Isle of Blood and Stone (Isle of Blood and Stone #1)(4)
Commander Aimon made to signal Elias. She placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. “We might as well wait until he’s finished.”
“Must we?”
Another quick smile emerged at his aggrieved tone. “He’ll learn why we’re here soon enough,” she said. “And I’ve never seen an actual cockfight, have you?”
The commander answered her question with one of his own. “Do you think he can solve it?”
She knew Elias was capable. She wondered only if he would be willing. “It concerns him as much as the king.”
The commander studied her with dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, a common trait among the men and women of del Mar’s native population in the east. His hair was long and straight, black shot through with gray, and pulled back into a queue. He looked more like a pirate than the commander of the king’s armies. “True,” he acknowledged. “But that was not my question, Lady.”
She didn’t answer straightaway, but watched as Elias smoothed the rooster’s feathers and whispered what looked like soothing, encouraging words to it. His hands were beautifully shaped. His fingertips, as always, bore the faintest trace of blue paint. Elias cared little for gloves or for the cleansing potions used by most mapmakers. And why was she standing here admiring his hands? She found herself frowning.
“You underestimate him,” she said finally. “He’s smarter than he looks.”
The commander turned away and went back to his mutterings, this time something about being damned by faint praise. She let his words wash over her. Someone prodded her in the back so hard she fell forward a step. Slowly, she turned her head and gave the man behind her a gimlet-eyed stare. Fair hair, blue eyes, skin peeling from the sun: almost certainly a Mondragan.
“Apologies, miss . . .” His smile turned to puzzlement as he took in her own unusual appearance: black hair, golden skin, but with the green eyes and dreadful freckles that no full-blooded del Marian would ever proudly bear. The man glanced at Commander Aimon and then back at her, and she knew from the stranger’s reaction that she had been recognized. His eyes widened. Prudently, he inched away until he was gone from view.
She watched him go. Stupid to feel this way, this terrible, skin-crawling shame, when there was not a thing to be done about it. She could not change the blood flowing through her veins. Half Mondragan, half del Marian.
A curse.
Turning back to watch the fight, she held herself apart from the crowd, as she always did, and waited.
The opposing bird lay dead on the ground, his master mourning above it. There was laughter and groaning as wagers were paid. As the crowd loosened, the stink of men dispersed into something that was, while not exactly pleasant, at least far more breathable.
Elias brushed the feathers from a shirt that had once been white. A futile effort; they merely fluttered about in the air before settling onto a different part of his person. Beside him, Olivier danced a small victorious jig, his rooster clutched under one arm.
It was a ridiculous sight, and Elias laughed. He heard “Chart maker!” and looked up in time to see a pouch sailing through the air toward him. He caught it with one hand and held it out to Olivier. “Your winnings.”
Olivier took the pouch, unable to hide his relief as he felt the reassuring weight of copper sand dollars and silver double-shells. “You’ll take half? It’s only fair.”
Elias refused. “It’s your bird. Give it to your wife, with my compliments.”
Elias had just disembarked from the Amaris when he’d caught a glimpse of Olivier, a parchment seller by trade, standing at the back of the crowd with a birdcage in his hand. Elias knew desperation when he saw it. He suspected its reason. Olivier’s daughter suffered from a prolonged illness. Keeping his workshop profitable and paying off the leeches could not be a simple thing. Everyone knew these fights were a quick way to make money. Or lose it.
“You’re certain?” Olivier asked.
“Yes, take it. I can’t afford to lose your services. I don’t care for the way Master Hernan prepares his sheepskin.”
Olivier tucked the pouch away, then knelt to place the bird in its cage. “I’m grateful that you happened by, Lord Elias, and that you know so much about gamecocks.” He eyed Elias curiously. “How do you know so much? It’s an odd talent for a geographer.”
“Most of my talents are considered odd. Or worse.”
Olivier laughed. He shut the cage with a snap and, with final thanks, hurried off, the rooster swinging in the cage by his side.
Elias hitched his map carrier higher on his shoulder and glanced up, still smiling. Cortes was the capital city of St. John del Mar. An ancient settlement built on a hill with a round, walled castle at the very top and the parishes, or neighborhoods, spilling downward on slanted streets. The castle was his home. He had not seen it in months.
In his mind, he ticked off all he would do as soon as he reached the tower. First he would bathe, then eat. He would find out if Mercedes was on island, report to Lord Silva, deliver his maps to Madame Vega. Ulises would be in some council meeting or another at this hour of day, but he could visit his mother and the rest of—
He felt her before he saw her, absently touching the back of his neck, then turning fully when he glimpsed pale green silk at the edge of his vision.
Mercedes.
She stood among dust and abandoned feathers, watching him. Dark hair coiled over her ears like ram horns. A belt made of pearls, looped around a slender waist. A silver circlet above her brow. Her eyes, the green of the sea before a storm.