Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(53)

The certainty he had felt immediately following his fight in the ring had faded like the afternoon light. It was possible that a leach had been behind the destruction of Manker’s—there were probably more leaches on the Islands than anywhere else in the empire. It was possible that the whole thing had been part of a plot directed at him, at his family, part of an ongoing coup. The shit part of it was that just about anything was possible. He needed something concrete, something solid to explore, and a leach’s kenning would leave even less trace than Kettral explosives. That meant turning to people, people who might have noticed something unusual, seen something they didn’t expect.

“Only four made it out,” he said, frowning. Juren, of course, and three others who had clawed their way clear of the wreckage.

“Four out of twelve,” Lin replied with a shrug. “Not bad, considering the whole thing dropped straight into the bay. Better odds than you’d get on the losing side of most battles.” The gash on her cheek had scabbed over, but the indignity of their defeat in the ring still seemed raw and ragged. The Kettral devoted countless hours to tourniquets, splints, medicinal herbs, and bandages. No one said much, however, about the humiliation of having your face ground in the dirt while a fellow soldier thrust a rough hand up between your legs and a few dozen others looked on.

“It wasn’t a battle,” he said, his mind jumping back to the image of Salia, hot, bright blood leaking from the wound in her neck. “The people in there were just drinking. They didn’t sign on.”

“No one ever signs on to get killed.”

“You know what I mean.”

Lin fixed him with a hard stare. “You mean you feel guilty.”

Valyn shrugged. “Sure. Someone comes after me and these poor bastards get crushed? I thought we were supposed to be protecting the citizens of Annur.”

Lin spread her hands. “I’d hardly call the scum from Manker’s ‘citizens.’ Most of them would be strung up or cut down within a day if they showed their faces back on the mainland.”

“It doesn’t mean they deserved to die.”

“Spare me the guilt, Valyn. It’s self-indulgent. It’s a waste of time. You didn’t kill them. You tried to save them. You’re noble. Is that what you want to hear? You’re a f*cking prince.”

Lin’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes ablaze. Valyn swallowed a sharp retort and began to put a hand on her shoulder instead. She jerked back.

“Let’s find the bastards who did this,” she said curtly, refusing to meet his eyes. “Let’s just find them.”

Valyn started to respond, then, trying to cool his own anger, turned away. Dilapidated buildings hung over the muddy street, paint peeling, roofs sagging, thresholds rotting into the dirt beneath uneven doors. Despite the bright colors, they all looked about ready to give up and tumble into the harbor alongside Manker’s. Maybe he and Lin were imagining the whole thing. Everything falls apart eventually, he thought, glancing over once more at his friend. Maybe the tavern just gave up.

On the other hand, his father had been killed. It was possible the plot went no further than a single disgruntled priest, but Valyn wasn’t ready to believe that just yet. If there were people on the Islands responsible, he wanted them found. He wanted them dead.

“Juren was one of the ones who made it,” he said, breaking the silence. “Laith says he’s holed up at the Black Boat, drinking himself straight to ’Shael while he waits for his leg to heal.”

“Who’s Juren?”

“That thug Manker used to pay to watch over the place.”

Lin’s face hardened. “The first one to jump clear. The one who refused to help.”

Valyn nodded. “He’s not much good to anyone else now, not with a busted leg.”

“Then he should have plenty of time to talk.”

The common room of the Black Boat was poorly lit and cavernous, far too large for the number of chairs and tables scattered haphazardly around the floor. When Valyn had first arrived on the Islands, the Boat was the most prosperous alehouse on Hook, with wine all the way from Sia, blowsy whores hanging from the balconies, and music every night. In the intervening years, however, the owner had died, one of his sons had stabbed the other in a dispute over the property, and the place had fallen into gradual decline. Only half a dozen or so people were at the tables now, and after looking up, eyes heavy with drink and boredom, they returned to their muttered conversations and games of dice.