Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(29)

“Pyetr Tetsyev!” The words came out in a sharp gasp. “He came to inquire about you and paid me a sum to turn you in if you came to my pub. And a week later you showed up.” Igor’s mouth was small, but it worked surprisingly fast. He fixed Ramson with a pleading gaze.

“That’s all I know, I swear, man. And it was a lot of money.”



“Pyetr Tetsyev.” Ramson rolled the name around his tongue; it had no taste of familiarity. “Who is he, and where can I find him?”

“He’s under Kerlan’s employment, makes Deys’voshk for him. Showed up out o’ nowhere with a past murkier’n the bottom of my boot.”

“Hmm.” Ramson leaned back, taking a swig from his goblet and smacking his lips. Igor watched him, his watery eyes pinned on Ramson’s every move. The fact that Ramson had reverted back to his drink seemed to comfort the bartender, for his expression became obsequious. “I’ll need to take a trip to Novo Mynsk, then.”

“To Novo Mynsk? But that’s Kerlan’s territory!” Igor’s false concern was magnified by his relief. “You think…you think Kerlan will forgive you for breaking a Trade?”

Ramson sipped his brandy, feeling a familiar tug on his lips. Now came the real show. “Oh, he’ll be begging me to come back. I haven’t crawled out of that shithole empty-handed. I broke that Trade, but I have something better in mind for him.” He gave a dramatic pause. “A potential new ally.”

Igor’s lips parted slightly, and Ramson could almost see him rifling through the dozens of questions running through his mind. At last, curiosity and greed won, lighting his wrinkled face. “Who?”

“The most powerful Affinite in the Empire.”

Igor suddenly looked around the room, as though expecting an Affinite to leap out from behind one of the bookcases. “Where…?”

“She’s just around the corner, waiting for me. A flesh Affinite. She took down five trained men with a flick of a finger.” He smothered a grin as the barman’s mouth dropped open completely.



“She’d be worth a fortune,” Igor whispered. “Deities, no wonder Kerlan hasn’t hired anyone to replace you yet. It’d be a hard match.”

Ramson stored this bit of information away. Outwardly, he snorted. “Money. That’s all you think about,” he said, raising his tumbler of brandy. “How much d’you think you can get for a bottle of this? Ten goldleaves? Think, instead, if I grew Kerlan a vineyard. How many bottles of brandy could he make then? How many hundreds of thousands of goldleaves would he get each year?” Ramson downed his drink in a single gulp and set the tumbler on the table with a satisfying clink. “Think bigger, Igor, my friend.”

In fact, that was the theory he’d told Kerlan when the crime lord had offered him a stake in the Order’s trafficking business. Ramson had refused. He told Kerlan his skills would be put to better use elsewhere—in the port, in the weapons trade, at the casinos, and just about anywhere else.

The truth, though, was he couldn’t stomach it. He’d walked past Affinite children on the streets, forced into servitude, their mouths sewn shut by terror, their eyes wide with a thinly veiled plea. And he’d seen in them the ghost of a childhood friend he’d promised to never betray.

Perhaps that was why Kerlan had assigned Ramson to the suicide mission to murder Cyrilia’s Emperor. Perhaps Kerlan had seen the seed of doubt that had grown in Ramson’s chest throughout these years, and he’d needed Ramson to prove his loyalty to the very end.



Ramson had failed.

He shoved these thoughts from his head now, keeping the smile playing about his lips as he looked coolly at Igor. Unbeknownst to the bartender, Ramson had just bought himself insurance. Igor would sell this tidbit to all the traders that frequented his pub, and news of Ramson’s imminent comeback—along with that flesh Affinite—would spread like wildfire. By the time Ramson reached Novo Mynsk, Lord Alaric Kerlan would be welcoming him with open arms. It would be a great Trade—two birds with one stone. Ramson would return with the name of his betrayer and introduce the witch to Kerlan in one fell swoop. Undoubtedly, Kerlan would reinstate him as Deputy of the Order and Portmaster of Goldwater.

He simply needed a suitable occasion for his appearance: one that caught this Pyetr Tetsyev by surprise. It wouldn’t do to simply waltz into the Kerlan Estate—

Waltz. Something clicked into his brain. “Igor, what day is it today?”

Igor blinked. “It’s the twentieth of the third moon. Of autumn,” he added unnecessarily.

In ten days, it would be winter.

Each year on the first day of winter, the entire Cyrilian Empire celebrated the First Snow with festivities. And in Novo Mynsk, there was no party more elaborate than the one thrown at the Kerlan Estate by Lord Alaric Kerlan himself. The upper crust of the town would be invited—those with power, money, and connections to the criminal world.

Now, that would be an entrance worth remembering. Let all his enemies know that Ramson Quicktongue was back in business, and that he would hunt down every last man who stood in his way.



Ramson’s smile returned, sharper than his blade. “Igor, I need two horses for the road.”

“Of course, of course.” Igor looked tremendously relieved. “I have two mares I can lend you.”