She had not expected to be sent to Havenrook to look for Drosta’s treasure. It was the last place she wanted to go, to be surrounded by Preachán and Romani and the hive of deceit. She suspected Kiranrao was startled to see her so soon as well, which was why he had summoned her to his table. The conversation they had with their hands masked completely the conversation they employed with their voices. Even their words had multiple meanings, meant to confuse and deceive Annon and Paedrin while giving Kiranrao the useful information he needed.
She warned him about the deaths on the road, of course, and the trouble that would come. She had told Paedrin and Annon that the men hiding in the trees were Romani and had exaggerated her hatred to add conviction to her ruse, but, of course, she never would have willingly killed a Romani man. She knew they were all Preachán and their lives were worth little more than the money they gambled with. She had given the Preachán on the wagon a subtle hand sign to see if he would let them pass, but he had either not noticed it or was stupid enough he didn’t care.
Hettie sighed deeply. Paedrin and all his chatter and talk. His entire outlook on life was almost comical. Just walk away from the Romani. The imprisonment was only in her mind. She wanted to believe him. But how could she expect him to understand that defying them would mean she would never have a moment’s peace the rest of her life? Every crust of bread, every swallow of wine could contain monkshood. Just enough to kill her and anyone else eating with her. She would spend her days in mortal suspense, wondering which dish would be her last.
If it was freedom she truly wanted, only Kiranrao could ensure it. And he wanted the blade Iddawc. All of his thoughts were bent toward locating it and claiming it as his own. The most powerful weapon forged by a Paracelsus. A weapon that would not lose its power in a thousand years. Kiranrao did not want it in the hands of a Kishion. He wanted it for himself.
She wondered if she should stop by the temple and see how Paedrin was faring when she arrived. Her uncle’s task to find the bag would be ridiculously simple. All she needed to do was show her carnotha, ask the right question, and all of Kiranrao’s resources would be put to her use. If someone had found it already, they would be able to trace it and give it to her. If not, every thief in the city would be scrambling for a chance to do Kiranrao a favor. All she needed to do was wait the appropriate amount of time, to make the discovery seem convincing, and then travel to Silvandom with the missing stones.
Her uncle had given her the clue to finding him again. That alone would be worth a sizable fortune from Kiranrao. And the assignment to bring the bag of stones would give her a reasonable excuse to approach him again, to win his trust.
There was a strain in her heart as the kettle of emotions rattled again, surging with the force of shame and guilt. She refused to let the contents leak out. It was a vicious world. Every day, people were murdered for nothing more precious than a fistful of ducats. The more ducats, the better the chance of surviving the next bout of Plague.
She wondered if that was the real reason Kiranrao wanted her near him so much. She had the fireblood. It was said that those with it could never be harmed by the Plague. Was there some distant connection between her ancestors and the origins of the Scourgelands? Some riddle remaining with no one living who knew the answer to it?
Hettie rubbed her forehead, smelling the first hint of fetid air. She would reach the lakeshore before midnight. Good. It meant a warm bed to sleep in unless she went to the temple again and slept on a pallet on the floor. The sound of Paedrin’s arm breaking made her stomach clench in revulsion. His injury would hamper him for many months. Perhaps she should bid him good-bye.
It was a strange compulsion, actually, and she wondered at it. Why should she care a bushel of figs about saying good-bye to Paedrin? He was a haughty, arrogant Bhikhu who had less sense than a sheep. Why bother? It nagged at her that he had saved her life amid the dangers of Drosta’s lair. Of course, she had gone down there in the hopes to steal the blade while he fought the creature. But when she was struck by it, he had come to save her.
She bit her lip. What a foolish boy he was. He had no idea at all that she was using him to her own ends. Most males were blinded by beauty. Start off angry and contemptuous. Treat them with apathy and revulsion. Then slowly dribble out a compliment or favor them with an occasional smile. They would become your servants for life. It was the way of the world. For certain, it was the way of the Romani.
What harm would it do, though, to stop by the temple and see him? She did not care for him. She did not care for anyone, even her brother.
A part of her had died, she realized, when she saw her father poison her sister over an act of disobedience. Maybe that part of her was still dead. But for some reason, she wanted to see Paedrin again. It was a foolish thought. She had probably derived a small flicker of pleasure arguing with him. That was probably it. She decided not to see him. It would be better for him, after all, to never see her again. She was rather sure that Kiranrao would kill him if they ever crossed paths again.
She warned him about the deaths on the road, of course, and the trouble that would come. She had told Paedrin and Annon that the men hiding in the trees were Romani and had exaggerated her hatred to add conviction to her ruse, but, of course, she never would have willingly killed a Romani man. She knew they were all Preachán and their lives were worth little more than the money they gambled with. She had given the Preachán on the wagon a subtle hand sign to see if he would let them pass, but he had either not noticed it or was stupid enough he didn’t care.
Hettie sighed deeply. Paedrin and all his chatter and talk. His entire outlook on life was almost comical. Just walk away from the Romani. The imprisonment was only in her mind. She wanted to believe him. But how could she expect him to understand that defying them would mean she would never have a moment’s peace the rest of her life? Every crust of bread, every swallow of wine could contain monkshood. Just enough to kill her and anyone else eating with her. She would spend her days in mortal suspense, wondering which dish would be her last.
If it was freedom she truly wanted, only Kiranrao could ensure it. And he wanted the blade Iddawc. All of his thoughts were bent toward locating it and claiming it as his own. The most powerful weapon forged by a Paracelsus. A weapon that would not lose its power in a thousand years. Kiranrao did not want it in the hands of a Kishion. He wanted it for himself.
She wondered if she should stop by the temple and see how Paedrin was faring when she arrived. Her uncle’s task to find the bag would be ridiculously simple. All she needed to do was show her carnotha, ask the right question, and all of Kiranrao’s resources would be put to her use. If someone had found it already, they would be able to trace it and give it to her. If not, every thief in the city would be scrambling for a chance to do Kiranrao a favor. All she needed to do was wait the appropriate amount of time, to make the discovery seem convincing, and then travel to Silvandom with the missing stones.
Her uncle had given her the clue to finding him again. That alone would be worth a sizable fortune from Kiranrao. And the assignment to bring the bag of stones would give her a reasonable excuse to approach him again, to win his trust.
There was a strain in her heart as the kettle of emotions rattled again, surging with the force of shame and guilt. She refused to let the contents leak out. It was a vicious world. Every day, people were murdered for nothing more precious than a fistful of ducats. The more ducats, the better the chance of surviving the next bout of Plague.
She wondered if that was the real reason Kiranrao wanted her near him so much. She had the fireblood. It was said that those with it could never be harmed by the Plague. Was there some distant connection between her ancestors and the origins of the Scourgelands? Some riddle remaining with no one living who knew the answer to it?
Hettie rubbed her forehead, smelling the first hint of fetid air. She would reach the lakeshore before midnight. Good. It meant a warm bed to sleep in unless she went to the temple again and slept on a pallet on the floor. The sound of Paedrin’s arm breaking made her stomach clench in revulsion. His injury would hamper him for many months. Perhaps she should bid him good-bye.
It was a strange compulsion, actually, and she wondered at it. Why should she care a bushel of figs about saying good-bye to Paedrin? He was a haughty, arrogant Bhikhu who had less sense than a sheep. Why bother? It nagged at her that he had saved her life amid the dangers of Drosta’s lair. Of course, she had gone down there in the hopes to steal the blade while he fought the creature. But when she was struck by it, he had come to save her.
She bit her lip. What a foolish boy he was. He had no idea at all that she was using him to her own ends. Most males were blinded by beauty. Start off angry and contemptuous. Treat them with apathy and revulsion. Then slowly dribble out a compliment or favor them with an occasional smile. They would become your servants for life. It was the way of the world. For certain, it was the way of the Romani.
What harm would it do, though, to stop by the temple and see him? She did not care for him. She did not care for anyone, even her brother.
A part of her had died, she realized, when she saw her father poison her sister over an act of disobedience. Maybe that part of her was still dead. But for some reason, she wanted to see Paedrin again. It was a foolish thought. She had probably derived a small flicker of pleasure arguing with him. That was probably it. She decided not to see him. It would be better for him, after all, to never see her again. She was rather sure that Kiranrao would kill him if they ever crossed paths again.
