Chapter Thirty-Four
My vision is blurry with heat as I fly down the stairs. I’m reaching for my magic as I push through the crowd to the bar.
Innkeep Barwat is there, chatting with someone, though I don’t see who, nor do I care.
My dagger is at his throat before he registers my presence.
“Into the kitchen,” I order. “Now.”
He hesitates, though his eyes have flown wide. He is right to fear me.
I send the tiniest bit of chill through my hand and into the dagger. He gasps.
“I am shield maiden to the future prince consort of Cathira. Believe me when I say I am willing and able to slit your throat.
Into the kitchen. Now.”
We’ve attracted attention, which won’t matter so long as Barwat does as I command. My knife stays steady at his neck as we
walk together through double doors into a low-ceilinged room with a hearth, a huge bread oven, and several wood-plank tables.
The tables are covered with platters and pots, with all types of food in various stages of chopping, slicing, and mixing. The room smells of woodsmoke and animal blood. A plate of grapes gives me an idea, and I swipe it up with my free hand before anyone notices that we’ve entered.
“My lady,” says Barwat in a trembling voice. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to offend, but—”
“Someone tried to poison my liege.”
“What?”
“Was it you?”
“Of course not! That would be very bad for business.”
“Unless someone paid you to do it.”
“I would never! Well, not in my own establishment. There is no price in the Sunderland that would—”
“In that case, you’re going to help me find out who did. The potentat will learn of your involvement one way or another. Shall
I tell her that you helped or hindered?”
I don’t know what has come over me. I am a girl possessed. Is this what madness feels like? Crystal-clear thoughts powering
a magnificent purpose?
“Of course I’ll help you. I am outraged!”
I believe him. “Good man. Call everyone who works at this inn into this kitchen right now. Make sure no one leaves.”
I take a chance and lower my dagger. If he’s the murderer, this will end poorly. If he’s not, maybe it will work.
He rubs at the skin of his throat as he barks out some orders. Several servants had already tried to flee as soon as they
saw my dagger, but they are wrangled back inside. Within minutes, I’m facing a small, terrified crowd.
Between the hearth, the bread oven, and the nervous bodies, this room has begun to feel like a blacksmith’s forge. Sweat sheens foreheads, most likely mirroring my own. I could freeze this whole room if I wanted to. And part of me wants to. My thread of power is right there, begging to be plucked.
With a boldness I never knew I had, I address the crowd.
“Look at these lovely grapes,” I say, hefting the plate. “Among these are leftovers from our morning meal, sent upstairs not
long ago. We’d love to share them with you.”
I scan faces, looking for a response, but everyone appears equally terrified. I hand the plate to the innkeep. “Master Barwat,
would you please pass this around? Every single person here must eat at least one grape.”
“With pleasure, my lady,” he says.
He steps around the room, distributing grapes. I watch carefully as each server, cook, dishwasher, and launderer pops a grape
into their mouth and chews. No one who saw me grab the plate from the table will fall for this ruse. But I’m hoping the right
person didn’t see.
Barwat hands a grape to a man in a badly stained apron. He is small and hunched with squinting black eyes, which makes him
look ratlike. He wears two rings on his right hand, both pewter gray and pocked with time.
I start toward him as he takes his grape. Not because of his ratlike demeanor or his impoverished rings, but because of everyone
in this room, he seems the least afraid. His gaze is steady, his lips turned up in what can only be considered a smirk.
The ratlike man holds up his grape to admire it. Smiles maniacally. Says, “I die without regret!” and pops the grape into
his mouth.
I lunge forward and grab his shirt by the collar. He grins at me with defiance.
I say, “You’re going to live, you cowardly roach. With plenty of regrets.”
His defiance flickers.
“Who do you serve?” I ask.
Innkeep Barwat is suddenly hovering over us both. “Libyon the sausage maker. I should have known. Did anyone aid you?” He
has commandeered a bloody butcher knife from one of the tables, which he now brandishes before the rat man’s sweat-streaked
face. “Who else?”
Libyon says, “We always work alone. The right hand never knows what the left hand is doing. You can cut off a hand, but you
can never silence the beast!”
“Well, you’re in luck,” I say. “Because I have no desire to silence the beast.” I want this beast to talk. A lot. “Who do
you serve?” I ask again.
Barwat puts the knifepoint against Libyon’s cheek.
The sausage maker lifts his chin and proclaims, “I am liege to the king of the covenant! All will bow before him when he ascends
to godhood!”
Not this again. “Who?” I demand. “Give me a name.”
“Your lips are not fit to speak it,” he says.
“Then say it from your lips.”
His eyes flick downward. “I only know him as the savior of the Sunderland,” he admits. “He came to me. It was like looking
into the face of Sulestra—too bright and good for a mere mortal to bear. He chose me for his disciple, and I swore my allegiance.
As will you all.”
My mouth opens to demand that he describe this “savior” to me, but Libyon gasps, hunches over even farther, collapsing against me, then sliding to the floor, where he curls around the butcher knife jutting from a bloody stomach wound.
I recoil, colliding with the edge of a table. “You didn’t have to do that!” I say to Barwat.
“Oh, I surely did. You.” He gestures at a servant with his giant bear-paw hand. “Throw this bleeding trash over the Edge.
And you. Mop the floor. Everyone else, back to work. And if I hear the tiniest whisper about what happened from anyone, they’ll
find themselves falling for eternity.”
“I had more questions! He could have described the person who hired him.”
Barwat has retrieved his bloody butcher knife and is wiping it on his apron, which is almost as appalling to my sense of proper
innkeepership as his recent murder. He gives me a sad smile. “My lady, you must understand. Here the punishment for disloyalty
is swift and severe. Had I not acted, my own life and the livelihoods of everyone working here would have been in danger.”
Surely he could have delayed for the space of a few more questions? “I’m sure the potentat would have—”
“I serve a far more terrible master than the potentat,” he says softly.
“You mean the Thieves’ Guild.”
He says nothing, simply continues wiping the sausagemaker’s blood from his butcher knife.
I say, “Do you think the guild ordered the assassination?”
“We would not touch anyone from Diamond Household. You have an enemy from without, I’m afraid. This is Thieves’ Guild territory.
It should not have happened here. It should not have been possible.”
I consider this a moment, my finger tapping on my upper lip. It’s a nervous gesture, a way to expend some energy. Now that I’m descending from whatever mania possessed me, I feel like I’m coming out of my skin with shakiness and indecision.
“Can you ensure our safety for the remainder of our stay?” I ask in a voice that sounds so much more vulnerable and frightened
than I intend.
“No,” he says. “But I can try. I’ll post one of my boys at your door and prepare all your food myself. And I’ll make arrangements
with the legatat to transport you safely to the palace as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.” It’s not enough.
“But please,” he says. “Do me a favor? Once you leave my inn, never, ever come back.”
Titus is still asleep, snoring softly, when I enter the room. I stare down at him a moment. Someone tried to kill him. Again.
Even though the attempt failed, whoever it was knows exactly where to find Titus and probably has another plan to reach him.
Should I wake him and make him flee with me? Should I let him sleep and get strong for whatever comes next? Should I go to
the palace myself and demand an audience?
I just don’t know.
Dahlia is furiously scrubbing at the urine stain on the rug. She drops her rag when she sees me notice her, backing away as
though I’m an ice cat and she’s a juicy rabbit.
She stammers, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. I’ll clean it. I will. I’ll make it good as new. I’ll—”
“You’re not in trouble,” I say.
She blinks.
“I swear,” I add.
“I’m always in trouble,” she says, so quietly I’m not sure it’s meant for my ears.
“Dahlia, this was not your fault. Someone tried to poison us. You had a seizure.”
Her wild amber eyes fly even wider. She probably doesn’t remember everything.
I add, “We . . . er . . . gave you some herbs to . . . help.”
“Poison?” she whispers. She glances around the room, as if expecting an assassin to jump out at her from the shadows. She’s right to
be afraid.
“You’re probably still not feeling your best,” I say.
“Sun and moons, I hate this place,” she says, her fists clenching. “I’m never getting out. I’m going to die here.”
Dahlia reminds me so much of Anja in this moment that my heart squeezes. Those wide eyes, those juicy tears, the way her fists
clench with both despair and rage. Of course Anja’s problems were never very serious—an extra chore, a mean boy, getting left
behind for market week. I’ve no doubt that Dahlia has every right to her wrath.
“How much longer do you have on your indenture?” I ask.
“Forever,” she says. Then she adds, “Well, four years. It used to be three and a half years, but Barwat says I eat too much and
added some time to cover the cost.”
“He can do that?”
Dahlia shrugs. “He’ll add these days I spend with you, saying it was a holiday for me and a loss to the inn.”
I gape at her. “That’s horrible.”
“That’s indenture.”
“I thought we were helping you. Getting you a rest, some food to eat.”
She sneers. “People like you. Always helping people to make yourselves feel better. Thinking you know what’s best when you
don’t know anything at all.”