Chapter 8 #2
It was barely there, the flicker of alarm in his eye – the falter of his lips as they parted and shut again.
Half a heartbeat, then the ice closed over.
But I’d seen it, and I almost, almost laughed as I lifted the blade higher, closer – pausing half an inch away from the pale expanse of his throat, revelling in the slow, cautious bob of its bulge as he swallowed.
For a moment neither of us moved, faces inches apart, bodies pressed together against the green-and-gold tapestry. He smelled of horse and sweat and dark roses.
Then, gaze never leaving mine, he muttered, ‘The death knife, isn’t it?’
‘The death knife,’ I confirmed, lifting it just a fraction closer for nothing but the hell of it. No matter how tired I might be, my hand didn’t shake. ‘One scratch and you’re done for.’
‘I see.’ He didn’t try to move back, horned head resting warily against the wall. Only his eye moved as it darted over my face. ‘I understand there are objections to the course of recent events, then.’
Even now, his voice was level. Not calm but level, and it took the greatest of efforts not to knee him in the balls to do something about that. I narrowed my eyes instead, keeping Eihwaz where it was, and said, ‘Servant?’
‘Of course.’ His lips were obscenely sensual at such close proximity, thin but luscious, and unbearably expressive as they curled into that biting little smile of his. ‘You’re human. What else were you going to be?’
I stiffened. ‘Don’t you dare—’
‘It’s not a matter of my opinions, you impossible woman.
’ He suddenly spoke faster and sharper. Perhaps he, too, had noticed the twitch of my hand towards his throat.
‘They know me as Givron Averre in this place, and the Givron Averre as portrayed by yours truly wouldn’t come within five feet of a human unless she was either a servant or a whore.
I assumed this would be the more comfortable role to play for both of us, not least because the equipment you’re currently wearing would be …
suggestive of … tastes. Know what I mean? ’
My knives.
The implications of that thought were so utterly, blatantly appalling that for a long second, I could do nothing but gape at him.
‘You look surprised,’ he concluded, his voice regaining some of its usual chilly edge.
‘Well, I’m glad to know you weren’t planning to carve me up for our mutual enjoyment.
Anything else we need to discuss under threat of bloody murder, or could you be persuaded to let me sit down for the rest of our chat? ’
I didn’t move, the fury thumping through my veins unabating. ‘Why did you need to pick a place where they know you at all? There are plenty of other inns in this town that cater to fireborn guests.’
‘None of them offer decent hot baths.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘I enjoy the little luxuries in life.’
‘You— Hot baths?’ My voice rose to a pitch. ‘You turned me into your servant for the sake of hot baths? When you could so easily have—’
‘Of course I could have, Thraga,’ he interrupted with alarming sweetness. ‘But why would I?’
My questions.
My challenges.
And so he’d decided his little luxuries were worth more to him than the inconsequential matter of my pride or comfort.
‘You rat-arsed bastard,’ I breathed, fingers shaking in his coat. My knife hand remained steady as ever. ‘Why were you staying in Horn’s End, then? Didn’t see Hedda haul buckets of boiling water around for you.’
He shrugged as far as Eihwaz would let him. ‘Matter of necessity.’
I glowered at him, the blade by his throat a silent request to elaborate.
‘Sweet fucking flames – I was looking for Bjarte Vigdisson, remember?’ He sounded as though he’d have rolled his eyes if he’d dared to take them off me.
‘The Ash and Elm was the last place where he stayed before he disappeared. I needed his direction, and I needed Hedda and Jarle to like me so they would tell me where he’d gone. It was that simple.’
In for a spark, in for the fire. ‘And what did you need Bjarte for?’
His short laugh was a promise of revenge. ‘Finding runewitches.’
The pieces fell into place with an almost audible bang.
There were others like me out there, I knew that much.
Organised others, because every once in a while a fireborn outpost would be raided and I’d have to listen to Aranc’s furious ranting as he swore to skin every runewitch involved alive …
so had Bjarte been a part of that? Had this estranged Averre prince caught a glimpse of whatever doomed rebellion was stewing on the fringes of the three fireborn kingdoms and decided he’d need their cooperation to save his sister?
Would he have asked nicely if he’d found them?
Somehow, I doubted it.
‘That letter.’ My voice had gone hoarse. ‘If the prison guards read it, and there was anything in there that could locate other witches …’
His lip curled. ‘They didn’t read it.’
‘What? How do you know—’
He threw a meaningful look at the knife beneath his jaw.
‘Oh, fuck’s sake. Fine.’ I stepped back, not yet sheathing Eihwaz in case he was thinking of immediate retaliation. The room was cold without his body pressed against mine. ‘Show me.’
He slid a hand into his coat. A folded sheet of paper came out with it.
My heart stood still.
Cipher runes.
Little treelike scribbles, swarming over the page – each sign a vertical stroke with branches drawn on either side, too small to count them swiftly.
Shit. If I’d had a few minutes, I could have sat down and read the message …
but Kjell’s lessons lay years and years behind me, the writer’s hand was messy, and already Durlain’s eye was narrowing on the edge of my sight.
‘Thraga?’
‘I’ve seen these before.’ No sense in denying that; the silence had lasted too long. ‘Don’t know what to do with them, but—’
‘Where did you see them?’
The truth often made for the best lies. ‘Kjell used them. He never explained how the system worked, though.’
Was that doubt, the hint of a frown sliding over Durlain’s brow? The expression was gone the next instant. With a shrug, he started folding the letter again, long gloved fingers hopelessly in the way of any sequence I might have recognised.
The message went back into his pocket. No chance of swiping it and reading it at a quieter moment, then.
And hell, why would I even want to read it?
Durlain had his runewitch. It was for the best he didn’t find another, more amiable option, one who wouldn’t press knives to his throat or make any of the demands I’d brought into our bargain – and I definitely, definitely didn’t want to get involved with whatever was happening at the edges of civilisation.
There was no winning that battle. Either we’d lose against the fireborn, or we’d lose against the ice without them.
Keeping myself alive was hard enough already.
‘Alright.’ Durlain pushed past me as if I wasn’t still holding a knife promising death, taking off his gloves, then his cloak, as he made for what was presumably the bathroom.
‘I ought to make myself presentable for dinner with Naucelle. Collect the luggage when it arrives, then go make yourself useful downstairs. Frode doubtlessly has some task for you.’
I blinked. ‘Frode?’
‘The innkeeper.’
‘But you called him—’
‘Of course I did,’ Durlain impatiently interrupted, glancing over his shoulder as he paused in the doorway.
Fire sparked in his palm, illuminating stretches of pale birchwood and smooth quartz in the bathroom behind him.
‘Do you think a man like Givron would remember a human’s name to save his useless life? ’
He’d slammed the door before I could recover from that question.
I left five of my knives in his bedroom.
It felt … naked, walking around with only Uruz strapped to my thigh.
It felt dangerous. But as little as I liked to credit the fucker for it, my guise as Durlain’s servant offered me an invisibility I would not have had as his travel companion – and running around with six blades strapped to my person would be the fastest way to ruin that thin layer of protection.
A servant was only ever invisible if there was nothing remarkable about her.
Rational arguments, rational conclusions.
It still took me nearly fifteen minutes to step away from the drawer in which I’d hidden the weapons – to stop counting and counting and counting, making sure I wasn’t losing any of them by splitting them up.
In the end, I managed to tear myself away only because Durlain sounded like he was finishing up in the bathroom; I had no intention of letting him see me like this and laugh his princely arse off.
All the same, my gut was tight with the wrongness of it as I hurried down the stairs.
Frode reintroduced himself to me under his actual name, then sent me to the kitchens. Busy time of the year, he curtly informed me. They could use an extra pair of hands to prepare for the festival in two days.
The festival.
He didn’t mention what holiday he was talking about, and it took me most of my walk to the back of the inn to figure out he had to be talking about the Day of First Fruits. I’d lost track of normal life entirely, awaiting my execution.
The kitchen was a large, cavernous space, full of soot-stained metal and hot as an oven thanks to the fires sizzling in the corners.
The head cook, a short and stringy woman, had such a rigid military air about her that I felt the urge to salute in response to her every order.
She gave me a batch of celeriac to cut, unwillingly praised my skills with a knife when I was done, and handed me a towering pile of beets as a reward – a boring job, but a safe job, and I chopped until my hands were dripping with purple.
I’d just about slaughtered all the beets when a freckled, red-haired girl in a spotless apron came rushing in with a pile of dirty dishes and hissed, ‘Who wants to bet they end up shagging?’
A round of unsuccessfully suppressed giggles went up around me.