Chapter 1
Nimona Weston was about to do something dangerously foolish. It would not have been the first foolish thing she’d done but possibly the most dangerous. A debt to the Trust had her tied to bargains and theft, to society’s sordid underbelly.
She had been born into it, but it was not where she would die. She would regain her freedom, even if she had to resort to underhanded tactics to get it. The Trust would not own her any longer.
She locked the bedroom door behind her then walked barefoot across a rug-scattered floor to her wardrobe. Lace and beads stared back at her, but beyond them, well hidden from common view, waited slim black pants, a trim, long-tailed jacket, and tall boots. In short order, the day’s gown was draped over her chaise, and Nim was dressed in clothes that would never be accepted among respectable company. She closed the wardrobe door then took a long draw from the decanter on her desk. As the liquid burned through her lingering dread, Nim slid the hidden panel beside her bookshelf aside to stare into the darkness of a narrow corridor that would give her passage to the streets of Inara.
It was the turn of the moon and time to pay the tithes.
The back streets of Inara were shadowed and damp, but the air was warm enough to remind Nim that the seasons were changing again. Springtide was well and truly gone, and she’d been forced to break, time and again, the promise she’d made herself. Promises broken were what she’d come to expect, along with more than her share of unfortunate luck, but it would be different this time. She had no other choice.
Her boot splashed into a puddle, and Nim glanced over her shoulder to be certain she was still alone. A few figures shifted among the shadows, men about the evening’s work who paid no mind to the dark-cloaked figure heading to a part of the city best left unnoticed. Kings had their crowns, but the Trust held the power. It didn’t matter how one was entangled with the Trust, whether it was the threat of debt, shame, or fear of retribution—to be among court society meant that one could never associate with those who dealt in magical favors.
Her father had taught her that. He’d been highest among them, close to the king. And somehow, he’d gotten tangled in a dark bargain that had cost him his station and his freedom.
He’d been fortunate, though, because others had faced far worse. Nim could recall half a dozen members of court who’d been hanged for the mere rumor of magical favors. The Trust might have held the power, but the king still held the city. Magic was forbidden by law, and far behind Nim, between her evening’s destination and Inara Castle, a platform waited on the square for hanging day.
A clatter echoed from a nearby alleyway, and Nim sped her steps. Her gloves felt too tight, her cloak too restrictive. She hated tithe day more than anything, and her list of hates was amply long.
A pair of torches lit the tall arch, its iron gates raised, that led to the undercity. The sentries posted at the entrance were the same as they had been the last ten moons, but Nim did not give sign of recognition when the torchlight flickered over their features. She never looked a member of the Trust in the eyes if she could help it. Contract or no, she would give nothing to the Trust that resembled courtesy. Not after what they had taken from her.
The torches smelled of magic but burned as hot and unsteadily as any that lined the walls of the city’s taverns and inns. A bit uninspired when one had access to untold power and yet not unwelcome—the strangest magics made Nim uneasy. It was unsettling to see forces work against nature, to feel their pulses beat with her own. She much preferred those that felt more real, those that could be pretended away.
“Daughter of Bancroft Weston.” The voice came from the end of the corridor, from a figure made faceless by the shadows of stone.
“Lady Weston,” Nimona said. “I am not owned by my father.”
The figure did not move into the sparse light, but Nim could feel his smile. She might not have been owned by her father, but she was owned by his debt. Her life was signed to the Trust.
Nim shoved the hood of her cloak back and gave the darkness a stern look. Losing her standing in society had done nothing to steal the temperament she’d earned with it.
The man let out a breath that might have been a laugh.
She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of his loyalties, but the door beyond him opened, bathing the corridor in light. She stepped back, even though the woman rushing through paid no mind to either Nim or the sentry. The woman bore a fresh scar from her brow to her chin, the mark jagged, pink, and stark. Nim swallowed any words she might have said. The Trust did not take what had not been bought by them. If the woman was marked, it was because her debt had not been paid, because the beauty she’d bartered for was theirs to reclaim.
The sentry gave Nim a smirk, and she felt the color drain from her face. Nim was beautiful, too, and a part of her had long suspected that her own beauty had been bought. Those who dealt with the Trust were unable to contain a desire for the things they could not reach on their own. Their debts were often a myriad of small favors, none of which would serve them well at all. Her father had been a bettor, like so many others who sold their freedom for magic, on risks that might someday land him reward. Nim would never be able to answer her doubts until she paid his debt and held his contract in her hands. If he was the reason she was beautiful, he was also the reason his debts had transferred that contract to her.
It was something she’d pondered since she was a girl and her features had started to gain notice. He could have wagered so many things—there was no way not to wonder whether he’d bet on her looks in order to get her a match with someone at court. And to wonder if that bargain had been paid by someone else, if it had been what had cost him Nim’s mother—why she’d caught the illness that had eventually killed her—or why Nim had never had any sisters. If those things were true, she might never know what it had cost her father, but it had all been for naught. He was imprisoned in the undercity, and she’d been forced to take on his debt. Whatever he’d owed, it was hers to repay, even if her face would be cut, even if she was to be marked as owned.
The sentry gestured Nim into the room. She drew a steadying breath, wishing she’d taken a second pull from her decanter.
“Ah, ah.” The sentry stopped her with a hand on her sternum, and she froze, shooting him a glare she knew she might come to regret. “Weapons,” he said.
Nim frowned but was grateful he’d reminded her before she was caught inside with one on her person. She’d been punished before, and it was not an experience she was eager to revisit. She dropped her dagger and small mace onto the stone and waited for him to remove his hand. He did not look at her once his task was complete, and she strode into the chamber beyond.
* * *
Nim walked into the space with careful, steady steps, head high, eyes forward, and hands clasped loosely behind her back, the way she’d been taught. Lessons from the Trust were not easy things—nothing was spelled out but could only be guessed by missteps, and one learned quickly. Mistakes cost those who were owned more than just the debt. Foolish errors were paid for with pain.
“Miss Weston.” The words echoed through the open chamber, the room’s warm glow entirely at odds with everything it represented.