Blood Heir

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She deserved all she wanted in the world.

“Let’s go get one,” she said, pulling May forward, but the child shook her head.

“No, look,” she whispered, her gaze darting between Ana and the stall. “The girl.”

It took Ana a moment to realize that May was referring to the pastry vendor, a young girl barely into her adolescent years. She wore a ragged hood, her pale face and sand-colored hair peeking out from beneath.

“She’s like me,” May said softly, the words falling from her lips like snow, too-soon gone. She stood still, her eyes an ocean of silent memories. “Like us.”

Ana looked. Harder. And it hit her all at once. The pastry vendor’s slouch, curling in on herself as though she wanted to disappear from this world; the air of diffidence, bordering on fear, that emanated from her. And her eyes—eyes that were wells of sadness, like May’s in the dead of winter.

Except May’s had always borne hope.

Before Ana could reply, May pulled away and slipped through the crowd. Ana hurried after her, just in time to see the child reach into the folds of her gray fur cloak and dig out a single copperstone. It was one of the coins Ana had told her to keep, promising they would use it to buy a treat.

Gently, May took the pastry vendor’s hands and folded the coin into them. “Keep it,” May whispered, pressing a small finger to her lips. She chanced a glance at Ana, and for a moment, her eyes said it all: flashes of rage and crashing waves of grief tossing and turning within. And Ana realized with gut-wrenching pain that May had seen her ma-ma in this Affinite, that she’d been looking for her ma-ma when she’d spotted this pastry vendor.

Suddenly, the pastries looked too bright, too false, and the rest of the world faded to a blur of noises and dim colors.

It was as though the world she had seen for the past eighteen years was slowly peeling away to reveal the truth of what it was. How many times had she purchased something from someone who might have been forced into a bad contract? How many overworked and exploited Affinites had she waved at in the crowds when she had traveled with her father to see her empire as a child?

Cyrilian law stated that employment under contract was fair employment … but it never dug into actual terms of that agreement. How an employer was to treat an employee. The terms of payment. Whether that contract had been signed willingly … or through coercion.

“Here,” the pastry vendor said quietly. Her hands darted over the rows of pastries on display, and she plucked one up and held it out to May. “It’s a ptychy’moloko. Bird’s milk cake. You can have it.”

Ana recognized the hush in the girl’s voice, the furtive way her eyes darted around to check that nobody else caught this transaction.

May smiled as she took her first bite, and Ana would have paid all the goldleaves in the world to see her friend smile like that again. “It’s good,” May said, and held it out to Ana.

It was difficult to manage a smile over the cold realization that had just seeded in her chest. “It was my favorite as a child,” Ana said. She thought of Yuri, his coal-gray eyes bright as he handed treats to her and Luka, steaming hot from the kitchens. “Go ahead, finish it.”

May’s face was radiant. “I like the hard brown layer,” she said between bites.

“That’s chokolad.” The pastry vendor watched May with a hint of a smile warming her eyes. “It’s made of cocoa from Nandji.”

“Oi!”

A man in lush furs shoved through the crowd, his gaze locked on May. The pastry vendor’s face had gone paler than flour.

“Did she pay?” the nobleman snarled, storming over and making as though to snatch the pastry from May’s hands.

Something snapped in Ana. “Don’t touch her,” she growled.

Rage flickered in the man’s eyes, but he turned to the pastry vendor, who was watching him with a terrified expression. “I’m going to count my books tonight, and if I find that you’ve been stealing …” He lowered his voice to a hiss. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, witch.”

“Ana.” May’s voice trembled as she tugged insistently at Ana’s hand, pulling her away from the stall. “We gotta go. There’s nothing we can do here. Please.”

Even as she followed May, Ana’s step faltered. It felt wrong, in her heart, to turn and leave someone in need of help. Someone whose Affinity made them different, ostracized. Someone like her.

A cry rang out; Ana and May froze as they turned to look. And, with the rest of the crowd, they gasped as the nobleman backhanded the young pastry vendor with all his strength.

The slap resonated in the square like the crack of a whip. The pastry vendor staggered back and crashed into the stall of neatly arranged pastries.

Anger coiled around Ana, white-hot. She was the Princess of Cyrilia. There was a time when scum like him would have bowed to her, when she could have ordered his demise with a single word.

That time was past, but she could still do the right thing.

“Please, mesyr,” the Affinite girl begged.

The nobleman raised his hand again.

Ana wrapped her Affinity around him. She’d only ever learned how to push or pull, but now she commanded for the blood in his body to remain still with every ounce of her strength.

For a few seconds, the nobleman was frozen, his arm raised and his expression slipping from fury to panic. He began to choke, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

She was aware of May tugging at her cloak. She heard the gasps of the crowd as she finally let go of the nobleman’s blood and his body hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. Horrible wheezing sounds came from his mouth.

“Ana,” May shrieked. “We need to go, before—”

Someone screamed. As the Vyntr’makt erupted into panic, Ana realized that she had gone too far.

“May,” she gasped, and the child’s hand was in hers, and they were stumbling away from the collapsed nobleman and the pastry vendor.

Yet the crowd had grown oddly still, and the skin on Ana’s back pricked. It took her a moment to realize that a hush had fallen over the entire square. All the vendors and townspeople were gazing at a spot behind Ana with expressions of awe and anxiety.

Slowly, Ana turned. And looked into a squad of Cyrilian Imperial Patrols.

9 (#ulink_53c1bfd6-445c-5056-a899-82234474536e)

The interior of the ramshackle pub was dark, lit only by the flickering flames of candle stubs on the tables. A broken wooden sign announced in crude writing: The Gray Bear’s Keep. Ramson paused at the door only to pass a hand over the dagger he’d stolen, before stepping onto the creaky wooden floorboards. He had come to collect a debt.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, and he saw that several tables were seated, their guests bent over their drinks and speaking in hushed tones. There was an air of menace to the flames licking at the brass mantel and the clink of cups between murmured exchanges.

Several people turned to look at Ramson as he passed them by, and he found himself assessing the new outfit he had procured—for free, albeit unknown to the seller—from a nearby stall. An ordinary tunic, black vest, gray breeches, riding boots, and a nice Cyrilian fur cloak to top it all off. He looked like the perfect patron for these types of places: sleek, groomed, and utterly unmemorable.

Ramson scanned the bar. Only a practiced eye would notice the board of Affinites-for-hire posters on the far wall, the narrow staircase by the counter with a crooked Reservations Only sign, and the bottle of green-tinted Deys’voshk disguised amid the rows of liquor on the back shelf. This was no ordinary pub. It was an Affinite trafficking post.

Ramson stalked up to the counter and slipped onto a bar stool, ducking his head behind an expensive-looking samovar. The barman ambled over. He was of bearish height and build, with a great gray beard—one that had grown in size from the secrets he kept over his tenure at the most notorious inn in Cyrilia. Though he wore a coarse apron smudged with grease and splashed with various shades of liquors, there was no missing the flash of his gold ring as he polished a glass. “Esteemed greetings to you, noble mesyr, and might I express my delight upon your patronage of my humble pub! Igor, at your service.”

“Salutations to you, my good gentleman, and might I say that the pleasure is … all mine.” Ramson lifted his head.

Igor almost dropped the glass he was cleaning. “Damn hell, man,” he muttered, slipping into a lowborn Cyrilian slur.

“Damn hells,” Ramson corrected him, and gave a twirl of his fingers. “Brandy. And don’t bother with the cheap shit.”

Igor stooped slightly, peering at Ramson’s face. “So it really is you. I was wondering when you’d be back.”

“You were wondering if I’d be back.”

Igor chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “I won’t deny it. The news has spread across this entire blasted empire. You’ve made a mess, Quicktongue.” He turned, reaching into one of the shelves at the back of the bar. There was a sharp clink and the sound of liquid sloshing.

Ramson watched the barman’s beefy back as he worked to prepare a drink. “I’m cleaning it up, Igor. My betrayers’ll pay.” He slid out his dagger. “But first things first. I’m here to collect a debt.”

Igor turned, clutching a tumbler and a bottle of Bregonian brandy. Concern seeped into his murky eyes. “Look now, Quicktongue. Business’s been bad, what with the Mikhailov emperor sick and the economy tankin’.” He passed a hand over his bald forehead and nodded at the board in the back. Papers were pinned chaotically atop each other, some bearing crude drawings. “Sales’ve been slow.”

Ramson was interested enough to spare a glance at the board. Affinites-for-Hire, the posters declared, when really, they whispered to those in the know that these were foreign Affinites whose contracts were up for sale. “I don’t want your money. I want information.”

“Ah.” Igor’s shoulders sagged with relief, and he set Ramson’s drink before him. “You know my facts’re worth more than my goldleaves.” He paused, and his eyes slid to the dark staircase behind the counter. “Perhaps this calls for a private discussion in the Reservation Room.”

Ramson stood, grabbing his glass.

Igor hesitated. “I’ll be right up. I need to close out a few tabs, grab a drink for meself, then I’ll be all yours. Won’t be a minute.”

“Take your time. I’ll show myself up.”

The Reservation Room was up a narrow flight of steps built into the cold stone walls of the pub. Ramson climbed them and opened a set of wooden doors to a candlelit room, well furnished with red velvet settees and an expensive oakwood table. He didn’t miss the bottles of Deys’voshk lining the shelves at the back of the room, glinting in the flickering candlelight.

He shoved the thoughts from his mind and raised his drink, inhaling sharply before taking a swig. Igor hadn’t cheated him. This was real Bregonian brandy: pungently bitter and subtly sweet, with a hint of roses and the zest of citrus that blossomed on the palate and lingered as an aftertaste.

Footsteps thudded up the stairs, and Igor sauntered in with a mug in each hand. He took care to shut the door behind him.

Ramson waited for the familiar click of a lock. No conversation in the Reservation Room was conducted with an unlocked door.

When it didn’t come, a thread of caution tightened inside him.

With a great sigh, Igor placed the second round of drinks on the table and plopped down on one of the settees. Firelight danced on his face. “I see the wardens haven’t beaten the spirit out of you. You look healthy as a young buck, just a shade paler. What’s it been, four moons?”

“Three moons and twenty-one days. I’ve been counting.” Ramson slouched back against the plump velvet cushion of his settee like a cat basking in the sun, watching Igor through heavy-lidded eyes. “They don’t serve stuff like this in prison.”

“Aye.” Igor raised his glass. “These’d cost a good few goldleaves.”

“Word on the street is that you owe me more than a few goldleaves.” Ramson leaned forward, his brandy forgotten, and instead savored the look of utter panic that flashed across Igor’s face. “I know you turned me in. Oh, don’t look so pitiful, man. Have some damned balls and own up to it.”

It was a wager on Ramson’s part, but it was his best guess thus far. He’d been holing up for the night at Igor’s pub when a squad of Whitecloaks stormed in and arrested him on a count of treason against the Crown. He’d spent his moons in prison combing through every gnarled thread of his network until he’d pinned down a theory: Igor had turned him in, but he’d been doing the dirty work for someone else. Someone close to Kerlan who’d had information about his mission.

Igor’s gaze flitted nervously to the door; he wiped a sheen of sweat from his face, smearing more grease on his forehead. “Ramson, my friend, you must know—”

“Don’t ‘Ramson, my friend’ me.” Ramson slammed his fist on the table, finally letting himself taste a sliver of that anger that had built up inside him as he rotted away in prison. “If you want to live, you’ll tell me why you did it, and you’ll tell me who made you do it.”

“H-he used to work for the Imperial Court.” Igor’s breaths came in shallow rasps, and he looked faint. “Y-you have to understand, R-Ramson—”

“There’s nothing I understand better than the gods-damned sting of betrayal.”

“You were sent to murder the Emperor!” Igor exclaimed. “Deities, man, your mission was impossible from the start!”

Ramson paused. This was the question he’d turned over and over in his mind back at Ghost Falls with no leads to an answer: Why had the greatest crime lord in the Empire wanted to murder Emperor Lukas Mikhailov?

He remembered the storm that night, rain lashing at the windows in fury. Kerlan’s small, twisted smile, the simple cadence to his words, as though he’d just asked Ramson to pick up beet soup for dinner.

Ramson had known, that very moment, that this was the ultimate test. If he had succeeded, Kerlan would have named him successor to the Order, cementing Ramson’s power once and for all. Everything he’d ever wanted in his life sat beyond that mission.

Yet Ramson had forgotten that in a gamble where you stood to win everything, there was even more you could lose.

And he’d lost.

Perhaps capture by the Imperial Court had been a kinder fate than death at Kerlan’s hands.

“I was his Deputy,” Ramson gritted out. “He entrusted everything to me. The mission got leaked. And I’m going to trace that leak and destroy everyone involved in it, starting with you.”

“Ramson, please—”

“Shut your damn mouth. The one thing I can’t stand is a spineless coward.” Ramson spread his hands on the polished oakwood table. His voice was a low growl when he spoke next. “The only reason you’re still breathing is because I want something from you. I need a name, Igor.”

“Pyetr Tetsyev!” The words came out in a sharp gasp. “He came to inquire about you and paid me a sum to turn you in if you came to my pub. And a week later you showed up.” Igor’s mouth was small, but it worked surprisingly fast. He fixed Ramson with a pleading gaze.

“That’s all I know, I swear, man. And it was a lot of money.”

“Pyetr Tetsyev.” Ramson rolled the name around his tongue; it had no taste of familiarity. “Who is he, and where can I find him?”

“He’s under Kerlan’s employment, makes Deys’voshk for him. Showed up out o’ nowhere with a past murkier’n the bottom of my boot.”

“Hmm.” Ramson leaned back, taking a swig from his goblet and smacking his lips. Igor watched him, his watery eyes pinned on Ramson’s every move. The fact that Ramson had reverted back to his drink seemed to comfort the bartender, for his expression became obsequious. “I’ll need to take a trip to Novo Mynsk, then.”