We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Ragpicker King, the second installment in Cassandra Clare’s Chronicles of Castellane—publishing with Del Rey on March 4th.
Kel Saren, body double to Conor, crown prince of the dazzling city of Castellane, is caught between two worlds. In order to protect his beloved prince, Kel must find the culprits responsible for a massacre at the royal palace—and the only clues are held by the Ragpicker King, the notorious criminal who rules Castellane’s underworld. The trail Kel follows leads back to the Hill, where among decadent nobles and glittering parties a dark conspiracy to destroy the royal family has taken hold—a conspiracy headed up by the monstrous Artal Gremont, the man engaged to marry the woman Kel adores.
Meanwhile, Lin Caster must face the aftermath of the greatest risk she’s ever taken. To save the life of a dying friend, Lin has falsely claimed to be the Goddess Reborn, the legendary heroine destined to save her people. Now the terrifying—but strangely magnetic—leader of her people has arrived to test her powers. The price of failure is exile, and only through her alliance with the Ragpicker King can she continue to access the magic that may save her.
Then Prince Conor reappears in her life, demanding that she use her healing powers to cure the madness of his father, the King. Lin soon realizes the King is gripped by an ancient and terrible magic, one whose lure she cannot deny any more than she can deny her growing passion for Conor.
As the simmering tensions in Castellane reach a fever pitch, Lin and Kel must decide who to trust when any false move means death—or worse.
Kel arrived at the Caravel alone on Asti. He had left Conor in the Star Tower, flanked by Lilibet and Mayesh, still finalizing the arrangement for the Kutani Princess’s arrival. “I suppose Montfaucon will be annoyed I’m not there,” Conor had said, though he did not seem terribly bothered about it. “But this is more important.
Kel found himself feeling oddly bereft as he set off down the Hill on Asti, his favorite horse. It was better in many ways, he told himself, to have a Conor who found his responsibilities more compelling than his enjoyments. And yet—Kel missed him, especially with the prospect of a night spent with the nobles of the Hill in front of him. Conor was the only one of that group he truly liked— save for Falconet, sometimes.
Kel determinedly set himself to enjoying the clear bright night regardless. The stars were a fisherman’s silver net flung across the sky; the air was still, translucent enough that he could see the dark profile of the Orfelinat, his first home, perched on its sheer cliff above the ocean.
He found the Caravel alight, windows and doors flung open, the sounds of merriment spilling onto the street. Passersby looked on, curious, as Kel left Asti with the footmen and ducked inside. Wondering who he was, no doubt: a nobleman, even a Charter member? Or perhaps they’d noted his Marakandi colors: green velvet trousers, celadon silk shirt, and figured waistcoat studded with green gems—though they were not real emeralds, only colored paste. False as his name, his relation to the Palace.
The interior of the Caravel had been decorated in the colors of House Montfaucon, which happened to be silver and violet. The courtesans wore versions of the Montfaucon livery, and their eyelids were colored with metallic lavender. They darted among the guests with liquor and food, trailing silver scarves. Montfaucon, in purple moiré silk, was moving through the crowd, clearly in his element: greeting some, snubbing others. Since it was his own guest list, Kel could only assume Montfaucon had invited them in order to snub them, which did seem like something he would enjoy.
Kel let his gaze drift over the crowd and saw only familiar faces, save for a few of the courtesans. It had been a long time since he’d visited the Caravel, he realized. Nearly four months. The feel of the place was strange to him now, in a way he could not quite describe. On stage, a group of workmen were hammering together a sort of wooden structure that Kel couldn’t identify.
Kel swept his gaze across the room and saw familiar faces from the Hill; most already seemed to have gotten well into the plentiful wine on offer. He did not see Ji-An or Jerrod anywhere, but he did spot Merren in conversation with Alys on a red settee. Kel did his best not to look at them too closely—a goal made easier when Ciprian Cabrol and Joss Falconet approached him. Both carried silver goblets of a milky liquor. Joss wore black velvet, Ciprian a modest gray that did not suit him.
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The Ragpicker King
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“What are they building up on the stage?” Kel asked, trying to sound drawling and unconcerned.
“Perhaps he wishes to show this Gray Serpent off against some sort of fanciful backdrop,” Joss said. “Montfaucon has always had a theatrical disposition.”
“Is this truly his debut?” Kel asked. “Montfaucon has not so much as brought him out for a card game before?”
Ciprian shook his head. “Montfaucon has never been so secretive about a lover before.”
It was odd, Kel thought, how Ciprian spoke of them all with such familiarity, as if his family had always been on the Hill.
Joss took a sip from his cup, his dark eyes thoughtful. “Apparently, he used to be an Arena fighter, before it was outlawed. He killed so many in combat that they started calling him the Gray Serpent, because he sent souls to the underworld.”
Ciprian frowned. “Excuse me. I must pry my sister Beatris from the grip of Esteve. He constantly corners her and lectures her about horses.”
“For Esteve, that is the language of love,” said Kel; Ciprian made a disgusted face and shouldered his way into the crowd.
Joss grinned. “I rather prefer these new dye merchants to the old ones. They’re more fun.”
Kel raised an eyebrow. “What, you don’t miss Charlon?”
“I’ve had penetrating leg wounds that I’ve missed more than Charlon,” said Joss bluntly. “And the Cabrols seem to have settled in without a hitch. One has to admire the ruthlessness.”
Kel glanced over at Ciprian, who had an arm around his sister’s shoulder—she was dressed all in white and yellow, like a daisy—and was glaring at Esteve. Behind him, someone had begun to tunelessly play a lute. The room was tightly packed, the noise of the construction on stage deafening. Kel caught a flash of red hair in the crowd and thought for a moment: Lin? But of course it was not her. It was Silla, wearing only a number of cleverly knotted violet and silver scarves. She looked like a drawing of a sea sprite, trailing the foam of the waves. She beckoned to Kel with a crooked finger, her head to one side.
“I see you have to go,” said Joss, “which is rather too bad. I was going to ask you when the Kutani Princess is arriving.”
“A few weeks, I think. She is already on the way, but it is quite a sea voyage.” Kel hesitated. He did not want to be distracted by Silla, but he could not push too hard with Falconet on the question of the Gray Serpent, either. It would only bring suspicion. Nor did he wish to enter a conversation about Conor’s engagement. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Falconet flicked his gaze to Silla and smiled knowingly. “Of course. Who am I to barricade the path of young love?”
Kel clapped a hand to Falconet’s shoulder and pushed into the crowd. Young love. Silla and he had only ever been commerce, of course, but then love and commerce were nearly the same thing on the Hill. There was no point in being annoyed with Falconet about it.
He reached Silla, passing Gasquet, who was sprawled in a plush chair, a handsome young man perched on the arm. Kel wondered if Montfaucon had invited every member of the Charter Families; certainly he could not have expected Lady Alleyne or Lady Gremont to attend. Lady Gremont was elderly and respectable, and Lady Alleyne took only rich lovers. Both would have felt obligated to seem shocked by the debauchery of the Caravel, though Kel would have wagered they’d both seen more scandalous things in their lives.
Kel realized with surprise that he had forgotten to remove his gloves when Silla made a circlet of her thumb and forefinger around his wrist, where the skin was bare. She looked up at him from beneath silver-and-violet-painted eyes. She had used the paint cleverly, creating the illusion of a shimmering mask. “Come,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”
He let her lead him from the room. As they left, Kel caught a glimpse of Montfaucon, who seemed to have inserted himself into the conversation between Esteve and Beatris, but there was no one with him who could credibly be an ex-gladiator named the Gray Serpent. Where was Montfaucon hiding him?
“You are distracted,” Silla said. A little sharpness cut the honey of her voice. “And it’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you.”
She’d led them into one of the velvet-lined alcoves in the heart of the Caravel. Each one was no bigger than a closet, but they were all plushly upholstered, with soft walls and a pillowed chaise. Montfaucon used to joke about these rooms, saying they were for customers who lacked either the cash or the commitment to take a courtesan upstairs.
Silla drew the sheer curtain closed across the alcove entrance and turned to Kel. Violet tapers shed a reddish light, deepening the shadows. “I’ve missed you,” she said, taking hold of his hands and placing them on her hips. “Have you missed me?”
His gloved fingers slipped over the fabric of her scarves reflexively. It was strange, touching her and not touching her at the same time. He could feel the shape of her but not the texture. He let his hands travel, leather against silk, her body curving under his hands. When he kissed her, she was already leaning up into him.
Kel was used to being able to lose himself in a kiss, a touch. The pleasure that caught him up, blurring the sharp edges of thought and memory. He was jolted now by how distant that feeling seemed. He was aware of Silla’s touch, her taste, but just as aware of the fact that one of his boots was laced too tightly and he had a crick in his neck.
His thoughts scattered themselves, following different paths: Was he missing a chance to lay eyes on the Gray Serpent? Were Ji-An and Jerrod outside with the carriage as promised? Should he have left Merren, who should have been with them, on his own? Obviously, he had his sister, but—
Silla drew back, looking up at him. Silver paint made half-moons of her lowered eyelids as she said, “There is something wrong. Kel, I know you. Don’t think I don’t know you. I was your first girl.”
“And you’ll always be that,” Kel said. He still had his hands at her waist. He might as well have been holding a log. He let her go and stepped back.
“Is this because of the Prince?” she asked, raking lilac-tipped fingers through her red hair. “I knew that night I shouldn’t have gone back with him, that you shared a room with him, but—”
It took Kel a moment to even remember what she was talking about. The morning after the Roverge party, Silla creeping out of Conor’s bed at dawn.
He shrugged. “You make your own decisions. You owe me nothing at all.”
“I like you,” she said. “Most customers, it’s a transaction. An investment. But you…” She sighed. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, but the Prince did not… he did not want from me what most men or women do. He asked only for me to be there and be silent. He did not even say much to me. Only went to sleep, and I watched him until I went to sleep, too.”
Kel sighed. “Silla, don’t you see, that is what makes it strange for me. These things are private to Conor. He would not want me to know them.”
“He called me by a name that wasn’t mine,” Silla said. Some of the metallic paint on her face had smeared; silver tears appeared to be trickling from her eyes.
Kel held up a hand. “I don’t want to know.” This was not entirely true, but he had done enough behind Conor’s back these past months. He did not want this on his ledger, too.
Silla sighed. “I used to understand you.”
Kel almost said, I used to understand myself. It was on the tip of his tongue—and then a hand twitched the alcove curtain aside and Kel found himself staring into the face of Antonetta Alleyne.
She was very pale, almost as if she had powdered her skin the way some of the older women on the Hill did. But there were bright spots of color on her cheeks as she looked from Kel to Silla and said, “Oh, my goodness, I’m so embarrassed.”
Silla ran her hand down the front of Kel’s waistcoat. “You could join us, Demoselle.”
Antonetta gave a bashful laugh; only Kel would have seen the flash in her eyes. “Gracious,” she said. “How very shocking. I shall have to tell Magali. She will positively faint.” She waved at them vaguely. “Do carry on,” she chirped, and vanished from the alcove.
Kel swore and detached Silla’s hand gently from his waistcoat. Thoughts of the Gray Serpent momentarily fled, he darted after Antonetta.
He caught up with her in the narrow, wood-paneled corridor that led back to the main rooms. When he called out her name in a low voice, she didn’t turn. He jogged ahead and planted himself in front of her, blocking her way forward.
“Ana,” he said. “Listen to me—”
Assuming a look of saintly patience, she crossed her arms over her chest and regarded Kel with a level stare. He could not help staring back. He had not been this close to her since the awful night in the Shining Gallery. She had not dressed herself in Montfaucon’s colors; she wore scarlet silk like a banner of rebellion, and dark-red ribbons had been woven through the heavy mass of her curling golden hair.
“Antonetta,” he said. He was close enough to smell her perfume, to see the ever-present locket nestled in the hollow of her throat. The locket that contained the grass ring he’d given her when they were children. He could hear his own blood pounding in his ears. “I didn’t think you’d be here tonight.”
“I’m an engaged woman now, Kel Anjuman,” she said lightly. “I have more freedom. I need not fear society’s scorn, only my future husband’s—and he is not here.”
“That will not always be true,” said Kel. He hardly remembered Artal Gremont; he had seen him only when he’d been a child, before Gremont had been exiled from Castellane. He’d been a big man, with slablike hands. When Kel pictured those hands on Antonetta—following the rise of her breasts, the curve of her waist, big meaty fingers digging into her silk-covered flesh—he wanted to throw up. Though Alys would make him pay for it if he ruined her carpeting.
“I know that,” Antonetta said sharply. “I will know the moment he sets foot on the Hill. Believe me. Until then…” She glanced around. “I might as well see the world.”
“This isn’t the world.” Kel was still looking at her; he couldn’t stop looking at her. It was like not being able to stop eating when you were starving. Of course, people died of doing that. “This is a place of…”
“Desire?” she said lightly.
Kel shook his head. “Loneliness.”
She glanced away.
“Antonetta.” He took a step toward her. “Let us not be angry with each other. You do not have to marry Gremont—”
“Yes,” she said, and to his surprise, she looked angry. He was used to Antonetta giggling or dismissive or even haughty; angry was new. “I do. You know the way things are for Conor. He must marry whoever is chosen for him. For me, it is no different. Two Charters will be united. He will hold the tea Charter, and I will hold the silk Charter, and together we will control both. That is all my mother cares for.”
“Conor could put a stop to it,” he said. “He could free you—”
She was wearing white silk gloves. Her hands gripped each other tightly, two still white birds. “I will not beg him for help.”
But you did ask him. I know you did. Though it had not been Conor she had asked. It had been Kel, bearing his talisman, pretending to be Conor. As was his duty. And he had answered her as he thought Conor would have answered her, because answering her as himself was not a choice.
But Conor had changed since then. “I will ask for you, then.”
The look she gave him was alive with ferocity. “You shall do no such thing,” she said furiously. “Do I want to marry Gremont? No. If I escape wedding him, will the next man my mother selects be just as bad? Most likely.” Voices rose in the main room—some kind of cheer that nearly drowned Antonetta out. “The silk Charter should be mine by rights. If the only way my mother will give it to me is if I marry, then he will do as well as another.”
“He is not a good man,” said Kel. “It is why he was exiled.” He wanted to tell her what Gremont’s crime was, but he had sworn to Merren he would not speak of what had happened to his sister.
“I know that. Of all people,” she added in a low voice, “I thought you, at least, did not believe me completely foolish.”
A feeling like despair seized him. She was so close that he could see her pulse beating in her throat, the rise and fall of her locket with her quick breaths, yet she felt as distant as she had ever been.
“You pretend to foolishness,” he said. “It is your armor.”
She raised her head at that and looked at him, her blue eyes so dark they seemed black in the low light. “We all have armor,” she said. “As if you do not have yours, Kel Anjuman.”
He choked on the words he could not say. I am the Prince’s armor. I cannot have my own.
“Antonetta—”
She took a step back. “You are not my father, not brother or lover,” she said. “You have no rights here.”
Excerpted from The Ragpicker King, copyright © 2025 by Cassandra Clare.
