Page 67 of The Book That Held Her Heart

“Do the numbers matter? Is there an arithmetic of murder? Are five innocents less of a crime than five hundred or fifty thousand?”

Evar became aware that two men close by were giving them alarmed looks. “We’ll talk about your book later. I’m hungry,” he said quickly, reframing the subject. And he was. Famished. Celcha’s generosity had hardly touched the sides. “How do we…?”

Starval laughed. “You have to kill your darlings, Evar. Fiction’s a bloody business.” Deploying his elbows with an assassin’s precision he began to forge a path to the bar.

Evar followed in his wake. “Don’t you need money?” He felt quite proud of himself for remembering the concept. He’d only spent a day ghosting through a city, but money, or at least talk of money, had been everywhere.

Starval held up a fat leather purse. “It grows on trees, brother.”

Two young human women were serving behind the bar, but as Starval and Evar arrived an older man rose into view from some task lower down and greeted them with a cheerful smile.

“Evening, gentlemen. You can call me King Oldo, or just Oldo if we’re friends, and if you’re buying then we’re friends!” He patted the sides of his large stomach which even a generous leather apron had no chance of hiding. “What can I get you? You look hungry. I do a wicked plate of ribs. More like a shield than a plate, if I’m honest. Covered in secret sauce.” He pressed his fingertips together, kissed them, and spread them as if to indicate some explosion of flavour. “My own recipe. Tangy, sweet, a touch of bitter spice out of the east. You’ll think angels are holding a party in your belly. And then there’s—”

“Sold! All of it.” Starval slapped the jingling purse on the counter. “Drinks too. The big ones! And that stuff as well!” He pointed to one of the steaming bowls a server was carrying past him to the tables.

Oldo’s grin broadened. He looked out across the crowded room, fixed his gaze on a group near the kitchen door, and bellowed, “Give that table up, Abra! And you, Gothon! Got some decent, paying customers here who need it.” Then, turning back to Starval, “Take a seat, young sirs. I’ll be over with your meals presently.”

“I hope ‘presently’ means ‘almost immediately,’ ” Starval muttered, heading over to the table being vacated by the two older canith, both clutching their ale tankards to their chests as if reliant on them to keep afloat.

Evar nodded apologetically to one of the canith, who swayed drunkenly out of his way. “We can’t stay long. Livira might be out there. That’s what Mayland said. We find her book and if she’s not with it already, it’ll draw her to us.”

“You’ll learn a lot more here in the warm than wandering around in the fog, trust me.” Starval had somehow acquired a wooden goblet, complete with wine, leaning back against the wall, sipping contentedly as he watched the patrons.

“I’ll learn how long it takes for you to get arrested.” Evar shook his head. “Someone’s going to miss that…” He lowered his voice. “What you took.”

“I don’t think Oldo will care, as long as I empty it faster than the previous owner. That man’s a rogue. Takes one to know one.”

When Celcha haddeployed her flask of library blood to create food for her half-starved followers, Evar hadn’t known what to ask for. In the end he’d requested sugar-cake, remembering a child badgering his mother for one in the market of another Krath. The little boy’s shriek of delight when the woman purchased one from a street vendor, and the look of bliss on his face when he consumed it in a shower of crumbs, had stayed with him. Sadness tempered the memory—the city had been ransacked by a human army that same night, the boy had probably died in one of the great fires. But Evar had few memories not laced with sorrow. The sugar-cake had been more delicious than anything he’d ever tasted, something that nothing produced by the Assistant’s pool-garden had ever prepared him for or even let him dream of. His bliss had not, perhaps, matched that of the small, doomed child, but it had been considerable.

If the situation were revisited though, Evar would now ask for beef stew with root vegetables and a hunk of black bread.

“Ribs’ll come along in a bit.” Oldo set two platters before them and laughed as Evar bent to scoop the steaming mess into his mouth, careless of the heat.

“One of these might help?” He reached into his apron, producing two large wooden spoons.

“I apologize for my brother, sir.” Starval slapped at Evar’s arm. “He was raised by wolves.”

Embarrassed, but still chewing and suffused in an ecstasy of flavour, Evar fumbled for the offered spoon.

“Chef’ll take it as a compliment. Both you boys look like you need a few good meals inside you. Thin as rakes. I’ll send Kella out with more bread when she brings the ales.” Oldo paused. “You’re not from around here.” It wasn’t a question.

“No sir.” Starval licked his teeth but resisted diving into the food. Evar continued to shovel stew into his mouth, using the spoon and finding it a fine invention if a little awkward at first.

“From the west, are you?” Oldo ventured. “Kelso way, or maybe the Cronnin shore? I can normally place an accent but you fellows sound like you were born around the corner and raised next door.”

“We’ve come a long way.” Starval kept a smile in place and popped a chunk of bread into his mouth. “But yes, from the west of late. Through the passes.”

“Bad over there now, is it?” The landlord frowned, rubbing a hand absently through his thinning grey curls.

“Bad.” Starval nodded and looked down as if it might be too bad to speak of.

Oldo took the hint. “Enjoy your meal. Bread and ale coming soon. And those ribs. Kella! Where are you, Kella? Thirsty travellers over here!” And off he went.

Starval, with enormous restraint, merely tapped his spoon on the table rather than joining Evar in the race to clean his plate.

“Gothon, was it?” He hailed one of the elderly canith they’d displaced. “Apologies for stealing your table. Join us? I’ll stand you a beer.”

Mention of beer had both canith drawing up stools and squeezing alongside Evar at the small table. Gothon’s greying mane was braided into thick, matted cords through which carved wooden pegs had been pushed, giving them a spiky appearance. The other one, Abra, wasn’t quite so old and his mane was as dark as soot, his skin too, and his eyes, the whites bloodshot. He twitched from time to time, and when he spoke it was in short bursts so rapid that the listener had to divide the string of sound into words on their own time.

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