Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,43

the prison’s clerks would get around to processing the required paperwork. As such, most prisoners spent much of their time thinking deep thoughts about injustice, the nature of criminality, and how that pair of boots they stole wasn’t really worth the five years of life they paid for it. Hence the nickname “Philosopher’s Stone.”

Owing to the overcrowding, the Itreyan Senate had devised an ingenious and entertaining method of population control known as “the Descent,” held during truedark Carnivalé every three years. However, an unexplained “incident” during the most recent Descent—also the night of the Truedark Massacre—saw large portions of the Philosopher’s Stone destroyed, and the spire itself partially collapsed. It has been abandoned ever since; a hollow, lean-to shell, supposedly haunted by the ghosts of the hundreds murdered within, the horrors of their deaths embedded in the stone for all eternity.

Boo!

2. Blacksteel, also known as “ironfoe,” was a wondrous metal created by the Ashkahi sorcerii before the fall of the empire. Black as truedark, the metal never grew dull or rusted, and was capable of being sharpened to an impossible edge. Ashkahi smiths were said to slice their anvils in half with a completed blacksteel blade to prove it worthy—a practice heartily endorsed by the Ashkahi Anvilmaker’s Guild.

One famous tale speaks of a thief named Tariq who stole a blacksteel blade belonging to an Ashkahi prince. In his haste to flee the scene of his crime, the thief dropped the blade, which cut through the floor and down into the earth. The flood of fire released from the worldwound burned down the entire city. Death by immolation became the punishment for thievery in Ashkah thereafter—no matter the offense, be it the smallest loaf or the crown jewels themselves, any thief caught in Ashkah would be tied to a stone pillar and set ablaze.

Some people just ruin it for everybody, don’t they?

CHAPTER 8

SALVATION

“Two irons and twelve coppers,” the boy crowed. “Tonight we eat like kings. Or queens. As the case may be.”

“What,” scoffed the grubby girl beside him. “You mean crucified in Tyrant’s Row? I’d rather eat like a consul if it’s all the same to you.”

“Girls can’t be consuls, sis.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t eat like one.”

Three urchins were crouched in an alley not too far off the market’s crush, a basket of stale pastries beside them. The first, the quick-fingered lad who’d bumped into Mia in the marketplace. The second, a girl with grubby blond hair and bare feet. The third was a slightly older boy, gutter-thin and mean. They were dressed in threadbare clothes, though the bigger boy wore a fine belt of knives at his waist. The proceeds of their morning’s work were laid before them; a handful of coins and a silver crow with amber eyes.

“That’s mine,” Mia said from behind them.

The trio stood quickly, turned to face their accuser. Mia stood at the alley mouth, fists on hips. The bigger boy pulled a knife from his belt.

“You give that back right now,” said Mia.

“Or what?” the boy said, raising his blade.

“Or I yell for the Luminatii. They’ll cut off your hands and dump you in the Choir if you’re lucky. Throw you in the Philosopher’s Stone if not.”

The trio gifted her a round of mocking laughter.

The black at Mia’s feet rippled. The fear inside her became nothing at all. And folding her arms, she puffed out her chest, narrowed her eyes, and spoke with a voice she didn’t quite recognize as her own.

“Give. It. Back.”

“Fuck off, you little whore,” the big one said.

A scowl darkened Mia’s brow. “… Whore?”

“Cut her, Shivs,” the younger boy said. “Cut her a new hole.”

Cheeks reddening, Mia peered at the first boy.

“Your name is Shivs? O, because you carry knives, aye?” She glanced at the younger boy. “You’d be Fleas then?” To the girl. “Let me guess, Worms?”1

“Clever,” said the blonde. And stepping lightly to Mia’s side, she drew back a fist and buried it in Mia’s stomach.

The breath left her lungs with a wet cough as she fell to her knees. Blinking and blinded, Mia clutched her belly, trying not to retch. Astonishment inside her. Astonishment and rage.

Nobody had hit her before.

Nobody had dared.

She’d seen her mother fence wits countless times in the Spine. She’d seen men reduced to stuttering lumps by the Dona Corvere, women driven to tears. And Mia had studied well. But the rules said the aggrieved was supposed to riposte with some barb of their own, not haul off and punch her like some lowborn thug