CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
PEDDLING POISON
Even though it’s my home, I feel out of place as Kaidren and I walk the streets of Ophera. I’m wearing the sweater and pants I took from the Vale manor, and my hair is in simple braids, but I still attract curious looks.
It’s my cloak. I might not be wearing a ball gown anymore, but this cloak is clearly expensive, and here, it stands out.
We’re in the middle of the dark season, so the sky is grim and gray, even during the day.
Kaidren and I keep our heads down and hoods drawn to avoid detection.
We likely won’t be recognized by civilians (most Opherans who frequent Virdei are already there for work by this hour), but we’re headed for the more clustered areas.
Anywhere with a high concentration of shops and peddlers tends to have decurio patrolling.
It’s noisier as we exit Aja’s residential neighborhood and near the town center.
Here there are fewer houses and more chatter.
We turn a corner, and the skies brighten.
There’s a glow ahead—a gathering of light posts in one central area, illuminating the five main streets littered with shops, stalls, and people.
The city at the base of the mountains is called Ivenna, the largest in Ophera.
The usually snow-covered streets are clearer here, the buildings taller.
The ground floors of most buildings are shops, the stories above are housing, and the narrow spaces between are crammed with wooden stalls for peddlers.
“Necklace for your lady?” A man at a wooden stall tries to entreat Kaidren and me over to him. “It will look so lovely against her neck. This one is special. It has magic.” His eyes gleam as he thrusts a silver necklace with a crystal pendant toward Kaidren.
Kaidren jerks away from the brash salesman. “Not interested.”
Each stall we pass perks to attention when they see us. Like the first man, they reach for their most expensive baubles to wave in our direction. They push all kinds of things, from jewelry to clothes to food. We ignore them all as Kaidren guides us through the streets to a shop.
Unlike the buildings around it, this one is a single story.
A rickety sign hangs from a rusty chain in the front window.
The shop is very small. End to end, it’s only slightly larger than my room in Widow’s Hall.
The interior is dark, lit only by a few flickering candles.
Every spare bit of space is filled with shelves covered in glass jars and sackcloth bags.
Nothing is labeled, so I have no idea what kinds of things are sold here.
“Hello, hello. You look as if you have traveled far,” an excited voice calls out to us. A thin aisle cuts from the front door to a counter. A man sits on a stool behind it. “Come, come.” He beckons us forward, beaming. “I have exactly what you need.”
There’s no way for him to know that, but we dutifully make our way to him anyway.
The aisle is so small, we have to turn sideways to squeeze through.
The shopkeep’s enthusiasm mounts the closer we get and the better look he gets at our clothes.
“Well, what a lovely lady you have there, sir. I have many products for a young couple like yourselves. Maybe—”
“That’s not why we’re here,” Kaidren interrupts him flatly. “You don’t remember me?”
The shopkeep is staring at the velvet of my cloak. “Should I?”
“You sold me two vials of kishori.”
The man’s eyes go wide. He leaps from his stool, rushes to the front door, and slams it shut.
Swiftly, he pulls a cord, and curtains descend over the window, hiding us from the outside.
The shopkeep spins to glare at Kaidren. “Lower your voice,” he hisses.
“You can’t go around flinging absurd accusations like that. ”
“It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact. I purchased two vials of kishori from you two years ago.”
For a few moments, the shopkeep looks Kaidren over. After a pause, his brow clears with recognition. “If I did remember you—and I’m certainly not saying I do or that I sell what you claim I do—my shop has a very strict policy against returns.”
Kaidren rolls his eyes. “I’m here for information. Have you sold kishori to anyone else recently?”
The man returns to the counter but doesn’t sit. He appears on edge, leaning on the balls of his feet as though preparing to make a quick escape. “Who wants to know?”
“I do.”
The man looks suspicious. “Do you work for the decurio?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you. Even if I did, I don’t sell what you claim you bought from me. I’m a good, honest merchant.”
“Who peddles in poison,” Kaidren says exasperatedly.
“I most certainly do not. Regardless, my clients value privacy. I don’t keep track of everyone who buys from me.”
“Surely you pay more attention to someone who purchases poison?”
“I don’t sell poison,” he says automatically.
This strategy is getting us nowhere.
The shopkeep has been spewing lies since we walked in, and magic is an inferno in my gut. I lean over the counter, capturing his attention. “Are you sure you can’t think of anyone you sold kishori to recently? My patience is wearing thin.”
The shopkeep swells with indignation. “I don’t sell—”
I don’t feel like listening to him lie again, so I seize him by the arm. He tries to pull back, but I yank up his sleeve and grab hold of his bare skin.
He cries out as I push searing heat into his flesh. Not enough to leave a mark—at least, not yet—but enough to hurt like hell.
I drop his arm, and he stumbles back, slamming into a shelf behind him. Glass shatters to the floor, but he doesn’t seem to care. He stares at me, eyes rounded with terror. “You’re aikkari?”
“Yes. But don’t worry. I’m not here because the decurio sent me; I’m just not very nice.
Now answer the question: Have you sold kishori recently?
Refuse to answer, or lie to me again, and I’ll burn this whole place to the ground, just because I can and, as I said, I’m not very nice. ” I smile sweetly. “Do you believe me?”
He’s shaking. “Y-yes.”
“Excellent. Have you sold kishori recently?”
He flaps his head up and down. “Yes. I sold a vial a little over a month ago.”
Just before the start of the Tournament. “To who?”
“A young man. I don’t know his name, I swear. I never asked.”
Unfortunately, that’s the truth. “What do you remember about him?”
“He was like you,” the shopkeep rushes to answer me. “Dressed real nice, like he was well off.”
My interest is raised. “Was he Virdeian or Opheran? Did you see a tattoo?”
“I couldn’t tell. He was wearing gloves. They were nice gloves. Nice boots and cloak too.” His eyes shift wistfully to my outerwear. “Like yours.”
Probably a Virdeian, and probably from above the Collar. “What did he look like?”
“He was taller than me, shorter than your young man.”
The shopkeep is very short, and Kaidren is very tall. That does nothing to narrow it down. “Anything else?”
“This was months ago. I don’t remember much. Of course, he had short hair, but—”
Of course? “Wait,” I say. “What do you mean ‘of course’ he had short hair?”
The man looks confused. “It’s like I said. He was like you, miss.”
He said that before, but I assumed he meant his buyer was wealthy. Apparently, he’s referring to something else. “What do you mean by that?”
“He was aikkari. A member of the decurio. He had that haircut they all have, but he wasn’t dressed like one of them while he was here.”
My blood runs cold. A young, wealthy member of the decurio who lives above the Collar . . . “Did you notice a mark on his face?”
The shopkeep’s brow furrows. “Now that you mention it, yes. He had a little mole or something right near his mouth.”
My eyes shoot to Kaidren to find him already looking at me. We both know exactly who the shopkeep just described. Flynn Sixmen.