“How?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it. He didn’t have an answer.
Anaya gave him a sad smile. “Come on. Let’s make some dinner. Evaine will be back soon.”
He helped Anaya chop and peel vegetables for dinner, a chore he actually enjoyed because he got to use his knives. He chopped angrily, thinking about the murderous Listener, the dishonest dairy farmer, the city in turmoil. The people turning against Luc, their fear sharpening into anger and violence. What if they attacked the Arcanist again? What if they did worse than shoot blazing arrows at his house?
All while Rolan sat around like a useless toad.
“Whoa, easy there!” Anaya said. “You trying to lose a finger?”
Rolan looked down and realized he’d sped up his chopping so much that he nearlyhadbegun to dice his own finger.
“Nothing else to do until Evaine gets back,” Anaya said. “She’ll bring sausage for the stew.”
Nothing to do but wait.
As if that wasn’t all Rolan had done for eight days. Wait for Luc to change his mind, to decide he needed his apprentice after all.
A bitter shock went through Rolan as he realized he was falling back into the same old, stupid pattern: waiting for someone to come claim him. Waiting to be wanted.
While there were crowds rioting and Cryptics lurking.
He was the Arcanist’s apprentice. He wasn’t a useless street kid anymore, stealing bread and lamps, trying to impress his pa.
He had todosomething.
Calmly, he wiped his knife clean and sheathed it in his belt.
- CHAPTER 27 -DAGGERS IN THE DARK
Rolan waited until midnight, his daggers hidden under his pillow. The advantage of sleeping on a pallet in the kitchen was that he didn’t have to sneak past Evaine’s and Anaya’s bedrooms upstairs on his way out. Evaine kept the doors and windows locked at night, but locks were rarely a problem for Rolan.
Outside, the streets were bright, as they always were. He ducked behind a cart as a lamplighter went past, checking oil levels in the lamps. But overhead, the sky was as black as ink, the stars washed out by the city’s glow. The air felt strange, too still and too thin, as if the city were holding its breath.
Rolan stole through the alleyways, knives ready, senses on alert. This was not much different from his old habits of prowling the citylate at night, only then he’d been looking for scraps to eat and small valuables to pocket and take back to his father.
Now he was doing the unthinkable. If Luc found out, he’d be livid. But Luc wouldn’t find out. He’d dumped Rolan, possibly for good. This was his fault, really. He should have taken back his knives. He shouldn’t have sent Rolan away.
Lamps burned on every corner, but Rolan knew a few spots around the city, usually in the poorest neighborhoods, where there were small gaps in the pools of light. Faint slivers of shadow that most people did not notice, dark corners where secrets could grow legs.
It was in one such place he found the first Cryptic.
In his weeks with Luc, the Arcanist had taught him the signs to watch out for: scrabbling legs, clacking mandibles, gouges on stone or wood where curving claws left their mark.
This Cryptic announced itself with a chitter of teeth. Rolan went stiff the moment he heard it, his grip on his knife hilts tightening.
He crouched under the awning of a candle shop that had been closed for years, its dusty windows still featuring rows of half-melted wax blobs. Nobody was around. Even in daylight, this street was usually empty, its shops shuttered due to regular flooding from the river. Around the corner was a small, triangular nook where the building didn’t quite match up with the next, creating a dark cranny where no lamplight could reach.
The chittering sound was coming from in there.
Rolan drew a few deep breaths, steeling himself. He’d never challenged a Cryptic on his own. He caught himself longing for Luc’s firm, whispered instructions in his ear, the confidence thatcame from knowing that if he made a mistake, the Arcanist would be there to cover for him.
“Stupid old man,” Rolan muttered. “I don’t need you, anyway.”
With a snarl, Rolan threw himself around the corner, knives high.
And the Cryptic leaped out of the shadows with a shriek.
