The Uphill was not pleased with Mariel’s supposed return—that much was clear to Rowan. He found his way through the crowd and over to Kess, who was perched at a table close to the dance floor, waiting. The ball was abuzz with news of Mariel’s return, her gallant rescue, and the release of hundreds of Downhill ‘criminals’ back into the streets. Oddly, Kess’s warehouse display hadn’t quite made it into the rumor mill yet. Maybe Whitering District was too far from Uphill to matter.

  Some whispered of her deeds in fear, while others brazenly condemned the operation as treason. Still others wove conspiracies about how Mariel was alive in the first place, and some concerned themselves with when a new opposing Seat would be put into place to keep entities like Mariel in check. It all felt rather pedestrian to Rowan after the last several weeks. He settled into his chair and glanced at Kess.

  Kess seemed rather put out by the whole thing. She was usually on edge, but tonight she seemed exceptionally so to Rowan.

  “I don’t see why it’s so hard to accept the woman as dead,” Kess muttered to the table, careful to keep her voice low.

  “Symbols have power, unfortunately,” Rowan replied, watching a group of women who passed, whispering conspiratorially. “Whether they’re true or not.”

  “Imagine you go through all this trouble to die, and still people insist that your very presence makes the clouds roll through each day,” she said, her hands twitching over the dinner knife. She watched it for a second, seeming to consider what it would look like to turn to her usual habit, then sighed, tucking her hand back underneath the table. “I swear, if someone rebuilt an awning in the lower city, they would say Mariel did it,” she muttered darkly.

  “Did you have any luck with Westhill?” Rowan asked, glancing at the Stormclap room.

  “Some,” Kess admitted. “The youngest son took pity on my losing streak and spoke about his grandfather. He seems to think that the Archives might know who attacked his grandfather.”

  “And who attacked you and Draven,” Rowan murmured. Kess nodded, eyes distant. Rowan couldn’t blame her for worrying. They’d found a direction forward, but had it been too simple? Rowan spent hours up at night worrying that it was. Solutions didn’t just appear out of thin air—not without consequences. And yet, what choice did they have? If a way into the Archives came along, they would have to take it.

  Kess looked up as footsteps approached, and though the expression was tiny and fleeting, Rowan caught annoyance on her face before she mastered her expression into a polite smile. Rowan kept his own expression neutral as Furion approached with Reina, though inwardly he found Kess’s complete inability to hide her initial emotions rather amusing.

  After a series of polite—but highly stilted—exchanges, their group retreated from the gala and through a series of rain streaked tunnels that led to a public dining hall.

  “I wanted privacy, you see,” Furion explained as they walked, “and what better place to find it than among others?”

  Or you’d rather not Westhill’s family overhear your trafficking, Rowan thought as they walked. The eldest Westhill publicly hated Furion after a nasty incident involving one of his granddaughters. The only reason Furion was allowed to enter the gala at all was more than likely due to the distraction of the Westhill’s missing patriarch.

  Fulminant lights illuminated the tunnel, and as they walked, Rowan felt a sinking feeling—several of them had already blown. These had been tiny—more for decoration than anything—but they’d still destroyed three or four window panes. Rain pelted the hallway around a few hastily erected canvas tarps, and glass crunched beneath his feet.

  “Dreadful weather,” Furion muttered, avoiding the glass. “I swear it’s worse every year.” He pressed on, but Reina’s eyes lingered on the lights, then on Rowan for much too long.

  Kess shared a glance with him as they passed the windows, then reached out and squeezed his hand as Furion continued to complain loudly about the weather. Rowan smiled at her, a warmth in his chest, and squeezed her hand back, though his worry remained.

  One step at a time, he reminded himself. If this conversation with Furion goes well, you’ll have a way into the Archives, and then you can focus on fixing this mess.

  He only hoped there would be a way to fix it.

  The dining hall was located high on a hill overlooking all but Council headquarters and the semi-abandoned palace. The covered and windowed balcony gave unobstructed views of both the lower and upper city in good weather, and the dark wooden booths offered private conversations for any business transactions.

  Furion and Reina sat across from Kess and Rowan, with Furion beaming at every young woman in sight, and Reina looking a bit bored as she watched the room, her eyes not at the table. Kess, for her part, sat quietly for several moments, but began to play with one of the dinner knives idly as the conversation bordered on the mundane, despite several pointed nudges from Rowan. Her eyes focused on the blurry glass beside her where rain came down in thick sheets across the city hills.

  “It’s quite frustrating trying to find good help these days, but I’m sure that’s a problem you know well from your father’s household,” Furion was saying. Rowan had been half listening, watching Kess. Furion looked at him expectantly.

  “My father didn’t keep many servants, actually.”

  “A testament to his good taste, I’m sure.” He could hardly blame the two women for their inattention. Furion was no conversationalist.

  “I believe it had more to do with his tendency towards privacy,” Rowan said. Furion’s brows lifted, his face the picture of mock surprise.

  “But what would a man of his station have to hide?”

  “A desire for privacy isn’t the same as the desire to hide something, Furion.” Kess from beside him, the knife still tumbling in fingers too expert for any Uphill woman. Under the table, he nudged her lightly with a knee, and the knife stopped, briefly.

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  “Ah, Lady Kestril. I must have misspoken. I did not mean to imply—“

  “Your intent doesn’t excuse you from the implication,” she said, holding his gaze. He licked his lips, watching as the knife rotated again. Beside him, Reina watched with something akin to a smirk on her face. Rowan suddenly wished he had better dinner companions.

  “Of course, my lady. My apologies. Now, Rowan, let me tell you about this dreadfully awful business deal I was part of last week.”

  Rowan half-listened, his eyes on the surrounding patrons. He was here to make a deal with the man, but Furion seemed to want very little that Rowan could provide. Perhaps it had been a mistake to involve him at all, but Rowan had few options. If any more doors closed at court, he and Kess would have to ditch the idea entirely and resort to burglary. Watching Kess twirl the knife expertly, he wondered if that might be the better option. Reina—oddly, watched Kess’s knife without a hint of worry in her features.

  “—know how they can be,” Furion was saying. “He wanted all of my contacts, but particularly the children.”

  Rowan snapped out of his thoughts. “Children?” Kess’s knife stopped.

  “Well,” he said, swallowing. “Sandulf has always focused on youth outreach—he runs one of the best security forces in the city, and he’s been looking at expanding recently. To what, I can only guess—Hillcrest hasn’t had a war since the Council was formed. But he took particular interest in any Fulminant children I might have access to.”

  “And what did you tell him?” Rowan asked. At a neighboring booth, someone with far too much alcohol in their system let out a laugh. Furion’s face was open, but nervous.

  “I told him my contacts didn’t extend to children, only ladies, but he pressed me. Insistent, that man. Now, child soldiers or whatever Sandulf wants them for is a little gauche, even for me, but the price, my good man, that was right. And well, if they’re Fulminant, perhaps it’s better that Sandulf deals with them, anyway. I hardly want young women who might blow a client up rather than please them.” He licked his lips again, something hungry in his gaze, laughing nervously. Kess and Rowan exchanged a meaningful glance.

  “So your contacts do extend to children then,” Kess said. The man wobbled his head a little, his expression uncomfortable.

  “Not exactly children.” He dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “Just underage for the purposes of…well…” Beside him, Reina’s face was a mask of fury, though Furion did his best to ignore it. “It’s important, you see, that we don’t vend underage women regularly. Bad for business, you know. Same with the fighting rings, as I’m sure you’re aware.” He nodded to Kess, though she didn’t respond, choosing to stare at her knife instead. “We never employ underage women, but sometimes we take them in early, or keep tabs on potential candidates.”

  “Why would Sandulf want Fulminant children?” Rowan asked. He frowned, trying to piece together the legality of it. Surely there were laws in place against that kind of thing, but he wasn’t sure what laws were made without the Council’s approval, and the Council didn’t seem to do much lawmaking to begin with. These days, it was mostly political posturing and the promise of laws that kept them afloat.

  Furion shook his head. “I can’t be certain. We had the information he was looking for, of course, and it was a fair trade. We maintain a strong relationship with the Archives to make sure we stay legal. They provide us information, and we provide…favors.” He shook his head, taking a gulp of his wine. “But my business operations are common knowledge, I’m afraid. Any black sash worth his salt would know it. So why are you really here?”

  Rowan took a deep breath. “I need a way into the Archives,” he said.

  “That’s all well and good, but if you don’t have something to offer in return, I’m not interested. Business is difficult these days. Disappearing Fulminancers, the Downhill in open rebellion…people would rather stay in than have a good time.” He paused, his eyes roaming over Kess. “Unless…” he trailed off, eyes hungry.

  “She’s not on the table,” Rowan said, but not before the knife had suddenly found itself vibrating in the boards next to Furion’s head. Rowan did a double take at Kess’s small hands, but knew what he would find there—a missing knife. Furion’s eyes went wide as saucers as he turned to look at the knife wedged in the wood next to his head, but he didn’t jump—it had happened too fast for any kind of reaction.

  “You talk quite a lot, Furion, but let me tell you how this is going to go down,” Kess said, her voice a low, dangerous thing. “You’ll give Lord Northmont here full, unbridled access to the Archives without uttering a word about it to your constituents, and we’ll go about our separate evenings without a problem.”

  “And if I don’t, I assume you’ll, what, put a knife through my head?” Furion asked, sputtering a bit. Kess smiled sweetly, but held his gaze.

  “I can’t imagine where you’d get that idea,” she said. Beside Furion, Reina snorted, her posture relaxed in spite of the tense table. Rowan, for his part, kept his hand on his sword hilt, though drawing it in such tight quarters would be a nightmare. “I have something to offer,” Kess continued. “Your pick of the best fighters in Aurick’s ring, as a thank you gift for giving us access to the Archives. Think of it like a friendship, Furion.” Her eyes sparkled with both threat and humor. “You grant me access to the Archives, get something for your trouble, and with continued access, I can make sure that you have access to women branded as fighters instead of prostitutes.”

  Rowan could practically see the cogs turning in Furion’s head. As the owner of a brothel, he wasn’t allowed to buy or sell women who were owned by fighting rings. One of the allures of the life of a Bloodcrawler for many women was the promise that they couldn’t be touched by prostitution. It was a tempting prospect for Furion, even if Rowan knew it to be a complete and total lie.

  “Your woman certainly knows how to drive a bargain, Rowan,” Furion finally said, holding Kess’s gaze. Gone was the lecherous manner of before, likely courtesy of the knife still vibrating faintly near his head. “I accept, but I’ll need a few days to get things in order. My access is limited, and I have a few clients I need to work with first before I just hand over the keys to you two.”

  Rowan reached out to shake the man’s hand. Furion’s palm was moist and shaky as he tried to hold Rowan’s eyes, but kept glancing at Kess, who was back to staring out the window at the waterlogged city.

  They said their goodbyes and Furion practically dragged Reina out of the hall, looking behind him several times along the way. With Furion gone, Rowan offered his arm to Kess, who took it without comment. They made their way at a more leisurely pace through the hall and back down several flights of stairs towards the shattered glass hallway below.

  Rowan took a deep breath of the damp, cool air in the tunnel, and ran a hand through his curls as they reacted to the humidity. “Do you actually have the authority to promise that?” he asked Kess suddenly. Maybe Arlette hadn’t told him everything. Kess waved a hand dismissively at him, watching the rain, her arm still looped with his.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then why—“

  “Rowan,” she said, cocking her head up to look at him. “What do you think will happen to Furion when he goes down to Aurick’s ring and demands to take home some of their women?”

  Kess wasn’t smiling, but the edges of her eyes crinkled slightly, the mirth evident there even without the delicate turn of her lips.

  “I imagine they’ll be very displeased,” he replied.

  Kess laughed, then tightened her grip around Rowan’s arm, looking down another tunnel which Rowan was fairly certain led to an outside pavilion of sorts.

  “What’s that light?” Kess asked. Rowan frowned, then tugged Kess down the hallway, stepping through a few piles of glass. It can’t be, he thought.

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