The coronation party continued in Fellsmarch long after the official one was over. Guests spilled out of the castle close and into the streets, bluebloods mingling with ragpickers and blacksmiths and stable boys. Food and drink had flowed freely at the new queen’s party, and the streetwise residents of Ragmarket and Southbridge filled their bellies and then their pockets and carry bags. In times like these, who knew when more food would come their way?

Some in the crowd would have celebrated the crowning of the Demon King himself, so long as it involved jackets of ale or drams of stingo and blue ruin.

From the roof of Southbridge Guardhouse, Sarie Dobbs surveyed the crowd with the practiced eye of a slide-hander. A pocket diver could have had a field day with a crowd so deep in its cups. But so far there’d been little evidence of trouble. Even streetrats were disinclined to target those celebrating the crowning of the lady known as Briar Rose.

Cuffs—or the Demon King, as he called himself now, their streetlord—had asked them to keep eyes and ears on the celebration, to pass through the rougher sorts of inns and report back anything that might threaten the safety of the queen. He’d called on them since most of the prime bluejackets were partying along with her.

Who would’ve guessed—me and Flinn playing at bluejackets, Sarie thought, grinning at Flinn on a roof across the river. Her grin faded as she considered the high cost of sobriety on a night like this.

The fireworks were long over, the vivid colors still engraved on Sarie’s eyeballs. It was getting past darkman’s hour, and even the most dedicated soakers were stumbling home in the gray light of morning.

Motioning to Flinn, Sarie skinned down the drainpipe to the ground. They’d make one more sweep through the streets of Ragmarket and then head back to their crib.

Along the way, they growled at some of the lytlings and street kiddies, scaring them toward home. On their way down Pinbury Alley, on their old turf, Sarie spotted a pair of fine boots poking out from behind a dustbin.

Dustbins were new to Ragmarket, one of the queen’s bright ideas. She seemed to think folk would put scummer and trash in them instead of leaving it in the gutters.

“Hey, now,” Sarie said, “it an’t safe to be sleeping over here with them boots on.” She nudged one of the boots with her toe, and something about the way the leg rolled away told her the boots’ owner wouldn’t be needing them anymore.

“Flinn!” she hissed. “Get over here.”

Two bodies lay behind the dustbin, a woman and a man, all glittered up in blueblood finery, the wizard stoles around their necks splattered with blood. Their throats had been cut right through the windpipe.

Flinn stared down at them, swearing under his breath.