Page 66 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
“Impressive,” Dru comments once he’s in earshot. “I didn’t know you took the Faithless’ class on the art of seduction.”
He frowns. “I didn’t. And besides, there’s no art to it.”
“No, I suppose not, for someone like you.” Brow furrowed, he opens his mouth to argue. But she speaks before he can. “And what have you brought me?”
He waits, watching her for a moment before handing her a sea green, glass-blown horn flask. The delicate, rounded edges smooth out along her fingertips, a few small bubbles trapped beneath.
“The Durevolians call it Nettare. It’s stronger than any wine you’ve had in the Imperium.”
She eyes it. “Stronger than the Ruscellamento the underlings made in the well during training camp?”
Marcus chuckles. “Nothing could be stronger than that swill. I swear I watched someone use it to remove paint once.”
Grinning, she takes a sip. The soft taste of honey and lavender and a tinge of spice swell across her tongue first, followed by the ripe sting of fermented grapes hitting the back of her throat. It burns pleasantly, warming her chest and her stomach, and spreading gently along her limbs.
“This is delicious.” She clicks her tongue. “And potent.”
Marcus smiles gently beneath his mask. “I thought you’d like it.”
“Where is it from?”
He gestures around him. “Here, made exclusively from rare white grapes grown on the far side of the Scabroso Mountains. A delicacy the Imperium has tried to purchase from the Durevolians since they learned of it.”
“A wine far headier than any of the pigswill the Imperium churns out,” Cato cuts in, returned from his cessation. “And without being mixed with water.”
Dru places her hand over her heart. “Blasphemy.”
“Cazzo sí.” Cato grabs the cup one of his guards holds for him and gulps it down.
Dru presses her lips together to hold in a laugh. Despite her mother’s best efforts, most of the ancient Durevolian words Dru knows are swear words. So, she can’t help gasping when the worst one comes out of the king’s mouth.
Indulging in another long sip, she takes in the ecstasy-drenched spectacle on this side of the square. Among the mob down the next street, she finds fire breathers, jugglers, jesters, prostitutes… and the bard, of all people, who’s having a grand time taking coin from the Phaedrans in the crowd as he plays their music with great passion.
Marcus leans in to speak to Cato. “I do believe the bard has emptied enough of the Phaedran’s pockets for one evening.”
“Quite right,” Cato agrees. “He’s my bard, and he shall come with us.”
“With us where?” she asks, taking another generous gulp. It loosens the tension from her shoulders, scattering her thoughts to the night. The memory of the Tredici prophecy and the tattoo on her arm has nearly dissipated from her mind altogether.
Cato grins beneath his own bronze-painted mask. “A secret place in the city, hidden beneath the ground.”
Frustration fights with the effects of the Nettare. “Do you think it wise to take the bard, a man you barely know, into a secret hold with you?”
Cato juts out his chin. “I do not care if it’s a good idea; I’ll do as I please.”
No arguing with that.She’ll keep as watchful an eye on him as she can, and hope Marcus and his guards do the same.
“Taking the king of Anziano underground is a bad idea,” Dru murmurs to Marcus anyway. “No way out if we run into trouble.”
Marcus leans in dangerously close, his breath rustling her hair. Her eyes close on their own and her body warms, her hand nearly reaching for his.
“We won’t find trouble there,” Marcus explains softly. “It’s a secret meeting place for the wealthy; the clientele will be mostly Durevolian heretics and other elite from Anziano. They won’t want the Phaedrans to know about it.”
Dru takes a breath and steps away, putting some distance between them so she can think.
“And what will we do there?” she asks Cato.
Cato eyes her as if she has two heads growing out of her neck instead of one.Perhaps he’s drunk enough for that to be true.“Drink, of course. And make the bard sing for us. Jove!”
