During the seasons when the sun rose and sank in the sky above Zaryevsk, Nesta usually left work at dawn. But, under the Midnight Sun, it was full daylight when she left the club that night.

She was drenched in sweat, as she was every night, and the face paint she'd so carefully applied had become caked into the creases and pores of her face. Her muscles ached, her feet ached, her head ached, and all she wanted to do was collapse into bed. But first, she had to stop at the banya, and she should probably get something to eat, and...

And years of instincts that had been honed first on the streets of Zaryevsk, and later working on the fringes of the Halfworld all started screaming at once. A prickle at the back of her neck, the weight of someone's gaze on her back, a shadow at the corner of her vision–whatever it was that caught her attention, warning bells went off inside her head.

Someone was following her.

She wasn't far from the club. She could go back, she reasoned, pretend she'd forgotten something, wait a bit, and then disappear out a different door. But... She was tired. Her feet hurt. She was drenched in sweat. She just wanted to get back to the dingy room she rented, collapse into her lumpy bed, and sleep all day.

She was still in the harbor, and the streets were still crowded, although now they were jammed with wagons and carts loaded with goods from newly arrived ships or bound for ones about to depart. Now, there were sailors and street vendors and city folk everywhere.

Nesta knew the harbor well, well enough to know that the landscape changed every day as crates and containers were unloaded and stacked and loaded onto different ships, as wagons were parked and loaded and moved, as vendors set up their carts and stalls in different places every day.

But the fundamental layout was the same.

Instead of continuing on her way, Nesta ducked onto a crowded street, weaving her way between sailors and dockworkers and vendors. Usually, she resented how short she was, but times like these, it was a blessing. Hopefully, whoever was following her would lose her among the taller heads in the crowd.

But as she ducked and dodged through the crowd, Nesta could still feel the weight of eyes on her, the prickle at the back of her neck which told her that her pursuer hadn't lost her yet.

She turned down a shadowy alley that ran along one of the many canals that criss-crossed their way through the city, and she saw out of the corner of her eye that a cloaked and hooded figure followed.

She picked up her pace. Her pursuer sped up too.

Nesta's heart pounded as she reached the bustling street at the other end of the alley. This was the edge of Kytov Island's shopping district, which catered to the lower end of the market, as did most of the businesses on the island. This was where newly arrived sailors and tourists at the lower end of the income spectrum could come to buy knickknacks and necessities alike. Here, cheap tourist shops and smoky coffee houses and cheap food shops had been built one on top of the other, crammed in like sardines in a can, making use of the limited space on one of Zaryevsk's smallest islands.

Here, Nesta had a choice. She could keep winding her way through familiar streets, or she could cross one of the half-dozen bridges that connected Kytov Island to its neighboring island, Kiroyev, home to a more middle class shopping district.

Nesta didn't know Kiroyev as well as she knew Kytov. Kytov was her home, her stomping ground. She knew every inch of it, every alley and canal and street and garden.

As she tried to disappear into the crowd of shoppers, Nesta glanced around, trying desperately to make a decision. Over a bridge or back into the warrens and alleys of Kytov?

She reached the next canal and hesitated.

Then, instead of taking the street that ran along the canal, she took the narrow staircase down to the walkway along the canal, where people moored their boats, where deliveries were unloaded for the shops on the road above. And where there were several hollows in the walls that hid drains that allowed the water to be carried away without flooding when a storm surge made the canal waters rise.

Nesta ducked into one of the hollows, pressing herself deep into the shadows, and drew the knife she carried in a sheath beneath her sleeve. Rule number one of living on the streets of Zaryevsk: never go anywhere unarmed.

A moment later, a shadowy figure passed by her hiding place, paused, and glanced around. For the briefest moment, his face was visible beneath the hood of his cloak.

Nesta's breath caught in her throat. It was the man from the club.

Her grip tightened on the hilt of her knife, and when the man turned away from her again, she struck.

Before he could turn, she was on him, the knife pressed to his throat. "Why the hell are you following me?" she demanded. A trickle of blood ran down his throat from where her blade had cut him.

To her surprise, he laughed, and something ugly and dark and sickening deep within Nesta uncoiled. No, she thought, pressing it down. No, not you. Not again.

And slowly the ugly thing within her coiled up and went back to its dark slumber, as if obeying her command.

"Stop laughing," she growled, pressing her blade more firmly against his throat. A second trickle of blood joined the first, staining his collar red.

"Bitch," he muttered. "You're a hard woman to get a word with. I asked if I could speak to at the club, but your boss said clients weren't allowed at the back. I was going to try to talk to you at the door when you left, but one of the guards sent me away. I suppose it's good that you and your clients are well-protected."

"So you thought you'd follow me home?" Nesta snapped. "Because that seemed like such a good idea to you?"

"It wasn't my first choice," the man said tightly. "Would you mind putting away your knife?"

"Not a chance."

"Fine," he said with a heavy sigh. "Fine. Keep the damn thing at my throat if it makes you feel better."

"It does," Nesta said sweetly. "Now, tell me why the hell you're following me."

"I want to offer you a job."

Nesta froze. "I have a job. And I'm not for sale."

"That's not what I meant," the man said, then winced as Nesta's dagger scraped his throat again. "Saints, girl. Can't you sheathe that thing and talk like a normal person?"

Nesta hissed out a breath. "I don't trust you." But she let her knife fall from his neck and took a hasty step back so he couldn't grab her.

The man turned to face her. His hood had fallen back, and up close, he was even more handsome. He had quintessential Kirovkan good looks–alabaster skin, dark hair, dark eyes, chiseled features. There was an intensity to him, in his gaze, in his expression, in the energy radiating from him.

"Why don't we go somewhere more comfortable to talk?" he offered. "There's a pub on the main road that we passed..." He glanced at Nesta expectantly.

Nesta didn't move. "Why the hell would I go anywhere with you? I don't know anything about you. I don't even know your name."

The man gave a gallant half-bow, out of place in this place, on the grey quay, next to the murk of the canal. "Anatoliy Malinin," he said, as if they had met in a ballroom or at a party. "And you're Nesta Rennell. You used to run cons for that motley street gang on the other side of the island."

Nesta narrowed her eyes. "How the hell do you know that? It was a long time ago."

The man–Anatoliy–shrugged. "I keep my eye on people with... certain skills in this city. People who may someday be useful to me."

Nesta wasn't sure she liked the way he said that, as if everyone had to have a use to him. Still, a job... Would it be better than her current job? Nobody wanted to work at a club like the Black Pearl forever.

"What's the job?" she asked, every word dripping with suspicion.

Anatoliy glanced over his shoulder. "Not here. Not where someone could overhear." Sure enough, when Nesta followed his gaze, she saw a small boat had been moored nearby and two men were unloading crates and stacking them on the quay.

"Fine," she said. "But I choose the place."

✦————✴————✦

Nesta brought Anatoliy to a tiny pub on one of the bridges that connected Kytov Island to Kiroyev. The pub, the Fox and Fawn, wasn't one of Nesta's usual haunts, but it was a conveniently noisy place, public enough that Anatoliy probably wouldn't try anything, with big booths that kept conversations from traveling to far. Even though it was mid-morning, the place was as busy as ever, which suited Nesta's purposes well enough.

When the walked through the door, Anatoliy took in the space, and then nodded once, as if to himself, as if he was happy with her choice. Nesta let him pick which booth, and he chose the one furthest from the bar, with its back to the door to the kitchen. He took the side facing the room, leaving Nesta to take the other side, with her back to the other patrons and the front door, which made her vaguely twitchy. She never liked to have her back to the door.

Still, she took the empty bench without complaint. "So, what's this job, then?"

Anatoliy opened his mouth, then smiled as a harried-looking girl with her hair frizzing loose of its bun, came over to take their order. Anatoliy ordered a glass of whiskey; Nesta decided to give into her hunger, under the assumption that Anatoliy wouldn't mind paying, since he clearly had more money than she did, and ordered a meat pie and a pint of cider to wash it down with.

"Hungry?" Anatoliy asked, as the girl vanished to bring them their drinks.

Nesta made a face. "Wouldn't you be, if you'd been dancing all night?"

"Fair enough," Anatoliy said, leaning back in his seat.

The girl arrived then with their drinks and assurances that Nesta's pie would be out shortly, and Nesta took a long drink of her ale. Her throat was unusually drank. Nerves, maybe. Certainly, her morning wasn't going as planned. She was supposed to be asleep right now.

"So," she said, after she'd taken a drink, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "You said you had a job. What kind of job?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you specifics," Anatoliy said. "Not until you accept the job. It's... sensitive."

"But what kind of a job is it?" Nesta pressed. "Do you want me to... steal something for you or something? Because I'm not a thief, although I might be able to point you in the direction of someone better than me. Or do you want me to run a con? Or dance at your party? Because those I can do."

"It's a honey trap," he said, and Nesta's jaw dropped. "And, from what I've heard about you, and what I saw when you danced tonight, you have the right attributes for it."

"What, because I'm sneaky and I look good in lingerie?" Nesta asked, trying desperately to gather herself. Her mind had gone blank. A honey trap... He wanted her to seduce someone? For information? Or blackmail, maybe?

Anatoliy gave a small smile. "Something like that."

He fell silent again as the serving girl brought Nesta's pie and set it in front of her. Nesta picked up her fork, but her appetite was gone. Still, a meal like this was a rare treat; Usually, she ate cheaply from street vendors, because her own cooking was abysmal. A homemade meat pie was a treat. Especially when Anatoliy was paying for it. Even though she hadn't technically told him he was paying yet... Still, If he could afford those nice boots, he could afford it.

And yet... She wasn't hungry anymore.

She set her fork down. "So, aside from its nature, is there anything else you can tell me about this job of yours? Would I be working for you? Or are you merely the go-between?"

"Both," Anatoliy said. "Or neither. It depends how you look at it. I belong to an organization of... like-minded citizens, who are concerned about the state of our great kingdom, and rather than sit back and watch things deteriorate further, we've decided to take action. The plan is ours collectively, but I am the one tasked with carrying it out. If you take the job, you'll be working for me, but in the broader interests of our kingdom, and with the support of our organization."

"What organization? Or can't you say? And what do you mean, 'the state of our kingdom?'"

"I'm afraid I cannot safely tell you more about my... allies," Anatoliy said, and Nesta got the distinct impression that he was choosing his words very carefully. "But surely you've noticed that those who are charged with the protection and governance of Kirovka have been failing to ensure the wellbeing of our kingdom. Surely, you've noticed that the nobility are more concerned with whoring and hawking than doing their duty to the realm."

Nesta shrugged. "I was not born in Kirovka, sir. The intricacies of its politics are not my area of expertise, I'm afraid."

Anatoliy's brows winged up. "Really? I'm sorry; I assumed you were born here to foreign parents. Your accent... You can't tell that you are not from here."

Nesta smiled grimly. "I practiced a great deal. I had to. I stood out too much otherwise."

Was it her imagination, of did Anatoliy look vaguely impressed? "And what about your standard Solniyan?" he asked, naming the language of the neighboring Solniyan Empire, and which was as widely used in Kirovka as Kirovkan.

"You tell me," Nesta said, switching into Solniyan.

Anatoliy gave a small smile. "Very good. That'll be a useful skill for this job, I warn you."

"Speaking multiple languages?" Nesta asked. She was getting more curious by the second about this mysterious job. "I can also speak Kellan, and I know enough Grimman to get by, although it's probably a bit rusty. I haven't needed to use it in years."

"Impressive, although I doubt you'll need either of them for this job. You were born in Kelmark, then?"

Nesta nodded. "I came here nearly ten years ago, after my parents died. So, is there anything else you can tell me about the job? Like who I'm supposed to seduce?"

"I'm afraid not," Anatoliy said. "Not yet. You see, you might not be sure that you want the job, but I'm still not convinced that you're the right person for it."

Nesta frowned. "But..."

"Look, Miss Rennell, I know you can act alluring, and I know you're rumored to be quite the little liar–at least, according to one of the marks you conned several years ago. And now I know you speak three languages well enough to pass as a native speaker of any of them. But this job requires more than a gift for languages, an ability to lie convincingly and an alluring smile."

"So, this is a test?" Nesta asked.

"Not quite," he said, reaching into his pocket. "Or not yet. If I may...?"

Nesta nodded, frowning curiously as he withdrew a rectangular box from his pocket, unmarked and made of plain, unpainted, undecorated wood. He set it on the table between them and removed the lid.

Inside lay a painted stack of Kellan tarot cards. Nesta's breath caught in her throat. She hadn't seen a proper tarot deck since she left home, but these...

A long-buried memory rose to the surface.

An old woman's gnarled hands deftly picking cards from a similar deck and laying them face-up on the table.

"A good omen," she'd told Nesta when she got to the last–the Queen of Swords.

"Ah, so does that make her a future warrior queen?" a man had asked from behind them, and Nesta had turned with a cry of delight, and–

And Nesta shook her head to clear it. That memory belonged to another life, another girl.

"You're Kellan," Anatoliy said. "I assume I don't need to tell you how this works."

Silently, still shaking off the fog of that memory, Nesta shook her head.

"Draw three cards," he instructed her. "And I'll draw three. And whichever of us has the higher hand wins."

"And what happens if I win?" Nesta asked.

Anatoliy smiled, a dangerous, razor-sharp smile that chilled Nesta's blood. "Why, then, the job is yours."

"And if you win?"

"If I win, you will forget this meeting ever happened. You will forget you ever saw me and go about your life. And if you speak of this to anyone, you will find yourself deep in a canal with a cinderblock chained to your feet. Do you understand?"

Nesta shuddered. "I understand."

"Now, go on. Pick a card."

Nesta shook her head. "You first."

"As you wish," Anatoliy said, inclining his head respectfully. Nesta watched as he reached a slim, pale hand towards the cards. He had a tattoo on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, she realized. A star of some sort, or so it seemed to her, stylized in a way she'd never seen before.

His hands weren't callused, so he wasn't a laborer of any sort, nor did he spend much time holding a weapon, or a pen or a horse's reins. All of those would leave calluses. Nesta had no idea what he did for a living, but she supposed she could figure out what he didn't do from that.

She watched as he drew three cards, trying to slyly get a glimpse of what cards he held, but he kept them angled away from her. And suddenly he smiled, another of those dangerous smiles, and somehow, instinctively, Nesta knew she'd lost already. He had the highest card, didn't he? The King of Crows?

Damn it.

"Your turn," he said with a sly smirk, gesturing to the pile with one graceful hand.

Nesta hid the grimace that wanted to cross her face and reached for her first card. As she did, the old woman's voice echoed in her ears again.

Go, on, pick a card, little one. But what will it reveal about your fate?

Nesta shivered and drew her first card.

The Queen of Crows stared up at her, an ill omen. The death card. Painted on it was the Kellan goddess Morrigen, goddess of crows, and goddess of death. Nesta's stomach churned, and she was suddenly glad she hadn't eaten any of her pie.

She kept the card facing away from Anatoliy as she drew another card. The Knight of Crows. If the next card she drew was the King of Crows, she'd win. There was no higher hand than that. But she knew, with absolute certainty, even as she thought it, that Anatoliy had drawn the King of Crows–and likely two other kings as well, if he was so sure of his victory.

Nesta drew her third card.

The King of Stars stared up at her, and frustration welled up and turned to despair. She hadn't realized just how much she wanted this job until now, until it was gone.

The pale face of the Queen of Crows taunted her.

That ugly, hot, terrifying thing deep within her uncurled itself again and began to bubble to the surface. Nesta's hands tingled and her vision seemed to crystallize. In her hand, the face of the King of Stars vanished, shifted, became darker and more frightening. The stars at the corners turned to crows.

Until Nesta held in her hand not the King of Stars but the King of Crows.

"I win," she said softly, laying her cards face up on the table between them. The hot, ugly thing deep inside her curled itself back up and went back to sleep.

"The King of Crows. The Queen of Crows and the Knight of Crows. Beat that." And she smiled, matching Anatoliy's dangerous expression from earlier. She glanced up at him now, and she found him staring at her, at her cards, complete disbelief written across his face.

"How?" he stammered.

Nesta smirked. "A lady never tells."

"Miss Rennell..." he managed to get out, then cleared his throat and tried again. "Miss Rennell, I have no idea how you managed to do that."

And he set his cards down between them, revealing the Queen of Swords, the king of Swords and, of course, the King of Crows, completely identical to the one in front of Nesta.

"I have no idea what you just did, but the job is yours, if you'd like it."

"That depends," Nesta said, trying to calm her racing heart. She didn't want to think about how she'd done it, but she had. And she'd won. "How much will you be paying me, and who would you like me to seduce?"

"We'd pay you ten thousand gold marks upon completion of the job," Anatoliy said, and Nesta fought to keep her jaw from dropping. That was more money than she'd ever seen in her life. "And a monthly allowance of one thousand gold months for every month you spend working for us."

Nesta swallowed. "That's... very generous," she managed. "And who's the mark?"

"Not one mark," Anatoliy said. "Although if you only manage one, we'll consider the job complete. Two marks: the Crown Prince, Kirill Morozov, and his younger brother, Prince Nicolai."

And all the blood seemed to drain from Nesta's body at once.

The princes... Both of them...

Impossible. Wasn't it?

Word Count: 5767