Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy #1)(57)
The carriage rolled into view: gilded, swathed in lapis lazuli, and pulled by two valkryfs. On the door was a huge engraving of a lily of the valley, its stalk carved of glinting emerald and its bell-shaped flowers made of white gold.
Ramson waited until the door was right in front of him. With a light leap, he was on the carriage’s folding step. The bald-headed bruiser driving in front didn’t even so much as glance back as Ramson swung the door open and soundlessly slipped inside.
Bogdan half turned; Ramson slapped a hand over the entertainer’s mouth. He could feel his old associate’s lips parting at the start of a yelp. “Make a single noise and my assassin outside will have an arrow through your heart faster than you can piss your blue silk pants.”
Bogdan blinked, and his eyes rolled to the carriage window. A shadow flashed by; the Playpen host’s eyes widened comically and he shrank back, nodding.
Ramson grinned and slipped off his mask. The shadow vanished from the window. “Relax, man,” he said lazily. “I haven’t waded through all this shit to come and kill you.”
Bogdan sniffed and sat back, straightening his bow tie and smoothing his silk collar. “I thought I’d never see you again, Quicktongue.”
Ramson rolled his eyes. “If I had a cop’stone for every time someone’s said that to me, Bogdan.”
Bogdan straightened. “Others know you’re back?” he asked carefully. “Does Kerlan know?”
“Some know. But I need him to know the truth. Or whatever can be perceived as the truth in our trade.” Ramson flashed Bogdan a charming smile. “And that’s why I’ve come to you. I’m here to collect my debt.”
“Your debt,” the entertainer repeated, suddenly looking like a Cyrilian nobleman who had discovered something nasty in his beet salad. Bogdan wasn’t the sharpest or smartest member of the Order; he was handsome and arrogant, obsessing over small details and petty money rather than looking at the bigger picture. Once, several years ago, his arrogance had nearly cost him his life.
“My dear Bogdan, surely you didn’t expect me to keep your secret from Kerlan for all these years for nothing?” Ramson leaned forward, locking his fingers together. “What would our master say if he knew of the side profit you were making from the contracts you sell?”
Bogdan’s expression turned ugly. “What’s keeping me from calling in my bruiser on you right now, Quicktongue?” he snarled. “I hired Svyet because he bested two Kemeiran assassins—”
“Because you know that before he even stops the carriage and opens this door, I’ll have slit your throat and ruined these expensive velvet cushions with your blood.”
“Always the same threats, Quicktongue,” Bogdan growled. “You forget that Kerlan trained me, too. Let’s have a try, and see whose blood spills in this carriage.”
“You want me to be a bit more creative in my threats, Bogdan? Well.” Ramson shifted his gaze to Bogdan’s fingers. “You’ve always had a fondness for rings, Bogdan. Each bearing a precious stone from all the kingdoms across the world.”
Bogdan drew back suddenly, his expression tightening. He twisted his hands together, tapping his nails on the rubies, emeralds, and sapphires on each hand.
“It’s a nice new one you’ve got there, the diamond. Looks to be an original from the Blue Caves out east.” Ramson’s eyes snapped back up. “How’s Olyusha?”
Bogdan turned pale.
“Imagine what Kerlan might say if he found out you were bedding one of his assets.” Ramson frowned, feigning a look of confusion. “My mistake, Bogdan—imagine what Kerlan might say if he found out you had wedded one of his assets.” He gave Bogdan a knife-sharp smile. “There. Much better. Affinite and Penmaster. Funny pairing, I’d say.”
Bogdan’s face had flipped through alternating shades of white and red, finally settling on a purplish, barely contained rage. “You’re a despicable human being,” he spat.
“I’m a despicable human being who gets things done. You’d do well to remember that the next time you ask me to get more creative.”
Bogdan stared at him for several moments with revulsion. “Fine,” he snarled at last. “Name your Trade.”
Ramson smiled like a cat in the sun. People were so easy, so predictable. He hadn’t really hired an assassin. After all, those cost more than a shiny silverleaf and were difficult to book the night of. Murders were quite the economy in Novo Mynsk. No—sometimes the belief of danger was more effective than danger itself. The shadow at the window had been some street rat he’d found skulking by one of the taverns, desperate and willing to brave the Dams for a mere cop’stone.
Besides, Ramson preferred not to spend coins on his jobs where possible. He’d found, over the years, that there was a more reliable method for purchase. Secrets were Ramson’s currency when it came to these dealings.
“You will tell Kerlan that I am back,” he said. With Ana’s stubborn creed to save May, Ramson had had to adjust his plan. Now that the element of surprise was no longer possible—well, he would simply announce his arrival, as loudly as he could. He’d played this game with Kerlan for too many years, and he knew the rules all too well. As long as you remained one step ahead of him, as long as you kept his interest piqued, you lived. “You will tell him to expect me at his Fyrva’snezh ball. And you will tell him that I return to offer him the largest Trade of his life.”