The Fragile Threads of Power, page 46
Lila didn’t understand. She stepped past him, raking her gaze down the air. Still, she didn’t see anything unusual. And then Alucard carefully rounded the space and turned to face her. He looked wrong, like he was standing behind a pane of warping glass.
“What is that?” she murmured, half to herself.
Alucard’s hand flexed, and a breeze kicked up in answer, a current of dust that caught the light, and drew the shape of the mark. She frowned, following its outline to the ground.
“I have a theory,” said Alucard. “I think it’s—”
“A door,” she said.
He actually looked a little disappointed, like he wanted to be the one to say it. “Well, yes. Exactly.”
Lila stared at the echo of the door. She’d been right. The persalis had been damaged. The thief must have brought it here, to be repaired. And either it had been fixed, or someone made a mess while trying. She reached out, as if she could lay her hand against the mark, but her fingers met with no resistance. It was only an echo, a scar left by a spell.
“When did this happen?” she asked grimly.
“Last night, we think,” said Alucard, “or early this morning.”
Lila swore under her breath. If only she had come here, instead of Helarin Way. She’d been so close, and now, she had nothing. The persalis was in the wind now, and whatever clues she might have found destroyed, and whatever happened here in the hours before dawn, whatever answers she might have found—
Lila straightened suddenly.
For a moment, the wreckage disappeared, and she was back on Maris’s ship, the old woman handing her a small glass card. A backward glance, she’d called it.
In case, like me, you find yourself a step behind.
Lila’s hand went to her pocket, before she remembered she’d stashed it in the captain’s quarters. She turned on her heel, and strode out of the rubble.
“Where are you going, Bard?” asked Alucard.
“To fetch something from my ship.”
Part Ten
OUT OF THE FRYING PAN, INTO THE FIRE
I
GREY LONDON
Dead people didn’t hurt this much.
That’s how Tes knew she was alive.
The tavern was dark, the candles all burned out, but the weak dawn light leaked between the shutters, tracing the room in shades of grey instead of black.
She was no longer on a table in the center of the unfamiliar room, but on a makeshift pallet, made from a cushion and a couple benches pushed against the wall. Tes ached from her fingertips to the place she’d been stabbed, and far deeper, in the center of her chest. Like her heart had worked too hard, pumping all that blood, only to lose it.
When she tried to sit up, she felt the pull of stitches down one side, the tender skin drawn taut against the thread. She hissed through her teeth, then eased herself up, closing her eyes against the dizziness until it passed.
Tes tugged up her shirt—which was no longer her own, but a fresh one (and judging by the length of the sleeves and the way the hem skimmed her thighs, it belonged to the man who’d found her)—and studied the wound over her hip. The blade had gone in straight but deep, and must have missed the important parts, but it would definitely leave a scar. Nero was always telling her that scars were sexy (usually right after he came in with a split brow or a fresh scrape) but Tes thought of Calin’s ruined face, and grimaced.
Her curls were loose, falling in her face, but when she tried to pull them back, the movement tugged the stitches, and sent a fresh stab of pain through her side, so she left the wild mass and padded over to the counter, where the contents of her coat had been laid out: the stack of coins, and the doormaker, and Vares.
Only, the owl wasn’t there.
Panic fluttered through her, until she turned and saw the dead bird sitting on a table, in front of the man who’d saved her. He sat slumped forward in a chair, his head resting on his folded arms, and the little owl at his elbow. Tes took a cautious step forward.
Ned Tuttle, that’s what the woman had called him.
It was a weird name, but then, this was a weird place. The farthest world, the one whose magic had been lost. That’s what she’d been told, and yet, here it was, curling quietly around the shoulders of a skinny sleeping man.
The thread wasn’t bright—it emitted only a soft, golden glow—but it was there.
Stranger still, it wasn’t the same thread that had led her here, to this oddly familiar tavern and its odd proprietor. The one she’d seen in the dark had held no color, only a hollow black-and-white glow. The barmaid had had no magic, so it wasn’t hers, but Tes was certain the thread had come from here.
Her gaze drifted, searching the tavern. There was the front door, as well as a set of narrow stairs that led up, perhaps to rooms overhead. But there was a third, one that didn’t lead out onto the street. Tes padded toward it. Tried the handle. Locked. Back home, she could have simply pulled the threads inside the bolt to free it. But she wasn’t home, and things didn’t work by magic here. They were stubborn, and solid, and it was maddening.
Her hand fell from the knob just as something twitched between the wood and the surrounding wall.
A thread. Black-and-white, emitting that impossible glow.
Just like the one she’d seen the night before.
Now that Tes wasn’t bleeding to death, the sight of it tickled her memory. She’d seen its like before, that lightless shine that seemed to eat itself. It reminded her of the shadow that clung to the cabinet in her father’s shop, the one that held the relics of Black London. Even if it wasn’t, she knew better than to handle things she didn’t understand.
She retreated from the floating strand, when suddenly it reached for her. The magic itself twitched forward, shooting toward her with such sudden speed and force that Tes recoiled, staggered back away from the questing thread.
Her heel caught on a chair leg, which scraped against the floor, and Ned’s head shot up, his head swiveling around until he saw her.
He sighed in relief. “Oh good,” he said. “You’re alive.”
Tes glanced back to the door, half expecting the tendril to surge out into the room. But it was gone. She turned her attention to Ned, and cobbled together her rusty High Royal.
“Thanks to you,” she said, the words strange in her mouth.
He rose to his feet and began to talk very fast, the words blurring together.
“Please,” she said. “Slow down. This isn’t … my language.”
Ned cocked his head to one side. “Oh, huh, I never thought of that. It makes sense, I suppose. Other worlds, and such. But Kell always spoke the King’s English.”
Tes started at the name. “Kell Maresh?”
But of course, it had to be. There was only one Kell who could move between worlds.
Ned nodded enthusiastically. “Do you know him?”
Tes snorted. People didn’t know the crimson Antari, Kell Maresh, adopted brother to King Rhy. Most never even met him. The closest she had ever come was when she named the owl Vares after him. But Ned was staring at her expectantly, as if it were a perfectly fair question.
“No,” she said. “I’ve never met the prince.”
“Prince?” Ned’s eyes went wide. “As in, heir to a throne?”
Tes nodded. Ned whistled softly. “He never told me.” He began to pace. “You sure we’re talking about the same Kell? Red hair? One fully black eye? And there’s his companion, Lila Bard—but she’s no princess. Have you met her?”
In fact, Tes had met the other Antari, once, when she first got to London.
It hadn’t gone well.
“Speaking of,” said the man, rambling on. “You don’t have one—a black eye, I mean—but you’re still here—how did you do that? I thought only those magicians with the black eyes could cross the threshold. Of course Lila doesn’t have one either, but then, that’s because one of hers is glass, not that you’d ever know.…”
The room was spinning and he was talking too fast again. Tes sank into his vacant chair and pressed her fingers to her temples. What she really needed was a very large, very hot, very strong cup of—
“Tea?” offered Ned.
She looked up. “You have tea?”
He bobbed his head. “Can’t get by without the stuff. You look like you could use some. I could, too. Long night. Of course, not quite so long as yours…”
He swept across the room, his long legs carrying him quickly behind the counter, and into an alcove. She heard the rattle of a kettle, a match being struck, a stove.
Vares sat on the table, the threads of the owl’s magic bright against the backdrop of the empty room. Tes reached out and ran her finger lightly down one string and the bird fluttered happily, as if she’d stroked the feathers he didn’t have.
Ned reappeared with a rattling tray. “How do you take it?” he asked.
She didn’t understand the question. “In a cup?”
He laughed—it was a gentle sound—then set a pot and two cups on the table, as well as a saucer of milk and a bowl of sugar. It had never occurred to Tes to foul the beautiful bitter strength of her tea with cream and sweetness, but maybe the tea here needed it. She watched as he put three cubes of sugar and a splash of milk in his cup. She put nothing in hers.
If the tea was bad enough, she decided, she would try it.
But the tea wasn’t bad enough. It wasn’t bad at all.
It was … different, of course. Different, but just as strong as she liked it. It was nice to know, that worlds might change, but this, at least, was constant. She wrapped her fingers around the steaming cup, and drank, and for the first time since she’d fixed the doormaker, and stepped into another world, and killers had come and threatened to cut off her hands, and her shop was destroyed and she was stabbed and forced to flee into another world, Tes felt her eyes burn with tears.
A few dripped to the table before she scrubbed them away.
Ned pretended not to notice. She was grateful for that. He nudged a small plate toward her. On it, a stack of pale disks, little bigger than coins.
“Biscuits,” he explained.
Tes considered them. They looked like kashen, a spiced cookie she’d eaten as a child. She took one, and sniffed it, but couldn’t detect any spice. She bit down, or tried, but it was hard, and bland, and resisted in her teeth, and she was wondering how—and why—a person would eat it when Ned took one and dunked it in his tea.
Skeptically, she followed his lead, placing the moistened biscuit in her mouth. This time, it was warm, and soft, and sugary. Not kashen by any stretch, but nice.
Vares clicked his beak, and Ned stared at the owl with a kind of childlike wonder.
“Amazing,” he murmured, and Tes felt herself preen a little—it was an elegant bit of magic. She finished her cup, and he poured her another, this one even stronger for how long it had steeped.
“Did you and Kell have tea often?” she asked.
Ned started to laugh, and choked on half a biscuit. “No. His visits have always been strictly business. He’s never even taken off his coat.”
“I’ve heard it’s magic,” she said. “That coat.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Isn’t everything magic where you come from?”
Tes started to shake her head, then stopped. Not everything was spelled, of course, but there was magic in it. That’s where the threads came from.
“You have magic,” she said, glancing at the tendril in the air around him. “You shouldn’t. But you do.”
It was like she’d lit a lamp inside Ned’s face. “You can tell? I mean, I know it’s not much, but I’ve been practicing, every day, and I feel like I’m getting better…”
There he went again, talking too fast in High Royal, his hands moving in his enthusiasm. In fact, this man never seemed to stop moving. He reminded Tes of Vares. All those little twitches and shifts. She waited until he lost enough steam that she could catch the words—something about candles and element kits—and then her gaze drifted back to the locked wooden door on the other side of the room.
“There’s magic in there, too.”
Ned’s brow furrowed. The joy dropped out of his face. “Oh.”
“What’s behind the door?”
“Nothing,” he said, swift as a window slamming shut. The kind of lie that made it clear she wouldn’t get the truth.
Tes wanted to tell him that whatever it was, it wasn’t safe.
But there was a look on Ned’s face that said he already knew. He knew it was bad. He knew it was wrong. He knew, and here it was, and here he was with it. So she simply said, “Be careful.”
And then she finished her cup of tea, and stood, wincing as the stitches pulled.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
It was a good question. She didn’t have a good answer. But she couldn’t stay here. She went to the counter, and gingerly pulled on her coat, shoved her feet into her boots, tucked the doormaker under her arm, and slipped all of the coins save one into her pocket. She put the last on Ned’s table. As payment, for the help, and the tunic, and the tea.
He did a strange thing then. He took up the coin and brought it to his nose, murmuring what sounded like flowers.
“You’re very odd,” she said.
He smiled. “So I’ve been told. If you see Kell or Lila, tell them Ned Tuttle says hello.”
Tes laughed a little at that, even though it hurt. She couldn’t imagine running into the two Antari, but he seemed hopeful, so she said, “I will.”
Ned stood, following her to the door. “You can come back, you know. Anytime,” he said, throwing the latch. “You don’t have to be bleeding to death. I mean, obviously, if you are hurt, do come, but if you just want to swing by for a tea and a chat, that’s fine, too.”
The door swung open, revealing a pale grey morning.
“Oh,” he said, “I never got your name.”
And perhaps it was because of all he’d done to save her life, or perhaps it was because she never thought she’d see him again—perhaps it was just her tired mind giving way—but she found herself telling him the truth.
“It’s Tesali Ranek,” she said, adding, “but friends call me Tes.” Even though the truth was only Nero called her that.
Ned smiled. “Well, Tes. You know where to find me.”
And she did.
Outside, the streets were full of carts and people and voices, the morning cluttered with movement, but without the many layered threads of magic, there was a flatness to it. Was this how her world looked to everyone else? It was so … quiet, and while it was certainly unnerving, to see only the material, mundane world, Tes also felt a strange relief. Like a cold hand on a fevered cheek.
She looked back, reading the sign over the tavern door.
“The Five Points,” she murmured to herself, committing the High Royal words to memory.
And then she set off down the street.
II
A few heads turned at the sight of the girl in a too-long tunic and tight britches, a mane of wild curls and a slight hitch in her step, talking to herself under her breath in a foreign tongue.
But of course, Tes wasn’t talking to herself.
She was talking to Vares. Not that anyone else could see the dead owl tucked inside the pocket of her coat.
“I’m not stalling,” she muttered. “I just need a plan.”
She stopped on a street corner. Looked up and down the road.
What a strange city.
The buildings were a mix of wood and brick and stone, mismatched, a mixture of new and old. They ranged from narrow houses squeezed in like sandwich meat between hefty chunks of bread, to vaulting structures with pointed peaks. She wondered how they did it, built all this without a drop of magic. If they really had to fell every tree, lift and set every stone.
It was impressive.
But it was also dirty. Every time she breathed, she caught a foul taste, like food gone off, and smoke belched into the sky, sending up clouds as black as coal.
She walked along the riverbank. In daylight, it turned out, the water wasn’t black, or blue, but grey. The pale grey of puddles in the street, of soot and storm clouds. It made her shiver, to see the Isle stripped of color, a source reduced to a simple stream. She walked on until she reached a bridge, stopped to orient herself again.
“Yes,” she told the owl. “I know where I’m going.”
That wasn’t strictly true. But she had a hunch.
It wasn’t just that she’d heard of the other cities called London. The river, though it lacked its crimson glow, seemed to occupy the same space, and though the buildings and bridges were all different, the city had the same rough shape. As if the same bones were there, just inside a different body. So, as Tes walked, she drew a map in her head, not of this city, but her own, grateful that she’d spent the last few years learning the ins and outs of the capital.
When she’d gone through the door, Tes had and hadn’t moved through space. A different world, yes, but the same physical place. She thought it was a decent bet, then, that walking a step in one world would carry her a step in the other.
“If Calin survived,” she went on, “I’m betting Bex did, too.”
Which was why she was now putting a healthy distance between herself and the shop ruins and the shal—or at least, where she guessed they were—before going back into her London.
“No, I can’t stay here,” she muttered, as if Vares had been the one to offer the option. She shuddered even as she said it. Nice as it was to rest her eyes a little while, the thought of a life in a place like this, a world without magic, was enough to turn her stomach. No, she had to go back. Even if it was dangerous. Even if they were looking for her.
The world—her own world—was a big place. She had run once.
She could run again.
Tes paused and closed her eyes, drew the map in her head one last time to be sure she was in roughly the right spot. Then she knelt, and set the little wooden box on the ground. She glanced around, saw a pair of women strolling by, lost in chatter, a vendor setting up a cart, an old man on a bench, reading a paper, but none of them had noticed her.
