Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(27)
Even as she followed May, Ana’s step faltered. It felt wrong, in her heart, to turn and leave someone in need of help. Someone whose Affinity made them different, ostracized. Someone like her.
A cry rang out; Ana and May froze as they turned to look. And, with the rest of the crowd, they gasped as the nobleman backhanded the young pastry vendor with all his strength.
The slap resonated in the square like the crack of a whip. The pastry vendor staggered back and crashed into the stall of neatly arranged pastries.
Anger coiled around Ana, white-hot. She was the Princess of Cyrilia. There was a time when scum like him would have bowed to her, when she could have ordered his demise with a single word.
That time was past, but she could still do the right thing.
“Please, mesyr,” the Affinite girl begged.
The nobleman raised his hand again.
Ana wrapped her Affinity around him. She’d only ever learned how to push or pull, but now she commanded for the blood in his body to remain still with every ounce of her strength.
For a few seconds, the nobleman was frozen, his arm raised and his expression slipping from fury to panic. He began to choke, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.
She was aware of May tugging at her cloak. She heard the gasps of the crowd as she finally let go of the nobleman’s blood and his body hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. Horrible wheezing sounds came from his mouth.
“Ana,” May shrieked. “We need to go, before—”
Someone screamed. As the Vyntr’makt erupted into panic, Ana realized that she had gone too far.
“May,” she gasped, and the child’s hand was in hers, and they were stumbling away from the collapsed nobleman and the pastry vendor.
Yet the crowd had grown oddly still, and the skin on Ana’s back pricked. It took her a moment to realize that a hush had fallen over the entire square. All the vendors and townspeople were gazing at a spot behind Ana with expressions of awe and anxiety.
Slowly, Ana turned. And looked into a squad of Cyrilian Imperial Patrols.
The interior of the ramshackle pub was dark, lit only by the flickering flames of candle stubs on the tables. A broken wooden sign announced in crude writing: The Gray Bear’s Keep. Ramson paused at the door only to pass a hand over the dagger he’d stolen, before stepping onto the creaky wooden floorboards. He had come to collect a debt.
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, and he saw that several tables were seated, their guests bent over their drinks and speaking in hushed tones. There was an air of menace to the flames licking at the brass mantel and the clink of cups between murmured exchanges.
Several people turned to look at Ramson as he passed them by, and he found himself assessing the new outfit he had procured—for free, albeit unknown to the seller—from a nearby stall. An ordinary tunic, black vest, gray breeches, riding boots, and a nice Cyrilian fur cloak to top it all off. He looked like the perfect patron for these types of places: sleek, groomed, and utterly unmemorable.
Ramson scanned the bar. Only a practiced eye would notice the board of Affinites-for-hire posters on the far wall, the narrow staircase by the counter with a crooked Reservations Only sign, and the bottle of green-tinted Deys’voshk disguised amid the rows of liquor on the back shelf. This was no ordinary pub. It was an Affinite trafficking post.
Ramson stalked up to the counter and slipped onto a bar stool, ducking his head behind an expensive-looking samovar. The barman ambled over. He was of bearish height and build, with a great gray beard—one that had grown in size from the secrets he kept over his tenure at the most notorious inn in Cyrilia. Though he wore a coarse apron smudged with grease and splashed with various shades of liquors, there was no missing the flash of his gold ring as he polished a glass. “Esteemed greetings to you, noble mesyr, and might I express my delight upon your patronage of my humble pub! Igor, at your service.”
“Salutations to you, my good gentleman, and might I say that the pleasure is…all mine.” Ramson lifted his head.
Igor almost dropped the glass he was cleaning. “Damn hell, man,” he muttered, slipping into a lowborn Cyrilian slur.
“Damn hells,” Ramson corrected him, and gave a twirl of his fingers. “Brandy. And don’t bother with the cheap shit.”
Igor stooped slightly, peering at Ramson’s face. “So it really is you. I was wondering when you’d be back.”
“You were wondering if I’d be back.”
Igor chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “I won’t deny it. The news has spread across this entire blasted empire. You’ve made a mess, Quicktongue.” He turned, reaching into one of the shelves at the back of the bar. There was a sharp clink and the sound of liquid sloshing.
Ramson watched the barman’s beefy back as he worked to prepare a drink. “I’m cleaning it up, Igor. My betrayers’ll pay.” He slid out his dagger. “But first things first. I’m here to collect a debt.”
Igor turned, clutching a tumbler and a bottle of Bregonian brandy. Concern seeped into his murky eyes. “Look now, Quicktongue. Business’s been bad, what with the Mikhailov emperor sick and the economy tankin’.” He passed a hand over his bald forehead and nodded at the board in the back. Papers were pinned chaotically atop each other, some bearing crude drawings. “Sales’ve been slow.”