11. Isla
11
ISLA
B y the time Lev and I reach Oloho Samov or the Tin Teapot in my tongue, my feet are sorer than my shoulders. Not so much because of our walk from the old town to the human district, but because I’ve been traveling over cobbled streets lined with food and drink stands, watching performances from local poets, dancers, and musicians for the better part of the afternoon.
Izolda’s carnival was decadent and magical, loud and festive. Even Jaytair, so averse to gatherings and fun, had stuck around, and not just to keep an eye on Naeva and me. We’d even caught him sharing a laugh with Aodhan.
A laugh .
With Aodhan .
I couldn’t wait to tell my father.
“Remind me why we’re here?” Lev asks, sidestepping a still-steaming mound of horse dung.
“I’m here to have a drink,” I lie. For obvious reasons, I don’t tell him the true reason for journeying to this specific establishment. “You’re here because you eavesdropped on the conversation about rattling Serpent cocks I was having with the friendly bartender.”
His cheeks—which are not his but some Lucin human’s I once met—pinken beneath the scraggly beard I coaxed out of his jaw. “It wasn’t the rattling cock bit that arrested me.”
“Clearly not, or you would’ve stayed behind to see what all the fuss was about instead of insisting on shadowing me. Not too late to turn back.”
“You’re not getting rid of me.” Lev tugs at the cuffs of the tight blousy shirt he borrowed from the bartender, after I introduced the latter to unattached Alexei. “Stop trying.”
I, too, wear one of the carnival uniforms, but unlike the aforementioned bartender and Lev, the woman I borrowed it from had a similar body type to mine, so the red pants and matching top fit me perfectly.
I gust warm air into my hands, regretting having shed my leather jacket and gloves, but both had felt too luxurious for the human lands. Besides, I’d planned on flying over, which would have removed the need for winterwear in the first place.
If only Lev hadn’t been terrified of heights…
If only he hadn’t insisted on escorting me…
“I’m not a Faerie, Lev,” I remind him. “If it devolves into a barstool joust, I’ll go poof and fly off.”
He stops fussing with his shirt to shoot me a droll look. Evidently, he’s neither amused nor impressed by my ability to dematerialize.
“I really wouldn’t hold it against you if you?—”
“We’re here.” His chest broadens with a fortifying breath as he reaches around me for the door handle and pulls. “After you, Yegma .”
I startle that he’s called me witch . I mean, I am half-sorceress, but it’s the first time he’s referred to me that way. “Might not want to call me that in public.”
His pupils throb. “Right.”
I twist back toward the notorious tavern…Alyona Korol’s last known haunt. Do I expect to find portraits of her and revolutionary tracts papered across the fiery-orange walls? No. But do I expect to find her—or a crumb that will lead me to her? Absolutely. I’m an optimist like that.
Only a wrap-around shelf topped with old liquor bottles decorates the walls. The watery sunlight bending through the frosted windowpanes catches on the floor tiles, accentuating their many cracks. It doesn’t reach the diners, though, of which there are many. They sit so close that their elbows brush as they gorge on food and liquor, their mostly bald scalps shining under the oil lanterns strung from the rafters.
“Authentic enough for you?” Lev asks, as the old half-blood barkeep twists a rag around a glass, observing us from behind his wooden counter.
I slap on a smile. “Exactly what I was in the mood for.”
Lev’s nose, which I’ve enlarged with magic, scrunches as he lifts his gloved hand and observes a sticky smudge soiling the tan suede. Something he picked up on the doorknob? He plucks the gloves off, then attempts to jam them inside his trouser pocket, but the pants are too tight.
When I transformed him from Faerie to human, I hadn’t expected to alter his height, but lo and behold, he sprouted a full head taller. Not only that, but his voice acquired another texture.
He flinches when a deep burp echoes through the cavern. “I’m surprised your festival friend recommended this place. It doesn’t seem like his crowd.”
I wonder if Lev means because the boy I introduced to Alexei fancied sparkly eyeliner and baubles, while no one in this room seems to have bathed in months.
I scan the slate board nailed to the wall. Though I’m fluent in Glacin, I cannot read it. And not because it’s a different alphabet, but because the letters refuse to stand still.
“Shall we sit?” I ask.
He closes his hand around my elbow. I can’t tell if he means to guide me to a seat, yank me out of the tavern, or if he just needs something solid to hold on to while he recovers from the culture shock.
“If you don’t feel comfortable, I’m honestly happy to stay here alone,” I tell him.
“There are only men.”
“They’re not a lynch mob.”
His eyebrows slant. “I’m still not leaving you in a room full of strangers.” He surveys them with caution. “Can we agree on only one drink?”
“Deal.” In a hushed voice, I murmur, “How bad can it be?”
“Is that a trick question?” He bobs his chin toward two empty seats, then slides his hand from my elbow to the small of my back to guide me toward them.
It’s silly, but the feel of his long fingers fills me with pride, since Lev’s true hands are on the smaller side. Perhaps I’m not that tawdry a spellcaster.
He waits until I’m seated before lowering his backside onto the wooden cask beside mine. The sound of a seam ripping, followed by a muttered curse, spurs an uncontrollable giggle from my throat.
He stretches out his legs. “At least now, they’re relatively comfortable.”
Another bubble of laughter escapes me. And, yes, it attracts stares, but most diners were already gawping anyway. “What should we order, muzha ?”
The word husband makes him arch a brow, but then he’s leaning over, flicking aside a lock of the blonde, shoulder-length bob I gave myself, and dropping a whisper into the crook of my ear.
“I wouldn’t even order a pitcher of water in here, xhina .” When he sits back, his mouth is crooked into a sneer he barely manages to wipe off his face by the time the barkeep approaches to take our order.
Lev asks for only two shots of vodka, which thins the half-blood’s mouth, so I request a full bottle.
The second he’s out of earshot, my companion leans over. “If the one served at the Lodge last night didn’t appeal to you, you’ll positively loathe this one.”
I turn to murmur back, “Just giving him some business. I don’t actually plan on drinking it.”
His nose drags over my cheek as he moves his lips to my lobe. “Good, because I’m pretty sure human-made vodka can blind even a Crow.”
Sure enough, just the odor of the liquor set down before us a moment later makes my eyes water.
“Can I get ya any food to go with yer drinks?” The tavernkeeper wipes his swollen fingers down his stained apron.
Lev fills my glass, then his. “Thank you, but we’ve already?—”
“We’ll take two bowls of…” I peer into the earthenware dishes around me to see what’s being served. I go with the umbrella term: “stew.”
“Good choice.” His short locks are so gray they shine like foil in the sandy light. “Me daughter made it with real whale meat. I hear it’s her best seafood goulash yet.”
My stomach flops at the news that the stew is made from a creature as majestic as the one that carved up the bay earlier today. Hypocritical of me, given that I’m not a vegetarian.
As the tavern owner marches off toward the kitchen, the young man across from us drops his spoon into his empty bowl, then proceeds to use his pinkie’s overly-long fingernail to fish a morsel from between his front teeth. “Where you two from?”
“The capital,” Lev answers, sitting up straighter, as though to make himself appear larger. He’s already broader than most males here, thanks to my spell.
“That explains yer accent.” He drags his gaze across Lev’s hair, the length of which I altered to fit the look of Glacin half-bloods. I was tempted to pretend Lev and I were both from Luce, where non-magical beings are free to grow out their locks, but Lev insisted on shoulder-length locks.
“We sailed over to work one of the carnival stands,” I explain.
“You ain’t afraid of them Serpents, then?”
I seize my shot glass of vodka and carry it to my nose to block the smell wafting past the man’s yellowed teeth. “They were perfectly friendly.”
The man seated to the other side of me screws up his veined nose. “Good thing our oceans are too icy for them beasts.”
“A shame our air ain’t too icy for them birds,” someone quips.
Lev shifts in his seat. I believe it’s nerves until he slips his arm around my waist and tugs me nearer. Could the beast-bashing be making him anxious for my safety? Or is he worried for the antimorphs’ safety? I may be hiding in plain sight, but if my neighbor tries anything, I’ll have zero qualms about giving him a taste of my talons.
I squeeze Lev’s knee, hoping my calmness will mitigate his unease. The Glacins around us have probably never interacted with a shifter in their life, so their opinion skips off me like flat rocks over placid surf.
“What do you think of the Shabbins?” I ask our voluble tablemates.
My human neighbor crosses his arms. “What do you think of the blood-drinkers, girl?”
I’m tempted to tell him that this reputation of drinking blood is unmerited, but I want to avoid suspicion, not garner it, so I lean over conspiratorially. “I think Pink-eyes should go back to Shabbe. And stay there. I think it’s a shame the wards fell. I hear one of the royals tried to stop it from happening, but she got caught.”
The tavern grows so quiet that I can hear the blood whoosh through Lev’s veins as he scrutinizes my tiny glass. At first, I think he’s checking whether I drank the vodka, but then I catch his gaze skimming over my painted nails, hunting for talons.
“What d’you do in the capital again?” My neighbor pivots on his cask-stool.
When his knee grazes mine, I scoot my legs toward Lev, preferring the contact of his flesh over a stranger’s. “I’m a lady-in-waiting.”
“Which lady do you wait on?” he asks.
I’m about to say Izolda, but since her mate is Crow, I go with Ksenia.
Yellow-teeth finally retrieves whatever he was digging for in his mouth— thank the Cauldron —and lowers his hand. “The only decent broad in the Korol coop, f’you ask me.”
“You know her well?” I ask.
“I—”
The barkeep talks over him as he bustles back out from the kitchen. “High Fae don’t mix with the likes of us, so no. Ivan, here, just fancies her, which is why he finds her decent.” He swipes the back of Ivan’s bald head, clearly familiar with the boy. “But she ain’t. None of them royals are.” After a beat, he adds, “I’m afraid we’re all out of stew.”
“That’s all right. I’ll take some eggs,” I say.
The man folds his arms, which causes his bicep muscles to pop. Is he trying to intimidate us? “Out of eggs, too.”
“I’m happy to eat anything your daughter whips up.” I’m hoping my joviality will endear him to me.
It only succeeds in deepening the cagey furrows pocking his face. “Me daughter actually stepped out of the kitchen.”
I can tell he’s lying from the quickening strike of his pulse. He wants us gone from his tavern.
I sigh. “What a shame. Today was my only day off.”
“What did you say yer name was?” The knot of the barkeep’s arms tightens.
“I didn’t. It’s Maria.” I tip my head toward Lev. “And my husband is Prokhor.”
“What’s your job at the capital, Prokhor?”
“I’m a warden in the king’s army,” Lev answers.
“So you work under the Flesher?” the man beside me asks.
Lev’s shoulders bunch. “The king’s not a butcher.”
“Yer right. King’s a craven.” Ivan snorts. “Me friend meant his general. The man he sends to do all his dirty work.”
I bristle in sympathy for Konstantin. I may not know him well, but he doesn’t merit being called a coward.
Ivan misinterprets the nerve flickering along my jaw, because he says, “Did yer husband not mention how many throats the great and almighty general has torn up? If I were you, lass, I wouldn’t be hangin’ around these parts of the kingdom. If Salom gets wind of it, you’ll be out of a job.”
“And out of a head for colluding with us ‘lessers,’” my neighbor quips.
“If yer ask me, it’s a real shame Alyona didn’t off the general at the same time she killed her daddy, but he’ll get his comeuppance someday.”
“Ivan,” the barkeep hisses. “Don’t say such things.” His amber eyes roll over every corner of the Tin Teapot as though on the lookout for a snooping sprite.
“It’s alright. We’re not fond of the pureling general either.” Lev raises his glass while I gawp at him, wondering if there’s truth to his declaration, or if it’s part of the act. “A toast. May our tomorrows be sweeter than our yesterdays.”
“Hear, hear!” The crowd cheers and clink glasses together, won over by Lev’s words.
My fake husband holds out his glass to me. “Don’t leave me hanging, xhina .”
Deeply curious about what could be going on behind his smooth brow, I hold his stare as I tip back my glass. The liquor singes my throat. I cough. Gag. My lungs shrivel. I suddenly worry that my drink was tainted and I’ve been poisoned. When my extremities don’t start to tingle, and the burn subsides, I conclude that there was no foul play…that it was just truly Cauldron-awful.
“Would you care for more?” Lev’s tone is as effervescent as the fumes drifting off the vodka. “We do have an entire bottle of this fine liquor at our disposal.”
“Ass,” I grumble.
He grins, then merrily proclaims, “Next round’s on the king’s tab.”
The tavern goes so silent that I can hear the drip of the icicles hugging the roof.
“Gods, you’re a humorless crowd. The Craven King pays my salary, thus, my jest about a round on his tab.” Lev rolls his eyes and picks up our bottle, splashing the clear liquid into Ivan’s glass. And then he replenishes the other empty glasses within his reach, including mine. “Ivan? A toast.”
Singling out the young male with the ochre teeth and rank breath flicks him out of his stupor. For long seconds, Ivan stares between Lev, me, and the glass in front of him. I think he’s caught on that we’re not two random halflings who’ve stumbled into the human district to wet our beaks and fill our stomachs, and my fingers curl in my lap. Though part of me still wishes Lev hadn’t insisted on accompanying me, he’s here now, which makes his safety my responsibility.
My fingertips tingle, but my ruby nails don’t darken to steel. Which is alarming. Could the Tin Teapot be warded against Crows?
“Perhaps my wife would like to propose a toast?” I assume Lev is calling on me because Ivan has yet to speak up, but then he adds, “She was so eager for a tipple at your tavern, Svyato.”
Lev knows the barkeep’s name? How? Was it mentioned aloud by one of his customers, and I missed it?
I seize my glass with one hand, keeping the other on my lap. “I do have something to say.” I drive the tip of my thumbnail into the scab on my index finger until I bleed, then begin to draw a sequence of expanding arcs on the underside of the table. “I’d like to raise a toast to the woman who tried. Long live Alyona of Glace.” I toss back the nasty drink, gaze darting over the rapt crowd. I spot mostly shock and suspicion.
Lev’s hand plummets as though the tiny glass suddenly weighs too much. The vodka sloshes out and puddles around his long fingers.
I’m about to add, “Long live her memory,” but the words wither in my throat, because the muddy-brown tint of his irises has faded, and not to amber.