A Promise of Fire (Kingmaker Chronicles, #1)(8)

The man—Carver—smiles at me. There’s a disarming, rather friendly gleam in his eyes, but I have no doubt his easy smile could turn sharp with menace.

“Is loyalty important to you?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I point to the warlord. “Would you follow this man into a fight?”

Carver nods.

“Say it,” I prompt.

“I would. I have, and I would again.”

I glance at the warlord. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes feel like a Cyclops’s foot on my face. I ask for Carver’s hand, feeling awkward. Even if palm reading is a hoax, his rough skin still tells a story of battles and blood. “Would you die for this man and his cause?”

“Yes.” A simple, one-word, truthful answer.

I stare at Carver’s long, powerful, callused fingers. What is the warlord’s cause? From what I heard, the new royal family outlawed warring among the Sintan tribes. They’re all supposed to get along now that one of theirs has taken over.

I repress a smirk. Good luck with that.

“I would bleed for him. I would die for him.”

Carver’s truth is so strong that it carries a word—brother. Shocked, I drop his hand like a poisonous snake. I almost never hear an echo from truths.

The word still bouncing around inside me, I say, “Your brother is loyal, but I think you already knew that.”

“Hmm.”

I scowl at the warlord. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I never said he was my brother.”

Damn it! Who stole my filters tonight? “You look the same.”

“Not that much.”

I wave my hands above my table. “Soothsayer, remember? I know stuff.”

He tilts his head, looking hard at my eyes. He keeps up his scrutiny until unease ripples through me, making me squirm.

The warlord breaks eye contact. “Basil,” he calls out flatly, motioning another man forward.

A blond man takes Carver’s place. He’s handsome without being remarkable, strong without being overwhelming. He blends in. I guess that’s what he’s good for. Warlord, Flynn, and the fifth man don’t blend. They’re too big, too powerful. They demand attention. Carver doesn’t blend, either. He’s lean and angular, with wily eyes. Basil is just…blah, as far as I can tell.

Basil moves to the right, away from the warlord and closer to the fifth warrior who has watchful blue eyes and a colossal mace that could probably crush three skulls at once. Basil’s movement is minute, and I only notice because I’ve trained myself to look for body language that will help me fool people into thinking I’m not a fraud.

Great. The warlord’s question suddenly makes sense. This is a party to out Basil. Too bad I’m invited.

“Basil, is it?” I ask even though I already know. I’m just stalling the inevitable.

The man nods.

I take a deep breath and lock my muscles, bracing for a false answer. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

Basil looks smug. Like most southerners, he has no idea of the power of magic and words. If he did, he’d be running away.

Fire explodes in me at his deceitful answer, agonizing. Bones fry. Organs roast. I try not to blanch as truths ignite along with his lie, scorching my insides like red-hot coals.

In a sudden burst of movement, the warlord disarms Basil and grabs him by the throat. “Who do you work for?”

“I’m loyal!” Basil squeaks, looking as stunned as I feel.

His lie blasts me again.

“I saw the look on her face.” The warlord squeezes Basil’s neck until the other man gasps for air. “You’re a liar.”

He saw my pain? I’m more worried about that than I am about anything else. I controlled my reaction. I always do. How does some Hoi Polloi warlord know what a little flinch means anyway?

Basil plunges his hand into his pocket and pulls out a thin, glass vial filled with gray powder that glitters silvery in the torchlight and impresses the magic out of me. He draws back a gloved hand, ready to smash the poison into the warlord’s face.

I leap over the table, taking its black wool covering and my fake crystal ball with me, and latch on to Basil’s arm. It takes all my weight to keep his hand from moving.

“Back off,” I warn the warlord. “It’s Medusa’s Dust. It’ll turn you to stone.”

He uncurls his hand from around Basil’s neck and steps back, leaving me dangling like an idiot from the traitor’s wrist.

“How do you know that?” His question sharp, the warlord shifts his focus to me, and I think maybe I should have let him die.

“Poison expert.” Sort of. I blow a damp curl out of my eye. The only thing keeping Basil from shaking me off is Carver’s very long and very lethal sword at his back. We’re surrounded by big men with scary weapons, and no one’s doing anything. “Someone cut off his arm. Or kill him. If I let go, he’ll throw dust all over the place.”

Flynn hefts his ax. “That would be suicide.”

“Thank you, Flynn.” I roll my eyes in the auburn-haired man’s direction. “Do you really think he cares?”

Flynn shrugs. “He’s dead anyway.”

Exactly. So get on with it.

Before I can say as much, Basil twists his arm with me still holding on and somehow smashes the vial against my neck. My eyes shoot wide as Medusa’s Dust burrows deep into my skin, the powder as hungry as a swamp leech. The onslaught of magic shatters my equilibrium, and I stumble back against my table, gasping for air, giddy and slightly outside of myself.