Page 88 of Silvercloak

He flipped through the pages, and Saffron held her breath. He paused over the elaborate world map and the meticulously ordered glossary, then handed it back to Saff, expression impenetrable. Perspiration beaded at her temple. Her well must be emptier than she thought.

In the dim light of the hallway, Levan’s under-eyes were shadowed. Eventually he turned to Segal and muttered, “Don’t call herFilthcloak.”

An entertained smile spread across Segal’s face. “Whatever you say.”

PORT OURAN WAS Acity latticed by canals, gondolas floating between rows of tall, wonky townhouses painted golden yellow and burnt orange and pinkish red. The low bridges over the canals were hewn into floral friezes, and a brisk wind threaded through the narrow streets. The city stood vigil at the side of the Malsea, and a clamorous marina rang bellsong through the neighboring districts. The whole place smelled of salt and brine, damp wood and aged stone.

The Valiant Sword was a dingy tavern on the northern edge of the city. Its sea-green awning was rotted at the edges, the terra-cotta planters were filled with dead flowers, and much of the blue paint had flaked away from the white sign, so it readThe Vant Sod.It would require a simple charm or an ordinary paintbrush to mend, but the owner was either a Ludder or simply did not care.

Upturned barrels on the street served as tables, next to a blackboard sayingStrictly No Brewers!!!!in faded chalk. There had been a spate of drink-spiking a few years ago, in which errant Brewers laced beverages with a dancing tincture that inspired the consumer to waltz uncontrollably for hours on end, resulting in a lot of unnecessary property damage.

“Wait here,” Levan ordered their gondolier as he disembarked, the sudden absence of his hulking weight causing the vessel to tilt severely. “And you, Miret.”

Miret smiled and gave a mock salute, then leaned back in the gondola, interlacing his fingers behind his head.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Levan said, with the sort of tone one might use to chastise a misbehaving grandfather.

Miret yawned and closed his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

From the pavement, Levan offered Saffron a hand out of the boat—a truce, after their locked horns on the deck. As their palms met, Saff’s stomach dipped. She looked down at her newly animated wooden pendant, and found the same colors as before: pale pink, vibrant orange, clover green, and heart red.

The orange and green, contradicted each other.

How could he be both trustworthy and an enemy?

Don’t call herFilthcloak.

She thought of the prophecy, and of thewantshe felt outside the Jaded Saint the previous night, and sensed that they were marching closer to their fate. She wondered if that final moment would spring from nowhere, or would feel like a long, slow crescendo. Wondered which would be worse.

Segal followed them ashore, and the three of them entered theVant Sod, whose interior was even shabbier than its facade. There were a few tables of solitary drinkers inside, as well as a group of old mages in blood-orange Wielder cloaks sharing a trough of greasy seafood. As the Bloodmoons arrived, all eyes turned to stare. The Wielders looked to one another, silently communicating their fear, then hastily chucked a few palmfuls of ascens on the table before scarpering.

Levan approached the bar, and the barkeep blanched.

“We’re looking for Nalezen Zares,” Levan said curtly.

“Always knew thatstultwould bring trouble to our door.” The barkeep grunted his dissatisfaction. “Lives across the street. Number twenty-eight, with the mourncrow knocker.”

They crossed the canal over a floral-friezed bridge and came to Zares’s door.

The mourncrow knocker was made of scuffed brass, but it still sent a belt-whip of emotion through Saffron. Spotted in the wild, mourncrow sightings meant one would dream of lost loved ones that evening. She had spent so many days after her parents’ deaths stalking the unfamiliar streets of Atherin, trying to find a single damned bird, because seeing her mother and father in her dreams was better than not seeing them at all.

Levan raised a hand and tapped the brass knocker, and with a breathless yank, Saffron was mentally transported back to that fateful night in Lunes.

Ink-dark wood. A thin gasp.

Her mother laying down the goblet of honeywine with a trembling hand.

“Saff, you have to hide.”

“But Mama. Who is it? I’ve never seen the door black before.”

“Please,” her father is saying, hoarse. “Please, Saffy.”

Another knock. A towering fear in Saffron’s heart.

“Saffron, we love you. We’ll see you soon.”

She was on the other side of the door now.

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