Yagrin appeared on the rain-soaked cobbled road that ran through Emancipation Park. It gave the area an Old World aesthetic. But it was more than mere architectural design. The quaint park near the west bank of the Mississippi was access for those who knew where to look. The freckle-faced girl had evaded him. But there couldn’t be many places someone with her affliction could go. And he knew just the place to find out where someone like her might hide, a spot ripe with Order gossip—the Tavern.
Yagrin wanted an honest life. But the thought was laughable. Fear was the lifeblood of the Order, the shackle of duty. In the end, it was all about fear or being feared, his father’d taught him. And while he wasn’t sure he bought it, here he was chasing another assigned target. Being the monstrosity expected of him. He kicked his boot on the rocky surface, shuffling through the muddy puddle, hoping it was just mud.
He pursed his lips, ruminating on Freckle Face, the odd way Mother spoke about this new target. The way she hesitated to give him her full name: Quell Jewel. His heel found the familiar spot, a loose rock in the path. He looked around. Lovebirds tangled around one another were on a park bench completely uninterested in him. Emancipation was still. The stone walls that wreathed its memorial courtyard and interior gardens stood like a sentry in the night’s glow. He kicked the shifty pebble and sucked in a breath, letting his magic work its way into his fingers, up his arms. Heat swirled in him, and he tightened his stomach, holding in a breath, to shove it up to his head.
He directed his magic at the stone, and the ground opened like a dead man’s throat, stairs descending into darkness. He took them one at a time, the Tavern’s revelry swelling louder the deeper he went. It was the hangout for Order members in the southern quadrant. Usually teeming with eager students who hadn’t yet debuted, prattling with gossip like baby birds anxious to leave the nest. Several recent debs, that is débutantes and débutants, hung there, too. And even a few dregs of older members popped in from time to time, but the desperate ones, never the classy ones. His parents wouldn’t be caught dead in the Tavern. It was “beneath them.” The thought put a pep in his step as he slipped inside.
Noise swelled like a balloon, and Yagrin skimmed the place for another of his kind, from his House. But he only spotted one Dragun from another House whom he didn’t know well. Karaoke blared from a side room adjacent to a long run of gambling tables. A few loitered over drinks. He searched for a place to land out of the way of people, where he could size up anyone coming through the door. He felt like a maggot coming in here, stinking like death wherever he went. He scowled, but his heart thrummed as he fell into a chair at the bar with a sigh.
He undid the tie of his trench coat and scanned the crowd for someone worthy of interrogation. It was thinner tonight than usual, considering the Tavern was a notorious meetup for slimy Traders and their seedy customers. More magical goods were exchanged by covert handshakes, over card tables, and during drinks than money flowing in and out of a bank.
Yagrin’s Dragun coin might still feel foreign at his throat, but he’d grown up in a powerful Order family, and his father had primed him, instructing him on how things were done. How to get what you wanted from people, until Yagrin came of age and was handed over to his Headmistress, who made sure the lessons stuck. Tonight he would let muscle memory take over. He intended to obtain highly proprietary information: where someone with toushana these days would look for safety.
Posted against the wall in a shadowed corner was a gangly bearded fellow with his fingertips tucked in his vest pockets. Yagrin smiled at the ripe opportunity. He knew if he snatched the stranger’s hands out of those petite pockets, they’d be stained deep blue, nails bloody, some missing. A Trader.
The fellow’s dusty brown eyes matched the bang swooping across his face. Yagrin stared and it unsettled the fellow’s cavalier posture. Yagrin grinned. He’d found a guitar worth plucking. He approached, but the fellow moved, likely uninterested in a conversation with a Dragun. Yagrin needed to disarm his suspicion. Draguns were the enforcers of decorum in the Order, but he wasn’t here to hem him up about the exploitive business he dabbled in.
“Feel like a game of cards?” Yagrin gestured to a nearby table where a dealer was two short. The Trader’s eyes flickered with ambition, and after a moment he inclined his head. Challenge accepted. Trust was a fickle thing, and you could tell a lot about someone over a game of cards, his father had taught him. Their measure of judgment, how easy they were to read, and especially what winning meant to them.
Spades was Yagrin’s favorite. Red had taught him how to play. His lips curled. He needed to make time to see her again. “It’s all about hedging bets and winning tricks,” she’d explained one night they spent camping, her body curled around his under the stars. She was more right than she knew. The truth was always in the eyes. That’s what he loved about Red. She wasn’t in the Order, knew nothing of magic, a daughter of a farmer who lived in the middle of nowhere. Her entire life plan was to figure out how exactly aquaponics worked and to ride a horse bareback without falling off. She was sharp but turned off by complexity. Detached is how she lived. Because she wanted to.
He pulled up a chair at the card table, and the Trader sat across from him.
“Wager?” the dealer asked.
“A favor,” Yagrin told him.
The dealer smirked. Not every day a Dragun offered his services as a wager.
“And you?” the dealer asked the Trader. He was stoic. But Yagrin could sense his elevated heartbeat pumping with anticipation. Traders, by nature of their dealings peddling stolen goods, had many enemies. A favor from a Dragun wasn’t an offer most would refuse.
“Source Enhancer. Ancestral quality, from the caves of Aronya.” He held up a red stone. “Retrieved it myself.”
That part was a lie. Traders stole anything of value they managed to get their hands on. But it was authentic; its hue and shine were unmistakable. There were many who’d pay generously for such a prize. When it was folded into a deb’s dagger, its possessor could sense the presence of any magic, once bound. Broken down to liquid form by a complex Shifter, it was a powerful ingredient that could manipulate any elixir. Even an Anatomer could use it to cover their tracks.
Yagrin sat back in his chair, impressed. It was a perceptive offer. But tonight Yagrin was after the intangible: secrets. Ambition creased around the Trader’s pursed lips. He wanted to barter.
“No deal,” Yagrin said, pushing his luck. He waved his hand dismissively, and the fellow’s confidence fractured.
“This is—”
“Not what I want.”
He sneered, aghast.
“Match me favor for favor. That’s it. Or no game.”
The Trader’s foot tapped, and an order of drinks made their way around the table. Yagrin cemented his expression, unreadable, like Mother—his Headmistress—had him practice time and time again in the forest, under the moon. He would be imperceptible. The Trader would look for a glimpse of Yagrin’s eagerness but find none. Which would only further unveil his own desperation.
The Trader took a sip. “Fine. Favor for favor.”
The dealer spewed cards from his hands, and Yagrin tightened his lips to keep from smiling. He had him. All he had to do was ensure he won the game. Yagrin’s hand wasn’t great, but nothing he couldn’t fix. He pulled at the warmth simmering beneath his skin and called it to his fingertips. He eased his magic across his cards sneakily, and the diamonds in his hands shifted into spades.
“I have seven,” the Trader said.
“I have nine.”
The Trader unbuttoned his sleeves, tugged at his collar. If the dealer was on to Yagrin’s tricks, he didn’t make it known. He wouldn’t want to be in a Dragun’s ill graces either. Power wasn’t Yagrin’s preferred flavor of poison, but he couldn’t deny it had its benefits. The cards were laid on the table in order. His turn, then the Trader’s. And Yagrin slid more and more winning sets his way, until he reached twelve to the Trader’s mere three.
“I win.”
The Trader slammed his cards on the table. Victory bubbled up in Yagrin, but he hid delight from his expression. The Trader followed him to a shadowed corner of the bar just as a familiar face swept into the room. Felix, a buddy Yagrin had debuted with last Season. Felix landed at the bar and raised a glass at him. Yagrin’s confidence shook. He hadn’t counted on being seen with the scum.
He pulled the Trader by his collar deeper into the hallway, out of sight, fighting back the urge to apologize for roughing him up. He would project strength. He must, to get what he wanted. “I’ll keep it brief and assume this conversation is confidential?”
“I owe you a debt. I can’t exactly refuse, can I?” The Trader’s hands shook though he kept his jaw mean.
Yagrin let go of him. “I just need some info. Relax.” I don’t want to hurt you, he thought, but he kept that to himself. “I’m Yagrin.”
“Des.” He stood up a little taller. “So let’s get it over with. What do you want to know?”
“Someone on the run with toushana. These days, where could they go that’s safe?”
After finishing Third Rite, target assignments came from Headquarters, from the Dragunhead himself, Yagrin’s actual boss. But Mother kept her graduates close and didn’t hesitate to call in favors. This was the second target this month she’d had him look for. Pink Beanie had been the first. Mother didn’t elaborate beyond Quell’s name. But she didn’t have to. Nor did he care to know more about the girl he must find. The more he knew, the more doing the job would knot his insides.
“Safe houses,” the Trader said.
A lie. Yagrin had just come from a safe house, and it had been destroyed. “If we’re going to do this, you have to be honest. I’m on mission, but my friend . . .” He pointed at Felix, who was at the bar, leaned over a drink. “Isn’t. He’d happily latch you up and take you in to answer for the treasonous dealings you dabble in.” Yagrin grimaced; the taste of the threat was bitter. But somehow he had to maintain the upper hand.
Des swallowed. “Fine. The safe houses are being demolished.”
“And?”
“And . . . so there isn’t any real place to hide anymore. Unless this person knows someone who would keep their secret.”
“Who would do that?”
The Trader’s expression shifted, but Yagrin missed what it meant. “I don’t know much, honestly. Look, things are in flux right now. My usual trading spots have been exploited. I’m having to reroute all my goods. And no one’s talking anymore either. My usual whisperers have all gone silent.”
Another lie. Yagrin scoffed, pushing Des into the wall. “Lie to me again and I’ll debone you limb by limb, before I bury your body.” Fear or be feared. It was as easy as breathing. He hadn’t chosen this life, he’d been bred for it.
“I’m telling you the truth! Nothing’s like it was. Even my customers are nervous. If I wasn’t in dire straits I wouldn’t have even joined you at that table,” he spit, gazing far off. “Whispers of the Sphere changing have everyone nervous.”
Yagrin stilled and eased off him a bit. “Changing how?”
“I heard it’s all blackened now, like it’s decomposing from the inside out or something.”
Yagrin narrowed his eyes. “Have you seen it yourself?”
“I don’t know if it’s true, but if enough people believe it, does it being true even matter?”
Yagrin’s brow deepened. That almost made him want to hightail it to his House to see the Sphere’s state. An illusion of it hung in each House’s foyer as a reminder of the Commissioning Pact that had forged it centuries ago. Its actual location was a mystery.
It had all been so wondrous when he saw the Sphere the first time on a visit to his House with his father well before he was old enough to even think about inducting. It was so vivid, its insides sparkling with glowing granules of Sun Dust, swirling back and forth like a snow globe. His skin tingled then and again now. Pride in knowing he was a part of something grand and special—the Prestigious Order of Highest Mysteries. Magic. Something his bloodline had a firm hand in shaping.
That was before it all soured. Before he struggled to show any magic at all until two years after everyone else his age. After he saw how furious that made his father. After he’d been deemed an embarrassment.
“Consider your debt paid.”
“What . . . I—”
“I’m feeling generous tonight.” Yagrin squeezed his shoulder before walking away. He could sense the blood rushing through Des begin to slow. Yagrin hadn’t gotten the info he needed. But Des didn’t have it. In his gut, Yagrin was sure of it.
But this news of the Sphere kneaded his nerves. He let his mind wrap around Des’s words as the Trader blended into the crowd before dashing out the door. The Sphere was rotting from the inside. If the Sphere’s insides ever bled out . . . He steadied himself against the lip of the bar, his heart thumping . . . that would be the end of all magic. In their lifetime at least. It would vanish from every person who used to wield it.
Yagrin fell onto a stool at the bar. How did something like this happen? Was something responsible, or someone? Only someone powerful could do something like that. He could do something like that. But there weren’t many like him, with his bloodline’s prowess for magic. He looked for Felix, but he’d already gone. He reared back in his seat and thought of Pink Beanie and the toushana that used to course through her veins. The acrid way it smelled, burning. The mission of the Dragun brotherhood was to preserve and protect magic, whatever the cost. But his missions didn’t come with explanations. They were only orders. He sat up taller. Maybe it was better that way. His Headmistress would say his job wasn’t about his enjoyment, only his obedience. For the sake of everyone and everything. The mere suggestion should sink his shoulders, soothe his guilt.
But it didn’t.
Whatever was going on with the Sphere, whether it had to do with Pink Beanie or not, he didn’t feel good about any of it.
He waved for a drink, stewing on his predicament, trying to appease Mother to keep her in the dark about his treachery, avoiding the Dragunhead altogether. And now this. He shouldn’t even care. The bartender didn’t glance his way. He had no regrets about cheating out on Third Rite. That wasn’t the same as not caring if he got caught. But he’d made his choice when he met Red. He wouldn’t induct all the way. He’d seen what it did to his family. He would do enough to get by, fly under the radar. He flagged the bartender again.
“Kiziloxer?” the bartender asked, smoothing his hands on a towel that hung from his waist.
“Water, actually.”
“Got it. Sorry, I saw you earlier. Small crowd, but thirsty.”
“No problem.”
“I’m Rikken, by the way,” the bartender said. He was a barrel-chested fellow with a thick short beard and reddish-brown hair. “Slated class of ’15. House of Ambrose.”
He didn’t finish.
“Yagrin. Fresh out.”
Rikken wound one hand around another and pulled at the glass. It stretched, growing taller in size. He gathered his fingers, rubbing them together, pulling at the humidity in the air, and water filled the glass, straight from his fingertips.
“How’d a complex Shifter end up working a bar?” Yagrin asked, taking the glass. Shifter magic, even its basic form, had always evaded Yagrin. Anatomer and Audior magic took him a long time to master, but they were much more his speed.
“My great-great-grandfather started up a pub to help out the Order and they let him in on things. But his magic never took good enough to be usable. So he stuck to business, expanded into a string of pubs. Once he died, the family got tired of the upkeep. Most of ’em closed. ’Cept this one. I had nothing else going on, so I told them I’d take it.”
“Ah, I see.” He pointed to the water filling his glass. “I’d like to see you do that on a dry night,” Yagrin teased.
Rikken laughed and pointed to a very normal water dispenser behind him. “Backup.”
It was so much easier talking to people he didn’t have to threaten. “These whispers of the Sphere? You buy it?”
“Who’s asking?” he asked.
“I’m asking.”
“You or your Headmistress?”
“So you do know something.”
Rikken wiped the counter and poured another drink for a crowd rushing the bar. Inductees by the look of it. Bright eyed and eager, diadems and masks shining like they polished them each night. Yagrin sifted through the crowd, his collar up, careful to keep his face difficult to see. Slim chance the girl could enroll anywhere with the poison in her veins. Still, he scanned for freckles and soft brown eyes just in case.
The students tossed back their fizzed drinks, and he watched, sunken in the shadows on the farthest end of the bar. But he didn’t spot the girl. He checked his watch and tapped his foot. Mother would be hounding him for an update soon.
“Look, I’m just the no-name son of an Order dropout,” Rikken said, returning with a handful of drinks. “I don’t need any trouble. I try to stay out of it. I’m not one of you fancy folks anyway.”
“But you’ve heard—”
“I heard a while back, before you had hair on your chest, that one of the ’Mistresses had a hefty wager on finding that Sphere’s location. Now it’s all blackened. You tell me what that means.”
Yagrin sank into his seat, the insinuation tugging him down like an anchor. Rikken thought a Headmistress was behind the Sphere rotting? That made no sense. Their lives were tethered to the Sphere. How did the old saying go? If the Sphere broke, the Headmistresses croaked.
Yagrin finished the water, thanked Rikken, and backed away from the bar. He wasn’t interested in tinfoil hat theories. He wanted something he could sink his teeth into. His insides sloshed, sickened, like he imagined the Sphere, swirling with blackened bile.
Again he glanced at his watch, resituating his trench coat around himself. If he didn’t find the freckle-face girl or some whispers of her soon, he’d have to face his Headmistress empty-handed. He gulped. He couldn’t let her figure out that he was effectively a pretender. He imagined his father’s face twisting with contempt, learning Yagrin’s traitorous secret. Would he defend him or cast him off as a traitor, too? Yagrin tossed back the dregs in his glass, revelry bustling around him. It wasn’t a question. He knew the answer.
