Chapter 14
Mistel
A cross mood could always be mended with the right dress.
Not that Mistel was cross. Just cold. And ready to sing. But as they stood in the smelly stable, ready to ride back to the Ivory Spit to meet Cole and Kurtz, Mistel had a short detour in mind.
“Take me to that Ice House place,” she said.
Zanna, frost-dusted and stone-faced, glared as she boosted Mistel onto Bart’s new side saddle and handed up the reins. “Whatever for?”
Mistel fumbled with her skirts, tugging and twisting them until they lay properly. “I heard Jol Quimby say Renshaw Thusk owns it and has an office upstairs. If I can get us hired to play there, we’ll have a reason to be on the premises once Cole gets the keys.”
He could be stealing them this very moment. The least Mistel could do while Cole risked everything was figure out a convenient way to use them.
Zanna mounted her black-and-white horse and nudged it forward. The woman had to have some giant blood in her. She’d stood nose to nose with Kurtz in the Ivory Spit, sinew and steel in every line of her body, and a glare that could curdle milk.
Mistel nudged Bart to follow. After a month riding astride, her body welcomed the change in position the side saddle afforded, but she keenly felt the loss of control, like she could, at any moment, slip clean off.
“Is the Ice House far out of the way?” she asked.
“Not really.”
Chatty woman, this Zanna-called-Anna. Mistel steered Bart after her.
Mistel had chosen the enchanting green dress for tonight, though none of her new gowns resembled the ones Cole had commissioned in Armonguard.
This clothing was practical—thick wool dresses, scratchy stockings, a flannel petticoat, and a hooded wool cloak—enough to keep her from freezing when outside.
Thankfully, it wasn’t long until they were tying their horses to a hitching post outside the Ice House.
They entered a cramped, dimly lit den, its low beams and soot-streaked walls pressing in like a crypt.
The sour tang of stale ale and unwashed bodies hung thick in the air, though the warmth was a welcome reprieve from the cold.
Two withered patrons hunched over their drinks, barely glancing up as Mistel and Zanna approached a narrow counter where a balding man wiped a grimy tankard with an equally filthy rag.
Mistel squared her shoulders and said, “I’m looking for Master Thusk.”
The man looked up, eyes widening. “He’s gone to Lytton Hall for the festivities.”
Just as Mistel thought. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’d hoped to get permission to sing here with my band tomorrow night.”
The man grinned, gaze drinking her in. “Well now, I handle the hiring. No need to bother Thusk. What’s the band called?”
Called? Mistel had no idea. “What luck! Mistel Wepp is my name, sir, and we’re called the…uh…Wandering Songweavers.”
“I’m Bower Renwall, miss. You can play here tomorrow. We pay by occupancy, so I can’t promise you a lot of coin, it being the middle of the week. But you keep your tips. Some regulars are real generous, especially if they take a liking to you.”
“Don’t you want to hear them play first?” Zanna asked.
Master Renwall shrank under Zanna’s glare. “No need. A pretty lass like this could crow and still draw a crowd.” His gaze peeled away Mistel’s woolen layers.
She clenched her teeth at the grimy hunx and forced a smile. “That’s very kind of you to say, Master Renwall, but I assure you, our band is quite good.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Yes,” Mistel said, eager to get upstairs into Thusk’s office. “I look forward to it.”
The sun had set by the time they reached the Ivory Spit, which was so crowded it felt like a different place than before.
Someone whistled. “Fancy a dance, lassie?”
Mistel searched the crowd for her new admirer but couldn’t tell who had spoken.
“Men,” Zanna muttered. “Stick close.”
Lands! This towering woman was all work and zero fun. “I can handle myself in a crowd,” Mistel said, “and I’m not afraid of men.”
“Then you’re a fool,” Zanna said. “The Spit isn’t bad, but you’re playing the Ice House tomorrow, and that place attracts miscreants.”
Was the woman deaf? “Like I said, I can handle…”
Zanna started toward an empty table in the back. Mistel huffed and followed. She’d barely taken a seat when a barmaid approached—older than Rilla, with a long brown braid.
“Evening, Darri. Two plates of whatever’s hot.” Zanna set two rutahs on the table. “Any sign of Masters Chazir or Tanniyn?”
“No.” Darri picked up the coins. “Rilla said they went to the banquet.”
Zanna nodded to an elderly fisherman. “Shouldn’t Haldor Deppner be at the banquet?”
Darri eyed the man. “Certainly, and he’s been here over half an hour. Could be the banquet is over but some stayed to revel.”
“Cole wouldn’t have dawdled,” Mistel said. “Not when we’re playing here tonight.”
Darri shrugged. “I’ll send them over the moment they come in.”
But when Darri returned with two bowls of steaming chicken and dumplings, she said, “Merrygog’s asking after the band, but still no sign of your men. Can you play without them? If not, Arbin Roxley’s here. He’s a fiddler.”
Did Mistel want to play without them? No. But she certainly could. “I can sing on my own,” she said.
“No,” Zanna said. “Not without the others.”
Mistel glared at her. “Why do you get to decide every—?”
“Give the job to Arbin tonight,” Zanna said to Darri. “Master Chazir will apologize to Merrygog when he gets back.”
“Will do,” Darri said.
Mistel pushed her plate aside and leaned across the table. “Something’s happened. We should go see.”
“You need a reason to go to Lytton Hall,” Zanna said. “Otherwise, you risk exposing us.”
Mistel folded her arms. “I do have a reason. We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
“I certainly can.” Zanna took a bite of her food, then added a bit of salt. “But if you can’t, then we have a problem.”
Mistel bristled. “What do you mean by that?”
“Aren’t you here on trial?” the woman asked. “If I tell Prince Oren you gave me a lot of trouble, it won’t help you.”
That her chaperone felt she could threaten her…“You don’t have many friends, do you?”
Zanna’s brow creased.
Oops. Had that been too mean?
Zanna quickly masked any hurt with indifference. “In my line of work, friends are a liability.”
“That’s tragic,” Mistel said. “Perhaps you should find another line of work.”
“This is what Arman created me to do.”
Mistel widened her eyes at the table in a discrete eye roll. She wasn’t sure she could take much more of this woman’s intensity.
The bell clanged as new patrons entered the Ivory Spit. Mistel craned her neck, trying to see. Scattered greetings rose up near the door.
“It’s the Ox!”
“Evening, Torin.”
“The army’s returned, has it?”
“We arrived just today,” said a beardless bald man in a Tsaftown army uniform. The only hair on his face was a long black mustache. “I’ll take a pint, Darri.”
“Me too.” This from the bald man’s younger companion, also in uniform.
Mistel didn’t recognize the bald man from the journey here, though the younger one had spoken often with Derby Wenk. He had messy brown curly hair and patches of scruff on his cheeks. Either he shaved very poorly or was failing in his attempt to grow a beard.
“Do you know those men?” she asked Zanna.
The woman glanced over Mistel’s head. “Older one is Torin Oxbow. He’s with Gunnar Gedmund. Both in the Fighting Fifteen.”
“Heard there was trouble at the hall tonight, Ox,” said a white-haired man near the hearth. “Howlers are in an uproar.”
“Let them roar,” Oxbow said. “They had no business at Lord Livna’s homecoming banquet, let alone starting a brawl.”
“What were they fighting about?” asked a man with a pockmarked face.
“No idea,” Oxbow said. “But they were fighting with Kurtz Chazir, so it was likely over a woman.”
A chorus of laughter rang out.
Mistel perked up. Kurtz had been planning some diversion so Cole could steal Thusk’s keys. He must have picked a fight.
Darri carried two frothing mugs of ale to the men’s table. Oxbow swept his up and took a long drink.
“Thought Kurtz was on Ice Island for treason,” said the pockmarked man.
“The king freed him,” Darri said. “It was all lies. Kurtz and Sir Eagan both falsely accused.”
“I knew that much the day it happened,” the old man said. “Those boys would never have betrayed King Axel. Where they been?”
“Went south with the real prince and Sir Gavin and Lord Livna and the army—all of us,” Oxbow said.
“We fought alongside them in Armonguard. Sir Eagan is down there still—pledged to marry Nitsa Amal, if you can believe that. But Kurtz came back with us. Hasn’t passed one night here and already locked up again, the unlucky fool. ”
Mistel grabbed Zanna’s arm.
“Locked up with the Howler?” the old man asked.
“Nah.” Oxbow took another drink. “Lady Viola sent Kurtz and his friend to the dungeon for the night.” He started to laugh.
“Dunn and Lysander Thane brought them down when me and Gunnar were on duty. Kurtz verbally skinned me bare, so when it was time to leave, I didn’t bother telling the next shift how long the new prisoners were meant to stay.
Who knows? Lady Viola might forget about them, and they’ll be there a week. Maybe more.”
The crowd chuckled.
“Now we know where they are.” Zanna ate another bite of chicken dumplings and spoke over a full mouth. “Safe and sound in the dungeon of Lytton Hall.”
How awful. Mistel leaned over the table and whispered, “We have to get them out.”
“Just how will we do that?” Zanna snapped. “You going to reason with Lady Viola? You’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“You don’t have to be mean,” Mistel said. “I’m sure she’ll be reasonable when we tell her…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze locked onto the keys clipped to Ox’s belt.
“No, do go on,” Zanna said. “Love to hear your plan.”
Mistel folded her arms and sank back in her chair. If she shared her idea, Zanna would surely try to stop her.
A fiddle’s tune drew her gaze to the corner where she, Cole, and Kurtz had played earlier. Arbin Roxley perched on a stool, tapping his foot to his music. Wiry, with thick black hair and rolled-up sleeves, his fingers danced across the strings while his bow hand coaxed a lively melody.
Clapping started. Boots stomped. The rhythm quickened, and two couples leaped up to dance.
“Be right back.” Mistel rose as more pairs crowded the fiddler. She wove to Torin Oxbow’s table, where the bald soldier sat laughing, ale in hand. “Torin Oxbow, is it?”
He raised a brow, eyeing her. “That’d be me. And you are?”
“Eager to dance,” Mistel said with a curtsy. “Care to prove if the Fighting Fifteen are as quick on their feet as they are with a sword?”
Cheers erupted. Oxbow chuckled, setting down his mug. “Think you can keep up, lass?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” Mistel seized his calloused hand and led him to the dance floor.
Despite Master Oxbow’s burly frame, he moved with surprising agility, boots stomping to the beat.
Mistel matched his pace, skirts flaring as they circled.
He twirled her under his arm, and her gaze flicked to the keys on his belt.
Timing her movement carefully, she brushed close, fingers poised to snatch them and—
“Mind if I cut in?” Gunnar Gedmund stood there, his crooked grin and scruffy cheeks far too confident for his young face.
“Go ahead.” Master Oxbow winked at Mistel as he stepped back. “But don’t let her wear you out, Gun. She’s got more energy than you can handle.”
Before she could protest, Master Gedmund grabbed both her hands and spun her. “You’re light on your feet,” he said, twirling her again.
“And you’re a windstorm.” Mistel’s vision blurred as the room tilted, and she stumbled. “Less spinning, more dancing—unless you’re trying to send me through the rafters.”
He laughed, unfazed, and spun her again. Mistel’s mind raced. Oxbow, back in his seat, clapped along, his keys still in plain view. She needed to reach him.
The next time Gedmund spun her, she misstepped just enough to stagger into an olive-skinned man by the fire.
“Oh, pardon me!” she exclaimed, disentangling herself.
Before Gedmund could reclaim her or she could slip away, the olive-skinned man caught her hands. “If you insist,” he said, pulling her into a quick step.
Thunder and rats. She recovered quickly, matching her partner’s movements, until a pockmarked man cut in. Soon Mistel found herself at the center of a rotating line of eager partners.
Mercy. Were there not enough women in Tsaftown? She laughed and twirled, but her focus stayed sharp. The moment she was able to break away, she spun back to Oxbow’s table.
“Back so soon?” he asked, his brows raised.
Mistel reached for his hand. “Some men can’t keep up.”
Around the room they went, and when Oxbow finally twirled her, Mistel leaned in, feigning dizziness. Her hand brushed his waist and slipped the keys free. She tucked them into her sleeve and kept dancing, grinning until the song ended.
By the time Mistel reached Zanna, her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing hard. She dropped into her chair, the keys safe in her lap.
“Got his keys,” she said.
Zanna leveled her with a flat stare. “Must you make a performance of everything?”
Mistel fanned herself. “Where’s the fun in doing it any other way?”
“Eat,” Zanna said. “Then we’ll fetch the men.”
Mistel bounced on her chair. “Thank you.” She took a bite. Rich gravy filled her mouth, and she gasped. “Oh! That’s very good.” She dug in like a starving woman.
Zanna watched, brows low.
“What?” Mistel asked.
“I was just thinking—if Kurtz Chazir had a sister…”
Mistel laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment, even though I know you meant otherwise.”