“Here she is, my glorious fighter. What a surprise.” Loot had the slightest lisp that somehow made him even more august. He was smiling widely. Not a good sign.
Loot was dressed like one of the wardens themselves in a rich mustard suit, and his brown eyes sparkled as she walked into the light. A spider brooch was pinned to his left breast, the glittering black diamond eyes twinkling in the runelamp light. At forty-five he was young to have founded a dynasty. But it would be a mistake to assume that made him inexperienced.
“By the blood, you look like a pile of eru dung.”
“Steaming on a cold winter’s morning,” Sylah added, brushing a braid from her eyes, the glass beads clicking together.
“Ha!” Loot snorted. “Always the poet.” Loot pushed his gold spectacles up his nose with a manicured finger. That was the thing with Loot: everything about him was elegant. From the well-groomed beard to the tips of his eru leather shoes. His obsidian skin was a flawless black mirror.
The crime guild token dangled by Loot’s waist. It was a cross engraved in a coin of metal—the only letter Dusters were allowed to use, and even then, it was mostly used to sign death certificates. The emblem was a mockery of the guild tokens given to Embers when they chose their guild at twenty years old.
Choice?Sylah didn’t know what that felt like.
A Ghosting servant, their brown uniform tied at the waist with a yellow band, brought out an opulent teapot. Like the wardens themselves, Loot had Ghosting servants, and he branded them as his own with a yellow sash. Sylah wondered which Ember official he bribed to get them assigned to him and not a noble Ember.
The servant’s wrist was threaded through the large handle of the steaming, gilded teapot while they supported the base with their other limb. It was rumored that the teapot was the vessel Loot had used to poison the former crime lords of Nar-Ruta. It clinked as it touched the marble table in front of Loot.
“Tea?” It wasn’t really a question. You didn’t say no when Loot asked you if you wanted tea.
Sylah nodded, and he waved at a nearby chair and she sank into it. She twirled the braid with the scarf woven in until it pulled painfully at the root.
Whistling, Loot tipped a small sachet of powder into the tea. It was poison, though Sylah didn’t know what type. He filled two flowery teacups to the brim and spooned three lumps of sugar into his. Sylah reached for hers, and Loot’s brown eyes watched her above the rim of the teacup as she sipped.
Once she’d swallowed the poisoned tea, Loot continued. “So I’m guessing you’re not here just for my famous tea.”
“No.” She tipped her head, her plaits falling around her face like curtains. “I want in on the Ring.”
“You’re not due up until next week.”
“Bring me forward.”
“I’d have to bump Ows. You know he doesn’t like that.”
“I…I need the money.” Her fingers itched to fondle the remaining joba seeds in her satchel.
“Aho, did you burn down the glasskeep too?”
Sylah scowled, “I never burned down anything.”
“That’s not the story Abod the baker is telling.”
“Just a bit of bread, that’s all.”
“So you didn’t burn down the bakery, or steal the silk from the tailors, or misplace all the vegetables from Kala’s mart? They just couldn’t keep on such a bright young woman through no fault of her own.”
“Exactly.” Sylah drank more of the nectar tea. It was always sickly sweet. It had to be to mask the bitterness of Loot’s sordid games.
“You know the rules, though.”
Sylah nodded, keeping her black eyes on her teacup.
“Can’t have you winning again, so this time, win one, lose two. I’ve got One-ear Lazo up tonight. It’ll be a good match. He might even beat you.”
They both guffawed.
“Be at the Ring at seventh strike. We’ll settle after.” Loot downed his tea and picked up his book, waving at the servant to clear the table. Sylah clutched her teacup in her hand, refusing to part with it when the servant reached for it with their limbs.
“Before,” Sylah said. She didn’t want to be in debt to Maiden Turin longer than she had to.