Page 52 of Silvercloak

Sloppy. Unforgivably sloppy.

Her thought processes were usually far more stringent, rigorous. Pain and exhaustion were addling her analytical mind—it had been a perilously long day. She could barely see straight.

You’re not as clever as you think you are,Levan had said less than an hour ago, shortly after collaring her on the street and slamming her to the cobbles like a misbehaving prisoner. Shortly after she’d revealed who failed torture training, and shortly after he’d pounced on the information.

The first thing you need to learn is that I controleverything.

She had more than met her match, and she needed to be a lot more Saints-damned careful.

“Naszi’s heritage,” Levan asked, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “There are rumors that she’s part dragon. Any truth to it?”

“I don’t know,” Saffron replied truthfully. “Never got a straight answer out of her.”

They left the raucous Arollan Mile onto Dubias Row, a quieter street lined with shady shops favored by sneaks and mercenaries. The lamplights flickered a warm orange bronze, casting the entire row in a furnace-like glow. Black scorch marks licked up several ancient buildings—remnants from when dragons had burned up the city as a form of protest to the Dreadreign. The scorch marks could very easily have been removed by a simple spell, but the proprietors believed them to add character.

On one of the street’s only unburned walls was an elaborate mural of Parlin the Great, raising his wand to the sky, dragons bowing deferentially in a semicircle around him. The historical figure hailed from two thousand years ago and was said to be the most powerful mage who’d ever walked Ascenfall. His list of credits included vanquishing a vast and omniscient evil, carving the world’s first wand from the Elm of Eternity, and possessing a cock of unprecedented stature. In the dragon mural, the crotch of his trousers bulged beyond all feasibility.

Vallin was a land of people who lauded the hero figure. The neighboring Bellandry favored the underdog, the warrior with all odds stacked against them, the unlikely victor as a representation of triumph over adversity. The Vallish, on the other hand, loved the lore of undefeated champions and unassailable conquerors, of power and glory, of charisma and flair, of talent beyond all measure.

As such, Parlin the Great was as integral to Vallish culture as pleasure and flamebrandy, far more a symbol of the country’s spirit than the flag could ever be. Three of the seven days of the week were named for his achievements, in fact. Elming, for the day on which the first wand was carved. Sording, for the defeat of the Sordai, his historic foe. And Oparling, for the mage himself.

“Naszi’s silence on the matter only pays credence to the rumors,” Levan said, slowly, as though deep in thought.

“What do you mean?” Saffron frowned, glancing at him for the first time in several hundred yards. The fiery lamplights illuminated the indented scar cutting through his lower lip, making it look deeper than usual.

Outside an almost deserted tavern called Cernašti’s, a place renowned as a meeting place for the Disciples of Halantry, two black-cloaked women spoke in rapid-fire Tarsan, their words accompanied by the elaborate hand-speak native to the Eastern Republics. A pearl-colored pocketwatch lay on the table between them, emitting a high-pitched frequency that made Saffron wince.

“Well,” said Levan, and there was a trace of genuine intrigue in his usually cold voice, “my reading on the subject tells me that the truly dragonblooded are bound not to speak of it, or said blood will freeze in their veins.”

Interesting.Saffron badly wanted to ask more questions, but the longer they discussed Nissa, the more dangerous the situation felt. So instead she said, very wisely and maturely, “I’m surprised a Bloodmoon grunt reads at all.”

Levan gave her an almost pitying look, and Saffron chastised herself for once again playing into his hands.

I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to prove you’re not afraid of me. You’re cracking big jokes so you won’t feel small.

How had he so quickly and wholly got the measure of her?

She had the impish desire to do something, anything, to surprise him. To catch him off guard. To prove that she was not predictable, and that shewasn’tafraid of him. But that was a flawed impulse, and she knew better than to indulge it. She was here for intelligence, not juvenile grudges.

“Anything else you want to know?” she said calmly, redonning her cool demeanor like a cloak she’d accidentally discarded. “Marriosan’s foot size? Flane’s favorite color? How many flamebrandies Naszi can sink without passing out?”

He shot her a sideways look. “Does—”

Three moon-white cloaks sailed down through the air.

They landed directly on top of Levan, who stumbled into Saffron, knocking the wind out of her belly. Her skull hit the cobbles with a blunt crack.

Everything became a blur of orange streetlights and pale fabric and pained grunts.

Spells flurried and sparked, overlapping and misfiring.

Saffron fumbled for her wand, though she wasn’t sure what she’d do with it. Confusion mired with fear, and she struggled to orient herself.

“Sen ammorten,” Levan incanted, sounding almost bored.

One of the assailants slumped dead next to Saffron.

Vision unstarring, she hauled her legs out from beneath Levan’s bulk and scrambled back on the cobbles like a beetle.

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