Chapter 28
Mistel
Mistel should be focusing on their mission, not the adorable wrinkle between Cole’s eyes that always formed when he was worried or concentrating, which was the first thing she noticed when she entered the Ivory Spit.
“What are we talking about?” she asked as Cole pulled out a chair for her at the table he was sharing with Kurtz.
Adorable and chivalric manners. The boy didn’t even know he was racking up points.
“Questioning Merrygog about the happenings in Tsaftown fifteen years ago,” he said. “Trying to see if we can figure out who might have framed Crispen.”
Good idea. Mistel sat down and let the heat from the hearth fire seep into her bones. It was early afternoon, and Zanna had just dropped her off on her way to work at the prison.
Mistel was grateful not to be going back to that horrible place and hoped Cole had learned all he needed on their visit.
She studied him as he sank back onto his chair.
He looked to be holding up well, considering he’d found out only yesterday that the man he’d always thought was the uncle who abandoned him was actually his father.
Poor Cole.
His hair was an absolute mess today—staticky from the dry heat of the fire. She hated how much she loved it.
“Andric Gershom, for sure,” Merrygog said, his bushy white eyebrows all wrinkly. “Lord Gershom’s younger brother. A right rascal, he was. Smuggler through and through. Wouldn’t be surprised if some of his blood still stains the docks.”
Rilla approached and set a steaming mug in front of Mistel. “Some mulled wine for you.”
“Thank you.” Mistel palmed the mug, letting it warm her hands. Ever since their visit to the Erlichman’s estate, she’d developed a taste for the spicy, heated drink.
“Could I get a refill?” Kurtz asked, lifting his tankard.
“Drink slower,” Rilla said as she walked away. “Problem solved.”
“Ouch,” Mistel said. “What’d you do to upset her?”
“It’s more like what he didn’t do,” Cole said.
“Still no dancing, huh?” Mistel asked.
Cole shook his head.
“Anyway…” Kurtz, frowning, turned his attention back to Merrygog. “Did he have any accomplices?”
“None worth noting,” the old man said. “Even his son, Tom Raven, refused to take his father’s name when he offered it. Always trying to prove he was cut from another cloth, that Tom.”
“Verdot Amal’s clerk?” Cole asked.
“That’s right,” Merrygog said.
“On the straight and narrow now, is he?” Kurtz asked.
“He certainly tries,” Merrygog said. “Arman knows it can’t be easy, working for Verdot.”
Mistel hadn’t liked Verdot Amal. He reminded her of Vasaa Hoff, a merchant from Sitna who’d known her father.
The man thought very highly of himself, until he was around someone above his station, then he became a simpering, fawning toady.
Mistel bet Verdot Amal would do the same should Lord Livna come to call.
Rilla returned and poured ale into Kurtz’s tankard so fast, it sloshed over the side. “It was only about eight years back when Andric Gershom died,” she said. “That’s too recent for what they’re asking about.”
“Thank you, Rilla,” Kurtz said, pulling his drink close.
“Try not to choke on it,” she said as she strode away.
Cole and Mistel exchanged smothered grins. Cole had told Mistel stories about women vexed with Kurtz, usually because he’d wandered into the arms of another. But this was different. Rilla’s indignation didn’t stem from betrayal, but from the sting of his continued rejection.
“Andric got himself killed by some Hamonayan pirates, he did,” Merrygog said.
“Pirates this far north?” Mistel asked.
“Sure,” Merrygog said. “Pirates’ll go anywhere there’s money to be made.”
“Or stolen,” Kurtz added.
“Did you know a man called Crispen West?” Cole asked.
Merrygog stroked his beard. “Can’t say I recall the name.”
Kurtz took a drink. “What about any other unsavory sorts back then? Smugglers, scoundrels, someone who might’ve been mixed up in shady dealings?”
“Well, let’s see…Would that have been when you were in Armonguard?” Merrygog asked.
“That’s right,” Kurtz said. “Before I left, all I remember was guarding the harbor from pirates.”
“A lot of pirates back before Darkness came,” Merrygog said.
The door banged open, and Gunnar Gedmund rushed inside, his brown curls wilder than usual.
“There’s to be a duel!” he shouted.
The tavern wasn’t very full at the moment with only three tables occupied, but everyone stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to the young soldier.
“What duel?” Merrygog asked.
Gunnar strode over to their table. “Lord Livna challenged Fenris Yarden to a duel.”
“Is this about Lady Viola?” Kurtz asked.
“No,” Gunnar said. “Sir Fenris has been stirring up trouble ever since we returned. Got half the town thinking his lordship is unfit to rule. Just now, the council was down at the Dale, all set to vote Lord Livna out and put Sir Fenris in charge.”
Merrygog snorted. “That’s just what we need. Howlers running everything again.”
“This happened at the Dale?” Kurtz asked. “I thought council meetings were held in Lytton Hall.”
“They’re supposed to be,” Gunnar said. “But Councilor Erlichman has been hosting some publicly.”
“In these temperatures?” Mistel shivered.
Merrygog tapped the table in front of Kurtz. “Now that’s a man who caused trouble back in the day and is still causing trouble now.”
“Joonas?” Kurtz said.
“Fenris,” Merrygog said. “You know what he was like back then.”
Gunnar put his hands on the table and leaned between Kurtz and the old man.
“You should have seen it, Merrygog. His lordship rode up to a chorus of oxhorns. He said since Sir Fenris is his blood, the Northlander Charter gives him the right to challenge the Council’s vote of no confidence.
And he chose to settle the dispute through combat. ”
“When?” Kurtz asked. “What are the terms?”
“High sun tomorrow at the amphitheater in the Dale,” Gunnar said. “To the death.”
“Oh!” Mistel clapped her hand over her mouth.
“What’ll we do?” Cole asked Kurtz.
“Do?” Kurtz took a deep breath. “I suppose we’ll go watch. Show our support for Lord Livna, eh?”
Mistel didn’t think she could watch two men try to kill each other and one of them succeed.
Cole grabbed Kurtz’s arm. “Unless we go to the harbor instead.”
“Why would we go—ah!” Kurtz slapped Cole on the back. “I bet it’ll be real quiet at the harbor tomorrow at high sun.”
Cole winked at Mistel, which made her stomach flutter. “Exactly.”
The next day, as Mistel rode Bart alongside Cole and Kurtz down an empty street near the harbor, the wind carried the reek of brine and fish guts.
“It’s so quiet,” Cole said.
The city had gone still, as if holding its breath. Mistel knew why.
“Do you think Lord Livna will win?” she asked.
“Most certainly,” Kurtz said.
Mistel hoped so. “We haven’t been here long, but I’ve seen enough of Sir Fenris and his Howlers to know that things would be bad if he wins.”
“He won’t win,” Kurtz said.
“From what Merrygog said, the Howlers are more conquerors than soldiers,” Mistel said, “taking whatever they want, leaving fear behind them. He said they would hold this city hostage more than protect it.”
“They’re a bunch of biters, they are,” Kurtz said, “but Fenris is not going to win, eh?”
“How do you know?” Cole asked.
Mistel waited anxiously for Kurtz to answer.
“Because while Fenris spent all those years on Ice Island, Eric was training. He’s been training since he could lift a sword. There are few who fight better, and while Fenris was taught by the best, too, the years he spent in prison will have weakened him.”
“It didn’t weaken you,” Cole said.
Kurtz yanked down the neckline of his tunic, bearing a slashing scar across his collarbone. “This is proof of my weakness,” he snapped. “If I’d been the top of my game in the Battle of Armonguard, I wouldn’t have gotten hit.”
Mistel glanced at Cole. The war had left him battle bruised. Perhaps it had left its mark on Kurtz as well. She nudged Bart after them.
When they reached Thusk’s warehouse, Mistel found the building unremarkable—long, low, and rectangular, with a sagging thatch roof. No guards. No workers.
“Looks like even Thusk’s men abandoned their posts to watch the duel,” Kurtz said.
Just as they had hoped. The place was theirs.
Still, as Kurtz led them down the side of the building, Mistel couldn’t shake the feeling that someone might see them and tell Thusk. Thankfully, the nearby houses showed no sign of life.
They tied their horses to a fence that separated the warehouse from a row of small family homes and approached the building.
Cole squinted at the walls, hands on his hips. “No runes,” he said.
Mistel frowned. “That’s strange. Why wouldn’t Thusk want to shield this place from bloodvoicers?”
Kurtz crouched by a side door, drew his boot knife, and slid the blade into the lock. A few deft twists, and the latch gave way with a quiet click.
They slipped inside.
The place smelled like a barn. Sunlight filtered through high slats near the ceiling and cast long, pale stripes across rows of wooden crates.
Mistel crept forward and peered inside one of the crates.
Snort! The cage shook, and she yelped.
Boars.
She widened her gaze. Dozens of boars—some brown, some black, and some with bristling white coats and gleaming tusks—in cages of varying size, snorting and rooting in the hay.
She glanced at Kurtz, a few rows over. “Thusk’s main trade is in flesh,” she said, “just not the kind we feared.”
“Don’t go acquitting him yet, eh?” Kurtz said. “There’s a lot of warehouse left to search.”
Mistel followed Cole deeper into the building, past the rows of animals, to an area where shelves stretched up to the rafters. Stacks of goods filled the space—dried fish, furs, barrels of salt, and bags of grain.
They searched every aisle, checked every crate. But there were no hidden compartments. No secret shipments. No signs of trafficked prisoners.
Kurtz exhaled through his nose. “She’s right. Thusk is clean.”
“He can’t be,” Cole said.
Mistel bit her lip. If Thusk wasn’t shipping the prisoners, then who was? And if they were wrong about Thusk…what else had they missed?
“Let’s head over to the Dale,” Kurtz said.
“Do you mind if we make a stop first?” Cole asked.
“Where?” Kurtz said.
“Tom Raven’s house,” Cole said. “Merrygog McLennan told me where he lives. I think he knows something about what’s going on at the prison.”
Mistel grinned. Now there was the investigator who’d so intrigued her back in Armonguard.
Kurtz scratched his chin. “All right. Let’s go talk to him, though he might be at the duel too.”
They set off on their horses again and had just turned down one of the wider, main roads when a woman on horseback entered the road up ahead. She sat side saddle and wore a long, hooded cloak, which hid her face from view until she glanced down a side street, giving them a good look at her profile.
“That’s Lady Viola,” Kurtz said.
“Why wouldn’t she be watching the duel?” Mistel asked.
“I’ll get the truth of it.” Kurtz nudged his horse on ahead.
“You want us to come or wait here?” Cole asked.
Kurtz glanced back. “You two head over to Raven’s house. I’ll meet you there.”
Cole turned Cherix up the next street and motioned Mistel to follow.
Mistel steered Bart after Cole, hoping Kurtz would take care with Lord Livna’s wife.