Page 21 of The Rook

Tempest glared at the shifter’s back. “I thought we were supposed to be quiet.”

A grunt was all the answer she received.

Tempest shook herself from her thoughts and scanned the area around them. They settled into silence as they moved deeper into the city. The stench of rotten fish grew stronger, and Tempest shallowly breathed through only her mouth. Winter’s bite, that was rank. She could taste it.

Brine let out a short laugh. “Stinks, doesn’t it? Imagine what it smells like forme.”

“I’d rather not, thanks,” she wheezed, allowing the smallest of smiles to curl her lips—though it was hidden by her cowl. It was the closest the two of them had ever gotten to civil conversation.

They ghosted along the docks, ships bobbing restlessly in the harbor. Tempest eyed the black water. She didn’t want to know what lurked beneath the surface. Brine paused next to one of the larger, more expensive-looking ships along the docks. She frowned. The ship looked out of place.

Brine spun and snatched a handful of her cloak, pulling her closer. She blinked up at him in surprise as he pressed even closer, his chest touching her own. What in the hell?

The wolf leaned closer and murmured, “Act as my bodyguard. Don’t say one word unless I instruct you to. Can you do that?”

Tempest nodded, because it was the kind of plan she would have suggested. She had no idea who or what exactly they were dealing with. She eyed the ship. Whoever had stolen from the Jester was stupid, though. She knew that much.

Brine stalked up the gangway, and she followed suit, careful not to trip. She’d never been one for developing “sea legs,” and when the water beneath her rolled and the gangway lurched,she cursed underneath her breath as she stumbled. Now was not the time for a swim. Straightening, she schooled her expression and stepped onto the ship, shadowing Brine as her stomach rolled.

Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

The shifter headed straight over to whom she assumed was the captain. His clothing was absolutely gaudy. Embroidered boots gave way to red velvet trousers. He’d foregone a shirt, only wearing a black leather vest and emerald green scarf. His tattooed arms were bare to the world, despite the freezing temperatures. Few men could do that. A shifter, then.

The wind blew the huge purple feather tucked into his hat right into his face, and Tempest’s lips twitched.

“Blasted hat.” He yanked the garish hat from his head, revealing cat ears hiding among his artfully tousled brown hair.

She blinked. That’s how she knew him—he was one of Pyre’s shifters. Her lips curled. One who had chased after her alongside Brine and the rest of their friends, right into a speared pit.

Chesh.The name came unbiddenly to her.

The cat shifter did not send a single glance her way as he and Brine sat at a long table with a portly man and began playing cards, swigging from a bottle of rum and mindlessly gossiping. Tempest took her place a few paces behind the wolf, keeping her eyes open for trouble.

“How has trade been?” Brine asked, handing the bottle of rum over to the portly man. “I heard you’ve been dabbling in the sale of women these days?”

It was difficult, but she kept her expression blank.

“That’s where all the money is, especially trading overseas.”The man laughed, his jowls jiggling. “Well, that and drugs, of course.”

Tempest bristled. This was the kind of conversation she didn’t want to be privy to. Her skin crawled. Human and drug trafficking. She stared hard at the back of Brine’s head. With how straight-laced the wolf seemed, it surprised her that he was so calm about selling human beings.

“But I’ve been looking for something different these days,” the merchant continued, a lavish smile on his lips. “Something… exotic.” His eyes flashed to Tempest like he could see through her cloak and clothing. “I’ve heard word that the fabled little female Hound has been seen out of her cage. A real beauty, apparently.”

“She’s definitely a fiery one,” Chesh said, sliding his own gaze over to Tempest in a way that made her spine tingle. What the hell? Her hand twitched toward her sword. “A real prize. But she’s expensive.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I can do expensive. How much to hand her over?”

Tempest couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She carefully pulled the daggers from her hips and glared at the back of Brine’s head, willing him to turn and face her. Were they brokering a deal for her? Or was this part of the ruse? Had she been double-crossed?

Chesh lazily stretched and unwound the scarf he was wearing. Her breath froze as more markings were revealed. Tattoos ran across his chest, up his neck, and stopped beneath his chin. She spotted a crown with three stars across it just below his right ear. Tempest’s blood ran cold.

The only time she’d ever seen such markings was when she studied the Hinterlands.

The bloody Hinterlands. And royalty, no less.

That wasn’t good.

The Hinterlands and Heimserya had been enemies for generations. What was he doing here? Mimkia was killing their people, the Jester was organizing a rebellion, and now a Hinterland prince was in one of their ports? It was all wrong. Were Brine and Chesh working against the Jester? How did the creepy merchant fit into it all?

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