Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(131)

“Let me have another look,” Kaden said, elbowing Pater in the ribs.

The small boy glared at him, then moved a fraction to the left. “Here,” he said, “we can both see.” Kaden had to content himself with a knobby elbow digging into his ribs as he peered through the crack.

Scial Nin introduced himself with simple formality and the merchants followed suit, the man with a simple nod of his head, the woman eschewing a curtsy for a graceful bow. There was a bright glint in her blue eyes that mirrored the flashing gems on her fingers. Most people would be exhausted after the arduous trek up the mountains, but she looked curious about her surroundings, fully engaged with the people before her. Their names, Pyrre and Jakin Lakatur, sounded strange in Kaden’s ears, and their accents, slow and sibilant, certainly weren’t from Annur.

“It’s a long hike up your little hill,” Pyrre lamented wryly, rubbing her knee. “Perhaps you’d consider acquiring one of those kettral everyone is always telling tales about.”

“We value our isolation here,” Nin replied, not unkindly.

The merchant grinned and turned to her companion. “Meaning,” she said with a rueful grin, “we should have saved ourselves the trip.”

“Not at all,” Nin said, gesturing to a long table. “You are here now. Although I can’t promise we will offer you any custom, you are welcome to share our repast.”

Frustratingly, the abbot made only small talk during the meal, polite comments about the weather and the state of the flocks, which allowed his guests to focus on their food. When Phirum cleared his throat to ask a question, Nin fixed him with that calm, implacable gaze of his, and the fat acolyte sagged back onto his bench. Only when the last crumbs had been wiped off the last plate did Scial Nin slide his chair back from the table and cross his hands in his lap. “So,” he said finally, “what news from the world?”

Pyrre grinned; she seemed by far the more garrulous of the two. “Sailors fight pirates, soldiers fight Urghul, the Waist is still hot, and Freeport’s still cold enough that you’ve got to f*ck in your furs.” She ran through the litany with the air of a woman who found something funny about the entire world, as though it were there for her amusement. “Mothers pray to Bedisa, whores to Ciena, alemasters mix their malt with water, and an honest woman still goes poor to her grave.”

“And you,” the abbot asked with a genial nod. “Are you an honest woman?”

“My wife? Honest?” Jakin snorted, gesturing to the rings on her fingers, cabochons and cut gems glittering in the candlelight. “Her tastes are too expensive for honesty.”

“Darling,” the merchant replied, turning to her husband with a wounded look, “you would have the good brothers believe that a wolf has come among them to steal their sheep.”

The words hit home, and Nin set down his teacup before asking the next question.

“You didn’t come across anything unusual on the trail up to the monastery, did you?”

“Unusual?” Pyrre spun one of the rings on her fingers absently as she considered the question. “Not aside from more broken spokes than we normally see in a month. We were forced to leave our wagon halfway down that ludicrous goat track you call a trail.” Her eyes narrowed appraisingly. “What did you mean by unusual?”

“A creature?” Nin responded. “Some kind of predator?”

Pyrre glanced at her husband, but he just shrugged.

“Nothing,” she replied. “Should we be worried? I’ve heard that you raise crag cats the size of ponies in these mountains.”

“Not a crag cat. We’re sure enough of that. Whatever it is has been savaging our flocks recently. A few weeks ago, it killed one of our brothers.”

A few of the monks shifted on their benches. A log on the long hearth collapsed in a shower of embers. Pyrre pushed back in her chair and took a deep breath. Kaden froze the image and looked closer. The woman should have been frightened by the news, confused and alarmed at the very least. After all, she and her husband had spent the better part of a day—longer, if they had a wagon with them—toiling up the very trails where Serkhan had been killed. Even if she was capable of protecting herself and her wares from brigands and highwaymen, a possibility that seemed unlikely, given her age and that hip, she should have registered some sort of worry at the realization that an unknown predator was stalking the mountains, killing men and beasts alike.