Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(168)

“Holy Hull,” Laith muttered. “One of our own f*cking cadets. Who?”

“I don’t know,” Valyn replied, “but there’s more.”

Once he’d told them the truth about Lin’s death, it only made sense to plunge into the whole thing, the Aedolian on the boat, the plot against him, everything. They stared, eyes filled with the lamplight, features fading in and out of the shadows as he spun the tale. It was impossible to believe, even as he told it. He half expected them to laugh when it was through. They didn’t laugh. Even Laith didn’t crack a joke.

“And that’s why you wanted me to look at Manker’s,” Gwenna said, slapping the table with her palm. “You weren’t just playing the paranoid prince. Someone actually was trying to kill you.”

“Manker’s?” Talal asked. Valyn had never seen the leach over on Hook. It was possible he never even heard about the collapse.

“An alehouse,” Annick replied.

“A shithole,” Laith amended, “but one I was fond of.”

“The Aedolian’s warning is what made me wonder about Manker’s,” Valyn agreed. “It was also what made me suspect Annick of trying to drown me during the sinking test, that and the strange knot she tied.”

“A double bowline,” the sniper said. “I told you before.” Her blue eyes bored into him, cold and defiant.

“So let’s get this straight,” Gwenna said, shaking her head. “Some poor bastard on a ship tells you the Kettral are trying to kill you. Then Manker’s collapses. Then it seems like Annick tries to drown you. Then Annick shoots you in the shoulder.”

“Annick shows up a lot in this story,” Laith added. “I’ll bet you were thrilled to have her on your Wing.”

“I didn’t try to kill him,” she said flatly.

“I’m not saying you did,” Laith replied, holding up both hands. “But someone’s doing a ’Kent-kissing good job of making it look that way.”

“Yurl,” Valyn growled. “It’s got to be Yurl. Let’s not forget he’s the reason we’re boxed up in here without a blade or a bow between us.”

“Yurl’s a pox-ridden *,” Laith replied, “but this seems a little over that pretty boy head of his.”

Talal frowned. “He is the one who told Shaleel about Annick and Amie. Maybe he wants to take us out of play for a while.”

“We’re out of play, all right,” Valyn agreed. “But it still doesn’t make sense. What do Ha Lin and Amie have to do with everything else, with the Aedolian, with the whole ’Kent-kissing plot?”

“Manker’s,” Annick replied flatly. “That’s the link.”

Valyn blew out a long, frustrated breath. “The place collapsed at the same time Amie was murdered, but that’s not much of a link. You said it already—the garret where we found her was on the other side of the bay.”

“You’ve almost died how many times now?” Gwenna asked irritably.

Valyn considered. “Manker’s. Drowning. Sniper contest.” He shrugged. “Four if you count the Trial itself.”

“All right,” Talal began, picking up the thread. “There’s the connection—two of the times women were attacked and killed. The first time, Amie. The last, Ha Lin.”

“The problem with fifty percent,” Laith observed, “is that it’s fifty percent.”

A shiver run up Valyn’s spine. “Seventy-five,” he said grimly.

Even after revealing everything else, he had planned to keep Lin’s beating a secret. It was foolish, irrational. She was dead and burned; telling the tale wasn’t a betrayal and the revelation couldn’t injure her pride any further. Still, the attack on the bluffs had shamed her, shamed her to the core, and he felt as though sharing the story would somehow violate a trust they had shared, would strip her secrets bare for everyone to stare at. Besides, it hadn’t seemed relevant until they started hashing through the connections.

“Yurl and Balendin attacked Ha Lin during the sniper trial, the one where Annick shot me. They lied to her, tricked her, then held her down, beat her bloody, tried to break her. That’s where she got those wounds before the Trial—not in some training exercise the way she claimed. They said it was payback for her willingness to take them on in the arena.”

Four pairs of eyes swiveled to him. “Those whoreson shit-licking bastards,” Gwenna swore, flexing and unflexing her hand as though itching for a sword.