Free Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles by Karina Cooper Page A

braced interlinked fingers beneath his chin. “What altered the course of it?”
    “Hawke did.”
    I blinked. “By himself?”
    “You fail to understand the fundamental nature of the man,” Osoba said, grim amusement once more firmly in place. “It is not for nothing that he is the Veil’s own
wūshì
. He came to London already bearing the curse of a tainted blood. The Veil taught him what it was to harness it long before they brought him here.”
    “A curse?” I scoffed. “Poor breeding, more like.” He wouldn’t have been the first of muddled blood to claim the mantle of wise man or sorcerer, such as the Veil called him in their Chinese tongue.
    “Perhaps.” My guest scrutinized me, and what he saw made clear he bore no liking for it. “There was some doubt as to which beast would rise above the other.”
    “Was there ever a risk of Hawke biting his master’s hand?” I asked dryly.
    This time, there was no humor to soften the edge. “Yes,” Osoba replied. “Teach a tiger the taste of blood, and he will learn to crave it.”
    “Does he crave it?”
    He canted his head to a side. A wash of dark black plaits fanned over his shoulder, clicking softly. “What will you do if he does?”
    “What would you do?” I asked, earning a lifted eyebrow in what I thought might be surprise, but he was as difficult to read as most whips must be.
    “You have a remarkable gift for questions,” Osoba told me.
    I had no need for such observations. “If I may strip some of the mystique from your tale,” I said instead. Osoba tipped his chin in acknowledgement, as if I required permission. I repressed an urge to snort. Maddie Ruth was a terrible influence. “You claim that Hawke was already gifted in sorcerous arts when he arrived, and through less than judicious use, single-handedly broke the back of the gangs that warred through Limehouse.”
    “Close enough so as not to matter.”
    “And the Veil allowed this?”
    Osoba straightened, reached high over his head as though in need of a stretch, and then stood with simple strength and fluidity. “What does one do with a beast that no longer chooses to be tamed?” he asked me.
    I frowned. “You’re the lion-tamer. What do you do with a reluctant lion? Beat him?”
    “That is not my way,” he replied, lines biting harshly into the corners of his downturned mouth. “But then, Hawke is not mine to tame.”
    The words were a statement of fact, but the meaning much more profound. Whip though he was, lion-tamer in the rings, it was not him that held Hawke’s leash.
    Only one had ever been powerful enough to dare. “Why does the Veil take such a personal interest in Hawke? He’s not even Oriental.”
    “Why, indeed?” He looked up at the ceiling. Then, thoughtfully, he allowed, “The Chinese believe that only a tiger can challenge a dragon.”
    “Myth?”
    “Lore,” he replied.
    “Close enough so as to make no difference,” I scoffed, throwing the words back at him.
    He smiled faintly, in a manner that left me feeling as though he thought me very sad indeed. “You are remarkably narrow-minded.”
    I had been accused of this before. I scuffed the toes of my boot against the floor, but said nothing.
    A dragon.
Feh
. It did not surprise me in the least that the Karakash Veil considered itself something of a mythical creature with godlike power. Allegory, all of it.
    Yet even allegory had a thread of truth. Hawke had earned the moniker of tiger long before I’d met him, and certainly the Veil bore its love for pageantry without shame.
    I wanted to ask which beast won over the other in the old stories Osoba referred to, but assumed I would gain no answer for my efforts. He was almost as ornery as his fellow whip.
    “Is the Veil mistreating Hawke?” A direct question; one that did not receive an answer quick as I’d like. My fingers curled over the back of the chair, bit hard enough that a nail bent. A small pain in a greater wash. “Tell me the truth. Is