Chapter 10
Kurtz
Home, joyous home.
The sentiment rose unbidden inside Kurtz as he led Cole and Mistel through Tsaftown’s narrow streets, his gloved hand tight on Smoke’s reins as the cold nipped at his cheeks and his breath clouded out in front of him.
The mingling scents of roasted chestnuts, wood smoke, and manure hung thick on the air, they did.
The afternoon light slanted low, casting long shadows from the timber-framed buildings that leaned precariously close overhead, frost and icicles clinging to their eaves.
Up ahead, the spire of Thalassa’s Temple towered over the city like an old sentinel.
Back at the Dale, they’d left the army behind and headed west through the narrow streets. Kurtz had bloodvoiced Prince Oren yesterday and received instructions. They were to go to the Ivory Spit and ask for Anna. That’s all he knew.
Their horses’ hooves clattered against the uneven cobblestones, a sound so familiar it almost twisted back time. How often had Kurtz roamed these streets as a gangly sapling, eh? A wooden practice sword strapped to his back, dreaming of finding glory in the Fighting Fifteen?
A fool, that lad.
It was good to see the city in Light again. The last two times Kurtz had been here during the curse of Darkness—first going into Ice Island, then over a decade later, mercifully coming out.
Thirteen years of his life, lost.
Heat burst in his chest as he recalled how, during the trial to find King Axel’s killers, Kenton Garesh and his cohorts had testified—blatantly lied—against him and Eagan and that Verdot Amal had done nothing to stop it.
Careeanne too, that blackhearted viper, telling the Council of Seven that he had used her!
Of course, with Kurtz’s maverick reputation, no one had had any reason to doubt the minx’s word.
The injustice of so many turncloaks conspiring to help Nathak cut down a legend like King Axel—the man’s own father—still boiled Kurtz blood, it did.
He’d been simmering over the diabolical treachery for thirteen years, and while it pleased him that Nathak and Kenton were dead and rotting, Kurtz would not rest until everyone complicit in the king’s murder was exposed and brought to justice.
Now that he was free, he finally had the time to figure out the truth, he did.
“How much longer?” Cole asked, pulling Kurtz from his reverie.
“A few more blocks,” Kurtz said.
Mistel drew her hood tight around her chin. “It’s so cold.”
“Aye, that it is,” Kurtz said. The girl wasn’t dressed for it either. She’d need winter clothing and fast, or she’d turn into the prettiest icicle Tsaftown had ever seen.
They came upon the Ivory Spit suddenly. The tavern and inn sat back off the street, and you couldn’t see it until you’d reached its door. Kurtz knew the place well and steered Smoke down the side of the building to the stables in back.
Prince Oren wanted them all to stay here, but Kurtz would rather find another place to shove the girl off. Only a blind man could miss the way Cole and Mistel gogged at each other, eyes all witless and full of stars. Kurtz had enough to deal with, he did, without tending a pair of lovestruck pups.
The three of them put up their horses, then went inside the tavern.
A bell tinkled as Kurtz passed through the entrance and stomped his snowy boots on the mat.
Ah, but the place smelled like home, and this wasn’t even Fat Vandy’s.
All taverns had the same scent: a blend of ale, sweat, stew, and smoke—both hearth and pipe. Earthy, spicy, and savory all at once.
The Spit had a low ceiling due to all the rooms on its upper floors.
The timber panel walls were covered in Merrygog’s trophies: a stuffed hawk, two falcons, a boar’s head, four pair of antlers of various points, and a half dozen carvings of fish, crab, or some other sea creature.
Kurtz grinned, remembering how tacky Serra Vandy found Merrygog’s décor.
Too early for the dinner crowd, the place was practically empty.
Worn square tables sat bare, but for two: a gray-haired bloke sitting by the fire and a tall man-at-arms at a table in back.
No musician or band in the corner spot now.
Kurtz hoped he could talk old Merrygog McLennan into taking them on for a spell.
“Good afternoon.” A dark-haired barmaid approached, wiping her hands on her apron. She wore a red skirt and sleeveless laced top that drew Kurtz’s attention to her curvy torso. “You look like you’ve traveled far,” she said. “What can I get you?”
Kurtz took in her familiar, plump cheeks, thick eyelashes, and the loose curls escaping her messy bun. “Rilla?”
The barmaid’s gaze met his, and a wide smile claimed her face.
“As I live and breathe. Kurtz Chazir. Darri said you’d been through here last summer—that the true prince had sprung you off the island.
I told her that couldn’t be. That if you got out of that horrible place, you’d have come and seen me and Loanna first thing. ”
Kurtz winced. “Couldn’t. The prince was in danger, Edik Livna killed, and you know Gavin.”
“Oh, we all know Gavin…” Rilla extended her arms. “Don’t just stand there. Give us a kiss, you old rogue.”
Kurtz grabbed her around the waist and kissed her full on the mouth, inhaling her unique fragrance of starfrost blossoms that transported him back to younger days. “Why you working here? Your parents disown you?”
“Worse,” she said. “Loanna got herself hitched to a bloke with two kids. They’re all but running Fat Vandy’s now what with Papa’s gout flaring and Mama’s poor eyesight. I needed to get out of the way for a spell, so Merrygog took me on day shift.”
Kurtz chest tightened at the news of Hargis and Serra’s declining health. “I’ll get over to see them as soon as I can, eh?”
“Yeah, why are you here instead of there?” Rilla asked. “And who are your friends?”
“This is my…band.” How utterly ridiculous that sounded.
Rilla fell into a fit of giggles. “Kurtz Chazir, a musician? Just when I thought I’d heard it all.”
“Well, to be honest, it’s Cole’s band, it is. I’m just the drummer, and a poor one at that. Luckily, Cole and his cousin, Mistel, are so good, no one notices my deficiencies. Cole, Mistel, meet an old friend, Rilla Vandy. Her parents took me in for the best years of my youth.”
“Pleased to know you,” Mistel said.
Rilla beamed at them. “Likewise, I’m sure.”
“Might the Ivory Spit use some entertainment?” Cole asked. “We’re looking for some places to play while we’re in town.”
“Oh, I’m certain Merrygog will have you,” Rilla said, “if for no other reason than to see if Kurtz Chazir can really beat a drum. Want me to fetch him?”
“Aye, in a moment,” Kurtz said, “but first, we’re supposed to meet someone named Anna. Anyone by that name stop by?”
Rilla’s eyebrows jumped up her forehead. “One surprise after another with you, isn’t it?” She nodded to the man-at-arms in the corner. “Right over there.”
“Oh.” Kurtz straightened, a bit off-kilter at this realization. “I assumed Anna was female. Must be a foreign spelling, eh?”
“Anna is female, you dolt.” Rilla slapped his arm. “And I suggest you tread carefully unless you want a fat lip.”
Interesting. “Thanks for the warning, eh?” He took a deep breath and waved Cole and Mistel to follow. “Come on.”
As they crossed the tavern toward the table in the corner, Kurtz eyed this Anna a little more carefully.
Couldn’t see a smidge of female in her from the back—the heavy pelt draped around her shoulders exaggerated her frame—but Berland women had always been rough around the edges. Perhaps she was from there.
Rilla’s warning fresh in his mind, Kurtz decided to employ a bit of Eagan’s manners. “Pardon me,” he said. “We are looking to speak with Anna.”
The Berlander pushed to her feet and turned, putting a pair of feminine brown eyes squarely in front of his.
Kurtz froze, his heart giving an involuntary jolt.
ZolZanna tan Quelle?
So, not a Berlander then. A half-Yatsaq giant.
He blinked slowly. What in flames?
This striking woman had a glare that could wither a man. The memory of their challenge fifteen years ago resurfaced, her bitter, mocking words fresh in his mind. His gut clenched, and for a moment, he wished the ground would swallow him whole.
ZolZan the Barbarian. That’s what most of the Kingsguard soldiers had called her back then.
Outside of Berland, female soldiers were rare.
Even the giant tribes didn’t send women to war.
Which was why Zanna had always stood out as fierce, stunning, and deadly.
Of all the blasted missions, she had to be here, now?
He didn’t like it.
Yet he forced his most winsome smile. “ZolZan, heh, hay! It’s been a while, eh?”
“Don’t call me that, you fool,” she snapped. “I’m Anna Tankel here, and if you even try to greet me with a kiss, I’ll stick a dagger in your throat.”
And there she was. He raised his hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, eh? But keep the dagger ready. I’m sure you’ll need it when the next man looks at you wrong.”
“Sit down,” she hissed. “All of you.”
Cole and Mistel flew into their seats, but Kurtz took his time, flipping a chair backward and straddling it. He’d have to bloodvoice Prince Oren and let him know that this was not going to work. At all. No mission could succeed with ZolZan the Barbarian involved.
“The girl will stay with me,” Zanna said.
Suddenly Kurtz wanted to keep Mistel close. “The girl’s name is Mistel. Where do you live, eh?”
Zanna folded her arms across that ample bosom of hers. “None of your business.”
“These are my charges,” Kurtz said. “I need to know where they are at all times.”
Zanna uttered a long sigh. “I have a room at Fat Vandy’s.”
“Really?” Kurtz lit up. “I need to go see the Vandys.” He turned to Mistel. “You’ll like them. They practically raised me.”
Zanna glanced at Mistel. “Don’t hold that against them.”
“Look,” Kurtz said. “I’m in charge here, I am. Better get used to that, eh?”