She would make her way to Darmoor. And if Jemsin wanted to kill her when she got there . . . well, it wouldn’t be the first time.
Five
Three days later, in the darkest corner of a rowdy inn called the Thirsty Craw, Safire sat at a table alone. Her ink-black hair was hidden beneath a sandskarf, she wore no uniform, and her weapons were concealed beneath her clothes. She frowned at the scarp thistle pinched between her fingers, careful not to prick herself on its poisonous thorns as she thought about her last encounter with the one who’d left it beside her bed.
One moment, the thief was right there in her room, caught in Safire’s trap. The next moment, she was . . . gone.
Safire had tugged on the rope—fastened out of her own bedsheets—to find it cut. She reached into the space where the thief had disappeared, but there was nothing there.
She’d considered afterward whether her thief was a ghost. But a ghost couldn’t steal a knife. And there was that strange scent, just before she disappeared. Like the salt sea in a storm. Powerful. Charged.
Ever since that night, the palace had been quiet. There were no more thefts. No more scarp thistles. It was as though the Death Dancer had well and truly gotten bored and moved on to more interesting heists. As if Safire had failed to meet her expectations. Had failed to challenge her.
Safire set down the thistle. She needed to let it go—as Dax had told her numerous times in the past three days. She needed to turn her mind to other things—like the fact that the deadliest pirate on the Silver Sea was rumored to be in Darmoor.
It was why Safire was here, instead of back in Firgaard.
She’d heard stories about Jemsin and the unspeakable things he did to his enemies (and sometimes his allies, too). Things like torturing prisoners until their minds broke and carrying out kidnappings where—once the ransom was paid—the kidnapped came back with one less hand. Or eye. Or lung.
If the pirate was in Darmoor, there had to be a reason. She needed to find out what that reason was, and if it had anything to do with Dax and Roa setting sail for the Star Isles tomorrow. Once the king and queen were out on the water, they’d be less easy prey, since there were several dragons flying with them.
It was the time they spent in port that Safire worried about.
So she passed the day trawling the slick cobbled streets of the port city studying the ships in the harbor, eavesdropping on gossiping dockhands, and—after coming up with nothing—planted herself in the seediest inn she could find, watching and listening for any hint of pirates in the harbor.
But she heard not a word of Jemsin, his crew, or his ship—the Hyacinth. So perhaps her source had gotten the details wrong. Or perhaps it was a rumor.
Safire tipped back her now-cold tea, swallowed, then rose to her feet.
She was stepping out the door and onto the street when she bumped shoulders with someone on their way in.
A familiar scent enveloped her. Sea salt and lightning. It was the same smell that filled her room the night her thief escaped for good.
Safire’s footsteps slowed.
The Death Dancer? Here?
Safire recalled the two times she’d come face-to-face with the thief. She had piercing green eyes, a small stature, and kept her wheat-blond hair knotted at the nape of her neck. The first time, she’d been dressed like a soldat. But the night in Safire’s bedroom, she’d been dressed all in black. Like a shadow.
“Tell Jemsin his dog is here to report, will you?”
Safire knew that voice. It was the same voice that mockingly called her princess. Her pulse sped up.
A gruff voice replied, “Tell him yourself, Eris.”
The door swung open and shut.
Eris? thought Safire. Is that her name?
Turning slowly, she found the stoop of the Thirsty Craw empty. Her heart pounded in her chest. Not only was the Death Dancer inside the inn, but Jemsin was in there, too?
She nearly smiled at her good luck.
To keep from being seen by the thief—Eris—she waited outside. Then waited some more. Finally, Safire retraced her steps back to the door. She would find out exactly where they were meeting in this inn and what their plans were. Once she did, she would return with her soldats and catch two notorious criminals in one night.
Breathing in deep, Safire pushed the door open and followed the Death Dancer in.
Six
When the truth of what she’d done set in, Eris thought of running. She’d stabbed Kor in the ribs without caring that wound might kill him. She’d set fire to the Sea Mistress and taken the only rowboat without considering that some of the crew might not know how to swim. The smart thing to do was to run. But if she ran, Jemsin would send every pirate on the Silver Sea after her—not to mention his summoner. So here she was, crawling back to port like a dog to her master. Wanting to bite, but knowing it would only earn her a swift kick in the ribs.
Eris moved like a thundercloud through Darmoor’s rain-soaked streets. It had been nearly three days since she’d left the Sea Mistress burning on the Silver Sea. Which was plenty of time for Jemsin to get wind of the news. When Eris closed her eyes, she could still see the sails going up in flames. Could still feel the acrid sting of smoke in her lungs.
That memory flickered again, of the last time she’d watched something burn.
She shoved the image away.
Whatever punishment Jemsin had in store for her, it was better to get it over with.
Eris made her way past the sprawl of shop fronts and public houses and oil lamps lining the streets. She bared her teeth when the Thirsty Craw came into view. Karsen was out front, easily identified by his barrel-like beer gut and the beard that was probably growing at least three types of mold. After he growled a gruff hello, he pushed the door open. Eris stepped onto a floor sticky with gods knew what, bumping shoulders with someone on their way out. Probably a sailor who’d just spent the last of their wages on food, drink, and women. Eris shook her head, pityingly. She knew the type well.
Behind the bar, Kiya caught her eye and gave a subtle nod, letting Eris know in one small gesture everything she needed to: Jemsin and the rest of the crew were upstairs, in their usual room.
Eris smiled her thanks, then headed for the stairs. But someone was already coming down, blocking her way. The moment Eris saw their face, her heart lurched and she stepped behind Karsen. A girl with a rat nest of red hair and a sandpiper tattoo on her pale inner arm headed straight for the bar.
Rain.
At the sight of her, Eris’s chest constricted. She ducked into the shadows beneath the stairs, crouching low next to stacked boxes full of whisky, watching Rain talk to Kiya behind the bar.
Had the Sea Mistress’s crew survived the blaze? The notion brought a rush of relief. Despite her rage at Kor, Eris didn’t want his blood on her hands, nor his crew’s. But how had Rain gotten to Darmoor in the same amount of time as Eris? It wasn’t possible. Unless another ship had seen the Sea Mistress burning and come to its aid.
Hells, thought Eris.
She heard Rain utter the words, “Death Dancer.”
Kiya shrugged nonchalantly as she wiped down a mug of ale and set it back on the shelf. “Haven’t seen her.”
“You sure about that?”
Kiya glanced up, arching one black brow in a move Eris knew from personal experience was two parts pretty, one part peril. Kiya smiled that devilishly sweet smile of hers. “She’s often at Moll’s place when she’s in town. You could try there.”