All the Stars and Teeth (All the Stars and Teeth Duology) (16 page)

We take another series of turns before arriving at a small cluster of buildings, all of which are built from dull gray pebble stones. Some are chipped and punctured with empty holes.

Voices filter from behind one stone slab door, beneath a deceptively elegant sign that says
VICE
. I immediately adjust my cloak around me, skin crawling from nerves I can’t quite explain. There’s something off about this place.

Ferrick squints at the sign. “Even if he does know where
we could find a mermaid, how do you intend to get him to tell you?”

Bastian pats the side of his cloak and the pouch he stole from Mornute jingles, heavy with coin. “Everyone has a price.”

There’s a makeshift handle built into the stone slab. Bastian doesn’t wait another moment to use it.

I’m nearly knocked back by a pungent odor as warm air greets us. Ferrick chokes on it, but quickly stops himself when Bastian elbows him in the side.

The smell is a mix of vomit, oily bodies, and what seems like iron. I know better, though. I’m familiar enough with the smell to know it’s blood. Yet the lustrous panels of dark wood are spotless.

I peer up enough to see the store itself doesn’t quite match its nauseating stench. The walls are painted a handsome amethyst with thick whorls of silver and gold that swoop from the crystal chandelier on the ceiling and thin as they near the floor. There’s a bar in the corner constructed from ivory—sleek, polished, and impossibly different from everything outside.

Dozens of Kers sit on heavy bar stools, a giant spinning wheel between them. A tiny ball whirls around the middle, floating over a series of squares and numbers as the wheel spins and spins.

“Care to try your hand at a game of roulette?” a raven-haired woman asks Ferrick, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Just last week, a friend of mine won
five years
. What do you say, handsome? Come give it a try.”

The entirety of Ferrick’s face floods a deep crimson. Beside him, Bastian scoffs.

“We’ve no interest in your rigged games,” he says. The woman pouts her full pink lips, but I pay little attention.

It’s as though I’ve been struck. My knees buckle as I suck in a sharp breath, eyeing the handful of Kers who sit around the
roulette wheel, gambling away not money, but years off their lives. They’re time trading—a rare and banned practice where only the most skilled Kers are able to transfer time from one person to another.

And they’ve no shame in their actions. They do it openly, not trying to hide their crimes.

Kerost truly has been abandoned.

Someone slams into my shoulder, forcing me to bite back bitter words as I stumble. But the man who knocked into me doesn’t look back. He drunkenly sways past the wheel and toward the back of the strange store, where another line is forming.

Everything about this place feels wrong. But the longer I’m here, the more the smell of iron fades beneath the sweet scent of warm vanilla and heavy spices of cinnamon and nutmeg. The aroma twists around me, attempting to calm me and mask the stench of blood.

Women in a variety of silks are lined up in the back. Some hold their jaws high with determination while others look shy and bashful. All their eyes, however, are cool and lethal as they slice through the crowd.

A young man stands before them. His hair’s blond as sand, and the smoothness of his milky-white skin matches the ensnaring grin he flashes at the crowd. We catch him in the middle of a spiel he speaks fluently, undoubtedly well practiced.

“—so let’s forget all our struggles then, shall we? It’s worth it, after all! One night, after all our hard work, to finally be treated as a man should!”

There are grunts of agreement from the crowd, full of men who hungrily eye the women before them. My anger swells; it takes everything in me to keep my mouth clamped tight.

I assume this man must be Blarthe, though he seems too young to run this place. He has to be somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, though it’s hard to tell when his skin
is spared from even the slightest wrinkle. He’s bright where the other men are barely standing, exhaustion weighing them. I highly doubt he’s the one who’s been doing any of this “hard work.”

He waves the first woman over, a Ker with smooth pale skin and spiraling waves of red hair. Though Blarthe opens his mouth to speak, she interrupts him.

“I want five weeks,” she says haughtily, earning a roll of the eyes from several of the girls behind her.

Blarthe’s grin wavers with annoyance, but he catches himself before it breaks his placid face. “She means two weeks,” he offers instead, teeth gleaming.

Someone in the small crowd raises their hand, and the girl steps down to take it with a grin. The man who’s bought a night with her gives a wave to the crowd as he and the woman disappear to a private room in the back.

A stunning Ker with russet skin and silky black hair steps forward next, smirking at the hungry crowd she’s drawn.

The pattern continues, girl after girl. I search their faces for any sign of discomfort, but the higher the amount of time they earn, the more their eyes glint.

Only when the auction is complete does the crowd disperse. Blarthe grins as he pats the backs of several men, ushering them toward the roulette wheels, or to tables filled with patrons playing cards. His hearty laugh doesn’t fit his young face.

Others line up near the entrance opposite us, their faces worn and hands outstretched. When they reach the front of the line, they prick their finger with a pin and press their bleeding thumb against a sheet of paper.

“One week,” says a young girl once she’s done offering her blood. The worker in charge of the area nods, makes a note, and then hands her several stacks of wood and a bucket of nails and supplies.

When the girl turns back out the door, her face is ashen and eyes hollow.

Only when Blarthe makes his way behind the polished ivory bar do I force my attention away and steel myself. We step forward, taking three seats near the end.

Blarthe’s quick to eye us, and roughly slides over three mugs of ale. Some of the amber liquid and its froth spills out over the edge and falls onto my cape.

I bite my tongue. It’s going to be next to impossible to get the smell out of the fabric.

“It’s not often I get new faces,” he muses. “Where are you kids traveling from?” The words are spoken too loudly. Too brightly.

“We’re Valukans,” I answer, not missing a beat. “We’re on our way to Enuda, just passing through.” I eye the ale in front of me. It’ll be suspicious if I don’t drink it, but the smell that wafts from the mug is a peculiar one. It reminds me of a rotten apple—strangely sweet with a foul undercurrent. I take the pint in one hand and slowly lift it to press my lips to the glass. I fake the smallest swig.

When my face lifts, Blarthe’s eyes are all over me. There’s a scar through his left eyebrow, and another at the side of his lip, but aside from that his skin is flawless. Yet his sharp green eyes are too aged for the rest of his uncomfortably youthful appearance.

Magic pulses within me, warning of danger. I want to latch onto the pulsating, ravenous thrumming in my blood and keep it close. My fingers brush against my satchel, seeking its comfort but finding only nerves in its place.

There are too many people here. So many that, should something go wrong with my magic again, it’d be a bloodbath.

Never before has my magic been a source of anxiety. But for now I have to stuff it back down, nerves prickling at my
skin. I only allow myself to reach for the harmless part of my magic—soul reading.

This is the first skill I learned, and by far the easiest. It’s gentle and peaceful where the rest of soul magic is vicious, and I don’t hesitate to wrap it around me like a second cloak and wait for my and Blarthe’s eyes to meet.

His soul is like algae. Slimy and sticky, as if constantly attempting to ensnare others. It’s rotted and peeling at the edges, similar to Aran’s, the prisoner I executed back in Arida. Though his face is smooth and inviting, I understand within seconds how dangerous and vicious a man he is.

The beast gnaws within me, wanting to devour this soul it senses me considering.

Annoyance stirs in my chest. At the execution, I lost my focus and paid the price. But the journey I’m on is to prove myself as the ruler Visidia deserves. And the queen of a kingdom should not fear her own magic—she should relish it.

So that’s exactly what I do. The mistakes I made in the past do not make me weak; instead, I’ll use them to become stronger. I’m done being afraid of my own power.

I swathe myself in the full strength of my magic. It flares like fire within my chest, searing my fingertips and easing the tension in my shoulders. I relax into it, because this time, I will not lose control.

Beside me, the boys are tense, but Blarthe’s focus eventually drops as he wipes out a crystal mug with a plush amethyst rag. Only when he relaxes does all of Vice seem to take a breath. Several men at the bar had been hanging on to his every word, likely more than just patrons.

Behind us, the ball of a roulette wheel clacks quietly. A woman playing it hisses at her loss.

“Why have you come here?” Though Blarthe keeps his voice low, its sharpness cuts me like a knife.

Bastian leans forward, fingers dancing along the mug but refusing to drink what’s inside. There’s a sword under his cape, and a dagger plus a satchel full of teeth and bones beneath mine. If we need to use them, the last thing we need is ale clouding our judgment.

“We’re looking for a mermaid,” Bastian says, wasting no time.

A crooked grin parts Blarthe’s lips. He chuckles, too dark and low for his body. “Every man is looking for a mermaid, mate. I don’t blame you.”

While Ferrick flushes, the comment isn’t enough to dissuade Bastian. “Three gold pieces for any information you have.” Bastian guides Blarthe’s curiosity toward his hand, where he produces a single gold coin from between two of his fingers. He rolls it into his palm, but the shopkeeper’s face remains impassive.

“You seek me out, needing my help, and yet you think it wise to insult me?” he asks, harsh eyes slicing into us. I flinch back, nerves feasting on my bones. “I don’t barter with something as simple as coin, kid.”

“I’m not asking you to hand her to me. I’m only asking for information.” Bastian rolls the coin between his fingers and up his sleeve.

“If I told you where a beached mermaid was, it’d be as good as giving her to you,” Blarthe says. “And there isn’t enough coin in the world to make that a worthwhile trade.”

Ferrick begins to push himself from the bar. “Perhaps we should look somewhere else,” he suggests, a nervous bite to his words.

Bastian ignores him, tensing his jaw. “How much do you want?”

“I already told you, I don’t barter with coin.” Blarthe sets down his mug, and the room snaps into silence as several of
the patrons cling to his words. “I barter with time. Six years for information about mermaids.”

I lean back, noticing those playing roulette have now stilled. At the card tables, all heads turn to face us. It’s clear these are no ordinary patrons; they hang on Blarthe’s words, waiting for his command.

“Okay, now I
really
think we should go,” Ferrick urges under his breath. This time, I agree.

Beads of sweat dot Bastian’s brow, but he’s yet to reach for his sword. I catch another metallic whiff of blood beneath the false, soft spices, and pray it’s not the smell of our future.

The roulette wheels cease their clacking and go silent.

“I’m afraid I’ve no time to trade,” Bastian says, keeping his voice firm. “And it seems as though I’ve wasted yours.”

Blarthe snorts. It’s a deep, guttural sound that’s strange on his rosy lips. The lips of a man who has stolen his youth. Then his scarred face contorts, and I anticipate the first sign of danger.

“Perhaps you don’t have any time,” he says, “but the princess might.”

I unsheathe my dagger. Magic flares within me, white-hot and ready.

“Stars, Princess,” Bastian grumbles under his breath. “Does
everyone
in this blasted kingdom know your face?”

Several patrons rise to their feet as Blarthe chokes on a throaty laugh. From beneath the bar, he draws two wrinkled posters, one with Ferrick’s illustrated face and the other with mine.
WANTED ALIVE
is written in thick letters across the top of each. And though Ferrick gulps, my lips tighten as I look at the image of me—they’ve drawn me too thin, and my nose too sharp. And I certainly don’t scowl as deeply as the depiction staring back at me.

“Arida’s High Animancer sent an entire fleet this morning,”
Blarthe says. “They scoured the whole town, looking for a little lost princess and her fiancé. Said they were fugitives. They’re probably in Enuda by now.” He motions to the several men who surround us. No longer needing to be concealed, I toss back the hood of my cape to look directly into the eyes of the man whose soul my magic craves.

“How much does this say they’re offering for information on the princess?” Blarthe peers down at the poster. “Ah, yes. Twenty gold pieces, just for information.” His attention turns to the men who now surround him. “Give it a season, and the price will triple. And I’m sure we can find a way for the princess to earn her keep in the meantime.”

I spit at Blarthe’s feet.

“Run, Amora.” Ferrick’s hand is on my back. “We’ll hold them off.”

But I won’t flee. Bastian’s scanning the room, most likely in search of a clever way out of this mess, and the increasing layer of sweat on his face and neck tells me he’s drawn the same conclusion I have. We’re going to have to fight.

And if there’s one thing I learned in my years of training with Casem and his father, it’s to never let your opponent strike first.

I tighten my grip around my dagger’s hilt and throw myself onto the counter.

The quiet whooshing of hastily drawn blades rings in my ears, following the clashing of metal as Bastian parries a quick blow. Most patrons bolt at the first sign of violence, leaving only a handful of men inside.

“Anyone who brings me the girl can consider their debt paid!” Blarthe’s yell bleeds into the walls and fills the room.