Chapter 17
Dusk crept over the horizon as Quentin wandered deeper into the darker side of Desva.
The change was gradual. Fewer guards were stationed on corners. Coin clinked in the shadowed alleyways and alcoves in exchange for petty vices. People in stooped doorways watched Quentin pass with shifting eyes and twitching fingers.
Quentin couldn’t help the grin that cracked beneath his hood. Let them try. He’d fought off far worse when he was just a child, fending for himself in the streets of Verith.
The farther he walked, the sparser those guards became. When the sun set beneath the horizon, they disappeared altogether and the sordid streets came to life.
Prostitutes slinked out of their brothels, sheer paneled robes billowing in the evening breeze. Men fought on street-corners, spitting blood onto the dirty sandstone. Street urchins slunk between the crowds, sly hands slipping into pockets.
Something rustled at Quentin’s side. He moved on instinct, snatching the thin wrist of a young would-be thief. The boy’s dark eyes widened in shock, struggling against Quentin’s hold.
Before Quentin could give him the lecture sitting on the tip of his tongue—don’t steal unless you’re beyond sure you won’t be caught—there was a flash of blue light and the boy was gone. A small songbird took his place, wings fluttering up into the safety of the darkening sky.
Quentin dropped his now-empty hand with a scowl. Shifters. A useful skill, but gods-damn was it frustrating.
“I’ve told you. The High Counsellor doesn’t want to hear our petitions. The leeches will be here in days. If we’re going to act, we must do it now.”
Quentin kept his pace steady and unassuming as the man pushed past him, words growled in a heavy Kreah accent.
His hooded cloak did nothing to hide his broad, towering frame.
A second, much shorter man scrambled after him, nearly tripping over his feet.
They dived into a seedy-looking tavern, the doors banging closed behind them.
Now that was interesting. And exactly what Quentin had been after when he’d left the serekah that day. He quickened his steps, following the two men into the bar.
The establishment was dark and reeked of sweat and stale ale.
Prostitutes milled about, perched on the laps of men wearing scars and steel.
There were a few games of darts going at the back, and more than a few gambling matches, cards and coin tinkling.
Beneath the initial foul stench was something cloying and sweet.
Something that made the eyes of the women—and a handful of the men—glassy and vacant.
A lowlife bar and a drug den. A spy’s haven.
The two companions from the street were at the bar, the larger one leaning across the stained wood as he whispered to the barkeep.
Quentin kept his hood tugged low—he wasn’t the only one—and snaked through the crowd.
He found an empty stool a few feet from the companions and slid a silver coin across the sticky surface.
The barkeep cast him a quick glance even as the tall companion continued to whisper animatedly, eyes flicking down to the coin. He held a hand to the companion and leaned toward Quentin, swiping the coin off the bar.
“What’d you want?” he asked gruffly.
Charming.
“Just an ale.”
The barkeep narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Quentin as if he could see beneath his hood.
As if he could see the freckled skin and bright red hair that would mark Quentin as very much not Kreah.
“No ale,” the barkeep finally said. “Fire whiskey is all I got.”
Quentin’s stomach recoiled, but he kept his composure. “Fire whiskey it is, then.”
He remembered the last time he’d had fire whiskey.
He’d just turned twenty-two and had dragged the other Marked down into the market district on an off day to celebrate.
The owner of the tavern they’d stumbled their way into had lit up—stupid young men bearing palace steel and pouches of freshly-minted coin were the best clientele—and pulled out a bottle of fire whiskey from the back.
He’d claimed it came straight from a Kreah merchant, a rare import considering Onita’s closed borders.
Quentin recalled all of that quite easily. He even remembered his first downed shot of the spicy, cinnamon-flavored liquor.
The next thing he knew, he was waking up curled around himself on the floor of the barracks bathroom, clutching the toilet as if it might save him from death.
He hadn’t touched fire whiskey since.
The barkeep set down a dirty glass filled with the burgundy liquid. The two companions he’d followed turned to him with hostile curiosity, and he knew he had no choice.
Fuck me. He’d forgotten how unpleasant blending in could be.
Quentin raised the glass to the barkeep, then to the two companions, and tossed its contents down his throat.
It took every ounce of his control not to shudder and gag. His free hand dug into his arm through his cloak. Tears burned behind his eyes as saliva pooled in his mouth, but he kept the liquor down.
Thankfully it worked. The companions and the barkeep turned away and resumed their urgent conversation, convinced that he was just a simple man out for a drink.
The fire whiskey settled in his stomach—his empty stomach—he hadn’t eaten since he’d left the main market square.
It churned through him, pooling in his veins with a familiar intoxicating burn.
Quentin rolled his shoulders. He needed to focus. He dragged in a deep inhale, toying with the rim of the empty glass, and fell into his senses.
It was something he’d practiced his whole life. Letting the world swarm him then fall away. He settled into his breathing, allowing the voices to swirl around him, homing in on the ones he wanted.
A useful trick for a starving boy trying to track down a low-risk meal. Or an orphan searching desperately for information on the father who had long abandoned him.
“You know what the problem is,” the large companion snarled.
“Those rats are going to overrun Desva and Amasis does nothing. It is the beginning of summer when water is already being rationed, and our leader is prepared to let us succumb to thirst. I’m not surprised, though.
” The man spat. “Amasis has always been weak. Their family got wealthy on a lucky ore mining venture and forgot what it is to be Kreah.”
“I’ve heard rumors from Elder Natia. She's gathering loyalists outside the city and plans to meet the Onitans when they arrive. Amasis wouldn’t dare fight their own people; Natia knows this.
She’ll keep the invaders from entering the city and send them back where they belong.
” The smaller man leaned forward eagerly, his words fervent and excited.
Despite the fire whiskey in his stomach, Quentin’s veins ran cold.
Mariah had suspected that the conflict with the Elders was far from over. Once again, her instincts were right.
Natia was planning a coup.
“What of our goddess?” the barkeep asked. “Rulene supposedly gave her blessing for the Onitans to come to Desva. Does Natia intend to stand up to her as well?”
“Bah,” the large man said, taking a swig of his fire whiskey. “What, are you pious? I saw a dragon, like the rest of the city. But they expect me to believe that is Rulene? Until I see the goddess with my own two eyes, I will continue believing what we saw was nothing more than a beast.”
The barkeep and shorter man shared a concerned glance but said nothing further.
“And the Onitan Queen?” The barkeep finally said. “What are Natia’s plans for her?”
Quentin fought the urge to sit up straighter.
“To be honest,” the shorter man said, “there hasn’t been much talk of the queen. None of Natia’s plans mention her.”
Quentin relaxed a fraction.
“I heard she holes up in Amasis’s serekah all day, too scared or meek to crawl outside.
” A sneer spread across the tall man’s face.
“But I’ve heard other rumors from those who’ve seen her.
They say she’s nothing more than a pretty little cunt, hardly more than a child.
She thinks she’s suited to a throne but is probably better off in the alleys with the other professional bedwarmers.
In fact”—the man straightened, something dangerous sparking in his eyes— “I hope they do just that to her. Tear apart her people then toss her down here, a plaything for the wolves.” His canines elongated, dark eyes taking a yellowish gleam.
Those features fell away, back into his human form, when a small silver dagger pricked the skin of his neck, sharp enough to call forth a bead of ruby blood.
Quentin stared up at the man with a feral grin.
“Say that again,” he murmured, crowding closer. The barkeep and shorter man leaned back, eyes widening with shock. Quentin twisted the knife, more blood streaking down the man’s skin. “I dare you.”
His ears were ringing, fury buzzing in his veins. Only his tight grip on his dagger kept his hand from shaking. His heartbeat pounded a dull, steady beat in his ears.
A beat so loud that it took him several long seconds to realize that the bar had fallen silent, all eyes swinging in their direction. Several rose from their seats, hands gripping the hilts of their weapons.
He realized then that his hood had fallen back.
The momentary shock on the tall man’s face faded, a wide grin spreading to take its place.
“Well, if it isn’t one of the rats roaming our city earlier than expected. Getting yourself into trouble, rat?”
“Koury,” the shorter man said, nervousness heavy in his voice. “The rumors also say the Onitan Queen did not arrive in Kreah alone. That she brought her court and guard with her.”
The large man—Koury, apparently—lifted a brow.
“Did she now? The legendary Onitan Armature, here in Desva? Even time and closed borders haven’t been enough to forget the stories of the queen’s bonded guard.
” He scanned Quentin and barked a laugh as if he didn’t still have a dagger to his throat.
“I doubt this is one of them, though. He’s too small. ”
“Now you’re just being rude.” Quentin would be the first to admit that he wasn't massive. Too many years in childhood with a shit diet had left him a few inches shorter than the others, and he was nowhere near as broad as the warrior-types in the Armature.
But he’d trained every day of his life—first in survival, then honed as a weapon. He knew he was as fierce a fighter as any of them. He might not have brute force, but he knew how to win, and that was all that mattered.
Koury’s glare focused on Quentin’s chest, hidden by the button of his cloak and his high-collared shirt. “I suppose there’s one way we can know for sure.”
Strong, calloused hands wrapped around Quentin’s arms. A grunt of surprise slipped past his teeth as he was hauled away from Koury, dagger clattering on the ground. Two men now flanked him, gripping him tight as he struggled against their hold.
Shit. How had he not heard them coming? Gods damn that fire whiskey
Koury pulled his own wicked-looking knife from a hidden holster at his back, dark eyes glittering.
Fuck.
Quentin thrashed against his captors, but he knew it was pointless. They had him restrained. And these two men were giants. What the fuck did they feed them here in Kreah?
Koury’s grin broadened as he stalked forward.
This is it. This is how I die.
The sharp edge of the knife pressed against the vulnerable skin of Quentin’s neck. He almost laughed at how pathetic his little show had been. He just had to make a stand, didn’t he?
Yes. He knew he had to. The words this man had said about his queen… Whatever happened next, it was worth it to stand up for her.
He gritted his teeth and met his end with a snarl.
But the blade didn’t sink into the artery in Quentin’s neck. Instead, Koury sliced through his cloak and the cotton shirt beneath, until the only thing that still crossed Quentin’s chest was his worn leather baldric.
Quentin blinked in surprise, nearly sagging with relief, his mouth opening before he could stop it. “Look, if you wanted to get me shirtless, all you had to do was ask—”
No one was listening to him. All eyes were focused on Quentin's almost-bare chest.
On the dragon-shaped Mark inked over his heart. At the shallow, delicate scar that sliced through the center of it.
“If you’re the best the gods could offer the Onitan Queen, then maybe they really have abandoned you.” Koury stepped closer, sheathing his knife. “Tell me, Armature, how far do your vows go? Do you still wish to stand up for your intruding bitch queen?”
Quentin’s lip curled. “My vows go farther than your pea brain could comprehend.” He spat on the floor, right at Koury’s feet. “I’ll always stand up to assholes in defense of my queen.”
Koury grinned broadly, a smile that showed too many teeth, his canines alarmingly elongated. “Splendid.” He whirled on his heel, storming toward the back of the bar. “Throw him in the pits!”
The bar erupted in cries and shouts and roars of excitement. Quentin was pushed and dragged after Koury, swept up on a current of men and women who smelled thickly of bloodlust.
Fucking shit of Enfara, this little excursion of his could not have gone worse.