer’s disguise?

Atesh returned to his seat, mind buzzing. He forced his hands still by clasping them on the table.

Ilyas waved his hand at the witness box. “In there, I suppose?”

The court bailiffs looked at each other, as if for guidance, but none of them had answers. They turned to the judge.

Pavo cleared his throat. “Your Majesty?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ilyas rolled his eyes at the blank faces. “I mean to give evidence. I was there, after all, and I would ensure justice is delivered.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Pavo swept his hand towards the witness box, eyes on a bailiff.

The man hurried to open the gate and Ilyas entered.

Atesh watched as he was sworn in, a haze of surreality hanging over his perception. Ilyas’s hand on his marbled walnut Deck box seemed remote, like something seen through a telescope, and indistinct, as though there were grease on the telescope’s lens.

Cassian gathered his wits first to rise and examine the witness. He asked Ilyas the banal questions about that night in general, whether he’d noticed anything unusual leading up to the unfortunate event, and, finally, what he’d seen in Zeynab’s final moments.

Ilyas stood calm and his answers gave no surprises. He didn’t look at Atesh once.

It had been a grand ball like any other in the palace. He hadn’t noticed anything unusual. A man costumed as a victim of the Red Death appeared from the crowd, stopping to speak to the Sultana. But as they spoke, he’d drawn a green-stoned dagger, stabbed her, and fled, leaving his Card behind in her hand.

It was just as almost every other witness had said. Until …

“As he pulled away, I was staring in shock. For a moment, I couldn’t understand what this red was on my wife’s gown. Wine had been spilt, but there was a second shade of deeper crimson amongst that. And the man who’d done it looked different, as though my vision had simplified and he were just a fellow in scarlet, but when I rubbed my eyes, not believing them, he was the Red Death again, disappearing into the crowd.” He gripped the edge of the witness box, eyes fixed on the spot between his white-knuckled hands. “A man’s state of mind in such a moment cannot be imagined.”

“Your Majesty,” Cassian murmured, “I am truly sorry for your tragic loss and I thank you for generosity in coming here to speak of it with us. You and your daughter must –”

“I loved my wife.”

Silence fell again, so absolute that no one could have even drawn breath.

“And our daughter,” Ilyas said, voice trembling, “is without a mother. She asks me where she is, when Mama will be home. What am I to tell her?” He took a long breath, back straightening. “Zeynab must have justice.”

Around the edges of the emptiness, Atesh’s chest ached. It was the first time anyone in this room had said her name in a long while. Her easy smile flashed in his mind. It had been even easier when they’d been children. Playing in the palace gardens with Fehim, giggling and chasing each other, like the blazing summer’s day they’d snuck away from lessons to splash in one of the fountains and escape the heat. It was in the days before her stifling adulthood at court and she’d been free, her smile radiant, her eyes glinting with the glory of breaking the rules. All three of them had been in a great deal of trouble for ‘such an uncouth display’ as Prima had put it, but it had been a good day.

“And the Defence?” Pavo’s voice crashed through the sunlight and spray of Atesh’s memories.

Cassian had sat down and Flittin was free to question Ilyas.

Atesh shuffled through his notes. He’d written it the second day when Quin had been in that box. There. He waved the paper under Flittin’s nose. Ask about the missing stone. Surely Ilyas had been close enough to see it.

Flittin rose. “No questions, Your Honour.”

“What?” Atesh hissed as Flittin returned to his seat.

The attorney tugged at his collar but wouldn’t meet Atesh’s gaze or Ilyas’s. He didn’t have the courage to question the Sultan.

Pavo dismissed Ilyas with much more formality than when he’d waved off Porto.

This was the last chance for any defence before Pavo went to his chamber to decide Atesh’s fate and Flittin wasn’t going to do anything. Anything!

That part of Atesh still clung on at the precipice, fingertips aching, bleeding even, but still there. There was a chance. The sliver of a chance, yes, but it was all he had to hold on to.

Atesh found himself on his feet, blurting, “What about the missing stone?” His chest pounded. The words had just happened. He had to know. He had to raise some doubt. If there was enough …

Ilyas froze half-way out of the witness box. There was a shuffle of bailiffs rushing to restrain Atesh and force him back to his seat, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the Sultan.

Slowly, as if an automaton, Ilyas’s head turned and he finally met Atesh’s gaze. The hurt, the hate, the anger, all flowed from him like a torrent after a storm, making Atesh flinch. He raised a hand. “Leave him.” His chin lifted and his jaw knotted as he stared at Atesh. “Not that you deserve any answers, but I respect the truth of this court. At the time I thought I saw a stone missing from the blade that ended my wife’s life. But, as I said, a man’s state of mind in such a moment is not sound. I must have been mistaken, because I wasn’t only half-mad with grief for my wife, but also for the unborn child who died with her.”

Unborn child? Zeynab had been pregnant. Safira would have had a little brother or sister. Atesh blinked at the tears filling his eyes.

Gasps travelled around the courtroom.

Atesh had held Safira when she was tiny, just a day old. She’d always been a tiny thing, fine-boned and delicate, and in that moment he’d sworn to protect her from any pain or danger or any threat that may come. He’d failed not only her, but also Zeynab and the other little life she’d carried inside. And Ilyas.

Atesh opened his mouth, but the narrowing of Ilyas’s eyes made him clamp it shut. Instead he crumpled back into his chair as the Sultan broke eye contact and swept from the room.

That was it, then.

The hole in his chest gaped wider, leaving hope clinging on by one hand. All he had left was the verdict.

* * *

The glass of wine sat untouched, winning Derry scowls from the tavern landlord.

Tap. Tap. Tap. She feigned indifference, but the sound of finger against table-top gave her away. Each time the doors opened, she couldn’t help but glance over. So far, she’d been disappointed.

Coming here had been a mistake. She pursed her lips.

It had seemed like her only option at the time, but the longer she waited, the worse she thought her judgement.

It had all started that morning, with Quin pacing about the house, sighing every ten minutes. Ariston tried to engage her with fencing practice, but when he disarmed her in a single, simple move they had drilled a thousand times, bruising Quin’s knuckles, he’d declared it wise for Quin to occupy herself some other way.

Derry had shied away from helping Atesh at first – imprisonment too frighteningly close to the slavery she’d already lived through once. Never again.

But that Alora, the way she acted with such impunity, the way she so casually threatened their team, the way she dished out violence without concern. The way she controlled them. It made Derry’s jaw ache with clenched rage.

But it had pushed Quin to ban them from further investigation. Derry had suggested ways they could overcome Alora and leads they could follow even without the designs. There was Dethero’s erstwhile assistant, for one. But, no, Quin had already considered each idea and found its flaw or thought it too risky, considering the stakes.

That morning Derry had brought it up again. It was the last day of the trial, surely that would stir Quin to throw her dice and damn Alora’s threats. Apparently not. Quin wouldn’t take the risk. Derry had more than once urged Quin to be more careful, but she’d never expected her to actually listen. Her timing was atrocious.

Derry had thrown down her notes and huffed out of the room, muttering about a defeatist attitude. She’d left Quin to pore over news reports on the trial.

She wouldn’t be controlled by this Alora and her friends, however strong they thought they were.

She’d been controlled when she’d been owned. Never again.

So, Derry had made her way to the Gutter Streets that morning, sure she hadn’t been tailed. She’d asked Dethero’s neighbours and regulars, but they didn’t know anything useful about Edan, beyond his first name and that he’d worked at the shop for around eight months.

That, or they knew much, but wouldn’t say.

The Canting King knew Quin’s orders about ceasing the investigation. He would be no help. Where else could she turn?

It was as she had strolled the Gutter Streets and the neighbourhoods around, unwilling to return home without some new lead, some scrap of information, something to throw in the faces of those bastards, that she’d decided. She had to try every option, however complicated. However much she didn’t want to put herself in that person’s debt.

So, Derry had made her way eastwards, away from the Gutter Streets, to the Crossed Keys. She’d found Derry after a chance encounter one night. Perhaps she had contacts, spies even – ways of knowing, of finding people. This was the tavern she had told Derry to come to if ever she wanted to find her and Derry’s traitorous feet had brought her here.

It wasn’t as if she had any other options.

Almost an hour later, Derry was still there, sitting in a corner, wondering if the stocky woman she had spoken to really was Tacita di Vespa’s servant or just humouring her. The woman had left, bowing and promising to fetch her mistress post haste.

“This is pointless,” Derry muttered. Scowling, she rose and gulped down the wine in one go, banging the glass back on the table.

“Well, they say Varangians can drink,” said a familiar, smooth voice, “I hadn’t realised just how right they were. Impressive.”

The wine lurched in her throat, threatening to reappear, but with force of will, Derry kept it down. “Tacita,” she choked.

“As you see.” Tacita ducked her head into a deep bow, but that didn’t quite hide her broad smile. She wore a simple day dress, its cut impeccable, outlining each curve of back, waist, and breast, the fabric a fine linen in a crimson shade that brought out the red gleam in her hair. “You weren’t going, were you? You must forgive me; I hadn’t been expecting your summons and was somewhat indisposed. Allow me,” she gestured to the landlord, before taking the seat opposite Derry. “Come, please, do sit. I drove my landau here at speed as soon as I could rid myself of tiresome company.”

Derry was staring at Tacita. Pull yourself together. She resumed her seat, hands in lap.

“And I make such effort, even changing my outfit for you, and you sit there mute? Did you not call me here to get to know me better, to reassure yourself of my suitability as a dear friend?”

Moistening her lips, Derry replied, “No.”

For a moment Tacita’s smile faded, a deep line carving its way between her brows. It was so quick Derry almost doubted she’d seen it, for the next moment the earnest smile was back. “No? Then surely, you’ve called me here to invite me for supper? Or perhaps,” she paused to sigh, “you’ve called me here to cast me off, before you’ve even cast me on?”

“None of those. I need your help. At least, I think you can help me.”

“Well isn’t this a pretty intrigue?” Tacita’s head cocked. “Tell me how you think I can help.”

Derry leant back in her chair, placing her hands flat on the table, formulating the best way to broach the request. “You are a woman of means. Not only that, but a woman who clearly has contacts.”

Tacita smiled, her eyes half closing like a cat having its chin stroked.

“After all,” Derry continued, “you so often seem to be able to find me.”

She nodded. “Well, I do have an interest.”

Just then, the landlord himself approached with a bottle of wine and a fresh glass. Derry was hesitant to explain before a stranger, leaving Tacita’s statement lingering in the air, her dark eyes never leaving Derry’s. The landlord made a show of presenting the bottle to Tacita, so she could see the label, but his attentions were wasted and waved away, leaving the pair in peace.

When he was a safe distance, Derry dared to continue, “And I have an interest, too – I must find someone and I think you may have the tools to help me.”

“I see.” Tacita poured crimson wine into Derry’s glass, elegant fingers caressing the stem and spinning the liquid, letting it whirlpool, coating the sides of the glass for a moment, before pushing the drink across the table. Her grasp remained on the stem. “I cannot deny I’m disappointed. I had hoped you’d sought me out for my own sake, not for what favours I could grant you.” She tapped the glass with her fingernail, leaving a ringing note hanging between them.

“I’ve been –” Damn that earlier glass of wine and the way she’d quaffed it so quickly. Now there rose the faintest fog in her mind, leaving her searching momentarily for the right words. “Distracted. Indisposed. You know my employer is in a ... difficult position now, due to recent events.”

“Ah yes.” Tacita relinquished her grip on the glass. “Her entanglement with a traitor is not entirely advantageous to her position.” An instant’s glint of her eyes. “I suppose she has a lot of smoothing out to do. Does she know you’re here?”

“No, but I must help her with that smoothing out, which keeps me away from my own life, my own desires.”

Tacita’s eyes widened and the wine she was pouring splashed over the edge of her glass. “Your own desires?”

Desires? Why had she chosen that word? After struggling for the right words, her mouth was now running away with her, planting wicked phrases.

“For now, they and my duty bring me to the same place,” she said, “to the same person. My mistress has set me the task of finding someone and I think you can help, so here I am at your mercy.”

A long sip of wine later, Tacita replied, “Then let’s indulge your desires” – she paused, though Derry wasn’t sure whether it was to savour the wine or the words – “while I do your bidding.”

A nod brought over the stocky woman from earlier, whom Derry hadn’t noticed return.

“Madam?”

“My friend here is searching for someone. If they can be found, you will do so and bring the address to her. Is that clear?”

A curt nod and the woman’s eyes turned to Derry with a question.

“I don’t have much,” Derry explained, wincing. She was foolish to expect anything with such scant information. “Just his first name, Edan, and that he worked at a pawnbroker on the corner of Meddah Row and Kahvesi Street; he worked for Dethero Kasim there.”

The stocky woman’s brows rose. “I – I’ve found men with less. I’ll be back within two hours.” At Tacita’s gesture she bent to listen to a whispered phrase, just beyond Derry’s hearing, and then strode from the tavern. A breeze swept through the open door.

Derry jumped as Tacita’s finger touched the back of her hand; it was only for a moment, but it sent a jolt through her, tingling at the back of her neck.

Tacita smiled at the response. “Then I suppose you must wait. Won’t you dine with me?”

Before she had given an answer, Tacita waved at the landlord and called for today’s special.

Perhaps she could relax now, at least a little, after all she had done what she could and in two hours she would have news, one way or the other. Maybe Tacita was humouring her with this little show and the servant would come back with nothing, but that was no worse than her own search had brought her and that had taken all day.

So Derry sat back and let Tacita direct the conversation. She seemed keen to tell Derry about herself. It was quite the picture she painted: the second child of a lordling of the Inland Sea, parents now dead, who had left home to seek her own fortune in an old family estate rumoured to lie outside Arianople. No one had known what state of repair it was in or even if it still stood, but she had found it delightfully situated not far from the city walls, in need of repair, but not beyond hope.

Tacita was directing the renovations, so her brother’s thoughts naturally turned towards marriage for his younger sister: now she was of large fortune, she must be in want of a husband.

Yet Tacita’s attentions had been entirely upon the work on her estate, taking a keen interest in each detail and feature, how best to turn what was there to her advantage and create a new haven from the ruins of the past.

“But,” Tacita said, leaning closer, as if it were a secret, “I almost married once. A long time ago. But he was wealthy and in demand, so his head was turned by another and he made her an offer instead.” A tension in Tacita’s pouty lips belied the breezy way she told the tale.

Derry wasn’t surprised. “It sounds like it would have been a good match for you.” If she’d married him, she wouldn’t need to be here now, resorting to the repair of a crumbling estate.

“I heard later that they never did marry after all,” Tacita said with a faint smile. “But if not for that little episode, I’d never have come to Arianople.”

Soon the conversation turned to Derry and her life. Here she had to precariously balance lies upon truth, careful to not let it all tumble down. It was a skill she had practised, but not nearly so much as Quin. Many were drawn to Quin’s flame, but few wanted to grow close to a hired companion.

There had been few times Derry had been so studied as she was now under Tacita’s gaze. She echoed the same story Quin always gave of their first meeting and how she came to be in her employ, to which Tacita listened in still rapture. She asked about Derry’s life before, about the life of a Varangian Princess as she called her – it was hard to explain the reality of her homeland and society to people so used to the Sultans of Arianople and their absolute power over the entire land. Their smaller clans and kingdoms of the north were an alien concept here and the term Chieftain’s Daughter was lost in translation, becoming Princess.

Their countries were worlds apart, so Derry let Tacita, like so many others, make her mistakes.

Tacita leant forward, eating with mannered slowness, eyes barely leaving Derry, not once interrupting with her questions. This close Derry noticed she was wearing makeup: kohl, flesh-toned powder, and rouge.

“And so now you’re free, but still stay here?” Tacita asked as Derry paused to dab her mouth with a napkin. “Don’t you wish to return home to your family?”

Derry shrugged. “There’s more to family than blood. That day …” She drifted back to the sweaty sun of the Venetian slave market. “That day, Quin became my family. One day I’ll return to my parents, my sisters and brothers, my clan, but for now, I’m happy with my new home. It’s still an adventure.” She found herself smiling. “You must understand, having travelled so far yourself. Isn’t this estate you’re restoring your new home? Won’t you always stay here, beside the walls of Arianople?”

A brief crease furrowed Tacita’s fine brow. “I ... consider it unlikely. If I do, it won’t be through choice.”

“So the City of Cities hasn’t cast its spell on you?”

“Not the way it is. It is not home.” She fell to silence, finishing the last slices of roasted chicken. Her expression closed, shutting off any further conversation. The quiet between them ticked by.

“Well,” Derry ventured at last, “perhaps you can make it home.”

Tacita blinked, seeming to come back from whatever thoughts had made her glower. “Perhaps.” She nodded. “Yes, perhaps you’re right, but not for a little while yet.” Her dark eyes returned to Derry. “I’m going away on business shortly, so I’m glad you did seek me out.” A wry smile curved her lips. “Even if it wasn’t for my sake.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean –”

Tacita waved off her objections. “Please, don’t humour me – I know you are much less intrigued by me than I am by you. I can survive that sting.” Her eyes glinted above a grin. “Perhaps one day I’ll win your friendship and your trust.”

Despite herself, Derry smiled back. “Perhaps you will. This business – when will you be back?”

“I’m not sure yet, a week, perhaps even a month or two.”

“Two months? But surely –”

Derry was interrupted, as the door swung open and the thump of boots approached.

“You have news?” Tacita asked, hand dipping into her breast pocket. She pulled out a gilt pocket watch and checked the time. “Two hours already?”

“His address.” The woman offered Derry a folded scrap of paper. “It’s a rough area, watch yourself.”

Derry nodded, taking the note. “Thank you – for the warning, too.”

“Rough?” Tacita’s brows shot up. “Are you sure you should go alone? Perhaps I should come with –”

“Your finery in that part of the Gutter Streets wouldn’t be a protection,” Derry said smoothly, placing her hand on the back of Tacita’s. Her skin was so smooth, so soft, like a fine silk. “You’d draw far more unwanted attention than I would alone. I know the Gutter Streets. I’ll be fine.”

Tacita’s full lips parted, as if about to argue, but no objection came and eventually she nodded. “Very well,” she sighed. “I suppose I would be more hindrance than help. You’re quite capable, undoubtedly.”

Derry smiled, gave Tacita’s hand a little squeeze and rose. “But I’d rather get there sooner than later.” She read the address. “Not the kind of place I want to hang around at midnight. Fare well on your trip, Tacita.”

Tacita inclined her head. “Capable, just like your mistress,” she murmured as Derry walked away.

30

Judgement

An age passed as Atesh stared at the interlocking star and octagon pattern of the court room doors. They still hadn’t burst open with a triumphant cry of He’s innocent!

Judge Pavo had gone to consider his verdict, and the likelihood of Quin appearing with some new piece of evidence was beyond remote. He thought he’d spotted her butler in the halls when they’d been called back in for the verdict, but there was no sign of her.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he moistened his lips.

He’d been clinging to that hope. He thought he’d been immune to it, that he was going to go to his fate – whatever it was – with squared shoulders, but standing there he knew that to be a lie.

Every second he’d spent in that court room, he’d been waiting for her to save him.

And she’d failed.

The person whose job it was to save him, Flittin, alternated between cleaning his nails and nodding off. The sharp stench of body odour and stale alcohol rose from him. What a pathetic excuse for an attorney. For a human being!

Atesh’s fists ached.

Anger wasn’t going to help him, but it felt good. It was less painful than hope.

How things might have been different if his attorney’s assistant was the slightest bit skilled, helpful, or interested.

Even the one defence witness Flittin had called had managed to incriminate Atesh, rather than help him. Not that that was Malos’s fault. He’d agreed to be a character witness, as well as giving his account of spending time with Atesh at the masquerade, but that damn Cassian had twisted it all. How could he be sure it was Atesh when he was wearing a mask? Never mind that the same could be said about the man who’d stabbed Zeynab. Flittin hadn’t pointed that out, though. Of course not.

Flittin was useless and that was it.

Judge Pavo was just beyond that wall about to emerge and announce whether he was going to live or die. It was at once surreal and all too heavy in its reality. It weighed on his chest, making each breath a battle.

And if Pavo’s verdict went against Atesh, then each of those breaths was precious.

But shouldn’t they all have been? Shouldn’t he have been seizing life by the reins, running ragged towards … Towards what?

And that was the problem. What was he going to leave behind? His art. Maybe some anecdote about how amusing he’d been at some ball. He’d tried a few years ago to leave something more meaningful, but Zeynab had blocked his project after it had barely begun.

No one was going to dare speak his name after this, never mind speak of him fondly. And anyone who remembered him would be dead one day, then what?

When did I get so morbid?

He was half way through a long sigh when the door to Judge Pavo’s chamber opened, stopping the breath in his throat, almost choking him.

A hundred heads that had been nodding off jerked to attention. Mutters and whispering ushered the middle-aged man in.

“This is it!”

“… decided!”

“Only took half an hour.”

“… heard he takes longer to drink his tea.”

Grey-speckled hair and a hawkish nose surveyed the room, as the judge took his seat. For a moment, his steel eyes fixed on Atesh and seemed to soften. After a slight nod of his head, the judge looked away again.

Had he imagined that? Perhaps it was a sign. An end to all this madness.

The thunder of Pavo’s gavel commanded silence and wide eyes from the packed courtroom.

Flittin at last sat up straight, though had to clutch his head to do so.

The bastard had been out drinking all night.

Before he could jab an elbow into the attorney’s ribs, a bailiff appeared at each arm and directed him to the box.

From here, he had full view over the gathered throng. Every seat was taken and janissaries had formed a human barrier to keep the entrance clear. A man at the front surreptitiously popped a morsel of flatbread in his mouth, offering a piece to the woman next to him.

They brought snacks. They came to hear the decision on whether he was to live or die and they brought snacks. The pit of Atesh’s stomach shrivelled to something cold and hard as stone.

Sickened, he turned away.

“The court has reached its decision,” Pavo announced, voice clear and deep across the room.

Atesh held his breath.

“In the matter of Atesh Shahin, a Pasha of this realm, accused of regicide” – he paused; the man knew his dramatic timing, Atesh had to give him that – “we find the accused guilty.”

There it was.

Guilty.

Thank the gods he was already seated– his knees turned to water at those words.

A five-day trial, a half-hour decision, and like that he was guilty.

As the roaring in his ears died down, there came clapping from the galleries and shouts of approval. Perhaps Flittin had been right not to let him take the stand – he had said it would cause a riot, Atesh was so hated.

To see the glee on people’s faces, he could believe it. Clapping! They were actually clapping.

After giving the crowd a short time for their cheers, the gavel slammed again and Pavo turned to Atesh. “As decreed by the laws of our realm, we sentence you, being a gentleman of the nobility, though clearly lacking in nobility of character that you could commit such a heinous crime.” Again, he paused, looking to the crowd, giving permission to their pleasure. “At 10 o’clock on Monday morning, you will be taken to Kediler Square where you will be hanged by a silken rope until you are dead.”

Atesh closed his eyes, swaying.

A blur of meaty hands closing in, dragging him up and away, faces fixed in triumph and fury.

He could barely hear Pavo over the jeering. “… declared a holiday so that all may see the death of a traitor.”

The result wasn’t entirely surprising, and yet for a moment he had hoped Quin or that janissary, Porto, might have come up with something.

What a fool. She didn’t even come to the verdict. Why had he trusted her?

Now he was in the cool dark of his cell, vomiting into the chamber pot. Sinking back against the cold stone, his father’s voice came back to him: “Love? Foolish boy, there’s no such thing.”

* * *

A brisk walk took Derry to the right street – it was an area she knew something of, not far from where Quin had grown up. It was a place they often visited, leaving money, food, clothes – whatever the people needed.

Here the buildings shouldered each other, leaving scant space for sun or sky or, at this time, the thin fingers of twilight deepening into night.

There were few workshops or permanent (or legitimate) businesses here, just row upon row of houses, whole families, sometimes two, living in each room. Paint peeled from the timber structures and their walls warped and wobbled where landlords kept the rent for themselves rather than spending it on maintenance.

Derry was careful to step over the brimming gutters, though their stench was less easy to avoid. She cursed whoever had invented such large cities and the fools who kept them going without updating the plumbing systems for all. At home even pigsties didn’t smell this bad.

The few street lamps present hadn’t yet been lit, leaving darkness pooling in alleys and at the edges of the road, where young women and men lingered, some gossiping or arguing, others raising eyebrows at Derry and inviting her closer. She shook her head and strode down the middle of the lane, where some light still spilt.

Beneath her hood she could have been a seamstress rushing to her lover or home from work, nothing worth a second glance. That would have to be protection enough, because Quin and Ariston didn’t know she was here. There would be no help if she were accosted.

She sighed with relief when she found the right house.

Number 35c was just as run down as the others crammed alongside it, part timber, part daubed dirt and straw. In places the rude plaster had fallen out, leaving claggy craters ill-protected from the elements. It looked as though it had been painted once, but what colour, Derry couldn’t guess. Now it was all the mottled shades of dirt and decay she could imagine.

The door was a sorry looking thing, too, splintering at the corners with a clumsy patch-job of an old wooden tray nailed over a broken board. The height suggested it had been kicked in.

She rapped on the door and stood back, listening for movement on the other side. There was nothing at first, but then a faint thud, as if a piece of furniture had been moved, perhaps a chair. Then nothing again.

Maybe the thud had come from upstairs. Then came the rattle of a curtain being drawn back and a boy’s voice. “What’re you after?”

“I’m looking for Edan.” She paused. No reply. “I was told he lives here. I need to talk to him.”

A faint sound reached her. It might have been a whispered conversation, but she couldn’t be sure.

Derry peered up and down the street. Good, no one else was near enough to hear her deliberately jangle her coin purse.

Bolts clattered and the door opened a crack. A boy’s face pressed up to the gap, sharp-cheeked and small. He was young, maybe eight or nine, but, gods, he was skinny. “You going to pay him for that talk?”

She nodded. “And I’ll pay you, too, if you’re helpful and let me in.”

Beady eyes peered at her and evidently made a decision, because the door creaked open.

Derry had expected the stench of the street to continue inside, but the room smelled of lemon. The floor didn’t gleam, but the dull wooden boards were free of dirt and dust. A young man, barely more than a boy, probably 18 or so, sat behind a table with mismatched legs, eyeing Derry. That must be Edan. Behind him, tucked furthest away from the draughty door, a couple of palettes lay on the floor, blankets folded.

“Squirt, go fetch our mistress – it’s nearly dinner time,” Edan told the boy, with a jerk of the head.

Squirt stared at Derry.

“Get to it, boy,” Edan growled.

“But she said –”

“I’ll get your money and you’ll have it when you’re back. Now get.” He punctuated the last by slamming his hands on the table, going to rise. It was enough to send the boy scurrying. Edan turned his scowl from the slammed door to Derry. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“I do. You worked for Dethero and …” How best to approach the next part? Straight to the point or dance around the truth? “I suppose you’ve heard –”

“He’s dead.” There it was. Flat and meaningless when put like that, no emotion with the words. “Don’t mince it, get to the point: you’ve come to this stinking place to find me, so it must be important.”

“Very well.” Derry took the rough-hewn chair opposite his. “Then I take it you know how he died, too.”

A nod.

“And do you know why?”

“Pissed off customer?” He shrugged. “Murder,” he said, leaning forward so close Derry could feel his breath on her face – it too smelled of lemons, “isn’t so strange around these parts.” Gleaming teeth flashed at her.

Derry rolled her eyes and in one deft movement flicked a dagger from her sleeve, pressing its tip to his Adam’s apple. His breath caught. “I don’t suppose it is, but you see,” she said, smiling, “I’m quite use to ‘these parts’ and your childish act wouldn’t scare anyone. So, why don’t you focus on helping me give you money, rather than giving me good reason to fillet you? Now.” She made a show of leaning back in her chair and returning the dagger to its hiding place. “Hasn’t it crossed your mind that the ones who killed him might come after you, too?”

Edan’s throat bobbed and he glanced at the door. “Yeah, I’d thought of that,” he said, shifting in his seat.

“Then you’re brighter than you’ve been acting since I got here. Good. Use that bloody brain of yours to give me some answers, because if I can find these people, it just might save your life.”

His lips pursed and again his dark eyes turned to the door. “Fine.” Sagging into his chair, he suddenly looked younger, the hard lines of his face softening to show signs of puppy fat around the cheeks.

“Why did Dethero dismiss you?”

“You know about that, then?” His brows rose. “I’d taken on a job without his say so. He – well, let’s say, he didn’t approve. Turned me out on my ear then and there. Grumpy sod.” His voice softened.

“And what job was that?” Derry forced her hands still on the table, resisting the urge to tap her fingers.

“Normally” – again his eyes flicked to the entrance – “normally he just does – did straight pawnbroking and – er – other trades –”

“Fencing,” Derry stated.

“So, you know about that, too. Usually it was straightforward buying and selling, but I saw a way he could make more money, an untapped resource, you might say.” He gazed off for a moment, faintly smug around the mouth.

“Go on ...” Impatience buzzed around her body. Get to the point!

“Well, my old man, he was a smithy and I learnt a lot of the trade from him as a young’un, sitting by his knee, then later working at his side, casting and forging and the like. I thought there might be a market for custom goods that could be made on the quiet as it were.”

“Discretion always was Dev’s watchword,” Derry murmured.

“Exactly! Sometimes customers don’t want receipts hanging around or inspectors knowing what they’re having made, so why not provide a service, all discreet as you like?” His narrow hands moved with his words. “Say you’ve got a bit on the side, you don’t want your wife hearing you’ve had a necklace made special, like, so you come to Dethero’s and it’s carried out right there, collect it a few days or so later, not a word said of it, and it just looks like you’re perusing the wares of your local pawnbroker or selling off old tat for a few akche.”

“So, the job?”

“I put out the feelers, thinking I’d get an order, so I could show the boss that the idea would work, rather than just telling him about it and, sure enough, a customer came knocking one day.”

“And that’s the job you got dismissed for?” Derry sighed. “What did they want you to make?”

“Well, they – say” – he glanced at the door yet again and lowered his voice – “do you really think they’d come after me, too?”

Derry could lie to him to dismiss his fears and get him back on track or exaggerate to terrify him into spilling all, but he looked so worried, the way he kept checking the door, as if the murderers would burst in at any moment, she took pity on him. The truth, then. “I wouldn’t be surprised. They were keen to keep Dethero silent and they seemed to think there was information in the shop to implicate them.”

“Hmm.” He nodded, searching the rough grain of the table, as if it contained his thoughts. “Any ideas what they were looking for?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. How did much did Edan really know? “So, what was this customer asking you to do?”

“Oh, just making some fancy-looking dagger.” He shrugged. “It was a bit fiddly and they sent – hey, do you reckon that was what they were looking for? The designs they gave me for the knife?”

At last.

“Edan, I do. So, you took the job and they gave you a drawing.” What if he had something else from them? “Were there any letters? Any more drawings or designs or –”

A bang shook the ramshackle house. Derry leapt to her feet and spun to find the door open and three figures striding in from the gloom.

Two were broad-shouldered men, the third a tall woman, her face hidden by a full mask.

Alora. They’ve come for him.

Drawing herself up, she flicked the blade out of her cuff again. “From your entrance, I’m guessing you’re not here for a cup of tea?” Quieter, she murmured over her shoulder, “Edan, if there’s a back door to this place, get yourself out of it.”

She didn’t dare turn to see whether he obeyed, instead she watched Alora and her men crowding into the small space. Alora wore an immaculate black cloak, hiding her body down to the floor. At her right hip a peak interrupted the clean line – a sword.

The trio watched her in return, glancing at the dagger in her hand, keeping out of its reach, but otherwise seeming unconcerned. The men were broad-shouldered, making the small room claustrophobic, while the woman stood tall and hooded.

“I won’t let you hurt him,” Derry growled, setting her feet into a balanced stance.

A laugh came from behind the mask, but before Derry could fathom why, a hand yanked her head back. A line of cold steel pressed against her throat.

“You stupid bitch,” Edan hissed in her ear, pulling again at her hair. “It’s not me they’re here for. Drop the knife.”

Derry had little choice and despaired at the thud of her dagger against the floorboards. She shouldn’t have come alone. She should have gone home with the address. If Ariston and Quin had come with her …

Alora had regained her composure and spoke, her voice muffled behind the mask. “Thank you, Edan, that was quick thinking. You’ve certainly earned your reward.”

The two men approached, removing Derry from Edan’s hold and pinning her arms in an iron grip. As if it required two of them.

“I bloody hope so. And my brother?” Edan looked to the door, placing his blade on the table and reaching eagerly for the pouch she held out. “We’re safe, right? I did what you wanted.”

“Ah yes.” The woman turned to one of the men, while Edan weighed the coins in his hand. “About that.” Derry heard the apologetic smile in her voice. “You see, we can’t afford for any accidents to befall you, so I’ve asked Mus here to look after you. Mus,” she addressed the larger of the two brutes, who released Derry into his partner’s grip, “take care of him.”

With surprising speed for his size, Mus was behind Edan, taking his head in his meaty hands and twisting. The boy had no time to speak; Derry whimpered at the pop of bone.

Edan crumpled to the floor.

“Shame the little brother gave us the slip after getting us the message,” the woman went on, staring at the broken body, no sign of emotion in her voice. “I’m sure he’ll turn up. Now, then, let’s get out of here with our new friend. Make her more manageable, will you?” She waved her hand and Mus’s fist flew into Derry’s vision.

Sparks faded into black.

31

Fondness & Farewells

Quin smoothed the brush through Hira’s fur, smiling at the sheen it brought out. She worked with practiced ease, running her fingers over the sabrecat’s coat after the brush, checking for ticks or injuries. Under her hand passed thick fur and muscle, rumbling in a deep purr, with just the occasional matted bump where a burr had stuck between the soft hairs. She paused at such a spot to part the fur and pull out the offending seed, holding it up with a tut.

They stood in the stable yard behind the townhouse. Here the half dozen houses at this end of the block shared a central yard, with a stable and paddock enclosure for each household’s sabrecats and outbuildings for the carriages and tack that came with the creatures. At one end a lane led out to the main road.

Quin groomed Hira not far from the gate to her own garden – it was a quiet spot, hidden from anyone else coming through their garden gates to fetch sabrecats for their masters.

The smell of catflesh was strong, musky and thick in the afternoon sun. It merged with the heady perfume of the white jasmine that grew over trellises in the paddocks and offered dappled shade to the occupants.

Another resident’s pair of cats slept in the lush enclosure next to Hira’s. Black with white bellies lifting in slow breaths, they lay on their sides, tails twitching off flies. Occasionally, one would half open an eye to peer at Quin, and then close it again.

Hira hunched on her belly and lowered her head for Quin to continue grooming.

This was an easy task to give herself to entirely. It was doing and being, rather than thinking.

That didn’t mean it was without any challenges at all. Hira’s ears flicked when Quin came to inspect them.

“Come on, now.”

The tips smoothed like velvet under her fingertips, straining against her grip as she held them still and peered inside. No tell-tale dark smudges of mites or signs of injury. “Good girl,” she murmured, scratching under the great chin.

Hira’s yellow eyes half-closed and her purr intensified. It was more felt than heard, it vibrated so low.

Quin leant into Hira, wrapping one arm over the sabrecat’s neck. With the sun on her back and the warm, musky cat under her hands life could almost have been normal.

Almost, but not actually.

She’d have to retire Lady Sabia and take up a new name in a new place. There was no point in staying here without –

No. She wasn’t thinking about him.

Quinta Sabia. Back to her. It had been rather fun playing her.

It had been even more fun not playing her around –

“No,” she whispered, screwing her eyes shut.

What to do next. That was a safe subject. Where to go? What to do? Who to con?

She buried her fingers in the fur behind Hira’s ear, scratching as hard as she could. Hira tilted her head, pushing into Quin’s hand.

Nothing. A whole continent and Inland Sea of possibility and she didn’t want any of it.

Sighing, Quin let her knees buckle and slumped to the ground. She sat, back against the sabrecat’s powerful shoulder, letting the rumbling purr thrum through her body.

She couldn’t help Atesh. Every direction she looked, she faced bars as unyielding as the ones on his cell window. It was torture to think through it all again, but she couldn’t help herself. Maybe, just maybe there was a way through she hadn’t yet seen. One of those bars had to shift.

The Card. The only piece of evidence that stood a chance of proving his innocence, but without his Deck, there was no way of proving it wasn’t his. And his Deck was missing.

They’d failed in all attempts to find Edan and even if they had found him, there was no guarantee he had any information to help them.

The designs had been useless and she was going to have to hand them over tomorrow anyway.

And even if there was hope for any of the above, it would risk Alora’s wrath to be seen to attempt to help him.

She’d even had Ariston pass the Golden Tower on his way to court one day, but the place was abandoned. Alora had just used it as a place to meet Quin. It wouldn’t help them find her.

Quin thumped her thigh. Blocked in all directions.

She lifted her hand to thump again, when the gate leading to her garden opened and Ariston emerged, shoulders rounded. That break in his normally impeccable posture together with his slow steps spoke of deep weariness.

There was no more avoiding it.

Ariston had been at court all day. The last day of the trial.

He took a few quick breaths and opened his mouth to speak, but Quin got there first. “I know what you’re going to say.” She paused and bit the inside of her cheek. “The verdict’s in, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“And it’s as expected.”

His gaze slipped from hers and he nodded again.

Her jaw clenched. It was expected, but it still jolted through her body, lodging like a lance in her chest. She gasped past the pain until she could speak again. “And the sentence?”

Ariston kept very still, not even appearing to breathe.

She knew. She swallowed and said it, anyway. “With a silken rope.”

He nodded once more.

Quin covered her face, but she couldn’t block the world out. The terrible knowledge was already in her head. Atesh would be hanged by a silken rope until he was dead. That was justice, according to Arianople. So-called City of Cities.

Her hands clenched into fists and she kicked the brush she’d used on Hira. It skittered away, but that wasn’t enough. She wanted to break something. And scream. That would be good. That would feel better than this.

She could run into the house and throw every stupid ornament off every bloody mantelpiece and side board. And smash the plates in the cupboard. The ones she’d eaten cake off with Atesh.

Break it all and run away and never come back to this damn city. She trembled with frustrated movement.

Hira had stopped purring and lifted her head to look at her.

“Quin,” Ariston said softly, he still hadn’t moved from his spot a few feet away. “The – it – it happens on Monday. It’ll be a national holiday.”

Monday? Grey crept in from the edges of her vision, making it tunnel to the clenched fists in her lap. Blood roared in her ears. If she’d been standing, she’d have fallen.

Monday.

Ariston was there suddenly, kneeling at her side, pulling her to him in a hug.

“No,” Quin mumbled, pushing him away. “I can’t,” she said at the hurt crumple of his brows.

If she allowed herself to be soft, to hug him, to take comfort, she’d break.

“I need to see him.” She said it without thought and was already standing, pulling Ariston up after her. “I need to see him.” She nodded. That felt right. It would be the last time they’d be alone together. That was all they had left.

That Imperiosa had left the city had been widely reported, so she couldn’t use that disguise again. Besides, Quin’s visit posing as her was meant to be Imperiosa disowning him, so she’d have no reason to return. She’d have to dress as a servant and get an audience, pretending she needed to take him belongings to prepare for …

She swallowed and shut her eyes against the completion of that thought.

Hira flowed to her feet and rubbed her head under Quin’s hand, marking her scent.

“Come on,” Quin said to her, scratching under her chin, “let’s go to him.”

She and Ariston hurried inside so she could change into a maid’s dress and hooded cloak. When she was done, she found Ariston waiting in the hall with a basket of toiletries suitable for a gentleman. Aftershave in a glinting cut-glass bottle. Shaving soap and silver-handled brush. No razor – the janissaries wouldn’t let that through – the fortress must have servants who would attend to him themselves under guard supervision. They shared a nod before she left.

In grim silence she tacked up Hira and set off. They skimmed the edges of the Gutter Streets where there would be more acceptance of a maid riding a sabrecat. She dismounted near the walls and she left Hira to wait up on the walls to enjoy the late afternoon sun. It would be foolish to approach someone else’s sabrecat with ill intent, but it happened on occasion. From her spot on the walls, Hira would be able to spot anyone approaching.

Quin turned south and continued the journey to the Fortress of the Seven Towers on foot, hood pulled up.

If this was going to be the last time she’d see and speak to him, she needed to make it count.

The last time. The weight of it crushed her. What in the world could she say to a man who knew he’d die in a few days? There were no words.

Perhaps action, then. She could hold him. Comfort him. Stroke his hair and hope that her care showed in what she did, even if she couldn’t do justice to it in what she said. Perhaps there would be time for a proper farewell.

She swallowed, cheeks warm. The con was off, it’s not as though she needed to dangle the promise of sex over his head. If he was going to hang, what did it matter if she lay with him? Who would he tell?

And all Hundred gods damn it, she wanted to. She wanted to touch the firm chest she’d fallen so heavily against when they’d first met. She wanted to close her eyes and listen to him breathe her name, his voice hot in her ear. She wanted to share one moment of herself with him, Lady Sabia abandoned. Just the two of them, rest of the world be damned.

And if he didn’t want to, that was fine. They could sit in chatter or in silence or in each other’s arms or whatever he wanted. These were his last few days on earth. He had the right to decide.

She could even …

The unfinished thought made the breath catch in her throat. It was radical. Did she dare?

If he’d be gone soon, it didn’t matter if he knew. He already knew she wasn’t a normal aristocrat. And hadn’t he earned the right to know?

She could tell him the truth. And see his reaction? The disgust, the anger, the betrayal?

Shivering at the thought, she looked up to find, just ahead, the Fortress of the Seven Towers.

She took a moment to remind herself she was a maid. Small, quick, quiet. Keeping her head low, she approached the nearest janissary at the gate and explained that she’d been sent from the house to bring some supplies to her master and take his instructions for anything further he might need in readiness for his execution on Monday.

Even with her head bowed, Quin managed to shoot a quick glance at the janissary. His eyes widened when she referenced Monday’s hanging. He understood who her master was and soon enough she was hurried through the tunnel-like gateway and into the courtyard.

So easy. Perhaps a servant really was meant to be coming to the fortress to see Atesh. Then again, in the minds of janissaries, how much danger could a maid do even if she visited without permission?

They checked through her basket and briefly patted her sides for weapons. She had a small dagger in her boot, which they missed with their cursory search of her person. In a matter of minutes, a janissary accompanied her to the tower where Atesh was being held.

Quin needed to ready herself. But how? She was used to rehearsing an act in her head or squaring her shoulders and steeling herself for a challenge where she needed to be tough. This, though? It wasn’t an act. She wasn’t going to be tough. She needed to be herself. And how the bloody hells did she prepare for that?

Her fingers tightened around the basket’s handle.

She could plan what to do. That was a more known quantity. She’d give him the basket. That was a terrible start – the basket wasn’t exactly luxury for a Pasha. Worse, it was a sad gesture for a last meeting.

She would tell him the truth. That was something real and meaningful. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to do it right away – those words wouldn’t come easily – but she could do it before leaving.

The janissary accompanying her up the stairs was quiet, but his light gait made him seem more relaxed than the others she’d seen when she visited before.

He led the way along the corridor to Atesh’s cell.

Quin’s heart pounded in her ears, so loud that surely the janissary would hear, but instead of turning to stare at her, he unlocked the door, opened it, and poked his head in. “You’ve got five minutes,” he said to Atesh, then waved her inside.

There he was, bent over his desk, pen in hand. Confusion creased his brow and his lips parted in a gasp.

Her heart somersaulted into her throat, leaving her momentarily breathless.

The door shut behind her, footsteps padded away down the hall, and Atesh’s chair squeaked across the floor.

In a moment he was holding her, crushing her against his chest.

They stayed that way a while. Quin closed her eyes, trying to commit it all to memory. Despite being in here, he still smelt of bergamot and orange. He wore a fine linen shirt, the fabric smooth over his torso. The muscles of his back curved under her hands, dipping into his spine. His face buried in her hair.

He’d seen professionals and he was an aristo, yet she still wanted to be with him. The way he brought even the timid into his conversations revealed a kindness in him she’d never expected from her research. His art touched her in ways equally unexpected.

But it was his ability to see her that shocked her the most. Really see her. Where other men saw in her what they wanted and so had been taken in by the act, Atesh had seen the crumbs of truth that were truly her. And he’d followed them so close that it both terrified and tantalised.

She pulled away just far enough to look up at him. “I’m so sorry.” It wasn’t enough, but it was all she could say.

He shook his head and glided his thumb over her cheek. “You’re here. That’s all I need.”

“As soon as I heard, I – I just had to.” She opened her mouth to continue, but she couldn’t even inch towards mentioning Monday. It would be here so soon.

“I know,” he whispered, breath brushing her lips. “I’m glad we can say goodbye.” His mouth lifted in a small smile, jade eyes never leaving hers.

“Then let’s not waste time.” She tiptoed to his lips and he lifted her the rest of the way.

It was long and slow at first, a kiss of re-acquaintance and sorrow, but with each second they grew more breathless, their hands tighter on each other’s bodies.

This couldn’t be the last time this would happen. This couldn’t be it.

Quin squeezed her eyes shut tighter, but it only forced the tears out and down her cheeks.

She pulled away, lips inches from his and breathless. “I’ll break you out.” Would she? She’d said it, so at least some part of her thought it possible.

Atesh blinked down at her with a small frown of confusion. “What?”

“If you escape, they can’t hang you.”

“If. It’s impossible. No one has ever escaped from the Fortress of the Seven Towers.” He nodded to the thick stone walls and rubbed her back as if to soften the truth. “That’s the point. You’ve seen how full of janissaries this place is.”

“It is the stuff of my nightmares,” she murmured, more to herself than him, testing the idea on her tongue. “I’d be dead if I were caught. But what if I succeeded?” He’d be alive and free. And that was worth the risk.

“Hypothetically, how would you even attempt such an insane thing?”

She would give him that: it was a mad idea, but was it possible? His cell window was tiny, but it was on an external wall. That would be the easiest way out. No janissaries to sneak past. And there was one way to get it open. She grinned as she recalled the last thing she’d heard about the fortress before Atesh’s arrest. “They had hundreds of fireworks stored here ready for the finale of the masquerade, ready to set off from the city walls. Of course, they never used them, so they must still be here somewhere.” He took a deep breath as she squeezed him. “Atesh, if I found them, I could blow the window off this cell.” She squinted up at the bars. About twenty feet to the furthest corner of the cell. “You’d have to tip the bed over, hide behind it, over there, as far away from the window as possible.”

It just might work. Besides, what other option did they have? She chewed her lip. “I don’t have much experience with explosives, I’m afraid.” She’d ask Ariston, it was more his area of expertise. “But we can work that out. And once you’re free, we can go to, hmm, Hellas, maybe Venetia. They’d never send you back here, what with how much they hate us.”

She grinned, looking up at Atesh, but his mouth stayed flat and the frown between his brows had only deepened.

He placed his hands either side of her face so she had to look at him. “I can’t,” he said. “You can’t.”

“I can.” Maybe. “I definitely can.” She scowled at the waver in her voice belying her confidence. “I can try. It –”

“No, you don’t understand.” He smiled. “I can’t ask you to take such a risk for me.”

“You’re not asking, I offered.”

He shook his head. “You still don’t see. Quin, it’s over. I’m over. I’m done fighting. Mine isn’t a life worth fighting for. So please stop.”

She swallowed. The words had to sound in her head again before she could grasp them. “You – you can’t mean that, your life –”

“My life is a shallow one spent drifting from ballroom to ballroom with some fencing thrown in between.” The words were half-sighed. “My art is precious to me, I admit, but even that gift I waste on other people’s pointless portraits. What do I have to live for, Quin? A life where all I’ve been hoping for is a wife I can tolerate?”

She stared at him. That was all he saw in his life? When he had so bloody much.

Shaking her head, she shoved his hands away from her face and stepped back, putting clear air between them. “You ingrate. How dare you. All the things you have, your easy life, and you whine that it’s not worth living?” She trembled with anger, but she had to keep her volume under control – if the janissary heard raised voices, he’d undoubtedly come running.

Atesh stared at her, keeping very still as though she were a wild animal liable to bolt or attack at the first sign of movement. He said nothing.

“So you have no direction, because your life’s just too damn easy?” she went on. “My heart bleeds.” As if that were the most difficult challenge life held. “You know what normal people do, Atesh? They make their own direction.”

What was hers? She frowned. A few weeks ago she wouldn’t have hesitated – she’d have said it was to help the Gutter Streets and bring the aristos down a peg or two. To even the playing field. But hadn’t she just been clinging to an aristo? She shook away the thought.

His eyes slid away from hers, thoughtful. Perhaps he was beginning to understand.

He could be persuaded. Her voice softened as she said, “Find your own meaning, your reason why. Make a life; don’t expect it to just be dropped in your lap. Live, Atesh. Live.”

His chest rose and fell in a deep breath, but when he returned his gaze to hers, eyes bright, the apology in his raised brows told her nothing had changed in his mind.

“Don’t just give up because that’s easier.” Her nails bit into her palms as her hands squeezed into tight fists. “What a coward.”

A laugh burst from him, almost a bark. “You call me a coward?” He folded his arms, brows drawing together into a glower. “The woman who doesn’t dare reveal her true self. Who pretends to be a simple creature, but carries some secret so terrifying, she can’t possibly tell.”

Coward. He called her a coward. After all she’d done to sneak into the palace and trick her way in here, all to try and help him. She opened her mouth but …

She did spend her life hiding and wasn’t that what cowards did?

He watched her wrestle with his words and his expression softened as he blew out his anger. “Quin,” he said, “don’t tell me not to give up. What else am I meant to do? They have everything stacked against me and even you haven’t come up with anything to prove my innocence. You’ve spent a week looking and have nothing. I’ve been sentenced to hang on Monday. That’s all the time I have. I don’t have the energy left to fight for a life I’m not sure is worth having.”

She stared at him, her chest heaving. This was what he truly felt. This was it. She’d misjudged him, after all. “Fine,” she said between gritted teeth. Damn the next wave of tears that sprang to her eyes. “I’m not stupid enough to fight someone else’s battle when they’ve already given up. If you can’t see all the opportunity your life has given you, all the things you could achieve, then you really are beyond hope.”

So much for her magnum opus. She turned away in disgust, starting towards the door. Why had she ever bothered with him?

For them. This had all been for the Gutter Streets. Even just a handful of trinkets from his home could help a dozen families. That was why her mother had chosen him after all.

One more try. She whirled to face him. “Think of all the good you could do in the world, all the people you could help with your name, your power, your money.” He had so much. It was ridiculous he was so willing to throw it all away. The trembling returned to her hands. “And what’re you doing? Slinking away to your death. You’re a coward. A bloody coward.”

Perhaps she could love an aristo, but she couldn’t love a coward.

Atesh bit his lip and looked to the floorboards, thoughtful. She was getting through to him. She hadn’t meant to call him a coward again and saying bloody was a mistake, too – that wasn’t a word for gentlewomen. But it seemed to be working.

After a few seconds he looked up at her. “That’s a lovely idea, Quin,” he said, spreading his hands, “but if I leave, I don’t have any of that.”

He really had given up.

Quin didn’t trust herself to reply. She burned with barely suppressed anger, but a small voice at the back of her mind reminded her that these would be their last words. He might be a coward, but he didn’t deserve such a harsh goodbye.

With a rap on the door, she called for the janissary. Atesh made no move to call her back or go to her.

He’d given up so easily. But that quiet voice wouldn’t leave her alone. Easily? Hadn’t he been arrested for his cousin’s murder, beaten, and put through a trial all angled towards finding his false guilt?

She sighed softly, listening to the janissary’s footsteps and the jangle of keys. Perhaps easily was unfair.

The door opened and the janissary stood back to let her pass.

Quin paused in the doorway. She couldn’t bring herself to look back at Atesh, so she frowned at the doorframe instead. “Farewell, sir.”

32

Visiting Time

Three days after her last visit to the Golden Tower, Quin was back, just as the note left at her door the previous evening had instructed. This time, the wrought iron gate stood ajar, inviting her in. Considering the headache trying to find an alternative entrance had won her last time, it was an invite she was keen to accept.

With a pat of her pocket, she reassured herself that the designs were still there before striding up the staircase that wound around the interior of the tower. Every floor, a doorway led in, but heavy oak planks nailed each one shut. The stone steps sounded the quiet tip-tap of her feet as she ascended.

She didn’t have the Card. What would Alora make of that?

Worse, what if she knew about Quin’s visit to the Fortress of the Seven Towers? That had been a desperate venture, but surely Alora wouldn’t see it as an attempt to help him. She didn’t know Quin had been swept along with the idea of breaking Atesh out.

Which was madness in itself. It was just as well he’d decided against escaping, albeit for terrible reasons. To even consider entering the fortress to look for the fireworks – because she had no idea where they could be – was insane. And to blow the window off? Ridiculous. Mad. Foolishness on an epic scale.

Which brought her back to the Card. There was no way she’d ever have been able to sneak inside and steal it. Like the fireworks, she didn’t even know where they’d keep evidence like the Card. It wouldn’t be in the same place as a prisoner like Atesh, so it would be in another part of the complex. Even if somehow she managed to get into the place or slip away from the janissary accompanying her, she couldn’t exactly wander around until she found their evidence safe. Or was it safes? She didn’t even know how many they had, never mind where they were!

Even though the puzzle made her fingers twitch, it was impossible to solve.

Alora would have to be reasonable.

Wouldn’t she?

Quin ran her tongue over the cut inside her mouth and trudged up the final stairs, pausing and squaring her shoulders before she shoved the door open. It scraped on the floor – no stealthy entrance, then.

Alora sat at the table, burly Mus standing behind her.

“Ah, there you are,” Alora said with a smile beneath her half mask. “So good of you to come.”

“You know I didn’t exactly have any choice,” Quin said, approaching the table.

“You could’ve fled.” With a shrug, she turned to Mus and nodded him in Quin’s direction. “Search her.”

Quin pursed her lips, as heavy hands patted her sides and sleeves. “You said to come unarmed.”

“Just a precaution, you understand. Who’s to say someone like you would play by the rules?”

“The rules?” Quin raised a brow, glaring at Alora.

“Now don’t give me that, even people like us have some rules. They might not be the same as everyone else’s, but they are rules nonetheless.”

People like us. As if they were somehow in the same category or had anything in common. Quin gritted her teeth.

Alora waved a hand. “But enough talk of rules; let’s talk gifts, shall we? I do so love to receive. Do you have the designs and the Card?”

Quin looked sidelong at Mus, as she fished in her pocket. “The designs.” She tossed them on the table.

Alora unfolded the papers, gaze scanning them. “And the Card?”

Quin took a deep breath. “I couldn’t get it. I told you, there’s no way I could break into the fortress and steal evidence from their safe.”

The high-pitched laugh rang around the room.

Of all the possible reactions – threats, rage, perhaps even another dangle from the window – that was not one Quin had even considered. She glanced at Mus, in case his boss had lost her mind, but he looked impassive as ever behind his black half-mask.

With a wave of her hand, the woman mastered herself enough to speak. “No matter, the trial’s over and they haven’t used it. Besides, it’s not like you’d dare do anything now.” She smiled sweetly; she was daring Quin to ask.

“Fine,” Quin sighed, “I’ll bite. Why is that?”

“Because,” Alora said, still smiling, as she rose and approached Quin, slow as a spider to a webbed fly, “if you do anything before the Pasha is executed, he won’t be the only one who doesn’t live to see another day.” She stood barely a foot away from Quin now. Raising her eyebrows, she asked, “Didn’t you wonder where Derry was last night?”

Quin’s heart plummeted to her feet and her hand made an involuntary motion as if to draw her sword, but the rapier was at home and it wouldn’t have done much good, anyway. She had fallen asleep almost as soon as she returned from her ill-fated visit to Atesh, exhausted by the constant tension and nights spent tossing and turning in half-sleep. She hadn’t even gone to check Derry was safe. Had Derry not come home or was Alora just bluffing? Please, gods, say it was a lie.

“You’ve got to give her credit,” Alora went on, “she spent all yesterday trying to help your Pasha, but it didn’t do her much good.”

Quin’s fists trembled, slick with sweat and desperate to wipe the smug smile off Alora’s face. “You –” Quin bit her tongue against the curses swelling in her throat. “What have you done?”

Alora shrugged. “She’s fine, just a little bump on the head, and she’ll stay fine as long as you stay at home and cooperate.”

A red-hot prickling ran up her face. These bastards had Derry. Somewhere. It couldn’t be in this tower – Alora was many things, but not a fool. That just left the rest of the damn city.

Derry was out there alone, captured again. And it was Quin’s fault. She’d put her friend in danger. If they’d backed off as soon as Atesh had been arrested – hells, as soon as he’d grown too curious – this would never have happened.

Oh, Derry. I’m so sorry.

She’d been silent for some time, but Alora just sat there smiling her cruel smile.

She knew she had Quin backed into a corner with no way past.

Quin gritted her teeth and forced the words past them, “If you so much as look askance at her, Alora, I’ll make sure you regret ever hearing my name.”

“What makes you think I don’t already?” Alora said it quickly – too quickly, and then blustered on to her next sentence. “Just don’t give me any reason to harm an auburn hair on her pretty little head, and she’ll be home safe and sound soon enough.”

“Fine,” Quin spat. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Say nothing about your Pasha’s innocence. Make no further attempt to clear his name. No investigations, just as I told you before. Just go about life as you ordinarily would.”

She shut her eyes. She had no choice in this. Alora had Derry. The janissaries had Atesh. And there was no possibility for them both to survive.

She took a long breath and opened her eyes. “Anything else?”

“No, no, that’s quite enough.” Alora glanced over at the window and the winch beyond. “Unless you wanted another bird’s eye view of the city, as a reminder of the risks to yourself, should you disobey us?”

“Much as I don’t want that, why are you threatening me? Why not just kill us and get us out the way?” Like you did Dethero. She’d already held Quin at her mercy once – that drop from the top of the tower could only be deadly – now she had Derry. She was toying with them.

The corner of Alora’s mouth twitched.

And she was damn well enjoying it.

“Where would be the fun in that?” Alora’s smile sharpened. “You’re no fool – you know I’m playing with you, but it’s just that much more delicious to let you find out for yourself. You’ll work it out in time, just like I had to.”

There it was again. A hint at something between them. There was something faintly familiar about Alora, but Quin had always assumed they’d been at the same balls or parties and that was why she wore a mask. Maybe their first meeting was from far longer ago than she’d ever considered.

The mask didn’t let her examine much of Alora’s face. It was slender and finely boned – she was probably quite beautiful beneath the mask. Her lips were full, even if they did tend to thin when she gave those nasty little smiles. A red gleam lit up her dark hair when it caught the light. She stood taller than Quin and perhaps a few years older. That was all Quin had to go on, but none of it pulled her back to a specific memory. None of it gave her a place or time.

“That’s enough for now.” Alora waved her hand, dismissing Quin. “Have a marvellous evening,” she called as Quin strode away, biting her tongue, “I’ll see you very soon.”

Quin’s chest tightened all the way down the stairs.

What could she do? Only solutions would fend off the choking feeling in the back of her throat. Find Derry and free her. But she had no clue where they were holding her. And if she stayed here and tried to follow them, she risked being spotted and what would they do to Derry then?

If she tried to help Atesh, the same danger to her friend, and he’d made it clear her help was unwelcome in his worthless life.

What else?

Nothing.

There was no other option. She had to obey.

Quin grimaced at the clamour as she slammed the gate shut. The chain clinked just like the ones that had once bound Derry’s ankles in that Venetian marketplace.

She pressed her forehead to the metal bars. They cooled her burning skin.

“Gods, Derry,” she whispered, “what have I done?”

* * *

“A servant to see you,” the janissary announced as the cell door opened. Mercifully it wasn’t Mert or Top.

Atesh was sitting at his desk. He’d been sketching line drawings with the pen and ink they’d left him for writing letters and otherwise putting his affairs in order. Drawing was easier than writing a will. What on earth was he meant to put in it? How did a person get such messy affairs in order? No, better to let his hand move across the page, delineating disembodied eyes, sabrecat paws, and whatever else came from the nib. Quin’s profile had made more than one appearance. So, too, had the gallows.

He’d glanced up when the keys had jangled in the keyhole. Now he placed the pen in the inkwell and sat back, raising his brows at the janissary. It was an attempt to look nonchalant when actually his breath was held.

A servant? Quin. Thank the gods he’d have a chance to see her again after yesterday’s argument. They couldn’t leave things like that.

The janissary lifted his chin. “Must be after some final bonus.” He snorted softly then stood back.

When a man stepped into sight, Atesh sighed, shoulders slumping. Then recognition clicked in his head.

Her butler?

His beard wasn’t as close-cropped as last time they’d met, but with the grey-touched hair and long, straight nose, it was undoubtedly the same man who’d attended each day of the trial.

“Ariston,” Atesh said, as if expecting him. Perhaps he had a message from Quin. Maybe she was going to come and rescue him after all. He’d been foolish to decline. She must have a plan.

The butler glanced at the janissary paused in the doorway and nodded. Returning the gesture, the guard closed the door and disappeared. His footsteps faded down the hallway.

“Ariston,” he said again, quiet enough that the janissary wouldn’t hear, “what are you doing here? Have you got a message from Quin?”

Ariston eyed the cell, a crease between his brows. The walls, the small window, the narrow bed, the desk covered with Atesh’s papers. He looked everywhere but at Atesh himself.

It must be something bad. But Atesh already knew she’d not been able to clear him. He expected death. The matter-of-factness of it gave a strange comfort. The known. These were the cards he’d been dealt and he was planning accordingly. Could Ariston really have any worse news than that?

At last the butler’s broad chest rose and fell heavily and his gaze dropped to the floor. “Quin doesn’t know I’ve come. I’m not here for her. I’m here for myself” – at last his eyes met Atesh’s – “and for you. I owe you an apology.”

Atesh scoffed and waved away any such thing. “I understand you’re protective of her – you don’t need to apologise for your behaviour. I’m the one who arrived unannounced.”

“Not for that. For something much older. Much worse.” His gaze slipped away again. “I’ve been putting it off, but I suppose I can’t do that any longer.” He sighed. “This is my last chance to tell you.”

What the hells was this fellow talking about? Atesh craned forward, leaning his elbows on the desk. “Hundred, if it’s this important, you’d better get on with it.”

Ariston nodded and cleared his throat. His back straightened and he clasped his hands behind it. He looked like a man making a military report, rather than a visitor to a condemned prisoner. “You’ve been grossly misled about your parents’ feelings for each other and the circumstances of your mother’s death,” he said all in one breath.

“My – what?” What on earth? How dare he? “I beg your pardon, Ariston. You may mean well, but my parents are none of your –”

“Your parents loved each other deeply,” Ariston said, resolutely avoiding eye contact. His voice dropped. “Indeed, your mother loved your father enough to die for it.”

Love? The face of his father swam into view, ruddy and rageful. There’s no such thing.

Atesh’s hand bunched into a fist, which he hid beneath the desk. He was going to die the day after tomorrow – he didn’t need any further reminders of his father and his unpleasant brand of parenting. It was bad enough he’d haunted last night’s dreams.

“You’re mistaken.” He bit the words out. “My parents hated each other, they did little but argue. Not that it’s any of your damn business.” At least Mother never did love such a despicable man – that was actually a comfort.

“I’m never mistaken.” Ariston had this calm tone that almost made Atesh believe him, however ridiculous his statements.

“And how would you come across such a great secret, sir?” The last word cut the air, but Ariston didn’t flinch.

“When you were a small boy, I was sought by Ferros Pasha to be your fencing master. I was quite popular at court.”

Atesh laughed. A butler as a fencing master? What a ridiculous claim. “My father wanted me taught by Cheviker. He said he was the best ...”

Ariston nodded, brows raised expectantly. This wasn’t new information to him.

He was in his early fifties, perhaps, but still broad-shouldered. Light on his feet like a dancer … or a master swordsman. The way he’d twitched his cuff when annoyed at Atesh that day after the elephant.

Oh. “You’re him, aren’t you? You’re Cheviker.” Atesh laughed softly.

The legend himself. He’d disappeared 24 years ago around the Night of the Innocents, leaving all sorts of rumours in his wake. That he’d killed a man (and not in a duel, so it was murder). That he’d had an affair with Prima and was Zeynab’s real father. That he had a dozen bastard children amongst the nobility. No, he didn’t like women, only men. Actually, he knew dark secrets about the royal family and had to flee the city or risk being silenced for good. He’d sold his soul to one of the gods (no one could agree which one) to get his fencing skills – no mortal could be that good naturally.

He’d reappeared briefly at court to much fanfare, when Atesh was a young boy, only to disappear again within a year or two. That had been almost 20 years ago and in that extended absence, his reputation and the rumours had grown. The stories spun out of control, with just one point of agreement – he was the best swordsman of his generation. Perhaps of any generation.

“Cheviker. I should have known you weren’t just a butler.”

So, it wasn’t only Quin who was more than she seemed. Maybe Derry was some princess of the Varangians after all.

“Cheviker.” Ariston shook his head. “That’s a name an arrogant youth gave himself.”

He hadn’t answered the question. He hadn’t denied it either. Ariston went on: “I didn’t come to talk about the young man I was.”

Atesh took a long breath. “My parents.”

Ariston – or Cheviker or whoever he was – nodded. “I’d gone to the house for a meeting with the Pasha, but he must have forgotten I was coming or not realised the time.” His gaze turned to the small window, becoming distant. “The butler left me waiting in the hall and I heard Ferros and your mother arguing on the landing above.” He licked his lips, stalling, perhaps. “I confess I might have used my Cards to help eavesdrop. Your mother was telling him that she was leaving him. She was pregnant and you” – Ariston glanced at Atesh, then away again – “and you weren’t his son.”

Atesh stared at Ariston’s face, but he’d stopped talking. He must have misheard. “And I – what?”

A low gravelly sound as Ariston cleared his throat. “She said you weren’t Ferros’s son.”

Not his son?

Sunlight slanted through the window, lighting up dust motes drifting between them. Ariston kept very still, but tension solidified his shoulders and jaw. The distant sound of barked orders from the janissaries training in the courtyard below wafted into the cell, but the roaring in Atesh’s ears rose and drowned it out.

Not his son.

“She told him,” Ariston continued, “she was leaving for Dastan Aksoy, so her children could be with their father and their brother.”

Atesh’s throat tightened, like he was being hanged already, and yet – and yet ...

A weight he’d stopped noticing years ago lifted from his shoulders. “Malos? My brother?”

“Half-brother, anyway.” Ariston swallowed. “I should have told you sooner.” A sad smile touched his face. “All those years. I left, not wishing to hear anything more. The next day I heard that your mother had fallen down the stairs and died.” His throat bobbed again and his voice came out thick. “All my life I’ve regretting walking away, even though I’d heard Ferros’s fury. If I’d stayed, perhaps they’d have realised I was there and delayed the altercation and perhaps …”

“Perhaps,” Atesh murmured. They’d been arguing on the landing. Did that mean his father had pushed her? It had crossed his mind before, though never when he was a child. As a child, he’d believed his father’s blame levelled at him. But as an adult, he’d wondered.

And now he knew this …

If their argument had been interrupted, might she have lived? And the baby she carried?

Atesh’s chest ached with a heavy weight. Zeynab and his mother, both killed, both with unborn children. Truly the Shahins were cursed.

Ariston cleared his throat. “After you came to the house to see Quin, I followed you. I wanted to see what sort of man you were. When I saw your home …” Ariston paused and looked at the wall, as if seeing through it to distant Shahin House. “I recognised it instantly. You must understand, so many sought my tutelage back then and I – I left court not long after. It was a difficult time. The names all blurred together. And I – I’m ashamed to say, I tried to forget, so I wouldn’t have to face my own guilt.”

His gaze returned to Atesh, eyes gleaming. “But when I saw the house and realised you were that little boy who believed his father was a drunken brute and who’d lost his mother much too young, I knew I had to tell you, I just – I’ve been too much of a damn coward to face you. To face my own mistake.

“And for that and all those years before, I am sorry.”

The room fell silent and still. The two men barely breathed, both staring away into memory.

His father – no, not his father – Ferros, father to no one, had been wrong. He had lied. There was such a thing as love and Atesh had been born from it.

The spectre of Ferros’s face faded from his thoughts. Ferros had no power over him.

There was such a thing as love and his mother had died because of it. Was dying for love better than dying in a world without it?

Atesh rubbed his brow, vision blurred.

Malos wasn’t his cousin, but his brother. Ferros not his father, but his uncle. Uncle Dastan no longer his uncle …

His life had been rearranged, like a puzzle box he thought he’d solved, but now discovered slotted together in a whole new pattern.

Perhaps it was a better pattern.

“Thank you, Mr Cheviker,” he said at last.

Ariston nodded and turned to go.

“And you can trust my discretion about your true name.” Not that he had long to tell anyone. He straightened his back, lifting his chin. “For the time I have left, anyway.”

Ariston nodded again and opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it again. He shut his eyes, hand clenching into a fist. “She did try, you know. We all did.”

“I know. And I thank you.” He managed a closed-lipped smile. “She’s risked enough on my behalf and I get the feeling I don’t even know the half of the jeopardy she and the rest of you have been in.” He glanced at the stack of papers on the desk – the ones he hadn’t yet drawn on. How could he put into words what the past month had meant to him, had done to him? There was perhaps one way. “I will endeavour to show my appreciation for all of it, though I fear what little I can do will pale in comparison.”

Confusion creased Ariston’s brow, but Atesh waved him away. He needed quiet. Solitude. Space to examine the new patterns of this puzzle box. And damn it, time to cry for the little boy who’d be beaten by a man he’d spent far too long believing was his father.

Ariston nodded and bade him farewell. The cell door clanged shut behind him and a moment later the keys rattled in the lock.

It was a sound of finality, but Atesh felt freer than he ever had.

He had affairs to get in order.

33

Cowardice

The sun sank on the final leg of its descent, gilding the edges of rooftops and the tallest trees in the park, sending the sky into raptures of blush-rose and flame-orange.

Watching from the library window, Quin’s stomach was a stone fist clenched in the pit of her belly.

She should be out there fighting someone or climbing up a wall or hiding from guards or something, not stuck here waiting. Ariston and Mrs Tepe had spent the afternoon bustling about downstairs, leaving Quin alone to pace the library, stopping periodically to peer at the books (some false, some real) or out the window.

The scent of leather and dry old paper rose as she opened one book, flicked through it, returned it to the shelf then chose another. A frothy romance about a misguided matchmaker. Maybe that was the distraction she needed. Three armchairs by the hearth formed a companionable semi-circle. She sank into one and tried to read. And failed.

There was no distraction from tomorrow.

She gave up even trying once the light outside dimmed, sunset fading to grey-blue. The candles and lamps in the library sat unlit, but the darkness was welcome. She sat in it, hand resting on the book.

When the door opened, she almost dropped it.

“Ariston?” She looked up as he came in with a candelabrum in hand. “You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.”

“Stopped pacing, then?”

She scowled and flopped back in her seat. “What else am I meant to do?”

He lit a lamp on the mantelpiece and set the candelabra down on a table before taking one of the other chairs. His hazel eyes sought the fire that had been set, but not yet lit. The criss-crossed kindling sat on remnants of grey ash. He said nothing.

Quin watched the remaining empty seat. Derry’s. She should have been there, consoling, commiserating, perhaps even daring them to one last desperate plan. She’d been frightened, but she was the one who’d gone out searching for Edan. She must have had a change of heart.

Quin should have stopped her. If she’d know that was what Derry had planned, she’d never have let her leave the house – or would she have? Would she still have taken the risk that Alora would catch them trying to help Atesh?

Back then – just yesterday morning, but it felt like so much longer ago – she might have taken the chance. Fool that she was, she hadn’t taken Alora’s threats seriously enough.

But now Alora had spelt out the risks quite clearly – lose Atesh or lose Derry. And attempting to help Atesh wasn’t even guaranteed to save him, anyway. It was a sorry pair of options. Besides, the damn fool thought his life a waste.

Quin blinked, focusing on the ruby damask of the empty chair.

That she couldn’t risk. Derry would be back in it tomorrow.

She tore her eyes away. “There’s nothing else I can do. Is there?”

Ariston’s gaze met hers and she saw the answer in the way they flinched, even before he shook his head.

“I suppose that’s it then.” He’s just another aristo, she told the panic rising in her chest. “He’s one of them, not one of us.”

“Are you telling yourself that, or me?” Ariston asked, scuffing his heel on the hearthstone.

Quin opened her mouth to answer, when two knocks rapped on the front door.

“Are you expecting anyone?” he asked, rising and smoothing his hair in one movement. At the shake of her head, he went to the hall. “I’ll get rid of them.”

Quin curled up, hugging her knees to her chest, looking out the window at the sky now ink-dark.

That had been Atesh’s last sunset.

“Gods,” she whispered. “Tomorrow he’s really going to die.” It was preposterous that the man would cease to exist in this world within 24 hours: no more of that rakish smile; no more of those jade eyes glinting as if he were thinking of a wicked joke. No more Atesh. Gone.

It wouldn’t come to that. Someone would step in.

Someone would … No, it was no use – she couldn’t even persuade herself it was anything other than a comforting lie.

Who would want to help him, never mind have the means to? As far as the people of Arianople were concerned, he had murdered their Sultana and they hated him for it. They’d cheer as he hanged.

Derry might be safely back home tomorrow, but that meant Atesh had to die.

And with him whatever might have been between them.

What might have been … That was an odd thought. Would she have said yes if he’d asked? He’d hinted once. She could have really married him and not just accepted the proposal in order to get an expensive ring and further into his trust, as she had so many times before. What would that life have looked like?

No, that particular what if was a fool’s question. Even without this mess with Alora and the Sultana, they could never have been anything but thief and mark. They were from utterly different worlds. She had other people depending on her – Livia, the Gutter folk, Red and Ela. He was a directionless aristo who drifted from party to party and hired professionals. Gods, she had to remember that.

“Lady Sabia,” Ariston said from the doorway, his use of that name warning her he hadn’t sent away the visitor. She adjusted to a more gentlewomanly pose. Thank the gods she was wearing a blue linen gown appropriate for a Contessa lounging at home rather than comfortable trousers and shirt. That would have been interesting to explain to a visitor. “Excuse me, madam, I know you didn’t wish to be disturbed, but” – he glanced into the hall, beckoning someone – “I have a Mr Nald asking to see you.”

Quin frowned, the name tugging on her memory, but not dislodging anything.

“Mr Nald,” Ariston repeated, “Atesh Shahin Pasha’s valet.”

Nald entered, slender and tall, elegant and efficient in every movement. His hair was grey, but his lightly-lined face suggested he was in his fifties. His red-rimmed eyes lowered as he bowed. “Lady Sabia,” he said, voice as refined as his manners, “I must apologise for coming here unannounced, but I’m sure you’re aware these are rather extraordinary circumstances.” He closed his eyes for a moment and his hand trembled.

“Mr Nald, please don’t apologise,” she said, mustering a smile and gesturing to the chair opposite hers where Ariston had been sitting minutes earlier. “I’ll wager it’s been a difficult time for you. Won’t you please take a seat?”

“I thank you no, madam,” he said, formality returned, “I don’t intend to keep you long.” His hands clasped behind his back, the consummate gentleman’s valet. “From your words, I’m to assume madam has heard Judge Pavo’s verdict and sentence?”

“And I’m shocked by it, Mr Nald. Whatever they say, I simply cannot believe your master would do such a thing.”

“Nor I,” he said, voice shaking.

Quin bit her lip. “I am afraid I have no need of a valet, but if you require a letter of recommendation, I’d be more than happy to oblige.” The unspoken truth was it would be difficult for him to find work in Arianople, thanks to his association with an apparent assassin.

Nald’s brows rose for the briefest moment before he regained control. “You are too kind, madam,” he said, voice softer, “just like the Pasha.”

At the tremor of Nald’s hands and voice, Quin’s heart crushed. He was upset to be losing Atesh, not his job. “The – he’s a kind man, then? Good to you?”

“Oh yes, madam.” Nald’s back straightened. “The best master there could be. Last summer my wife – she’s the housekeeper, you see – was so ill I thought I’d lose her. I’d been sat with her all night and day, trying to bring her fever down, but my eyes were drooping that second night.” A gentle smile lit his face. “I thought I was dreaming when I saw the Pasha at the foot of the bed, sleeves rolled up. The young gentleman shooed me off to bed, telling me he’d sent for his own apothecary and surgeon and promising he’d sit with her that night, so I might sleep.” He shook his head. “He’d hear none of my protests and packed me off to bed with a glass of his own wine to help me sleep. The next morning her fever had broken and the master had a row of medicine bottles on her nightstand. He wouldn’t let me pay him back, either.”

Nald’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. Quin exchanged a glance with Ariston.

“Forgive me, madam,” Nald said before Quin had a chance to reply. “I didn’t mean to come and regale you with stories of my master. I have been told I’m allowed to take him a fresh set of clothes for –” His voice broke and a battle for composure waged its way across his face.

“For tomorrow,” Quin said.

He nodded, clearing his throat. “I thought madam might wish me to deliver a message.”

“A message?” Gods, where would that even start? Terribly sorry I couldn’t prove your innocence and I called you a coward. And what would she do, write a secret note as his last comfort for the gallows? A scrap of paper he could hold in his bound hands as they pulled the lever? No, a note wouldn’t do. And neither would awkward words repeated by Nald.

They’d had their last words to each other and they’d been face to face, however sourly that conversation had ended.

Tomorrow she’d stand at the front of the crowd in Kediler Square and he’d see her there and she’d smile a brave smile that would tell him the argument hadn’t mattered but the things before had.

She shook her head. “I am sorry, Mr Nald, I don’t know what I could possibly say.”

Nald scoffed. “Madam, I’m trying to suggest you not say anything, but do something. My master has said you’re a most unusual woman with a – how did he put it? – an interesting set of skills.” He frowned, the creases between his brows connecting with those on his forehead and making him look older. “I’m not entirely sure what he meant by that, but I understand you’ve been to visit him in disguise twice – surely there must be something you can do to help him?”

She stiffened. Bloody hells, who else had Atesh told? Gods, say it was only Nald. Perhaps he was a trusted confidant. The only one Atesh had left.

She swallowed and glanced at Ariston whose face was frozen in flat neutrality. The fingers on his right hand twitched, though.

“I’m sorry to say that I can’t do anything, Mr Nald.”

“Can’t do anything?” His voice rose. “You killed an elephant, madam. Don’t think to tell me there’s anything you can’t – ah, but that’s it, isn’t it?” He shook his head, frown deepening. “It’s not can’t, it’s won’t. Hundred forbid that you’d damage your own reputation to help someone else. You’re as bad as the rest, even in his final hours, you’ve abandoned an innocent man – a good man – no, a great man in his false disgrace.”

The words kicked her in the gut, leaving her speechless for a moment. Her chest heaved with heavy breaths. She’d tried, damn it. And this man who didn’t even know her stood here judging her, weighing her against his perfect master.

Not so bloody perfect. “He still hires professionals though, doesn’t he?” she snapped. “Such a kind gentleman, so damn noble.”

She hadn’t planned to say it. The words had burst out.

The look on Nald’s face, as if he’d been slapped, made her instantly regret it.

“How – I’m not sure how you know about my master’s private business, madam, but since you seem to think it’s yours, allow me to disabuse you of your false assumptions.” His back straightened and his eyes flashed, cold. “He does indeed hire such women and other Gutter folk and has them come to the house. Not for the reasons some other not-so-noble men do, but to paint them.”

Quin snorted. “To paint them, indeed! That’s a new one.”

To paint them – did he really expect her to believe such a –

Miss Scarlet. She’d been there during the day, leaving as the light faded, rather than visiting him in the dark of night. He’d been painting her.

“He thought you were special, madam,” Nald said. “He felt you understood him, because you picked out the one painting from his exhibition that he’d painted for himself. A painting of a lady of the night, no less.”

The Maiden in the Tower. Her terracotta hair, those petulant rosebud lips and upturned nose. That was why that woman at the Hidden Court had looked so familiar. They were one and the same. Gods, no wonder she’d taken such an interest in Quin when she’d visited the Canting King. She must have heard of Quin’s involvement with Atesh.

“I fear he’s terribly mistaken in his regard for you – the poor fool. You really were only after his name and fortune like all the others.”

His nostrils flared and Ariston twitched as Nald reached for his inside pocket, but he only drew out a sheaf of papers bound with red ribbon. “My master asked me to bring this to you for safekeeping, though I’m only obliging as a last request of a man I respect and admire, not because you are deserving of any such honour.” He slapped the papers down on the desk and turned on his heel. “Good evening, madam.” He barely got those final words past his lips before striding out.

Ariston made to go after him but stopped when Quin caught his eye.

She flinched at the door slamming.

“And you’re just going to leave him to say that?” he asked.

“Is he wrong?”

Ariston opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Exactly.” Thumping the arm of the chair, she rose. “Atesh is a good man, Ariston. And what am I? A judgemental arse. Of course he paints them. I’ve been congratulating myself on being better than he is just because he’s an aristo who hires professionals, and I was wrong all along.”

She lifted the bound papers, Ariston peering over her shoulder as she tugged off the ribbon. The first page contained just a few words. “Last Will and Testament? Ariston, he trusted me enough to leave his will with me.” Dropping it on the desk, she turned away, stomach churning.

No, no, no. She hid her face in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut. None of this was right. She’d abandoned him to his fate and she’d put Derry in danger. “What have I done?”

Ariston rustled through the thick papers. “Er, Quin …” His voice was low, something strange in the tone making her look up. “Perhaps you should be asking, what has he done?”

He held out a page to her. She stared at it. Blinked. Stared again. Odd words stood out – fortune, the people, care, Arianople, leave, death. That last one made her eyes blur. She shook her head. “I can’t – tell me.”

“He’s” – Ariston cleared his throat – “he’s left it all to the people of Arianople. Under your care.”

Quin frowned at him. “Left … all?”

“Everything. His entire estate.”

“That’s not …” She shook her head again and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. It came away glistening. There was no way … She had to be misunderstanding what Ariston was saying. “No. You haven’t read it properly. What would he do that for?”

“I’ll tell you in his own words: ‘It is my sincerest wish that it be put to use for the good of the folk of Arianople – particularly to improve the living conditions and very lives of those in the district known as the Gutter Streets. Use it to build schools and hospitals for their education and care, invest in their businesses and their minds, and give them the tools to create their own art from plays to paintings – those are just some ideas I have had. Do it all, do some of it, do something altogether different – the specifics I entrust to Lady Quinta Sabia. I believe she has spent much longer than I have considering what will best help alleviate the suffering in the Gutter Streets. I trust her judgement entirely.’”

“No.” Quin snatched the paper from him, the edges crumpling in her shaking hands. “I don’t – he can’t – he’s …” But the words that Ariston had read were the same as the ones on the page. A small amount was left to his servants, with particular mention or Mr and Mrs Nald, but the rest …

“Quin.” Ariston’s hands fell on her shoulders and he made her face him. Her chest heaved. “He wants you to use it to help them.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Nald was right – he is a good man and he deserves better than this. And here I am a coward, too scared to even keep trying. I gave up. He can’t die because of this. Because he’s been framed. Because I’m letting those bastards intimidate me.”

Ariston swallowed, hands dropping from her shoulders. “You’re saying … What about Derry?”

“Oh yes, because they’ll return her safe and sound after – after. And what if they don’t? What if they kill her anyway, just because they can?”

“They might already have done so,” he said barely above a whisper.

She shuddered – the thought had already crossed her mind but hearing it out loud was different. “I’ve been stupid to trust Alora would keep to her word. She already killed the Sultana and Dethero, what’s Derry to her? Oh, yes. How I’ll congratulate myself for accepting her lies when Atesh is hanged and Derry gone too. What if she then came for you? Or Livia? I’ve obeyed Alora for too long and if I carry on, I’ll be just what he said.” With a nod to the door, Quin relived Nald’s words, the grain of truth in his accusation choking, the thought of Dethero an ache in her chest.

And Atesh’s Will, its smooth, thick paper under her fingers still. She couldn’t put it down. That he wrote those words tore her open and exposed her heart and bare nerves to the stinging air.

He was so much more than she’d realised. Perhaps facing death forced out a person’s true self. If this piece of paper was who he really was then this was a man worthy of the risk.

A long breath. “I won’t be what Nald said. I want to be more than that,” she said, striding past Ariston into the hall.

She ran up the stairs two at a time, Ariston at her heels with a candelabrum in hand.

“It’s great that you’ve decided to act at the eleventh hour, Quin,” he puffed, “but what can you do? Spring Atesh from the fortress? That place is better guarded than the palace.”

“I – I’m not sure, but I have to do something.” She waved her hand, striding into the dressing room, the scents of toiletries enveloping her. The faint smell of roses and bergamot pulled her back to that afternoon less than two weeks ago, getting ready with Derry for the masquerade, full of giddy excitement.

“What do we know about this Alora woman?” Ariston asked, lighting candles on the dressing table.

“She’s rich,” Quin said with barely a breath. The woman’s clothes, her accent, the thugs so easily paid and replaced, everything about her spoke of a great fortune, much larger than the one Quin pretended to have. “And ruthless. She has some problem with me, as well as with Atesh and the Sultana. I think her motive was somehow tied to the Eunuch Card.”

“You said she might have someone else working with her, a man – perhaps it’s his motive driving this.”

She sighed. “I hadn’t even considered that,” she said, rummaging through drawers. This would be a night for quiet work, quiet clothes. She picked out grey breeches, a black shirt, and a slate-coloured jacket, all slightly different shades and textures to best blend into shadows.

“Quinta,” he said, stopping her before she disappeared behind the cutwork dressing screen, “are you sure about this? The consequences of working against those people ...”

“Honestly, no, I’m not sure. But I do know one thing” – she paused to look him square in the eye – “I’d rather regret something I’d done than something I never had the courage to try.”

He nodded at that and she managed a small smile before slipping behind the screen to change.

“The ‘What if?’ is hard to bear,” he said.

She dressed quickly, discarding the gentlewoman’s attire. The stone weight in the pit of her stomach was a little lighter.

“At risk of repeating myself,” Ariston’s voice came again from the doorway, “what exactly is it you’re going to regret doing, rather than not doing?”

“Good question,” she muttered, throwing a maid’s simple petticoat over the grey breeches. She’d remove the maid’s clothes once she was safely away from the house.

Mum would know what to do, if she were here, if she were whole. A grimace twisted her face at Livia’s confusion as she’d grown tired the last time she’d seen her. The tower. “Great, doom, death, destruction, just what we need.”

“What’s that?”

“Just something Mum said last time I saw her: ‘read the Card’.” She’d told her to read the Card. “Oh. Oh! She meant that tower, not The Falling Tower. That Card. Gods!” Quin caught herself on the wall as the thought hit her. A fortune teller could read a Card. The finest fortune teller in Arianople lived in a tower. After all, hadn’t Livia been reading The Seer and the Sultan?

The killer’s Card: the piece of evidence Quin hadn’t managed to get her hands on. The piece of evidence those bastards hadn’t managed to get their hands on, either. The fortune teller had tried reading the designs for the forged dagger, but she said that didn’t have the same personal connection a Card would. If Quin could get it to the fortune teller, that could lead her straight to Alora.

If.

“After all,” she whispered, “it’s only sitting in a fort full of janissaries.”

“Have you taken to talking to yourself?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Janissaries who might well be celebrating their victory, knowing their man hangs tomorrow.” Surely, they’d be guarding their man better than a Card everyone had forgotten about. And hadn’t she been contemplating breaking him out of that place just a couple of days ago?

Atesh may not want to escape, but if she could get proof of Alora’s guilt, he’d be freed as an innocent man. His change of will that meant he’d realised he could make a difference to the world in death. If he’d taken that step then she could help him see he could make that difference in life, too.

She gave a long sigh. They could worry about that later. For now, she had enough to do to get through the night and keep everyone alive.

Get the Card. Take it to the fortune teller and find out where it was connected to. That had to lead her to Alora or where she was keeping Derry. Maybe both. With a blade to her throat Alora was bound to free Derry. The look on her face when she found she’d been outmanoeuvred would be something to savour.

With Derry safe, they’d be free to act – they could work all night, if they had to, gather any evidence of Alora’s guilt. Hells, gather Alora herself, if necessary. Get the evidence to the Sultan or Judge Pavo or maybe that sympathetic janissary Porto. Do it quietly before the crowds could gather in Kediler Square and they’d stop the hanging from going ahead.

Quin’s breathing quickened. It was possible. Hundred damn it, it was barely possible, but possible was all she had. Her only other option was to stay here and pace and she’d already tried that.

She sprang from behind the screen and grabbed Ariston’s face. “It just might work!” She kissed him on his cheeks, right, left, right, the old way. “Have you got anything that can help me sneak in somewhere?”

“By somewhere, do you mean the Fortress of the Seven Towers?”

“Maybe.”

“Hundred help you, Quin.” He sighed and shook his head. “That place – you could get killed.”

“And Atesh will get killed if I don’t do something.”

“Then let me come and help.”

“No, I need you to stay here and make it look like I’m home.” She glanced at the window and the darkening sky beyond. “They said they’d be watching and I need them to think I’m home, like a good, compliant girl. Make a show of taking dinner up to my room, stoking up the fire, keeping the candle wicks trimmed, and they’ll think I’m up there moping in bed.”

Ariston bit his lip. “That’s a good idea, actually, though it kills me to see you go out there alone.”

“Help me and I won’t be alone.”

“Then let me fetch you something from my workshop.” He patted her hands and turned away. The sound of him trotting down the stairs echoed back as she sat at the dressing table and pulled on soft leather boots.

With a soft click, she slid open the secret drawer in her dressing table, selecting a long, thin dagger, charcoal-coloured gloves in the softest leather, and a matching half-mask. As she turned to go, her eyes lingered on the enamelled fan, sitting between perfume bottles and a powderpuff.

“I won’t let it happen again,” she whispered, snatching up the fan and opening it so the blades glinted. A stranger often stared back at Quin from the mirror and here was yet another one: a woman in a maid’s drabs, hair in a wild effort to escape a bun, but the eyes – that was the scary part. They gleamed from behind the fan with the same steel.

Woe betide the one who crossed her path tonight.

The woman’s teeth flashed white in the fading light.

Part III

34

The Fortress of the Seven Towers

In a pool of shadow between stables, Quin stood watching, barely breathing, as janissaries came and went. Some sick thought that one would turn and see her and know her for what she was weighed in the pit of her belly, but there was no time for those old fears. Not much time for anything.

In an alley over the road from the fortress, she had removed the maid’s clothes and stuffed them into Hira’s saddlebag. She’d left the sabrecat in the shadows and waited in a dark doorway, eyes on the Fortress of the Seven Towers. When a janissary waggon had come rattling past, she’d darted along next to it, hiding in its shadow to pass through the main gate unseen.

Thankfully, the stable yard offered the perfect cover, full of shady corners, swift little carriages, and fewer comings and goings. Occasionally a pink, black or peach nose appeared at the bars of the stable doors, sniffing the air at this new scent as she passed, likely reeking of Hira. No matter, the other sabrecats seemed only curious, none made a challenge.

Two janissaries clapped each other on the shoulder goodbye, one leaving down the wide archway Quin had entered by, the other returning to the tower, and at last the yard was clear. Quin waited as the clipped footsteps on cobbles receded, echoing against the stone, then gone.

Still, she forced herself to pause just a little longer, counting to 100. Nothing.

One last glance this way and that, then she was off, her soft-soled shoes making no noise as she scurried to the darkness beneath the nearest carriage. Ducking below its body, between the wheels, then another check of the yard, before she went on to the next and the next.

Crouching below the last carriage before the small door the other janissary had entered, Quin bit her lip. That entrance seemed so far away, its staircase so exposed.

She paused beneath the bulk of the coach, breath held, ears straining, eyes peering into the evening gloom. Shapes were indistinct in this half-light, no contrast, just shadows and what little light was left all blended together until all that remained were deepening shades of grey.

Absently she fingered the packages Ariston had given her. The smokeballs could create a pall of mist and give her some cover, but it would be better to keep hold of them until she had exhausted all other options. Who knew where the rest of the night might take her? Best save them as long as possible.

Still nothing. She was about to dart ahead to the door when there was the faintest scraping sound. She froze.

Where had he come from?

From the other side of the carriage next to hers, a janissary had appeared. His shoes made no clicking sound – they were almost as silent as hers. For a heart-stopping moment, he looked straight at her, but his gaze continued around the rest of the yard and, apparently satisfied he was alone, he walked closer.

Run.

But if she ran, he’d definitely see her and perhaps others would too. She was paralysed, hand frozen on the coach’s back axle, smooth metal pressing into her fingertips. She could only see his lower half now, those soft-soled boots mocking her.

By some miracle, he stopped at the front of the carriage and didn’t crouch down to look beneath it; his feet turned away from her and a faint rock of the vehicle told her that he leant against it. There was a hiss and then an orange glow, before a spent match landed on the floor, inches from Quin’s toes.

Smoking break. She exhaled in silence, closing her eyes for a moment, though she felt more like collapsing with relief.

Perhaps this close call was actually an opportunity. It didn’t look possible to sneak into the building alone – that door was too exposed – and she still didn’t know where exactly the Card was. She could hold this janissary up and make him take her to it or at least tell her where it was. All she’d need to do after he helped was knock him out or tie him up, gagged. By the time he could raise an alarm, she’d be gone.

With a slowness born from much patience, she drew the dagger from her belt and crept towards the front of the carriage.

The janissary sighed and muttered something under his breath, but the words were lost before they reached her. She crept out from her hiding spot, waiting for his attention to turn away.

“Apologies, Pasha,” he said, pausing for a long drag, “there’ll be no justice for you, I’m afraid.” He threw the cigarette on the ground and just as he turned to step on it, found himself face-to-face or, rather, face-to-mask with Quin.

She threw her full bodyweight into him, pushing him against the carriage, one hand over his mouth, the other holding the dagger. A snort escaped him, but he made no other sound. Now she could see why he hadn’t spotted her – he wore small, round eyeglasses. Likely he couldn’t see well at a distance, perhaps even worse at night.

“We’ll do this in silence, yes?” Quin punctuated the question with the point of her blade against his throat.

The slightest nod.

“Good.” She released her hold on his face and unbuckled his sword from his waist, lowering it slowly to the ground so it wouldn’t make a noise. “Wait, you – I know you.” Now she could see his face properly, she recognised those spectacles and brown eyes. “Porto? You’ve been investigating the assassination.”

“I’ll assume I’m allowed to speak now?” He raised an eyebrow and Quin’s slackening of her dagger’s pressure was his answer. “All the janissaries of the city have been investigating it.”

“No,” she said, “the others, they just played at it, you” – she poked him in the chest – “you thought there was something actually worth investigating. You were at the palace. You considered the possibility of a forged dagger being the murder weapon.”

His forehead wrinkled. “How did you know that? That was never mentioned at the trial.”

Quin grinned.

“Ah,” he went on, “you didn’t until I just said that.”

She nodded and smothered her smile. “I wasn’t sure. Look, much as I’m loving this chat, I’m in rather a hurry and I don’t fancy my chances if one of your colleagues finds this little tableau. That Card, the one the assassin dropped – do you still have it?” As a reminder of its presence, she slid the dagger to the top of his collar.

“We…” He swallowed long and hard. “We do.”

“Then take me to it.”

“That – that could be difficult.” Porto pressed himself into the carriage door, as she nudged the blade. “Wait – wait – a masked woman in men’s clothes with a sword at her side and a dagger at my throat wouldn’t exactly blend in walking past offices.”

She scowled, but he had a point. How to do this? Could he be trusted to go ahead and order men out, then –

“What is it you want the Card for?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts. “Is this about the Pasha?”

Quin clenched her jaw. “He’s innocent, damn it,” she hissed at him.

“Or at least he isn’t guilty.” He gave a sickly smile – as much as someone with a dagger at their jugular could manage. “And if you can work some miracle with that Card to prove it, I’ll get it for you.” He raised his hands, showing them empty. “No need for threats.”

Quin was used to making men’s hearts pound when she was pressed against them, but now it was her turn to have a hammering chest. Was he serious? Could she trust him? She searched in his dark eyes for an answer, but his glasses showed only the reflection of her own confusion in the dim light.

“My duty is to Justice,” he said, “and she wasn’t at his trial. They wouldn’t listen to me, even when I came back with information that at least placed doubt on his guilt.” He glanced left and right and his voice lowered so even this close she had to strain to hear it. “I think Pavo might even be involved – he was so quick to dismiss anything I presented. I would not see a man hang, by silken rope or otherwise, when the court was so full of baying dogs, hungry for blood – any blood, guilty or innocent. And I – I think that man is innocent.”

Over the hammering of her own heartbeat in her ears, Quin picked out the distant tip-tap of footfall approaching. Decision time. Did she really have a choice? Her throat was tight, as if her heart were trying to leap out of it. She stepped away from Porto, lowering the dagger. “Go.”

He slid out from the carriage and nodded at her. “Wait here.”

She dipped back into her hiding place and watched him hurry up to the door. The muscles of her legs tensed, urging her to run. He’d be back with a pack of them. Only the approaching footsteps, ringing out under the archway stopped her. If she ran, she’d be spotted.

Deep breaths. Her face was tingly, as though she was going to faint, and a trickle of sweat ran down her back, threading between the goose bumps.

Another janissary came into sight and strode up to the tower, letting himself in. The click of the door seemed deafening and final. She was alone again. She could run now.

The Card. She wouldn’t have it, but she would have her life.

She fled, all thoughts of sneaking between cover gone in terrified abandon. The archway and then home. She’d be safe.

And Derry? And Atesh? Will they be safe?

Quin skidded to a halt, catching herself with one hand before she slid over on the cobbles. For long seconds, she stopped there, crouched low on the ground, caught between flight and the uphill struggle against her own instincts.

That face she had seen in the mirror just an hour ago came back to mind. That woman was brave, she was strong; she was frightening, not frightened.

“I won’t run,” she whispered to herself. “I won’t run.”

A quick glance – no one around to spot her, thank the Hundred. Her momentary flight had brought her near the earlier hiding spot between two stables. Slipping into the narrow gap, she caught her breath. Here, she could see the door Porto had used and if he did bring janissaries out to grab her, she wouldn’t be where he’d expected.

She patted the pouch of smokeballs – they could help cover her escape, if need be. It was safe enough for now. Her eyes closed a moment and she took a deep breath, pressing her back against the cool, stone wall.

It was an agonising age before the oak door to the tower opened again, but eventually it did. Quin held her breath – was it Porto? Was he alone? She watched, still as stone, to see if heavily armed men poured out the door. Another ten years passed as she waited for him to shut the door after himself. He strode down the steps alone, looking remarkably calm and holding a flat package: tissue paper wrapped around a rectangular object.

Blind Lady, if you’re coming through for me, I’ll be the most grateful person who ever lived.

Porto went to the carriage and kicked the wheel. He glanced around and cocked his head when there was no response. As he pulled his foot back to kick again, Quin gave a low whistle, he turned in her direction and peered into the darkness, hunching over, as if it would help him see further despite his poor eyesight.

“Over here,” she called, just loud enough for him to hear.

He hurried over, again surprising her with his quietness. “You moved! I said to wait there.” He puffed a long breath. “I thought you’d gone or were playing me.”

It was some comfort to see him worried; he was taking as big a risk as her by doing this, which must mean he wasn’t trapping her. “I couldn’t be sure you weren’t playing me.” She shrugged. “For all I knew, you were going to come back with more men.”

He nodded. “True. But” – he held out the package – “I didn’t.” Even through the wrapping, she could feel the familiar-but-strange essence of magic – familiar for being a Card, but strange for being someone else’s, vibrations of a difference pitch to the one expected. Her skin crawled at the wrongness of holding someone else’s Card and she caught Porto wiping his hands down the front of his jacket. “I may be a janissary, but some of us are still worth trusting. Perhaps you’ll remember that in future.”

Her smile flashed in the darkness. “Perhaps.”

“Now, go do justice for that poor man. He – he’s not in the best state. I’ve done everything within my power to keep them off him” – he glanced back at the tower, a look of genuine pain in his eyes – “but I can’t be on duty all the time. My shift’s about to end.”

Quin bit back all the sarcastic comments that came to her lips, all the nasty things she could so easily say about janissaries. Instead she just nodded.

With a quick, closed-mouth smile, Porto turned to leave.

“Wait.” She grabbed his shoulder. “Try to delay the” – her throat closed on the next word – “the hanging tomorrow. If I’m late ...”

Porto looked her square in the eyes and nodded solemnly. “I’ll do all I can to give him a chance.”

And with that he was gone.

Quin waited as another janissary crossed the courtyard, pausing to wipe dirt off his boots on a carriage wheel. Then quiet.

She crept through the shadows to hide behind a straggly buddleia by the gateway and again had to wait. Crouched low, she tapped her fingers on her thighs. There wasn’t time for this. The night was already thick and dark and she only had until ten o’clock tomorrow morning. The quiet conversation of janissaries in their guardhouse stretched on and on.

Perhaps she could creep out, sticking to the shady corners of the gateway. But she’d have to go right past the guardhouse lit up with hanging lanterns.

Waiting it was, then.

At last a small carriage swept out of the courtyard – she had to sprint to keep up and escape in its cover, but, thighs burning, she made it back to the streets apparently unseen. Panting, she slipped into the alley where Hira waited. Her low chirrup of greeting guided Quin through the darkness.

In no time, she’d mounted and was just about to ride out, when a sabrecat’s roar split the air, followed by the creak and jangle of carriage and harness. She held her breath, watching as a huge black equipage appeared, a retinue trailing behind. Who could be visiting the fortress at this hour? The crest was unclear in the dark.

Quin backed Hira down the alley. They’d take a different path to the Tower of the Card.

* * *

The lock to his cell door thunked open. With a sigh, Atesh raised his head. Perhaps Mert and Top had decided they didn’t care about Porto’s warnings now the verdict was in.

“On your feet,” a janissary said as he entered – not one of Mert and Top’s lackeys, thankfully. He cast a quick glance around the room and nodded. “You’ve got another visitor.”

Quin? Nald had visited earlier this evening, delivering his clothes for the hanging. To Atesh’s enquiries about her, the valet had said she hadn’t been home when he’d called by, but his jaw had clenched as he’d said it. Perhaps she’d refused to see him or offer any message or a token. She’d given up. It was his own fault – he should have at least tried to escape when he’d had the chance.

But she’d have read his will by now and realised he’d tried to change. Perhaps she’d requested leave to visit for herself.

He held his breath, watching the door. The janissary grunted a warning to behave, because he’d be just outside, and then ducked out the door.

There was the sharp clip of boots on the timber floor and a figure in a black velvet cloak appeared, hood up. Too tall. Too broad. And too male.

Assured, he strode in, shoulders back, pushing the door ajar behind him.

“So.” He lowered the hood.

“Ilyas?” Atesh leapt to his feet and bowed low.

At last! He’d requested an audience with the Sultan, but that had been when he was first arrested, over a week ago. They’d known each other many years and Atesh had been so sure he would be able to persuade Ilyas it had been a terrible mistake, if only he could speak to him face to face, alone.

The gods had answered Atesh’s wishes – he had his chance. Even better – had Ilyas come to grant a last-minute royal pardon? Only he or Safira had the power to overturn Pavo’s decision.

But when Atesh looked more closely at the Sultan, his wild hopes sunk back to earth. His black hair, usually so artfully coiffured in curls to his shoulders, was tied in a severe queue, and his eyes, gold-flecked, bore into Atesh. Shadows haunted his features, gathering beneath his cheeks and around his eyes. If anything, he looked even worse than he had in the court room.

“As you see,” Ilyas said, voice low. He planted himself in the chair Flittin had used on his visits and waved away Atesh’s bow, indicating he should sit at the end of the bed. “You requested an audience.”

That was days ago. But he couldn’t say that – much too accusatory. “I did.” He took his time sitting, taking a long breath. “Ilyas. I am so –”

“Don’t,” he snapped, hand raised. “You will not play the fellow mourner. Say whatever else you need to say, but don’t give me your condolences.”

Atesh nodded. Of course. As far as Ilyas was concerned, he’d caused Zeynab’s death and that of their unborn child. To offer comfort for it was grotesque from that point of view. The murderer wasn’t allowed to join in the mourning. He sighed and started again. “You know me and have for years now. Ever since you came to Arianople we’ve been friends.”

Ilyas’s gaze was no less intense than when he’d entered. He didn’t speak. Onward, then.

“I sought an audience because you are a man of sense and you know me. You must know I didn’t do this.”

“Must I?”

“What reason would I have to hurt Zeynab? I adored her as I do Safira. The three of you are some of the only family I have left. The four of you would have …”

Ilyas’s lips thinned and he snorted a humourless laugh. “Erdem said you’d try to wriggle out of this. He told me not to come.”

Erdem. The little weasel – so long he’d ingratiated himself with Zeynab and now he’d moved on to her widower. His own cousin, trying to stop –

His own cousin. On the royal side. Her cousin, too.

With Zeynab and Atesh out of the way, little Safira was the only person in line to the throne. But she needed a regent now – traditionally someone of royal birth.

And if anything happened to her and the Tulip Throne sat empty … Well, since her mother had so conveniently died months before she would have given birth to a second child, they’d have to look further afield to more distant branches of the family … perhaps even one that had been removed from the line of succession. Erdem was close enough to Zeynab to have known about her pregnancy and he was smart enough to know it would have increased his distance from the throne.

The Card Zeynab had taken from her killer was the Eunuch after all and that was the Card of power.

Hundred damn it, the janissaries had worked out the right motive – the throne. They’d just picked the wrong cousin.

No. He was being ridiculous. This was a mad leap of an argument. Just because Erdem might possibly benefit from the scenario if something happened to a healthy little girl didn’t mean he’d orchestrated such an elaborate plot.

And yet … Erdem had told Ilyas not to visit Atesh. Why would he do that unless he knew Atesh was innocent and feared he might persuade the Sultan of it?

And hadn’t Erdem told Atesh not to read the message warning him to leave Arianople for his own good? His scowl had been deep when Atesh had broken the fortune teller’s seal. If Atesh had followed the advice in the message, he’d have left the city before the ball.

Besides, nothing had to happen to Safira for Erdem to benefit. His name had already been touted as a possible regent, so Nald and Malos had told him in their visits. It wouldn’t be the first time a regent of Thanatolia had ended up being the true power behind the throne even after their regency was apparently over.

“So quiet,” Ilyas said, eyes flinty, “has your guilt finally caught up with you?”

Atesh shook his head. “I – I’ve just realised something.” He swallowed. If he could persuade Ilyas to even have doubt, it might be enough to buy more time and a proper investigation. “Ilyas, you saw the Card that was used that night. The Eunuch. I think it’s related to the killer’s motive.”

“Obviously,” he said. “You wanted to take the Tulip Throne for yourself. Power. The treacherous little Eunuch.” His face contorted, lips and nose in a twisted snarl.

“That’s what they said.” Atesh swallowed – in the face of Ilyas’s grief and rage, he had to remain calm, appeal to any facet of the Sultan that could see sense. “But look at the situation as it is. I’m in here, all set to hang tomorrow. I’ve gained nothing from all this – I’ve only lost. But who actually stands to benefit?”

The Sultan’s brows were drawn low in a fierce, black frown, but he didn’t move to silence Atesh.

“Who are the possible options for regent?”

Ilyas gave a harsh sigh and rolled his eyes. “Me, of course.”

“Who else?”

“Well, since you’ll be dead, that leaves only Prima or Erdem.”

“But Prima’s too old – that’s what they’re saying, isn’t it?”

Ilyas shrugged.

Atesh swallowed. Ilyas seemed to actually be listening. Perhaps there was hope. “So you and Erdem have youth over her. And she’s not of Thanatolian royal blood. But neither are you.”

“Atesh, Erdem’s family was removed from the line of succession decades ago.”

“Succession only matters if you sit upon the throne, not if you stand behind it.”

Ilyas fell silent, his scowl softening to a thoughtful frown.

“Ilyas,” Atesh said, leaning forward, “blood matters for the regency. That’s exactly why he could frame me so easily – I’d have been the obvious choice. You know me – you know I’ve never had an interest in ruling. And if I did have some great plan to gain power, do you think I’d have worn the same costume I’d been seen in all evening to stand in the middle of the ballroom and stab Zeynab?”

A hissed intake of breath.

Atesh flinched as Ilyas surged to his feet, hands fisted tight. He shouldn’t have said her name. It conjured her lively eyes, her soft laugh, and the painful lack of her. He’d misjudged.

“Enough,” the Sultan said, soft as velvet over steel. “Will you stop at nothing to save your own sorry skin?” He glared down his nose at Atesh and shook his head. “Have some respect for her memory and take your punishment like a gentleman. It’s bad enough she’s dead at your hand, don’t bring more shame on the family name.” Grief and anger simmered in the heavy breaths he took.

“Ilyas, I –”

“I said enough. You slippery serpent, wriggling your way out of Justice’s grip. She’s not blind to your guilt.” His finger trembled, pointing at Atesh. “And you blame Erdem with what evidence? With none. With nothing.”

A froth of spittle flew from his mouth. His shoulders heaved. The poor man was half-mad with grief. Atesh would get no help from him. Where else could he turn with these new suspicions?

But Ilyas hadn’t finished. “Erdem’s been nothing but a friend. He told me not to come, but I wanted to face you myself, man to man and see if you’d finally admit to me what you did. But, no, you don’t even have the decency to do that.” He shook his head. “To think I once envied you – the great Atesh Shahin Pasha. ‘Where he turns, society follows,’ they said. The man who could charm his way anywhere. And here you are shirking responsibility, trying to lie and scheme your way out like some pathetic gutterling.”

He yanked open the door, pausing in the frame. “You won’t charm your way out of this one, Atesh. Tomorrow I’ll watch you hang.”

It slammed behind him followed at once by the click of the lock.

Atesh ran to the door. “Officer,” he called, “I need to speak to Sergeant Porto at once.”

“Porto? He’s not here.”

Damn it. Of all the times he had to be off duty. “Then can I send a message? Not to him, to someone else.” If he was right about Erdem, perhaps there was evidence. No one had investigated that cousin yet, so it could easily be at his home waiting to be found. If he could get a note to Quin, she just might be able to discover it – sneaking in there surely wouldn’t be a challenge for her.

There was no reply from the janissary.

Banging on the door, Atesh called again. “Just one letter. Please.” Nothing. “Hello?”

The viewing panel slid open with a rap. “I’ve got orders,” the janissary barked. “No messages in or out.”

“But –”

The panel closed and footsteps receded.

“No!” He hammered his fists into the door again and again and again. “Please.”

He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against the woodgrain, still banging on the door, still shouting. All it got him was a hoarse voice and bruised hands.

Of course no one would listen to him. A condemned man would say anything, do anything to escape his fate. He sank to his knees.

Even if he had hit upon the truth, it didn’t matter when no one would listen. He’d have to take it to the gallows and the grave.

35

The Seer

Cutting through alleys and courtyards, Quin rode across the city as fast as she dared. Hira loped along, a speed she could keep up for hours, if necessary, though it slowed as they rode up the third hill of Arianople.

They made for the next tower in their journey – the ivy-wrapped Tower of the Card – but it was the fortress’s seven towers that still dragged at Quin’s thoughts.

Atesh. Locked up there alone, awaiting execution. What was he thinking? How was he feeling? Maybe he hoped she’d appear and offer to rescue him again. When she’d visited, it had seemed he’d already lost all hope. That will was the work of a man who had no hope to live, but harboured a different kind of hope – one that something good could come of his death. It wouldn’t come to that. She wouldn’t let it.

Quin shivered and pulled up the collar of her jacket, riding on.

Arriving at the Tower of the Card offered no comfort. As she leapt down from Hira’s back, reaching for her lock-picks, she paused. Lantern light spilt from the door standing ajar.

Had they got to the fortune teller, too?

She swallowed and ventured on, dagger in hand.

Despite her silent ascent, a woman’s voice called out when she reached the first floor, making her flinch. “Come in, Quinta Guldan. There’s no need for a dagger at my back.”

“How the” – she sighed – “damn fortune tellers.”

“Damn fortune tellers, indeed.” The voice rang with amusement.

Sheathing her blade, she entered. It was just as Derry had described and as Quin had expected: a strange sort of organised chaos, the papers, the candles, the warm, heady scent of incense mingling together with – roses? A vase of ruby coloured roses stood near the door, the heady scent almost palpable.

“I knew you were coming and I’d heard they were your favourite.” Suheyla’s dark eyes glittered as she smiled, adding steel to a face that otherwise could have seemed homely, with its soft edges and rounded mouth.

“Is that some sort of joke?” Quin scowled. How had she known her true name? Guldan was a name she hadn’t used in public since she was a child. Surely Cards couldn’t tell a woman that much, however much of a seer she was.

“Roses for the daughter of the harem’s Envied Rose,” Suheyla said, her eyes turning away somewhere distant, as though it was something she was remembering from long ago.

Quin stepped back, hand reaching for the door as a pit of nausea opened in her belly. She knows. Just being associated with that name in this city was dangerous.

For the second time that night, Quin’s instincts shrieked at her to run, but this time they said run straight out of Arianople and never stop.

“Hold, Quin,” Suheyla murmured, as one speaking to a frightened child, “your secret is safe with me. Come, sit.” She nodded at the chair opposite.

Quin was frozen, clutching at the door frame. She needed this woman’s help. But she needed to be safe. Here didn’t feel safe.

“You have nothing to fear from me. Your secret is not so easy to guess, but I knew your mother – quite well, actually – and so I know you.” She patted the table. “Sit and I will tell you where that Card came from, but we don’t have much time.”

Quin dared to breathe, but she didn’t trust her legs not to collapse if she moved. This had to be some sort of bluff. Indeed, the woman might have met Livia long ago – she’d been in the tower at the time her mother had been at the palace. But did she really know her. “You know my mother Prima?”

Suheyla laughed, it was loud and could only belong to someone who was not self-conscious. “You’re trying to test a ‘damn fortune teller’? Really?” She shrugged. “If I thought Prima was your mother, I’d have referred to her as the snake of the harem. Your mother is Livia Guldan, the Envied Rose, the woman who, in her own way, sent you to me.”

No bluff. And she said is rather than was. Quin glanced back down the staircase, which was suddenly very inviting. She could run. She should run. But where would that leave Derry and Atesh?

She’d managed to get her hands on this bloody Card and this was the only way it would be of any use. Besides, the fortune teller was right – time was ticking past. She didn’t have time to be scared, to flee, she had to squash her fear down and get on with it. Working out what this woman knew and how dangerous she was would have to wait.

Quin sighed. “Oh bloody hells.”

“All of them. Now, will you please sit? We have much to do and just as I knew you would come here this night” – her eyes went distant again – “I know that if you fail at your task tonight, it will mean my death, as well as your Pasha’s. If you don’t kill the assassin, they will come for me – they’ll soon know your friend has been here asking questions. They cannot risk the answers leading to them. Give me that Card that thrums so uncomfortably in your pocket and sit down.”

Quin did as she was told, holding out the Card as she took a seat.

Suheyla held up one hand. “Just a moment.” She unrolled a map of the city and its immediate surroundings and spread it on the table. “Just there, please.” With a tap, she indicated a spot to her left.

Quin frowned. She’d so wanted the Card, but now she wouldn’t touch it.

“The first contact is vital,” Suheyla said to the unasked question. “Sometimes images and locations come all in a jumbled set of flashes and I don’t want to miss anything. I don’t want to touch it until I’m ready.”

“You mean the janissaries didn’t bring the Card to you before?”

“Ha!” Suheyla shook her head as she secured the map in place with inkwells and candle holders and anything else that came to hand. “I offered my services, but they dismissed it as trickery and prophecy. Alas, the modern world has lost so much knowledge of the Deck that many of its once common magics are considered myths. Some aren’t even known to me, though there are tantalising hints in the oldest books.” She nodded to the shelves covering the walls.

Quin’s shoulders slumped. “So, even if you can direct me to the home of the person responsible for killing the Sultana, you don’t think the janissaries will take that as evidence?”

Suheyla looked up from her work and gave an apologetic smile. “Highly unlikely. But you’ll find Derry there, I’m sure of it. And perhaps some evidence to implicate someone other than your Pasha or at least prove his innocence.”

Perhaps she couldn’t prove Alora’s guilt, but evidence of Atesh’s innocence might be enough. And freeing Derry was worth the trouble alone.

“There,” Suheyla said with a nod now the map had stopped trying to roll up. “Grab that pencil and paper on the shelf – you’ll need to note down any locations. Though with any luck, this thing will only be closely linked to one or two places.”

Quin nodded and sat poised, ready to scribble down notes.

Suheyla took a deep breath, flashed a brief smile at Quin then closed her eyes. Her left hand hovered over the Card for a few seconds, her right over the map, and then she finally dropped her fingertips to the Card.

Quin had expected a lengthy process, but the speed of the fortune teller’s reaction made her jump.

Suheyla gasped, right hand flying to her left, westward on the map. Past the Gutter Streets and the Hidden Court and the tumbledown city walls. It crossed over the Card, reaching past her left hand and off the edge of the map.

“Third shelf above the desk,” she said, voice barely above a breath, eyes still shut, “fetch that map.”

Quin leapt up to obey. She grabbed the large, rolled map, unfurled it, and held it out flat.

Suheyla’s finger jabbed, landing with exactitude on a small rectangle near the coast.

Quin glanced from the map up to Suheyla’s face. Her eyes were definitely closed. How had she –

“You’re as bad as the janissaries.” Suheyla’s dark eyes sprung open and she raised an eyebrow at Quin. “There. That’s the only place this Card is leading me to strongly.” She leant over to see where her finger had landed.

“It’s unlabelled,” Quin said. No answer on Alora’s true identity – but then pinpointing her true family name on a map would have been rather convenient. She shrugged. “Never mind – I’ll be able to find it.”

Suheyla’s brows were raised, her gaze still on the map. “I don’t need a label. I know what place that is.” A soft tap of her finger. “Silivri. Cordus Pasha’s old palace.”

“Cordus, as in Cordus Chalik?” His name was seldom mentioned anymore, having been so long disgraced. He had just one descendant left in Arianople as far as anyone knew.

Erdem Chalik.

What was his link to Alora? Was he even aware of what she’d done? Was he involved?

“The very same. And you’ve got to admit, it makes sense as a prison for your friend – out there they wouldn’t need to worry about her cries being heard or any nosy neighbours accidentally finding her.”

“That’s –”

A small clock on Suheyla’s mantelpiece chimed. “Gods, eleven o’clock? I’m running out of time.” Atesh was running out of time. Less than twelve hours. She looked at the map and rose. “And that looks like a long ride.”

“Agreed.” Suheyla nodded. “I have nothing else to help your work tonight but come back another day. I have tales of the past – of your mother – that might help you in other ways.”

“Thank you, Suheyla,” she said, giving the woman a slow smile. What had she been so frightened of? Despite the steel in her gaze, the fortune teller had treated her warmly. “I will.”

“Gods make you swift,” Suheyla called as she hurried away.

36

On Broken Glass

Derry could see how the harem women had grown to like their gilded cages. Their old quarters were at once airy and cloistered: cutwork screens in copper and brass played geometric tricks with the light. With a lantern outside it was pretty, but with daylight it was spectacular. They looked nothing like barred windows. They kept modesty in (ironic for what many now thought of as professionals) and prying eyes out.

The high, vaulted ceilings dripped with what were now tatters, but enough colour and gold and bronze thread remained for Derry to imagine the sheer drapes that had once looped over her head, hanging low to add more layers to each room, adding a sense of mystery.

What an easy place it must have been to hide and listen at intrigues and gossip, once upon a time.

As for now, she was locked in a large room, a half empty stagnant pool in the centre, taken over by pond scum and waterlilies where once it had entertained a retinue of beauties and their illegitimate children.

No, legitimate then, she corrected herself. Because the rules had been different, the world had been different. Legitimacy and marriage and family had been different things then, for the ruling classes with their harems, at least.

What a different life Quin could have had if the harems hadn’t been abolished. What person would she have been? Derry shivered. Who would have saved me in Venetia?

She shook her head and circled the room again, keeping back from the slick green stones closest to the derelict bath.

There was no way out – hours of testing the windows and door had already told her that – but what if she’d missed something? It wasn’t like she had anything else to do. She had already dozed on a pile of blankets they’d left and, really, sleep or pacing were her only two options.

She had found one little secret in her explorations. She’d been looking behind a statue of (predictably) a naked woman, though she suspected it was one of the Hundred gods of Thanatolia – Quin had shown her many images over the years, but Derry had no interest in memorising a hundred deities. After all, her people made do with just a dozen.

Whoever the statue represented, behind it she’d found a feathery fern and behind that a loose tile with a brass grate behind it. Beyond that a corridor led off into more cobwebs and tattered silk, doors on either side.

Clearly the women of the harem, despite being bright birds in glittering cages, had been canny creatures, setting up their own opportunities for eavesdropping.

Derry smiled. Yes, that was the Livia she had known before her illness took full hold, and it was the woman her daughter had become.

Pushing the fern fronds to one side, Derry slid the tile away and bent down to peer along the corridor again. The lamps there still burned. She got the impression her captors had taken over the harem quarters of the grand house and were too paranoid to hold it in the dark, so they maintained the lights to mark the territory that was theirs, to – Derry scoffed – ward off the dangers of the night.

The place was more sad than frightening, but for some people perhaps there wasn’t much difference between the two.

She squinted – was that light getting brighter? Shifting to a cross-legged position, Derry pressed her face to the grate. Far down the corridor, beyond half a dozen fraying fabrics, a lamp approached.

Quin? She sighed. No, that was a foolish hope. How would Quin even know to come here?

Derry wasn’t clear on the exact location, but she had the impression they were some distance from the city. Even if she found the place, Quin wouldn’t come here announcing her presence with a lantern in hand. It must be one of them.

Her captors. They were ... well ... as broken as this place.

Alora, full of indignity at some wrong from the past, apparently on behalf of her brother. There was something in her tone that made Derry doubt her resentment was entirely for how her brother had been forced to grovel and crawl just to be their playmate. She’d overheard a few of their conversations from this spot but hadn’t spoken to Alora since Edan’s house.

Edan’s house. Tacita couldn’t have been responsible for Alora’s appearance, could she? It was possible, but the only link was that she’d told Derry of the location. Or, rather, her servant had. Maybe the servant had betrayed Tacita. She could believe that more than Tacita being directly involved and neither Alora nor her brother had mentioned Tacita helping them. More likely, Alora had people watching the house or Edan’s little brother Squirt had gone to fetch her. He had slipped away with instructions to fetch their mistress. That made much more sense.

What had she promised Edan for alerting her? Certainly not death. Derry swallowed and backed away from that thought, the memory of the crack of bone enough to tremble her knees.

Then there was Alora’s brother Erdem. At balls and parties, he’d never been the most charming individual, but her eavesdropping had revealed a petty creature possessed by an obsession with hurting those who’d wronged him, specifically the Sultana and Atesh. “Well, they’re not laughing at me anymore,” he’d muttered when she’d managed to draw him into conversation as he brought her food.

She already knew a little about the Chalik family and had put this grate to good use, making sense of Alora and Erdem’s discussions and conversations amongst the guards when the siblings weren’t around.

Although he’d managed to work his way back into favour with the Sultana, he still harboured resentment that his family had been disgraced and removed from the line of succession when he was a child. He’d whined to Alora on more than one occasion how demeaning it was that he’d been forced to rely on the kindness of the Sultana for handouts and a house, all the while watching Atesh flaunt his title, his homes, and his own wealth – things Mama said he had just as much right to. He’d tossed his head and told Alora, “I ought to be a Pasha and instead I’ve spent my life bowing and scraping to that stupid man who wastes it all on painting pictures.”

Worse still for Erdem, the Sultana had denied his request some years ago to bring his sister to court. It wasn’t clear from their conversations why, but there seemed to be something about Alora that made her presence at court unsuitable or unseemly, somehow.

Of course, Yildrim’s hushed words at the baths.

This place was why. The harem quarters. Erdem’s mother had been the first harem wife, so after the ban he was considered a legitimate child of the family, albeit a disgraced family. If Alora was the half-sister from a later harem wife, as Yildrim had mentioned, she’d have been considered nothing more than a harem whore after the ban, just like Livia. When the laws were redrafted, they’d have branded Alora and any other children from the later wives illegitimate. That would have been more than enough to render her unsuitable to bring to court.

Had she grown up in poverty as Quin had? That had to be her motivation – denied the life she should have had. Perhaps her brother had promised her riches once he became regent, as he was convinced he would.

What a pair.

Approaching voices interrupted Derry’s reflections and she ducked to peer through the grate. Sure enough, the pool of lamplight had grown and she could make out a pair of figures walking along the corridor.

“... better off here,” Alora was saying, part hidden by the drapes and cut screens of the corridor.

“But I want to see him hang,” her brother replied. Derry didn’t need to see his face to know his lips jutted in a pout – it was a frequent expression for Erdem. “And I don’t trust that woman not to try something.”

She paused before replying. “There you have a point. I’m surprised she’s given up so easily.”

“Easily? We hung her off a building, captured her little friend, and threatened to reveal her.”

“You haven’t seen her, brother of mine.” Alora pushed back the final curtain, face shadowed by the flickering lamplight. “Not properly. When she’s at the balls, she plays the part, just soft enough, just sharp enough, so witty, so empty-headed, all at once. Just what those men want.” She shook her head. “But in breeches – ha – she’d scare the lot of them!”

“I’d not be scared,” he told her, petulance in his voice as he stepped into sight, nose high.

She turned to him, her back to Derry. “You should be. She is scared for now, but” – she paused to burn away a cobweb, watching the flecks of embers float and disappear – “she reminds me of an injured animal, gone to lick her wounds, only to come back and fight all the harder for the pain. It’s best if I stay here, just in case she comes.”

“And I’ll keep this with me – the spoils of victory.” Smirking, he lifted an object that gleamed red in the lamplight. A cherry-wood box that fit neatly in his hand.

“You can’t take that back to the city with you,” Alora said, hand resting on her hip.

Derry smothered a gasp as the movement pushed back Alora’s jacket, revealing a dagger in a familiar curved shape. The fake Shahin Dagger, except all black. They must have painted it to disguise the tell-tale green of the paste emeralds. Keeping the blade close was a clever way of making sure no one discovered it. If they discarded the forged blade there was always a risk of someone stumbling across it. How many murder weapons, dead bodies, and other secrets had been tossed into the waters of Arianople, only to be found by mudlarks?

“We’re so close,” Alora said, “we can’t risk anything.”

“But –”

“No.” Like a cobra a snake charmer had failed to pacify, her left hand darted out, snatching the box. There was a momentary scuffle, as he tried to take it from her, but even with the lamp in one hand and the box in the other, she easily pushed him away. “No.” Her voice was ice and stone, silencing him. “If you are found with his Deck,” she said slowly, as if explaining something to a small child, “they will see your Card doesn’t belong with his, that he already has the Eunuch. No one would have two of the same Card. You were foolish enough to let her take it from you, so think of this as your punishment. Enough.”

For a moment, his jaw clenched in mutiny, but at last his head dropped. “Very well.”

“Good.” Alora’s voice was part triumph, part relief. “Now” – she lowered the lamp on a small side table and slipped her arm around her brother’s shoulders – “that’s not to say you can’t have anything.”

He looked up at her in hope – Alora was the taller of the two, making him seem even more child-like.

Derry narrowed her eyes – he looked to his sister for approval, leadership, even.

“If you give me the designs, then in the morning, you can watch him hang.”

“But what if –”

“I’ll put it somewhere safe. And who would find it here, other than us?”

A smile lit his face and he pulled familiar folded papers from his inside pocket. “True, my sister.” He took her hand in his as she reached for the papers and pressed it to his face. “You’re the only one who is true to me. Not like them. I can still hear them laughing like they did when we were children. Laughing at me. At me, Alora!”

Alora pulled away, taking the designs, then shook his shoulder. “It’s your time, now.”

“Yes, it is. Now, I get to laugh at them,” he said, eyes bright, smile beatific. “A long drop and a sharp stop.”

“A sharp stop, indeed. You’d best head back to the city – you want to be well-rested so you can enjoy it properly.”

Alora waved Erdem off down the corridor and disappeared into a room to the right.

Derry was about to lean back from the grate when Alora emerged a few moments later without the box or designs.

The second door along the corridor. Derry nodded to herself as Alora receded into the gloom of the harem quarters.

If she could escape from this room and get Atesh’s Deck and the designs, she’d have the evidence they needed.

She went to the door and gave it an experimental shove. Just as solid as last time she’d tried. “Fine,” she sighed. She’d just have to improvise a lock pick.

An old hairpin trapped between the tiles. The broken tooth of a comb. The lost pin of a brooch. There had to be something in here she could use.

Derry set to hunting.

37

Smoke Without a Fire

Fingers of mist crawled through the night air, ghostly pale in the mingled light of moon and lamp. Soon the country palace stood lonely in a sea of the damp-smelling stuff, its grey stone walls materialising above the shifting mist.

Waiting for the smokeballs to take full effect gave Quin time to position Hira in a thicket that might once have been a rose garden and observe the palace.

It was a crumbling, sprawling place of outdated fashion. Once it had been home to the Chalik branch of the royal family. Suheyla had said Cordus was the last to live there, but he was long-dead, executed under Prima’s orders, and his palace looked half a ghost itself with its pale walls. Ivy shrouded its pillars and half blocked windows as well as the main entrance. It would have appeared abandoned, but for the lamplight flickering at the windows of a smaller separate building – that must be the former harem quarters. It linked to one end of the main house with a colonnade.

The light had made Quin catch her breath – this place was meant to have been abandoned twenty years ago when its family disgraced themselves. Light in the windows suggested Suheyla had been right and Derry’s captors were holed up here.

Did that mean Alora was here? Quin’s gaze fastened on the building as though she might catch a glimpse of her, but there was no sign. Hundred, let her be here.

She had words for Alora, words her rapier could spell out well enough. She just needed to catch her one-on-one.

Closer inspection did reveal a pair of burly men huddled near the door to the harem quarters. One of them might have been the one who’d dangled her over the edge of that tower, but it was impossible to say from here. One of them glanced at the smoke but must have been satisfied that it was just mist, because he continued his low conversation with the other man.

That was the only door she could see, so she’d need a different entrance. Unless she could lure the men away somehow. That would be a last resort as it risked revealing her presence and she needed stealth to sneak in and find Derry somewhere inside. Better to find another entrance.

Some of the windows were boarded – the glass must have broken in the many years of abandonment – others glowed with lamplight but there was one at the end of the house where the light shone brighter. Quin approached slowly. Yes, that window was open.

The ground between her and the building was exposed, though – she’d need the smoke’s cover to ensure the men by the door didn’t spot her.

She circled wide around the grounds, putting the open window between herself and the guarded door. An overgrown hedge formed a jagged line towards the house from here, broken by what must once have been a fountain. Its low stone wall traced a narrow oblong sticking out some ten feet or so from the hedge, with a wide urn at the centre.

The hedge would give her direction even in the smoke, but she’d have to be careful to not stumble into the erstwhile fountain.

She hunkered down at the hedgerow's base and waited.

Intermittent low conversation from the men drifted through the gloom. Quin chewed the inside of her lip. A thief’s life involved a lot of waiting – for the right opportunity, for the best moment, for the cover of darkness, for the heavy hand of the law to land on their shoulder. But all that was poor preparation for a night like this.

She glanced at the sky. They weren’t far from dawn now. The sky in the east looked the faintest touch paler than when she’d arrived. Time was running out. If Porto could delay the hanging – Gods, let him be good to his word. Not that arriving before the execution mattered – she didn’t even have any evidence yet to stop it. If Suheyla was mistaken about finding it here, this whole exercise would be futile.

Quin rubbed her face. What had got into her? She sighed at the obvious answer: Atesh and desperation to save him. It had made her put too much faith in too many people she didn’t know.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing – she wouldn’t have even got this far without trusting Porto and Suheyla.

By now the smoke was so thick she couldn’t see the house. It was time.

Quin edged towards the house, letting the hedge guide her. The artificial mist gave good cover, but it wouldn’t hide anything within five feet. A little beyond that, keen eyes might spot movement.

Ariston’s ingenuity was impressive: How had he made it even smell like fog? Damp-but-fresh all at once.

Now she crept through the midst of it, she was as blinded as the guards, but she had a mental picture of the layout ahead. The hedge would get her within 20 feet of the building then she’d need to walk out into the mist. If she stayed straight, she’d see the light from the open window and that would guide her in.

She’d only spotted the two men huddled near the door, but there could be someone hidden in the mist just beyond arm’s reach for all she knew. Every so often she paused and strained her ears to pick up any other sound, a misplaced footstep, the scrape of shoe on the stone paths that still endured here. Nothing.

She ventured on. A hazy shape coalesced in the low-hanging mist – that must be the disused fountain. That meant she had 40 feet to go. She barely drew breath as she padded ahead, nerves on fire.

Slowing, Quin ducked, keeping herself within the smokescreen and well below the eyeline of the men who were all much taller than her. She reached out, groping for the low stone edge that marked the edge of the fountain.

There. Rough and cold under her fingers. She guided herself closer and peered down. Stagnant water sat in the base of the narrow pool, green and dark with muck and slime. Once, it must have been a pretty spot to spend a warm afternoon or a balmy evening, the fragrant yew hedges standing either side, with water babbling from the urn at the centre.

Had lovers met beside it in cover of darkness to whisper and flirt? Had it once been lit by lanterns, just like the sabrecat fountain she’d sat by with Atesh?

They’d get to do that again one day. They had to.

Frowning, she crept around the basin, keeping one hand on it to steady herself with something solid. 15 more feet and she’d reach the end of the hedge then she’d be in the open.

She could just run that last stretch. A tempting thought, but she silenced it, biting her lip. Quietly in and out, no one the wiser, that was her best bet.

It took a lifetime edging around the fountain’s basin, but at last she reached the other side of and crept onward.

Stop. Was that a rustle of clothes or leaves or maybe the faint sound of water? Perhaps she should try a Card to help her hear, but it was only worth the time if she was sure there was something to listen to and not just fears playing with her senses. Plus the concentration required could leave her vulnerable.

The harem quarters were barely more than 20 feet away now.

Forcing herself still, Quin held her breath and closed her eyes in order to focus on listening. She turned slowly to catch sound coming from any direction. Nothing. Must have been an animal in the bushes or a breeze.

Quin turned back to the house and was greeted with a shriek. Her own. The brush of heavy arms wrapped around her for a moment, but her instinct to drop to the floor kept her just out of the tightening grip.

No. She fell back, scrabbling away from the hazy shape in the mist.

“You little,” the man muttered, lurching forwards. “Here, gents, we’ve got a live one!” It was Mus, the burly man from the tower. With his size and strength, if he got hold of her …

She couldn’t keep backing away: she’d end up against the fountain. Just how far was it? Maybe ten or fifteen feet?

“Glaida help me,” she whispered to the Lady of the Blade, as she rolled to one side and up to her feet, rapier in hand. She didn’t even remember having drawn it, but thanked Ariston for the hours of training that had made it automatic.

Answering cries drifted in on the mist. Footsteps approached.

So much for stealth.

Mus stood between Quin and the entrance to the villa.

“Get over here,” he called, a grin breaking across his face, all shades of grey in the hazy light. “There’s sport to be had.” He drew a pair of broad knives from his belt and approached, steps measured, eyes fixed on her.

Her jaw ached, it was clenched so tight. She kept her sword low, not quite in readiness. Two steps back, as though unsure.

His grin grew wider, teeth shocking white in the darkness.

Closer. Closer.

A crash off to the right, impossible to say how far, but hopefully not too close. “Damn it!” A strained voice came from the same direction. “Can’t bloody see in all this.”

“It’s all right, I’ll get her myself,” Mus answered, rolling his muscular shoulders, eyes still on Quin.

Time. She turned and ran away from the house.

Thudding footsteps told her he followed.

Not too quick. She forced herself to hold back, just staying at the edge of his sight. He had to follow. At the last moment, she put on a burst of speed, legs pumping, and stepped up onto the stone edge of the fountain and leapt.

For a heart-pounding moment, she hung in the air as if suspended, unable to see her landing point. She knew the width of the pool. Gods, say she’d judged it right.

Eyes wide, she stared into the grey mist, and at last the other side of the fountain came into view.

She sank into the landing, trying to absorb the impact, but it still jolted her joints.

A roar and a thud.

Gasping, Quin turned and time slowed to a crawl. Mus was falling towards her, knives dropping to the floor, hands reaching out, eyes wide as he loomed out of the mist. His shins had caught on the stone surround of the pool. One foot lifted awkwardly, trying to stop his fall, but it only pushed him towards the urn at the pool’s centre.

“Shi –”

A sickening crunch.

Then a splash.

Then only the sound of her own panting.

Heart loud in her ears, Quin stepped down from where she’d landed on the wall and turned. Mus was too quiet.

And too still.

He lay in the pool, face-down, one leg propped up on the stone edge. His head sat at an awkward angle. Dark liquid seeped into the stagnant water already there.

Black gore glistened on one edge of the urn. Quin swallowed against the bile threatening at the back of her throat.

So intent on his quarry, Mus had tripped over the fountain, as Quin had planned, but she hadn’t planned on him hitting his head on the urn. Not hitting, smashing.

No air bubbled from his face, though it was submerged in the stinking water.

He was dead. How many was that now? Two dead at her hand.

“Mus?” came that strained voice again from the left, this time much closer.

She swallowed and spared a glance in that direction – not in sight yet – then hurried around the fountain and ran for the house.

“I’m coming, Derry.”

They knew she was there now, so it didn’t matter that her boots slapped on the flagstones. A golden glow ahead – the window. She adjusted her path and aimed straight for it.

Swearing behind – they must have found Mus. Blood pooling into the stagnant water. What would his face have looked like if she’d turned his body?

No. No. No. Quin knuckled her eyes to rub away the image.

The window was still open and the room beyond empty – thank the Hundred. She sheathed her rapier. One hand on the frame, she leapt over. Only one door in here. She shouldered it open and paused to take in the corridor running to the right, ending in a door to her left and filled with cobwebs and threadbare hangings that still glinted in the lamplight.

There might be more men inside, though she hadn’t yet seen any, but there were many doors on this corridor alone. She couldn’t try them all. She bit her lip, trying to decide whether to risk calling for Derry, when the sounds of pursuit outside reached her.

Shutting the door, Quin started down the hall.

A dusty kitchen on one side, door ajar; further up, a room with moth-eaten cushions scattered across the floor, apparently for lounging.

Bugger it – they already knew she was here, what did it matter? “Derry?”

No answer. But if she was injured, she wouldn’t be able to reply.

She checked other rooms – just more tattered furnishings. No Derry. No Alora. No thugs.

Turning a corner, she peered ahead into the dimly lit passage, at a huge painting at the far end – all bare flesh and sinuous lines, no modestly placed hands or artfully arranged locks of hair. This woman had neither shame nor need of any.

Pleasure. A painting of that goddess confirmed this was the old harem quarters; nowhere else in a grand villa was appropriate for such an explicit image.

Quin nodded to the fanciful portrait of the goddess that gazed down upon her approach. The promise of Pleasure was a tool Quin had used often in her work – not giving it but suggesting it had separated many a man from his fortune. This goddess had smiled upon her many a time.

She opened her mouth to call Derry’s name again, but a voice interrupted, “Quin?” It seemed to come from the walls, but it was unmistakably her friend.

“What? Where are –”

“Here, in front of you – there’s a grate in the wall.”

Sure enough, drawing closer revealed a small vent below the painting of Pleasure. She should have known – Pleasure could be nearly as tricky as The Blind Lady or Lady Deception. “Are you well? They haven’t hurt you, have they?”

“No, but hurry up, Alora’s around here somewhere. Have you seen her? Go left for my door.”

Quin scowled at Alora’s name. They were running out of time, but if they encountered her, she’d be ready. Her fingertips found her rapier’s hilt as she followed Derry’s directions, ducking under more draped silks and stepping around a cutwork screen. In the distance, the bang of a door flinging open – the guards must have found their way through the smoke.

She drew a dagger in her left hand, finding comfort in the leather-wrapped grip and the balanced weight of steel.

No sign of movement ahead or behind. Not yet.

They knew she was somewhere in the building, but they didn’t know exactly where. Creeping onward, Quin found a set of double doors to her right. Tap, tap, tap-tap – the quiet sound of her fingernail on the door. A moment later it repeated quietly from the other side. Good, Derry must have heard the guards, too.

Quin pulled a soft leather roll from her jacket pocket – unfurling it revealed an array of small tools, most for picking locks. A glance either direction – still no movement – satisfied her enough to tuck the dagger into her boot, close at hand. Just in case.

It was a simple enough lock – not really designed to keep out thieves or anyone who knew what they were doing, just meant to give the message the room was occupied and to piss off – but it had rusted and the wood around it was swollen with damp. A quick squirt of oil helped ease the mechanism into a satisfying click.

“Push,” she whispered at the keyhole. With Derry shoving and her pulling, they had the doors open in a few seconds.

Derry, red hair like a beacon, appeared and Quin flung her arms around her.

A faint groan from Derry. “Not so tight.” She squeezed back for a second with a soft laugh, and then tried to pull away. “Our work isn’t done.”

“We need to get out of here,” Quin said, nodding and releasing Derry.

“Not yet.” She went back the way Quin had come, nodding for her to follow.

Quin sighed and shoved the doors to Derry’s former prison shut. At least it wouldn’t be obvious at first glance that she was free.

“Derry,” Quin hissed, zig-zagging around the corners to catch up. She reached for Derry’s hand. “They know I’m here. We need to –”

“Trust me.” Derry snatched her hand away. She strode to one of the doors Quin had passed on the corridor with Pleasure’s painting. Her blue eyes were firm as she opened it and nodded for Quin to follow.

“She disappeared in here with it,” Derry said, peering around the room. The furniture in here was high quality and new, the wood gleaming a warm reddish brown: a desk and chair, several bookshelves, and a large blanket box.

“With what?”

“Oh bloody hell.” Derry crossed the room to another door. “Don’t say she took it out again.” The delicate lines of her face screwed up in a grimace. The door gave a soft creak as she opened it. “Just storage.” She huffed a short sigh. “Not too bad.”

“Derry,” Quin hissed.

“Sorry – yes!” Derry glanced back at Quin. “Atesh’s Deck and the designs for the forgery are somewhere in here. Or there.” She nodded at the small antechamber.

Evidence. “You little genius, Derry.” She hugged Derry again, tight and brief. “Get looking. You check in there, I’ll look in here.” She heaved open the blanket box. A tailored jacket in deepest black. She rifled through – blankets beneath. “If we can find that Deck,” she said as she worked, shaking the clothing and blankets to see if anything would fall out, “they’ll see Atesh still has the Eunuch Card and this one” – she patted her inside pocket – “can’t possibly be his. Derry – it’s proof undeniable he didn’t do it.”

“Exactly,” Derry called from the other room between rustling and shuffling noises, “I told you to trust me.”

Nothing in there. She shoved the fabrics back inside. “Huh.” That was the jacket Alora had been wearing at Dethero’s shop when she’d been speaking to Edan. She sighed. Long before the Sultana had been killed or Dethero –

“Hold on,” she muttered, scrunching up the jacket. “Hold on.” The next time she’d seen Alora at Dev’s, she’d been able to search for the designs using her Cards. To find them, there must have been a connection, either because they’d been in her possession for a while or because she’d drawn them herself. The designs had been in Quin’s home for a while. Perhaps she had a connection to them now.

There was no sound of the guards outside. Yet.

It was worth a try – time was running out and if it worked, this would speed up their search.

She fingered through her Cards, The Lady of Lost Things would help for this one. Her quiet magic thrummed there, just below the jolting of more showy Cards. Quin drew the Card and closed her eyes.

The designs. She’d examined them enough to conjure the smooth feel of the paper under her fingertips and the exact colour: a creamy beige. The black of the ink in swirling hand writing. The lines of the dagger and its graceful curve. She drew the image in her mind. “Where is it?”

The Card just hummed against her skin. There was no pull in any direction.

Quin opened her eyes and frowned at the Card, forcing every fibre of focus to the painted copper akche that dominated it. The coin balanced on the edge of a floorboard, ready to fall in the gap. In one corner she’d painted a small brass key. In the opposite, a lone yellow glove. “Please?”

Nothing.

The short time she’d had the designs hadn’t created a strong enough link. “Damn it.” The slow way, then. She slipped the Card back in her pocket and rifled through the nearest bookshelf.

Gods, this was too slow. She couldn’t even toss the books and boxes on the floor – the clattering would draw too much attention.

It was no use. They needed to work more quickly and using her Cards was the only way to speed the search. They hadn’t worked on the designs, so that left – damn it, she’d never so much as touched Atesh’s Deck, it was forbidden, but …

The Lady of Lost Things was back in her hand before she could even finish the thought.

She had to try.

Closing her eyes, Quin took a slow breath.

She didn’t have a connection to his Cards, but she had a connection to him. One that went beyond magic. One that had brought her here on this desperate mission. One that right this second tugged her back to the city, back to him.

It flooded her. Engulfing. Threatening suffocation. Dragging her underneath.

It crushed her, all warm and tight and ferocious and frightening.

It pulled her in two directions. One, thick as a ship’s anchor chain, trailing back to the city.

When she followed it there, for a flickering instant she saw Atesh in the dim light of his cell. He sat in bed, head tilted back as he watched the sky beyond the barred window creeping towards daylight.

Just as fast, she was back in Alora’s office, tiptoeing after the other pull. This one was light and fragile and fine as a spider’s thread.

Eyes still shut, Quin put out her hand and pulled the drawer open. Fingers feeling their way towards the back, she came upon solid wood.

She pressed harder. A click. Not solid. A simple hidden compartment. The panel at the back of the drawer came loose and fell forward.

Swallowing, Quin opened her eyes. Her heart pounded and her head hurt, but she didn’t bloody care.

In her hand buzzed the vibration of someone else’s magic. A mahogany Deck box and a set of familiar folded papers.

“Derry, I’ve –”

Black then white then black again for a moment as the world slammed to one side.

Blinding pain receded, leaving Quin’s vision swimming coalescing into a painted wall of dolphins and seahorses. Not a wall, a ceiling. How did she get down here?

“Move!” shouted Derry from the anteroom.

Quin rolled to one side, just as a clash of metal on stone rang out, sparks flying where her head had just been.

Alora swore, arm coiling back to strike again. Behind her mask, her dark eyes burned into Quin. They narrowed.

A brightly-painted jar appeared on the edge of Quin’s vision. It smashed into Alora’s head, driving her to her knees.

Derry stared at Alora’s collapsed form for a moment then shook her head. “Come on,” she said, pulling Quin to her feet.

Quin clutched her forehead. The drawer was closed again – Alora must have charged at her, slamming her into the desk. Shaking her head in an attempt to clear the dizziness, Quin grabbed the designs and Atesh’s Deck. A thrill of power throbbed up her arm. That with the pain in her head threatened to knock her over and she caught herself on the desk.

“Quick!” Derry was in the doorway, glancing up and down the passage.

Already Alora was groaning and clutching her head, eyes fluttering.

Quin took a long breath. The overwhelming touch of magic linking her to Atesh was gone, the dizziness, too, but the heady thrum of his Cards remained. She tucked the designs and his Deck box in her inside pocket and followed Derry who was already starting back towards the room she’d been imprisoned in. “Is there a way out this way?”

“Ever heard of windows?” Derry threw back over her shoulder.

“I don’t much fancy smashing my way out of one in a hurry, though.”

The tickle of hanging silk threatened to tangle around Quin’s face and she batted it away as they rounded a corner. No sign of an external door, but the view she’d had of the villa suggested the colonnade should be ahead and to the right, they just needed time to find the door leading out to it.

A roar of frustration filled the corridor behind them. Alora was awake.

Men’s voices rose and a door slammed somewhere to the left.

Derry broke into a run and Quin followed suit. If they could buy time …

Dried out old fabric. That could be perfect. The next set of drapes she came to, Quin dragged down, sending disgruntled pigeons flapping and dusty silk tatters fluttering to the floor.

Two steps more and a moment’s searing pain, as Quin picked up a squat oil lamp. She wished she was wearing her gloves, but it soon eased as she threw the lamp down behind her, hard as she could. A satisfying smash told her it had broken, quickly followed by a whoosh, as flames took hold of fabric and oil.

“Right, maybe?” she called to Derry, wrinkling her nose at the smell of burning hair rising from the silk.

As she ran, Quin smiled. That would slow them down.

Derry disappeared to the right, followed by a crash of old wood, as she shouldered the rotting door open and then they were out in the cool air, the dark sky framed by columns.

It wasn’t as dark as it had been, though it wasn’t yet dawn. Quin paused and caught her breath, checking her pocket watch: just after half past four. Not long left.

As soon as she could, she whistled for Hira three times – short, short, long – each as loud as possible between panting.

Derry paused ahead, hands on knees, puffing. Her blue eyes glinted in the moonlight as they checked for pursuit. No sign of guards – hopefully they had all gone into the harem quarters after her.

Or perhaps not – a rustle in the smoke, sent Quin’s hand to her sword, but before she could draw it, the mist exploded in grey fur.

“Hira!”

The sabrecat landed precisely between the women and chuffed a greeting. Derry laughed in surprise and patted her shoulder. “Am I glad to see you?”

Quin flung herself onto the broad back, pulling Derry up behind her.

“Now what?” Derry asked.

“Now we’ve got a hanging to gate-crash,” she said, wheeling Hira around on the spot with her knees. “I suggest you hold on.” The sabrecat surged forward, barely needing the signal, and the world became a blur of smoke, greenery, and the warmth of Derry at her back.

“With evidence.” Derry squeezed her arm.

At last – hard evidence.

“How’d you know they had the Deck?” The unfamiliar magic still buzzed in her pocket. He had held this box every day since his thirteenth birthday. The Deck was infused with him, would work only for him. She shivered – no wonder it felt so wrong. Too intimate.

And yet, it had called to her.

Derry’s head bobbed against Quin’s shoulder in what must have been a nod. “They stole it,” Derry said in her ear. “Must have been as they were fleeing at the ball – the one you were chasing. Erdem wanted to take it to the hanging, but she wouldn’t let him – said it was too much of a risk to let it get close to them.”

“Because if Atesh’s Eunuch Card is already in his Deck, he can’t be guilty.” Quin reached back to ruffle Derry’s hair. “So they did take it. Wait – Erdem? So, he is involved?”

“Very.”

“I don’t understand, I thought he was their friend. He grew up with Atesh and the Sultana.” He had been there the day of the elephant attack and it seemed darting the poor creature had all been to stop Atesh getting the message that told him to leave. Had Erdem been the one to administer the poison that sent it so mad?

But why would he want to kill his friend? He had only risen in society thanks to the Sultana’s friendship.

Derry relayed what she had gathered about Erdem’ motives – his discontented belief that he had been robbed of his birth right. The palace fading into the mist would have been his. He would have been a Pasha, like Atesh. It made a horrible kind of sense from the viewpoint of an obsessive malcontent.

“And his sister?”

“She helped him plot it all.”

“Gods.” Maybe it was them she’d heard plotting at the gallows party. The guest list for the masquerade. It was the Sultana and Atesh they wanted rid of. “Sounds like she’d do anything for him.”

“Including regicide.” Derry leant against Quin, her warmth a comfort in the cool night.

Once they were clear of the old palace grounds, Hira’s pace slackened and Quin let her slow to a walk. It had taken four hours of her loping pace to get here and the sabrecat was understandably tired. They could afford to walk a while and still arrive before ten o’clock.

They rode that way for almost an hour with the sea to their right before Derry shifted in her seat. “You know I said she’d do anything for him?”

Quin angled her head, turning her ear to Derry, but keeping her eyes on the road so she could help Hira follow the clearest path.

“That includes chasing us across the country.”

“Buggeration.” Quin glanced back – movement in the dim moonlight. It was hard to make out exactly what in the gloom and mist, but, like Derry, she would put her money on it being a pursuit.

“Will we make it?”

“We have no choice.” Quin set her jaw, slackened Hira’s reins, and leant forward, flattening herself against the sabrecat, who answered by breaking into a ground-swallowing lope.

38

Chase & Consequence

Their conversation had faded into a tense silence as, with agonising slowness, the three pursuers gained on them for over four hours.

Quin and Derry had cut across copses and fields, using blind bends to get out of sight. Although they’d lose Alora and her men for a while, even buying time for a couple of breaks to allow Hira to drink from the streams running down to the sea, eventually the trio in pursuit would appear again in the moon light, a little closer each time.

Not that escape was really an option – now Quin and Derry had their evidence, their destination was obvious. Arianople.

Hira was tiring, cutting out bends in the road where she could, and Quin gave her free rein to do so. The sabrecat was giving her all, carrying two passengers and travelling such a distance without proper breaks. Pressing her face into the mass of surging muscle and fur that was Hira’s neck, Quin whispered a thank you.

“Just a little further,” Derry muttered behind her, her arms around Quin’s waist squeezing with reassurance.

Sure enough, the walls of Arianople were, at last, approaching, towers peeking over. Its built-up hills stood grey and brown in the distance.

“I think we’ll have a fight on our hands.” Quin glanced over her shoulder. They’d probably make the city walls before Alora and her men, but the way they were inching up upon them, the trio would catch up before Kediler Square. “If we do, take my sabre,” she said, taking Derry’s hand and pressing it to the curved blade hanging on the saddle, “and stay on Hira. You can cut them down well from there and she’ll keep you safe.”

Derry opened her mouth as if to argue but thought better of it and nodded instead.

They rode on in silence, each lost in thoughts of what might lie ahead. Quin checked her pocket watch. Half past nine. The hanging was set for ten. Kediler Square was at least 20 minutes across the city. Cutting it fine.

And if Alora did catch up with them ...

She checked over her shoulder. The eyeholes of Alora’s mask were visible now. When, Alora caught up with them, not if.

“They’re still gaining,” Derry said, also looking back.

Quin sighed. “They’ll get us before the square. Rather than let them leap on us, we’re going to stop and face them. It’ll surprise them and means we get to choose the battleground.”

Gripping with her legs, Quin let go of the reins to fish the soft grey gloves from her pocket. She pulled each one on and flexed her fingers. Derry’s deft hands found the ribbons of Quin’s mask amongst her windswept hair and retied them.

At once, the walls of the city were upon them, but Hira loped past the couple of token janissary guards, their surprised cries trailing in her wake. The streets ahead stood empty, quiet. Everyone was at the square.

A second set of shouts from the janissaries followed soon enough.

Looking back, Quin could now see the whiskers of Alora’s tabby mount, its rider grinning fiercely.

“Ready?”

“Always!” Derry said in her ear.

Regathering the reins, Quin searched ahead for the sign of The Butcher’s Boy. There, twenty feet away, the placard with a lad brandishing an improbably large ham. Beyond that was an alley she knew well, wide enough for a sabrecat, but narrow enough that, gods willing, it would help cancel Alora’s advantage of numbers.

Ten feet. She steered Hira right. Behind, the galloping pad of more sabrecats sounded clearly.

Five feet. “Hold on,” she told Derry. Right leg pressing, left coming forward, Hira read the signs at once.

In a great surge, Hira leapt, sprung against the alley wall, spun around, and landed facing the entrance, snarling. The pursuing cats overshot the alleyway, with angry shouts from their riders.

“Perfect,” she told Hira. Thick fur tickled her nose as she kissed the sabrecat between the shoulder blades before leaping to the floor, rapier at the ready.

Heart hammering, she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Hira and Derry. One wall of the alley was within rapier reach and Derry could have brushed her fingertips against the other, if she stretched.

It felt like they waited an age, though the sun didn’t move a hair’s breadth across the narrow strip of sky above, then three sabrecats came slinking into sight.

Quin’s whole body vibrated as Hira roared, the narrow alley reverberating with the sound. Hackles raised, teeth bared, she stared down the other cats.

The two carrying thugs paused in their approach, despite their riders’ urging. They were smaller than Hira. A low, uncertain sound rose from the sabrecats’ throats and, great paws placed carefully, they backed away, yellow eyes never leaving Hira. Swearing, the men dismounted. Their sabrecats fled, tails low, and the thugs kicked dust at them, cursing their cowardice.

Quin released the breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding and turned her attention to Alora. Her cat inched towards them with infinite care, gaze intent. The rider only had eyes for Quin.

Hissing, Hira crouched.

Then the alley exploded in movement.

Alora slid from her cat’s back an instant before Hira swiped from mid-air. Derry slashed, but failed to make contact.

Quin darted in to meet Alora while she was still off-balance, but the woman was too quick, her blade flashing into place to catch Quin’s before sweeping into a counter. Each movement rekindled a dull echo of pain in the bandaged wound at her side, but it was a pain she could drown under the heart-thumping adrenaline pumping through her limbs.

Quin’s teeth flashed in a grin; she recognised Alora’s manoeuvre and thankfully had practised deflecting it against a left-handed foe. With a ring of steel, she did just that and side-stepped, leaving the wall at her back.

“Nicely done,” Alora said, shifting weight from foot to foot.

“Not too bad yourself,” Quin said with a sickly-sweet smile, “for ‘the daughter of a harem whore’.”

Gods it was good to see Alora’s nostrils flare, lips turning pale as they thinned at the words she’d used against Quin reflected back at her.

“So,” Quin went on, fierce from Alora’s reaction, “this is your revenge against the royal family for casting you out?” From what Derry had said and the history of the Chalik family, that was Alora’s personal motivation.

It slithered at the pit of Quin’s belly, scratching with a grain of truth. At the tower, hadn’t Alora suggested a sort of kinship between them?

Dust, fur, and claws flew to the right. Snarls filled the air as the sabrecats battled, Hira’s saddle empty. Where was Derry?

Eyes snapping back to Alora, she darted to one side just in time. A tuneless clang as the attack hit stone wall, rather than the soft belly-flesh it had been aimed at.

That was close.

In with a lunge, but Alora was fast, letting momentum carry her against the wall, staying ahead of Quin’s blade, before twisting away. The pair backed off, rapiers pointed at each other, but, for now, holding back, waiting for an opening.

“You misunderstand,” Alora said, placing her feet carefully. “Hurting them is all a wonderful bonus. The best part is watching you slowly lose everything.”

Quin chanced looking past Alora to the sabrecats – as they moved, Derry’s red hair showed like a beacon. She was upright, safe, no blood in sight. Thank the Hundred. She must have dismounted, deciding Hira’s back wasn’t so safe after all.

The way Hira and Alora’s cat were raking at each other, Quin couldn’t blame her.

Felida, keep Hira safe.

Derry held the sabre in both hands across her body, ready to attack or defend as one of Alora’s men advanced, a knife in hand. He gave the sabrecats a wide berth.

“Losing your smug sense of safety,” Alora went on, “your friend – well done on getting her back, by the way, but it won’t last long – and your dear Pasha.”

Just as Quin’s attention returned to Alora, her dark eyes flicked over Quin’s shoulder; it was just an instant’s movement, but it was enough to make Quin wary. She shifted her rapier – in its blurred reflection, movement. The other thug. At least he wasn’t after Derry.

“Well, I’ve still got this,” she said, lifting her sword and circling Alora. She managed to place the man to her left, his two knives just in view, leaving her with Alora in front, but the wall just a pace behind. No space to back away.

To the right, Hira with her muzzle bathed in blood snarled again. Her long teeth glistened. Hissing, she came between Derry and the tabby sabrecat, each muscle tense, forming a wall of flesh and fur. Derry swept past her own foe, parrying a blow and returning with a sabre slash.

Movement brought Quin back to her end of the alley: Alora and the thug lunged almost as one. Instinct told Quin to leap back, out of reach, but the wall blocked the way.

Half a breath later, she sprung to the right, pushing Alora’s blade to one side. The guard’s knife darted a hand’s length away.

Taking the opportunity now she was inside Alora’s guard, Quin shoved the taller woman with an unladylike grunt. It was poor form, but death didn’t award points for grace, and now she had both adversaries before her and more space at her back.

Focus. If she watched Hira and Derry, she would doom herself.

A long breath. Alora and her guard stood side-by-side, eyeing Quin, holding back. A pause would only benefit them, allow them to flank her.

Alora was quicker and her rapier had a greater reach than the man’s knives. He’d be vicious with them if he could get within Quin’s guard – the way he smirked said that. But Alora was the greater threat. Quin had to take the man down first.

The smallest movement, Alora adjusting her grip – she was about to attack.

She had to do it now.

Light on her feet, she darted left. He turned, faster than she’d expected, but still too slow, leaving him in between her and Alora.

Quin lunged before Alora could circle around the thug. He tried to parry her rapier upward, which would have left her open to a swift stab from his left knife.

Predictable. Quin shook her head and lowered her sword, crossing it over her body and ducking low as her left hand pulled the dagger from her boot.

This close she could smell his acrid sweat and a faint green scent of rosemary and bay cologne. Did he have a lover he wore that for? She couldn’t dwell on that. It would mean her death.

In one movement, with his attention still on her rapier, she lifted her dagger, thrusting up and in.

The sickening resistance of flesh. Warmth washed over her glove and seeped up her sleeve.

The thug grunted, wide brown eyes on Quin. The slick dagger twisted from her grip, falling with him.

That was the third person she’d killed.

She stared too long. The world turned as a weight slammed against her. The cobbles rushed up, knocking her lungs empty and sending a dozen points of pain through her body.

Alora hadn’t been idle and now she had hold of Quin’s right hand, smashing it against the ground.

Quin yelped at the agony lancing up her arm. She could fight to breathe, or she could fight to keep her grip.

At the third smack against stone, she dropped her rapier, its skitter across the cobbles a death knell in her ears.

“No,” she gasped, panic rising in her gut. If it was her end, it would also be Atesh’s. Maybe Derry’s. Would she think to flee or would she stupidly stay and fight a lost battle?

No, this couldn’t be it. She wriggled, but Alora had her pinned.

“Oh yes,” Alora said, smiling. “I told you you’d lose everything.”

Quin managed to get her right hand over Alora’s sword grip, but she couldn’t stop her holding the blade over her neck.

“At last,” Alora continued, “after all this time.”

With Alora pinning her, there was no room for Quin to get her left hand across to the hilt, instead she punched, but Alora jerked her head away from the pathetic blow.

She couldn’t be trapped. She wouldn’t let Alora cut her throat. She reached for Alora’s hair, but Alora batted her attempts away with her free hand and did the same again as Quin made to scratch her eyes.

Still the sword lowered inexorably.

“I didn’t ban the harem and cast you out,” Quin said between gritted teeth, holding the hilt up as best she could.

But Alora had gravity on her side. Quin could only delay the inevitable lowering of the flashing steel towards her throat.

In a matter of inches, it would slice through her flesh and spill her blood on the cobbles.

For now, that blood rushed in her ears and all she could hear over it was her panting mingled with Alora’s.

She had only one choice. Fingertips and thumb of her left hand on the flat of the blade, she pinched with all the strength she had. The Hundred must have been on her side, because her leather glove gripped the steel.

Seven inches above her throat the sword held.

Alora shook her head. “You still don’t realise, do you? I look just a little familiar, don’t I?”

Alora put enough pressure on the blade that Quin couldn’t let go or it would cut her throat, but she wasn’t pushing with all her weight. Not yet. She was enjoying it too much.

“Dev’s shop,” Quin said, “at the counter with Edan –”

“Ah, so you were there? But surely you recognised me even then? From much longer ago.”

Quin frowned. When could she mean? The last time she’d been in Arianople, perhaps? But she could find no memory of Alora or a woman who looked like her.

“Let me narrow it down for you. Think back to Venetia.”

“Venetia?” That was a long time ago. She’d only ever been there for her second con …

And there it was. The Venetian Con.

The Baron. Their first meeting. The swirl of a ball. The ‘accidental’ bump into him. The moment he was caught by her smile and took her to dance. Another young woman nearby, smouldering glare fixed on Quin. She’d assumed it was simple jealousy and, swept up in the con, she hadn’t thought of it again. But the other woman had turned away, hair gleaming dark red-brown in the candlelight.

“Ah.” Alora’s voice brought Quin back from that distant memory. “She remembers me at last. I’m touched.”

“Baron Belluno’s courtesan?”

Alora’s sharp smile contorted to a glare, so like the one from that ball in Venetia all those years ago. How had she not realised sooner? “Almost fiancé,” she spat, leaning over Quin. The blade crept lower. “I’d worked so hard to hide my heritage and got so close to a good marriage. But, no, his eye was caught by such a beauty and a real gentlewoman – so I thought. How could a harem outcast compete with that?”

The horrible determination to kill lit Alora’s eyes as she pushed down, both hands on the hilt now.

So strong. Quin’s arm burned as she tried to push back.

“So, I had to leave, find a new would-be husband.”

Quin had taken her chance at a marriage? And for that she’d done all this. If not for the blade slipping between her fingertips, Quin might have laughed at the melodrama of it all.

Alora bent low, face close. “Imagine my rage,” she whispered, “when I heard Belluno never even married the woman, that she’d been nothing but a con artist, no more a real gentlewoman than I was. And when I dug deeper I found you were even lower than I – some chit from the Gutter Streets.”

Pain burst in Quin’s hand as the soft leather glove and then her own skin split. She fought the cry rising in her throat, but the pain tore it from her.

It made Alora smile.

Blood and sweat, the mingled tang in the air, the hot and cold liquids mixed on her gooseflesh, every muscle taut with effort and pain and will.

She couldn’t say how long they were locked there, in their battle, but her hand, her side, her head all throbbed and shrieked as though she’d fought an army.

“‘He’s a gentleman, I’m a gentlewoman, so far we are even!’” Alora simpered, throwing Quin’s words in her face. “It’s as though you believe it yourself.”

“I am,” Quin choked out, “his equal. Your equal. Anyone’s.”

Gasping, she tightened her grip on the blade, left hand screaming at her that blood, flesh, and bone were ready to give in.

Not yet. Please. Not yet.

With a shudder, she twisted left, feeling more than hearing the clink of blade tip connecting with cobblestone.

Alora laughed, reading the tears in Quin’s eyes and her left hand’s release of the blade as defeat. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

Quin returned with something between a laugh and a sob, shaking right hand fixed on the handle still, her other hand, trembling, bloody, lowering to her pocket and closing on something hard and cold.

“A fan? From your dear Pasha?” Alora snorted when she saw what Quin pulled out.

Fingers slipping on the enamelled steel, Quin fumbled but managed to twist it open the wrong way.

“Don’t worry,” Alora went on, “he’ll soon join –”

But her sentence was lost in a gasp. Her eyes widened and stared down at her side.

Grunting, Quin pulled the bladed fan back across Alora’s flesh, just below her ribs, pushing as deep as the shrieking bones of her left hand would bear. Warmth bled out over her, beneath her, as Alora gave a hiccoughing choke and rolled off, the sword forgotten, both hands clutching at the crimson tears across her shirt.

Red blooming wider, spreading to the cobbles, pooling between them in tiny rivers. Quin covered her eyes. Red everywhere. And salty tears, too. How many people would this be dead at her hands now?

“I was almost disappointed,” Alora croaked, all triumph leached from her voice. “It was too easy.”

Arms protesting that they were water, rather than muscle and bone, Quin pushed to sitting, forcing herself to look at the woman propped up against the wall. There was so much blood she had to be dying.

Alora had let revenge lead her and this was the end of that road.

It was a road Quin could have easily started on – what Prima had done to her mother still burned at the pit of her belly. “You turned your rage at the wrong person,” she said. “It was Prima who wronged you, not me. She wronged us all – all the women of the harem and their children. Killed or driven away.” Quin shook her head. “And your brother. Did you even care about him?”

Alora made a noise somewhere between laughter and choking. “Poor Erdem. As children we were inseparable, but when I came back he didn’t understand … I was changed … You know how it is for us harem daughters …” She looked down at the slashes in her side, hissing as she pressed them. “But you thrived … gentlewoman thief.” Her voice quietened. “Stealing hearts and fortunes … stealing my chance …” She blinked at the sky and huffed a soft chuckle. “Almost time for my brother’s revenge, but where’s mine?”

Then nothing.

Four people. And three of them in just the past few hours. Gods. Four lives. She covered her eyes again.

“Quin?” Derry’s voice burst the bubble that had formed around the pair of them. “They’re calling for the hanging.”

The rest of the world came rushing into the space where just seconds ago Quin had been fighting for her life and Alora had been fighting back just as hard.

Derry was out of breath and spattered in blood. She moved easily – not her own blood, then.

A crier’s voice drifted over the city, luring one and all to Kediler Square.

The thug lying behind Derry still clutched at his throat, blood bubbling out. Beyond, stood Hira, muzzle wet and red. No sign of the other sabrecat. Alora still, silent. One man still, staring, silent. Now the other man, too.

“So much blood,” Quin whispered.

Derry, jaw set, nodded. “Yes.” She bent and took a black dagger from Alora’s belt. “What’s this?” She frowned at the woman’s lapel and pulled something from it. She turned and tucked the dagger into Quin’s belt. “You’ll need this. And maybe this.” A brooch glittered in her palm, jet stones arranged in the shape of a bird.

Quin stared and blinked, not taking in the relevance, thoughts louder than Derry’s voice.

All this time, Alora had been after Quin, not Atesh, not the Sultana. If Erdem was the one after the Sultana, why had Alora risked standing in the middle of the ballroom, a dagger in her hand –

In her right hand. But Alora was left-handed, as Quin’s aching arm was all-too aware.

The assassin had stabbed the Sultana with a dagger in their right hand. One of her thugs? No, the murderer’s Card suggested the motivation of personal power gain and it had led Suheyla to the Chalik family’s abandoned palace.

Derry lifted her hand, the black brooch glinting.

“The Chalik crow.” It was Erdem. He’d killed the Sultana.

The crier’s voice floated down again from the tower. Quarter to ten. The square was at least 15 minutes ride from here.

“Gods.” Quin ran a slick hand over her face, smearing more blood over the mask, and then pushed herself to her feet. She took the brooch and tucked it in her breast pocket. “We’ve still work to do.”

Derry tore a strip of cloth from Alora’s wool cloak and wrapped it with practised speed around Quin’s hand and tied it off in seconds. “We do.”

39

By a Silken Rope

The scaffold stood immense in its darkness, its solidity. Its finality.

It loomed before Atesh, jutting up from the stage.

This end of the square was still in morning shadow, but that wasn’t the reason for the goose bumps up his bound arms and the cold sweat snaking down his straight back.

So, this was it. He was to be hanged by a silken rope until he was dead. Not the death he’d ever had in mind. He’d expected a quiet death at home, in his bed, at a ripe old age, surrounded by his children and their children, probably. A good death.

But who got to choose these things?

For the hanging of nobility, they had decked out the scaffold and stage with black baize and, to one side, a raised seating area for the Sultan, roofed with silk and scattered with cushions, also black.

A sick smirk twisted Atesh’s mouth: if nothing else, it would be the most stylish hanging Arianople had ever seen.

He swallowed and tore his eyes away from the monolith of timber and rope, as janissaries ushered him forward.

The rest of the scene was no more comforting. Below, the square was thick with spectators.

One man, still and frowning, looked up at him from the throng. Ariston, Quin’s butler. Cheviker the fencer. Whatever his real identity, the man was here now, watching Atesh.

At least he’d found out the truth in time. He was going to die knowing Ferros wasn’t his father – thank the gods – and that Mother at least had some happiness in her life, even if it was with her husband’s brother.

Dastan was his father. Malos, his half-brother. They were still dizzying ideas.

He hadn’t been able to tell them, but he knew. That was enough.

Atesh mouthed a silent thank you to Ariston. The fencer must have caught it, because he nodded once in return.

Back on the stage, a couple of janissaries and the black-hooded executioner waited to do their work, but more chilling was the trio of officials. They shuffled through paperwork, checking over each other’s shoulders, muttering about signatures, presiding over a man’s death much as they would a committee meeting.

A laugh caught in Atesh’s throat, as, fluttering around Judge Pavo, was the same fussy clerk who had overseen a hanging he’d attended over a month ago on his first arrival back in the city.

If only he hadn’t come back for the Dying Summer Festival. If only he hadn’t attended the masquerade. If only he hadn’t met her and dared to hope she might somehow prove his innocence.

If only.

But here he was and if only wouldn’t keep the noose from his throat or the short drop of the trapdoor from his feet. If only was the luxury of a man with time. Right now, the only luxuries left to him were the midnight blue silk of his suit – which Nald had brought him last night, despite the dent his loyalty would put in his reputation – and to go with some sort of dignity.

As much dignity as a man dangling from his neck, kicking and suffocating could have.

No, mustn’t think of that.

Breathe. Deeply. Breathe.

His hands were tied behind his back, but he could awkwardly tug a pouch from his belt – another part of Nald’s delivery, good man – and hand it to the hooded executioner, who took it with all graveness and slipped it into his pocket with a nod of thanks.

The consummate professional.

A few cheers rose from the crowd, glad to see the tradition of tipping the executioner observed or perhaps still fans of Atesh. He had been popular once. Now he had to pay a man in the hopes that’d bring him a slightly less painful death.

No, they were just excited for the show. The hanging of the rich was a far grander affair, more entertaining than the execution of a ragged old wretch.

He scanned the upturned faces. Was she here? But no amber eyes looked back at him.

Many in the crowd held broadsheets that marked the occasion, gave inches and inches to the life of the condemned, to his art, perhaps, and to made up scandals about the murderous Pasha.

Red – was that flame-red hair? But before he could be sure he’d seen it in the crowd, a hood fell over his eyes, blocking out the world.

Derry? Or was that just desperation making him see what he wished to? If that was so, wouldn’t it have been Quin his mind would have conjured, though?

The voices rose and some cheered their Sultan’s name, though not as many as would have for Zeynab – Ilyas must have just arrived. Atesh pictured Ilyas taking his seat atop the cushions, staring down at the condemned, giving the nod to the executioner.

Rough hands guided him forward, where the trapdoor waited. It would drop open at the pull of a lever, leaving nothing but air beneath his feet.

Soon. Gods, it was going to happen so soon.

Quin was right – what had he done with his life? What had been his purpose? He’d had all the opportunity that wealth and education had afforded him and he’d done so little with it.

Rustling of hands around his head, then a weight draped around his neck. The noose.

At least his death would do some good. He could stand there with a straight back and square shoulders knowing his estate would go to the people of the Gutter Streets. Perhaps it would put food on the tables of children who would have otherwise starved.

He could have helped them a long time ago – he had tried – but late was better than never.

“It’s time,” the executioner muttered in his ear, the man’s voice softer than expected.

The drumroll began, its hiss muffled by his hood.

It was a cruel irony that in the moments before his heart would stop beating, it hammered all the harder in his chest.

The crowd fell silent. The drums too.

A soft creak of wood and metal mechanism, a clunk below his feet, then nothing, just air and a moment of falling.

Pressure on his neck. Firmer. Crushing now.

Let it be quicker than this. Quicker.

He tried to catch his breath, but nothing came. The searing of his lungs made him shudder.

Amber eyes, glinting.

No air. No air.

Arms strained at their restraints, muscles burning, but he was never going to reach the rope at his throat. If he could, he’d have clawed at it with his hands, torn it apart, but …

Ferros’s sharp stink of whiskey.

Silken rope might have been softer than hemp, but it strangled all the same.

Fireworks before his eyes.

Burning throat, burning lungs, so empty.

Mother’s smile.

Empty blackness threatening at the edges.

Then nothing.

40

Kediler Square

The drumroll hissed through the square, a fist to Quin’s stomach.

When it ends ...

“Fly, Hira,” she whispered into the sabrecat’s fur, “just a little faster. Please.”

She had dropped Derry in the crowd to find Ariston and Erdem and to lighten Hira’s load. Had that cost her too much time? The unfastened saddle-straps flapped behind her; instead she clung to the leather with one white-knuckled hand and wrapped her legs around the speeding cat as best she could.

Skirting around the edge of Kediler Square, she searched for a route to the scaffold, but the crowd was thick and held back by janissaries, heavily armed.

“Bloody hells.”

She squinted at the black-bathed stage, able to make out a lone figure standing in the centre, a white hood over his head. The straight back, the width of the shoulders. She would know him anywhere.

There had to be a way through.

The onlookers and even the janissaries were so entranced by the spectacle of a man about to hang that the galloping sabrecat barely merited a glance.

“Yes, stay distracted,” she whispered, wrapping the reins around her left wrist, the throbbing hand too heavily bandaged to be much use.

Her right hand fished in her pocket for that familiar tug of her Deck, flicking open the case. Amber eyes fixed on a racing sabrecat statue to one side of the scaffold, her fingers searched for the shirking, the sneaking, Lady Deception. The Card she’d used to pass unnoticed through bazaars when her mother had been well enough to teach her the art.

There. Just as her fingers closed around it, the ground fell away, Hira leapt, and the drumroll stopped.

With a clunk, the trapdoor opened and Atesh fell. His feet kicked back and forth.

Quin closed her eyes for a moment. The Card. She had to focus on that, push their attention away.

Over there. Look at that. Not here.

Back legs thrust off the statue – thank the Hundred, it held and didn’t topple over – Hira changed direction, using it to propel them up and to the right. Stretching into the air again, her paws sought the stage.

Dropping. They were dropping. They should be landing. She couldn’t breathe.

Gods.

A jolt rattled her aching bones, almost shaking her hand loose. They stopped – Hira’s sides heaved, but her front claws were there, embedded in the stage. In the square, one or two heads began to turn in their direction.

Quin caught her breath and willed everything to the Card, trusting Hira to haul them up. “The hanged man,” she whispered, “look there. At him. Over there.”

Then they were on the stage. At the end of the rope, Atesh wasn’t moving. Eyes turned from him to the sabrecat.

“Too late,” Quin said, the Card forgotten. “We’re too late.”

But Hira leapt onto the crossbar of the gallows, clearing it in one bound, paws in perfect balance on the four-inch wide beam.

Gasps rose from the crowd.

Arm protesting, Quin drew her sabre and slipped from Hira’s back to the crossbar. The rope holding Atesh was right by her feet, wrapping around the beam.

Janissaries drew pistols and rifles.

“Go, Hira.” The scaffold bounced as the sabrecat bounded away and disappeared into the ancient tiered seats behind the stage, forcing Quin to crouch low or fall. Once she had her balance, she rose, lifted her sabre, and slashed down at the rope. She barely split a few fibres.

Firearms pointed in her direction, but the janissaries glanced at each other, as if unsure what to do.

Judge Pavo’s eyes narrowed up at her. “This woman interferes with the dealing of justice. Fire on my –”

“Stop,” she shouted, “you have the wrong man.”

Hissing in pain, she joined her left hand with the right on the sword’s hilt, causing fresh rivulets of blood to snake along her arm. She swung down with every ounce of strength she could summon. And again. The last fibres split and the rope unwound, whipping past her feet and away.

Below, Atesh fell through the open trapdoor and thudded to the floor some six feet or so beneath the stage.

Alive or …

Below his turban, a vein stood out on Pavo’s temple. “On my –”

“No.” All eyes turned to the Sultan as he rose from his silk cushions. “Hold fire.”

The janissaries lowered their weapons as he approached.

She gaped and a wave of dizziness threatened to consume her, whether from shock at the Sultan’s order or her injury and exertion, she wasn’t sure. Likely both. She dropped to a crouch, just about holding her balance on the beam.

Below, a flash of red hair – Derry crouched over Atesh’s still form.

Quin’s face tingled.

She couldn’t faint up here. She edged away from the yawning trapdoor, so she couldn’t see Atesh’s agonising stillness. Like Alora, like her guards. The sour taste of bile hit the back of her tongue.

The judge cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, this is most – what is the meaning of this?”

“I’m curious,” he said, without so much as a glance at the judge. “Why would you take this risk?” he asked Quin, striding out from beneath his pavilion, eyes unreadable. Almost as an afterthought, he threw an order at the janissaries: “See no one leaves the Square.”

She let her sabre drop to the stage with a thunk and scrabbled down after it without grace. She left the sword where it had fallen – standing with a weapon in the Sultan’s presence was a sure way to get those rifles and pistols pointed back at her.

“He –” How to explain it? What to say? She shook her head.

“He’s innocent,” she said simply, “and I have the evidence to prove it.”

A nervous ripple of laughter spread through those nearby. Except for the Sultan; a dark eyebrow rose. “Oh, really? And what evidence could you possibly have for this” – he paused, making a show of searching for the right word – “outrageous claim?”

Heart pounding, Quin pulled her back and shoulders straight.

This was her chance. Her only chance.

Had she reached Atesh in time? He hadn’t been moving when she’d glimpsed him below the trapdoor, but she’d arrived just as the drumroll had stopped. Hundred, say she’d been quick enough to cut him down.

What if he was already ... She swallowed and blinked slowly – best to leave that thought unfinished.

“I can see why you’d think this so outrageous.” She projected her voice as best she could, gaze taking in the crowd, the Sultan, the gathered janissaries. “After all, the evidence presented at the trial seems so final, doesn’t it?”

“It rather does,” growled Judge Pavo, his look as sharp as her sabre.

“It was designed to be.” She turned to the Sultan, willing him to believe her, to listen, to give true weight to her words. “Atesh Shahin Pasha was framed and with all respect, Your Majesty, I ask you to detain one man, just while I present my evidence.”

“And what man would this be?” the Sultan asked, his voice low, eyes narrow. Whispers carried his words out across the square, frowns and muttering rippling through the crowd in their wake.

Quin barely heard her own voice above the roaring heartbeat in her ears: “Erdem Chalik.”

Gasps, raised brows. Pavo frowned. The Sultan, though – his face didn’t move.

He wasn’t surprised. Did he already have suspicions? Had Erdem already been mentioned as a suspect?

The Sultan nodded at Porto who signalled to the janissaries in the crowd. To the left, a scuffle – sure enough, Erdem was there. And – yes, good man, Ariston was close behind him, blocking any escape as the constables closed in.

The tail end of Erdem’s protests rose over the crowd’s surprise. “… utterly ridiculous! Unhand me.”

“Very well,” Ilyas Sultan said, returning to Quin, “and your part of this bargain – your ‘evidence’?”

She nodded. A deep breath settled her heart, just a little. “The Shahin Dagger was the murder weapon, wasn’t it, Your Honour?” Pavo nodded, tight-lipped. “Actually, I’m afraid it wasn’t, though you’d be forgiven for thinking so. Those closest to the murder noticed something peculiar about the blade – did you not, Sultan?” Ariston told her he’d stated it in court – no one could deny it.

A flicker of a smile played around his lips, not reaching his eyes. “The missing stone.”

Quin nodded. “And I believe other witnesses saw the same thing. Sergeant?” Porto gave a curt nod. “Well, here is a set of designs for the forged blade.”

She produced the papers and unfolded them before the janissaries around her could get too agitated at her reaching into her pocket.

Porto accepted them and peered at the pages, showing the Sultan. “They do appear to be designs for a replica of the Shahin Dagger.”

Murmurs of acknowledgement rose from the crowd, again rippling out across the square. She knew crowds and she knew the people of Arianople as only one who had lived amongst both its Gutter Streets and its townhouses could: they weren’t convinced, not yet, but they were questioning and they could be powerful when they stood together.

Another deep breath. She couldn’t get excited yet, but an ember of hope kindled in her chest. The crowd shifted where janissaries ushered Erdem towards the stage.

Pavo raised an eyebrow at her, having examined the designs. “How did you get these?”

“From the pawnbroker whose assistant forged the blade. He” – she paused, hand touching her pocket and the comforting weight of the bladed fan – “he was murdered just over a week ago in his shop on Kahvesi Street, together with another man who was involved in his killing.”

“Indeed?” The Sultan’s eyes narrowed again, but she refused to flinch at his suspicious tone.

“Your Majesty,” Porto said, “I do recall that incident, though we saw no link to the assassination.” He frowned at her. “The details of the second man, as yet unidentified, were never made public.”

“These papers are interesting,” the Sultan said, apparently less interested than Porto or Pavo in potential questions about her involvement, “but they could have been drawn by anyone. I trust you have more compelling evidence than this?” He narrowed his eyes. “From that little smile on your face, I’d wager you do.”

She bit her lip, straightening out her expression – this man was still in mourning for his wife. “I do, Your Majesty.” She pulled her jacket open, showing the janissaries the dagger tucked in her belt. During the ride to the square, Derry had explained why she’d taken it from Alora and what it was. Slowly she pulled it out, careful not to hold it as a fighter would. “Here is that forgery.” She offered it hilt-first to Porto, who was closest of the men. “The murder weapon.”

Pavo barked a laugh. “It’s a black knife.”

“It’s merely coated in paint to make it less recognisable. Scrape the stones and you’ll see they’re green paste made to look like emeralds.”

“And one is missing,” Porto said, peering at the hilt before holding the weapon out to Pavo and the Sultan. She swore Porto smiled at her, just a moment, while their heads were lowered over the dagger.

“It does appear to be a replica of the Shahin blade,” the Sultan said, dark eyes fixing back on her.

“This proves nothing,” Pavo chimed in, “You could have had that made this week. Shahin himself could have had it made, so he wouldn’t sully his family blade.”

“How would he have removed it from the scene, when he was arrested immediately?” Porto asked.

The look Judge Pavo gave Porto made Quin shiver. It was hard to tell whether his arguments were to save his own pride and reputation – if Atesh was innocent, he’d made a grave error in his judgement – or because he had an even less savoury interest. Erdem and Alora could have paid him off.

Porto lifted his head at Pavo’s glare. She had to give him credit for not being cowed, as he said, “And I found a fake emerald at the scene of the crime.”

The Sultan lifted his gaze from the dagger, finger stroking the pit where the stone was missing. “Perhaps we have been too hasty.”

Quin held her breath. It wasn’t a declaration of innocence, but it was one of doubt. And doubt in him was hope to her. But there was only hope if Atesh was still alive under the wooden boards of this stage.

Let him live. Please.

Porto raised his eyebrows at her, touching the small leather Card case on his belt.

Focus. Derry was taking care of things under the stage – it was Quin’s job to give the performance of her life upon it.

“There’s more.” She pulled the cherry wood box from her pocket and held it aloft. Win the crowd with some theatre. “This Deck.” She held it out to Porto, relieved to be free of the heavy hum of someone else’s magic. “Anyone close to At – the Pasha would be able to identify its owner.”

At the front of the crowd a man called out, hand raised. “I’ve served the Shahin family all my life. I’d know his Cards anywhere.”

A thrill of recognition – it was Nald, Atesh’s valet.

Another nod from Porto and janissaries moved to help Nald to the platform. His hands trembled and he paused before taking the box from her hands. He glanced at the Sultan as if for permission to break the taboo of touching someone else’s Deck. When he took the box, he stroked the smooth, red wood, turning it over before opening it.

He drew one Card and immediately began to nod. Another Card, another nod.

Their beauty, the sinuous lines, the rich colours – these Cards were works of art beyond any of the paintings at Atesh’s exhibition. He didn’t need a carved Deck box; his Cards were all the adornment the gods could require. Quin’s eyes burned at the sight.

After checking a few more, Nald returned the Cards to the box and handed it to Porto. “Yes, that is the Deck of my master, whom you’ve hanged.” He kept his expression of professional calm, but his eyes burned into the Judge, the Sultan, Porto.

More ripples spread through the crowd. Voices rose. Brows lowered.

Quin took a breath and went on: she had to ride the momentum. “Your Honour, would you be so kind as to check the Deck for me?”

Pavo raised an eyebrow but took the box from Porto’s hands. “Check it for what?” Each word came out hard between his teeth.

“Is the Eunuch Card in there?”

He clenched his hands before opening the box, wrinkling his nose as he fanned the Cards out.

“Ah!” The Sultan pointed from over his shoulder. “Back there, you just went past it. The Eunuch.”

Pavo clicked his tongue. He’d tried to slip past it – the bastard had to be involved somehow. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Though I fail to see the relevance – the Card that was taken from the Pasha –”

“The assassin,” corrected the Sultan.

“– is now missing. This masked villain” – he pointed at Quin – “could have just returned the Card to Shahin’s Deck.”

“Oh yes, that reminds me.” She raised a hand and pulled the tissue package from her other pocket. “I must apologise to our fair city’s janissaries.” She swept a bow at them, arms spread wide.

Play the part.

“I stole this from you and I know I shouldn’t have, but I feared the assassins would steal it themselves.” She turned to Porto and held out the parcel. “I believe this was in your care, sergeant.”

Was that a tiny smile that flashed across his face?

He made a great show of unwrapping the paper and holding up the revealed Card. “It is the Eunuch Card. The same one found in our murdered Sultana’s hand.”

“Our sergeant is right,” the Sultan said. “I – I recognise it.” He frowned, looking from the Card to the Deck to the tall frame of the gallows. “It – it appears Atesh is indeed innocent. But what makes you think Erdem did this?” The Sultan frowned, watching as the man in question climbed to the stage, the janissaries on each side not needing to hold him as he cooperated. “And why would he?”

“The Card was for your motive, wasn’t it, Erdem?” Quin asked, gaze fixed on his. Every pair of eyes in the Square fixed on the pair of them. “The Eunuch – power over the throne through the regency.”

Erdem scoffed. “My motive?” Lips pulled back in a sneer, he looked Quin up and down. “As though I’m the criminal, and yet here you are covered in blood, admitting to theft from Arianople’s own janissaries. The question we should be asking is: what is your motive for this outrage? You dare to question the justice of our Sultan’s courts!” He shook his head. “Ilyas, you should make use of this scaffold for the second time today, the insult the woman does us all.”

“The regency.” The Sultan’s gaze fell upon Erdem and he blinked as if seeing him afresh. “With Atesh out of the way, you’d be the only person left with royal blood – the only option. Erdem, my wife forgave the Chalik family their past mistakes for your sake. She trusted you. She cared for you – why would you repay her like this?” The lines between his brows were thoughtful.

“With all respect, Your Majesty, this is circumstantial,” Pavo said, waving his hand, “the accusation against Erdem holds no water.” He turned to Quin. “What we should be asking is where indeed did all this blood come from?”

The Sultan remained silent, his gaze distant as if he were processing the information. Everyone else looked at her awaiting an explanation.

Damn it, things were slipping out of her control. She’d come here to speak about the guilt and innocence of others, not herself. She’d acted in defence – they couldn’t hang her for that, surely. “I was attacked on the way here. I escaped with my life and the forged blade.”

“Attacked by whom?” Porto asked.

“A woman and her two lackeys.” If Hira killed the other guard, did he belong on her list of people dead by her hand? She swallowed. Not the time or place to ponder that one. “You’ll find them all in Turnaround Alley, by the Butcher’s Boy.”

Erdem snorted. He didn’t believe Quin had killed his sister.

“You mean you murdered some poor lady,” said Pavo, “and expect us to –”

“It’s not murder,” Porto snapped, “if the woman attacked her first.” He clamped his mouth shut, as he must have realised who he was speaking to with such irritation.

“And a trial would determine that, not –” Pavo began, but Quin cut him off.

“She would have killed me to stop me coming here with the Deck and designs.” Steer them back to the evidence and maybe they wouldn’t turn on her. “And she wore this” – she held out the crow brooch, black jet glittering in the sun – “because she was Erdem Chalik’s sister.”

The Sultan took the pin. “The Chalik crow.” He looked at Erdem with brows lowered, shaking his head.

“Alora,” Erdem gasped. A vein bulged at his temple. This new turn of events spread across the square.

“That’s an admission of guilt.” Pavo nodded to someone over Quin’s shoulder.

“What?” She glanced – damn, janissaries left and right. Large hands wrapped around her arms. She’d been too distracted by presenting her evidence.

“No – wait – I –” Her aching arms barely moved in her attempts to shake them off. “Check his Deck – it’ll match the Eunuch.”

But Pavo shook his head, even as Porto nodded for the janissary near Erdem to check his pockets.

Pavo had to be in the Chalik pockets or else they had something on him. They’d tried to blackmail Quin; they wouldn’t be above using the same tactics against a judge.

Either way, she’d get no help from Pavo or the Sultan: he looked from the judge to Porto, frowning, unsure. Scowling, she turned from them; a sudden glint in the bright sunlight drew her eye.

A knife in Erdem’s hand.

The moment she registered it, he lunged, teeth bared.

Porto bundled the Sultan to one side. But Erdem wasn’t after him.

His glare was all for Quin.

But the janissaries on either side had their fingers tight around her wrists. She strained against their grip. They were so sluggish. They hadn’t seen the knife. Or the message hadn’t travelled from their brains to their hands. Or they didn’t care.

Whatever the reason, the janissaries weren’t letting go. Something tugged at her belt. They were disarming her, as if she could reach her rapier with them holding her arms like that.

Staring as the moment stretched out, Quin could only watch Erdem come closer, closer, closer. The gleam of his dagger held high.

She’d always feared and half-expected death on the scaffold, but by the noose, not the blade.

This was it. All it had to do was arc down and it would be buried in her chest.

Then stillness.

Erdem stopped, eyes bulging, his blade still a foot from Quin. He stared down at the rapier in his belly.

Quin’s rapier in his belly.

Crimson soaked his silver-grey suit, blossoming.

The world around her exploded, janissaries surging up to the stage, a couple still holding her, some running onto the stage too late, and in the midst of it all, she looked down to see a hand in the gap between her arm and her body, holding her rapier’s familiar swept hilt.

A man’s hand. Also familiar.

Blood spattering his lips, Erdem fell off the blade as it retreated. The janissaries at her arms rushed to catch him in some sort of automated reaction.

Now free, Quin turned.

Ashen, but standing, smiling, even.

She gasped. “Atesh.”

He nodded, biting his lip. Every inch of his body trembled, but his jade gaze never left hers as he carefully wiped the blade on his silk trousers. “Hope you don’t mind,” he croaked, voice painfully broken, but alive. He was alive. “I borrowed this.”

Quin choked back something that was almost a laugh, but more a sob, grateful her mask half-hid the emotions warring on her face at that moment.

He was alive. This morning, he’d watched the sky lighten through a barred window, thinking it would be his last sunrise.

Fighting Alora – was that only half an hour ago? – Quin had feared this would be her last day, too.

But here they were. Stillness in the midst of chaos.

This man who’d re-written his will to help the Gutter Streets – this marvellous man was bloody well alive. He was warm, breathing flesh standing before her.

She needed to thank him, to say so much, to ask him why and how and what now? But she didn’t trust herself to speak.

What he had done made her ache with something she couldn’t name. Something deep in each bone, something surging through each vein, something with an ache so good that only kissing him would soothe it.

But janissaries rushed across the stage and crowded around Erdem’s body and the Sultan, safely whisking him away. She couldn’t even see the crowd in the square anymore: there were so many people up there. This was neither time nor place for conversation or kissing, even if her fingers did burn to touch him, just to be sure he was real.

She’d have to make do with his smile, which he offered now together with the hilt of her rapier.

As she leant to take it, he whispered loud enough for only her to hear, “Thank you doesn’t do it, I know. And I’ll gladly spend a lifetime showing you my deepest gratitude, but for now you need to get the hells out of here.”

He was right. She reached for the rapier, his fingers firm under her gloved hand. Her hand lingered there. He was real. Solid.

That would have to do for now, if she wanted to stay out of jail long enough to experience his deepest gratitude. What would that entail, exactly? She knew what she wanted it to involve, over and over –

Quin, not the time. She shook her head to clear it.

“Thank you,” she said, though it was a pathetic shadow of all the things she really wanted to say. The squeeze she gave his hand said a little more.

With that, she took her rapier and slipped away through the chaos.

41

After

“And you’re sure she can fix it?” Quin stared at the bloody bandage that hid the ruin of her left hand. The pain was a rhythmic, searing throb.

She leant her head against the carriage window, watching the usual mid-afternoon traffic passing by – men and women on foot, sabrecats with riders or pulling coaches, post-chaises, and even a gleaming black landau.

The hanging had been mere hours ago and life in Arianople seemed, well, normal. Just like that.

Here they were riding through the city in their rented brougham. It was as if she hadn’t spent the previous 24 hours fighting, fleeing, fighting again, trying to persuade the most powerful man in the country that the man he’d hanged for killing his wife was not, in fact, her killer ...

It made her even more exhausted to think of it.

She’d managed to slip away into the chaos surrounding the gallows, finding Hira prowling an alley behind the tiered seating at that end of Kediler Square. Derry and Ariston had met her back at the house with fierce hugs, but Quin hadn’t been able to relax, never mind celebrate, until Derry gave a full report on Atesh’s health. There was bruising from the rope and the fall and he’d be tired from the ordeal, but worst affected was his voice. It was raspy and might recover or might not.

He’d been hanged and that was the only lasting effect. Thank every single one of the Hundred gods.

Quin and Derry had quickly washed over basins of warm water, and Derry had checked her hand and declared it could wait a little while before being stitched, so the pair had slept while Mrs Tepe fussed about the house and Ariston took to the streets to see what he could learn.

What he learned from other servants, the Hidden Court, and general gossip was not all as comforting as Derry’s news of Atesh’s health.

Erdem’s Deck had been recovered from his body and it contained no Eunuch, though friends of his attested that he possessed that Card. The style of his other Cards was a perfect match for the one the Sultana had grabbed from the murderer. His guilt was accepted. So far, so good.

However, when the janissaries had checked Turnabout Alley, they’d found the scene of a fight, with blood on the floor and two dead men, but no sign of a woman, dead or alive. Two loose sabrecats had also been discovered – the description suggested they were the two belonging to Alora’s thugs – but that left Alora’s cat unaccounted for.

And Alora.

And that was the problem.

That she could possibly take Alora off the grim list of people she’d killed wasn’t the comfort it should have been. If she’d survived …

“If anyone can fix your hand, it’s Reyhan,” Derry said, her calm voice bringing Quin back from her thoughts.

She could afford to be calm, though, couldn’t she? It wasn’t her hand that was mangled. Movement was difficult – she must have sliced through something vital. “You’re sounding less sure than when we left the house.”

“And you’re sounding more whiny than when we left the house.”

Quin pulled a face.

“At least it’s your left,” Derry said more softly and rubbed Quin’s shoulder. “Let’s see what Reyhan says and only worry about things we need to, yes?”

“Like Alora?”

Derry winced. “Maybe someone just retrieved her body.” Even she didn’t sound convinced.

“She’s still alive.” Quin had no evidence apart from the missing body, but she knew. She shook her head – she hadn’t been thorough enough. “We didn’t check she was dead, after all.”

“What, you think she fainted? I couldn’t see her breathing.”

“Not fainted – playing dead. I should’ve known.”

Derry laughed. “How could you possibly have known she was playing dead, if that is indeed what happened?”

Quin snorted softly, breath misting on the glass for a moment. “Because it’s what I would’ve done.” She scowled, cradling her hand against her body. “With an injury like that, she couldn’t win – her best bet was to feign death and live to fight another day.”

“It’s a clever idea.”

“It’s what a survivor would do. If she was turned out of that palace as a child, she’s faced tough times. Gods only know what she’s lived through, but she’s still here now. She’s a survivor.”

When Alora had said people like us Quin had been furious at the idea of being lumped with her. But maybe they weren’t so different after all – daughters of cast out harem women fighting their way through life whatever way they could.

Was she with an apothecary this very moment? Was she already planning her next move?

Most people would back off after Quin had foiled such a convoluted plan, but most people didn’t go to the trouble to kill the Sultana and frame a pasha, if, ultimately, they really wanted to get someone else entirely. Besides, hadn’t she almost succeeded in her campaign against Quin? She’d forced her close to capture, to despair, to failure …

It made her head ache. She was too tired for this.

Whether Alora was alive or dead, the janissaries were looking into it and Quinta Sabia couldn’t afford to become embroiled in another murder investigation. While it had been self-defence, for some reason, she just didn’t trust in the courts’ sense of justice.

Derry nodded, eventually and made a sound of acknowledgement. She’d been quiet since they’d left Alora’s. She must be as tired as Quin.

Maybe. But it tugged at the base of Quin’s mind. Had Derry been acting off before that and she’d been too distracted to notice?

She chewed the inside of her lip and watched Derry from the corner of her eye. Derry looked out the window, a pensive line between her brows.

How had she found Edan’s house that night she was taken? And why had she gone off on her own despite Quin’s –

Quin wrinkled her nose; she hated to call them orders. Derry was no one’s slave anymore. They were a team, but Quin was their leader and she made the decisions. As the Contessa out in public view, she took ultimate responsibility and would pay for any mistakes.

Not this time, though. It was Derry they’d kidnapped.

Closing her eyes, Quin shook her head. She’d have to broach the subject of Derry going off on her own despite Alora’s threats, but not today. There were two more pressing tasks at hand: get her hand fixed and face Atesh. The second of those required some recovery time on his part.

“We’re here,” Derry said, giving Quin a quick smile. A moment later the brougham’s rocking stopped and the pair hopped out.

Various carriages clattered past, some squeaking, others smooth and silent. Low chatter accumulated to a constant murmur like a distant stream. Clipping heels spelled out the passage of gentlemen and women in fine shoes, with the footsteps of those lower born too quiet to hear above the hubbub.

“So normal,” Quin muttered to herself, following Derry. Just another day in Arianople.

“What’s that?” Derry glanced back from a doorway, but Reyhan opened her door at that moment.

Her lips pursed at the sight of Quin, though her expression softened when her gaze lowered to the bandage on her hand.

“You’d better come in.”

The apothecary busied herself, gathering equipment from around the room. “I’ll never understand the cruelties we pile upon each other,” she said, shaking her head and peering over her glasses at Quin, “even though I’m the one who so often cleans them up.”

She motioned to a chair and turned to rifle through a cupboard, passing Derry a pestle and mortar, what looked like a knobbly brown root, and little jars of smoked glass.

Quin took the offered chair and rested her bandaged hand on the table. It would be scarred. That she knew for sure.

Better scarred than dead. She nodded to herself. Better to think that than whether she’d be able to bend her fingers properly again or pick a lock. Trying to guess at how bad it was would do no good – this wasn’t her area of expertise, after all.

Hundred, please don’t let it be bad.

“Give it here, then.” Reyhan took a seat over the table from her, palm up ready to accept the injured hand.

Gingerly, she obeyed.

Reyhan lowered the bandaged hand into a bowl of warm water, ignoring Quin’s hiss of pain. Despite her hard looks at Quin, the apothecary’s hands were soft, peeling the soaked bandage away. She sucked her teeth as she revealed angry red flesh.

Quin snapped her eyes shut, breathing heavy. Just from that brief glimpse, it looked bad. Red. Swollen. Open. No bone, though. That had to be good.

“So,” she said when she’d regained her breath. Distraction, that’s what she needed. “Say, if as part of those ‘cruelties’ you mentioned someone was slashed just below their ribs, maybe an inch or two deep, could they survive?”

Derry shot her a round-eyed glance but said nothing. The grinding of the granite pestle and mortar grew loud enough for Quin to hear from the other side of the room.

“Are you trying to crack that thing?” She raised an eyebrow at Derry then lowered Quin’s hand into another bowl of warm water. Green leaves of different shapes and sizes sat in the bottom giving off a clean, woody smell. “Side, back, or belly?”

“Side.” Quin squinted, picturing the moment again. “Right side.”

Reyhan tilted her head to one side as she washed Quin’s hand. “More likely to survive that than if you’d said belly, but it’s hard to say – some survive injuries that you’d swear would kill a person, others die from wounds a hundred others would live through. Like that poor boy left on my doorstep last month – no, month before. Is it really September?”

“Oh?” Derry’s head rose from her work again. “Don’t think you told me about that one,” she said, placing a small ceramic bowl on the table. A sweet, earthy scent rose from the glossy, golden paste within.

“Ah, yes, you were” – Reyhan gave Quin a pointed look – “busy that day. Found him lying there. Blood all over his trousers, puddled in his shoes.” She tutted and shook her head. “Someone must have dumped him there – I don’t see how he could’ve walked down the street on his own.”

“What had happened to him?”

“They’d cut his cock off.”

Both Quin and Derry blinked at the woman, then at each other, Quin’s own pain momentarily forgotten.

“Must’ve pissed someone off mightily,” Reyhan went on, apparently oblivious to the horrified reactions of her visitors. “Anyway, he’d lost a lot of blood, but I got him cleaned up, stitched up, and fixed up. Had to put a tube in for him to piss out of, but he survived to walk out of here.” An emphatic nod punctuated her sentence.

Fresh pain seared Quin’s palm, forcing her to hold her breath, as Reyhan bent and straightened each finger, one hand feeling for movement up her forearm. “On the other hand, another patient died of a far less severe injury – Derry, you remember the little girl from the factory.”

“Whose arm got trapped in the machinery?” Derry grimaced.

“Mmm-hmm. Poor thing died the next day.” Reyhan fell still, a small frown on her brow. “Her parents had left it two days before they brought her in. She must have lost more blood than I’d realised when it first happened and infection had already set in. She wasn’t too bad when I saw her, but like that” – the sudden click of her fingers made Quin jump – “she deteriorated. Her parents sent for me, but I only arrived in time to help the pain.”

Gone so quickly. If it had surprised Reyhan, it must have been even more of a shock for her parents. Little girls shouldn’t be working in factories, lining someone else’s pockets. They should be … Quin sighed – she couldn’t even imagine the perfect childhood, hers had been so far from that, but she knew it shouldn’t involve working dusk till dawn with dangerous machinery.

Reyhan gave her a slow sad smile. “So, you see your question isn’t an easy one to answer?”

She nodded. Perhaps Alora was dead. Perhaps she was alive. There was no way to be sure.

With a pat of Quin’s shoulder, Reyhan’s smile brightened. “But it’s not all so bad – I’d say the Blind Lady smiles on you.”

“Oh?”

“Won’t be the prettiest hand in the world, but as long as you do some exercises – every day, mind – once it’s stitched up and had some time to heal, you’ll be picking pockets as well as you ever did.” Her lips pursed again, as was her customary response to Quin. “Not that I want you to be doing that, but I figure you’ll be doing it all the same and if I don’t fix you up, you’ll just do it badly and get caught and then where would my assistant be?” She nodded at Derry, who barely concealed a smirk. “You’ll need this ointment – Derry, apply it daily and rebandage the wound and have her drink this tea as many times as she can stomach per day.” She shook a blue jar, making a dry sound, and handed it to her assistant.

“Thank you, Reyhan,” Quin said, meaning it.

“Don’t thank me yet, missy – I’ve still got to stitch you up and I’m fresh out of laudanum.”

42

A Thief’s Reward

“The Right Honourable Contessa of Mordano to see you, sir,” Nald announced, standing just inside the door.

Quin’s feet were rooted to the spot. Her stomach danced a jig in a way it hadn’t since she’d been a teenager. “Get a hold of yourself,” she muttered. Deep breath, then through the door.

It was an airy room, high-ceilinged, the tall windows open, sheer curtains billowing. The bed dominated the space, oversized, draped in midnight blue sheer silk, embroidered with a thousand silver stars.

And there on the bed. Him.

He wore a pure white shirt and dark grey trousers; the neck of his shirt hung open revealing bronze skin and a smattering of dark hair. Sitting propped on the pillows, a lap desk in place, he held a silver fountain pen poised in mid-air. He watched her taking in the room, then him and dismissed Nald with a nod.

What did the valet think of her? After the hanging, she’d sent him a message suggesting he impose bed rest upon his master for at least a few days but had received no reply. His professionally straight face revealed nothing as he left.

Atesh’s colour had come back since she had seen him two days earlier on the scaffold. The hollowness in his cheeks almost gone. The only noticeable sign of his ordeal: a red welt across his throat.

Oh Atesh. What had it been like for him? Years ago, Talat had once grabbed her by her throat. The terror, the burning need for air, the black closing in. Struggling, but being powerless to stop it. That had been horrific enough, but to have your full body weight dangling at the end of a rope. The whole city watching, wanting your death.

And through it all knowing you were innocent. If she ever hanged, at least it would be for crimes she had technically committed.

She’d been so close to failing him.

Neither of them had moved for some minutes before they both remembered themselves and spoke in the same moment.

“I was just –”

“How are you?”

“– writing to you.”

Atesh laughed softly and beckoned her closer. “Remarkably good for someone who thought himself dead a couple of days ago. Though try telling them that,” he said, indicating where his valet had left with a flick of his head. There was a huskiness to his voice that wasn’t normally there. “They’re keeping me cooped up in here. ‘Bedrest’ they keep saying.”

A slow smile spread across Quin’s face. “I’m glad they’re obeying me.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and then shook his head. “I should have known. And here I was thinking that I gave orders around here, but here you are, instructing my servants as though you’re the lady of the house already.”

His meaning hung in the air between them. Another unspoken proposal.

It was her sole purpose in coming back to Arianople, in meeting him, seducing him. At least it had been. What was her purpose now?

Quin shook her head. “Please, don’t. Not right now.”

Brow creasing for a moment, he scrutinised her. “Then sit.” He patted the bed. “Tell me something of the outside world, since you’re responsible for my new captivity.”

With a laugh, she sat next to his knees. It felt like a safe distance, but the blood surging in her veins reminded her that there was no safe distance from him. She cleared her throat. “If it’s possible, you’re even more the talk of the town after your execution-that-never-was and the” – how to phrase it? – “the unofficial execution of Erdem, but I think the people of our great city have written it off as a welcome end to the Sultana’s true assassin.”

“And the bloody figure of Justice?” He cocked his head. “What do they make of that mystery?”

Quin licked her lips, but before she could respond, Atesh shifted the writing slope from his lap and leant over the edge of the bed, away from her, and reached underneath it. “Speaking of which,” he said, voice straining as he straightened up.

“My sabre,” she gasped. He held it to her, hilt-first. “You’re making a habit of returning swords to me, lately. Thank you.”

He gave a hoarse chuckle. “Well, I’m not solely responsible. Porto recovered it from the stage after you left and, as far as the janissaries are concerned, it ‘disappeared’ in the confusion. He brought it to me for safekeeping.”

Quin winced. Had Porto figured out the masked woman he’d given the Card to was her? A sword might be traceable. How many people had seen her sabre the day of the elephant attack? And yet he hadn’t used it against her or exposed her identity, if he did know it.

Neither had Atesh.

“I don’t think he realises it’s you,” he said, reading her expression, “but I think he knows I know.”

Perhaps the sergeant could be trusted, then. A trustworthy janissary. Now there was a novel idea.

“Gods,” he went on, “intrigues and secret identities are hard work.”

She laughed and placed the sabre at the end of the bed. He didn’t know the half of it. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Smiling, he shook his head, but when his gaze fell to her bandages, the humour faded. He shifted closer and with a gentle touch took her hand in his. “You can’t deny this, though.” He looked down at the white linen. “Is – is it bad?”

She gave a tight smile. “It will heal in time.”

He glanced back at her from beneath dark lashes. “I always knew there was more to you than it seemed.” His fingers traced over the back of hers. “More than the woman you were playing. And then I woke up from that darkness I never thought I’d leave, hearing your voice protesting – proving my innocence. Right in Ilyas’s face!” He shook his head, while she fought to keep her face unreadable. “When I satisfied Derry I could walk and came up those stairs and saw you drenched in blood, I thought my heart really would stop.”

“It mostly wasn’t mine.” She meant for it to sound flippant, but instead her voice came out husky and dry.

The warmth of his hand on her cheek made the breath catch in her throat. “That you – you risked so much.”

“I just did what I could.” His gratitude made her squirm – she’d so nearly given up.

A hoarse laugh escaped his lips and his hand dropped. “Then I’d hate to get on the wrong side of you.” His jade eyes scrutinised her. “You’d be a formidable enemy.”

She winced as his words brought back the sharp image of her first sight of him, of sizing him up as prey.

“No need to look so stricken, it was only a joke,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re on my side.” He paused and fixed her to the spot with his gaze, leaning close enough for her to smell orange and bergamot oil and soap on his skin. Stubble shadowed his jaw. “Quin, you saved my life. What’s more, you saved it when no one else believed it should be saved. Even me. I am eternally and utterly in your debt.”

Eternally. More talk of the future, but the future was an unknown for her. What she did know is that he’d have a different future to the one he’d given up on in that cell. His will proved it.

“As am I in yours,” she said. “I couldn’t convey it at the square – it was too – I” – she shook her head and gathered herself. “Atesh. Thank you. You left it all to them. To help them. I’m so sorry for what I said at the fortress. You aren’t a –”

The lightest touch of his finger on her lower lip silenced her.

“I was, though.” He took a long breath, so close she could feel the brush of air. “You were right when you said it, but now … I perhaps still lack a little direction, but I’ve got ideas of how I can use my life and my privileged position to leave the world better than I found it.” His jade eyes bore into hers, flecked with yellow, the iris ringed a deep sea green. His scrutiny would ordinarily have made her fidget, but she was scared to break the moment and so kept as still as she could, daring herself to withstand it. “Quin, you didn’t just save my life, you made me re-examine it and find a new one. I have a feeling I’m going to spend the rest of my life thanking you. That’s something I’d gladly do.”

His proximity made her dizzy. The good kind of dizzy she hadn’t felt in a long while and never to this extent. “And you saved mine – Erdem was about to kill me, after all – so let’s call it even.”

“But how did –”

The words died on his lips as she raised her hands. “Please, can’t we have questions another time?” Those parted lips. She should stop staring at them. “For now, can’t we just both be content that you’re alive, I’m alive, and your name is cleared?”

“Well, I am very glad to be alive,” he murmured, watching her watching his mouth. “Particularly at this exact moment.”

The faintest rise of the corner of his lips. Unbearable in the most delicious way. Without planning it, Quin found herself leaning forward, pressing a brief kiss upon that tease of a smile.

He took a moment, inches from her face, just looking.

“So, I get to touch you now?” He traced the line of her jaw, sending a shiver of pleasure down her back. “No running away or turning into a pumpkin?”

“And no enraged elephants, either. I’m spoiling you today.” Her heart would surely explode if he didn’t kiss her right now.

“Then I’d best make the most of it, hadn’t I?”

The air thrummed like magic or a lightning storm, then his lips were back upon hers, but firmer this time and his hands found her waist, pulling her to his lap. His warmth encircled her. The contradiction of his soft lips and hard chest.

This wasn’t necessary, wasn’t part of the show, the play, the game – she never did this to get a man’s fortune – but he made her do the foolish, unnecessary things, like pulling up his shirt, however much her hand hurt.

He made her forget the game.

He ignored her mask, seeing through it with those intense, observant eyes of his, drinking her up – the real her. There was so much he didn’t know – there would be so many questions – but for now he knew more than many ever did and still he was there kissing her with a hunger, hands tugging at her gown, desperate to know more, to see more of this strange woman she was.

And he was strange, too, in his own way. His artistic passion that made him risk the scandal of Gutter Street professionals. The edge of vulnerability, even as he displayed his art to the world. His desire to challenge and be challenged. That in the face of death he’d sought to make some good come from it. She ached with the need to see more of him, to know more of him.

Their clothes dropped away, piece-by-piece, until they stood bared of everything. No cloth, no jewel, no guile, only themselves.

She’d been naked with other men and women, but never before had she been so exposed. It froze her in place, made the breaths heave in her chest.

His beauty paralysed her still further: the bronze lines of his taut flesh could have been the work of a master sculptor. The only clues that he was a living, breathing man lay in his ragged breaths, the fading yellow-purple bruises, and the surge of muscles as he reached forward and lifted her.

Pressed against him, she lost herself in his lips, his solid shoulders, his hands upon her, and the bounce as they landed on the bed, her in his lap again.

“Quin,” he whispered against her, his voice a salve for the fear that had ruled her the past few weeks and that had frozen her just moments ago.

She couldn’t hold back any longer. Fear had led her for long enough; following her heart had led her here to him.

Closing her eyes, she surrendered.

The lap desk clattered to the floor, papers spilling, ignored, forgotten.

All that mattered was on the bed, surrounded by midnight blue and silver stars.

Then all that mattered for one exquisite moment was nothing, not who she was, not secrets, not assassins or plots, not Sultanas or Pashas or harem girls, just their sweet shared oblivion.

* * *

Not the end … Just the beginning!

Quin & Atesh’s Story Continues …

A Sleuth & a Charlatan

Counterfeit Contessa Book 2

Whispers in ballrooms. A blade in the dark.

In Arianople, secrets can prove deadly.

Quin might have saved Atesh from the gallows, but her problems didn't end there. Someone's spreading nasty rumours about her. Rumours that edge dangerously close to the truth.

Atesh might not have the hangman's noose around his neck anymore, but he has got questions. Lots of them. Is he ready to discover the answers?

As a thief, Quin can't afford to get involved in another murder investigation. But when a killer strikes close to home, she has no choice.

A monster stalks the streets. Blood stains the cobbles. And to discover the truth, Quin and Atesh are going to have to trust each other.

If you love swashbuckling adventure, thrilling action, and strong heroines, then you’ll love this page-turning new instalment in the Counterfeit Contessa series, recommended for fans of Holly Black and Miranda Honfleur.

Buy A Sleuth & a Charlatan today to discover a world of danger, intrigue, and simmering romance.

Available now.

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Get a glimpse of the start of Quin’s career in an exclusive prequel, Mudlark.

How does a girl from the Gutter Streets become a gentlewoman thief?

Meet Livia before her illness and Quin before she became the Counterfeit Contessa in this origin story.

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If you enjoyed this book, it would really help me if you could spend a few minutes leaving a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.

Thank you so much – it means a lot to me.

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To my mum, who bought me books.

To my sister, who gave me hers.

And to my husband, who puts up with my imaginary friends.

Acknowledgments

I prefer the term independent publishing to self publishing, because I don’t do this by myself. As you’ll see, there are a lot of people I have to thank …

Thank you, first, to the people who came first in my life – my family, who always gave me books and kept a bookshelf in the living room (and never stopped me reading the ‘grown up’ books even before I was one). Thank you to all the great teachers I had in school and uni, especially to my English teachers who all inspired me in their own ways. (Special shout out to Sam North and my MA comrades for all the support and encouragement in the early stages of Quin’s tale.)

Thank you, more recently, to my editor, Kendra Olson, and cover designer, Stuart Bache – you two have helped me make this thing real. Huge thanks to my beta readers who gave their time and energy – you’ve helped me make this thing better: Jen, Karolina, Felix, Lyndsey, Ross, Pete.

Many thanks to all the friends who have listened to my musings or given feedback on my blurb or cover or a million other things along the journey. (Oh, and who have put up with my anti-social ways – I told you I was working!)

And last, but certainly not least, thank you to my own gentleman, R, for his support, his encouragement, his everything all these years. Here it is!

About the Author

Clare Sager is the author of the Counterfeit Contessa series, the first book of which you just finished! She lives in Nottingham, Robin Hood country, so it’s no surprise she writes about a character who robs from the rich to give to the poor.

You can find her online home at www.claresager.com or connect with her on social media at the links below.

You can even send her an email at clare@claresager.com, if you’d like.

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A Thief & A Gentlewoman

by Clare Sager

First published in Great Britain in 2018 by CLARE SAGER

Ebook first published in 2018 by CLARE SAGER

Copyright © Clare Sager 2018

All rights reserved.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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