42
News had reached Valencya when Valine reached the harbor. On foot from where she’d stashed the dinghy in a cave system, enough time had passed that other travel had made word known. Her hands were raw and her muscles stiff and fatigued. She climbed up from the beach on tremulous nerves, taking the stairs deliberately, one at a time, listening amongst the gossiping sailors.
“Killed in his bed and caught with his daughter’s lover, can you believe it?” a man crowed as he hauled crates towards a tavern flanking the harbor. “Apparently it was this big plot with Luneth. They even supplied the poison to do it!”
“The lover was in on it?” another man, this one with reddish hair asked as he fileted fish. His mastery over the blade as he gutted, cut, and portioned was astounding.
“Yeah! And get this! Apparently, she blackmailed the head healer about his gambling debts and paid them with jewels from Princess Larysa to get him to help because she was fucking her too.”
“You’re shitting me,” the fishmonger gasped.
“No, deadly serious, my man! There were documents about the princess offering to pay off his debts to the Raziches if he did it, too. And the healer was even caught with more of the poison in his rooms! No doubt ready to kill the rest of the royal family.”
“So why did the lover do it?”
“Apparently, she wanted the throne and King-fucking-Jericho wouldn’t give it to her, so she fucked her way through the other royals till one offered a crown to her.” The crate carrying man dropped the wooden boxes on the step of the tavern. “How she managed to get Princesses Jacira and Larysa, I’d like to know. I’d like to find myself a royal pussy, too.”
“Well, if they’re inclined to only women, you sir, are shit out of luck.”
The other man harumphed and made a sound about changing their minds with his cock, but Valine tuned them out by that point. She’d heard what she’d needed to.
Larysa Olympias was in no way involved with the Talloh coup, but they needed to strain the relations between Luneth and Talloh, and an assassination framing Luneth monarchy was the way to do it. Malik couldn’t have the west allying into an empire, Runell was already taking powerful strides in that direction, and Valine would rather die than see that to fruition. Larysa couldn’t deny the stolen jewels, and she had no alibi for the procurement of the fleur de mort, Valine had made sure of it. She’d killed Larysa’s drug lord to do it, and then she’d falsified the princess’s signature and seal to finish it off. The princess meanwhile, had no one to corroborate her locating in the seedy part of town.
Valine’s job was done. She’d successfully put Jericho’s murder on everyone but her. No eyes would look to Malik. No eyes would look towards her. Smiling, she left the docks behind, hid beneath her cloak, and traversed towards the Whitefinn Inn.
By the time Valine made her way to the inn, rain had begun coming down in gray sheets. The panels of rain had the cloak slicked against her head, the water-resistant coating beginning to fail as rain trickled through and down her neck. She could hardly see through the deluge, her eyes narrowed in the gloom, the scent of petrichor heady in her nose.
She opened the heavy door of the white stone building, the wet draft causing the patrons to stir, glaring openly at her as she crossed the recently—and pointlessly—swept floor. Valine kept her head bowed, nothing but the pointed curve of her pale jaw and supple swell of her lower lip visible. She did not hesitate as she graced across the floor, immediately heading towards the large figure in the corner.
She took a seat across from the man, the brown cloak he wore dotted with rain, nothing but his lower jaw visible as well. Had she not known any better she would have thought this Sarim. But she did know better, and she would recognize that black orchid and tobacco scent anywhere. She knew he would assure the patrons they saw a Valmotti warrior and not the King of Adraali.
There had been moments Valine wondered how the king had ventured without his bodyguards so often in such questionable places, but now, knowing his pyschomancy, she understood.
As she slid into place, a steaming bowl of stew was set in front of her. She cupped it immediately with her ruined hands, luxuriating in the heat it seeped into her cold and aching bones.
“Is it done?” Malik asked lowly.
“It is done,” she confirmed.
“Are you well?”
She shrugged; the movement painful on her exhausted body. “I’m a little worse for wear, but nothing extensive.”
“Your hands,” he whispered, reaching over the tabletop and pulling one from her bowl.
They were still a mess, healing blisters a wet and angry red, dried blood caked in her cuticles, her nails torn and jagged. For the first time, Malik was seeing them without all her rings on them. She’d pulled them all off—consort ring included—and tucked them into a velvet, cotton-lined, and waterproof pouch for safe keeping. Even so, she hadn’t been able to help herself, constantly reassuring herself they were still there.
“They’ll heal,” she said nonchalantly.
“I know,” he replied, slowly bringing her ruin of a hand to his lips. The kiss stung her palm but it was chaste and so intimate, the king’s mouth on her filthy, blood-soaked hands. For a breath, she felt like she was gripping the entire power of the world in some intangible hold. She immediately batted the thought away.
Pulling back, she tucked into her stew, tasting rosemary, thyme, and bay leaf, enhancing the broth of the lamb and potatoes. There was something green in it too, some dark leafy vegetable she couldn’t pinpoint. She didn’t dwell on it, she simply ate, scooping the wooden bowl until her spoon scraped the empty bottom.
“I assume it wasn’t poisoned,” Malik chided.
Valine swallowed. “Even if it was, I would have eaten it.”
“Does it not even make you ill?” he questioned.
“No. I can taste it, but it doesn’t bother me in any way. Alcohol hardly affects me because it’s similar to a poison, but not wholly part of Mrithun’s Apothecary so I can still feel some degree of inebriation.”
“I’ve never heard poison referred to as Mrithun’s Apothecary,” Malik commented lightly. “You never did tell me—where did you train?”
Valine chewed on her lip, hesitant. “I’ll tell you another time.” She cast her gaze around. “Should we be on the road?”
The moment held for a moment, neither of them meeting the other’s eyes from beneath their cloaks. It was bated breath and charged air. Valine couldn’t help but remember only nights ago when she’d felt Malik’s mouth between her legs, his tongue swirling cleverly over that little spot of hers. She remembered the climax he’d coaxed from her, the growl he’d let out when she did. She wanted nothing more than to drag this man up the stairs to a room and have her way with him. She could see in his eyes that he was having the very same thoughts. His mouth was parted and she could see that silky and talented tongue just behind the white of his teeth. She thought about it, she truly did.
“We should go.”
Malik sighed. “Yes, we should, Sarim is waiting at a warehouse.”
They left together, keeping a careful distance even while sparks zinged between them. A light feeling of vertigo stole over her and Malik met her eyes meaningfully, he was letting her know that he was using his magic and she appreciated the communication. They crossed the threshold, and all she could think was leaving was the last thing they wanted to do. But they had carefully laid plans and carefully laid plans were not to be derailed by desires of getting laid.
The rain continued, the gray slog made worse by the thunderous downpour. Statues of white marble were being painted anew, clouds of dust from travelers running off the curves and edges of togas and shifts, aquiline and hooked noses, crowns of laurels and harps. White marble beneath their feet was slick and filthy, and arches and pillars towering above them offered little but aesthetic reprieve.
Malik led them to an unmarked shop and pushed Valine inside. It was empty of everything but dusty boxes and a Valmotti warrior. Sarim stood, a viridian cloak slung over his shoulders, a look of apprehension on his face. That look quickly morphed into relief when he saw Valine.
“Glad to see you’re alive.”
Valine noticed something new. “Glad to see a hickey on your neck.”
Sarim immediately blushed, his face filled with pleased guilt. She was happy that Freyja and Sarim had finally made something happen. She would have to ask one of them for details later.
Wordlessly, the men exchanged cloaks and offered Valine a new one. She donned it, disposing of her ruined one in a decrepit box before the three of them escaped through another door and into the waiting carriage. Within minutes they were loaded and heading towards the rest of the retinue.
Inside the carriage, it was warm and she exchanged an even warmer look with Freyja when she saw a matching love bite on her neck. The interior was fraught with tension, everyone inside it wanting to know how the plot in Talloh had panned out. Only those present—and Hanish—knew what had truly transpired.
Malik’s hand was hot and heavy on her thigh, a comforting and steadying weight that brought her back down to reality. Her body was sore and exhausted, and she wanted nothing more than to sink into a hot bath and soak. She hadn’t let her guard down in days, and she felt the tension in her shoulders. The present moment was the most she’d relaxed.
But relax she finally did and fell into unconsciousness.