Chapter Twenty
I whirl, sloshing stew from my spoon onto the counter. It’s the man who was watching me from the corner. He’s clearly Corthan,
with bold features and hair the color of soiled straw. A black cowl shadows his eyes, but I feel their intensity, like they’re
trying to see inside me.
“Hello,” I say, pretending as though my heart isn’t thumping like a hummingbird’s.
“Can I buy you an ale?”
“No, thank you.”
“Apple cider, then?”
“Still, no.”
He moves so close that his cloak brushes my knees. He smells of quenched embers. I take in every detail about him—his jewelry,
his tattoos—but I discern nothing useful.
I grab my tankard and bang it on the counter. “Service, please?” I holler. “My friend would like to buy a drink!”
He takes a step back, startled, and the barmaid rushes toward us, her hands full of tankards meant for someone else. “Go back
to your table, good sir,” she says brightly, “and I’ll have an ale brought straightaway!”
The man frowns, still staring at me. Then he reluctantly backs away and returns to his table.
“Thank you,” I mouth at the barmaid, and she gives me a subtle nod.
Now what? Wait here for Titus? No telling when he’ll be back. If I go upstairs to our room and lock the door, the stranger
could follow and learn which room I’m staying in. I’m not new to advances by men or women. Growing up in an inn taught me
very early how to handle myself. But this stranger has made my blood run particularly cold. Something about his gaze, maybe.
He’s no simple drunken buffoon; he’s the more dangerous type. A steadfast predator.
While I consider what to do, the bard finishes his preparations and begins strumming his lute, a slow, sensual rhythm I’d
be happy to fall asleep to. His rings flash in the candlelight—at least two on each finger. Suratians wear their lives on their fingers and toes, Da used to say. You can learn a lot about a person by paying attention to their rings: if they’re single or partnered; if
they’re attracted to men, women, or both; their religious allegiance; their trade; the city and family they were born to . . .
so many ways to declare oneself to the world.
I don’t imagine I’d enjoy people knowing so much about me at a single glance. But as I sit here all alone and the crowd gradually
shifts its attention to the bard—all except for the stranger, who glowers at me from his smoky corner—I find myself wishing
I knew more about all of them, that I’d paid more attention to Da’s lectures about Suratian rings and what they signified. Maybe Titus knows and can teach
me. Seems like it would be handy knowledge for an innkeeper.
The crowd gasps, and I crane my neck to see what has enraptured them.
The bard has pushed aside his lute, but it hangs in the air and continues to play as if plucked by ghostly fingers.
He then retrieves a pipe from his bag and begins to blow a high, melancholy harmony.
After a moment, he sets the pipe to float beside the lute, where it continues its airy tune.
Two instruments must be his magical limit, because the tambourine he grabs stays in his hand when he begins to dance, and
suddenly I understand why this establishment is called the Bawdy Bard.
I can hardly take my eyes off him as he whirls and gyrates to his magical band. His shirt comes off, revealing a muscled,
hairless chest. Then his pants. When he reaches for his underclothes, the crowd goes wild.
This is my chance. Even the stranger in the corner has turned his attention to the bard. I slip from my chair and duck behind
some clapping onlookers. I pause at the foot of the stairs to make sure the stranger is still distracted, then I slink up
as quickly as I can. I fumble for the key in my pocket, and as I place it in the lock, I expect to hear his voice, feel his
breath at my ear.
The door opens. I dart inside and slam it shut, locking and barring it at record pace.
I back away from the door until my shoulders are pressed against the wall beneath the window. There’s no other way out of
this room. The window is too small to squeeze through, and too high off the ground.
Why am I so convinced the stranger will come after me? I’m overreacting. All he did was try to buy me a drink.
But I know. I know.
Trust your instincts, Da always said, and I honed them well.
At least I have a full belly now. If I need to call upon my magic, I won’t hesitate.
Someone pounds on the door, rattling the lock and shaking the wooden bar. I clap a hand over my mouth to keep any noise from
escaping.
If it’s Titus, he’ll declare himself.
The pounding comes again, more violent this time. I squeeze my eyes tight and reach for my magical well, wrap my mind around
the ice-blue thread just to assure myself that it’s there.
The pounding stops. Boot steps fade away.
My breath leaves me in a gust, and I double over in relief. Pounding sounds again, but it’s fainter. He’s going to try every
door on the second floor.
Eventually he’ll figure out which room is mine. I look around for a weapon. Titus’s daggers went with him, but I still have
my skinning knife. I slide the pack out from under my bed and rummage through until I come up with the sheathed blade. It’s
not much—the blade is no longer than my forefinger—but it’s sharp and boasts a sturdy finger guard that I imagine would be
as useful for stabbing as it is for scraping a hide.
I visualize Titus mock-attacking me with a dagger, and I try to mimic the motion. I stab the air, swipe, stab again.
I feel ridiculously inept. Maybe I should stick to defense for now.
The apple the barmaid gave me is a giant lump in my pocket. I was going to give it to Apple, but maybe I should eat it myself,
shore up my magical strength.
I pull it from my pocket but end up tossing it onto my cot. I have no appetite.
Knocking sounds again, and I hold my breath. It seems less fierce, less urgent. Maybe the stranger is trying to lure me into opening the—
“Bria,” comes a muffled voice. “It’s me.”
I can’t get the door unlocked fast enough.
Titus stands there laden with packages. I grab him by the shirt and yank him inside, then I slam the door shut and lock it.
“Bria? Is everything—”
I throw my arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re back,” I murmur into his chest.
One strong arm wraps my waist. Squeezes me against him for the briefest, most glorious moment.
Then we both step back, equally startled. “I’m . . . sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
His eyes are full of concern. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
I tell him about the stranger.
He sets his packages on the bed. “He offered to buy you a drink and . . . stared a lot?”
“Someone came and pounded on the door after I came upstairs.”
He frowns.
“I promise I’m not being hysterical! There was something wrong about this man.”
“Bria, you’re beautiful. Of course people stare and offer you drinks. You’d never have hysterics over it. The fact that it
bothers you is exactly why it bothers me.”
“Oh.” My face is suddenly warm.
“Describe him to me.”
I close my eyes to better remember. “Tall, but not so tall as you. Hair the color of used straw, a thick, well-trimmed beard,
hooded cloak made of black wool. He wore his hood up even while indoors; is that strange? There was a mark on his hand, like
two linked rings. A tattoo, I think. A small freckle near his right nostril, and an earring in his right ear. Small gold hoop,
but there was some tarnish. Gold doesn’t tarnish, does it? Must have been brass.”
I open my eyes. Titus is staring at me unabashed. “That memory of yours,” he mutters, shaking his head.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think we need to leave. Now.”