27. Zarek
Zarek
DICE
Idon’t dare look back as I grab the half-empty bottle of wine from the soaked rug and leave the room.
Because, damn it, Lilias was right. It was a long, hard trip, crossing the mountains while the three royal guards from Marion looked at me like they were trying to determine the most painful way to kill me.
Waking in the night, listening for the whimper of her voice, wishing I could pull her from the swamps of her nightmares but knowing my company was the last thing she wanted.
And I am exhausted. Hells, I was almost asleep on the wine-soaked rug with Lilias curled in my arms when I heard footsteps and low, muttered voices in the hallway outside.
When I remembered where I was and all the many horrible mysteries around us that I need to solve before they can stab us in the back.
Shit. I pull the door closed behind me and whisper a prayer under my breath. As if the gods from my childhood could protect the woman inside.
I run my hands through my hair, messing it up, then tip the bottle and splash red wine on my cloak.
The guards and servants aren’t going to want to talk to me.
It would be better if I could pass as a royal guard myself, someone from Marion who just wants to trade gossip.
But enough of the castle staff saw me seated next to Lilias to know I’m no guard.
So, I’ll have to disguise myself as the next best thing: a drunken idiot nobleman.
I take a deep breath, then start to stagger down the hallway, acting like I’m painfully drunk. I stop at the stairs, lean against the wall, and slosh what’s left of the wine onto the floor before descending to the third floor as loudly as possible.
All of the doors to the northern wing of the castle are still closed. I lurch toward them, humming tunelessly under my breath, trying to channel every drunk nobleman I’ve ever seen stumbling through the halls of Vsenrog like they own the place.
The first door I try is locked. I frown at it like it’s personally offended me, then drag myself to the next door. It swings open on a brightly lit hallway. There’s a guard standing in the middle of the hall.
“What in the hells are you doing?” the guard growls.
“This’s my room,” I slur defiantly.
“Right,” the guard replies. “Your room’s up the stairs, your lordship.”
He probably assumes I’m drunk enough not to notice the sarcasm dripping off his words. I blink at him like the room is spinning.
“Right,” I finally say. “Course.”
I bring the bottle to my lips, then act surprised that it’s empty. He stares at me for another heartbeat, and then I turn to leave. The door slams closed behind me.
The bastards are hiding something in that northern wing. Or someone.
I go back to the staircase and listen. If they have other visitors, that means new guards, new servants, new attendants. And that means new opportunities to drink together, gossip, and gamble. Probably in the kitchens.
I stomp my way down the stairs, acting oblivious, following those thin threads of conversation as they float through the air. Sure enough, they bring me to the kitchens.
The crowd of guards and servants sitting together in the palace kitchens all freeze when I stumble through the doors. I glance around the place blearily, sizing it up.
Fuck. They’re playing with dice. I hate gambling with dice; there’s no good way to cheat.
“Dice!” I cheer as I lift the wine bottle like I’m toasting to their health. I stumble toward the nearest game, then collapse on a chair. “I’m in!”
The guards exchange a glance while I bring the bottle to my lips.
“Shit,” I spit. “Empty. I’mma need another,” I call to the room, waving my hand in the air like I’m summoning a spirit.
One of the guards at the table clears his throat. He’s got dark hair and a thin, predatory smile. He’s the one in charge, then.
“Of course,” he says. “Corporal Dalton, be a dear and get his lordship a drink, would you?”
Corporal? I ignore the military terminology. The man who must be Dalton looks like he’s worked in the kitchens his whole life. He pushes back from the table as the dark-haired guard leans closer to me.
“You want to join us for a friendly game, then?” he asks, with a gleam in his eyes that I’d have to be a complete idiot to miss.
“Of course,” I say, like a complete idiot.
“It’s a simple game,” the guard continues. “All you do is—”
“I know how to play fuckin’ dice,” I say, cutting him off with another wave of my hand. “All I need is some, uh—”
I pat at my sides like I’m feeling for a fat coin purse, then give an exaggerated frown.
“In my fuckin’ room,” I say, slurring my words. “But there’s this.”
The wince I make when I pull my dagger from its sheath isn’t entirely exaggerated.
This is my prettiest dagger, damn it. The leather-wrapped grip is topped with a golden pommel bearing the seal of Vsenrog, and the cross guard is etched with tiny golden dragons.
The blade itself is stamped with an image of a rearing horse whose proportions have always looked a little off to me, but hells, it’s still a fine little weapon.
It hurts to toss it on the table. But that’s what drunk noblemen do; they don’t give a shit how pretty a thing is before they toss it aside.
The guard’s eyes widen. He’s not even trying to hide his interest in the shiny little weapon.
“What about the sheath?” one of his companions asks.
“Separate roll,” I slur.
Dalton comes back to the table. He’s carrying an entire bottle of wine, and he hands the whole thing over to me. I grab it like that’s exactly what I was expecting, then take a long swig.
It is not good wine. I swallow it anyway, then grin at the table.
“What’ve the rest of you got?” I ask.
A few coins land on the table, along with a silver clasp for a cloak and what looks like a woman’s brooch. None of it is half as nice as my dagger. I pretend not to notice.
“My fuckin’ room’s the size of a horse stall,” I announce. “That’s the best this kingdom’s got to offer?”
The guards exchange another uneasy look. They might as well just stand up and say, We’ve got better rooms, and someone more important than you is staying in them, you dipshit.
Instead, the man who must be in charge drops the dice into the cup.
“You roll first,” he says, with an oily smile. “Your lordship.”
I lose the dagger. Of course. I was expecting to lose it, but still, it hurts to watch that pretty little blade vanish beneath the dark-haired man’s cloak.
I slur a few curses, drink more horrible wine, and push back from the table.
I stagger toward the door, collapse in a chair by the wall, close my eyes, and act like I’ve passed out.
Conversation hums and buzzes around me. I hear a few whispers about his lordship and ignore them. There’s a long conversation about the merits of the dagger I just lost; I grit my teeth and try to ignore that too.
“Did you see the princess, though?” a voice asks, cutting through the chatter.
There’s a long, low whistle. Every muscle in my body pulls tight.
“That bitch started the war,” another man replies. “Can’t believe Laurance is gonna marry her anyway.”
More laughter, harsh and loud. My gut churns.
I lurch to my feet and start to gag like I’m about to throw up. As I expected, the men closest to me move away as I stagger toward the door, push it open, and throw myself into the hallway.
I press my back to the wall, panting for air. Voices drift down the hallway, getting closer. Another group heading to the kitchens, I assume. I turn to face the floor and stumble away.
The next group rounds the corner. My entire body goes cold.
I lean over, brace myself against the wall, and start to gag as they approach, praying to any gods who might be listening that this group will be too invested in what’s going on in the kitchens to pay any attention to the soused nobleman losing his dinner in the hallway.
Their names flash through my mind as they push past me, their voices raised, their breath already smelling of sour ale.
Yalor. Banes. Cedrik.
All members of the Vsenrog Royal Guard.
All here, walking into the palace kitchens in Ethiria.