CHAPTER 17 JAX #2
“Oh! No, it’s fine.” She glances from me to Sephran and Leo and then back.
Her smile turns furtive, and her voice drops.
“I didn’t know Emberish soldiers were here for the meeting, too.
I don’t speak Syssalah, but I’d heard— well.
” She pats me on the shoulder and leans in a little, as if we’re all in on a secret.
“When you’re ready, dinner will be on the house, gentlemen. You’re among friends.”
I blink, puzzled, but she’s already stepping away. For a moment, I can’t tell if my confusion is because I didn’t understand the words or if I don’t understand the situation.
When I look at Sephran and Leo, they’re both staring after her, equally nonplussed. “Help me,” I say to them softly. “I not understand.”
Sephran hesitates. For the first time all day, his expression isn’t twisted up with angst and fury, and instead his eyes are lit with a hint of curiosity.
“I’m not sure I understand either. She said there’s a meeting.
” When I frown at this word, Sephran gestures in a circle around the table.
“Like . . . meet. People meet together. A meeting.”
“People from Syhl Shallow?” I guess. But then I frown. “Here? In Emberfall?”
“Maybe.” He glances after her again, then scans the rest of the patrons in the tavern.
It’s still somewhat early, so the place isn’t crowded.
When Sephran looks back at me, he sighs, and for an instant, bitterness returns to his expression.
“But I think we’re going to need to wait to talk to the other two about this. ”
We don’t have to wait long. Tycho and Malin come striding into the tavern while our steins are still half full.
They both look tense and drawn, and for a brief moment, I’m reminded of the brittle tension that dogged me and Tycho for most of the journey.
But his eyes shift my way and he smiles, and suddenly it’s like I imagined any tension at all.
The rest of the world might be hanging by a thread, but he and I aren’t at odds.
For now.
The thought hits me quick and hard, and I shove it away before it can fully take root. We have more important things to worry about anyway.
When they join us at the table, Tycho and Malin sit on opposite sides of me. It’s obvious that Sephran is ready for Mal to pick a fight— and Leo is sitting here ready to watch. The bracing apprehension in the air is simply that thick.
So I attempt to slice through it before any aggression can truly form. “Tell them,” I say to Sephran. “Tell them what she said.”
That gets Malin’s attention. “What who said?”
Sephran’s gaze goes dark, but he repeats what we heard from the barmaid.
When he gets to the part about a meeting, Malin and Tycho exchange a glance, and I can tell they’re thinking of everything we heard from Wenda in the last town, about how nobility shows up at the tourney here, ready with silver to spend.
I think of that slain courier again, wondering if that is somehow related to all of this.
While they consider, Sephran looks across the table at me. “Maybe you really could be here for that meeting.”
My eyebrows go up. “Me?”
“Yeah. You are from Syhl Shallow. You’d know what they’re saying at least.” Before I can respond, his eyes narrow, and he glares at Malin. “I mean . . . if I’m allowed to make suggestions before our captain.”
“You’re allowed,” Malin says, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. He sounds like he’s actually considering this.
“But I am no— I no— I not—” I break off, frustrated, tripping over my words because I have too much to say and not enough of the language to do it.
I look to Tycho and switch to Syssalah. “I’m not from one of the Royal Houses.
I’m not even born of the nobility. No one would believe it.
” I pat the pouch on my belt, and it rattles with a handful of coppers. “I don’t even have silver to spend.”
Malin must have understood most of what I said, because he looks to Tycho. “You have silver,” he says in Emberish. He gives us both more of an appraising look. “And you’re both in black armor.”
I didn’t consider that. Tycho and I are clad in the same black armor that the king’s guard wears here in Emberfall— but it’s not unlike the army livery worn on the other side of the border.
It’s not trimmed in the green and silver of Syhl Shallow’s royal crest, but I doubt a barmaid in Gaulter would even notice that.
I glance at the windows at the front of the tavern. It’s nearing dusk. I doubt anyone would notice it in the shadows. Back when I was shoeing horses in the shadows of a forge, I certainly wouldn’t.
Tycho runs a hand across his jaw. “We still don’t know who’s here. Even if we pretend to be soldiers, someone from the Royal Houses might recognize me.” He hesitates, considering. “Lesser nobles probably wouldn’t, but . . . well, it’s a risk.”
“The barmaid is coming back,” Leo says under his breath, warning in his tone.
Sephran and Malin exchange a glance, and in that one look, there’s a spark of their old camaraderie. I’ve heard no shortage of stories about the pranks and hijinks they used to pull together, and I realize I’m seeing a flicker of it now.
Malin kicks Tycho under the table. “Speak Syssalah,” he hisses. “Now.”
Tycho gives him an aggrieved look, then turns to me. “So,” he drawls. “How much longer do you think we’re going to have before these two punch each other?”
That’s so unexpected that it startles a smile out of me. “You think it’s just going to be a punch?”
He scoffs. “I think it’ll start with a punch.”
Malin kicks him under the table again just as the barmaid steps up between him and Leo.
My smile widens. “Malin understands a lot more Syssalah than I remember,” I say to Tycho.
He shrugs. “Our time in Syhl Shallow gave him a lot of practice.” His gaze turns a little wicked. “He was all over Nolla Verin.”
I was in the middle of taking a sip of my ale, but this makes me choke. “The sister to the queen ?”
Tycho nods. “They kept trying to kill each other. For Verin, that’s practically a love letter.”
The barmaid turns to him. “I’m so sorry,” she says, her cheeks turning pink. She speaks slowly and clearly. “As I told your friend, I don’t speak Syssalah. But . . . ah . . .” She bites at her lip, waiting to see if he comprehends.
“I understand your words,” Tycho says with such a thick Syssal accent that I almost choke on my ale again. “I speak some Emberish.”
“Clouds above,” I mutter. “That’s terrible. Is that what I sound like?”
Tycho is still looking at the barmaid. “Ale for me, too, if you please,” he says, his fake accent thickening further, which makes me grin. But then he glances at me and switches to Syssalah. “No,” he says earnestly. “When you speak in any language, it’s beautiful.”
That catches me off guard, and a flush crawls up my neck. Tycho isn’t teasing now, and he said it so plainly that it knocked the smile off my face. Honestly, it almost knocked me out of the chair.
Tycho’s cheeks turn a little pink, but his brown eyes hold mine.
I have no idea how he erased three months of angst and longing and anger and uncertainty in twelve hours.
The barmaid is speaking now, but I’m barely listening. “I’ll bring food quickly so you can make it to the tourney before dark,” she’s saying.
That makes Tycho look up. “The tourney?” he says— and it’s clear he almost forgot his accent, because he tacks it on halfway through the word.
She nods. “For . . . the meeting,” she says quietly, glancing at me.
“Ah. Yes.” I nod briskly, as if we’re all in on a secret, and I look to Tycho. “The tourney,” I say in Syssalah, as if he needed me to translate.
His eyebrows go up. “Ah,” he says. “The tourney.” He offers her a grateful smile, and the barmaid nods helpfully, then rushes off.
Tycho turns back to me. A light sparks in his eye, and he adds, “You make a rather good spy, Master Jax.”
Heat flares on my cheeks, and I have to take another sip of my ale. I cannot believe he ever told me he was bad at courtship.
Malin kicks him under the table again. “Maybe it was better when you two were fighting.”
“We were never fighting,” he says without looking away from me. There’s heat in his voice, but he adds that ridiculous Syssal accent again, so it startles another laugh out of me.
This time Sephran glances between us, and his gaze darkens. It’s like his annoyance at Malin has eased now that they share a goal, but his annoyance at Tycho has returned with full force.
The smile falls off my face, and I take a sip of my ale. By the time the barmaid returns with drinks for Malin and Tycho, the table has gone stony silent.
Leo glances among all of us. “Does anyone want to play cards?” he ventures.
“No,” Sephran and Tycho say at the same time.
Leo cringes a little. “Silver hell,” he mutters.
Malin takes a long draw from his stein, then looks from me to Tycho.
“So you’ll go to this meeting. See who’s there.
See what they’re saying.” He pauses, running a hand across his jaw.
“If they ask why you were sitting with us, say we served together on the other side. We’re on leave, but we share your sentiments about the king, so we were curious. ”
I glance from him to Tycho. “What . . . sentiments ?”
When Tycho translates, I shake my head quickly. “No— what sentiments are we sharing?”
Malin drops his voice. “Probably Truthbringer sentiments.”
“That you hate magic,” says Leo.
“And the king,” adds Sephran.
Malin exchanges a glance with Tycho, and for the first time a flicker of concern crosses his expression. “Not just that you hate him,” he says. “Not if it’s really the Truthbringers.”
I look to Tycho, unsure if I’m following.
His brown eyes meet mine, and this time there’s no heat there at all. “That we want him dead.”