Page 70 of A Legacy of Storms and Starlight

Raif shot Zylah a smile, waving a hand to gesture her in before him. She ran her fingers down the buttons of her cloak, shoved her reservations aside and stepped into the tavern. The heat was overbearing; the air thick with woodsmoke and ale. Raif touched a hand to her elbow, and she followed his gaze to where the florist slipped through a door beside the bar.

They wove through the busy tavern, dodging flailing arms and raised tankards, the floor sticky with ale and bits of food. The Pig’s Filth would have been more appropriate, Zylah thought, as they pursued the florist.

A burly man, almost as tall as Raif, with greasy, choppy brown hair and a face that was more frown than anything else, stepped in front of the door as they approached.

“We’re here for the contract,” Raif said, not even remotely fazed by the man in front of them. “We represent the botanical gardens.”

The bruiser’s gaze slid to Zylah’s apron where her cloak parted, or that’s what she told herself he was looking at, as he nodded and stepped aside to let them enter.

Raif shut the door behind them, the racket of the tavern disappearing. Zylah looked around the room, her head high and her gaze meeting each of the occupants as she did. She might not be well practised in these kinds of meetings, but she knew enough to pretend to be. And if Raif was meant to beherassistant, well, she had better step up. The room was dimly lit with only a handful of orblights, much smaller than Zylah had expected, and for some reason, that eased her nerves a little.

“And who the fuck is this?” the Bloom florist asked, turning to look them over. His dark hair was peppered with grey, his deep brown skin creased around his eyes.

Zylah met his stare with an easiness she’d so often seen Raif use. “Good evening. We’re here from the botanical gardens to negotiate for the contract.” There were three other men in the room, all, she presumed, representatives of the king. There was something about the fine edge to their attire, the way they held themselves, and, of course, the swords they each wore at their hip. She prayed they wouldn’t recognise her from the posters.

The florist practically vibrated with dissatisfaction. “Negotiate? Bloom has been supplying the flowers for the festival for years!”

“We have the best sun lilies in Virian, an entire dome full of them,” Zylah offered, smoothing down her apron and clasping her hands in front of her. Raif stood beside her, arms folded across his chest, emphasising the heavy muscles of his arms. Assistant, indeed. They weren’t fooling anyone.

“And what has that got to do with the festival?” The florist took a step towards them, but Raif stepped in front of Zylah.

She eased Raif aside, tilting her chin up to meet the florist’s eyes. “Why ship plants in from outside when they are already being grown right here in the city? Our king deserves the freshest, most locally grown flowers, does he not?”

“This is horse shit.”

Had Zylah not been training every day, she wouldn’t have spotted the change in the florist’s stance right before he reached for a weapon. But she had, and as he did, she reached for her own, pressing it to his ribs before he’d so much as wrapped his hand around the hilt.

“You brought a weapon?” one of the king’s men asked.

Zylah didn’t peel her attention away from the florist, despite the fact that Raif was already at the man’s side and could turn him to ash with the touch of a finger. Instead, she sighed, feigning boredom. “Once you’ve had a delivery stolen from you, you learn to defend yourself. I’m always prepared for someone to pull a blade on me.” She flicked her chin to where the florist’s hand had slipped into his coat.

The florist made the wise decision to leave his weapon in its sheath and took a step back. Raif took a step back with him.

The tallest of the king’s men laughed and clapped his hands together once. “I like you. You can have the contract.” He turned his attention to the florist. “You can leave. Attempt to draw a weapon in front of the king’s men again and we’ll have you imprisoned for treason.”

The florist paled but didn’t argue as he rushed out the door, the noise of the tavern swallowing him as he disappeared. Zylah sheathed her dagger and waited. There was power in not being the first to speak, she’d often observed. And she would not apologise for drawing her weapon in defence. The other two men remained silent, hands, Zylah now noticed, resting on the hilts of their swords. Perhaps they wouldn’t let her misdeed slip either.

“Eirik, Sebastian, at ease,” the first representative commanded, and his two companions dropped their hands from their weapons. “I’ll send someone in the morning to check everything is satisfactory,” he said to Zylah, a smirk still plastered across his face.

Zylah allowed herself to feel the slightest bit of relief.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he began, reaching out a hand, just as an explosion slammed Zylah into the wall beside him.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Zylah’s ears rang. Someone was saying something, but the sounds were muffled, like she was underwater.

“Liss!” Raif’s hands were on her face, his eyes searching hers. He was checking her over for injuries, but Zylah knew she hadn’t been harmed.

“I’m fine,” she rasped. “Just winded.” And a little dazed, but she wouldn’t admit that. His face was all she could see from where he’d rolled her over, his eyebrows knitted together in concern.

He seemed satisfied with either his inspection or her answer and took her hands in his. “Can you stand?”

Vaguely, Zylah registered the smell of burning wood. She nodded, still studying his face, the tightness of his jaw. There were strange sounds, but her hearing was still distorted andwrong.

“Remember what I said?” Raif asked.

Don’t break our cover tonight, no matter what happens.She didn’t need him to explain to understand that he meantno magic.

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