Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,13

eyes moved slightly before the other, like a child leading a slow cousin by the hand.

“Good turning to you, sir,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Aa bless and keep you.”

“Come in wiv Wolfeater’s mob, didjer?”

“Well spotted, sir.”

“Pay’s four beggars weekly, but yer get board onna top.6 Twenty percent of anyfing you make turning trick onna side comes to me direct. And I’ll need a sample a’fore yer hired. Fair?”

Mia’s smile dragged the proprietor’s behind the bar and quietly strangled it.

It made very little sound as it died.

“I’m afraid you misunderstand, sir,” she said. “I am not here to apply for employ within your”—a glance about her—“no doubt fine establishment.”

A sniff. “Whya ’ere then?”

She placed the sheepskin purse atop the bar. The treasure within clinked with a tune nothing like gold. If you were in the business of dentistry, you might have recognized that the tiny orchestra inside the bag was comprised entirely of human teeth.

It took her a moment to speak. To find the words she’d practiced until she dreamed them.

“My tithe for the Maw.”

The man looked at her, expression unreadable. Mia tried to keep the tremors from her breath, her hands. Six years it had taken her to come this far. Six years of rooftops and alleys and sleepless nevernights. Of dusty tomes and bleeding fingers and noxious gloom. But at last, she stood on the threshold, a small nod away from the vaunted halls of the Red—

“What’s me maw got tado wivvit?” the proprietor blinked.

Mia kept her face as stone, despite the dreadful flips her insides were undertaking. She glanced around the room. The tomb-raiders were bent over their map. A handful of local wags were playing “spank” with a pack of moldy cards. A woman in desert-colored robes and a veil was drawing spiral patterns on a tabletop with what looked like blood.

“The Maw,” Mia repeated. “This is my tithe.”

“Maw’s dead,” the barman frowned.

“… What?”

“Been dead nigh on four truedarks now.”

“The Maw,” she scowled. “Dead. Are you mad?”

“You’re the one bringing my old dead mum presents, lass.”

Realization tapped her on the shoulder, danced a funny little jig.

Ta-da.

“I’m not talking about your mother you fucki—”

Mia caught her temper by the collar, gave it a good hard shake. Clearing her throat, she brushed her crooked fringe from her eyes.

“I do not refer to your mother, sir. I mean the Maw. Niah. The Goddess of Night. Our Lady of Blessed Murder. Sisterwife to Aa, and mother to the hungry dark within us all.”

“O, you mean the Maw.”

“Yes.” The word was a rock, hurled right between the barman’s eyes. “The Maw.”

“Sorry,” the man said, sheepishly. “It’s just the accent, y’know.”

Mia glared.

The barman cleared his throat. “There’s no church to the Maw ’round ’ere, lass. Worship of ’er kind’s outlawed, even onna fringe. Got no business wiv Muvvers of Night and someandsuch in this particular place of business. Bad for the grub.”

“You are Fat Daniio, proprietor of the Old Imperial?”

“I’m not fat—”

Mia slapped the bartop. Several of the spank players turned to stare.

“But your name is Daniio?” she hissed.

A pause. Brow creased in thought. The gaze of Daniio’s slow cousin eye seemed to be wandering off, as if distracted by pretty flowers, or perhaps a rainbow.7

“Aye,” Daniio finally said.

“I was told—specifically told, mind you—to come to the Old Imperial on the coast of Ashkah and give Fat Daniio my tithe.” Mia pushed the purse across the counter. “So take it.”

“What’s in it?”

“Trophy of a killer, killed in kind.”

“Eh?”

“The teeth of Augustus Scipio, high executioner of the Itreyan Senate.”

“Is he comin’ ’ere to get them?”

Mia bit her lip. Closed her eyes.

“… No.”

“How the ’byss did he lose his—”

“He didn’t lose them,” Mia leaned further forward, smell be damned. “I tore them out of his skull after I cut his miserable throat.”

Fat Daniio fell silent. An almost thoughtful expression crossed his face. He leaned in close, wreathed in the stench of rotten fish, tears springing unbidden to Mia’s eyes.

“’Scuse me then, lass. But what am I sposed to do with some dead tosser’s teeth?”

The door creaked open, and the Wolfeater ducked below the frame, stepping into the Old Imperial as if he owned a part share in it.8 A dozen crewmen followed, cramming into dingy booths and leaning against the creaking bar. With an apologetic shrug, Fat Daniio set to serving the Dweymeri sailors. Mia caught his sleeve as he headed toward the booths.

“Do you have rooms here, sir?”

“Aye, we do. One beggar a week, mornmeal extra.”

Mia pushed an iron coin into Fat