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  Stomach churning with an uneasy mixture of gratitude and shame, Caraway accepted the handful of coin. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered. ‘I won’t spend it on alcohol.’

  Bryan nodded. ‘I know you won’t, boyo. Because if you do, I’ll come down to the lower rings and make your hide into a tablecloth.’

  Then, without any further words or even so much as a glance, he pivoted on his heel and marched back through the Gate of Steel. Caraway looked at the money in his hand: enough for several pitchers of finest ale. Enough to drink himself unconscious three times over. But Bryan trusted him … and besides, Ayla must be hungry by now.

  When he got back to his room with food for both of them, he found Ayla sitting on the bed with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking out of the window. Her hair was short and jagged, falling to just below her ear on one side and halfway down her neck on the other.

  ‘You cut your hair,’ he said stupidly.

  She didn’t bother to respond to that, just kept watching the tanner’s yard below as though it fascinated her.

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked. At that she did turn her head, fixing him with a cool stare.

  ‘Where is what?’

  ‘The hair. I could get a couple of ranols for that amount of good-quality hair, especially in that colour.’

  ‘It’s under the bed.’ Her expression told him that she found the whole conversation unspeakably sordid. That she found him unspeakably sordid. She watched in silence as he fetched a broom and swept her hair into a pile, knocking a couple of empty bottles over in the process. Clumps of dust clung to it, but it still gleamed blue-black in the fading light. He might even be able to get three ranols, if he haggled properly.

  ‘I’m not going to drink it, you know,’ he told her. ‘I thought … I thought I could buy you a wig in a different colour. Then you’d be able to leave the room without being spotted. It must be pretty dull for you in here.’

  She didn’t reply to that either, but her face softened a fraction. As he gathered the hair into a bag she remained silent, but this time it wasn’t quite so hostile.

  ‘Now …’ When he’d finished, he looked at her rather nervously. ‘Would you like me to neaten it up for you?’

  She hesitated, then gave a quick nod. ‘Yes. That would probably be sensible.’

  Taking the proffered knife, Caraway sat down beside her on the bed. He could feel the tension radiating off her like heat, the desire to flee. Her fingers were locked together so tightly they looked bloodless.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Ayla,’ he said softly.

  ‘Just get on with it.’ She turned her back on him, giving him access to her hair, and added with a note of strain in her voice, ‘Please.’

  Heartened by the small courtesy, he obeyed, trying not to notice how the ends of her shortened hair brushed against her skin or how the shape of her slender neck was newly exposed.

  ‘I should tell you what I found out,’ he said to distract himself as he worked. ‘Owen Travers recently hired a notorious sellsword by the name of Naeve Sorrow. It’s my belief that Travers arranged your father’s murder in order to frame you for the crime. Tomorrow I intend to visit Sorrow’s lodgings and see what I can uncover.’

  ‘You know where she lives?’ Ayla asked.

  ‘I know where she lived five years ago.’ Back then it had been his job to know that kind of thing. ‘I’ll start there and see how far I get.’

  His hands were shaking, the blade veering dangerously close to cutting her; he badly needed a drink. Putting down the knife, he forced a smile into his voice. ‘There. Finished.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She retrieved the weapon without looking at him, her head bent. ‘Did you bring food? I’m hungry.’

  ‘It’s here.’ Caraway handed her the loosely wrapped package of pastries, then watched as she proceeded to eat her share and most of his as well. For a slender woman, she certainly ate a lot. But the old Changer had been a spare man, and he’d consumed enough food for two as well. Perhaps there was something in their blood that required more fuel: after all, the energy required to Change must be immense.

  When she’d finished, Ayla glanced up. ‘Aren’t you eating?’

  He gestured silently at the empty wrappings.

  ‘Oh …’ A slight hint of colour touched her cheeks. The look she threw him was half apologetic, half defiant. ‘Sorry. But it was my money.’

  He didn’t bother to tell her that the copper coin she’d given him that morning had all been spent on her breakfast; he just nodded and moved over to refold the blankets on the floor, preparing for sleep. When he straightened up she was still sitting in exactly the same position, head bowed, shoulders tense.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he told her. ‘I’ll find out the truth, I promise I will.’

  ‘And just exactly how much is your promise worth, Tomas Caraway?’ Her voice was low and somehow sad, despite the aggressive words. He shook his head.

  ‘Perhaps very little. But I’m all you’ve got.’

  As they sat in silence in the darkening room, he on his side and she on hers, he suspected the same thought was uppermost in both their minds.

  I just hope it’s enough.

  TWELVE

  It was getting dark, and Travers took it personally. Striding through the streets of the first ring, he glared at the descending night with all the frustration of a man thwarted by an intangible enemy. Darkness made it easier for people to hide; it made it easier for Ayla to evade him. Every time he came down into Arkannen he convinced himself he would find her – that he would turn a corner or mount a flight of steps and there she’d be, waiting for him. Waiting to be dragged back to Darkhaven and locked up, under his power. The thought of it made his throat hurt. He had been waiting years for it: six long years, and she’d never so much as glanced his way in all that time. To begin with she had been too busy making eyes at Tomas Caraway; Travers had hated the son of a whore for that, feeling a gleeful satisfaction when Caraway’s ill luck or poor judgement resulted in Kati’s death and his own demotion from the Helm. Yet even with Caraway gone, Ayla never looked at Travers. Instead she became aloof and cold, an untouchable ice-maiden whose gaze brushed over him as though he were no more than furniture. Travers longed to grab her by the shoulders and shake the disdain right out of her.

  She’d been barely more than a child when he began to want her, and a half-blood besides. He’d told himself he shouldn’t desire her, that she was flawed by her mother’s heritage. He had tried to convince himself that she wasn’t a true Nightshade and that he was dishonouring the bloodline with his lust for something impure. Yet with the passing of the years, that belief had mutated. Contempt and longing had fused into a single, burning emotion: the conviction that whatever he did to her, she deserved it, for being a half-blood Changer and for looking at him as if she didn’t really see him at all. Since she had murdered her father, the knowledge that he was entitled under law to punish her had gnawed at Travers, a hunger that never went away. And seeing Elisse had only made it worse. Her resemblance to Ayla was superficial, but those blue eyes and that long dark hair had awoken a physical ache in him that wouldn’t subside.

  Giving in to it, he turned on his heel and made for the nearest brothel.

  The brothels of Arkannen were notorious for their ability to cater to every taste, however unusual, but Travers preferred to avoid the more exotic establishments. He had one requirement, and one requirement only. Stepping past the heavyset man at the door with a nod, he paid no attention to the provocatively dressed child offering him refreshment as soon as he entered the vestibule, or the madam of the house murmuring a list of the services her charges could offer. Instead, his practised eye scanned the girls arranged in various poses on the velvet-upholstered furniture until he found what he was looking for. In every brothel in the city, there was always at least one girl with pale skin, dark hair and blue eyes. It was rare colouring, aristocratic colouring; that made it prized, by some. For a short time,
with a girl like that, Travers was able to pretend he’d got what he really longed for.

  He gestured, and the madam nodded. The girl he had identified came weaving her way across the room, hips swaying in invitation. As she got closer, he saw that her dark hair was the result of imperfectly applied dye; really black hair was hardly ever produced by nature, save in the Nightshade line. Still, she would have to do. Moistening dry lips, he followed her through another door and down a corridor, already groping for the few coins that were the cost of ridding himself of desire, even if just for a night. Once inside the bedroom, he dropped the money onto the ornate table that stood by the door and glanced around. Bed, basin, battered armchair: it was all plain and poorly maintained, inappropriate for a lady of Darkhaven. The table was the only piece of furniture with any quality to it.

  The girl had positioned herself on the bed in what was meant to be a seductive manner. Travers looked away from her painted lips and dark-lined eyes; they weren’t what he wanted. Ayla never wore cosmetics.

  ‘Come here,’ he ordered with an impatient gesture. ‘Bend over.’

  Without demur she walked over to the table and leant her elbows on it, presenting herself to him. From behind, the dye was more convincing; she was just a slight, dark-haired girl. If he kept his gaze on her and on the carved table beneath her, he could believe he was back in Darkhaven. That he had walked into Ayla’s bedroom at night, as he’d imagined so many times in the past, and forced her to submit to him …

  He fumbled with his breeches, fingers made clumsy by anticipation, breath harsh in his throat. Finally he got the fastening undone; lifting her flimsy skirt, he plunged himself in her to the hilt. The sensation was exquisite, almost overwhelming. Gripping her by the hair, he slammed against her again and again, words spilling out of him that belonged in the darkest places of his dreams until, finally, he groaned her name in the tumbling rush of climax.

  ‘Ayla …’

  Afterwards, he felt as cold and ashamed as he always did, but at least he was free of it for a while. He bent his head and refastened his breeches, trying not to look at the room. Now, all he wanted was to get out.

  ‘So.’ The girl eyed him, cocky, as she collected the scattered coins from the table. ‘Got a thing for the royal family, ’ave we?’ She laughed. ‘You’d be surprised ’ow many men come in ’ere askin’ for a little bit of Changer magic. Keeps me in business, any rate.’

  Travers looked at her sharp, world-weary face and itched to slap her. Already he could feel the hunger starting to build again, the desire for something more than a temporary illusion. The desire to have Ayla in his power for good. Without a word he left the room, heading back out to the street.

  This obsession is making a fool of you, Owen Travers, he told himself, full of self-disgust. Get a grip. But it was no use. Every time he thought he’d managed to put it aside for a while, he remembered that he was now allowed to punish Ayla. That Lord Florentyn had expected him to do it – if not quite in the way he had in mind. That by locking her up, he would be answering both his own desire and his obligations to the Nightshade line. The knowledge made the need to find her burn ever hotter in his veins.

  He caught a tram back to the Gate of Flame, then another through the second ring to the Gate of Wind, scanning every face he passed on the lamplit streets for dark blue eyes with a hint of green. He was some way into the third ring when he remembered he was still carrying Elisse’s groceries in his pockets, tea and biscuits he’d bought in the first ring earlier. It was too late to have them sent over now; he’d have to take them himself. He sighed. At least the safe house was on his route back to Darkhaven.

  There was a short way round and a long way round from the Gate of Wood to the Gate of Steel. Members of the wealthier professions inhabited the more convenient south side of the fourth ring, with the poorer quarters to the north. Once Travers had been a hungry small boy growing up in a one-roomed flat in Larimar, looking after his younger brother and running errands to earn a few extra coins while his father struggled to bring the two of them up alone on a lamplighter’s pay. In those days Travers hadn’t possessed much in the way of ambition, beyond the desire for a full belly and a bed of his own to sleep in. But that was before the night a gang had broken into the flat and stabbed his father to death, mistaking him for an informant. In an attempt to leave no witnesses, they’d stabbed the two boys as well. Travers had only survived by lying perfectly still and quiet in a pool of his family’s mingled blood, watching in mute anguish as the life drained from his brother’s eyes.

  Once the gang had gone, he’d stumbled south – dizzy from shock and loss of blood – to the Ametrine Quarter. It was a Helmsman who’d found him, a Helmsman who’d taken him in and listened to his story. And it was Florentyn Nightshade himself who’d helped to capture the offenders and oversee their execution. Ever since then, Travers had been driven by a single aim, or perhaps more truthfully two: to serve Florentyn in whatever way he could, and to reinvest the Helm with the power they required to make sure nothing like what had happened to his family would ever happen again. He’d worked hard to learn everything he needed in order to achieve those aims – and he hadn’t been back to Larimar since that blood-soaked night. There was nothing left for him there.

  He passed the imposing frontages of Charoite and Cerussite with barely a glance, and stepped with an indefinable feeling of relief into Ametrine. Although Darkhaven was his primary home now, he always considered his roots to be here, among the yellow-purple stone of the Ametrine Quarter. The colour reminded him vividly of bruised flesh, appropriate for the houses of Helmsmen and soldiers; he often thought that whoever designed Arkannen’s fourth ring must have had a sly sense of humour. Tonight the roads were quiet, only a few pedestrians and the occasional carriage crossing between the pools of light shed by the street lamps. Travers took a deep breath, drawing the mingled scents of sword oil, leather cream and antiseptic into his lungs to overlay the constant undertones of horse manure, lamp fuel and coal smoke that pervaded the city. Take him anywhere in Arkannen, and he’d be able to tell where he was even with his eyes closed.

  As he entered the Avenue of Rowans, he became aware of another smell: something singed and acrid. It was out of place, and so he stopped, scanning his surroundings. Fewer lamps lined this street than the main thoroughfare, allowing shadows to pool thick and black in the spaces between them, but nothing appeared to be stirring – in fact, the street was deserted. Maybe someone had burned their evening meal. Travers shrugged off his doubt and carried on walking, but he kept one hand near the hilt of his sword. He had been involved in too many street brawls not to rely on his instincts now.

  The burnt smell grew stronger with every pace he took towards his destination. It was almost familiar, though he couldn’t place it. Then, from one of the side alleys that branched off the street like capillaries from a vein, he heard a distinct sound: a scraping noise, perhaps a blade coming out of its sheath or a steel-capped boot on stone. Someone was there. His sword was in his hand before he had finished turning to face the alley mouth.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Moonlight streaked the alley, but the far end was in darkness; he peered into the shadows, fighting the creeping unease that climbed up and down his spine. ‘This is Captain Travers of the Helm speaking. Show yourself!’

  There was no response, but the scraping grew louder. Now it was accompanied by a rattling hiss, like steam escaping from a valve. Some kind of machinery? The hot smell, the sounds of metal and pressurised steam – it all suggested a manufactory or an ironworks, but of course that made no sense. Travers took a few steps into the alley, blade angled in the direction of the noise.

  ‘Whoever you are and whatever you’re doing down there, I advise you to come out before I come in and get you.’

  The reply was a low, menacing growl that vibrated through the soles of his feet. It conveyed a message that bypassed his brain and went straight to his gut, leaving him quiveringly certain of one thing: that w
as no machine. Whatever was down there, it was a living, breathing creature – and it wasn’t happy.

  On legs that felt suddenly too weak to support him, Travers stumbled backwards, just about managing to keep his sword steady in his hand. At the end of the alley, a dark shape coalesced from the shadows, emerging into the open like a nightmare made flesh. As it stalked towards Travers, it passed in and out of the stripes of moonlight that cut across the alley between the silhouettes of neighbouring roofs, so he saw it in slices: a glint of pointed teeth, a vast clawed foot, a flash of silver on gleaming black scales. No doubt about it: this was the creature that had killed Florentyn Nightshade and attacked a priestess in the sixth ring. Nothing that large, that powerful, could possibly exist without being the product of Changer blood.

  ‘Ayla?’ he said, half certain, and was unsurprised to hear the tremor in his own voice. In response, the creature darted forward with a speed that belied its size, the scrape of its claws and the hiss of its scaled tail against the stone providing an eerie counterpoint to the rush of his blood. A jet of flame shot past his head; he felt the scorching heat of it, heard the sizzle as his right eyebrow singed. Travers sidestepped and pivoted, bringing his blade up in defence.

  ‘Come on, then, you bitch,’ he flung at the creature, heart pounding, seized by mad exhilaration. ‘Come and try me.’

  He didn’t even have the chance to dodge a second time. The creature came in low, its jaws clamping around his leg and yanking him off his feet with all the force of a team of horses. His head hit the paved surface of the street hard enough that his vision blurred and he almost lost his grip on his sword, but he hung on grimly, gritting his teeth against the searing pain that raced through his body in both directions. Blinking to clear his wavering sight, he twisted his body round and took a wild swing at the creature, aiming for the neck. The steel blade bounced off as though the scaled hide were made of stone, leaving the hilt ringing in his hands; with a curse he dropped it, but it had been enough of a distraction to make the creature’s jaws relax in momentary surprise. Travers scrambled free and backed away, his wounded leg buckling under him with each step. This was the trouble with Changers, even the half-blood ones. In animal form, they were virtually indestructible.