The Drowned Woods (29)

Mer nodded to Emrick. “I don’t feel so guilty about your boot, then. At least I know you can afford plenty more.”

Emrick raised a cup of tea to his lips. “I rather doubt you feel much guilt about anything.” Mer took note of everything from his accent to the stitching on his sleeves. Emrick was not from Gwaelod. One of the southern cantrefs, perhaps from a family who had dealings with Garanhir. Some nobles did keep summer homes in this city, paying taxes to the prince in exchange for a safe place to enjoy the sea air during those warm months.

“And this is Gryf,” continued Renfrew, with a wave at the other man.

The second man had the broad shoulders that accompanied years of hard labor. He couldn’t have been much older than Mer, and his gaze rested on her in a manner that could have been interpreted as flirting. His full mouth was soft and welcoming, even with a scar dimpling one corner. He picked up his bread with scarred hands. A soldier, then.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Gryf said. “Pay no mind to our host. I heard the servants say he’s a right terror until he’s had at least three cups of tea.”

Emrick made a sour noise, but Gryf merely refilled the noble’s cup.

Renfrew ignored the exchange. “I’ve dealt with some of you before”—a nod at Emrick and a glance at Mer—“and others I’ve chosen for their reputation or because I’ve seen a glimmer of potential.” A look at Fane and Gryf. “For those who don’t know, I was once Garanhir’s spymaster.” Out of the corner of her eye, Mer saw Fane look up sharply. “However, our parting left much to be desired.” He spread his hands, his half-severed finger visible. “I bear no love for my former employer. And I will not weep to see him weakened. Nor would any of you, I think.”

Mer made a show of looking around the table. “So this is our crew?” she asked. “A ring fighter, a lordling’s cousin, a soldier, a spy, and a poisoner?”

“Which one of you is the poisoner?” asked Gryf, his tone as light as if he were inquiring who had cooked their meal.

“That depends on which of us you ask,” replied Mer.

“I’m not a lordling,” said Emrick, affronted.

“I said you were a lordling’s cousin,” said Mer. “Much, much less important.”

“To be fair, I’m not a soldier,” said Gryf, his manner still relaxed and easy. “But it’s a common mistake.”

She frowned at him. “What are you, then?”

“That depends on which of us you ask,” he said, his smile widening.

“Hired sword,” she said.

Gryf shook his head. “Wrong again.”

“Personal guard.”

“No.”

Mer narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re lying.”

“I never lie,” said Gryf easily.

“I see you two are going to get along well,” murmured Renfrew, stirring milk into his tea.

“I’m not here just because I’m someone’s cousin,” said Emrick. “I am the foremost expert on—”

“You forgot the dog,” put in Gryf, ignoring Emrick. “Which role does he play?”

Emrick began to turn an interesting shade of red.

Trefor was sitting under Fane’s chair, content with his bone. “Boot thief,” said Fane.

“And a handsome one,” said Gryf. “May I?” He held out his hand and Fane inclined his head in assent. Trefor snuffled Gryf’s proffered fingers and gave them a lick, his tail thumping against the floor.

Emrick’s cup clattered against its saucer. “Their kind are spies for the tylwyth teg. We should not even have him in the room.”

“I’m surprised at you,” said Gryf. “A learned fellow such as yourself telling fairy stories.”

“They’re not stories,” said Emrick indignantly. “And even if they were, most stories do have a basis in fact. Which you would know if any of you bothered to ask why I’m here.”

There was a moment of quiet. Renfrew poured himself another cup of tea.

Mer kept silent out of sheer contrariness, enjoying every second of it. Emrick’s face reddened further.

“All right, all right,” said Gryf, with the air of one placating a child. “I’ll put an end to your suffering. Why are you here?”

Emrick sat straighter. “I am the foremost expert on the tylwyth teg, with a particular interest in ancient artifacts. Particularly, old magical traps.”

The silence around the table grew heavier.

“Ah,” said Emrick loftily. “That got your attention, did it not? None of you besides Renfrew has given any thought to what might be awaiting us. The tylwyth teg—or the otherfolk, if you want to be common about it—were the original owners of the Well. And they did not leave their magical cache unguarded, if old texts are to be believed. While tales of the Well are rare, they aren’t wholly unheard of. People have attempted to retrieve those treasures before and failed in the attempt.”

Renfrew nodded. “Emrick is right.” He steepled his fingers, and his blue eyes lingered on every person at the table for a fraction of a moment. “There are several small islands off the coast of this city. The Well is on one such island only accessible by land at low tide, when a narrow shoal connects it to the mainland. Royal guards ensure that no one can cross by land. If we try to cross that shoal, we’ll be riddled with arrows.”