Isle of Blood and Stone (Isle of Blood and Stone #1)(3)
Commander Aimon forced his way through the crowd. He was a big man wearing the king’s colors and a ferocious scowl; the mass yielded easily. Mercedes kept her head down and her elbows out, absently noting that the oaths and insults thrown their way were in many different languages. These men were Hellespontians and Lunesians and Coronads. A smattering of Caffeesh so far from home. Very few Mondragans, however. They had long since learned the dangers of lingering where they were not welcome.
Someone grabbed her arm. A man with very few teeth grinned and sniffed her hair. His breath stank of garlic and rot. She heard “What a pretty piece! Let me—” before her fist came up, sharp with rings, and connected with the underside of his chin. A pained grunt emerged. Her admirer fell back into the throng and was lost. Onlookers laughed and hooted, but no one else tried to touch her. She continued after the commander and, after much shoving, found herself before a small, dusty clearing.
Her suspicions were confirmed. It was a cockfight. To the right, a bald man with a stained leather apron held up a rooster, turning it this way and that while a second rough-looking character pointed out scratches and gaps in the feathers. She paid them only a cursory glance, her attention captured entirely by the young man to the left.
Elias.
Or, formally, Lord Elias. Only child of Lady Antoni and Lord Antoni, the long-departed Royal Navigator for the island kingdom of St. John del Mar. The last surviving son of a powerful noble family knelt in the dirt, a rooster cradled in his arms like a newborn babe. He wore a loose-fitting shirt and dark trousers, both now encrusted with muck and what she suspected was bird blood. His hair, a rich brown lightened by the summer sun, had grown overlong, so that it settled about his shoulders in thick waves, like a woman’s. A battered leather map carrier lay against his back, cylindrical in shape, three feet long. Of his sword, there was no sign. As was usual.
Her breath caught. He’d been hurt. A bruise spread across one cheekbone, mottled and yellow. What else? Her inspection was swift: He had all his fingers, his limbs. He moved easily; no obvious injury, then, hidden beneath his clothing. One never knew with Elias, who collected wounds the way she collected secrets and enemies. It was his least endearing quality, this skill he had in making her worry.
Who was that man with him? He hovered over Elias with an anxious expression and deep smudges beneath his eyes. Similar in age and vaguely familiar; his identity poked at the very edge of her memory. Whoever he was, he was out of place: well-groomed and dressed in the dark tailored clothing of an upper tradesman.
The bird was motionless. A lock of hair fell forward as Elias placed his open mouth over its beak and blew gently. Miraculously, the rooster’s chest expanded. Wings fluttered, then flapped. Cheers and curses erupted from the crowd. As she watched with appalled fascination, Elias lifted his head and spat out several feathers before sharing a grin with his neatly dressed companion.
She slid a glance toward Commander Aimon. The poor man rubbed his temple with his fingertips as he always did when trying to ease head pains. She could not help but smile, though it felt wrong, knowing what lay ahead. This morning was not going to end pleasantly.
Elias’s bald opponent did not look pleased by the bird’s quick recovery. “Chart maker!” he shouted, his guttural tones and dull features marking him for a Coronad. “You bird swiver! That rooster is dead. I have won!”
Elias laughed. “It’s not dead yet, my friend!” he yelled back. He set the bird on the ground, his hands preventing it from taking flight. “Do you forfeit?”
The Coronad sneered. “We come here; we see del Marian men, even prettier than their women. With soft hands and flower oil in their hair. What do you know of cockfights, pretty del Marian?”
Elias’s grin widened. His answer was to blow the man a kiss. Amid the laughter, the other man scowled even more. “Bah!” he said before snatching his own bird from his companion and setting it down in the dust.
A girl ran to the center of the clearing, barefoot, the tattered red kerchief covering her hair a perfect match to her skirts. The child raised an arm high, counted to three, then brought her hand down with dramatic flourish. Elias and his opponent released their holds on their roosters. The girl jumped aside as the birds flew at each other, feathers thrashing.
Commander Aimon’s voice was an irritated rumble. “That boy sounds like a lord and looks like a vagabond.”
Mercedes leaned close so that she could be heard above the shouting. “He’s at ease in any setting. Have you noticed? He blends in without effort. I wonder why Ulises doesn’t make use of it.”
The commander made a skeptical noise. “Lord Elias isn’t like you, Lady. He isn’t made for intrigue.”
“No?”
“Look at him.” They watched Elias cheer on his bird. One arm was hooked around his friend’s neck, and they were both jumping up and down and hollering like small boys at the bullfights.
“Hmm,” she said.
“You see? Everything he thinks and feels is written on his face for the world to see. A dangerous trait for a king’s . . . emissary.”
She supposed that was true. Elias in a temper was a rare thing, but it was always memorable, and when he learned of the maps, outrage and insult would be within his rights. Not for the first time, she wished Reyna had not gone to the harbor that day and stumbled upon the map. She wished she herself had not traveled to Lunes and found the other. But what use, wishes? They would do her no good today.