Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(24)

Ash rolled his eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you preferred the company of swine.” At this point, he was being just about as disagreeable as he knew how.

“A girl can learn a lot from a drunken southerner,” Lila said, bestowing that familiar tight-lipped smile that could mean anything at all.

“Well, I’ve got better things to do. Like sleep.”

“You should come,” Lila persisted. “Tourant’s invited everyone from Brocker and Stokes, so it won’t be a totally Ardenine crowd. At least it’ll be diluted a bit.”

“You’re welcome to stay here with me,” Ash said, knowing what her answer would be. “We could read Askell and Byrne and discuss military campaigns during the Wizard Wars.”

“Um. No,” Lila said, making a face. “I’m done with textbooks for now.”

“Give my regards to Tourant then,” Ash said. “Tell him I hope he’s less of a bunghole next year.”

“Suit yourself,” Lila said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you—it’ll be a graveyard here at Stokes tonight.”





9


TOURANT’S PARTY


The coin was still piling up—Fellsian girlies and Tamric double eagles and Ardenine steelies, so-called because people doubted there was really any silver in them these days. Even a few coppers from those unwilling to put real money on the table.

There were two piles—some bet on Lila Barrowhill, others on Renard Tourant, the class commander. Lila noticed with some satisfaction that her pile was bigger. She spent a lot of time in the Turtle and Fish, and the regulars knew better than to bet against her. She was known to have a high tolerance for intoxicants and a lot of demons to drown.

Those who bet on Tourant were only brownnosing, and they stood to lose.

Tourant had secured a table next to the kegs so he could play the gracious host. His father was a high-up in the Ardenine army, which meant he had a paved road to the top. All of the high-ups in the Ardenine army were men, because in Arden, apparently, there were no competent women.

The class commander fancied himself a ladies’ man. Lila suspected he took his standard-issue Wien House uniforms to a tailor, because they always had a custom fit. He also sported one of those ridiculous tiny mustaches that probably take hours to achieve, but that look like a shaving mistake.

Around them seethed a sea of dun-colored uniforms just like her own, save the markings of rank. It was nearly all Wien House, nearly all Arden with just a splash of Mystwerk black here and there. No Temple white at all. Which was probably a good thing.

“Is everything on the table?” Lila said, looking around for more takers. “All right, then. You ready?” she said, looking across the table at Tourant.

The commander nodded, his face shiny with sweat, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his ale.

“Hey, now,” Lila said, grinning. “No worries. I’ll cover your tab out of my winnings.”

He flushed russet. “Go!” he said, tipping back his head, gulping noisily.

Lila shook back her hair, opened her throat, and poured the ale down. She thunked down her glass moments before Tourant did. “You lose,” she said, scooping up her share of the money, leaving enough on the table to cover the drinks. This was timely, at least. She’d been thinking she’d need some traveling money.

Tourant slammed his hands down on the table, going white with fury. Funny how he could change colors like that.

“You—you—you—” Turning away, he scooped up a fresh tankard, drew off some ale from a smallish keg, then thrust it into Lila’s face. “Try this one. Lieutenant Rochefort brought it all the way from Ardenscourt.”

“Did he, now? Does he have his own brewery? Raising a little money for the war effort?” Lila accepted the tankard with the exaggerated care of someone who’s a bit lushy already. Peering into it, she saw a muddy brown brew, with a rather musty nose to it. Not as top-shelf as she’d expected.

She looked up to find Tourant watching her. “Where is this Lieutenant Rochefort, anyway?” she said. “I’m eager to meet him.”

“He’ll be here,” Tourant said. “Soon. He had some business to attend to.” He gestured toward the ale. “What do you think?”

Lila made a show of gulping some down, then wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “It’s quite . . . complex, isn’t it?” she said.

“Indeed,” Tourant said, smirking. “It’s not the usual Tamric swill.” His gaze shifted so that he was looking over Lila’s shoulder. “Here’s Rochefort now. You can thank him in person.”

Lila swung around, coming face-to-face with the newcomer. In contrast to Tourant’s plumage, the visitor’s clothing was finely made but subdued, without the markings of rank. He had a lean, sinuous build and fine-boned, artist’s hands. His skin was pale and unmarked, as if it had never seen sunlight. His eyes were hazel—oddly pale under thick dark lashes, and his hair was the same color as his ale.

Blood and bones, she thought. Destin Karn. What are you doing here?

“Lila Barrowhill, may I introduce Lieutenant Denis Rochefort,” Tourant said, seeming eager to make it a three-way. “Lieutenant, this is Cadet Barrowhill. The one I told you about.” His eye twitched, and Lila realized that Tourant was trying to wink and not quite succeeding.