Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(42)

Destin shrugged, the safest response. He couldn’t decide which was worse: listening to Clermont or going out to the freezing privy. Difficult choice.

“The devil of it is, the Fells is ruled by a woman! They say she wears armor and plays soldier. The northerners spend their days picking wildflowers and dreaming and their nights fornicating under the stars. They’re just a bunch of pretenders and mystics.”

“So why aren’t we in Fellsmarch by now?” Destin said bluntly, thinking dreaming and fornicating sounded a hell of a lot more appealing than where he was now. “We’ve got to stop believing our own propaganda and take the witch queen seriously.”

“Cheer up,” Clermont said. “This girl you’re looking for probably died years ago. If she was ever here.”

“Keep your voice down,” Destin hissed, looking around to make sure no one had overheard. The more Clermont drank, the louder he talked.

Still, he had a point. Children died in droves in Delphi.

“I don’t know why it’s such a secret,” Clermont said. “All you do is, you post up notices all over town, demanding her surrender. Then execute the vermin, one a day, until she turns up. Or we run out of vermin. Either way, we win.”

Destin became aware that someone was standing silently before him. One of the servers had finally dared approach, but could not bring herself to interrupt.

“Yes, what is it?” he snapped. And then, when he really looked at her, he realized she was young, with silken blond hair and frightened blue eyes. He’d never seen her before, so she must be new.

“I wondered if you all would be wanting more ale,” she said nervously, in the soft cadence of the borderlands. “Or perhaps some supper, now or later on?” She set their empty tankards on the tray she carried.

Destin smiled at her, trying to reassure her. “I’ve had enough ale,” he said. He turned toward Clermont in time to see him push to his feet, grasp a handful of the server’s hair, and force her to her knees. The tankards slid off the tray and onto the wooden floor as the tray went vertical.

“Here’s an idea, Lieutenant,” Clermont said. Still holding on to her scalp, he drew his knife with his other hand. The girl saw the blade and let out a little cry of fright. She closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer.

Destin half-rose from his chair. “Clermont! Have you lost your bloody mind?”

Clermont wrapped the hair around his hand, the knife swept across, and then he opened his fist and allowed the golden hair to slide to the floor. Two more quick cuts, and she was left with a ragged helmet of hair, like some knight’s unkempt page. He shoved her head forward, almost to the floor, so he could examine her neck. Nothing there. “Guess she an’t the one,” he said, shrugging. “Oh well.” He sat down again, resheathing his blade.

The server remained on her knees, tears streaking through the paint on her face, her shoulders shaking with sobs, not making a sound. The tavern had gone remarkably silent around them.

Destin looked from the terrified girl to Clermont, and back again, speechless with mingled relief and disgust. It was just as well he was speechless, since Clermont technically outranked him. After a moment, he leaned forward and put two fingers under the server’s chin so that she opened her eyes. “You’re all right,” he muttered. “It’s just hair.” He jerked his head, giving her permission to go.

The girl picked up the tray and the tankards. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, her lip quivering. She didn’t look grateful, though. And she moved away quickly. Her hair remained, like pale gold threads scattered on the battered plank floor.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” Clermont mused. “We’ll be lucky if we get another drink all night.”

“You’re right,” Destin said. “You shouldn’t have done that. And I shouldn’t have to remind you that the marked girl is not to be harmed in any way.”

Still, the episode of the hair had given him an idea. Not foolproof, but better than the strategy so far, which was none. And less dangerous than turning the blackbirds loose on the populace.

“Clermont, could you set up a meeting with the mayor—tomorrow, if possible?”

“Why?” Clermont’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want me to tell him?”

“Let’s surprise him, shall we?”





15


A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL


Lila dressed carefully in her cellar room. It was small, but at least she had it to herself.

Suitable attire was always a challenge at Ardenscourt. Because other women at court were either fine ladies or maidservants, Lila had no template to follow. She’d finally hit on a kind of uniform—an overdress in the same sober blue that court scribes wore. She laced it over a long-sleeved linen shirt and black underskirt. The result was a prim, schoolteacher look, like a dedicate in one of the more lenient churches. Having hit on that, she had several made.

Her dark skin helped her blend into a servant class that was mostly made up of races from the conquered lands to the south. With any luck, her Ardenine colleagues would forget she was a woman at all.

To the nobility, she was a trader and smuggler. They had come to rely on her as a person who could, despite the war, procure most anything desired by people in the south who were used to getting what they wanted: clan-made jewelry, remedies, perfumes, tack and leather goods, the scrying balls that allowed bored Ardenine ladies to look ahead and see their boring futures.