Page 21 of The Dagger and the Flame
‘I caught up with her on the outskirts of Fantome.’ He grimaced at the memory of her stricken face, how she had convulsed on that bench in the Scholars’ Quarter like the grief was cutting her in half. ‘I tracked her to the Hollows. She went to House Armand.’
Dufort pitched forward. ‘Did she find it?’
Ransom nodded.
Dufort’s demeanour shifted from calm to irritable. He tapped his right foot as he drank. ‘I should have guessed. Did Cordelia let her in?’
Again, Ransom nodded. It had been a long time since he had seen Dufort unsettled like this. Usually it took the death of a Dagger, or a botched kill, to bring gravel to his voice. Perhaps that vial of Shade was stronger than it should have been.
Ransom went on. ‘I followed her down to the Rascalle thismorning. She went with two Cloaks. They were performing Sleights in the marketplace.’
Dufort looked up. ‘The girl, too?’
‘No.’ Ransom frowned, recalling the way Seraphine had shied away from the challenge, hovering uncertainly at the edge of the square, her little dog clutched to her chest like a teddy bear. ‘She was way out of her depth.’
Dufort snorted, downing the last of his Shade. ‘She’s a smuggler’s daughter, Ransom. She’s not as innocent as she looks.’
‘Maybe not.’ Ransom recalled the way she had looked up at him in the marketplace, like a fly caught in a spider’s web. How wide her eyes had been, how her voice had quivered when she spoke, a rosy hue flushing her cheeks. He didn’t know if he was defending the girl, or his impression of her when he said, ‘But she’s no Cloak, Gaspard. She’s a pussycat, afraid of her own tail.’
‘Then you’re the foolish mouse,’ snapped Dufort. ‘That troublesome urchin found her way to House Armand without any help. She’s clever.’ He looked away, lips twisting. ‘Too clever.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Sylvie Marchant’s spawn. A loose end.’
‘Why is she so important to you?’
‘Because she could end up being a thorn in my side.’ There was such bitterness in his voice, his face. ‘Just like her mother.’
Ransom wanted to ask about the fire at the farmhouse, but given how quickly Dufort’s mood was souring, he thought better of it. The Dagger kept the shadows inside him ona strong leash, but if his temper flared, it might slip. And Ransom only had ten heartbeats to flee. ‘I think the girl just wants to survive,’ he said, instead.
‘It’s not your job to tell me what the girl thinks. It’s your job to tell me what she does.’ He sat back, a swarm of shadows gathering at his feet, wreathing his chair, kissing his ring. Here sat the true king of Valterre, drunk on his own power. ‘I’ve heard enough.’
Ransom got up to leave.
‘Kill her.’
Ransom froze, half out of his chair. Hadn’t Dufort heard a word he’d just said?
‘She’s young,’ he said, slowly, cautiously. ‘We don’t kill—’
‘You kill who I tell you to kill.’
Ransom sat back down, compelled to argue despite the silver gleam in Dufort’s eyes. Why was he fighting this so hard? Was it really over a music box and a shred of pity? Or because she was so far from his usual type of mark – criminals and degenerates, embezzlers and debt-ridden gamblers from some of the most entitled families in Valterre. This girl was so close to Ransom’s age, they might have been friends in a different life. ‘She has a dog.’
Dufort laughed roughly, as though Ransom had cracked a joke.
Ransom scrubbed a hand across his jaw.
Dufort looked him over. ‘Is there a problem?’
Ransom said nothing. There was a problem, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
Dufort’s nostrils flared. ‘I’ve chosen to trust you with thismark, Ransom. It’s important to me. Just as you are. You’ve shown great promise these past ten years,son.’ That word again, like a leash. ‘I see a lot of myself in you. That’s why I’m close to naming you as my Second. If you play your cards right, some day the Order will be yours. The city, the king’s ear, all the riches you could ever dream of… But—’ He paused, twisting that thick ring around his finger, once. Twice. ‘If you don’t think you can do this little task, then I’ll give the mark to Lisette. Or—’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Ransom. ‘Of course I’ll do it.’
The truth was, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for Dufort. After all, he was the one who had found Ransom wandering the streets of Fantome ten years ago, his bottom lip split open, his left eye so swollen, he couldn’t see out of it.
