Page 9 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

But an amalgamate could perform well in two, sometimes three different systems and even transport magical artifacts between places without losing their efficacy—they were valuable, useful, and the good ones were rare.

“Yes, Tern,” Nore said, focusing on enunciating so her frustration did not boil over. It wasn’t Tern’s fault—though it was Tern’s fault he was underestimating her. “Whoever it is, they are definitely using more than one type of magic.” Begrudgingly, she admitted, “Potentially combining them in a way I would otherwise find fascinating.”

“Well,” Tern said, “at least that’s positive. When you catch them, we can at least learn something from them.” He offered her a smile, probably to comfort her. Nore didn’t return it.

Tern took a long draw of his ale, his eyes skirting over her face. She wasn’t much to look at, roughed up as she was, but she still felt the heat pooling in her cheeks. It had been a long time since she’d taken anyone to her bed—but she didn’t mix with the other spies. Too many complications.

Still, she remembered the rough catch of Tern’s voice as he’d asked, Should I stay or go?

“Are you heading west, then?” Nore asked, trying to steer the conversation back into territory that wouldn’t rile her up. She didn’t dislike Tern. She was just annoyed, frustrated, exhausted, and probably hungry. Her own needs were so far down her list of priorities that they were better off forgotten.

“No,” Tern said. “I’m off for the Straits, then north.”

A dangerous place to be going for anyone, but Tern was good, and solid, and strong—and she really needed him to stop looking at her like that. Maybe she should have broken her own rules and asked Tern to help her with some of this frustration. Or better yet, some anonymous body at the pier, someone who was only a shadow and hands and mouth and teeth, someone who could take Nore out of her body and her worries, even if only temporarily.

She was sane enough to recognize what a terrible idea it was.

Nore drained her ale and set her glass down, a clear sign of parting. “May the seas be on your side, Captain,” she said, standing to go.

“And yours,” he said. “I suppose I’ll see you when I’m back.”

Nore managed a thin smile. “I suppose you will.”

She didn’t speak to anyone else, didn’t pause until she was back out into the cold on the pub’s decking. Nore leaned against the wall for a moment, scanning the sailors in their coats, the merchants, and the harbor workers and sex workers chattering and laughing in the night air, and then she saw the point of stillness near the balcony.

She lowered herself into the chair in front of the old man. “You sent word for me.”

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” he said, not looking up from his book.

“Yes, you were,” Nore said.

He only sighed. Hands shut his book and set it aside.

“Do you have anything for me?”

The old man pulled his bag up from under the table. He rifled through it, muttering under his breath about Nore’s character. She didn’t care. She’d suffered worse.

He finally found what he was looking for: something small, wrapped with leathery cloth. He set it on the table between them and pushed it toward Nore.

“Karathak,” he said. “From the ancient city of Tarakis.”

There was no point in saying that Tarakis had never existed out of myth—she did not think the old man would appreciate that—but she brought the cloth to her and unfolded it. If it was as old as the myths of Tarakis, it was older than most functional systems. A small stone rested in the middle, carved with runes running in a spiral along its edges, all the way to the center. Just running her fingers over it, she felt the power warming from within, and some odd, sick feeling curled in her stomach. There was a hole in the middle of the stone.

“What does it do?” Nore asks.

“Just what you asked. Feed the runes with blood and nail it to a door, and it’ll strip all magic and workings from any system from within a room. Feed it and wear it, and it acts as a protection for you, but it goes both ways: you won’t be able to do magic, either, just as you’ll be impervious to it. Works for at least a day, by my test.”

“Hmm.” Nore ran her finger along one of the runes. It would be difficult to nail it to the cargo hold, but it was worth a try. “That will suit.” She pulled out the small bag of silver from her pocket and handed it over.

The old man spat over the railing, but he took the silver—it was an eye-watering sum, and still probably less than this old thing was worth, if it did what it was meant to. “Nasty business you’re always getting yourself into, lady.”

“That it is,” Nore agreed grimly.

Nore, darling—

are you ever going to tell me what happened to X​X​X​X​X​ X​X​ X​X​X​X​ X​X​X​X​X​X​X​X​X​ X​X​X​X​X​ I know things happen, but when you came to the Festival of Wheat last summer… you just looked so happy. I didn’t know my levelheaded, stubborn daughter could even be so happy.

Letter to Nore Gordon from Golda Barber, her mother, 1630 UCE