Page 42 of Sharpest Court

“Suit yourself.” He turned again. “You know where the door is.”

“They won’t forgive you,” I said, my voice liquid-smooth.

Raff paused. “Excuse me?”

“All your lovely friends.” I glanced at the workers who’d shuffled toward our standoff. “You entice them with the promise of spilling highborn blood, and now you’re snatching their fun away?”

Indeed, the atmosphere was bloated with the same sadistic anticipation that preceded a public execution.

After a long, considering silence, Raff sighed. “Win this fight, and I’ll pass on the message. The final decision will be Caly’s.”

Good enough.

“Done,” I said, and the crowd erupted, the cheering mixed with taunts.

A callused hand grabbed my wrist, tugging me back. Not Keil’s, as I’d expected, but Lye’s. “I know you want this meeting, Lockpicker, but this is not how I do things.” His usual nonchalance had given way to something shrewd and serious—the inner workings behind his outer charm, I realized. “Raff is a contact I don’t want to lose.”

“Why would you . . . ?” I stopped, blinking. Why would you lose him? I’d been about to ask. But I already knew the answer.

I’ve seen her Wield, Lye had said in the carriage, with complete confidence in my ability. Similarly, Keil had just called me the strongest without hesitation.

Lye wasn’t concerned that I would lose this fight. He was concerned that I would win.

Fresh confidence straightened my spine. Reading my expression, Lye swiveled to Keil. “Will you please say something?”

I tensed as I took in Keil’s demeanor: arms crossed, brows drawn. He’d been suspiciously quiet throughout this exchange. As he stepped in front of me, I braced myself for an inevitable argument.

Then he murmured, “You see his limp? He has a weak left knee. And that scar on his shoulder looks fresh; exploit it if you can.”

My eyes widened. “You’re not going to try talking me out of this?”

He gave me a wry look. “Don’t flatter me by pretending I could.”

My mouth inched up with a smile, and Keil’s gaze followed the movement.

“Great gods,” Lye groaned as he rubbed a hand down his face, defeated. “All right.” He turned to me, a new fierceness in his gaze. “Most Wielders have a physical tell before they release their specter. Find his, and you can anticipate his attacks.”

I nodded, making sure the compass was secure in my hip bag. “Any tips on fighting an enemy I can’t see?”

“The specter is not the enemy,” Lye said. “The enemy is the man in front of you, and you can see him just fine.”

“Are we doing this?” My opponent lumbered forward, his vest clinging to the pronounced lines of his torso. “Or am I interrupting your tea party?”

I gulped, trying to settle my heartbeat before it drove me into flat-out panic. Taking a deep breath, I met him in a circle of grubby floor space.

I’d witnessed organized fights during my seventeenth year, when Tari and I would sneak beneath the local tavern to bet on the baker’s son. One night, after too much cheap wine, we’d unexpectedly crashed into Garret upstairs. He’d steadied me, impossibly stern, and I was too tipsy to protest as he hauled us into a carriage home.

Garret never mentioned it again, but I’d retained the blurry memory of his close, sharp profile as he carried me to my door, angling me away from the wind.

Now another image of Garret rose to my mind: holding Briar to the ground and shouting over his shoulder, Go!

The abrupt memory sent my specter flooding past the surface, thick and hot.

And more fluid than I wanted it. Oh, gods, I shouldn’t have agreed to this.

“How about I let you strike first, princess?” My opponent grinned. “To make it fair.”

I bristled. As my fists clenched, so too did my spectral muscle. “I’m not a princess.”