A Promise of Fire (Kingmaker Chronicles, #1)(7)

“What are you doing?” The warlord sits again, resting his sword across his lap.

“The Gods might punish your gargantuan ego, O Scary One. I’m trying to avoid the lightning bolts.”

The ax-wielder guffaws and then takes a hasty step back.

“Is this how you treat all your customers?” the warlord asks.

My surprise must be obvious. “So far, no question has been asked, and no money has been exchanged. I wouldn’t call you a customer. You’re more of an eavesdropper and a bully.”

“Good Gods!” the ax-wielder booms. “She has bigger balls than I do.”

Humor flashes in the warlord’s silver-hued eyes. “Balls don’t necessarily come with brains.”

“Mine do.” If my smile were any more syrupy, my teeth would rot.

He arches a dark eyebrow, as if daring me to show him the goods. I’m not sure whether to laugh or run. In the face of indecision, I turn to the auburn-haired warrior. “Want your fortune read? Half price.”

“Sure.” He adjusts the ax on his shoulder, catching the torchlight and sending a sudden glare into my eyes.

I move to the side. Being blind is too much like being in the dark—never good.

“I have a question,” the warlord interrupts.

Curiosity sparks. “Finally.” I let out a beleaguered sigh and flop back into my chair. It’s probably safe to sit down again. While the warlord is far from harmless, I’m not getting the impression he’s out to harm me. “I was beginning to think we’d be here all night.”

He levels a flat stare at me that would wither a person who hadn’t been tortured, beaten within an inch of her life, and nearly murdered six times in her own bed before the age of fifteen.

“Around me, big mouths are attached to dead bodies,” he says.

I sigh, shaking my head. “What kind of person goes around threatening death?” And by that, I mean besides most of the people I grew up with.

He leans forward again, one eye closing in a quick and unexpected wink that takes the dangerous edge off his words. “The kind who can.”

Butterflies tickle my insides. “You either have an Olympian-sized sense of self-importance, or you’re overcompensating for a lack of confidence.”

The warlord’s gray eyes crinkle at the corners, and his lips jump up for the briefest of smiles, taking his face from striking to far too appealing in less than a heartbeat.

“Peace?” he offers, his deep voice sincere.

I bite my lip, taming the reciprocal smile I can’t quite help, and pretend to think about it. “Fine. But don’t go releasing any white doves yet.”

He chuckles, the warm, appreciative sound sending a wave of heat through me that has nothing to do with the southern climate. My words come out surprisingly husky when I ask for his question.

Sitting back, he indicates the four men around him. “Are my companions loyal to me?”

And just like that, I’m uncomfortable again. His question smacks of another life, one where people tortured me for truths.

“Soothsayers predict the future.” I force an even tone despite my suddenly thumping heart.

He rephrases the question, never taking his eyes off me. “Will my men remain loyal to me?”

I try not to squirm, not liking his revision much better.

The warlord frowns at my hesitation. “What’s more important than loyalty?” he asks.

There’s a hardness to his tone, and his question strikes a nerve. Have I been disloyal? Does running away make me a traitor, or smart?

Who cares? I’d rather be disloyal than dead.

My eyes dart to the men behind him. “All four?”

“All four.” He nods to his crew.

I swallow my misgivings. The warlord doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. “Four coppers then. One for each.”

He puts the coins on the table, and I pocket the money, turning to the ax-wielder first. “What’s more important? Your warlord’s life or your own?”

“My warlord’s.”

There’s no hesitation. No soul ripping.

“You have to choose between this savage”—I sink a lot of sneer into my voice just for the fun of it—“or your wife. Who do you choose?”

“I have no wife.”

“But if you did?”

“If I choose to marry, my wife and children will come first.”

No searing flames. No melting bones. No pelting truths to outweigh the lie.

I let my eyes glaze over and place my hands on my crystal ball, pretending to do soothsayer-like things for an appropriate amount of time. I should probably make up a chant, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

“Your man is loyal,” I finally announce. “But I don’t advise using his future family against him.”

“I’ll have a family?” The ax-wielder’s face splits into a wide grin.

Eh… “Yes. Lovely wife. Several strong children,” I lie. Or maybe I don’t. How in the Underworld should I know?

The warlord’s unwavering stare has me shifting uncomfortably in my chair. “Step back, Flynn,” he commands. “Carver, you’re next.”

A dark-haired man approaches, moving forward with a confident stride. He’s about my age, lean and tall, and looks like he’d be mean in a fight. He’s the type of sinewy swordsman that can move like a shadow and strike before you blink. I know his kind. He’s the kind you want watching your back, not sneaking up on it. There’s a resemblance to the warlord in his facial features, black hair, and gray eyes, but the similarities end there. The warlord outweighs him by about sixty pounds and is probably ten years older.