Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(30)

“Good.” Ramson was about to stand when he remembered something. “One more thing.” He slapped a piece of paper on the oakwood table. With a clunk, he set his empty tumbler on one corner of the scroll and ran his palm over the folds, revealing the sketch of the bald alchemist with the thin nose and wide gray eyes. “Does this man look familiar to you?”

Igor froze. “Is this a joke?”

“It would be a poor joke to make. Enlighten me.”

Igor jabbed a finger at the sketch, looking up at Ramson, his face twisted in disbelief. “That’s Pyetr Tetsyev.”





Ramson had to stare at Igor for a full five seconds to determine whether the bartender was lying. But the man’s expression mirrored Ramson’s disbelief.

Igor was many terrible things, but he was not a great liar. He was simply too much of a coward. Apply enough pressure at the right spot and he’d crack.

“Looks exactly like him,” Igor babbled, frowning at the sketch. “I’ll never forget the night he showed up at my door. Drenched in rain, he was, but he came straight to me. Odd sort of fellow. Said he worked at the Palace and showed me some papers. Asked me your name and where you were.” He paused, seeming to realize that he was incriminating himself again, and hurriedly changed the subject. “It’s a good sketch.”

Questions burst in Ramson’s head like stars, but he focused on a single thought: he and the flesh Affinite had the same enemy.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

The day was turning out to be an excellent one indeed. Everything he had planned for—his traitor, the alchemist, and his ultimate trade of the witch with Kerlan—culminated in Novo Mynsk. Two birds with one stone was a good deal, but three birds with one stone was the type of deal that set a genuine smile on Ramson Quicktongue’s face. “Igor, old friend. You’ve given me nothing but good news today.”



Igor’s relief was palpable as he exhaled, the lines of tension melting from his shoulders. “Thank the Deities, Quicktongue. I thought you were going to do me in for…for what my big mouth let on…”

“Consider your debts paid.” Ramson stood and stretched. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

Igor gave a shaky chortle. He glanced at the door again. “A toast, then,” he said, standing and handing Ramson one of the two mugs he had brought up. “To paid debts and fair trades.”

“Such generosity today, Igor. Usually I’m hard-pressed to get even one tankard of cheap ale from you.” Ramson raised his polished brass mug. “To honest words and honest men.” He brought his drink to his lips and inhaled the scent of the Cyrilian sunwine.

Igor had drained half of his in a single gulp. His eyes flickered toward Ramson over the rim of his goblet.

Ramson exhaled deeply. Slowly, counting his heartbeats, he lowered his cup, the smile still pasted on his face. “I’m truly honored that you chose to toast me with Myrkoff sunwine, old friend.” He paused, listing his head. “And I truly believe that the Myrkoff would have tasted better without the poison you’ve laced it with.”

Clang.

Igor’s cup rolled on the ground, sunwine spilling onto the polished floorboards. The bartender darted behind his settee, face drawn and lips tight. Ramson backed into the other end of the room. He still held his cup in one hand; in another, he palmed his dagger.



“I forgot how good you are with your alcohol,” the barman snarled.

“And I forgot how good you are with your fa?ade of stupidity. I might have fallen for it.” He almost had. “Who’re you expecting, Igor?”

“Even if you kill me, you’ll never make it out of here.” The barman was eyeing Ramson’s dagger. “Kerlan set the price for your head as soon as he heard of your escape. I sent my page boy to the bounty hunters the second you walked in. I only had to entertain you while they got here.”

Of course word of his jailbreak had reached Kerlan. Ramson wouldn’t be surprised if the crime lord had a few of the Ghost Falls guards in his pocket.

Ramson tilted his head. Flames of rage flickered inside him. But he harnessed those flames and honed them into a weapon. Just as Kerlan had taught him. “I might kill you for the fun of it. Watch you squirm as I gut you like a squealing pig.”

The blood drained from Igor’s face. Without warning, he let out a yell. “He’s escaping!”

Ramson turned, reaching for the lock on the door to bolt them inside—a moment too late.

The door to the Reservation Room burst open. Two mercenaries hurled in, charging at Ramson, swords drawn.

Ramson flung his brass cup at the first man with all his strength. With a satisfying crack, it smashed his temple. The mercenary cried out and staggered back, buying Ramson the precious seconds he needed.

He leapt through the air and lashed out. His dagger plunged through the mercenary’s chest in a sickening crunch of sinew and flesh. In the same motion, he seized the sword from the man’s loose grip and turned to parry the second bounty hunter’s attack.



Metal sang as their blades clashed. Ramson grunted and flung himself out of the way as a third mercenary appeared at the door. Ramson turned to face the man squarely, sword in hand, assessing the newcomer’s build, his clothing, and his weapon.